The
Not-So-Humble Artichoke in Ancient Jewish Sources

Susan
Weingarten

There
has been a lot of discussion of artichokes recently in the wake of
the ruling by the Israeli Rabbinate that they are not kosher. A
recent post on Seforim Blog traced their ancestry as a Jewish food
back to the 14th
century.
But we can go back further, to the talmudic literature, where
artichokes appear as qinras.
We
can identify many Greek (and fewer Latin) food-names in the Aramaic
and Hebrew of the written texts of the talmudic literature. The
rabbis sometimes use Greek terminology to explain food names. Thus,
for example, biblical regulations on agriculture include a ban on
growing two different kinds of crops together. Mishnah Kilayim
tells
us that thistles (qotzim)
are allowed in a vineyard, i.e. they are seen as wild growths, but
artichokes (qinras)
are not allowed, so that it is clear that artichokes are seen as
cultivated rather than wild growths.[1] Qotz,
the wild thistle, is a biblical Hebrew term, while the Aramaic qinras
appears
to be derived from the Greek for artichoke,
kinara
or
kynara.
Artichokes
were carefully cultivated in the Graeco-Roman world; presumably their
name came with the agricultural methods which turned wild thistles
into cultivated artichokes. It is still difficult to know whether the
artichoke proper is meant here, or rather the closely related
cardoon.[2] It is clear, however, that there were a number of edible
thistles which grew wild, and that the artichoke is a cultivated
variety. The medical writer Galen describes the artichoke as
‘overvalued.’[3] This was partly because of its negative health
properties, for he saw it as unwholesome, sometimes hard and woody,
with bitter juice. So he recommends boiling artichokes and adding
coriander if eating them with oil and garum;[4]
or frying them in a pan.

But
Galen’s objections to artichokes may not be merely medical. They
may also be an echo of the attitude we find in Pliny,[5] who tells us
that artichokes were exceptionally prized by the gourmets of Rome,
and that there was a roaring trade in them. Pliny disapproved:

Pliny,
writing in the first century, uses all the tricks of rhetoric to put
over his disapproval of this ridiculous fad of over-valuing
artichokes, and eating them out of season: note the alliteration and
assonance of carduos
with
Cartago and Corduba, which he presumably despised as far-away
provincial cities.[7] He is also indignant about the enormous prices
charged for them, satirising the rich who eat the artichokes as being
lower than the animals who despise them.[8] His diatribe does not
seem to have been generally successful. Artichokes were still clearly
prized in the Roman world of the third and fourth centuries: a mosaic
from the so-called ‘House of the Buffet Supper’ in Antioch shows
them on a silver tray as a first course for dinner.[9] And in a
Palestinian context, another mosaic with what look like two purplish
artichoke heads and a silver bowl, dated to the third century, has
been found recently in excavations of ancient Jerusalem – or rather
Aelia
Capitolina.[10]

The
classical picture of artichokes as food for the rich and upper
classes is confirmed by the talmudic literature. For example, Midrash
Esther Rabbah, writes:

S.
Klein in his article ‘Bar-Yohannis from Sepphoris at Rome,’
suggested
that this may be the first reference to the famous Roman Jewish
artichoke dish carciofi
alla giudia.[12]
(For a recipe see E. Servi Machlin The
Classic Cuisine of the Italian Jews
[NY,1981,
1993] p. 180-1). Unfortunately there is no proof to confirm Klein’s
charming suggestion, since, as we have seen, artichokes seem to have
been famously popular among the Roman pagan nobility.[3] One of the
reasons for the perceived desirability of artichokes as food may also
have been the effort needed to prepare them – an effort usually
only available to the rich through their slaves – the poor would
have had little time for this. But one time when the poorer Jews
would have had time would be on a festival, when ordinary work was
not allowed, but food-preparation was permitted, as it contributed to
the enjoyment of the festival. The Tosefta specifically states that
while cutting vegetables was generally not allowed on a festival (in
case people actually went and cut them down in the fields), trimming
artichokes and ‘akavit/‘aqubit,
a wild thorny plant, was allowed, as this was part of the preparation
needed for cooking these prickly vegetables, which was allowed on a
festival:

Whether
poorer people actually ate artichokes as special festival food, or
rather only ate the wild ‘akavit/‘aqubit
is
unclear from this source. It is also unclear what the reason for
trimming was: to remove the thorny stems or to cut off the upper part
of the leaves and remove the inedible inner part known as the
‘choke’?

The
Babylonian Talmud records that artichokes were sent over long
distances to be eaten by Rabbi Judah haNasi. A rich man called Bonias
‘sent Rabbi a measure of artichokes from Nawsah, and Rabbi
estimated it at two hundred and seventeen eggs.’[15] The eggs here
are a measure of volume: clearly there were quite a lot of
artichokes. ‘Nawsah’ may refer to a settlement on an island in
the Euphrates River outside Babylonia.[16] It was a long way from
Galilee where Rabbi lived, and only the rich could afford to pay for
the transport of these luxuries. Some way of preserving the
artichokes, like keeping them in honey-vinegar as described by Pliny
above, must have been used.

Unlike
the classical sources, there is no moral condemnation here of
artichokes as symbols of conspicuous consumption, and tampering with
nature. The rabbis of the Talmudim are generally presented as
appreciative of good food, and as seeing feasting as desirable,
rather than to be condemned.[17] Eating good food, for example, is
one of the recommended ways of celebrating or ‘honouring’ Sabbath
and festival.[18] Indeed, Rabbi himself, when looking back
nostalgically to the time when the Temple still stood, represented
his longing for it in terms of desire for the wonderful foods that
would have been available in that now legendary time.[19]

How
did Rabbi eat his cucumbers and artichokes? Unfortunately the
talmudic literature does not tell us, but there are details in some
Roman authors which may give us some idea of the possibilities.
Athenaeus tells us artichokes must be well-seasoned, or they will be
inedible. The fourth-century Roman cookery book attributed to Apicius
recommends serving artichokes with liquamen
and
oil, and either chopped boiled egg; or cumin and pepper; or pounded
green herbs with pepper and honey.[20] We have already cited Rabbi’s
contemporary, the medical writer Galen, who visited Syria and other
parts of the Near East. He sometimes describes methods of cooking
similar to those found in the talmudic literature.[21] We saw that
Galen recommends eating artichokes boiled with the addition of
coriander, garum
and
oil. He also mentions frying them. Was this the origin of carciofi
alla giudia?

[1]
Mishnah Kilayim v 8.

[2]
The identification of the Latin term cardui
with
artichokes, rather than cardoons, has recently been questioned:C.A.
Wright ‘Did the ancients know the artichoke?’
Gastronomica
9/4
(2009) 21-27.

[3]
Galen On
the powers of foods ii.

[4]
Garum
was
the famous Graeco-Roman salty fermented fish-sauce, called liquamen
by
Apicius, used widely as a condiment. R.I. Curtis Garum
and salsamenta: production and commerce in materia medica (Leiden,
1991); M. Grant Roman
Cookery
(London,
1999); S. Grainger, C.Grocock Apicius:
a critical edition,
(Totnes, 2006)373-387:
Appendix
4: Excursus on garum and liquamen.
It is found in the talmudic literature under the name of muries:
S. Weingarten ‘Mouldy bread and rotten fish: delicacies in the
ancient world,’ Food
and History
3
(2005) 61-72. Sauces combined with garum are mentioned in eg Tos
Betsah ii, 16 and in BTYoma76a, but it is not clear that Babylonian
Jews were using this term to mean the same foodstuffs as were used by
the Jews of the Land of Israel.

[5]
Pliny : NH
19,
152f.

[6]
Pliny NH
19,
152-3: certum
est quippe carduos apud Carthaginem magnam Cordubamque praecipue
sestertium sena milia e parvis redderareis, quoniam portent quoque
terrarium in ganeam vertimus, serimusque etiam ea quae refugiunt
cunctae quadrupedes …condiuntur quoque aceto melle diluto addita
laseris radice et cumino, ne quis dies sine carduo sit.

[7]
On Pliny’s distrust of the ‘foreign’ taking over the Roman, an
old Roman literary trope, see T. Murphy Pliny
the Elder’s Natural
History:
the empire in the encyclopedia (Oxford,
2004) 68ff.

[8]
On Pliny’s hostility to luxury, a traditional theme of Latin
poetry: Murphy (above n.35) 71. See also M. Beagon Roman
Nature: the thought of Pliny the Elder
(Oxford,
1992)  190: ‘moral condemnation of luxuria
is
more than a commonplace to Pliny.’

[9]
F. Cimok (ed.) Antioch
Mosaics
 (Istanbul,
1995) 44-47.

[10]
The mosaic was excavated by Shlomit Wexler-Bdollach and has been
published by Rina Talgam Mosaics
of Faith (Jerusalem/Pennsylvania,
2014) p. 48 fig 70. I am grateful to both for allowing me to see
their pictures and text prior to publication.

[11]
The question of whether the midrash is to be seen as referring to a
Persian situation is beyond the scope of this paper.

[12]
BJPES
7
(1940) 47-51 (in Hebrew)

[13]
See also
I.
Löw Die
Flora
der Juden
vol
I, (Wien, 1924, repr Hildesheim, 1967) p.409.

[14]
Tosefta Beitzah [Yom Tov] iii,19 and cf BTBeitzah 34a. ‘Akavit/
‘aqubit
has
been identified with tumbleweed, Gundelia
Tourneforti,
which is a wild edible thistle still eaten in Galilee and Lebanon,
and known by its Arabic name, ‘aqub.
See
A. Shmida Mapa’s
dictionary of plants and flowers in Israel (Tel
Aviv, 2005, in Hebrew) 236; A. Helou ‘An edible wild thistle from
the Lebanese mountains’ in Susan Friedman (ed.) Vegetables:
proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery 2008 (Totnes,
2009) 83-4. ‘Aqub
can
still be bought in the present-day market in Tiberias in the spring,
its price depending on whether the vendor has removed the thorns or
left that pleasure to the buyer. Its taste when cooked is not unlike
artichoke.  

[15]
BT Eruvin 83a (my translation).

[16]
For the identification of Nawsah see A. Oppenheimer, Babylonia
Judaica in the Talmudic Period
(Wiesbaden,
1983) pp.266-7.

[17]
This point about the generally positive attitude of the rabbis (in
this case the Babylonian rabbis) to the good things in life is made
by I.M. Gafni The
Jews of Babylonia in the talmudic era: a social and cultural history
(Jerusalem,
1990) 130 citing M. Beer Amoraei
Bavel  – peraqim be-hayei ha-kalkalah
(Ramat
Gan תשל”ה
).
But having made his point, Gafni hedges here, warning against taking
a series of anecdotes from different periods as evidence. However, we
should note that this picture is consistent over both Palestinian and
Babylonian sources, and if we compare it to, say, the attitudes of
early Christian writers or Philo, we see that this trend is absent
there. See my paper ‘Magiros,
nahtom
and
women at home: cooks in the Talmud’ Journal
of Jewish Studies 56
(2005)
285-297.

[18]
For a discussion of the rabbinical requirement in both  Bavli
and Yerushalmi to honour the Sabbath by eating good food, see S.J.D.
Cohen,’Dancing, clapping, meditating: Jewish and Christian observance
of the Sabbath in pseudo-Ignatius’ in B. Isaac, Y. Shahar (eds)
Judaea-Palaestina,
Babylon and Rome: Jews in Antiquity
(Tübingen,
2012) 33-38.

[19]
Midrash Lamentations Rabbah iii, 6/17.  

[20]
Apicius
3.6.

[21]
See e.g.  S. Weingarten ‘Eggs in the Talmud’ in R. Hosking
(ed.) Eggs
in Cookery: Proceedings of the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery,
2006
(Totnes,
2007) 274-276.

By ELIEZER BRODT

The topic perhaps most written about in Jewish literature is the Haggadah shel Pesach. There are many kinds in many languages and with all kinds of pirushim and pictures. Whatever style one can think of, not one but many Haggados have been written—be it on derush, kabbalah, halachah, mussar or chassidus. There are people who specialize in collecting Haggados, even though they don’t regularly collect sefarim. In every Jewish house today one can find many kinds of Haggados. Over the years, various bibliographers collected and listed the various Haggados. In 1997, Yitzchak Yudolov printed The Haggadah Thesaurus, which contains an extensive bibliography of Haggados from the beginning of printing until 1960. The final number in his bibliography listing is 4,715! Of course, many more have been printed since 1960. New Haggados are printed every single year. Even people who never wrote chiddushim on the Haggadah have had one published under their name based on their collected writings. When one goes to the sefarim store before Pesach, it has become the custom to buy at least one, although it is very easy to become overwhelmed, not knowing which to pick.

The one I would like to focus on in this article was printed in Prague in 1526.[1] The Prague  edition of the Haggadah is considered by experts to be one of the most important illustrated Haggados ever published. It is perhaps the earliest printed[2] illustrated Haggadah for a Jewish audience, and it served as a model for many subsequent illustrated Haggados. Some insist that it is the greatest single Haggadah ever printed. “Certainly it is one of the chief glories in the annals of Hebrew printing as a whole and for that matter in the history of typography in any language.”[3] Printing came to Prague in 1487 (around 40 years after its invention), and the first Hebrew book was printed there in 1518. The Prague 1526 edition was published by the brothers Gershom (Cohen) and Gronom Katz on Sunday, 26 Teves 5287 or December 30, 1526.[4]

This Haggadah contains many of the halachos of the Seder beginning with bedikas chametz, a collection of pirushim on various parts of the Haggadah, and 60 illustrations made from woodcuts. However, we do not know who authored these halachos and divrei Torah (which are full of interesting ideas). The halachos written here are very significant, as they were written and printed before the Shulchan Aruch. The illustrations are also significant, as they had a tremendous impact on the illustrated Haggados printed afterward.

I would like to discuss some of the interesting things we can learn about the Seder and Haggadah via this Haggadah and some of its illustrations.

The first general question is why they chose to illustrate the Haggadah. Who was their intended audience? Various people who studied this Haggadah have debated this issue,[5] but to me it’s pretty clear that it had to do with one of the most important parts of the Seder night—the special audience—the children. This was a tool to help enable us to fulfil the important obligation of v’higadeta l’vincha. Last year, in an article in this magazine, I outlined many customs done during the Seder with the underlying theme to get the children “into” the Seder. One of the best ways to get kids “into” it is via visual aids, showing them pictures or acting out certain things.  Simply reciting the Haggadah and just saying “some Torah” is not as effective. It would seem to me that this was their intention when they illustrated the Haggadah. It could be that some of the pictures were to lighten it up for the adults too, as I will soon explain.

The significance of this point is that Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, zt”l, raises possible issues with looking at illustrated Haggados on Pesach based on the halachos in the Shulchan Aruch (307:15) dealing with reading captions of images on Shabbos.[6]

If we are correct that the purpose is to educate the children, it might be a possible reason to permit looking at these images. To be sure, some of the Haggados with images were printed with the involvement of great gedolim, such as the illustrated 1590 Prague Haggadah, which had a kitzur of the Zevach Pesach of the Abarbanel written by Rav Yitzchak Chayis (1538-1610).

If we are correct that the purpose is to educate the children, it might be a possible reason to permit looking at these images. To be sure, some of the Haggados with images were printed with the involvement of great gedolim, such as the illustrated 1590 Prague Haggadah, which had a kitzur of the Zevach Pesach of the Abarbanel written by Rav Yitzchak Chayis (1538-1610).

Similarly, Rav Belsky dissected an animal on video to give a visual aid for those learning Maseches Chulin. It is also related that when the Minsker Gadol, Rav Yerucham Perlman, zt”l (1835-1896), first became rav he made it his business to go to the head shochet of the city to learn all the aspects of animals for the laws of treifos and the like. The shochet asked him how he could possibly teach the rav anything. The Minsker Gadol replied, “It’s one thing to learn the halachos in sefarim, but when it comes to psak halachah one needs to know the exact aspects as they are on the actual animal.[8]

Additionally, there is a great benefit for us to analyze the pictures nowadays, as it can give us a glimpse into how they conducted the Seder in those days.

One of the first parts of the Seder is the eating of karpas. Nowadays, for the most part, the custom is for the children to say, “We wash our hands, but we don’t say the brachah for this washing.” In the instructions to the Prague Hagadah it says to say the brachah for washing.[9] In fact, there are a number of Rishonim who say that one should say the brachah of al netilas yadayim.

After saying Ha Lachma Anya the cups of wine are refilled. There is a picture of someone refilling the wine with a caption stating that the servant should refill the wine. The Rama in Darchei Moshe says that the person who is conducting the Seder should not fill the cups of wine; rather, someone else should do it for him.[10] This would appear to be an earlier writter source with the same idea.[11] Interestingly enough, the Aruch Hashulchan writes that we do not do this. The leader can pour the wine for himself, and there is no reason that his wife should have to pour for him.[12] Rav Yitzchak Chayis writes in Siach Yitzchak—which is a halachic work about the Seder night first printed in Prague in 1587—that one should train his six or seven-year-old child to do this mitzvah.[13] Perhaps another minhag related to this statement of the Rama is that the one leading the Seder does not get up to wash his hands; rather, the water is brought to him.[14]

After saying Ha Lachma Anya the cups of wine are refilled. There is a picture of someone refilling the wine with a caption stating that the servant should refill the wine. The Rama in Darchei Moshe says that the person who is conducting the Seder should not fill the cups of wine; rather, someone else should do it for him.[10] This would appear to be an earlier writter source with the same idea.[11] Interestingly enough, the Aruch Hashulchan writes that we do not do this. The leader can pour the wine for himself, and there is no reason that his wife should have to pour for him.[12] Rav Yitzchak Chayis writes in Siach Yitzchak—which is a halachic work about the Seder night first printed in Prague in 1587—that one should train his six or seven-year-old child to do this mitzvah.[13] Perhaps another minhag related to this statement of the Rama is that the one leading the Seder does not get up to wash his hands; rather, the water is brought to him.[14]

Another minhag found in this Haggadah is the famous custom of dipping the fingers into the wine when saying the Ten Makkos. In this section of the Haggadah there is an illustration of someone dipping his finger into his cup and there is also a caption under the picture stating that some dip with the pinky, followed by a reason for this custom.[15]

There a few places in the Haggadah, such as near the paragraph of B’chol dor vador, where we find an illustration of someone walking with a sack (of matzah) on his back. The source for this can be found in some of the Rishonim and early Acharonim. After mentioning breaking the matzah in their description of Yachatz they add that the leader of the Seder puts it on his shoulders and walks with it for a bit; others do this only later on when they eat the afikoman.[17]

I traced the sources for this in a previous article in Ami Magazine. When discussing the sources for this, Rabbi Sperber notes[18] that in a few of the illustrated Haggados there are pictures of a man on a donkey near Shefoch Chamascha. In some of them he is being led by someone else; for example, in the Prague Haggadah of 1526.

I also noted that Rabbi Yuzpeh Shamash writes that mazikin run away from any place where Eliyahu’s name is mentioned. He says that because of this some make a picture of Eliyahu and Moshiach for the children, so that the children seeing it will say “Eliyahu,” causing the mazikin to disappear.[19] This could indicate that the illustrations were shown specifically to the children, as I claimed earlier.

The actual nusach of the Haggadah is its own large topic, starting from the Gemara and moving onward to manuscripts and discussions among the poskim. In the beginning of the Haggadah we begin with the famous Aramaic passage of Ha Lachma Anya. Much has been written about different aspects of this passage. One aspect is whether the exact nusach should be Ha Lachma Anya or K’ha Lachma Anya. The Rama quotes Rav Avraham of Prague, who says to specifically say Ha Lachma Anya and not K’ha Lachma Anya. The Maharal says the same. We see that two great sages from the city of Prague paskened that we should say Ha Lachma Anya.

Who was this Rav Avraham of Prague quoted by the Rama?

Rav Dovid Ganz (a talmid of the Maharal) writes in his historical work Tzemach Dovid that he was the rosh yeshivah and av beis din of Prague in the 1520s. He also authored some notes to the Tur, which were printed by Gershom (Cohen) Katz in Prague in 1540.[20] Thus, it is interesting that in the Haggadah the nusach was different from that of the av beis din of the city. Interestingly enough, his sons printed two more Haggados (1556 and 1590) in Prague and there too the nusach is different from that of Rav Avraham. Ultimately, the Magen Avraham concludes that whichever nusach one says is fine.[21]

Another interesting picture is of the maror. In two places in the Haggadah the illustration used for maror is that of a lettuce—chasah. This is chazeret, which is the first of the five types enumerated in the Mishnah that one can use for maror.

There is a famous teshuvah from the Chacham Tzvi where he writes at length that this is the ideal item to be used for maror, as it’s the first in the list of the Mishnah.[22] We also find that the Netziv wrote a letter to his son, Rabbi Chaim Berlin, urging him to use it for maror instead of sharper vegetables, especially after fasting and drinking wine.[23] There are also numerous earlier illustrated manuscripts that show pictures of lettuce for the maror.[24]

Speaking of maror, the inscription next to the picture is of great interest. It says, “There is a custom when saying maror that the man points to his wife, as it says ‘An evil wife is worse than death.’” Much has been written about this illustration. Some have written that it is ridiculous and there cannot be such a custom. On the other hand, Rabbi Wengrov and, more recently, Rabbi Yisroel Peles,[25] have demonstrated that there are pictures of a man pointing to his wife near the paragraph of maror in various illustrated Haggadah manuscripts. It is clear, however, as Rabbi Wengrov writes, that this was done in a joking manner to lighten up the Seder, but it isn’t serious, chas v’shalom. Rabbi Wengrov demonstrates that other pictures found in these Haggados show that the authors had a sense of humor and drew certain illustrations to lighten up the mood.[26]

Some of the pictures in the Haggadah are to explain a particular passage. One such example is the image of the four sons. The tam is often translated as a derogatory term—the foolish son. However, the caption above the picture says, “Tamim tihyeh im Hashem” – always be complete with Hashem, which means that they understood the tam to be a man of piety.[27]

At the end of the Haggadah we conclude the Seder with a few songs, such as Echad Mi Yodei’a[28] and Chad Gadya. The authors and earliest sources for reciting them are unknown.[29] Rabbi Shemaryah Adler suggests that Chad Gadya may have been written by Daniel.[30] Rabbi Yedidyah Tiyah Weil writes in Marbeh L’sapeir on the Haggadah that he heard that these two songs were found in a manuscript from the beis midrash of Rav Elazar Rokei’ach. Numerous pirushim have been written about Chad Gadya, based on all the methods of learning Torah.[31] Be that as it may, many have noted that they are not found in this Haggadah. The first time they appear in print are in the Haggadah printed in Prague in 1590.

Another notable omission is the stealing of the afikoman. I wrote in the past in this magazine that one of the earliest sources in print can be found in the Siach Yitzchak, which mentions stealing the afikoman, but not in the same way as we do it nowadays.[32] It would seem that since no mention of it is made in the instructions of the 1526 Haggadah that it was not yet a widespread custom at that time.

In the beginning of the Haggadah, on the bottom of the page of Kiddush, we find a mysterious picture of someone hunting hares with a horn and dogs. This picture can also be found in a bentcher printed by the Katz brothers in Prague a few years earlier. The question is obvious: What in the world does this have to do with Kiddush, especially as it is not a Jewish hobby? One of the answers suggested is that when Yom Tov occurs on Motzaei Shabbos we use an abbreviation known as Yaknehaz to remember the order in which to say Kiddush and Havdalah. The pronunciation of Yaknehaz is similar to jagen hasen, which is German for hunting hares, so this picture is meant to serve as a reminder of the abbreviation.[33]

Throughout the Haggadah there are illustrations of people holding cups of wine; sometimes the one holding the cup is dressed like a king. It would appear that this is to reflect the halachah to act like a king on the Seder night as part of the celebration of our freedom.

At other times the image is of an older man holding the cup either in his left hand or in his right. Rabbi Shaul Kook points out that some of the time it’s in the palm of his hand, which is the way it should be held according to various mekubalim, while at other times he holds the cup by its stem. He suggests that near the passage where Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah says, “I am like someone who is 70 years old,” he is depicted as holding the cup in his left hand while stroking his white beard with the other to show that he’s really not that old.[34] At that point in the Haggadah one would not be holding the cup for the purpose of drinking one of the four kosos and that’s why he’s not holding it in his palm. Whereas in the pictures near where one would hold the cup for drinking he is holding it in the palm of his right hand. However, there is another picture on the page of Kiddush that is similar to the one of Rabbi Elazar holding the cup in his left hand and stroking his beard. Rabbi Kook says that this is because the printer was not educated and, not realizing the reasons for the difference, used the wrong woodcut.[35]

The problem with this is that the earliest source we have for holding the cup of wine specifically in the palm of the hand is in the Shalah HaKadosh, which was first printed in 1648—long after this Haggadah was printed.[36] It is, however, very possible that mistakes were made because printing with woodcuts is very difficult and confusing.

Other customs that we can possibly learn from the illustration of Kiddush are that the person is both sitting and looking at the cup. These are also mentioned by various poskim in regard to the halachos for how Kiddush should be said.[37] There are other halachos of Kiddush that can perhaps be learned from these illustrations, but one has to be careful as to how much to “read into” them.

[1] On this Haggadah, see A. Yaari, Bibliography Shel Haggadot Pesach, p. 1. Y. Yudolov, Otzar Haggados, p. 2, # 7-8; the introduction to the 1965 reprint of this Haggadah; Yosef Yerushalmi, Haggadah and History, plate 13; Yosef Tabori, Mechkarim B’toldos Halachah (forthcoming), pp. 461-474. See especially the excellent work of Rabbi Charles Wengrov, Haggadah and Woodcut, (1967), which is completely devoted to this Haggadah. Another recent work devoted to this Haggadah was printed this year by R’ Yehoshua Goldberg, Haggadas Prague. Many thanks to my friend Dan Rabinowitz for the discussions about this Haggadah over the past few years. Here are two earlier posts by Dan on manucript Haggados and the 1526 Prague Haggadah: here and here. Thanks also to Mr. Yisroel Israel for his help with the images.

[2] As there are numerous illustrated manuscript haggadas.

[3] Yerushalmi, Haggadah and History, p. 30.

[4] This detailed publication information does not appear on the title page; rather, it appears at the end of the book in what is referred to as the colophon. On the printers see Chaim Friedberg, Toldos Hadefus Haivri, pp. 1-10. On various aspects about printing in these years in Prague, see Hebrew Printing in Bohemia and Moravia (Prague 2012).

[5] Richard Cohen, Jewish Icons, (1998), pp. 94-97; Chone Shmeruk, The Illustrations in Yiddish Books of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Heb. 1986).
[6] Halichos Shlomo (Pesach), pp. 267-268.

[7] Intro to Shu”t Ohel Yosef, 1903.

[8] Hagadol MiMinsk, p.51.

[9] Drashah L’Pesach L’Rabbi Elazar MiVermeiza, p. 96. See: Haggadah Shevivei Eish, p. 152; Y. Tabory, Pesach Dorot, pp. 216-244. See also what I wrote in my work Bein Kesse Le’assor, pp. 148-153.
[10] Darchei Moshe, 486:1.

[11] See also Siach Yitzchak (Brooklyn 2016), p. 241.

[12] Aruch Hashulchan, 473:6.

[13] Siach Yitzchak, p. 239, 252.

[14] Siach Yitzchak, p. 239.

[15] On this minhag see Zvi Ron, Our Own Joy is Lessened and Incomplete; The History of an Interpretation of Sixteen Drops of Wine at the Seder, Hakirah 19 (2015), pp. 237-255. I hope to return to this in the future.
[16] Drashah L’Pesach L’Rabbi Elazar MiVermeiza, p. 51, 101, 127.

[17] Rabbi Wengrov (above note 1), p. 60. See also Hanhagot HaMaharshal, pp. 10-11; Magen Avraham, 473:22; Chidushei Dinim MeiHilchos Pesach, p. 38. See Rabbi Chaim Benveniste, Pesach Me’uvin, 315; Vayageid Moshe, pp. 116-117.
[18] Minhagei Yisroel 4, pp. 168-170.

[19] Minhaghim Dik’hal Vermeiza, p. 86

[20] Tzemach Dovid, p. 139. See also Tzefunot 7 (1990) pp. 22-26.

[21] See also Siddur R’ Shabsei Sofer, 1, p. 5; Rabbi Yosef Zechariah Stern, Zecher Yosef, p. 4. [22] Chacham Tzvi, 119. On using this even though it is not bitter see also Dovid Henshke, Mah Nishtanah (2016), pp. 250-255, 215-220, 224-227, about Maror being bitter.
[23] Meromei Sadeh Pesachim 7b, See also Arthur Schaffer, History of Horseradish as the Bitter Herb of Passover, Gesher 8 (1981) pp. 217-237; Levi Cooper, Bitter Herbs in Hasidic Galicia, JSIJ 12 (2013), pp. 1-40; Z. Amar, Merorim, pp. 67-83. See also Rabbi Yehudah Spitz, Maror Musings, the not so bitter truth about Maror, Ami Magazine (2014), pp. 230-234.
[24] See Rabbi Wengrov (above note 1), p. 54. See also Rabbi Dovid Holtzer, Eitz Chaim 25 (2016), pp. 285-292.

[25] Hamaayan 51 (2011), pp. 11-14.

[26] On this and other pictures related to humor in the Haggadah see Rabbi Wengrov (above note  1),pp. 54-59.

[27] See also Rabbi Wengrov (abovenote 1), pp. 43-44; HaggadasMidrash B’chodesh (2015) of Rav Eliezer Foah (talmid of the Rama MiFano), p.135; R’ Elazer Fleckeles, Maaseh B’Rabbi Elazar, p. 63-64. See also Dovid Henshke, Mah Nishtanah (2016), pp. 358-359.
[28] See Rabbi Toviah Preshel, Kovetz Maamarei Tuviah 2, pp.64-65.

[29] See Chone Shmeruk, “The Earliest Aramaic and Yiddish Version of the Song of the Kid (Khad Gadye),” in The Field of Yiddish, 1 (New York 1954), pp. 214-218; Chone Shmeruk, Safrut Yiddish,pp. 40-42, 57-60; Asufot, 2 (1988), pp. 201-226; Rabbi Yisroel Dandrovitz, Eitz Chaim 23 (2015), pp. 400-416. Shimon Steinmetz discusses the origin of Chad Gadya here.

[30] Minchas Cohen, p. 73. Many thanks to my friend Rabbi Shalom Jacob for sending copies of this extremely rare work.

[31] Marbeh L’Sapeir, p. 140, 151. See also Rabbi Yosef Zechariah Stern in his Haggadah Zecher Yosef (p. 30), who writes that he did not find this piyut printed before the sefer Maasei Hashem. See also the Haggadah Shleimah ad. loc.; Assufot, vol 2 pp. 201-226; Mo’adim L’simcha vol. 5 ch. 11; Y. Tabory, Pesach Doros, pp. 341-342 and the note on pp 379.
[32] Siach Yitzchak, p. 21a. About this gaon see the introduction of Rabbi Adler in his recent edition of Pnei Yitzchak – Apei Ravrevi.

[33] See Rabbi Wengrov (above note 1), pp. 36-37.

[34] See Rabbi Yosef Zechariah Stern, Zecher Yosef, pp. 5a-6a.

[35] See Yeida Haam 2 (1954), p. 148; Iyunim Umechkarim, 1 pp. 81-83.

[36] See also R’vid Hazahav, Vayeishev (Kaf Paroh); Rabbi Mordechai Rosenbalt, Hadras Mordechai, Bereishis, 259. See also Shu”t Beis Yaakov, (1696) 174 who quotes such a custom from the Arizal.
[37] See Rabbi Dovid Deblitsky, Birchos L’rosh Tzaddik, pp. 25-31.

Passover with Apostates:

Jews, Baseball, and The Yiddish Press

By Eddy Portnoy

Dr. Eddy Portnoy is Senior Researcher and Director of Exhibitions at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research. He is the author of the recently-published (and much acclaimed, and fun) book, Bad Rabbi: And Other Strange but True Stories from the Yiddish Press (Stanford, 2017), available here.

This is his second contribution to the Seforim Blog. His previous essay, “The Yiddish Press as a Historical Source for the Overlooked and Forgotten in the Jewish Community,” was published here.

Jews love baseball! Well, maybe not all Jews. On the one hand, the editors of the Forverts, the largest and most successful Yiddish newspaper in history, enthusiastically commissioned an article at the end of August, 1909 explaining the fundamentals of the game to their audience of Yiddish-speaking immigrants. While they may not have expected their readers to run out and play ball, they did understand that it was of value culturally to understand how the game was played. In short, it was seen as part and parcel of the Americanization process.

And yet, on the other hand, a cartoon that appeared a few years later reveals somewhat of an antipathy to baseball from a different Yiddish precinct. Baseball appears to have been one of those rare matters upon which both Orthodox rabbis and secular Yiddish cartoonists could agree. It is thus with great sympathy that one of the cartoonists working for Der groyser kundes views the difficulty Orthodox rabbis in America had in trying to convince American Jewish boys to attend heder. Der kundes, a very popular and very secular satire publication oriented to Left Labor Zionism, lamented the disinterest the lunkheaded, foul-mouthed, baseball-obsessed Jewish youth. Not that they necessarily supported the acquisition of a traditional Jewish education (even though all their writers had one), but they didn’t like baseball either.

Not unlike Nusakh sfard, baseball won the battle and is now a pastime enjoyed by large numbers of American Jews. Many of them even went back to heder. Left Labor Zionists satire magazines, however, aren’t doing so well anymore.

Der groyser kundes, New York, May 29, 1914

The Forverts, New York, August 27, 1909

  

Uptown, on 9th Avenue and 155th Street is the famous field known as the “Polo Grounds.” Every afternoon, 20 to 35 thousand people get together there. Entrance costs from 50 cents to a dollar and a half. Thousands of poor boys and older people go without some of their usual needs in order to pay for tickets. Professional teams play baseball there and the tens of thousands of fans who sit in row after row of seats all around the stadium, go nuts with enthusiasm. They jump, they scream, they simply go wild with enthusiasm when one of “their” players does well, or, they are pained or upset when they don’t succeed.

A similar scene takes place every day in another place – in the Washington Heights. And the exact same thing goes on in Brooklyn, in Philadelphia, in Pittsburgh, in Boston, in Baltimore, in St. Louis, in Chicago – in every city in the United States. And the newspapers print the results of these games and describe what happened and tens of millions of people run to read it with gusto. They talk about it and they debate the issues.

And here we’re only talking about the “professional games:” practically every boy, nearly every youth, and not a few middle-aged men play baseball themselves, belong to baseball clubs, and are huge fans. Every college, every school, every town, nearly every “society” and every factory has it’s own baseball “team.”

Millions are made from the professional games. Related to this, there is a special kind of “political” battle between different cities. A good professional player gets eight to ten thousand dollars for one season. Some of them are educated, college-educated people.

To us immigrants, this all seems crazy, however, it’s worthwhile to understand what kind of craziness it is. If an entire people is crazy over something, it’s not too much to ask to try and understand what it means.

We will therefore explain here what baseball is. But, we won’t do it using the professional terminology used by American newspapers use to talk about the sport; we must apologize, because we’re not even able to use this kind of language. We will explain it in plain, “unprofessional” and “unscientific” Yiddish.

So what are the fundamentals of the game?

Two parties participate in the game. Each party is comprised of nine people (such a party is called a “team”). One party takes the field, and the other plays the role of an enemy; the enemy tries to block the first one and the first one tries to defend itself against them; from now on we will call them, “the defense party” and the “enemy party.”

The “defense party” also takes the field and plays. Two of the team players play constantly while the other seven stand on guard at seven different spots. What this guarding entails will be described later. Let us first consider the two active players.

One of them throws the ball to the other, who has to grab it. The first one is called the “pitcher” (thrower) and the second is called the “catcher” (grabber).

Each time, the “catcher” throws the ball back to the “pitcher.” The reader may therefore ask, if so, doesn’t it happen backwards each time – the catcher becomes a pitcher and the pitcher becomes a catcher? Why should each one be called with a specific name – one pitcher and one catcher?

We will soon see that the way in which the catcher throws the ball back is of no import. The main thing during a game is how the pitcher tries to throw the ball to the catcher.

The enemy party, however, seeks to thwart the pitcher.

This occurs in the following way:

One of the team’s nine members stands between the pitcher and the catcher (quite close to the catcher) with a thick stick (“bat”) and, as the ball flies from the pitcher’s hand, tries to hit it back with the stick before the catcher catches it.

This enemy player is called “batter.” The place where he stands is designated by a number of little stars (****).

(The other eight players on the enemy team, in the meantime, do not participate. They each wait to be “next.”)

Imagine now, that the “batter,” meaning the enemy player, finds the flying ball with his stick and flings it. If certain rules, which we will discuss later, aren’t broken, this is what can happen with the ball: if one of the “guards” catches the hit ball while it is still in the air, then the opposition  of the “batter” is completely destroyed and the batter must leave his place; he is excluded (he is “out”). He puts down the “bat” and another member of his party takes his place.

The roles of the seven guards of the defense party are also specific: they must try and catch the hit ball in order to destroy the enemy’s attempt to hinder them and to get rid of the player doing the obstructing. They stand at various positions because one can never know in which direction the ball will fly. They watch the different trajectories in which the ball might fly, so a guard can be there, ready to catch it.

The readers can see the way the seven guards are distributed in our picture.

The entire official field on which the game is played is a four-sided, four-cornered one. This is in the center of our picture (The two round lines which go around it represent the tens of thousands of seats for the audience. That is how it usually is for the big professional games. It actually looks like a giant circus with a roof only for the audience. The field, with all the players, is under the open sky.).

As the readers see in the image, one corner is taken by the “catcher.” The other three corners of the four-cornered figure are stations. Each one is called a “base.” With the catcher facing the pitcher, the first “base” is outward from the direction of his right hand, just opposite him is the second base; and from his left hand is the third base.

A little bag of sand lay on every base. The guards, however, must not stand on the base, but next to it.

We previously mentioned three guards. They are called the first baseman, the second baseman and third baseman. A third guard stands between second and third base. He is called the “short stop;” when a ball is hit, it often goes in that direction and the “short stop” gets a chance to catch it in the air.

But if the ball flies way over the heads of these four “guards,” there are three other guards who stand on the outside field, or the “out field.” One of these is called the “right fielder,” the second, the “center fielder,” and the third, the “left fielder.”

Two of the four sides of the four-sided figure in our picture are marked with dots. When a hit ball flies over one of these two lines, it is called a false ball (foul ball). For it to be a proper ball (a fare ball), it must fly forward, or over the other two lines of the four-cornered figure.

When the batter doesn’t manage to hit the ball with his stick, it is called a “strike.” If he gets three “strikes,” he is “out,” or eliminated. Certain kinds of “foul balls” are considered “strikes,” however, we will not go into these details.

When the batter hits the ball and it is “proper,” and the guard doesn’t catch it, this means that the opposition, in this case, is successful. However, this success can either be greater or smaller. Depending on the level of this success, the following is done: as soon as the batter hits the ball, he throws his “bat” away and starts running; if nothing disturbs him, he runs to first base, from first to second, from second to third, and from third to the place where the catcher stands. This place is called “the home.” If he gets to the “home” spot, it means that the success of the opposition is complete.

This means that he made a whole “run:” and, based on these “runs,” the results of the game are figured out. The party which makes more runs is the winner.

But to make a full run at one time doesn’t happen all the time. In order to do so, the zetz that the batter gives the ball must be especially successful. It happens more often that he makes a quarter run, or a two quarter, or three quarter.

The rule is this: the running batter has no right to go to first base if the guard (the first baseman) holds, at that very moment, the ball in his hand. If the hit ball falls on the ground and one of the guards picks it up, the running batter is not yet eliminated.  He runs. But imagine that some guard throws the ball to the first baseman and that this first baseman catches the ball before the running batter physically arrives at first base: then this runner is eliminated. But if he catches the ball when the runner is already on the base, the runner is “saved” (safe).

If the runner keeps running to second base, the rule is a bit different: the second baseman can eliminate him only if he touches him with the ball; and the same rule works for the third baseman, he has to touch him with the ball in order to get him out. The catcher or pitcher can also get a runner out with a “touch” if he finds himself near the base or the “home” to which he ran.

Each player is the embodiment of agility, with strong, swift muscles and sharp, fast eyes. And the whole game is full of “excitement” for those who are interested in it.

כּעומד
לפֿני השכינה בשעת ער לערנט:

Rabbi
Aharon Lichtenstein on the Divide Between Traditional and Academic
Jewish Studies

By
Shaul Seidler-Feller

Shaul
Seidler-Feller strives to be a
posheter yid
and an oved
Hashem;
the rest
is commentary. This is his third contribution to the
Seforim blog;
for his previous articles, see here
and here.

This
post has been generously sponsored le-illui
nishmat Sima Belah bat
Aryeh Leib, z”l.

Rabbi
Aharon Lichtenstein enthusiasts might be surprised to learn that
there was a time when the rosh
yeshivah,
zts”l,
lectured publicly in Yiddish. I myself had no idea that this was the
case until my dear friend, Reb Menachem Butler, who fulfills
be-hiddur
the prophetic pronouncement asof
asifem
(Jer. 8:13) in its most positive sense, forwarded me a link
containing a snippet from a talk Rav Lichtenstein had given at the
Yidisher
visnshaftlekher institut-YIVO
on May 12, 1968, as part of the Institute’s forty-second annual
conference. Feeling a sense of responsibility to help bring Rav
Lichtenstein’s insights to a broader audience, I quickly translated
that brief excerpt into English, and, with the assistance of YIVO’s
Senior Researcher and Director of Exhibitions Dr. Eddy Portnoy, my
translation was posted
on the YIVO website in early December 2017. Realizing, however, that
the original lecture had been much longer, Menachem and I made some
inquiries to see if we could locate the rest of the recording, only
to come up empty-handed.

As
hashgahah
would
have it, on the Friday night following the publication of the
translation, I was privileged to share a meal with another dear
friend, Rabbi Noach Goldstein, whose great beki’ut
in Rav Lichtenstein’s (written and oral) oeuvre was already
well-known to me. In the course of our conversation, Noach mentioned
that there was another Yiddish-language shi‘ur
by Rav Lichtenstein available on the YUTorah website. I was stunned:
could this be the missing part of the YIVO lecture? After Shabbat, I
followed up with Noach, who duly sent me the relevant link
– and lo and behold, here was the (incomplete) first part of the
speech Rav Lichtenstein had given at YIVO![1] I told myself at the
time that I would translate this as well; unfortunately, though, work
and other obligations prevented me from doing so…

But
then, in another twist of fate, one
of the orekhei/arkhei
dayyanim
at The
Lehrhaus,
Rabbi (soon-to-be Dayyan Dr.) Shlomo Zuckier, reached out to me at
the end of December in connection with a syllabus he was compiling
for a class he is teaching this semester at the Isaac Breuer College
of Yeshiva University on “The Thought of Rabbi Aharon
Lichtenstein.” I mentioned to him at the time that Noach had
recently referred me to the YUTorah recording and that I had hoped to
translate it. With his encouragement, the permission of YUTorah
(thank you, Rabbi Robert Shur!), and the magnanimous support of an
anonymous sponsor (Menachem Butler functioning as shaddekhan),
I present below a preliminary annotated English version of the
lecture, whose relevance to the current
debate
about Rav Lichtenstein’s attitude toward academic Jewish studies
should be clear. It is my hope to post my original Yiddish
transcription (which awaits proper vocalization), as well as any
refinements to the English, shortly after Pesah;
please check back then for an update.

[UPDATE
(June 15, 2018): My vocalized Yiddish transcription of both
recordings is now available as a PDF here. The text of the
translation below has also been improved accordingly.]

Note:
As was the case with my translation of the shorter recording
published previously, Romanization of Yiddish and loshn-koydesh
(Hebrew/Aramaic) terms attempts to follow the standards adopted by
YIVO,[2] and all bracketed (and footnoted) references were added by
me. It should also be borne in mind that the material that follows
was originally delivered as a lecture, and while the translation
tries to preserve the oral flavor of the presentation, certain
liberties have been taken with the elision of repetitions in order to
allow the text to flow more smoothly.

[A
Century of Traditional Jewish Higher Learning in America]

[Introduction]

I
beg your pardon for the slight delay. It was not on my own account;
rather, my wife is not able to attend, and I promised I would see to
it to set up a recording for her. In truth, I must not only ask your
indulgence; it may be that this behavior touches upon a halakhic
matter as well. After all, the gemore
says that “we do not roll Torah scrolls in public in order not to
burden the community” [see Yume
70a with Rambam, Hilkhes
tfile 12:23]. It is
for that reason that we sometimes take out two or three Torah
scrolls: so that those assembled need not wait as we roll from one
section to another. The gemore
did not speak of tape recorders, but presumably the same principle
obtains, and so I beg your pardon especially.

When
they originally asked me to speak on the topic of “A Century of
Traditional Higher Jewish Learning in America,” they presented it
to me as a counterbalance, so to speak, to a second talk, which, as I
understand it, had been assigned to Professor Rudavsky.[3] They told
me that since we are now marking the centennial of the founding of
Maimonides College, which, as Professor Rudavsky capably informed us,
was the first institution of higher Jewish scholarship in America,
perhaps it would be worthwhile to hear from an opposing view, so to
speak, from the yeshive
world, regarding another type, another model, of Jewish scholarship.
This was certainly entirely appropriate on their part – and perhaps
it was not only appropriate, but, in a certain sense, there was an
element of khesed
in their invitation to me to serve as such a counterbalance.

I
wish to say at the outset that what I plan to present here is not
meant to play devil’s advocate, contradicting what we heard
earlier; rather, just the opposite, I hope, in a certain sense, to
fill out the picture. However, as proper as the intention was, my
assignment has presented me with something of a problem. Plainly put:
my subject, as I understand it, does not exist. We simply do not have
a hundred years of so-called “traditional higher Jewish learning in
America” – at least, not in public. Privately, presumably there
were “one from a town and two from a clan” [Jer. 3:14], a Torah
scholar who sat and clenched the bench[4] here and there. But in
public, in the form of institutions, yeshives,
a hundred years have not yet passed, and for that centennial, I am
afraid, we must wait perhaps another ten to twenty years. At that
point – may we all, with God’s help, be strong and healthy –
they will have to invite a professor as a counterbalance to the
yeshive
world.

The
first yeshive,
which was a predecessor, in a certain sense, to our yeshive,
the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary, a yeshive
known as Yeshiva University, was the Etz Chaim Yeshiva, founded in
1886. As a result, I find myself facing something of a dilemma here,
bound in – as it is known in the non-Jewish world – a Procrustean
bed, that same bed familiar to everyone from the gemore
in Sanhedrin.
The gemore
describes that when a guest arrived in Sodom, they had a
one-size-fits-all bed, and it seems that in Sodom they were not
particularly attentive to individual preferences. So they took each
guest and measured him against the bed: if he turned out too short,
they stationed one fellow at his head, another at his feet, and they
stretched him in both directions until he covered the bed; if he
turned out too tall, they would cut him down to size, sometimes at
his feet, sometimes at his head, so that, in any event, he would fit
[Sanhedrin
109b].

Here
I face the same problem, and I have one of two ways to extricate
myself from my present impasse. On the one hand, I could, perhaps,
make a bit of a stretch and broaden the definition of “traditional
higher Jewish scholarship and learning,” so that my title, my
subject, would be accurate and so that I might, after all, be able to
identify a hundred years during which people sat and learned. But, on
the other hand, perhaps I should rather stay firm and close to the
title, maintaining the pure, unadulterated conception of what
constitutes “learning,” “Jewish learning,” “traditional
learning,” even if doing so would come at the expense of completely
fulfilling the task assigned to me: to speak not about a brief span
of years, but a full hundred. You yourselves understand very well
that, given these two options, it is certainly better to choose the
latter – perhaps abbreviating a bit chronologically – in order to
grasp, at least partially, the inner essence of traditional learning
as I understand it.

In
taking up the work of presenting an approach to traditional Jewish
learning here in America, I believe that, in truth, I have two tasks.
The first is to define, to a certain degree, how I conceive of
“traditional Jewish learning,” or, let us say, more or less,
yeshive
learning – what constitutes the idea in its purest manifestation? –
though I fear this might take us to an epoch, a period, that does not
fit the title as it stands, in its literal form.

Second,
having somewhat limited the definition, I wish to briefly introduce
the principal players and give a short report simply on the
historical development of this form of study in the course of the
last hundred, or, let us say, a bit less than a hundred, years.[5]

When
we speak of “traditional higher Jewish learning,” we must analyze
four different terms. And, in truth, one could – and perhaps should
– give a lengthy accounting of each of the four. However, I
mentioned earlier the concept of not burdening the community, so I
will not dwell at all on the latter two. Rather, I will speak about
the first two, “traditional” and “higher,”[6] and it will be
self-understood that my words relate to “Jewish learning.” I
especially wish to focus on the first term, “traditional.”

[Three
Definitions of “Traditional”]

What
does it mean? When we speak here of “traditional” learning – or
when we speak in general about some occurrence or phenomenon and wish
to describe it as “traditional” – I believe we could be
referring to three different definitions:

First,
learning can be “traditional” in the sense that it involves the
study of traditional texts – khumesh
or gemore
– in the same way that one could say about a given prayer, ballad,
or poem that it is “traditional,” and sometimes we speak of a
custom or even of a food as “traditional.” Here, the adjective
refers, simply, to a text that goes back hundreds or thousands of
years, that is rooted in the life of the nation, and that takes up
residence there – at least, so to speak, in a word.

Second,
we can speak of “traditional” learning and refer thereby to
learning that operates, methodologically, using concepts, tools, and
methods that are old. There were once yeshives…
– but this issue does not concern yeshives
only: whatever the discipline, the learning is “traditional” if
one is using methods that are not new, that do not seek to shake up
or revolutionize the field, that have already been trod by many in
the past, with which all are familiar, and that have been employed
for study by a long “golden chain of generations.”

Third,
though, and perhaps especially, when we describe learning as
“traditional,” we refer to a methodology that is not only old,
but that is rooted in – and, to a certain extent, implants within
the student – a particular relationship to the past, or to certain
facets thereof; in other words, an approach to learning through which
the student absorbs a certain attitude to the Jewish past.

Among
these three points, the first – studying traditional texts – is
the least important in establishing and defining what I mean, at
least, when I say that I will speak about “traditional” Jewish
learning. At the end of the day, one can take a gemore
or a khumesh,
study it in a way that is consistent with the spirit of the Jewish
past, and thereby strengthen one’s commitment to Judaism; or,
Heaven forbid, one can do the opposite, studying the same text in
such a way that it undermines that commitment. Khazal
say of Torah learning itself that it can sometimes be a medicine and
at other times, Heaven forbid, a poison [Shabes
88b]. Of course, if one is not dealing with “traditional” texts,
one cannot be engaged in “traditional Jewish learning;” but this
is nothing more than a prerequisite, so to speak, not a determining
factor in establishing what constitutes “traditional Jewish
learning.”

The
second sense – in which one follows a path one knows others have
trod in the past – is much more directly relevant. First of all, it
gives a person a sense of continuity: that he is not the first, that
he is not blazing a trail, that he is not entirely alone, and that
before him came a long chain, generation after generation of Torah
giants, or – excuse the comparison – in the case of another
discipline, of professors, thinkers, or philosophers, who established
a certain intellectual tradition to which he can feel a kind of
connection. This feeling is obviously important not only in relation
to an intellectual tradition; it is significant in general and is
relevant to a person’s approach to social questions writ large –
but perhaps especially to intellectual questions. Second, aside from
not feeling isolated and alone, the benefit is straightforwardly
intellectual: when working in a traditional manner, a person has at
his disposal certain tools that other specialists developed before
him. He also has a common language with others who are engaged in
study, so that it is simply easier for him to express himself,
understand what his fellow says, and communicate with others. For in
the ability to communicate, of course, lies much strength.

However,
I am especially interested in discussing and defining the third
sense: a “traditional” methodology which is not only inherited
from our ancestors, a kind of memento from the house of our
grandfathers and great-grandfathers, but which seeks to implant
within us, on the one hand, and is rooted in, on the other, a
particular relationship to those great-grandfathers. And here I wish
– and I hope you do not misunderstand me – especially to
distinguish and define the wall – and it is a wall – separating
what we conceive of as a yeshive
style of learning from what is considered a more or less academic
approach: that same Wissenschaft
des Judentums which
Professor Rudavsky mentioned earlier, which was identified with those
pioneers of the previous century – [Leopold] Zunz, [Abraham]
Geiger, and their associates – and which, of course, has many
exponents to this very day.

[Two
Differences Between Traditional and Academic Learning]

Where,
then, is the point of distinction dividing a yeshive
approach from a more academic one? I believe that there are two
points in particular upon which it would be worthwhile to focus
briefly.

[Historical
vs. Analytical Orientations in Studying the Text]

First,
the academic approach is more historically oriented. It is more
interested in collecting facts from the past; taking a particular
author or text – it makes no difference: it could be a popular
painter or poet, rishoynim,
Khazal,
even the Bible itself – placing it within the context of a
particular epoch; seeing to it to study, as much as possible, all the
minutiae of that period; and thereby attaining a clear understanding
of the nature, the essence, of the text, work, artist, or author. On
the other hand, the yeshive
or “traditional” approach – “traditional” at least in
yeshives,
and not only in yeshives
but in the study of halokhe
in general – is more analytical in its character. It does not seek
to expand upon a particular work in order to construct an entire
edifice, a whole framework of facts, that would help us understand
the circumstances under which it was written, or what sort of
intellectual or social currents acted upon a person, driving him to
work, paint, or portray one way and not the other. Rather, it is more
interested in exploring and delving deeply into the work itself.
Whatever was happening in the world outside the gemore
has a certain significance, but the main emphasis is not there. The
main emphasis is instead on understanding what the gemore
itself says, what kind of ideas are expressed therein, what sort of
concepts are defined therein, and what type of notions can be
extracted therefrom. In other words, the focus is not so much on
facts as it is on ideas; the approach is more philosophical than
historical; one is concerned more with the text than with the
context.

And
this point – the difference between a yeshive
or traditional approach, on the one hand, and a more academically
oriented one, on the other – is not limited to the walls of the
besmedresh;
it is not our concern alone. Those familiar with the various
approaches to and methods of treating and critiquing literature in
general know that the same argument rages in that field as well –
though perhaps not as sharply. For example, in 1950, during a session
of the Modern Language Association conference, two of the most
esteemed critics in the world of English literature spoke for a group
dealing specifically with [John] Milton. One of them, A.S.P. [Arthur
Sutherland Pigott] Woodhouse, then a professor at the University of
Toronto and a man with a truly incisive approach to literature, gave
a paper whose title – it was given in English – was “The
Historical Criticism of Milton.”[7] From the other side, Cleanth
Brooks, a professor at Yale and one of the “renewers,” so to
speak – or perhaps not a “renewer” but, at the very least, one
of the propagandists arguing on behalf of the so-called “New
Criticism” – gave a different paper entitled “Milton and
Critical Re-Estimates.”[8]

This
is nothing more than a single example – they were specifically
treating Milton in that case – of the aforementioned difference in
approach. On the one hand, Woodhouse argued consistently that in
order to understand Milton, one must delve deeply into the history of
the seventeenth century and of its various intellectual currents –
one of them was mentioned earlier by Professor Rudavsky: the great
interest in Hebrew studies that exerted its influence upon him –
and only once one has gathered together such information and is able,
as much as possible, to reconstitute the seventeenth century as it
was, can one properly understand Paradise
Lost or Samson
Agonistes. And Brooks,
who came from an entirely different school of thought – from I.A.
[Ivor Armstrong] Richards’ school and others’ – claimed that
certainly there is some value to that as well, but the main thing, at
the end of the day, is to understand the poem itself. To do so, one
needs to focus on addressing a different set of problems, problems of
form, and to grasp not so much the relationship of Milton to, let us
say, [Oliver] Cromwell, [Edmund] Spenser, or [John] Donne, but rather
the relationship of the first book of Paradise
Lost – or of
Paradise Regained
– to the second, and so on. And, of course, this difference in
approach, in the goal one wishes to accomplish, manifests as well at
the basic level of one’s work. According to one line of thinking,
one must busy oneself with many small minutiae; according to the
other, one can limit oneself and concentrate on the poem itself.

The
same question can be asked in regard to learning and understanding
Torah. And it is possible that this question presents itself more
sharply with respect to Torah learning than with respect to other
fields of study. In the editor’s introduction to Chaucer’s
poetry, F.N. [Fred Norris] Robinson, one of the most prominent
Chaucer scholars – forgive me, before I became a rosheshive
I studied English literature – mentions that a French professor had
once bemoaned the fact that we find ourselves now in, as he termed
it, l’âge des petits
papiers,[9] in a
period that busies itself with small scraps of paper. What he in fact
meant was that the aforementioned broadening required by the
historical approach – which was, of course, influenced by German
Wissenschaft,
especially in the last century – can at times simply overwhelm.
Rabbi Zevi Hirsch Berliner put it differently. Someone was once
speaking with him about Jewish Wissenschaft
and the like, so he said to him, “If you want to know what Rashi
looked like, what type of clothing he wore, and so on, go consult
Zunz.[10] But if you want to know who Rashi was, what he said, better
to study with me.”[11]

And
I wish to emphasize: when we speak here of a historical, academic
methodology, we refer not only to research. Those who adopt such an
approach certainly go much further, undertaking not only historical
research but also historical criticism. In other words, after having
studied all the minutiae through various investigations, one assesses
to what use they can be put and what light they can shine on some
dark corner of Jewish history. However, this form of criticism, which
is mainly rooted in a more historical approach, is different from the
yeshive
approach. The question turns mainly on what direction one is looking
in: from outside in, so to speak, or vice versa. Does one stand with
both feet in the gemore,
or does one stand outside and look in?

This
question is particularly important in regard to learning Torah. For,
at the end of the day, when we speak of “traditional learning,”
“yeshive
learning,” we are dealing not only with an intellectual activity
but a religious one as well. This means that learning is not only a
scholarly endeavor meant to inform a person of what once existed,
what Khazal
thought, what they transmitted to us, what the rishoynim
held, but is bound up in a personal encounter wherein the individual,
the student, is wholly attached and connected to what he learns and
feels that he is standing before the Divine Presence while he learns.
If one takes to learning in this way, one’s entire approach of
emphasizing the need to keep one’s head in the gemore
attains a special significance unto itself.

Lionel
Trilling once wrote about [William] Wordsworth and Khazal.[12]
There he tells us a bit about his youth – Trilling is, of course, a
Jew – going to synagogue with his father, perusing an English
translation of Pirkey
oves since he did not
know Hebrew, and years later realizing that the relationship of
Wordsworth to nature is the same as that of Khazal
to the Holy Scriptures and that of the rishoynim
to Khazal.
What they found therein he expresses by quoting the last line of
Wordsworth’s “Immortality Ode”: “Thoughts that do often lie
too deep for tears.”[13] Trilling recognized that for Khazal
or the rishoynim,
the Torah was not simply some sort of intellectual exercise. Rather,
it was something that penetrated into the depths of their souls. It
is to attain that feeling that every yeshive
student strives. Not all achieve it, but everyone does, and must,
aspire to it.

This
is one point distinguishing the method which emphasizes the text from
that which focuses on what surrounds it.

[Respect
vs. Reverence for the Text and the Jewish Past]

A
second difference between the yeshive
and academic approaches is their respective attitudes to the text. I
just mentioned this a moment ago: a benyeshive
approaches a gemore
and other traditional works with a certain reverence, each time with
a greater sense of “Remove your sandals from your feet” [Ex.
3:5], feeling that he is handling something holy, that he is standing
before a great, profound, and sacred text. And this goes hand-in-hand
with an approach not only to a specific text, but to the entire
Jewish past, a past which a benyeshive
not only respects – after all, academics respect it as well – but
toward which he displays a certain measure of submissiveness and
deference. He stands before it like a servant before his master
[Shabes
10a], like a student before his teacher.

If
we seek a parallel to this point in the world at large, we should not
look to modern literary criticism; I do not know whether such an
approach exists among today’s literary disciplines. Rather, we
should go back, perhaps, to the seventeenth century – Professor
Rudavsky mentioned this as well – and the whole question, the great
debate that raged within various circles in Europe, regarding what
sort of approach one should take to the classical world: the
so-called “battle of the books.” You know well that [Jonathan]
Swift, the English author, once wrote a small work – more his
best-known than his best – about a library whose various volumes
suddenly began fighting with one another, this one saying, “I am
better,” and the other saying, “I am better.” What was the
whole argument about? The debate turned on the issue of which
literature should be more highly esteemed: the ancient, classical
literature, or the new, modern literature?[14]

Once
upon a time, people assumed this was just a parody, a type of jeu
d’esprit; Swift was,
after all, a satirical writer, so he wrote it as a joke. However,
almost fifty years ago, an American scholar, R.F. [Richard Foster]
Jones, wrote a whole book about it, The
[Background of the] Battle
of the Books,[15] in which
he demonstrated that this was not merely a parody in Swift’s time.
Rather, he was treating an issue that, for some, actually occupied
the height of importance: the so-called querelle
des Anciens et des Modernes,
“the battle of the Ancients and the Moderns,” which manifests
itself in many, many literary works, especially in critical works of
the seventeenth century. For example, in [John] Dryden’s essay Of
Dramatick Poesie,[16]
there is an entire dialogue between four different speakers, each of
whom deals with the question: how should one relate to the classical
world? And let us recall that during the Renaissance and Reformation,
people related to the classical world differently than even a
professor of classical literature does nowadays. For example,
[Desiderius] Erasmus, one of the greatest figures of the European
Renaissance, made it a practice to pray, Sancte
Socrates, ora pro nobis,
“Holy Socrates, pray for us.”[17] By contrast, today, even in the
classical universities, I do not believe that they pray to Socrates
for help.

By
the seventeenth century, the feeling that was, for Erasmus, so
intense had somewhat weakened, but, nevertheless, the question was
still looming. For an academic today, in his approach to traditional
Jewish texts, “the Ancients”
– the classics, Khazal,
rishoynim
– are, in the words of the English poet Ben Johnson, “Guides, not
Commanders.”[18] A bentoyre,
by contrast, recognizes to a much sharper and greater degree the
authority of Khazal,
rishoynim,
Torah, and halokhe.
For him, texts are not only eminent or valuable, but holy. And this
is a basic difference in attitude which, perhaps, distinguishes the
two approaches and leaves a chasm between them.

Edmund
Wilson, writing one time in The
New Yorker magazine –
he is, of course, a non-Jew, but one who is greatly interested in the
Land of Israel and Jewish matters – mentioned that he believes that
a non-Jew cannot possibly grasp what an observant Jew feels when he
holds a Torah scroll, and not only when he is holding one; how he
thinks about khumesh,
about Torah. To a certain extent, it is difficult to convey to a
modern man who has no parallel in his own experience; perhaps it is
complicated to describe how a bentoyre
or benyeshive
approaches a gemore.
Of course, it is not the same way one approaches khumesh,
for khumesh
is, from a halakhic perspective, a kheftse
of Torah. Of what does Torah consist? Text. However, the kheftse,
the object, of the Oral Torah is not the text alone – which was
itself, after all, originally transmitted orally – but the ideas
contained therein and, in a certain sense, the human being, the mind,
the soul that is suffused with those ideas by a great mentor. Still,
while it may be that the relationship of a benyeshive
to a gemore
is difficult to convey, it is certainly, at the very least, sharply
divergent from the approach of an academic.

And
so, we have, for the time being, two points that distinguish the
traditional form of learning, yeshive
learning, from a more academic approach. But these two points, it
seems to me, are not entirely separate from one another; rather, just
the opposite, one is bound up in the other. At the end of the day,
why does a benyeshive
devote himself so fully specifically to text alone, to the arguments
of Abaye and Rove, and why is he not terribly interested in knowing
Jewish history and the like? Firstly, because he considers the text
so important; if one holds that a text is holy, one wishes to study
it. Secondly, because he believes that the text is not only holy, but
deep – there is what to study there! It contains one level on top
of a second level on top of a third. The more one delves into Torah,
the more one bores into its inner essence, the more distinctly one
senses the radiance and illumination that Khazal
tell us inhere within the Torah [Eykhe
rabe, psikhte
2].

In
order to establish the various levels of interpretation and maintain
that one can examine a particular nuance with great precision, one
must actually believe that a text is both holy and important and that
it stems from an awe-inspiring source. For example, in the Middle
Ages, in – excuse the comparison – the Christian world, people
were involved in all sorts of analysis, each person seeing from his
own perspective…

Notes:

*
I wish at the outset to express my appreciation to my dear friends,
Rabbis Daniel Tabak and Shlomo Zuckier, for their editorial
corrections and comments to earlier drafts of this piece which, taken
together, improved it considerably.

[1]
The date assigned to the
shi‘ur
on the YUTorah website is erroneous; it should read: “May 12,
1968.”

Those
who listen to the original audio will note that it begins to cut in
and out at about 42:40, thus effectively eliminating the direct
connection between the present recording and the one posted on YIVO’s
website. However, it is clear from the short snatches of Rav
Lichtenstein’s voice that have been preserved after 42:40 that the
recordings do in fact belong to one and the same talk (and not two
separate Yiddish lectures on the same topic). Incidentally, if any of
the
Seforim
blog’s
readers knows where the intervening audio can be found, please
contact the editors so that it, too, can be translated for the
benefit of the public.

For
other Seforim
blog
studies related to Rav Lichtenstein, see Aviad Hacohen, “Rav
Aharon Lichtenstein’s Minchat
Aviv:
A Review,”
the
Seforim blog
(September 8, 2014), and Elyakim Krumbein, “Kedushat
Aviv: Rav Aharon Lichtenstein zt”l on the Sanctity of Time and
Place,” trans. David Strauss, the
Seforim blog
(December 5, 2017) (both accessed March 25, 2018).

[2]
See
the YIVO website
(accessed March 25, 2018) for a guide to Yiddish Romanization, as
well as Uriel Weinreich, ModernEnglish-Yiddish, Yiddish-English Dictionary
(New York: Schocken Books, 1977) for his transcriptions of terms
deriving from the loshn-koydesh
component of Yiddish.

[3]
David
Rudavsky, research associate professor of education in New York
University’s Department of Hebrew Culture and Education, presented
before Rav Lichtenstein on “A Century of Jewish Higher Learning in
America – on the Centenary of Maimonides College.” See the
conference program in Yedies:
News
of the Yivo.
See also David Rudavsky, Emancipation
and Adjustment: Contemporary Jewish Religious Movements and Their
History and Thought
(New York: Diplomatic Press, 1967), 318-320, for a brief discussion
of Maimonides College.

For
a history of Maimonides College, founded in Philadelphia in 1867 by
Isaac Leeser – not to be confused with the
post-secondary school of the same name located today in Hamilton,
Ontario – see Bertram Wallace Korn, “The
First American Jewish Theological Seminary: Maimonides College,
1867–1873,” in Eventful
Years and Experiences: Studies in Nineteenth Century American Jewish
History
(Cincinnati: The American Jewish Archives, 1954), 151-213. The
charter of Maimonides College was published in “A Hebrew College in
the United States,” The
Jewish Chronicle
(August 9, 1867): 7 (I thank Menachem Butler for this latter source).
See also Jonathan D. Sarna, American
Judaism: A History
(New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2004), 80,
431.

[4]
Yiddish kvetshn
di bank/dos benkl is a
particularly evocative way of referring to someone putting in long
hours learning while sitting on a bench or chair in a besmedresh.

[5]
For this part of the
lecture, see my aforementioned, previous translation published on the
YIVO website.

[6]
It appears that the
section of the lecture relating to Rav Lichtenstein’s understanding
of “higher” learning has not been preserved in either of the two
parts of the recording available at present.

[7]
See A.S.P.
Woodhouse, “The HistoricalCriticism of Milton,” PMLA
66:6 (December 1951): 1033-1044.

[8]
See Cleanth
Brooks, “Milton and Critical
Re-Estimates,” PMLA
66:6 (December 1951): 1045-1054.

[9]
F.N.
Robinson, ed., The
Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer
(Boston; New York; Chicago: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1933), xv.

[10]
Leopold
Zunz, Toledot
morenu ge’on uzzenu rabbenu shelomoh yitshaki zts”l ha-mekhunneh
be-shem rashi,
trans. Samson Bloch ha-Levi (Lemberg: Löbl Balaban, 1840).

[11]
For a
survey and discussion of the various people to whom this critique of
Wissenschaft
has been attributed, see Shimon Steinmetz, “What
color was Rashi’s shirt? Who said it and why?” the
On the Main Line blog
(June 10, 2010) (accessed March 25, 2018). For a recent biography of
Zunz, see Ismar Schorsch, LeopoldZunz: Creativity in Adversity
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016). It should be
noted that Zunz (1794–1886) had just turned six when Rabbi Berliner
(also known as Hirschel Levin or Hart Lyon; 1721–1800) passed away.

[12]
Lionel
Trilling, “Wordsworth
and the Rabbis: The Affinity Between His ‘Nature’ and Their
‘Law,’” Commentary
Magazine
20 (January 1955): 108-119, a revised version of his earlier
“Wordsworth and the Iron Time,”
The
Kenyon Review
12:3 (Summer 1950): 477-497. The essay, or a version thereof, also
appeared in a number of other forums.

[13]
William
Wordsworth, “Ode:
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood,”
Wikisource,
l.
206 (accessed March 25, 2018). (The poem was first published under
the title “Ode” in Wordsworth’s Poems,
in Two Volumes,
vol. 2 [London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1807], 147-158.) This
line does not actually appear in the aforementioned Trilling article.
The Ode itself was the subject of a different essay by Trilling
published under the title “The Immortality Ode” in Trilling’s
The
Liberal Imagination: Essays on Literature and Society
(New York: The Viking Press, 1950), 129-159.

[14]
See
Jonathan Swift, An
Account of a Battel between the Antient and Modern Books in St.
James’s
Library
(London: John Nutt, 1704).

[15]
Jones’
monograph, The
Background of the Battle
of the Books (St. Louis: Washington University Press, 1920), was
actually an offprint of an article by the same name that appeared in
Washington University Studies: Humanistic Series7:2
(April 1920): 99-162.

[16]
John
Dryden, Of
Dramatick Poeſie, an Essay
(London: Henry Herringman, 1668). See also the version reproduced
here
(accessed March 25, 2018).

[17]
Desiderius
Erasmus, The
Colloquies of Erasmus,
trans. N. Bailey, ed. E. Johnson, vol. 1 (London: Reeves &
Turner, 1878), 186.

[18]
Ben
Iohnson, Timber:
or, Discoveries…
(London, 1641), 89.