Were the Ba’alei Tosafos Familiar with Aesop or Buddhism?

By Rabbi Akiva Males

I – The European Cheder Rebbi and the Ba’alei Tosafos^[1]

While completing my Kollel studies in the early 2000’s, I took part in a well-run teacher’s training program. During one session, a noted Jewish educator shared the following first-hand experience: In speaking with an old-school European cheder rebbi years earlier, he asked that rebbi how he shared positive reinforcement with his young charges. The rebbi was confused by the question, so our instructor re-phrased it. This time, he asked the older rebbi how he dealt with students who misbehaved. With a heavily-accented Yiddish he responded matter-of-factly, “I give patsh”. A bit taken aback, our instructor followed up by asking that rebbi what he did when his students had done something right. Surprised by the question, the older man responded, “I don’t give patsh.”^[2]

The lesson conveyed to our group of aspiring young educators was that a lack of punishment should never be seen as a replacement for rewarding good behavior. I fondly recalled that humorous incident as I prepared my Shabbos Derasha for Parshas Toldos 5786 / 2025. While looking over that week’s Torah portion, I chanced upon a remarkable explanation offered by the Da’as Zekeinim mi-Ba’alei Tosafos^[3] which seemed to mirror the remarks of that old-school cheder rebbi.

In Bereishis 26:26, we find that not long after having expelled Yitzchak Avinu from his locale (Ibid. 26:16-17), Avimelech – king of the Pelishtim – had a change of heart. Together with his military leadership, he approached Yitzchak interested in entering into a peace treaty. Taken aback by Avimelech’s offer, Yitzchak expressed his surprise. In explaining himself, Avimelech commented (Ibid. 26:29) on how nicely he and his people had previously treated Yitzchak: “וכאשר עשינו עמך רק טוב ונשלחך בשלום – and as we have done with you only good, and we sent you away in peace”.

Avimelech’s words are startling. By all measures, Yitzchak had been terribly mistreated by Avimelech and the Pelishtim. After his people destroyed the vital wells which had been previously dug by Yitzchak’s father Avraham, Avimelech himself ordered the expulsion of Yitzchak and his family from his lands (Ibid. 26:15-16). How could such actions be described as, “we have done with you only good, and we sent you away in peace”?!

In order to explain Avimelech’s seemingly bizarre statement, the Da’as Zekeinim mi-Ba’alei Tosafos (Ibid. 26:29) offers a wonderful parable:

A parable can be made to a lion who had a bone stuck in his throat. He proclaimed, “Anyone who comes and removes it will be greatly enriched by the king!” Along came a bird named Agron^[4] that had a long neck and said, “I will extract it.” The bird inserted its head into the throat of the lion and removed the bone. After he extracted it he asked for his reward. The lion responded, ‘Is it not enough that I sent you off in peace, and I did not eat you when you placed your head in my throat? Now you still ask for a reward?!’ This is what Avimelech said to Yitzchak, “We behaved with great kindness by sending you away in peace – as we normally harm all who enter our locale.”

According to the Ba’alei Tosafos, Avimelech truly felt that he had behaved compassionately with Yitzchak. How so? He normally treated foreign visitors in a more brutal fashion. Thus, in Avimelech‘s mind expelling Yitzchak – in a way which did not hurt him – qualified as having acted in a manner that was “only good”, and that he had in fact sent Yitzchak away in peace. I grinned as I thought of the old-school cheder rebbi who confused his “not giving patsh” with actively rewarding his students for their good behavior.

II – Aesop’s Fables and Buddhist Texts

It soon hit me that there was something about the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable which I recognized. The more I thought about it, the story of a long-necked bird who plucked a bone out of the throat of an ungrateful predator seemed familiar to me. Where had I seen / heard this story before?

After conducting some online research, I was shocked to discover a tale in Aesop’s Fables^[5] entitled, “The Wolf and the Crane.” Here is that short story as translated by George Fyler Townsend:^[6]

A Wolf who had a bone stuck in his throat hired a Crane, for a large sum, to put her head into his mouth and draw out the bone. When the Crane had extracted the bone and demanded the promised payment, the Wolf, grinning and grinding his teeth, exclaimed: “Why, you have surely already had a sufficient recompense, in having been permitted to draw out your head in safety from the mouth and jaws of a wolf.”

The moral of the story according to Townsend: “In serving the wicked, expect no reward, and be thankful if you escape injury for your pains.”^[7]

The striking similarities between the parable of the medieval Baalei Tosafos and that of Aesop left me quite confused. After all, Aesop told his stories in ancient Greece nearly 1,800 years earlier than the Ba’alei Tosafos had flourished in France. In order to explain a difficult passage in Parshas Toldos, had the Ba’alei Tosafos borrowed this tale from Aesop?

I paused to better understand what troubled me. After all, Jewish tradition encourages us to accept wisdom from outside sources. For example, our Sages taught in Pirkei Avos (4:1): “איזהו חכם? הלומד מכל אדם – Who is wise? One who learns from all men.” The Sages again taught in Midrash Eicha Rabbah (2:13): אם יאמר לך אדם יש חכמה בגוים תאמין” – Should someone say to you that there is wisdom among the nations, believe him.” Finally, in his introduction to his Shemoneh Perakim, Rambam – who was well known for his openness to Greek wisdom – famously expressed: “שמע האמת ממי שאמרה – Listen to the truth from whoever said it.”

Nonetheless, I had a hard time believing that the Ba’alei Tosafos had applied those aphorisms to use one of Aesop’s parables in their commentary to Parshas Toldos. After all, were the Ba’alei Tosafos known to be as comfortable as Rambam in employing ancient Greek wisdom in service of their Torah learning? Even if they were, to my knowledge, Aesop the storyteller was never grouped together with the famous philosophers, scientists, and naturalists of classical Greece. Is there any indication that Aesop’s Fables were viewed by our Rishonim as an important font of wisdom?

While I considered all this, my research soon revealed that a nearly analogous version of this same parable exists in Far Eastern traditions. I learned of a work in Buddhist literature known as the Jataka Tales. That text is a collection of stories – each containing a moral lesson – of what the Buddha said he experienced in previous lives. I was surprised to discover one of those stories known as the ‘Javasakuna Jataka’. In that tale, the Bodhisatta (i.e. the one who would eventually become the Buddha) was a woodpecker. It reads as follows:^[8]

The Bodhisatta was once a woodpecker. One day he saw a lion suffering and asked what ailed it. The lion answered that a bone was stuck in his throat, causing him pain and preventing him from eating anything. After the lion promised not to eat him, the Bodhisatta agreed to help. But not entirely trusting the lion, he propped his mouth open with a stick for added safety before poking his head in to dislodge the bone. Then he kicked out the stick and flew away into a tree without a word of thanks from the lion.

Sometime later, the Bodhisatta saw the lion eating a wild buffalo. He flew onto a tree branch nearby and asked if he could get something for saving the lion’s life. The lion told him that not eating him when he had the chance was sufficient reward.

I now felt completely flummoxed. How was one to make sense of the Ba’alei Tosafos proposing a parable to explain a difficult verse in Parshas Toldos – when that parable was nearly identical to a much earlier Buddhist teaching? (After all, Buddhism can be traced back to the sixth or fifth century BCE^[9] – which would make Aesop and the Buddah almost contemporaries.) Putting aside the question of using Aesop’s Fables, it seemed entirely unreasonable to imagine that the medieval French Ba’alei Tosafos had any familiarity with Far Eastern Buddhist texts.

Additionally, I had discovered three nearly identical versions of the same parable. Considering the numerous startling similarities they each shared, it seemed too unlikely for them to be unrelated. However, considering the vast distances in geography, culture, and time which separated all three, how could their commonality be explained?

III – The Jewish Origins of the Ba’alei Tosafos’ Parable: Two Possibilities

After some more research I became confident that the source of the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable was found on the shelves of their own Beis Medrash. At least two Jewish texts contain the same parable employed by the Ba’alei Tosafos. Of those two sources, one was contemporaneous and the other was of much older vintage.

Berechiah ben Natronai ha-Nakdan^[10] (Hebrew: ברכיה בן נטרונאי הנקדן) was an acclaimed Jewish writer, grammarian, translator, poet, and philosopher. Scholars believe he lived in 12^th or 13^th century England or France (or both). He is best-known for his work entitled Mishlei Shu’alim (“Fox Fables”).^[11]

Although it is now little-known, Mishlei Shua’lim was once quite popular. According to Dr. Anchi Ho (a program specialist in the African and Middle Eastern Division of the Library of Congress):

Fox fables were a popular genre in his day, and scholars have noted that Berechiah could have drawn his fables from any number of existing collections, including the Aesop’s Fables then circulating in various vernaculars or the French fox fables written closer to his own time by Marie de France. Berechiah did not so much make up his stories as render them in Hebrew for a Jewish audience.^[12]

In his introduction, Berachiah readily states that he collected many valuable parables from other cultures and languages. After adding Jewish themes, rhymes, and poems to those parables he produced a unique work filled with ethical and moral lessons. Though the makeup of his book seems rather unusual for his era and locale, until modern times, Berachiah’s Mishlei Shua’lim was readily found in Jewish libraries and homes throughout Europe.

Parable number eight in Mishlei Shu’alim is entitled: זאב ועגור / The Wolf and the Crane – the exact same appellation used by Aesop for his fable involving identical creatures. While Berachiah’s version of that parable is far more verbose than Aesop’s (it is nearly four times longer), it shares the very same story and moral lesson. As such, it seems clear that Aesop – who preceded Berachiah by over 1,500 years, was the source for the eighth parable found in Mishlei Shu’alim.

One could posit that when commenting on Avimelech’s strange choice of words in Parshas Toldos, the Ba’alei Toasafos readily recalled the parable of the wolf and the crane found in Mishlei Shu’alim. Realizing that story could beautifully explain the verses in question, they employed Berechiah ha-Nakdan’s parable. Unfamiliar as they may have been with Aesop’s Fables, by making use of Mishlei Shu’alim, the Ba’alei Toasafos unknowingly enshrined one of Aesop’s tales into their commentary to the Torah.

However, there is a second – and much older – authentically Jewish text where the Ba’alei Toasafos’ parable can be found. See Midrash Bereishis Rabbah (64:10), where it is recorded that the Sages – living over a thousand years earlier than the Ba’alei Tosafos – utilized that very story, and even connected it to the same Biblical verses in Parshas Toldos.

Before we see the parable as recorded in the Midrash, the context in which it was taught is crucial for our discussion. According to that Midrash, at some point following their destruction of the second Beis HaMikdash, the Roman Empire had a change of heart, and granted the Jews permission to rebuild their temple in Jerusalem. Upon hearing this news, our ancestors in the Holy Land were ecstatic. They quickly began making great preparations to accommodate the anticipated return of their exiled brethren.

Soon, however, the Samaritans – who had long caused problems for their Jewish neighbors – strongly petitioned the Roman government to cancel their earlier allowance. The Romans sided with the Samaritans and reneged on their short-lived permissive proclamation.

With their hopes now dashed, the Jewish people were understandably devastated. In their frustration, some began talking of rebelling against the Romans once again. Knowing what the terrible outcome of such an effort would certainly be, the Sages sought to calm the Jewish zealots who were considering this uprising.

The Midrash reports that the Sages felt that the great Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya was capable of speaking to and calming his aggrieved countrymen before it was too late. He was dispatched on this crucial mission, and he shared the perfect message with the people who most needed to hear it. Rav Yehoshua succeeded by means of the following parable:

A lion tore its prey and a bone became stuck in its throat. He said: “Anyone who extracts it, I will give him a payment.” An Egyptian koray [bird] with a long neck^[13] came, inserted its neck, and removed it. It said to him [the lion]: “Give me my payment.” He [the lion] said to it: “Go, boast, and say that you entered the mouth of a lion in peace and emerged in peace.” Likewise, it is sufficient that we entered into dealings with this nation in peace, and departed in peace.^[14]

Using this parable, Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya successfully calmed his kinsmen. He validated their feelings of immense frustration and expressed his agreement that they were in fact owed recompense by the Roman Empire. At the same time, he reminded them of their opponent’s brutal nature. Considering that track record, it would be wise to take note of their well-being and view that as compensation of sorts.

The Midrash states that this parable can be used to explain Avimelech’s seemingly strange statement in Bereishis 26:29. Based on his normally violent behavior, in a sense, he really had done good for Yitzchak when he sent him away in peace.

One could argue that after taking note of Avimelech’s odd choice of words in Parshas Toldos, the Ba’alei Toasafos recalled the Midrash’s parable of the lion and the long-necked bird. Realizing that tale could perfectly explain the verses in question, they made use of it as well. If Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya’s teaching from the Midrash was the source of the Ba’alei Toasafos’ parable, it follows that nothing from Aesop’s Fables was inadvertently included in their Torah commentary.

IV – Which Jewish Text Was the Most Likely Candidate?

We have seen two Jewish texts from which the Ba’alei Tosafos could have sourced of their parable. For the following four reasons, I believe that the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable was based on the Midrash Rabbah and not on Mishlei Shu’alim:

1. Length and style of the parable: The Midrash’s version of this parable is only forty-nine words long. It is concise and to the point. Similarly, the length of the story recorded by the Ba’alei Tosafos is just sixty-nine words. Like the tale found in the Midrash, the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable is also written in a straightforward fashion. In stark contrast, with a word count of two hundred and ninety-four (not including an additional poetic moral lesson), the parable found in Mishlei Shu’alim is extremely verbose. Furthermore, unlike the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable, Berachiah’s tale is a winding elaborately rhyming poem.
2. The animals involved: The parable taught by Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya in the Midrash Rabbah involved a lion and a long-necked bird. It was precisely those same two animals which were the key figures in the Ba’alei Tosafos’ version of the story.However, the predatory animal in Mishlei Shu’alim’s parable was a wolf – not a lion. In fact, the two animals involved in Berachiah’s tale were a wolf and a crane – the very same creatures in Aesop’s version of the story.
3. Use as Biblical commentary: Midrash Rabbah serves as a running commentary on the Torah. Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya‘s parable of the lion and the long-necked bird was specifically cited by the Midrash to explain Shemos 26:29. In order to make sense of Avimelech’s strange choice of words, the Ba’alei Tosafos used that same tale in their commentary to that very verse. Mishlei Shu’alim, however, shares that parable completely unconnected to any Biblical narrative. It is not used in the context of offering any commentary on the Torah.
4. Likelihood of familiarity: Mishlei Shu’alim was penned by a contemporary of the Ba’alei Tosafos. With the advent of the printing press still a few hundred years away^[15], that work was only available in manuscript form. Copying such texts by hand was a laborious process. As such, it would take time for handwritten editions of Mishlei Shu’alim to spread across Europe. One can imagine that during the period of the Ba’alei Tosafos, they were far more familiar with a classical Jewish text – such as the Midrash Rabbah – than they were with an unusual new work like Mishlei Shu’alim.

Thus, the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable seems to have been based on a lesson they knew from the Midrash Rabbah rather than on a tale in Mishlei Shu’alim. As such, it was Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya’s teaching in the Midrash – and not Aesop or a Buddhist text – that was the basis of the Ba’alei Tosafos’ parable.

V – The Need for Further Clarity

I now felt confident that the Ba’alei Tosafos had drawn their parable from a much earlier – and authentically – Jewish source. I realized, however, that I had only kicked the proverbial can down the road. After all, Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya’s parable – as found in the Midrash Rabbah – was taught to quell a would-be-rebellion against Rome after the destruction of the second Beis HaMikdash. That places his teaching of this parable at some point after the year 70 CE.

However, as we have seen, that same parable was shared by both Aesop and Buddhism some 500-600 years before the incident recorded in our Midrash. That being the case, I wondered about the originality of what Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya taught. In the spirit of the Sages’ earlier cited teachings in Pirkei Avos and Midrash Eicha Rabbah about being open to foreign wisdom, might he have borrowed his parable from the works of Aesop or Buddhism? On the other hand, based on what I shared in Part II regarding the Ba’alei Tosafos, it seems just as unreasonable to claim that Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya had based his parable on either of those earlier sources.

VI – The Spread of Jewish Teachings in the Ancient World – Approach A

I would like to present two approaches which can explain how this parable is of authentic Jewish vintage.

In 1995, I had the good fortune of spending close to six months furthering my Yeshiva studies in Jerusalem. While there, I discovered that Ohr Somayach – a nearby Yeshiva catering to English speaking men beginning their Jewish journeys – had an extensive Torah tape cassette lending library. While looking through their offerings, I was pleasantly surprised to find several tapes of question-and-answer sessions that had been led by Rabbi Simcha Wasserman, zt”l.^[16] I borrowed them and quickly discovered that they contained a treasure trove of information.^[17]

During one of those recorded sessions, a recent arrival to the Yeshiva posed the following question to Rabbi Wasserman: Prior to exploring his Jewish identity and finding his way to Israel, he had spent a significant amount of time in the Far East. While there, he immersed himself in the culture and study of various Eastern religions. The young man expressed his surprise at the similarity between several of the moral lessons he had imbibed in the Far East and some of the ancient Jewish wisdom he was now studying in Jerusalem. He found this occasional confluence of ideas confusing, and he asked Rabbi Wasserman for help making sense of those unexpected commonalities.

I remember being struck by Rabbi Wasserman’s response, and how I rewound the tape to listen to it a few times. Rabbi Wasserman began by validating that sincere student’s query. He stated that he too had thought about that question and then shared an approach that he had found helpful.

Rabbi Wasserman referred to the end of Parshas Chayei Sarah (Bereishis 25:6), which states:

ולבני הפילגשים אשר לאברהם נתן אברהם מתנת וישלחם מעל יצחק בנו בעודנו חי קדמה אל ארץ קדם.

“And to the sons of Avraham’s concubines, Avraham gave gifts, and he sent them away from his son Yitzchak while he [Avraham] was still alive, eastward to the land of the East.”

The Torah clearly states that Avraham had children other than Yitzchak whom he had raised and (one can assume) educated. In order to ensure that there would be no doubts as to Yitzchak being the sole heir to his legacy, Avraham sent those other children away before his passing. Where were those children sent? The Torah tells us they were sent “קדמה אל ארץ קדם – eastward to the land of the East.” That double expression, suggested Rabbi Wasserman, may indicate that they were sent not just east of Israel, but very east – i.e. the Far East.

It would make sense that those children of Avraham took many of his teachings with them to their new locales. With time, those children – and the Abrahamic teachings they had brought with them – fully assimilated into their new societies. Rabbi Wasserman posited that this could explain why some ideas contained in ancient Far Eastern cultures / religions bore strong similarities to several of Judaism’s ancient teachings. Those particular Far Eastern concepts may have originated with Avraham. However, due to the vast number of miles and years, their Jewish origins had been forgotten.

In the years since hearing Rabbi Wasserman’s novel (and ever so practical) theory, I thought of an additional way to support and expand on it. The Torah tells us that accompanying Avraham and Sarah to the land of Canaan were the “נפש אשר עשו בחרן – the souls whom they had made in Charan” (Bereishis 12:5). Rashi quotes the Midrash which explains that the verse refers to the students whom Avraham and Sarah had shared their unique monotheistic teachings with. According to Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Hilchos Avodas Kochavim 1:3), Avraham amassed a following of tens of thousands of students – and composed texts of religious instructions for them as well (see also tractate Avoda Zarah 14b). Rambam adds that both Yitzchak and Yaakov continued teaching others – outside of their immediate family.

As such, there were thousands of people who had been exposed to – and learned directly from Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. In time, those multitudes of devotees parted ways with the Jewish people and charted their own destinies. Despite the eventual assimilation of those one-time-students of the Jewish patriarchs (and matriarchs), some of what they had learned surely stuck with them, and would align with what would eventually become known as Jewish teachings.

VII – The Spread of Jewish Teachings in the Ancient World – Approach B

Tanach provides us with another clear avenue to explain how Jewish teachings spread throughout the ancient world. In I Melachim 3 we find that Shlomo HaMelech asked Hashem to bless him with wisdom – and that his wish was granted. In I Melachim 5:11-12 we read that Shlomo’s wisdom exceeded that of all other men, and that he composed thousands of parables and songs. As word of his incredible wisdom gained renown, many traveled from around the world to meet Shlomo and bask in his wisdom (Ibid. 5:14).

It follows that after spending time learning from Shlomo HaMelech in Jerusalem, those visitors returned to their homelands and shared some of what they had learned with their countrymen. As such, much of Shlomo’s teachings (including his parables) would have been introduced to many ancient nations and religions quite distant from Israel and Judaism. With time, and a lack of recorded history, the origins of that imported wisdom were forgotten as it was subsumed by the nations whose ancestors had imported it.

VIII – The Jewish Origin of Lion and Bird Parable

Based on either of the above-mentioned approaches, it makes perfect sense why occasional similarities are found between the age-old teachings of Judaism and those of other ancient cultures / religions. One can argue that those ideas from extraneous sources which mirror Jewish teachings may have originated with the earlier teachings of either Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech. As we have seen, each of those foundational pillars of the Jewish people shared their knowledge and wisdom with a vast number of foreign pupils eager to learn from them. Those students, in turn, took what they had learned with them when they returned to their home countries – both near and far.

We can propose that the Midrash’s parable of the ungrateful lion that required a bird to dislodge a bone from its throat was absolutely Jewish in origin. It was a creative lesson first taught by either Avraham or Shlomo to those who had gathered around them to partake of their knowledge. Those who appreciated the lesson of that parable brought it back home (along with other teachings) and shared it with their students, families, and friends. Thus, a teaching which had originated with either Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech was later taught and recorded with a few minor tweaks (which perhaps reflect the wildlife found in each locale) by both Aesop and Buddhist scribes.^{[18] [19]}

IX – Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya’s Role

In order for this theory to function, there is one final detail which must be ironed out. As pointed out in Parts III and V, Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya’s taught this parable in order to quell a would-be-rebellion against Rome. This incident occurred in the aftermath of the destruction of the second Beis HaMikdash.

However, we proposed that this parable was authentically Jewish, and originated with either Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech. That being the case, how are we to make sense of the Midrash attributing this parable to Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya – who lived after 70 CE?

I would posit that the Midrash never stated that Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya created this parable. Instead, the Midrash taught us that he transmitted that parable. I would further suggest that this was an ancient Jewish parable – developed by either Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech – that Rav Yehoshua shared with an audience who needed to hear it.

At a time when Torah she-Ba’al Peh – Judaism’s oral teachings – was not yet written down, only the great Sages and their students were knowledgeable of the full corpus of Jewish wisdom. The Sages saw Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya as a walking repository of the Torah she-Ba’al Peh. They felt confident he could recall the perfect homiletic teaching that would convince the zealots to end their saber rattling.

This understanding fits perfectly with the words of the Midrash. In selecting Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya for this role, the Midrash stated: “אמרין יעול חד בר נש חכימא וישדך צבורא. אמרין יעול רבי יהושע בן חנניא דהוא אסכולסטקיא דאורייתא. – They [the Sages] said, ‘One wise man should go and pacify the community.’ They said, ‘Rabbi Yeshoshua ben Chananya should go, for he is the master scholar of the Torah.’”^[20] The commentaries^[21] to the Midrash suggest the term “אסכולסטקיא דאורייתא – the master scholar of the Torah”, connotes one who is fully proficient in the traditional Jewish homiletic teachings which calm the hearts of those who know them.^[22]

According to the Midrash, our Sages acted wisely in selecting Rav Yehoshua ben Chananya for this task. At that fateful moment in Jewish history, he was able to recall the perfect ancient parable – first taught by either Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech. That parable contained the precise lesson which successfully averted a disastrous rebellion against Rome.^[23]

X – Conclusion

Not all of us will spend time immersed in the cultures of the Far East. Nonetheless, it is quite likely that we will one day find ourselves just as perplexed as that sincere young man in Jerusalem who turned to Rabbi Simcha Wasserman for a lifeline. While studying Torah, we are bound to stumble upon instances where age-old Jewish wisdom and a teaching or two from ancient foreign cultures seem to mirror one another. Being able to point to Avraham Avinu or Shlomo HaMelech to explain how some of our people’s venerable teachings may have spread far beyond Israel is an extremely useful tool to have in our toolkits. One never knows when it might even prove invaluable.

Photo of Rabbi Simcha Wasserman by Harry Green, c. 1986, South Bend, IN harrygreenphoto@gmail.com

1. I thank Rabbi Yitzchok Shapiro (Boca Raton, Florida) and Rabbi Dr. Eliezer Brodt (Ramat Beit Shemesh, Israel) for their important comments to an earlier version of this article. I thank my father, Mr. U. Harold Males (Jerusalem, Israel) for his editorial assistance. ↑
2. In a humorous Forward article linked below, the author turned to an expert who proposed these definitions for the following Yiddish words: “A zets is a strong punch. A patsh is a common slap, whereas a frask is a sharp, stinging one, given with a vengeance.” See: https://forward.com/news/547/martial-arts-in-yiddish/ . After reading this, I felt relieved that the older cheder rebbi had only made use of a patsh – and not a zets or a frask. ↑
3. The Da’as Zekeinim mi-Ba’alei Tosafos is a Torah commentary compiled from the writings of French and German Tosafists who lived in the 12th and 13th centuries. ↑
4. I was unable to find information about a bird named אגרון / Agron. However, the Hebrew word for the crane is עגור / Agur (see Isaiah 38:14 and Jeremiah 8:7). A crane is a long-necked bird which certainly matches the winged creature in the Ba’alei Tosafos‘ parable. ↑
5. Aesop (c. 620–564 BCE) was a Greek storyteller credited with a number of tales which are collectively known as ‘Aesop’s Fables’. See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aesop ↑
6. See: https://classics.mit.edu/Aesop/fab.1.1.html ↑
7. I have no recollection of ever reading Aesop’s Fables as an adult. Did my parents or older siblings read a children’s book of Aesop’s Fables to me when I was young? Had I read such a book to my nieces / nephews when they were little? ↑
8. See: https://thejatakatales.com/javasakuna-jataka-308/ ↑
9. See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhism ↑
10. See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berechiah_ha-Nakdan and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mishl%C3%A8_Shu%27alim ↑
11. The term Mishlei Shua’lim is clearly taken from Sanhedrin 38b where we learn ג’ מאות משלות שועלים היו לו לרבי מאיר ואנו אין לנו אלא שלש – Rabbi Meir had composed 300 fox fables (i.e. parables involving animals – the fox being chief among them), but we are only left with three of them. ↑
12. https://blogs.loc.gov/international-collections/2021/09/a-fox-fable-goes-digital-bialiks-classic-hebrew-story-for-children-finds-new-life-at-the-library-of-congress/ ↑
13. Eitz Yosef quotes Aruch who translates מוקרה as ‘its neck.’ It should be noted, however, that Rashi translates מוקרה as ‘its beak.’ ↑
14. I initially wondered if this Midrash might also be the basis for the lyrics “פרוק ית ענך מפום אריותא – save Your flock from the mouths of the lions” in the Shabbos song ‘Kah Ribon’. However, a little research revealed that the term “פום אריותא – the mouths of the lions” is a clear reference to Daniel 6:23. ↑
15. See: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Printing_press ↑
16. Rabbi Elazar Simcha Wasserman (1898 – 1992) was a son of the storied Rabbi Elchonon Wasserman, zt”l (1874 – 1941) – head of the pre-WWII Yeshiva in Baranovich, Poland. Prior to the Holocaust, Rabbi Wasserman (the son) immigrated to the United States where he played important roles in Jewish education and outreach (particularly in California). He and his wife moved to Israel in 1979, where they spent the final and ever-productive chapters of their lives in Jerusalem. I vividly recall attending the funerals of both Rabbi Simcha and Rebbetzin Faiga Rochel Wasserman (sadly, she passed away just after observing Shiva for her late husband) while first studying in Jerusalem in 1992. On November 5, 1992, the Los Angeles Times published an obituary for Rabbi Wasserman. See: https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-11-05-we-1397-story.html . For a book-length biography, see: Fox, Dovid (1995) Greatness in Our Midst: The Life of Rav Simcha Wasserman. Jerusalem: Feldheim Publishers. For a more recent article on Rabbi Wasserman, see Eytan Kobre, “Building Worlds.”, Mishpacha, November 14, 2023. https://mishpacha.com/building-worlds/. ↑
17. Some of Rabbi Wasserman’s presentations have been digitized and are posted on Ohr Somayach’s website. However, among those that are available, I was unable to find the question-and-answer session cited in this article. See: https://audio.ohr.edu/showperson/id=20 ↑
18. At this point, I believe an important disclaimer is in order. By suggesting that this parable is of ancient Jewish vintage, I am not claiming that that it was stolen from Jewish sources and plagiarized by foreigners. (Neither was that what Rabbi Wasserman had suggested.) A long tradition of such claims seems to go back to Philo (c. 20 BCE – 50 CE), and Josephus (c. 37 CE – 100 CE). For a scholarly treatment of such assertions, see Norman Roth, “The ‛Theft of Philosophy’ by the Greeks from the Jews,” Classical Folia, vol. 32, no. 1 (1978): 52-6. For some important rabbinic sources on such claims, see Rabbi Moshe Isserless’ Toras Ha’olah 1:11 (end of the chapter) and Metzudos Dovid to I Melachim 5:12. For a more recent rabbinic source see Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s commentary to Tisha B’Av Kina 37 on page 574 in Posner, Simon. 2010. The Koren Mesorat Harav Kinot: The Lookstein Edition: Tefilla for Tisha B’Av, Kinot, Eikha. New York: OU Press; Jerusalem. (See footnote 19 for additional sources on this theme.) ↑
19. See the link below for a series of five thorough articles (with extensive footnotes) published in the Ohr Yisroel journal (Monsey, NY) by Rabbi Yaakov Yisroel Stahl: (10) מקור חכמת אומות העולם מעם ישראל In these articles, Rabbi Stahl cites an incredible amount of material on the theme of ancient Jewish wisdom making its way into the teachings of the nations of the world. I thank Rabbi Dr. Eliezer Brodt for bringing these articles to my attention. ↑
20. I credit Artscroll / Mesorah’s Kleinman Edition of Midrash Rabbah (2010) for the translation of this passage. ↑
21. See Matnos Kehuna, and Eitz Yosef Ibid. ↑
22. Both Rashi and the Eitz Yosef (Ibid.) note the clearly Latin roots (i.e. scholastic) of the word אסכולסטקיא. ↑
23. As demonstrated above in Part IV, this Midrash was the source of the parable shared by the Ba’alei Tosafos. ↑

 

Review of Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, Jewish Women in Time and Torah

Ross Singer

Ross Singer received rabbinic ordination from Professor Rabbi David Weiss Halivni, Rabbi Shear Yashuv Cohen, and Rabbi David Bigman. He has an MA in Talmud and Rabbinics from the Jewish Theological Seminary and is a graduate of the Mandel Jerusalem Fellows. He has published articles in The Edah Journal, The JOFA Journal, Amudim, Lehrhaus, The Jerusalem Post, and The Times of Israel. He is the translator of Gideon Katz’s In Silence and Out Loud: Yeshayahu Leibowitz in Israeli Context.

Ross served as a rabbi in Vancouver, Canada and Baltimore, MD, and currently resides in Israel where he works as an educator and tour guide.

Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits has long been an outlier in the Orthodox world.[1] Over the past two decades, there has been a concerted effort by admirers of R. Berkovits to revive his thought and put it on the agenda. New commentaries to the Haggadah[2] and Megillat Esther[3] have been culled from the large corpus of R. Berkovits’ writings, a sampling of his important essays has been collected and published,[4] major works have been translated into Hebrew and published by Shalem Press, and new editions of his out of print books have been reissued including the subject of this review, his Jewish Women in Time and Torah.

On the backdrop of this trend to cultivate a reconsideration of R. Berkovits’ thought in the Orthodox community, it is important to note that a feature of R. Berkovits’ work may play a role in its marginalization. In the introduction to his English magnum opus, Not in Heaven, R. Eliezer Berkovits writes:

Finally may I be permitted a personal confession. While all my life I have endeavored to take my stand on the foundations of Halakhic Judaism, as it was handed down to me in my father’s house and as I have acquired it from my studies in Y’shibot and later from my great teacher, Rabbi Yehiel J. Weinberg, ז”ל, at the Hildesheimer Rabbinical Seminary in Berlin, in this my work I was determined to be guided exclusively by the traditional halakhic material as I found it and as I have learned to understand it over the years.[5]

While Rabbi Berkovits describes his return to the classic sources as a departure from the approach that he received from his teachers and based upon his own unique understanding, scholars of R. Berkovits’ work have found other halakhists who lay out kindred theories of halakhah. Some theorize that R. Berkovits may have been influenced by R. Moshe Shmuel Glasner, the father of one of his early teachers, R. Akiva Glasner,[6] and Rabbi Chaim Hirshensohn.[7] Despite his “confession,” R. Berkovits’ approach has powerful antecedents that a reader of Not in Heaven will not encounter there. It is not clear why they go unmentioned and unexplored by R. Berkovits. It is clear that a full appreciation of the place of his approach in the broader canvas of halakhic thought requires some filling in of gaps that his work leaves out.

This is particularly true of R. Berkovits’ final work, Jewish Women in Time and Torah. The recent republication of this volume affords us an opportunity to explore analogs of the book’s central thesis that R. Berkovits leaves unmentioned or underdeveloped, and to note some more recent work that picks up on its themes.

Before engaging in the endeavor to uncover the congruity of R. Berkovits’ thought in this work with the larger tradition, let us appreciate two features of this new edition. Firstly, it includes a moving introduction by R. Berkovits’ granddaughter, R. Rahel Berkovits. Her essay gives some important personal and ideological context. Secondly, this new edition uses footnotes as opposed to endnotes used in the earlier edition making it easier to turn to the various sources quoted by R. Berkovits without losing one’s place in the book.

The most significant contribution of the content of Jewish Women in Time and Torah is R. Berkovits’ distinction between “Torah-taught” and “Torah-tolerated.” This distinction lies at the center of the book’s agenda. R. Berkovits explains that the Torah was given into a particular cultural context and as such, it must take that context into consideration in legislating its norms. The Torah must, in certain cases, compromise its highest ideals for the sake of speaking to a particular generation who in their context are unable to understand and accept the fullest aspirations of the Torah. Using a pragmatic strategy, the Torah guides the community towards ever greater fulfillment of its ideals. In R. Berkovits’ own words:

The goals and the values are these forever. But they are taught and applied with the wisdom of understanding that time-conditioned reality cannot be changed overnight. The method of the Torah is to acknowledge reality, to take human nature into account and apply the eternal word to it so far as is possible, thus to teach values and guide behavior, indicating the goal towards which the guided change has to move.[8]

The Torah tolerates time-conditioned realities and they may seep into its norms, however one must distinguish between the Torah-tolerated and the Torah-taught. R. Berkovits asserts that the disparaging statements about women and halakhic inequalities that one finds in Jewish tradition stem from the ancient context into which Torah was given and in which it developed. Such evaluations of women were Torah-tolerated, however none of them were Torah-taught. While R. Berkovits had advocated for decades for adjustments in halakhah for women’s status, he had justified this approach in the past based on his understanding of halakhah’s prioritization of the ethical. In Jewish Women in Time and Torah, he introduces this historiosophy to his English language readers for the first time.[9] According to his read of the history of halakhah, the time is ripe to rid halakhah of what it had compromised on in the past:

It is our task to eliminate whatever remains from the Torah-tolerated, impersonal phase and to establish woman’s status completely on the Torah-taught and prescribed personal level.[10]

To appreciate the significance of this, it may be helpful to look at a question posed to R. Berkovits by R. Shalom Carmy. In a nuanced review of R. Berkovits’ approach, R. Carmy finds much to appreciate. Nevertheless, he echoes the common critique that R. Berkovits’ approach overreaches. R. Carmy notes R. Berkovits’ exasperation over a statement of the Ramban regarding the case of a woman who claims that her husband is repulsive to her without offering independent evidence. While reinforcing the strength of the position that allows the court to force the husband to divorce his wife, Ramban adds that whoever follows the stricter opinion that the court cannot force the husband “has lost nothing, and may be blessed.” R. Berkovits states that, “one remains astounded at such words. To be ‘strict’ in matters of divorce and overlook the happiness of the woman may often be extreme leniency in the implementation of the not insignificant commandment ‘And you shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” Rabbi Carmy takes issue with Rabbi Berkovits critique of Ramban:

We are obligated, as a simple matter of intellectual integrity and a measure of kevod ha-Torah, to understand why Ramban’s theoretical and practical judgements diverge markedly from ours. Such an exercise will yield a better understanding of Torah and a better self-understanding… Rolling one’s eyes in exasperation with the Ramban is not a philosophy.[11]

Rabbi Carmy’s point is an excellent one. How can R. Berkovits so easily discount the Ramban’s statement? Isn’t it too part of the Torah that must be understood and appreciated? If the priority of the ethical is so fundamental to halakhah, why doesn’t the Ramban recognize that? In Jewish Women in Time and Torah, R. Berkovits provides an answer to these questions. Ramban’s acquiescence to an approach in halakhah that diminishes women’s status before the court is a holdover of a Torah-tolerated approach. In our period such an approach should be left behind as we reassert the Torah-taught.[12]

The implications of R. Berkovits’ historiosophy of halakhah are tremendous and raise many questions. It introduces new dimensions to the subjective element of R. Berkovits’ thought. How is one to distinguish in the corpus of Torah between what is merely Torah-tolerated and what is actually Torah-taught? Where does R. Berkovits get such an idea about halakhic evolution and progression? Is this aspect of his thought also a deviation from the teaching he received from his family and teachers? What precedents exist for approaching Torah and halakhah in this way?

Indeed, it seems that R. Berkovits’ historiosophy of halakhah conflicts with the predominant way that Torah is presented in many orthodox circles. One of the opening statements of Bereishit Rabbah presents a conception of Torah that seems antithetical to R. Berkovits’ approach:

A king of flesh and blood who builds a castle does not do so from his own knowledge, but rather with the knowledge of a craftsman, and a craftsman does not build it from his own knowledge; he has scrolls and books in order to know how to make rooms and doorways. So too God looked into the Torah and created the world…[13]

In this depiction, the Torah precedes the world. The Torah then can be seen as pristine and untouched by human history and culture. In such a depiction, the Torah’s commandments cannot bear the taint of any human foibles. The Torah does not tolerate or compromise with or react to history because the Torah precedes history. In my experience, this is the dominant conception of Torah’s relationship to the world in Orthodox circles.[14]

Is there an alternative competing conception to this one upon which R. Berkovits can find precedent? To ground his position in the classical sources, R. Berkovits first quotes from Rashi’s interpretation of Psalms 29:4. Rashi comments, “At the time of the giving of the Torah, God limited His voice in accordance with the strength of the Israelites to receive.”[15] R. Berkovits elaborates explaining that each person received the Torah “in conformity with his own spiritual and moral capacity.” Building on this, R. Berkovits turns to the Rambam’s famous passage in his Guide for the Perplexed about the origin of the sacrifices:

… the prevailing custom in the world was to sacrifice animals… God’s wisdom counseled Him that to command the Jews to give up all that kind of service and annul it completely would have been something that their hearts could not have accepted… For this reason, God allowed the [generally practiced] sacrificial services to remain but directed them away from those created or imagined powers in which there is no truth, to His own name blessed be He.[16]

While R. Berkovits suffices with this one excerpt, the notion that God’s revelation to Israel took into account particular historical circumstances recurs throughout the Rambam’s writings. In a number of places in the Guide, Rambam explains that the Torah’s commandments and teachings are responses to and polemics against the practices and beliefs that had become prevalent among ancient idolators. For example, this is how he explains the reason for the Korban Pesach:

Scripture tells us, according to the version of Onkelos, that the Egyptians worshiped Aries, and therefore abstained from killing sheep, and held shepherds in contempt… For this reason those sects abstained from eating goats’ flesh. …This is [also] the reason why we were commanded to kill a lamb on Passover, and to sprinkle the blood thereof outside on the gates. We had to free ourselves of evil doctrines and to proclaim the opposite, viz., that the very act which was then considered as being the cause of death would be the cause of deliverance from death.[17]

This approach is not limited to the Guide. In his earlier popular works Rambam makes similar suggestions. In the Sefer HaMitzvot (Negative Commandments #43) Rambam already explained that the Torah’s prohibition of shaving off the corners of one’s head is in response to the practice of ancient idolatrous priests shaving that part of their hair. He repeats this explanation in the Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Avodah Zarah 12:1). The reason for the prohibition of mixing wool and linen together in garments is explained in the Sefer HaMitzvot (Negative Commandments #42) in the same way. In his Letter on Astrology, Rambam again articulates the broad use he makes of the approach:

I also have read in all matters concerning all of idolatry…I have read it and have understood its subject matter and have plumbed the depth of its thought. From those books it became clear to me what the reason is for all the commandments that everyone comes to think of as having no reason at all, other than the decree of Scripture.[18]

Given the claim that the Guide was written as an apologetic work to draw in those who had been lured away from traditional Judaism and therefore might include rhetorical passages that do not represent the most authentic positions of Rambam, these examples[19] are significant.

Another iteration of Rambam’s assertion that the Torah takes into account the exigencies of history found outside of the Guide is found in his Epistle on the Resurrection of the Dead.[20] After reaffirming his earlier pronouncements that the resurrection of the dead is a fundamental Jewish principle, Rambam addresses the absence of any explicit indication of the resurrection of the dead in the Pentateuch. He explains that the notion of the resurrection of the dead was so foreign and difficult to accept in the culture of Moses’ time, that were it to be mentioned, it would have made the acceptance of all the Torah’s other truths and instructions unthinkable. Therefore, God withheld the truth of the resurrection at that time in order to inculcate other more fundamental notions of prophecy and creation. Only after prophecy and creation were well established beliefs did God see fit to reveal the notion of resurrection and therefore we only find resurrection mentioned explicitly in later books of the Bible. Rambam explains that just as the Israelites were led out of Egypt in a circuitous route to avoid the land of the Philistines, “lest the people change their minds when they see war and return to Egypt (Exodus 13:17),” so too the revelation of the resurrection took a circuitous route lest the people reject the Torah. The metaphor of the circuitous path of the exodus is also employed by the Rambam in the Guide to explain his approach to the sacrifices in the passage mentioned above. The impact of the exigencies of human history not only shape the path of the Exodus and the establishment of the sacrificial rites, they also determine that certain information must be omitted from the content of the Torah.

In perhaps the most subtle but also the most profound example of this phenomenon, Rambam seems to hint that the very revelation of the whole of the Torah was a reaction to a particular historical moment. In chapter one of the Mishneh Torah’s Laws of Idolatry, Rambam recounts how all of the progress in creating a monotheistic community was nearly undone during the many years that the Israelites lived in Egypt.

When the Jews extended their stay in Egypt, however, they learned from the [Egyptians’] deeds and began worshiping the stars as they did, with the exception of the tribe of Levi, who clung to the mitzvot of the patriarchs – the tribe of Levi never served false gods. Within a short time, the fundamental principle that Abraham had planted would have been uprooted, and the descendants of Jacob would have returned to the errors of the world and their crookedness.

Seemingly in response to this deterioration, God

brought forth Moses, our teacher, the master of all prophets, and sent him. Once Moses, our teacher began to prophesize, and God chose Israel as His inheritance, He crowned them with mitzvot and informed them of the path to serve Him, and the law prescribed for idol worship and all those who stray after it.

In the Rambam’s retelling it sounds as if the superior level of prophesy bestowed upon Moses and the giving of the mitzvot of the Torah are prompted by a crisis in history – the potential loss of the monotheistic tradition that Abraham founded. As Rabbi Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch puts it in his commentary to this passage:

We find that Moses’ mission and the transmission of Torah and mitzvot guaranteed that the root that Abraham planted was not uprooted and would never be uprooted.[21]

Rav Shagar suggests that this first chapter of the laws of idolatry should be seen as just one example of a larger phenomenon in the Mishneh Torah:

In my opinion, one should explain the Rambam’s effort in the Mishneh Torah in his historical introductions to various halakhot, like his introduction to the laws of marriage for example, in this way (a historical understanding). The Rambam, in opposition to most of the Torah’s interpreters today, did not hide his conception of the Torah as constructed by history (among other factors) and as adapted to changing human consciousness.[22]

Deeply embedded in Rambam’s thought, and throughout his writings we find that the Torah was shaped by the exigencies of history.

Perhaps the greatest rabbinic figure since Rambam to articulate a similar approach to the impact of history on the formulation of the Torah was Rabbi Abraham Isaac HaCohen Kook. In a letter to the orthodox academic biblical scholar, Moses Seidel, R. Kook writes:

If we find in the Torah certain things which seem to be based on widely accepted ideas of the distant past, but are incompatible with the scientific knowledge of today, we cannot be sure if our current research has produced absolute truth. Even if current understandings are true, there certainly could have been an important and sacred reason for which these matters needed to be explained according to the popular notions of ancient times and not scientifically precise ones. This approach is taken for granted by certain spiritual notions and fundamentals of understanding scriptural narrative like, “the Torah addressed humanity’s evil inclination,” or “[The Torah is formulated] in order to explain in a way that it is intelligible to the [human] ear”, and these instances testify to beloved enduring Divine wisdom.[23]

In another letter to Seidel, Rav Kook writes:

Life must be understood through two parameters, how it is and how it should be… The Divine exalted Torah is that very beloved instrument that cultivates and directs life towards the state that it should be. However, you must be careful not to think that these two parameters have no relationship or connection to each other, for they are related matters just like the changing horizons that one who travels a long journey encounters.[24]

These two letters together produce an approach that is basically the same as R. Berkovits’ – the Torah takes into account “the popular notions of ancient time” even if they are not “precise”, and seeks to move life from “how it is” towards “how it should be” incrementally like “changing horizons.” These ideas find a later iteration in the posthumously published L’nevuchei Hador.

A similar notion can be found in R. Kook’s essay “Fragments of Light.” There he writes:

The long road of development, after man’s fall, also needs physical exertion, which will at times require a meat diet, which is a tax for passage to a more enlightened epoch, from which animals are not exempt…

This is the advantage of the moral sense when it is linked to its divine source. It knows the proper timing for each objective, and it will sometimes suppress its flow in order to gather up its strength for future epochs, something that the impatient kind of morality that is detached from its source would be unable to tolerate. When the animal lust for meat became overpowering, if the flesh of all living beings had been forbidden, then the moral destructiveness, which will always appear at such times, would not have differentiated between man and animal, beast and fowl and every creeping thing on the earth. The knife, the axe, the guillotine, the electric current would have felled them all alike in order to satisfy the vulgar craving of so-called cultured humanity.[25]

These and similar ideas on the consumption of meat in another essay were culled together by R. Kook’s student R. David Cohen into an essay entitled “A Vision of Vegetarianism and Peace.” In R. Berkovits’ terminology, R. Kook is suggesting that the eating of meat is Torah-tolerated but not Torah-taught. Though he never quotes from R. Kook, their approaches clearly share a similar understanding of the necessity for Torah to compromise its highest aspirations in the face of the exigencies of history.

And yet, even as we have seen that R. Kook and the Rambam both teach that the Torah includes elements that are the product of historical circumstances, one could still challenge the notion that this should have any practical ramifications. The same Rambam who in the Guide presents the sacrificial system as a compromise with historical exigencies, in the Mishneh Torah brings all of the details of the halakhah of animal sacrifice. As Rabbi Ira Bedzow articulates it:

Nevertheless, the obligation of sacrifices was never abrogated completely in favor of prayer. In his Book of the Commandments, Maimonides enumerates prayer as the fulfillment of the specific commandment of worshiping God. Yet he also enumerates each commandment of the sacrificial rite even though they could have been included in the general category since they are considered only a way-station on the path to proper worship. Their enumeration shows that as specific commandments, the performance of sacrifices is eternally valid, as is the rest of the Torah.[26]

We could also note that R. Kook was insistent that for his time it was inappropriate to implement the Torah taught vegetarianism. He explicitly discouraged his son from refraining from eating meat.[27] R. Kook was concerned that the time was not yet ripe and the consequences of implementing the Torah’s ideals could backfire. Moreover, even though R. Kook was very unconventional as a thinker, his practical halakhic decisions were often very conservative.

R. Kook’s and Rambam’s reticence to diverge from the Torah-tolerated halakhah towards what they believed was a more ideal Torah teaching is an important point to consider. However, most of what Rabbi Berkovits advocates for in this book is not analogous to the abolition of sacrifice or the wholesale prohibition on consuming meat. In most cases, Rabbi Berkovits is suggesting the adoption of one strain of the halakhah embedded in the Talmudic and post-Talmudic authorities over other strains. For instance, his proposals of women reading Megillat Esther for the community, making Kiddush in their homes, counting for the three that make up the Zimmun and leading the zimmun, all are based on classical sources.

And still, even regarding relatively minor adjustments, how can one be sufficiently confident that one strain is merely tolerated while the other is Torah-taught? Could both be Torah-taught and part of Rabbinic pluralism – a pluralism that R. Berkovits embraces in other contexts?[28] R. Berkovits insists that in these cases one position is a holdover with less legitimacy and the other is an ideal whose time has come. R. Berkovits traces a line from negative statements about women in ancient Greek culture and presumes that parallel statements in the Rabbinic literature must derive from this foreign source. R. Berkovits seems to presume that this is self-evident and does not feel a need to demonstrate causation. One wonders if there is a possibility of a more objective way of separating the “Torah-taught” from the “Torah-tolerated.”

At just about the same time that R. Berkovits was writing up these ideas,[29] R. Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch was sharing very similar thoughts:

The system of Torah and commandments is two-fold. On the one hand, it conveys concepts, instills eternal values, and directs people to the service of God at the highest levels and to the formation of a society worthy to be the bearer of God’s presence. On the other hand, it encompasses legislation and commands to combat the forces of evil and destruction that erupt within the individual’s soul and the nations’s spirit and to ensure that the necessary conditions for spiritual development are satisfied to the greatest possible extent, given each generation’s situation and the social, economic, and cultural circumstances prevalent at any given time and place. For the first objective, the Torah places before us lofty goals that challenge and motivate the generations, for even the noblest of people cannot attain them in full. At the same time it establishes, for the second objective, criteria for conduct that people can, as a practical matter, accept minimum standards that must be met to avoid endangering the survival of the individual and the society in which he is placed and giving up all hope of spiritual uplift.

R. Rabinovitch and R. Berkovits are laying out very similar ideas to each other at the same time without mentioning each other.

Like R. Berkovits, R. Rabinovitch asserts that halakhah indeed should respond and has responded to progress in history that allows for the raising of “minimum standards” towards “service of God at the highest levels.” He writes:

In the time of the rishonim, R. Gershom, Beacon of the Diaspora, saw that his generation was ready for a ban on divorce without the wife’s consent and for eliminating polygamy, at least within the communities of Western Europe. By now, his enactments have spread through all Israel. Certainly the Sages instituted such enactments – yet they did not draw them out of thin air, but advanced the values already determined by Scripture. In the biblical era, however, the time was not yet ripe, and people were not yet ready for the full realization of that vision. Only over time, as a result of training in the life of Torah, were people’s hearts made ready and did it become possible to draw closer to the goal established by the Torah.[30]

R. Rabinovitch sees in takanat Rabbeinu Gershom an example of the Torah-taught replacing the Torah-tolerated. He powerfully grounds his claim that monogamy is an ideal of the Torah and that polygamy is a compromise with reality, He allows the Torah to present its ideal in its own terms: “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and cleave to his wife and they will become as one flesh” (Genesis 2:24). “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine” (Song of Songs 6:2).

It is worthwhile noting some differences between R. Rabinovitch’s presentation and R. Berkovits. R. Rabinovitch’s seems to have a higher threshold for determining the Torah-taught.[31] He is less willing to intuit the Torah’s higher ideals and so all of his examples rely on broad constitutive statements. He also is much less programmatic and ambitious than R. Berkovits. R. Rabinovitch makes the case that this is how Torah works but he does little to lay out what our next steps should be. For those who are convinced of the basic theory of Torah-taught vs. Torah-tolerated, the continuum between the more programmatic and intuitive R. Berkovits and the more conservative modest R. Rabinovitch might provide margins to the discussion of how far one can or should go with this approach.

Before closing, we should note some very recent movement towards these ideas in another realm. While, for R. Rabinovitch, R. Berkovits, and R. Kook, these ideas primarily address ethical qualms that we might have over the discrepancy between our senses of morality and the tradition’s prescriptions, they have also been used recently to address issues arising from the discipline of Biblical Criticism.

In two recently published books, the ideas explored above are brought to shed light on Biblical criticism. R. Joshua Berman’s Ani Maamin and Yeshivat Maale Gilboa’s Gishat HaTemurot seek to address the discrepancies and contradictions in the Torah that scholars of the Documentary Hypothesis make so much of. Both of these books suggest that understanding the Torah’s relationship to historical developments and culture explains these discrepancies in ways that can be harmonized with reverence for the divinity of the text.

R. Berman titles the opening chapter of his book, “The Rabbinic Mandate to Understand the Torah in Ancient Near Eastern Context.” He justifies his approach by quoting the passages from The Guide mentioned above, the Letter on Astrology, Ralbag, and Rav Kook. R. Yehuda Gilad in his article in Gishat HaTemurot brings together Rambam’s passage about sacrifice in The Guide, Rav Kook’s Letter #89, and the Vision of Vegetarianism and Peace and offers an overarching analysis of the ramifications of this approach.

From all this we can see that R. Berkovits’ thesis in Jewish Women in Time and Torah is deeply grounded in the broad oeuvre of Rambam’s writings, and it reverberates with seminal passages in the writings of R. Abraham Isaac HaCohen Kook. It was paralleled by the work of his younger contemporary R. Rabinovitch, and its methodology has been used in two important books to address the challenges of Bible criticism. Perhaps what might seem at first glance to run afoul of common attitudes towards the sanctity of the Torah’s text, should be considered a legitimate and well-trodden path of engaging with the Torah by some of our greatest lights. If so, this can open an exciting and vital debate about the potential ramifications for the proper adjudication of halakhah in our moment in history. The republication of Jewish Women in Time and Torah is an excellent springboard for this debate.

* * * * * * *

Notes

[1] His approach has been disparagingly associated with Conservative Judaism. See R. Chaim Twerski, Academic Journal of Hebrew Theological College 1:2 (April 2003), in the letters section page 101. His yirat shamayim has been called into question. See Allan Nadler, “Eliezer Berkovits’ Not in Heaven,” Tradition 21:3, (Fall 1984), p. 97. While his own teacher, Rabbi Yechiel Ya’akov Weinberg, wrote a glowing approbation of R Berkovits’ work Tnai Bernesuin UVaGet (For an analysis of the controversy around this letter, see Marc B. Shapiro, Between the Yeshiva World and Modern Orthodoxy, (1999), pp. 191-192, footnote 83), in private correspondence, Rabbi Weinberg wrote that an article of R. Berkovits’ “contains harmful ideas that cannot be accepted” (Shapiro, “Rabbi Jehiel Jacob Weinberg on the Limits of Halakhic Development” The Edah Journal 2:2 Tammuz 5762, p. 2). To be sure, in that same letter, R. Weinberg ultimately comes to the general defense of his devoted student, but the statement that R. Berkovits had gone too far in this particular article is telling. When publishing an article by R. Berkovits in 1965, Tradition felt the need to include the following disclaimer: “Although most of our Editorial Board disagree with the views expressed in this essay, Tradition is happy to provide a forum for the provocative ideas presented by Dr. Eliezer Berkovits (‘Orthodox Judaism in a World of Revolutionary Transformations’ (Berkovits 1965).” Gil Graff cites a letter where R. Berkovits himself felt he hadn’t found a place where he felt comfortable in American Jewish life (Gil Graff “Halakhah as Torat Hayyim,” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies, April 16, 2019, p. 7).

[2] Reuven Mohl (ed.), Faith and Freedom Passover Haggadah with Commentary from the Writings of Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, (2019).

[3] Reuven Mohl (ed.), Faith Fulfilled: Megillat Esther and the Ma’ariv Evening Service for Purim with Commentary from the Writings of Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, (2022).

[4] David Hazony (ed.), Essential Essays on Judaism, (2002).

[5] Eliezer Berkovits, Not in Heaven, (1983) p. 2.

[6] Dr. David Hazony, Prof. Marc Shapiro and Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cordozo have all made this speculation. R. Cardozo writes, “Rabbi Berkovits received his rabbinical training (and semicha – rabbinic ordination) from Rabbi Akiva Glasner (1885-1956), who took over as Chief Rabbi of Klausenburg when his father, Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Glasner (1856-1924) left for Israel. The latter – a staggering, daring figure in the world of Halacha – authored Dor Revi’i, one of the most remarkable works ever written, suggesting an entirely different approach to Jewish Law. The elder Rabbi Glasner had a major influence on Rabbi Berkovits’s halachic thinking and approach” (R. Cardozo, “Faith and Freedom – a book review,” Times of Israel, March 27, 2019 https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/faith-and-freedom-a-book-review/). David Hazony writes, “Yet he had other teachers, as well, whose influence was no less evident than Weinberg’s, even if he does not tell us as much explicitly. Of these, probably the most decisive was Rabbi Akiva Glasner, under whom he studied and received rabbinic ordination during his years in Pressburg, and who officiated at Berkovits’ wedding—a traditional symbol of reverence and, presumably, influence. And though Glasner himself left little record of his views regarding the subjects Berkovits wrote about, we do know that he shared a close affinity with his father, Rabbi Moshe Shmuel Glasner, even succeeding him as chief rabbi of Klausenberg. The elder Glasner was renowned for two controversial beliefs in his time—beliefs that find powerful expression in Berkovits’ writings, and which do not have seemed to be emphasized in those of Weinberg, and which, knowing what we know about how rabbinic dynasties tend to function, are likely to have infused Akiva Glasner’s teachings as well and reached Berkovits through him” (Hazony, Human Responsibility in the Thought of Eliezer Berkovits – Thesis submitted to the Senate of the Hebrew University, July, 2011, p. 31). Professor Shapiro is much more reserved writing that, “Presumably, some of the elder Glasner’s ideas were carried forward by his son, although it is impossible to say if this influenced Berkovits, since he never mentions Glasner in his writings” (Shapiro, “Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits’s Halakic Vision for the Modern Age,” Shofar 31:4, p. 16). R. Glasner may have had explicit influence or subconscious influence on R. Berkovits or perhaps he had no influence at all. Whatever the case may be, R. Berkovits’ approach does have a powerful important antecedent.

[7] See Hazony, Human Responsibility in the Thought of Eliezer Berkovits – Thesis submitted to the Senate of the Hebrew University, July, 2011, pp. 35-36. See also R. Jonathan Sacks, Arguments for the Sake of Heaven, (1995), pp. 196, where R. Sacks puts R. Hirschensohn and R. Berkovits in the same ideological camp.

[8] P. 47.

[9] This idea appears in Hebrew in a less developed form in Berkovits’ article מעמד האישה ביהדות – הבט הלכתי-חברתי that appears in דב רפל (עורך) הפנינה: ספר זכרון לפנינה רפל which was published in 5749 (1988-89) – a year or so before the publication of Jewish Women in Time and Torah.
This article introduces a new element into Rabbi Berkovits’ historiosophy of halakhah. In Not in Heaven, he writes that, “halakha is the application of the Torah to life. But since there is no such thing as life in general, since it is always a certain form of life at a specific time in history, in a specific situation, Torah application means application to a specific time in a specific situation” (pp. 1-2). In his article “The Role of Halakhah,” he writes that “the concrete historical situation is forever changing. Halakhah therefore, as the application of Torah in a given situation, will forever uncover new levels of Torah-depth and Torah-meaning and thus make new facets of Judaism visible… authentic Jewry represents a single application of Torah to a specific constellation of conditions in which Jews find themselves at one time in their history (Berkovits, “Authentic Judaism and Halakhah,” Judaism 19 (1): 66–76). However, In Jewish Women in Time and Torah he goes a step further. It is not just that the adjudication of halakhah’s ideals must be applied and adapted to particular circumstances. Here he is saying that halakhah at times compromises on its ideals during historical periods in which its ideals are unachievable.

[10] Berkovits, Jewish Women in Time and Torah p. 71.

[11] R. Shalom Carmy, “Eliezer Berkovits’s Challenge to Contemporary Orthodoxy, The Torah u-Madda Journal (12/2004), p. 198.

[12] Reading R. Berkovits’ complaints about the agunah issue in his early work highlights the new dimension that the Torah-taught vs. Torah-tolerated conception brings to R. Berkovits thought. In “The Role of Halakhah,” p. 74, he writes, “It has, however, become more serious in our times than it has been even before, First of all, the problem has been psychologically aggravated. Conditions have changed, movies have changed, the position of women in society has changed. People are no longer willing to put up with the problem as they might have done in earlier times. The unresolved status of the problem drives numerous people away from Halakhic Judaism. Often the woman is penalized because of the attitude of the husband. He may refuse to give a get out of spite or because, exploiting the situation, he makes monetary demands on his wife or on her family in return for a religious divorce… The problem of the agunah is a critical problem of Jewish ethics. It challenges the entire concept of derakheha darkhei noam, that the ways of the Torah are ways of pleasantness. It is unquestionably a grave injustice to the woman. Its consequences often lead to self-defeating futility, for in the majority of such problematic cases the parties accept the civil divorces as final and remarry without the benefit of a get.” Modern women’s feelings, injustice, social mores, the fact that there will be remarriages anyway etc. are the issues that R. Berkovits raises here. However, the crisis is not described as the result of an anachronistic compromise. After reading Jewish Women in Time and Torah, the absence of the Torah-taught/Torah-tolerated distinction in this exhaustive diatribe is glaring.

[13] Genesis Rabbah 1:1.

[14] To be sure, R. Berkovits might interpret this passage as referring only to the Torah-taught elements of Torah. However, the passage does not hint at any such distinction and it is my sense that it is not commonly taken that way.

[15] Jewish Women p. 45.

[16] Guide for the Perplexed 3:32 quoted on p. 46 of Jewish Women.

[17] Guide for the Perplexed 3:45. Other examples can be found in this chapter and in 3:30; 3:37; 3:39; 3:46; 3:49 as well.

[18] Twersky, ed. A Maimonides Reader, pp. 465-66.

[19] For some others, see Sefer HaMitzvot Negative commandment #45 and Hilkhot Avodah Zarah 12:7.

[20] See Abraham Halkin (translator), Epistles of Maimonides: Crisis and Leadership (1985), pp. 229-230.

[21] Rabbi Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch, Yad Peshuta, Hilkhot Avodah Zarah ch. 1 Hebrew:

נמצא שעל ידי שליחותו של משה רבינו ומתן תורה ומצוות הובטח שאותו עיקר ששתלו אברהם לא נעקר ולא ייעקר לעולם

[22] Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg, Kelim Shvurim (Heb.) 5764, p. 34, n. 18.

[23] Iggrot HaRaya #473, p. 119.

[24] Iggrot HaRa’yah, #89, pp. 94-95.

[25] Translation taken from Ben Zion Bokser, Abraham Isaac Kook, (1978) pp. 318-319.

[26] Ira Bedzow, Halakhic Man Authentic Jew (2009), p. 177.

[27] Iggrot HaRa’yah #802.

[28] Not in Heaven, pp. 50-53.

[29] R. Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch first lays out the ideas mentioned below in an essay in Maaliyot (a publication of Yeshivat Birkat Moshe) in 1988. R. Berkovits presents these ideas in the same year. See footnote 9 above. Rabbi Rabinovitch’s essay was expanded and republished in a collection of his essays entitled Darkah shel Torah that was published in 1998. The portions quoted here are taken from Joel Linsider’s translation of the expanded essay that appeared in The Edah Journal 3:1 Tevet 5763.

[30] R. Nahum Eliezer Rabinovitch, “The Way of Torah,” The Edah Journal 3:1 Tevet 5763, p. 8.

[31] R. Berkovits’ claim of a Torah ideal of an equality of the sexes might find an anchor in R. Yehuda Herzl Henkin’s essay “Equality Lost.” See R. Y.H. Henkin, Equality Lost.

 

Purim in Tehran: The Symbolic Devaluation of the Ahrimanic Republic

By Dan D.Y. Shapira

Dan (or, Dan D.Y.) Shapira is an Orientalist and grows more than fifty trees on the edge of the Judaean Desert. He’s a Full Professor at Bar-Ilan University.

Some fifty years ago, my father brought home a small glass bottle of Iranian Coca Cola, no idea where from. I sat hypnotized looking at the bottle, with its Persian (well Arabic) letters, so beautiful.

It was easy to understand that two letters stand for k, one for l, one for o and one for a. The letters for o, l, and for k had some remote similarities to the corresponding Hebrew letters, if you rotate them a bit in your head. How I know that the letter for a, ا, is also like the Hebrew א, you should just squeeze the Aleph on both sides. And a couple of year later there was the Islamic revolution in Iran, at the end of the same year there was the Soviet invasion in Afghanistan, and new tasty, delicious words began to pour – baseej, inqhilab, Haqiqat-e Inquilab-e Saur, mujahedeen-e khalq, sipaas, Kermanshah, pasdaran, and somehow I began learning Persian.

The language struck me with its grammatical similarities to German and its lexical parallels to Yiddish. Just as Yiddish incorporates Hebrew and Aramaic, Persian is saturated with Arabic. In Yiddish, one can play with registers, tilting the language toward its Germanic core or thinning out its Hebraic elements. Persian offers the same flexibility, allowing a speaker to choose more, fewer, or even no Arabic words. Years later, many Jewish-American Iranists from the WWII generation confirmed this early impression. Learning the language went smoothly, as if I had already known it in a former gilgul.

When I was an Iranian studies student in the late 1980s at Hebrew University, one of my teachers told us that Persians are simply prone to short periods of mass hysteria before returning to “normal” and going back to counting money and carpets within a few years. Time has since proven that my former teacher understood Iranians quite poorly, as they have shown no symptoms of recovering to that supposed normalcy. I eventually realized that my chances of visiting Tehran or Shiraz are slim, perhaps reserved for a future gilgul. Being an Israeli Iranist without the possibility of visiting Iran is much like being Jewish without the possibility of joining a Gentile club.

I am writing this on Sunday, March 1. Today is my secular birthday, and tomorrow, Ta’anith Esther, is my Jewish one. Last night, Bibi and Trump sent me a wonderful gift. I shouted into the sky as drones sent from Iran turned into smoke: Khamenei kotlet shod (“Khamenei went kebab”) as millions of Iranians around the world shouted along with me.

My son just called. He is married to a girl whose parents were both born in Iran. “What do you say about your birthday present?” he asked. “I just realized that your entire life is connected to the fact that you were born on Ta’anith Esther.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and I am just now writing about that. I’ll send it to you.”

It was published today that the joint American-Israeli training for the very operation we witnessed yesterday began as early as January 2023. In January! This timing is critical; it means that even as the domestic anti-Bibi demonstrations began to surge and well before the horrors of October 7, the strategic “pedestal” for the current reversal was already being constructed.

In my view, the son of the last Shah has been designated by Bibi and President Trump to lead the transitional period in a post-Khomeinist Iran. Whether he will be able to restore the historical monarchy remains an open question.

As I discussed in my co-authored article with Reuven Kiperwasser, “Encounters between Iranian Myth and Rabbinic Mythmakers in the Babylonian Talmud,” published a dozen years ago in Encounters by the Rivers of Babylon Scholarly: Conversations Between Jews, Iranians and Babylonians in Antiquity (2014) and available here, the Babylonian sages often engaged in a process of symbolic devaluation. They created their own imagined worlds by taking elements of Iranian mythology and recasting them to define the borderlines of their own culture. After the certain dismiss of what many Iranians call “the Ahrimanic Republic” (instead of “the Islamic Republic,” with Ahriman being the wicked opposite, sitra oḥora, of the benevolent Ahurmazd, or Ahura Mazda), we are seeing this ancient devaluation play out as a modern geopolitical reality. In our analysis of Sanhedrin 39a, we examine a dialogue where a Magus claims the human body is divided, with the upper part belonging to Hwrmyz (Ohrmazd) and the lower, excretory part belonging to ‘hrmyn (Ahriman). The Talmudic sage Amemar sarcastically challenged this dualism by asking why Ahriman would permit Ohrmazd to send life-giving water through his “territory.” Today, this sarcasm has turned into a tangible reality as the “Ahrimanic” regime governed through the “lower” impulses of mass hysteria and regional chaos has been devalued by a population that has largely secularized and rejected the official ideology. With the collapse of this demonic mask, many Iranian exiles will return home (four to five millions Iranians live outside of the present borders of Iran). They return to a land ready to restore its “upper” civilizational identity, finally mirroring the way the rabbis once harmonized their world with the benevolent elements of the Iranian heritage.

In Iran, while 99% of the population is officially classified as Muslim (including a 5% to 15% Sunnite minority composed of Kurds, Arabs, Baluchis, and Turkmens living along the borders), the internal reality is starkly different. In truth, only about 30% to 40% of the population considers themselves Muslim at all. The actual majority has shifted toward being non-religious or atheist, with many becoming fiercely anti-Islamic or “spiritual” in various ways. Others identify as self-proclaimed “Zoroastrians” or have become secret converts to American-style Evangelical Christianity.

Under the Khomeinist regime, Iran has become largely secularized and has partially moved in an anti-Islamic direction. Today, nobody believes in the official ideology, a situation very much like the lack of belief in the official ideology during the late Brezhnev USSR. The “Ahrimanic republic” now sends Shi’ite clerics who oppose its ideology to prison or places them under home arrest, just as the late Brezhnev USSR did to the few who identified as “the real Marxists.”

The Iran of tomorrow will certainly be anti-Islamist, with the potential for the oppression of Islam itself. While the Iran of yesterday was a global leader in antisemitism, the Iran of tomorrow will be a global leader in the state-supported fight against the “Free Palestine” movement. The “Palestinian discourse” was central to the old Iran and will remain so in the New Iran, though with its emphasis entirely reversed.

The raison d’être of the Iran of tomorrow will be a staunch alliance with the USA and Israel. The principle of nahapokh hu from the Purim story reveals the sarcastic hypostasis of the Jewish God’s sense of humor. As the scripture asks, “See, this is new? It hath been already of old time, which was before us.” One need only consider the metamorphosis of pogromist Czarist Russia into what some, astonished by the transformation, termed “the Jewish Commune.”

Some predict that Iran will fall apart due to the separatism of ethnic minorities, but to me, this is absolute nonsense. Iran has only insignificant real minority groups; although some Iranians speak languages other than Persian, they are Iranians first and foremost. Fantasies about Azeri separatism in Iran are especially hilarious. It is as if Nazi Germany tried to lure Israel’s Hasidic Jews into a “Great Germany” separatism simply because those Jews speak Yiddish. Iranians of Azeri background are, more or less, the Iranian equivalent of Israel’s Ashkenazim.

But the borders of Iran might change. It is a significant topic, and once stabilization is achieved, one can envisage the enlargement, rather than the shrinking, of Iranian territory eastwards within a predictable span of time.

The position of the Iran of tomorrow as an ally of Israel will fundamentally change Israel’s strategy toward its Arab allies and partners. MBS understood this some time ago and, consequently, dragged his feet regarding a rapprochement with Israel.

Another significant point is Türkiye, which has emerged as a primary adversary of Israel since October 7, though I hope the motivations behind this shift were largely opportunistic and fundamentally misguided. However, if the IDF map is accurate, the fact that Israeli jets overflew Turkish territory on their way to Iran suggests a significant development. This possibility hints that Mr. Erdoğan is beginning to view the regional landscape through a more pragmatic lens, perhaps recognizing the inevitable devaluation of the “Ahrimanic” status quo in favor of a more stable, “upper” civilizational order.

 

“‘I Do Not Understand a Single Word of What I Wrote in My Book’: Rav Kook, Saul Lieberman, and a Literary Mishlo’aḥ Manot Exchange”

By Aviad Hacohen

The festival of Purim, with its customs and traditions, has long constituted a broad and fertile field for a vast body of research, folklore, and ritual practice associated with the “Jewish carnival.”^[1] The drinking of wine, the wearing of costumes (which have no foundation in early sources and, in the view of many scholars, were influenced by the Venetian carnival),^[2] the use of noisemakers for the purpose of “blotting out Amalek,”^[3] and the practice of mishlo’aḥ manot have all added layers of joy and exuberance to the festival, at times reaching the point of genuine revelry and even debauchery,^[4] and giving rise in certain historical contexts to acts of mockery, hostility, and ritualized violence that have attracted sustained scholarly attention.^[5]

Two of the day’s commandments explicitly mentioned in the Scroll of Esther are “the sending of portions, each man to his fellow, and gifts to the poor.”^[6] Whereas the giving of charity to the poor assumed a more or less uniform form, the “sending of portions” became a platform for no small measure of creativity. Already in the Talmud,^[7] it is related that the amora Rabbi Yehudah Nesi’ah (the grandson of the tanna Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nasi)^[8] sent his colleague Rabbi Hoshaya an especially splendid mishlo’aḥ manot, consisting of choice veal and an entire jug of wine.

To this day, one may observe throughout Israel, particularly in Haredi concentrations, especially elaborate mishlo’aḥ manot, laden with assorted and varied food items, accompanied by ornate trays and crackling cellophane wrapping. Alongside the traditional commandment, in recent decades in particular, a rich vein of humor has developed portraying the familiar bottle of wine and dry cake as completing an entire “circuit” within the community, passed from hand to hand as a repeatedly re-gifted mishlo’aḥ manot, until it ultimately returns to its original sender.^[9] In light of this reality, many today prefer to refrain from preparing an individualized mishlo’aḥ manot, much of whose content is ultimately discarded after the festival, and instead opt for a standardized communal mishlo’aḥ manot distributed collectively to members of the community. The funds thereby saved, rather than being expended on redundant food items and decorative packaging, are redirected toward a range of charitable and benevolent causes.

These contemporary developments, however, merely underscore a broader point: the commandment of mishlo’aḥ manot has long been characterized by considerable elasticity in both form and practice. Indeed, halakhic literature contains an extensive discussion concerning the question of how one may properly discharge one’s obligation with respect to this commandment. One of the more intriguing debates in this context concerns whether one may fulfill the obligation of mishlo’aḥ manot not through edible “portions,” but rather through “words of Torah,” by sending a book, each person to his fellow. There is, in fact, no small body of testimony regarding sages of Israel, such as Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz and Rabbi Yehudah Aszod, who sent, as “mishlo’aḥ manot, each person to his fellow,” their own Torah novellae or scholarly compositions.^[10]

This halakhic discussion is not merely theoretical. In the course of my research on Rabbi Professor Saul Lieberman (1898-1982),^[11] I encountered a striking modern resonance of precisely this idea, one that illuminates the enduring cultural and intellectual valences of mishlo’aḥ manot beyond its strictly culinary expression. Although he arrived in Jerusalem at a relatively late age, being about twenty-nine, Lieberman quickly became integrated into Jerusalem’s intellectual milieu. As a member of the first cohort of students at the Institute of Jewish Studies at the Hebrew University on Mount Scopus (which had been founded only a few years earlier), he listened with great thirst to the teachings of the leading scholars in Jewish Studies and in classical studies, among them his teacher and master Professor Yaakov Naḥum Epstein,^[12] Professor Shmuel Klein, and Professor Moshe Schwabe,^[13] one of the foremost scholars of classical culture.

Alongside his academic studies, he soon acquired a reputation as an exceptionally great Torah scholar, for whom no secret of rabbinic literature was lo anīs lei, that is, nothing lay beyond him and nothing escaped his grasp. For many hours he would labor diligently over his learning, memorizing Mishnayot and Talmud – Bavli and Yerushalmi – by heart,^[14] and within a few years he produced several exemplary works, such as On the Yerushalmi (1929) and The Talmud of Caesarea (1931), which to this day are regarded as foundational texts in the scholarly study of rabbinic literature.^[15]

Upon the completion of his studies, Lieberman began teaching in the Talmud preparatory program of the Institute of Jewish Studies, while simultaneously devoting himself to the composition of The Yerushalmi According to Its Plain Meaning (Ha-Yerushalmi Ke-Peshuto) (1935), intended as a comprehensive commentary on the entire Jerusalem Talmud.

On the personal plane, life did not treat him kindly. A short time after his arrival in the Land of Israel, he was bereaved of his youthful wife, Rachel née Rabinowitz, daughter of the rabbi of Pinsk and a descendant of a distinguished rabbinic dynasty. Some time later, he married his second wife, Judith, likewise of illustrious lineage in her own right, the daughter of Rabbi Meir Berlin (later, Bar-Ilan), leader of the Mizrachi movement, and granddaughter of the Netziv of Volozhin. She accompanied him faithfully until the end of her days. The couple did not merit children, and Lieberman immersed himself in his learning.^[16]

In the course of these years he became integrated into the “circle of Jerusalem sages,” forming close friendships with many of its members, among them the writer S.Y. Agnon^[17]; the scholar Gershom Scholem^[18]; the bookseller and proprietor of the Darom publishing house, Michl Rabinowitz; the educator Eliezer Meir Lifshitz; and the merchant and cultural patron Shlomo Zalman Schocken,^[19] who in those days founded the Institute for the Study of Medieval Hebrew Poetry.^[20]

One figure with whom Lieberman developed an especially close relationship was the Chief Rabbi of the Land of Israel, Rav Abraham Isaac Hacohen Kook. Rav Kook was revered by many members of the Yishuv, among them Berl Katznelson and S.Y. Agnon, and even by self-described “heretics” such as Gershom Scholem and Justice Haim Cohn, who in his youth studied Torah for a year in Rav Kook’s yeshiva together with his cousin, the journalist Azriel Carlebach.^[21]

Despite the age gap between them (Rav Kook was twenty-seven years older than Lieberman), the two formed an exceptionally close bond, so much so that Rav Kook, despite being heavily burdened with unceasing rabbinic and public responsibilities, agreed to reserve a fixed hour each day to study in ḥavruta with Saul Lieberman the Tur on Ḥoshen Mishpat, together with Rabbi Joseph Karo’s Beit Yosef.^[22]

Like many others, Lieberman, who would later come to be recognized as the greatest scholar of the Talmud in the twentieth century, continued to revere Rav Kook until his final days, and on more than one occasion cited his teachings. Thus, for example, in a letter dated 29 December 1981 to his younger colleague, Professor Ephraim E. Urbach, Lieberman opens with the following sentence:

“You wrote to me that ‘you were ill,’ and I was reminded of the words of Rav Kook, of blessed memory, who said: I prefer to hear ‘I was ill’ rather than ‘I was wealthy’….”^[23]

According to a widespread Jerusalem legend, Lieberman and Rav Kook stipulated that they would not cancel their daily study session for any amount of money in the world, and that should either of them violate this condition, he would be required to pay a substantial “fine” to his counterpart. For Lieberman, whose daily schedule was relatively free, fulfilling this condition was easy. For Rav Kook, who in those days was already in poor health and burdened to exhaustion with the needs of the public, fulfilling it was far more difficult, almost impossible.

And indeed, on one such day Rav Kook was compelled to cancel the study session after being invited to serve as sandek at the circumcision of the child of one of Jerusalem’s notable residents. Lieberman, of course, did not forget the matter,^[24] and resolved to vindicate the affront at an appropriate time.

In the late afternoon of the “Purim of the unwalled cities,” the fourteenth of Adar 5695 (1935), when Rav Kook was preoccupied with the final preparations for the reading of the Megillah that night in Jerusalem and with organizing the charity funds of matanot la-evyonim to be distributed the following day (for in Jerusalem Purim is celebrated on the fifteenth of Adar), Lieberman appeared unexpectedly at his home and demanded payment of the “fine”: one hour of study in exchange for the hour that had been cancelled several months earlier.

Rav Kook, who recognized the justice of the claim, had little choice. He set aside all his affairs, and the two sat and studied together for a full hour.

Thus far the story, which circulated in Jerusalem for many years. I confess that for a long time I regarded it as no more than a charming “urban legend,” one of those anecdotes that naturally crystallize around towering figures, depicting them not only in their greatness in Torah but also, in the manner of the early sages, as men of wit who knew how to tease one another with affectionate irony.

The story took root, and its echoes may be found in various books as well, albeit in an imprecise form, such as in the writings of Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Neria on Rav Kook.^[25] The source material for Rabbi Neria’s account is preserved in his personal archive, now housed in the National Library of Israel, and includes a remarkable series of recollections that Lieberman shared with him in the summer of 1979.^[26]

To my astonishment, however, two concrete pieces of evidence that have come to light in recent years in the course of my research on Lieberman do more than merely gesture toward the plausibility of the account. They substantially corroborate it. The first emerged many years ago in the main library of Yeshivat Mercaz HaRav – a library endowed in the name of Markus Cohn, the father of Arthur Cohn, the eminent Hollywood producer who passed away only recently.^[27]

On the first volume of The Yerushalmi According to Its Plain Meaning (Ha-Yerushalmi Ke-Peshuto) (also the last, for Lieberman ultimately decided to abandon his projected commentary on the Yerushalmi and to turn instead to the Tosefta, on which he produced his monumental Tosefta Ke-Peshutah), there appears a dedication that Lieberman wrote to Rav Kook, composed, as was customary, in rabbinic idiom and in abbreviations:

“In honor of our master, the rabbi of the Land of Israel and of all the Diaspora, the Gaon Rav A.I.H. Kook, may he live a long and good life, with feelings of admiration and respect, from the author.”

Attention should be paid to the date on which these words were written. The work was published in 5695 (1935). Lieberman signed his introduction at the beginning of that year, on Sunday, 7 Tishrei 5695, between Rosh Ha-Shanah and Yom Kippur, corresponding to 16 September 1934.

Obviously, the printing also took a certain period, probably a few months.

Greater precision can be established regarding the date of publication. A notice announcing the appearance of Ha-Yerushalmi Ke-Peshuto was printed on the front page of Kol Yisrael, the organ of Agudat Israel in Jerusalem (edited by Rabbi Moshe Blau), on 8 Kislev 5695 (15 November 1934). The advertisement’s conspicuous placement on the newspaper’s front page indicates that the volume had only recently emerged from the press and was then being introduced to the reading public. It therefore provides a reliable terminus post quem for any presentation of the work to Rav Kook.

Lieberman therefore could not have presented the book to Rav Kook before that date. The possible window is accordingly narrow: from mid-November 1934 until the onset of Rav Kook’s final illness around Passover 5695 (April 1935). It is thus plausible that Lieberman brought the newly printed volume to him on the eve of Purim of that year, perhaps as mishlo’aḥ manot, or shortly beforehand, and that Rav Kook, in return, presented him with a copy of Rosh Milin bearing the distinctive Purim dedication.

Rav Kook passed away in Elul of that year. Approximately six months earlier, around Passover, he had contracted his final illness and was already confined to his deathbed in a state of severe suffering. Consequently, even had Lieberman wished to do so, he could only have presented him with the work during the brief period at the beginning of that year, from the book’s publication until Passover.

The second surprise came to my attention several years ago, when a friend sent me a photograph of the title page of Rav Kook’s small and enigmatic kabbalistic work, a copy of which was in his possession.

The work, Rosh Milin, on the Hebrew letters, was written in 1917, during Rav Kook’s exile in London in the course of the First World War.^[28] Thus did Rav Kook write, in the affectionate dedication he inscribed to his young colleague and ḥavruta:

“A gift of true love to the chosen of my heart, Rabbi Saul Lieberman, may he live a long and good life. Abraham Isaac, the small [i.e., the humble one]. Purim of the unwalled cities, 5695 [1935].”

Anyone familiar with the dedications and expressions of esteem that Rav Kook addressed to various individuals, including leading Torah scholars, will recognize that the phrase he wrote to Lieberman, “true love to the chosen of my heart,” is striking in its exceptional character.

Incidentally, Gershom Scholem later related that, despite his expertise in Kabbalah, he did not succeed in understanding Rosh Milin. He further added – “on the testimony of trustworthy informants,” by which he meant his close friend Saul Lieberman (and he even recorded the remark in his personal copy of the book, now preserved in the National Library of Israel) – that Rav Kook himself told Lieberman:

“Regarding this book, the author [i.e., Rav Kook] said to my friend Saul Lieberman, shortly before his death – when he presented him with a copy as a gift – that he now does not understand a single word of what he wrote in it, even though at the time of writing he fully grasped the meaning and intent of the matters.”^[29]

Although Lieberman was as far removed from engagement with Kabbalah as east is from west, he once gave memorable expression to this distance when asked to introduce a lecture by his close friend Gershom Scholem. Lieberman opened his remarks with an immortal quip about Scholem’s field of research, Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism: “Nonsense is nonsense, but the study of nonsense may be a science….”^[30] Nevertheless, Rav Kook chose, of all his writings, to present Lieberman with this particular book as a gift, perhaps so that it might serve as a kind of “amulet,” or perhaps as an act of Purim mischief on the part of the aged rabbi; we cannot know.

The unusual date recorded in the dedication, “Purim of the unwalled cities, 5695,” suggests that the booklet was presented to Lieberman on that very occasion, when, according to the account, he chose to collect the aged Rav Kook’s “debt” during their joint study session, perhaps their last, on Purim of that year.

It is entirely plausible that on that occasion Lieberman brought Rav Kook his newly published work, The Yerushalmi According to Its Plain Meaning, and that in return Rav Kook presented him with mishlo’aḥ manot in the form of his small and enigmatic book.

Thus the Jerusalem legend seems to acquire flesh and sinew, and what once appeared to be no more than a charming anecdote may in fact preserve a genuine historical memory: a literary mishlo’aḥ manot exchanged between two towering figures, in which Torah, affection, and Purim playfulness were delicately intertwined.

Appendix A: Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Neria’s Archival Notes on Saul Lieberman’s Recollections of Rav Kook (Summer 1979)

The following translation is based on Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Neria’s handwritten notes preserved in his personal archive, currently housed in the National Library of Israel (Jerusalem). The notes record a conversation held during Summer 1979 in which Rabbi Professor Saul Lieberman recounted a series of episodes relating to Rav Abraham Isaac Hacohen Kook and the influence that Rav Kook exerted upon him. The material corresponds in its essentials to passages later published by Rabbi Neria, but the archival version preserves additional details and a more expansive formulation of Lieberman’s testimony.

Rabbi Neria was accustomed to preserving every scrap of paper containing substantive content that passed through his hands. Alongside newspaper clippings in which several articles about Lieberman appeared, Rabbi Neria preserved the remarks he heard directly from him in the summer of 5739 (1979). According to his account, Lieberman requested that he telephone him in the early morning (“from eight o’clock onward I disconnect the telephone, lock the door, and engage in my Talmudic study without interruptions”), and he did so.

Lieberman told Rabbi Neria that his first visit to Rav Abraham Isaac Hacohen Kook took place on the night of Shavuot:

“I heard that he was teaching Sefer ha-Mitzvot [i.e., Maimonides’ Book of the Commandments]. I came and sat down by the table. In the course of the study I made a remark, and the Rav answered me briefly. Later I made another remark, and again I received a brief reply. When I remarked upon his words a third time, the Rav turned to me and said: ‘Come in to me tomorrow.’ When I came after the festival, the Rav received me with great warmth, asked about my family, and it emerged that he knew several rabbis among my relatives. After a Torah conversation, he asked that I come to him frequently, and thus I did. On the way to the Rav’s visit to the Gerrer Rebbe (to R. Neḥemyah’le [??]), the Rav delayed at my apartment and became engrossed in a halakhic give-and-take concerning a matter I was then studying. I would come and present my novellae before him, ask about what had been difficult for me, and the like. His warm attitude toward me greatly encouraged me. He had a mystical influence upon me, even though I am far from mysticism. I had ‘tests,’ and he influenced me to remain in the study of Torah.”

Lieberman recounted to Rabbi Neria one such “test.” According to his account, a dispute arose between Rabbi Fishman [i.e., R. Yehudah Leib Maimon] and Bank Mizraḥi. The parties decided to submit to arbitration before attorney Mordechai Eliash. Lieberman represented Rabbi Fishman, whereas the bank was represented by attorney Mordechai Levanon. Rav Kook summoned Lieberman and instructed him to cease representing him in the arbitration:

“You have acquired a reputation for involving yourself in arbitration, and that will draw you away from your learning.”

Rabbi Neria further adds and cites in Lieberman’s name words of admiration and reverence for Rav Kook:

“Not only did his greatness in Torah exert influence – and he knew the entirety of Torah – but his entire personality. Matters of the people of Israel and the Land of Israel were not for him merely pathetic rhetoric; rather, they overflowed from his depths, from his hidden world, and there was something mystical in it. This was a figure overflowing with light, and his light would penetrate in its own ways… The Rav was an artist. Not merely a man with poetic sensibility, but truly an artist. In his writing there is a sacred grandeur. His words are like the tones of the shofar’s sound. The ease of his writing is astonishing, yet it is the result of abundant knowledge. They once told of a certain wealthy man who marveled at the request of a great painter to receive an enormous sum of money for a sketch he drew within ten minutes. ‘Not so,’ replied the painter; ‘I labored sixty years in order to attain an ability to draw in such a manner.’”

According to Rabbi Neria, Lieberman told him that he was occupied with printing Ḥasdei David, the commentary of R. David Pardo on the Tosefta, and that through printing his own work on Seder Ṭohorot he repaid his debt…

In this context Lieberman added:

“I also must repay a debt to the Rav [i.e., Kook]. He greatly encouraged me in the study of the Jerusalem Talmud. Several times I presented before him my Torah insights in elucidating difficult passages in the Jerusalem Talmud, and he took great pleasure in them.”

In response to Rabbi Neria’s question, “Was the Rav [i.e., Kook] as proficient in the Jerusalem Talmud as in the Babylonian?” Lieberman replied:

“The Rav was proficient in everything: Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmud, Tosefta and Midrashim, Rishonim and decisors. The Rav was the only one who encompassed the entirety of Torah, and this influenced his encompassing vision. The Rav’s vast scope contributed greatly to the richness of his personality. This was also the greatness of the Netziv, who knew the whole of Torah. I am deeply impressed by the Netziv. So too was R. Meir Simḥah [of Dvinsk, author of Or Sameaḥ].”

In this connection, Rabbi Neria cited words written by Rav Kook:

“The originality of the ‘ever-strengthening spring’ and the ‘river that does not cease’ (Avot, beginning of ch. 6) is the primary aspiration of one who engages in Torah for its own sake, which comes from divine cleaving. The inner spiritual bond with that which is all, the source of all, and beyond all. The desire filled with purity, which steadily intensifies to absorb the distilled essence of the supernal sap within the supernal realms—these are they who always seek the ennobled renewal in its vigorous force” (Iggerot ha-Ra’ayah, vol. 3, p. 4).

(“The Rav’s [i.e., Kook’s] vast scope contributed greatly to the richness of his personality. His opponents fought against him because they recognized his power, because they knew his greatness.”) According to Rabbi Neria, Lieberman described the Rav’s words as expressing a “sacred grandeur.”

Rabbi Neria further relates, in Lieberman’s name, that in the summer of 5690 (1930) Rabbi Moshe Ostrovsky came to the apartment where Rav Kook was staying in Kiryat Moshe in order to pressure him to agree to the compromise proposal then being circulated, according to which the people of Israel would relinquish part of their rights in the Land of Israel, including at the Western Wall. Lieberman was present. The visitor wished that he leave the room so that he could speak with Rav Kook privately; however, Rav Kook detained Lieberman and instructed him to continue sitting there.

Years later, after the passing of Rav Kook, Rabbi Neria heard at a memorial gathering held in the Jewish Agency building that Rav Kook had told Rabbi Ostrovsky:

“The people of Israel has not empowered any person to relinquish the Western Wall. If we relinquish it, the Holy One, blessed be He, will not wish to restore it to us.”

Rabbi Neria testifies that while he lived in Jerusalem in the 1930s, Rabbi Professor Saul Lieberman would customarily pray on the High Holy Days together with the students of Yeshivat Merkaz ha-Rav, who had established their place of prayer at Yeshivat Etz Ḥayyim in the Maḥaneh Yehudah neighborhood.

Among other matters, Rabbi Neria wrote down what he heard from Lieberman regarding his shared study with Rav Kook, and according to what is stated there. The accounts found in Rabbi Neria’s handwritten notes correspond in their essentials to what he later presented in his book.

Alongside them, I found in this archive and in additional archives details concerning Lieberman’s involvement, at the request of his friend (and relative) Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi, wife of the late President Yitzḥak Ben-Zvi, in the establishment of a yeshivat hesder in Peki’in. Within this framework he approached Rabbi M. Z. Neria and asked him to assist in realizing the idea in practice. Concerning this episode I intend to write, God willing, elsewhere.

Notes

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to my friend and colleague Mr. Menachem Butler, who devoted considerable effort to translating and editing this article into English. I am also grateful for his valuable contributions, including bibliographical references and precise citations.

1. See Harold Fisch, “Reading and Carnival: On the Semiotics of Purim,” Poetics Today, vol. 15, no. 1 (Spring 1994): 55-74. ↑
2. See, for example Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, “Cross Dressing for Special Occasions,” in Joseph R. Hacker, Yosef Kaplan, and B.Z. Kedar, eds., Rishonim ve-Aharonim, From Sages to Savants: Studies Presented to Avraham Grossman (Jerusalem: Shazar, 2010), 329-352 (Hebrew), available here; and Gedalia Oberlander, “The Custom of Disguising Oneself on Purim,” Or Yisrael, vol. 2, no. 3 [#7] (April 1997):125-131 (Hebrew), available here; Moshe Leib Halberstadt, “Costumes on Purim and at Various Events,” Yerushatenu, vol. 5 (2011): 169-175 (Hebrew). ↑
3. See Shamma Friedman, “Erasing Haman,” Leshonenu, vol. 61, no. 3 (June 1998): 259-263 (Hebrew), available here; Daniel Sperber, “Destroying the Name of Haman,” Shana be-Shana, vol. 32 (2001): 203-211 (Hebrew), available here; and Daniel Sperber, How To Strike Haman (Jerusalem: The Wolfson Museum of Jewish Art, 2002; Hebrew), available here. For a comprehensive survey of the halakhic and historical sources concerning this custom, see Eliezer Brodt, “The Pros and Cons of Making Noise When Haman’s Name is Mentioned: A Historical Perspective (updated),” The Seforim Blog (22 March 2016), available here. ↑
4. See Dan Rabinowitz, “Purim, Mixed Dancing, and Kill Joys,” The Seforim Blog (6 March 2006), available here. ↑
5. See Elliott Horowitz, Reckless Rites: Purim and the Legacy of Jewish Violence (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006). ↑
6. Esther 9:22. ↑
7. Megillah 7a. ↑
8. See Alan Appelbaum, “Why the Rabbis of the Yerushalmi Called R. Judah Nesiah ‘a Great Man’?” Journal of Ancient Judaism, vol. 3, no. 3 (December 2012): 339-365. ↑
9. One can hardly help but wonder how long it will be before a kunṭres devoted to the halakhic parameters of re-gifting mishlo’aḥ manot appears, if indeed one has not already been published, systematically treating such questions as whether the initial recipient must effect a formal kinyan; whether the mitzvah requires that the gift be given mi-shelo (“from one’s own”); the respective roles of the giver’s kavvanah and the recipient’s awareness; the permissibility of re-gifting absent the donor’s consent (da‘at ba‘alim); whether the obligation may be discharged through an intermediary (shaliaḥ); whether one may fulfill the mitzvah with an item received earlier that same day; and whether a package that circulates through multiple hands constitutes mishlo’aḥ manot at all, or merely an elaborate exercise in communal redistribution, together with the host of subsidiary questions such a case inevitably generates. ↑
10. For more on this practice, see Meir Wunder, “Books as Mishlo’aḥ Manot,” Moriah, vol. 5, no. 5-6 [#53-54] (November 1973 – January 1974): 83-86 (Hebrew); and Tovia Preschel, “Mishlo’aḥ Manot of Books from Authors,” ha-Doar, vol. 53, no. 19 (8 March 1974): 295 (Hebrew). ↑
11. I am currently at work on a biography of Professor Saul Lieberman; for now, my earlier writings on him, see Aviad Hacohen, “Two Scholars Who Were in Our City: Correspondence between Saul Lieberman and Jacob David Abramsky,” ha-Tsofeh Literary Supplement (21 April 1984): 5 (Hebrew), available here; Aviad Hacohen, “Schlemiel, Schlimazel, and Nebbich: Letters from Saul Lieberman to Gershom and Fania Scholem,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (25 April 2000): H1 (Hebrew) , available here; Aviad Hacohen, “The Tannah from New York: A Selection of Professor Saul Lieberman’s Letters,” Jewish Studies, no. 42 (2003): 289-301 (Hebrew), available here; Aviad Hacohen, “Six Days and Seven Gates: Between Israeli President Izhak Navon and Professor Rabbi Saul Lieberman,” Oneg Shabbat (9 June 2023), available here; Aviad Hacohen, “Lieberman Kifshuto: Personal Letters Revealing the Sensitive and Playful Side of a Talmudic Genius, On the 40th Yahrzeit of Professor Saul Lieberman,” Makor Rishon, Sabbath Supplement, no. 1338: Parashat Tzav (31 March 2023): 8-11 (Hebrew), available here; Aviad Hacohen, “The Generation Did Not Appropriately and Duly Appreciate Mr. Schocken [Eulogy by Rabbi Prof. Saul Lieberman for Shlomo Zalman Schocken, March 1960],” Haaretz Literary Supplement (28 April 2024): 1 (Hebrew), available here; Aviad Hacohen, “The Story of the Rabbi Who Rejected the Maxim: ‘Torah Scholars Increase Peace in the World’,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (25 May 2023): 8 (Hebrew), available here; and Aviad Hacohen, “‘A Lithuanian Mind in Its Lithuanian Essence, From Volozhin to Jerusalem’: R. Shaul Lieberman’s Intellectual Kinship with the Legacy of Lithuanian Torah & Its Bearers,” in Martin S. Cohen, ed., Essays in Jewish Studies in Honor of Rabbi Prof. David Golinkin (Jerusalem: Schechter, 2025), 101-139 (Hebrew), available here. ↑
12. See Shmuel Glick and Menachem Katz, “‘A Threefold Cord’: On Saul Lieberman and His Relationship with the Hazon Ish and Jacob Nahum Epstein,” in Shmuel Glick, Evelyn M. Cohen, Angelo M. Piattelli, et al., eds., Meḥevah le-Menaḥem: Studies in Honor of Menahem Hayyim Schmelzer (Jerusalem: Schocken, 2019), 269-289 (Hebrew). ↑
13. See Saul Lieberman, “Ten Words,” in Texts and Studies (New York: Ktav, 1974), [1-20], where Lieberman refers explicitly to “my teacher, Prof. Moshe Schwabe, of blessed memory,” and describes Schwabe’s long-standing aspiration to produce a new dictionary of Greek and Latin loanwords in rabbinic literature. For the subsequent realization of this lexicographical program in systematic form, see Daniel Sperber, A Dictionary of Greek and Latin Legal Terms in Rabbinic Literature (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1984); Daniel Sperber, My Rabbinic Loanwords Card Index of More Than a Half-Century: A Companion Volume to Professor Samuel Krauss’ Griechische und Lateinische Lehnwörter im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum, ed. Menachem Butler (Cambridge, MA: Shikey Press, 2022), esp. the introduction, available here, where Sperber describes the work as the product of “more than fifty-years of collection and research,” originally conceived as an annotated continuation of Krauss’s Lehnwörter, and acknowledges Lieberman’s personal role in encouraging his philological work, noting that Lieberman “adopted me as his disciple in this field.” Sperber also reproduces a letter of approbation from Lieberman dated 19 Shevat 5738 (27 January 1978), praising Sperber’s “objective evaluation of Krauss’s volume” and commending the “great progress” reflected in his conclusions. ↑
14. A fine “real-time” description of his path during those years appears in a letter written at the time by his father-in-law, Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan, leader of the Mizrachi movement. Writing to his son Tuvia (a chemist and later the first Director-General of Bar-Ilan University) on 25 Marḥeshvan 5694 (5 November 1933), Bar-Ilan remarked“…And so, my dear, everything I have found here: outwardly nothing has changed in our home, but inwardly part of our apartment has been transformed into a beit midrash. For our Shaul sits and engages in Torah and scholarship with remarkable diligence. Your small room has been turned into a library, for Shaul has many books – among them items of precious value – and there he labors over them, if I am not mistaken, some ten hours a day and at night. Apart from those hours in which he teaches at the Teachers’ Seminary and at the university – only twice a week – he sits “over Torah and avodah.” He is engaged in writing a great book [this refers to Ha-Yerushalmi Kifshuto, published in 5695 (1935)], which, upon its completion and publication, will, it seems to me, renew a momentum among Talmudic circles and scholars of Israel with respect to the Jerusalem Talmud. Shaul is great – loftier than I had known – “full and overflowing” in an excellent measure; his knowledge is astonishing and his intellect clear, and beyond this he is an outstandingly diligent scholar. I do not know whether he will persist in his diligence, for it is possible that only on account of his literary work does he not divert his mind from his studies, but at present he continues his work with diligence and industriousness…” ↑
15. See, recently, Moshe Assis, Saul Lieberman’s Marginalia on Talmud Yerushalmi (Jerusalem: Carmel, 2022; Hebrew). ↑
16. On Judith Berlin Lieberman’s lineage, intellectual formation, and educational career, see Judith Berlin Lieberman, Autobiography and Reflections, eds. Menachem Butler and Abraham Lieberman (Cambridge, MA: Shikey Press, 2022), available here. See especially the autobiographical memoir (pp. 20-38) and the introductory essay by her nephew Hillel Halkin (pp. 15-19). ↑
17. See Aviad Hacohen, “‘Honey and Milk Are Under His Tongue, Yet Beneath It Burns a Blazing Fire’: On the Relationship between S.Y. Agnon and Saul Lieberman,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (6 October 2023): 7 (Hebrew), available here. ↑
18. See Aviad Hacohen, “Schlemiel, Schlimazel, and Nebbich – Letters from Saul Lieberman to Gershom and Fania Scholem,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (25 April 2000): H1 (Hebrew), available here. ↑
19. See Aviad Hacohen, “The Generation Did Not Appropriately and Duly Appreciate Mr. Schocken [Eulogy by Rabbi Prof. Saul Lieberman for Shlomo Zalman Schocken, March 1960],” Haaretz Literary Supplement (28 April 2024): 1 (Hebrew), available here. ↑
20. See, for example, Menahem Zulay, “The Research Institute for Hebrew Poetry,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (31 October 1947): 9 (Hebrew); and A.M. Habermann, “Salman Schocken and The Research Institute for Hebrew Poetry: On His Fifth Anniversary of His Death,” Haaretz Literary Supplement (17 July 1964): 13 (Hebrew). ↑
21. See Aviad Hacohen, “If every Sabbath were like Yom Kippur: An Interview with Haim Cohn,” Meimad, no. 17 (August 1999): 12-15 (Hebrew), available here; and Aviad Hacohen, “Apikores with Divine Grace – Review of ‘Being Jewish: Culture, Law, Religion, State’, by Haim Cohn,” ha-Tsofeh Literary Supplement (27 April 2007): 10, 13 (Hebrew), available here; and see also Azriel Carlebach, “The Rav Renowned for Halakhic Expertise,” Maariv Literary Supplement (19 February 1956): 4 (Hebrew), and Haim Cohn, “The Yeshiva of Rav Kook,” in Haim Cohn, A Personal Introduction: Autobiography, ed. Michal Smoira-Cohn (Kinneret: Dvir, 2005), 96-102 (Hebrew). ↑
22. Ari (Yitzchak) Chwat, “Rabbi Kook’s Connections with Prof. Rabbi Saul Lieberman as a Model for His Attitude Towards Critical Torah Research,” Tzohar, vol. 35 (2009): 59-66 (Hebrew), is especially important for situating the Rav Kook-Lieberman relationship within the broader question of Rav Kook’s principled openness to rigorous philological and historical methods in Torah study, and for treating Lieberman as a case study for the category Rav Kook termed ḥokhmat yisrael be-qedushatah. For further development of this concept, see Ari (Yitzchak) Chwat, “‘Hokhmat Yisrael in Its Holiness’: Rav Kook’s Vision for True Critical-Scientific Study,” Talelei Orot, vol. 13 (2007): 943-976 (Hebrew). ↑
23. The letter, preserved in the Professor Ephraim E. Urbach Archive at the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem, is scheduled for publication in my forthcoming volume, Pirkei Shaul, which, God willing, is expected to appear in the coming year. ↑
24. Many stories concerning Lieberman’s extraordinary powers of memory circulated among people already during his lifetime. One of the sages of Jerusalem, who sought to clarify the difference between Lieberman and other great Torah scholars endowed with remarkable mnemonic ability, described it as follows: “So-and-so, the gaon, knows the entire Talmud by heart. Say to him a particular word, and he will immediately tell you where it appears throughout the whole of the Talmud. Lieberman is greater than he: he can tell you with certainty that a particular word does not appear anywhere in the entire Talmud…” ↑
25. See Moshe Tzvi Neria, “From the Testimony of Rabbi Saul Lieberman,” in Likkutei ha-Ra’ayah, ed. Moshe Tzvi Neria, vol. 2 (Kefar ha-Ro’eh: 1990), 336–341 (Hebrew), which preserves a version of the Rosh Milin anecdote attributed to Lieberman (based on an interview conducted by Neria in Summer 1981), though without the later bibliographic framing and transmission history found in Scholem’s formulation. Neria’s presentation should also be situated within his broader editorial enterprise of collecting and disseminating Rav Kook-related reminiscences for a wide Hebrew readership, both in his books and in his ha-Tsofeh newspaper columns in the Religious Zionist press. ↑
26. For a translated excerpt from Rabbi Neria’s handwritten archival notes recording his 1979 conversation with Saul Lieberman, see Appendix A below. ↑
27. See Yair Sheleg, “King Arthur: Members of the Family of Arthur Cohn, Who Passed Away Last Week, Recount His Scrupulous Observance of the Sabbath Even on the Most Prestigious Stages, and His Profound Love for the State of Israel, Expressed Not Only Through Generous Donations,” Makor Rishon, Sabbath Supplement: Parashat Vayigash (25 December 2025; Hebrew), available here. ↑
28. See Aaron Ahrend, “About Rav Kook’s ‘Rosh Millin’,” Da’at, no. 27 (Summer 1991): 73-85 (Hebrew), available here; and Aaron Ahrend, “Further on Rav Kook’s ‘Rosh Millin’,” Sinai, vol. 110 (June – July 1992): 190-192 (Hebrew), available here. ↑
29. Zvi Leshem, “‘He Does Not Understand a Single Word of What He Wrote’: Gershom Scholem and Rabbi Abraham Isaac Hacohen Kook – A Story of a Marginal Note,” Ha-Safranim, Blog of the National Library of Israel (19 August 2019), available here and here.Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Neria transmitted these remarks in the name of Saul Lieberman himself. See Moshe Tzvi Neria, “From the Testimony of Rabbi Saul Lieberman,” in Likkutei ha-Ra’ayah, ed. Moshe Tzvi Neria, vol. 2 (Kefar ha-Ro’eh: 1990), 339 (Hebrew). On the affinity between the Rav Kook and Saul Lieberman, see ibid., pp. 92, 337-341, 369. From there also in Elijah J. Schochet and Solomon J. Spiro, Saul Lieberman: The Man and His Work (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 2005), 52-53, 101. ↑
30. See Daniel Abrams, “Defining Modern Academic Scholarship: Gershom Scholem and the Establishment of a New Discipline,” The Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy, vol. 9 (2000): 267-302, esp. 268n1, where he writes:“Lieberman’s statement has been circulating as an oral tradition amongst scholars and students of the Jewish Theological Seminary. The only printed reference to it I have found is offered by Joseph Dan in his “The Revelation of the Secret of the World: The Beginning of Jewish Mysticism in Late Antiquity” (Brown University Program in Judaic Studies, Occasional Paper Number 2, Providence 1992, p. 3): “We all know that mysticism is nonsense, but the history of mysticism is a science.” See however Lieberman’s article “How much Greek in Jewish Palestine,” Biblical and Other Studies, ed. A. Altmann, Cambridge, Mass. 1962, p. 135 [reprinted in Texts and Studies, New York 1974, p. 22), Lieberman offered the following formulation: “Nonsense is nonsense, but the history of nonsense is a very important science. In certain respects it is more revealing than the history of sciences based on reason.” (see also Mortimer Ostow, Ultimate Intimacy; the Psychodynamics of Jewish Mysticism, London 1995, p. 362) Lieberman apparently regretted his statement and wrote an appendix for Scholem’s Jewish Gnosticism based on these lectures.” ↑

Ba-Yamim ha-Hem Ba-Zeman ha-Zeh: Were Jews Involved in Iran’s First Political Upheaval?

Aton M. Holzer

The Persian Empire was founded via the conquests of Cyrus II following his rise to the Anshan throne in 559 BCE. Cyrus, celebrated in the Hebrew Bible as the liberator whose decree permitted the Return to Zion, was succeeded by his son Cambyses, who is not mentioned in the Bible. Cambyses was followed for a brief period by his brother [or someone claiming to be] Bardiya (known in Greek sources as Smerdis or Tanyoxarces), until Darius I overthrew him.

The Behistun inscription of Darius I, an ancient trilingual text carved into a rock face at Mount Bīsotūn, which overlooks the main road from Babylon to Media, presents the case for Darius’s royal legitimacy. It begins by tracing Darius’s lineage back to the mythical royal ancestor Achaemenes and his son Teispes, great-grandfather of Cyrus, and then recounts his struggle against Gaumâta, a Median magus (priest) who, in Darius’s telling, impersonated royal heir Bardiya.

Gaumâta declared his rebellion on 14 Viyakhna (the eleventh month) from atop Mount Arakadris and was crowned on 9 Garmapada (the fourth month).^[1] He was ultimately defeated by a coalition of seven nobles, including Utana, son of Thukhra, and was executed by Darius on 10 Bagayad (the seventh month). Traditionally, modern scholarship has viewed Darius’s claims of royal ancestry and Smerdis’s imposture as fabrications to justify a coup d’état, but this assumption has recently been called into question.^[2]

²⁶ …Darius the King ²⁷ declares: This is what was done by me when the king ²⁸ I did become. The son of Cyrus, of our family, Cambyses by name — ²⁹ he was the king here. Of that Cambyses [there] was a brother, ³⁰ Smerdis by name, having the same mother and father as Cambyses. And then Cambyses ³¹ struck down that Smerdis. When Cambyses struck down Smerdis, ³² it did not become known among the people that [he] had struck down Smerdis. And then Cambyses ³³ went to Egypt. And when Cambyses went to Egypt, the people grew treacherous, ³⁴ and thus deceit rose rampantly in both Persia and Media and ³⁵ in the [Empire’s] other lands. Darius the King declares: Later, ³⁶ there was one man, a Magian, Gaumâta by name, and he rose up from Paishiyauvada. ³⁷ [There is] a mountain in Persia named Arakadri. From there, when fourteen days of the month of Viyakhna ³⁸ were completed, he rose up, [and] he deceived the people [saying] thus: ³⁹ “I am Smerdis, the son of Cyrus who [is] brother of Cambyses.” ⁴⁰ Thereupon, all the people became rebellious against Cambyses and went over to him, [Smerdis], ⁴¹ Persia and Media and the other lands, [and] he seized the kingdom. ⁴² Nine days were completed in the month of Garmapada [when] he seized the kingdom thus. ⁴³ And then Cambyses died by his own hand …

⁴⁸ … Darius the king declares: There was no man, ⁴⁹ neither Persian nor Median nor any among our family who could render that Gaumâta ⁵⁰ kingdom-deprived. The people feared him greatly, ⁵¹ lest he would strike down the numerous people who knew him previously as Smerdis; ⁵² lest he would strike down the people on account of this: “Lest he who would know me [would know that] I am not Smerdis, ⁵³ the son of Cyrus.” No one dared to say anything ⁵⁴ against Gaumâta the Magian until I came. After that, ⁵⁵ I asked Ahura Mazda for help, [and] Ahura Mazda bore me aid. ⁵⁶ Ten days of the month of Bagayad were completed when, with a small number of men, ⁵⁷ I struck down that Gaumâta the Magian and those men who ⁵⁸ were his foremost allies. [There was] a fortress called Sikayauvati, a land called Nisaya, ⁵⁹ in Media, [and] there I struck him down. I seized the kingdom [from] him, [and] by the will ⁶⁰ of Ahura Mazda, I became king. Ahura Mazda bestowed the kingdom to me…^[3]

…Says Darius the king: These (are) the men who were there then when I slew Gaumâta the Magian, who called himself Bardiya; then these men cooperated as my allies; Intaphernes (Vidafarnah) by name, the son of Vayaspara, a Persian; Otanes (Utāna) by name, the son of Thukhra, a Persian; Gobryas (Gaubaruva) by name, the son of Mardonius, a Persian; Hydarnes (Vidarna) by name, the son of Bagabigna, a Persian; Megabyzus (Bagabuxša) by name, the son of Daduhya, a Persian; Ardumaniš by name, the son of Vahauka, a Persian.^[4]

The information from the Behistun inscription is enriched by Herodotus and fragments from Ctesias’ now-lost Persica, which are preserved in the writings of the Byzantine scholar Photius. In Herodotus’ Histories (3.68-3.87), a Persian noble named Otanes is depicted as the chief conspirator against the impostor Smerdis/Gaumâta-Bardiya, rather than Darius, who is actually the last to join the conspiracy. It was Otanes’ daughter, Phaedyme, one of Smerdis’ wives, who discovered the imposture because Smerdis lacked ears, which had been removed by Cyrus as punishment for earlier misdeeds (in Ctesias’ account, it is not a queen, but a eunuch, who informs the entire army of the deception). Otanes invited Aspathines and Gobryas for a discussion, and each subsequently recruited another conspirator. Darius joined them last, but quickly became the most vocal. They entered Smerdis’ palace without difficulty, and carried out the assassination.

The subsequent events in Herodotus also differ from Darius’ account. According to Herodotus, The Seven convened shortly after Smerdis’ death to discuss the future form of government. Otanes proposed a democracy, Megabyzus suggested an oligarchy (or aristocracy), and Darius advocated for a monarchy. After four members sided with Darius in favor of monarchy, they then needed to determine who would become King. They agreed on a competition: the one whose horse neighed first at dawn would become King. Otanes declined, leaving six conspirators to meet the next day. Darius prevailed by means of a ruse, and thus became the King of the Achaemenid Empire.

While the Behistun inscription portrays Darius as an unquestionable leader and future King, Herodotus downplays his significance and adds numerous details to the events, though the eventual outcome and main points of the revolt, including the names, remain unchanged. The seven conspirators became the most important officers of the empire, and the families of each of these seven continued to play key roles in Achaemenid governance until Alexander’s conquest.^[5]

But one conspirator played an outsized role in the Empire’s affairs. Herodotus describes:

These were the three opinions presented at the meeting, and after the other four of the seven men decided in favor of the last one, Otanes, despite his eagerness to establish isonomy, recognized that he had lost the argument, and he now addressed them all: “My comrades, it is clear that one of us must become King, and whether he who will be entrusted with the administration of the kingdom is chosen by lot, by the majority of the Persians, or by some other method, I shall not compete with you, for I wish neither to rule nor to be ruled. So I now withdraw from this contest on the following condition: that neither I nor my descendants will be subject to you.” When he had stated this requirement, the other six agreed to it, and so he took no part in the competition among them but stood aside with an attitude of neutrality. And even now, Otanes’ family is the only free one among the Persians; it submits to rule only as much as it wants to, although it does not transgress Persian laws. The remaining six then deliberated about how they could most fairly establish one of themselves in the position of King. First they all agreed that if the kingship did go to one of them, Otanes and his descendants would be granted yearly allotments of Median clothing and every other gift thought to be most honorable in Persia. They decided to grant him these gifts because he had been the first to plan the conspiracy and bring them all together. And in addition to these perquisites for Otanes, they resolved to establish other privileges that they would share in common: they agreed that anyone of the seven would be allowed to go into the palace without an official to announce him, unless the King happened to be sleeping with a woman at the time, and that the King would not be permitted to marry a woman from any families other than their own… (Histories 3.83-3.84)^[6]

In Herodotus’ account, Otanes advocates for Persia to transition to a democracy. Scholars^[7] often view this debate as an apocryphal reflection of Herodotus’ own thoughts on governance, influenced by the democracy-oligarchy conflicts at the onset of the Peloponnesian War. Nonetheless, Herodotus himself notes contemporaneous skepticism, and asserts that Otanes nonetheless championed democracy (6.43). When outvoted in favor of maintaining the monarchy, Otanes relinquishes any claim to kingship, requesting only that he and his descendants be granted independence from royal rule (3.83). Ultimately, Darius triumphs among the six remaining contenders by resorting to deceit in a contest. Otanes, identified as “one of the seven,” reappears in Herodotus (Histories 3.141.1) as a commander of the Persian army. He is further noted as the father of Amestris, Xerxes I’s wife, and as the general during the campaign against the Greeks in 480 (7.61.2). This is forty-two years after the conspiracy – at which time Otanes already had a grown daughter in Bardiya’s harem – which would make Otanes, if living, quite old for such a task.

Pierre Briant^[8] argued that the Otanes who led the campaign in 480, whom Herodotus identifies as the father of Amestris, was a different individual altogether. Rüdiger Schmitt posits that Herodotus may have been mistaken about the general in 480, who probably was one of Otanes’ sons, but maintains that Amestris was indeed Otanes’ daughter – such a royal marriage would have made good sense, in order to further cement the Darius-Otanes lineal alliance.^[9]

In the Biblical Book of Esther, Xerxes’ wife is Esther. The historicity of Esther, once roundly rejected in scholarly circles, has recently gained some support. A recent article by faculty at the University of Tehran (!)^[10] highlights numerous details within the Masoretic text of Esther that could only have arisen from direct familiarity with “the details of the administrative system, rules, and customs of the Achaemenian Empire and court,” without mediation by Greek sources. Coupled with the fact that Esther contains many Persian loanwords but no Greek ones, this evidence supports dating Esther, at the latest, to the end of the Achaemenid empire or the very beginning of the Hellenistic period—i.e., a time when the Achaemenid dynastic line was still a living memory. Scholars have suggested that the name Esther might be an apocopated form of Amestris, and the name given for her father, avi hayil, meaning ‘father of the soldiers,’ could be a title rather than a proper name, indicating a military commander.^[11]

Following out this line of thinking – granting historicity to both the book of Esther and Persian and Greek sources, to the maximum extent possible – leads to some interesting possibilities.

In the Biblical book, Esther’s apparent selection through a contest might have been a strategic charade by Xerxes, a king known for cosmopolitanism and promoting equality among his subjects,^[12] to give the impression of being open to marriage alliances with his diverse peoples, even as the contest for chief queen was really among a much smaller pool – since he preferred to marry a Persian from one of the seven families, in consonance with the agreement of the seven. (Otanes is explicitly identified as a Persian in the Behistun inscription.)

But how could Esther be both Persian and Judean?

One might suggest that Otanes’ Persian credentials were fabricated. The “Persians” were not averse to fabricating their own fictional ancestries; indeed, some skeptics suggest that even Darius I might have done so concerning his royal lineage as depicted in the Behistun Inscription.^[13] Or perhaps Amestris was a product of intermarriage, Persian by her father but of a Judean mother — the question of whether ethnicity is passed in a patrilineal or matrilineal manner was unresolved in the early years of empire, both are reflected in the evidence, and concerns with the details of adjudicating conflicts of ethnicities are actually hashed out in the “constitutional laws,” data of Darius, as preserved at Behistun and Naqsh-e Rostam.^[14]

But none of this is necessary. Recent studies argue that Persian ethnicity, in the early Achaemenid period, was actually a new construct:

“To be ‘Persian’ is unlikely to have denoted partaking in a cultural identity that was the direct heir and linear continuation of a migrant Indo-Iranian identity; instead, it meant to subscribe to a relatively new and inclusive identity, informed by both Elamite and Indo-Iranian traditions and developed and transformed pari passu with the incredible dynamism from which the Persian empire emerged… Of course, it may well be that in certain aspects of being ‘Persian’ the Indo-Iranian side was or became dominant, but that is not the essence: what matters is that both founding traditions were transformed and merged to the extent that one may speak of a new ethnicity or ethnic identity – the Persian ethnogenesis.”^[15]

Judean ancestry or worship of the God of Israel, even if professed, would not have posed a barrier, in Achaemenid eyes, to identification with the constructed Persian ethnicity; Mazdaism, in whatever form it may have taken, was not confirmed as the ruling class’ religion until or after Darius,^[16] and many cults continued to be worshipped in the Persian heartland.^[17] The possibility that Amestris’ late “Persian” father-Darius co-conspirator Otanes, the commander of Persian forces, was of Judean ancestry and even creed, is thus not at odds with any Achaemenid imperial marriage policy. Nonetheless, once Darius embraced Zoroastrianism as the official state religion, and “Judaism” emerged as a distinct ethnicity,^[18] the Persian nobleman’s family would have had reason to hide both.

If Otanes is indeed the character identified in the Megillah as avi hayil, a “crypto-Jew”, he might just have been the greatest shtadlan of all time. According to the Behistun inscription, Gaumâta had either destroyed or halted work on temples of which he disapproved — “the temples which Gaumâta, the Magian, had destroyed, I restored to the people.” Whether or not the disruption of Cyrus’s promise to rebuild the Jewish Temple was a motivating factor in Otanes’ conspiratorial intervention, Darius’s unusually fervent and forceful insistence on the reconstruction of the Jewish Temple (Ezra 6:11-12) makes good sense if a repayment of a debt to his good friend and benefactor.

This could potentially also resolve a longstanding crux interpretum in Esther (3:2-4): why did Mordechai refuse to bow to Haman? If we consider Herodotus’ account – which indicates that Otanes’ family remained free from subjugation to Darius’ descendants – it might explain why Mordechai^[19] chose to uphold the privilege their ancestor had secured and refrained from bowing before the king or his representatives.

In a highly original and ambitious article^[20] published some time ago, which rejects Herodotus in favor of the historicity of Esther (and Daniel), Chaim Heifetz posited that Gaumâta—as a magus-priest and religious absolutist linked to the ancient Median religion—was engaged in a religious conflict against the abstract (imperial form of) Zoroastrianism, which Jews and their religion found to be a more natural ally. He suggests that Haman “the Agagite” was a literary-theological construct derived from historical memory of Gaumâta. According to this reading, the very first Persian regime change—the overthrow of genocidal religious fanatics—bears a striking resemblance to the last, kein tihiyeh lanu.

1. Incidentally, the anniversary of the date recorded in II Melakhim 25:3 as that of the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. 14 Adar is of course Purim, and 10 Tishrei is Yom Kippur – fascinating but not more than that, given no evidence of Judean-Persian calendrical synchronization. ↑
2. Amir Ahmadi, “The Bīsotūn Inscription-A Jeopardy of Achaemenid History.” Journal of Archeology and Ancient History 27 (2020) 1-55; .‏Zarghamee, Reza. “A Contribution to the Discourse Regarding a Teispid-Achaemenid Dynastic Divide.” Ancient History Bulletin 39 (2025) 3-4, 86-124. ↑
3. Translation by Scott L. Harvey, Winfred P. Lehmann, and Jonathan Slocum, Old Iranian Online, Lesson 8: Old Persian, archived at https://lrc.la.utexas.edu/eieol/aveol/80 and accessed January 14, 2026.↑
4. Translation by Herbert Cushing Tolman, The Behistan Inscription of King Darius (Vanderbilt University, 1908),‏ 35. ↑
5. Libor Pruša, “Seven Against Mage: Darius and His Co-Conspirators,” Sapiens ubique civis 3 (2022), 27-56.‏ ↑
6. Translations of Herodotus are from Robert B., Strassler, ed., The Landmark Herodotus: the Histories (Vintage, 2009). ↑
7. Farane Zaidi, “The Controversies and Skepticisms of the Constitutional Debate in Herodotus 3.80-82.” Ipso Facto: The Carleton Journal of Interdisciplinary Humanities 3 (2024), 49-62; Breno Battistin Sebastiani, “Herodotus’ Allusions to Democracy in Books 7 and 8: Between Heuristic Device and Purposeful Action,” Greece & Rome 72:2 (2025), 203-223.‏ ↑
8. Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (Eisenbrauns, 2002), p. 135. ↑
9. Rüdiger Schmitt, Iranische Anthroponyme in den erhaltenen Resten von Ktesias’ Werk (Verlag der ÖAW, 2006), 174-176.‏ ↑
10. Morteza Arabzadeh Sarbanani, “Revisiting the Book of Esther: Assessing the Historical Significance of the Masoretic Version for the Achaemenian History.” Persica Antiqua 3:4 (2023), 19-32. ↑
11. Robert Gordis, “Religion, wisdom and history in the book of Esther: a new solution to an ancient crux.” Journal of Biblical Literature 100:3 (1981), 359-388; Mitchell First, “The Origin of Ta ‘anit Esther.” AJS Review 34:2 (2010), 309-351. ↑
12. Kristin Kleber, “Taxation in the Achaemenid Empire.” Oxford Handbooks Online. Classical Studies. Oxford University press, 2015. See also Aton Holzer, “Esther, Feminist Ethics, and the Creation of Jewish Community,” The Lehrhaus, March 13, 2022, archived at https://thelehrhaus.com/scholarship/esther-feminist-ethics-and-the-creation-of-jewish-community/ and accessed January 15, 2026. ↑
13. Pierre Briant, “Achaemenids.” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Classics, 2015. ↑
14. Hilmar Klinkott, “How to Govern an Empire? The Inscriptions of Darius I As a Constitutional Program,” archived at https://pourdavoud.ucla.edu/video/how-to-govern-an-empire-the-inscriptions-of-darius-i-as-a-constitutional-program/ and accessed February 22, 2023. ↑
15. Wouter FM Henkelman, “Humban and Auramazda: Royal Gods in a Persian Landscape,” in Henkelman, Wouter FM, and Céline Redard, eds., Persian Religion in the Achaemenid Period-La religion perse à l’époque achéménide. (Harrassowitz Verlag, 2017), 302. ↑
16. Philip G. Kreyenbroek, “Zoroastrianism under the Achaemenians: A non-essentialist approach.” In J. Curtis, St. J. Simpson. L., eds., The world of Achaemenid Persia: history, art and society in Iran and the ancient Near East (I.B. Tauris, 2010), 103-109. ↑
17. Wouter FM Henkelman, “Practice of worship in the Achaemenid heartland.” A Companion to the Achaemenid Persian Empire 2 (Wiley, 2021), 1243-1270. ↑
18. Aton M. Holzer, “Esther, Empire, and the Emergence of Jewish Ethnicity,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 56:4-5 (2025), 371-395.‏ ↑
19. And possibly others from Otanes’ family, had they been stationed at the king’s gates rather than leading armies — see Herodotus Histories 7.62 and 7.82. ↑
20. Chaim S. Heifetz, “Malkhut Paras U-Madai be-Tekufat Bayit Sheini u-Lefaneha – Iyun Mehudash,” Megadim 14 (1991), 78-147. ↑

S.Y. Agnon’s Forgotten Purim Parody

A humorous tale published by the teenage S.Y. Agnon, using the penname “Mazal Tov,” appeared in a Purim supplement to a Kraków newspaper in 1908 but was not later included in his collected works — translated for the first time from Hebrew by Jeffrey Saks.

 

“Those Who Err All Their Days, and One Man Who Erred Not At All”—A Tale in Honor of Purim

They were both mistaken in a matter of halakhah.

Such is the way of the world: shrewd men commonly have ugly wives, while the wives of fools are fair. When the husband looked at his wife and saw how repulsive a creature she was—how ugly her countenance, how displeasing her face—he said in his heart: this proves that there is no wiser man in the world than I. And when his wife looked at him and saw what a fool he was, she supposed that there was none more lovely than herself. Through error they raised daughters instead of sons, and in error they married off one of those daughters.

They imagined that the young man they had chosen for her was truly a great gem, the like of which does not exist: a prodigious scholar, God‑fearing, and possessed of many other virtues. But they looked into it and soon found that he had nothing in this world but his folly. He read heretical books, burying his head in them all day long, and his heresy preceded his fear of Heaven. Not only this, but he was a coarse and lustful fellow—may the Merciful One save us—running after temptation and indulging in crass talk. And they found proof for their estimation when they saw erotic poetry falling from his lap.

When they realized this, it would have better suited them had he never been born rather than see what had come of him. He could forgo a few drops of his blood, but not these drops of ink with which his poems had been written. How beautiful this poem was in his eyes! How excellent it was! How he delighted in it! Each time he recited it he sounded the rhymes into his own ears with real feeling:

Oy! Oy! Oy! Hadassah!
So beautiful, so very fair.
My love for you has not ceased,
Entangled in the thicket’s snare.

Great is my love for you,
Hadassah—forever and a day.
For your sake even my lawfully married wife,
I shall divorce at once and without delay…

The words were still upon his lips when his wife flung herself upon him. All ten of her fingernails were sunk into him, raking the skin of his face. She struck him, and a voice burst forth from her throat, crying: “Just who do you say you’ll divorce? Take care lest I ‘divorce’ your soul from your body, you sinful scoundrel! Who is this whose heart drives him to chase foreign women? First I’ll bash in your skull—and the skull of your beauty as well!” Nor did her fury subside until she seized the page on which the poem was written, bundled it together with his pile of other papers lying before her, tore them to bits, and treated them with every manner of disgrace.

In vain did the husband seek to argue in his own defense: that he never chased after women, that he had no connection whatsoever with another, and that it was not his intention—God forbid—to divorce his wife. Rather, this poem spoke of none other than Queen Esther—she who is called Hadassah.

He then began telling her how much labor he had invested in this work, and how he had nearly completed a stage-play for the Yiddish theater, in which the beautiful tale would be told: how a certain man fell in love with Esther before King Ahasuerus had taken her to wife, but she, in her modesty, paid the man no heed. On account of his great heartbreak the man cast himself into the sea, where a great fish happened by and swallowed him whole. And for the banquet that King Ahasuerus made on the day he married Esther, fishermen hooked this great fish and hauled it up. As King Ahasuerus sat with his new queen, making merry together, a dish full of fish was set before them. When Esther stabbed her fork into one of them, a heavenly voice rang out, and a man leapt forth—the very man who had drowned himself in the sea because Esther had not yielded to him. A scandal ensued, and here began those fine and fascinating matters.

In the end, the poet’s wife was appeased. When she saw that her husband was innocent, she regretted her earlier deeds. She had been a fool, and she had erred in thinking that this Hadassah over whom her husband strayed in thought was an actual woman of flesh and blood.

But the husband could not be consoled. It pained him to see his hard work go down the drain. Had he produced his play for the Yiddish stage, his renown would have gone out into the world and his name would have been sung in praise. This, indeed, is a matter in which there is no error…

—Mazal Tov

Afterword by Jeffrey Saks

Shmuel Yosef Czaczkes (1887–1970)—later, Nobel laureate S.Y. Agnon—began his literary career in the newspapers of his native Galicia. Starting in 1904, dozens of short stories, poems, and even brief journalistic reports on events in his town of Buczacz flowed from his adolescent pen in Yiddish and Hebrew. Agnon signed his writings under various literary names: “One of the Townsmen,” “A Galician,” “A Zionist,” at times with initials: Sh. Y. Cz., or—as in the story presented here—“Mazal Tov.” Almost none of these writings were later anthologized in editions of Agnon’s collected works. The mature author apparently regarded them as “unripe fruit” and did not attempt to refine or restore them in his later writings.

This story appeared in the Kraków Hebrew newspaper, HaMitzpeh (March 13, 1908), pp. 4–5, in a special Purim parody supplement playfully titled HaChutzpah. It bears several features characteristic of Purim‑spiel literature: the element of turn-about and reversal, double identity and mistaken recognition, and fish (of the Pisces season at that time of year)—here in a variation upon the Book of Jonah and the well‑known Talmudic legend of “Joseph Who Honors the Sabbath” (Shabbat 119a). This early tale also shows Agnon’s penchant for intertextuality, weaving in allusions to the biblical and rabbinic texts. In keeping with the Purim genre, there is also a light whiff of provocation—bold, playful, and faintly erotic. Is Hadassah the husband’s lover? Or is Hadassah in fact his fictional stand-in for the biblical Queen Esther?

Beyond the glimpse it affords of the raw talent of a tyro artist, the significance of this story lies in the fact that it was the last to be published while Agnon still dwelled in Europe. A few weeks after Purim 1908, the young Galician Czaczkes left his land, his birthplace, and his town, and set sail upon the heart of the seas on his way to become “Agnon” in the Land of Israel.

Rabbi Jeffrey Saks, Director of ATID and its WebYeshiva.org program, is Director of Research at Agnon House in Jerusalem and editor of the journal Tradition.

S.Y. Agnon, né Czaczkes, around 1908.	Purim supplement to HaMitzpeh newspaper (Kraków, March 13, 1908): Agnon’s story begins at bottom.