A Tale of Two Zionist Siddurim in Exile
Seth (Avi) Kadish

 

Zionist Siddurim and Modern Orthodoxy

Modern Orthodoxy today, in America and throughout the diaspora, is largely a Zionist world. It is, in a sense, the English-speaking wing of Religious Zionism outside of Israel.[1] It is a world of synagogue communities with very close ties to Israel. Most people in Modern Orthodox synagogues have visited Israel, have family and friends who live in Israel, and support Israel. They see Israel as a blessing from God. They say prayers for the State of Israel and the IDF in their synagogues, and many of them celebrate Israel’s Independence Day with public prayers of thanks, including Hallel. At least some of these prayers are included in those siddurim which are designed for Modern Orthodox communities.

In this sense, a Modern Orthodox siddur is a Zionist siddur. But it is also invariably a bilingual siddur. Despite their love of Hebrew-speaking Israel, Modern Orthodox Jews are often uncomfortable with a siddur in Hebrew alone. Therefore, Modern Orthodox siddurim are typically published with introductions, translations, instructions and commentaries which are all in the vernacular. This format is so typical of the Modern Orthodox world that there is a small but competitive industry that produces and markets bilingual Modern Orthodox siddurim, and even a minor literature devoted to reviewing, evaluating and comparing them.

Even a Modern Orthodox Jew who makes ‘aliyah to Israel is likely to continue using a bilingual siddur. In Israel and abroad there is a much larger market for all-Hebrew siddurim, but most of those who prefer an all-Hebrew siddur are not Modern Orthodox Jews. Rather, they are native Israelis or haredim. That is why all-Hebrew, Zionist siddurim are usually published with native Israelis in mind, and sold mainly in Israel.

However, there have been exceptions to this rule. I am aware of two all-Hebrew, Zionist siddurim whose editors were Torah-observant scholars outside of Israel. These two siddurim were published, marketed and sold in pre-Holocaust Europe or in America, even though they contain no translation and their introductions, instructions and commentaries are all in modern Hebrew. The stories of these two siddurim and their editors reveal some important and moving aspects about Zionism since the dawn of the 20th century, including cultural movements and historical events that have largely been forgotten.

The publication of a siddur can reveal the soul of its publisher or point out the condition of communities, because a siddur is not just a prayerbook. Its core blessings and prayers have been the most basic component of oral Hebrew culture for thousands of years, and the same has been true for the siddur as a mass-produced physical book since the invention of printing. In many times and places the siddur was the Hebrew text most familiar to the majority of Jews, sometimes better known than the Bible itself. The two siddurim that we will discuss bear witness to the life of the Hebrew language over the past two centuries. They can help us understand the circumstances under which the Hebrew language has struggled or failed or been snuffed out, or to the contrary, where and when it lived and grew and flourished.

The two siddurim and their respective editors also highlight something fundamental and deeply traditional about Jewish prayer, which goes straight to the roots of the Torah. Namely that, in prayer, the nation of Israel stands before the God of Israel. Yet in order for Israel to stand before its God, it must first be a nation, an ‘am in Hebrew, which shares a language, a homeland and a common fate.[2]

1. Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah, edited by Ḥayyim David Rosenstein (Vilna, 1909)[3]

Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah was first published in Vilna, 1909. It was issued in the two versions that were most important to eastern European Jews, namely Ashkenaz and the hasidic Sefard. It was reprinted a great many times since then, and is still on the market to this very day. 

The text of Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah is laid out with great care, and marked with modern punctuation. It is accompanied by concise instructions in vowelized Hebrew as well as a short commentary on the bottom of the page, also in vowelized Hebrew, which explains difficult words and phrases in the Hebrew prayers. Prayers in Aramaic (such as Berikh Shemeih and Yequm Purkan) are accompanied by translation into Hebrew. Shirah Ḥadashah is an appealing edition of the siddur and a pleasure to browse.

Who published a siddur like this in eastern Europe at the beginning of the 20th century, and why? Its editor, Ḥayyim David Rosenstein (1871-1934) lived his entire life in Minsk (Russia and then USSR, now the capital of Belarus), which had a Jewish majority at the turn of the 20th century. Rosenstein was a Torah scholar, a Hebraist, a Zionist activist and above all an educator. In Minsk he was known in Yiddish as Der Hoikhe Melamed (“the tall teacher”), which referred not just to his physical stature but also to the great esteem in which he was held by the people of the city. He was also known in literary circles by his Hebrew initials חד״ר (like cheder in Yiddish) or as חד”ר מד”ן (taking the first and last letters of his name). 

Rosenstein was the founder and principal of a cheder in Minsk, but it was no ordinary cheder. It was rather called a ḥeder metukan in Hebrew, i.e. an “improved” cheder in that it included secular studies along with Torah study, and employed modern pedagogical techniques in all disciplines. It prepared its students as Jews and for success in the modern world. But above all, it taught the Hebrew language and other subjects not in Yiddish nor in Russian but rather in Hebrew (‘Ivrit be-‘Ivrit). Rosenstein’s Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah was designed for students in schools like his own. By 1903, there were 934 ḥadarim metukanim in Tzarist Russia. Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah became a bestseller not just among their students, but also among Hebrew-oriented Jews throughout Europe, and it was even exported to North America and to the Hebrew-speaking settlements in Ereẓ Yisra’el.

The ḥeder metukan was vociferously opposed by the traditionalists of the time, who sarcastically called it a cheder mesukan in the Ashkenazic pronunciation (i.e. “a dangerous cheder”).[4] The ḥeder metukan also raised the ire of assimilationists, who wanted Jews to learn Russian, drop their separate national identity and fully join Russian society. But the ḥeder metukan was most fiercely opposed by Jewish socialists and communists, who despised its traditional nature, its nationalist pretensions, and its promotion of Hebrew. In their view every nationality, including Jewish nationality, took a back seat to the international revolution of the proletariat. And if an ethnic Jewish culture was to be promoted, they argued, then that culture must be Yiddish culture. They saw Hebrew as the language of a repressive religious tradition, of privileged rabbis and scholars. It was not the mother tongue of the Jewish masses in Europe, and it must therefore not be part of a tolerated culture in a future communist country.

Despite all of this harsh opposition, Rosenstein’s ḥeder metukan in Minsk was highly successful following its founding in 1903. During its golden years, it educated many students who eventually made ‘aliyah and contributed to the rise of the State of Israel. Rosenstein’s son, Avraham, told the following story which illustrates something of the educational spirit of the school at its very best:

Years passed, and I was in the upper class of the cheder—in my father’s cheder. Some eighteen 10-year-olds were attending lessons on Torah and Nevi’im and Ketuvim, on Hebrew grammar, Mishnayot, on the early history of Israel. And all of it was, of course, in Hebrew: Hebrew in the lessons, Hebrew during recess, in conversations and in games. All of us were all proud of the fact that we were in Rosenstein’s cheder, myself among them. I felt no embarrassment, or, to the contrary, “privilege” or “advantage” over my fellow students because the teacher was my father … In his keen pedagogic instinct, my father gave me no cause to feel “privileged” or “near to the throne”—neither in my eyes nor in the eyes of my fellow students. [I was] one student among all the others, and there was an equal and fatherly attitude towards each and every one, in accordance with his attitude toward his studies.

Of all the classes, the ones in Tanakh are carved most deeply into my heart. My father immersed his entire soul and all of his enthusiasm in them, infecting all of us [students] as well. We would learn complete chapters by heart but felt no onus or burden in it.

I remember one episode extremely well from those school days.

One day we began to study the book of Proverbs, after we had learned a selection of Psalms. The “modern” commentaries we had sometimes resorted to, apart from Rashi and the “Meẓudot”, were the “Miqra Meforash” (“Explanatory Tanakh”) of Treves, Notik and Levin. For the Book of Proverbs, father told us, no Miqra Meforash had yet been published, so we would have to make due with the traditional commentaries and supplement them with father’s explanations, which we would jot down for ourselves.

Or if you want, added father with a smile, you may compose your own Miqra Meforash…

I do not recall how my classmates reacted to that “invitation,” but I certainly do recall that the words entered my heart and together with my friend David Lifshitz, an outstanding student in the class, we decided to take up the task—to compose an edition of the Book of Proverbs with a new commentary in the format of Miqra Meforash, based on the commentaries of my father and other commentaries that we had at our disposal…

When our plan was revealed to father, he smiled and asked, “So what shall you call your commentary?” Upon seeing the confusion in our eyes, he added, “Look carefully at Psalm 110, which we studied not long ago, perhaps you will find a suitable name there…”

Indeed, after we read and reread the psalm with care, David extracted from it the phrase טַל יַלְדוּת (“the dew of youth”), and we decided that this was surely what father had meant, for it was quite fitting to our work and the age of its “authors.”

For many weeks we worked in the evenings at the “sacred labor” of the commentary, writing and erasing and rewriting. David, who had a very fine hand, would copy inside a thick notebook, in large and handsome letters, the biblical text up to the middle of the page, and then I would copy, in small letters in the lower half, the exegesis we had worked out together, and all of it of course with full vowelization!

And so it was day after day and week after week, page after page and chapter after chapter.

What became of our “creation” inspired by father, whether it was completed or left unfinished—I cannot recall.[5]

In a footnote to the above story, Rosenstein’s son added the following: “I hope that this same dear friend, who is today Rabbi David Lifshitz, one of the heads of Yeshiva University in the United States, will not resent the exposure of these ‘youthful indiscretions’…”.[6]

Rosenstein’s three sons succeeded in making ‘aliyah to Ereẓ Yisra’el by 1925. For years they made strenuous efforts to bring their parents and sister. Finally, in 1934, they were able to secure official permission for them to leave the USSR, along with entry permits from British Mandate officials. Yet Rosenstein never saw Ereẓ Yisra’el.

After the Bolshevik revolution he continued to secretly teach Hebrew and engage in Zionist activities. His house was searched repeatedly for forbidden works in Hebrew. More than 60 unpublished manuscripts by Rosenstein—including a complete modern edition of ‘Ein Ya‘akov for Hebrew-speaking students—were confiscated by the Yevsektsiya or the Cheka and lost to posterity. The Soviet authorities arrested and tortured Rosenstein several times, but he always returned to teaching and writing in Hebrew. Weak and ill, he died in exile in Minsk in 1934, just before one of his sons was due to arrive from Ereẓ Yisra’el and bring home the rest of his family. His wife and daughter buried him in the Jewish cemetery of Minsk, shortly before they left for Ereẓ Yisra’el. No stone marks his grave. His wife is buried on the Mount of Olives.

Rosenstein’s writing following the revolution describes the plight of Jewish decency in an age of totalitarian terror. Today, when we hear the term anusim we mostly think of medieval Spain (conversos or Marranos), and when we mention “Prisoners of Zion” it usually refers to heroes from the 1970s and 80s. Yet there were Prisoners of Zion in the USSR ever since 1917, and Rosenstein was one. A posthumous collection of his surviving writings, based on notebooks brought home to Ereẓ Yisra’el by his wife and daughter following his death, contains short stories in Hebrew on subjects such as “Pesaḥ Anusim”—one Jew’s doomed attempt to hold a Passover seder with his wife behind closed doors instead of attending a mandatory Passover pork festival, complete with four cups of vodka, at the Yiddish cultural center (a former synagogue). Another story is about the daughter of a former dayyan (rabbinical judge) in Minsk who disobeyed her parents by attending a forbidden gathering of Zionist youth. This indiscretion empowered a Jewish officer in the Cheka to force her to be his consort and bear his child; the story ends with a clandestine circumcision. At the very same time, along with these terrifying themes, Rosenstein continued to write children’s stories and poems in Hebrew, as well as modern Hebrew editions of Torah texts and articles about pedagogy or wider issues in the Jewish world, until his dying day.

In 1949, Eshkol publishers of Jerusalem reissued Rosenstein’s Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah in an edition that was newly typeset, revised and expanded for use in the brand new State of Israel. The 1949 edition contains the Prayer for the State of Israel at the very end of the volume, and was one of the very first siddurim in the world to include it.

Shirah Ḥadashah has been reprinted in Israel many times. One later, undated edition includes not just the prayer for the state, but also prayers for Israel’s 3rd president Zalman Shazar (who was in office 1963-1973), for peace in the world, for remembering Holocaust victims on ‘Asarah be-Tevet, for fallen Israeli soldiers, for Israel’s Memorial Day and Independence Day, and the prayer for the well-being of IDF soldiers. Shirah Ḥadashah’s popularity began to diminish after Siddur Rinat Yisra’el was published 1970, as the latter quickly became the standard siddur in many of Israel’s Zionist synagogues, but it still continued to be used.[7]

When the founder of Eshkol publishers, Rabbi Yaakov Shaul Weinfeld, died in 1989, his sons divided the rights to its publications into two separate ḥaredi publishing houses. One of them is called Shai la-Mora, which continues to publish Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah to this day. However, its title page no longer credits Ḥayyim David Rosenstein, and all prayers related to the State of Israel have been removed.[8]

In a brief introduction to the 1949 edition, Eshkol publishers thanked the author’s son Avraham for editing the Israeli version of his father’s siddur, and for writing a Hebrew commentary to the newly added sections in the spirit of his late father’s work. The publisher’s acknowledgment is credited not to Avraham Rosenstein, but rather to “the teacher A. Even-Shoshan of Jerusalem.” The Hebraified version of “Rosenstein” was “Even-Shoshan,” the name which the family adopted in Ereẓ Yisra’el with the blessing of their father, who himself had used Even-Shoshan as a Hebrew pen name in his youth.[9] Avraham Even-Shoshan (1906-1984) was one of the great Hebrew lexicographers of the 20th century and author of the multivolume Even-Shoshan Dictionary. During his lifetime, Ḥayyim David Rosenstein expressed two unfulfilled literary desires to his children: He wanted Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah to be republished in a new edition, and he thought there was a great need for a new, accessible Hebrew-language dictionary. Both of these wishes were fulfilled by his son Avraham in Israel. 

2. Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el, edited by Paltiel Birnbaum (New York, 1978)

Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el was published in New York, 1978 by Dr. Paltiel (Philip) Birnbaum (1901-1988).[10] It is an all-Hebrew version of Birnbaum’s best-selling Daily Prayer Book (Ha-Siddur Ha-Shalem), which was first published in 1949 and used widely by generations of American Jews. Most of the text consists of images that were reproduced mechanically from the Hebrew part of his earlier bilingual siddur, but in some places it was altered to conform with the Ashkenazic custom prevalent in Israeli synagogues.[11] The editor’s introduction is in Hebrew, as is sporadic commentary in the form of explanatory notes at the bottom of some of the pages.[12] The Prayer for the State of Israel—which appeared at the very end of Birnbaum’s original 1949 bilingual siddur, making it, too, one of the very first in the world to include it along with Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah that very same year—appears here within the Shabbat morning prayers right after the prayer for the government (outside of Israel),[13] and is immediately followed by the prayer for the IDF. 

The end of the volume contains significant material that did not appear in the original siddur: prayers for Israel’s Independence Day (pp. 420-427); Torah readings for Shabbat afternoon, Monday and Thursday (pp. 428-459); two lists of holiday Torah readings, one for Israel and one for the diaspora (pp. 460-461); and “Months of the Year,” a summary of laws and customs in Hebrew (pp. 462-466).

The volume’s cover is dominated by the color blue, which reminds one of the Israeli flag. All writing on the cover (such as the volume’s title) is in black letters, which continue as black stripes surrounding an area of grey that wraps around to the back cover. The title of the volume on the front cover, namely Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el, connects via that orange area to further text on the back cover which reads: Ki attah shomea‘ tefillat ‘amekha Yisra’el be-raḥamim (“for You hear in mercy the prayer of Your nation Israel”). Birnbaum chose a title for his all-Hebrew siddur which emphasizes that Israel stands united before God in prayer.[14]

The most important fact about this volume, in terms of its public impact, is that it was never reissued. Unlike Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah, for which there was public appreciation expressed as market demand over several generations in Europe and Israel, Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el seems to have left no mark.[15] It is notable that in Rosenstein’s introduction to the original 1909 edition of Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah, he described the practical need which led him to produce a new siddur designed for use in schools. Birnbaum too, in the introductions to his successful bilingual editions of the siddur and the maḥzor, took pains to describe the widespread need for a new edition with clear instructions and a modern translation, accompanied by a clear and accurate Hebrew text with modern punctuation. But he mentions no such need in his introduction to Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el. This leads one to suspect that Birnbaum published his all-Hebrew siddur not in response to public demand, but rather out of a personal desire to see his siddur published in a purely Hebrew form, without material in a foreign tongue. The story of his life supports this suspicion.

Paltiel Birnbaum immigrated to the United States in 1920, at age nineteen, alone without his family. The village of Żarnowiec (Chernowitz), Poland, where he was born in 1901, was about half-Jewish at the time and highly traditional. Little is known about his childhood or education, except for an anecdote told by relatives which “remembers him sitting at night under the table with books and candles, always studying.” Birnbaum grew up in Rosenstein’s world, namely the centuries-old communities in eastern Europe whose many millions of Jews provided a thick, thriving Jewish environment that enabled Jewish and Hebraic culture to flourish. The young Birnbaum appears to have been an autodidact with a deep love for both the traditional and modern scholarship of his people. As a young man in America, he financed his undergraduate degree by tutoring Hebrew and Greek. His Ph.D. dissertation analyzed a Karaite commentary on Hosea in Judeo-Arabic.[16] His entire career indicates a love for his people’s literature and especially for the Hebrew language. 

Throughout much of his life in America, Birnbaum administered and taught in local community Hebrew Schools. He became famous as the editor and translator of bilingual prayer books, as well as the author of popular volumes in English that were designed to enlighten and inform the American Jewish masses. He was heartbroken that so many American Jews were bereft of their heritage: “We are losing our people because of ignorance,” he said. “People are ignorant of their ignorance.”[17]

Hebrew language and literature survived in 20th century America, but mostly within a small circle of intellectuals, along with some schools they established in which a small minority of American Jewish youth studied in Hebrew. Birnbaum was active in this somewhat lonely environment. He served on the board of the Histadrut Ivrit of America and contributed regularly to its journal Hadoar and other Hebrew literary forums that existed at the time. He also founded a Ḥug ‘Ivri (a social club for people to study Hebrew and speak it to each other) in his Wilmington, Delaware community, where he lived for 20 years.

Birnbaum’s first book aimed at a popular audience was an abridged version of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah in vowelized and punctuated Hebrew, along with explanations of various Hebrew words, phrases and concepts in English at the bottom of the page (New York, 1944). A short, educational biography of Maimonides in vowelized Hebrew comes just before the text. Birnbaum hoped that this volume would enable its readers to access the original Hebrew text by Maimonides, so that it might be a window for them into the language and literature of Israel and serve them as a concise encyclopedia of Judaism. But years later, in 1967, he republished the very same Hebrew text with a full, facing English translation instead of brief explanations. Although Hebrew illiteracy was painful to him, Birnbaum was never stingy with his American Jewish audience. He provided them with any tool he could in his literary efforts to tackle their ignorance. Indeed, in a passionate Hebrew-language review of a book written in Hebrew on the story of the Hebrew language, Birnbaum remarked that “the main purpose of having precise translations is that they make it easier to understand the Hebrew original.” Even though his review made it clear, through lengthy citations, that there can be no Jewish future without Hebrew, Birnbaum nevertheless suggests that the book itself “should be published in English translation, so that people may know…”[18]

A full volume of Birnbaum’s collected writings in Hebrew entitled Peleitat Soferim was published by Mossad Harav Kook (Jerusalem, 1971). It contains numerous book reviews, biographical portraits of traditional and modern Jewish scholars of Judaica, and articles on other classic Judaica topics. But the final essay stands out. In it, Birnbaum passionately described his five-week visit to Israel following the Six Day War in 1967. It was his fifth trip, at a time long before Birthright, when the vast majority of American Jews never visited Israel even once in their lives. “This visit, my fifth to the Land of Israel, was an experience that I will never forget. This time I felt in every fiber of my being that I was treading the soil of the land of our fathers, the land of our longing, the goodly heritage, the source of our millennial culture…” Birnbaum wrote of the desperate need for olim[19] to fill the vast space he encountered from the Sinai desert to the Golan Heights.[20] He wondered whether Israel should deal with these precious places in terms of their history, the national longing of countless generations, or in terms of the practical need for defensible borders.[21] He further recounted the strange experience of being a Hebrew-speaking tourist in Israel: “A tourist who speaks fluent Hebrew is assumed to be a yored.[22] People immediately want to know where he learned such Hebrew. If an American citizen, for instance, speaks fluent Hebrew, residents of the State see that as a sign that he once resided in Israel and then left…”[23] He described his visit to Masada[24] and wrote at great length about his encounter with Samaritans, their history and their version of the Torah.[25] It is with this essay about his visit to Israel that Birnbaum chose to close the volume of his collected writings in Hebrew.

Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el was published a decade after that visit to Israel. To publish his siddur in an all-Hebrew version, with changes needed to make it suitable for use in Israel as well as America, seems to have been the realization of a dream for Birnbaum. Perhaps he felt that in 1978 there were already enough literate, observant, Zionist American Jews who might want to use such a siddur. Perhaps he hoped that his siddur would also be marketed in Israel. Yet given his outlook, it makes the most sense to view Birnbaum’s publication of Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el as an expression of Birnbaum’s ideal and of his dream, namely for the nation of Israel to know and love its own language and foundational texts with no need for crutches in a foreign tongue.

When Birnbaum died in 1988 he left no family, as he never married. But he did belong to an active Jewish community (the Jewish Center in Manhattan) and received a proper Jewish burial. The tombstone provided by his community contained very little Hebrew (not even his Hebrew name), and its English text was marred by three errors. In 2022, Yosef Lindell spearheaded an effort in cooperation with the Jewish Center to replace Birnbaum’s tombstone with a new one that would not only be more accurate, but also contain a small amount of elegant text in Hebrew and English to give tribute to his life’s work. The Hebrew sentence on the new tombstone reads, in translation, “He instructed the mouths of his nation so that they err not in their language nor falter in their speech.”[26] This beautiful rephrasing of an ancient prayer may be taken to refer not just to Birnbaum’s great care for language, Hebrew and English alike, but also to his love of Israel as a nation. “He instructed the mouths of his nation,” ‘ammo in Hebrew, referring to a man who devoted his life and his wisdom to his nation and its language, while simultaneously yearning for its land. 

Prayer, Torah and Hebrew Nationhood

Throughout our history, when the communities of Israel in exile were either unemancipated or multitudinous, the Hebrew language had a chance to flourish. Before emancipation, Jews in most times and places were typically able to communicate in Hebrew as a matter of course, and did most of their writing in Hebrew. They spoke Hebrew when they encountered Jews who knew a different mother tongue, and sometimes even when there was no practical need. Hebrew was not their mother tongue, yet they became intimately familiar with it “at an extremely early and impressionable age.”[27] It was precisely this familiarity which enabled the revival of Hebrew as a mother tongue in modern times. As Cecil Roth is famously said to have put it, “Before Ben-Yehuda… Jews could speak Hebrew; after him, they did.”[28] The living reality of Hebrew in both of these stages was a remarkable achievement, and may well be considered miraculous, the former no less than the latter.

But in places and times where Jews were both emancipated and constituted a small minority, Hebrew was ultimately doomed. This was true for Jewish enlightenment in the 19th century, which took place in two different tongues. In Western Europe, where emancipated Jews were a small minority, the language of Jewish enlightenment was mostly German and its spirit strove “to wipe out any national memory of ‘Am Yisra’el.”[29] But in eastern Europe, where Jews largely remained unemancipated (or at least unintegrated), and where they often constituted a large minority and sometimes even a local majority, the Hebrew language was able to flourish. Hebrew continued to thrive in eastern Europe (outside of the USSR) right up until the Holocaust as the language of schools, youth movements, newspapers, journals, and books. It was evident to those who took part in this culture that they had no future in Europe, but only a minority escaped.[30]

In the modern, emancipated countries of the 19th century, even Orthodox rabbinic scholars quickly abandoned Hebrew as their natural language for discussing the Torah. Birnbaum cites an example of this from the book he reviewed on the history of Hebrew. Upon receiving a letter from Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, written in German, the Italian-Jewish scholar Samuel David Luzzatto (Shadal) replied in haste on the very same day: “What has happened to the author of The Nineteen Letters? Has he turned into Geiger or Holdheim, that he writes to Shadal in the tongue of the North [=Germany], rather than the language of Judah and Jerusalem?”[31]

Hebrew ceased to be the language of Torah in the West, but not in the East. The difference was rooted in the continued sense of Israel as a nation, or lack thereof. One critical issue that was often debated—it is arguably the most important dilemma for Torah life in modern times—was what attitude the Torah demands towards Jews and Jewish movements when they openly rebel against tradition. Must Jews who are loyal to God and the Torah formally disengage from them? Or would that be an attack on the cohesion of Israel as a nation? In Germany, the practical question was whether a religious denomination now called “Orthodox Judaism,” once it received recognition from the government, must formally break off from the general Jewish community. Rabbinic debate on that issue took place in the form of open letters published in 1877 by Rabbi Seligman Baer Bamberger (against separation) and Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (in favor).[32] Those open letters in literary German, on a critical topic with immense halakhic, hashkafic and practical repercussions, are closed books for nearly all Torah scholars today. In the end, Hirsch’s view was later embraced by most of the yeshivah world.

The same issue rose in eastern Europe, but in Hebrew. An editorial entitled “Right and Left” was published in the Hebrew-language newspaper Maḥziqei ha-Dat, which argued that in an age of anti-religious ideologies and rebellion against tradition, the only way for God-fearing Jews to uphold the Torah was to join together as a separate group and keep themselves far from evildoers.[33] But Rabbi Naftali Ẓvi Yehudah Berlin (the “Neẓiv”), head of the Volozhin Yeshivah and a supporter of Ḥovevei Ẓiyyon, responded that such a move would be “as destructive as swords to the body of the nation and its existence.” In the end it would also fail to uphold the Torah, because every real or seeming deviation would provide cause for endless internal warfare. In order for Israel to return to God, it must remain one nation. According to Neẓiv the correct thing to do, as in the past, was to live together with others and cooperate with them while working hard to spread Torah study and observance in every possible way (“On Right and Left” in Responsa Meishiv Davar I:44). His approach influenced not only his student, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook,[34] but has been typical of mainstream religious Zionist leaders for the past century.

The Jewish Hebraists in America have been described as follows: “Immigrants from Eastern Europe, they tended to be heder- and yeshiva-educated Jews who had embraced the achievements of modern Western culture while at the same time preserving an ardent commitment to Jewish tradition, the Hebrew language, and the national renaissance that was based in Zionism.”[35] That description fits Birnbaum like a glove to a hand. It was equally true for Hebraists who remained in Europe, like Rosenstein. Men such as these were quite comfortable among Orthodox rabbis, so long as they were not authoritarian in their attitudes and did not demand extreme rejection of modernity. They were similarly comfortable among secular Zionists, so long as the Jewish tradition and the Hebrew language could be promoted with pride within the Zionist movement. They respected serious Jewish scholarship, regardless of the scholar’s affiliations or his lifestyle.[36] Yet they were deeply opposed to modern Jewish ideologies which rejected the totality of Israel as a nation in time and in space. Such rejectionists included Bundists, radical Yiddishists, assimilationists, Reformists, and many of the Orthodox traditionalists.

Rosenstein expressed attitudes like these in journalistic essays, where he described the traditionalists, Zionists, and Reformists of Minsk in the early 20th century. In an essay entitled “On Those Who Slander the Zionists,”[37] he sarcastically described self-righteous Jews in Minsk who publicly derided all Zionists as violators of the Torah, while others demanded that Zionist rabbis and God-fearing Jews break away from Herzl’s Zionist Organisation. Rosenstein responded that those who selflessly come to the aid of beleaguered Jews in Minsk are invariably the Zionists—but never the traditionalists who berate them—and suggested that the beauty of the Zionist Organization lies precisely in the fact that its rabbis and freethinkers work together for the common good of the nation.[38] In another essay he described an effort to establish a liberal synagogue in Minsk (“like the Temples of the enlightened [Jews] in the Lands of the West”). Rosenstein mocked its builders for their cosmopolitan outlook, crude materialism, and utter lack of regard for the needs of Jews in Minsk who lived in dire poverty. At the very same time he wryly noted that such an effort would never have gotten off the ground if not for the unappealing and chaotic nature of the rest of the synagogues in Minsk.[39]

In 1927 there was an American Jewish Hebraist who found it was still possible to send issues of the Hebrew periodical Hadoar from the USA to the USSR. He mailed them to his brother in Minsk, who in turn shared them with Ḥayyim David Rosenstein. In a written response, Rosenstein expressed not just his gratitude for this kindness but also his admiration for Hebrew culture in America:

I’ll tell you the truth, that to me the young American [Hebrew] authors seem much better than the young authors of Ereẓ Yisra’el. But alas, alas for us, the inhabitants of the Soviet ghetto, who are withering away, wasting away for lack of inspiration or a new Hebrew word. Have mercy, dear man, and grant us at least some passages, to quench our terrible thirst for the word of the Lord. There are no longer any seekers of a teacher of Hebrew among us. The conditions of the place are the cause of this. There is no national content to fill the emptiness of our lives.[40]

Rosenstein’s impression of Hebrew culture in America, which he gleaned from afar in the pages of a journal, was poignant and hopeful at the time. But in the end, Hebrew “national content” was ultimately doomed by the warm embrace of America no less than by the cold fist of Soviet totalitarianism. The only place in today’s world where ‘Am Yisra’el can live its national life in its own language is the State of Israel.

In hindsight, the intense and generally positive struggle for the Hebrew language was a highly worthwhile cause and an enormous success. It would have been impossible to unify the Jews of Ereẓ Yisra’el, before and after 1948, and give them a sense of common nationhood, without the Hebrew language as a shared inheritance and subsequently as their spoken tongue. For Jewish immigration flowed into the country from every part of Europe, every corner of the Arab-Muslim world, and beyond. Each tide of immigration brought its own language, and Israel sounded like a Tower of Babel. The synthesizing factor was Hebrew, and its role in deepening the Jewish national spirit cannot be overestimated.[41]

Rosenstein and Birnbaum supported that struggle, and felt that the siddur had a central part to play in it. Yet it is striking that despite being the editors of prayer books, they both mentioned God infrequently in their writing.[42] Perhaps this reflects a kind of modesty, which made it hard for them to write about the sublime, or from a shared aversion to public displays or declarations of piety. Perhaps their very idea of God was somewhat Maimonidean or impersonal and therefore led to fewer words. But it surely had to do with what they saw as the desperate need of the hour: For Rosenstein and Birnbaum, there was a desperate need to strengthen the Jewish national spirit. They saw the siddur as the most basic expression of that spirit, since it expresses the age-old collective yearnings of Israel as a nation in exile, in its own language. Rosenstein and Birnbaum understood that no Jewish religious denomination—no matter how pious, scholarly, enlightened or virtuous it may be—can ever be called Israel. Nor can any Jewish ethnic flavor be thought of as a partner to the ancient covenant. In the siddur, it is the nation of Israel as a collective whole which stands before God in prayer. Rosenstein and Birnbaum appreciated that in order for there to be prayer to the God of Israel, one must first be able to speak of Israel itself. That is why the siddur was critical to them, as the most basic expression of national feeling in Hebrew.

The national life of Israel today is alive and vibrant. It is rich, resilient and strong even as it continues to face extraordinary threats coupled with immense animosity, like no other nation on earth. In order for the siddur to make sense in this reality, those who use it must turn back to the living, personal God of the Bible and Ḥazal who chose that living nation as His own. Rosenstein and Birnbaum correctly understood that the siddur expresses a common language, land, history and fate—critical elements which define many nations. But it is also much more: Quite unlike the harsh dichotomy between nationality and religion typical of the western world, the covenant between God and Israel lies at the heart of the historic national culture of ‘Am Yisra’el.[43] That covenant binds God no less than it obligates Israel. Now that Israel is a living reality, the prayers in the siddur have the potential to live again too, as they did in premodern times before emancipation. The prayers of a nation in exile can become the prayers of a nation that dwells in its land.[44] In fact, never before has the plain meaning of the entire book of Psalms and the extension of all its varied themes as found in the siddur been as literally true as they have become over the past two years. For the siddur to make literal and powerful sense, all it takes now is for communities of ‘Am Yisra’el to turn to the living God of Israel as the nation of the covenant.

Notes:

[1] I refer to “Religious Zionism” as a worldwide movement for well over a century, not to the current Israeli political party which adopted that title.
[2] The premodern sense of “Israel” as a nation, even in exile, is best understood in contrast to the widespread modern use of “Judaism” to signify a religion in the Christian or Protestant sense. For two excellent studies of the latter concept, and how it shaped Jewish identity and thought in modern times, see Leora Batnitzky, How Judaism Became a Religion: An Introduction to Modern Jewish Thought (Princeton University Press, 2011); Avraham Melamed, Dat: From Law to Religion—A History of a Formative Term (Tel Aviv, Hakibbutz Hameuchad: 2014) [Hebrew]. Also see below, n. 37.
[3] Unless otherwise stated, the biographical, historical and literary information in this section is taken from the posthumous edition of Rosenstein’s writings, along with introductions by family members and friends: Ketavim: Ma’amarim, Reshumot, Divrei Sifrut [=Essays and Memoirs] (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1973). I also consulted Shelomoh Even-Shoshan, “Beit Avinu,” Mibifnim 46:4 (1984), pp. 548-553.
[4] Ketavim, p. 14. Haredi opposition to the ḥeder metukan had economic motives as well, because a major form of employment for traditionalists around the turn of the century was as teachers in the chadorim. On this point and on the history of the ḥeder metukan in general, including the information provided here, see Yossi Goldstein, “‘Ha-ḥeder ha-Metukan’ be-Rusya ke-Basis le-Ma‘arekhet ha-Ḥinnukh ha-Ẓiyyonit,” ‘Iyyunim be-Ḥinnukh 45 (1986): 147-157. More information on the ḥeder metukan is available in Hebrew via Yad Vashem. A first-hand description of the project’s initial goals can be found in a letter from Ḥayyim Nahman Bialik to Gershon Stavsky and Yaakov Weinberg in the year 1900, available at Project Ben-Yehuda. Also see M. Ẓ. Frank, “Ha-ḥeder ha-metukan be-Rechytsa,” in He-‘Avar le-Divrei ha-Yehudim veha-Yahadut be-Rusya (volume 16), ed. B. Ẓ. Katz (Tel-Aviv 1969), pp. 85-96.
[5] Ketavim, p. 19.
[6] Unfortunately, during my years at Yeshiva University, I did not know Rav Dovid Lifshitz z”l well, nor did I have any idea why he taught his shi‘urim in Hebrew. This story may shed light on part of the reason.
[7] It is possible that Siddur Rinat Yisra’el itself was partially inspired by Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah in its content (Hebrew commentary and translations) and even in its name (Rinah = Shirah); this suggestion appears in a discussion thread at Forum Otzar HaHochma.
[8] Over the years, sporadic protests against the use of Siddur Shirah Ḥadashah appeared in the ḥaredi press in Israel. A letter to the editor printed in She‘arim 3 (Elul 5735) castigates the siddur for a list  of “‘inaccuracies’ which should really be called misrepresentations” and bemoaned its use in synagogues and yeshivot. A letter to Digleinu (Tishrei 5742) points out that the siddur’s editor was “a certain maskil of the previous generation, and in his preface, which was omitted in the new printing, he boasts that he is one of the founders of the ḥeder metukan (mesukan). His name is Ḥ. D. Rosenstein.” The letter concludes: “This volume, in my humble opinion, is in the category of sifrei minim (heretical works), and it is forbidden to purchase it or bring it into one’s home. And as many good people have failed in this matter, I have felt it my duty to call attention to it.” Here are the texts of these critical letters, via the same thread at Forum Otzar HaHochma (see previous note):

[9] Beit Avinu, pp. 551-552.|
[10] The dates provided here and further biographical information on Birnbaum found below are all based on a well-researched biographical sketch of Birnbaum’s life, including never-before published testimonies to his early life, provided by Yosef Lindell in “Dr. Philip Birnbaum’s Forgotten Ḥumash,” Ḥakirah 35 (Summer 2024), pp. 207-222 (at pp. 208-210). Other biographical facts mentioned below are also based upon Lindell’s fine work. However, despite several excellent essays on Birnbaum which have been published by Lindell and others in recent years, Birnbaum’s Zionism—as a key motivation for his scholarly and popular publications—has been underemphasized or omitted. The description here thus has a different emphasis, but there is nevertheless some unavoidable overlap.
[11] For instance, Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el instructs one to say Morid ha-Tal “during the summer in Ereẓ Yisra’el” (p. 42). Unfortunately, Birnbaum’s adaptation of his original siddur to Minhag Ereẓ Yisra’el was sporadic and incomplete. Apparently, too much text was cut and pasted “as is” from Ha-Siddur ha-Shalem, and wasn’t always changed where it needed to be. Some typical examples: Birnbaum failed to change ve-sabe’enu mi-tuvekha to ve-sabe‘enu mi-tuvah in the ‘Amidah (p. 44). He failed to add Birkat Kohanim, which is said daily in Israel, within the text of the ‘Amidah (e.g. pp. 47-48); instead he added a short note about it at the bottom of the page. He failed to indicate that the final blessing of the ‘Amidah is not changed to ‘oseih ha-shalom during the Ten Days of Repentance in Israel (p. 48). For a complete digital siddur based upon Birnbaum’s original Hebrew version, which fully represents Nosaḥ Ashkenaz in both its traditional and Israeli versions, see Hebrew Wikisource. For a complete list of places in that digital siddur where Birnbaum’s original text has been modified for this purpose, see here.
[12] The introduction is mostly new, not a translation of the English-language introduction to the bilingual Daily Prayer Book. Its first section emphasizes that the fixed community prayers are central to the shared culture of Israel. The second section is a short collection of talmudic maxims on prayer. The third and final section is the longest, a collection of notes by scholars over the generations on the text and procedure of the daily prayers. A number of the items in these three parts are already found in Birnbaum’s original introduction in English, but the Hebrew collection is richer. As for the explanatory notes in Hebrew at the bottom of many pages, they mostly parallel those found in English at the bottom of some of the pages in Birnbaum’s 1949 bilingual Daily Prayer Book, but are not direct translations. In particular, the English-language notes often provide information based on a Hebrew source for which a reference is provided, while in Hebrew that source is cited in its original language. As Yosef Lindell suggested to me in correspondence, Birnbaum may have felt that he could go more in depth with a Hebrew-speaking audience.
[13] In his original bilingual Daily Prayer Book, Birnbaum printed a prayer that was worded specifically for the government of the United States. It asks God to bless “the president and the vice-president and all the officers of this country” (p. 380). But in Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el the Hebrew text was cut down to a simple generic form: “all the officers of this country.” This formulation is artificial, because although it technically fits all countries it actually meets the needs of none. It seems to have been chosen as an easy yet ineffective way to allow the siddur to be used internationally.
[14] I am grateful to Rabbi Gabriel Kretzmer Seed for the color photo of the Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el’s cover. Note that the flash distorts the grey area, which appears more like orange in the photo.
[15] A number of factors may have contributed to the market failure of Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el. It was inappropriate for an Israeli market because it was only printed in Nosaḥ Ashkenaz—the custom of a minority of Ashkenazic synagogues in Israel—and was unsatisfactory in terms of the Israeli version of even that custom (above, n. 11). In addition, the market for a Zionist siddur in Israel had already been captured by Siddur Rinat Yisra’el (Jerusalem, 1970)  which was issued in a more appropriate Ashkenazic version as well as a Sefard version. Then in 1981—just two years after the publication of Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el—Koren publishers issued the first edition of its own siddur, which was also quite popular and more appropriate for use in Israel than Birnbaum’s siddur. Overall, the Hebrew Publishing Company in New York, which marketed all of Birnbaum’s siddurim, never succeeded in penetrating the Israeli market, and was already in its waning years in America when it published Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el in 1979 (see Lindell, pp. 15-16, “The End of the Hebrew Publishing Company”). But the most important factor would seem to be the lack of an audience for a siddur of this type in America: Most American Jewish Zionists who used a traditional siddur preferred a bilingual one.
[16] The Arabic Commentary of Yefet ben ‘Ali the Karaite on the Book of Hosea. Edited from Eight Manuscripts and Provided with Critical Notes and an Introduction by Philip Birnbaum, Ph.D. (Philadelphia: Dropsie College, 1942); doctoral dissertation. He later edited Karaite Studies (New York: Hermon Press, 1971).
[17] Steve Lipman, “Birnbaum version: Bible purged of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’,” The Jewish Week (January 27, 1984), p. 24; cf. Lindell, pp. 5-6.
[18] “Teḥiyyat ha-Lashon ve-Hashpa‘atah” in Peleitat Soferim (Jerusalem, 1971), p. 309 (see the next paragraph regarding this book).
[19] Jewish immigrants to Israel (literally “those who ascend”).
[20] Ibid., pp. 312, 315.
[21]  Ibid., p. 312.
[22] I.e. a former Israeli who has left Israel (literally “gone down”).
[23] Ibid., p. 315.
[24] Ibid., pp. 315-316.
[25] Ibid., pp. 317-320.
[26] On the rededication of Birnbaum’s gravestone, see Ari L. Goldman, “He wrote a beloved prayer book. But his gravestone misspelled his name” (Forward, July 19, 2022); Marla Brown Fogelman, “Bubby and Birnbaum” (Tablet, November 16, 2022). See Yosef Lindell’s blog for links to recordings of and about the rededication ceremony (here). All of these sources describe the new inscription as a reflection of Birnbaum’s great care for language, without mentioning his national feeling. Yet the traditional language which was chosen for the inscription (פיפיות עמו and לשונם) easily conveys that meaning too.
[27] See Cecil Roth, “Was Hebrew Ever a Dead Language?” in his Personalities and Events in Jewish History (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1953), pp. 136-142 (at 136).
[28] The quotation from Roth is found in Jack Fellman, The Revival of a Classical Tongue: Eliezer Ben Yehuda and the Modern Hebrew Language (The Hague: Mouton, 1973), p. 139, but does not appear as cited there in Roth’s “Was Hebrew Ever a Dead Language?” I have not been able to locate its source.
[29] Birnbaum, Peleitat Soferim, p. 306.
[30] Those surviving Jews in modern times who continued to view themselves as ‘Am Yisra’el, managed to preserve just enough national spirit and power to allow for the State of Israel to arise. The Holocaust did not result in the rise of Israel, as is commonly thought today. Rather, Israel was just barely able to rise despite the Holocaust. Watch Yehuda Bauer, “Israel and the Holocaust: Debunking the Myth”.
[31] Birnbaum, Peleitat Soferim, pp. 306-307. This is a play on words, because Hirsh’s Hebrew title for The Nineteen Letters (Altona, 1836) was אגרות צפון.
[32] The open letters are also available via the National Library of Israel (Bamberger to Hirsch and Hirsch to Bamberger).
[33] I have not been able to locate the original editorial. Another version of the newspaper appears here.
[34] A discussion of Rav Kook’s early views on nationhood, universalism, morality and the challenges of modernity may be found in chapters 5-6 of Yehudah Mirsky’s Towards the Mystical Experience of Modernity: The Making of Rav Kook, 1865-1904 (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2019), pp. 233-328.
[35] Michael Weingard, “The Last of the (Hebrew) Mohicans,” Commentary (March 2006), p. 2.
[36] In the “Acknowledgments” at the beginning of his original siddur (1949), Birnbaum thanks a number of scholars who assisted him with his work, beginning with Rabbi Ḥayyim Heller, who is followed by multiple figures associated with non-Orthodox institutions including several from the Jewish Theological Seminary (which was still a highly traditional institution at the time). The “Acknowledgments” page does not appear in the second edition (New York, 1977). On Birnbaum’s opposition to liturgical reform see below, n. 38.
[37] Ketavim, pp. 94-95.
[38] Precisely because Zionism was a national movement, it may be argued that out of all the many competing Jewish ideologies from a century ago, it had the greatest potential for compatibility with the traditional Torah of premodern times, or even to be a fulfillment of that Torah. On a practical level, Zionism in its very nature had room for the entire nation, including those who still strove to be loyal to the ancient covenant. It is therefore not surprising that some of the ḥadarim metukanim eventually joined the Mizrachi movement (founded in 1902).

According to Melamed (Dat, pp. 206-277), modern resistance to the concept of “Judaism” as a religion in the Christian or Protestant sense came simultaneously from the “Orthodox” and “National” (=Zionist) camps. In his analysis, he groups religious Zionists together with the “Orthodox” rather than the “Nationalists,” but the opposite approach might have yielded a richer discussion of Hebrew nationalism and its attitude towards the term dat. He also strives to be balanced in terms of anachronism: “They all criticized the Jews who turned Judaism into a religion for having been influenced by alien elements, while ignoring the fact that their own identification of the Jews as an ummah (nation or volk) in the modern sense of the term, is a product of European nationalism, a clear import from without, no less than the identification of Judaism as a ‘religion’ in the modern sense of the term” (p. 245). This is quite true as a matter of principle, yet not in terms of proportion: It would have been impossible for Melamed to write a volume that describes radical, extraordinary changes throughout history in the sense of Hebrew terms like ‘am or le’om, as he did for the word dat, precisely because even the modern meaning of the former terms has much stronger roots in Israel’s past. In other words, the anachronism is indeed “less” than for the word dat.

That the “Orthodox” and the “nationalists” were both able to reject “Judaism” quite easily as an anachronistic modern concept is best explained by their awareness of the historic term “Israel” in its premodern sense, and of the radical sense of otherness that its use conveyed over the ages. That term, and the ramifications of its use before modernity, are barely considered by Melamed and Batnitzky in their respective books (above, n. 2). In fact, nearly all modern writers routinely translate premodern occurrences of the Hebrew word Yisra’el as “Jew” or “Jews” or “the Jewish People” because modern languages like English typically leave them with no other option. Yet this anachronistic conversion of “Israel” to “Jews” is precisely what obscures the traditional outlook at the roots of both religious and secular Zionism, and even the very choice of “Israel” as the name for the state that rose in 1948.

In Christian Europe before emancipation, Jews and gentiles alike considered the Jews to be a separate nation, a disgraced nation that had been exiled and scattered around the world. Their disagreement was a theological one: Did God hate and reject that nation for its sins (the Christian position), or was that nation still beloved by God as “Israel” despite its failings and contrary to appearances (the Jewish position)? This explains why the term “Israel” was invariably used in Hebrew study, prayer, correspondence and formal writing over the ages: On the one hand, “Jew” was a pejorative term preferred by Christians (it implied betrayal). On the other hand, Jews before modern times made every effort to call themselves “Israel,” the still-proud name of their exiled nation and partner to the divine covenant.
[39] Ketavim, pp. 88-89. The text of Rosenstein’s siddur is entirely traditional, and basically identical to other eastern European siddurim in its day. There is no trace in his writing of a desire for liturgical change in the spirit of the times, just as he avoided modifying the original Hebrew language of other classic texts that he presented in modern Hebrew editions (this is the case for Beit Midrash [Vilna, 1906], Mishnah Berurah [Vilna, 1910] and presumably also for his lost edition of Ein Ya‘akov). In this he provides a contrast to Bialik and Ravnitsky’s Sefer ha-Aggadah (Odessa, 1912). He seems to have viewed the siddur as a national cultural treasure that one must learn to appreciate in its classic formulation. Thus, Reuven Gafni’s conjecture that the fully traditional nature of Rosenstein’s siddur may have been by dint of necessity does not seem correct (“Educational Prayer Books and Synagogues in the Land of Israel During the Mandate,” Dor le-Dor 26 [2013], pp. 433-465 [at p. 436]). Similarly, Birnbaum wrote: “The Siddur should never become a source of contention among any segment of our people. One must not fail to realize that the Siddur is a classic similar to the Bible and the Talmud, to which the terms orthodox, conservative or reform do not apply. Editors of the Siddur should not take liberties with the original, eliminating a phrase here and adding one there, each according to his own beliefs. Such a procedure is liable to breed as many different kinds of public worship as there are synagogues and temples. The danger of rising sects is obvious, sects that are likely to weaken still more our harassed people. The ever-increasing modifications in the text of the Siddur are apt to destroy this unique source book of Judaism, designed for old and young, scholars and laymen” (p. XIII; cf. Lindell, p. 14). In short, the root of this reticence for both of them alike seems to be a concern for national unity combined with a deep respect for national culture, which to their mind included the traditional siddur.
[40] Ketavim, p. 17.
[41] This paragraph is a restatement of Abram Leon Sachar, A History of the Jews (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1965), p. 410.
[42] In terms of Birnbaum, Yosef Lindell noticed this about his introduction to the Daily Prayer Book: “Birnbaum waxes poetic about the Siddur’s educational function, but entirely neglects to discuss how prayer facilitates communication with God. He only adds such a discussion in the second edition. One gets the impression that for Birnbaum, prayer was almost the siddur’s secondary function. Cultivating Jewish knowledge was more important” (ibid., p. 6). Not only is this observation quite true, but even in the discussion added to the second edition—which stresses the public aspect of prayer, its deeper meaning, the need for kavvanah, the importance of custom and the history of the siddur—communication with God is hardly central. The same is true of Birnbaum’s Hebrew introduction to Siddur ‘Am Yisra’el, of his essay Ha-Siddur ve-Lashon ha-Tefillot (Peleitat Soferim, pp. 77-106), and it is typical of the rest of his writing.
[43] That the Torah is the center of Israel’s national culture, which makes any distinction between religion and culture artificial at best, is typical in the outlook of early religious Zionists and of their pedagogical approaches. A bold statement to this effect may be found in Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn’s introduction to his pedagogical manual for teachers of Talmud, Mosedot Torah shebe-‘Al Peh (Jerusalem, 1889). This approach further means that the written and oral Torah form the core of all Hebrew literature, including modern secular literature. On Hirschensohn see Melamed, Dat, pp. 235-238. A similar sentiment seems to have motivated Rosenstein, who in the year 1900 expressed his desire “to revive our language and return it to the days of its youth, when it was a language of qodesh and ḥol at once” (“Litḥiyyat ha-Safah” in Ketavim, pp. 20-22 [at p. 20]).
[44] The traditional view is that fixed public prayer took place throughout the Second Temple Era. Its content consisted of the same themes as in exilic times, but its wording reflected a pre-exilic reality. As Rabbi Shim‘on ben Ẓemaḥ Duran expressed it, “Our wording of prayer today is clearly not the same as how they prayed when the Temple stood. For we pray that that Kingdom of David be restored, that the Temple be rebuilt soon in our days, and that our scattered people be gathered together. But they would pray for the Kingdom of David to continue, for the Temple not to be destroyed, and for Israel not to be exiled from its land. Similarly, when the High Priest prayed the blessing reẓeh on the Day of Atonement, he did not pray using our words…” (Responsa II:161; cf. Ramban on Berakhot 49a). On the views of Duran and others as to whether rabbinic prayer is meant to be a fixed text or more of a general structure, see my Kavvana: Directing the Heart in Jewish Prayer (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1997), pp. 257-357; “Each River and its Channel: Halakhic Attitudes Toward Liturgy” (Torah Musings, October 30, 2011).

 

Rashi on Shemot 28:6 and 40:38
“אִם בָּאתִי לְפָרֵשׁ” or “לְפִי שֶפֵרַשְתִי”
An Example of Three “Mahadurot” of Rashi

Eli Genauer

Shemot 40:38 Shemot 28:6

One of the most informative and endearing comments in Rashi can be found in Parshat Tetzaveh. In trying to explain to us the various בגדי כהונה, Rashi makes a preemptive move and describes all of them together so that his readers will be able to make more sense of the total package. He introduces this long explanation with the following words:

אִם בָּאתִי לְפָרֵשׁ מַעֲשֵׂה הָאֵפוֹד וְהַחֹשֶׁן עַל סֵדֶר הַמִּקְרָאוֹת, הֲרֵי פֵּרוּשָׁן פְּרָקִים, וְיִשְׁגֶה הַקּוֹרֵא בְּצֵרוּפָן, לְכָךְ אֲנִי כוֹתֵבמַעֲשֵׂיהֶם כְּמוֹת שֶׁהוּא, לְמַעַן יָרוּץ הַקּוֹרֵא בוֹ, וְאַחַר כָּךְ אֲפָרֵשׁ עַל סֵדֶר הַמִּקְרָאוֹת

If I would come to explain the manufacture of the Ephod and the Choshen in the order of the Pesukim, their explanation would be broken into fragments and the reader would make a mistake in combining them. Therefore, I am writing first of their manufacture as it is, so the reader will be able to run through it quickly and afterwards, I will explain everything according to the order of the Pesukim.

:אִם בָּאתִי לְפָרֵשׁ Rashi is clearly writing this before he explains the Pesukim in order, as he says

.In a standard Chumash it looks like this (Chumash Ateret Rashi available on hebrewbooks.org)

However, for many hundreds of years, whether in manuscript form or printed book, this important explanation of Rashi was situated in different places in the text. Instead of being in Parshas Tetzaveh as above, sometimes it was placed only at the end of Sefer Shemot (with a bit of a difference in the Nusach). Other times it was located both in Parshat Tetzaveh and also at the end of Parshat Pekudei. And finally, sometimes it did not appear at all

Here are various examples of printed books which treat this subject differently

 The first printed edition of Rashi was Rome 1470 (It is undated but thought to be 1470) has Rashi’s explanation in Tetzaveh, Shemot 28:6

:and also, at the end of Pekudei, Shemot 40:38

 

:The introductory comment of Rashi here indicates that it was placed at the end of Pekudei with full knowledge that all the Pesukim had already been explained according to their order

לפי שפרשתי מעשה האפוד והחושן פרקים פרקים

.Since I have already explained the construction of the Choshen and Ephod broken into fragments

This is a Chumash printed in Lisbon in 1491. It too has Rashi’s summary of the בגדי כהונה in Tetzaveh and at the end of Shemot.

This is in Parshat Tetzaveh, Shemot 28:6

This is at the end of Pekudei, Shemot 40:38. As you can see, it is displayed prominently on the page

…Bologna 1482 has it in Tetzaveh

…..but not at the end of Pekudei

Bomberg’s Venice edition of 1518, Sabionetta’s edition of 1557, and Amsterdam’s edition of 1680 (First edition of Siftei Chachamim) have it in both places.

Beginning in the 1700’s, the comment at the end of Pekudei started to disappear. I found this to be true in Amsterdam, Attias 1700, and Amsterdam, Proops 1755. In the 1800’s, the two most copied editions of Mikraot Gedolot, Vienna Netter 1859 and Warsaw 1860, had the comment only in Tetzaveh and that is the way it is presented today.

How did Rashi himself write this comment? A look at some early manuscripts gives us some insight into this question.

The manuscript known as Leipzig 1 is considered to be one of the most reliable Rashi manuscripts. It was copied over by R’ Makhir in the early 14^th century who testified that he copied it from a manuscript written by Rav Shemayah, who was Rashi’s secretary

In this manuscript, Rashi’s comment of “אִם בָּאתִי לְפָרֵשׁ” appears in Shemot 28:6 but it has a notation on the side.

The website Al HaTorah.com transcribes the comment which Rabbeinu Makhir wrote in the margin. He states that Rav Shemayah (Rashi’s secretary) did not write down Rashi’s comment on the order of the Ephod until the end of Sefer Shemot, after Parshat Pekudei.

בגיליון כ״י לייפציג 1 כתוב כאן: ״בפירוש שכתב רבנו שמע׳ לא כתב סדר איפוד עד סוף הספר אחר פקודי וכאן דילג עד פי׳ זהב תכלת וגו׳ ואינו ממש מפורש כזה״

How was it recorded in other manuscripts? It was recorded four different ways:

1. It did not appear at all
2. It appeared only at the end of Parshat Pekudei
3. It appeared only in Parshat Tetzaveh
4. It appeared in both places

There are some manuscripts which do not contain the comment in either section (version #1)

This is Hamburg 37(Steinschneider/Hamburg 32). It is missing in Tetzaveh and at the end of Pekudei.

Tetzaveh 28:6

Pekudei 40:38

There are some manuscripts which only have the comment after Parshat Pekudei. (Version #2)

As shown above, Rav Shemayah’s manuscript only had it at the end of Pekudei[2]

There is also Oxford Oppenheim 34 which does not have the comment in Tetzaveh….

In total, I looked at 65 manuscripts and incunabula. The scorecard was as follows:

Missing completely – Version #1 (Total 15)

Sassoon Ms.369
Hamburg 37 (Steinschneider)/Hamburg 3
Cincinnati 1 (HUC JCF 1) – There is a picture of the Choshen at the end of Shemot
Parma 3204
Berlin 1221
Parma 2868
Berlin 1222
Vatican ebr.608
Berlin 121
British Library Harley 5709 (Margoliouth 170)
British Library Harley 5708 (Margoliouth 171)
Vienna Cod. Hebr. 3 (Schwarz 24)
Vatican ebr. 480
Paris 55
Breslau 11 ( Saraval 5)

[3]After Pekudei only – Version #2 (Total 7)

Munich
Leiden 1
Parma 2708
Oxford Oppenheim 34
Rav Shemayah’s own copy
British Library Harley 1861 (Margoliouth 169)
Paris 48

In Tetzaveh only– Version #3 (Total 22)

Oxford 165
Hamburg 13
Weimar 651
Florence Plut. III. 03
Vatican ebr. 46
Paris 155
Vatican ebr.4
Parma 3081
Vatican ebr. 55
Parma 3256
Vatican ebr. 33
Vatican Urbinati 8
Paris 156
Vatican ebr. 18
Rostock 31
Vienna Cod. Hebr. 220 (Schwarz 23)
Harley MS 5655
Frankfurt 152
Paris 158
Bologna 1482
Soncino 1487
Ixar 1490

In both places – Version #4 (21 total)

London 26917
Berlin Qu 514
Vatican Urbanati 1
Parma 2989
Paris 157
Parma 3115
Vatican ebr. 94 (Different handwriting for Pekudei)
Paris 159
London 19653
Parma 2979
Frankfurt 19
Breslau 102 (Saraval 12)
Parma 2707
Casanatense 2921
Jerusalem Ms. Heb. 2009-38
Rome 1470
Reggio di Calabria 1475
Alkabetz/Guadalajara 1476
Zamora 1487/92
Lisbon 1491
Napoli 1492

Conclusion:

One gets the impression that there were different “traditions” in how this Rashi was recorded. Professor Yosef Ofer writes that initially the passage of “אִם בָּאתִי לְפָרֵשׁ” was not included in Rashi’s commentary.[4] Rashi then decided to include it as a review at the end of Pekudai. Finally, he placed it in Parshat Tetzaveh with some changes in the wording.[5][6] The manuscripts which had it in both places most likely were copied from multiple manuscripts.

Azariah de’ Rossi’s Annotations on Sefer ha-Kuzari: Identification and Preliminary Analysis

Yehuda Seewald

Abstract

This article presents the identification of annotations on a 1547 Venice edition of Sefer ha-Kuzari (The Kuzari) as the work of the Italian-Jewish scholar Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi (min ha-Adummim). The identification is based on detailed paleographic comparison between these annotations and de’ Rossi’s verified notes on a manuscript of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed (Paris, BnF MS hebr. 691). The article examines the nature of these annotations, their sources, and their significance for understanding de’ Rossi’s interpretative approach and his conception of the relationship between these two major philosophical works.

Introduction

Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi (1511-1578), one of the most important Jewish scholars in 16th-century Italy, combined traditional Jewish learning with innovative Renaissance research methodologies in his major work Me’or Einayim (The Light of the Eyes).[1] His research spanned various fields, from historiography and chronology through philology and source criticism to philosophy and natural sciences.

Among the works that were central to de’ Rossi’s study were Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed and Judah Halevi’s Kuzari. He frequently quoted and referenced these two works in Me’or Einayim, using their ideas as a foundation for his discussions.[2] It appears that de’ Rossi not only quoted and discussed these works but also systematically edited and annotated them.

Chapter 1: Identification of the Annotations

The manuscript of the Guide for the Perplexed preserved in the National Library of France (hebr. 691) includes de’ Rossi’s explicit ownership signature: “This book, the Guide, gracious dweller of heights, belonged to me, Azariah son of Moses min ha-Adummim”.[3] Alongside this signature, numerous marginal notes appear, some signed with the initials “A.E.” (Amar Azariah). These notes provide a reliable reference point for identifying his handwriting.

In January 2025, two hundred Judaica items from Mr. Klagsbard’s estate were offered for sale at the Kedem auction house’s 100th public auction. Among them was lot 96, a copy of Sefer ha-Kuzari in Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation, second edition, Venice 1547. While browsing through the catalog and attached images, I was excited to identify the previously unidentified annotations as written by Rabbi Azariah de’ Rossi.[4] A detailed paleographic comparison between the notes on his copy of the Guide and those on the Kuzari confirmed this identification. The similarity is evident in all characteristics: writing style, letter forms (particularly alef, final mem, and qof), and consistent use of certain abbreviations.

Beyond the similarity in the handwriting itself, similar editorial patterns can be identified in both works. In both texts, de’ Rossi created detailed tables of contents at the beginning of the book, using the same system of notation and reference. Additionally, the notes in both works are organized similarly in the margins, with consistent use of square brackets to indicate additions and completions.

Providence arranged that while the copy was sold to a private collector, it was photographed and made publicly accessible in the “Ktiv” digital platform of the National Library of Israel.

Chapter 2: Nature and Sources of the Annotations

Analysis of the annotations on the Kuzari reveals several layers of corrections and notes. The annotations can be classified into two types, similar to his notes on the Guide for the Perplexed. The first type consists of brief interpretative notes, where he generally appears as a concise yet profound philosophical commentator. The second type comprises quotations from other commentators. In his notes on the Guide, he quotes from Narboni, Ibn Kaspi, and a previously unknown commentator named Rabbi Abraham Kashlar.⁵ In his notes on the Kuzari, he quotes from Abraham Ibn Ezra’s biblical commentary, from Rabbi Nathanel ibn Kaspi’s commentary on the Kuzari, and from other commentators. An example of a quotation from Ibn Kaspi appears in his note on the science of music in Book II:65, which is found in Ibn Kaspi’s autograph manuscript, as we shall discuss below.

In the Kuzari, we also find systematic and extensive corrections to Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation as it appeared in the 1547 Venice edition before him. The Ibn Tibbon family played a crucial role in medieval Hebrew translation: Judah ibn Tibbon (c. 1120-1190), known as “the father of translators,” established their translation tradition and produced the first Hebrew translation of the Kuzari. His son Samuel (c. 1150-1230) became renowned for his precise translation of Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, while Samuel’s son Moses, though also active as a translator, was considered less rigorous than his predecessors.

De’ Rossi believed, as he explicitly stated in his work Imrei Binah,[6] that this Kuzari translation was flawed since it was not produced by Samuel ibn Tibbon, whom he considered the most authorized translator of philosophical works. Interestingly, de’ Rossi made a significant historical error: he was unaware that the translator was actually Judah ibn Tibbon, the patriarch of the family, and instead believed it was Moses ibn Tibbon, Samuel’s son, whose translation methodology he criticized. This misidentification led de’ Rossi to approach the text with particular critical attention, though ironically, he was correcting the work of the very founder of the translation tradition he admired.

In our copy, we can see that de’ Rossi’s corrections to the translation drew upon several distinct sources:

1. Translation corrections based on Judah ben Cardinal’s version, which was available to de’ Rossi.[7] A clear example of this is the correction of the term “Karaites” at the beginning of the book, which does not appear in the Venice edition but matches Cardinal’s translation.[8]

2. Corrections based on Judah ibn Tibbon’s own revisions, which were written as alternative readings. These corrections appear in the margins of various Kuzari manuscripts.[9]

3. Original translation suggestions by de’ Rossi himself, which were later incorporated into subsequent editions.[10]

To understand the sources of these corrections, we must first understand the history of Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation of the Kuzari. As David Zvi Baneth demonstrated in his foundational research, ibn Tibbon’s translation reached us in two distinct basic versions:

1. The first, which Baneth termed “Version T,” reflects ibn Tibbon’s original translation language.

2. The second, “Version S,” is a later adaptation.

Although the two versions are closely related, they differ in their translation methodology and language: Version S presents a more precise and consistent translation that strives to adhere to the Judeo-Arabic original and to translate each term uniformly.

Additionally, as Bar-Asher has shown, another layer of translation by Samuel ben R. Judah ben Meshullam entered ibn Tibbon’s translation. [11] This scholar initially intended to translate the entire book himself but, upon seeing ibn Tibbon’s translation, refrained from completing a full translation. The question of whether he translated the book based on ibn Tibbon’s translation or merely wrote corrections in the margins of ibn Tibbon’s translation remains unresolved.

Over the generations, these versions became intermingled, and later copyists combined them indiscriminately. This process gave rise to mixed and complex versions, which were also reflected in the first printed editions of the book.

Examination of de’ Rossi’s copy, with his annotations on the 1547 Venice edition, shows that he attempted to grapple with this complexity. He utilized various sources to determine the precise text – Judah ben Cardinal’s translation that was available to him, as he testifies in his book Imrei Binah, making his notes a potential source for identifying Cardinal’s largely lost annotations.[12] He also used the margins of Kuzari manuscripts that documented additional versions of ibn Tibbon’s translation, as well as adding notes of his own.

Chapter 3: The Influence of De’ Rossi’s Notes on Rabbi Judah Moscato’s Kol Yehudah

Professor Avishai Bar-Asher’s comprehensive study of the Hebrew translations of the Kuzari and the evolution of Judah ibn Tibbon’s translation[13] concludes with these words:

“It is to be hoped that the discovery of additional material—in other documents preserving translation fragments, in the extensive material preserved in the margins of manuscripts of ibn Tibbon’s translation in its various versions, or in secondary copies that have not yet been examined—will help to further evaluate the hypotheses and preliminary conclusions proposed in this study.”

It appears that one of the most important documents for understanding the evolution of ibn Tibbon’s translation from the edition published with the Kol Yehudah commentary onwards is this document containing de’ Rossi’s annotations.

We will examine two of de’ Rossi’s annotations that demonstrate his influence on Rabbi Judah Moscato, author of Kol Yehudah, which became the canonical commentary on the Kuzari from its first publication in Venice in 1594 until today.

The first concerns a textual matter. In the Kuzari, Book II:57, it states:

.אמר הכוזרי: אתם היום במבוכה גדולה מאלה החובות הגדולות, ואיזו עדה תוכל לשמור כל הסדר הזה

“The Khazar king said: You are today in great confusion regarding these great obligations, and which congregation could maintain all this order.”

De’ Rossi was convinced this translation was incorrect. In his Me’or Einayim, he criticizes it and rejects Ibn Kaspi’s attempt to justify it. He notes there that Ben Cardinal translated “in confusion” as “in quiet and rest”.[14] In the margins of his personal copy, he included ibn Tibbon’s alternative translation, “indeed in return and tranquility,” but also proposed his own correction: he crossed out the word “in confusion” and wrote above it “in rest.”

Notably, not by coincidence, the reading “in rest” appears in all editions of the Kuzari with Kol Yehudah onwards, to the puzzlement of Munk and other scholars who wondered about the source of this reading.[15]

It seems likely that de’ Rossi’s suggested correction found its way into Rabbi Judah Moscato’s work, as we find evidence of his influence in other places as well.

Here is another source that apparently shows such influence. In Book II:65, the Kuzari discusses the excellence of music, stating:

…אמר הכוזרי: שמה בלי ספק נגמרה ושמה היתה מעוררת הנפשות, כאשר יאמר עליה, שהיא מעתקת את הנפש ממדה אל הפכה

“The Khazar king said: There, without doubt, it was perfected and there it would stir the souls, as it is said of it that it transfers the soul from one disposition to its opposite…”

De’ Rossi writes in the margin:

כנגן דוד לפני שאול להעביר רוחו הרעה וכנגן אלישע בהסתלקות הנבואה. וכבר חשב האפודי שלזאת הסבה כתוב בקצת מזמורי תהלים למנצח, לפי שהיה השיר המיוחד למזמור ההוא ממה שינצח כח או כחות מה מהנפש להשיבם להיושר והנכון

“Like David’s playing before Saul to remove his evil spirit, and like Elisha’s playing when prophecy departed. The Efodi already thought that for this reason it is written in some psalms ‘To the chief musician,’ because the song designated for that psalm was among those that would overcome some power or powers of the soul to return them to uprightness and propriety.”

These words are not found in any of the Efodi’s known works, but it appears that in de’ Rossi’s memory, he confused the Efodi with Rabbi Nathanel ibn Kaspi. The latter writes in his commentary on this passage:[16]

כאשר ראינו משאול כאשר ביעתתהו רוח רעה והיה כנגן דוד לפניו סרה מעליו הרוח הרעה ההיא כמו שמבואר מהספור, והיה בהיות אלהים אל שאול ולקח דוד את הכנור ונגן בידו ורוח לשאול וכו’. וכן היתה חכמת המושאיקא מעוררת הנפשות, כי מצד התלות השכל האינושי בחומר ישיגהו פעמים עכירות ובהלה ושכחה, ובה יקנו יתרון המעלות ויקנו המדות ויחזיקו התכונות. וכן יסירו הנגונים חליי הנפש ויכוונוה לקבל רוח הקדש. ובזה ינוצחו קצת תכונות רעות שבנפש ויוכנעו לעבודת האל, על כן כתב למנצח מזמור לדוד. ולהיות חכמת הנגון בנוייה על סדר הערכים, ר”ל על סדר הערך והיושר מסודר ומתוקן כראוי, על כן אמר דוד שיר המעלות

“As we saw with Saul when an evil spirit troubled him and when David played before him the evil spirit departed from him, as is clear from the story, ‘And it happened, when the spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took a harp and played with his hand; then Saul would become refreshed,’ etc. Thus the science of music would stir the souls, for due to the attachment of the human intellect to matter, it sometimes experiences turbidity, confusion and forgetfulness, and through it they acquire excellence of virtues and acquire good traits and strengthen dispositions. Thus the melodies remove the illnesses of the soul and prepare it to receive the holy spirit. In this way certain evil dispositions in the soul are overcome and subdued to divine service, therefore it is written ‘To the chief musician, a psalm of David.’ And because the science of music is built on the order of proportions, that is, on the order of proportion and uprightness arranged and established properly, therefore David said ‘A Song of Ascents.'”

It seems quite clear that de’ Rossi summarized and abbreviated ibn Kaspi’s comments here, making them the source of his note, though he mistakenly attributed them to the Efodi.

Now, I can find no logical explanation for Rabbi Judah Moscato’s words elsewhere, unless we say that he saw de’ Rossi’s words in this note and understood them in an interesting way.

This is what Rabbi Judah Moscato writes in his book of sermons, Nefutzot Yehudah:[17]

ומקרא מפורש הוא, יבקשו איש יודע מנגן בכינור. והיה בהיות עליך רוח אלהים רעה, וניגן בידו וטוב לך. ועל כתפות האפודי היתה זאת שומה, אל מול פניו, לעומת מחברתו, כי על כן נאמר בקצת המזמורים למנצח, להיות השיר המיוחד אליהם מועיל מאד לנצח התכונות שבנפש, להכניעם ולהשיבם אל תיקון היושר לעבודת האל יתברך. הוא דבר בעל הכוזרי, בהפליגו בשבחי המוסיקה הנמצאת מאז באומתנו, וזו לשונו, מאמר ב, סימן סה: שמה, מבלי ספק, נגמרה ונשלמה, ושמה היתה מעוררת הנפשות, כאשר ייאמר עליה שהיא מעתקת את הנפש ממידה אל הפכה. ע”כ

“And it is an explicit verse, ‘Let them seek a man who is a skillful player on the harp. And it shall come to pass, when the evil spirit from God is upon you, that he shall play with his hand, and you shall be well.’ And upon the shoulders of the ephod this was placed, before him, opposite its joining, for therefore it is said in some psalms ‘To the chief musician,’ as the song designated for them was very beneficial for overcoming the dispositions of the soul, to subdue them and return them to proper rectification for the service of God, blessed be He. This is what the author of the Kuzari said, in his praise of the music found then in our nation, and this is his language, Book II:65: ‘There, without doubt, it was perfected and completed, and there it would stir the souls, as it is said of it that it transfers the soul from one disposition to its opposite.’ End quote.”

It is quite clear that these are the same ideas that originated in ibn Kaspi’s commentary. But how did the words “and upon the shoulders of the ephod this was placed” enter into R. Judah Moscato’s discussion? What does the ephod, and specifically “Efodi,” have to do with King David? It must be that de’ Rossi’s words were before him, and he interpreted the word “Efodi” as referring to David’s ephod.

Conclusion

The identification of Azariah de’ Rossi’s annotations on the Kuzari sheds light both on his interpretative approach and on his influence on subsequent generations. Analysis of the annotations reveals a scholar combining expertise in commentarial literature with meticulous textual criticism, drawing on various sources and traditions. Particularly interesting is his influence on Rabbi Judah Moscato, who incorporated some of his corrections into his Kol Yehudah commentary, which became the canonical commentary on the Kuzari. These annotations thus join a series of testimonies to de’ Rossi’s significant contribution to the development of Jewish exegesis in the late Renaissance period.

The discovery of his annotations on the Kuzari, alongside his known annotations on the Guide for the Perplexed, allows us to better understand his relationship to these two major philosophical works and his conception of the connection between them. Further research into these annotations may shed light on additional questions concerning the textual history of the Kuzari and the development of its interpretation.

Book announcement:  New work on Tefilah

By: Eliezer Brodt

דוד הנשקה, לבקש תפלה: תפילות הקבע בתלמודם של חכמים, ב‘ חלקים, 1304 עמודים

I am very happy to announce the publication of an important work (in time for reading over Pesach) which I have been eagerly awaiting; Professor David Henshke of the Talmud Department at Bar Ilan University’s Livakeish Tefilah. The books were published by Magnes Press.

Back in 2016 I announced his work on the Leil Haseder. If you did not get it yet, I highly recommend it. In that post, I highlighted the reason for my excitement and the strengths and uniqueness of that work-something I still stand by.

Relevant to this new work I will quote part of what I wrote than with some minor updates:

Professor Henshke shows a command of two worlds which some feel cannot go together, the Yeshivah and Academic worlds. He learned by various greats of the past including R’ Yisroel Gustman, R’ Binyamin Ze’ev Benedict, and R’ Shlomoh Fisher, has served as a maggid Shiur, worked for Encyclopedia Talmudit for a while, and is extremely familiar with the Yeshivisheh Torah in all areas, including Kodoshim and Taharos. His works shows an incredible command of the relevant sources, from Chazal and onwards, Geonim, Rishonim and Achronim. At the same time, he shows the same impressive breadth in academic literature as well as deep understanding and utilization of the various methodologies. He is careful to examine all the material from scratch, including the manuscripts, to the finest details. This allows him to look at the sugyah with a fresh look. Additionally, he is also a great “Mechadish” and has originated many new ideas on various issues. Professor Henshke is an outstanding example of the tremendous benefit in combining both worlds (a topic for a different time). All this is done with Yiras Shamyim and with proper respect of whoever he is dealing with, even when he is arguing with them.

In general, Professor Henshke’s lectures and written material focus on the Peshat. Basing himself upon a meticulous reading of the texts, he then approaches Chazal (Midrashei halacha and Mishna-Tosefta) by putting each halachah into its proper literary perspective (each corpus reflects the Halachos as learned in a different Bais Midrash; that of R’ Yishmael and that of R’ Akiva). This approach, coupled with his phenomenal scope allows him to connect seemingly non-related halachos, weaving an intricate tapestry worthy of both Rosh Yeshiva and scholastic.

He has written over 140 articles and three books (here, here & here) developing and elaborating on his methods. Many of his articles are available here thanks to the efforts of my dear friend Menachem Butler

In recent years, Tefilah has finally begun receiving the in-depth treatment it needs and deserves, both through the publication of new Seforim, (and reprints of older ones) and through academic works. IY”H, I hope to discuss this in an upcoming podcast episode.

Henshke opens his work with an insightful overview of its goals and limitations before diving into the depths of the sugyos. The current volumes are certainly not a light read, but they provide a profound and original perspective, offering a deeper understanding of numerous sugyos related to Tefilah. This work is sure to become a definitive study on the subject.

If one is interested in reading the introduction or some articles by Professor Henshke that were later updated and incorporated into this work, feel free to email me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com

Here are the Table of Contents of this special work. Simply looking at it gives one sense of some of the issues he deals with.

The book can be purchased through me at Eliezerbrodt@gmail.com or via Magnes Press.

We have previously discussed Jewish literature and the genre of parody, which arguably began with Maseches Purim and inspired many other works that use Purim as a catalyst. The genre further developed, with parody being employed in various contexts, such as the disputes between traditionalist Litvaks and the nascent Hasidic movement, the Haskalah, or during the mass emigration of Jews to the United States, which highlighted the religious laxity of many immigrants. (For some of our previous discussions, see “Purim and Parodies,” “Talmudic Humor and Its Discontents,” and “Purim Roundup.”) In that spirit, we present a contemporary take on the genre.

AI Killed the Purim Torah Star 

by Ari Friedman

As I struggled to write my own opening sentence for this post and the AI had already written three complete article drafts including one in perfect rhyme, I was struck by the Purim-spiel Eseque irony. While they were all limited and far from ready to publish, it was still disheartening to see proof of my thesis – that in an era of AI content generation, Purim Torah is uniquely suited to be replaced by AI, leaving the creativity of idea generation and AI prompt writing as the primary human activity.

After that, my next approach was to refine my prompt[1] to make it the article’s opening paragraph, planning for the remainder of the article to work towards unpacking the prompt in the old-fashioned manual way. That was before the idea of taking the experiment one step further, and asking ChatGPT to write an article in the style of a Seforim Blog post. After the below result, I gave up trying to write and let AI take over (until my concluding thoughts at the end…):

The AI Takeover of Purim Torah: A Loss of Unique Wit and Creativity

For centuries, the art of crafting Purim Torah has been a revered tradition, a true intellectual sport where wit, Torah erudition, and creative parody blend seamlessly. Whether it was an absurd responsum in the style of the Rishonim, an over-the-top pilpul worthy of Brisk, or a parody of modern Halachic discourse, the ability to generate Purim Torah was a rare skill cultivated over years of Torah study and immersion in its many genres. But in the age of AI and large language models (LLMs), this unique genre—perhaps more than any other aspect of Torah—has been particularly susceptible to automation and, in doing so, has lost some of its unique charm.

Why AI is Uniquely Suited for Purim Torah

Unlike serious Halachic analysis, where AI struggles due to its propensity for hallucination and inability to provide accurate citations, Purim Torah operates on an entirely different playing field. In fact, there are at least three major reasons why AI is not just able to generate Purim Torah but can do so with uncanny ease, making it an almost natural fit for the genre.

1. 1. Purim Torah Doesn’t Require Perfect AccuracyUnlike Halacha L’Maaseh or Torah L’Shma, which demand precision and carefully sourced material, Purim Torah thrives on the absurd. The very essence of the genre is a loose but convincing application of Torah logic, taking an idea and stretching it to its most illogical extreme—all while maintaining an internal consistency. AI-generated text, with its tendency to create plausible-sounding but often fictitious information, naturally mimics the very process that a skilled Purim Torah crafter would engage in.
   2. Freedom from Halachic Precedent and Norms
      Traditional Halachic discourse is bound by precedent, textual integrity, and a commitment to consistency within the Mesorah. AI, by contrast, does not operate within the constraints of normative Halachic methodology—it merely identifies and replicates patterns without concern for authenticity. But in Purim Torah, where the goal is to break free from conventional constraints and push ideas to their most humorous and exaggerated conclusions, this lack of normative boundaries is actually a feature rather than a bug.
   3. Pattern Recognition Over Comprehension—Exactly What Purim Torah Does
      AI models generate text not through true comprehension, but by predicting the most statistically probable next word in a sequence based on vast amounts of prior data. Ironically, this is almost exactly how Purim Torah operates: it mimics classic rabbinic discourse, borrows styles and phrases from well-known sources, and applies them in unexpected and humorous ways. The very fact that AI can seamlessly replicate various Torah genres without true understanding makes it an almost perfect tool for constructing convincing and hilarious Purim Torah pieces.

The Loss of a Unique Intellectual Art

While AI’s ability to generate Purim Torah is impressive, it also represents a loss. What once required deep learning, broad knowledge, and a sharp sense of humor can now be produced at the click of a button. The Purim Torah of past generations was a testament to a scholar’s breadth, creativity, and ability to weave absurdity with authenticity. In contrast, AI-generated Purim Torah, while often funny and convincing, lacks the personal touch, the intellectual effort, and the deep connection to Torah that human-generated satire provides.

As we enter a new era where AI can effortlessly produce all manner of Torah parody, perhaps the challenge now is for human minds to outwit their digital counterparts. Just as Torah study itself requires deep engagement and personal toil, maybe Purim Torah too must evolve—forcing its writers to develop even more sophisticated and nuanced humor that AI cannot easily replicate. After all, if Purim teaches us anything, it is that even in an upside-down world, human ingenuity and creativity will always find a way to shine through.

While maybe not perfect, and sorely lacking a Purim-Torah sense of humor, these were quickly generated upon further request. From specific references to the Seforim Blog,[2] or creating a complete Sugya from Mishna through Gemara[3]

אין יוצאין ידי חובת תורת פורים על ידי חיבור שעשה מעשה מחשב, אבל מתירין בדברים שעשה אדם בסיוע של מעשה מחשב, and Gemara asking  מנא הני מילי? אמר רבא: דאמר קרא “ומשלוח מנות איש לרעהו” (אסתר ט:כב) – איש ולא מעשה מחשב

?מתקיף לה רב פפא: אי הכי, הכותב תורת פורים על ידי קולמוס, נמי לא יצא! דהא לאו “איש” הוא אלא כלי

.אמר ליה אביי: שאני התם, דכלי בטל לגבי אדם, אבל מעשה מחשב לאו בטל לגבי אדם

And even an artscroll style translation and explanation for complex Sugyas not in the Mishna, such as does prompt generation fulfill the minimum requirement? 

“They inquired: What about a composition that a computer-device made according to a person’s instruction – where the person directed the computer specifically? What is [the law]? Can this fulfill the obligation? Rav Yosef said: Come and hear, we can resolve this from our Mishna which states: “but we permit [the use of] words that a person made with the aid of a computer-device” – does this not refer to such a case? This seems to permit computer-assisted composition.

Rabbah said to him: No, the Mishna is not addressing that case. There [the Mishna] refers to a person who wrote most of his words and the computer-device completed a little – meaning the human contribution was substantial and primary.

Although this content was impressive, the “takeaway messages” concluding the AI-generated Seforim Blog article of a John-Henry-like Torah Scholar who will ultimately defeat the output of LLM, and that being the message of Purim, is severely lacking. 

While the significant limitations in AI’s understanding of Torah are not surprising (and are being extensively studied and compared on an active Substack), it does challenge the prompt writer to re-examine their role, to understand the message this topic delivers, and recognize the evolving role of human creativity for Torah-humor and by extension Torah Lshma in the era of AI.

In Rav Hutner’s Pachad Yitzchak for Purim Maamar 34 he explains why only Purim of all the holidays is the one the Gemara says will continue to be observed in the Messianic age. Using imagery of travelers traversing an unknown forest in the darkest of night, one using a small candle, the other learning new skills of lightless navigation, when the sun rises and “a candle in the face of the sun has no worth”, the candle navigator extinguishes his no longer relevant light . However, the traveler who developed a new skill to navigate in the darkness, maintains that skill even when the sun rises to its full glory, and it is never outshone. Rav Hutner understands the message of the Gemara that the miracles of the messianic era will eclipse the miraculous interventions of the Exodus and the divine interventions the holidays commemorate, leaving them extraneous in the Messianic age. However, the lesson of Purim and seeing God within the hidden framework of political drama and a Megilla that teaches how to find God’s presence specifically when it is hidden, is an ability the miracles of the messianic era will never overshadow. 

Perhaps in the era of AI we face a similar challenge. The ease and speed of AI content generation make human efforts akin to שרגא בטיהרא מאי אהני – a candle in broad daylight.[4] Yet, our challenge remains to find the areas of Torah that are uniquely human, and find the reason Hashem gave imperfect humans the Torah over the objections of the original non-human advanced intelligence, the Malachim.[5]

While the final polished product of Purim Torah may not be the uniquely human role, the skill, and more importantly, desire to create Purim Torah might be. Just as Malachim don’t have parents to respect, they likely also don’t make jokes. A nation so suffused with the love of Torah, that even their humor is expressed in creating Torah themed jokes, is a “Kinyan Nefesh” that remains important even beyond the AI singularity. When the AI sunrise comes and outshines most of human creativity, it may be the desire to make and consume Purim Torah that shows the ביטול מודעא where the Jewish people lovingly accept the Torah in all facets of life, that will continue to light up our hearts in Chodesh Adar.

[1] “Write an article in the style of a Seforim Blog article explaining how AI and LLMs have taken away the unique charm of Purim Torah. The ability to create Torah-based jokes and parody was a hard earned skill that required years of study, broad knowledge, and creativity to generate Purim Torah ideas and deliver them in a style consistent with the desired Halachic or Rabbinic genre. Unlike other areas of Torah or Halacha, AI is particularly suited to be replaced by AI for at least 3 major reasons. 1. Unlike Halacha L’Maseh or Torah L’Shma which require accurate sources where hallucinations are unnacebtabple, making up sources is an integral part of authentic Purim Torah 2. The ideas and conclusions reached do not have to adhere to preexisting Halachic precedents or norms 3. The entire premise of AI content generation based only on pattern matching learned from vast amounts of data, rather than true comprehension, is exactly what good Purim Torah does.[2] ChatGPT: “What makes this particular digital disruption so fitting is that Purim Torah was practically begging to be automated. Unlike serious Torah discourse, where one mistaken citation of the Rambam can lead to a scathing takedown on the Seforim Blog (with seventeen footnotes, three in French, and a digression about a manuscript variant nobody actually asked about), Purim Torah thrives precisely because it doesn’t need to be accurate.”
[3] Claude Sonnet 3.7 https://claude.ai/share/46d25f56-e24a-4f0c-b6ad-04348408b01e
[4] Chulim 60b
[5] Shabbas 88a

Reuven Kimelman/Brandeis University

וְנַהֲפוֹךְ הוּא

“Why are the Books of Ruth and Esther so much alike?”

No title is more intriguing than “Why are the Books of Ruth and Esther so much alike?” for a study of two biblical books ostensibly having nothing in common besides the featuring of a heroine. Otherwise, there are hardly two narrative biblical books seemingly more unalike.[1] The Book of Ruth takes place in rural Judea, in Bethlehem, in the period of the Judges, before the establishment of the Jewish monarchy. The Book of Esther takes place in Shushan HaBirah, the fortressed-capital city of the Persian empire in the period of the Persian kings, over a half millennium later after the dissolution of the Jewish monarchy. The Book of Ruth employs classical Hebrew on the model of the Books of Samuel and Kings along with some locutions mostly found in late biblical Hebrew. The Book of Esther is of late biblical Hebrew, replete with Persian words and practices. In Ruth, a Moabite woman marries a Jew leading to the fathering of a king; in Esther, a Jewish woman marries a Gentile king with no mention of heirs. Ruth revolves around family; Esther revolves around politics. Ruth is idyllic and agrarian; Esther is hellish and urban. Esther is a story of good versus evil with villains and heroes. Ruth is a story of passivity versus activity without villains or dramatic heroism. In Ruth, the worst eventuality is the destitution of two widows. In Esther, the worst eventuality is the destruction of a people.

Even in the Bible, the two books lack linkage. In the Protestant version of the Bible, following the Septuagint, their locations conform to their historical context. Ruth is placed near the beginning of the historical section between the Book of Judges and Samuel; Esther is placed near the end between Nehemiah and Job. In the current Jewish version of the Bible, following medieval Ashkenazi manuscripts, the Books of Ruth and Esther are placed with the other three Megillot or Scrolls but not juxtaposed. The five are ordered according to their lectionary use in the synagogue, starting with the Song of Songs for Pesach, Ruth for Shavuot, Lamentations for Tishah B’Av, Ecclesiastes for Sukkot, and finally Esther for Purim. Others resorted to a presumed chronological order. The Talmud (B. Baba Batra 14b) places Ruth at the beginning of the Writings right before Psalms, likely due to the David connection.

These differences are consequential in distinguishing Ruth and Esther in terms of narrative, not in terms of narratology. A story can be analyzed by its narrative, or by its narratology. The former focuses on the content; the latter on the construction. On the surface, the Books of Ruth and Esther share little; below the surface, however, the techniques for the structuring of the plot share much. As narrative, they diverge; as narratology, they converge. Narrative consists of what is told; narratology consists of how it is told. The issue is not the storyline, but its fashioning, namely, its emplotment. Emplotment deals with the fashioning of a narrative structure or plot by connecting the various elements in a coherent manner. This involves the arrangement of the individual elements into a larger framework to create a sense of purpose within the narrative. In sum, narrative deals with plot; narratology deals with emplotment.

From the perspective of narratology, the Books of Ruth and Esther share much. The most obvious is the status of Ruth and Esther as heroes in both senses, namely, most admired and most active in moving the story forward to its conclusion. On its own, this is not that telling, as there are many biblical heroines who determine the outcome of the story from Eve to Rebecca, from Rahab to Yael, from Deborah to Abigail and then later, in the Apocrypha, Judith. In Genesis alone, the subtlety and initiative of women resolve progeny issues from Sarah to Lot’s daughters, from Rebecca and Rachel to Tamar. Nonetheless, motherhood plays a minor role in Ruth while totally absent from Esther.

More significant is the sharing of the three narrative unities of time, place, and character. Unlike the stories of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Samuel, and David which extend over a lifetime, or take place in different countries, or involve a change of characters, the Books of Ruth and Esther share a limited time, mostly a single place, and consistency of characters. Both stories take less than two years; both occur primarily in a single city, Bethlehem for Ruth, Shushan for Esther; and both begin and end with the same characters, Naomi and Ruth for one, Mordechai and Esther for the other. Each is self-contained, not part of some grand narrative as in Genesis-Exodus and Joshua-Kings.

God plays a backseat role in both; neither speaking, nor directly addressed, nor directly intervening. Still, The Book of Ruth attributes much to God positively (1:6, 4:13) and negatively (1:13, 21-22). God’s blessing is invoked (1:8-9, 2:4, 20, 3:10, 4:14) and God’s aid is evoked (1:9, 2:12). It is the coincidence of events that most points to a behind-the-scenes director, sensed starkly in the happenstance of Ruth (2:3, 2:4, 4:1) as well as throughout Esther. The absence of an explicit God is countered by the presence of an implicit God. The lack of explicit God-directedness correlates with the other historical biblical books of the Persian period such as Ezra and Nehemiah and, of course, Esther in contrast to the pronounced presence of God in Samuel and Kings of the classical biblical period.

Focusing on the pattern or structure of events produces surprising connections such as the pivotal role of marriage and family. In The Book of Ruth, a quondam non-Jewish woman (Ruth) marries a Jewish man (Boaz); in The Book of Esther, a Jewish woman (Esther) marries a non-Jewish man (Achashverosh). In Ruth, a widowed Moabite woman becomes the wife of a Jewish landowner initiating a line of future Jewish kings. In Esther, a Jewish orphan becomes the wife of a Persian king saving the Jewish people. In both cases, an outsider becomes an insider through marriage. Both marriages are of questionable propriety if not once downright prohibited.

Esther herself is the second wife of Achashverosh, having assumed the perquisites of the banished Vashti (2:17b). Boaz is the second husband of Ruth, having assumed the perquisites of the deceased Mahlon (4:9-10).

In Ruth, a distressed widow prevails upon her to-be-husband to extricate her and her mother-in-law from their plight. In Esther, a distraught queen prevails upon her husband to extricate her and her people from their plight.

Both end in unexpected succession. Ruth ends in an unexpected genealogical succession — from Ruth and Boaz to Obed and David. Esther ends in an unexpected political succession — from Haman to Esther and Mordechai.

Besides the move from outsider to insider, Ruth and Esther advance from alien to actual or potential royalty, and from dependency on others to dependency of others on them as illustrated by the reversal of roles of Naomi versus Ruth and Mordechai versus Esther discussed below.

Most significant for establishing commonality is the overlap of terminology starting off with וַיְהִי בִּימֵי, “And was in the days of.” This unique biblical opening establishes the link from the outset.[3] The linkage is tightened by the common terms employed for Esther and Ruth finding favor in the eyes of their patron, making them stand out from among the women courting the attention of their patron.

Regarding Ruth and Boaz, it says:

וַתֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו: מַדּוּעַ מָצָאתִי חֵן בְּעֵינֶיךָ לְהַכִּירֵנִי וְאָנֹכִי נׇכְרִיָּה.

“She said to him, ‘Why have I found favor in your eyes to acknowledge me, being that I am a foreigner?’ ” (2:10b).

Regarding Esther and Achashverosh, it says:

וַיֶּאֱהַב הַמֶּלֶךְ אֶת־אֶסְתֵּר מִכׇּל־הַנָּשִׁים וַתִּשָּׂא־חֵן וָחֶסֶד לְפָנָיו

“The king loved Esther more than all the other women, as she gained his favor and grace” (2:17).

Similarly,

וַיְהִי כִרְאוֹת הַמֶּלֶךְ אֶת־אֶסְתֵּר הַמַּלְכָּה עֹמֶדֶת בֶּחָצֵר נָשְׂאָה חֵן בְּעֵינָיו

“As soon as the king saw Queen Esther standing in the court, she gained his favor” (5:2).

The expression of Ruth’s for finding favor מָצָאתִי חֵן בְּעֵינֶיךָ in the eyes of Boaz is used repeatedly in Esther (5:8, 7:3, 8:5) for finding favor in the eyes of Achashverosh. The חֶסֶד also appears in both albeit of contrasting meanings. For Esther, it is her external beauty, her grace (2:9, 17); for Ruth, it is her internal beauty, her kindness (3:10) or that of God (1:8, 2:20).

Two rare Hebrew usages clinch the case for verbal linkage. The first is the term for guardian or caretaker. Naomi upon taking care of Ruth’s child is designated omenet, תְּהִי־לוֹ לְאֹמֶנֶת (4:16) while Mordechai is designated Esther’s omein, וַיְהִי אֹמֵן אֶת־הֲדַסָּה (2:7). The term usually refers to female caretakers of royalty.[3] By using a term which designates a protective woman[4] for Mordechai designates him, mutatis mutandis, Naomi’s double.

The second is the rare usage of the verb שבר for “looking forward.” Elsewhere, it appears in a religious context.[5] Here alone it applies to non-Jews in a general context. For Ruth 1:13, it is the false hope of Ruth and Orpah looking forward to grown-up children from Naomi: הֲלָהֵן תְּשַׂבֵּרְנָה עַד אֲשֶׁר יִגְדָּלוּ. For Esther 9:1, it is the false hope of the enemies of the Jews looking forward to dominating them: שִׂבְּרוּ אֹיְבֵי הַיְּהוּדִים לִשְׁלוֹט בָּהֶם וְנַהֲפוֹךְ הוּא.

The common use of קים⁶ also connects them, though it shows up elsewhere.[7] Its distinctive Hebrew use as “legally authorizing,” as in Ruth 4:7 and Esther 9:32, is matched only by the Aramaic use of Daniel 6:8.

The drinking of Boaz and Achashverosh on the verge of making a fateful decision appears in corresponding terms:

Ruth says regarding Boaz:

וַיֹּאכַל בֹּעַז וַיֵּשְׁתְּ וַיִּיטַב לִבּוֹ

“And Boaz ate and drank and got into a good mood” (3:7).

Esther says regarding Achashverosh:

כְּטוֹב לֵב־הַמֶּלֶךְ בַּיָּיִן

“When the king got into a wine-induced good mood” (1:7).

The number ten figures prominently explicitly and implicitly. Explicitly: Ruth specifies that Naomi spent ten years in Moab (1:4), and that ten men are assembled at the city’s entrance gate (4:2). Esther specifies that Esther is taken to the royal quarters on the tenth month (2:16), and that the ten sons of Haman were to be hanged, meriting four mentions (9:10-14). Implicitly: According to Ruth, the generations from Peretz to David add up to ten.[8] According Esther, the number of times the gate of the king is designated as Mordechai’s station comes to ten[9] as do the number of banquet-parties.[10]

Sensitivity to spousal parallels makes others noticeable. Both begin with the loss of a spouse: Ruth loses her husband; Achashverosh loses his wife. Coming at the beginning, both losses create an expectation of a turnaround to make up for the loss. In The Book of Ruth, Naomi resolves the issue by having Ruth marry Boaz. In The Book of Esther, Mordecai resolves the issue by having Esther marry Achashverosh. In both cases, the older relative (Naomi and Mordechai) mentors the younger relative (Ruth and Esther) by guiding the younger on turning around the situation. In both cases, the advice is accepted by the younger though adjusted by their feminine wiles to turn the tables and achieve their goal. The result is that both induce their ruling man (Boaz and Achashverosh) to intervene and save them and company.

The night is the common watershed. Ruth evokes the salvific mid-night of the Exodus by using the identical expression of the Exodus (12:29) וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה saying:

וַיְהִי בַּחֲצִי הַלַּיְלָה וַיֶּחֱרַד הָאִישׁ וַיִּלָּפֵת וְהִנֵּה אִשָּׁה שֹׁכֶבֶת מַרְגְּלֹתָיו

At mid-night, the man gave a start and recoiled—behold a woman lying at his feet (3:8).

Esther says:

בַּלַּיְלָה הַהוּא נָדְדָה שְׁנַת הַמֶּלֶךְ.

That night, sleep eluded the king (6:1).

Neither Boaz nor Achashverosh get an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Indeed, the night constitutes the turnaround precipitating the denouement.

The dramatic tension grabs the reader’s attention awaiting the outcome of the heroine’s (Ruth or Esther) daring encroachment on the space of the man in control (Boaz or Achashverosh). Both Ruth (3:3) and Esther (5:1) get dressed up for the occasion. Both resolutions involve a type of exposure, admittedly somewhat distinct, at the respective deciding point: Ruth (3:6) exposes the leg of Boaz at his threshing floor; Esther exposes Haman’s plot to Achashverosh at her party. Both have a potential spoiler: “Tov” or peloni almoni in Ruth; Haman in Esther. The man in control (Boaz or Achashverosh) responds favorably to the heroine’s entreaty and resolves the issue by the disposal or circumvention of the spoiler, “Tov” (Ruth 4:4-10) or Haman (Esther 7:10).

The removal of legal obstacles smooths the way to the final resolution. For Ruth (4:4-10), a prior claim needs to be circumvented to allow Boaz to exercise his option. For Esther (8:8-11), a previous edict needs to be circumvented to allow for Jewish self-defense.

Even Orpah and Vashti have their parallels. Orpah serves as Ruth’s foil; Vashti serves as Esther’s foil. Orpah and Vashti do the sensible and vacate the stage. Ruth and Esther do the outrageous and occupy center stage.

How do Ruth and Esther implement their center-making roles? Both revise their mentors’ urgings to intervene. Ruth subtly amends Naomi’s advice. Naomi instructs Ruth to interrupt Boaz’s sleep on the threshing floor and do what he says, וְהוּא יַגִּיד לָךְ אֵת אֲשֶׁר תַּעַשִׂין (3:4b). Instead, Ruth turns the tables leading Boaz to say:

וְעַתָּה בִּתִּי אַל־תִּירְאִי
כֹּל אֲשֶׁר־תֹּאמְרִי אֶעֱשֶׂה־לָּךְ.

And now, my young lady, have no fear,
whatever you say I will do for you (3:11a).

Naomi assumed that Boaz, the wealthy landowner, would call the shots; Ruth, the destitute foreigner, proved otherwise.

Note also the parallel between Boaz and Achashverosh.

The former says to Ruth: “whatever you say I will do for you” (ibid.);

the latter says to Esther:

וּמַה־שְּׁאֵלָתֵךְ וְיִנָּתֵן לָךְ
וּמַה־בַּקָּשָׁתֵךְ עוֹד וְתֵעָשׂ

Whatever is your wish, it shall be granted.
And whatever is your request? It shall be done (9:12).

Ruth also pointedly revises Boaz’s own compliment to her about God into her directive to Boaz:

(אֲשֶׁר־בָּאת לַחֲסוֹת תַּחַת־כְּנָפָיו = “that you sought refuge under His wings” [2:12b]
וּפָרַשְׂתָּ כְנָפֶךָ עַל־אֲמָתְךָ כִּי גֹאֵל אָתָּה

Spread your wing (= corner of the garment[11]) over your handmaid, for you are the redeemer (3:9).

This expression for being taken under God’s wings indicating solicitude, as in Ruth 2:12b, is frequent in Psalms.[12] Its use at 3:9, however, in the light of Ezekiel 16:8,[13] conjures up conjugality intimating minimally eligibility if not a marriage proposal.[14] Ruth thereby instigates the process of redemption by turning the tables on the male in charge initiating the denouement.

Esther, for her part, deflects Mordechai’s rash advice to barge in on the king and plead the case of her people. Instead, she sets up Haman by inviting him to a party in her private quarters with her husband with whom she has not been for thirty days (4:11b). The impervious Haman, so full of himself (7:5b), as Achashverosh notes, falls for the trap oblivious of the repercussions of a ménage à trois.[15]

Both books record two interventions of women offering advice. In Ruth, the local women speak up twice. The first at 1:19-20 is negative regarding Naomi’s self-pitying bitterness upon her return to Judea and the irony of being called Naomi, which plays on the Hebrew for pleasantness. The second is positive regarding the birth of Obed, her new-born, as it were, grandchild:

וַתֹּאמַרְנָה הַנָּשִׁים אֶל־נׇעֳמִי
בָּרוּךְ יי אֲשֶׁר לֹא הִשְׁבִּית לָךְ גֹּאֵל הַיּוֹם
וְיִקָּרֵא שְׁמוֹ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל

And the women said to Naomi:
“Blessed be the Lord who has not deprived you of a redeemer today.
May he achieve renown in Israel” (4:14).

In Esther, the first is positive reflecting Haman’s spectacular rise:

She (Zeresh) says along with others “Let a stake be put up fifty cubits high, and in the morning ask the king to have Mordecai impaled on it. Then you can go gaily with the king to the feast” (5:14).

The second is negative projecting his spectacular fall:

His advisers and his wife Zeresh said to him, “If Mordecai, before whom you have begun to fall, is of Jewish stock, you will not prevail; you will fall before him to your ruin” (6:13).

In fact, at 7:8, Haman falls before Esther.

They also share a common historical perspective albeit reversed.

The Book of Ruth projects three generations forward to David, Boaz’s great-grandson:

וּבֹעַז הוֹלִיד אֶת־עוֹבֵדוְעֹבֵד הוֹלִיד אֶת־יִשָׁי וְיִשַׁי הוֹלִיד אֶת־דָּוִד

Boaz begot Obed, Obed begot Jesse, and Jesse begot David (4:21b-22).

The Book of Esther retrojects three generations backward to Kish, Mordechai’s great-grandfather:

אִישׁ יְהוּדִי הָיָה בְּשׁוּשַׁן הַבִּירָה וּשְׁמוֹ
מׇרְדֳּכַי בֶּן יָאִיר בֶּן־שִׁמְעִי בֶּן־קִישׁ אִישׁ יְמִינִי

In the capital Shushan lived a Jew by the name of
Mordecai, son of Jair, son of Shimei, son of Kish, a Benjaminite (2:5).

In the end, the prominence of the younger heroines, Ruth and Esther, yields to that of the older mentors, Naomi and Mordechai. The plot of The Book Ruth begins (1:2) and ends (4:17) with Naomi. Beginning as the mother of Ruth’s husband, she ends up as the mother of Ruth’s child, nearly edging Ruth out. In the middle, at the turning point, Ruth dominates. The plot of The Book of Esther begins (2:5) with Mordechai as Esther’s uncle/cousin and the dominant one. In the middle, at the turning point, Esther dominates. By the end of chapter 9, they appear as coregents albeit with a subtle variance. At 9:29, Esther’s name precedes Mordechai’s, whereas at 9:31 Mordechai’s name precedes Esther’s. True, Esther appears alone at 9:32; but by the end, Mordechai has edged out Esther as evidenced by the closing encomium to Mordechai:

For Mordecai the Jew ranked next to King Ahasuerus and was highly regarded by the Jews and popular with the multitude of his brethren; he sought the good of his people and interceded for the welfare of all his kindred (10:3).

Following suit, II Maccabees 13:42, designates Purim as “the day of Mordechai.”

Ruth ends with the birth of David (4:22), the future regent of Israel. Esther ends with the rise of Mordechai as coregent of Persia (10:3). Mordechai is the great-grandson of an exile from Jerusalem along with the last reigning descendant of King David (2:6). David is the great-grandson of Ruth who left Moab to accompany Naomi on her return to the land of Judah (1:7b).

Two tales of dizzying reversals; so different in content, yet so alike in structure. Both feature individual and collective reversals. Ruth: Individually, a Moabite childless, destitute widow becomes the Jewish spouse of a wealthy landowner and progenitress of David, the future king of Israel. Collectively, in the period of the Judges are planted the seeds of the future monarchy. Esther: Individually, an orphan Jewish girl becomes the Queen of Persia. Collectively, a people threatened with extermination emerge politically dominant and religiously attractive.[16]

Most dramatic are the reversals of Esther regarding those of Haman and Mordecai.[17] Haman — instead of hanging is hanged. Mordechai — instead of being hanged on raised gallows is raised to viceroy of Persia. Haman, seeking the king’s authorization to shame Mordecai by hanging him in public (5:14), is authorized by the king to honor him in public (6:11). Wishing to be exalted by the king (6:6b), Haman is debased by the king. Instead of riding on the king’s horse exultingly, he draws Mordecai on it humiliatingly (6:11). Finally, Mordecai displaces Haman as the king’s second getting Haman’s ring (8:2) and adorned in the royal garments, לְבוּשׁ מַלְכוּת (13:15), of Haman’s aspiration (6:8).

Esther — instead of going down with her people (7:4), becomes the savior of her people (8:5-6). As Esther assumes Vashti’s role (2:17b), so Mordechai assumes Haman’s role (8:2a). Indeed, the leitmotif וְנַהֲפוֹךְ הוּא, “reversal” (9:1, 22), epitomizes the whole book, smacking of a Divine hand. In an upside-down moral world only a reversal can set things right.

Reversals, as noted, also characterizes Ruth, most notably in the land of Israel transitioning from famine (1:1) to abundance (1:6) as Ruth transitions from barrenness to fruitfulness. What, however, is a secondary narratological technique in Ruth emerges as the dominant engine in Esther.

There are even reversals common to both. Both highlight the reversal from non-Jewishness to Jewishness. For Ruth, it involves the individual switching of ethnic and religious loyalties:

עַמֵּךְ עַמִּי וֵא-לֹהַיִךְ אֱ-לֹהָי =

Your people are my people, and your God my God (1:6).

For Esther, it involves the mass switching to Jewishness throughout the Persian empire:

ְרַבִּים מֵעַמֵּי הָאָרֶץ מִתְיַהֲדִים =

Many of the native population profess to be/act like Jews (8:17).

Ruth, who aligns with God and people, is blessed to God by her people (2:20, 3:10). Esther, who aligns with her people (8:6), saves herself and her people (8:5).

There might even be some correlation in the fact that The Book of Ruth ends with the planting of the seeds of the Jewish monarchy while The Book of Esther ends with the Jewish integration into the Persian monarchy.

Both resonate with their own peals of redemption. For The Book of Ruth, redemption is that of Israel in its land; for The Book of Esther, redemption is that of Israel outside its land. Introducing Mordechai as a descendant of Kish who was exiled from Jerusalem along with the Judean king (2:6) could have prompted a finale of the return of Israel to its land as at the end of Chronicles or the beginnings of Ezra or Nehemiah were it not for the restraints of historical verisimilitude.

The result is that The Book of Esther only features an interim redemption, dependent on the whim of a mercurial king. Lacking explicit terminology for redemption, not even a nod to any return, it stands in sharp contrast with The Book of Ruth with its use of a form of the verb שב (= “return”) some twelve times in chapter one about half of which refer to returning to the land and its repetition of the lexeme גאל (= “redeem”) twenty-one times (nine as a noun and twelve as a verb) concentrated in the last two chapters of Ruth. The repeated mention of redemption albeit of individuals and land cannot help but allude to that of the people in its land constituting real redemption. The term is just too repercussive to be contained in or restrained by its denotation especially in the light of the echoes of Exodus 20:2,

, אָנֹכִי יְי אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲשֶׁר הוֹצֵאתִיךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם מִבֵּית עֲבָדִ͏ים

in the formulation of Ruth 3:13: וּגְאַלְתִּיךְ אָנֹכִי חַי־יְי; the redemptive allusion of Ruth 3:8 to the forecited Exodus 12:29; and the revealing double mention of the genealogical line to David (4:17b, 22) making “David” the final word. The redemptive resonances of גאל are most audible in the forecited 3:9 כִּי גֹאֵל אָתָּה and in the reverberating 4:14 –

בָּרוּךְ יְי אֲשֶׁר לֹא הִשְׁבִּית לָךְ גֹּאֵל הַיּוֹם וְיִקָּרֵא שְׁמוֹ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל

Blessed be the Lord who has not deprived you of a redeemer today. May he be renown in Israel (4:14) –

thereby intimating not so subtly the to-be Davidic role in the redemption of Israel. The combination of גֹּאֵל with וְיִקָּרֵא שְׁמוֹ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל is the clincher, as the standard way of naming is merely יִקָּרֵא שְׁמוֹ, whereas וְיִקָּרֵא שְׁמוֹ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל is unique to Ruth 4:14[18] intimating that the גֹּאֵל that emerges on the horizon today is to be renown in Israel. This conforms to the usage of the comparable terminology in the redemption-oriented verse of Isaiah 54:5:

כִּי בֹעֲלַיִךְ עֹשַׂיִךְ יי צְבָאוֹת שְׁמוֹ וְגֹאֲלֵךְ קְדוֹשׁ יִשְׂרָאֵל אֱלֹהֵי כָל־הָאָרֶץ יִקָּרֵא

The Ruth reference thus far exceeds the otherwise unknown Obed. Limiting גֹּאֵל to Obed who somehow redeems Naomi, his mother’s mother-in-law, with which he has no blood relationship, is an unattested usage unable to account for either denotation or connotation. This leads to the allusive possibility that the “redemption” encompasses also the return to the Land.[19]

Esther deftly molds the various plot elements and literary strategies of Ruth into its own version of redemption. As in Ruth, female intuition and initiative engineer the redemption determining the destiny of Israel. The insights and plans of the women prevail over those of the men. Whereas the men — Achashverosh, Haman, Mordechai, and Boaz — tend to misread the situation somewhat blinded by their own set of circumstances; the women — Esther, Vashti, Zeresh, Ruth and Naomi – perceptively size up the situation knowing what to do and when to do it.

Singularly engaging in lucid Hebrew, Ruth and Esther are eminently readable, plot-based narratives, unlike the other three Megillot. Every scene advances the narrative. All purported incidental elements are integrated, nothing remains extraneous. Like a well-structured drama, each character, however introduced, ends up contributing to the plot at the appropriate time. The result is the two most self-contained yet reverberating literary gems of the Bible.

In the final analysis, the surface differences fail to mask the subsurface commonalities. Esther so echoes Ruth that the divergences of narrative pale before the convergences of narratology.[20] The correlation of the roles of Naomi and Mordechai, Boaz and Achashverosh, and — above all — Ruth and Esther seal the case. It’s the latter two that renders the midrashic observation regarding the Exodus —

בזכות נשים צדקניות… נגאלו ממצרים

“By virtue of the righteous women… Israel was redeemed from Egypt”[21] — applicable to both heroines of Shavuot and Purim[22] as we look forward to the merit of righteous woman effectuating other redemptions.[23]

[1] For a fuller treatment of the two books without raising this issue, see the introductions to The JPS Bible Commentary on Esther and Ruth, the first by Adele Berlin, 2001, and the second by Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Tikva Frymer-Kensky, 2011. The issue is somewhat touched upon by P. Meltsar, Ruth, Da’at HaMikra, amesh Megillot (Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1990), pp. 21-22. The issue of the comparability of the two is taken up by Orit Avnery, Liminal Women: Belonging and Otherness in the Books of Ruth and Esther (Hebrew), Shalom Hartman Institute, Jerusalem 2015, from a speculative feminist perspective with little overlap with this study.
[2] According to ancient authorities this portends negatively for both (B. Megillah 10b).
[3] See 2 Samuel 4:4; 2 Kings 10:1, 5; Isaiah 49:12, 60:4.
[4] As confirmed by Moses’s metaphorical use in Numbers 11:12.
[5] See Psalms 104:27, 119:166, 145:15.
[6] Ruth 4:7; Esther 9:21, 29, 31, 32.
[7] See Ezekiel 13:6; Psalms 119:28, 106; Daniel 4:23; 6:8, 16, 27. The four occurrences in Daniel and Esther reflect its frequency in post-exilic Hebrew.
[8] As opposed to 1 Chronicles 2:4-15 which starts with Judah, as would be expected, and traces eleven generations to David. Ten reflects a turning point as in from Adam to Noah (Genesis 5:3-32) and from Shem to Abraham (Genesis 11:10-26), the correlation of which is made explicit in Mishnah Avot 5:2. In the latter, Shem’s father, Noah, is not mentioned just as Perez’s father, Judah, is not mentioned here making for ten in both cases. Genealogical lines climax at ten, with Noah, Abraham, and David, none of which is make explicit.
[9] See Esther 2:19, 2:21, 3;3, 4:2 (2x), 4:6, 5:9, 5:13, 6:10, 6:12.
[10] See Eskenazi, The JPS Bible Commentary Esther, xxiv-xxv.
[11] See 1 Samuel 15:27; 24:5-6, 12.
[12] Psalms 7:2, 17:8, 36:8, 91:4
[13] וָאֶעֱבֹר עָלַיִךְ וָאֶרְאֵךְ וְהִנֵּה עִתֵּךְ עֵת דֹּדִים וָאֶפְרֹשׂ כְּנָפִי עָלַיִךְ וָאֲכַסֶּה עֶרְוָתֵךְ

“When I passed over you and saw it was your time for lovemaking, I spread My garment over you and covered your nakedness.” See Deuteronomy 23:1, 27:20.
[14]For the range of possibilities, see Eskenazi, JPS Bible Commentary Ruth, p. 59.
[15] See Rashi, Esther 5:4, 6:1, along with Alshikh and Alkabetz, ad loc., in Sefaria.
[16] See Esther 8:11.
[17] See Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary to Esther, p. xxiv.
[18] Albeit close to the related formulation of Deuteronomy 25:10.
[19] This is all the more likely were Ruth composed in the Persian period.
[20] This builds on Esther’s use of biblical motifs especially that of the Joseph story; see Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary, pp. xxxvii, lvi-lvii. Note specifically Esther’s contraction and inversion of יֵּט אֵלָיו חָסֶד וַיִּתֵּן חִנּוֹ for Joseph (Genesis 39:21) into the unique biblical use of חֵן וָחֶסֶד for Esther (Esther 2:17).
[21] B. Sotah 11b.
[22] For the prior application to Esther, see Rashi, B. Pesahim 108b.
[23] אין הדורות נגאלים אלא בזכות נשים צדקניות שבדור (Midrash Ruth Zuta 4.11, ed. S. Buber, p. 48).