[Aryeh Cohen, Shaul Magid] Beginning Again Toward(BookFi.org)

Beginning/Again

Beginning/AgainToward a Hermeneutics of Jewish Texts

edited by

Aryeh CohenUniversity of Judaism

and

Shaul MagidJewish Theological Seminary

Seven Bridges Press135 Fifth AvenueNew York, NY 10010–7101

Copyright © 2002 by Seven Bridges Press, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a re-trieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, me-chanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permissionof the publisher.

Publisher: Ted BolenManaging Editor: Katharine MillerComposition: Rachel HegartyCover design: Stefan Killen DesignPrinting and Binding: CSS Publishing

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA[CIP data here]Manufactured in the United States of America

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For Shachar Ayala and Oryah Menachem Yitchak.µlw[ hnwb dsj lk—hnby dsj µlw[ ytrma yk

For Chisdawho knows the secret of how to begin in the middle

Contents

Acknowledgments ixPreface xiIntroduction: Beginning, False Beginning, and

the Desire for Innovation xvii

MICHAEL CARASIK

1 Three Biblical Beginnings 1

BENJAMIN D. SOMMER

2 Expulsion as Initiation: Displacement, Divine Presence, and Divine Exile in the Torah 23

CHARLOTTE FONROBERT

3 The Beginnings of Rabbinic Textuality: Women’s Bodies and Paternal Knowledge 49

ARYEH COHEN

4 Beginning Gittin/Mapping Exile 69

MIRIAM PESKOWITZ

5 Burying the Dead 113

ELLIOT R. WOLFSON

6 Before ‘Alef/Where Beginnings End 135

SHAUL MAGID

7 Origin and Overcoming the Beginning: Zimzum as a Trope of Reading in Post-Lurianic Kabbala 163

ZACHARY BRAITERMAN

8 Cyclical Motions and the Force of Repetition in the Thought of Franz Rosenzweig 215

Acknowledgments

This project has taken many years from formulation to fruition. The ideareceived its first public hearing at a panel at the Association for Jewish StudiesConference in Boston in December 1995. The editors conceived the idea of apanel on Beginnings, and invited Elliot Wolfson to join them in presenting pa-pers on the topic. Elliot graciously agreed and we saw, in retrospect, that thepapers shared many themes though their specific texts and topics were differ-ent. At that point the idea for the book was born. We are very thankful to El-liot both for his contribution to that session, for introducing our project toSeven Bridges Press, and for his wise counsel and friendship through the wholeprocess.

The second public hearing was at the Textualities conference at Drew Uni-versity in July of 1997. We are grateful to Peter Ochs for inviting us (i.e., AryehCohen, Shaul Magid and Charlotte Fonrobert) to present our research as awork in progress at that conference. This is but one example of Peter’s intellec-tual and personal generosity and encouragement of scholarship and scholars.

We are grateful to each of the contributors for their commitment to theproject. We also thank them for their patience as we kept assuring them thatthis work would actually see the light of day.

We could not have found a better home for this book than Seven BridgesPress. We are especially grateful to Ted Bolen for his care and commitment, andfor inaugurating the Jewish Studies Series with this volume.

Aryeh would like to thank Andrea Hodos for the space we have created to-gether, Charlotte Fonrobert, Pinhas Giller and Maeera Schreiber, for theirfriendship, intellectual support and scholarly critique. I am especially gratefulto Shaul Magid for this collaboration and our ongoing friendship.

Shaul would like to thank Nancy Levene for simply being there, DavidRoskies, for carefully reading and correcting my Introduction, the hevraya atYeshivat Ha-Hayyim ve Ha-Shalom in Jerusalem, especially Rabbi MordecaiAttia, with whom I first studied Lurianic Kabbala, and to my students at the

Jewish Theological Seminary, who struggled through the dense labyrinth thatis the Lurianic system believing me that somehow, someday, it may actuallymake sense. Finally to Aryeh, who knows, as I do, about beginning again, andwho inspires those who begin again and again.

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Preface

What is the relation of beginnings to Beginning in Jewish textual tradition?That is, what is the relation of any specific beginning—of a text, a book, an ar-gument, a narrative—to the originary moment of Jewish textual tradition—Beginning with a capital B: in the Beginning? One might argue that the tradi-tion exists under the sign of the Beginning, a problematic sign whose inherentand constructed ambiguity has generated centuries of commentary. This com-mentary might be called a literature of Beginning. It is a literature whose cen-tral trope is the Beginning of Genesis 1:1 in all its ambiguity. Still and all, withall its attendant uncertainty and ambiguity, this Beginning (of Genesis 1) marksa difference vis à vis Ancient Near Eastern texts and myth, as an icon ofmonotheism and Judaism both as understood and misunderstood. This is Be-ginning as origin, Beginning as metaphysical etiology. Genesis 1 and its prob-lematic narrative of the move from tohu and bohu to world (from primal chaosto Divine order) authorizes (generates, allows, and legitimates) the Jewish tex-tual tradition.

And yet, each specific beginning as a literary and/or mythical and/or philo-sophical moment in time challenges the primacy of the Beginning, even as itmight still claim its authority or exist under its influence. While Beginning di-rects events toward linear continuity, beginnings are discontinuous, subversive.While each new specific beginning (of a text, a collection, a book . . . )—oftenexplicitly,1 if not, then by implication2 and at times only after the fact3—claimsits legitimacy through the textual tradition, and ultimately through the Begin-ning, at the same time each beginning, as in a serial novel, changes direction,states the inadequacy of the up-till-now, and claims its own authority as a newbeginning.

The work that resulted in this book proceeds from at least two proposi-tions. First, there is knowledge to be gained by making the transparent visible.The first conceptual step in formulating the groundwork proposal for thisbook, informed by Edward Said’s work on Beginnings, was to attend to the

quotidian and obvious notion that any textual work claims a beginning, or isat least framed such as to have a beginning. Focusing on the beginning oftexts disrupts the smoothness of a textual tradition and calls attention to dis-junction and disruption. Calling attention to beginnings—the beginning oftexts as as well as beginnings as discussed in texts—will, hopefully, bring in itswake a reconsideration of the work and meaning of those texts.

The second proposition is the Foucaultian one, that there is a connectionbetween rhetorical and cultural moves. That is, the assumption that when abook is written (or edited) this is embedded in and is, to an extent, reflectiveof a cultural beginning, a new move in an ongoing cultural negotiation. Textsare not produced apart from or as mirrors of a culture but are of the essenceof that culture. Therefore we may read texts as cultural productions and henceread cultural moves in rhetorical moves. When a textual beginning signals adisjunction with a previous text, we may look there for cultural tear, a movein the ongoing negotiation over specific cultural issues (e.g., exile).

This, then, leads to the following two questions. When scholars in differ-ent (sub)fields of Jewish studies use a similar hermeneutic frame when ana-lyzing the texts of their choosing, will they encounter (or produce) similar is-sues? Will a Biblicist draw from his text what a modernist will draw from hers,given the similar hermeneutic frame?

This leads to the second question. Might this be a groping toward ahermeneutic of Jewish texts? Is this a way that we can then describe a Jewishtextual tradition that gives itself over to this type of hermeneutic rather thananother? If, by addressing similar concerns in different layers of the Jewishtextual tradition, overlapping results are arrived at by different authors, mightthat not point to some mutable continuity in that tradition?

The contributions to this volume do intersect and overlap at interestingand important junctures. While the chapters are presented chronologically(Bible to Modern Jewish Thought), the issues transcend the order and, attimes, blur the boundary between one period and the next. So, for example,Ben Sommer’s essay, “Expulsion as Initiation: Displacement, Divine Presence,and Divine Exile in the Torah,” ends at the place that Shaul Magid’s chapter,“Origin and Overcoming the Beginning,” starts.

Sommer’s analysis of beginnings focuses on the problematic and tragicdedication of the Tabernacle in Leviticus 10. Reading this text through thelens of the JE creation texts, Sommer argues that beginning is inextricablytied up with exile. This is a result of the tension between a locomotive andlocative view of the deity. The unresolvable tension between these two con-ceptions of the Divine results in the attempt to locate God in a space, and thatattempt being undermined by a divine eruption, a divine refusal to be located

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in space. “Thus,” Sommer concludes, “the troubled rhetoric of beginnings inthe Torah is a rhetoric of displacement, . . . Home is displaced, or supple-mented by exile. Divine presence itself is displaced [and this] effects a radicaldisplacement of the priesthood and of the orderly universe to which they as-pire.” Beginning itself is problematic—an idea that will recur throughout thevolume—since exile is primary and home secondary. The originary exile is theexile of God from God in the act of creation, “for insofar as the deity comesinto contact with creation (indeed, insofar as the deity creates, which is to say,begins), the divinity expels itself from the divine realm” (p. 37, this volume)

Shaul Magid’s chapter also explores this notion of the alienation of God.Magid, analyzing Lurianic hermeneutics and the concept of zimzum pushesthe alienation of God back one step further, before the actual creation.“[T]hese Kabbalists understood the biblical text as already part of creation andthus alienated from the infinite God.” Magid argues that “zimzum presents uswith a theory of creation that is simultaneously a poetics of exile and a pre-scription for redemption.” Since Scripture is the result of zimzum, sacred studyis a reenactment of zimzum, “reversing the beginning in search of origin.”

Michael Carasik looks at the way beginnings are used to shape the Bibli-cal narrative. The Beginning of Genesis 1 operates as a sign that differentiatesthe biblical narrative from other ancient near eastern narratives. The prob-lematics of ultimate origins; and the authorization of Beginning is resolved bythe biblical author by beginning in media res and letting Beginning stand asits own claim for authority. Carasik then looks at the beginning of Israelitemonarchy in I Samuel 1 and the beginning that is the end of Tanakh: the lastverses of Chronicles. This last beginning—the return—is a fitting ending forTanakh since it is the moment before the “going up,” it is the last moment ofthe Exilic story—a fitting ending to a story that begins in Exile with God’scommand to Abraham: “Get thee up.”

While Sommer and Magid stress the problematics of beginning, Carasikpoints to the impossiblity of beginning, and the neccesity for any beginningto be actually after something else. This is also at the heart of Eliot Wolfson’sreflection on Beginnings, “Before ’Alef/Where Beginnings End.” Using SeferBahir as a base text and Heidegger as a prism, Wolfson reflects on the para-dox of the beginning: “How does the beginning begin without having alreadybegun? However, if the beginning cannot begin without having alreadybegun, in what sense is it a beginning?” Ultimately the central question thatis engaged in Wolfson’s philosophical reflection is one that, in a sense, has ac-companied the history of philosophy—how can one describe or account forthe move from eternality to temporality? This move involves desire, the playbetween eros and noesis, and the yearning for wholeness.

preface X I I I

Wolfson and Magid also stress the distinction between beginnings andorigin, reishit and tefillah. For both there is a beginning before Beginning. Inthe chapter, “Beginning Gittin/Mapping Exile,” Aryeh Cohen employs a sim-ilar distinction between reishit and tefillah to claim that “the ultimate Begin-ning of beginning, the bereishit of the beginning, is the deeper significancethat the disjunction of beginning a tractate carries. A Tractate begins, there-fore, at its moment of disjunction with its Mishnah.” Cohen’s essay, on theinitial sugyot of Tractate Gittin, locates this Beginning in the problematics ofExile, which are also entwined with the problematics of gender.

Charlotte Fonrobert’s essay, “The Beginnings of Rabbinic Textuality:Women’s Bodies and Paternal Knowledge,” focuses on the problematics ofgender at the Beginning of rabbinic textuality. Fonrobert argues that “theMishnah projects continuity between the rabbinic movement and Temple Ju-daism by concealing the destruction of the Temple, in order to conceal itsown beginning, its own innovativeness, and thus to deflate questions as to thediscontinuity between biblical and rabbinic law, and ultimately the authori-tative basis of rabbinic law. The purity system forms a crucial nexus of thisstrategy, and menstrual impurity arguably forms its center. For the rabbiswomen’s bodies turn into a major, if not their central, tool for conceptualiz-ing time and space, and the relationship between the two.” Again it is thenexus of Exile and Beginnings, beginnings that follow effaced endings, whichis central to this discussion.

The overlapping concerns of the classical textual tradition, or the fact thatthese different scholars uncovered intersecting concerns within a textual tra-dition that saw itself as—to some extent—one, is important though perhapsnot surprising. It is significant then that Zachary Braiterman’s chapter, “Cycli-cal Motions and the Force of Repetition in the Thought of Franz Rosen-zweig,” also gravitates to the issue of the impossibility of beginning. More tothe point, Braiterman argues that “repetition” is the defining force of Rosen-zweig’s Star—calendrical and existential repetition—and that the long-as-sumed linear narrative from creation to redemption is rather a cyclical movefrom death to death. Out of death to death (different death) the beginninghas already begun.

Miriam Peskowitz’s “Burying the Dead” is a feminist critique of the very de-sire for beginnings, for a history that we might use, for a sense of continuitywith any people of the Roman period. Peskowitz clearly articulates both theepistemological problematics of telling history and the real danger of con-structing a narrative of the rabbis that allows easy (or any) identification be-tween them and contemporary Jews. In the context of the chapters in this vol-ume, Peskowitz’s chapter reverberates with the seemingly essential problematic

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of Beginning, and the location of thought in Exile—Exile as the “natural” state.Peskowitz challenges us to “stop fantasizing the past as a home to return to.”

In this short overview I have stressed those things that are common tothese chapters. At the same time the chapters are very different in methodol-ogy, texts, and conception. This is not surprising since the contributors rep-resent a cross-section of the younger generation of scholars in Jewish studies.The interesting (and perhaps surprising) thing is that with only the force of asimilar hermeneutic frame, the contributions have intersected to the extentthat they have.

We start the book, then, with a beginning that came out of depths ofExile—Shaul Magid’s translation and interpretation of a hasidic reflection onBeginning from the Derekh Ha-Melekh, whose author, Rabbi KalonymousKalman Shapira, was murdered in the Trawniki labor camp.

Notes

1. e.g., commentary2. e.g., legal codes3. e.g., some of the parts of the canonized Bible: Kohelet. Cf. Edward Said, Begin-

nings: Intention and Method (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press,1975); “To identify a point as a beginning is to classify it after the fact.” (29)

preface X V

IntroductionBeginning, False Beginning,

and the Desire for Innovation

(A Hasidic Master’s reflection on beginnings:

translation and commentary)

Author’s note: In my view it is fitting to introduce a book of Jewish re-flections on beginnings with a tribute to those whose “beginnings” werecut short by the tragedy of war and baseless hatred. The Talmud teaches,“All beginnings are hard.” Although there is no reason to believe this wasnot meant as a universal claim, it is particularly true of a people whose“beginnings” were often threatened by the prospect of misfortune. Whatfollows is a text by one who deeply knew the frailty of beginnings as hewitnessed firsthand the slow destruction of European Jewry. He toowould soon be consumed by its flame. What remains are only ashes—words that echo from the dark abyss of the human capacity for evil. YetI think I resonate his thoughts when I say that from those ashes, fromthose fractured letters, new beginnings will sprout.

R. Kolonymous Kalman Shapiro of Piasczeno (1889–1943) was the leaderof a hasidic court in central Poland during the first part of the twentieth cen-tury. In 1913 he became the chief rabbi of Piaseczno, instituting a yeshiva (sem-inary) called “Da’at Moshe” (the Wisdom of Moses) in 1923. Following the in-ternal migration of hasidic Jews in Poland from small towns to large urbancenters immediately preceding the second World War, he migrated from Pi-asczeno, a small suburb outside Warsaw, to the heart of Warsaw. He subse-quently became a leading hasidic figure in the Warsaw ghetto, founding a rab-

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binical seminary (yeshiva) that catered specifically to orphaned children.1 Hesurvived the Great Deportation of the ghetto in the summer of 1942 and, dueto the kindness of Abraham Hendel, a Jewish entrepreneur now working forthe German industrialist Fritz Schultz, was given work in a shoe factory in theghetto. Along with the other remaining Jews in the ghetto, R. KolonymousKalman was deported in the summer of 1943 to the Trawniki labor camp. OnNovember 3, 1943, Himmler, responding to camp uprisings in Treblinka (Au-gust, 1943) and Sobibor (October, 1943) ordered all inmates of Trawniki tobe taken out of the camp and shot. This order, carried out in November 1943,ended the life and spiritual journey of R. Kolonymous Kalman Shapira. 2

R. Kolonymous Kalman became known outside the circle of Hasidim fora collection of sermons he delivered in the Warsaw ghetto, that were discov-ered by a Polish child in the rubble after liberation and subsequently pub-lished under the title “The Holy Fire.” He also wrote numerous monographson pedagogy and the moral training of hasidic youth that has recently gainedrecognition in English speaking Jewish circles.3 His most difficult and leastknown work is entitled Derekh Ha-Melekh. It contains sermons delivered inPiasceno in the 1920’s and early 1930’s before his move to Warsaw. Presentedin the classical homiletic style of hasidic discourse, these sermons exhibit amodern sensibility and philosophical sophistication uncommon in hasidic lit-erature, even at this late stage in its development.4 His “modernity” derives,in part, from the way he responds to the Jewish Enlightenment, which forcedhim to grapple with modern concepts and constructs5 while remaining un-compromisingly dedicated to the anti-modern sentiments of his immediatepredecessors.6 In this, R. Kolonymous Kalman was a unique and outstandingexample of late Hasidism and its role in the formation of modern Judaism.

The following sermon is included in the two-volume collection of ser-mons that comprises Derekh Ha-Melekh.7 Delivered on the festival ofSukkot (Tabernacles) 1930, it is based on the biblical verse (Leviticus 23:40)commanding Israel to take the citron fruit (etrog) and wave it with threeother species (palm, myrtle, and willow branches) on the first day of the fes-tival of Tabernacles, the 15th day of the Hebrew month of Tishri. The versein question specifies that the etrog be taken “on the first day [of the festi-val],” leading the rabbinic midrash to compare the etrog to other instancesin the Bible where the phrase “the first” (rishon) appears.8 R. KolonymousKalman’s creative reading of this midrash gives rise to more general reflec-tions on the nature of beginnings and reflects on the potential contributionof Hasidism to the dilemma of traditional Judaism facing the relentless tideof modernity.9

A Note on the Translation and Commentary

In the spirit of hasidic discourse, which only reluctantly submits speech towriting, this essay will consist of a translation of the entire sermon inter-spersed with interpretive comments that are directed toward a specific read-ing—reading for beginnings. The interspersion of the commentary is an at-tempt to draw readers into the text by directing them toward a particularreading, i.e., my own. To better facilitate this “invested” endeavor, I havetaken considerable license in places, translating the text toward its interpreta-tion rather than offering a more literal translation and then using that as thebasis of my reading. Therefore the translation is itself an interpretation, whichis expanded in my comments. My goal is neither to disguise the text nor ma-nipulate the reader (readers of Hebrew should indeed consult the text andtake issue with my interpretive translation). Rather, this is an experiment inreader-directed-translating, i.e., using translation as a hermeneutic tool to en-able the reader to stay within the text’s circle of discourse while drawing thetext outside that circle. I have tried to keep this as honest as possible either (1)by reproducing the Hebrew (in transliteration) in the body of the text whenthe words I chose are quite distinct from the Hebrew, or (2) by discussing mytranslation of particular phrases in the footnotes, both justifying and equivo-cating my choice.10

Derekh Ha-Melekh, 252–254

The Festival of Tabernacles (Sukkot)—1930, Piasceno, Poland

Text

[Rabbi Kolonymous Kalman Shapiro of Piasceno said:]

It is stated in the midrash, parshat Emor,11 “R. Berakhia said in the nameof R. Levi, ‘Through the merit of the verse And you should take for your-selves on the first day (yom ha-rishon (Leviticus 23:40)) I will reveal to youfirst (rishon) and will punish you from the first (rishon). A transgressor willarise, who is called first (rishon) [as it says], The first one went out red (Gen-esis 28:25). I will rebuild the Temple, which is called first (rishon). I willbring you the Messiah, who is called first (rishon). . .

Every beginning contains some dimension of renewal/innovation (hithad-shut), without which is not called [a true] beginning.12 However, each begin-ning [in this world] is only in reference to a particular thing, as it says, the firstone (Esau) went out red (Genesis 28:25). Even though many individuals were

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born before Esau, he was called “first” in reference to this particular birth.This means that the label “first” for Esau is really only in reference to Jacob.Regarding Adam, who is called Adam Ha-Rishon (Adam the First) the sameholds true. Even though many things were created before Adam, he was thefirst human being and is therefore called “the first.”

This is not true with reference to God, who is the first of all existence (ris-hon l’kol davar).13 Thus, if He did not create the world He would have re-mained only “devoid of beginning” (bli reshit).14 However, the attribute ofGod as the Beginning (Ha-Rishon)15 of everything is like all other divine at-tributes—it does not refer to God Himself, because His essence can never becontained in any attribute and can never be apprehended in any physicalmanner. “I [God] am only called according to My actions.” [Therefore] Godis called rishon (first/beginning) only in relation to the world that is the con-sequence of His emanation.16 The One who renews (m’hadash) the world isthe Beginning of all beginnings. This refers to God, who is the [absolute] Be-ginning [of creation and the One who sustains it]. Therefore all [true] begin-nings and renewal are a “trace” (nizoz)17 from God, who is the ultimateBeginning.

However, there is an important distinction to be made here. In referenceto all beginnings in the world, there are beginnings that contain an elementof renewal/innovation and “beginnings that are not beginnings” [or false be-ginnings].18 These [false] beginnings contain no element of renewal/innova-tion and therefore only appear to be true beginnings. Therefore, [from ourlimited perspective] we call them “beginnings.” For example, let us say thatone who brings forth some innovative insight in the Torah (m’hadash davarb’Torah) is the beginning (rishon) of this insight because he brought it into thisworld (hidsha). In truth, however, he is not the absolute beginning [of this].He is the beginning only to the extent that he brought this insight to light.Nevertheless, for this particular thing we may call him rishon and innovator.All we can say about him is that that he contains a trace (nizoz) of the trueBeginning of beginnings [Absolute Firstness, ha-rishon l’rishonim], the trueinnovator who created All. This is not the case with Esau, who went out first[and is thus called rishon]. His birth contained no innovative component. Hisstatus as “beginning” was solely chronological in that he went out [of Re-becca’s womb] before Jacob.19 Therefore, people called him “rishon.” Even ifEsau and Jacob would have been born of different mothers, the designation“rishon” would have been appropriate. However, if they had born at exactlythe same time he would not have been called rishon.20

Comment

To begin, R. Kalonymous Kalman implied, is to continue. But continuity cannever be mere reproduction, it must contain an element of innovation thatchallenges what was and, in doing so, preserves it. The midrash cited at thebeginning of this homily lists four objects that embody beginnings: (1) God(2) Esau (3) The Temple and (4) Messiah. According to this list, Esau is theexception that proves the rule that beginnings are precarious and deceptive yetessential. Embodying exile, Esau is the necessary precursor to the Temple andMessiah (he stands between God, the Temple, and Messiah in our midrash’slist) in that he creates the context for repentance. It is significant that thishomily was given on Sukkot (Tabernacles), which is the culmination of thedays of repentance and atonement of Rosh Hashana (New Year) and YomHakippurim (Day of Atonement). More importantly, according to ourmidrash, Sukkot (as yom rishon—the first day) represents the beginning of the“counting of sins” for the coming year.21 Esau serves as the necessary false be-ginning that enables Israel (through repentance) to construct the bridge fromrevelation (I am God, the first [Isaiah 41:4]) to redemption (The first of Zion,behold here they are [Isaiah 41:27]). However, Israel’s ability to accomplish thisgoal necessitates recognition of the distinction between authentic and falsebeginnings.

In our text, R. Kolonymous Kalman describes two types of beginnings—true and false. False beginnings threaten continuity by disguising themselvesas authentic innovation when, in truth, they either reproduce or efface thepast. They can be false for one of two reasons; either by merely reproducingthe past (false continuity) or by offering radical innovations not rooted in theAbsolute beginning [i.e., God] (heretical discontinuity). The former categoryillustrates the danger of tradition or traditionalism, answering the threat ofthe new by reproducing (and thus disabling) the old. The latter category in-cludes any beginning that is not an extension of the Absolute beginning or,any beginning that claims Absolute uniqueness. For our author, this latter cat-egory is embodied in the ancient notion of idolatry and constitutes the hereti-cal underpinnings of modernity.22 In either case, the deception of false be-ginnings is their apparent authenticity. The first case may be called deadtraditionalism, the latter case idolatry or heresy. False beginnings that makeno innovative claim are dead; those that make the claim of absolute unique-ness are blasphemous.23

Following standard hasidic practice, R. Kolonymous Kalman developedhis ideas on beginnings through the prism of human devotion, focusing onthe human soul as the locus of the transcendent God.24 The human being is

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commanded to emulate God (imatatio dei) and given the tools to do so bybeing created in His image (zelem elohim). True devotion begins with the vo-litional turn toward God by turning toward the divine self (the human soul).However, devotion as an act of divine emulation must always include the pre-cautionary measure that the divine self is never more than a divine image. Thepropensity to strive toward human deification is often seen by Jewish writersas rooted in the sin of Adam and Eve which becomes manifest in idolatry.25

Like beginnings (creativity), the human striving for perfection (imitatio dei)contains the seeds of its own demise.

The image of God in the individual is realized by human behavior and isnot merely part of the human condition. The biblical notion of zelem elohimis therefore not a statement about human nature but a declaration of humanpotential, actualized through creativity.26 The actualization or dormancy ofthis potential, however, is not either/or but liminal; it is always in transitionand never fully realized. Its realization would result in absolute autonomy, thedivinization of the human being. To be fully human, according to this model,would be to act like God but never to be like Him.

Esau as the Biblical Archetype of False Beginnings

Text

From this we see that Esau did not constitute a true beginning, as he did notbring forth anything new that would later be embodied or reflected in Jacob.The entire status of Esau as a true beginning and any apparent innovations thatmay stem from him are mistaken and false, as the Zohar 2.103a teaches, “Anyother god (‘el aher) is barren and does not bear fruit.”27 These “other gods” donot yield any true innovation and only steal their innovative components fromTorah, disguising them and deceiving people to think they contain true begin-nings.28 Even those innovations in the material world, such as automation, donot constitute authentic [innovative] beginnings as they are just produced bycomposites of existing forces. For example, we take existing parts and make a[new] machine by fashioning iron [in a certain way]. This is even more true inspiritual matters. All of their words and ideas are only to deceive others to be-lieve that they are innovators when in truth they are not. 29

This is not the case with Torah, which is also called reshit, because Torahcontains the true element of beginning and innovation in the world.30 There-fore, Israel, who is bound to the Torah, is also called reshit since it is drawn fromthe true Beginning and Innovator, who is present in it [Israel].

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Comment

It is significant that R. Kolonymous Kalman used the symbol of Esau in hisdescription of false beginnings. Esau was often utilized in medieval and earlymodern Jewish literature as a polemical depiction of Christendom.31 Chris-tianity, or at least the unlearned and simplistic way many traditional Jews inhis time understood it, erased the line between the human and divine, ex-tending the “divine image” paradigm in Genesis to a heretical (and, in theirminds, idolatrous) extreme.32 Our author claimed that Esau was false becausehe did not bring anything new into the world while claiming to be truly “first.”If we take the liberty to extend his discussion on Esau, the depiction of Jesusin Christianity would be rendered false because the innovation of Jesus as di-vine was viewed by these thinkers as having effaced the uniqueness of God, ei-ther by reproducing or replicating Him in the body of Christ. Moreover, Jesus’messianic claim was solidly based on prophetic teaching, offering nothing new.His (false) claim of authenticity resulted in the heretical claim of autonomyfrom God, even though it did not begin as such. According to this model,modernity, as radical autonomy, is an extension of the Christian claim of Jesus’uniqueness taken to its logical conclusion. Whereas in classical ChristianityJesus is independent of God because he is God, in modernity the individual isindependent of God because he no longer sees God as directing his fate. In ourauthor’s mind, Esau and Christianity (the latter mythically descending fromthe former) represent two poles of false beginning.

The threat of false beginnings is not exclusive to the outside (i.e., Gen-tile/ Christian) world—it is also deeply embedded in the Jewish imagination.According to Hasidic tradition, the human being inherits a “divine soul” andis therefore unique among God’s creatures. Yet, as a result of the sin, h/she isalso cursed with the power of deception (shrewdness). In the midrashic tradi-tion, this results from Adam and Eve’s encounter with the serpent in the gar-den. In certain Lurianic texts, for example, which often reconstructs themidrash though its own mythic imagination, the result of Adam and Eve’s en-counter with the serpent, whose central characteristic was shrewdness (Gene-sis 3:1), is that the serpent’s deceptive nature becomes a part of the humancondition through (sexual) intercourse (between the serpent and Eve andthen subsequently between Eve and Adam). Outside the garden, the humanbeing continues to deceive themselves through empty creativity. In R.Kolonymous Kalman’s view, false beginnings that arise through this emptycreativity, claiming human independence from God, sever the individualfrom the Absolute source of authenticity. Alternatively, false beginnings thatcontain no innovative spirit result in the dead state of reproduction and rep-

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etition. The former dimension of false beginnings is embodied in the serpent;the latter dimension in Esau.

The Bible contains numerous examples of deceptive individuals, charac-ters who challenge the viability of the divine human image. Two are relevantto our case. The first is the serpent, who seduces Adam and Eve into believ-ing they can overreach their human limitations and become “like God” (Gen-esis 3:5); that is, that the barrier separating the image of God and God can betraversed.33 The second is Jacob’s twin brother Esau, who poses a greaterthreat than the serpent because Esau’s deception is almost impalpable. In fact,in the biblical narrative it is absent, only attaining prominence in themidrash. As the midrash cited in our sermon relates, even God calls Esau ris-hon, an appellation that, as in the other three instances cited, is unique toGod or to those who reflect His will and thus embody true beginnings (God,the Temple, and Messiah). Esau looked like Israel (Jacob), shared his mother’swomb, his family, history, and fate.34 His deviance is subtle, unlike the un-abashed audacity of the serpent. In our hasidic text, Esau is depicted as merelyreproducing that which preceded him while proudly claiming to be truly in-novative. He is presented here as little more than human counterfeit. His des-ignation as “first” is merely chronological and not substantive. His claim toauthentic (innovative) beginning is thus deceptive.35

This exhibition of deception is deemed demonic by our author because itfalsifies true creativity. Therefore, R. Kolonymous Kalman likens Esau to“other gods” (Zohar 2.103a), depicting him as a human being without sacreddesire (ta’avah).36 Desire is understood here as a will for renewal drawn fromAbsolute beginning. This desire exhibits an independence and sovereigntythat, to the kabbalistic imagination, is absent in the demonic realm. TheZohar claims that the demonic, or the kelippot (extraneous matter), has no lifeforce of its own and sustains itself solely through interaction with the holy(hence the serpent needed a relationship with Adam and Eve to survive).37

Implied in our text is an important distinction between sovereignty and au-tonomy. The former embodies the biblical notion of freedom, enabling theindividual to act directly under the auspices of the Absolute. The latter seversties to the Absolute and is called heresy or idolatry. The irony is that the de-monic realm holds the promise of autonomy but can only offer radical de-pendency. In our text, Esau becomes the human embodiment of these kelip-pot, depicted as idolatry and illusion couched in the claim of innovation.38 Heis thus the prototype of false beginnings which live dormant in the con-sciousness of the nation of Israel.

R. Kolonymous Kalman uses this midrashic/kabbalistic observationabout Esau to make a point about the relationship between devotion and be-

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ginnings. Even as the human being is created in the “image of God,” thatimage only shines through devotion (imitatio dei/human creativity).39 Au-thentic devotion is always an expression of creativity whereby the devotee pre-serves the past by changing it, introducing some new component or perspec-tive. This notion resembles what Harold Bloom calls “originality” or “strongpoetry,” the space between repetition, which he calls canonical reading, andheresy.40 In Bloom’s assessment, the strong poet saves the past by readingagainst it while not effacing it. In our text, innovation in the context of con-tinuity is the hallmark of true beginnings that propels the Absolute beginning(God) into the future by acting against the present.

This last point may illustrate the impact of our author’s historical contexton his exegetical program. As mentioned in the introduction to the transla-tion, our author lived in the early decades of 20th century Poland, a curiousnexus between tradition and modernity, largely determined by the VersaillesTreaty and its aftermath in post World War I Eastern Europe. Coming in con-tact with the Jewish Enlightenment through urbanization and civil alliances,many Jewish traditionalists in Poland and Hungary battled against the ideo-logical underpinnings of modernity by arguing that innovation was itselfheretical.41 The supporters of the Enlightenment chose to subject tradition tomodern critique, scrutinizing tradition’s historical claims and foundationalideologies. In this text, R. Kolonymous Kalman represents those who sug-gested a third way, one that expresses what he considered the hasidic impulse,reminiscent of Bloom’s depiction of the strong poet.42

The Experiential Component of True Beginnings: Deciphering the Sacred

Text

The Talmud teaches that Bereshit “ In the beginning” (Genesis 1:1) is also adivine utterance. God created the world with Ten Utterances (Mishna Avot5:1). Since the Torah proclaims “Bereshit” (“In the beginning”), there is no be-ginning anyone can achieve that is not rooted in this True Beginning [of di-vine speech]. Beginning is the element with which God renews the world andalso one of the ten divine utterances out of which the world was initially cre-ated. Therefore, when one brings forth a novel insight in the study of Torah,one must know whether this is only an apparent innovation (a false begin-ning) or a true innovative insight (hidush). If it is a true innovation it willyield “a new light” (‘or hadash).43 If this insight embodies a “new light,” its ar-biter and all those who hear the insight will feel it. They will internally expe-rience the added sanctity embedded in this insight.44

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Everyone who studies a section of the Talmud or any sacred book shouldalso feel this sense of the sacred, even if the contents contain a discussion ofan “ox who gores a cow.”45 However if one gazes in a book or hears [torah]from a spiritually devolved individual, even if the message contains ethicalimport and has an inspirational quality about it, one will not ultimately feelpurified by it if it does not contain a “true beginning” and thus does not con-stitute an additional dimension of sanctity in the world.46

The ability to facilitate innovation (true beginnings) is not limited to onewho can draw insights from the Torah. It is also true of any Israelite who hassuccessfully corrected a character flaw or who has elevated a particular behav-ioral trait [to a place of sanctity], be it in reference to love or to awe [of God].When such an individual elevates this trait so that it is saturated with divinelove and awe, he has already achieved true innovation and becomes its begin-ning. This is true even if that particular corrective has already been mentionedin sacred literature.

Let us take the example of an individual who constructs a building in anew and beautiful manner. His friend comes along and duplicates his struc-ture with no changes. In relation to the form of the structure itself (zural’azma), the friend did not add any innovative component that was not al-ready instituted by the first builder. However, in relation to the material andthe house itself (ha-bayit b’azma) the friend was indeed an innovator since hebrought into existence something that did not previously exist. This is also thecase with sacred literature that contains all kinds of directives for correctinghuman behavior authored and developed by righteous individuals. Neverthe-less when an individual applies these directives to his own behavior he utilizesnew material (homer hadash). Even though the form (zura) of these correctivesis not new, since they were already instituted by these righteous authors, theimplementation of these forms comes to perfect [and innovate] a particulardimension of the forms they suggested.

Beginning, Innovation, and Sovereignty

This is also true of [political?] sovereignty in that Israel must be sovereign andnot absorbed in and ruled by the opinions and desires of the world aroundher. An individual who internally brings forth an innovation is called “thefirst.” His innovation is embodied in the verse [and its rabbinic interpreta-tion], These are the generations of Noah (Genesis 5:1), “Noah gave birth tohimself.”47 Therefore, he was sovereign. This is not the case of one who hasno internal innovation and has not corrected any dimension of his personal-

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ity. He is not called “first,” “innovator,” and “sovereign,” and it is difficult forsuch an individual to achieve sovereignty.

Looking deeply into the Torah can help such an individual. Everyoneknows in his soul that sometimes it is difficult to understand somethingdeeply while other times such understanding seems to come easily. This diffi-culty is [often] not the result of a tired mind but the fact that the individualdid not adequately push his intellect. This [internal] act of compulsion willpush him toward deep understanding. This can be likened to one who wieldsa large hammer to destroy a wall. His success will depend upon the force heuses to strike the wall. If he strikes the wall in a feeble manner the wall willnot fall [even if the hammer is large].

So too one must be sovereign over one’s intellect, compelling it to achievedeep knowledge. One who is not sovereign because he has not achieved anyinnovation in himself will not understand deeply, even if he is wise. This re-lates to all human endeavors. One who is sovereign can control all extraneousthought. And, if such foreign thinking does enter his consciousness, he canquickly remove it. As a result he can be the recipient of the supernal spiritfrom above. One who is not sovereign is susceptible to everything aroundhim. How can the supernal spirit dwell in such an individual?

This is the meaning of the midrash on the verse “And you should take foryourselves on the first day (yom ha-rishon) (Leviticus 23:40). The first for thecounting of sins.”48 This is not only that they will be counted from above. Italso applies to human beings. The mishna states that one should “consider theloss of a mitzvah. . . and the consequence of transgression against that loss.”Why don’t we live according to that simple equation? It is because we are notsovereign and do not have control over our thoughts. We desire to live accord-ing to this precept and then get distracted by other worthless thoughts. How-ever Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is a time when we repent, correct our be-havior and make ourselves a “true sovereign beginning” (rishon l’azmo). At thatmoment, we achieve a “first (rishon) in the counting of sins” and begin to thinkabout the consequence of transgressions. Why are able to do this now? Becausewe have achieved a true beginning through sovereignty.

Take for yourselves on the first day (yom rishon). God says, “I will reveal to yourishon (first). . . ”49 This means, I will draw down to you the first of true begin-nings in order for you to be innovators.50 And I will punish you from Esau “thecarrier of false beginnings” (Esau Ha-Rishon).51 The beginning that Esau car-ries is a mistaken beginning in order to deceive humankind.52 The true begin-ning is embodied in “I will build for you the Temple and bring Messiah to you”as Messiah is truly the beginning, he should come quickly in our time.

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Comment

The implication in the remainder of this text is that innovation is not a mod-ern idea but a fundamental part of authentic tradition. This does not meansimply that tradition must incorporate change. The innovation R. Kolony-mous Kalman had in mind was perspectival and not ideological or behavioral.True innovation was an accretion to the already existing system, deepeningand not altering the ways it was lived. R. Kolonymous Kalman was commit-ted to the devotional world of ultra-traditional Judaism where ritual and cod-ified halakha (law) served as the sole foundation of authentic spirituality. Yet,he also witnessed the innovative challenge of modern values and, unlike manyof his contemporaries, was unwilling to elude its challenges simply by demo-nizing the modern project. At the same time, he did not support the modernimpetus to sever or even loosen its moorings to the tradition through overtcritique. He wanted to promote originality, depicted here as “true begin-nings,” yet he also wanted his reader to become sensitized to the deceptiveand illusory nature of false creativity.

In some sense, he framed modernity as a contemporary manifestation ofthe biblical description of false prophecy (Deuteronomy 13:1–12). For the Lordis testing you to see whether you really love the Lord your God with all your heartand soul, (Deut 12:4). The premise of false prophecy is true (i.e., God doeschoose those to prophesy). The perennial message of Deuteronomy 13 is thatIsrael is always in danger of being deceived by anyone who makes a claim of au-thenticity. According to our author, modernity is precarious not because it isfalse but because it is based on the true principle of innovation, built on the de-ceptive foundation of radical autonomy. In his mind, the only way to be au-thentic was to be innovative and skeptical of innovation simultaneously.Modernity, like false prophecy, was a false demonstration of a true principle.

True creativity and innovation, R. Kolonymous Kalman maintained, canonly arise only out of a deep devotion to the past and a belief in the constantpresence of the Absolute beginning from which everything authentic emerges.To accomplish this, he implicitly drew our attention to the distinctions betweenthree categories: spontaneity, repetition, and reproduction.53 The first is the wayhe understood modernity’s answer to the question of beginnings, originality fos-tered by challenging and finally overcoming the past. This is the heretical be-ginning which is false because it has no point of origin outside of itself—its au-tonomy disconnects it from any sense of the Absolute, an I without a Thou(which, as both Hermann Cohen and Martin Buber maintain, is only the illu-sion of an “I”). The second is his critique of traditionalism that seeks to denythe viability of creativity by protecting the past at the expense of the present. Fi-

nally, reproduction is the most dangerous of the three because it is disguised astrue creativity in that it carries the designation of “first” in our midrashic text.It is embodied in Esau, here a euphemism for both Christianity and modernscientific inventiveness. It is often merely the combination of existing forces thatyields new results but does not constitute authentic creativity (that is, creativityconsciously connected to the Absolute source). The crux of our text rests on un-derstanding the distinction between mere inventiveness and true innovation, orrepetition and creativity, a distinction we must now explore.

In our text, true devotion is an expression of human creativity that perpet-uates and renews creation, while false devotion, like “other gods,” depreciatesthe spiritual progression of the world, desacralizing the sacred by merely repro-ducing it. This last point brings us to the most problematic section of ourtext—the subjective component that is the barometer which authenticates orfalsifies true beginnings. Our author is a firm believer in the possibility of au-thentic religious experience. He argues that such experience is established as aresponse to some new element (“new light”) brought into the world representedas authentic beginning. Once something becomes part of the realm of humanexperience through knowledge, however sacred or lofty, it can no longer serveas a source for an authentic religious inspiration, because it becomes too mucha part of human experience. Inspiration is solely the result of innovation, neverreproduction or repetition. What follows from this in our text is that the sanc-tity of Torah study is more the result of the interpreter (teacher) than the textbeing studied. Torah novella (hidushei torah/authentic beginnings) facilitate in-spiration by revealing some dimension or perspective of the text that has neverbeen realized.54 According to R. Kolonymous Kalman, the sacredness of Torahand devotion, its “new light,” subsists solely through innovation (hidush). Thisinnovation results in the inspiration (ta’avah—desire for the holy) that enablesIsrael to continue on the path toward redemption. Repetition (dead tradition-alism) annuls the sacred by disabling the text’s ability to be inspirational. Radi-cal innovation effaces the sacred by severing it from its Absolute source. Any in-spiration that follows is inauthentic (i.e., any reading that does not submit tothe text as a divine document), because it is viewed as being derived from an al-ready de-sacralized text.

Finally, R. Kolonymous Kalman argues that the ability to maintain re-newal or to perpetuate authentic beginnings requires ideological, spiritual(and perhaps even political) sovereignty. This last point recasts and stipulateshis earlier affirmation of the modern project. While the Jew must innovate inorder to foster progression he must do so solely within the ideological and in-tellectual framework of Torah. Inside that framework, the individual must re-main sovereign and not submit to the ideas or positions of others without ap-

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propriate scrutiny.55 This challenge against authority is very likely an exten-sion of our author’s understanding of the Baal Shem Tov and early Hasidism’srejection of the rabbinic culture of its time. To embody authentic beginningsone must exhibit the audacity and rebellious spirit needed to foster self-aware-ness. It should be no surprise that the biblical example brought to bolster thisclaim is Noah (“Noah gave birth to himself ”). Noah is depicted here as a self-made man who rejected society’s interpretation of historical events. However,his sovereignty included, or was founded on, the recognition and devotion tothe Absolute beginning (God), knowing that God could destroy the world aseasily as He created it. He was simultaneously a pietist and a radical individ-ualist (our author’s description of a true Hasid), resulting in his being chosento father a new generation of humanity.

Underlying this discussion on beginnings, R. Kolonymous Kalman offeredhis curious rendering of Hasidism as the model for authentic innovation andthe progression of Judaism.56 While such a depiction had already been pre-sented by Martin Buber decades earlier, R. Kolonymnous Kalman stood insidethe tradition he was representing, presenting modernity the false prophet of in-novation and Hasidism its corrective. Buber, who stood on the other side of thegreat divide between the modern west and Hasidism, knew far more than ourauthor about modernity and far less about Hasidism. Even as R. KolonymousKalman’s model shares a great deal with the modern project, it is independentof its ideological apparatus. Pure innovation (and beginning) is internal, an out-growth of spiritual evolution, independent thinking, and dedication to the no-tion of the infinite reservoir of Torah’s potential. The pitfalls are many. Inter-nally, they are embodied in the human capacity for self deception. Externally,they are the seduction of Esau, our textual referent for both Christianity andmodern culture. Raw traditionalism makes a claim for authentic continuity ofthe covenant at the expense of innovation. Unadulterated modernity champi-ons innovation at the expense of the Absolute. In light of this brief textualanalysis, the midrashic idiom “all beginnings are difficult” becomes even morenuanced: (1) authentic innovation requires submission to tradition. (2) the in-novative spirit often leads to an effacement of the Absolute; and (3) submissionoften subverts innovation. All three are called “rishon.” As to which, if any, bringredemption, each sovereign reader will have to decide.

Shaul MagidErev Sukkot, 5760

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Notes

1. He established his yeshiva in Piascenzo in 1909, immigrating to Warsaw afterWorld War I. His yeshiva in Warsaw, Da’at Moshe, was established in 1923 andlasted until the liquidation of the ghetto. The most comprehensive study ofKolonymous Kalman is Nehemia Polin’s The Holy Fire (New Jersey, 1994). Cf.the important discussion in Mendel Piekarz, Ideological Trends of Hasidism inPoland During the Interwar Period and the Holocaust [Hebrew] (Jerusalem,1990), pp. 373–411.

2. For a more detailed account see Polin, The Holy Fire, pp. 147–156.3. Two of these monographs have been translated into English. See, The Obliga-

tion of the Student, trans. Michael Oppenheimer (New Jersey, 1996) and Con-scious Community, trans. Andrea Cohen-Keiner (New Jersey, 1997).

4. Piekarz does not consider him an important and independent hasidic thinker.See Ideological Trends, p. 373. He views his homilies as larger re-formulations ofearlier teachings by other masters. However, I find that his pedagogical worksand his homilies exhibit a modern sensibility uncommon in hasidic masters ofhis day.

5. Most scholarly work on R. Kolonymous Kalman (Polin, Piekarz) concentrateson his hasidic reflections in the ghetto in Esh Kodesh.

6. Warsaw in the early 20th century was a cross-roads for modern Jews and theirhasidic contemporaries. See, Arthur Green, “Three Warsaw Mystics,” inMekharei Yerushalayim b’Makhshevet Yisrael 13 (1996): 1–58.

7. Derekh Ha-Melekh (Jerusalem, 1991). This collection contains two volumes ofsermons. The first volume contains sermons delivered during Shabbat, the sec-ond volume contains sermons delivered during festivals. The 1991 edition alsocontains various letters, numerous essays on pedagogy and an introduction toR. Kolonymous Kalman’s glosses on the Zohar, which was destroyed during theSecond World War.

8. The intertextual approach to reading Scripture is indicative of the larger rab-binic enterprise of midrash. See in Michael Fishbane, Garments of Torah,(Bloomington, Ind., 1989), pp. 3–18, 118–120.

9. For clarity I divided the sermon into sections, each beginning with a subtitle.The subtitles are my own and reflect what I determined was the general thrustof the section they represent.

10. Arthur Green has developed some interesting stratagems in translating hasidictexts. See, Green, “On Translating Hasidic Texts,” Prooftexts 3 (1983): 63–72.

11. Leviticus Raba, 30:17, Mordecai Margolis ed. (New York, 1993), p. 713. R.Kolonymous Kalman only offers us an excerpt. The full midrash reads as fol-lows: “. . . I will reveal to you “first.” I will punish you from “the first,” I willbuild for you “first” and I will bring you “first.” I will reveal to them first, as itsays I am God, the first (Isaiah 41:4). I will punish you from the first; this isEsau, the evil one, as it says, The first one went out red (Genesis 28:25). I willbuild you the first, this is the Temple, as it says, The Heavenly Throne from theheights, from the first (Jeremiah 17:12). I will bring to you first, this is the King

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Messiah, as it says, The first of Zion, behold here they are (Isaiah 41:27). Cf. aparallel text in Genesis Raba 63: 8.

12. The term hithadshut is usually translated as renewal. However, within the con-text of the Jewish mystical tradition, all innovations are aspects of renewal.Therefore, R. Kolonymous Kalman used the term to refer to both renewal andinnovation. In the kabbalistic imagination, no innovation is truly new. At bestit is only an unprecedented revelation of divinity, which is the source of allnewness. Therefore, renewal and innovation are related. The former refers to adimension of divinity that was concealed, and is now in a state of being re-vealed. The latter refers to an element of divinity never before disclosed that isnow revealed for the first time. Redemption, which plays an important role inthis homily stemming from the end of the midrash cited, occurs when all is re-newed, making way for true innovation, the disclosure of that which has neverbeen revealed.

13. This reflects Maimonides’ 13 Principles of faith and its formulation in thepoem Yigdal, “Rishon l’kol davar.” Yigdal was composed in Italy, around the be-ginning of the 14th century. The probable author was R. Daniel ben Yehuda ofRome. It very quickly became a standard part of the traditional liturgy and atrue representation of Maimonides’ 13 Principles, even as it contains some sub-stantive differences with Maimonides’ formulation in the “Commentary toPerek Helek” (Chapter 10 of Mishna Sanhedrin). R. Kolonymous Kalmanrefers to the better known liturgical formulation of Maimonides idea of God asboth beginning and without beginning.

14. God is often referred to as “bli reshit—bli takhlit” (eternal, without beginningand without end). Apparently what R. Kolonymous Kalman means is that cre-ation makes God the beginning of everything (rishon l’kol davar). God only be-comes the beginning at the moment of creation. Or, the genesis of the notionof beginning is only possible in creation. God’s paradoxical nature is that He issimultaneously void of beginning (bli reshit) and the absolute beginning(rishon).

15. I have rendered rishon (lit. first) as beginning, drawing from the phrase rishonl’kol davar as an appellation of God as Creator, the One Who Begins. Theuniqueness of God described here is that He is simultaneously rishon and blireshit (devoid of beginning). Our author then uses this paradox to claim thatthe adjective rishon, when it refers to God only refers to His action (peu’lot)and not His essence.

16. This is because His essence is “without beginning” (bli reshit). God is the be-ginning only in reference to creation. “God is beginning,” therefore, is a divineattribute, while bli reshit is a comment about divine essence.

17. The literal meaning of nizoz is spark. Here the term, common in theosophicKabbala and Beshtean Hasidism, is used to describe the source of all begin-ning/renewal and its relationship to all manifestations of that phenomenon.The term nizoz points to a fleeting remnant of the source as it becomes mani-fest in the world. In this light, the term “trace,” used by Emanuel Levinas andpopularized by Jacques Derrida, seems most appropriate.

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18. I am using the term “false beginnings” to refer to that which externally appearsas a beginning but lacks the necessary innovative component to be an authen-tic beginning which reflects the divine. These beginnings are deceptive, thecharacteristic that, at least according to rabbinic interpretation, exemplifies thebiblical character of Esau.

19. In classic midrashic style, R. Kolonymous Kalman takes us back to themidrash cited at the outset and begins to implement his distinction betweentrue and false beginnings. Both are called rishon. Both are only called such inreference to something else, for only God is the source of all beginning. In thefull midrashic passage cited in note 11 above, four things are called beginning;God, Esau, the Temple in Jerusalem, and the Messiah. God is called “the first,”the Temple is defined as “from the first,” Messiah is “the first.” Only in the caseof Esau is first-ness solely chronological (“he went out first”). R. KolonymousKalman explains that this is the sign of his inauthenticity in that there is noconnection to “the first [God].”

20. There is a distinction to be made between relative and chronological begin-nings to which R. Kolonymous Kalman alludes but never develops. I will dis-cuss this in my commentary.

21. See Leviticus Raba 30:7, pp. 704–706.22. See, for example, in R. Kolonymous Kalman Shapiro, Mevo Ha-Shearim, re-

printed in Hakhsharat Averkhim ve Mevo Ha-Shearim (Jerusalem, 1962), p. 41f.23. On this see Harold Bloom, Ruin the Sacred Truths (Cambridge, MA, 1987),

pp. 1–13.24. See, for example, in Rachel Elior, “Hasidism—Historical Continuity and Spir-

itual Change,” in Peter Schefer ed. Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism: 50 YearsAfter, (Tubingen, 1996), pp. 318 and 319.

25. For example, see Hermann Cohen, Religion of Reason Out of the Sources of Ju-daism (Atlanta, GA., 1995), pp. 338, 339, “Polytheism, on the contrary, withthe exception of Platonic philosophy, assumes immortality to mean only deifi-cation. Man desires to become God. This is the longing of classical man.Christianity, like the classical world, also took over this idea of deification.Monotheism, on the contrary, maintains the separation between God and manin all its concepts.”

26. See R. Joseph Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, L. Kaplan trans. (Philadelphia,1983), pp. 99–137.

27. The Zohar 2.103a reads, “Come and see, it is written, a river goes out from Edento water the garden. (Genesis 2:10). This river never stops flowing and constantlybears fruit. Any other god has no desire, never flows forth and never bears fruit.”See R. Hayyim Vital’s gloss that reads, “It is also written that the Tree of Life hasdesire. We learn from this that the kelippah (extraneous matter) has no desire, asit is written, the desire of the wicked shall be destroyed.” R. KolonymousKalman likens the “other gods” to the kelippot (following the Zohar), which, asR. Hayyim Vital states, “has no desire (ta’avah).” The use of the term desire ispositive, implying that desire is yearning for renewal.

28. This is an obvious reference to the nations of the world. According to certainstrains of kabbalistic doctrine, all Gentile wisdom originates in the theophanyat Sinai. R. Kolonymous Kalman adopts this position and mentions it in nu-merous places. For example, see “Derekh Ha-Iyyun Ha-M’Yuhad,” the onlyremnant from the monograph Hovat Ha-Avrekhim, printed in Derekh Ha-Melekh, p. 393. This observation will serve as the foundation of the latter partof this sermon where he speaks about the necessity of Jewish sovereignty in allmatters, political as well as religious.

29. The purpose of R. Kolonymous Kalman’s polemic is not clear. He appears to betying Western civilization, with all its material progress, to Esau, drawing frommedieval Jewish sources that suggest such a lineage. He may also be challengingChristianity’s use of Torah as the basis for what it claims as its innovative and pro-gressive nature. Just as Esau tried to deceive Isaac, so too (according to R. Kolony-mous Kalman’s logic) Christianity is trying to deceive the world of its authenticity.On the use of Esau as a symbol for Rome and Christianity in Jewish literature, seeGershon D. Cohen, “Esau as a Symbol,” in A. Altmann ed. Jewish Medieval andRenaissance Studies, (Cambridge, MA., 1967), pp. 20–48. R. Kolonymous Kalmanoften spoke of the ways in which Israel (particularly in its youth) was seduced bythe ways of the Gentile world. See, for example, Hovot Ha-Talmidim, (Warsaw,1932), p 8ff. and 59a. Cf. Piekarz, Ideological Trends, p. 23.

30. This appears to be based on the principle that Torah is the blueprint of cre-ation, which appears in the midrash and then becomes the foundation of SeferYezeriah, a foundational text in Jewish Late Antiquity.

31. See above, note 29.32. It is important to note that our author lived in a world which, in my view, se-

riously misunderstood Christianity, both in theology and in practice. He inher-ited an already well-oiled polemic against the viability of Christianity and itsidolatrous roots. In this essay I am merely attempting to expound on his ideas.I do not share his presuppositions nor his conclusions about Christianity ormodernity.

33. See Aviva Zorenberg, Genesis—The Beginning of Desire (Philadelphia, 1995),pp. 27–33. Hermann Cohen argues that the desire to be God lies at the root ofidolatry and the plastic arts. See his Religion of Reason Out of the Sources of Ju-daism (Atlanta, GA., 1995), pp. 50–58.

34. R. Menahem Mendel of Kotzk notices the similarity between Jacob and Esauin passing when he quipped, “Esau also wore a streimel (fur hat worn by ha-sidic Jews)!” R. Menahem Mendel’s disciple R. Mordecai Joseph of Izbica ex-tended this correlation much further. See Mei Ha-Shiloah, (Brooklyn, 1984)Vol. 1, 10b, “In the beginning both Jacob and Esau were equal, they were bothgreat men. . . ”

35. This is depicted in the midrashic tradition in Esau’s relationship to his fatherIsaac. See Genesis Raba 63:10.

36. The prophecy of Balaam stems also from the realm of “false gods” in Zohar3.193b. His prophecy is described as follows, “This evil one praised Israel in aconcealed manner. He spoke words of truth and deceived his audience [in

X X X I V beginning/again

introduction X X X V

thinking it came from a true place, ed.]. That is, from a vision of Shadai(God). Those that heard him thought that he saw what no other had evenseen.” For an interesting reading of this passage which is founded on the no-tion of Balaam as deceiver, see R. Isaiah Horowitz, Shnei Lukhot Ha-Brit(Jerusalem, 1993), Vol. 5, p. 62–67.

37. On this, see Isaiah Tishby, Torat Ha-Ra ve Ha-Kelippah, (Jerusalem, 1992), pp.69–80.

38. See Genesis 33:1–16. Interestingly Esau reunites with Jacob and wants to con-tinue to travel together. Jacob deceives him by agreeing to follow and then con-tinues in a different direction. The rabbinic tradition understands Esau’s mo-tives as malevolent. According to the Kabbala, which depicts Esau as demoniclike the serpent, his desire to reunite is construed as his need to re-engage withthe holy is order to sustain himself and his family.

39. See David Shapiro, “The Doctrine of the Image of God and Imitatio Dei” Ju-daism 12-1 (1963): 57–77.

40. See Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence, (New York, 1973), p. 20 and Susan Han-delman, Slayers Of Moses, (Albany, NY, 1982), pp. 191–197.

41. On this see Michael Silber, “The Emergence of Ultra-Orthodoxy: The Inven-tion of a Tradition” in Jack Wertheimer ed. The Uses of Tradition (New York,1992), pp. 23–84. Cf. my “Modernity as Heresy: The Introvertive Piety ofFaith in R. Areleh Roth’s Shomer Emunim,” Jewish Studies Quarterly, 3–4(1997): 74–104. The most comprehensive study of the relationship betweenHasidism and the Jewish Enlightenment is Raphael Mahler’s Hasidism and theJewish Enlightenment (Philadelphia, 1985), although he concentrates on theearly and mid 19th century. For a case of Hasidism and modernity in late 19th

century Poland see my “ ‘A Thread of Blue’: Rabbi Gershon Henoch of Radzynand his Search for Continuity in Response to Modernity,” Polin: Studies inPolish Jewry 11 (1998): 31–52.

42. Bloom uses his notion of the anxiety of influence as a hermeneutic for theKabbala of R. Moses Cordovero and R. Isaac Luria. See his Kabbala and Criti-cism, (New York, 1993). Although Bloom never treats Hasidism, I would arguethat his notion of strong reading works there as well.

43. The notion of a new light is multivalent in the Jewish tradition. It has a re-demptive resonance from the liturgical phrase “A new light will shine fromZion.” In the Kabbala it often refers to a new dimension of revelation revealedfor the first.

44. The implication here is that something that is authentically new is felt. Theproblematic of determining authenticity subjectively is never resolved in thistext but is a basic principle in hasidic literature. See Nehemia Polin, The HolyFire, pp. 27–30.

45. This refers to the discussion in Tractate Baba Kama, which deals with civil andproperty law. It is often cited as a seemingly mundane dimension of Torahstudy yet holds as much sanctity as the loftiest discussions about God and thehuman soul.

46. Here the notion of authentic beginning is transmitted through the teacher ofthe text as much more than the text itself. I will speak about this in my com-mentary below.

47. I have been unable to locate the source for this statement, although in the textit appears to be cited from a rabbinic text.

48. This refers to the festival of Sukkot as the beginning of calculating sins for thecoming year. See Leviticus Raba 30:7, p. 704–706, “On the eve of Rosh Ha-Shana, the great ones of the generation fast and God forgives one third of theirsins. From Rosh Ha-Shana to Yom Ha- Kippurim (the Day of Atonement) cer-tain elite individuals fast and God forgives another third of their sins. On YomHa-Kippurim all fast, men, women and children, and God says to Israel,“Whatever happened, happened!” From that point on, a new calculation be-gins. R. Aha disagrees. . . From Yom Ha-Kippurim until the Festival [ofSukkot] Israel is busy with mitzvot. This one is preparing his Sukkah, this onehis Lulav. On the first day of the Festival, all Israel stand before God, wavingtheir Lulav and Etrog, praising God’s name. Then God says, “Whatever hap-pened, happened!” From that point on a new calculation begins. Therefore,Moses warned Israel, And you should take for yourseves on the first day.”

49. In true proemic style, R. Kolonymous Kalman returns to the initial midrash,now reading it through his discussion of true and false beginning.

50. This refers to God’s revelation at Sinai and its prophetic interpretation in theverse I am God, the first (Isaiah 41:4).

51. I have taken considerable license here in the translation. R. KolonymousKalman merely states “Esau Ha-Rishon” which appears to a play on Adam Ha-Rishon, who is the carrier of a true beginning. Because Esau did not do thenecessary work to correct himself and to repent for his sins, he did not achieveany internal innovation (he did not change himself ). Therefore, his beginningis deceptive in that it is wholly external and does not indicate any authenticforce, nor embody any “new light.”

52. R. Kolonymous Kalman’s comment seems to point both to the danger of Israelbecoming absorbed in the world, the remnant of Esau, as well as to falseprophecy, which the Torah explicitly states exists to “test Israel.” See Deuteron-omy 13: 2–13.

53. Our text does not mention these categories. I have constructed them to at-tempt to understand the theoretical underpinnings of this hasidic homily.

54. On this see Nehemia Polin, The Holy Fire, pp. 26, 27.55. This resembles R. Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman, the Gaon of Vilna’s position on

individuality. The Gaon was adamant about the necessity for each individual tobe a sovereign thinker in his/her scrutiny of Torah. On this, see Hillel Ben Sas-son, “The Personality of the GRA and his Historical Influence” [Hebrew], Zion(1966): 55, 56.

56. See Hovot Ha-Talmidim, p. 8, 9, “The manner in which to train our genera-tion is the way of Hasidism, authentic (emitit), heartfelt (levavit), and inspira-tional (nafshit).”

X X X V I beginning/again

chapter 1

Three Biblical Beginnings

Michael Carasik

History, like life, is “just one damned thing after another.”1 To begin tellinga story with any particular damned thing is, by the very choice, inevitably tomark that thing as a starting point, just as an event can be marked ritually asan inauguration. “Finally, the beginning is an apparently arbitrary point: thatplace in the seamless web of events where the author chooses to begin his nar-rative.”2 Arbitrary as this choice may be, however, it is not just a selection, buta shaping. “Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite prob-lem of the artist is eternally to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle inwhich they shall happily appear to do so.”3 The purpose of this paper is to high-light the process of literary shaping as it took place in the Bible, by a discussionof three biblical beginnings—a beginning at the beginning, a beginning in themiddle, and a beginning at the end.

Genesis I

Let us turn first to the famous beginning that is at the beginning—that is, “Inthe beginning.” It might seem that the most obvious method for telling a storyis to follow the immortal advice the King of Hearts gave to the White Rabbit:“Begin at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” Giventhis guideline, to begin the Bible with the creation of the universe would seemthe most apropos of all beginnings. As Aristotle explained,

A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity,but after which something else naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the

contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either bycausal necessity or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is thatwhich follows something as some other thing follows it. Plots that are wellplanned, therefore, are such as do not begin or end at haphazard, but con-form to the types just described.4

Such a beginning is the necessary starting point for the complete story ofour world; but most stories are of more limited scope than this. Consider theabsurdity of following Aristotle’s advice in the following situation:

A: How did you come to be at the scene of the accident?B: In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. . . .

True, every story that does not begin with this kind of ultimate beginningis in some sense an incomplete story, a mere episode. Thus films, plays, andnovels have a “back story,” an untold story that explains the existence of thesituation and the circumstances at the beginning of the story that is actuallytold. Yet to begin most stories with the creation of the world would be to in-troduce an element of absurdity into the tale. Washington Irving exploited ex-actly this effect, for comic purposes, in his A History of New York, from theBeginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty. After a chapter-longdescription of the earth as “a huge . . . mass, floating in the vast ethereal oceanof infinite space,” he begins the second chapter of his history this way:

Having thus briefly introduced my reader to the world, and given himsome idea of its form and situation, he will naturally be curious to knowfrom whence it came, and how it was created. And, indeed, the clearing upof these points is absolutely essential to my history, inasmuch as if thisworld had not been formed, it is more than probable that this renowned is-land, on which is situated the city of New York, would never have had anexistence. The regular course of my history, therefore, requires that I shouldproceed to notice the cosmogony or formation of this our globe.5

That the Bible should begin ab ovo, then, rather than accepting Horace’sadvice to plunge in medias res, is (as noted long ago by Jewish exegetes) notto be taken for granted.

Yet even Gen 1:1, correctly understood, may not begin completely ab ovo(a distinction that belongs, almost literally, only to Tristram Shandy). It is cu-rious that the most famous beginning in world literature is one whose mean-ing is not entirely certain. The grammatical obscurity of the phrase bereshitbara leaves open the question of whether, as is accepted by many modern

2 beginning/again

commentators, the traditional English rendering of the King James Version,“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth,” is not to be sup-planted by an in medias res beginning: “When God began to create heavenand earth—”6

Naturally, the philosophical and theological ramifications of this distinc-tion are immense. Yet from a literary point of view the difference between thetwo is fairly subtle. The ab ovo opening begins with the ultimate beginning ofthe universe, but at least the in medias res opening begins with the first thingthat can be said to have actually happened. Even this distinction looms larger,however, through the lens of literary and cultural history. Mimicking the de-bate over whether human beings are qualitatively or merely quantitatively dif-ferent from other animals, the understanding of bereshit bara places aninterpreter on one side or the other of the debate about whether Israel’s con-tribution to the world represents a development of the ancient Near Easterncivilization in which it arose, or a radical break with that tradition. From thisperspective, the translation that sounds contemporary to the ears of an Eng-lish reader, “When God began to create,” is the “old” kind of beginning, likethat found in the famous Babylonian epic of creation called (from its firstwords) the Enuma Elish. The traditional English of the King James Bible, “Inthe beginning,” would actually mark a radically new kind of cosmological be-ginning in the ancient Near Eastern context.7

In a larger sense, of course, even “In the beginning, God created theheaven and the earth” is an in medias res opening, for beginning always im-plies the existence of something before. A closed curve, like a circle, has nobeginning; but a line, like anything else that starts, has to start somewhere. Asthe woman who believed that the world rests on the back of a giant turtle ex-plained when asked what the turtle was standing on, “It’s turtles all the waydown.” The mere fact that a narrative must begin puts it at odds with the in-finite regression that seems to be built into the nature of time. Even the sto-ryteller who wants to begin ab ovo can do no better than pick a particularlysolid-looking turtle to start with. From this perspective—if it is not lèse-majesté to continue the metaphor for one more moment—the author of Gen1:1 made a conscious decision to begin with the top turtle in the stack.

The sages anticipated this conclusion in Gen. R. 1:10, when they inter-preted the three-sided shape of the bet that begins the Bible as a barrier block-ing access to anything that happened “before” the beginning—a barrier, itmust be said, which they themselves sometimes successfully evaded. Thecomparative material shows us clearly that placing the barrier at that particu-lar point in the story was arbitrary, and therefore a deliberate choice to givethe narrative a particular shape. The Enuma Elish picks up the thread some-what earlier in the story:

three biblical beginnings 3

When skies above were not yet namedNor earth below pronounced by name,Apsu, the first one, their begetterAnd maker Tiamat, who bore them all,Had mixed their waters together,But had not formed pastures, nor discovered reed-beds;When yet no gods were manifest,Nor names pronounced, nor destinies decreed,Then gods were born within them.Enuma Elish i 1–98

Here, as in Genesis, the story opens on a scene of watery chaos, the hyleof the philosophers. Yet the first thing that happens is not the creation ofheaven and earth—that will have to wait five hundred lines or so—but thatof the gods themselves. Interestingly, the first mention of creation here (line9) is in the passive mood. Unlike Genesis 1, where the story is one of activecreation by a God who is on stage when the curtain goes up, the Enuma Elishbegins not with the first action of the gods, but with their generation. Theyarise naturally, as it were, out of the original conditions of chaos, like one-celled life in the primordial oceans of Precambrian Earth. The Egyptian cre-ation story known as the Memphite Theology takes an even bolder step. Ptah,who (according to this text) created the Nine Gods of the Memphite pan-theon, is described as “self-begotten.”9 In this telling, the creator-god willshimself into existence and then creates the rest of the universe.

The mention of these alternate cosmologies reminds us that it is notmerely where one begins the story that is important, but which story it is thatone begins. This point goes somewhat beyond what I wish to emphasize inthis section—the effect of the very first words of the story—and it has beenfrequently discussed. Nonetheless, two aspects of the choice of story are worthhighlighting here.

First is the nature of the story told in Genesis 1. Unlike the bloody battlethat forms the plot of the Enuma Elish, no hint of struggle enters into thecreation story of Genesis 1.10 The creation with which the Hebrew Bible be-gins, by contrast with the battle royal between Tiamat and Marduk, is almostbusiness-like. This is the more remarkable because we know that the Israelites,too, had their stories of creation as the aftermath of battle. The discovery atRas Shamra of the Ugaritic epics about the battle of Baal and Yamm (“Sea”)has only made it easier to see the remnants of a similar myth that existed allalong in the Hebrew Bible. In the NJPS translation of Isa 51:9, when theprophet apostrophizes God’s arm,

4 beginning/again

It was you that hacked Rahab in pieces,That pierced the Dragon

the Dragon is tannin, the same as the great sea monsters (tanninim) createdby God, incidentally with all other kinds of marine life, in Gen 1:21. Again,Ps 74:13 has God splitting the sea by force as in the Baal epic, not calmly de-creeing the separation as in Gen 1:9. The God we meet in Genesis 1 is verydifferent from the God we might have met had the Bible begun with battle,not (as in Gen 1:28) with blessing.11

So much for the road not taken; but, in Genesis 2, the Bible generouslyprovides us with a road also taken. That is, the story of creation is told overagain starting in Gen 2:4—not for the sake of those who missed it the firsttime, but in a totally different voice that simultaneously fleshes out and sub-tly alters the original story. In context, the motifs of the first story are trans-fered in the second story, like the themes of a symphony, to instruments of adifferent timbre. It is interesting, for example, to see how the cherubs and theflaming, ever-turning sword that block the expelled Adam and Eve from thegarden mimic the temporal frame of Gen 1:1 (or, with Genesis Rabba, the betof bereshit) that blocks us from any access to what came before. Again, this isa standard topic of biblical exegesis, and not our major concern here. Rather,it is the untold stories that are silenced by Genesis 1 that claim our attention.

We have spoken of Gen 1:1 as a verse behind which the mystery of God’sown existence is hidden, but there is someone else hidden behind the frame ofthis verse as well: its author. “When God began to create the heavens and theearth . . .” As the vaudeville comedians used to say, in words similar to if morecolloquial than those God addresses to Job in Job 38:4, Vas you dere, Cholly?On what authority do we have this description of events at which, by defini-tion, no human being could have been present? To be sure, the scene could havebeen shown to a human being through prophecy, but in this case we would ex-pect some introductory words to serve as a form of authentication:

The vision of Isaiah son of Amoz, which he envisioned about Judah andJerusalem in the days of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, kings ofJudah. (Isa 1:1)

The words of Jeremiah son of Hilkiah, one of the priests of Anathoth inthe land of Benjamin, who had the word of the LORD in the days of Josiahson of Amon king of Judah, in the thirteenth year of his reign. (Jer 1:1f.)

In this respect, the introduction to the Memphite Theology is quite in-teresting:


. . . This writing was copied out anew by his majesty in the House of hisfather Ptah-South-of-his-Wall, for his majesty found it to be a work of theancestors which was worm-eaten, so that it could not be understood frombeginning to end. His majesty copied it anew so that it became better thanit had been before, in order that his name might endure and his monu-ment last. . . .12

One source of authority for this story is given, and a second is implied.First, the story has been passed down from the ancients, a tradition so old(and, thus, accepted for so long) that the physical manuscript that preservesit has seriously deteriorated. Second, the text is restored/recreated by the Kingof Egypt, who, as Horus, is himself a manifestation of Ptah, the “self-begotten.”13 My point is not that this is so convincing that we, too, must ac-cept the truth of the Memphite Theology, but that the author of this textbegan it in a way calculated to lend the necessary authority to it.14 Genesis 1has no such introduction.

We may cite one more example, where the very same story that begins theBible is retold, but not before the following lines of introduction:

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruitOf that forbidden tree, whose mortal tasteBrought death into the world, and all our woe,With loss of Eden, till one greater manRestore us, and regain the blissful seat,Sing heavenly Muse, that on the secret topOf Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspireThat shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,In the beginning how the heavens and earthRose out of chaos; or if Sion hillDelight thee more, and Siloa’s brook that flowedFast by the oracle of God; I thenceInvoke thy aid to my adventurous song. . .Milton, Paradise Lost, i. 1–13

Moses (“that shepherd who first taught the chosen seed”) was inspired bythe Muse!

Regina Schwartz observes of Milton’s work in Paradise Lost,

[H]e is not certain that beginnings are accessible, and, if they are, he is notsure that they can be expressed guiltlessly. His creation stories are always

6 beginning/again

mediated—by accounts and accounts of accounts—by Raphael, by Uriel,by angelic hymns, by the reconstructions of memory, and by a theory thatcasts doubt on the ability of language to convey origins at all.15

That comes through very strikingly here in the first few lines of the poem,where it is not clear whether the Muse’s aid came to Moses from Sinai or from“Oreb” (Horeb, not Sinai, is the name of the site of revelation in Deuteron-omy), and whether it will come to Milton from there or from Mount Zion inJerusalem and “Siloa’s brook that flowed / Fast by the oracle of God.” This isnot the only confusion that attends the beginning of the poem, for in line 17Milton invokes a voice which may or may not be that of the Muse of line 7:

And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost preferBefore all temples th’ upright heart and pure,Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the firstWast present, and with mighty wings outspreadDove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyssAnd mad’st it pregnant. . . .

This is very far from the “natural” beginning of the Bible’s Genesis. As ifto emphasize the point, Moses’ “In the beginning” does not find its way intoParadise Lost until line 10, and the “action” of Milton’s own telling does notstart until line 34, when, after being asked in line 28 to “say first what cause”moved Adam and Eve to disobey God, the Muse or Spirit at last begins tospeak: “Th’ infernal Serpent.”

We have already seen biblical attribution of one’s words to a heavenlysource, in the introductions to prophecy; but a beginning like this one, whichinvokes self-conscious reference to the writer’s own words, is equally biblical:

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;Let the earth hear the words I utter!May my discourse come down as the rain,My speech distill as the dew,Like showers on young growth,Like droplets on the grass. (Deut 32:1–2)

My heart is astir with gracious words;I speak my poem to a king;my tongue is the pen of an expert scribe. (Psalm 45:2)16


Gen 1:1, by contrast, is extremely spare. It may be that the lack of an in-vocation or other introduction was simply meant to forestall a question aboutauthority, which had no good answer. Ultimately, to ask how someone daredwrite the words bereshit bara touches upon the questions of the invention ofcreative writing and the role of the imagination in religion, both questions toovast to be explored here. We may still ask, however, why our author began hisstory where he did, with the creation of the universe.

Washington Irving’s reason, at least, played no role. There is comedy inthe Bible, but not here. Yet some of the other authors of Irving’s era, to whomhe was perhaps responding, may provide some clue. Terence Martin’s Parablesof Possibility describes the fascination with beginnings expressed by Americanwriters in the early years of the country’s independence. Thus Jeremy Belk-nap, in his History of New-Hampshire (1784), writes that Americans are for-tunate in being able to fix precisely “the beginning of this great Americanempire”; the beginnings of other countries are “disguised by fiction and ro-mance” or cloaked in “impenetrable obscurity.” John Daly Burk, in The His-tory of Virginia, from Its First Settlement to the Present Day (1804), “speculatesat some length on the universal desire to know one’s ‘origins’ and to believethem ‘illustrious, or at least respectable’.” Even the notion that God was in-volved in the nation’s beginning finds its place in the title of Benjamin Trum-bull’s A General History of the United States of America: Sketches of the DivineAgency, in their Settlement, Growth, and Protection (1810).17 The Israelites’consciousness of their people as a new creation may have inspired them, too,to look deeper into the past for their origins.

In the end, the last word on the understanding of why the Bible begins asit does may belong to Rashi’s R. Isaac,18 after all:

Why did he begin with bereshit? “He told his people the power of hisdeeds, to give them the nations’ inheritance” (Ps 111:6). For if the nationsof the world should say to Israel, “You are thieves, for you conquered thelands of the seven nations,” they would reply to them, “The whole worldbelongs to the Holy One, blessed be He. He created it and gave it towhomever He thought best. According to His will He gave it to them andaccording to His will He took it from them and gave it to us.”

If, as Goitein remarked, the Bible is the story of how the people of Israelwon the land of Israel,19 then the notion of a lone creator God who wouldturn out to be the God of the people of Israel would be a very powerful one.Indeed, if an American historian could conceive of American history as beingunder the control of divine agency, why could an Israelite writer not do the

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same? We know that such a view was held by the Deuteronomistic historian,of whom we are about to speak; it is not too much to assume the existence ofan author who wished to trace Israel’s history back into the pre-Israelitepast—first ten generations from Abraham to Noah, and then ten more ante-diluvian generations from Noah to the first human pair (Gen 1:27). Here, asin Psalm 114, the schema of history links up to the schema of creation. Forsuch an author, in all innocence, bereshit bara may have been a “natural” be-ginning after all.

1 Samuel

The second of our three beginnings—the beginning in the middle—is the be-ginning of the book of 1 Samuel, a choice that requires a bit of explanation.The physical center of a bound, one-volume Hebrew Bible is more likely tobe close to the beginning of the book of Isaiah, not that of 1 Samuel. In onesense, Isaiah also lies in the conceptual center of the Bible, equidistant fromthe Torah and the Writings, and marking, and in the person of the prophethimself, even straddling, the boundary between the Former and the LatterProphets. (The meaning of the acronym notwithstanding, the Tanakh is re-ally composed of four, not three, equal-sized and conceptually distinct parts.)Moreover, the beginning of Isaiah has long been the subject of discussion.The fact that Isaiah’s call to prophecy comes not in chapter one of the bookbut in chapter six is unique to the prophetic books.20

Indeed, where in the hands of another author delaying the apparent be-ginning of the book might be a matter of careful structural design, there is noapparent narrative structure in the book of Isaiah. There are first, middle, andlast words, but no beginning, middle, and end—none of the literary scaf-folding that might have given the book the shape of a story. The fact that, likeso many prophetic works, the book begins with condemnation and ends withconsolation has implications for the history of the redaction of the book andof the Bible as a whole, but this is not really enough to provide a sense of plot.The beginning of the words of Second Isaiah, the anonymous prophet of thereturn from exile in Babylonia, is not even marked by an incipit; rather, in thefirst verse of chapter 40, a new voice simply begins to speak, again precedingthe actual summons to prophecy in 40:6.

Perhaps most significant for the present discussion is the lack of promi-nence given to Isaiah’s role in the failure of the siege of Jerusalem bySennacherib in 701 B.C.E. (Isaiah 36–37). This event—arguably the mostimportant in Jewish history other than the destructions of the two Temples—might have given shape to the book of Isaiah just as Wallace Stevens’ jar upon


a hill in Tennessee “made the slovenly wilderness surround that hill.” Instead,it is told in what is essentially an appendix to the book of First Isaiah, takenfrom 2 Kings 18–19.21 Second Isaiah, to be sure, locates Israelite history inbetween the two parallel events of the exodus from Egypt and the return fromexile in Babylonia. But the details of history—the story line connecting thesetwo events—are of no concern to him.

It is quite otherwise with the book of 1 Samuel, for with Samuel, ofcourse, we enter the realm of the Deuteronomistic History. In extent, this cor-pus makes up the section of the Bible called the Former Prophets, the booksof Joshua through Kings.22 Some of the ways in which this work structuresthe facts of Israelite history into a story are evident to even the most casualreader of the Bible: the frequent periodization of the era of the judges intochunks of twenty (e.g., Jud 4:3), forty (e.g., Jud 3:11), or eighty (Jud 3:30)years; or the formulaic recitation of the basic facts and Deuteronomistic eval-uation of each reign in the contrapuntal chronology of the books of Kings(e.g., 2 Kgs 18:1–3, “In the third year of King Hoshea son of Elah of Israel,Hezekiah son of King Ahaz of Judah became king. He was twenty-five yearsold when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem twenty-nine years; hismother’s name was Abi daughter of Zechariah. He did what was pleasing tothe LORD, just as his father David had done.”). Yet the Deuteronomistic his-torian has shaped the narrative of the Israelite past in larger ways as well.

In the Deuteronomistic schema, the books of Samuel, and especially 1Samuel, describe the transition between the period of the judges and that ofthe kings. When the book of Kings begins, David is on the throne and ready,for the first time in Israelite history, to pass the crown dynastically down tohis son after him. By contrast, Judges ends with a clear statement of anarchy:“In those days there was no king in Israel; everyone did as he pleased” (Jud21:25).23 Samuel, then, is the Deuteronomistic narrative of the transitionfrom the condition of there being no king to the condition of there being aking. Gen 36:31, “These are the kings who reigned in the land of Edom be-fore any king reigned over the Israelites,” shows that kingship was widely re-garded as an innovation in Israel’s history.24

It is frequently remarked that the material of Judges is arranged to showIsrael gradually descending further and further into the chaos that made king-ship necessary (or at least inevitable). It is less often remarked, though, thatthe very periodization of Israelite history into eras of judges and kings—a pe-riodization still followed in political histories of ancient Israel—is a constructof the narrative of the Deuteronomistic History, and not the only possible wayof looking at the Israelite past. It was, after all, not David or Saul who was thefirst king of Israel, but Gideon’s by-blow, Abimelech. He was proclaimed king

1 0 beginning/again

at Shechem (Jud 9:6), just as Solomon’s son Rehoboam would later attemptto be (1 Kgs 12:1). That Abimelech’s rule was on a national, not just a local,scale is indicated by Jud 9:22, “Abimelech ruled over Israel for three years.”25

There are even indications that Abimelech’s rule was the result of a dynasticstruggle, like Solomon’s. In Jud 9:2 he asks the citizens of Shechem, “Whichdo you think better—that 70 men should rule26 you, all the sons of Jerubbaal,or that a single man should rule you?” Jud 8:18 further hints that evenGideon/Jerubbaal was already recognized as a king.27 It is probable that, likethe rulers of Canaanite city-states in Genesis 14 and in the Amarna letters,other petty rulers in the groups that would one day comprise Israel also calledthemselves by the name “king.” But the Deuteronomistic History was deter-mined to present kingship as a new thing in Israel.

Yet Saul’s kingship, shortly to be taken from him and transfered perma-nently to David and his descendants, was not merely a new beginning in Is-raelite political history. In its biblical literary context, coming as it doeshalfway through the Deuteronomistic History, it is very much what we havecalled it, a beginning in the middle. We have already seen that the book ofJudges was literarily arranged (and chronologically rearranged when neces-sary) to paint Israelite history as a descent into anarchy, summed up in thebook’s final verse by the words “In those days there was no king in Israel”—astatement that, in context, cries out for a sequel. The sequel, of course, is pro-vided by 1 Samuel.

Paradoxically, the continuity of 1 Samuel 1 with the period of the Judgesthat preceded it is emphasized by a break in the literary pattern. Deuteron-omy ends with the death of Moses, and the immediately following book ofJoshua begins with the words va-yehi acharei mot moshe. Joshua ends withJoshua’s death and the immediately following book of Judges begins with thewords va-yehi acharei mot yehoshua. 1 Samuel ends with the death of Saul, and2 Samuel begins with the words va-yehi acharei mot sha’ul. Admittedly the di-vision of Samuel into two books was not part of its composition. Nonethe-less, the comparison with Josh 1:1 and Jud 1:1 shows 2 Sam 1:1 to be anoriginal structuring device of the Deuteronomistic History, a device deliber-ately not used in 1 Sam 1:1. For 1 Sam 1:1 (“There once was a man . . . ”)does not sound like the beginning of a book; it sounds like the beginning ofa story.

This again becomes clear by comparison with other texts within theDeuteronomistic History. The parallel to the beginning of the story of Samsonin Judges 13 is particularly clear. Both stories begin with the words “Thereonce was a certain man from . . . whose name was . . . ” (1 Sam 1:1, Jud13:228). The plots of both stories begin with a barren woman who is promised

three biblical beginnings 1 1

a child. Moreover, in both cases the promised son is not to be of the ordinaryrun of men, but dedicated in some fashion to God—Samson as a nazir frombirth, avoiding alcohol and impure foods; Samuel, at his mother Hannah’s ini-tiative, to be given to the LORD for life (once weaned). Of both it is said—inSamson’s case by an angel’s command, in Samuel’s by his mother’s promise—“No razor shall touch his head” (Jud 13:5, 1 Sam 1:11).29 Most significantly,both of these holy children will grow up to be the leader of Israel (Jud 16:31,1 Sam 12:2). Yet here the similarities end. Samson’s story is just that: anepisode in the book of Judges. Samuel’s puts him in place to play a key role inthe transition to monarchy.

There is another story in the material that concerns us that begins with asimilar phrase: “There once was a man from Benjamin whose name was Kish”(1 Sam 9:1).30 Again, the comparison is more than stylistic. It is Saul who, inthis reading of Israelite history, will become the first king. Yet he makes a rel-atively late and inglorious entry into a story that might logically have begunwith him—as, in another telling, it no doubt once did. This earlier telling stillleaves its trace in the declaration of Saul’s superior qualities (NJV, “He was anexcellent young man [bachur va-tov]; no one among the Israelites was hand-somer than he”) and his kingly stature (“taller from the shoulders up than allthe rest of the people”; both 1 Sam 9:2). Yet despite this praise, the story thatnow introduces him to the page of history frames him as small, lost, and buf-feted by the winds of chance. When we first meet him, he is sent looking forhis father’s lost asses, a humble enough task. They are ultimately found, butnot by Saul, presaging the lack of success and inability to complete a taskwhich—in the eyes of the Deuteronomistic historian—will characterize Saul’slife. It is Saul’s servant, not he, who has some plan (1 Sam 9:6) and even hascontrol of their money (v. 8); and of course it is Samuel who, already the daybefore, has been not only warned by the LORD of Saul’s arrival, but in-structed to anoint him as ruler of Israel.

This is all the more curious because the actual beginning of 1 Samuel, thebeginning of the story of Samuel himself, has Saul’s name written all over it.I mean this, of course, in the most literal possible way. The root s’l, “ask” (ina variety of senses), appears too frequently in this story to be coincidental. Itis found nine times, all in connection with the child whose birth is the focusof the chapter. In 1 Sam 1:17, after realizing that Hannah was not drunk butpraying from the depths of her heart for a child, Eli the priest tells her, “Goin peace. May the God of Israel grant the request [shelatekh31] that you havemade [asher sha’alt] of him.” Eli’s statement is recalled when, in v. 27, Han-nah brings the child to Shiloh, “This is the boy I prayed for, and the LORDgranted the request [she’elati] which I made [asher sha’alti] of him,” and again

1 2 beginning/again

in 2:20 when Eli blesses Elkanah and Hannah, wishing her children of herown, saying to Elkanah, “May the LORD grant you offspring from thiswoman in place of the loan [ha-she’elah] which she made [asher sha’al32] to theLORD.” The child’s very naming (in 1:20) highlights the discrepancy: “Shenamed him Samuel, for ‘I requested him [she’iltiv] from the LORD’.” NJPS33

explains this name as connected with “sha’ul me’el ‘asked of God’,” but the useof “LORD” rather than “God” in the etymology seems, in context, to delib-erately emphasize the inappropriateness of the link with Samuel and, as a con-sequence, the true connection with Saul.34 Finally, as if this were not enough,the chapter ends by Hannah’s telling Eli about her son, “I hereby lend him[hish’iltihu] to the LORD.. . . He is lent [hu sha’ul] to the LORD” (1:28). It isimpossible not to read the words hu sha’ul as also meaning what they say inplain Hebrew: “He is Saul.”

Two points emerge from this echoing of Saul’s name throughout the birthnarrative of Samuel. The first is that, in an earlier version of the story than theone we have, it was most likely Saul, not Samuel, who was compared to Sam-son. We have already noted that Saul, too, is introduced into the story with anotice about his father (1 Sam 9:1) like those given to the fathers of Samuel(1 Sam 1:1) and Samson (Jud 13:2). It is Saul, not Samuel (a mere bystanderin 1 Samuel 13), who leads Israel against the Philistines, Samson’s enemies.Moreover, it is Saul of whom we read three times “the spirit of God rushedupon him” (1 Sam 10:10, 11:6, and, slightly variant and to different effect,18:10), just as we do of Samson (Jud 14:6, 14:19, and 15:14). The only sim-ilar phrase anywhere else in the Bible is used, in our book, of David when heis anointed by Samuel (1 Sam 16:13). It is worth noting that the notion ofSaul-as-Samson has been completely reintegrated into the larger story. In 1Sam 11:6, the “spirit” that possesses Saul turns him into a berserker, as Sam-son’s did to him, but elsewhere it refers to something less like the rage of afighter and more like mental illness. Note, too, that everywhere else thephrase is used, even in 1 Sam 10:6, where Samuel tells Saul what will happento him, it is “the spirit of the LORD.” But when this spirit actually comesupon Saul it is always “a divine spirit” [ruach-elohim], not specifically that ofthe Lord. The barrier between Saul and the Lord, in contrast to the Lord’scloseness to David, is very apparent.35

The fact that an apparently original story likening Saul to Samson has notbeen eliminated, but rather reworked into a larger literary scheme, brings us toour second point about the reverberation of Saul’s name in the birth narrativeof Samuel. Again, this is not the work of a haphazard redactor who did not un-derstand the point of the repetition of the root s’l; if anything, we must sus-pect our redactor of laying it on even thicker than the original story had done.


The deliberate overlay of Samuel and Saul achieves a number of different pur-poses.36 First, it lets the reader know that this is, indeed, the part of the historyin which Saul’s story will be told, but it eliminates the possibility of framingthat history in such a way that Saul himself will be, as he might well have been,the hero of it. Long before he appears on the scene in 1 Samuel 9, Saul alreadyhas been given the same now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t quality that belongsto his kingship as seen by the Deuteronomistic historian of the Israelite monar-chy. The usurpation of the story of Saul’s miraculous birth by Samuel fore-shadows the usurpation of his throne by David.

Second, Samuel too, from his very birth, is haunted by the ghostly pres-ence of Saul. True, despite the promise of an eternal dynasty to Eli (1 Sam2:30), Samuel will supplant his sons in the Israelite leadership. But Samuel’sown sons will prove no more wholesome than Eli’s (compare 1 Sam 2:12–17with 8:1–3, Samuel’s attempt to make his sons judges, immediately followedby the people’s demand for a king who will turn out to be Saul). Saul’s sonJonathan will in turn be displaced, not, to be sure, because of his own un-worthiness, but because the promise of an eternal dynasty will at last devolveupon David. It is the establishment of David’s descendants on his throne inperpetuity that is the raison d’être of the Deuteronomistic History.

Finally, the beginning of 1 Samuel is not merely the beginning of thestory of Samuel himself. It is the start of the story that tells of the beginningof the Israelite monarchy. The literary positioning of Samuel in uneasy bal-ance between Samson and Saul matches the historiographer’s positioning ofhim in uneasy balance between the era of the judges and that of the kings. Inthe view of Deuteronomy, from which the Deuteronomistic History drew itsinspiration, the ideal leader of Israel is Moses—a prophet and a judge, not aking. Yet when the Deuteronomistic historian wrote, the kingship of whichDeuteronomy and Samuel were so suspicious (Deuteronomy 17, 1 Samuel 8,10, 12) was an established fact. What is more, David was both the founder ofthe dynasty and possessor of a divine promise that his descendants would siton the throne forever. How to bridge this gap between the real and the idealwas the essential problem of the Deuteronomistic History. 1 Samuel 1 repre-sents a key point in the solution to that problem. Monarchy was indeed, ac-cording to this ideology, a new thing in Israel, but it was not an utterly newbeginning. Rather, like the story of Samuel, it was a beginning in the middle.

2 Chronicles 36

We come at last to the beginning that is at the end; that is, to 2 Chr36:22–23, the last two verses in the Hebrew Bible. I emphasize “Hebrew”

1 4 beginning/again

Bible here because these verses are in the middle of the Christian Old Testa-ment, not at its end. Indeed, even within the Masoretic tradition, Chronicleswas sometimes placed at the beginning, not the end, of the Writings.Nonetheless, in the dominant tradition of the Hebrew Bible, these verses con-stitute its ending, and that is how we will discuss them.37

It may seem strange to call an ending a beginning (though biblical schol-ars have made stranger claims), but in this case, it is strictly accurate: The endof the book of Chronicles is the same as the beginning of the book of Ezra.

22And in the first year of Cyrus king of Persia, to fulfill the word of theLORD by38 the mouth of Jeremiah, the LORD roused the spirit of Cyrusking of Persia and he had heralded throughout his kingdom, and in writingtoo, as follows: 23Thus said Cyrus king of Persia: The LORD God ofHeaven has given me all the kingdoms of the earth. He has instructed meto build him a house in Jerusalem, Judea. Whoever there be of you from allhis people, the LORD39 his God be with him, and let him go up.

Curtis in his ICC commentary to Chronicles of 1910 says of these verses:

They are not the proper close of a history, but the introduction; hencetheir true place is in Ezr. 11–3a. 1 and 2 Chronicles originally formed withEzra one work, and in the separation this paragraph was allowed to remainin each either by chance, or as an evidence that the two writings were origi-nally one, or with less probability, it may have been appended to 2 Chroni-cles to give a more hopeful close to the book (even as 2 Kings closes with anotice of the release of Jehoiachin).40

The assumption that these verses are indeed a beginning and not a con-clusion, though Curtis does not say so, is no doubt based on the fact that thephrase “In the nth year . . . ” (usually of a king) is not merely used for datingpurposes, but serves some fifty or sixty times as the beginning of a biblicalpassage. This can be so even when, as in our passage (both in Chronicles andin Ezra), the word begins with a conjunction: “And in the first year. . . ”.41

Hence one cannot rest too great an interpretive burden on this and; it is theoverlap of words, not the conjunction, that seems to emphasize the historicalcontinuity between Chronicles and Ezra.

The assumption that Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah form a single his-torical work is still current, but it is no longer (as it was in Curtis’ day) thescholarly consensus.42 It would seem, then, that this was not an original linkthat was subsequently broken, but that the Chronicler (or someone later) de-


liberately copied these phrases from Ezra 1. A second, somewhat different,Aramaic version of this decree is found in Ezra 5:13–15 and 6:3–5, whichmight have been used instead; so it is clear that the link with Ezra 1 was de-liberately forged.

There is another somewhat unusual beginning to be remarked on in theseverses. That is the identification of the decree as having been promulgated “inthe first year of Cyrus king of Persia.” But Cyrus had been king of Persia fortwenty years before he conquered Babylon and with it the power to issue a de-cree concerning the Judeans exiled there. Yet all four of the biblical sources forthe decree, including the Aramaic versions of it in Ezra 5:13–15 and 6:3–5,the latter purporting to be a copy of an official Persian government docu-ment, all date it to the first year of King Cyrus. To be sure, the citation in Ezra5:13 gives the clue to the idea underlying the dating of the decree to Cyrus’first year, for it calls him “Cyrus king of Babylon.” The years before Cyrusstepped onto the stage of biblical history, before he became King of Babylon,are unimportant.

This would be a simple enough solution to the problem if all four textscalled him King of Babylon, but they do not. It seems likely that there issomething else going on here. Rather, the deliberate combination in 2 Chr36:22 and Ezra 1:1 of the “first year” with Cyrus’ identification as King ofPersia suggests that the decree was understood to mark the beginning of a newhistorical era, the one we now call the Persian period of Jewish history. Fromthe perspective of its author, however, this period must have looked somewhatdifferent. If the Chronicler himself added these words to conclude his book,then it was almost certainly done during the period of Persian rule. If a laterauthor added them, however, this would most likely not have happened untilthe Persian period was over. Indeed, though the latest texts in the Bible werewritten almost two centuries after Alexander conquered the province of “Be-yond the River” from the Persians, there is, surprisingly, no mention of thisfact, or of Alexander, in the biblical text. The biblical perspective, then, wasthat the historical period inaugurated in “the first year of Cyrus king of Per-sia” was considered to be ongoing—the contemporary period, if you will.Simply put, it was the era of the Return to Zion.

I say the Return to Zion, not the Second Temple period, even though theexplicit purpose of the decree is the achievement of what Cyrus owed to “theGod of Heaven” for giving him “all the kingdoms of the earth”: “He chargedme to build him a house in Jerusalem, Judea.” (The addition of “Judea” hereis a nice touch. Perhaps it was intended to lend authenticity to the decree, asif there were as many Jerusalems in Persia as there are Springfields in theUnited States, and Cyrus had trouble keeping track of them all.) Indeed, the

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context of the Aramaic reference to the decree is a challenge (in Ezra 5:3) byTattenai, the provincial governor, and his colleagues to the legality of the re-building. The memorandum retrieved from the government files at Ecbatana(Ezra 6:2) goes into specific detail: “Let the house be rebuilt, a place for of-fering sacrifices, with a base built up high. Let it be sixty cubits high and sixtycubits wide, with a course of unused timber for each three courses of hewnstone. The expenses shall be paid by the palace” (Ezra 6:3 f., NJV translation).

Nonetheless, the placement of this “beginning” at the end of Chronicleshas something other than the rebuilding of the Temple in mind. One is notimmediately aware of it when reading the passage in Chronicles, but com-parison with Ezra 1:1–4 shows instantly that the Chronicles citation of thedecree is truncated. Not that it is merely an abbreviated version of the Ezrapassage, it is literally cut off in the middle of a sentence. Picking up near theend of the overlap, the Ezra text reads, “Whoever there be of you from all hispeople, may his God be with him, and let him go up to Jerusalem, Judea, andlet him build the house of Yahweh, God of Israel, the God who is inJerusalem” (Ezra 1:3). It continues with instructions for the support of the re-turnees. But the Chronicles text breaks off abruptly after the word wYyG’al:“Whoever of you from all his people, the LORD his God be with him, andlet him go up—” The book of Chronicles, and hence the entire HebrewBible, ends in the middle of a sentence.

It is not that the Chronicles text wanted to omit any mention of the Tem-ple. As we have already pointed out, the building of the Temple is referred toin 2 Chr 36:23, before the truncation, as the purpose of the decree fromCyrus’ viewpoint. Indeed, this may well have been so. The famous CyrusCylinder makes clear that it was very much part of Cyrus’ policy—and, for allwe know, of his sincere personal belief—to attribute his success to whoeverwas worshipped as chief god by the various groups under his rule, and to re-construct their temples.43 But by eliminating Jerusalem as the indirect objectof the verb, the Chronicler (if indeed it was he) focuses attention purely onthe process of “going up.”

Clines interprets the phrase “go up to Jerusalem” (Ezra 1:3), found in thefuller version of the decree, not in the typical sense of going up to Jerusalemas an elevated place, but (following a suggestion of G. R. Driver with refer-ence to occurrences of the verb in four narrative passages) to mean “go upcountry,” that is, north, “following the Euphrates route northward beforestriking out to the west.”44 Apart from the difficulties in Driver’s original sug-gestion—it is difficult to see why “up” should mean “north” in a geographicalconception where east is in front and south to the right—this shows a funda-mental misunderstanding of what voice is speaking in at least this version of


the decree. It is not Cyrus the head of the Persian empire telling the exiles,“Go north, young man!”; the Aramaic versions of the decree make no explicitreference to the return. Rather, the speaker of the decree is Cyrus to whomYahweh gave “all the kingdoms of the earth” (2 Chr 36:23), that is, Cyruswho is the LORD’s “anointed” (Isa 45:1). Thus, the religious-metaphoricaluse of alah is completely appropriate and was certainly intended. It is thesame as is found in Ezra 2:1 (= Neh 7:6), 2:59 (= Neh 7:61), and Neh 7:5, afurther indication that Ezra is the original source of the passage.

The truncation of the beginning of Ezra at the end of Chronicles, then,points to the return from exile as the focus of this passage. Like the weddingthat precedes the “happily-ever-after” ending of a fairy tale, the return to Zionis a culmination that implies a new beginning. Like the marriage that followsthe fairy-tale wedding, what will happen after the return is a different kind ofevent, not part of the “story.” I do not mean to suggest that the selection ofsuch an ending is entirely arbitrary, only to point out that the composition ofa frame changes how we look at what is inside the frame and what is outside.45

A moment’s consideration of Second Isaiah makes clear why the begin-ning of the return to Zion makes such a good frame for a story. One of thethings we look for in a frame is symmetry. If the exiles had thought of them-selves as people who had been uprooted from a land where they had livedsince time immemorial, the most satisfying conclusion would have been thefirst sight of the recovered homeland, or the first footfall on its soil. But theirstory was that of a people whose identity was forged on the foreign soil ofEgypt and tempered in the heat of a desert journey to a land promised to theirimmigrant ancestors. Second Isaiah explicitly frames the return from Babylo-nia as a second exodus. Thus it is appropriate for Chronicles to end as thestory of the original exodus does, with the Israelites not home, but on thepoint of going there.46

The Torah ends with Moses’ death. If anything is appropriate as a narra-tive conclusion, certainly the end of a human life is. Yet the circumstances ofMoses’ death demand a sequel, a new beginning. This we find in the book ofJoshua, where the Deuteronomistic History describes the Israelite conquest ofthe land and allocation of it to the various tribes. Just as with the deteriora-tion into anarchy during the period of the Judges, this was a structure artifi-cially imposed on a real history that was considerably more chaotic. In thecase of Chronicles, we do not know at what point the concluding words wereadded or, indeed, when Chronicles itself was written. Certainly the Templehad already been rebuilt,47 and yet that renewal—a different and in someways more obvious point of new beginning—was not made the conclusion ofChronicles. It seems likely, then, that this ending was a response to literature,

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not history. The return from Babylonian exile is the end of the long story thatbegan with the command “Get thee up” to Abraham (Gen 12:1)—or per-haps, indeed, with the command “Let there be light,” which, according toGen 1:3, inaugurated the world under the control of the one who would ul-timately be God of Israel. With the end of that story, the “contemporary” pe-riod could begin.

One final beginning (if that is not an oxymoron) must occupy our atten-tion before this survey is over. It is indicated by the reference to Jeremiah in2 Chr 36:22, indicating a rereading of earlier literature as a guide to history.This is certainly not the earliest reuse of a biblical text; inner-biblical allusionhad gone on even before the exile. Yet its use here nicely synchronizes the re-turn to Zion and the end of the Bible (as a piece of literature) with the be-ginning of the tendency that has characterized Judaism ever since as a religionof the book, of the rereading of earlier texts for contemporary inspiration.The same beginning, that is, that marked the end of the “biblical” periodfrom the standpoint of Second Temple historiography also marks the incep-tion—if as yet only in embryo—of the rabbinic period. In this final sense too,then, the ending of the Bible—like every ending that shapes a story—marksa beginning as well.

Notes

1. It is not clear who is responsible for this witticism; the Oxford Dictionary ofQuotations (3rd ed., 365:5) cites an attribution to the American writer FrankWard O’Malley but reports another to Elbert Hubbard.

2. Francis M. Dunn, “Introduction: Beginning at Colonus,” in Beginnings inClassical Literature, edited by Francis M. Dunn and Thomas Cole, Yale Classi-cal Studies 29 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 11 f.

3. Henry James’ preface to Roderick Hudson, cited by Frank Kermode, The Senseof an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (New York: Oxford UniversityPress, 1967), 176.

4. Aristotle, Poetics, vii, 1450b, trans. C. S. Baldwin, Ancient Rhetoric and Poetic,148 f., cited in Stanley Fish, Is There a Text in This Class? The Authority of Inter-pretive Communities (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), 184.

5. Chapter Three of the book goes on to explain, in the same vein, that Noah al-lotted Africa, Asia, and Europe to his three sons; the fourth quarter of theglobe, the Americas, would not have escaped discovery so long if only Noahhad had a fourth son to give it to. For further discussion of this aspect of Irv-ing’s book, see Terence Martin, Parables of Possibility: The American Need forBeginnings (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 18 f.


6. Tanakh: A New Translation of the Holy Scriptures According to the TraditionalHebrew Text (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1985). NEB and NRSVcombine both readings: “In the beginning, when. . . .” The Jewish translatorswere less bound to the traditional English translation, and they had traditionalsupport of their own for the “new” translation in Rashi’s commentary. For theargument that the implicit understanding of the text in this fashion long pre-ceded Rashi, see P. Schäfer, “Ber[åkt bGrG’ ’[lohkm: zur Interpretation von Gen-esis 1,1 in der rabbinischen Literatur,” JSJ 2 (1971): 161–66.

7. For a recent defense of the “In the beginning” translation and its radicaluniqueness, see Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11, translated by John J. Scul-lion (Augsburg: Minneapolis, 1984), 93–98. He associates Gen 1:2 with theold kind of beginning with a temporal clause; unfortunately for his argument,the only word in the Hebrew text that could actually serve this function istyçadb which of course comes at the beginning of v. 1, not v. 2.

8. This translation is from Stephanie Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation,the Flood, Gilgamesh, and Others (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 233.

9. For this text, see Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature (Berkeley:University of California Press, 1973–80), 1:51–57.

10. The Memphite Theology may also suggest that creation began with a struggle;see Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, 1:52, ll. 7–8.

11. For a fuller discussion, see Jon D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil:The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988).Gen. R. 1:10, too, notes that the story begins with blessing, in its observationthat the first letter of the text is the b] of hkdb, not the a of hdyda (“cursing”).

12. Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature, 1:52, ll. 1–2.13. Ibid., 56 n. 2.14. This statement of authority was so successful that Egyptologists, too, were con-

vinced by it; Lichtheim herself (ibid., 3:5, citing F. Junge, Mitteilungen desdeutschen archäologischen Instituts 29 [1973]: 195–204) has now been per-suaded that the Memphite Theology is actually pseudepigraphic and to bedated to the New Kingdom.

15. Regina M. Schwartz, Remembering and Repeating: Biblical Creation in ParadiseLost (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 1.

16. Both translations are those of the NJPS. Ps 45:1 is a title or technical note;thus v. 2 is the actual beginning of the poem.

17. Martin, Parables of Possibility, “Fixing a Beginning,” 3–43.18. See similarly Tanhuma Ber. (Buber) 11. The subject is addressed somewhat dif-

ferently in Cant. R. 1:28.19. S. D. Goitein, Studies in Scripture (Tel Aviv: Yavneh Press, 1957), 18 (Hebrew).20. Amos alludes to his call in Amos 7:15, but this is an aside to Amaziah, not a

structural element of the book.21. Even on the view of Christopher R. Seitz, Zion’s Final Destiny: The Development

of the Book of Isaiah: A Reassessment of Isaiah 36–39 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press,1991), esp. 47–118, who sees these chapters as original to Isaiah and “the pivot

2 0 beginning/again

on which the entire tradition process turns” (208), the events of 701 give thebook viewed synchronically as literature only the most rudimentary structure.

22. Noth’s original proposal includes Deuteronomy as part of the DeuteronomisticHistory, and many still follow this definition. In practice, however, the term isoften used as a scholarly-sounding substitute for the Hebrew µynwçar µyaybn.In any case, it would seem that the framing of Deuteronomy as Moses’ farewelladdress sufficiently distinguishes it from the other books as to suggest that thename “Deuteronomistic History” be reserved for Joshua-Kings only. Bernard M.Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Ox-ford University Press, 1997), 153 n. 18, points out the remarkable fact that thejob of matching Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic editorial strata remains tobe accomplished.

23. See also Jud 17:6, as well as 18:1 and 19:1.24. The fact that one of the Edomite kings is named Saul (Gen 36:37 f.) is proba-

bly a coincidence, not significant for an evaluation of 1 Samuel.25. Modern scholars find this verse in conflict with implications elsewhere in the

story that Abimelech’s rule was geographically quite limited. Many attributethe verse to the Deuteronomistic historian. This, of course, would mean thatthe latter (whether correctly or not) recognized Abimelech’s kingship over Israelbut denied it. The verb used in 9:22 is rçyw (NJV “held sway”), not ˚lmyw(“reigned”). On the deliberate avoidance of the latter word, see Robert H.O’Connell, The Rhetoric of the Book of Judges, VTSup 63 (Leiden: E. J. Brill,1996), 269 f. n. 3, and references there.

26. The verb used is lçm, not ˚lm, “reign.”27. See further G. Henton Davies, “Judges VIII 22–23,” VT 13 (1963): 151–57,

for the suggestion that Gideon, in those verses, accepts rather than rejects thekingship.

28. Jud 13:1 is one of the “round-number” statements that chronologically struc-ture the book of Judges: “The Israelites continued to do what the LORD con-sidered evil; and the LORD gave them into the power of the Philistines for 40years.” Jud 13:2 then begins a new Masoretic paragraph. Jud 17:1 follows asimilar pattern, but without the word dja, translated above as “certain.”

29. The Septuagint and perhaps 4QSama suggest that the parallel may have origi-nally been even closer at this point. See P. Kyle McCarter, I Samuel, AB 8(Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980), 53 f.

30. McCarter, 1 Samuel, 303, suggests that, before being integrated into the storyof Samuel and Saul, 1 Sam 17:12 once introduced David in the same way:“There once was a man from Bethlehem of Judah whose name was Jesse.”

31. The a has been dropped from this spelling, a not uncommon phenomenon.See GKC 23f.

32. The MT has laç dça which is impossible if the following l of /hl is correct.The preferable reading is hlyaçh, following what was most likely that of4QSama; see BHS ad loc. and McCarter, 1 Samuel, 80. In any case, the repeti-tion of the root laç is clear.


33. Ad loc. n. g.34. Against this, see McCarter, I Samuel, 62.35. Some manuscript and versional evidence has “Lord” rather than “God” with

Saul too, in 10:10 and 11:6; but this is more likely to be a deliberate correc-tion to the phrase as used in Judges.

36. See Robert Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist (San Francisco: Harper &Row, 1989), 24–26.

37. For the place of Chronicles in the Bible, see Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles,OTL (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox, 1993), 2.

38. Ezra 1:1, “from.”39. Ezra 1:3 has yhy instead of the Tetragrammaton, “May his God be with him.”40. Edward Lewis Curtis, Chronicles, ICC (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons,

1910), 525.41. E.g., 1 Kgs 15:1 and 9, 2 Kgs 8:16, and Dan 2:1.42. See especially Sara Japhet, “The Relationship between Chronicles and Ezra-Ne-

hemiah,” in Congress Volume: Leuven 1989, ed. J. A. Emerton, VTSup 43 (Lei-den: E. J. Brill, 1991), 298–313.

43. For an argument that this policy was in fact limited to Babylon, see AmelieKuhrt, “The Cyrus Cylinder and Achaemenid Imperial Policy,” JSOT 25(1983): 83–97.

44. D. J. A. Clines, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, NCB (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans,1984), 38.

45. Jack Sasson remarks about the creation story, “we may imagine ourselves in aphotographic exhibit where we can only see what the camera can frame.” SeeSasson, “Time . . . to Begin,” in “Sha’arei Talmon,” ed. Michael Fishbane andEmanuel Tov (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 189.

46. Marc Brettler of Brandeis University points out to me that Genesis, too, endswith a comparable reference, Joseph’s request that the Israelites “bring up[µtlxhw]” his bones out of Egypt (personal communication). Thanks to himalso for a number of other helpful comments.

47. For an argument against this, see Mark A. Throntveit, When Kings Speak: RoyalSpeech and Royal Prayer in Chronicles, SBLDS 93 (Atlanta: Scholars Press,1987), 97–107.

2 2 beginning/again

chapter 2

Expulsion as InitiationDisplacement, Divine Presence, and Divine Exile in the Torah

Benjamin D. Sommer

Nah ist / und schwer zu fassen der GottWo aber Gefahr ist, wächst / Das Rettende auch . . .. . . gehäuft sind rings / Die Gipfel der ZeitUnd die Liebsten nahe wohnen ermattend auf / Getrenntesten Bergen

(—Friedrich Hölderlin, “Patmos”)

. . . wtwa hawrhw ≈yxmhw wb lktsmh

wtwa µyprwç µhw wtwa ˜yfhlm µhw / ça ydypl µyayxwmw ça ˜yfylpm wyny[ ylglg

wtwa tprwç ayhw wtwa tfhlm ayh lktsmh µda tam taxwyh ça yk

. . .

˜wtyqk ˚ptçn dym wypwyb ≈yxmhw [rqn dym wb lktsmh

. . . rjml wtwa µytrçm ˜ya bwç µwyh wtwa µytrçmh

˜ymyl µydmw[w µyrzwj lamçl µydmw[h / lamçl µydmw[w µyrzwj ˜ymyl µydmw[h

. . . µynpl µydmw[w µyrzwj rwjal µydmw[h / rwjal µydmw[w µyrzwj µynpl µydmw[h

µklm hzç µytrçm yrça wytrçm wlyaç ˚lmh yrça

hzh alpwm rwab tlktsmhw tnwzynh ˜y[ yrça

—Hekhalot Rabbati

The comment of a midrash to Exodus, kol tefillot qashot, (“All beginningsare hard”)1 is apt, because pentateuchal texts that narrate beginnings repeatedly

describe them as fraught with difficulties. In the Pentateuch, to initiate is toexpatriate, to lose one’s place, and even to die. The recurrent association of be-ginnings with exile and disaster calls out for explanation. This nexus shouldnot be labeled a reaction to a specific historical exile. Rather, it reflects con-tending religious mentalities that the Pentateuch insists on juxtaposing. Thesenarratives of difficult beginnings at once present and undermine an ideologyof the center, according to which God and Israel belong in a particular sacredspace. The Pentateuch’s emphasis on exile at moments of foundation disclosesnot only a suspicion of beginnings but also a tension between two construc-tions of divine presence. Because these constructions supplement each other(that is, each complements and contradicts the other), the Pentateuch un-ceasingly defers any resolution to the tension. The anxieties reflected in thesenarratives play an important role in the traditions that appropriate the Penta-teuch as scripture, but my discussion in this study focuses primarily on thebiblical texts that constitute the prologue to these later traditions.

* * *

For the priestly authors whose writings are preserved in the Pentateuch, the ded-ication of the tabernacle and the initiation of the sacrificial cult there (describedin Exodus 40-Leviticus 10) represent the highpoint in the history of Israel and,moreover, of the world.2 For the P writers, no other episode carries such weightor demands similar respect. The Exodus, after all, was merely a step toward theworship at the altar. God did not say to Pharaoh, “Let My people go, becausefreedom is a good thing,” but “Let My people go, so that they may serve Me”(Exod 7.16, et al.), and “serve” refers to sacrificial service, as Exod 5.1 and 8.25make clear.3 Redemption from slavery bore little value on its own to the priests,who did not find the notion of Israel’s slavery inherently bothersome. Theywere, however, concerned with the question: whom do the slaves serve, andhow? “It is to Me that the children of Israel are slaves; they are My slaves, thosepeople whom I led out of Egypt” (Lev 25.55); and that exalted slavery consum-mates itself in the cult at the tabernacle.4 Even the revelation at Sinai was not,for P, the central milestone of Israel’s history (and in this respect P differs fromthe other Pentateuchal sources).5 According to P, God alighted on Mount Sinaionly in order to demonstrate that Moses was his prophet and to vouchsafeMoses a vision detailing the design of the tabernacle. After briefly doing so, Godwaited atop the mountain for ten months until the tabernacle was built, enteredit, and only then began the revelation of the law.6 From Mount Sinai P’s Godneither spoke nor thundered. The mountain was merely a station for the divinepresence on its way to its destination beyond the altar at the holy of holies, and

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thus the event that transpired at Mount Sinai in the third month after the Exo-dus held no intrinsic significance. Far more consequential transactions tookplace at the brand-new tabernacle during the first eight days of the people’s sec-ond year in the wilderness: God dictated the laws to Moses, Moses consecratedAaron and his sons as priests, and the priests burned the first offerings. Theseeight days of dedication, described in Exodus 40-Leviticus 10, represent Israel’strue beginning. For P, the Israelites became a nation, truly deserved the name Is-rael, only when God arrived in their midst and they responded accordingly—that is, when the tabernacle was complete and they initiated their worship. FromP’s first mention of Abraham in Genesis 11 through the Sinai event at Exodus19 and following, P conceives of Israel as a nation in latent form, but with thededication Israel moves from promise to reality.7

We can go one step further: the events at the beginning of the first monthof the second year represent the culmination of creation, for until now theworld had been incomplete. P’s narrative in Genesis 1.1–2.4a is in many re-spects a classic ancient Near Eastern creation account, sharing with itsMesopotamian counterparts several features of plot and style.8 But the apogeeof creation in several ancient Near Eastern creation myths was the construc-tion of the high god’s temple, and this is notably lacking in Genesis 1. Thatabsence is remedied in Exodus 39–40 with the dedication of the tabernacle.(Significantly, Gen 1.1–2.4a and Exodus 39–40 are linked by extensive ver-bal parallels, as several scholars have pointed out.)9 Thus the complex of cer-emonies in which the tabernacle was first put to use constitutes the true be-ginning of the world,10 or at least of the world as a place worth noting, sinceonly then did the divine glory settle on earth, and only then could man re-spond fully to God’s presence.11

It is all the more surprising, then, that this profoundly central occasion,12

for which Israel had prepared intensively over a period of ten months, and forwhose purpose God had created the world, culminated in disaster. The cere-monies began as momentously as one would expect. The divine presence en-tered the tabernacle (Exod 40.17–35) and spoke to Moses, imparting the rulesof sacrifice (Leviticus 1–7). Moses consecrated Aaron and his sons as priests ina week-long rite (Leviticus 8). Then, finally, the goal of the lawgiving, of the Ex-odus, and of creation itself, could be realized. With an ordained priesthoodworking according to revealed instructions at a properly erected and duly con-secrated tabernacle, the sacrificial services began. On the eighth day, Aaron pre-sented the first offerings, whereupon YHWH’s fiery Glory appeared and con-sumed them (Leviticus 9). When Aaron’s eldest sons stepped forward to offeran additional sacrifice, again a divine fire came forth. But it incinerated not theofferings but the two young priests themselves (Leviticus 10).

expulsion as initiation 2 5

This was not merely a case of a bad first day on the job. Nor was it just asevere disappointment for the family of Moses and Aaron. It was an event ofcosmic scope, for such a surprising tragedy on the most auspicious day of Is-rael’s (and the world’s) history cast a giant shadow on the generations of ser-vice that were to follow. Furthermore, these first sacrifices were incomplete.The priests themselves were supposed to eat parts of them, but they never didso. Nadab and Abihu died before they could eat their share, and the remain-ing priests seemed to have felt it would have been inappropriate to partake ofthe sacrifices after their brethren’s death (10.16–20). Thus the beginning ofsacrificial worship was flawed from a legal point of view (and for P, such a flawis formidable). Moses, and presumably God, acquiesce to this flaw in 10.20,but the irony of the first service’s cultic defect remains noteworthy.13

If the Hebrew Bible has anything resembling a notion of Original Sin, orat least Original Catastrophe, it is located at the debut of YHWH’s worship.14

Why did the ultimate Good Thing begin so badly? Ancient, medieval, andmodern commentators have proffered a host of explanations for the death ofAaron’s sons. These contradictory readings are equally convincing (and thusat some level unpersuasive) because of the severely enigmatic nature of Leviti-cus 10, whose terse sentences and litany of unmotivated actions have baffledreaders for millennia.15 I would like to approach this question from a differ-ent angle, by recognizing that the death of Nadab and Abihu is an account oforigins. It will be useful to examine other stories of origins in the Pentateuchbefore returning to Leviticus 10, and so to the JE narratives of Israel’s and theworld’s beginnings we now turn.

* * *

JE texts that describe origins exhibit a striking pattern: all beginnings entailexile. This pattern presents itself in the JE texts dealing with the origins of hu-manity (Genesis 2–4), with the introduction of Israel’s first ancestor (Genesis12), and with the early life of Israel’s liberator and lawgiver (Exodus 2). Notehow often, for example, the words geirash (expel) and shillaf (send away) ap-pear in these three, very brief, texts (Gen 3.23, 3.24, 4.14, 12.20, Exod 2.17,and cf. the name Gershom in 2.22). Moreover, while the theme of exile is un-ambiguously present in all three of these narratives, the identification of thenature and location of exile in each is indeterminate. The exile into whichcharacters move is always in some way a nonexile, and the home from whichthey come is always less than a home.

Exile is most obvious, and most obscure, in the story of Adam and Eve.YHWH creates two human beings, whom He places in paradise, but they sin

2 6 beginning/again

by eating fruit forbidden to them, and therefore they and their descendantsare forced to leave paradise for the fallen world we know. The world itself,then, is a form of exile. Or is it? As various scholars have noted, one can ques-tion whether this text really describes sin, punishment, and fall.16 The He-brew language has many words for “sin” and “disobedience,” and biblical nar-rators are ordinarily quick to use them. But none of these words appears inGenesis 3.17 Indeed, one can argue that Adam and Eve could not truly sin,and thus incur punishment, while they were in the Garden. At that point,they could not distinguish between right and wrong, since they had not yeteaten from the “tree of knowledge of good and evil” mentioned in 2.15.18

Concerns such as these suggest that the penalty described in Gen 3.14–24may not be deserved, or may not be a penalty at all.

In this case, one may wonder whether the banishment is really a banish-ment. Several factors suggest that Adam and Eve always belonged outsideEden, which was in fact a place of exile, or at least limbo, for them. AlthoughGod placed Adam in the Garden of Eden to work it and guard it (2.15), Hehad created Adam for a different purpose: “to work the soil [or earth] (la‘avod’et ha’adamah)” (2.5). This goal is not met until he is expelled: “YHWH Elo-him sent him away from the Garden of Eden to work the soil (la‘avod ’etha’adamah) from which he had been taken” (3.23). Thus the expulsion was infact a homecoming, as well as the fulfillment of the original divine plan. Bythe end of chapter 3 Adam is located on the soil where he always was intendedto be. His tenure at Eden was a detour from which he had to find his wayback. Similarly, Eve receives her name—which is to say, in the idiom of an-cient Near Eastern creation narratives, becomes a fully existent being19—onlyafter she has eaten the fruit and God has announced His response: “Then theAdam named his wife Eve (Life, fawwah), for she was the mother of all life(fay)” (3.20).20 The wording of this verse returns us to the pre-Eden situationof 2.7, where humanity was first created: “YHWH Elohim used dust from thesoil to create the Adam, and He blew the breath of life (fayyim) into his nos-trils, and he became a living (fayyah) being.” Both 2.7 and 3.20 locate lifeoutside Eden. Adam became a living being before he was placed there, andEve, only after they left.

These considerations force a reevaluation of how we understand the nar-rative structure of Genesis 2–3. While these chapters are often understood tomove from creation to fall, David Jobling argues that a competing narrativepattern also appears in our text.21 This alternative involves not banishment(which involves the creation of a deficiency) but return or recovery (which in-volves the alleviation of a deficiency). Gen 2.4b–6 describe a lack: there is nohuman to work the soil. In 2.7, the human is created on the soil, but in 2.8


he is spirited away to Eden. Aided by the serpent and his wife, he finallyreaches the non-Edenic soil again, and the original lack is finally filled. Thenarrative as Jobling understands it is a classic folktale, describing a journeyand a homecoming. Such folktales have been analyzed by V. Propp and A. J.Greimas, who find they are built from specific narrative elements and charac-ter-types, or “functions.”22 In Genesis 2–3 these functions are manipulated insurprising ways: the Helpers (and thus the true heroes of the story) are the ser-pent and Eve; the Object is Adam; the Receiver is the soil. The Sender andthe Opponent are the same character, YHWH.23 (The merging of these con-tradictory functions is highly unusual for a folktale, but not for the Bible.24)As is typical for this sort of tale, the homecoming at the end of chapter 3 isfollowed by the consummation of the marriage in 4.1.25

Thus, Jobling shows, there are two competing narrative structures inGenesis 2–3. A mythical pattern moves from a positive “before” (Eden) to anegative “after” (the fallen world); this might be described as the familiar “cre-ation and fall” pattern of the Eden story. However, as a folktale the storymoves from order (pre-Edenic creation: man is in the proper place) throughdisorder (Eden: man is in the wrong place) to a reestablished order;26 thismight be described as the “homecoming” pattern. While Jobling views theformer pattern as dominant, the latter exposes the former’s incoherence, sinceso many elements of “after” appear in the world of “before” (for example: theserpent, the woman, and the tree of knowledge itself belong to the logic of“after” but are already present in Eden).27 Some critics might agree that thetwo patterns are in juxtaposition without seeing one as dominant and the sec-ond as subversive; such a reader will simply acknowledge a tension betweenpositive and negative evaluations of the world, knowledge, sexuality, andwork.28 Other readers go further than Jobling, denying that the mythic no-tion of fall occurs at all.29

Even if one wishes to deny that a fall occurs, one cannot avoid the lan-guage of expulsion in 3.23–24.30 The serpent, who is main instigator of themovement out of paradise, is cursed (3.14), and Adam and Eve are subjectedto harsh language if not an explicit malediction (3.16–20). All this reinforcesthe conclusion that Eden was humanity’s original home while the non-Edenicearth is an exile. But the text repeatedly undermines this conclusion with itssuggestions that Eden was merely the place through which humanity had tojourney on its way home. We have seen that humanity is connected with theword “life” only outside Eden. Only in 3.23, as he leaves Eden, does Adamtruly become Adam, a being of the earth (’adamah) which he was created towork; only in 3.23 does Eve (fawwah) reach the pre-Edenic level of livingbeing (fayyah). Within Eden Adam and Eve are only potentially viable and

2 8 beginning/again

not their true selves. A rigid structuralist would argue that in Eden they aredead.31 Paradise is a womb or a tomb, but it is not a place to live. This am-bivalent narrative entangles notions of exile and home. Genesis 2–3 sets up adichotomy even as it frustrates our ability to decide which polarity is which.The story of humanity’s origins is a story of movement, but it is difficult toestablish whether this movement goes from the center to the periphery or theother way around, or both.32

Polarities beset by complications also appear in Genesis 12, which is an-other story of origins (this time, of the Israelite people). YHWH suddenlyand inexplicably appears to someone named Abram and tells him to leave hisland, his birthplace, his father’s house to go to a place that YHWH will re-veal; in short, YHWH orders Abram into exile (12.1). When he arrives inCanaan—a land that, the text reminds us, already had its own population(12.6)—YHWH announces that this land will belong to Abram’s descen-dants, whereupon Abram builds an altar (12.7). Abram’s exile, then, turns outnot to be an exile at all, since he is in his own land, or at least his progeny’sland. Yet the pendulum continues to swing. Upon informing us that Abramis in his divinely appointed land, the text immediately records his transience:he does not settle down but roves further and further south (12.8–9). Ulti-mately (and in terms of textual time, almost immediately after his arrival), heleaves for Egypt due to a famine (12.10). The wording emphasizes that this,too, is not Abram’s home, for he goes to Egypt merely “to dwell there tem-porarily” (Heb., lagur sham).33 Nonetheless, he is received there with honorby the land’s ruler, and thus for the first time Abram seems more or less firmlyconnected to a place. But this sense does not last long, for Pharaoh realizes heis being cursed on Abram’s account, and he expels him from Egypt (12.20).In short: God compels Abram to leave a homeland that in retrospect turns outto have been an exile; he arrives in an exile and learns that this place is to behis homeland; forthwith he goes into exile from that new homeland, only tobe exiled back to his new homeland/exile. All this from the first text that de-scribes the relationship between the nation Israel and its land. Here again, ourJE narrative confronts us with the theme of home and exile while aggressivelychallenging our ability to figure out which is which.

The multiple layers of exile, exile from exile, and home that is not home,are even more tangled in the story of Moses’ origins—which, by extension,are another story of Israel’s beginnings, for under Moses (in JE as in P) Israelbecomes a nation. Moses is born in exile as an Israelite in Egypt. Further, theslavery into which he is born can itself be understood as a form of exile, as canthe death sentence Pharaoh promulgated against him as an Israelite male. Heis immediately sent away from his exilic home to float on the Nile in a basket


in Exod 2.3. This verse recalls the Noah story, for the term used for the bas-ket there actually means “ark” (teivah), and it is sealed with “pitch” (zafet,which recalls the similar material, gofer, used by Noah to seal the ark in Gen6.14; note the semantic parallel between these terms in Isa 34.9). Conse-quently, the Nile is linked with the primordial waters of the Noah story. Toleave exile, then, does not necessarily mean to return home: the newbornMoses moves from exile to chaos, from a place that is not here to a place thatis neither here nor there. In the Hebrew Bible, primordial waters, like thedesert, are neither exile nor homeland but constitute a third category. Desertand ocean (and, via allusion, the Nile in our passage) are places of creativechaos, of becoming rather than belonging.34 As we have seen, Eden functionsin quite the same way in Genesis 2–3: it is a place through which Adam andEve had to travel on their way to their home in precisely the same way thatIsrael must travel through the desert to arrive in its homeland.

Moses’ journeys are far from over. Pharaoh’s daughter draws him out ofthe Nile and brings him to her father’s house. He finally has a home,35 butthis home is also an exile. Displaced from his own family, Moses is now ban-ished not only geographically but also culturally. Moreover, Moses’ new dou-ble homelessness entails a vicious irony, which complicates this complicatedschema even more. For Moses’ new home away from home away from homeis the palace of his family’s oppressor.

The sense that Moses lacks any topos of his own becomes even more pro-nounced in Exod 2.11–15, the first verses in which he appears as an actorrather than as a passive object. After coming to the aid of one of his Israelite(crypto-)brethren against one of his Egyptian (pseudo-)brethren, he is re-jected by both Israelites and Egyptians. He flees from Egypt to the desert(once again, he moves from exile to chaos). His first experience there is re-markably fitting in light of his peculiar nature: he witnesses several shepherdsexpelling (Hebrew root: g-r-sh) young women from a well (2.17). The refugeefrom Egypt marries one of those women, further associating himself with atrope of expulsion. They have a son, and, although mothers usually nametheir children in the Hebrew Bible (or in Moses’ case, a stepmother, in 2.10),it is Moses who gives his son the pregnant designation “Gershom” in 2.22.The name echoes the root g-r-sh and thus points to the dominant motif asso-ciated with this man, who was cast away from his own family as an infant andfrom his adopted family as a young man, and who married a nomadic womanwho was cast away from a well.36 Our text, however, does not explicitly relatethe name to the root g-r-sh but understands it to consist of two other ele-ments, the words geir (stranger) and sham (there). Moses explains his choiceby saying, “I was a stranger (geir) in a foreign land.” We should pause to won-

3 0 beginning/again

der: where is “there”—that is, what is the foreign land to which Moses refers?Most readers understand “there” as a reference to his new location, sinceMoses is not a native of Midian.37 But the name could just as well refer toMoses’ experiences in Egypt.38 The perfective verb, hayiti—“I was”—hintsthat Moses has the past in mind as much as the present. There too he was astranger among foreigners—when he was born, when he grew up in Pharaoh’shouse, and when he made his abortive salvo back into Israelite society.

The short chapter that introduces Israel’s prototypical leader presents himas a utopian figure, in the original sense of the word: he has no place. Onemight have expected that the liberator who guides Israel toward its landwould be associated with tropes of location and of center. Instead, he isaligned with exile (even more intensely than all the other Israelites, for theyexperienced only a single, simple exile) and with places that are not places atall (the waters of the Nile, and the desert). Significantly, the founder of Israelwill establish the nation’s religion by receiving the law in the desert, and hewill never set foot in the promised land.

Why do JE texts describing origins focus on exile and homecoming insuch a consistently tangled manner? The facile historicist answer would be toposit an exilic setting for the composition of these stories or to recall that theTorah was redacted in the exilic or postexilic period.39 But this answer is notsatisfying even from within a historicist framework. While it is impossible todate the JE narratives’ composition (the oft-cited Solomonic origin of J isbased on notoriously flimsy reasoning), the complete absence of late BiblicalHebrew in both J and E rules out the possibility that they stem from the ex-ilic or postexilic period.40 (Even the Book of Ezekiel, most of which was com-posed at the very beginning of the exile, already shows features of Late Bibli-cal Hebrew.41) Nor can one point to the work of late redactors; if anything,the prominence of the theme of exile has been softened by the redactors’ de-cision to place the priestly creation account before the story of Adam and Eve.To be sure, anxieties regarding the possibility of exile had been present in an-cient Israel even before 586. Israelite thinkers had long warned that Godmight punish the nation for covenant infraction by taking back the land Hehad given them. This worry became acute when the Assyrian empire initiateda policy of deporting conquered peoples in the eighth century.42 Thus onemight still endeavor to detect a historical rationale in JE’s foregrounding ofexile, at least if one is reasonably sure that these texts were composed after therise of Assyria. But this reduction of the narratives’ concerns hardly does jus-tice to their complexity. The proposal that these texts present a response tospecific geopolitical events fails to account for their intricate—one is temptedto say, recursive—conception of exile. Further, biblical texts that respond to


the looming threat or recent reality of deportation consistently emphasizepunishment and speak of armies sent from afar: one thinks of the covenantcurses in Leviticus (e.g., 26.32) and Deuteronomy (28.25–26) as well asprophetic texts as early as Hosea (e.g., 8.13, 9.3, 11.9)43 or as late as Jeremiah,Ezekiel, and Deutero-Isaiah (e.g., Isa 63.18). The theme of displacement inour JE texts is of a different sort altogether. Genesis 12 and Exodus 2 do notlink exile with punishment. In Genesis 3, we can question whether the ex-pulsion from Eden is to be evaluated negatively and whether Adam and Evehad knowingly committed a crime. None of these stories hint at the role offoreign invaders. The concern these texts display is not to be accounted for ona strictly historical or political plane.

Rather, we should seek an explanation for these strange narratives in JE’sattitudes toward time and place. J. Z. Smith, in a revision of Mircea Eliade’sgrand theory of archaic and postarchaic religions, describes two types of cul-ture.44 A locative or centripetal45 view of the universe underscores and cele-brates that which is primeval and central. All times and places have value oreven reality only insofar as they relate to, borrow from, recreate, imitate, oracknowledge the moment of creation or the axis that connects heaven andearth, which may be a temple or a sacred mountain and is likely to be both.Such a mentality expresses an ideology of immanence, for it is based on theconviction that the divine irrupts into space and time—more precisely, intospecific places and at specific times. Classic examples of a locative map of theuniverse come from ancient Mesopotamia, Ugarit, and Egypt.46 This religioussensibility was prevalent in Israel as well, most prominently in the ideology ofdivine presence in the Jerusalem Temple (one thinks especially of texts suchas Psalm 48 and Isaiah 6).47 On the other hand, what Smith terms a utopianview of the universe emphasizes not the center but the periphery, not imma-nence but transcendence (for no place fully comprehends the divine); it rec-ognizes the reality, the unavoidability, and even the value of reversal, liminal-ity, and chaos. It does not privilege the primeval or moments of origins.

The locative view is known within J itself (see Genesis 28.10–22, esp.28.17),48 but the JE texts that we have examined call to mind the utopianoutlook. They challenge the notion of a sacred center not so much by val-orizing the periphery as by confusing our understanding of where the centeris located to begin with. In a locative worldview, one would expect that Eden,a site of creation, might have been consecrated. In other words, one would ex-pect Eden to be identified, at least mythopoeically, with Jerusalem. (The var-ious places from which land spread forth to form the earth in illo tempore inEgyptian mythology, for example, become temples in historical time.49) Sim-ilarly, one would expect Abram, upon arriving in Canaan, to hurry to the fu-

3 2 beginning/again

ture site of the temple. But in JE such linkages are absent or at best implied.50

For these JE texts of origins, the axis mundi becomes a “wobbling pivot”:51

Exile may be home, home may be exile, and even from a place that is undis-putedly exilic one can descend into a more distant exile or, in any event, whatappears to be a more distant exile. JE evinces an ambivalent attitude towardthe notions of sacred center and sacred land52 precisely where we first en-counter them. This is not to say JE rejects these notions. After all, YHWHdoes not tell Abram to wander eternally or to live in a permanent exile; rather,He directs him to a specific country. Moses’ job is to lead the Israelites to thatsame land. Eden is described in what at least appear to be glowing terms ofplenty and ease. In short, these texts at once valorize and undermine the no-tion of central place. The same ambivalence is evident in P’s main narrativeof beginnings, to which we can now return.

* * *

The eight-day dedication of the tabernacle should have been an outstandingcelebration of a locative ideology. After all, the centrality of P’s tabernacle ap-pears indisputable. Located in the exact middle of the Israelite camp (as theelaborate map in Numbers 2 makes clear), it housed the ark and its cover, whichserved as God’s footstool and throne respectively.53 Thus the tabernacle was thesite of a permanent, and permanently accessible, theophany, which took placeunceasingly behind the curtains of the holy of holies.54 Further, it served as thesingle legitimate structure for regular worship; not only does God approach Is-rael there, but Israel approaches God as well. The P tabernacle presents a clas-sic example of Smith’s locative model, with a particular emphasis on divine im-manence.55 Yet the tabernacle described in P was in some resects not locative atall, for it was not confined to a single place. Fittingly for a nomadic tent, it wan-dered with the Israelites through the desert. In contrast to locative texts thatmention Jerusalem explicitly (Zion psalms; Isaiah; Deutero-Isaiah; Ezekiel) orallude to it (Deuteronomy), the priestly document does not legislate any singu-lar sacred spot, whether for the period of wandering through the desert or forthe subsequent period of conquest and settlement in Canaan. P never mentionsthe possibility that a Temple will one day be built, and, in contrast to D, P nevereven suggests that the divine presence or some representative thereof will be lo-cated exclusively in one place.56 As R. E. Clements points out, P associates thedivine presence not with a special location but with a cultic community:

The Priestly Writing has no mention of a particular place, except thatYHWH speaks with Israel from above the cover of the ark, from between


the two cherubim. The ark . . . is not a place, however, but a piece of cult-furniture, which, like the tabernacle in which it is set, is portable andmoves about with the people.57

Further, the tabernacle, like the law itself, has its origins outside the Landof Israel; according to P (and the other Pentateuchal sources) the most im-portant manifestation of YHWH occurred within the Israelite communitybut not within their land.

The Priestly document, then, attenuates its own ideology of center by de-scribing the tabernacle as locomotive rather than locative.58 The notion of a di-vine presence that wanders discloses P’s anxiety regarding a theology of im-manence. This anxiety comes to the fore in the narrative of the tabernacle’sdedication. The death of Nadab and Abihu may be explained most readily asexpressing P’s suspicion of origins and centrality—that is, P’s suspicions of itsown locative stance. It will be worthwhile, then, to address the mystery ofLeviticus 10 in light of our reading of JE texts that describe beginnings.

The debates among ancients and moderns alike regarding the young priests’death have raged so furiously precisely because the text appears to leave it un-motivated. One senses that they must have sinned to have been so severely pun-ished; but Leviticus 10 (like Genesis 3) contains no words for sin or for pun-ishment.59 Indeed, as evidence from some early interpreters attests, it is notimpossible to view Nadab and Abihu as the heroes of the story.60 In light of P’sambivalent attitude toward sacred space and J’s interrogations of the notion ofhome (especially in narratives of origin), the attack on the priests who officiatedat the inauguration of God’s earthly residence becomes contextualized, if notunderstandable. I would suggest that although they are priests, Aaron’s sons donot really belong where they are, just as Adam and Eve, Abram, and Moses didnot belong in the place(s) intended for them in texts describing their begin-nings. The dead center of the priests’ encampment, which was the focus of theirattention and being, is not really for them. In this sense the fire they offered was“strange” (zarah) (Lev 10.1). In P, zar simply means that which does not belong,a person who is in a place not intended for him or her.61 By offering a sacrificethat “God had not commanded them,” Aaron’s sons (regardless of their inten-tions) uncovered the severely narrow bounds of divine-human contact. Even atthe very heart of the sacred enclosure, a “near-coming” (which more accuratelytranslates the Hebrew term used there for offering) is strange, which is to say,out of place. The strangeness of the fire conveys (or, perhaps, covers up) thestrangeness of the meeting between these two sides at the tent. By priestly me-diation, Israelites could attempt to approach God—but only temporarily, ac-cording to complex rules, and at the risk of their lives.62

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The peril involved in approaching the unapproachable is conveyed inMoses’ statement immediately after the disaster (Lev 10.3): “Moses said toAaron, This is what YHWH says: Among those close to Me (biqrovai) I man-ifest holiness (’eqqadeish), and in the sight of the whole people I manifest pres-ence (’ekkaveid).” In another context (and Moses seems to be quoting a linehe knew from another context) this line would seem exuberant. The priests,to whom the words “those close to me” refer, are honored to enjoy direct ac-cess to YHWH without any intermediary,63 while the whole nation is privi-leged to witness the manifestation of God. Happy is the nation whose lot isthus; happy, the nation who may dwell at God’s house. But in this setting, theline takes on another timbre. To God’s greatness there is no limit, and thusthe manifestation of God’s holiness and kavod can take any form. In this casethe manifestation takes the form of incineration. This cryptic verse points to-ward the chaotic side of the holy. The erection of the tabernacle is an attemptat domesticating the Ottonian tremendum (albeit a divinely sanctioned one).Precisely at the moment in which the domestication of the kavod climaxesand specifically among those who have direct access to that divine presence,it becomes brutally clear that holiness cannot be contained.

The laws and narratives of P represent an attempt to mask the inherent in-congruity of the tabernacle. By prescribing the proper way to create a home forGod, the laws tame YHWH’s uncontainability; by describing the kavod ’s en-trance into the tent, the narrative assures us of God’s presence. But the chaosthat is that presence intrudes through the camouflage. The cloak of order inwhich P glories is removed by the desert location of the tabernacle (and here werecall that the desert in the Hebrew Bible is not a place of exile but a place ofcreative chaos, a place that is “sacred in the wrong way”64), by its peripatetic na-ture, and most of all by the disaster that its inauguration became. Moreover, itis not only the priests who are in the wrong place. The God of creation in Gen-esis 1 stands outside of that creation, and hence the deity’s attachment to a par-ticular location is dangerously inappropriate. Any irruption may incorporate aneruption.65 Any attempt to localize this irruption is ultimately doomed, andGod in P’s narrative dwells in an itinerant tent. In this respect, P’s God resem-bles JE’s Adam, Eve, and Abram, for all of them are at once strongly connectedto a particular place and perpetually wandering. P’s God, like JE’s Moses, isutopian, even though they both direct the nation toward holy ground. Further,P’s tabernacle recalls J’s Eden: each place appears central,66 but each is alsoutopian, a mythic location outside normal human bounds. Each is a spot of di-vinely ordained order in which one cannot tarry. Each contains a cherub, andwhat lies beyond the cherub is off limits. Humans can achieve the honor ofcoming close to these spots, but humans cannot abide there, lest they perish.


* * *

P and JE both regard beginnings with deep suspicion.67 And both connectthis suspicion to a complicated stance toward privileged place. By no meanscan we assert that these texts reject the notion of sacred space, but both con-found its facticity: JE, by entangling exile and home, and P, by entangling thesacred center’s stability with the sort of chaos or disaster that ought to belongto the periphery. In both, what one would expect to be the epitome of equi-librium teeters. The unpredictability of the sacred center in P is already im-plied by the creation account in Genesis 1, since the divinely ordained Tem-ple that should be the pinnacle of creation is held in abeyance until Exodus40, and even then the axis does not belong to a single spot. The temporal dis-locations described in these narratives of baffling or disastrous beginningsserve as figures for spatial displacement, but always of a limited sort. Theutopian or locomotive models are constantly intertwined with an emphati-cally locative worldview. Home is not simply the opposite of exile but its sup-plement, in the dual, Derridian, usage of the word: Home is appended toexile, for Abraham, Moses, the tent, and Adam originate in exile (and thusexile, rather than home, turns out to be original, fundamental, or basic). Be-cause home is appended or attached to exile, it follows that the notions ofhome and exile coexist. Indeed, one cannot exist without the other. But homealso attempts to supplant and hence negate exile, even as exile incorporates, ortakes the place of (which is to say, becomes), home.

Thus the troubled rhetoric of beginnings in the Torah is a rhetoric of dis-placement, in several senses. These texts describe the displacement of (the no-tion of ) sacred space and those who belong in it: Home is displaced, or sup-plemented by, exile. Divine presence itself is displaced into a ambulatory tentlocated in a desert, and its arrival at that tent effects a radical displacement ofthe priesthood and of the orderly universe to which they aspire. At the sametime, these texts involve displacement in another sense: The temporal tropeof beginnings is displaced onto a spatial axis; troubled beginnings serve as afigure for geographic confusion. It follows, then, that beginnings in the Torahrecall divine presence, for the texts we have examined subject each to the sameturn. Beginnings and divine presence alike are constantly deferred, constantlysubject to a process of espacement.

The texts we have examined are texts of ongoing deferral (or differentia-tion) in a third sense as well. They disclose a polarity between conflictingstructures of divine presence, and as soon as they force us to examine one sideof this polarity, they send us to the other, without achieving any synthesis.One of the structures in question presents God as locatable, knowable, and

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usable (i.e., since God can be approached, God can be placated or even in-fluenced through proper ritual). The other reckons the divine to be uncanny,unheimlich, in every sense of the word: unknowable, un-homely (i.e., unat-tachable to any home), dangerous. The former structure is the realm ofHölderlin’s Nah ist, of das Rettende and die Liebsten; the latter, of schwer zufassen, of Gefahr and the faithful who are ermattend auf Getrenntesten Bergen.68

The former is the realm of the Heichalot hymn’s ’ashrei ‘ayin hannizonet we-hammistakkelet, that latter of miyyad nishtappakh and ha‘omedim layyaminfozerim we‘omedim lassemo’l.69 One polarity recalls Exodus 33.18’s har’eini na’’et kevodekha, the other, Exod 33.20’s lo’ yir’ani ha’adam wefay. The texts wehave examined express a theology of divine presence, an ideology of sacredspace, even as they deconstruct it. These texts foreground the notion of ex-pulsion, intimating that it precedes the notion of home against which it is set;indeed, they seem to suggest that expulsion (whether in the form of geo-graphic removal or death) is somehow deeply original, perhaps normal, whilearrival at the right place must constantly be put off.70 The locomotive natureof the tent and the disaster at its dedication suggest that the God who belongsin the tabernacle does not really belong there at all, that His presence is in facta form of exile.

Here again the dedication of the tabernacle sends us back to Genesis 1,for insofar as the deity comes into contact with creation (indeed, insofar asthe deity creates, which is to say, begins), the divinity expels itself from the di-vine realm. The trope we have examined here, then, represents a prologue, forthese themes will unfold more fully in two postbiblical traditions. One, sum-marized most pithily in John 1.1,14, relates God’s expatriation from heavento become Jesus: “In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word dweltwith God, and the Word was God . . . But the Word became flesh and en-camped among us, and we saw his glory, the glory of the only-begotten sonof the father, full of grace and truth.” The expatriation or self-exile theseverses describe voids the need for Pentateuchal law even as it reverses the orig-inal disaster of Adam’s exile: for by becoming a human, God (in the body ofa dying Messiah) atoned for all human sin and thus made law unnecessary.The other postbiblical tradition to which I refer reaches its pinnacle in Luri-anic kabbalah, which describes the self-estrangement of God at the momentof creation. According to this tradition, parts of the Godhead were trapped inthe physical world when the physical world came into being. This traditionconfers theurgic powers to Pentateuchal law, because it asserts that the obser-vance of Pentateuchal law can undo the primordial calamity of God’s exile inmatter, returning God to God’s self. These two conceptions represent appro-priations of a single motif from a shared document of origins, because they


apprehend beginnings as moments of displacement for both God and human(in the former case, a displacement that annuls Adam’s sin and ultimately willauthorize a return to Eden, and in the latter, a displacement that foreshadowsAdam’s sin and necessitates the giving of the law). I will finish this chapter,then, with an unresolved beginning. Do these postbiblical traditions preservethe constructive tension (or rather, deconstructive aporia) that the Torah in-sists on maintaining, or do they resolve it?

Notes

This essay was written during a sabbatical made possible by the AmericanCouncil of Learned Societies, the Yad Hanadiv Foundation, and NorthwesternUniversity. I am grateful for the insightful comments of H. Jeffrey Hodges,Jonathan Judaken, and Yair Zakovitch on earlier drafts of this essay.

1. Mekhilta D’Rabbi Yishma‘el, Parashat B’fodesh §2; the phrase also appears inTanna D’vei Eliyahu Rabbah 2§20.

2. My analysis of P’s narrative in Exodus 19-Leviticus 10 here depends on the con-clusion that it can be read on its own as a coherent whole independent of theother Pentateuchal sources. This thesis is defended in detail by Baruch Schwartz,“The Priestly Account of the Theophany and Lawgiving at Sinai,” in Texts, Tem-ples, and Traditions: A Tribute to Menahem Haran, ed. Michael Fox et al.(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 103–34. For a clear discussion of thequestion whether P is a source that can be read independently or is a redactionallayer that supplements other sources, see also David Carr, Reading the Fracturesof Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville, KY: Westminster JohnKnox, 1996), 43–47. Carr’s conclusion differs slightly from Schwartz’s, but hetoo emphasizes that P can be read as a discrete document. On the delineation ofthe P source in the Sinai narratives in Exodus 19-Leviticus 10, see BaruchSchwartz, “What Really Happened at Mount Sinai? Four Biblical Answers toOne Question,” Bible Review (October, 1997), 20–46.

A note on terminology: I use the words “P” and “priestly” broadly, to includeboth holiness and older priestly material. When I refer specifically to one or theother component of priestly literature in the Pentateuch, I use the sigla HS(Holiness School) and PT (Priestly Torah), suggested by Israel Knohl, The Sanc-tuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress,1995), whose meticulous source critical analysis I follow. When summarizingpriestly texts that speak of God, I use gender-neutral language, because priestlyliterature appears to regard God as neither masculine nor feminine (or perhapsboth); see Gen 1.27 and 5.1–2. Because other biblical texts largely regard Godas masculine, I do not use gender-neutral language when summarizing them.

3. These verses in fact stem from J, not P, but they express a view of the goal of theExodus which P strongly endorses.

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4. Similarly, Erhard Blum points out that according to P at Exod 29.46, the goalof the liberation from slavery was none other than God’s arrival to dwell amongIsrael, which is to say, the completion of the tabernacle. See Blum’s Studien zurKomposition des Pentateuch (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 1990), 297.

5. My summary of the priestly view of Sinai and its significant divergence from theJ, E, and D accounts follows Schwartz, “Priestly Account,” esp. 122–130.Schwartz demonstrates that “in the Priestly version Mount Sinai is not the placeof lawgiving. It is merely the place where the kavod of God rested before thelawgiving commenced. The laws were given in the tabernacle” (Schwartz, 123).Jacob Milgrom similarly points out the superiority of the tabernacle dedicationto Sinai in P and the equivalence of JE’s Sinai narrative to P’s tabernacle narra-tive; see Leviticus 1–16 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 574. Cf. the percep-tive remarks of Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Israel (New York:Meridan, 1957 [1885]), 353, and Aryeh Toeg, Lawgiving at Sinai [Jerusalem:Magnes, 1977], 153–57 [Heb.].

6. The legal pericopes in Exodus 21–24 and 34 belong to JE, not P.7. See R. E. Clements, God and Temple: The Idea of Divine Presence in Ancient

Israel (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1965), 115–116, and Claus Koch, “’ohel,”Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, eds. G. Botterweck and H. Ring-gren (Grand Rapids: Eerdman’s, 1974), 1:129. Cf. the similar statement inGerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology, 2 vols. (Edinburgh: Oliver andBoyd, 1965), 1.241.

8. E.A. Speiser points out that Genesis 1.1–3, the J creation account in Gen2.4b–7, and Enumah Elish (the Babylonian Epic of Marduk the Creator), beginwith the following syntactical structure: temporal clause (Enumah Elish lines1–2 / Genesis 1.1 / Gen 2.4b), parenthetic clause (lines 3–8 / 1.2 / 2.5–6),main clause (line 9 / 1.3 / 2.7); see Speiser, Genesis (AB; Garden City, NY: Dou-bleday, 1964), 12, 19, and cf. Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11 (Minneapolis:Augsburg, 1984), 43 and 93. This structure, we may add, is also evident in theopening lines of Atrahasis (a Babylonian primeval history; lines 1–2, 3–4, 5–6,or following a different understanding of the opening lines: lines 1, 2, 3). For aconvincing defense of the understanding of this syntax of Gen 1.1–3 (against,e.g., Westermann, 94–97), see John Skinner, Genesis (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T.Clark, 1930), 12n–15n, as well as Rashi to v. 1.

9. See M. D. (Umberto) Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Exodus (Jerusalem:Magnes, 1944), 333–34, 38 (Heb.); Martin Buber, “People Today and the Jew-ish Bible,” in Scripture and Translation, ed. Lawrence Rosenwald with EverettFox (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 18–19; in the same vol-ume, Franz Rosenzweig, “Scripture and Luther,” 62; Blum, Studien zur Kompo-sition, 306–11; and especially Moshe Weinfeld, “Sabbath, Temple Building, andthe Enthronement of the Lord” Beth Mikra 69 (1977), 188–93 (Heb.). Wein-feld also cites midrashim that point out these parallels (188–90, n. 4), and heemphasizes the ancient Near Eastern background to this connection betweencreation and sanctuary. Cf. also A. J. Heschel, The Sabbath (New York: Farrar,Straus, and Young, 1951), 9–10, 96.


The allusion to the sabbath appears in Exodus 39–40, which stem fromHS (see Knohl, Sanctuary, 16). Thus HS makes explicit what PT in Genesis1.1–2.4a implies: the tabernacle parallels the sabbath and hence culminates cre-ation. By patterning the narrative of the tabernacle’s completion on PT’s de-scription of the sabbath, HS extends the logic of the older PT source out ofwhich it grows.

10. Cf. Pesiq. Rab. Kah., §1.4 (ed. B. Mandelbaum [New York: Jewish TheologicalSeminary, 1987], 9), on which see the discussion in Peter Schäfer, “Tempel undSchöpfung: Zur Interpretation einiger Heiligtumstraditionen in der rabbinis-chen Literatur,” in his Studien zur Geschichte und Theologie des rabbinischen Ju-dentums (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1978), 131–33.

11. Similarly, the pre-Mosaic era is a time of inferior knowledge of God in PT. SeeKnohl, Sanctuary, 137–38.

12. Toeg points out that it is central in a textual sense as well as in narrative andideological senses: the half-way point of the Torah is Lev 8.7–8 (counting byverses) or Lev 10.15 (counting by words). See Lawgiving, 158 n. 131.

13. On the importance of the eating of the offering, see Milgrom, Leviticus1–16, 635.

14. Interestingly enough, the only other text that might be analogous to the post-Hebrew Bible notion of Original Sin is also located in the aftermath of the Sinaievent and also involves Aaronic worship gone awry: the JE narrative of thegolden calf in Exodus 32.

15. On the unreadability of this narrative, see especially Edward Greenstein, “De-construction and Biblical Narrative,” in Interpreting Judaism in a PostmodernAge, ed. Steven Kepnes (New York: New York University Press, 1996), 36–46.On various rabbinic attempts to read the story, see Avigdor Shinan, “The Sin ofNadab and Abihu in Rabbinic Literature,” Tarbiz 48 (1979), 201–14 (Heb.).

Incidentally, the attempts at offering interpretations of this odd text occuralready within the Bible itself. HS added 10.6–11 to the narrative (on the sec-ondary nature of these verses, see Knohl, Sanctuary, 51–52, and Julius Well-hausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs unter der historischen Bücher des altenTestaments [3d ed.; Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1899], 140, 147). Verses 8–11 con-tain a law prohibiting priests from drinking alcohol when serving at the taber-nacle. By adding this law specifically here, HS suggests (through what the rabbiscall semukhin parshayot) that Nadab and Abihu attracted divine wrath by drink-ing before approaching the altar. Thus the rabbis who accused Aaron’s sons ofdrunkenness (see references in Shinan, 208) read the text as edited by HS cor-rectly, though the original PT text remains enigmatic. A similar attempt to clar-ify the story in chapter 10 appears in PT itself, in Lev 16.1–2, which impliesthat Aaron’s sons improperly entered the holy of holies rather than standing out-side it. This reading (which is not merely a case of inner-biblical interpretationbut inner-priestly interpretation) was picked up by the rabbis (see Shinan, 206),though Milgrom demonstrates its improbability (Leviticus 1–16, 634).

16. See especially David Jobling, “Myth and Its Limits in Genesis 2.4b–3.24,” inThe Sense of Biblical Narrative: Structural Analyses in the Hebrew Bible II (JSOT-

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Supp; Sheffield, England: Sheffield Academic Press, 1986), 20–24, and JamesBarr, The Garden of Eden and the Hope of Immortality (Minneapolis: Fortress,1993), 4–14. Even the death sentence the expulsion precipitates may be seen asa moral gift rather than a punishment; see Moshe Greenberg, “The Meaning ofthe Garden of Eden Narrative,” in his collection, On the Bible and Judaism, ed.Avraham Shapira (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1983), 218–20 (Heb.).

17. So far as I know, the first person to note the importance of this absence was EricFromm, You Shall Be as Gods (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1966),23. See further Bruce Naidoff, “A Man to Work the Soil: A New Interpretationof Genesis 2–3,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 5 (1978), 2–3; CarolMeyers, Discovering Eve: Ancient Israelite Women in Context (New York: OxfordUniversity Press, 1988), 87–88. A somewhat more nuanced view of sin in thisstory is presented by Phyllis Bird, “Genesis 3 in Modern Biblical Scholarship,”in her collection, Missing Persons and Mistaken Identities: Women and Gender inAncient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), 191–93.

18. Cf. Michael Fishbane, Text and Texture (New York: Schocken, 1979), 18.19. Cf. Enumah Elish, the Babylonian epic of Marduk the Creator, Tablet 1 lines

1–2, 7–8: “When on high no name was given to heaven / Nor below was thenetherworld called by name . . . When no gods at all had been brought forth, /None called by names, none destinies ordained” (trans. Benjamin Foster, Beforethe Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature [2 vols.; Bethesda, MD: CDLPress, 1993], 1.354). On the connection between having a name and being exis-tent in ancient Near Eastern literature generally, see S. D. McBride, “Deutero-nomic Name Theology” (Ph. D. diss,. Harvard University, 1969), 70.

20. Adam’s statement in Gen 2.23 is not a full-fledged naming; see Phyllis Trible,God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 99–102.

21. See Jobling, “Myth,” 24–26. Similarly, Herbert Haag, “Die Themata der Sün-denfall-Geschichte,” in his collection, Das Buch des Bundes (Düsseldorf: Patmos,1980), 87, sees a dominant “Sündenfallthema” combined with a subsidiary“Garten/Lebensbaumthema.”

22. See the discussion and references in Jobling, “Myth,” 24–27. On formalist read-ings of biblical narrative, see especially John Barton, Reading the Old Testament:Method in Biblical Study (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984), 114–19.

23. Interestingly, many aspects of Jobling’s formalist/structuralist reading of Genesis2–3 also appear in Gnostic literature. For some Gnostics, the serpent or Eve isthe hero of the Eden narrative, and Eden is a place of imprisonment masquerad-ing as paradise. The divided YHWH of Jobling’s reading (who is both Senderand Opponent) is paralleled by the two gods of gnostic readings, one of whom isan evil and ignorant creator, and the other, the true God of gnosis. See HansJonas, The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God and the Beginnings ofChristianity (2d ed.; Boston: Beacon Press, 1963), 92–94, and Elaine Pagels,Adam, Eve, and the Serpent (New York: Random House, 1988), 68–69, 77.

24. See Jobling, “Myth,” 135 n. 6. Roland Barthes came to the same conclusion inhis study of Jacob’s wrestling, Structural Analysis and Biblical Exegesis (Pitts-burgh: Pickwick Press, 1974), 31.


25. One can argue that the marriage was consummated already in Eden; so Rashi to4.1. However, the opposite interpretation is also possible; see ibn Ezra andRadak to 4.1. The latter reading is grammatically superior; compare §§106e and106f in E. Kautzsch and A. E. Cowley, Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar (2d ed.; Ox-ford: Oxford University Press, 1910), and cf. Sarah Kamin, Rashi’s ExegeticalCategorization in Respect to the Distinction between Peshat and Derash (Jerusalem:Magnes, 1986), 229 n. 40 (Heb.). Even if one insists on adopting Rashi’s read-ing, the textual placement of 4.1 immediately after the homecoming remainssignificant in light of the Proppian schema. The debate between Rashi on theone hand and ibn Ezra and Radak on the other continues an old tradition; onthe specifically interpretive nature of this debate in midrashic and patristic exe-gesis, see Gary Anderson, “Celibacy or Consummation in the Garden of Eden?Reflections on Early Jewish and Christian Interpretations of the Garden ofEden,” Harvard Theological Review 82 (1989), 121–48.

26. Jobling, “Myth,” 27–28.27. Jobling, “Myth,” 32–40.28. On an unresolved tension between two voices or structures in Genesis 2–3, see

M. Casalis, “The Dry and the Wet: A Semiological Analysis of Creation andFlood Myths,” Semiotica 17 (1976), 43–49.

29. For example, Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 275–76; J. M. Evans, Paradise Lostand the Genesis Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 19–20. See also Barr, Gar-den, 11, who points out the absence of any atmosphere of guilt, tragedy, or cata-strophe in Genesis 3. As Aryeh Cohen points out to me, Maimonides suggests,but firmly rejects, a similar argument in The Guide of the Perplexed, I.2 (in thetranslation of Shlomo Pines [Chicago: University of Chicago, 1963], 23–26).There the objector to whom Maimonides responds maintains that as “punish-ment” for eating the fruit Adam and Eve receive humanity’s noblest characteris-tic, namely, intellect. For a discussion of the relevant passage, see Marvin Fox,Interpreting Maimonides: Studies in Methodology, Metaphysics, and Moral Philoso-phy (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1990), 173–98, and Lawrence Berman,“Maimonides on the Fall of Man,” AJS Review 5 (1980):1–15, esp. 6, whereBerman proposes an affinity between this reading and Gnosticism; cf. my n. 23above.

30. Similarly, even though sin does not appear to be a concern of the story itself, itis not wholly inappropriate to sense that the text hints at it. As Bird points out,this first J narrative introduces “the crime-and-punishment scheme used tostructure each of the major episodes of the Primeval History (4:1–6; 6:1–4;11:1–10)” (“Genesis 3,” 179).

31. The assertion of the identity of Eden and death, incidentally, is stated explicitlyby the character God in Aharon Meged’s play, Bereshit (n.p.: Or Am, 1989[1962]), 120 (Heb.).

32. The connection of beginnings to exile continues throughout J’s primeval his-tory. See 4.12,14 in the story of Cain and Abel (the first naturally born hu-mans), and 9.9 in the story of the tower of Babel. But these stories do not dis-play as complex a notion of exile as we find in Genesis 2–3.

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33. On the importance of this wording, see the comments of Radak, Ralbag, andCassuto (A Commentary on the Book of Genesis [Jerusalem: Magnes, 1953], 236[Heb.]). Cf. Carr, Reading the Fractures, who notes that Abram does not settledown until 13.12.

34. Cf. J. Z. Smith, “Earth and the Gods,” in Map Is Not Territory (Leiden: Brill,1978), 109, and “The Influence of Symbols on Social Change,” in Map, 135.On the desert as a preparatory and transitional location, see also ShemaryahuTalmon, “The ‘Desert Motif ’ in the Bible and Qumran Literature,” in BiblicalMotifs: Origins and Transformations, ed. Alexander Altmann (Cambridge: Har-vard University Press, 1966), 37; on desert as a mythical realm of chaos anddeath in ancient Semitic religions generally, see Talmon’s remarks on 43–44.

35. Appropriately so, since he has passed though a place of chaos. In the HebrewBible, one often moves through a place of chaos, a place that is neither here northere, on the way from exile to home. The Israelites spend forty years in thewilderness before arriving in their land; Deutero-Isaiah stresses repeatedly thatthe exiles will not return from Babylonia on the normal route along the fertilecrescent but will traverse the desert (see especially Isaiah 35), since a return thatdoes not pass through the desert is not really a return at all.

36. In fact, this old Semitic name is probably to be derived etymologically from thisroot; so Moshe Greenberg, Understanding Exodus (New York: Behrman House,1969), 49; Cassuto, Exodus, 14–15 (who also notes that the name echoes theroot g-r-sh from verse 17).

37. So, e.g., Greenberg, Understanding Exodus, 49; Seforno ad loc. See also Abar-banel ad loc. (answer to third question), who sees the name as referring either tohis status as stranger in Midian or to Moses’ period of wandering after leavingEgypt (“his homeland,” as Abarbanel calls it) and before arriving in Midian.

38. This possibility is also recognized by Nahum Sarna, Exodus (NJPSTC; Philadel-phia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 12–13, who rejects the standard expla-nation; and by Benno Jacob, The Second Book of the Bible: Exodus (Hoboken,NJ: Ktav, 1992), 42, who recognizes the significance of both possibilities.

39. Joseph Blenkinsopp does in fact suggest that the Eden narrative may present ametaphorical recapitulation of Israelite history viewed from the perspective ofexile. See The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible(Doubleday: New York, 1992), 66.

40. See now Richard Wright, “Linguistic Evidence for the Pre-Exilic Date of theYahwist Source of the Pentateuch,” (Ph.D. diss,. Cornell University, 1998).Wright examines forty features of J’s language which can be compared to lateBiblical Hebrew, and in each one J employs the linguistic features characteristicof preexilic Hebrew rather than exilic or postexilic Hebrew. It is worth compar-igng Wright’s linguistic method with Blenkinsopp’s (Pentatuech, 65). Blenkin-sopp attempts to link the Eden narrative’s vocabulary with late Biblical Hebrew,but his argumentation depends entirely on an argument from silence. Wright,on the other hand, carefully utilizes linguistic oppositions between the vocabu-lary of J and that of LBH in order to demonstrate the priority of the former.On the unreliability of Blenkinsopp’s method for the dating of Hebrew as early


or late, see the decisive remarks of Avi Hurvitz, “Once Again: The LinguisticProfile of the Priestly Material in the Pentateuch and its Historical Age,”Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 112(2000) 180–91. AlthoughHurvitz discusses Blenkinsopp’s attempt to analyze P’s language, his remarks areequally valid in regard to Blenkinsopp’s attempt to analyze that of J.

41. On the dating of Ezekiel’s language, see Avi Hurvitz, A Linguistic Study of theRelationship between the Priestly Source and the Book of Ezekiel (CahRB; Paris: J.Gabalda, 1982), 149–55, and Mark Rooker, Biblical Hebrew in Transition: TheLanguage of the Book of Ezekiel (JSOTSupp; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press,1990), 65–186, esp. 177–86.

42. See further Morton Smith, “On the Differences Between the Culture of Israeland the Major Cultures of the Ancient Near East,” Journal of the Ancient NearEast Society 5 (1973), 391.

43. These verses must have been written prior to 722 and are not late interpola-tions. A post–722 hand would not have added references to exile in Egypt, sinceas it turned out northern Israelites were not sent into exile there, contrary toHosea’s prediction.

44. See especially Smith’s essays collected in Map Is Not Territory; the following sum-mary relies especially on his comments in “The Wobbling Pivot,” 101–2, and“Map is Not Territory,” 292–93, 308. Smith’s category of the locative is nearlyidentical with Eliade’s archaic ideology of center, but Smith emphasizes thatthese two viewpoints are not simply early and late, ancient and modern. Rather,each may be available even within a single culture (see especially p. 101).

45. Smith describes the locative viewpoint as “centrifugal” in “Wobbling,” 101, but,so far as I can tell, he meant centripetal when he wrote centrifugal and viceversa.

46. See the frequent reference to ancient Near Eastern conceptions of sacred spacein Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return or, Cosmos and History (Prince-ton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 6–9, 14–17, and in Mircea Eliade, Pat-terns in Comparative Religion (New York: World Publishing Company, Merid-ian, 1963), 375–79. On sacred mountains and the meeting of heaven and earth,see also Theodore Gaster, Thespis: Ritual, Myth and Drama in the Ancient NearEast (2d ed.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1961), 181–83; on temples as a mi-crocosm and as pivot, see Harold Nelson, “The Egyptian Temple,” in The Bibli-cal Archaeologist Reader, 1, ed. G. Ernest Wright and David Noel Freedman(Garden City, NY: Anchor/Doubleday, 1961), 152–54, and the sources col-lected in Victor Hurowitz, I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Buildingin the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings (JSOT-Supp; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 335–37. Note also Neb-uchadrezzar’s statement that he made Marduk’s temple “glimmer like the centerof heaven” (kkma qirib åamGmi unammir), in S. Langdon, Neubabylonische Köni-ginschriften (Leipzig, 1911), 142.1.21. On sacred center and sacred mountain inMesopotamia and Canaan, see especially the careful presentation of sources inRichard Clifford, The Sacred Mountain in Canaan and the Old Testament (Cam-bridge: Harvard University Press, 1972), 1–97 and 190–92.

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The religions of the ancient Near East also display the attitude towardtime that typifies the locative or archaic model; see the examples in Eliade, Myth. . . Cosmos, 51–92; Henri Frankfort, Kingship and the Gods: A Study of AncientNear Eastern Religion as the Integration of Society and Nature (Chicago: Univer-sity of Chicago Press, 1948), esp. 313–33; Gaster, passim. On the neo-Babylon-ian Akitu festival as exemplifying a locative ideology, see my article, “The Baby-lonian Akitu Festival: Rectifying the King or Renewing the Cosmos?” TheJournal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society 27 (2000), 81–95. There I argueagainst Smith’s own reading of the festival in “A Pearl of Great Price and aCargo of Yams,” in Imagining Religion From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago:University of Chicago, 1982), 90–101, 156–62.

47. For a description of a Jerusalemite theology which can profitably be comparedwith Eliade’s notions of sacred center, see Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, The De-thronement of Sabaoth: Studies in the Shem and Kabod Theologies (ConBib, OT;Lund, CWK Gleerup, 1982), 19–37. See also Jon Levenson, Sinai and Zion: AnEntry into the Jewish Bible (New York: Harper and Row, 1985), 111–37, andBrevard Childs, Myth and Reality in the Old Testament (SBT; London: SCMPress, 1962), 83–94 (note especially his reservations, 93–94). On sacred moun-tains in the Hebrew Bible, see also the collection of texts in Clifford, 98–101.On what may be referred to as archetypal thinking in the Bible generally, seeMichael Fishbane, “The Sacred Center: The Symbolic Structure of the Bible,”in Texts and Responses: Studies Presented to Nahum N. Glatzer, ed. Michael Fish-bane and Paul Flohr (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 6–27.

48. Appropriately enough, this passage is cited in Eliade, Patterns, 228–29 and 437.49. Frankfort, Kingship, 151–54; Nelson, “Egyptian Temple,” 153; Clifford, Sacred

Mountain, 25–29. On this theme, see also the references to Eliade in n. 45 above.50. The river that flows out of Eden breaks into four branches, one of which is

called “Gihon” (Gen 3.13), which is also the name of the spring that provideswater in Jerusalem (2 Chr 32.20). But the Gihon in Genesis 3 is said to flowaround Cush, not Judah. Levenson (Sinai, 130–31) is probably right that J usesthe term Gihon to link Eden with Jerusalem, but the tentative and exceedinglysubtle nature of this link should not be overlooked. Abraham does eventuallyvisit a place called Moriah in Genesis 22, though the identification of this placewith Jerusalem is not made clear by JE. In Genesis 14 Abraham is aligned withthe king of Shalem, which is assumed to be identical with Jerusalem, but this isnot a JE text.

Later texts do make these associations. Ezekiel 28 connects Eden andZion; see the discussion in Levenson, Sinai, 128–35, and Childs, Myth, 87–93.The simile in Isa 51.3 creates the same link. Later Jewish and Christian litera-tures amplify this nexus. Eden serves as prototype of the Temple in Jub 4.23–26and in the writings of Ephrem; see Anderson, “Celibacy or Consummation,”129, 142–45. 1 Enoch implies that the Temple Mount will be equated withEden at the eschaton, while Ben Sira hints that the Second Temple itself isEdenic; see Martha Himmelfarb, “The Temple and the Garden of Eden inEzekiel, the Book of the Watchers, and the Wisdom of ben Sira,” in Sacred


Places and Profane Spaces: Essays in the Geographics of Judaism, Christianity, andIslam, ed. Jamie Scott and Paul Simpson-Housley (Westport, CT: GreenwoodPress, 1991), 66–75. Eden is linked with Zion and Zaphon in rabbinic litera-ture; see M. M. Kasher, Torah Shelemah (48 vols.; Jerusalem: Beit TorahShelemah, 1927–1995), 2.217 §170 (in Hebrew). Further, some midrashimmaintain that the world was created from Zion, thus echoing the motif knownfrom Egyptian literature mentioned in th previous note; see the discussion inSchäfer, “Tempel und Schöpfung,” 123–24.

Similarly, late biblical and rabbinic texts explicitly connect Abram withJerusalem. In 2 Chr 3.1 Mount Moriah is identified with Jerusalem. This iden-tification is repeated in Josephus, Ant. 1.226–27 (I.xiii.2) and in rabbinic texts;see the texts cited in Kasher, 3.875–76. The hinted linkage between Abrahamand Jerusalem in Genesis 14 is drawn out clearly in rabbinic texts. See Kasher,3.613 §102–103 and Targums Onkelos and Jonathan to Gen 14.18.

51. To borrow a term from Smith, in Map, 88–104.52. One might argue that the Hebrew Bible knows no notion of sacred land, per se,

but only notions of sacred city and promised land. But just as the city in whichthe temple mount is found shares some of its sacrality, so too the land as awhole may be regarded as an extension of the sacred mountain. Cf. the paral-lelism in Ugaritic between a god’s throne (= temple), city, and land in the textscited by Clements, God and Temple, 53. Thus in Exod 15.17, “the mountain ofYour inheritance” where God plants his people and which is parallel to God’sown dwelling place and temple is likely to be the whole Land of Israel; so ac-cording to H. L. Ginsberg, “A Strand in the Cord of Hebraic Hymnody,” EretzIsrael 9 (Albright Volume; 1969), 45 n. 4. This parallel is explicit in Isa 57.15.See further Levenson, Sinai, 136.

53. See Menahem Haran, Temples and Temple Service in Ancient Israel (Oxford:Clarendon Press, 1978), 236–53.

54. So Clements, God and Temple, 118; Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 574; BaruchLevine, “On the Presence of God in Biblical Religion,” in Religions in Antiquity:Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough, ed. J. Neusner (Leiden: Brill,1968), 76.

55. On the compatibility of the priestly tabernacle with an Eliadean ideology of sa-cred center, see Israel Knohl, “Two Aspects of the ‘Tent of Meeting,” in Tehillahle-Moshe: Biblical and Judaic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg, ed. M.Cogan, B. Eichler, and J. Tigay (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 75. P’stabernacle epitomizes an ideology of immanence, in contrast to the more tran-scendent model of Deuteronomy, in which God dwells in heaven and His namerepresents Him in the Jerusalem Temple. See Mettinger, Dethronement, 48–77;Clements, God and Temple, 91–95; Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and theDeuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 191–209.

56. As Haran points out (Temples, 196), “P appears to be completely unaware ofany other house of God which might be built at any other time, under otherconditions.” On traces of antitemple ideology in P, see Haran, 197 n. 14 and

4 6 beginning/again

references there. See also Yehezkel Kaufmann, Toledot ha-Emunah ha-Yisraelit(Tel Aviv: Mosad Bialik and Devir, 1937–56), 1:116 (Heb.).

57. Clements, God and Temple, 120.58. For further discussion of the tabernacle as embodying a friction among locative,

utopian, and locomotive models of presence, see my essay, “Conflicting Con-structions of Divine Presence in the Priestly Tabernacle,” Biblical Interpretation:A Journal of Contemporary Approaches 9 (2001), 41–63.

59. Cf. Greenstein, who rightly notes, “The presupposition that there is a reason[for their death] not only motivates the search . . . ; it necessarily posits, or su-perimposes, the structure of sin and punishment on the story . . . If, for argu-ment’s sake, the narrative of Nadav and Avihu meant to challenge or subvert theabsolute rationality of the Torah, the scrutability of divine retribution, we couldnever find such a meaning were we to posit the pervasiveness of the sin-and-punishment pattern” (“Deconstruction,” 43). It is significant that this wholecomment can apply perfectly well to Genesis 3.

60. As Milgrom points out, in Philo, “Nadab and Abihu are singled out forpraise! . . . The fire of v 2 was a sign of divine favor, as in the contiguous passage,9:24. The fire that consumed them was . . . ‘alien to creation, but akin to God’”(Leviticus 1–16, 634–35). Similarly, some rabbinic texts also view Aaron’s sonsnot as perpetrators but as martyrs who expressed their love of God through theirdeath; see texts cited in Milgrom, 635; Shinan, “Sin of Nadab and Abihu,” 202;and cf. Abraham Joshua Heschel, Torah min Ha-shamayim (3 vols.; London:Soncino, 1965 and New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1990), 2:66 n. 16.

61. See Jacob Milgrom, Studies in Levitical Terminology (Berkeley: University of Cal-ifornia, 1970), 5.

62. Cf. Greenstein: “Notwithstanding the cultic regulations, all of which posit thatreward and punishment follow directly from obedience to or violation of divineprescriptions, God has not in fact explained everything. The system containsterrible dark secrets, YHWH may strike without warning. The system of thecult rationalizes, sets things in order . . . Lest God become altogether manipula-ble by the cult, the episode of Nadav and Avihu . . . subverts the orderly ritual’simplication of orderliness by asserting YHWH’s unpredictability and autonomy,YHWH’s sheer transcendence” (“Deconstruction,” 45).

63. The term comes from the royal court, referring to high-ranking officials whohave the right to approach the king. So Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 600–01, andBaruch Levine, Leviticus (NJPSTC; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society,1989), 59.

64. Smith, “Wobbling,” 97.65. This is the case also in narratives regarding the construction of the Temple.

When David brings the ark to reside Jerusalem, God’s presence in the ark strikesUzzah dead though he is at no fault (2 Samuel 6.6–8). The construction narra-tive in Chronicles begins only following the plague in 1 Chronicles 21; seebelow, note 64. It may be precisely for this reason that E locates the tent outsidethe camp: the people must be protected from the divine presence. See Shmuel


Afituv, “The Countenance of YHWH,” in Tehillah le-Moshe: Biblical and Ju-daic Studies in Honor of Moshe Greenberg, ed. M. Cogan, B. Eichler, and J. Tigay(Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 4.

66. On Eden as an axis mundi, see Fishbane, “Sacred Center,” 9, and on the con-nection between Eden and the tabernacle, 18 n. 29.

67. This biblical suspicion is not limited to the Pentateuch. Other texts in the He-brew Bible also intimate that beginnings incorporate disaster or exile. The narra-tive in 1 Samuel concerning the beginning of kingship, for example, narrates atragic false start (Saul) followed by a promising success that turns dangerouslysorrowful (David). (In later Jewish thought, the redemption will follow a similarpattern, since a failed northern Messiah will precede the Davidic king.) TheBook of Ruth begins with exile that leads to death. There, too, the narrativecomplicates the notion of exile: Naomi’s return home entails Ruth’s exile, which,like Abram’s, is ultimately not an exile at all. Most significantly for our con-cerns, the Temple narrative in Chronicles begins with sin and plague: the site ofthe Temple is determined when the angel of destruction who punishes Israel forDavid’s census stops his work at what became the Temple Mount (1 Chr21.14–22.1). The link between this story and the building of the Temple is en-hanced by the fire that comes down from heaven when David offers sacrifices atthe beginning of Chronicles’ Temple narrative (1 Chr 21.26). This event isechoed at the end of Chronicles’ Temple narrative, when Solomon offers thefirst sacrifice (2 Chr 7.1–2, which borrow from the P description of the taberna-cle’s inauguration in Exod 40.35 and Lev 10.24). My thinking about tefillotqashot in the Bible generally owes much to enlightening discussions with Profes-sor Yair Zakovitch.

68. For the German text (quoted at the outset of this article), see Hölderlin:Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2, ed. Friedrich Beissner (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1965),173. For a translation, see Friedrich Hölderlin, Selected Poems, tr. David Con-stantine (Newcastle: Bloodaxe Books, 1990), 39.

69. For the relevant texts (quoted at the outset of this article), see Synopse zurHekhalot-Literatur, ed. Peter Schäfer (TSAJ; Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1981)§§102, 159–160 (48, 70). English translations are available in Peter Schäfer,The Hidden and Manifest God: Some Major Themes in Early Jewish Mysticism(Albany: SUNY, 1992), 16–20, and The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, ed. T.Carmi (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981), 196–97, 199.

70. One recalls here Jacques Derrida’s assertion that the present is generally notoriginal but reconstituted (Writing and Difference [Chicago: University ofChicago Press, 1978], 212), and his discussion of the endless deferral of imme-diate presence or originary perception. “Immediacy is derived. Everything be-gins with the intermediary” (Of Grammatology [Baltimore; John Hopkins,1976], 157).

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chapter 3

The Beginnings of Rabbinic TextualityWomen’s Bodies and Paternal Knowledge

Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert

˜t[ç ˜yyd µyçnh lk rmwa yamç

hbrh µymyl wlypaw hdyqpl hdyqpm rmwa llh

hz yrbdk alw hz yrbdk al µyrmwa µymkhw

hdyqpl hdyqpm dy l[ tf[mm t[l t[m ala

t[l t[m dy l[ tf[mm hdyqpl hdyqpmw

Shammai says: as to all women, their hour is sufficient for them.Hillel says: from one examination to the next, even for many days.And the sages say: not according to the words of this one or that,

rather a twenty-four hour period reduces the time-period betweentwo examinations,

and the time-period between two examinations reduces a twenty-fourhour period. [mNid 1:1/mEd 1:1]1

The first mishnah2 of Tractate Niddah reveals, as it hides, the rabbinic strug-gle with beginnings, or perhaps, the attempt to blur the beginning of rabbinictextual and literary culture. Like no other opening of a mishnaic tractate, thispassage presents a brilliant convergence of various kinds of beginnings, of tex-tual, historical, and biological-physiological beginnings. In this convergence we

can trace the tremendous effort invested by the editors3 of the Mishnah as thefirst “text”4 of the rabbinic movement, to establish authority of its legal dis-cursive practices and to engender such practices. For this chapter, my interestlies in tracing the mishnaic discursive strategies, “from manipulation and con-trol of discourse to the representation of truth and ‘the Other,’” as EdwardSaid describes the task of a social history of intellectual practices.5 In his“Meditation on Beginnings” Said reflects on the nature of authority of thewriter and critic and suggests that “the necessary creation of authority for abeginning is also reflected in the act of achieving discontinuity and transfer:while in this act a clear break with the past is discernible, it must also connectthe new direction not so much with a wholly unique venture but with the es-tablished authority of a parallel venture” (33). Thus, each beginning lives inthe tension between discontinuity and rupture and between the necessary ref-erence point to what preceded and what is adjacent.

What Said claims for beginnings in modern literature is perhaps all themore true for texts of a legal nature, such as the Mishnah, which rely on tra-dition but also redefine tradition in order to justify new structures of author-ity. However, Said’s insight can only with difficulty be tested on the Mishnah.It is true that the Mishnah is, indeed, the first rabbinic text and is at least par-tially the product of the catastrophic destruction brought upon the Palestin-ian Jewish community by the Romans, a product, that is, of this fundamen-tal rupture to Jewish self-definition in the Roman Empire. At the same time,the Mishnah is marked by a variety of strategies to defer and disguise begin-nings. Or, perhaps, it has a number of simultaneous beginnings. Any one de-termination of mishnaic beginnings is primarily the product of constructiveinterventions by the historian of rabbinic culture.

The following hypothesis forms the basis of this essay: the deferral of his-torical beginnings in the Mishnah and its obscuring of the new beginning thatthe rabbinic movement and its literature represents in Jewish cultural historyhave to be understood as constructive strategies rather than as mere reflectionsor representation of historical facts.6 Such strategies benefit the projection ofcultural continuity rather than rupture and new beginning. Thus, one of theperhaps most programmatic statements of beginning in the Mishnah, thechain of transmission of the oral Torah anchored in Sinai (mAvot 1:1), doesexactly that. It presents a self-conscious retrojection of rabbinic beginnings bythe mishnaic editors into the mythical past.7 Such a deferral of beginnings con-tributes to the notion that the rabbis, the new authors of legal interpretationof tradition (= Torah), have always already existed. To illustrate this briefly, wemay think here of the elaborate description of the high priest’s preparation forthe Temple service of the Day of Atonement in Mishnah Yoma, in which the

5 0 beginning/again

“sages” are represented as being in full control.8 Such constructive strategiesserve the aim of consolidating the authority of the Mishnah.

Finally, by way of introduction, we may surmise that masking a beginningas cultural continuity may have a particular poignancy in a cultural contextin which rival interpreters emphasize rupture and discontinuity, not only inthe contemporary context of Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nassi and his circle. Thiscontroversy will repeat itself in different forms in later Jewish cultural history,when Rav Sherira Gaon emphasizes the antiquity of the oral Torah possiblyagainst the Karaites,9 and contemporary scholarship remains entangled insimilar issues. As far as the rabbis in the second century C.E. were concerned,they were confronted with a wide variety of Christian groups benefiting pre-cisely from the destruction of the Temple as a historical proof for the end ofan era and the beginning of a new.10

Beginnings of the Mishnah

While our epigraphic mishnah is in and by itself not the opening paragraphand does not represent the introduction to the Mishnah as a whole, I am fore-grounding it as a beginning of rabbinic textual culture. This is certainly justi-fiable on grounds laid out in the Mishnah (and Tosefta) itself, which considerHillel and Shammai to be a beginning, as we shall see. Thus, the act of fore-grounding this mishnah as a beginning of the Mishnah and of rabbinic litera-ture can be justifiably grounded in the text itself and is not merely an act of re-constructing the text. Certainly, it cannot be denied that choosing one textrather than another as a beginning is obviously an act of reconstruction of tex-tual tradition in order to adjust our perspective on the text. I do make this par-ticular choice a critical intervention in the study of mishnaic and rabbinic lit-erature in order to move the study of gender in rabbinic culture, or thegendering of rabbinic knowledge, from the margins to the center.11 Seen inthis light, we may claim that the reflection on the nature of women’s bodies isat the beginning of rabbinic literary culture. However, as an interpretive actthis critical choice of mNid 1:1 as the beginning of Mishnah is suspended be-tween the world of the text and its interpretation, as we shall see momentarily.It is meant to aid in identifying the critical choices the mishnaic editors makeand in determining what cultural factors constitute the Mishnah as a text.

The difficulty of finding an entry to the Mishnah as a whole is common-place in rabbinic scholarship and pedagogy.12 There is no hmdqh, the editorsdid not provide any structural, historical, or general thematic introduction tothe Mishnah. The first mishnah and chapter of Tractate Berakhot, textuallynow the first tractate of the Mishnah, is the thematic introduction to nothing

the beginnings of rabbinic textuality 5 1

more than itself, even though one could argue the mBer 1:1 contains certainadumbrations of mishnaic thinking. As Said writes: “We see that the begin-ning is the first point (in time, space, or action) of an accomplishment orprocess that has duration and meaning. The beginning, then, is the first step inthe intentional production of meaning” (Beginnings, 5; his emphasis). If whathe says is correct, this may apply to each individual mishnaic tractate, but itdoes not apply to the Mishnah as a whole.

The refusal of an introduction or preface to the Mishnah itself may beconsidered to present a strategy in a whole set of strategies to gloss over be-ginnings, the aim of which needs to be explored more. There are multipleentry-ways, whether one chooses Tractate Berakhot, because it is the first trac-tate of the Mishnah; or Tractate Avot, because it provides a theological reflec-tion on the origin of Torah; or Tractate Eduyot, because it provides a collec-tion of rabbinic disagreement in chronological, sequential order. Each choice,each designation of a beginning “involves the designation of a consequent in-tention” (Beginning, 5) of the commentator, rather than merely presenting areflection of the Mishnah’s intentions. The important insight to be gainedhere, I think, is that the Mishnah strategically refuses to construct a singlepoint of entry. The metaphor of the dwmlth µy, the sea of the Talmud, usu-ally applied to the Gemara, applies to the Mishnah as well.

In its very designation Mishnah is embedded a deferral of beginnings.13

Early Christian polemics turn this into a critique of secondariness.14 At thesame time the Babylonian Talmud, significantly, can talk only about the endof Mishnah, but not its beginning: “Rabbi and Rabbi Natan mark the end ofthe Mishnah” (bBM 86a).15 In fact, in rabbinic tradition, the Mishnah as a texthas no beginning. As oral Torah, it has an origin only, in the revelation on Mt.Sinai.16 Edward Said distinguishes between beginning and origin, by definingthe latter as “divine, mythical and privileged,” whereas the former is “secular,humanly produced, and ceaselessly re-examined” (Beginnings, xiii).17 A hu-manly produced beginning is, of course, vulnerable as to its authoritativenessbecause it can be questioned, interrogated and ceaselessly reexamined as to itsadequacy and legitimacy, whereas a divine origin is rhetorically secured onceaccepted by the reader. The disentanglement of origins and beginning is atstake when historians of rabbinic culture construct its beginnings.

Textually, our epigraphic mishnah is a double beginning, the beginningof Tractate Niddah that thematically deals with the impurity of menstruation,as well as the beginning of the Tractate Eduyot which, differently from the restof the Mishnah, organizes its material chronologically according to names ofrabbis and their halakhic opinions. Hence, the first mishnah of Tractate Nid-dah presents a second(ary) attempt,18 an almost singular repetition of mish-

5 2 beginning/again

naic textual material, an editorial suture, therefore a rare moment that allowsus a view into the rabbinic considerations about textual beginnings, thechoices that are made and the roads that are not taken.

It is perhaps ironic, albeit fitting, that this struggle coincides with the dis-cussion of the nature of women’s physiology, their cycles of bleeding and the be-ginnings of their bleeding. Women as subjects (rather than as object of discus-sion) are absent from the Mishnah in general, but according to the Mishnah thenature of their menstrual cycles may be the basis for one of the earliest rabbinicdiscusssions and disagreements. The Mishnah here opens its elaborate attemptto classify and categorize women—”all women”—and to channel women’sblood-flows into its halakhic language and structure. One way to understandthat which is encoded in our mishnah is to read a clash between two different“temporal” modalities, a circular and a linear modality, a clash that will have tobe explored in greater detail. That is, the system of ritual im/purity is based onthe basic distinction between a status of ritual impurity and purity. A status ofimpurity has to have a beginning, however problematically so, and an end, to beachieved by various procedures of purification. Purification represents a new be-ginning.19 This system needs to obey a linear temporal economy. The disagree-ment between Hillel and Shammai revolves around the question of how to de-termine the beginning of women’s cycles. Does a cycle indeed have a beginning?

Thus, the textual and historical question of rabbinic beginnings are mir-rored in the rabbinic-mishniac “problem” with women’s cycles. As the rabbisdiscuss the beginning of the menstrual cycle, they construct their own textualculture as a circular one with only hidden beginnings and obscured endings.It is these confluences and mirrorings, the gendering that is involved in theproduction of rabbinic knowledge and cultural self-consciousness, that arethe subject of the following discussion. The larger question that drives thisdiscussion is about the rhetoric and discursive strategies the mishnaic editorsmake use of in order to establish their text corpus as the authoritative text cor-pus that it, indeed, rapidly became.

The Convergence of Rabbinic Beginnings

What, then, is the convergence of beginnings in mNid 1:1?The first kind of beginning seems the most obvious, the thematic opening

or first mishnah of the discussion itself, the tractate. This is the textual begin-ning. However, the double appearance as an opening mishnah to two differenttractates, Mishnah Niddah and Mishnah Eduyot, makes this less self-evident.One appearance does not replace the other. Instead, the textual doubling re-mains in place, is not smoothed over by the mishnaic editors. Was the mahlo-


qet (“disagreement”) between Hillel and Shammai originally an independent,self-contained unit? Was it originally an integral part of Tractate Eduyot or ofTractate Niddah? Is Tractate Eduyot, indeed, the earlier tractate?20

The second kind of beginning is implied by the names themselves, Hilleland Shammai. We could speak of historic beginnings. It is not only contem-porary historiographical scholarship that constructs Hillel and Shammai asthe progenitors of the rabbinic movement in its earliest form.21 The Toseftain its expansion of the opening of Tractate Eduyot remarks the following:

After having gathered in the vineyard of Yavneh, the sages said: “The timewill come when a person searches for a matter from the words of Torahand he will not find it, from the words of the Scribes, and he will not findit, for it is written: ‘Behold, days are coming, says the Lord God, when Iwill send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water,but for hearing the words of the Lord. And they shall wander from sea tosea, and from the north even to the east, they shall run to and fro to seekthe word of the Lord, and shall not find it’ (Amos 8:11–12). ‘The word ofthe Lord’—this is prophecy. ‘The word of the Lord’—this it the time of re-demption. ‘The word of the Lord’—that not a single word of Torah resem-bles the next” [wrybjl hmwd hrwt yrbdm rbd ahy alç] They said:“Let us begin from [lyjtn] Hillel and Shammai.” (tEd 1:1; my emphasis)

The mythical gathering of Yavneh22 decides to collect in order to preserve,to gather in what might be lost or forgotten,23 what presumably was and isstill known. For fear of the end of Torah, the sages begin to (re)create it. Run-ning to and fro and not being able to find Torah, the ultimate chaos is theproduct of a Torah in which no word resembles the next. This mythical be-ginning of gathering rabbinic knowledge, the new Torah (lyjtn), which atthe same time has always been known, could perhaps illustrate what EdwardSaid has suggested to be the driving force of the construction of beginnings:“Formally, the mind wants to conceive a point in either time or space thatmarks the beginning of all things (or at least of a limited set of central things). . . Underlying this formal quest is an imaginative and emotional need forunity, a need to apprehend an otherwise dispersed number of circumstancesand to put them in some sort of telling order, sequential, moral, or logical”(Beginnings, 41). However, Said’s claim for “an imaginative and emotionalneed for unity,” as a quasi human condition, will have to be questioned fur-ther on as to universalizing and hence naturalizing what is merely a culturalconstruct. In our case, the Toseftan text does seem to lay claim to the need forunity. The words of Torah need to form coherence to produce meaning rather

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than confusion. There needs to be an order that has a beginning. But thisclaim does have a rhetorical function. The juxtaposition of potential confu-sion and chaos with the new order has a legitimizing function: Hillel andShammai are the beginning. In the beginning there were Hillel and Shammai.At the same time, Hillel and Shammai’s Torah is the Torah that the biblicalprophet Amos had already pronounced to be lost.

Significantly, the Mishnah itself, as well as the Tosefta, designate Hilleland Shammai as the “fathers,” not even specifically of the rabbinic movementbut of the world—µlw[h twba (mEd 1:4, tEd 1:3). Halakhic-mishnaicknowledge is constructed as paternal knowledge: In the beginning there werethe fathers. Burton Visotzky’s recent study of rabbinic and patristic literatureand culture highlights this construction and makes ample use of themetaphor, perhaps not espousing sufficient critical distance to the constructiveprocess of gendering rabbinic knowledge. The introductory paragraph de-serves to be cited in full because it espouses a powerful mixture of gendermetaphors in the construction of rabbinic (and early Christian) “culture”:

They were the fathers of the world. In their successive generations they begatrabbinic Judaism and Christianity. They fathered the transition from Templeand sacrifice to synagogue and study. They fathered the New Testament,churches, ecclesiastical order and ultimately, empire. Separately and togetherthey fathered the transition from a pagan western world to a monotheistic (ifnot monolithic) Judeo-Christian culture. From the late first through the fifthcenturies, these two groups of men reshaped the hellenistic culture be-queathed to them by Alexander the Great, his tutor Aristotle and their politi-cal and philosophical successors. A new world was begat by these fathers, aunique hybrid of biblical religion and Hellenism, Temple cult and academy.Two great religions were birthed by these fathers of our world. (1; my emphasis)24

Just as Athena emerges from Zeus’ head, these fathers beget and birth a newworld, new religions, Torah and theology, and even empire. In Visotzky’s insis-tence on the birthing metaphor in its various forms one hears the faint echo ofApollo’s proof in his famous speech in defense of Orestes in front of the city ofAthens and Athena herself as the judge: “There can be a father without anymother. There she stands, the living witness, daughter of Olympian Zeus, shewho was never fostered in the dark of the womb yet such a child as no godesscould bring to birth.” (Oresteia, 158). Indeed, Aeschylus’ use of the myth in thelast play of his trilogy, is instructive for our reflection about the beginnings ofMishnah and the literary culture of rabbinic Judaism. Froma Zeitlin points outthat in the play Aeschylus’ use of embryology, drawing on the scientific theory


of his day that denies the mother’s role in procreation and myth, acts in sym-phony with the moment of creating the city’s law court: “In this context of afounding act, a new creation, the content of the argument is concerned with be-ginning again, expressed biologically as embryology, mythically as theogeny. Therebirth of Orestes into innocence and the birth of the law court and civic justiceare confirmed by resort to the archetypical paradigm of beginnings.”25 Zeitlin ar-gues that in this dynamic the mother is first denied a role in procreation, thenmythologically denied altogether. The usurpation of the mother’s procreativefunction, or in Hesiod’s Theogony of Earth’s parthenogenetic capacity by theOlympian order, “is consummated in the reversal from female as begetter of maleto male as begetter of female” (108–109). By calling on the metaphor of the “fa-thers of the world” the Mishnah constructs the rabbinic Torah, like Athena, asthe progeny of the fathers, who did not need a mother to conceive her.

In her study of Clement’s use of the kinship metaphors, Denise KimberBuell has called particularly the construction of the Law of the Father a “nat-uralizing rhetorics,” employed toward the goal of creating an “authentic lin-eage,” which allows Clement “to bound his version of Christian identity”(Making Christians, 181). According to Kimber Buell, this strategy masks theactual “organizational, behavioral, and doctrinal diversity among Christians”(181), and, in our context we may perhaps say, Jewish behavioral andhermeneutic diversity in the mishnaic case. The point of the kinshipmetaphor is to construct proper lineage of knowledge and behavior. However,Kimber Buell reminds us that we should not in turn mistake the kinshipmetaphor to reflect such a lineage rather than constructing it.

Another related case in point is the following mishnah in Tractate Niddah:

The daughters of the Sadducees, as long as they are accustomed to walk inthe ways of their fathers [with respect to establishing their menstrual calen-dars], are regarded just like Samaritan women [twytwk, who are consideredlike menstrual women from the cradle on, mNid 4:1]. If they separate[themselves from those ways] to walk in the ways of Israel, they are re-garded as “Israel” [larcyk].26

Rabbi Yossi disagrees: They are always considered to be “Israel” unlessthey separate [themselves] to walk in their fathers’ ways. [mNid 4:2, myemphasis]

This mishnah clearly attempts to draw community boundaries and to de-termine proper identity. “Correct” practice determines belonging to “Israel,”the term here functioning as the signifier of the normative community, theVerus Israel that a variety of groups and authors contemporary to the mishnaic

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rabbis lay claim to.27 Women’s identity depends on their conformity withtheir fathers’ practice. The fathers in this mishnah are primarily the biologi-cal fathers, but they simultaneously function as the metaphorical fathers whodraw the symbolic boundaries. Whereas the fathers simply have an identity,the daughters—women—can make a choice. The fathers are the referencepoint, the origin and originators of religious practice, or in Froma Zeitlin’swords: “The father-daughter relationship is the purest paradigm of female de-pendence” (“The Dynamics of Misogyny,” 113).

Further, the mishnaic phrase has, of course, a resonance in the biblicaltwba, the “patriarchs,” which strengthens the rhetorical appeal to authority ofthe Mishnah. Already Ben Sira includes a hymn to the µlw[ twba (Sirach 44:1)with reference to a line of great biblical men, from Enoch via Noah, Abraham,Isaac and Jacob to Moses and further. Here Abraham is “the great father of amultitude of nations” (Sirach 44:19). Rabbinic literature and liturgy later fo-cuses biblical memory on the three patriarchs, as prominently expressed in thefirst blessing of the Shmoneh Ezreh: “You are blessed, our God and God of ourfathers, God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob.”28 The mishnaicµlw[h twba are “new” fathers, whose memory is superimposed on the biblicaltwba. Why do we remember Hillel and Shammai? “To teach future generationsthat a person should not insist on his opinion, for behold, the fathers of theworld did not insist on their opinion” (mEd 1:4). The implication here is thatfathers do not need to humble themselves. They have the father’s force of au-thority, and yet, these fathers reneged on their innate authority. Thus, as ethicalrole models they “father” future generations of Torah students by teaching.29

We may add that the opening mahloqet of Tractate Niddah and Eduyot isone of the very few in the Mishnah attributed to Hillel and Shammai them-selves.30 Mahloqet, a carefully constructed and circumscribed disagreement be-tween two or more rabbinic sages, is what will define rabbinic discourse and ha-lakhic knowledge, particularly in the Mishnah and elaborated upon much morein the talmudic discussions of the Mishnah. Here the editors attribute the “ori-gin” of this practice to the fathers, Hillel and Shammai themselves. Curiously,the first three mahloqot in Mishnah Eduyot (mEd 1:1–3), attributed to Hilleland Shammai, revolve around issues concerning women: niddah, challah, andmiqvah. In those “first” three rabbinic disagreements women and women’s is-sues are constituted as the object of the fathers’ knowledge.

Finally, the third kind of beginning—physiological beginnings in the cycleof life—emerges from the topic of the tractate itself: menstruation and men-strual impurity. The question that underlies the opening of our tractate is howthe temporal beginning of a woman’s menstrual period is to be understood.Temporal terms dominate in the opening mishnah: hour, many days, twenty-


four hour time-period. The three opinions in the mishnah attempt to specifyhow long a woman has been in what I will call a menstrual status once she dis-covers or “sees” blood. Beginnings here are deferred, retrojected. Shammai sug-gests that all women are in a menstrual status only from that point in time whenshe discovers blood externally. To fill in the gaps of the mishnaic language citedat the beginning: “[With respect to] all women—their hour [of the actual ex-ternal blood-flow] is sufficient for them [to be considered as the beginning oftheir period of impurity].” Hillel, on the other hand, holds that her menstrualstatus reaches back, retroactively, as far as the last visual evidence of blood, how-ever many days, potentially to the preceding menstrual flow: “From [the cur-rent] examination [at which she found evidence of blood, retroactively] to [herlast] examination [without any evidence of blood], and even for many days[should the beginning of her menstrual period be considered].” Reformulatedand retranslated the two juxtaposed opinions claim the following:

Shammai postulates: A menstrual period begins really only with the externalevidence of blood. Preceding that, there is no blood and a woman’s status isnot that of a niddah, unless actual evidence of blood proves otherwise.Hillel postulates: The blood-flow begins much earlier than it appears by ex-ternal evidence. Preceding that, there is already blood and a woman’s statusis that of a niddah, unless the lack of visual evidence proves otherwise.

In Shammai’s view, women would be regularly in a nonmenstrual status,unless proven otherwise by visual evidence. Hillel presents a view in whichwomen are regularly in a menstrual status, unless proven otherwise by explicitlack of visual evidence. The dialectics here is familiar in Greek science inwhich Aristotelian physicians hold theories opposite to Hippocratic theories.Whereas in Aristotelian theory menstrual blood is stored throughout themonth in the uterus, in Hippocratic texts the blood is stored in a women’suterus only to descend all at once at the end of the month.31

The mediating opinion of the anonymous majority community of sagesfixes an arbitrary time-period, twenty-four hours, which is primarily designedto limit Hillel’s excessively counterintuitive prolongation of her menstrual sta-tus. According to the sages then, she can be retroactively in a status of men-strual impurity at most for twenty-four hours or less, if she had checked her-self subsequently without finding blood.

Blurring Biblical Endings and Rabbinic Beginnings

Having reflected on the various kinds of rabbinic beginnings that converge inthe first mishnah of Tractate Niddah, let us focus on the radical ending that

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is disguised and hidden in the mishnah, that is, the destruction of the Tem-ple. Hiding this ending in the legal rhetoric of the mishnah simultaneouslyblurs the recognition of rabbinic Judaism as a new beginning. Whereas earlyChristian texts profited tremendously from the rupture that the destructionof the Temple represented, and often made use of the destruction as a rhetor-ical tool to legitimate the new beginning in Jesus, the Mishnah here, as else-where,32 wants us to remain oblivious to the fact that the Temple is no more.It constructs law as if the Temple were still in existence.33

The mahloqet between Shammai, Hillel, and the sages seems to be con-structed as a general reflection on the nature of menstruation and its begin-ning, as a question about when a woman’s ritual status is affected by her men-strual flow. However, the specific relevance of this disagreement aboutretroactivity is illustrated subsequently in the following mishnah which com-ments on the first mishnah:

How [are we to understand that] “her time is sufficient for her”?34 If [awoman] sat on her bed and handled Temple-related food (or items), andshe got up and saw [blood], she [herself ] is [now] in a status of impurity,but they [the Temple-related items]35 are all [still] in a status of purity [andcan still be used for priestly purposes]. (mNid 1:2)

This mishnah illustrates that the mahloqet about the beginning of themenstrual period has relevance primarily for the Temple and for maintaininga status of purity with respect to the Temple. The reference-point of the im-purity-purity system is, of course, the Temple, the priests, and items or foodrelated to the Temple and the priests, such as sacrificial food and contribu-tions to the priests.36 Thus Maimonides emphasizes in his code:

Everything that is written in the Torah and later tradition about the laws ofimpurities and purities, has reference only for the Temple and its sacrifices,for the heave-offering and the second tithe. Because it warned those whoare impure from entering the Temple or to eat sacrificial food, or the heave-offering or the second tithe. But with respect to profane food there is noprohibition at all.37

Therefore, Tractate Niddah is in fact part of the mishnaic Order of Puri-ties and not part of the Order of Women.38 The disagreement between Sham-mai and Hillel then is about the concept of “retroactive impurity.” Accordingto Shammai this principle does not apply to menstruation. The visual, exter-nal evidence provides the starting point. Hillel, on the other hand, does applythe principle to menstruation. According to him, anything Temple-related


that the woman touched during the days prior to her discovery of the blood,till her last examination, has become invalidated for Temple-use. Menstrua-tion is, therefore, treated in the framework of the purity and impurity laws,which by and large lose their applicability after the destruction of the Temple.

Various commentators remark on the potential confusion between thebeginning of the woman’s status of impurity and the other halakhic aspect ofmenstruation, such as the prohibition of sex once she has her menstruation,which is not contingent on the existence of the Temple. The Meiri writes inhis introduction to his commentary on Tractate Niddah: “We want to clarifyin this tractate which of the matters [in Niddah], their details and generalprinciples, are relevant for the issue of purities, and which for the matter ofprohibited sex” (Beit ha-Behirah, 2). Already the Talmud itself suggests thatthe reason for Shammai’s opinion and its astonishing lack of adherence to therabbinic principle of building a protective fence around biblical laws is thatmen might confuse the two different legal discourses. They might think thatthey unknowingly transgress if their wives, unbeknownst to them, are alreadyin a status of impurity before their blood becomes visible (bNid 3b). Hus-bands might therefore espouse an unnecessary reluctance for sex and endan-ger the observance of the commandment of procreation. The two halakhicdiscourses, however, of which one, as to its applicability, is dependent on theexistence of the Temple whereas the other is not are very difficult to keep sep-arate even conceptually.

I would suggest that the Mishnah deliberately obfuscates the destructionof the Temple as one of its strategies to hide the systemic break that the de-struction of the Temple might have represented for biblical law, specificallythose sections that are related to it, prominently the sacrificial order and thesystem of purity and impurity. Whether it does so because its editor(s) expectthe Temple to be rebuilt in the nearer future or in the distant future, this strat-egy creates a system in which the ultimate halakhic reality remains centeredaround the Temple, thereby ignoring historic reality. Not only does this strat-egy circumvent the question of continuity, but it also creates a cognitive dif-ference between actual historical reality and the way reality should be fromthe divine perspective, a cognitive difference that animates Jewish religiousculture to this day.

The positivist historian of rabbinic Judaism may argue that the openingmahloqet between Hillel and Shammai is, in fact, chronologically located in Sec-ond Temple times and, therefore, does indeed have its origin in a chronologicalcontext in which the disagreement had practical consequences for women andtheir relationship to the Temple, as well as to others who came in contact withthem. Further, there is evidence that the practical consequences may have his-

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torically reached beyond the destruction of the Temple. One of the prominentobjects for which priestly wives would have been required to be meticulousabout impurity-purity is the terumah, the heave-offering or the priestly portionfrom the harvest, which had to be handled in a status of purity or else would berendered unusable. The Babylonian Talmud in its discussion of the practical rel-evance of the mishnaic discussions of menstrual impurity mentions that“terumah was in existence in the days of Rabbi [Yehudah ha-Nassi]”39 (bNid6b), over a hundred years after the destruction of the Temple. Further, the Tal-mud mentions groups that were particularly meticulous with respect to the ap-plication of purity rules to items that would have played a role in the Temple.Thus, “Ulla [a third generation Babylonian ‘amora] stated: The ‘associates’ inGalilee keep levitical purity” (bNid 6b).40 However, these statements are madeeither by the late editorial layer of the Talmud, as is true for the first case, or bypostmishnaic rabbis. The first betrays a historicizing consciousness: “In the daysof Rabbi,” but not anymore. The second, on the other hand, attributes the ap-plication of purity practices to an exceptional group of Jews, clearly not reflect-ing that which the Talmud considers normative.

However, as the mahloqet between Hillel and Shammai becomes part of theMishnah, edited at the end of the second century and providing the basis forfurther developments of Jewish law as a post-Temple text, it loses its immediatehistorical context as much as it is retaining it. On the one hand, as their mahlo-qet is integrated into the textual whole of the Mishnah it has lost a context inwhich it makes a difference as to actual practice. Whether the food that thepriestly wife touched just before she discovers blood has now been invalidatedfor Temple use (Hillel) or not (Shammai), is irrelevant in the absense of theTemple. On the other hand, the Mishnah itself makes no distinction betweenpre- and post-Temple halakhic reality. There is no systemic break, and thereforeit does not historicize the disagreement between Hillel and Shammai. As a ha-lakhic disagreement it retains a discursive life down to this day.

Conclusion

Reading our epigraphic mishnah closely, then, I have spun two strands ofanalysis. On the one hand, this mishnah can be constructed as a beginning ofmishnaic discourse, and hence a beginning of rabbinic literary culture, sincea number of beginnings converge in the mahloqet between Hillel and Sham-mai. Such a construction requires some reading against the grain, since theMishnah betrays a tendency to obscure beginnings. This we have seen partic-ularly in the second strand of our analysis in which I argued that mNid 1:1 ispart of the general tendency or strategy of the Mishnah to build halakhic dis-


course around the Temple in a post-Temple historical reality, as if the Templewere still in existence. We have read this strategy as a self-conscious blurringof rabbinic beginnings and biblical endings. This argument can be strength-ened now if we recall that in the first part of our analysis it was the Toseftathat provided the powerful introduction to Tractate Eduyot and its philosophyof the beginnings of rabbinic Torah. The contrast between the Mishnah’sopening mahloqet in mEd 1:1 and mNid 1:1 and between the Tosefta’s longmidrashic explanation why Tractate Eduyot (and therefore Tractate Niddah)starts with Hillel and Shammai, only highlights the Mishnah’s tendency tomask beginnings.

Further, the two strands of our analysis converge perhaps in the followingway. Particularly in the halakhic discourse about menstruation the boundariesbetween practical, applicable and “theoretical” (for lack of a better term) ha-lakhah become blurred. I would argue, then, that the Mishnah projects con-tinuity between the rabbinic movement and Temple Judaism by concealingthe destruction of the Temple, in order to conceal its own beginning, its owninnovativeness, and thus to deflate questions as to the discontinuity betweenbiblical and rabbinic law, and ultimately the authoritative basis of rabbiniclaw. The purity system forms a crucial nexus of this strategy, and menstrualimpurity arguably forms its center. This may be implied in the well-knownmishnaic categorization of laws in Tractate Hagigah: “The [rules governingthe] release from vows are flying through space with no place to rest. The lawsgoverning Shabbat, the festival sacrifices and sacrilege, these are like moun-tains hanging on a hair, because they have little Scripture and many halakhot.Criminal and civil law, the Temple service, the sacrifices, the purities and im-purities and prohibited sexual relations, they are the essense of Torah” (mHag1:8). This is echoed in mAvot 3:18: “Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma says: Bird of-ferings and the ‘gates of Niddah,’ these are the essential halakhot. Astronomyand geometry are the auxiliaries to wisdom.” If in Tractate Hagigah theessence of Torah includes impurities and purities, and Temple-related and in-dependent legal discourses are mixed, Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma narrows downthe essence to the “gates” of Niddah.41

For the rabbis, women’s bodies turn into a major, if not their central, toolfor conceptualizing sacred time and sacred space, and the relationship be-tween the two. The discourse of Niddah provides a bridge between halakhahthat is Temple-bound and halakhah that is not contingent on historical real-ity. It provides a basis for a continuation of the discourse of purity and im-purity, even when its reference-point has been destroyed, and allows it to turninto a powerful basis for Jewish spirituality, in which the importance of theTemple as the reference-point for the purity-system recedes into the back-

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ground. Thus Maimonides finishes the section of his codification that dealswith the impurities of food with what at first seems to be a historical refer-ence and then turns into a theological statement:

Even though it is permitted to eat impure foods and drink impure drinks,the first hasidim used to eat profane food in the status of ritual purity andkept away from any impurities all their days. And they are called perushim.This is a matter of additional holiness and the way of piety, that a personshould separate himself from the rest of the people and not touch themand not drink and eat with them, because withdrawal (perishut) leads tothe purity of the body from evil deeds, and the purity of the body leads tothe sanctification of the soul from evil thoughts, and the sanctification ofthe soul leads to similitude with the Shekhinah.42

The construction of rabbinic knowledge as paternal, of Torah as paternalknowledge, is only the mirror of turning women’s bodies into tools to think with.

Notes

I would like to thank my friend Willis Johnson for a careful reading of themanuscript of this essay.

1. All translations are my own. For the Hebrew text Iam using Shishah SidreiMishnah, ed. Chanoch Albeck (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1988 [repr.]) as mybase text. Significant manuscript changes will be noted.

2. Throughout this chapter I will capitalize Mishnah when I refer to the corpus asa whole. An individual unit will be referred to in lower case—mishnah.

3. I am using the plural, rather than going by the traditional assumption thatRabbi Yehudah ha-Nassi is the editor of the Mishnah. Even D. Zlotnick, whodiscusses the editorship of Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nassi in some detail, assumes atthe very least an editorial group: “Our designation of Rabbi as editor does notexclude the likelihood that he worked in conjunction with his bet din” (TheIron Pillar Mishnah, 33 fn. 1).

4. S. Lieberman’s argument has now widely been accepted. In his famous essay on“The Publication of the Mishnah” [in Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York:The Jewish Theological Seminary, 1994) 83–100] he argues that “[s]ince in theentire Talmudic literature we do not find that a book of the Mishnah was everconsulted in case of controversies or doubt concerning a particular reading wemay safely conclude that the compilation was not published in writing, that awritten ε’κδοσισ of the Mishnah did not exist” (85). Instead, “when the Mish-nah was committed to memory and the Tannaim recited it in the college it wasthereby published and possessed all the traits and features of a written


ε’κδοσισ” (88). However, “this oral publication possessed all the traits and fea-tures of the written publications of that time” (97).

5. Beginnings, “Preface to the Morningside Edition,” xiii.6. For a similar approach in a different context see Abraham Goldberg, “Die Zer-

störung von Kontext als Voraussetzung für die Kanonisierung religiöser Texteim rabbinischen Judentum” in Kanon und Zensur, ed. Aleida and Jan Assmann(München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1987), 201–11. What I call “obscuring ofthe new beginning,” Goldberg calls “destruction of context.”

7. At least as far as Mishnah Avot is concerned, I find my assumption of editorialintent supported by Moshe Kline’s careful analysis of that tractate (“The Art ofWriting the Oral Tradition: Leo Strauss, the Maharal of Prague, and RabbiJudah the Prince,” Jerusalem 1998; cited from the translation onwww.israel.net/Torah/Articles/TheArt-H.HTM). Kline concludes that “[I]t isclear that we are dealing with an extraordinarily complex composition. In lightof the clear rules of organization which we have seen so far, it is impossible toview our text as a chance collection or historical accretion. Someone put a greatdeal of effort into constructing this literary document.”

8. See especially mYoma 1:3, where the elders of the beit din instruct the highpriest in sacrifices, mYoma 1:5 in where the elders of the priesthood identifythemselves as the shluhei beit din, and in mYoma 1:6 where the talmideihakhamim recite to him and interpret if the high priest himself is not ahakham. The beit din is, of course, a rabbinic institution, and talmideihakhamim a rabbinic self-designation.

9. See The Iggeres of Rav Sherira Gaon, trans. Rabbi Nosson Dovid Rabinowich(Jerusalem: Ahavath Torah Institute 1988), 4–5. See also Margarete Schlüter,Auf welche Weise wurde die Mischna geschrieben?: Das Autwortschreiben des RavSherira Gaon, Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1993. See her introduction for a dis-cussion of the various models of explaining the Sitz im Leben of the Iggeret.The assumption of a Karaite context has been challenged, but still seems to bepromoted by most scholars.

10. See especially the Epistle of Barnabas 16, as discussed by Stephen G. Wilson,Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 c.e. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press1995) 131–43.

11. For a parallel approach, see Page duBois, Sappho is Burning, (Chicago: TheUniversity of Chicago Press, 1995), 25. duBois moves Sappho to the center ofour narrative of the origins of Western civilization: “The figure of Sappho, theverse of Sappho, disrupt various paradigms of Western civilization. Hers is atroubling place at its purported origins. She is a woman but also an aristocrat,a Greek, but one turned toward Asia, a poet who writes as a philosopher beforephilosophy . . . She disorients, troubles, undoes many conventional notions ofthe history of poetry, the history of philosophy, the history of sexuality.”

12. See also A Goldberg who writes: “. . . das Werk weist sich in keiner Weise aus.Wie all Schriften der rabbinischen Traditionsliteratur (und ein Teil der Bibel)beginnt sie einfach mit dem Text,” ibid., 205. “. . . the work (Mishnah) does

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not explain itself. Like any text of rabbinic traditional literature (and partiallythe Bible) it simply starts with the text” (my translation).

13. For the etymology of Mishnah, tying it to hnç as either (a) to teach, or (b) torepeat, hence hrwt hnçm, the second Torah, see D. Zlotnick, Iron Pillar Mish-nah, 13–14 and Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrash, 114.

14. See Marcel Simon, Versus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians andJews in the Roman Empire (AD135–425) (London: The Littman Library ofJewish Civilization 1996) 89ff, on the term deuterosis and its use in Patristicliterature.

15. This remark is one of the classic proof-texts for the generally accepted assump-tion that Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nassi edited the Mishnah. See D. Zlotnick, IronPillar, 15 and 19–23 for the reference in bYev 64b: “Now then, who arrangedthe Mishnah? Rabbi!”

16. mAv 1:1 and the famous anecdote about Hillel and Shammai and the twoTorot AdRN B 29 and bShab 31a, among many other references. In his Intro-duction to the Mishnah, Maimonides begins with what Y. Shilat considers to bea historical account (Y. Shilat, Haqdamot Ha-Rambam La-Mishnah, Jerusalem:Maaleh Adumim 1996, Hebr.). Maimonides opens: “Know that each com-mandment which God gave to Moses our teacher—was given to him with itsexplanation. God would tell him the Scriptural commandment, and afterwardsits explanation” (Y. Shilat, Haqdamot, 27). Shilat comments that “the externalframework of [Maimonides’] discussion as a whole is a historical description ofthe chain of oral Torah, from the days of Moses our teacher till the composi-tion of the Mishnah” (65). On the prohibition to put the oral Torah in writingand the subsequent transgression of this prohibition see Ouaknin, The BurntBook, 24, and Stemberger, Einleitung in Talmud und Midrasch, 41–42. A.Goldberg suggests, interestingly, that “das Dogma von der mündlichen Toramachte also eine radikale Zensur möglich und war vielleicht auch die Legit-imierung für den Aussschluss aller Literatur, sofern diese nicht rabbinisch war,”ibid., 202. “the dogma of the oral Torah makes a radical censoring possible andperhaps became the legitimizing strategy for excluding literature that was notrabbinic” (my translation).

17. See Shaul Magid’s discussion of this distinction in his introduction and AryehCohen’s distinction between Beginning and beginning in the next chapter.

18. See below, n. 20.19. See Rachel Adler’s theological reflection in her essay, “Tumah and Taharah:

Ends and Beginnings,” in The Jewish Woman, ed. Elizabeth Koltum (New York:Schocken Books, 1976), 63–71.

20. Chanoch Albeck suggested that Tractate Eduyot is in fact the first mishnaictractate to be edited at all. He follows the Tosefta in attributing the edition ofthis tractate to the generation of Yavneh (Einführung in die Mischnah, 122ff ).Albeck’s thesis has, however, been rejected by J. Epstein (Introduction to Tan-naitic Literature [Hebr.]), 428, and Stemberger (Einleitung in Talmud undMidrasch), 136.


21. See Isaiah Gafni, “The Historical Background,” in The Literature of the Sages,ed. Shmuel Safrai (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 1–35, who, however,retrojects the beginnings of rabbinic Judaism even further back into the SecondTemple period to Ezra. Nonetheless, he suggests that “Hillel’s advent may sig-nify something of an ideological revolution” (11).

22. See D. Boyarin’s recent discussion of Yavneh as a founding-myth, patterned afterthe councils of the Church: “. . . where traditional scholarly historiography refersto Yavneh as a founding council that ‘restored’ Judaism and established the rab-binic form as hegemonic following the disaster of the destruction of the Temple,I am more inclined to see it as a narrative whose purpose is to shore up the at-tempt at predominance on the part of the rabbis (and the Patriarchate) in thewake of the greater debacle following the Fall of Betar in 138,” “A Tale of TwoSynods: Nicea, Yavneh, and Rabbinic Ecclesiology” (Exemplaria 12, 2000), 24.

23. See the parallel version of this text in bShab 138b that has: “The time willcome when Torah will be forgotten by Israel . . . ” (cf. Zlotnick, Iron PillarMishnah, 182).

24. Burton Visotzky, Fathers of the World: Essays in Rabbinic and Patristic Literatures(Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck]), 1995.

25. Froma Zeitlin, “The Dynamics of Misogyny” in Playing the Other (Chicago:University of Chicago Press, 1996) 108.

26. It is interesting to note the careful rhetorical choices for the designation of eth-nic identity here. Grammatically the term for Samaritan women is an adjective(kutiot) whereas Israel is a noun. The Mishnah here appropriates the biblicalterm and turns it into the signifier for the ideal Israel, away from its geoethnicsignificance.

For a more detailed discussion of this mishnah see my article “WhenWomen Walk in the Way of Their Fathers: On Gendering the Rabbinic Claimfor Authority” ( JHS 10:314, 2001, forthcoming).

27. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho in the Ante-Nicene Fathers: Translations ofthe Writings of the Fathers down to A.D. 325, vol I, Alexander Roberts andJames Donaldson, eds. (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmanns, 1978–81), 123.For a discussion of this phenomenon see Marcel Simon, Versus Israel, 169–173.

28. See bBer 16b, where the Babylonian Talmud cites a baraita, according to which“we only call three [men] the fathers, and four [women] the mothers.”

29. For the superimposition of father and teacher see especially bKid 29b ff.30. The beginning of Tractate Eduyot lists only three disagreements, whereas there

are numerous disagreements between the schools of Shammai and Hillel. SeeSherira Gaon in his Iggeret, who quotes bShab 14b: “And when Shammai andHillel came, they, too, only argued on three points, as we say: ‘Rav Huna said:Shammai and Hillel were in disagreement on three issues.’” (The Iggeres of RavSherira Gaon 1988, 5).

31. This has been discussed in detail by L. Dean-Jones in her Women’s Bodies inClassical Greek Science (60–65). See also my Menstrual Purity: Rabbinic andChristian Reconstruction of Biblical Gender (Stanford: Stanford University Press,2000), 125–130.

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32. E.g., mBer 1:1: “From when on does one recite the Shema’ in the evening?From the time that the priests enter to eat their Terumah,” the heave offering.

33. See also Arnold Goldberg, ibid., who remarks that “more than hundred yearsafter the destruction of the sanctuary the text imparts for example norms forthe sacrificial service, priestly contributions and purity rules as if it still stood—the fact that one cannot fulfill the norm does in the end not take away from itsbinding force” (my translation), 205. There are exceptions, if only rare ones. InmR.H. 4:1 the Mishnah lists several takkanot (ordinances) instituted by Rab-ban Yohanan ben Zakkai whichaddress a post-Temple situation: “In a casewhen Rosh ha-Shanah falls on Shabbat, they used to blow the Shofar in theTemple but not outside of it. After the Temple was destroyed, Rabban Yohananben Zakkai instituted that . . . ”

34. The reference here is the second part of the first mishnah not cited in the epi-graph in which the sages further determine that Shammai’s rejection of theprinciple of retroactive impurity does apply to a woman with a regular cycle,i.e., one who knows the time of her menstrual period.

35. It should be noted that whether the bed is included in the pronoun or not hasbeen subject to some debate, even though this issue is not of our concernherre. In his commentary on the Mishnah Maimonides holds that the bedwould in fact be in a status of impurity even when the taharot are declared tostill be in a status of purity. Most commentaries seem to hold, however, thatthe bed would be excluded from the mishnaic ruling.

36. I have discussed the conceptual difficulties resulting from the theoretical natureof the mishnaic discussions at greater length in the first chapter of my bookMenstrual Purity. Urbach claims that “the prevailing view in the Halakhah isapparently that all the laws of purity and impurity—followed also by the Rab-binical rules of impurity—really affected only priests and Nazirites, and theyconcerned the Israelites as a whole only when they came into contact withTemple matters and hallowed objects,” The Sages, 583.

37. Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Tumat ‘Okhlin, 16:8.38. However, the Meiri remarks in the introduction to his commentary on Tractate

Niddah that since the other tractates of this order do not have a gemara (talmudicdiscussion), “the Geonim considered to move it from its place and to put itamongst the orders that are studied regularly (Moed, Nashim, Neziqin) and theyconsidered to attach it to this order, i.e., the Order of Women, its subject matterbeing more fitting for this order, since essentially it provides an explanation of theimpurity of women, both with respect to the touchings of Temple related foodsand items, and with respect to sex.” (Beit ha-Behirah, “Massekhet Niddah,” 1).

39. ybr ymyb hmwrt yawhd. The text continues to ask about the existence of sac-rificial meat in Rabbi’s days that equally had to be handled in a status of purity.Rashi comments on this question: µynç hmk—yawh ym ybr ymyb çdq.µyanth πwsb ˜brwjh rja These statements appear in the stammaitic layerof the gemara and clearly already have a historizing perspective. That is, even ifthe terumah still existed in the days of the Rabbi, it no longer does “now,” inthe days of the composition of the gemara.


40. alylZb ˜krm ayrbj alw[ rmad. Rashi comments on the ayrbj that µhymyb q´mhb hnby amç ´wjnml ñmçw µyksnl µnyy µyrhfm lylZbç µyrbj—”the associates in the Galilee purify their wine for libation offerings and their oilfor meal-offerings because perhaps the Temple might be rebuilt in their days.”On the identity of the µyrbj as a specific group of people and the later amoraicunderstanding of the term as applying to µymkj ydymlt in general, see Urbach’sThe Sages, 582–87.

41. The metaphor remains ambiguous. It refers to the actual beginning of awoman’s status of menstrual impurity (see mArakhin 2:1), as well as to the lawsconcerning Niddah in general (see Albeck’s commentary in his edition of theMishnah, Shishah Sidrei Mishnah).

42. Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Tumat ‘Okhlin, 16:12. For a discussion of the ethicalcategories provided by the Mishnah Torah to enhance the halakhic system, seeIsadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah), (NewHaven and London: Yale University Press, 1980), 356–515, in particular hissection on “Concern with ethical perfection,” 430–43.

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chapter 4

Beginning Gittin/Mapping Exile

Aryeh Cohen

IBen Bag Bag said: Examine it [Torah] again and again for all is in it.

—Pirkei Abot 5:22

BEN BAG BAG’S motto asserts the timelessness of Torah study. It has no be-ginning and no end. Each time one studies Torah it is like the first time.1 Onecan only pick up the Torah as one picks up a diamond to see the way the light isrefracted through all of its endless facets. Or, perhaps, one needs to inquire afterit endlessly in a necessarily futile attempt to understand what it is. Each new van-tage point provides a new world of Torah that just yesterday was hidden fromview. Each new vantage point brings closer the definition of what it is and at thesame time pushes it farther away. There is no beginning, there is no end.

The graphic layout of the printed page of the Vilna edition of the Talmud2

similarly argues that the question of beginnings is, at best, irrelevant. Everytime Rashi—writing in the twelfth century but being (re)presented/read in theeternal present—comments on the Mishnah with his common begemara me-faresh (“it is explained in the Gemara”) or the equally common lekaman me-faresh (“it is explained further on”), he elides the possibility of distance that issuggested by the phoneme GM’ (signifying Gemara) at the point of separationbetween third-century Mishnah and sixth- and seventh-century Talmud (inHebrew) or Gemara (in Aramaic). It is this distance that raises the possibilityof silence. That is, the choices and the directions a sugya takes are naturalized

by its assumption into the Mishnah by Rashi. It is by reclaiming this distancethat the question of beginnings might be spoken. Acknowledgment of thisdistance allows one to ask questions about the texts authorization and as-sumption of authority.3

For this discussion of Talmudic beginnings I would like to make use of adistinction between “starting” (tefilah) and beginning or Beginning (bereishit)that was first proffered by an early theorist of the study and interpretation ofTalmud. In the first chapter of his work on Talmudic interpretation, DarkheiHatalmud, the Gaon of Castille, R. Yitzhak Canpanton (1360–1463), enu-merates several prerequisites to the proper study of Talmud. “At the start ofyour iyyun (logical and linguistic analysis of Talmud4) accept as a given thateach of the speakers [in the sugya] both the questioner and the respondent,are intelligent. . . .”5 (22); “At the start of your iyyun of the words of the com-mentators you must see of which phrase of the text [the commentator] isspeaking. . . .” (23); “At the start of your iyyun you must review the wholesugya and know its intention and encompass it in a general way. . . .” (24)6

Then, just before the end of the first chapter comes the following admoni-tion: “In the beginning (bereishit) read the language with heartfelt joy two orthree times out loud and then return to study intently (le’ayyen) that lan-guage. . . .” (26).

This last step in the process of beginning one’s study is a process of con-structing the studied text, the sugya. Reading the text two or three times outloud with joy is not for the sake of intellectual comprehension, but for the sakeof a certain intimate familiarity with the words, the way the phrases sound asthey are read.7 This step in the process also establishes the text in the reader’smind as a unified object of study—a text rather than a series of sentences. Can-panton calls this step p’shat. While there is much controversy over what p’shatexactly is—opinions range from literal to contextual meaning—there is a gen-eral agreement that p’shat signifies a certain type of interpretation or under-standing. For Canpanton it seems that p’shat is prior to any interpretation.

More interesting, however, is the rhetorical strategy of acknowledging thetheological importance of constructing the text as object of study by the shiftto the word bereishit.8 This is striking since a similar charge to scan the wholesugya (though not to recite it joyously two or three times) was presented onthe previous page with the introductory term tefilah (start).

Following this disctinction then, the ultimate Beginning of beginning,the bereishit of the beginning, is the deeper significance that the disjunctionof beginning a tractate carries. A Tractate begins, therefore, at its moment ofdisjunction with its Mishnah. The moment when the specific Talmudic trac-tate comes into view as a separate entity that is no longer present in the Mish-

7 0 beginning/again

nah is its beginning. This moment carries with it both legal and religious dif-ference. The tractate does not necessarily start with its beginning. As I willargue in the case of Bavli Gittin, the first folios are an introduction, but thebeginning of the tractate is on folio 6a.

II

In this chapter I will first analyze the introduction to Bavli Gittin (2a–5b).These sugyot are a first read-through of the Mishnah, or a first line by line en-gagement with Mishnah Gittin 1:1. In my reading I point out both the liter-ary structure of the text, and the way in which that structure highlights itsown artificiality as linear dialogue. This section ends with the anonymousvoice of the Bavli (the stam) undermining the basis on which the discussionhad taken place. This leads to the Beginning of the Tractate on 6a. I thenclosely read the sugya 6a–7b, employing a sugyaetic analysis. A sugyaetic analy-sis is a reading practice that consists of three types of analyses.9 First, readingthe sugya against its grain, asking what the various rhetorical moves do, ratherthan acquiescing to their own claims as questions and answers. Second, ana-lyzing the sugya structurally to identify the recurrent forms, tropes, and im-ages in the sugya. Third, an intertextual analysis to situate the sugya within itsliterary and cultural universe.

III

An introduction, as opposed to a beginning, makes a less originary claim. Anintroduction is a framing of a certain text; a clearing of a certain discursivespace. The introduction’s own claim for “beginning” is usually put forward asfalse, or artificial. An introduction constitutes a statement of direction, and achoice of one of the many—if not infinite—ways in which a work can pro-ceed.10 The claim of an introduction—as the argument for an introduction—is a claim for some narrative order in the chaos,11 albeit in a rather limited way.

There are two issues at stake in this reading of the beginning of TractateGittin of the Babylonian Talmud.12 First is the claim that the cultural nego-tiation of living in Exile is an integral part of the legal discourse that producedthe Talmud. The second issue, is that the violence that is inherent in all legalsystems, and especially in those parts of patriarchal legal systems that dealwith marriage and divorce, is brought to the fore in these discussions. Divorceis represented in these texts as a site of violence, both physical and psycho-logical. It is the same sugyot that inscribe the Land of Israel onto Babylonia inan attempt to efface Exile (or subvert the Exile-Land of Israel opposition),

beginning gittin/mapping exile 7 1

7 2 beginning/again

which also highlight the violence that is represented as a prime characteristicof diasporic existence.

IV

The violence that is an aspect of law has been addressed by the legal theoristRobert Cover. He argues succinctly for one major and overriding differencebetween legal and literary interpretation. “Legal interpretation takes place ina field of pain and death.”13 Yet, the violence inflicted by law and by legal in-terpretation is far removed from the scene of the interpretation or adjudica-tion. The violence is therefore either hidden or transparent.14 The institutionsof law often go to great lengths to ensure that this is so. The violence of in-carceration, impoverishment, loss of one’s children, loss of one’s life, arechoreographed in such a way that the objects of that violence are seen as will-ing actors in the legal drama.

However, the violence is always just beneath the surface. When an out-raged defendant refuses to participate in the “civilized” choreography thatleads to her freedom being lost; when a judge breaks through the visage of im-partiality in the face of a particularly vicious criminal—the curtain is torn andthe actual stakes of the game are apparent.

One of the unique elements of the introduction to Bavli Gittin is rhetori-cal acknowledgment of the violence that is an integral part of the discourse ofdivorce. If the communicative and legal situation that is divorce misfires (toborrow a phrase from J. L. Austin), the woman might be anchored, she is liableto be put to death for having sex with another man, her children from any otherunion might be mamzerim—”nonpersons” in the societal context. The powerthat the exercise of divorce grants to the man neccesarily leads to an adversarialsituation. This situation is, in general, domesticated, or naturalized in therhetoric of legal determinism.15 That it bubbles to the surface with the force andclarity that it does in the beginning of Bavli Gittin is surprising.

The violence of the discourse of divorce operates on two levels—as doesthe discourse itself. For the discourse of divorce, as I will show in this essay, isalso and equally the discourse of exile—and partakes of the violence of thatdiscourse too.

V

The initial sugyot, or talmudic discussions, in Bavli Gittin are generated bypressing on the first line in the first Mishnah. Exploiting both ambiguities


and anomalies, the stam, the anonymous editorial voice of the Talmud, opensa space for a theoretical legal debate. The Mishnah begins as follows:

One who brings a writ [of divorce] (a get) from abroad [lit. the province ofthe sea] must attest: “Before me it was written and before me signed.”

This line raises a number of legal problems. First, what is the status of theagent who brings the get and makes the declaration? Is he a witness? If so thiswould deviate from the legal norm that requires two witnesses. If he is not awitness, what is the status of his declaration? Second, why do we require a sec-ondary declaration concerning a legal document that had already been dulywritten and signed? Is this a reflection of the status of the courts outside ofthe Land of Israel? From another angle, is the stress to be placed on the factof the writ being brought or that it was brought from abroad?

It is questioning along these lines that is the impetus for the openingmove of the anonymous editorial voice of the Talmud. The discussion opensby presenting two opposing views as possible explanations for the law of theMishnah.

Rabbah says, for they are not experts [knowing that it must be writtenspecifically] for her.16

And Raba says, For witnesses are not [to be found] to substantiate it.

The sugya continues in a highly formalized manner based on triplets.17

Initially, three scenarios are listed in which there would be a difference in rul-ing18 between Rabbah and Raba.19 Subsequently, in two symmetrical, triplet(overlapping) sections each side is interrogated as to why this case (in whichone messenger suffices) is not similar to other cases that require two witnesses.Both sides aver that, de jure, two witnesses would be required. However, Rab-binic ordinance provides for the one witness, as a leniency, so as to guardagainst the possibility that the woman becomes an anchored woman, (agu-nah) one who can neither get divorced nor remarry. That is, if two witnesseswere required to deliver the get it would be that much harder for the womanto receive her divorce.

Both sections then raise the possibility that this might not actually be aleniency that favors the woman. If the husband appears and challenges thewrit (which was approved on the basis of one witness) once the woman hasremarried, she would be forced to leave her (new) husband and her childrenwould be mamzerim. This fear is allayed by reference to a discussion which is

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found further on in this opening section.20 There is a dispute over whetherthe messenger needs hand over the writ of divorce in front of two or three wit-nesses. Regardless of the reasons for either number, the stam asserts that oncethe husband knows that there is public record of the delivery of the get, hewill not endeavor to challenge it, or subvert it.

The next (third) section of triplets questions why Raba does not agreewith Rabbah, and vice versa. In perfectly symmetrical parts, first Raba thenRabbah set forth the reasons they do not hold the opposite view. In the thirdpart of the section, both sides rebut the other’s previous objections.

The fourth section of the opening moves away from the strict symmetri-cal construction of the earlier sections. Though a triplet, it is only concernedwith the Tannaitic ground on which Rabbahs opinion rests and does notmention Raba. The stam firsts attempts to tie Rabbah to R. Meir as the au-thor of the opinion that the writing and signing of the get needs to be per-formed specifically for this one woman. Then R. Eliezer is offered as a moreappropriate source for this opinion. Both these are rejected and R. Ashi finallypresents R. Yehudah as the author of the opinion upon whose shoulders Rab-bah stands.

We now look back to ask what this first part of the opening has accom-plished. The strict symmetrical construction has not given either side an ad-vantage as far as whether Rabbah or Raba is right. The arguments of each sidewere drawn out in full to the point that the debate was left at a draw. Whilethis is a striking example of this type of scholastic debate, in fact most sugyotdo not end in a legal decision. So, again, we are left to ask what did the sugyado? That is, what was accomplished by the sugya rhetorically.

If we do not follow the demands of the sugya’s own rhetoric, we can seethe following. The stylized debate enabled the introduction of a number ofimportant concepts, concepts that reverberate throughout the beginning ofGittin and in many sugyot in the rest of the tractate. We are left with a sharpdistinction between the Land of Israel and the rest of the world. At this pointBabylonia is still part of the rest of the world. The question of whether thedifference between Israel and the world is geographical (Raba) or substantive(Rabbah) has purposely not been resolved. It will ultimately be collapsed intoone inclusive differentiation.21

Additionally, the divorce proceeding is portrayed as one of confrontationand subterfuge with serious consequences. The husband might want to chal-lenge the divorce, even on spurious grounds; the woman might be left an-chored, or might be considered as a married woman who has married an-other—an offense punishable by death—whose children are mamzerim.


VI

The next sugyot are constructed as a running commentary on the rest of theMishnah. The Mishnah is divided into five statements and there are five Tal-mudic sections—the fifth one is, again, a triplet. Within this overall picture, thefirst and second sections are parallel in their formal construction, as are the thirdand fourth. Each of the first four sections interrogates the proposition that thedebate between Raba and Rabbah is the necessary backdrop for understandingthe Mishnah. In the first two of these sections the difference between the at-tributed opinions and the opening anonymous opinion of the Mishnah, quotedabove, is interpreted through the lenses of both Raba and Rabbah. To wit:

1 We taught [in a Mishnah]: Rabban Gamliel says, Even the one who brings [a get] from theRekem and from the Heger.

2 Rabbi Eliezer says, Even from Kfar Ludim to Lydda.3 And Abbayye says, We are dealing with cities that adjoin the Land of Israel and are

enveloped within the boundary of the Land of Israel.4 And Rabbah bar bar Hannah says, As for myself, I saw that site and it was as [the

distance] from Bei Kuby to Pum Beditha.5 And the first teacher [in the Mishnah Gittin 1:1] held that [from] these it was not

necessary [to state “Before me . . . ”].6 Is it not that they dispute about this: One holds “for they are not experts [knowing that it

must be written specifically] for her,” and these, [those who reside in these namedcities,] are learned.

7 And one holds “for witnesses are not [to be found] to substantiate it,” and these are alsonot to be found.

8 Raba answers according to his understanding, and Rabbah answers according to hisunderstanding.

9 Rabbah answers according to his understanding, for everyone [holds] “for they are notexperts [knowing that it must be written specifically] for her,”

10 and the first authority [in the Mishnah] reasons: these [cities], since they are adjoining,are learned.

11 Rabban Gamliel comes to say, Enveloped [cities] are learned, adjoining cities are notlearned.

12 Rabbi Eliezer comes to say, Enveloped [cities] also not, so as not to differentiate within”provinces of the sea.”

13 And Raba answers according to his understanding, for everyone [holds] “for witnessesare not [to be found] to substantiate it;”

14 And the first teacher holds, These since they are adjoining [the witnesses] are indeed tobe found.

15 Rabban Gamliel comes to say, [In] enveloped [cities the witnesses] are to be found, [in]adjoining [cities the witnesses] are not to be found.

16 Rabbi Eliezer comes to say, Enveloped [cities] also not, so as not to differentiate within”provinces of the sea.” [i.e., foreign lands]

Lines 1 and 2 are quoted from our Mishnah.22 Lines 3 and 4 are Amoraicstatements interpreting the Mishnah. Line 4 interprets into the Babyloniancontext, a move that will become much more important further on. Line 5 isa statement of the stam, or anonymous voice of the Talmud, making the dis-pute between the attributed statements of lines 1 and 2 and the opening lineof the Mishnah explicit. This move is not simply explanatory. The explicit de-bate is needed for the continuation of the discussion—to see whether or notit can be explained as foreshadowing (and thereby making irrelevant) the dis-pute between Raba and Rabbah (lines 6 and 7). The rest of the discussion(lines 8 to 16) demonstrate that actually both Raba and Rabbah can explainboth sides of the Mishnahs dispute. In other words, their dispute is not al-ready found in the Mishnah.

The next part of this section continues in the same vein: a quote from theMishnah is followed by an explanation of the dispute by the stam; the ques-tion is then raised whether this dispute foreshadows the Raba versus Rabbahdispute; this question is resolved through the demonstration that both Rabaand Rabbah can account for both sides of the dispute.

In the next part of the sugya, the continuation of the Mishnah is quoted:“One who brings a get from province to province in a ‘province of the sea,’needs to state ‘Before me it was written and before me it was signed.’ ” Thestam’s comment here explains this statement as a challenge to Rabbah. Theanonymous voice reads the statement strongly, as negating its implied oppo-site: One who brings the get from province to province needs to attest. How-ever, if it is brought in the same province there is no need. If the reason thatone who brings the get from abroad has to attest to its writing and signing isbecause those in foreign lands are not expert in those laws, why should itmake a difference if it is carried between two provinces or if it stays in thesame province? While this challenge is parried, the stam construes the nextpart of the Mishnah in a similar vein as a challenge to Rabbah. In response tothis challenge the stam asserts that: “Rabbah also takes Raba’s opinion intoaccount.”

The dispute between Raba and Rabbah is seriously mitigated since Rab-bah agrees that Raba’s concern for the presence of the witnesses is a legitimateconcern—in addition to the concern that those who reside abroad are igno-rant of the subtlety of divorce law. One of their two concerns, therefore, isnow considered a universal concern—everyone demands the accessibility ofthe witnesses that can affirm the writ. The concern that is only held by Rab-

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bah is that those residing abroad are ignorant of the law that a writ of divorceneeds to be written specifically for one woman.

This conclusion, that Rabbah also takes Raba’s opinion into account, isproferred three more times in the course of the discussion in this section. Thesection then concludes on a significant note.

99 This is as the dispute between R. Yohanan and R. Joshua b. Levi.100 One says “for they are not experts [knowing that it must be written specifically] for

her.”101 And one says “for witnesses are not [to be found] to substantiate it.”102 Specify that it is R. Joshua b. Levi who says “for they are not experts [knowing that it

must be written specifically] for her.”103 For R. Simeon b. Abba brought a get before R. Joshua b. Levi and said to him,104 “Need I say ‘before me it was written and before me it was signed,’ or not?”105 He said to him, “You need not.106 They did not say it except in the earlier generations when they were not experts, but in

the later generations in which they are expert, no.”107 Specify it.

There are two important moments in this short text. The first is the open-ing line (99). The stam avers that the dispute between Raba and Rabbah is ac-tually the same as the dispute between R. Yohanan and R. Joshua b. Levi. Thesignificance of this is twofold. It moves the dispute to the time of the Pales-tinian Sages. Hence, the dispute has a pedigree. Therefore, other opinions ofthese two Amoraim can be contrasted with this opinion. Second, and moreimportant, from the manner in which it is deduced that it is actually R.Joshua b. Levi who holds that those residing abroad are not experts, it emergesthat the concern about expertise itself is anachronistic: “They did not say itexcept in the earlier generations when they were not experts . . . ”. It followsthen that there really is no difference between Babylon and the Land of Israelin terms of either expertise in providing writs of divorce, or the necessity forattesting that the writ was written and signed for one specific woman.

This, then, is the end of the introduction to Gittin. It is an artful rehearsalof some of the dominant ideas of the Tractate—ideas that will come backagain and again in various sugyot. It is a good example of that type of intro-duction that was noted first by R. Sherira Gaon and expanded upon more re-cently by Avraham Weiss23—an introduction that might have served as a lec-ture summarizing the year’s study. The introduction was probably composedafter most of the tractate. Its style is predominantly anonymous and“midrashic” in the manner in which it comments on the Mishnah in a “verseby verse” manner.24 It is not however the Beginning of the Tractate in the way


7 8 beginning/again

that I am using that word here, in the way that Canpanton differentiates be-tween starting (tefillah) and Beginning (bereishit).

The Beginning of the Tractate, the moment at which the tectonic shiftgenerates enough seismic activity to break the topography,25 the point atwhich the Bavli authors and authorizes its own disjunctive Beginning, occurson the next folio with the statement (and sentiment) attributed to Rab:“Babylonia is like the Land of Israel in reference to writs [of divorce].” Theramifications of this remapping of the territory of Exile is played out over thenext two folios. It is this unfolding of the tension between two modes of Ex-ilic being—on the one hand effacement of the Exile by inscribing the Landof Israel onto the Babylonian diaspora, and thereby claiming a nonexilic exis-tence and authority discontinuous with the Land of Israel; on the other handinvoking the existential (and material) reality of Exile as the primary locationof the legal discourse which often occupies and almost always underlays thediscussions of Tractate Gittin.

VII

The Beginning of Bavli Gittin engages Exile by mapping of the Land of Israelonto Babylonia. This necessarily failed attempt to efface Exile is one prong ofthe discursive engagement with Exile. The other prong is the representationof the essential violence of the Exilic situation.

Mapping, in general, is an articulation of a distinct territory. Mappingboth reflects and establishes the boundaries of that territory. The map also, forthe most part, aims for transparency. That is, it claims to represent an actualstate of affairs—often a seemingly “natural” or “objective” state of affairs. Thearticulation of a territorial identity is, however, anything but obvious or nat-ural. It is an act of reading, of interpretation—often through a frame of reli-gious or political power or ideology.26

The mosaic map uncovered at the site of the ancient church of Madabais a useful example as a counterpart to the mapping of the beginning of BavliGittin.27 The map was created in the sixth century C.E.28 to cover the floorof the whole transept29 of the Ancient Church at Madaba. Jerusalem is thecentral showpiece of the map.30 The map was constructed in such a way thatJerusalem is almost at the exact center of the map—and therefore in the cen-ter of the forward, or eastern end, of the church. This placement accords witha tradition (both Jewish and Christian) that places Jerusalem at the center ofthe Holy Land—and often at the center of the world. More significantlythough, the site that is given preeminence in the mosaic’s representation ofJerusalem is the church of the Holy Sepulchre—while the Temple Mount isdepicted as an empty space. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre (or Anastasis)


is in the almost exact center of the depiction of Jerusalem, and is the largestand most ornately drawn building in the city, while the Temple mount iscomparatively small, and almost totally obscured by the colonnade of thenorth-south street that runs by it.31 In this same vein, the map as a whole isheavily weighted toward depicting New Testament places over places men-tioned in the Hebrew Bible.32 This supercessionist mapping of the HolyLand—which seems to fulfill Jesus’ prophecy that “there will not be left here[in the Temple] one stone upon another, that will not be thrown down,”(Matthew 24:2)33—was the nightmare of the Madaba mosaicists contempo-raries, the Sages who created the Babylonian Talmud.

The mapping that we encounter in Bavli Gittin is legal in its topogra-phy—its nominal end is the establishment of a territory whose boundaries arethose of legal competence. It is, however, also creating the cultural entity thatit seems only to represent. This new entity is proffering itself as substitute forthe territorial map whose center is empty—the Land of Israel after the de-struction of the Temple and the Exile.

VIII

The most dramatic part of the opening sugyot of Bavli Gittin, the sugya thatis the Beginning of Bavli Gittin—6a–7b—is generated by a dispute betweenRab and Samuel over whether Babylonia should be granted the legal status ofthe Land of Israel in the area of divorce law. Rab equates Babylonia with theLand of Israel and Shmuel refuses to do so. The sugya may be divided into fiveparts. (I:1–20; II:22–49; III:50–77; IV:78–109; V:110–141)34 The first threeparts of the sugya are all structurally similar. An Amoraic statement is cited.This is followed by a stammaitic discussion in which there is an attempt toimplicate this statement in the dispute between Rabbah and Raba mentionedabove. This is dismissed by stating that Rabbah agrees with Raba. This gen-erates further stammaitic or anonymous discussion. The last two parts of thesugya are generated by Amoraic statements that link them to the previousparts.

This debate, whether Babylonia should be granted the legal status of theLand of Israel in the area of divorce law, changes the whole landscape as it hadpreviously been set out in the Mishnah. The borders drawn in the Mishnahwere those between Israel and foreign countries (medinot hayam). The ideathat any place would be an exception to that is foreign to the Mishnah.35

1 It has been stated: Babylonia, Rab said, [It is] like Land of Israel in respect of writs ofdivorce,

2 And Samuel said, [It is] as outside the land.

3 Let us say that they differ on this, that one of them reasoned for they are not experts[knowing that it must be written specifically] for her, and these [the Babylonians,] arelearned, [and in the same category with the Palestinians and are not required to makethe declaration],

4 And the other reasoned that witnesses are not [to be found] to substantiate it, and thesame difficulty is found [in Babylonia].

5 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Rabas opinion into account?6 Rather, All [i.e., Rab and Samuel agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is

required. 7 Rab reasoned that since there are Academies [in Babylonia witnesses are] always to be

found,8 Samuel reasoned that the Academies are taken up with their studies.9 It has also been stated that R. Abba said in the name of R. Huna in the name of Rab:

“We established Babylonia as the same as the Land of Israel in respect of writs of divorcefrom the time when Rab came to Babylonia.”

10 R. Jeremiah returned [a challenge]:11 R. Judah says, [foreign lands extend] from Rekem eastward, Rekem considered as

east; 12 from Askelon southward, Askelon considered as south: 13 from Acco northward, Acco considered as north. 14 Now Babylonia is located north of the Land of Israel, as it is written, “And the Lord said

to me, Out of the north the evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land.”(Jer. 1:14)

15 And the Mishnah teaches: R. Meir says, Acco is like the Land of Israel in respect ofwrits of divorce;

16 but even R. Meir only said this in the case of Acco, which is close [to the Land of Israel],but Babylonia, which is distant, not.

17 He asked the question and he himself answered [by saying that] “With the exception ofBabylonia.”

The stammaitic discussion (II. 3–8) of the dispute between Rab andSamuel accomplishes two things. It links this sugya with the previous sugyot bypresenting the reasoning of Raba and Rabbah (3–4) that is the thread runningthrough the first six pages. The possibility that the dispute between Rab andSamuel is encompassed within the Raba-Rabbah dispute is dismissed with thealready familiar reprieve (line 5): Rabbah also takes Rabas opinion into account.That is, since Rabbah actually (according to the stam) agreed that having wit-nesses present was a concern, and his own concern for the expertise of the Baby-lonians was an additional concern—the dispute between Rabbah and Rabacould not then be the basis for the Rab and Samuel dispute here.

Then the stam introduces an idea (7–8) that serves as a frame for thestatement attributed to R. Abba in the name of R. Huna. Rab equates Baby-lonia with the Land of Israel since there are academies in Babylonia. Samuel

8 0 beginning/again

acknowledges the existence of academies, but dismisses their relevance (ac-cording to the stam) since the members of the academies are involved withtheir studies—seemingly to the exclusion of involvement in legal or businessaffairs.36

This idea of Babylonia being equated with the Land of Israel by dint ofits academies is then reinforced with a statement attributed to R. Abba in thename of R. Huna (9): “We established Babylonia as the same as the Land ofIsrael in respect of writs of divorce from the time when Rab came to Babylo-nia.” This is a rephrasing of Rabs original statement, but here the equivalencewith the Land of Israel is dated to the time of Rab. Following on the intro-duction of academies in the previous lines, we read this to mean that Babylo-nia is equivalent to the Land of Israel, in the matter of divorces, because ofthe academies that are there.37

The sugya continues with a question attributed to R. Yirmiyah, whichbrings the full audacity of Rab’s statement into bright relief. This exchangedoes two things. First, Rab’s equation of Babylonia and the Land of Israel isnaturalized. R. Yirmiyah challenges this equivalence, his challenge is refuted(10–17), and the stam continues in the assumption that Babylonia is like theLand of Israel. R. Yirmiyahs question is so straightforward or “obvious” thatthe reader must read the answer (“With the exception of Babylonia.”) as beingequally obvious. This is what makes Rab’s statement fit. Part of this state-ment’s background is that Rab (and Samuel) are credited with founding thefirst academies in Babylonia. They are the beginning of (Jewish) Babylonia.So we might read this statement as follows: “From the founding of Babylon-ian Jewry (i.e., from the time of the establishment of the academies in Baby-lonia), we equate Babylonia with the Land of Israel.”

Second, the verse that is quoted as a “prooftext” for the assertion thatBabylonia is actually north of the Land of Israel is, to say the least, striking.The verse quoted is part of a prophecy to Jeremiah in which God promises toinflict punishment on Israel for their iniquities. The instruments of that pun-ishment will be the nations coming from the north. There are many un-grammaticalities—that is, syntactic and logical difficulties—in this citation.First is the surprising neccessity to “prove’ that Babylonia is north of Israel.Second, Babylon is not mentioned in this verse.38 In the verse, it is the ene-mies of Israel who are coming “from the North” to sack Jerusalem. Third, theinjection of the violent image of Jerusalem besieged is arresting. The injectionof violence by way of prooftexts recurs throughout this sugya. Implicating theJewish community of Babylonia in this verse that warns of danger from Baby-lon, the enemy of Israel, situates the Jewish community of Babylonia on the


wrong end of the binary opposition between home and diaspora, safety anddanger. Babylonia39 here is an exilic space.

Situating the Babylonian reality within an exilic space is echoed and re-inforced in the dispute between R. Papa and R. Yosef (18–20).

18 How far does Babylonia extend?19 R. Papa says: The same difference of opinion that there is in respect of writs of divorce,

there is in respect of family descent.20 R. Joseph says: There is a difference of opinion only in respect of family descent, but in

respect of writs of divorce all parties are agreed that Babylonia extends to the secondboat of the [floating] bridge.

The origin of the purity myth of Babylonian Jewry is the return from exilein the time of Ezra.40 The borders of Babylonia are the borders of the ethnic pu-rity of the returnees. These are now the borders of the exilic community.

The contradictory ways in which the Rabbinic presence, or the presenceof Academies, in Babylonia is implicated in the narrative of Exile is echoedthroughout this sugya. On the one hand, Babylonia and the Land of Israel areequalized in respect to divorce law (by dint of the presence of Rabbis and theAcademies), while Babylonia is privileged with respect to ethnic purity. Onthe other hand, the violence that is associated with the original scene of Exile,is thematized in the violence of Rabbinic—domestic and institutional—power in various ways in the sugya.

The next part of the sugya maps Babylonia as the Land of Israel in a moreexplicit manner.

21 R. Hisda required [the declaration to be made by the bearer of a Get] from Ctesiphon toVe-Ardashir, but [if one brought it] from Ve-Ardashir to Ctesiphon, he did not require[the declaration].

22 Let us say that he reasoned “for they are not experts [knowing that it must be writtenspecifically] for her.” and these [the Jews of Ve-Ardashir,] are learned.

23 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Rabas opinion into account? 24 Rather, All [agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is required.25 and since these [people of Ve-Ardashir] go there [to Ctesifon] to market, the

[inhabitants of the latter] are familiar with their signatures; 26 but these [inhabitants of Ve-Ardashir], are not familiar with [the signatures] of these

[people of Ctesiphon] because they] are busy with their marketing.

The statement attributed to R. eisda (21) parallels the statement of theMishnah attributed to R. Eliezer. R. Eliezer demands that even when an agentis delivering a get from Kfar Luddim—the suburbs of Lydda—to Lydda he

8 2 beginning/again


must state that the divorce that he is delivering was written and signed in hispresence. R. eisda demands that an agent state that the get that he is deliver-ing was written and signed in his presence, when he comes from Ve-Ardashirto Ctesiphon.41 Ve-Ardashir is to Ctesiphon as Kfar Luddim is to Lydda—ex-cept for one important fact. Neither Ve-Ardashir nor Ctesiphon are in theLand of Israel. R. eisda’s statement would not make any sense for the legaltopography of the Mishnah.

R. eisda’s statement generates a discussion that firmly plants the ongoingdiscussion of borders within Babylonia.42 In the next section of part II(32–49), bringing a writ of divorce from Sura to Nehardea in Babylonia (or theother way around) is equated to bringing a writ of divorce from Kfar Sisai toany other place in Israel.

32 R. Hanin related the following:33 R. Kahana brought a Get either from Sura to Nehardea or from Nehardea to Sura, I do not

know which.34 He went in front of Rab.35 He said to him, Am I required to declare, In my presence it was written and in my

presence it was signed, or not? 36 Rab said to him: You are not required, but if you have done so, so much the better.37 What [was meant by] if you have done so, so much the better? That if the husband

came and contested [the Get], they would pay no attention to him;38 as it has been taught43: An event concerning a man who brought a get before R. Ishmael. 39 He said to him: Rabbi, am I required to declare, In my presence it was written and in my

presence it was signed, or am I not required? 40 He [R. Ishmael] said to him: My son, from where are you? 41 He said to him: From Kefar Sisai. 42 He said to him: My son it is necessary for you to declare In my presence it was written

and in my presence it was signed, so that the woman should not require witnesses [incase the husband raises objections].

43 After the man left, R. Ila’i came before him [to R. Ishmael]. 44 He said to him: “My teacher, is not Kefar Sisai within the ambit of the border-line of the

Land of Israel, and is it not nearer to Sepphoris than Acco is? 45 And we learn in the Mishnah: R. Meir said, Acco counts as the Land of Israel in matters

of writs of divorce.46 And even the Rabbis who differ from R. Meir only differ in regard to Acco, which is

some distance away, but not in regard to Kefar Sisai which is near!”47 R. Ishmael said to him: “Be silent, my son, be silent; since the thing has been declared, it was

permitted to be declared.”48 [Why should R. Ila’i have thought otherwise], seeing that [R. Ishmael] also said: ‘that

the woman should not require witnesses?’49 [R. Ila’i] had not been told of these concluding words.

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In this exchange, the territorial specificity of the Land of Israel (“nearer toSepphoris than Acco . . . ”) is seamlessly overlayed onto Babylonia. Two otherthemes or subtexts are activated in this section (32–49). First, the theme ofthe writ as a contested site—the fear that the husband will attempt to under-mine the writ of divorce by contesting its legitimacy—is triggered again. Thisis another of the threads that runs through these texts. The second theme thatis new, but that characterizes this sugya is “not hearing” or not receiving a tra-dition. This theme of not hearing first appears here in line 49, with the im-plication that R. Ilai did not hear the end of the tradition. It then reappearsin line 62, in an effort to impune Eviathar’s authority. This is followed by ashort excursus attributed to Abbaye about the difference between “gemara”and that which might be learned through deduction (sevara). Finally, thetrope occurs in line 86 where R. Ashi follows the teaching of Rabbah bar barHannah even though he did not hear it.

The next part of the sugya (III: 50–77) starts in the same way as the firstsections.

50 R. Abiathar sent to R. Hisda [the following instruction:] [Concerning] writs of divorcethat come from there [Babylonia] to here [the Land of Israel], [the bearers of the writs]are not required to declare, “In my presence it was written and in my presence it wassigned.”

51 Let us say that he reasoned “for they are not experts [knowing that it must be writtenspecifically] for her.” and these [the Jews of Babylonia,] are learned.

52 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Rabas opinion into account?53 Rather, All [agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is required.54 and in this case, as there are Rabbis going up to [the Land of Israel] and down [to

Babylonia], [witnesses] can easily be found.55 Said R. Joseph: Who tells us that R. Eviathar is a man of authority?56 Was it not he who sent [the statement] to Rab Judah: 57 ”People who come from there [Babylonia] to here [the Land of Israel] fulfil in their own

persons the words of the Scripture: ‘And they bartered a boy for a whore, and sold agirl for wine, which they drank’ (Joel 4:3).”

58 And he wrote the words [from Scripture] without ruling lines [under them].59 And R. Isaac said, “Two words [from Scripture] may be written [without ruling lines] but

not three.”60 In a Baraitha it was taught, Three may be written [without ruling lines] but not four.61 Said Abayye to him: Is anyone who did not receive this rule of R. Isaac not to be counted

a great scholar? 62 If it were a rule established by logical deduction, we might think so. But it is a tradition,

and it is a tradition which [R. Eviathar] had not received.

An amoraic statement is quoted (50), attributed to R. Eviathar. This isfollowed by an attempt to align the statement with the reasoning of the de-


bate that runs through the whole introduction—that the Jews outside of Is-rael are not “experts [knowing that it must be written specifically] for her”(lishmah). This attempt is dismissed since Rabbah’s reasoning has been ac-knowledged to include Raba’s (as in 3–5 and 22–24 above), and a differentreason is introduced. As in the first section (lines 7–8), this new reason (54)has to do with the Rabbinic presence in Babylonia. (There: the presence ofacademies; here: the presence of Rabbis.44) This statement (54), that the pres-ence of Rabbis who go up to Israel and back to Babylonia, obviates the fearthat the witnesses will not be available; the similar statement above (7), thatthe presence of academies accomplishes the same thing, rereads and recasts anearlier statement in a previous sugya in the introduction.

On 4b, the Mishnaic statement (M Gittin 1:1) that one who brings a getfrom one province to another in a foreign country must state that the docu-ment was written and signed before him generates the following stammaiticdiscussion:

The Mishnah should [then] teach “One who brings from province toprovince” with no further elaboration!

In fact, from province to province in the Land of Israel he also does notneed [to state “before me . . . ”],

since there are pilgrims, [witnesses] are indeed to be found.This is well in the time that the Temple existed, in the time that the Tem-

ple does not exist what is there to say?Since there exist established courts, [witnesses] are indeed to be found.

This discussion, first, assumes a strong distinction between the Land ofIsrael and foreign territories. Second, the idea of the presence of pilgrims and,subsequently, established courts,45 is an idea that is attributed only to Israel.Our statements on 6a (line 7) and 6b (line 54) place the Rabbinic presencein Babylonia. This is part of the general mapping of Israel onto Babylonia thatis accomplished in this sugya.

Returning to 6a–7b, the statement attributed to R. Eviathar reinforces theequality of Babylonia and Israel stated in the first section. R. Eviathar’s au-thority is then challenged on this exact point.

This part (III) also parallels part I in that the presence of the Rabbis is fol-lowed by a striking “prooftext,” which dramatically performs “exile.” A state-ment attributed to R. Yosef challenges R. Eviathars authority (55). The chal-lenge is based on the fact that, seemingly, R, Eviathar did not uphold ateaching of R. Isaac. This is based on an event in which R. Eviathar had sentan edict warning people not to come from Babylonia to Israel. The edict was

8 6 beginning/again

based on a midrashic reading of a verse. R. Eviathar had neglected to score theparchment before writing the verse. By doing so he opened himself up to thecharge of not being a “great man,” since he did not know this teaching of R.Isaac. Abbaye comes to R. Eviathar’s defense by distinguishing between some-one who has not received a tradition (la shmi’a), and one who does not knowa tradition that is arrived at by deduction (sevara).

The prooftext at issue is Joel 4:3 (line 59):

And they bartered a boy for a whore, and sold a girl for wine, which theydrank.46

In context, this is part of a prophecy in which God promises vengeanceupon the enemies of Israel who considered the lives of boys and girls soworthless that they would trade them for wine or whoring. In our sugya aPalestinian Amora, R. Eviathar, reads this verse as referring to Babyloniansages who come to Palestine, and by so doing either neglect the command-ment of procreation,47 or force their families into penury, even unto prostitu-tion.48 Again, as above, the Jewish community of Babylonia is implicated ina verse describing the violent acts of the enemies of Israel. Here, the identifi-cation is even greater as R. Eviathar states that the violence is perpetrated byBabylonian Rabbis who come to Palestine.

Abbaye supports R. Eviathar’s authority in another way by claiming thateven God recognized R. Eviathar as the able exegete of the story of the Con-cubine of Gibea. The story (Judges 19ff ), in short, is that the concubine of aman from Levi runs away from him and back to her family. The man followsher to take her back. On the way home they stay overnight in Gibea and aregiven lodging by another nonresident. During the night the townspeople de-mand that the man is handed over to them. The host instead offers the towns-people his virgin daughter and the concubine. The townspeople rape and killthe concubine. The man from Levi finds his dead concubine in the morning,throws her on his donkey and goes home. He subsequently cuts her intotwelve pieces and sends a piece to each tribe. This leads to a bloody civil war.Elijah himself had informed Eviathar that God quoted his exegesis of Judges19:2 (along R. Jonathan’s) approvingly (63–77).

As has been pointed out by Yair Zakovitch49 the opening verses of thestory of the concubine (Judges 19:2–3) share language with Jeremiah 3:1—the prophetic use of the Deuteronomic divorce laws to represent the rela-tionship between God and Israel. This intertext firmly places this story withinan exilic narrative.


. . . If a man divorces his wife, and she leaves him and marries another man,can he ever go back to her? Would not such a land be defiled? Now you havewhored (ve’at zanit) with many lovers: can you return to me?—says theLord.50

The prooftext quoted at the end of the next section of the sugya reinforcesthis reading. As basis for the ruling that song is forbidden at parties, MarUqba quotes Hosea 9:1:

Rejoice not, O Israel, unto exultation like the peoples, for thou hast goneastray (ki zanita) from thy God.51

63 Moreover, R. Abiathar is one whose view was confirmed by his Master.64 For it is written, “And his concubine played the harlot against him (Judges 19:2).”65 R. Eviathar said “He found a fly with her,”66 and R. Jonathan said, “He found a hair on her.”67 R. Eviathar came across Elijah.68 He said to him: “What is the Holy One of blessing doing?”69 He [Elijah] said to him, “He is involved with [the issue of ] the concubine in Gibea.”70 ”What does He say?”71 ”[God says], My son Eviathar says So-and-so, and my son Jonathan says So-and-so,”72 He [R. Abiathar] said to him: “Can there possibly be uncertainty in the mind of the

Heavenly One?”73 He said to him: Both [answers] are the word of the living God.

This section of the sugya does two important things. First, it reinforcesthe theme of violence that was also a part of the other two prooftexts. Second,the reading of the verse from Judges, situates the Concubine of Gibea storyfirmly in the center of the discourse of divorce. The verse that R. Eviathar andR. Jonathan comment on is a problematic one. The locution translated hereas “played the harlot” (zanah ‘al) is unique to this verse. There is a long his-tory of interpretation that tries to make sense out of it.52 The problem—atleast for the Rabbis—with a “literal” translation is that if the concubine hadactually had sexual relations with another man, the first man would not havebeen able to take her back.53

Reading the verse with the comments of either R. Eviathar or R. Jonathan(and God seems to approve of both) frames the story explicitly as one of “mar-ital discord” that leads to violence.54 The Rabbinic intertext for this readingis, of course, the discussion in M Gittin 9:10. In that Mishnah, Bet Shammai

states that a man might only divorce his wife if she has committed some sex-ual misdeed. Bet Hillel and R. Akiva, in their footsteps, say that he might di-vorce her for, basically, any reason whatsoever.

This explanation for why he divorced her, tidies up the problems that areinherent, for the Rabbis, in saying that she divorced him—as it seems in theverses. That is, she left and he ran after her to try to mollify her and bring herhome. In fact, the scene wherein the Levite attempts to patch things up withhis concubine is left on the Talmud’s cutting room floor. The sugya movesfrom why he divorced her, immediately to the fact that many thousands werekilled—at the beginning of the next part (IV). This latter is arrived at via astatement attributed to R. Hisda, (78–79) that men should not terrorize theirhouseholds excessively.

78 R. Hisda said: A man should not cast excessive terror over his household.79 For the concubine of Gibea—her husband terrorized her excessively and many thou-

sands were slaughtered in Israel.80 Rab Judah said: If a man terrorizes his household, he will eventually commit three sins:81 unchastity, blood-shedding, and desecration of the Sabbath.82 Said Rabba b. Bar Hanah: This is that which our Rabbis taught:83 A man has to say three things to his household on the eve of Sabbath with darkness,84 “Have you set aside the tithe? Have you placed the ‘Erub? Light the lamp,”85 He needs to say it gently, so that they should accept it from him.86 R. Ashi said: I never received that rule of Rabba b. Bar Hanah, but I observed it because

of [my own] reasoning.

This move—passing over the rape and murder scene—also accomplishessomething else. It reinscribes the silence and disappearance of the Concubine.In the story in Judges, the unnamed woman55 does not have a single spokenline. After she is given over (by the Levite) to be raped, and dies from her tor-ture, the Levite cuts her up and literally erases her. In the retelling of this storyby R. Hisda, it was the fact that he had terrorized her, which caused thousandsof Israel to die. While this puts the blame for the deaths on the Levite’s shoul-ders,56 those deaths do not include the rape and murder of the Concubine. Thecrime was intimidating the Concubine, and the punishment was that thousandsof men of Israel died. Hence, the statements attributed to R. Yehuda, Rabbahb. Bar Hannnah, and R. Ashi (80–88) reinforce this discourse of marriage ascontrolled aggression toward a utilitarian end. That is, a husband should not beoverly intimidating since it will be bad for him in the end.

Following immediately on this warning against the possibility of violenceresulting from intimidation and abuse, the next section continues the inter-

8 8 beginning/again

weaving of the themes of violence and marriage and exile. The section beginswith an account of a written exchange between Mar ‘Uqba, who was appar-ently facing some opposition, and R. Eleazar. Both of R. Eleazar’s answers aremidrashic readings of verses that he has inscribed on parchment in the properway—by first scoring lines and then writing.

92 Mar ‘Ukba sent to R. Eleazar: Certain men are opposing me, and I am able to turn themover to the government; What is [the law]?

93 He scored lines and wrote [quoting], “I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin notwith my tongue, I will keep a curb upon my mouth while the wicked is before me(lenegdi).” (Psalms 39:2)

94 Although the wicked is opposing me (lenegdi), I will keep a curb on my mouth.

R. Eleazar, in his answer, reads the polysemic word lenegdi to mean oppos-ing me in order to understand the verse from Psalms as a statement of almoststoic forbearance in the face of evil opposition.

In his next missive, Mar ‘Uqba seems to be losing his patience.

95 He [Mar ‘Ukba] sent to him: They are troubling me very much, and I am unable tostand it.

96 He sent to him, “Resign thyself unto the Lord, and wait patiently [hitfolel] for him.”(Psalms 37:7)—be silent for the Lord, and He will cast them down as corpses [falalim]before thee.

97 Go to the Beth-Hamidrash early morning and evening and they will desist of themselves. 98 The words left R. Eleazar’s mouth, and Geniba was placed in chains [for execution].

R. Eleazar’s answer is again a midrashic reading of a verse from Psalms.Actually, it is only a phrase from a verse. The rest of the verse seems to havebeen the impetus for the rereading. The verse in whole is: “Resign thyself untothe LORD, and wait patiently for Him; fret not thyself because of him whoprospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices topass.” The midrashic reading assumes that the context of the waiting patientlyfor God is one of political strife—“the man who bringeth wicked devices topass.” This generates a complex midrashic reading.

The four word phrase is read as if it were three clauses. Dom, contextuallymeaning “resign thyself ” is read as “be silent.”57 “Unto the Lord” is read tomean “let God take care of it.” The verb form hitfolel, which contextuallymeans “wait patiently,” is read through its root falal—corpse—as a neologismthat means to become a corpse.


Subsequently the intertext from Psalms 65:2 “Praise waiteth (dumiyah)for Thee,” suggests prayer and the setting of the Beth-Hamidrash, the studyhall. This yields “Go to the Beth-Hamidrash early morning and evening andthey will desist of themselves.”

R. Eleazar’s prescient advice seems to have reestablished Mar ‘Uqba’s au-thority as the next question is addressed to him.

99 They sent to Mar ‘Ukba: What is the source that it is forbidden [in these times] for usto sing [at parties]?

100 He scored lines and wrote [quoting]: “Rejoice not, O Israel, unto exultation like thepeoples, for thou hast gone astray from thy God.” (Hosea 9:1)

101 Should he not rather have sent the following: “They shall not drink wine with music,strong drink shall be bitter to them that drink it?” (Isaiah 24:9)

102 From this verse I should conclude that only music [played on] instruments is forbidden,but music [that is] sung is alright; this I learn [from the other verse].

It is worth noting that the story of Mar ‘Uqba and Geniba is the onlystory in the Talmud where Sages hand over a fellow Sage to the authorities forexecution.58 The only place, other than this sugya, where this story is alludedto is also in Bavli Gittin.59 Another noteworthy element of this part is the wayin which it echoes and reinforces the discourse of divorce. The Sages mustpractice controlled aggression. That is, the choices presented are either Godkilling the men who oppose the Sage or the Sage himself handing them overto be killed. It is significant within the exilic frame that when the choice pre-sented is between God avenging, and the “powers” avenging—it is the powerof flesh and blood who is turned to for vengeance/justice.

The connection with the discourse of divorce, and the discourse of exilethat is interwoven with divorce, is strengthened by the second half of thispart. In response to the question: “Where does Scripture tell us that it is for-bidden [in these times] to sing [at parties]?” (101). Mar ‘Uqba quotes theverse from Hosea 9:1, that we mentioned above:

Rejoice not, O Israel, unto exultation like the peoples, for thou hast goneastray (ki zanit) from thy God.60

This prooftext connects the question of singing with marriage (and di-vorce), and with exile. It is connected to the previous prooftexts by the word z-n-h, which appears here and in Judges 19 and in Jeremiah 3—quoted above.61

The final section of the sugya (110–141) forcefully overlays marriage anddivorce onto exilic space.

9 0 beginning/again

110 The Exilarch said to R. Huna: On what ground is based the prohibition of garlands?111 He said to him: It is from the Rabbis.112 For we have learnt in a Mishnah: At [the time of ] the battle of Vespasian they prohib-

ited the wearing of garlands by bridegrooms and the [ringing of ] bells62 [at weddings].113 At this point R. Huna got up to leave the room.114 R. Hisda said to him [the Exilarch]: [It is an explicitly] written verse: “Thus saith the

Lord God, remove the turban and take off the crown,115 this shall be no more the same [this not this]; that which is low shall be exalted and that

which is high abased.” (Ezekiel 21:31) 116 What has the turban to do with the crown?117 It is to teach that when the turban is worn by the High priest, ordinary persons can

wear the crown,118 but when the turban has been removed from the head of the High priest, the crown

must be removed from the head of ordinary persons.

In this striking exchange, the wedding scene is explicitly connected withExile and Redemption. An equivalence is drawn between the turban of thehigh priest—upon which was the plate of gold inscribed “sanctified to God”63

(Exodus 28:35ff )—and the garland of the bridegroom. In response to thequestion of the Exilarch, R. eisda—whose response is ultimately approved ofby his teacher R. Huna—states that the reason that wedding garlands are for-bidden is that there is no longer a high priest as the Temple is destroyed. Itfollows then that when there is no symbol of the marriage between God andIsrael, there is no symbol of the marriage between man and woman.

This latter is reinforced by the second part of this section (124–130).

124 What is [the meaning of the words in this passage], “This not this” (taz al taz)?125 R. ‘Awira gave the following exposition, sometimes in the name of R. Ammi and some-

times in the name of R. Assi:126 When the Holy One of Blessing said to Israel, “Remove the turban and take off the

crown,”127 the ministering angels said before the Holy One of Blessing, Sovereign of the Universe,128 is “this” for Israel who at Mount Sinai said “we will do” before “we will hear”?129 He said to them, “No.130 This” be for Israel, who have made low that which should be exalted and exalted that

which should be low, and placed an image in the sanctuary.

The difficult phrase in Ezekiel 21:31—“This not this”—is read in thismidrash as an exchange between God and the ministering angels. As God saidto Israel, “Remove the turban and take off the crown,” that is, when God sentIsrael into exile, the ministering angels challenged God: Is “this” for Israelwho at Mount Sinai said “we will do” before “we will hear”? God responded,


“No. This” be for Israel, who have made low that which should be exalted andexalted that which should be low, and placed an image in the sanctuary.

The whole verse is read as a narrative of exile—which is played out as di-vorce. God says “remove the turban” of high priests, for I am exiling you anddestroying the Temple. “And take off the crown,” Israel, since your weddingcan no longer symbolize the relationship between you and God. The angelsobject: “This” is what you are doing to Israel whom you married on Sinai?God answers: “No, this” is what I am doing to Israel who have left me for an-other: the image they placed in the sanctuary. The relationship between Godand Israel is, to say the least, shaky.

The last lines of the sugya (131–141) transvalue a cryptic verse fromNahum.64

Thus saith the Lord, though they be in full strength and likewise many,even so shall they be sheared off and he shall cross, etc.? (Nahum 1:12)

In MT the verse has something to do with God wreaking vengeance onIsrael’s enemies (possibly Nineveh) and promising not to oppress Israel anylonger. In another midrash attributed to R. ‘Avirah in the name of either R.Ami or R. Asi, the verse is read as referring to the obligation to give charity.Moreover one is urged to give charity even if one is poor. Further the promisein the verse not to oppress Israel further, is read as a promise that if one is poorand still gives charity then one will no longer be poor—or at least show signsof being poor.

The connection with the rest of the sugya is in the fact that these versesare read out of the realm of God—where they were in their original context—and into the human realm. This latter is possibly the result of the “divorce”or separation from God in the previous part.

Conclusion

This sugya that begins Bavli Gittin—that is, it dramatically marks the dis-junction of the Talmud’s discourse with the assumptions of the Mishnah—thematizes violence in Exile while attempting to efface Exile through legalcartography. The even darker underside of the angry husband annoying hiswife by contesting a get is the violence of the concubine of Gibeah, which, inthe telling, is only concerned with the violence to the men of Israel—not tothe concubine. The violence of the exilic institutions is further underscoredby the story of Genibah’s ill-fated opposition to Mar ‘Uqbah that ends inGenibah’s death. By the end of the sugya, divorce is constructed as a contested

9 2 beginning/again

site within which the stakes are life and death for all concerned—men,women, and Sages. At issue for men is the danger of women to them and thesystem (“a man shouldn’t excessively terrorize . . . ”). At issue for women is lifeand death. At issue for Sages is the legitimacy of their authority, and their re-lation to God.

Mapping the land of Israel onto Babylonia is part of a conflicted attemptto negotiate diaspora. Articulating an identity independent of the Land of Is-rael is a complicated gesture. It is a claim for the legitimacy—and possibly thesuperiority—of the authority of the Rabbinic class in Babylonia. No less areader of (and propagandist for) the Babylonian tradition than R. SheriraGaon characterizes the relationship between Babylonia and the Land of Israelin just this way. Invoking a midrash from Tractate Sanhedrin (5a) he states:“We see, then, that these [leaders] of Babylonia are greater.”65

And yet, Babylonia exists under the sign and the shadow of the Exile. Theviolence that permeates this sugya is itself a reminder of the necessary failureof any strategy to efface Exile. Further, Rabbinic authority, Rabbinic assertionof power, and also the failure of that assertion of power and authority to grantthe Rabbis the control they desire, are all gendered. Rabbinic fantasies of vi-olence are inscribed on the bodies of women (real, imagined, and invisible).The Concubine of Gibea memorializes one end of a continuum of violencethat results from the unequal distribution of power in marriage. This end ofthe spectrum is roundly condemned by the Rabbis. Yet, the desired, legallyconstructed relationship between husband and wife is still one of inequitabledistribution of power, wherein the husband need only learn how to modulatehis yielding of that potentially violent power.

At the same time the Rabbis (as Israel) assume the feminine role in rela-tion to God, as God takes the symbol of marriage—the turban of the highpriest upon which was the plate of gold inscribed “sanctified/betrothed(kodesh) to God”—away from His bride Israel. This too is memorialized.

In this gendered construction, the Rabbinic class attempts to assert itspower (consistenly marked as masculine) through the institutionalized vio-lence of the law (and the deployment of that violence at the expense ofwomen and non-Rabbinic men), yet it is constantly feminized by Exile (di-vorced, victimized). The nightmare of the Rabbis is that instead of deferringExile by mapping it as the Land of Israel, and assuming control through po-litical rule, they will, rather, end up as the divorced woman or, worse, as theraped and mutilated Concubine of Gibea. The evil then will truly have comefrom the North.


Appendix: B Gittin 6a–7b

1 It has been stated: Babylonia—Rab said, [It is] like Land of Israel in respect of writs ofdivorce,

2 And Samuel said, [It is] as outside the land.3 Let us say that they differ on this, that one of them reasoned for they are not experts

[knowing that it must be written specifically] for her. and these [the Babylonians,] arelearned, [and in the same category with the Palestinians and are not required to makethe declaration],

4 And the other reasoned that witnesses are not [to be found] to substantiate it, and thesame difficulty is found [in Babylonia].

5 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Raba’s opinion into account?6 Rather, All [i.e. Rab and Samuel agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is re-

quired.7 Rab reasoned that since there are Academies [in Babylonia witnesses are] always to be

found,8 Samuel reasoned that the Academies are taken up with their studies.9 It has also been stated that R. Abba said in the name of R. Huna in the name of Rab:

‘We established Babylonia as the same as the Land of Israel in respect of writs of divorcefrom the time when Rab came to Babylonia.’

10 R. Jeremiah returned [a challenge]:11 R. Judah says, [foreign lands extend] from Rekem eastwards, Rekem considered as

east;12 from Askelon southward, Askelon considered as south:13 from Acco northwards, Acco considered as north.14 Now Babylonia is located north of the Land of Israel, as it is written, “And the Lord

said to me, Out of the north the evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of theland.” (Jer. 1:14)

15 And the Mishnah teaches: R. Meir says, Acco is like the Land of Israel in respect ofwrits of divorce;

16 but even R. Meir only said this in the case of Acco, which is close [to the Land of Is-rael], but Babylonia, which is distant, not.

17 He asked the question and he himself answered [by saying that] ‘With the exception ofBabylonia.’

18 How far does Babylonia extend?19 R. Papa says: The same difference of opinion that there is in respect of writs of divorce,

there is in respect of family descent.20 R. Joseph says: There is a difference of opinion only in respect of family descent, but in

respect of writs of divorce all parties are agreed that Babylonia extends to the secondboat of the [floating] bridge.

9 4 beginning/again

b´[ z-a´[ w ˜yfyg ylbb

rmtya

È˜yfygl larçy ≈rak rma br lbb

.≈ral hxwjk rma lawmçw

Èyrymg ynhw hmçl ˜yyqb ˜yaç ypl rbs rmd Èyglpym aq ahb amyl

.yjykç al ymn ynhw wmyyql ˜yywxm µyd[ ˜yaç ypl rbs rmw

.abrd hyl tya hbr ahw Èhrbsytw

.wmyyql ñy[b aml[ ylwkd Èala

Èyjykç jkçym atbytm akyad ˜wyk rbs brw

.ydyrf whyysrygb atbytm rbs lawmçw

ata ykm ˜yfygl larçy ≈rak lbb wnyç[ Èbr rma anwh br rma aba ybr rma Èymn rmtya

.lbbl br

Èhymry br bytm

Èjrzmk µqrw jrzml µqrm rmwa hdwhy ybr

Èµwrdk ˜wlqçaw µwrdl ˜wlqçam

.˜wpxk wk[w ˜wpxl wk[m

lk l[ h[rh jtpt ˜wpxm yla /h rmayw 3Èbytkd .amyyq larçy ≈rad 2hnwpxl lbb ahw

(dy.a whymry) ´ .≈rah ybçwy

.˜yfygl larçy ≈rak wk[ rmwa ryam ybr ñtw

.al aqjrmd lbb lba Èabrqmd wk[b ala rmaq al ryam ybr wlypaw

.lbbm rbl-hl qrpm awhw Èhl bytwm awh

?lbb ayh ˜kyh d[

.˜yfygl tqwljm ˚k ˜ysjwyl tqwljmk Èapp br rma

.arçygd anyynt hbra d[ lkh yrbd ˜yfygl lba È˜ysjwyl tqwljm Èrma πswy 4brw


1

23

4

56

7

89

1011

121314

15

16

17

1819

20

II21 R. eisda required [the declaration to be made by the bearer of a Get] from Ktesifon to

Ve-Ardashir, but [if one brought it] from Ve-Ardashir to Ktesifon, he did not require[the declaration].

22 Let us say that he reasoned “for they are not experts [knowing that it must be writtenspecifically] for her.” and these [the Jews of Ve-Ardashir,] are learned.

23 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Raba’s opinion into account?24 Rather, All [agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is required.25 and since these [people of Ve-Ardashir] go there [to Ktesifon] to market, the [inhabi-

tants of the latter] are familiar with their signatures;26 but these [inhabitants of Ve-Ardashir], are not familiar with [the signatures] of these

[people of Ktesiphon] because they are busy with their marketing.27 Rabba b. Abbuha required [the declaration to be made if the Get was brought] from

one side of the street to the other;28 R. Shesheth if it was brought from one block [of buildings] to another;29 Raba [from one house to another] within the same block.30 But was it not Raba who said [that the reason was] “Because witnesses are not [to be

found] to substantiate it.”31 The people of Mahozah are different, because they are always on the move.

32 R. Hanin related the following:33 R. Kahana brought a Get either from Sura to Nehardea or from Nehardea to Sura, I do

not know which,34 He went in front of Rab.35 He said to him, “Am I required to declare, ‘In my presence it was written and in my

presence it was signed,’ or not?”36 Rab said to him: “You are not required, but if you have done so, so much the better.”37 What [was meant by] ‘if you have done so, so much the better?’ That if the husband

came and contested [the Get], they would pay no attention to him;38 As it has been taught66: An event concerning a man who brought a get before

R. Ishmael.39 He said to him: “Rabbi, am I required to declare, ‘In my presence it was written and in

my presence it was signed,’ or am I not required?”40 He [R. Ishmael] said to him: “My son, from where are you?”41 He said to him: “From Kefar Sisai.”42 He said to him: “My son it is necessary for you to declare ‘In my presence it was written

and in my presence it was signed,’ so that the woman should not require witnesses [incase the husband raises objections].

43 After the man left, R. Ila’i came before him [to R. Ishmael].44 He said to him: “My teacher, is not Kefar Sisai within the ambit of the border-line of

the Land of Israel, and is it not nearer to Sepphoris than Acco is?45 And we learn in the Mishnah: R. Meir said, Acco counts as the Land of Israel in matters

of writs of divorce.”46 and even the Rabbis who differ from R. Meir only differ in regard to Acco, which is

some distance away, but not in regard to Kefar Sisai which is near!”

9 6 beginning/again

II.˚yrxm al ˜wpsyfql ryçdra ybmw Èryçdra ybl ˜wpsyfqm ˚yrxm adsj br

.yrymg ynhw Èhmçl ˜yyqb ˜yaç ypl rbsq amyl

!abrd hyl tya hbr ahw Èarbstw

.wmyyql 5ñy[b aml[ ylwkd ala

.ynhd ady twmytjb y[dy ˚nh Èµthl aqwçl ylzad ˜wyk ynhw

.ydyrf whyyqwçb ?am[f yam .y[dy al ˚nhdb ynhw

.asr[l asr[m ˚yrxm hwba rb hbr

.hnwkçl hnwkçm ˚yrxm tçç br

.hnwkç htwab 6abr

?wmyyql ˜yywxm µyd[ ˜yaç ypl rmad awh abr ahw

.ydyynd azwjm ynb ynaç

Èy[tçym ˜ynj br

.arwsl a[drjnm ya Èa[drhnl arwsm ya an[dy alw afyg ytyya anhk br

.brd hymql ata

“?ankyrx al wa µtjn ynpbw btkn ynpb rmyml ankyrx” Èhyl rma

“.tynha tdb[ yaw |Ètkyrx al” Èhyl rma

.hyl ñyjgçm al r[r[mw l[b yta yad ?7tyynha tdb[ ya yam

.la[mçy ybr ynpl fg aybhç dja µdab hç[m È8ayntdk

“?˚yrx ynya wa Èµtjn ynpbw btkn ynpb rmwl yna ˚yrx ’r” Èwl rma

“?hta ˜kyhm 9ynb” Èwl rma

“.10yasys rpkm” Èwl rma

“.µyd[l qqzyt alç 11ydk Èµtjn ynpbw btkn ynpb rmwl hta ˚yrx ynb” Èwl rma

.ya[la ybr 12wynpl snkn Èaxyç rjal

“?wk[m rtwy yrwpyxl hbwrqw Èlarçy ≈ra µwjtb t[lbwm yasys rpk alhw 13ybr” Èwl rma

.˜yfygl larçy ≈rak wk[ rmwa ryam ybr ñtw

.al abrqmd yasys rpk lba Èaqjrmd wk[b ala ygylp al 14hyl[ ygylpd ñbr wlypaw


21

22

232425

26

27

282930

31

3233

3435

3637

38

39

404142

4344

45

46

47 R. Ishmael said to him: “Be silent, my son, be silent; since thing has been declared, itwas permitted to be declared.”

48 [Why should R. Ila’i have thought otherwise], seeing that [R. Ishmael] also said: ‘thatthe woman should not require witnesses?’

49 [R. Ila’i] had not been told of these concluding words.

III50 R. Abiathar sent to R. Hisda [the following instruction:] [Concerning] writs of divorce

that come from there [Babylonia] to here [the Land of Israel], [the bearers of the writs]are not required to declare, ‘In my presence it was written and in my presence it wassigned.’

51 Let us say that he reasoned “for they are not experts [knowing that it must be writtenspecifically] for her.” and these [the Jews of Babylonia,] are learned.

52 Can you reason this, seeing that Rabbah also takes Rabas opinion into account?53 Rather, All [agree that] [the ability of witnesses] to confirm is required.54 and in this case, as there are Rabbis going up to [the Land of Israel] and down [to Baby-

lonia], [witnesses] can easily be found.55 Said R. Joseph: Who tells us that R. Eviathar is a man of authority?56 Was it not he who sent [the statement] to Rab Judah:57 “People who come from there [Babylonia] to here [the Land of Israel] fulfil in their own

persons the words of the Scripture: ‘And they bartered a boy for a whore, and sold a girlfor wine, which they drank’ (Joel 4:3).”

58 And he wrote the words [from Scripture] without ruling lines [under them].59 And R. Isaac said, “Two words [from Scripture] may be written [without ruling lines]

but not three.”60 In a Baraitha it was taught, Three may be written [without ruling lines] but not four.61 Said Abayye to him: Is anyone who did not receive this rule of R. Isaac not to be

counted a great scholar?62 If it were a rule established by logical deduction, we might think so. But it is a tradition,

and it is a tradition which [R. Eviathar] had not received.63 Moreover, R. Abiathar is one whose view was confirmed by his Master.64 For it is written, “And his concubine played the harlot against him,” (Judges 19:2)65 R. Eviathar said “He found a fly with her,”66 and R. Jonathan said, “He found a hair on her.”67 R. Eviathar came across Elijah.68 He said to him: “What is the Holy One of blessing doing?”69 He [Elijah] said to him, “He is involved with [the issue of ] the concubine in Gibea.”70 “What does He say?”71 “[God says], My son Eviathar says So-and-so, and my son Jonathan says So-and-so,”72 He [R. Abiathar] said to him : “Can there possibly be uncertainty in the mind of the

Heavenly One?”73 He said to him: Both [answers] are the word of the living God.74 He [the Levite] found a fly and did not take umbrage, he found a hair and took umbrage.75 Said Rab Judah said Rab: A fly in his plate and a hair in that place;

9 8 beginning/again

“.axy rtyhb È15rbdh axyw lyawh .qwtç Èynb qwtç” Èwl rma

!hyl rmaq µyd[l qqzyt alç ymn 17whya 16ahw

.hytwjylçl hymq hwmyys al

IIIbtkn ynpb 18wrmayç ˜ykyrx ˜ya ãkl µçm µyabh ˜yfyg Èadsj brl rtyba ybr hyl jlç

.µtjn ynpbw

.yrymg ynhw Èhmçl ˜yayqb ˜yaç ypl rbsq amyl

.abrd hyl tya hbr ahw Èhrbsytw

Èwmyyql 19ñy[b aml[ ylwkd ala

.yjykç jkçym ytjnw yqlsd 20ñbr akyad ˜wykw

?awh 21akmsd arbg rtyba ybrd ˜l amyl ãm Èπswy br rma

Èhdwhy brl hyl jlçd whya ahw

˜yyb wrkm 22hdlyh taw Èhnwzb dlyh ta wntyw” È˜mx[b wmyyq µh ãkl µçm ˜ylw[h µda ynb

“.wtçyw

.fwfryç alb hyl btkw

.˜ybtwk ˜ya çlç ˜ybtwk µytç Èqjxy ybr rmaw

.˜ybtwk ˜ya [bra ˜ybtwk çlç ant atyntmb

.awh hbr arbg wal qjxy ybrd ah 23hyl [ymç ald lk wfa yyba hyl rma

.hyl [ymç al armgw 24ayh armg ah Èyyjl arbsb ayltd atlym amlçb

.hydy l[ hyrm µyksad 25rtyba ybr ah Èdw[w

(b.fy µyfpwç) “Èwçglyp wyl[ hnztw” Èbytkd

.hl axm bwbz Èrma rtyba ybr

.hl axm amyn Èrma ˜tnwy 26ybrw

.whylal rtyba ybr hyjkçaw

?awh ˚wrb çwdqh dyb[ aq yam Èhyl rma

.h[bgb çglypb qys[ Èhyl rma

?rmaq yamw

.rmwa awh ˚k ynb ˜tnwy Èrmwa awh ˚k ynb rtyba27

?aymç ymq aqyps akya ymw .µwlçw sj Èhyl rma

.˜h µyyj µyhla yrbd wlaw wla Èhyl rma

.dypqhw axm amyn Èdypqh alw axm bwbz

.µwqm wtwab amyn hr[qb bwbz È28br rma hdwhy br rma


47

48

49

50

51

525354

555657

5859

6061

62

63646566676869707172

737475

76 the fly was merely disgusting, but the hair was dangerous.77 Some say, he found both in his food; the fly was accidental, the hair was negligent.

IV78 R. Hisda said: A man should not cast excessive terror over his household.79 For the concubine of Gibea—her husband terrorised her excessively and many thou-

sands were slaughtered in Israel.80 Rab Judah said: If a man terrorises his household, he will eventually commit three sins:81 unchastity, blood-shedding and desecration of the Sabbath.82 Said Rabba b. Bar Hanah: This is that which our Rabbis taught:83 A man has to say three things to his household on the eve of Sabbath with darkness,84 ‘Have you set aside the tithe? Have you placed the ‘Erub? Light the lamp,’85 He needs to say it gently, so that they should accept it from him.86 R. Ashi said: I never received that rule of Rabba b. Bar Hanah, but I observed it because

of [my own] reasoning.87 R. Abbahu said: A man should not cast excessive terror over his household.88 For there was a certain great man who terrorised his household, and [in consequence]

they fed him with a thing to eat which is a great sin. Who was he? R. eanina b.Gamaliel.

89 Would it occur to you that they actually fed him with it?90 Why, even the beasts of the righteous are not allowed by the Holy One of Blessing, to

offend; how then shall the righteous themselves be allowed so to sin?91 Say, they wanted to feed him. And what was it they set before him? A piece of flesh cut

from an animal still living.

92 Mar ‘Ukba sent to R. Eleazar: Certain men are opposing me, and I am able to turnthem over to the government; What is [the law]?

93 He scored lines and wrote [quoting], “I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I sin notwith my tongue, I will keep a curb upon my mouth while the wicked is before me.”(Psalms 39:2)

94 Although the wicked is before me, I will keep a curb on my mouth.95 He [Mar ‘Ukba] sent to him: They are troubling me very much, and I am unable to

stand it.96 He sent to him , “Resign thyself unto the Lord, and wait patiently [hitfolel] for him.”

(Psalms 37:7)—be silent for the Lord, and He will cast them down as corpses [falalim]before thee.

97 Go to the Beth-Hamidrash early morning and evening and they will desist of them-selves.

98 The words left R. Eleazar’s mouth, and Geniba was placed in chains [for execution].99 They sent to Mar ‘Ukba: What is the source that it is forbidden [in these times] for us

to sing [at parties]?100 He scored lines and wrote [quoting]: “Rejoice not, O Israel, unto exultation like the

peoples, for thou hast gone astray from thy God.” (Hosea 9:1)101 Should he not rather have sent the following: “They shall not drink wine with music,

strong drink shall be bitter to them that drink it?” (Isaiah 24:9)

1 0 0 beginning/again

.atnks amyn Èatwsyam bwbz

.atw[yçp amyn asnwa bwbz Èhr[qb ydyaw ydya Èyrmad akyaw

IVÈwtyb ˚wtb hryty hmya µda lyfy la µlw[l Èadsj br rma

.larçym twbbr hmk 29wlpnw hryty hmya hl[b hyl[ lyfh h[bgb çglyp yrhç

.twryb[ çlç ydyl 31ab πws wtyb ˚wtb hryty hmya lyfmh lk È30hdwhy br rma

.tbç lwlyjw Èµymd twkypçw Ètwyr[ ywlyg

Èñbr yrmad ah Èhnj rb rb hbr rma

.hkyçj µ[ tbç br[ wtyb ˚wtb rmwl µda ˚yrx µyrbd hçlç”

“.rnh ta wqyldh ?µtbr[ ?µtrç[

.hynym wlbqyld ykyh yk Èatwjynb whnyrmyl |˚yrx

.arbsm hytmyyqw hnj rb rb hbrd ah 32a[ymç al Èyça br rma

Èwtyb ˚wtb hryty hmya µda lyfy la µlw[l Èwhba ybr rma

˜b anynj ybr ?wnmw .lwdg rbd whwlykahw wtyb ˚wtb hryty hmya lyfh lwdg µda yrhç

.laylmg

?˚t[d aqls whwlykah

lk al ˜mx[ µyqydx µdy l[ hlqt aybm awh ˚wrb çwdqh ˜ya µyqydx lç ˜tmhb 33hmw

!˜kç

.yjh ˜m rba ?whyn yamw .lwdg rbd wlykahl wçqb ala

?whm twklml µrsml ydybw yl[ µydmw[h µda ynb Èrz[la ybrl abqw[ rm hyl jlç

[çr dw[b µwsjm ypl hrmça Èynwçlb awfjm yk'rà…d hrmça ytrma” Èhyl btkw ffrç

(b.fl µylyht) “.ydgnl

.µwsjm ypl hrmça Èydgnl [çrç yp l[ πa

.whb µwqyad anyxm alw abwf yl yr[xm aq Èhyl jlç

.µyllj µyllj ˚l µlypy awhw ‘hl µwd (z.zl µylyht) “Èwl llwjthw ‘hl µwd” Èhyl jlç

.˜hylyam ˜ylk ˜hw çrdmh tybl ˜hyl[ br[hw µkçh

.rlwqb abyngl whwntnw a"r ypm axy rbdh

.rysad ˜l anm armz Èabqw[ rml hyl wjlç

(a.f [çwh) 34“.µym[b lyg la larçy jmçt la” Èwhl btkw ffrç

(f.dk hy[çy) “.[wytwçl rkç rm'y] È˜yy wtçy al ryçb” Èakhm whl jlçylw

beginning gittin/mapping exile 1 0 1

7677

7879

80818283848586

8788

8990

91

92

93

9495

96

97

9899

100

101

102 From this verse I should conclude that only music [played on] instruments is forbidden,but music [that is] sung is alright; this I learn [from the other verse].

103 R. Huna b. Nathan said to R. Ashi: What is the reason for the verse, “Kinah andDimonah and Adadah?” (Joshua 15:22)

104 He said to him: [The text] is enumerating towns in the Land of Israel.105 He said to him: Do I not know that the text is enumerating towns in the Land of Israel?106 But R. Gebihah from Argiza extrapolated [from these names]: ‘Whoever has cause for

indignation [kinah] against his neighbour and yet holds his peace [domem], the Onethat abides for all eternity [’ade ‘ad] shall espouse his cause.

107 He said to him: What then of the verse “Ziklag and Madmanah and Sansanah?” (Joshua15:31)

108 Here too he said to him: If R. Gebihah from Be Argiza were here, he would extrapolatefrom it.

109 R. Afa from Be eoza’ah expounded [it as follows]: ‘If a man has just cause of com-plaint against his neighbour for taking away his livelihood [za’akath legima] and yetholds his peace [domem], the One that abides in the bush [shokni sneh] will cause justicefor him.

V110 The Exilarch said to R. Huna: On what ground is based the prohibition of garlands?111 He said to him: It is from the Rabbis.112 For we have learnt in a Mishnah: At [the time of ] the battle of Vespasian they prohib-

ited the wearing of garlands by bridegrooms and the [ringing of ] bells67 [at weddings].113 At this point R. Huna got up to leave the room.114 R. eisda said to him [the Exilarch]: [It is an explicitly] written verse: “Thus saith the

Lord God, remove the turban and take off the crown,115 this shall be no more the same [this not this]; that which is low shall be exalted and that

which is high abased.” (Ezekiel 21:31)116 What has the turban to do with the crown?117 It is to teach that when the turban is worn by the High priest, ordinary persons can

wear the crown,118 but when the turban has been removed from the head of the High priest, the crown

must be removed from the head of ordinary persons.119 At this point R. Huna returned, and found them still discussing the matter.120 He said: I swear to you that [the prohibition] is from the Rabbis, but as your name is

eisda [favour], so do your words find favour.121 Rabina found Mar son of R. Ashi weaving a garland for his daughter.122 He said to him: Sir, do you not hold [with the interpretation given above of ] ‘Remove

the turban and take off the crown’?123 He replied: The men [have to follow] the example of the High Priest, but not the

women.124 What is [the meaning of the words in this passage], ‘This not this’ (taz al taz)?125 R. ‘Awira gave the following exposition, sometimes in the name of R. Ammi and some-

times in the name of R. Assi:


.˜l [mçm aq Èywç amwpd 35armz lba-anmd armz ylym ynh a"h Èawhhm ya

(bk.wf [çwhy) “.hd[d[w hnwmydw hnyq” bytkd yam Èyça brl ˜tn rb anwh br hyl rma

.byçjq larçy ≈rad 36atbytm Èhyl rma

.byçh aq larçy ≈rad atwwtmd an[dy al ana wfa Èhyl rma

wl hçw[ d[ ˜kwç µmwdw wrybj l[ hanq wl çyç lk Èam[f hb rma azygram ahybg br ala

.˜yd

(al.µç.µç) “.hnsnsw hnmdmw glqx” ht[m ala Èhyl rma

.am[f hb rma hwh akh azygra ybm ahybg br hwh ya Èhyl rma ymn ykh

hnsb ˜kwç Èµmwdw wrybj l[ amygl tq[x wl çyç ym lk Èykh hb rma hazwj ybm aja br

.˜yd wl hçw[

?rwsad ˜l anm alylk Èanwh brl atwlg çyr hyl rma

.ñbrdm Èhyl rma

.swryah l[w µyntj twrf[ l[ wrzg swnyyspsa lç swmlwpb Èñtd

.yywnpal anwh br µq ykhda

Èhrf[h µrhw tpnxmh rsh µyhla 'h rma hk" bytk arq Èadsj br hyl rma

(al.ak laqzjy) “.lypçh hwbghw hbgh hl;p;ç;h taz al taz

?hrf[ lxa tpnxm ˜yn[ hm ykw

.µda lk çarb hrf[ Èlwdg ˜hk çarb tpnxmç ˜mzb ˚l rmwl ala

.µda lk çarm hrf[ hqltsn Èlwdg ˜hk çarm tpnxm hqltsn

.ybty ywhd whnyjkça Èanwh br ata 37ykjw ykhda

.˚lym ˜yadsjw ˚mç adsj ala-ñbrdm µyhlah Èhyl rma

.hytrbl alylk lydg hwhd yça br rb rml hyjkça anybr

“?hrf[h µrhw tpnxmh rsh” rm hl rbs al Èhyl rma

.al yçnb lba Èyrbgb lwdg ˜hkd aymwd Èhyl rma

?“taz al taz” yam

Èysa ybrd hymçm hyl rma ˜ynmyzw yma brd hymçm hyl rma ˜ynmyz Èaryw[ ybr çrd


102

103

104105106

107

108

109

110111112

113114

115

116117

118

119120

121122

123

124125

126 When the Holy One of Blessing said to Israel, ‘Remove the turban and take off thecrown,’

127 the ministering angels said before the Holy One of Blessing , Sovereign of the Universe,128 is ‘this’ for Israel who at Mount Sinai said ‘we will do’ before ‘we will hear’?129 He said to them, ‘No.130 This’ be for Israel, who have made low that which should be exalted and exalted that

which should be low, and placed an image in the sanctuary.131 R. ‘Awira also gave the following exposition, sometimes in the name of R. Ammi and

sometimes in the name of R. Assi.132 What is the meaning of the verse, Thus saith the Lord, though they be in full strength and

likewise many, even so shall they be sheared off and he shall cross etc.? (Nahum 1:12)133 If a man sees that his livelihood is barely sufficient for him, he should give charity from

it, and all the more so if it is plentiful.134 [What is the meaning of the words] ‘Even so they shall be sheared and he shall cross’?135 In the school of R. Ishmael it was taught: Whoever shears off part of his possessions and

dispenses it in charity is delivered from the punishment of Gehenna.136 It is compared to two sheep crossing a river, one shorn and the other not shorn;137 the shorn one gets across, the unshorn one does not.138 ”And though I have afflicted thee:”139 Mar Zutra said: Even a poor man who himself subsists on charity should give charity.140 ”I will afflict thee no more.”141 R. Joseph learnt: [If he does that, Heaven] will not again inflict poverty upon him.


‘Èhrf[h µrhw tpnxmh rsh’ larçyl awh ˚wrb çwdqh rmaç h[çb

Èµlw[ lç wnwbr Èawh ˚wrb çwdqh ynpl trçh ykalm wrma

?[mçnl hç[n ynysb ˚ynpl wmydqhç larçyl ˜hl taz

Èal ˜hl rma

.lkyhb µlx wdym[hw lpçh ta whybghw hwbgh ta wlypçhç larçyl ˜hl taz

Èysa ybrd hymçm hl rma ˜ynmyzw yma ybrd hymçm hyl rma ˜ynmyz Èaryw[ br çrd

?(by.a µwjn) “‘wgw rb[w wzwgn ˜kw µybr ˜kw µymilç“ µa 'h rma hk" bytkd yam

.˜ybwrm ˜hçk ˜kç lkw Èhqdx ˜hm hç[y ˜ymxmwxm wytwnwzmç µda hawr µa

?“rb[w wzwgn ˜kw”38

.µnhyg lç hnydm lxyn-hqdx ˜hm hçw[w wysknm zzwgh lk Èla[mçy ybr ybd ant

.hzwzg hnya tjaw hzwzg tja Èµymb twrbw[ wyhç twlyjr ytçl lçm

|.hrb[ al hzwzg hnyaçw hrb[ hzwzg

.“˚ytyn[w”

.hqdx hç[y hqdxh ˜m snrptmh yn[ wlypa Èarfwz rm rma

.“dw[ ˚nE['a' ] al”

.twyn[ ynmys wl ˜yarm ˜ya bwç πswy br ynt


126

127128129130

131

132

133

134135

136137138139140141

Notes

1. Bavli Eruvin, 54b. Cf. Ari Elon, From Jerusalem to the Edge of Heaven: Medita-tions on the Soul of Israel, trans. Tikva Frymer-Kensky (Philadelphia: JewishPublication Society, 1996).

2. This is the most commonly used edition in which the Mishnah and the Tal-mud that is generated by that Mishnah is centered on the page, and is framedby the Medieval commentaries Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo of Troyes, eleventh cen-tury) and the Tosafot (a school of Franco-German commentators whose centralfigures are literally of the generation of the grandchildren of Rashi).

3. My reflection on the question of beginnings in general was prompted and isinfluenced by Edward Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (Baltimore: TheJohns Hopkins University Press, 1975), esp. 5–29.

4. For a discussion of the Iyyun school of Talmudists and their method, which isinfluenced by Aristotelean logic, see Daniel Boyarin, Sephardi Speculation: AStudy in Methods of Talmudic Interpretation, (Heb.) (Jerusalem: Ben Zvi Insti-tute, 1989).

5. That is, do not relate to one side of a dispute as a straw man.6. To this point, Canpanton might be compared with practitioners of New Criti-

cism such as I. A. Richards, How to Read a Page (New York: W. W. Norton &Co., 1942).

7. This practice of reading or reciting text is reminiscent of the mystical practiceof Canpanton’s nephew Joseph Karo. Karo would recite Mishnah texts in orderto receive a revelation from his supernatural guide or contact, his magid. Themantic implications of this connection with Karo are not totally out of place asthis is one way of understanding the coming-into-view of a “text” from out ofa collection of lines of words. See Solomon Alkabetz’s description of this prac-tice by Karo and his circle in the introduction to Joseph Karo Magid Mesharm,translated in Louis Jacobs, The Schocken Book of Jewish Mystical Testimonies(New York: Schocken Books, 1976), 123–30.

8. This is, of course, the first word of the Torah, Genesis 1:1.9. Aryeh Cohen, Rereading Talmud: Gender, Law and the Poetics of Sugyot (At-

lanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1998), 131–151.10. “The authority of beginnings is also a limiting authority. In the ‘discursive

space’ created by Freud (or Aristotle) there are certain things that one can’t say.”Beginnings: Intention and Method, 35–36.

11. See note 2 above.12. Hereafter Bavli Gittin.13. Robert Cover, “Violence and the Word,” in Narrative, Violence, and thw Law:

The Essays of Robert Cover, ed. Martha Minow, Michael Ryan, and Austin Sarat(Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992), 203.

14. Cf. “The violence of judges and officials of a posited constitutional order isgenerally understood to be implicit in the practice of law and government. Vi-olence is so intrinsic to this activity, so taken for granted, that it need not bementioned. For instance, read the Constitution. Nowhere does it state, as a


general principle, the obvious—that the government thereby ordained and es-tablished has the power to practice violence over its people. That, as a generalproposition, need not be stated for it is understood in the very idea of govern-ment.” (214 n. 22)

15. By “legal determinism” here, I mean the understanding that we scholars areonly dealing with legal outcomes that are dictated by situations, rather thanwith the underlying ideologies that construct those situations.

16. Translating this line is complicated. The Hebrew is 'hmçl ˜yayqb ˜yaç ypl.A literal translation would be “for they are not experts for her sake.” This obvi-ously does not address the meaning. (The Soncino translation has “experts inspecial intention,” that might either be borrowing from a wider usage of theterm hmçl, or attempting to reflect the ambiguity of the original statement.)The “parallel” statement in the Palestinian Talmud is ˜yaç ypl ˜yfyg yqwdqdb ˜yayqb, that is, “for they are not experts in the subtleties (orfiner points) of writs [of divorce].” Using this reading as a guide we mighttranslate, as we did in the body of the article, “for they are not experts [know-ing that it must be written specifically] for her.” That is, there are certain lawsof divorce that they have not fully mastered. This translation is favored byRashi who appends a unique and apparently original reason: “For the inhabi-tants of the foreign lands are not people of Torah [hrwt ynb].” The Tosafistsand other commentators challenge this understanding by posing the question:If this is so, that the people of foreign lands are ignorant of Torah, why makethe claim that it is one specific subset of laws that they have not mastered?Rabbenu Tam [Rabbi Isaac, Rashi’s grandson] interprets the phrase to meanthat there was a specific difference in interpreting the laws of divorce, and thescholars of foreign lands did not accept the Palestinian reading that necessitatedthat the get be written specifically for this woman in this place (hmçl-hl ˜tnw).Both sides of this dispute are equally problematic and compelling, and there isno real way to decide between them. I have translated with Rashi narrowly,and note that this unresolved and unresolvable site of conflicting interpretationhighlights the fact that this sugya is not necessarily about understanding the“true” reason for the Mishnah’s law, but rather, is successful at opening spacefor the issues (of territory and otherness) that these reasons bring in theirwake.

17. Sh. Friedman has pointed out that the tripartite structure (and the seven-partstructure) is a dominant pattern in Halakhic sugyot in Talmud, as it is in folkgenres. See his “Literary Structure in Sugyot in the Babylonian Talmud” (heb.),Proceedings of the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies, vol. 3, 389–402,(Jerusalem, 1977), esp. 391–392. he makes further use of these findings in his“A Critical Study of Yevamot X with a Methodological Introduction” (Heb.), inH. Z. Dimitrovski, ed., Texts and Studies: Analecta Judaica, vol. 1 (New York:Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1978): 277–441.

18. (1) By two agents. (No problem of finding witnesses as they themselves can bewitnesses.) (2) When the get was brought from country [medinah] to countrywithin the Land of Israel. (No problem of hmçl.) (3) When the get was


brought in the same country [medinah] in the “land of the sea.” (No problemof finding witnesses.)

19. This opening sugya is obviously a formal construction and therefore my use ofRaba and Rabbah are not presumed to be referring to the words of theAmoraim themselves. The original attributions themselves are put into doubtboth by the fact that the Palestinian Talmud attributes these statements to twoother Sages (the Bavli also does this further on in these opening sugyot), andthe debate is referred to later on in Bavli Gittin 16b. This is all said withoutentering into the essential argument concerning the reliability of attributions ingeneral or the dating of the stam in general.

20. That the “earlier” discussion refers to the “later” discussion is another index ofthe lateness and art of these opening sugyot.

21. abrd hyl tya hbr, “Rabbah also holds Raba’s opinion [in addition to hisown].” (4b)

22. It is somewhat unusual for a direct quote from the Mishnah that is generatinga specific sugya to be introduced by the introductory formula, “We taught [in aMishnah].” Usually the Mishnaic phrase would be either assumed or quotedand set off by punctuation. This latter depends on the manuscripts but it variesfrom a space in the line, to a colon, to a colon after it and the word aqsyppreceding it.

23. The Literary Activities of the Saboraim, (heb.) (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1953), 10.24. Cf. the opening sugya of the fourth chapter of Gittin, or the first sugya of Trac-

tate Kiddushin—Sherira’s example.25. Interestingly, the plate boundaries that, when they shift, usually cause earth-

quakes are called “transforms.” See “plate tectonics,” Encyclopædia BritannicaOnline, <http://www.eb.com:180/bol/topic?eu=115121&sctn=1>.

26. As Richard Helgerson has argued about mapmaking in Elizabethan England:“Saxton, Camden, Norden, Speed, Drayton, and the many county chorogra-phers, however faithfully they may have gathered and repeated ‘facts’ of Eng-land’s history and geography, had an inescapable part in creating the culturalentity they pretended only to represent. And in creating that entity, they alsobrought in to being, . . . the authority that underwrote their own discourse.They thus made themselves.” Richard Helgerson, Forms of Nationhood: TheElizabethan Writing of England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992),147. Richard Sennet has similarly argued that the Romans built cities all overthe Empire in the same square style with which Roman cities were built. Thisinsured the continuation of the ordered world that they wished and “con-quered” the barbaric territories. In essence, this building of cities founded thebarbaric territories as Roman colonies. It was the mapmakers, with their settingout of the city, that insured that the city be in harmony with Roman world.See Flesh and Stone: The Body and the City in Western Civilization (New York:W. W. Norton and Co., 1994), 107.

27. The map is extensively described and interpreted in the definitive study byMichael Avi-Yonah, The Madaba Mosaic Map (Jerusalem: Israel ExplorationSociety, 1954).


28. Avi-Yonah dates the Madaba Map to “probably between 560 and 565,” TheMadaba Mosaic Map, 18. The exact dating is relatively insignificant to the pur-poses of the essay.

29. The Madaba Mosaic Map, 15.30. The Madaba Mosaic Map, 10.31. Identified generally as today’s Via Dolorosa. See The Madaba Mosaic Map, 53. By

the same token, the general prespective of the mosaic is broken to depict theChurch of the Holy Sepulchre. See The Madaba Mosaic Map, 50 and plate 7.

32. “In fact all relevant Gospel names seem to have been included in the map,whereas the corresponding set in the Old Testament has been rigorouslyseeded,” (emphasis in original) The Madaba Mosaic Map, 28.

33 Rehav Rubin, Jerusalem Through Maps and Views: From the Byzantine Period tothe Nineteenth Century [Heb.] (Tel Aviv: Nahar Publishing and Kinneret Pub-lishing, 1987), 15.

34. The complete sugya in both original and translation is in the appendix to thepaper. The line numbering is the same in both. The relevant portions of thesugya will be quoted as necessary. The translation is mine, though I consultedthe Soncino translation. The Hebrew text uses the Leningrad-Firkowitz manu-script as a starting point, significant changes from L-F are noted in the appara-tus and explained in the chapter. The major resource for the apparatus isMeyer S. Feldblum, ˜yfyg tksm .µyrpws yqwdqd (New York: Yeshiva Uni-versity Press, 1966) (Feldblum does not cite L-F.). The following are the mostcommon abbreviations: m—Munich 95; a—Arras 969; 1a—Oxford 368, MSOpp. 248; w—Vatican 140; 1w—Vatican 130; 2w—Vatican 127. For a descrip-tion of the manuscripts see Feldblum, 9–13.

The arrangement of the statements or lines of the sugya graphicallyborrows freely from Shamma Friedman’s criteria, without accepting his histori-cist assumptions. I work in from the margin. That is, “Tannaitic” material is atthe margin, “Amoraic” material is one tab in, and “Stammaitic” material twotabs in. This is done so as to be able to easily pick out recurrent phrases, struc-tures, etc. Cf. Shamma Friedman, “A Critical Study of Yevamot X with aMethodological Introduction,” in Texts and Studies: Analecta Judaica, vol. 1,ed., H. Z. Dimitrovski (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America,1978): 313–19.

35. The statement is also found in the Yerushalmi. (y Gittin 1:2).˜yfygl larçy ≈rak wnymx[ wnyç[ rma br

.hnwkçl hnwkçm wlypa rma lawmçwThere are several interesting variants there. First, Rab’s statement is

closer to the phrasing that is attributed to R. Abba in the name of R. Huna.Second, the context of the debate, as is obvious from Samuel’s remark (andthe rest of the sugya there) is simply of distance—not of territory. Third, Rab,in the immediate continuation of the sugya in the Yerushalmi, recants, and thecontinuation of the sugya there is about what the ramification of the recanta-tion are.

36. Rashi s.v. ˜ydyrf whyysrgb says that they wouldn’t recognize signatures.


37. Rashi s.v. lbbl br ata ybm cf. David Halivni, Sources and Traditions: A SourceCritical Commentary on Seder Nashim (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1968), 488–489.

38. As opposed to Jeremiah 25:9, or Ezekiel 26:7.39. I use Babylonia to refer to the Jewish community that is implicated in the Baby-

lonian Talmud. This stands intentionally at some distinction from the historicalcommunity of Sassanian Persia, which this text might be constructing.

40. See M Kid. 4:1 and b Kid. 69b–71a.41. Ctesiphon and Ve-Ardashir were on two sides of the Tigris opposite each other.

Ve-Ardashir was once know as Seleucid. Ctesiphon was the capital of SassanianPersia while Ve-Ardashir was where the palace was located. See Jacob Neusner, AHistory of the Jews in Babylonia: II. The Early Sassanian Period (Leiden: E. J.Brill, 1966), 4. There are those who claim that they were under the same juris-diction. See Abraham Schalit, “Ctesiphon,” Encyclopedia Judaica (Jerusalem:Keter, 1972), 5:1146. The Bavli (b Yoma 10a) identifies Ctesiphon with theBiblical Resen in Nimrod’s kingdom, which is said to be near Nineveh (Gen.10:12).

42. On the question of what a hnwkç was, see Ben Zion Rosenfeld, tydwhyh ry[b hnwkçh´Èhmwrqh larçy ≈rab hmdaw µda ˚wtb ´Èdwmlthw hnçmh tpwqtb larçy ≈rab

.frwppr layrwa Èrçk hyra Èrmyhnpwa ˜rha tkyr[b

43. T. Gittin 1:3 (Lieberman, 246) with some changes.44. Reading yqlsd ñbr akyad with the MSS. See the apparatus to the text.45. The exilic setting of the discussion is also first brought in here.46. .wtçyw ˜yyb wrkm hdlyh taw Èhnwzb dlyh ta wntyw47. Rashi, s.v. dlyh ta wntyw.48. Tosafot s.v. hnwzb dlyh ta wntyw.49. “The Woman’s Rights in the Biblical Law of Divorce,” 39.50. The italicized phrases are those that this verse from Jer. 3:1 has in common with

the verse from Judges 19.dw[ hyla bwçyh rja çyal htyhw wtam hklhw wtça ta çya jlçy ˜h rmal

!?‘h µan yla bwçw µybr µy[r tynz taw ayhh ≈rah πnjt πwnj awlh51. lk l[ ñta tbha ˚yhla l[m tynz yk µym[k lyg la larçy jmçt la

.˜gd twnrg 52. For citations to the major ancient and medieval figures and their translations,

see George Foot Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges (NewYork: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1923), 409–410. For a contemporary discussionof the Concubine of Gibea story in the context of Biblical divorce law see YairZakovich, “The Woman’s Rights in the Biblical Law of Divorce,” Jewish LawAnnual, IV:38–40.

53. The LXX.a translates orgisthei—she got angry with him. LXX.b translateseporeutho—she left him. This seems to be the sense of hnz that Rashi also sees inhis commentary on Judges. Targum Jonathan has yhwl[ trsb—she insultedhim. While LXX.a might be a variant textual reading, the rest are readings of theMT (jnztw) that frame the story as a “marital dispute.”

54. On this reading, Judges 19:3 is more logical. The Levite, recognizing that hehad acted too harshly, goes after his concubine to pacify her.


55. Mieke Bal has named her Beth—a variant on tyb—as her story is one ofhouse and place. See Death and Dissymmetry: The Politics of Coherence in theBook of Judges (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 90–92. Her no-tion of the politics of coherence is strengthened in the present countercoher-ence that our sugya imposes on the story.

56. Though, in the Vilna edition and the Munich MS the line reads: hmk hlyphw

twbbr

57. As in Psalms 39:3 hymwd ytmlan: I was dumb with silence (dumiyah).58. There have been many attempts to extract the “historical truth” of this story.

See Moshe Herr, “abqw[ rmb abyng lç wbyr,” Tarbiz, 31:3, April,1962:281–286, and Jacob Neusner, A History of the Jews in Babylonia, vol. III(Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1968), 75–81. Neither author notes the fact that the storyof the execution is only mentioned in b Gittin.

59. 65b. On 31b and 62b, Genibah is referred to as haglp—one who causes argu-ments, or one who is divisive. These are the only places where anything bad issaid about Genibah.

60. lk l[ ñta tbha ˚yhla l[m tynz yk µym[k lyg la larçy jmçt la.˜gd twnrg

61. Page 29.62. Following Albeck in his commentary on M Sotah 9:14, and S. Krauss, Talmud-

ische Archäologie, Band III (Leipzig: Gustav Fock, 1912), 93. The Soncinotranslation has “[banging of ] drums.” Cf. b Sotah 49a.

63. 'hl çdq—suggestively similar to marriage formula. See Mishnah Kiddushin1:1.

64. .dw[ ˚n[a al ˚ytyn[w rb[w wzwgn ˜kw µybr ˜kw µymlç µa 'h rma hk65. Iggeret Rav Sherira Gaon, ed. B. M. Levin (Jerusalem: Makor, 1972), 82. This

sentence appears in both Spanish and French rescensions of the Iggeret.66. T Gittin 1:3 (Lieberman, 246) with some changes.67. Following Albeck in his commentary on M Sotah 9:14, and S. Krauss, Talmud-

ische Archäologie, Band III, (Leipzig: Gustav Fock, 1912): 93. The Soncinotranslation has “[banging of ] drums.” Cf. b Sotah 49a.

Notes in Hebrew text

w atyl [atbytm 1

swpd hnwpxl È2w1wwm [hnwpxld 2

swpd ˜wpxm yla /h rmayw bytkd È1wwm [˜wpxm bytkd 3

;1wwm br ;p-l [brw 4

1w ˜yywxm... 5

d ˚yrxm abrw ;1ww ˚yrxm abr ;m 'ypa 'a abr ;2wp-l [abr 6

m atyl [tynha tdb[ ya yam 7

.µyywnyçb (246 'byl) 3.a ˜yfyg atpswt 8

;1ww atyl ;dp-l [ynb 9

swpd yna yasys rpkm ybr ;1wwm [yasys rpkm 10

swpd atyl [ydk 11


1ww atyl [wynpl 12

1ww atyl [ybr 13

swpd ryam ybrd hyl[ ygylp al ñbr wlypaw ;p-l 14

1w atyl[rbdh 15

swpd ah ;2w1wwm [ahw 16

p-l yhya [whya 17

swpd rmwl ˚yrx ;wm wrmayç ˚yrx ;2w1w[wrmayç ˜ykyrx 18

wm ˜yywxm... 19

swpd ˜ybr ;2w1wwm [ñbr 20

swpd akms rb 21

swpd hdlyh ... dlyh (ta) ;2w hdlyh ... dlyh ;1w [hdlyh taw ... dlyh ta 22

.wtçyw ˜yyb wrkm hdlyhw hnwzb dlyh wntyw lrwg wdy ym[ law .g.d lawy

swpd [dy ;2w1wwm [hyl [ymç 23

2w awh yrmg qjxy yr yah ;m ayh armg ah ala [ayh armg ah 24

swpd awh rtyba ;2w1wwm [dtyba 25

swpd ybr ;1wm [ybrw 26

swpd hyl rma 27

swpd atyl ;1wm [br rma 28

swpd hlyphw ;m hyl[ wlpnw ;1w [wlpnw 29

swpd br rma hdwhy br ;1wm [hdwhy br 30

swpd ab awh πws ;2w1wwm [ab πws 31

swpd yl a[ymç al ana ;1w [a[ymç al 32

swpd atçh ;1ww [hmw 33

.˜gd twnrg lk l[ ñta tbha ˚yhla l[m tynz yk µym[k lyg la larçy jmçt la 34

swpd atyl ;1wwm [armz 35

swpd atwwtm ;1ww [atbytm 36

swpd atyl ;1wm [ykhw 37

swpd yam ;2w1ww 38


chapter 5

Burying the Dead

Miriam Peskowitz

THINKING AGAIN ABOUT BEGINNINGS: about the contentof the stories we tell about certain beginnings, and about the very de-sire to privilege certain moments as “beginnings” in the first place . . .If the first of these is the general trade of revisionist historians, thesecond contains the seeds of another way to rethink modern concep-tions of time. But situated among these two moves is still another: asa category, our idea of the past as history contains assumptions of na-tionalism, peoplehood, and the notion that modern peoples are con-nected by essence to an older, more ancient group. This connectionis part of what one needs to be alive and whole in the world. Thisconcept of past time and place and story as familial and national, aslegacy and inheritance, is part of what is now up for question.

Jewish interpretation has loved to tell and retell stories about it-self through stories of individual rabbis, and by retelling versions ofthe story of the rabbis. Contemporary, popular vignettes abound of asturdy and studious group of men, whose rise to power was slow, se-cure, and pacific, and who provided continuity for Jews after the fieryturmoil of Jerusalem’s destruction.

As someone critical of the content of this narrative about the rab-bis, I question the results of its repetition as an originary moment inJewish history. I am caught between the desire to bury the dead andcease the repetition of these stories of Jewish origins, and the recog-nition that many will continue to retell them despite my preferences.If these tales must be repeated, I offer some palliatives: to start, a new

feminist critique; and then, an account of the second and third cen-turies in Roman Palestine that takes gender into account, that doesnot privilege rabbis above other Jews, and that does not assume thenationalist position that the history of Roman Palestine is onlyabout Jews and their differences from others.

The following is a revised version of the epilogue to my bookSpinning Fantasies: Rabbis, Gender and History (Berkeley: Universityof California Press, 1997). I present it here with a sober sensibilitythat so long as tales of the early rabbis will be repeated, there mustbe feminist and other critical versions circulating alongside. Whatfollows is an inkling of what stories of the birth of classical Judaismmight look like on the way to the future.

To make antiquity familiar, minute traces and random fragments are forgedinto images, emotions, and stories. Looking for words to describe the desire toturn fragments into something coherent and whole, I reach for the dictionary,and find nostalgia: “A wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a formertime in one’s life, to one’s home or homeland, or to one’s family and friends; asentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.” In tracing anantiquity of its own, the English language dictionary derives nostalgia from theGreek nostos, “to return home,” combined with algia, “pain.”

Antiquity is often imagined as if it were some kind of long-lost home. Inthis dream, its religions are part of our origins, its men are our fathers, and itswomen our mothers. When antiquity is the source for a classical culture, it isimagined to hold an essence—a fundamental continuity—that is transmittedfrom them to us. Imagined as such, ancient history is about nostalgia. It yieldsreunions with ancestors and returns us to homes we never knew. But whathappens when these assumptions about our relations to antiquity are chal-lenged? What happens when the starting point for thinking about antiquityis not the ability to reconstruct it and make it live again, but its very demise.Antiquity is gone. There are no homes awaiting our return. There is no for-mer time to resurrect. If these are our starting points, what other options forthinking about antiquity become imaginable?

Continuing down the dictionary page, I find a word I had not previouslyknown: nostomania. Defined as “intense homesickness,” nostomania is “an ir-resistible compulsion to return home.” The dictionary entry ends with a cau-tion. Nostomania is “a desire that can never be met.” I compare this with nos-talgia’s certainty that home exists. As a relation to a past time and place,nostomania carries a very different kind of emotion. It provokes alternatequestions. What does it mean to create antiquity as a home, to craft a time


into a place for which one could be homesick? After all, homes change, as doour relationships with them. Sometimes homes are places of safety and love.Other times they are sites of confinement and danger, locations to leave,places where decisions are made about who may be present, and under whatterms.1 Nostalgia builds identity—for oneself, for one’s group—on a deeplyfelt relation to faraway times, places, and people. As a critical concept, nosto-mania provides an alternate angle from which to think about this process. Itsuggests new ways to think about whether the compulsion to identify withtimes and places that no longer exist is in fact (ir)resistible. Nostomania forcesus to consider nostalgia as a compulsion, and it raises questions aboutwhether and how this compulsion can be resisted. Nostalgia yearns for home,for things that belong to us, and for women and men to whom we are related.Nostomania recognizes the impossibility of this venture.

When fragments of antiquity are made into whole stories, they are re-leased from the burdens of ambiguity and uncertainty. Between the nostalgicromance of an accessible and unmediated past, and its nostomanic impossi-bilities, what complexities are flattened out? Writing as a professional histo-rian and religionist, I am concerned with what happens when the “irresistiblecompulsion” that can never be fulfilled is combined (usually in unacknowl-edged ways) with notions of history and identity that uneasily tolerate differ-ence and complexity and ambiguity.

I wish to pressure the dream of return. I want to think about some of theways we make the past meaningful. And I want to consider what this has meantfor Jews and Jewish feminists. In doing so, I imagine there must be alternativesfor how to write about rabbis, gender, and Judaism from a feminist ethos thatdoes not assume any of these things to be essential or stable categories.

To do this I offer a reading of a text plus a look at a cultural practice fromthe same time. Both are from the Roman (or Rabbinic) period; both offer dif-ferent perspectives on gender, everyday life, continuity, and change in RomanPalestine. The text is the apocalyptic tract II Baruch, which dates from thedecades following the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 C.E. Thecultural practice is the placing of spindles as grave goods in burials through-out Roman-period Palestine.

This said, my reading cannot ever begin with these fragments of evidencefrom antiquity. Instead, it starts where most of us tend to start, really, with themany ways that we already know about Jews and Judaism in Roman Palestineand the ways we putatively know them. Because on the way to II Baruch andobjects placed in graves stand all sorts of conscious and less-than-consciousmodes for knowing about Jews, Judaism, women, men, and history. RomanPalestine is claimed as an ancestral home for Jews and honored as the birth-

burying the dead 1 1 5


place of Jesus, Christianity, and the earliest Christian communities. Its antiq-uities are both vacation spots for American and European tourists and sites ofpolitical and religious turbulence. The most popular and well-known imagesof rabbinic Judaism are of its men. Histories written about the people andtheir traditions come wrapped in the terms of European modernity. And asIsrael, the modern nation-state that now exists on the province over which theRoman Empire once held sway, the remains of Roman Palestine are the focusof nationalist and Zionist attention. These and more are part of how we knowthis time and place, these traditions and people. This knowledge is where westart, even when we do not articulate it is such.

Birthplaces

In Jewish religious history, Roman Palestine is often announced as the birth-place of the classic rabbinic tradition. The term is gendered and the womenare absent. The mothers of this tradition—and their progeny—are all men.As a birthplace of something important, Roman Palestine is conventionallynarrated in grandiose ways. The second century becomes a time in betweentwo major formulations of Judaism. Preceding it was the Jerusalem Temple,with its majestic architecture, its political intrigue, its extensive priesthood, itssacrifices of animals and offerings of meal and incense, and its tents of pil-grims. The century after the temple’s destruction flows into rabbinic Judaism,with its synagogues and study houses, its esteem for formal prayer and scrip-tural readings, its circles of rabbis, its focus on relations between persons, andits articulation of halakah for ordinary and everyday events. The narration iselegant in its simplicity and in its seamlessness. This period of time is madeintelligible to us through a reassuring pattern: destruction and devastationfollowed by gestation and rebirth.

But this narrative and its variations are possible only when we tell Jewishreligious history as if we stood with elite Jewish men—whether rabbis, priests,Pharisees, Sadducees, or other male leaders—and used their eyes and theirvalues. Continuing these sympathies and identifications, we risk always look-ing as (we imagine) they looked. In other words, if we forget where we havepositioned ourselves, then theirs become the invisible but powerful eyes weuse to look at other people’s bodies, even when we consider women’s lives, andeven if we are women.2

Current versions of Jewish religious history are based almost entirelyupon the experiences and texts of Jewish men. The relative elegance of thesestories about Roman Palestine and the early rabbis is built both upon absences


and upon the inclusion of stereotyped figures that are by now all too obvious.The Temple was designed and built by men. It brought glory to male leaders.Spatially, it organized gender so that Jewish women were kept to the outerprecincts, while Jewish men were allowed closer to the Holy of Holies. Thepriesthood was all male, although to be sure it depended upon the labors ofwomen. Sacrifices could be offered by both men and women, but only mencould venture near the places in the Temple where sacrifices happened, andhusbands would make sacrifices on behalf of their wives and family. The rab-binate was an all-male group. The rituals of prayer and Torah reading wereobligations incurred only by men, and only men were rewarded for these dis-ciplines. The highly prized acts of legal commentary and metalegal analysis,as well as the midrashic reading of biblical texts, entirely excluded women.Despite the evidence that some women were leaders in synagogue congrega-tions and Jewish communities (in areas other than Palestine), more generally,men held these influential roles. Eventually, although several centuries later,women who participated in synagogue services were moved to separate roomsor to upper galleries.

Without an active critical engagement, we can never do anything otherthan repeat these gendered patterns as we write and read about them. In ad-dition to these patterns, Jewish religious history has been a peculiarly moderntask. With the Enlightenment’s development of new ideas about religion andhistory and with the emancipations that began in the late eighteenth century,Jewish traditions were reformulated as “religion” and as “history.” History wasone way to make past time make sense. Tales of Jews and Judaism were madeto fit the conceptual forms peculiar to European modernity. After all, historyis not natural, but a specifically Western European conception of the relationof time and events. Since emancipation, histories about Jews and Judaism em-ulated the categories offered by the West. In the nineteenth century, the maleintellectuals of the Wissenschaft des Judentums invested the “historyless” Jewswith a history of their own. Their adoption of this category meant forming apast for Jews in historical terms. Using these terms, Jewish intellectuals craftednew stories about Jews and Judaism that would fit the standards of re-spectability proffered by the academy and Western intellectual life.

These histories had very real consequences. Narrating a Jewish historyhelped to form Jews and Judaism into a “people.” In Western European cul-ture, a history was part of what a people had. A people’s history linked themto their “nation” as much as it formed that nation. History demonstrated apeople’s essence. It explained their uniqueness, and it marked what separatedthem from others. After emancipation, one goal of Jewish history was to


demonstrate that despite apparent changes and despite superficial develop-ments, the “Jewish people” too had an unchanging essence. Writing historiesabout Jews became one way that Jewish intellectuals demonstrated their hu-manness. History was one of many ways they refashioned themselves as citi-zens and showed non-Jewish Europeans that Jews, too, were a people and anation. Jewish history was to show that modern Jews shared a continuousessence with ancestors in distant pasts and places. In this way, a notion ofidentity—one that presupposes a shared essence between modern people andpeople of past times—is built right into the writing of history.

These highly personal and nationalist quests for histories about past timeswere simultaneously stories for, from, and about the present. But the crux isthis: the intellectuals of the Wissenschaft des Judentums—and those who haveinherited their terms—invoked the authority of academic method to claimthat these stories were not about them but were about “real Jews” in ancienttimes. Increasingly, the historian’s desires were imagined to influence only neg-ligibly the history told. This resulted in a paradox. The ideological demands ofobjectivity stressed the difference between the present historian and the pastbeing written about. But intrinsically, the definition of history contained theunspoken demand for connection. As this demand becomes less visible andmore veiled, and as the demand for the performance of scholarly objectivitybecomes more prominent, the fantasy of a scholar’s detachment became per-suasive. In much of Western culture, history became a naturalized part of whathuman beings have. The past as a construction of the present was forgotten.Except, when you look closely enough at the stories about Roman-period Ju-daism (and Rome, more generally) that arise from this paradox, they start tolook exceedingly similar to a whole array of modern utopias and dystopias.

With the creation of a Jewish state, Jewish history was put to new uses. Itwas used to craft a physical sense of belonging to the land that some Jews nowoccupied. Furthermore, Jewish history was used to promote, in most in-stances, a sense that Jews exclusively belonged in that land. Geographersmapped the region, linked Hebrew names to places, and associated them withpast Jewish occupancy. Historians wrote about Jews who lived in the regionthroughout the centuries. Archaeologists excavated sites, and in doing so,used the newly excavated landscape as an authority to make vivid a Jewish his-tory in this region, one that emphasized the region’s Jewish occupants.3

By and large, the historical accounts that have excluded women have ex-cluded other occupants as well. As Nadia Abu El-Haj writes, the history ofthis region has been constructed as “one’s relation not to the past of the terri-tory itself but rather to that of particular groups who resided and ruled


therein” (215). Although Abu El-Haj was not speaking about women and therulership of men, her point is well applied. The exclusion of women takesplace when we position ourselves with, and as, those who “ruled therein.” Butto limit Abu El-Haj’s insight to how it highlights the process of excludingwomen would do unutterable violence to the other exclusions that these talesof Roman Palestine and Jewish history effect. Narrating the history of RomanPalestine as the history solely of Jews contributes to a political ethos in whichit has become natural for many people to think that only Jews belong in theregion of Israel and Palestine.

It is not easy to think about both of these exclusions simultaneously. In-deed, the process and effects of these exclusions have been different. Theymust not be flattened out, as if all exclusions were somehow the same. Thesehistories of exclusion were products from and for certain political climates.Realizing the effects of political realities on the production of written histo-ries, and with changing notions of where a historian’s sympathies might lay,our stories about this place must be revised.4 Some of us will wish to continuewriting and telling Jewish religious history within these conventions and withthese political loyalties. But others will wish to look from elsewhere, withother assumptions and expanded sympathies, to consider what the past lookslike without the certainties that have been rendered highly uncertain.

The truth of these claims to significant absences and patterns render theways that many of us repeat the history of Judaism highly problematic. Thisproblem becomes the new challenge: How can we study antiquity, Palestine,and Judaism through a practice that is critical of the inherited intellectual tra-ditions that have provided us with authority and credibility and a place tostand, and simultaneously, have limited what we can do with this authorityand these stances?5 To begin an answer, I offer some tentative thoughts aboutRoman-period Judaism and the quest for home, from amid the messiness ofmodernity’s legacy and antiquity’s fragments.

Alternate Undertakings

In some ways and not others, Jewish life in Roman Palestine was begun anewin the second century. The region became part of a Roman province. Some ofits rites, leaders, and sensibilities changed. It all depends on which texts weread, how many texts we read together, how we read, and with whom weimagine ourselves in sympathy. One text—II Baruch—makes a major anddramatic break with the past and demands the cessation of the ordinary. Thistract is about exile, desecration, and hibernation. It expresses the searing pain

felt at the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the military loss to Rome.The text is an apocalypse, a genre concerned with the end of a time. Writtenin the early years of the second century, II Baruch is one of the few remain-ing Jewish nonrabbinic writings from that time. Most likely written originallyin Hebrew, it was translated into Greek and from Greek, into Syriac, the onlylanguage in which it is currently available. The Syriac translation was copiedand transmitted for centuries by Christian scribes. To communicate thepathos of the newly destroyed Second Temple, the tract uses Baruch, a figurefrom the biblical accounts of the destruction of the First Temple, roughly sixhundred years before. Like many other apocalypses, this one is pseudony-mous. Its author or authors hide in Baruch’s name, which they invoke as theirown voice (although for the sake of convenience I will refer to both the textand the author as “Baruch”).

As this apocalypse begins, the Jerusalem Temple is under siege. Baruchwatches an angel descend into the Temple’s most sacred spot, the Holy ofHolies. The angel is on a mission of rescue. From the Temple the angel re-trieves a number of items: the woven veil that separated the Holy of Holiesfrom other temple precincts, the holy ephod worn by the High Priest, themercy seat, the tables for showbread, the priestly clothing, and the incensealtar. The angel buries these deep in the earth, to be guarded until the Tem-ple is restored. Once the holy objects are secured, the angel instructs other an-gels to destroy Jerusalem’s walls and to overthrow its foundations.6

When Jerusalem is destroyed, a voice announces that God has left andwill no longer guard the Temple. People start to leave. But Baruch hears God’svoice telling him to stay in Jerusalem, and so he does. He sits in front of theTemple’s doors and raises a lament at the torture of destruction (II Baruch10.6–19). Baruch’s lament blesses the unborn and the dead who do not haveto bear the pain he feels at these afflictions. He calls on the sirens, the lilin,the demons and dragons, on all human and extra human beings to mournwith him. To show sympathy with the desecration of the extraordinary andsacred Temple, ordinary life must now stop. Farmers should not sow. Fruittrees should not offer harvest. Grapevines should not yield wine. Natureshould cease giving, the heavens should hold back their rain and dew. The sunmust retract its rays and the moon withdraw its reflected light. All fertilitymust stop. The land’s ecology must mirror the military destruction of theTemple and city. Home has been destroyed. Human life should not repro-duce. There should be no more marriages, no more children, no more fami-lies. There must be no more sexuality and no more pleasure.

Then Baruch’s attention turns to the Temple priests. For them, Baruchhas no sympathy. As caretakers who have been careless, they are the villains of


his lament. The priests must cast the Sanctuary keys to the heavens, givingthem back to God. “Guard your house yourself,” Baruch has the priests an-nounce to God, “Because we have been found to be false stewards.” While theTemple stood, the priests had offered atonement and purification for Jews.But now the male priests have sinned. They have disgraced themselves andforfeited the Temple for all Jews. Baruch looks elsewhere for sources of purityand renewal. With the priesthood in disgrace and the Temple destroyed,Baruch turns to the margins of the Temple economy.

There, in the female bodies of virgin spinners, Baruch finds an image ofredemption for Jews. In the lament’s final verse, Baruch uses the virgin spin-ners to express his hopes for purity, possibility, and the future. The spinnersemulate the priests, in a way. Just as the Temple guardians had tossed theirkeys heavenward, the spinners throw their tools to the fire: “And you, virginswho spin linen, and silk with the gold of Ophir: make haste and take allthings and cast them into the fire so that it may carry them to him who madethem.” Virgins do not reproduce life. They represent the opposite of sexualpleasure, reproduction, and human continuity. Virgins are the type of sex-ual—that is, nonsexual—being whose presence is appropriate in Baruch’s vi-sion of the postdestruction world. In the lament, the virgins are spinning lux-ury thread. Metaphorically, gold from Ophir is the highest quality gold,procured by Solomon for the Temple and worn as luxury ornaments bywomen in the royal court.7 But now the production of these precious thingsmust cease, even when these luxuries are produced by women who do not(re)produce human life. As the priests tossed away their keys, and as the angelburied the Temple’s sacred objects deep in the ground, the virgins must tossthe linen and silk and gold threads into the fire. They too must return theirtools to God for safekeeping. The lament concludes: “And the flame sendsthem to him who created them, so that the enemies do not take possession ofthem.” The fire that destroys also protects. Casting the fine-spun thread intothe fire, the virgins continue the work of the angel who had saved the Tem-ple veil and other sacred goods and placed them into safekeeping for the dis-tant future. The virgins’ spun progeny is arrested by fire, held in abeyance,and maintained until an unknown future time.

Baruch’s lament expresses an ethos of destruction writ large, a destructionwhose effects must be felt everywhere, and by all. The Temple’s destructionmeans that everything must cease. God’s home has been destroyed, andhuman homes must follow suit by ceasing fertility. Both the present and thenear future are characterized by hibernation and denial of life. All productionis deferred. The sun withdraws, the rain ceases, and the spindle’s twirl stops.The people have been exiled and what remains is the singular male voice re-



lating the tale. In II Baruch, the suspension (but not death) of humanity ismarked when male priests release the power they have held and misused.Baruch displaces female reproduction onto the bodies of men. Men—notwomen—are directed to cease reproduction. Women’s bodies are imaged asthe infertile and nonsexual bodies of female virgins, who are not involved inthe reproduction of human life, and now must cease their other kinds of pro-duction. The tract II Baruch portrays a temporary near-death experience forJews. The result is isolation, enforced desolation, and mourning through rad-ical change. Baruch’s world is suspended somewhere between life and death.Life at the Temple ended in a moment of drama, the everyday ends by slowwithdrawal and attrition.

In contrast, consider another account of life, death, and gender. The apoc-alyptic tract II Baruch features an angel who buries objects underground. Thefollowing evidence, from roughly the same period, features a similar act in amore mundane and ordinary context. As part of the rites and practices thatceremonially mark the end of life, grave goods were buried with the dead. Be-fore, after, and during the second century, loved ones and professional buriersplaced objects into the graves. Among these goods, the spindle appears onceagain.8 People filled graves with all sorts of objects. In a Jerusalem tomb some-one placed bracelets, a metal vessel, three clay lamps, four vases, a dark-grayspindle whorl, and a bronze mirror. One group burial at Meiron containedglass bottles and vessels, a bronze spoon, two spindle whorls, and a ceramicinkwell. Family members were buried in a tomb at Philadelphia (Amman)with bone needles, pottery jugs, bowls and flasks, lamps, gold earrings, amuletcases, silver rings, bells, bracelets of bronze, iron, and glass, a key, knife frag-ments, pendants, coins, beads, and glass vases. A tomb near Nablus containedfour lamps, a glass bottle, three small glass beads, a spindle whorl, an ivory pin,and a ring. And at Naff, the dead were buried with bone hairpins, two boneneedles, two spindle whorls, bronze bracelets, an iron knife and an iron spear-head, gold earrings, bronze coins, and lamps. In other graves people had placedclay pots, bronze mirrors, kohl sticks, incense burners, a silver cosmetic spat-ula, along with coins from cities both nearby and far.9 Graves in which the de-ceased were buried with spindles and spindle whorls have been excavated atJerusalem and in the catacombs at Beth Shearim, at sites such as Akko, Na-hariya, and Ascalon near the Mediterranean’s shores, and inland at places suchas Meiron, Silet edh Dahr, and Beth Shean. Far from being only about thedead, funerary practices are performed by living people for themselves and oth-ers. Grave goods were placed in the graves of women, men, children, and ingroup burials.10 Materials from homes were gathered by those who survivedthe dead. This ritual act forged connections between a lived life and its bodilyend. These burial goods emphasize the continuity of the ordinary.


I had learned about the habit of placing spindles and spindle whorls withthe dead during my search for material culture related to women’s lives. Theseartifacts are usually ignored. Categorized as “small objects” or “minor ob-jects,” upon excavation they are usually recorded and stored away withoutraising much interest. Often they are deemed unworthy of the time of the ex-cavator and team and not published fully in the initial, interim, or final re-ports of excavated archaeological sites.11 This lack of interest has been exacer-bated in excavations undertaken since 1947 and the beginning of the state ofIsrael. Grave goods and buried spindle whorls are enmeshed in cultures ofgender, in which certain classes of artifacts are deemed masculine and favoredwhile others are devalued as feminine. They are also enmeshed in archaeolog-ical nationalism. As archaeology became increasingly part of Israeli/Jewish na-tionalist discourse, the favored archaeology was big, monumental, and fit intoan emerging narrative of Jewish prosperity and importance. Interest in the ar-chaeology of households waned, as did the earlier antiquarian practice of cat-aloguing small objects.

Spindles were made by placing a circular whorl (an object with a holepierced through the center) onto a rod.12 The whorl provided weight and mo-mentum when the spindle was dropped from chest height to the ground as ittwirled fiber into yarn. Made mostly of wood, the rods have disintegrated,leaving behind whorls of clay, glass, and stone. Spindles and whorls were notexpensive items. The closest information we have is Diocletian’s Price Edict, afourth-century document that lists a boxwood spindle with a whorl at 12denarii, and spindle and whorl sets from other woods at 15 denarii. The priceof spindles can be compared to the stabilized prices for, say, second-qualityneedles at 2 denarii apiece, an Italian pint of wine from the Tiburtine regionat 30 denarii, four eggs for 4 denarii, ten large pomegranates for 8 denarii, 50denarii for one day’s work as a stonemason (with maintenance), and 20denarii in wages for a weaver who could produce one pound of second-qual-ity textiles, either linen or wool.13 Some of the buried spindle whorls are moredecorative and valuable than others, with incised concentric circles or punch-hole designs on ivory, bone, or glass. But most of the whorls are of nonde-script gray stone, or serpentine, or local basalt. Many are chipped andscratched from wear.

Since spindles remain barely and poorly published, research took me toIsrael’s archaeological storerooms. I sat in the dusty archives, day after day,weighing spindle whorls, measuring the lengths of their holes, carefullyrecording and rechecking and revising the notes of those who excavated andcatalogued them. In the tedium of all this, I considered various ways to writeabout what I was finding, or not finding. I had begun the project hoping to“find women,” and the spindle—that stereotypical feminine symbol— had

seemed like a good place to start. But stories about women and gender over-lap with others, and these grave goods tell multiple tales. Placing personalgoods in graves was not a practice looked upon highly by spokesmen for eliteculture. The rabbinic Jewish tractate on mourning, Semahot, barely mentionsthe practice. The Roman jurist Ulpian locates the practice in a class otherthan his own: “Ornaments should not be buried with corpses, nor anythingelse of the kind, as happens among the simpler folk.”14 About these once-silent artifacts it turns out there is much to say. They display an ordinary pietyat odds with more elite pronouncements and they show that where some sawdeath as the alienation of human life, others understood it as an extension ofthe quotidian and ordinary.

There is more. Burying spindles with the dead was not limited to Pales-tine but done throughout Europe, and closer by in Amman and Pella, Vasa inCyprus, and Meroe in Egypt.15 The practice was not new to Roman Palestinenor unique to its Jews. Nothing in this one ritual of burial emphasizes re-gional or ethnic or religious distinctions as significant things to announce atthe end of a person’s life. This offers another sensibility of the period, one thatknows little of the discontinuity of the Temple’s destruction, the effects ofmilitary campaigns throughout the region, the end of the active priesthood,religious conflict, and the changes in the political organization of the region.Although some of these events may have affected those who lived during thistime, such things seem not to have disturbed or interrupted or affected thepractices of burying things with the dead (although changes can be seen inother rites of burial).

Typically, Roman Palestine and its environs are studied in terms of reli-gious, ethnic, and national differences that are important markers now. Cur-rent national boundaries tend to be used as the boundaries for studying pasttimes, so that most Israelis, Europeans and Americans do not considerJerusalem/Aelia Capitolina on a social continuum with Amman/Philadelphia.But these tombs and their contents are part of new stories to be told aboutRoman Palestine. In them regional identity is largely invisible. The practiceof burying grave goods does not allow for the distinction of Christians, Jews,or people with other religious and philosophical loyalties. Many of the gravesthat contain these goods cannot be identified with any specific religious prac-tice, although at least three of these sites can be identified with a high degreeof certainty as the burial sites of Jews (at Meiron, Jerusalem, and BethShearim), and several burials can be linked with self-identifying Christians.Placing grave goods with the dead may not have been a habit for the major-ity of Jews (but given the politics of excavating graves that are located in whatis now Israel and the past practices of excavating and recording the contents


of graves, it will be relatively impossible to know) nor for a majority of Chris-tians, Jewish-Christians, or pagans. But these rites of burial were somethingshared by people associated with Palestine’s various religious and ethnic com-mitments.

The grave goods are a way to see similarities between people who lived inthis region. Graves were places where certain kinds of differences did not mat-ter, or were not expressed as such. Taking this into consideration should alterthe scholarly and public traditions that take modern categories of peoplehoodand religion and use them to locate distinct peoples and religions in RomanPalestine. These grave goods show the region to be one whose women andmen did not use every available opportunity to imagine and to enact thesekinds of differences.16

Promises to Bury

For those of us who identify with—or are identified as—women who sufferedand survived centuries of erasure and other oppressions, it is tempting to wishto find something solid, and to hold onto it tightly. At burial, the spindle tooka human woman and memorialized her into an ideal vision of femininity. Theburied spindles and spindle whorls have some written correlates, and theseprovide a way to link them with specific notions about women. Inscriptionsthroughout the Roman-influenced world used the image of the spindle tosignify the women who were idealized upon their deaths. From the turn ofthe second century comes this epitaph: “She was strong, good, resolute, hon-est, a most reliable guardian, neat at home and neat enough abroad, wellknown to everybody, and the only person who could rise to all occasions. . . .Her yarn was never out of her hands with good reason.”17 From slightly ear-lier we read about Claudia, who was charming in conversation, her conductalways appropriate, who kept house and made wool.18 And Amymone: thebest and the loveliest, wool working, pious, modest, frugal, chaste, domes-tic.19 Funerary monuments commissioned for the wealthy contained bas-re-liefs of women holding spindles or distaffs.20 The tools of spinning and woolwork commemorated women’s lives, including the lives of Jewish women. Amonument at Akmonia marks the place that two women, Makaria andAlexandria, were buried by Aurelios Phrougianos and his wife Aurelia Juliana.The right side of the monument depicts a distaff and spindle as well as acomb, mirror, and basket.21 Another burial monument, also from a Jewishfamily and dated to 255/256, depicts a spindle and distaff.22 The inscriptionsand relief work use the vocabulary of spindles and wool baskets to compli-ment women whose wealthy families could purchase such expensive carved-


stone memorials. Spindles appear in all sorts of burials, from the catacombsof the elite, to well-carved and extensive family graves, to unmarked burialsin caves, to secondary burials in ossuaries. The buried spindles and spindlewhorls were—at least sometimes—a nonwritten parallel to these more easilydeciphered meanings of written epitaphs and artistic reliefs.

The spindle is seductive. Finding this popular icon of womanhood, I hadhoped that I was finding something “really” about women’s lives. It is easy toreach for the spindle, a tool used by some women, and a metaphor for allwomen for so many centuries and in so many places, and to confuse it as“women’s own.” Perhaps the problem is not the tool nor even the metaphor,but the desire to find something from history to own. Our modern habits formaking history are built on the promise of essential links between human be-ings from different times. These claims about essence make it seem almostnatural to cling to various versions of people and past time and, despite ap-parent differences, to conflate “them” with “us.” This conflation offers a senseof ancestry. When history-writing is infused this way, it offers a pleasing so-lution to a widely shared “sentimental yearning for a former home or home-land.” It produces family, imagined ancestors: fathers, brothers, mothers, sis-ters, grandparents, and cousins.

But to satisfy this yearning, which of life’s complexities are flattened anderased? These spindles were tools used by women. But they should never beseen as benign souvenirs, mementos of our visits to women in antiquity. Spin-dles were also used by men. And they were also metaphors that powerfully re-stricted the imagination of what women could be, shaping them instead intoa confining notion of femininity. Along with other mechanisms, the spindlenarrowed a broad range of women’s acts and experiences into a more singularand manipulable icon. It reified gender and its divisions, and crafted“women’s” character into something distinct from “men’s.” Metaphorically,the spindle was to eliminate the confusion caused by activities and identitiesthat women and men might share. Spindle and loom symbolized the essenceof womanhood—even if its demands could not be met by most women.

In one sense, this metaphor from masculinist culture is “really” aboutwomen. Women’s lives are shaped by the cultures in which we live. If there isno human subject before the law, there is also no woman before the patri-archy, no inner essence waiting to emerge. One goal of women’s history hasbeen to find examples of women whose lives were relatively unscathed by var-ious patriarchies, to locate an essence of “woman” that remains continuousand unaffected through the apparent power of masculinism. This dream ispart of what makes it tempting to reach for the spindle as a positive image offemininity, women’s acts, and feminist religiosity. The desire to find the spin-



dle and cling to it tightly is based in the assumption that individuals andgroups have continuous essences, and the conviction that this is a good thing.

But to one feminist claim that the spindle is an image to salvage forwomen, that it indicates women’s resistance within patriarchy, or that it repre-sents a shared experience between women, comes another, also feminist, cri-tique of essentialism in all its forms. If spindles and looms are meaningful im-ages for some women and feminists, it may be because many of us haveinherited a world in which these icons are still familiar and powerful, and de-spite our best intentions, we often replicate its patterns and terms.

So, what’s a feminist intellectual with a critique of essentialism to do with thespindle? For starters, she can break the habit of repeating automatically the linkbetween spinning and women. She can refuse the certainty of this associationand instead find its complexity. Or she can see it as a trace of a process, evidenceof an attempt to construct women and gender on certain terms and not others.For instance, at least some of the time, these spindles buried with the dead canbe said to represent ancient women and/or to represent familiar figures used torepresent ancient women. But there’s more. Buried spindles were not just aboutthe dead. These goods were placed with the dead by those still living, by thosewho perhaps gathered things from the deceased’s home or collected them fromneighbors and relatives. In the sight of the living, the site of death was anotherplace to display the ideals and tensions of womanhood. People saw these thingsbeing put into the grave, and perhaps registered them or commented upon them.Buried spindles and other kinds of grave goods are about what living peoplefound to be important. Or perhaps not? Spindles were only one item amongmany. Grave goods were only one rite and one sight in burial rituals that couldbe quite ornate, with their processions and musicians and performances ofmourning and grief. Amid the wailers, the flutists, the chatter of relatives andfriends, would these two-centimeter-wide round objects have even been noticed?

As we keep looking at spindles, their meanings shift and expand. Theyseem less stable. Sometimes the spindle is an overdetermined way to refer towomen. Sometimes it refers to men’s places in a culture of gender.23 And some-times the spindle’s relation to gender was nonexistent. Or ambiguous: in a sec-ondary burial at Meiron were placed a ceramic inkwell, glass bottles and ves-sels, two spindle whorls, a bronze spoon, and more. Seven people were buried.Analysis of the bones reveals that there were three humans of unidentified sexwho died before age twelve. The fourth was a girl in her teens who died be-tween thirteen and eighteen. The fifth was a man who lived to age forty. Andthe age and sex of the sixth and seventh humans buried here remain unidenti-fied. In a case like this, what do the spindle whorls mean? “Whose” are they,and can they be linked to any one member of this group explicitly?24


Sometimes the spindle was not evidence of human women and men but ofa masculinist culture that powerfully set the terms for the lives of women andmen, albeit in different ways and with different effects. The spindle was used tocommemorate and compliment women. It also constrained them. Locatingtraces of women and the construction of gender in antiquity can always be cel-ebrated. But any celebration of the spindle’s woman is always entangled with anacceptance of masculinism’s web. What is actually found leaves much less rea-son to celebrate. Refusing to celebrate patriarchy’s women does not make an-cient women disappear into a morass of theoretical distinction-making. It doesrecord the possibility of a nonessentializing feminist practice for writing aboutantiquity’s women, gender, rabbis, Jews, Romans, and everything else.

In light of a history in which women were present and a historiographyin which women have been absent, I can understand the hesitation to let goof the spindle’s woman. Letting go might seem ludicrous when history has leftso few remains of women. But why be bound to history’s leftovers? The nos-talgic desire to find oneself in history—and to find friends among history’swomen—can be challenged. We need not rely on inherited, masculinist, andconstricting notions of what women are. Look at the spindle’s appearance ina recent rabbinic responsa that addresses the question of whether women canstudy Torah (by which it means Talmud, or Oral Law). The rabbinic writernotes that in his Jewish society in Israel, large parts of women’s lives take placeoutside their homes. He contrasts this with the situation of Jews in the timeof the rabbis, when “the woman never left the house and did not participatein the affairs of the world; all her concern and wisdom was limited to runningthe household and raising the children.” This ancient utopia draws on a mythof antiquity as simpler and more primitive, with clearer roles for women andmen, a vision not entirely different from the elite Roman conception of theirpast. This rabbinic writer ignores the fact that his claims were largely untruefor ancient Jewish women. Instead, this narration depends upon the nostalgicideal in which the premodern world is related to the modern world as its op-posite and its redemption. Instead, he continues, women today own busi-nesses, they teach at universities, and work in offices. Women have access toall sorts of education. Women should be taught Talmud, this responsa argues,because this will serve as a counterweight to “secular knowledge” and thetemptations of leisure. Talmud study will take up time that women wouldotherwise spend in trivial pursuits, such as traveling, swimming, or going tothe movies. Women who study Talmud will more conscientiously protect thepurities of “the family, the table, and the kitchen.”

To back up his proposal, the paraphrased words of mishnah Ketubot 5.5,and of Rabbi Eliezer, reemerge: a husband must force his wife to work wool


for otherwise she will succumb to the temptations of leisure. Only now, theposition is so naturalized and familiar that the responsa does not even find itnecessary to cite its talmudic source, writing only: “Were I to know that if webanned women from studying and teaching Torah, they would stay home touse the spindle, I would agree, but to give her the opportunity to be idle fromstudy and deal, God forbid, in trivialities, is not judicious.”25 The words ofthe ancient rabbis, repeated through the centuries, have become commonknowledge. They are now habit. The spindle reappears in a familiar form, asan antidote to the temptations that leisure might hold for Jewish women.

But as usual, the spindle is complicated. After all, the responsa wishes toexpand women’s rights and the possibilities for their lives. The rabbi whopenned this responsa does wish to change centuries of Jewish practice and toreward women for their study of Torah and Talmud. Yet, the argument to ex-pand women’s options is built on the still powerful idea that what womenshould really do is symbolized by the spindle. This is not a feminist utopia,but a concession that leaves nostalgic visions of whole and wholesome worldsin place. Despite the “fallenness” of modernity, in this vision proper ancienthomes still await a possible return. In this vision the imagined, essential linkbetween spindles, wool work, and femininity has a powerful place. When themale writer of this responsa argues to expand women’s access to rights and re-wards in order to accommodate the conditions of a fallen world, the nostal-gic emblem of a woman’s feminine essence reappears, still helpful after allthese years.

Our modern ways of making the past make meaning offer no salvation andlittle redemption. Relations with the past are never innocent. They are alwaysgendered, and often with ill effects. Europe’s appropriation of the past as “his-tory” was a way to colonize and own that past. It crafted fragments of a Greekand Roman and, increasingly, Aryan antiquity into fictions about peoplehoodand national origins. History and archaeology as an Israeli and Jewish na-tionalist discourse crafted a certain region of the world into an almost exclu-sively Jewish place, with ramifications and limited terms for other people whohave lived there and who live there now. All these efforts are consistent andcoeval with a masculinist intellectual ethos that in its many versions has pro-duced stories that erase and efface women or that include women in waysranging from the hideous to the benign.

What might it mean to replace the romance of nostalgia (with its pretensethat “you can be there”) with the terror of nostomania, the desire that cannever be met? It could mean releasing antiquity and its women from func-tioning as simplified expressions of our identity. If we insist on narrating the


past, we could at least do so in ways that do not efface complexity. Identifi-cation with people and times and places need not rely on constrictive notionsof essence. It can allow ambiguity, contradiction, and it need not organize re-lations into sets of oppositional two’s.

This does not mean ceasing to know things that happened. Nor does itmean desisting from wanting to explain them. Instead it means a tentativecommitment to know these things differently and to restrain from makingthem work for us in quite the ways that they have. Undoing these kinds ofidentifications and ceasing the repetition of certain tales, we can let the pastbe different. We can stop forcing it to be a reflection of “us” (whether weadmit this practice or not). We can stop fantasizing the past as a home to re-turn to. We can cease forging ancient people into our ancestors, from claim-ing them in the various guises of allies, heroes, enemies, villains, or friends.Starting here, and looking from elsewhere for something different, we canstudy in ways that need not repeat their habits for our futures.

Notes

1. On “home,” see Laura Levitt, Jews and Feminism: The Ambivalent Search forHome (New York: Routledge, 1997).

2. The distinction between looking with and looking at comes from CarolineWalker Bynum, “Women’s Stories, Women’s Symbols” in Fragmentation andRedemption (New York: Zone Books, 1992) (33).

3. Nadia Abu El-Haj, Excavating the Land, Creating the Homeland: Archaeology, theState, and the Making of History in Modern Jewish Nationalism (Ph.D. diss.,Duke University, 1995), and Albert Glock, “Archaeology as Cultural Survival:The Future of the Palestinian Past,” Journal of Palestine Studies 23 (1994):70–84.

4. See Laurence Silberstein, “Toward a Postzionist Discourse,” in Peskowitz andLevitt, Judaism Since Gender (New York: Routledge, 1997); Jonathan Boyarin,Storm from Paradise: The Politics of Jewish Memory (Minneapolis: University ofMinnesota Press, 1992); and David Myers, Re-inventing the Jewish Past: Euro-pean Jewish Intellectuals and the Zionist Return to History (New York: OxfordUniversity Press, 1995).

5. Here and at every stage of this book, my gratitude goes to Laura Levitt and ourongoing conversations. For this argument I am particularly indebted to heressay, “(The Problem with) Embraces” in Judaism since Gender. There she artic-ulates what it might mean to engage Jewish Studies and Jewish texts as a femi-nist practice, by resisting the role of the normative male reader.

6. Pierre Bogaert, Apocalypse de Baruch: introduction, traduction du Syriaque et com-mentaire (Paris: Cerf, 1969), 1:222–41. A. F. J. Klijn argues in “2 (Syriac Apoc-alypse of ) Baruch,” in James Charlesworth, ed., Old Testament Pseudepigrapha,


(New York: Doubleday, 1983): 615–52, for close links between II Baruch andrabbinic literature, based on the theological and metaphoric parallels discussedby Louis Ginzberg in s.v. “Baruch, Apocalypse of (Syriac),” Jewish Encyclopedia(New York and London: Funk & Wagnalls, 1902), 2.551–56.

7. On virgins spinning in the Temple, see also Protoevangelium of James, in NewTestament Apocrypha, ed., W. Schneemelcher, (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1963), 1:370–88, in which as a young girl, Mary, mother ofJesus, is chosen for this Temple service. On gold from Ophir, see I Kings 9.28,10.11, 22.48; I Chronicles 29.4; II Chronicles 8.18; Job 22.24; Psalms 45.9;and Isaiah 13.12 (“I will make men more scarce than fine gold, more rare thangold of Ophir”).

8. For references, see Miriam Peskowitz, “The Work of Her Hands” (Ph.D. diss,Duke University, 1993), 252- 57.

9. Because this volume is concerned with conceptual and theoretical issues, I willdirect readers interested in the archaeological support for this argument toPeskowitz, Spinning Fantasies: Rabbis, Gender and History (Berkeley: Universityof California Press, 1997), 210–11.

10. Contra Rachel Hachlili. Grave goods have been feminized through moderndiscourse. See my argument in “The Burial of Gender and the Gendering ofBurial,” Jewish Quarterly Review 4 (1997): 1–20.

11. On minor objects, see the critique of M. J. Chavane, Salamine de Chypre(Paris: Diffusion de Boccard, 1975), 6: 1–2.

12. The rods were often made of perishable wood and in most burial contextsonly the whorls survive, since they were made of more durable materials. Thewhorls measure roughly 25 centimeters in diameter, are 1 to 2 centimetershigh, and weigh usually between 11 and 22 grams.

13. See Diokletian’s Preisedikt, ed. Siegfried Lauffer, (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1971).English translation in E. R. Graser, ed., “The Edict of Diocletian on Maxi-mum Prices,” in Tenney Frank, Economic Survey of Ancient Rome (Baltimore:Johns Hopkins University Press, 1940), vol. 5. On spindles and whorls, see13.5–6; needles, 16.9; wine, 2.2; eggs, 6.43; pomegranates, 6.71; stonemason,7.2; weaver, 21.1–6.

14. Digest I I.7.14.5.15. Europe: J. P. Wild, Textile Manufacture in the Northern Roman Provinces (New

York: Cambridge University Press, 1970). Amman: G. Lankester Harding, “ARoman Tomb in Amman,” Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities of Pales-tine 14 (1950): 30–32; 2 steatite whorls, one from loculus C18, one fromtomb floor J46. Pella: R. H. Smith, Pella of the Decapolis (Wooster, Ohio: Col-lege of Wooster, 1973), 1:187; 2 whorls, dated second to fourth centuries C.E.Whorl 78:316 was the only remnant of grave goods found in grave 3. Whorl78:318 was found in grave I, with a lamp. Cyprus: J. du Plat Taylor, “RomanTombs at ‘Kambi,’ Vasa,” in Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus,1940–1948, 1950 (Nicosia: Department of Antiquities, 1950); glass spindlewhorls were excavated amid large quantities of grave goods, dated third to

fourth centuries C.E. Meroe: John Garstang, Meroe: The City of the Ethiopians(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1911), 47; the dating of the tombs includes a largespan of centuries. See John W. Crowfoot, “Christian Nubia,” Journal of Egypt-ian Archaeology 13 (1927), 150; black clay whorls were found, both baked andunbaked. The whorls are decorated, but the excavator does not describe thedecorations.

16. See Sandra Joshel, Work, Identity, and Legal Status at Rome: A Study of the Oc-cupational Inscriptions (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1992).

17. Rome, dated to the Flavian period.18. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (CIL) 1.2.1211.19. CIL 6.11602. Trans. Natalie Kampen, Image and Status: Roman Working

Women in Ostia (Berlin: Mann, 1981), 122 –123.20. F. Noack, “Dorylaion. ll. Grabreliefs,” Mittheilungen des Kaiserlich Deutschen

Archaeologischen Instituts 19 (1894):315–334, esp. 322–323 and figs. 4–5. SeeMichael Rostovtzeff, Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire, 2d ed.(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957 [1937]), pl. 46.2. In Hellenica 10:249, L.Roberts lists similar decoration found on steles in the eastern parts of Lydia, inPhrygia, and in Bithynie, as also reported by Paul Trebilco, Jewish Communitiesin Asia Minor (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 61. See A.Joubin, “Stèles funéraires de Phrygie,” Revue Archéologique, 3d ser., 24 (1894):169–91.

21. L. Roberts, Hellenica (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’orient, 1955), 10: 249,pl. 33. Also, W. H. Buckler and W. M. Calder, eds., Monumenta Asiae MinorisAntiqua (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1939), 6:116, no. 335a,and Trebilco, Jewish Communities, 61, n.14.

22. Buckler and Calder, Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, 6: 113–114, no. 325.The inscription is identified as “Jewish” through language that seems biblicallyinfluenced, but the stone does not contain conventionally “Christian” designa-tions; this identification could be easily challenged. See Bulletin de Correspon-dence Hellenique 17 (1893): 273, no. 63 and W. M. Ramsay, Cities and Bish-oprics of Phrygia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1895–1897), 615, no. 526.

23. A burial from sixth-century Beth Shean may provide evidence of spindlesbeing buried with men. However, the conditions of excavation and reportingrender it difficult to interpret. One spindle whorl was found in a tomb alongwith other grave goods. The tomb is enclosed by edifice K. On the outside ofthe south wall of edifice K is an inscription that contains a prayer for the ex-prefect John, who, according to the tomb’s excavator, “may be supposed tohave built the monument as a burial-place for himself.” If this is the grave ofJohn, then we are presented with an example of a whorl being buried with amale skeleton. However, the grave contained bones and two skulls, one setabove the other. The excavator posits the second burial (denoted by the secondskull) to have been placed in the tomb at a much later date than the seventh-century burial of John (if John were indeed buried in this tomb). The reportdoes not detail the precise burial with which the various grave goods were asso-ciated. Nor have the bones been analyzed to determine the biological sex of the


skeletons in question. These ambiguities make the evidence of Beth Shean suchthat one can neither challenge nor confirm the association of whorls exclusivelywith the burial of women and girls. On Beth Shean see G. M. Fitzgerald, ASixth-century Monastery at Beth-Shan (Scythopolis) (Philadelphia: University ofPennsylania Press, 1939), 4, II, 14. Because of the patterns and politics of exca-vation, there are, in fact, no examples of single burials that include both spin-dles/spindle whorls and skeletal bones positively identified as female.

24. Eric Meyers, J. F. Strange, and Carol L. Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Meiron,Upper Galilee, Israel, 1971–72, 1974–75, 1977 (Cambridge, MA: AmericanShools of Oriental Research, 1981).

25. Moshe Malka, responsa of 7 Shvat 5733 to Azriel Licht. I thank Susan Shapirofor bringing this responsa to my attention.


chapter 6

Before Alef/Where Beginnings End

Elliot R. Wolfson

the middle of nothing is everything,the middle of everything nothingbut the beginning that ends the endingthat begins the ending that beginsall suffering in suffering the suffering of suffering,returning to the place it has never been

Before ’alef comes beit—in a nutshell, the wisdom of kabbalah. The parabolicutterance finds expression in what is presumably an older mythologoumenonpreserved in Sefer ha-Bahir, long thought to be one of the earliest sources thatcontains, albeit in rudimentary fashion, the panoply of theosophic symbols ex-pounded by kabbalists through the generations.1

First, I will provide a translation of the passage that has served as the basisfor my reflections and, then, I will analyze its content philosophically, linkingthe salient images employed therein to other statements in the bahiric anthol-ogy. The intent is to elucidate the hermeneutical dilemma of the beginning:How does the beginning begin without having already begun? However, if thebeginning cannot begin without having already begun, in what sense is it a be-ginning? The mythic saying of the Bahir, which may well tell us somethingoriginary about kabbalistic epistemology, relates in the first instance to this on-tological problem.

R. Refumai said and expounded:“Why is ’alef at the head? For it2 preceded everything, even Torah.And why is beit next to it? Because it was first.3

And why does it have a tail? To show the place whence it was, and there aresome who say that from there the world is sustained.

Why is gimmel third? For it is third and to indicate that it bestows kindness(gomelet fesed).”4

But did R. Aqiva not say, “Why is gimmel third? Because it bestows(gomelet), grows (megaddelet), and sustains (meqayyemet), as it says ‘Thechild grew up and was weaned’ (wa-yigddal ha-yeled wa-yiggamal) (Gen.21:8).”

He said to him, “This is [the intent of ] my very words, for [the gimmel]grew and bestowed kindness (gamal fesed), its dwelling was with him,and it was a ‘confidant with him’ (Prov. 8:30).”

Why is there a tail at the bottom of gimmel?He said to them, “The gimmel has a head on top and it resembles a pipe.

Just as the pipe draws from what is above and discharges to what isbelow, so gimmel draws by way of the head and discharges by way of thetail, and that is gimmel.”5

Preserved in this text is what I presume to be an ancient mytholo-goumenon according to which the array of divine powers can be representedby the first three letters of the Hebrew alphabet.6 ’Alef is the foundation, “atthe head,” ba-ro’sh,7 but not the beginning, tefillah, for the beginning is beit,which is second. And what of gimmel? It is third, exemplifying a threefoldcharacter, bestowing, growing, and sustaining. At last, we come to a letter thatcoincides with its numerical value, for ’alef is first but not the beginning, andbeit the beginning that is second.8 Does the first not begin? how is the begin-ning not first?

Addressing the history of Western thought in an essay published in 1954,Heidegger contrasted “beginning” (Beginn) and “origin” (Anfang):

The beginning is, rather, the veil that conceals the origin—indeed an un-avoidable veil. If that is the situation, then oblivion shows itself in a differ-ent light. The origin keeps itself concealed in the beginning.9

It lies beyond the scope of this study to conduct a systematic investiga-tion of the terms Beginn and Anfang (to which one would also have to addUrsprung) in Heidegger’s thought.10 Suffice it for our purposes to focus on thedifference between beginning, on one hand, and origin and inception, on the


other. Before continuing with this analysis let me acknowledge that I am ex-tracting Heidegger’s terminology from its original context, which concernedthe history of Western philosophy. This is a legitimate move, however, sinceHeidegger himself plainly and repeatedly affirmed a parallelism between thehistory of being and the history of thought.11

How, then, can we formulate the difference between beginning and ori-gin? Beginning is the advent of something that begins at a discrete juncturein the past and that will be brought to a conclusion at some time in the fu-ture. A pattern of causal sequentiality is presumed and grafted unto the ag-gregate of experiences believed to take shape within the plane of horizontaltemporality. What occurs at the onset, however, becomes increasingly less sig-nificant in the unraveling of the event to be appropriated as temporally sig-nificant. As Heidegger puts it in another context, “being a beginning (Beginn)involves being left behind in the course of the process. The beginning is therejust to be abandoned and passed over. The beginning is always surpassed andleft behind in the haste of going further.”12

Origin, by contrast, is not an occurrence that commences and terminatesat a specific time and place; it is the ground “from which something arises orsprings forth.”13 It is the point of departure “from and by which something iswhat it is and as it is. What something is, as it is, we call its essence or nature.The origin (Ursprung) of something is the source of its nature.”14 Essence andnature must not be understood in a static sense (logocentrically, one mightsay). On the contrary, the origin comes to be in the course of the event andit is thus fully clear only at the end. Reflecting on the Greek word arche, inwhich one should hear the resonance of origin (Ursprung) and incipience (An-fang), Heidegger notes that it is “that from which something emerges, butthat from which something emerges retains, in what emerges and its emerg-ing, the determination of motion and the determination of that toward whichemergence is such.”15 The origin, therefore, “is a way-making (Bahnung) forthe mode and compass of emergence. Way-making goes before and yet, as theincipient (Anfängliche), remains behind by itself. . . . In this we perceive thatfrom whence there is emergence is the same as that back toward which eva-sion returns.”16 On the way there are perspectives, but solely in the end is theindeterminacy determined, and only then can we speak of destiny, of havingbeen sent-forth in historical resoluteness to chart the circular extension of pri-mordial temporality, that is, time in its originary sense as the expectation ofwhat is recollected in the recollection of what is expected.17

Beginning and origin, therefore, have diametrically opposite trajectories:beginning is what stands behind us; origin what stands before us. The origininvades the future by awaiting us in the past, advancing beyond all that is to

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come by returning to where it has been.18 To see what lies ahead one must bemindful of what is at the head. Beginning is a veil that shrouds what has comebefore, and thus origin keeps itself concealed in the beginning.

Suprisingly, in the words of Heidegger, I have found a key to unlock thebahiric symbolism. The beginning, we can say, is beit, ’alef the origin. Beit, ac-cordingly, is a veil that conceals ’alef, but can what is hidden be veiled?19 Howdoes the (un)veiling of the veiled take place? Through the agency of the third,gimmel, the conduit that draws from ’alef and disseminates to beit.20 For themoment, we must concentrate on origin and beginning, and thus return to’alef and beit, laying gimmel aside.

If we are to maintain the distinction between “origin” and “beginning,”the origin cannot begin nor can the beginning originate. To render this in thebahiric idiom, what is “at the head,” ba-ro’sh, is not the “beginning,” tefillah,even though there is no way to the head but through the beginning. To know’alef, we start with beit, for before ’alef there is nothing but beit. That is whyTorah begins with beit and not ’alef, the beginning that is before the originthat precedes it.21 The beginning is second and thus points to that whichcomes before. Thus, we are told, the function of the scribal tail on the back-side of the beit is “to show the place whence it was, and there are some thatsay that from there the world is sustained.”22 The beit—a trace of what wasbefore it was after23—reverts back to ’alef, the source that sustains the worldthrough bestowing, a quality that is attributed to gimmel on account of its et-ymological link to gomel.24 The secret open of ’alef is manifest in the open se-cret of gimmel.25

To begin, then, we start with beit, the beginning that is second. Ironically,the first discourse about beit that appears in the redacted form of Bahir beginssomewhere in the middle of a conversation that has already begun, we knownot when:

And why does it26 begin (matfil) with beit? Just as [the word] berakhahbegins.

How do we know the Torah is called berakhah? As it says, “And the sea27 isfull of the Lord’s blessing” (u-male’ birkat yhwh yam) (Deut. 33:23), andthe [word] yam is nothing other than Torah, as it says “and broader thanthe sea” (u-refavah minni-yam) (Job 11:9).

What is [the meaning of ] “full of the Lord’s blessing” (male’ birkat yhwh)?In every place, beit is blessing (berakhah),28 as it is said “In the begin-ning” (bere’shit), and the [word] “beginning” (re’shit) is nothing otherthan wisdom (fokhmah), and wisdom is nothing other than blessing, as

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it is said “And God blessed Solomon,”29 “And the Lord gave wisdom toSolomon” (1 Kings 5:26).

To what may this be compared? To a king who married his daughter to hisson, and he gave her to him as a gift, and said to him, “Do with her asyou please!”

What can we heed (mai mashma’)? That berakhah is from the word berekh,as it says, “to me every knee shall bend” (ki li tikhra‘ kol berekh) (Isa.45:23), the place to which every knee bows down.

To what may these be compared? To ones who seek to see the face of theking but they do not know the whereabouts of the king. They ask aboutthe house of the king initially (sho’alim beito shel melekh tefillah), and af-terward they ask about the king. Therefore, “to me every knee shallbend,” even the supernal ones, “every tongue shall pledge loyalty”(ibid.).30

Torah begins with beit, for the word for “blessing,” berakhah, begins withbeit, and Torah is blessing, for blessing is associated with yam, the “sea,” andthe sea is symbolic of Torah, for Torah is the fullness of divine blessing, male’birkat yhwh, that is, the fullness (male’) that is the blessing of the Lord (birkatyhwh), the beginning (re’shit) that is the wisdom (fokhmah) given to Solomon.The bestowal of wisdom is compared parabolically to the gifting of thedaughter as a conjugal offering to the son by their mutual father.31 From thisparable the reader is encouraged to heed the connection between berakhah,“blessing,” and berekh, “knee.” How so? The “blessing” is the “place to whichevery knee bows down.” But what is this place? To understand we need an-other parable: Before one asks about the king, one must first ask about thedwelling of the king, sho’alim beito shel melekh tefillah. The house aboutwhich one initially inquires (sho’alim tefillah) is the beginning (tefillah) thatshelters but also exposes the king.32 To this house prayers are directed in bend-ing the knee and pledging the tongue.

The blessing is the dwelling, the sheltering-exposing; the question of itswhereabouts marks the beginning of the path. Here philological attunementis most expedient: The word tefillah stems from the root fll, to perforate, tomake a hole, to be an opening. At the beginning, in the beginning, is theopening. What can we say of this opening? That it opens and as a conse-quence—or is it cause—it is opened. But what is (en)closed in the openingthat can be further opened? An opening, no doubt, but how might an open-ing be opened if it is already opened? To open the open, the open must be en-closed, for the opening of opening is enclosure, the circumference that encir-


cles the center, the limit from without that delimits the limit within. Begin-ning, the beit with which Torah begins (matfil), is the opening that enclosesthe enclosing that opens, the questioning utterance that silences the silence of’alef by exposing the shelter of the sheltered exposure.

Why is beit closed on every side and open in front?33 To teach you that it isthe house of the world (beit ‘olam). Thus, the Holy One, blessed be he, isthe place of the world but the world is not his place.34 Do not read beit butbayit, as it is written “Through wisdom a house is built” (Prov. 24:3).35

The shape of beit—closed on three sides and open in front—attests thatwisdom/Torah is beit ‘olam, that is, the enframing opening of the world.36

Borrowing another insight of Heidegger, nature may be viewed as the clear-ing that allows beings to appear.37 More profoundly, Heidegger notes thatphusis, “nature,” signifies the juncture (Fügung) of openness and self-conceal-ment. “The occurring of openness allows for self-concealing to occur withinits own occurring of openness; self-concealment can only occur, however, if itallows the occurring of openness to ‘be’ this openness.” To understand this co-incidence of opposites one must be able to elucidate what the “enigma of theessential ambivalence of phusis conceals,” and this would be tantamount tonaming the “essence of the beginning.”38

To think the essence of the beginning in bahiric terms is to ruminate overbeit, enclosed opening of opened enclosure. The author of the aforecited textconsidered the question from the perspective of the shape of the letter. Beit isenclosed on three sides but open in front, signifying that it is beit ‘olam, thedwelling within which temporal beings come to be in passing-away and passaway in coming-to-be. The measure of this dwelling in the stream of coming-to-be and passing-away is determined by and from wisdom, gnostically con-ceived as a potency of God, but its way is open, for in front there is emptyspace and new possibilities abound. From the kabbalistic perspective this isthe intent of the rabbinic dictum that God is the place of the world but theworld is not his place. That is, all things in time-space are God even if God isnot all things in time-space.39 The notion of world implicit in the hoary mythis dependent on the paradox of determinate indeterminacy,40 that is, a struc-ture that is at once closed and open, formed and formless.41 This is the eso-teric significance of the orthography of beit, the mark that inscribes the be-ginning that is second. The inscription, however, is concomitantly an erasure,for the beit that begins Torah veils the ’alef whence it originates. The role of

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Torah as preserving the concealment of that which must be concealed is al-luded to in the following bahiric text:

R. Bun said, “Why is it written ‘From eternity (me-‘olam) I was fashioned,out of the origin (me-ro’sh), before the earth’ (Prov. 8:23). What is ‘frometernity’ (me-‘olam)? The matter that must be hidden (lehe‘alem) from theentire world, as it is written ‘he also puts the world in their hearts’ (Eccles.3:11), do not read ‘the world’ (ha-‘olam) but ‘concealment’ (he‘elem).42 TheTorah said, ‘I was first (qiddamti) in order to be the origin of the world (ro’shle-‘olam), as it says ‘From eternity I was fashioned, out of the origin.’”43

Based on a play of words upheld in an older midrashic reading of theword le-‘olam, “everlastingly,” in Exodus 3:15 as le‘alem, “to conceal,”44 theauthor of the above passage connects ha-‘olam and he‘elem. Insofar as ‘olamconnotes both temporal perpetuity and spatial extension, an intrinsic link isforged between three ostensibly disparate concepts, worldhood, eternity, andconcealment. The rallying point of the three concepts is Torah, which is iden-tified with the wisdom that is the subject of the verse “From eternity I wasfashioned, out of the origin, before the earth” (Prov. 8:23). The expressionsme-‘olam, “from eternity,” and “by means of the origin,” me-ro’sh, are synony-mous. The intent of the verse, therefore, is to affirm that Torah derives fromthe origin (ro’sh, which is the ’alef) that precedes the beginning (beit). Only ifwe appreciate this will we be in a position to comprehend the significance ofthe assertion that me-‘olam should be interpreted as lehe‘alem, “to be hidden.”In proclaiming its primordiality, Torah is asserting, albeit cryptically, that itconceals the “matter that must be hidden from the entire world,” which is thehead, illimitable origin, whence it springs forth. This, too, is the esoteric senseof the statement attributed to Torah, “I was first in order to be the origin ofthe world.” The phrase that I translated as “origin of the world” is ro’sh le-‘olam. I opted for a more literal rendering, but this obscures the intendedmeaning. The word le-‘olam must be vocalized as le‘alem, “to conceal.” Oncethat is understood then the expression assumes an altogether different va-lence. Ro’sh le-‘olam should be read as ro’sh le‘alem, that is, “the origin that onemust conceal.” Torah, which declares itself as the first (qiddamti) of all enti-ties,45 hides the origin before its beginning. Here we recall the comment ofHeidegger cited above, “The origin keeps itself concealed in the beginning.”

More of this beginning is disclosed in another unit that I consider ex-pressive of the older layer of tradition:

R. Amora sat and expounded, “Why is it written ‘And the sea is full of theLord’s blessing, take possession on the west and south’ (Deut. 33:23)? Inevery place beit is blessed, for it is the fullness (ha-male’), as it says ‘And thesea is full of the Lord’s blessing’ (u-male’ birkat yhwh). From there he givesdrink to the needy and from the fullness he took counsel at the beginning(tefillah).”

To what may this be compared? To a king who wanted to build hispalace with hard granite. He cut out rocks and carved stones, and thereemerged for him a well of abundant living water. The king said, “Since Ihave flowing water, I will plant a garden and I will delight in it (’eshta‘ashe‘abo), the whole world and I, as it is written ‘I was with him as a confidant, asource of delight (sha‘ashu‘im) every day’ (Prov. 8:30).”

The Torah said, “For two thousand years I was delighting in his lap(be-heiqo sha‘ashu‘im), as it says, ‘every day’ (yom yom), and his day (yomo)is one thousand years, as it says ‘For in your sight a thousand years are likeyesterday’ (Ps. 90:4).”46 From here forward it is temporarily (le-‘ittim), as itsays “in every time” (Prov. 8:30), but the remainder (ha-she’ar) everlastingly(le-‘olam), as it says “my glory I will hold in for you” (Isa. 48:9).

What is “my glory” (tehillati)? As it is written, “a praise (tehillah) ofDavid, I will extol you” (Ps. 145:1).

What is the praise? For “I will extol you” (’aromimkha). And what isexaltation (romemut)? For “I will bless your name forever and ever” (ibid.).

And what is the blessing? To what may this be compared? To a kingwho planted trees in his garden, even though rain has fallen, the [garden]draws constantly and the ground is moist, he must irrigate [the trees] fromthe spring, as it says “The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord, asound understanding for all who practice it” (ibid., 111:10). If you say shewill be lacking something, thus it says “Praise of him (tehillato) is everlast-ing” (ibid.).47

The beit is the fullness with which God took counsel at the beginning, anobvious allusion to Torah, which is depicted in similar terms in rabbinic tra-dition based on the image of wisdom in Proverbs 8:30, the playmate withwhich God is enrapt two thousand years prior to creation. Note, again, thatthe word for beginning is tefillah, the word used in conjunction with thequestion of the whereabouts of the bayit that shelters and exposes the king,the beit that begins Torah, beginning of opening that is opening of begin-ning.48 The author of the bahiric passage renders the aggadic motif of theGod of Israel bemusing and amusing himself49 with Torah by the parable ofa king who happens upon an abundant spring as he cuts through the quarry


of stone he is using to build his palace. The palace, we are to suppose, will besurrounded by a garden, but only if there is a flow of living water can the kingplant the garden in which he and the inhabitants of the world will delight.50

The fullness of wisdom encompasses both the source of irrigation and thegarden that is irrigated. The poetic images convey in imagistic terms the twoprinciples that depict the basic dialectic within the divine nature, accordingto kabbalistic theosophy,51 the outpouring power of mercy and the con-straining force of judgment.52 Although not stated explicitly, one may inferthat the spring (ma‘ayan) and garden (gan) respectively betray masculine andfeminine characteristics.53 Wisdom is beit, for it is both the (phallic) springthat overflows and the (vaginal) garden that is watered, projecting-in andopening-out, exposed enclosure of enclosed exposure. Doubling of self to beother stands at the beginning of the way.

But what words can begin the account of the beginning, ma‘aseh bere’shit?God delights with his fullness.54 What kind of delight is intended? At thisjuncture, attentiveness to language is most warranted. The frolic of God withTorah/wisdom is designated sha‘ashu‘a, an archaic locution attested in at leasttwo critical chapters in Hebrew scripture, Proverbs 8:30–31 and Psalms119:24, 70, 77, 92, 143, 174. The term connotes delight connected to wis-dom or Torah on the part of God and on the part of the human.55 This con-notation is implied in the bahiric text, but what novel interpretation of theancient word is put forth in the medieval collection? What new thought re-peated, what new teaching reiterated?

We must listen more carefully to sha‘ashu‘a. Apparently, it stems from theroot she‘a‘, which means to divide, to separate. To apprehend the nature ofsha‘ashu‘a, therefore, it is necessary to think through the alliance of delecta-tion and division. What jouissance is there in dividing and parting? The jouis-sance of beginning, for beginning entails the rapture of irruption and cohe-sion of separation.

Sha‘ashu‘a must be thought from the vantage point of the nexus of be-ginning and division. To appreciate the fuller implications of this belongingtogether, one would do well to consider another bahiric text. Interestingly, inthe pertinent passage, disclosure of the kabbalistic secret is the task of studentsexpounding before their master, R. Berechiah:

They began and said, “Originarily—one (bere’shit ’efad). ‘Spirit before meis faint, I am the one to create souls’ (Isa. 57:16). ‘The channel of God isfull of water’ (Ps. 65:10). What is the ‘channel of God’ (peleg ’elohim)?Thus our master taught us that the Holy One, blessed be he, took the wa-ters of creation and divided them. He placed half of them in heaven and

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half of them in the ocean, as it is written ‘God divided the fullness ofwater.’ By means of them a man studies Torah, as it is said, ‘Through themerit of acts of kindness (gemilut fasadim) a man studies Torah, as it says‘All who are thirsty come for water, even if you have no money’ (Isa.55:10), go to him and he will act with kindness towards you, and ‘you willstock up on food and eat’ (ibid.).”56

The secret here—as elsewhere in the bahiric anthology—is expressedthrough mytho-theosophic exegesis, that is, reading Hebrew scripture as anarrative about the inner nature of God. More specifically, the exegesis placedin the mouth of R. Berechiah’s students, which includes a teaching receiveddirectly from the master, is meant to explain the ontic transition from impar-tial oneness prior to creation to a division within the one, God’s becoming-other, which logically entails three modes of relatedness, for the other, withthe other, in the other.

The first word of Torah, bere’shit, alludes to the unity before the threefoldothering of the one, a unity that technically is before there is one, for in beingone there would be two and consequently one to divide. Thus, bere’shit is inter-preted by the gloss ’efad, that is, ’efad is opposite to bere’shit, bere’shit ’efad,“originarily—one.” Division, on the other hand, is tied exegetically to Isaiah57:16, ki ruaf mi-lefanay ya‘at.of u-neshamot ’ani ‘asiti, “for spirit before me isfaint, I am the one to create souls,” and to Psalms 65:10, peleg ’elohim male’mayim, which I will leave untranslated for the moment. The bahiric homily en-gages the meaning of the latter verse but is completely silent about the former.The silence notwithstanding, it is appropriate to begin with a brief commentabout this verse. A distinct meaning was evidently assumed by the exegetewhose words (at least in part and in some form) have been preserved in the writ-ten recensions of Bahir and we must try to recover something of it by listening.

Ki ruaf mi-lefanay ya‘at.of u-neshamot ’ani ‘asiti, “for spirit before me isfaint, I am the one to create souls.” I assume this verse should also be readmytho-theosophically. To comprehend this we must first ascertain who is speak-ing. The answer is offered in the poetic-liturgic utterance of the prophetic textitself: ram we-nissa’ shokhen ‘ad we-qadosh shemo, “high and exalted, everlastinglydwelling, holy is his name” (Isa. 57:15). The intent of the verse, when read kab-balistically, is to emphasize that souls are created by this high and exalted onewhose name is holy and not by the spirit (ruaf) that falters before him.57 Thecreation of souls evinces the movement from one beyond one to one that ismany, a one that signals division in the one.58 This transition marks the begin-ning and hence is symbolized by beit, the second that is first.

Further support may be adduced from the verse peleg ’elohim male’ mayim.The plain sense calls forth the translation “the channel of God is full of water.”

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The esoteric exegete, however, read (in the double sense of interpreted and vo-calized) the word peleg as palag, “to divide,” thereby changing the syntax of theverse. The proper noun, peleg ’elohim, “channel of God,” is turned into predi-cate and subject, palag ’elohim, “God divided.” Moreover, the expression male’mayim is not the predicate nominative “is full of water,” but the nominative“fullness of water.” The overall meaning of the verse, therefore, is that God di-vided the fullness of water. To what does this refer? To the primordial divisionof waters, an ancient theme in Israelite cosmogonic myth.

In the bahiric text, what else do we hear about the separation of upperand lower waters? We are told that by means of these waters one studiesTorah. This is equated with a maxim, which is presented anonymously insome manuscript recensions and attributed to a specific rabbi in other recen-sions,59 that one merits studying Torah through acts of kindness, gemilutfesed. I have not succeeded in locating a source or even precise parallel to themaxim as it is cited in Bahir, but it is easy enough to list a number of rabbinicdicta wherein a tight connection is drawn between Torah and charitable, com-passionate behavior.60 On balance, it seems to me, the bahiric text offers aninterpretation of a maxim that circulated independently in either oral or writ-ten form. If, for the sake of argument, we assume this to be case, then the crit-ical question is how did the author of the bahiric text understand the maxim?

By the merit of the water that was divided at the beginning—indeed thedivision that is the beginning—one studies Torah. First, we recall, that thefullness of water, male’ mayim, refers technically to the effluence of divine wis-dom, the sea that is Torah,61 the daughter beloved to her father and given asa matrimonial gift to her brother. It thus makes perfectly good sense to asso-ciate the division of waters and study of Torah. Moreover, the latter is con-nected to acts of kindness. This connection is interpreted in the followingway: He who wishes to study must go to the source of the water, the beit-bayitthat is the beginning, the plentitude of wisdom/Torah, and from there a floodof mercy will issue forth.62 The overflow of wisdom is expressed as the gen-erosity of spirit that bestows deeds of kindness in the world, gemilut fasadim.We encountered this force before in the description of the gimmel at the be-ginning of the path, but we abruptly laid it aside. Now, however, it is time totake hold of the matter, to grasp the symbolic intent of this letter.

What is gimmel? It bestows (gomel) like a spring that erupts and waters thegarden with the light/seed of wisdom that is hidden in the head (ba-ro’sh),63

the origin that is before there is one to begin because there is no second.Through the bestowal of the seed the distance separating ’alef and beit isbridged. Hence, gimmel may be viewed as the division that is unifying in thatit unifies that which is divided by dividing that which is unified. The possi-bility of gimmel is there from before ’alef, for without positing the third term,

which is the link, one cannot conceive the division that is the beginning, thebeit-bayit that exposes by sheltering ’alef.

Before we go further down this path, it might be protested that no mentionof the letters is made in the bahiric account of waters parting at the beginning.How, then, can I introduce them into the mythologoumenon? This is a legiti-mate concern, one for which I have no decisive answer. I conjecture, however,that the myth of the division of the waters can be semiotically encoded andthereby linked to the passage that preserves and transmits the tradition regard-ing ’alef, beit, and gimmel. The one that is first before the beginning is signifiedby ’alef; the division of waters at the beginning by beit; the channel connectingupper and lower in the beginning by gimmel. This is the significance of the ref-erence to gemilut fasadim in this context. What sustains the earth is the over-flow from heaven, the beneficence that comes by way of the conduit that be-stows wisdom.64 The same activity facilitates study of Torah.

The full intent of this image can only be conveyed if one considers theimplicit gender characteristics at work behind the letter symbolism. Althoughnot stated explicitly, one can well assume that the author/transmitter of thispassage had in mind the depiction of the upper waters as masculine and thelower as feminine, a cosmological theme attested in classical rabbinic litera-ture. The relevant references in the older texts make it unambiguously clearthat the gender imagery has a decidedly sexual nuance. Thus, in the dictumof R. Levi, “the supernal waters are masculine and the lower feminine,” theearth that opens to receive the heavenly overflow, which is linked exegeticallyto Isaiah 45:8, is depicted as “woman opening for the male.”65 If the upper ismale and the lower female, it is fair to conclude that the link connecting thetwo is the phallus. This surmise would go well with the phallic image of thespring to which I have already referred, the spring of wisdom that emergesspontaneously from the rocks and waters the garden in which the king andhis world delight. In terms of an alternative mythic formulation, gimmel is theson that bridges the distance between ’alef and beit, father and daughter.66 Inote, moreover, that gimmel occupies a central role in the erotic play ofsha‘ashu‘a. Indeed, the impetus for the division of the fullness that is the be-ginning arises from the springing-forth of gimmel, the will to bestow thatstems from gemilut fesed, love as the incessant overflowing, projecting-openopening into the opening of the open-projection.67 Prior to that point, whichis no point at all since for one to conceive of a point one must conceive of aline and conceiving of a line is not possible without conceiving two points,there is nothing but the oneness that transcends number. In the beginning isthe splitting of the waters, a rupture in the beginning. Thus the beginning isbeit, signifying the duplicity brought about through division of one before all


division. Where do we see this divide most wholly? In time, in the beginning,at the beginning, for to begin the beginning must have begun otherwise it isno beginning. What begins, therefore, can only be what has already been.

The kabbalistic import of the myth places sha‘ashu‘a at the beginning—following the rabbinic identification of wisdom as Torah—the first stirringthat is the trace of what came before, the beit that begins Torah, time of be-ginning in beginning of time. The correlation of beginning and sha‘ashu‘a un-derscores the temporal comportment of the primal ecstasy, which, quite liter-ally in the kabbalistic symbolism, is an ek-stasis, standing out, an elongationof the line to be encompassed in the circle.68 The connection between timeand sha‘ashu‘a is already conveyed by the verse from Proverbs wherein wisdomdescribes herself as being the delight before God “every day,” sha‘ashu‘im yomyom, and playing before him “in every moment,” mesafeqet lefanav be-khol ‘et.Insofar as wisdom was frolicking before God from the beginning—indeed,beginning is nothing but this frolic—sha‘ashu‘a bears the footprint of tempo-rality in the cyclical linearity of linear circularity.

From the beginning we can deduce some general characteristics abouttime: To begin with, as we have already remarked, beginning cannot begin.That which cannot begin cannot end. To be always beginning, then, is to benever ending, but to be never ending is to be always of the moment. To be al-ways of the moment is to always be of the moment, that is, to begin in thebeginning that cannot begin because it has already begun. Temporality ismeasured by the moment that belongs to this beginning that cannot beginand to the end that cannot end. What will be in time is the same as what wasin time in virtue of being different than what is in time, different in virtue ofbeing the same. Here, again, Heidegger is helpful:

Time and the temporal mean what is perishable, what passes away in thecourse of time. Our language says with greater precision: what passes awaywith time. For time passes away. But by passing away constantly, time re-mains as time . . . Time is not a thing, this nothing which is, and yet it re-mains constant in its passing away without being something temporal likethe beings in time.69

As Heidegger poetically captured the paradox of time, we can say ofsha‘ashu‘a that it persists in its passing, it is most evidently when it is no more.The bliss at the beginning cannot be the beginning of bliss, for the beginningdoes not begin and remain beginning. Sha‘ashu‘a is thus always of the mo-ment—momentary elation, present in its absence, enduring in its recurrence,eternal in its transience. The joy at the beginning—the ecstasy of beginning—

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never was for it never will not be. Yet, we must consider a distinction madein the bahiric text itself: There is a difference between two thousand years be-fore creation and the span of time that follows creation. In the former,sha‘ashu‘a is everlasting, le-‘olam, in the latter, mesafeqet lefanav, toying beforehim, from time to time, le-‘ittim.

The transition from perpetual musing to intermittent play requires hold-ing-back and setting of boundary. The notion of withdrawal, which is notstated overtly, is a secret exegetically derived from the verse lema‘an shemi’a’arikh ’appi u-tehillati ’efet.am lakh le-vilti hakhritekha, “For the sake of myname I will postpone my wrath and my glory I will hold in for you so that Iwill not destroy you” (Isa. 48:9).70 The plain sense of the prophetic dictumrelates to divine mercy, which is expressed as God’s long-suffering, the capac-ity to restrain his rage. The expression tehillati ’efet.am, literally “my glory Iwill hold in,” is parallel to ’a’arikh ’appi,71 “I will postpone my wrath.” Onemay surmise at some point in ancient Israel the notion of a vengeful godyielded its opposite, the compassionate god who holds in his fury. In thebahiric text, only the second part of the verse is cited because the focal pointis the constriction of tehillah, which has been rendered above as the divineglory. But what resonance did the author of the bahiric passage hear in thescriptural verse? The self-limitation, expressed as inhaling the breath andholding in the glory, makes possible the periodic moments of joy that Godexperiences with Torah/wisdom. Prior to the withholding the father’s musingof the daughter had no temporal bounds; consequent to the withholding it istemporally bound. The contraction of divine glory through the holding in ofspirit/breath facilitates the movement from le-‘olam, everlastingly, to le-‘ittim,ephemerally. Time, which begins with the beginning that cannot begin, arisesas a consequence of the constriction.

The reader is told, moreover, that the glory that is held in for Israel, u-tehillati ’efet.am lakh (Isa. 48:9), is the “praise of David,” tehillah le-dawid (Ps.145:1),72 the praise that is exaltation (romemut), the blessing of the name.These are different ways of referring symbolically to the glory, for the latter iscomprised of the blessings of Israel and it is the praise that is uplifted to beplaced again as a crown on the head.73 The blessing is said to be “forever andever,” le-‘olam wa-‘ed, eternally, but it must always be of the moment, be-khol‘et, in every moment, from time to time, le-‘ittim. The rhythms of prayer areset by the seemingly primordial turning of time, fading of night into day, dayinto night, return of same as different.74 This is the mystery of song, the se-cret of prayer. In every moment, there is a beginning, and hence each momentis the same but different, nay, the same because different. To what may thisbe compared? To the king who waters his garden from the spring even though


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the ground is sufficiently wet from previous rainfall. The image casts a shadowthrough which we may glean something about the beginning of time in thetime of beginning. Time must always begin, but to begin it cannot have begun.The beginning, then, must never end, but only that which ends everlastinglynever ends. In bahiric imagery, the fount of wisdom—phallic aspect of God,which is symbolized by gimmel, the force that bestows (gomel) goodness—ceaselessly overflows from ’alef to beit, but it is never depleted. Each time im-plies every time, from time to time, timelessly beginning, eternally returning.

Sha‘ashu‘a, the father’s be/musement for the daughter, the king’s contem-plation of wisdom, stands at the beginning; indeed, it is the beginning for itcannot begin. In this musing/amusing is the primordial divide, what-isbecoming self and other, the springing into being of what has been, the full-ness that is depleted, trace of ’alef in beit that comes before it. The musing dis-closes something fundamental about the composition of time: Each momentis because it incessantly becomes other than what it is. This is the way ofsha‘ashu‘a, projecting out to hold in.

In the bahiric parable, I have found support for Heidegger’s contentionthat the “ontological condition for the understanding of being is temporalityitself.”75 For kabbalists this condition is related to the contemplative musing ofwhich I spoke above, a musing that presupposes a division of the one, the dou-bling of beit, the beginning that is second. I would add that in bahiric frag-ments and subsequent kabbalistic literature based thereon the correspondenceof sha‘ashu‘a and temporality underscores the erotic dimension of temporalcomportment. It is significant to note that the bahiric text highlights, perhapsintensifies, the erotic quality of sha‘ashu‘a, which may have been at play fromthe beginning. The imagery of irrigation, which has come up already, shouldbe interpreted in light of this erotic/contemplative delight. The argument isbolstered by other fragments in the bahiric anthology wherein the image ofwater spreading over the garden more clearly alludes to sexual union—throughphallic discharge—between male and female.76

Here we also have to consider the accounts of the father’s desire for and co-habitation with the daughter scattered throughout the textual landscape ofBahir. I have discussed this motif in an earlier study.77 I will not reproduce allthe relevant texts again, but let me simply emphasize that the father’s amusinghimself through the daughter is inseparable from—indeed identical to—thefather’s musing over the daughter. Two points that follow from this are worthyof consideration. First, the basic myth that explains the movement from thefirst that is not a beginning to the beginning that is second, from eternality totemporality, involves the splintering of wisdom into three, father, daughter,son, and the consequent yearning to restore a sense of integration and whole-


ness. That desire is expressed either in terms of the father and daughter or interms of the son and daughter, but both representations relate to the drive toreinstate the elemental unity of wisdom. Eros from this perspective may beviewed as the longing to retrieve a detached aspect of self. The impulse for theother, which underlies the sha‘ashu‘a that God has for Torah, the father-kingfor the daughter-princess, is an expression of this narcissism.78

The second point of note is that the correlation between eros and noeisissuggested by the poetic image of sha‘ashu‘a in the bahiric fragment has persistedamong kabbalists through generations. In a number of previous studies, I haveposited that the epistemological matrix that informed the lived experience ofmedieval kabbalists allows us to speak concomitantly of the noetic quality oferos and the erotic quality of noesis. In the beginning, God contemplates hiswisdom, the father delights with his daughter. Contemplative eros ensues fromand results in the projecting-open, springing forward to receive. Logically, onecan imagine projection without reception, but, ideally, kabbalistic metaphysicsdemonstrates a dialectical orientation that embraces both concurrently. This di-alectic marks the beginning, beit of Torah, stuttering to be heard in the begin-ning of the way, setting out to break open the open that is broken. In the be-ginning that cannot begin, time comes to be in its having been.

We can thus speak of an inexorable link between time, being, and eros inkabbalistic ontology. This, I suggest, is the philosophic intonation of themythic saying regarding ’alef, beit, and gimmel. To this saying we have tried tolisten, but what can one hear of the sound made before ’alef, where begin-nings end?

Notes

1. For the most comprehensive bibliography to date on scholarship relevant to thestudy of Sefer ha-Bahir, see Daniel Abrams, The Book Bahir: An Edition Basedon the Earliest Manuscripts (Los Angeles: Cherub Press, 1994), 293–336.

2. The Hebrew pronoun is actually in the feminine case, but I have opted not totranslate this word as “she” in order not to confuse readers by leading them tobelieve that the letter symbolizes a female potency. Letters do assume gendercharacteristics in the Bahir, but in this context the use of the feminine gendermust be taken simply as a grammatical point without theosophic or mythicimplications.

3. The bahiric symbolism is related thematically and exegetically to several rab-binic passages centered on the question of why the world was created with beit,the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, which is the first letter of Torah, pre-sumed by the authors of the relevant texts to be the instrument and matrix ofcreation. See, for instance, Genesis Rabbah, edited by J. Theodor and C. Albeck(Jerusalem: Wahrmann Books, 1965), 10:1, 8–9; Palestinian Talmud, eagigah

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2:1, 77c; Pesiqta’ Rabbati, edited by M. Friedmann (Vienna, 1880), ch. 21,108b. In other midrashic passages, where the exegetical focus is on ’anokhi, thefirst word of the Decalogue (Exod. 20:2), it is emphasized that Torah beginswith ’alef. See Genesis Rabbah 1:10, 9; Pesiqta’ Rabbati, ch. 21, 109b–110a.

4. Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 104a. In the teaching on the ’aleph-beit attributedto the “infants” (darddaqei), gimmel and dalet are interpreted as gemol dallim, tobestow charity on the poor. See also Midrash ’Otiyyot de-Rabbi ‘Aqiva’ in SolomonWertheimer, Battei Midrashot, edited by Aaron Wertheimer, 2 vols. (Jerusalem:Ketav wa-Sefer, 1980), 2:345: “If there is no gimmel, there is no dalet; if there isno dalet, there is no gimmel. If there is no charity (gemilut fasadim), there wouldbe no poor (dallim); if there are no poor in the world, there would be no char-ity.” On the link between dalet and dal, see The Book Bahir, §19, 129.

5. The Book Bahir, §13, 123–125.6. For discussion of this presumably older mythical structure in the bahiric an-

thology, see Elliot R. Wolfson, Along the Path: Studies in Kabbalistic Myth, Sym-bolism, and Hermeneutics (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995),73–75. In that context, I also explore the alternative expression of this mythol-ogoumenon, which relates the totality of divine potencies to the three letters ofthe word ’ish, “man.” The prooftext cited as biblical support for the anthropo-morphic portrayal of God is “The Lord is a man of war” (Exod. 15:3). See TheBook Bahir, § 18, p. 127, and the later reworking of this passage in §84, 171.

7. The letter ’alef is connected to ro’sh as well in The Book Bahir, §18, 127 (seeprevious note).

8. In the enumeration of the ten utterances (ma’amarot) in The Book Bahir, §96,181, the second, which is identified as fokhmah, is also given the name re’shit,the beginning (linked to Ps. 111:10).

9. Martin Heidegger, What Is Called Thinking?, translated with an introductionby J. Glenn Gray (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1968), 152 (originalGerman in Martin Heidegger, Was Heisst Denken? [Tübingen: Max NiemeyerVerlag, 1971], 98). See idem, Basic Concepts, translated by Gary E. Aylesworth(Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1993), 92: “The in-cipience (Anfänglichkeit) of being resists duration. But this very incipiencewithholds itself from what has been commenced (Angefangenen).” For the orig-inal German, see Martin Heidegger, Grundbegriffe (Frankfurt am Main: Vitto-rio Klostermann, 1981), 107.

10. For a lucid explication of these technical terms, see Reiner Schürmann, Heideg-ger On Being and Acting: From Principles to Anarchy, translated by Chrtistine-Marie Gros (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990), 120–151.

11. Many texts could be cited in support of this claim, but I will offer here onlyone striking illustration, See Martin Heidegger, Basic Questions of Philosophy:Selected “Problems” of “Logic,” translated by Richard Rojcewicz and AndréSchuwer (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1994), 133:“For thinking means here to let beings emerge in the decisveness of their Beingand to let them stand out before oneself, to perceive them as such and therebyto name them in their beingness for the first time.”


12. Basic Concepts, 93 (Grundbegriffe, 108).13. From Heidegger’s 1934/35 lecture on Hölderin as cited in William McNeill,

The Glance of the Eye: Heidegger, Aristotle, and the Ends of Theory (Albany: StateUniversity of New York Press, 1999), xviii.

14. Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, translations and introduction byAlbert Hofstadter (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1971), 17 (originalGerman in Martin Heidegger, Holzwege [Frankfurt am Main: Vittorio Kloster-mann, 1977], 1).

15. Basic Concepts, 93.16. Ibid. (Grundbegriffe, 108).17. It seems to me that the Heideggerian distinction between originary temporality

and the ordinary conception of time may be relevant to articulate the temporaldifference between origin and inception, on one hand, and beginning, on theother. See Françoise Dastur, “The Ekstatico-horizonal Constitution of Tempo-rality,” in Critical Heidegger, edited by Christopher Macann (London and NewYork: Routledge, 1996), 158–170; William D. Blattner, Heidegger’s TemporalIdealism (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999),89–229; Karin de Boer, Thinking in the Light of Time: Heidegger’s Encounterwith Hegel (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000), 61–77.

18. My formulation is based on Heidegger’s own description of Anfang in the Rec-toral Address of 1933. See Martin Heidegger, “The Self-Assertion of the Ger-man University and The Rectorate 1933/34: Facts and Thoughts,” translatedwith an introduction by Karsten Harries, The Review of Metaphysics 38 (1985):473.

19. See The Book Bahir, §33, 137: “It has been taught ‘the glory of God is to con-ceal the word’ (Prov. 25:2). What is the ‘word’? ‘The beginning of your word istruth’ (Ps. 119:160).” In this passage, a connection is thus made between thebeginning and concealment of the word, which is truth, that is appropriate tothe divine glory. For a different interpretation of the notion of the beginning ofGod’s word, which is related to the same verse, see The Book Bahir, §40, 141,and §50, 147. On the connection between truth and the head, see ibid., §26,131.

20. In The Book Bahir, §56, 151, the spinal column (fut. ha-shidrah) is depicted interms similar to the gimmel, for it draws from the brain and disperses to therest of the body. See §104, 187, where the seventh of the ten sayings is identi-fied as the east of the world whence the seed comes to Israel, “for the spinalcolumn draws from the brain and comes to the penis and from there is theseed, as it is written ‘from the east I will bring my seed’ (Isa. 43:5).” On thespinal column (linked to the palm branch, lulav, which is part of the fourspecies of Sukkot), see also §67, 159.

21. In what is apparently a passage that reflects the contemplative mysticism of con-temporary Provençal kabbalists responsible for the redaction of the bahiric text(The Book Bahir, §48, 145), ’alef is compared to the ear and the brain. The ’alef,therefore, is symbolic of the uppermost gradation of the divine, thought that ex-

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tends infinitely. In that context, moreover, ’alef is identified as the “holy palace,”heikhal ha-qodesh, and it is also associated with the Tetragrammaton (based ex-egetically on the expression, wa-yhwh be-ro’sham, “the Lord is at their head” inMicah 2:13). On the identification of ’alef as the holy palace, see ibid., §84, 171.See also §103, 187, cited below in n. 40. In later kabbalistic literature, the identi-fication of ’alef and YHWH is explained by decomposing the ’alef into a yod ontop and a yod on the bottom connected by a waw in the middle. The numericalvalue of the three parts of the ’alef equal twenty-six (10 + 10 + 6), which is thenumerology of YHWH (10 + 5 + 6 + 5). I am not certain if this is tacitly as-sumed by the author of the bahiric passage. In The Book Bahir, §53, 149, theconnection is again made between ’alef, the ear, and the limitless thought of God.In that context, moreover, ’alef is identified as the “essence of the ten words,” areference to the fact that the first word of the Decalogue, ’anokhi, begins with an’alef. In §87, 173, the ten sefirot through which heaven and earth were sealed cor-respond to the ten commandments. On the connection between the ear and the“great wisdom,” fokhmah gedolah, that has no limit, see §55, 151.

22. The matter of the tail of beit is repeated in what appears to be a somewhat gar-bled text in The Book Bahir, §11, 123: “To what may beit be compared? To aman who is created through wisdom, for he is closed on every side and openedin front. The ’alef is open from behind. He said, The tail of beit is open frombehind it, for if it were not so man could not exist. Similarly, if not for the beitin its tail, the world would not exist.”

23. In The Book Bahir, §17, 127, reference is made to the light hidden by Goduntil the suitable time. This aspect of the primordial light is deduced from thefact that the verse proclaims “Let there be light,” wa-yehi ’or, rather than “andthere was light,” we-hayah ’or. The description of the light as “already havingbeen,” she-kevar hayah, parallels the account of the beit as pointing with its tailto its source, ’alef.

24. See above, n. 4. In The Book Bahir, §92, 177, the attribute of love, middatfesed, is attributed to Abraham who was said to bestow kindness upon theworld, gamal fesed ba-‘olam. This passage reflects the theosophic interpretationof the fourth, fifth, and sixth of the ten sefirot that was current amongst kab-balists at the time of the redaction of Bahir. The three attributes of the divine,love (fesed), fear (pafad), and truth (’emet) are correlated respectively with thethree patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. See also §§129, 131–132.

25. It is possible that the identification of ’alef and gimmel, in the sense that gim-mel is the realization of ’alef, is the intent of the enigmatic remark in The BookBahir, §20, 129, regarding the relationship of gimmel, dalet, and he’. Accordingto that passage, which appears to have been transmitted in a somewhat corruptform, he’ is formed by taking the top part of gimmel and the bottom part ofdalet. The letter he’, it seems, represents the fullness of divine wisdom, whichmay be the intent of the comment that there is an upper he’ and a lower he’, anidea expressed elsewhere in the bahiric anthology in terms of an upper andlower Shekhinah (see below, n. 63).

26. That is, the Torah, which begins with bere’shit, the first letter of which is beit.27. In the verse, the word yam does not connote the “sea,” but rather the westerly

direction. I have rendered the biblical language, however, in light of the para-bolic exegesis of the author of the bahiric text.

28. The connection between beit and blessing is made in earlier rabbinic sources.According to one especially noteworthy exegetical tradition, God created theworld with beit and not ’alef since the former is the first letter of the word be-rakhah, “blessing,” whereas the latter is the first letter of ’arirah, “curse.” SeePalestinian Talmud, eagigah 2:1, 77c; Genesis Rabbah, 1:10, 9; Pesiqta’Rabbati, ch. 21, 109a.

29. There is no extant verse in Hebrew scripture to which this refers as noted byGershom Scholem, Das Buch Bahir (Damstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchge-sellschaft, 1970), §3, 6 n. 2.

30. The Book Bahir, §3, 119.31. For discussion of this and other bahiric passages with special focus on the

nexus between secrecy and the gift, see Elliot R. Wolfson, “Hebraic and Hel-lenic Conceptions of Wisdom in Sefer ha-Bahir,” Poetics Today 19(1998):156–67.

32. The same theme is expressed in slightly different terms in The Book Bahir, §43,141. According to the parabolic image employed in that context, the one whowants to enter within the chambers of the king must first look at or contem-plate (yistakkel) the daughter in whom the king has placed all thirty-two pathsof wisdom. On the application of the symbol of the house, bayit, to Shekhinah,which is also identified as sukkot, the temporary booths that commemorate thedwellings inhabited by the Israelites in their sojourn through the desert (Lev.23:43), see The Book Bahir, §74, 163. See also §104, 189, where Shekhinah, as-sociated with the west (ma‘arav) since all the seed that comes forth from the eastis mixed (mit‘arev) within it, is referred to as the “house of the father.”

33. The bahiric reflection on the orthography of beit being closed on three of foursides is based on a similar line of inquiry found in several rabbinic sources (at-tributed to R. Levi whose teaching was transmitted by R. Yonah), but in thosecontexts the shape of the letter is interpreted as an admonition that one shouldnot engage in speculation regarding what is above, below, before, or after cre-ation. See Palestinian Talmud, eagigah 2:1, 77c; Genesis Rabbah, 1:10, 8; Pe-siqta’ Rabbati, ch. 21, 108b.

34. Genesis Rabbah, 68:9, 777–778; Midrash Tehillim, edited by Solomon Buber(Vilna: Rom, 1891), 90:10, 390–391.

35. The Book Bahir, §11, 123.36. On the depiction of the feminine as a matrix for creation, see The Book Bahir,

§117, 204: “The female is taken from Adam for the upper and lower worldscould not exist without a female.”

37. For reference to and discussion of some of the relevant sources, see de Boer,Thinking in the Light of Time, 157.

38. Based on passages partially translated in de Boer, Thinking in the Light of Time,349–350 n. 28. On presencing as the site of concealment in relationship to


techne as bringing forth (Hervorbringen) and phusis as the emerging of things oftheir own accord, see McNeill, Glance of the Eye, 298–299.

39. Here my language reflects the technical term Zeit-Raum of Heideggerianthought, the time-space, the abgrund, belonging to the essential sway of truthas the sheltering-enclosure. See especially Martin Heidegger, Contributions toPhilosophy (From Enowning), translated by Parvis Emad and Kenneth Maly(Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1999), 259–71.

40. The notion of determinate indeterminacy is embraced explicitly in The BookBahir, §103, 187. The context wherein this appears is an enumeration of the sev-enth of the ten sayings (ma’amarot) that help one articulate the nature of being(see §96, 181; see also §32, 135). I will translate the relevant passage: “The sev-enth? There are only six. Rather, this teaches that here is the holy palace (heikhalha-qodesh), it bears all of them, it is considered as two, and it is the seventh.What is it? Just as thought has no end or limit, so this place has no end or limit.”The seventh, which is apparently in the position of the phallic potency accordingto a symbolic system attested in this section of the Bahir, the east whence theseed disseminates to Shekhinah who resides in the west (see Gershom Scholem,On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead: Basic Concepts in the Kabbalah, translatedby Joachim Neugroschel, edited and revised by Jonathan Chipman [New York:Schocken, 1991], 93–94) is here characterized in terms that parallel thought,which is the first of the emanations. The latter identification helps us date thematerial as it would belong to the stratum of the text reflecting the theosophicsymbolism regarding the infinite thought of the divine current in Provence andnorthern Spain in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This thought is withoutend or limit (see above, n. 21) and, analogously, the place of the seventh is with-out end or limit. Here, then, is a utilization of the principle of determinate inde-terminacy, albeit with a different symbolic valence.

41. My formulation is indebted to William Desmond, Desire, Dialectic, and Other-ness: An Essay on Origins (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1987),184–185. The ontological theme expressed by the shape of beit may also be ex-pressed in terms of the convergence of freedom and necessity, that is, the con-currence of the open and closed aspects suggests that within the Godhead thereis no reason to dichotomize these two elements. God’s absolute freedom stemsfrom the necessity of the divine nature and, conversely, the necessity of divinenature is determined by God’s absolute freedom. For an attempt to collapse thedistinction between freedom and necessity in God in a manner that is conso-nant with kabbalistic ontology, see Friedrich W. J. Schelling, The Ages of theWorld, translated by Jason M. Wirth (Albany, 2000), 5. See below, n. 52.

42. According to the masoretic text, ha-‘olam is written defectively, i.e., without awaw, and thus it can be vocalized as he‘elem.

43. The Book Bahir, §8, 121.44. Babylonian Talmud, Pesafim 50a, Qiddushin 71a. There are some who think

the word ‘olam may in fact be connected etymologically to ‘alam, that which ishidden. Through their midrashic playfulness the rabbinic exegetes may have re-trieved something of the original intent of the notion of world in ancient Israel.

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45. At the conclusion of the bahiric passage (see n. 43 for reference), the first threewords of Torah are cited and explicated: “As it said ‘In the beginning God cre-ated’ (Gen. 1:1). And what is ‘created?’ The needs of all (s.orkhei ha-kol), andafterward God (’elohim). And what is written after it? ‘Heaven and earth.’” Thepoint of ending with this exegesis is to underscore that Torah, which is alludedto in the word bere’shit, was the first of all things fashioned. For an interpreta-tion of this passage, see Wolfson, Along the Path, 72–73. I have modified mytranslation here in light of a new insight regarding the meaning of the text. Seealso The Book Bahir, §74, 163: “Why is Pentecost [‘as.eret, which is the rabbinicname for the holiday; see Mishnah, Rosh ha-Shanah 1:2; eagigah 2:4] one[day]? For on it the Torah was given to Israel, and when the Torah was createdinitially (re’shit), the Holy One, blessed be he, ruled in his world alone with it,as it is written ‘The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord’ (Ps. 111:10).He said, ‘This being so your holiness should be for you alone.’”

46. Genesis Rabbah 1:1, 1–2, 8:2, 57; Exodus Rabbah 30:9; Leviticus Rabbah, editedby Mordecai Margulies (Jerusalem and New York: The Jewish TheologicalSeminary of America, 1993), 19:1, 412–413; Song of Songs Rabbah, edited byShimshon Dunasky (Jerusalem and Tel-Aviv: Dvir, 1980) 5:7, 131.

47. The Book Bahir, §4, 119–121.48. The imagery is repeated in The Book Bahir, §37, 139, but in the context it is

also given an eschatological valence: “What is the beit at the end [of the wordzahav]? As it is written ‘Through wisdom the house will be built’ (Prov. 24:3).It does not say ‘was built,’ but rather ‘will be built.’ In the future, the HolyOne, blessed be he, will build her and adorn her two thousand times morethan what she was, as it is said ‘Why is the beginning of the Torah with a beit?’As it is written ‘I was with him as a confidant, a source of delight every day’(Prov. 8:30), two thousand years, for the day of the Holy One, blessed be he, isone thousand years. Therefore, the Torah begins with beit. The beit [of theword bere’shit] signifies two thousand and afterward is re’shit, as it is said ‘twothousand years belong to him,’ for he is the beginning (re’shit).”

49. My rendering of sha‘ashu‘a is indebted to Hartley Lachter, who is currentlyworking on his dissertation under my supervision. He suggested these transla-tions in the seminar on Bahir held in the Skirball Department of Hebrew andJudaic Studies, New York University, spring semester, 2000.

50. According to the parable in The Book Bahir, §14, 125, God plants the tree that iscalled kol, “all,” so that the “entire world will take pleasure in it” (lehishta‘ashe‘abo kol ha-‘olam). The end of that passage alludes to the “secret” that involves thehieros gamos, here depicted as God planting and rooting the tree in the ground.For discussion of this passage, see Wolfson, Along the Path, 71–72.

51. In this matter, kabbalistic symbolism is consonant with rabbinic theologicalspeculation on the two primary attributes of God, mercy and judgment, apoint I made briefly in one of my earliest published studies. See Elliot R. Wolf-son, “Mystical-Theurgical Dimensions of Prayer in Sefer ha-Rimmon,” in Ap-proaches to Judaism in Medieval Times, vol. 3, edited by David R. Blumenthal(Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 63–64.


52. A philosophical presentation of the kabbalistic dialectic is offered by Schelling,Ages of the World, 6: “Therefore, two principles are already in what is necessaryof God: the outpouring, outstretching, self-giving being, and an equivalentlyeternal force of selfhood, of retreat into itself, of Being in itself. That being andthis force are both already God itself, without God’s assistance.” This is pre-cisely what I have found to be the case in my study of kabbalistic documents.The dialectic of mercy and judgment, overflowing and containing, is the bal-ance of life and the measure of eros even unto death. Interestingly, Schellinguses the language of “retreat” to characterize the force of selfhood, of being initself as opposed to the self-giving being. The kabbalistic doctrine of s.ims.um,which apparently is quite old, likewise understands the withdrawal of divinelight, the holding in of the breath, as an expression of limitation, demarcation,and the setting of boundary, qualities that are associated with the traditional at-tribute of judgment. I have dealt with the matter extensively in “Divine Suffer-ing and the Hermeneutics of Reading: Philosophical Reflections on LurianicMythology,” to be published in a volume on suffering in Jewish and Christianreligious thought, to be edited by Robert Gibbs and myself. A number ofscholars have noted Schelling’s indebtedness to kabbalah, whether transmitteddirectly or through an intermediary. Particularly relevant is the study byChristophe Schulte, “Z. imz.um in the Works of Schelling,” Iyyun 41 (1992):21–40.

53. Compare The Book Bahir, §15, 125–127. In the parable preserved in this pas-sage, reference is made to the spring, the garden, and the fruit-bearing treeplanted in the garden and sustained by the “spring overflowing with livingwater” (ma‘ayan nove‘a mayim fayyim). See ibid., §82, 169, where the spring isdescribed as possessing twelve pipes, which correspond to the twelve tribes ofIsrael. On the twelve springs, see also §111, 197. In §105, 189, the king is saidto have seven gardens and in the middle garden there is a “beautiful spring thatflows from the source of living water” (ma‘ayan na’eh nove‘a mi-maqor mayimfayyim). See also §121, 205, where the “pipe” is linked exegetically with theverse, “You are a garden spring, a well of living waters that flows fromLebanon” (Song 4:15).

54. In The Book Bahir, §90, 175, the mythical conception of sha‘ashu‘a is depictedin the image of the troops of the king who bemuse themselves (mishta‘ashe‘im)with the matrona secluded in his chamber.

55. See Elliot R. Wolfson, Circle in the Square: Studies in the Use of Gender in Kab-balistic Symbolism (Albany, 1995), 124–125 n. 6 and 190 n. 175.

56. The Book Bahir, §34, 137.57. Here it is of interest to note the following exegetical comment preserved in

Palestinian Talmud, Berakhot 9:2, 12c–d: “R. Joshua ben Hananiah said,‘When the spirit (ruaf) went out into the world, the Holy One, blessed be he,broke it against the mountains and weakened it in the valleys, and he said to it,“Be mindful not to harm my creatures. For what reason? ‘For spirit before meis faint’ (Isa. 57:16).’ He weakened it as it is said ‘my spirit failed within me’(Ps. 143:4). Why to such length? R. Huna said in the name of R. Aha, “I am

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the one to create souls’ (Isa. 57:16), on account of the souls that I have made.’”It seems to me that implicit in this remark is a presumption regarding a poten-tial conflict between God and spirit; accordingly, the latter is admonished notto harm the souls created by the former. It is curious that a gnostic reading ofthis verse also seems to be attested in the bahiric fragment. The matter requiresmore research.

58. In The Book Bahir, §96, 181, the first of the ten sayings, the supernal crown(keter ‘elyon) is described as the “one of ones unified in all his names,” ’efad ha-’afadim ha-meyufad be-khol shemotav. Although this belongs to a later stratumof the bahiric anthology, it expresses in more technical philosophic terms of theone that is many an older mythical notion.

59. The anonymous reading is preserved in MS Munich 209, which was used asthe basis for the German translation of Scholem and the critical edition ofAbrams. In MS Vatican, Or. Barb. 110 (as noted by Abrams in the critical ap-paratus ad locum), the statement is attributed to R. eiyya. In the editio princeps(Amsterdam, 1651), which is reproduced in The Book Bahir, 269, the state-ment is attributed to R. eama.

60. Mishnah, Pe’ah 1:1, ’Avot 1:2; Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 8b; Sukkah 49b;Makkot 24a. See Midrash Zut. a ’ le-famesh Megillot, edited by Solomon Buber(Vilna, 1885), Ecclesiastes 7:2. According to the dictum reported there in thename of R. Levi, study of Torah leads to acts of kindness.

61. In The Book Bahir, §65, 159, the expression “sea of wisdom,” yam ha-fokhmah, is used to name the attribute that is also referred to as the “earth” or“precious stone” and corresponding to it is the blue that is used in the fringegarment, a blue that is reminiscent of the sea, the heaven, and the throne ofglory (based on the teaching attributed to R. Meir in Babylonian Talmud,Menafot 43b). This passage seems to reflect the doctrine of ten potencies. Ac-cordingly, the attribute designated by these terms is Shekhinah, the tenth of thesefirot. The older myth, in my opinion, identified the second of the three po-tencies as the sea that is Torah, the fullness of divine wisdom. In light of thistradition, it is of interest to consider the comment, which apparently is fromthe period of redaction, in §111, 197: “The Holy One, blessed be he, at firstgave them wellsprings of water and afterward he gave them stones. . . . What isthe reason? For at first the Torah in the world was compared to water and af-terward it was fixed in a set place, which is the not the way of water, for todayit is here and tomorrow it moves on.”

62. See, however, The Book Bahir, §128, 211. Interpreting the rabbinic dictum(Mishnah ’Avot 2:5) that an ignoramus (‘am ha-’ares. ) cannot be a saintly per-son (fasid), the author of the bahiric text writes: “How can one do kindnesswith his master? Through study of Torah, for he who studies Torah bestowskindness upon his master, as it is written ‘riding the heavens through your as-sistance’ (Deut. 33:26). That is to say, when you study Torah for its own sake,then you assist me and I ride the heavens, and consequently ‘through the skiesin his majesty’ (ibid.). What are the skies (shefaqim)? I would say the chamberof chambers (fadrei fadarim).” In contrast to §34, where the nexus between


Torah study and gemilut fasadim was explained in terms of the human beingdrawing benefit from the divine attribute of mercy, in §128, it is God whobenefits from the human act, which bestows kindness. More specifically, in thelatter passage, the theurgical principle is embraced whereby the activity of thehuman being facilitates the union of the divine, which is portrayed in thescriptural language of God’s riding the heavens in his majesty, ga’awah. I sug-gest that this term is employed here as a euphemism for the phallus and the ex-pression fadrei fadarim, which is the meaning offered for shefaqim, refers tothe female genitals. See The Book Bahir, §85, 171. On the term ga’awah in ear-lier Jewish mysticism and its resonance in German Pietistic literature, see Wolf-son, Along the Path, 13–14, 57, and reference to other scholarly works given on125 n. 88. In that study, I was hesitant to offer a phallic interpretation ofga’awah, but it appears to me that such an explanation would have been war-ranted, especially in the passages from the Rhineland Jewish pietists. On thetheurgical role accorded Torah study as a means to unite the masculine andfeminine potencies of the divine, see The Book Bahir, §137, 221, and analysisin Wolfson, Circle in the Square, 10–13.

63. The characterization of wisdom as light (either explicitly or implicitly) occursin a number of passages in the bahiric anthology. See The Book Bahir, §§10and 12, 123 and 17, 127; and especially 116, 201: “He sat and expounded tothem, ‘There is Shekhinah below just as there is Shekhinah above.’ What is thisShekhinah? I would say that it is the light that emanated from the first light,which is wisdom. It, too, surrounds everything as it says ‘the earth was filledwith his glory’ (Isa. 6:3).” On the description of Shekhinah as the light takenfrom the “first light,” which is identified as the “fear of the Lord,” and hiddenaway for the righteous, see §131, 215. See also §133, 219.

64. In The Book Bahir, §71, 161, the pillar that connects heaven and earth andsustains the world is identified as the righteous one (s.addiq). See also §85, 171,where the souls of the righteous are described as issuing from the “spring”(ma‘ayan) to the “great pipe” (s.innor ha-gadol) whence they cleave to the tree.The righteous ones of Israel below serve as a catalyst to incite this process. In§105, 189, the eighth of the ten sayings is identified as the righteous one thatis the foundation of the world. The activities of sustaining the world and mak-ing it prosper associated with this attribute resemble the description of gimmelin §13, 125.

65. Palestinian Talmud, Berakhot 9:2, 13a; Genesis Rabbah 13:13, 122. Also relevantfor an appreciation of the medieval kabbalistic symbolism is the fact that the gen-der attribution of the upper and lower waters is expressed together with the no-tion that the water that falls from heaven is masculine and the earth that is irri-gated thereby is feminine. See Pirqei Rabbi ’Eli‘ezer (Warsaw, 1852), ch. 5, 13a.

66. For discussion of this mythical structure and the conjecture regarding its ar-chaic provenance, see Wolfson, Along the Path, 73–74.

67. Here my language reflects Heidegger. See, in particular, Contributions, 137.68. A source for this geometric symbolism that became so crucial in the evolution

of kabbalistic thought is found in The Book Bahir, §83, 169.

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69. Martin Heidegger, On Time and Being, translated by Joan Stambaugh (NewYork: Harper & Row Publishers, 1972), 3.

70. A number of scholars have reconsidered the origins and evolution of the piv-otal kabbalistic doctrine of s.ims.um, withdrawal and/or contraction. To date,the most comprehensive study is Moshe Idel, “On the Concept Z. imz.um inKabbalah and its Research,” Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 10(1992):59–112 (Heb.). Idel, op. cit., 71, suggests that the image of cuttingthrough the rocks found in the Bahir, §4, which is found as well in a numberof thirteenth-century kabbalistic texts, may allude to a doctrine of s.ims.um. Inhis argument, Idel did not mention the exegesis of Isaiah 48:9 in the samebahiric passage. My interpretation corroborates Idel’s suggestion.

71. It is of interest to wonder if the reference to this verse does not imply a techni-cal application of the term ’a’arikh appayim, or the nominative form to which itis undoubtedly related ’erekh ’appayim (Exod. 34:7), to the aspect of God that isalso referred to as the name (shem) and as the glory (tehillah). According to theinterpretation I have accepted, these terms denote the feminine potency of thedivine, which is also symbolized as wisdom or Torah. Here it must recalled thatin kabbalistic texts from the zoharic period the highest aspect of God is desig-nated by the term ’arikh ’anpin and the lower aspect by ze‘eir ’anpin. Accordingto some sources, the latter term is applied to Shekhinah, which is the femininepersona. See Moshe Idel, Kabbalah: New Perspectives (New Haven and London:Yale University Press, 1988), 119 and 135, and Yehuda Liebes, Studies in theZohar, translated by Arnold Schwartz, Stephane Nakache, and Penina Peli (Al-bany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 110–14.

72. On the distinction between tehillah, “praise,” and tefillah, “prayer,” see TheBook Bahir, §46, 143.

73. Vestiges of what I assume is a much older myth that has had a profound im-pact on the formation and evolution of kabbalistic symbolism can be found inthe bahiric anthology. See The Book Bahir, §§12, 123 (in that passage, the par-abolic image of the king preparing a crown to rest on the head of his son priorto creating his son is employed to explain the notion that light preceded theworld); 61, 153–155; and 72, 161–163. In my scholarly writings, I have re-turned to this theme repeatedly, interpreting it as a mythic portrayal of thegender transformation of the fallen female through her restoration to the headof the male. See, for instance, Elliot R. Wolfson, “Coronation of the SabbathBride: Kabbalistic Myth and the Ritual of Androgynisation,” Journal of JewishThought and Philosophy 6 (1997):301–343. For discussion of some of the ap-plicable bahiric passages, see Arthur Green, Keter: The Crown of God in EarlyJewish Mysticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 134–50.

74. In The Book Bahir, §49, 145–147, time is depicted in terms of the polarity ofnight and day with the latter being contained in the former. I have analyzedthis passage in Circle in the Square, 86–87.

75. Martin Heidegger, The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, translation, introduc-tion, and lexicon by Albert Hofstadter (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,1982), 228.


76. The Book Bahir, §90, 175–177. For translation and analysis, see Wolfson, “He-braic and Hellenic Conceptions,” 164–165.

77. See Wolfson, op. cit., 157–62.78. I have touched on the implicit narcissism in the kabbalistic understanding of

eros as it relates both to the intradivine process and the human-divine relation-ship. When I have spoken of either autoeroticism or homoeroticism, I havehad in mind this narcissistic impulse. See Elliot R. Wolfson, Through a Specu-lum That Shines: Vision and Imagination in Medieval Jewish Mysticism (Prince-ton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 369–72; idem, Circle in the Square,60–74, 107–10; idem, “Eunuchs Who Keep the Sabbath: Becoming Male andthe Ascetic Ideal in Thirteenth-Century Jewish Mysticism,” in Becoming Malein the Middle Ages, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Bonnie Wheeler (NewYork and London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1997), 164–174. I have exploredthe matter in more expansive form in “Eros, Poiesis, and the Margin of the Pe-riphery,” the third chapter in a monograph I am currently completing titledLanguage, Eros, Being: Kabbalistic Hermeneutics and Poetic Imagination.

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chapter 7

Origin and Overcoming the BeginningZimzum as a Trope ofReading in Post-Lurianic Kabbala1

Shaul Magid

“What we call the beginning is often the end, And to make an end isto make a beginning. The end is where we start from. . . Every phraseand every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epi-taph.”

—T.S. Elliot“Little Gidding”

“And this Last is not Last, but an ever Nigh, the Highest; not theLast, in short, but the First. How difficult is such a First. . . Thouknowest it not?”

—Franz RosenzweigThe Star of Redemption

“Creation is not ex-nihilo but a theophany. As such, it is Imagination”—Henry Corbin

The question of creation ex nihilo has dominated the Jewish discussion ofcreation from Philo until the present.2 While most kabbalistic theories of cre-ation presume creation ex nihilo as a principle, they differ widely about how the

transformation from infinitude to finitude takes place.3 Throughout the highMiddle Ages and early modern period, Jewish mystics devoted a great deal ofeffort to solving this perennial theological/cosmological problem.4 Unlike themedieval Jewish philosophical tradition from Sa’adia through Albo, Kabbal-ists, especially those influenced by the Lurianic system, generally did not ap-proach the issue either philosophically or polemically.5 That is, they did notseriously entertain the possibility of the eternity of the world generated byAristotle,6 nor did they seek to defend creation ex nihilo against its philo-sophical opponents.7 While the mystically oriented antiphilosopher JudahHa-Levi and the philosophically minded Kabbalist Moses Nahmanides, forexample, ardently defended creation ex nihilo against eternity,8 the polemicaltone in both is virtually absent in kabbalistic literature from the Zohar (circa1295) onward.9 Yet as cosmologists, later Kabbalists were still challenged bythe same conceptual difficulty as their philosophical counterparts, which theyframed in the neoplatonic question of how the One becomes many.10

Perhaps influenced by Maimonides’ provocative observation in GuideII:25 that even a literal reading of Genesis 1:1 is not sufficient proof for cre-ation ex nihilo, most Kabbalists did not develop their creation theories ex-egetically but speculatively.11 That is, the discussion of creation in kabbalisticliterature is not primarily focused on an interpretation of Genesis 1 or laterrabbinic readings of the biblical account of creation.12 In fact, both the ema-nationist and zimzum theories of creation, the two dominant models of kab-balistic reflection on the matter, deal specifically with divine activity that pre-cedes the opening of the biblical narrative “In the beginning.” Thekabbalistic/cosmological reflection about creation is more accurately a discus-sion of protocreativity—the transformation of God from undifferentiated In-finitude (eyn sof ) to cosmos—which creates the necessary condition for cre-ation to unfold. Whereas Genesis 1 may teach its reader about the beginningof the world and God’s relationship to this “other,” kabbalistic creation mythsteach about the origins of existence, a phenomenon that takes place solely inthe inner-life of God before any “other” emerges.13

In this chapter I will focus on the concept of zimzum, one component ofan influential kabbalistic myth that became central in sixteenth-century Kab-bala.14 Although it played a minor role in medieval Kabbala, zimzum was de-veloped and expanded by the well-known Kabbalist R. Isaac Luria (1534-1572) who, during his very brief stay in Safed, revolutionized kabbalisticdiscourse and doctrine.15 The larger impact and influence of Luria is beyondthe scope of this study. Suffice it to say, he was arguably the most importantand influential Kabbalist since the author(s) of the Zohar in thirteenth-cen-tury Spain.16


In this chapter I will make two basic claims. First, I will argue thatzimzum, which is often mistakenly seen as a creation myth, in actuality con-stitutes a myth about divine origins or, alternatively, the origin of the Godwho creates.17 This distinction between origin and beginning is important inthat it will illustrate how these Kabbalists understood the biblical text as acomponent of creation and thus alienated from the infinite God. Given thatthe interface between God and the Jew is mediated through Scripture, the iso-lation of origin (as distinct from beginning) will serve to locate the Kabbal-ists’ belief in the human retrieval of origin (overcoming beginning and thebiblical text) as a necessary part of the redemptive drama. Following this tra-jectory, I will argue that the myth of zimzum was not limited to cosmologicalspeculation but played a prominent role in the ways Kabbalists constructedmodels of human behavior (imitatio dei), specifically regarding the act of tal-mud torah (Torah study) as redemptive reading. The emulation of divinezimzum through study became the foundation of reading as a vehicle for lib-erating God, who is in exile in the narrative of the biblical text.

To begin, zimzum is an act that occurs inside God as eyn sof (Infinite),18

setting the stage for the possibility of finitude. This is captured by the seven-teenth-century kabbalist R. Shabbtai Sheftel Horowitz when he said, “. . . be-fore creation, God contracted [zimzum] Himself in His own essence, as itwere, from Himself to Himself and into Himself (m’azmo ‘el azmo u betokhazmo).19 The empty space in God’s essence (azmuto), resulting from zimzum,produced a receptacle to contain His emanation [what would be the world ofAzilut (Emanation)]. . . and [subsequently] create [the worlds of ] Beriah(Creation), Yezeriah (Formation) and Asiah (Action).20” Zimzum is initially aself-contained act in eyn sof resulting in extra-eyn sof divinity that becomes, viaemanation, the cosmos. Creation occurs from these cosmos, already one stepremoved from eyn sof itself.

Although the distinction between origins and beginnings is not part ofconventional kabbalistic parlance, this distinction that plays a central role invarious other creation myths may shed light on the particular character ofzimzum and the post-Lurianic focus on the knowledge of origins as a prereq-uisite for redemption.21 Most readers of the Bible understand the notion ofbeginning from Genesis 1:1 that depicts God’s relation to the world as Cre-ator (“In the beginning God [Elohim] created”).22 The Bible gives us no in-formation about God before creation nor any indication that the God who isacting in Genesis 1 is different from the God before that utterance.23 In othercreation myths, however, we often find descriptions of God or gods beforethe beginning of the world. Such is the case with Kabbala in general and Luri-anic Kabbala in particular. These Jewish mystical traditions are based on the

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description and elucidation of the changing nature of God from eyn sof toCreator (cosmos), while maintaining that this change is no indication of anyactual change in God, who, as perfect, is unchanging. Invoking neoplatonicterminology, they assume a change in the existence (meziut) but not essence(mehut) of divinity as a prelude to the unfolding (hitpashtut) of creation.24

Genesis begins with the proclamation “In the beginning . . .” God is neverdescribed nor are any reasons given for his creating the world. While themidrash offers numerous “reasons for creation,” they all stay quite close to thebiblical text in that their “reasons” are all framed within God’s relatedness to theworld.25 This is not the case with Lurianic Kabbala, whose interest is not “why”God created the world or “how” He created it, but “how” God became Creator.One example will suffice to illustrate the ways Kabbalists speak directly to thequestion of origins rather than beginning, focusing on the nature of God beforeHe was Creator. Luria’s closest disciple, R. Hayyim Vital, begins his abbreviatedversion of Etz Hayyim entitled ‘Ozrot Hayyim with the following statement:

Before everything (tekhilat ha-kol)26 all existence was undifferentiated light(‘or pashut), called eyn sof. There was no space (halal) and no receptacle(avir panui).27 All existence was the light of eyn sof. When it went up inHis undifferentiated Will (razon pashut)28 to emanate emanations,29 for thereason, as is well known, that He be called merciful and kind—for if thereis nothing to receive His mercy how could He be called merciful?30. . . Atthat instant, He contracted Himself into the center of that undifferentiatedlight [resulting in] a central point. From that point He contracted Himself[again] outward from that point. What remained was a space between thepoint and the light extracted from it. This was the first zimzum of the loftyEmanator. . . 31

The use of the terms “emanation” and the description of God as “Lofty Em-anator” is markedly not creation language.32 Standard creation verbs (bara,yazar) and God language (YHVH, Elohim, Yozer, Bore ‘Olam) are conspicu-ously absent. What this text speaks about is the birth of the cosmos as an ex-tension of the divine—the birth of divine finitude, as it were, from eyn sof, ineyn sof, and then finally beyond eyn sof. It is noteworthy that in one of Vital’slater compendiums, Adam Yashar, he amends his abbreviated language in ‘OzrotHayyim [and Etz Hayyim] by using creation language in his description of theinitial stage of divine Will. He states, “Before emanations were emanated andcreations were created (nivra’u ha-nivra’im), the supernal light was undifferenti-ated. . . there was no category of eyn sof nor any rosh (head/Keter). . . When it


went up in his undifferentiated Will to create world and emanate emana-tions. . . ”33 Although I am not familiar with any reason for the addition of cre-ation language in this late text, it is striking that Vital chooses to include bothcreation and emanation locutions rather than substitute one for the other. Inlater kabbalistic texts that work within the Lurianic system, especially in Ha-sidism and other texts that attempt to read Lurianic cosmogony into/onto Gen-esis 1, emanation (or origin) language disappears, giving way to the more con-ventional (and exegetical) language of creation. In any event, the cosmogonyapparent in both texts cited above have three distinct parts: (1) zimzum (cos-mogony) is not emanation but leads to it, (2) torat ha-sephirot (cosmology) isthe result of emanation and the true beginning of creation, and (3) beriah (Gen-esis 1) is the final phase of creation devoid of any explicit mention of emana-tion.34 Our Kabbalists are interested in (1) and (2) and spend little creative en-ergy on or, pay little attention to (3).35 Yet (3) is where Genesis begins. Thebody of Lurianic discourse thus lives in the primordial space before Genesis 1:1,interested primarily in the conditions for creation and not creation itself.

Although zimzum in Lurianic texts is largely a mythic trope mapping thecosmogonic origins of existence, post-Lurianic Kabbalists, especially thosewho either had philosophical or pietistic motives, reconstructed this mythictrope to become a model for human devotion, including the act of readingand study (talmud torah). In the post-Lurianic Kabbalists that serve as thebasis for this study, zimzum has a devotional as well as a theosophical dimen-sion. The Kabbalists in question understood zimzum as a divine act to be em-ulated by humankind through sacred reading, revealing the divinity of thetext embedded in its external garments. The Lurianic Kabbalists posited a sec-ond zimzum that would consummate creation. The human enactment ofzimzum through reading (and devotion in general) serves as the bridge be-tween the first zimzum and second zimzum that will usher in the final phaseof creation and return the world to its primordial origins.36

I. Between Origin and Beginning—A Philosophical Prolegomenon

A distinction between origin and beginning that may help us clarify the kab-balistic phenomenon of zimzum can be found in Walter Benjamin’s discus-sion of origins in his The Origin of German Tragic Drama.37 DiscussingBenedetto Croce’s theory of art as “intuition” rather than “expression,” argu-ing that art cannot be subject to classification or “historical deduction,” Ben-jamin suggests that history has two distinct dimensions, origin (Ursprung)and genesis (Entstehung).


Origin (Ursprung), although an entirely historical category, has, neverthe-less, nothing to do with genesis (Entstehung). The term origin is not in-tended to describe the process by which the existent came into being, butrather to describe that which emerges from the process of becoming anddisappearance. Origin is an eddy in the stream of becoming, and in its cur-rent it swallows the material involved in the process of genesis. That whichis original is never revealed in the naked and manifest existence of the fac-tual: its rhythm is apparent only in a dual insight. On the one hand itneeds to be recognized as a process of restoration and reestablishment, buton the other hand, and precisely because of this, as something imperfectand incomplete.38

The idea that origin “emerges from the process of becoming and disap-pearance” can be translated into cosmogonic language to mean that God’s cre-ative act, the movement from Being to becoming, requires the eclipse ofBeing, a remnant of which is concealed in creation until it is restored in thefinal phase of the eschaton. The language of restoration in Benjamin is alsoused by Kabbalists to refer to a retrieval of origins, which serves as the foun-dation for kabbalistic reflection on traversing the chasm between creation andredemption. The kabbalistic understanding of redemption as restoration ofprimordial existence suggests that it is not only the world (becoming) that isimperfect and incomplete but that the very existence of the world is foundedon the incomplete and unfulfilled God who creates it.39 This means that thecosmos (sephirot) require restoration as well as the material world. The notionof redemption extends beyond the material world to the supernal realms, andeven to God Himself. This implies that the relational/creative God (or God-head) of the cosmos is redeemed and restored to its original place in eyn sof.This underlies the theory of zimzum even though its advocates eschew theseemingly blasphemous statement of divine imperfection by bifurcating Godinto meta-Cosmos (eyn sof/infinite/pashut) and Cosmos (sephirot/finite/im-perfect). The first is the radically transcendent God (not unlike Aristotle’s Un-moved Mover) whose Being is unaffected by becoming, and the latter is theGod of creation (Plato’s receptacle or eternal pattern), who willfully becomesfinite in order to create. It is this latter dimension of God that subsequentlybecomes the object of emulation (imitatio dei) for the Kabbalists. God’s dis-appearance (exile), the result of the volitional act of God to create limits (cre-ation), is the direct result of zimzum as it initiates a process of divine efface-ment. It also serves as the culmination of that process (redemption) and theway in which humanity can hasten that eventuality.40 For the Lurianic Kab-


balists, this initial act of divine concealment presupposes a second zimzum inthe future that will yield the restoration of the initial Being to it fullness, nowincluding the fulfilled “history” of becoming, more perfect than the initialperfection of Being.41 A similar idea appears in Benjamin’s analysis. Accord-ing to Benjamin, the culmination of beginning is the restoration of originsthat constitutes “a return which is simultaneously a leap beyond the originalcondition of perfection, its realization on a higher plane.”42

Benjamin calls the historical category of origin “pure history” that I haverendered “the history of God” as opposed to “natural history” or the “historyof the world.” Commenting on Benjamin, Richard Wolin notes: “[Origin hasnothing to do] with the idea of the emergence of a given phenomena at a de-terminate moment in time. Instead origin refers to history of a different type:not empirical history, in which the inessential being of the phenomena per-sists in its mere facticity, unredeemed, but a type of essential history, in whichthe phenomena stands revealed as it will one day in the light of Messianic ful-fillment.”43 The redemptive quality of origins in Benjamin emerges from itsteleological foundation. Origin begins with a condition of perfection that iseclipsed but not erased. Beginning (Entstehung/creation) is the first (histor-ical) moment of this lost perfection (exile). Therefore, natural history or thehistory of the world is essentially the history of divine absence or exile. Ben-jamin himself noted that his notion of origin in the Trauerspiel is a Judaizedor theological version of Goethe’s notion of Urphanomen that was drawn fromancient pagan literature.44 I will argue that zimzum largely functions as a kab-balistic Urphanomen and not a theory of beginning or genesis, which is un-derstood as the phenomen itself.

II. Origin and the Bifurcation of God

Moving from Benjamin’s philosophical and literary/critical category of originsas a model for historicizing German idealism to the theological universe ofkabbalistic theosophy is not as radical a leap as one might think. Essentially,Benjamin was trying to determine the nature of human creativity (in art andideas) and subsequently the ways it can be evaluated. The Kabbalists were at-tempting to determine the nature of divine creativity in order to understandthe Urphanomen of divine fragmentation and the ways toward the restorationof divine unity. Zimzum serves as the centerpiece of this cosmogonic reflec-tion. In sixteenth-century kabbalistic theosophy, zimzum as origin can be nowdefined as follows: it is a protocreative volitional alteration of God’s inner lifethat bifurcates God’s infinite nature, resulting in a distinction between his es-

sential nature (eyn sof ) and His relational or creative nature (torat ha-sephi-rot).45 This bifurcation enables the undifferentiated eyn sof (‘or pashut) to be-come a personalized biblical God who creates. Eyn Sof which is Will WillingItself (razon ha-elyon) becomes divine Will (razson elohim), or the Will thatseeks to bestow It’s kindness on creation. It is this relational nature that is thesubject of Genesis’ proclamation, “In the beginning.” Although never fleshedout, the volitional character of zimzum is imperative for the Kabbalists, as anysuggestion of the necessity of creation would take the Kabbalists back to Aris-totle’s eternity argument largely rejected in medieval Jewish philosophy. Al-though most Kabbalists of this period do not discuss the nature of divine Willas creative Will, it is assumed that creation is a free act of divine Will that setsin motion a cosmological process that is ordered but not necessary.46 Whilecreation (Genesis 1) may be the byproduct of divine Will and happens out-side of God’s essence, origin (zimzum) or the act that bifurcates God’s essence,occurs solely within God—it is an inner divine phenomenon which results inthe possibility of existence of God’s “other,” that is, creation.47

Since origin (zimzum) results in divine limitation by introducing God’srelational (i.e., creative) nature as the subject of divine creativity, it is seen bysome kabbalists simultaneously as the genesis of divine exile and the birth ofesotericism (hokhmat ha-nistar/torat ha-sod), the latter understood as the se-cret of redemption lodged in the biblical narrative.48 There is a similitude,perhaps even an identity, between exile and creation in this kabbalistic system.Exile is alienation, between God (eyn sof ) and God (cosmos), God (cosmos)and his presence in the world (Shekhina), and God and His people (Israel). Is-rael’s experience of exile is an act of collective imitatio dei. The imperfectionof God’s presence in the world (Shekhina), itself a definition of galut, has twoparts: (1) His Will is concealed in the world; and (2) His presence (Shekhina)is separated from His essence (eyn sof ).49 Restoration occurs when those con-cealed elements are revealed in their fullness, subsuming the exoteric readingof Scripture the way redemption subsumes history.50

While Lurianic Kabbalists accepted the integrative relationship betweencreation and Torah, a midrashic idea that is fundamental for kabbalistic the-ories of creation in general, zimzum speaks to the Kabbalists in a way that ex-tends beyond its cosmogonic context. Zimzum serves as the foundation forredemptive reading, a retrieval of the origins of God’s creativity that is con-cealed in the biblical narrative. To uncover and understand the esoteric mes-sage of Scripture is to move beyond the text to the speechless origins of divinezimzum accessed through human zimzum. The silent word, which is the di-vine text unspoken (Torah Kadumah) is apprehended through the enactmentof zimzum, resulting in: (1) the experience of the creativity of God (Torah


Kadumah); and (2) liberating that creative force to act in the world (redemp-tion). Zimzum becomes the trope of esoteric redemptive reading that includesenacting the origin of creation (zimzum) within the creation.51 When this re-trieval of origin is complete, creation dissolves and God is perfected (mush-lam).52 The redemptive reader, by reading through the lens of origins(zimzum), is always looking for the end (culmination) of humanity, past Gen-esis 1, to the origin before the Beginning.

As the originary divine movement from eyn sof to finitude, zimzum pre-supposes that the biblical description “In the beginning” (bere’shit bara elo-him) taken together with the endless attempts throughout classical Jewish lit-erature to understand its meaning, is insufficient for understanding theconditions which make creation possible.53 This point is not solely the prod-uct of kabbalistic reflection. The twentieth-century theologian Emile Facken-heim notes:

[T]he Biblical creation myth does not explain cosmic origins. The Greekcosmogonies may do so, for they derive the present world of man from aprior world of gods. The Biblical creation account, however, reveals the in-commensurability of an infinite God with all things finite. Hence it doesnot and cannot explain the origin of the world but only assert it: “creation”is the primordial miracle.54

Fackenheim acknowledges that Genesis can, at best, assert creation as a mir-acle precisely because it fails to address the cosmogonic question of origins. TheLurianic Kabbalists enter to fill this lacuna in biblical theology by developingorigin myths that precede the commencement of the biblical narrative. Forthese Kabbalists, the creation story in Genesis is post facto. The mystery of theorigin of divine finitude had already taken place before Genesis 1. In short, theprimordial movement from eyn sof to finitude, from unity to exile, from theOne to the many, precedes the scriptural account of creation, which is merelythe consequence of the fragmentation of divine unity. Zimzum is thus not partof the biblical drama of creation but creates the condition for its possibility. Aszimzum creates the conditions for existence, it is not part of existence. I willargue that this idea also serves as the foundation of kabbalistic esoteric reading.As was the case for most esotericists who were proponents of mystical secrecyyet never abandoned the truth of the exoteric canon, these Kabbalists developedmethods of reading Scripture in order to unlock its primordial origins, retriev-ing the text before the text, the Primordial Torah (Torah Kaduma) within God.55

For many in this tradition, reading was understood as a reversal of divine cre-ativity: moving from the text that describes (and serves as the foundation of)



creation back to the origins of existence (zimzum), which serves as the condi-tion for creation. Mystical reading of this sort is simultaneously an emulationand reversal of divine zimzum, serving to bring the written text to its primor-dial beginnings, beyond speech, beyond writing, to the nexus between the infi-nite One and the moment of its fragmentation (exile). This is generally howthese Kabbalists define the redemptive process.

Although zimzum does not emerge by means of conventional exegesis, ithas strong hermeneutic implications that underlie the entire kabbalistic rela-tionship to reading Scripture. Paul Riceour defines the originary act of read-ing as follows: “The primary task of hermeneutics is not to bring about a de-cision in the text but first to allow the world of being that is the ‘thing’ of thebiblical text to unfold.”56 The “thing” of the text in our case is the alterationof divine infinitude via zimzum, resulting in the emergence of Scripture andsubsequently creation. The “thing” of the text is both absent and silent,eclipsed at the moment God’s presence is revealed in the text. Zimzum is thegenesis of divine exile (bifurcation/sephirot) and thus the condition for begin-ning (creation). The infusion of divine presence via the direct light of ema-nation (kav ha-yashar), presupposes His absence (halal/avir panui). This oc-currence is simultaneously the first historical moment of divine exile and thebeginning of its restoration (redemption). By focusing on origin (zimzum)rather than beginning (creation) these Kabbalists sought to locate the germ ofexile in an attempt to overcome it by completing the redemptive process ofcreation through mystical reading. This final dissolution of exile lies in the si-lence outside the text that needs to efface the spokeness of the text. This si-lence is the first word uttered by the already exilic God, a God who stands be-tween His perfection (eyn sof ) and His deficient creation.57

III. Exile and the History of God

The phenomenon of exile is one of the more fascinating ways Jews understandtheir covenental relationship to and experience of God.58 David Roskies, re-cently reflecting on modern Judaism’s use of exile as a touchstone for its nationaland cultural identity, portrayed this enduring phenomenon in the followingmanner. “What distinguished the Jews from other uprooted peoples, however,was the symbolic shorthand that they developed, a modern ‘semiotics of exile’that allowed them to read their individual experience in the light of historicalarchetypes.”59 In my view, Roskies’ “semiotics of exile” not only captures theJewish obsession with exile but its need for exile—Jews see the world and thuscreate their world, including their relationship to God, through the prism ofexile and alienation. In the centuries following the destruction of the SecondCommonwealth, Rabbinic Judaism read its contemporary experience of exile


into the entire tradition, beginning with the biblical narrative of Genesis, (in-cluding Adam and Eve’s departure from the Garden of Eden), continuing withthe Israelite descent into Egypt and the history of the Israelites in the desert, cul-minating with the experience of destruction in the First and Second Common-wealth. The notion of exile progressed from a deficiency in the covenant, i.e., adivine response to sin, which is rooted in Deuteronomy and prophetic litera-ture, to a necessary stage in the drama of redemption.60 The sixteenth-centurykabbalistic notion of zimzum projected the exilic trope back even further, claim-ing that creation itself originates with an act of divine exile, making Israel’s ex-ilic experience in history an emulation of God’s inner life.61 It is therefore pre-dictable that, when describing zimzum, the eighteenth-century Kabbalist R.Moshe Hayyim Luzatto would describe the genesis of the sephirot in the fol-lowing manner: “[T]he sephirot were all contained in eyn sof [before zimzum],even as we cannot say they existed in the same manner they do now [afterzimzum]. When they were exiled (ub’higalutam) from Him [i.e., eyn sof ], theytook on the new form they now have.”62 The consequence of zimzum, here readas the birth (or transformation) of the sephirot from potentia to actu, is describedusing exilic language embodied in the verb form of the word galut (exile). In-voking Walter Benjamin’s distinction above infused with the theosophicnomenclature of the Kabbala, we can say that exile moves backward from thefoundation of natural history, the facticity of events, to pure history, the life ofGod. Taking this trope of exile to extend beyond creation itself, divine exile be-comes the originary divine act that made history (creation) possible by con-cealing the infinite nature of God. The problematic theological consequences ofthis originary act as exilic did not go unnoticed in Jewish philosophical thought,even among those whose relationship to Kabbala was, at best, marginal. For ex-ample, in distinguishing between Halakhic Man and the mystic, RabbiSoloveitchik notes that, for the mystic:

“. . . the existence of the world [is] a type of affront to God’s glory; the cos-mos, as it were, impinges upon the infinity of the creator. The Kabbalasenses and empathizes with the anguish of Shekhinta be-galuta, the DivinePresence in exile—the glory of God that emerged from the hiddenness ofinfinity, that became embodied in the creation of the cosmos, and that be-came contracted in it and by it.” 63

Soloveitchik observed that the kabbalistic notion of zimzum is positedprecisely to create a discontinuity in God’s own nature, making the creativeact and its product a divine act of self-imposed exile, compromising God’s in-finity for the sake of the finite. Although Soloveitchik suggested HalakhicMan has a more positive view of the world than one who adopts the theory

of zimzum (Mystical Man?), in this text he misses the fact that the Kabbalists’intent is precisely to posit a compromised God that can be emulated by hu-manity as opposed to the radically transcendent God of the philosophers whoshares nothing with His creation.64 That is, in this text Soloveitchik did notrecognize the extent to which the kabbalistic idea of God was at least partiallyan attempt to replace the radically transcendent God of Maimonidean ratio-nalism.65 As Gershom Scholem suggested, it very well may be that divine exile(zimzum) is a justificatory projection of Israel’s experience in history. It mayalso serve a positive function as a way of constructing Israel’s devotional lifethat enabled mitzvot to survive the philosophical critique waged against it inthe Middle Ages.66 For the Kabbalists, the radical transcendence of God pre-sented by the medieval philosophers could not serve as a healthy model forimitatio dei. Maimonides’ notion of imitatio dei as both abstract thinking(Guide I:1) and compassion (Guide III:53) is implicitly rejected and viewedas destabilizing the theological efficacy of mitzvot.67

For the Kabbalists in question, zimzum was understood as the first expres-sion of divine Will, the Will toward finitude, resulting in the genesis of love,symbolically depicted as hesed (grace).68 Implicit in zimzum is a highly roman-ticized notion of love that is predicated on the sacrifice (concealment) of self-hood, requiring an initial rupture (and thus diminishing) of the divine self inorder to create the possibility of relation.69 This relation is exemplified both inthe engendering of the Godhead (the sephirot) and the engendering of God’s re-lationship to the world (brit). Both are built on the foundation of desire(ta’avah)—the former (sephirot) being the desire for restoration in the unity andeventual effacement of a gendered cosmos, the latter (brit—covenant) beingGod’s desire to choose Israel as the recipients of His Torah (election).70

The bifurcated God resulting from zimzum (eyn sof versus sephirot—essence versus relation) is reflected in the bifurcated cosmos (masculine-fem-inine) and served as the basis of the rabbinic depiction of the covenant atSinai as a wedding between God and his bride, Israel. The restoration of theformer comes about via the fulfillment and culmination of the latter. In Luri-anic Kabbala, the culmination of divine love is concretized in the reificationof erotic copulation and birth (yihud and layda). These mythic symbols de-pict: (1) the temporal unification (restoration) of the gendered cosmos (loveor the product of desire); and (2) the separation and alienation of the self(birth) in order to reproduce the desire necessary for the perpetuation of love.Zimzum is thus a simultaneous expression of self-alienation and love, viewedas God’s exile into Himself to give birth to His own finitude.71

This bifurcation of God in theosophic Kabbala results in two distinct butrelated phenomena: divine speech (creation), and divine text (revelation).


These are the two dominant consequences of divine exile, each holding thekey to His restoration. As we will presently see, divine speech/creation, cul-minating in sacred Scripture/revelation, illustrates the depths of historical andliterary exile in the kabbalistic imagination. Some post-Lurianic Kabbalists,evoking the tripartite model of sefer (text), sephar (number), and sippur(speech) found in Sefer Yezeriah add a third component; the unreadable book,the source that serves as the origin of divine speech and the destination of theesoteric reader of the divine text.72

IV. God’s Speech and Reading the Unreadable Book

As explained above, God’s exile begins before the beginning—it is the very con-dition for beginning. It is framed by Kabbalists as the silent speech or the un-spoken text that serves as the Platonic eternal pattern of creation.73 This exilicspeech then yields the ten utterances (‘asara ma’amarot), which become the toolsof creation.74 The Kabbalists, searching for the origin of divine speech internalto God Himself or the infinite (silent) language of God, conjure a silent utter-ance (ma’amar satum) that lies at the root of the ten utterances of creation.75

This silent utterance serves to emphasize creation (the ten utterances) as the sec-ond phase of divine movement, a phase that already stems from God’s finitude.The silent speech (ma’amar satum) brings forth creation speech (ma’amarot ordibburim), that is heard, followed by a text that is seen and subsequently read.76

Creation speech, when transformed into the written word via divine speech(revelation) becomes Scripture. The Torah in the form of a text, which is pre-ceded by the divine word heard at Sinai, is viewed as the final stage of God’sself-imposed exile. In this light, the theophany at Sinai is envisioned as the mo-ment the Jewish people inherit the yoke of the exilic God (Scripture) and arecommanded to redeem Him through the performance of mitzvot.77

This God, whose voice is heard (and seen) at Sinai, is, as Creator, a God un-fulfilled. This only deepens the correlation between God and the estranged andexilic nation of Israel. The reciprocity of the covenental partnership (brit) is thatboth parties are in need of redemption. The covenental nation is comprised ofan exilic people unredeemed, carrying the message of an exilic God unfulfilled.The parties of the covenant, God, Torah, and Israel, share a common bond—theexperience of exile.78 For our Kabbalists, the act of zimzum, the originary act thatpreceded the overarching ontology of exile, serves as the matrix of redemption;the redemption of God, of Scripture, and the culmination of creation. For manyof the Kabbalists who incorporate this into their thinking, zimzum is an idea thatmust be infused into the devotional life of Israel in order to reconstruct the frag-ments of exile and thus complete the process that zimzum began.


If zimzum is the “necessary exile” that embodies the origin of becoming,it is also the “necessary exile” that precedes every transformation from beingto being, i.e., every movement of becoming.79 The human enactment ofzimzum as imitatio dei is the devotional method for such transformation. Onthis point Martin Buber observes,

Man cannot finish and yet he must begin, in the most serious actual way.This was once stated by a Hasid in a somewhat paradoxical interpretationof the first verse in Genesis; “In the beginning,” that means for the sake ofthe beginning;80 for the sake of beginning did God create the heaven andthe earth. For the sake of man’s beginning that there might be one whowould and should begin to move in the direction of God.81

For the Kabbalists, this movement in the direction of God can only be ac-complished by re-enacting God’s movement toward finitude (creation) bymeans of zimzum. As Buber implies, many of those influenced by Kabbala,especially (but not exclusively) in Hasidism, were primarily not metaphysi-cians who were interested in the “how” of creation for its own sake.82 Just aszimzum was the way they understood the transformation of the One to themany it was the way they envisioned how the human being (as zelem elohim)restores the many back to the One.83 The covenant is fulfilled and subse-quently completed via a reenactment of zimzum in order to restore that whichdivine zimzum began (divine exile), resulting in the divine response of a sec-ond zimzum (zimzum sheini) that completes this redemptive return.84

This kabbalistic notion of human piety as a reversal of divine zimzum isreflected in Edward Said’s notion of beginning as reversal. “Let us then for-mulate this general definition of any beginning that involves reversal, changeof direction, the institution of a durable movement that increasingly engagesour interest. . . ”85 Said suggests that beginning is change without novelty.That is, any reversal of the past, even (or precisely) as it preserves the past,constitutes beginning. In the kabbalistic imagination, God’s protocreativemovement from eyn sof to finitude is part of Israel’s covenental inheritance—it is God’s “durable movement that increasingly engages our interest.”

V. Reading Past the Beginning: Zimzum and Esoteric Reading

The trope of zimzum as a model of reading functions on various levels. It isimportant to state at the outset that zimzum does not offer us any new prac-tical way of reading Scripture. Rather, it is a description of the mentalprocesses of the redemptive reader (imitating the processes of God’s initial act



of Will) who seeks either to redeem God from the text by reconstructing it(Zohar) or unveil the coded message of the text by reading it through an in-dependent mythic narrative (Luria). The symbolic/midrashic method com-mon in the Zohar, which draws out esoteric meaning from the text, and themythic method of Luria and his circle, who use their mythic drama (con-structed from the text) as a grid through which to reread Scripture, are both il-lustrations of such kabbalistic reading.86 Both offer radical reconfigurations ofthe Bible that they claim turns the text inside out, thus revealing its inner core.This type of reading reflects a reversal of zimzum, which is itself a reversal to-ward infinitude. In its cosmological form zimzum, through contraction, turnsGod inside out in order to bring forth the possibility of the finite. In its humanform, zimzum turns the text inside out, revealing its infinite core.

I would like now to briefly examine zimzum as it might be used as a tropeof reading that is simultaneously creative and redemptive. This requires: (1)reading; (2) reciting; and (3) interpreting the Torah as the embodiment of theexiled God.87 Mystical readers envision the Torah as broken or fractured di-vinity. The act of reading functions as tikkun (rectification) of that brokenness.Zimzum is used as a technique to return the divine Word of Scripture to itssilent infinite origins by deconstructing the written word until it once againbecomes open speech (dibbur—study), closed speech (ma’mar satum—con-templation), and pure thought (eyn sof ). Harold Bloom’s suggestion thatzimzum is a substitution of the finite for the infinite, which could not be main-tained after creation, sharpens the Lurianic presentation of redemptive readingthat I am suggesting.

Paradoxically God’s name was too strong for His words, and the breaking ofthe vessels necessarily became a divine act of substitution, in which the orig-inal pattern yielded to a more chaotic one that nevertheless remained pat-tern, the guarantee of which was that the vessel of the tenth and last Sephi-rah, Malkhut, or the female world, broke also but less severely than theother vessels splintered.88

According to Bloom, substitution is an act that replaces one thing for an-other while denying any absolute distinction between them. In the creationmodel Bloom cites, this new manifestation is chaotic yet contains the essenceof order. The kabbalistic substitution of the finite for the infinite (zimzum/shvirah) is temporary—its purpose is to be overcome through esoteric reading.Torah is the chaotic form of the exiled God (God as finite) and therefore read-ing Torah is by definition misreading God as Eyn Sof. Yet the Kabbalists inquestion, reared in the neoplatonic world of unity and restoration, have a far


more optimistic outlook than the Gnostic Bloom.89 The very act of study asmisreading reverses the substitution of chaos and order and begins a reorder-ing of the chaotic finite God, culminating in redemption. Using Said’s sug-gestion of beginning as reversal coupled with Bloom’s notion of substitution,I would suggest that the human enactment of zimzum is a reverse substitu-tion that inverts the process that Paul Ricoeur calls “distantiation,” the “cul-tural estrangement” of writing resulting from speech becoming text.90 For ourpurposes, Ricoeur’s distantiation may refer to the human estrangement fromGod’s will as a result of His word becoming exilic text. The dialectical com-ponent here is that our only access to divine Will is through its concealmentor fragmentation.91 Kabbalistic reading intends to rend the veil of the textwhile concealing its meaning. It is an act of exposing the concealed God.92 Yetthe more He is exposed, the more concealed He becomes until the momentwhen human zimzum evokes the second zimzum of God, which overcomesthe need for the text altogether as creation comes to an end. This itself is anact of zimzum; concealing to reveal and then reading to reveal that which isconcealed, which lies at the root of esoteric reading. It restores the finite (rev-elation/Scripture) back to its infinite source (beginning/Divine Speech) andfinally its protocreative origin (eyn sof ). As primordial zimzum moved theconcealed origin (silent speech—ma’mar satum) to the revealed beginning(creation speech/God’s Word), through reading, human zimzum takes the re-sult of beginning (Scripture) and returns it to origin.

In the kabbalistic imagination, this entire enterprise is played out in lan-guage.93 Later Kabbalists are particularly adamant about denying any signifi-cant distinction between the written Torah and the divine word of creationfirst spoken and then written at Sinai. However, the conventional notion thatdivine speech (creation) preceded divine writing (revelation) is not at all clear.In fact, R. Elijah, the Gaon of Vilna (GRA), suggests that spoken language,as opposed to the silent language of God (ma’amar satum), is the result of thecosmic rupture (shvirat ha-kelim) following zimzum yet preceding creation.Speaking about the space created from this cosmic rupture (‘olam ha-nekudim) he states:

The removal and rupture [of divine light] exists in the realm of nekudim(lit. dots, but here referring to Hebrew vowels. . . These (vowels) are theroots of all letters. There is no letter without a vowel (neduka) and no cre-ation that does not result from that rupture (nekuda). Any unvoweled/un-ruptured thing has no existence. This is God’s will. . . When the nekudotleft their vessels [and descended], like the vowels under the Hebrew letters,they came to constitute the life of the cosmos as vowels give life to the let-


ters. There is no possible movement/vocalization of the letters without thevowels.94

This text suggests that precreative divine language, before spoken lan-guage (which emerges out of the cosmic rupture), consists of letters withoutvowels (and thus silent), or letters whose vowels are not yet distinguished. The“life of language” as a communicative tool occurs only when the vowels de-scend below the letters. In other words, creation emerges out of rupture. Inanother place the GRA suggests that this first prevocalized and thus non-communicative language (Hebrew letters without vowels) is the primordialtext of God, a text that is unread because it cannot be read.95 Although thespeech act or creation speech is the first act of the Creator God or God as fi-nite, some Kabbalists define the source of this creation speech as the result ofGod’s reading a primordial text; the silent concealed text alluded to in SeferYezeriah or the Torah Kadumah (Primordial Torah) of Sefer Temunah. SeferYezeriah 1:1 introduces a tripartite form of the Hebrew root SFR (to speak)as Sefer, Sephar, and Sippur.96 The GRA understood these three phases as fol-lows: Sefer—the Sealed Book; Sephar—the letters that are disclosed to the onewho reveals/speaks this Book; and Sippur—the narrative of the Torah, whichserves as the map of creation.97 He suggested that the Sefer represents a con-cealed text that is read by God (through the letters that are Sephar) and thenrevealed in the Sippur (the narrative of Torah).98 Using these and other texts,Elliot Wolfson has recently argued that this provocative interpretation of theGRA suggests that divine writing actually precedes divine speech.99

According to this approach, the ten utterances that rabbinic tradition de-picted as God’s Creation/creative act were actually the product of God read-ing the concealed book and, through speech, bringing forth the exilic writtentext of Scripture. This is understood by Wolfson to mean that the concealedbook is revealed by clothing it in/with speech. Invoking Bloom’s theory ofzimzum as substitution and Said’s notion of beginning as “changing direc-tion” may strengthen Wolfson’s claim. The closed book, or the inactive pro-tocreative realm of the Divine, becomes open and thus creative when speech(Sephar) substitutes the primordial written word (Sefer). This change of di-rection from unread (or unreadable) text to read text is exemplified in theshift from Sefer to Sephar, a shift in orientation that maintains the originalroot of SFR. The price of this movement is exile as it occurs via descent, inthe case of language the descent of the vowels below the letters that result inlanguage as communication (speech).100 The garment of speech or, more pre-cisely, speech as garment (Sephar) does not replace the concealed book (Sefer);it merely clothes the book by means of substitution or zimzum. It/God be-


comes revealed (Sephar) by concealing its/God’s primordial roots (Sefer).101

Zimzum acts simultaneously as concealment and disclosure in that divinespeech (Sephar) envelops the primordial silent speech of divine writing, con-cealing the primordial text (Sefer). This substitution of primordial text for di-vine speech creates, as it were, the Creator God, revealed in the world throughSippur or the narrative to Torah.

The Kabbalists influenced by the Lurianic tradition were a strange amal-gam of metaphysicians and mythic narrators. They consistently attempted todepict their cosmology in embodied language, creating a mythic cosmosusing the symbolic language of the Zohar. 102 As mentioned earlier, the Luri-anic Kabbalists focused particularly on the birth metaphor as it representsboth continuity of self and alienation from self simultaneously.103 The versedepicting humans beings as created b’zelem elokim (in the image of God,which the Kabbalists took quite literally, even visually) was an obvious influ-ence on the Kabbalistic depiction of the cosmos from the perspective ofhuman growth and development. I would add that the physical dimension ofthe birth metaphor as concealing and revealing the fetus also presents a win-dow into a deeper understanding of zimzum. In the kabbalistic depiction ofcosmic birth, the consciousness (mohin) of the primordial father (Abba) andmother (Imma) descend into the fetus, enabling it to become revealed (birth).The cosmic child is the carrier of this new consciousness, bringing new di-vinity into the world. Unlike physical birth, cosmic birth is liminal; it is al-ways on the way to something beyond itself (i.e., redemption/restoration).Pregnancy and birth are temporal categories as both result in the daily returnof the child (Zeir Anpin) to the primordial womb, carrying with it lost sparksliberated through the performance of mitzvot. Through its reabsorption intothe cosmic mother (Imma), the child (Zeir Anpin) restores the fragmentedGodhead, hastening redemption.

Birth, like creation, is an exilic phenomenon that contains the seeds of re-demption. The child is a new creation, alienated from the warmth and com-fort of the womb. She is not a reproduction of her parents but holds the po-tential to transcend them, fulfilling what her parents were unable toaccomplish. It has been duly noted that some Kabbalists may have mythicallyconstrued the notion of zimzum as exile from the midrashic depiction of theShekhina’s descent into Egypt and God’s descent into the Holy of Holies inthe Jerusalem Temple.104 The usage of zimzum in the Kabbala, as opposed toits usage in rabbinic literature, takes on the additional meaning of being a cat-alyst for transformation through simultaneous acts of concentration and ex-pansion. The first implants the higher consciousness of Abba and Imma as in-


active kernels in the soon to emerge “beginning” (Zeir Anpin/creation/theShekhina’s descent to Egypt). Expansion then catapults the inner force of thedivine into exile (revelation/the Shekhina in the Holy of Holies). Scholemcaptured this transition when he said, “every movement of regression towardthe source has something of a new zimzum about it.”105

As presented, the concept of zimzum represents birth as exile. This occursin two ways. First, birth is the externalization of the self, yielding a vision of theself as the alienated other. This notion of estrangement is a fundamental prin-ciple in Lurianic theodicy. Evil is depicted as goodness (divine sparks) discon-nected from its source that becomes the life force of the demonic (kelippot). Sec-ond, a reshimu (remnant) of the self remains hidden and inactive in the exilicchild awaiting redemption and reunion with its source.106 The reunion of thealienated other and the activation of the alienated self implanted in the othertake place through the biblical covenant, beginning with the Noahide covenantmade with nature, continuing with the Abrahamic covenant of the male body,culminating in the Sinaitic covenant of commandment.107 The alienating ele-ment in this process is the disjunction of two realms of light that descend intothe void (halal) after zimzum—the returning light (‘or hozer) that retreats whenit confronts evil, and the embedded light (nizuz/the sparks) that is trapped inthe realm of the demonic in need of restoration. Evil results from the furtheralienation of the already fragmented God (shvirat ha-kelim). Cosmic birth func-tions within the context of this fragmentation but does so for the sake ofrestoration. In this schema, redemption exists through exile, not by rejecting itor even by overcoming it.108 Exile must play itself out through the daily descentand ascent of cosmic forces (birth) that gather divine fragments and returnthem to their source.

This entire drama of zimzum, birth, and return to the primordial mother,is replayed daily through the performance of mitzvot, accompanied by the ap-propriate contemplative focus (kavannot and yihudim).109 Adopting the rab-binic notion that Torah study (talmud torah) is juxtaposed to the entire struc-ture of mitzvot, these Kabbalists also claimed that this cosmic drama is enactedthrough the act of reading. Recitation and the verbal study of Torah are speech-acts that substitutes the written word for speech, allowing the inactive potentialof creation speech (embedded in the exilic text) to emerge out of the writtentext. The transformation of the written text to the spoken word ultimately re-unites Scripture with the primordial concealed written text of God (Torah Kad-uma). The process thus moves from creation (Scripture), to beginning (Cre-ation Speech) and finally to origin (the concealed book that God reads and thuscreates).110 This notion is close to the kabbalistic formulation I am suggesting

without the strong exile/redemption matrix of kabbalistic discourse. All thisrests on the assumption that Bloom’s translation of zimzum as substitution is es-sentially correct. For the Kabbalists, the speech of Torah study is an act of sub-stitution (zimzum), enabling the exilic written text to reveal the concealed di-vine speech hidden within it. As God reads the concealed book to create exile,we read the exilic text of Scripture to bring about redemption.

VI. Three Late Kabbalistic Perspectives

To substantiate my claim that the idea of zimzum is envisioned as a trope ofreading in post-Lurianic Kabbala, I will examine the comments of three Kab-balists trained in the Lurianic tradition: R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzato (Ramhal,eighteenth-century Italy), R. Yizhak Isik Haver Waldman (nineteenth-century Lithuania), and R. Dov Baer Schneurson of Lubavitch (nineteenth-century White Russia, the second Rebbe in the Habad dynasty, known as theMittler Rebbe). Luzzato was strongly influenced by Lurianic Kabbala throughthe writings of R. Moshe Yona, R. Israel Sarug, R. Menahem Azaria da Fano,and the Renaissance Kabbalist R. Abraham Ha-Kohen Herrera.111 He led abrief and provocative life, composing many works on Kabbala that had awide-ranging influence on subsequent generations.112 His writings on Kab-bala and ethics became classic texts for subsequent generations in all of Eu-rope (East and West) and exhibit a philosophical sophistication common inpost-Renaissance Italy coupled with a strong mystical and devotional foun-dation. Haver, a disciple of R. Menahem Mendel of Sklov and the school ofthe Gaon of Vilna, was a close reader of Luzzato’s kabbalism and its Lithuan-ian interpretation. He was one of the most prolific Lithuanian Kabbalists inthe nineteenth-century and responsible for much of the dissemination of theVilna Gaon’s Kabbala in eastern Europe and Palestine. R. Dov Baer, the sonof R. Shneur Zalman of Liady, developed the early Hasidic and particularlyHabad interpretation of Lurianic kabbalism. Emblematic of the Hasidic (i.e.,metaphorical) reading of Lurianic Kabbala, R. Dov Baer’s literary contribu-tion lies largely in developing his father’s ideas, particularly on the issue of bit-tul ha-yesh (self annihilation).113

Ramhal, particularly in his KLAH Pithei Hokhma (138 Paths of Wisdom),devotes numerous chapters to zimzum and consistently invokes this ideathroughout his large corpus.114 Underlying Ramhal’s position is Abraham Ha-Kohen Herrera’s assertion that zimzum serves as the condition for creation butnot creation itself or, in our terminology, origin but not beginning.115 Build-ing on his Renaissance predecessors, Ramhal presents an ethical rather than aspatial interpretation of the entire protocreative process.116 That is, zimzum is


a change in divine Will in order to create the possibility of relation but doesnot point to any cosmic movement. He begins with the assumption that in-finitude, if it contains everything, must also contain the finite.117 Before cre-ation, the finite existed in infinity’s negation of it. In this schema, the only dif-ference between God (eyn sof ) and world (divinity that contains theactualization of the finite) is that finitude exists in God via its negation. Aftercreation the negative relation is maintained but reversed: God exists in theworld through concealment. Zimzum facilitates this reversal. It can be definedas the willful act of God as eyn sof to remove the inherent negation of the fi-nite resulting in: (1) the externalization or manifestation of finitude (cre-ation); and (2) the concealment of the infinite in the finite. Zimzum functionsas an interpretive tool to understand creation while maintaining two theo-logical principles—the perfection of God and the possibility of the covenant.First, it suggests that the emergence of finitude (existence/creation) does notalter the unchanging nature of the infinite God (eyn sof ). Second, it offers akabbalistic foundation for covenental theology by embedding God in cre-ation as divine exile (in Scripture) making Israel responsible for God’s re-demption. Torah study becomes a redemptive act that liberates God from theproduct of His own doing, that is, zimzum.

Ramhal takes the position that zimzum is necessary as a prerequisite forcreation, which is the completion of God’s perfection. Basing himself onmidrashic sources, he argues that zimzum was necessary in order for God’s in-finite nature to be maintained while creating the world.118 God’s volitional re-moval of His negation of the finite is not viewed as compromising His in-finitude but as the fulfillment of God as infinite.119 This idea is substantiatedin the following manner.

Ramhal suggests that God as infinite is perfect (shalem) but not perfected(mushlam) because the potential for the finite, which existed by means of itsnegation, had never been realized. By removing His negation of the finite, giv-ing birth to creation, He realizes the fulfillment of His own infinitude.120 Her-rera understood it this way: “The light of the sephirot are not new. . . but pri-mordial (kadmon). It is God’s Will [via zimzum] that allows them to be seen.Therefore, there is no revelation in God (eyn gilluy b’Elohut) only in what is re-vealed to those who receive it.”121 God before creation (eyn sof ) conceals hisfinitude in the infinite. God after creation (sephirot) conceals His infinitude inthe finite. God’s infinite nature remains unchanged, both outside and withincreation. What changes is the dimension of his essence that is concealed.122 Thisobservation squares with the general kabbalistic understanding of creation ex ni-hilo—reading nothing (Ayin) as No-thing or the infinite eyn sof. 123 The creation(finitude) is not “new” but always existed in God (eyn sof ). But, as internal to



God, it never “existed” until God no longer negated its existence. The Kabbal-istic eyn sof has Will even as this Will may be created, that is, created as a con-dition for creation. Therefore, Keter, the most elevated element in the sephiroticsystem, is sometimes called “Divine Will” (Razon Ha-Elyon) and sometimescalled eyn sof. That is, it is eyn sof relative to creation, but, as Will, is already noteyn sof in its precreative form. This is all for the sake of maintaining the biblicalaccount of ex nihilo, while acknowledging: (1) a necessary change in eyn sof inorder to create; and (2) defending the unchanging nature of eyn sof as perfect.This position is not defended exegetically but speculatively, focusing on thecondition for creation and not creation itself. God’s infinitude makes everythingthat comes into existence already existing in God. Ex-nihilo for the Kabbalistsonly means that everything that exists and can exist already exists in God. Or,in Aristotelian terms, nothing comes from nothing, understood by Kabbala tomean everything comes from No-thing.

As stated above, zimzum implies concealment and disclosure simultane-ously; the concealed state of the infinite in creation are the sephirot and thereshimu (remnant of divine light after its removal, which will be discussedbelow). Concerning the notion of finitude emerging by the removal of itsnegation, Ramhal states:

There are objects that affirm a certain principle by including that principlein itself. There are objects that affirm, by negation, the very thing that aretheir opposite. Let us take death as an example. Death has no meaningoutside of life, as death is nothing more than the absence of life. Hence,death includes life by its negation. This is not true of life, which can be un-derstood without death. So too, infinitude includes finitude by means of itsnegation of it. . . . When God no longer intends to maintain infinitude (lit.limitlessness) by negating the finite, the finite exists as it does now. Goddidn’t think of creating the finite but only of removing its negation. Wheninfinitude no longer negated the finite, the finite existed by means of theabsence of its negation.124

Underlying Ramhal’s statement is Herrera’s two-part notion that zimzum isan act of divine Will rather than a change in divine Essence (i.e., zimzum shouldbe understood metaphorically, lo k’peshuto, and not literally, k’peshuto) and thatzimzum is only a condition for creation and not part of creation itself.125 Un-derstood as a volitional removal of the negation of the finite, zimzum enablestwo things to happen. First, it causes the infinite to become concealed in the fi-nite, reversing that which existed before zimzum (where the finite in potentia

was concealed in the infinite). The concealed element of the infinite in the fi-nite is called the reshimu (remnant), while its connection to its infinite source iscalled kav yashar (direct light). Second, zimzum readdresses a problem inherentin the neoplatonic emanation theory of creation in earlier Kabbala.

The earlier kabbalistic tradition faced the dilemma of how the infinite,which is the source of emanation, becomes finite.126 The emanationist modelassumes that all manifestations of emanation are rooted in the One (God).With zimzum, the source of emanation is concealed in all manner of emana-tion. Not, however, by being its root but by serving as its foundation.127 Thereis no linear progression from the One to the many. The emanation of the di-rect light (kav ha-yashar) into the circular void is already part of the “many”resulting from the concealment of the One through zimzum. God is in muchcloser proximity to creation according to the zimzum theory than the emana-tionist scheme, even as in the former His presence is concealed. According tothe model of zimzum, while eyn sof may still be the “source of sources,” theemanation of divine light (kav ha-yashar) into finite existence (halal ha-paneui) had already taken on the characteristic of finitude via God’s aban-doning His negation of the finite.128

Zimzum suggests a transformation of God in God prior to the act of cre-ation. The world contains divinity not because it is linearly connected to theOne via emanation but because a remnant of God (reshimu) serves as the veryfoundation of the material world. The Gnostic component here is that thisremnant is trapped in the demonic realm of existence in need of liberationthrough God’s chosen people (Israel) enacting God’s chosen behavior(mitzvot). The Lurianic Kabbalists projected their own exile onto God, mak-ing exile the covenental bond (brit) that makes for a codependent relationshipbetween Israel and God. This codependency is more covert than explicit inour texts but does shine through the theosophical language of our thinkers.For example, Ramhal states:

The light that is seen (i.e., that has limits) appears to be new but in truth isonly a remnant of primordial [infinite] light that was diminished throughzimzum. This emanated light is called the remnant [reshimu] of primordiallight that could not be distinguished due to its grandeur. This is the secretmeaning of the statement that the reshimu encompasses all of existence.This reshimu contains all that will be in the future. . . however this couldnot exist if God does not direct it. This [direction] is called kav ha-yashar[straight/direct line of divine effluence], which is emanated into the placeof divine absence.129


Creation occurs solely within the realm of the finite brought about by theoriginary act of zimzum. Adopting the metaphysical claim that the result ofzimzum is the concealment of the infinite in the finite, Ramhal reformulatesthe relationship between exile and redemption through a conflation of theterms tikkun (correction) and gilluy (revelation). Revelation is the unveilingof a dimension of the infinite embedded in the finite. This act itself is both acorrective (tikkun) and completion (shelamut) of zimzum.130 “The finaltikkun, which will be the final redemption and all that follows, is the final rev-elation of the perfection of God [gilluy ha-shelamut], and the return of evil toGod.”131 Redemption does not “occur” but is always occurring because it ispart of the nature of creation. Ramhal and other Kabbalists offer a meta-physical interpretation of the rabbinic notion of the inevitability of redemp-tion by making creation the inception of exile and redemption its fulfillment.Adopting R. Hayyim Vital’s statement that zimzum results in the inception ofharsh judgment (din/gevurah/limits), Ramhal argues that this is the necessaryprerequisite for the telos of creation; the transformation of evil to good via areversal of zimzum.132 In this sense, the metaphysical or cosmological mythosof Luria becomes the basis for the ethical and hermeneutical principles of laterKabbalists. 133

According to Ramhal, the act of reading Scripture is an act of engagingthe garments that conceal the infinite. The Torah is seen as the microcosm ofcreation that, like creation, comes into existence (i.e., is distinguished fromeyn sof ) via zimzum, resulting in the concealment of the infinite in the finite.Both creation and Torah are viewed as photographic negatives of eyn sof(where the finite was concealed in the infinite). Liberating finitude by negat-ing its negation, eyn sof brings forth creation, understood as the initial stageof the fulfillment of God’s perfection (mushlamut). The completion of thisprocess will be the return of the finite into the embrace of the infinite. Thisis accomplished when the infinite concealed in the garments of the finite(Torah) is liberated, overcoming that which contains it. This occurs throughesoteric study (reading), directed toward disclosing the infinite nature of thetext by exhibiting its limitlessness. Disclosing secrets (the telos of mysticalreading) occurs through the human enactment of zimzum, an act that is botha corrective (tikkun) and a completion (gilluy/shelamut) of exile. The enact-ment of zimzum is the deconstruction of the text, diffusing its external mean-ing by reading the text through the prism of kabbalistic myth, reading it in-side out, exposing new meanings concealed underneath the externalnarrative.134 This act of reading corrects (m’taken) the mistaken assumptionthat the text can been understood externally by revealing that it can never befully revealed. The kabbalistic reading does not fully disclose the text, for if it


did the text would disappear. Rather, by seeing the text as garment, it enactsa “stripping away” of the external meaning (via deconstruction) thus enablingits infinite concealed source to shine through. This source is activated and re-vealed as the kabbalistic myth becomes embodied in the biblical narrative.Yet, at the moment of embodiment, the (new) kabbalistic meaning is lost inthe new levels of mystery and details it reveals. This is not to say that the texthas no intrinsic meaning. Rather, it suggests that intrinsic meaning of the textis lost as soon as it is rendered. Its disclosure is its disappearance since the ob-ject discovered is the infinite concealed. Each new level of meaning introducesanother level of mystery, as the Zohar teaches, “the secrets are revealed andnot revealed.”135 Once again, following Bloom’s translation of divine zimzumas substitution of the infinite for the finite, human zimzum (mystical reading)reveals that the substitution is not complete; the infinite remains in thereshimu (Torah), waiting to be liberated via the zimzum of Israel.

Ramhal’s presentation of zimzum as reversal through divine volition, thatis, reversing the relationship of the finite and the infinite by negating thenegation of the finite, becomes the basis for future reflection on the nature ofmystical reading as a redemptive act that reveals the infinite embedded in thetext and, in doing so, reveals a new level that is concealed and awaits libera-tion. While Ramhal’s discussion remains largely on the theosophic plane, thequasiphilosophical interpretive grid he presents is used by later Kabbalistswho take a more focused interest in the human act of zimzum through read-ing. We will now look at two such Kabbalists from nineteenth-centuryschools diametrically opposed to one another; R. Yizhak Isik Haver Waldmanfrom the Lithuanian school of Sklov, whose kabbalistic studies emerged fromthe GRA, and the writings of the second rebbe of Lubavitch, R. Dov BaerSchneurson, son of the R. Shneur Zalman of Liady, the founder of the Habadmovement.

R. Yizhak Isaac Haver Waldman was one of the most prolific Kabbalistsin nineteenth-century Lithuania (and later, Palestine). A disciple of R. Mena-hem Mendel of Sklov, he was trained in the tradition of the GRA, writing anextensive commentary to Luria’s Etz Hayyim entitled Pithei Shearim, one ofthe most comprehensive and systematic kabbalistic texts in Lithuanian Kab-bala.136 Haver built on Ramhal’s general understanding of zimzum as negat-ing the negation of finitude.137 His utilization of this notion will be muchmore useful for our purposes in that he directly relates zimzum to the act ofreading. In a sermon composed for the Sabbath between Rosh Ha-Shana andYom Kippur (Shabbat Shuva),138 Haver claims that zimzum creates the dual-ity that serves as the necessary context for free will.139 Adding to the conven-tional dichotomies common in Kabbala of light and dark and good and evil,


Haver includes thought and speech. Building on the GRA’s use of these con-cepts in his commentary to Sefer d’Zniuta, Haver understands creation tohave taken place in two distinct stages; first in thought (the silent ma’amarsatum), and then in speech (ten mamarot).140 He then invokes the Lurianicnotion of reshimu in order to exhibit the interface between these two realms.

But as the heavens are high above the Earth, so are My ways above your ways(Isaiah 55:9). Divine thought does not influence the lower world, onlywords emanate downward from the heavens to the earth...The entire realmof existence in time depends on divine speech...This is not the case with di-vine thought even though a spark (nizuz) from the Hidden Light (’or ha-ganuz) does shine below, it does so only to aid those who purify them-selves.141 But, this light is hidden and concentrated/concealed (m’zumzam)in order that it not nullify free-will...142

The spark of the Infinite (eyn sof ) is embedded in both creation andTorah through zimzum. Haver later notes that the Torah is called both waterand light (4b). The water image denotes that Torah purifies like mikveh (rit-ual immersion), and light implies that Torah contains the supernal HiddenLight, embedded in the words of Scripture. His interpretation of the rabbinicdictum that “study is greater [than action] in that it leads to action’ is thatstudy (enacted through reading) is immersion in the purifying waters of theInfinite. This act of purification leads to the uncovering of the Hidden Light(’or ha-ganuz) concealed both in the subject (the reader) and the object(Torah). The interaction of reader and text through study leads to the un-folding of the hidden realm that brings the dualistic nature of creation andTorah to its conclusion.143 The Jew and the Torah both contain the divinespark, enveloped in garments that hide it (the body and the text). The inter-face of the individual and the text results in the disclosure of the infinity inboth, bringing about their unity, culminating in enlightenment (human) andredemption (historical). The imitatio dei of study is the human enactment ofzimzum, reversing the process of creation by redeeming the exiled God inScripture, taking the consequence of beginning (Torah) and returning it toorigin (eyn sof ). Harking back to the GRA’s comments at the beginning ofhis commentary to Sefer D’Zniuta, Haver argues that creation takes place byGod reading or speaking the primordial concealed book. Through study, weread or speak the exilic book of Torah, reversing the process of exile by un-veiling the primordial Torah of its written garment and returning it first tospoken word and then to silent utterance. This process is a reverse of the firstzimzum resulting in exile. The imitatio dei of study reverses this process by


redeeming the exiled (concealed) God, rending the veil of Scripture to revealits primordial roots.

In Pithei Shearim, Haver presents a metaphorical interpretation ofzimzum initiated in the Renaissance using the argument of dual perspectivity;God’s Will versus our perception of His will (m’zido u m’zidanu).144

The sephirot have essence and reality only from our perspective by means ofzimzum. Zimzum is the source of the description of God as “place of theworld” (makomo shel ‘olam) as will be explained. . . We can only speak fromzimzum and what exists below it. This is also only from our perspectiveand not from God’s. Even after zimzum, He remains “filler of worlds” andnothing exists outside of Him as is explained by R. Hayyim of Volozhin inhis wondrous book Nefesh Ha-Hayyim, Gate 3.145

Zimzum as an act of divine Will to remove the negation of the finite onlyexists as “real” in the finite realm. From God’s perspective (eyn sof ) nothingchanged as a result of zimzum since His essence as eyn sof remains as it wasbefore creation.146 Rejecting the literal, spatial interpretation of zimzum,Haver pushes the metaphor by suggesting that zimzum is a necessary illusion(our perspective) in order to enable individuals to live inside the covenant,that is, in order to foster the efficacy of devotion. Creation itself is built onthe illusion that something exists outside of God whereas, from God’s per-spective “there is nothing outside of Him” (eyn ‘od m’lvado) and “there is noplace void of Him” (le’et ‘atar penui me’neh). Haver offers the following argu-ment for the illusory nature of creation. By utilizing the diagram of zimzumpresented in Vital’s writings (i.e., that zimzum creates a circle with eyn sof out-side), the material world (creation) lies at the center of the circle, the farthestpoint from eyn sof. Haver argues that since the center point of any circle cannever be isolated and is infinitely divisible so too the center point of zimzum,that is, finite existence, must be illusory.147

For Haver, the foundation of the illusory nature of creation (finitude) isthe concealment and apparent absence of the infinite. The material world, asthe illusory center of zimzum, is understood as nothing more than the placeof divine absence that, given God’s infinite nature, must also be an illusion.The necessity of the illusion of God (His absence in creation) now becomesHaver’s focus. This illusion accomplishes two goals: (1) the existence of evil(bozina d’kardinuta/hard or dark spark) and (2) the affirmation of free will.148

According to Haver, evil (din/judgment/limitation) is necessary for free willto exist. The telos of free will is “to draw close to the holy” (l’hitkarev l’ke-dusha), which requires the possibility of its opposite. This “drawing close to


the holy” has two consequences. First, it disempowers evil by turning awayfrom it. Second, it completes creation by revealing the infinite embedded init, thereby exposing creation’s illusory nature.

Up to this point, Haver merely surveys conventional (theosophic) kab-balistic doctrine. In the aforementioned sermon he uses this kabbalistic for-mulation of the world to understand the value of Torah study. The HiddenSpark of the truly real (eyn sof ) is buried in the illusion of the real, that is,Torah. Drawing oneself to the holy is accomplished by cutting through the il-lusion until one accesses the hidden source of the “truly real,” the HiddenSpark of divine thought concealed in the garment of the text. At that instant,the entire nature of Torah becomes transformed as the veil separating God’sperspective and our perspective dissipates. As mentioned above, Haver adoptsthe position that sacred reading not only transforms the text being read butthe reader as well. In the following passage, he uses the idea of zimzum to de-scribe how Torah study and knowledge of the holy reveals the inherent sanc-tity latent in the human heart, the place where desire for the holy resides.

The heart is the realm of zimzum in the human being.149 There God em-bedded all of the powers of holiness in potentia. . . .These [powers] are notimmediately revealed. When a person is born s/he is born untamed and in-complete, without any overt element of sanctity. This changes as s/he is ed-ucated and taught Torah. Then the [inherent] good traits move from poten-tia to actu and s/he begins the process toward holiness [through study].This is equivalent to the Highest Source that begins with zimzum in orderto yield [the existence of ] evil. Afterward, a strand of holiness emanatesdownward as a stream (kav) to fill the place of [divine] emptiness. . . Thisis what is meant when it is said “the heart understands.” It understandsthrough wisdom of the Torah, which is taught and enters the heart.[Through this process] the [latent] good traits become revealed. . . 150

The process of creation is reversed as the sanctity latent in the heart is re-vealed through study. Although Haver does not focus on the language ofScripture but solely on the acquisition of knowledge, his basic assumption isthat talmud torah in all of its facets (reading/understanding) is a product ofzimzum in that it brings out the latent potential of holiness.151 My claim hereis that the “holy” in Haver’s expression “drawing oneself to the holy”(l’hitkarev l’kedusha) is the Hidden Light embedded in the Torah, revealedthrough esoteric study (i.e, the study of/for secrets). This disclosure occursthrough zimzum that brings out the potential (the truly real) in the actual(the illusion), reversing the act of divine zimzum that preceded creation.


Human zimzum via Torah study is enacted by transforming the written wordto speech, redeeming divine speech embedded in the written text.

For Haver, the scriptural words, “In the beginning” are already a part of theillusion of creation because beginning implies a distinction between creationand the Creator—it is already an occurrence outside of God. He posits that thepurpose of Torah study is to read God’s illusion, revealing the “truly real” em-bedded in the exilic (illusory) text. Opposed to the more strictly Lurianic de-piction of study as recitation, Haver’s Lithuanian roots and his devotion to theGRA’s focus on the intellect lead him to incorporate understanding as a neces-sary component in the devotional act of talmud torah.152 In Haver’s commentcited above, understanding, the fundamental component of education, plays anessential role is bringing out the latent sanctity imbedded in the human heartof the developing child. Through understanding Torah the human heart con-tracts and expands (m’zamzam), creating an empty space that is filled with thedescending stream of consciousness (kav ha-yashar) actualizing the latent sanc-tity concealed from birth. The cosmogonic notion of zimzum in Lurianic meta-physics becomes a model for human actualization through study.153 Thisprocess occurs via reading and understanding the written text of Scripture, lib-erating the Hidden Light that lies within.

The third post-Lurianic thinker who draws a parallel between zimzumand study is R. Dov Baer Schneurson (1773-1827), the son of R. Shneur Zal-man of Liady and the second master in the Habad dynasty.154 He suggeststhat zimzum as a protocreative divine act results in cosmic dysfunctionalityand thus is the exile of divine language. This language, fragmented and un-able to communicate unmediated divine Will, is redeemed though reading(i.e., human zimzum). Sacred reading for Schneurson is an act of ordering, re-flecting the Lurianic model of tikkun (‘Olam Ha-Berudim) as the proper or-dering of the sephirot in their descent through the cosmos.155 This is alsobased on his interpretation of the Lurianic notion of veils (masakhim)156

which separate one supernal world from the next.157

The body of the veil and curtain (pargod) is made from letters that arecalled “stones” in Sefer Yezeriah (4:16).158 The letters are haphazard, likestones piled one on top of the other. This is like a tapestry woven fromthreads which divide and separate [one thing from another]. Such is thecase with letters which are the foundation of speech. When they are or-dered by the intellect [through study], the light of the intellect shinesthrough them and they can be understood by one who hears them...This isnot the case when they are random; one hearing the words cannot under-stand anything.159


R. Dov Baer suggests that the consequence of zimzum is the emergenceof veils (finite existence) that prevent the infinite from appearing in the world.Textually, the result is that “the letters [of Torah] are disorganized” and thusconvey no meaning.160 This dysfunctionality simultaneously prevents boththe flow of divine light onto the text and the reader (kav ha-yashar) and theemergence of divine light from the text (reshimu). This indecipherable text isclosed. While it may hold the potential to be a catalyst for divine effluence itsindecipherable (exilic) state cannot actualize this potential.161 The closed textresembles the unreadable primordial concealed text mentioned in the GRA’scommentary on Sefer Yezeriah discussed above. Both hold the potential formeaning but require a spoken component to release that potential. The con-cealed text, God’s speech, or His reading the text, results in the ten utterancesof creation, releasing the creative potency in primordial writing.162 In DovBaer’s rendition, the closed text of Scripture is opened and thus efficaciousthrough human speech, releasing the text’s divine potential. The indiscrimi-nate nature of the letters of Torah are organized and made comprehensiblethrough the act of the text being read. Its primordial orality is retrievedthrough human speech. This enables the intellect to understand what is writ-ten. When the letters become ordered, the source of divine potency (eyn sofbeyond zimzum) begins to shines through.

The kabbalistic context of R. Dov Baer’s remarks about the constructionof Torah is based on the Lurianic description of the veils that exist betweenthe world of azilut (emanation) and beriah (creation). The defining charac-teristic of these veils is their opacity that prevents evil from ascending beyondthe world of creation (beriah). However, this also results in the persistence ofevil below because evil cannot be eradicated without the presence of thehigher light of the world of emanation (azilut). The fabric of these veils arethe letters of the Torah, which are mystically understood in Sefer Yezeriah asthe letters of creation.163 The more the fabric of the veil (the letters of Torah)is aligned (m’sudar) the more translucent and transparent it becomes, enablingmore light to shine through from the upper world to the lower. Zimzum cre-ates this opacity by producing a fabric (creation and Torah) that is indiscrim-inately organized. While this opacity is necessary in order to create a shieldprotecting the upper worlds from the demonic forces below, it also creates andperpetuates exile by preventing the redemptive light of eyn sof to descend intothe world, thereby unifying the remnant of divine light (reshimu) with itssource. For R. Dov Baer, sacred reading is an act of creating order so that thehuman mind can decipher the divine Will embedded in the text. The delicatevocation of the reader is to create order in the text in a manner that both thinsthe veils yet does not endanger the pristine light of azilut from becoming de-


filed by the demonic. A fundamental principle of sacred reading it that it isan act that requires a pietistic context and foundation. Comprehension of thetext is not purely an act of human intellection for these kabbalists—it is a de-votional act that, as the rabbis state, “is equal in stature to the entire body ofmitzvot.”164 Thus, reading as tikkun requires the pietistic context of mitzvot.These two complimentary and mutually inclusive practices organize the let-ters of the text and insure that its results (emanation of the higher light) willnot result in the empowerment of evil. The outcome is the liberation of thedivine potency of the text in a world that can absorb it.165

In sum, for R. Dov Baer the kabbalistic notion of study combines thespeech act of reading aloud coupled with understanding (sekhel). Study ordersthe haphazard letters, that constitute the veil of separation, and orders them,making the veil translucent and finally transparent, resulting in the conflu-ence of the higher light with vessels that can sustain it. The veil, which is theproduct of zimzum and was necessary to prevent the higher light from de-scending, becomes the catalyst for the uninterrupted flow of that light. Tal-mud Torah, understood here as organizing the letters of the text (speech/read-ing) so that they can convey meaning, is a precarious but necessary act thatcreates the context for the completion of creation. It is precarious because itexposes divinity to the demonic forces that seek to use it for destructive pur-poses. This may be why the kabbalistic tradition influenced by the Zoharplaces such emphasis on pietistic and asetic behavior as a necessary compan-ion to esoteric study. If the veil of zimzum is thinned through study while evilis empowered through sin, the result would be more destructive than the ab-sence of study altogether! Therefore, study must function on various levels si-multaneously and be enacted in a particular devotional context. It must be acorrective (tikkun) for inappropriate behavior by making the reader moreaware of proper action. It must also create the potential for the eradicationof evil by activating the Hidden Light (reshimu) in the text and by drawingSupernal Light (kav ha-yashar) to the text. Finally, it must take place only inthe pietistic context of human devotion (mitzvot), which strengthens the ves-sels to contain the emanation of the redemptive light.

Ordering the text (study) reverses cosmic zimzum that conceals God’sWill, resulting in creation and the closed text of Scripture (divine exile).Speaking and subsequently understanding the text transforms divine letters tohuman language, which serves as the catalyst for divine Will. Human intel-lection through reading (i.e., study) begins with reconstituting the veils initi-ated with zimzum and ends with the transparency of the veils themselves, en-abling redemption to emerge via the uninterrupted flow of divine light intothe world.


R. Dov Baer’s use of zimzum as the act that produces the veils (masakhim)in Lurianic cosmology exemplifies the notion that the very act that createschaos fosters redemption. Reading Scripture as the veiled, exiled God suc-ceeds in externalizing the latent redemptive power of the text by reading (andthus ordering) the veils that conceal the text’s true meaning. This process isactivated by transforming the written text to speech, connecting it to the cre-ation speech of the ten divine utterances of creation and finally to the silentutterance (ma’mar satum), which envelopes eyn sof itself. The presentation ofScripture as the result of zimzum sets the stage for the notion of sacred studyas a reenactment of zimzum, reversing the beginning in search of origin. Re-demption is thus not achieved by recovering “In the beginning”—it isachieved by overcoming it.

Conclusion

I have argued that the kabbalistic theory of zimzum extends far beyond atheosophic model used to answer the perennial question of creation in Jewishliterature. Zimzum presents us with a theory of creation that is simultaneouslya poetics of exile and a prescription for redemption. Focusing on the overar-ching correlation between humankind and God in the biblical image of beingcreated “in the image of God,” the rabbinic model of imitatio dei, and thetripartite covenental model of God, Torah, and Israel in the Zohar, post-Lurianic Kabbalists examined here transformed zimzum from a theory of thebirth of origins to a prescription of retrieving origins.166 This made human in-teraction with sacred literature through reading an act of imitatio dei, bettertranslated in this context as “replicating God’s originary act.” What is beingemulated is not God per se but God’s creativity, not in creating the world butin transforming Himself. God’s creativity resulted in His concealment (cre-ation); our emulation of that activity results in His liberation (redemption).A mystical reading of the Torah is reading the exilic God for the sake of re-deeming Him. Finally, zimzum became a corrective and completion of God’sself-imposed exile, correcting our misconception of finitude as distinct fromthe infinite, completing and thus reversing the concealment of the infinite inorder to “complete God’s perfection.”

When we speak of the notion of “beginning” in Kabbala we must con-sider the extent to which Lurianic Kabbala in particular is engaged in a par-ticular kind of defense of creation ex nihilo. The particular nature of this de-fense is that the miraculous and rationally indefensible claim that somethingcomes from nothing (yesh m’ayin) is not left unexamined as it was by apolo-getic philosophers like Saadia Gaon or Judah Ha-Levi, nor is it rendered the


most viable option for pragmatic reasons, as in Maimonides. As cosmologistsLurianic Kabbalists are interested in process more than doctrine. The “how”is far more interesting to them than the “what” or the “why.” Therefore, cre-ation ex nihilo is justified by creating the conditions for its possibility, that is,the transformation of God from eyn sof to Creator. In doing so, these Kab-balists give both Aristotle and Plato their due. Eyn Sof alone (Aristotle’s Un-moved mover, Plato’s Good) cannot create. It must be transformed into some-thing else, while remaining itself, in order to bring about something otherthan itself. This cannot imply any “real change” in God, as God’s perfectioncannot be compromised. Therefore, God’s infinitude becomes concealed toenable the finite to appear. This act, known as zimzum, is the substitution(Bloom) and reversal of eyn sof. The finite, concealed in potentia in eyn sof,now becomes the real, containing the infinite concealed within it.

Exile or beginning (they are essentially synonymous) is the result of thisprocess—it is the reversal of the perfect (eyn sof ) for the sake of perfection.The kabbalists argue that zimzum is the missing link in conventional (i.e.,rabbinic and philosophical) Jewish reflection on creation that prevents adeeper understanding. Implied in the kabbalistic argument is that cosmogonyis the “rationale,” as it were, for creation ex nihilo that can only be understoodor deciphered through its own esoteric tradition. Cosmogony, which may betranslated here as the science of origins, plays no role in the biblical narrative,which begins only at the beginning, without any overt interest in origins. Inthe kabbalistic imagination, beginning (Genesis 1:1) is already after-the-fact;it is a secondary stage that results from God’s willful severing of himself fromHimself. Beginning (creation) already dwells in the realm of divine exile andtherefore tells us little (or at least not enough) about what needs to be doneto redeem the world. Redemption implies an overcoming of beginning, anerasure that serves as the prerequisite for the retrieval of origins that paradox-ically lie buried in the exilic text of Scripture. In order to access these origins,which, when liberated will overcome and erase creation, the reader must repli-cate the originary act (zimzum) that gave birth to exile. This is the way theKabbalists understand Israel’s covenental responsibility—to undo and thuscomplete God’s work.

Notes

1. The term post-Lurianic Kabbala in this context refers to the European interpre-tations of Lurianic Kabbala, beginning with the Italian Renaissance in the sev-enteenth century and continuing with the Hasidic and Lithuanian traditions inthe late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The metaphorical rather than lit-eral understandings of zimzum began in the Renaissance with such Kabbalists


as R. Menahem Azaria da Fano and later R. Abraham Ha-Kohen Herrera. SeeNisim Yosha, Myth and Metaphor: Abraham Ha-Kohen Herrera’s Philosophic In-terpretation of Lurianic Kabbala [Heb.] (Jerusalem, 1994), 188–200. The threeKabbalists discussed in this study, R. Moshe Hayyim Luzatto, R. Yizhak IsikHaver Waldman, and R. Dov Baer Schneurson, are all influenced by thismetaphorical rendering of zimzum. See, for example, Tamar Ross, “Two Inter-pretations of Zimzum: R. Hayyim of Volozhin and R. Schneur Zalman ofLiady” [Heb.] Mekharei Yerushalayim (1982):152–69 and Joseph Ben Shlomo,“The Kabbala of the Ari in the Teachings of Rav Kook” [Heb.], MekhareiYerushalayim 10 (1992):449–57. On the more literal rendering of zimzum seeIsaiah Tishby, Torat Ha-Ra ve Ha-Kelippah b’Kabbalat Ha-Ari (Jerusalem: Mag-nus Press, 1984), 57–61, and idem. Netivei Ha-Minut (Jerusalem: MagnusPress, 1982), 25–29. Cf. Joseph Dan, “No Evil Descends from Heaven: Six-teenth Century Concepts of Evil,” in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century,ed. B. Cooperman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 89-105and S. G. Soham, Ha-Gesher ‘el Ha-Ayin (Tel Aviv, 1992). On the term “post-Lurianic Kabbalist” see R. J. Z. Werblowsky, “O Felix Capula: A CabbalisticVersion,” in ed. B. Stein, R. Loewe, Studies in Jewish Religious and IntellectualHistory Presented to Alexander Altmann on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday, (Al-abama: University of Alabama Press, 1979), 354–60.

2. For a history of the term ex nihilo, see David Winston and Jonathan Gold-stein, “The Origin of the Doctrine Ex-Nihilo,” Journal of Jewish Studies 35-2(Autumn, 1984):127–35.

3. A review of some of the basic positions and their arguments can be found inHasdai Crescas’ ‘Or Ha-Shem, Book III (Jerusalem, 1990), p. 264ff. Crescas,although he adopts the position of creation and rejects eternity, offers aunique position of “eternal creation,” which reflects Philo’s synthesis betweenGenesis and Plato’s Timeaus.

4. For an in-depth study of this problem in medieval Jewish philosophy, seeNorbert Samuelson, Judaism and the Doctrine of Creation (New York: Cam-bridge University Press, 1994) and Sara Klein-Breslavy, Perush Ha-Rambaml’Sippur Beriat Ha-‘Olam (Jerusalem, 1978).

5. For Sa’adia’s position see Herbert Davidson, Proofs for Eternity, Creation andthe Existence of God in Medieval Islamic and Jewish Philosophy (New York: Ox-ford University Press, 1987), 86–153 and Harry A. Wolfson, “The Meaningof Ex-Nihilo in the Church Fathers, Arabic and Hebrew Philosophy, and St.Thomas,” Medieval Studies in Honor of J. D. M. Ford (Cambridge, MA: Har-vard University Press, 1948), 355–70. The scholarship on Maimonides’ posi-tion on creation is extensive. For a summary see William Dunplay, “Mai-monides and Aquinas on Creation: A Critique of Their Historians,” GracefulReason: Essays in Ancient and Medieval Philosophy Presented to Joseph Owens(Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1983), 361–79.

6. See Aristotle, Physics I:8 and Metaphysics, Book 12.7. An example of this phenomenon can be found in R. Menahem Mendel

Schneurson’s (Temakh Tedek) Derekh Mitzvotekha (Brooklyn, 1993), 44b–46b.


Schneurson cites Nahmanides’ interpolation of Maimonides’ first positivecommandment in Sefer Ha-Mitzvot, which includes creation ex nihilo (whichis absent in Maimonides language). He takes it as obvious that Maimonidesbelieved creation ex nihilo was a true doctrine and then aligns his position tothe Zohar’s explicit statement of creation ex nihilo. Nahmanides’ commentcan be found in his gloss to Maimonides’ first negative commandment inSefer Ha-Mitzvot. On the relationship between Kabbala and philosophy ingeneral see my “Hasidism in Transition” (doctoral dissertation, Brandeis Uni-versity, 1994), 60-146. Cf. Eliezer Schweid, trans. David Avraham Weiner, Ju-daism and Mysticism According to Gershom Scholem, (Atlanta, GA: ScholarsPress, 1985), 117–32. R. Moses Cordovero devotes a great deal on the ques-tion of creation ex-nihilo. See his Pardes Rimonim (Jerusalem, 1962), p. 126ff;and Joseph Ben Shlomo Torat He-Elohut shel R. Moshe Cordovero (Jerusalem:Bialik Institute, 1986), 200–04.

8. See Nahmanides “Torat Ha-Shem Temimah,” in Kitvei Ramban, ed. C.Chavel (Jerusalem: Mosad He-Rav Kook, 1982), vol. 1, 156–60 and R. Yehu-dah Ha-Levi, Sefer Ha- Kuzari 4:26f. Ha-Levi was not really a defender of exnihilo but strove to disqualify Aristotle’s eternity argument. In fact, it appearsthat Ha-Levi leaned more toward a platonic understanding of creation, usingSefer Yezeriah as his traditional text. See Harry A. Wolfson, “The Platonic,Aristotelian and Stoic Theories of Creation in Ha-Levi and Maimonides,” inEssays in Honor of J. H. Hertz (London: Edward Goldston, 1952), 438ff. ForHa-Levi’s use of Sefer Yezeriah, see Kuzari 4:25 and David Kaufman, “R.Judah Ha-Levi and His Doctrine of a Primordial World” [Heb.], Mekharim beSifrut ‘Ivrit shel Yemei Ha-Benayim (Jerusalem, 1962), 208–11; and YohananSilman, Philosopher and Prophet: Judash Ha-Levi, the Kuzari, and the Evolutionof His Thought (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1995), 220–26.

9. A few exceptions are worth noting. Perush ‘al Ha-Sephirot, printed in R. MeirIbn Gabbai, Derekh Emunah (Warsaw, 1850), 3–9.

10. See Moshe Idel, “Platonism in the Middle Ages and Renaissance,” in LenGoodman ed., Neoplatonism and Jewish Thought (Albany, NY: SUNY Press,1992), 319–52, esp. 319–25, and Karl E. Grozinger, “Principle and aims inLurianic Cosmology” [Hebrew], in Mekharei Yerushalayim 10 (1992): 37–46.Renaissance Kabbalist R. Menahem Azaria da Fano suggested that zimzum isa necessary component of any kabbalistic theory of creation precisely for thisreason. See his Yonat ‘Elam, reprinted in Ma’amrei Ha-Ramah, vol. 1, chapter4 (Jerusalem,1997), 5a–6d.

11. See Maimonides Guide II: 25. Cf. Ha-Levi Kuzari 1:67. Both acknowledgethat Scripture does not give us proof either way. For Ha-Levi, the textual proofonly lies in Sefer Yezeria, which he attributed to Abraham. Maimonides inter-estingly presents Abraham as reaching the speculative conclusion of creationthrough philosophical inquiry. See Mishneh Torah, “Laws of Idolatry” 1:3. Yet inGuide II:25 he states that he has no philosophical proof for creation. In fact, inGuide II:14 he makes a very convincing case for eternity, which he claims (atthe beginning of II:15) is compelling but not demonstrative.


12. One interesting exception is the Vilna Gaon’s interpretation of the six days ofcreation in his commentary to Sefer Yezeria. In this short text, the Gaon uti-lizes the principles of Sefer Yezeria to offer a running commentary of the firstpart of Genesis 1. See, R. Elijah ben Shlomo Zalman (GRA), Likkutei Ha-GRA l’Sefer Yezeria in Perush ha-GRA l’ Sefer Yezeria (Warsaw, 1888),22b–25d. This text is printed in the back of standard editions to Sefer Yezeria(Jerusalem, 1988).

13. On the relationship between kabbalistic myths of creation and earlier Gnosticand Orphic traditions, see Yehuda Liebes, “The Kabbalistic Myth as Told byOrpheus” in Studies in Jewish Myth and Jewish Messianism, trans. Batya Stein(Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 65–92.

14. Moshe Idel has recently documented pre-Lurianic sources that speak ofzimzum. See his “On the Concept of Zimzum and its Research” [Hebrew], inMekharei Yerushalayim 10 (1992): 59–112. Cf. idem. Kabbala: New Perspec-tives (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 264–67. This concept was al-ready mentioned in passing by Scholem in Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism(New York: Schocker, 1961), 260–66; Kabbala (New York: Dorset Press,1974), 588-601; Reshit Ha-Kabbala (Jerusalem: Magnus Press, 1948), 150f;and The Kabbala in Gerona [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Akadamon, 1964), 286–91.Cf. Isaiah Tishby, Torat Ha-Ra ve Ha-Klippah b’Kabbalat Ha-Ari (Jerusalem:Magnus Press, 1984), 57–61, idem. Netive Emunat ve Minut (Jerusalem:Magnus Press, 1982), 25–29.

15. For a brief biographical sketch see Scholem, Kabbala, 420–28.16. This is clearly Scholem’s position. See Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New

York: Schocker Press, 1941), 251–58. Cf. Yehuda Liebes, “Myth verses Sym-bol in the Zohar and in Lurianic Kabbala” in Essential Papers on Kabbalah, ed.L. Fine, (New York: NYU Press, 1995), 212–42. Moshe Idel has recentlychallenged that assertion, arguing that Lurianic Kabbala was far less influen-tial than previously thought, see Idel, “One From a Town, Two From a Clan:A New Look at the Problem of the Diffusion of Lurianic Kabbala and Sab-bateanism” Jewish History 7 (1993):79–104 and idem. Hasidism: Between Ec-stasy and Magic (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1995), 33–42. Elliot Wolfson alsoargues for a more widespread influence of Lurianic Kabbala, even in the earlysixteenth century, before its dissemination in Italy and Eastern Europe. Seehis, “The Influence of Luria on the Shelah,” [Hebrew] in Mekharei Yerusha-layim 10 (1992): 423–48.

17. This distinction already appears in Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed II:14,(288, 289 in Shlomo Pines’ translation) “. . . if God, may His name be sub-lime, has produced the world in time after having its been nonexistent, Godmust have been an agent in potentia before He had created the world: andafter He had created it, He became an agent in actu. God had thereforepassed over from potentiality to actuality.” This is one of the methods used toaffirm the eternity of the world Maimonides rehearses in this chapter. Thespeculative interpretations of zimzum, which, to some degree, integrate cer-tain Maimonidean concepts, began in earnest among Renaissance Kabbalists.


See, for example, in R. Joseph Shlomo del Medigo, Novlot Hokhma, 49, andAbraham Ha-Kohen Herrera, Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim (Warsaw, 1864), Book 5;and G. Scholem, Avaraham Ha-Kohen Herrera—Ba’al Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim(Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1978), 38.

18. The translation of this term is problematic. Scholem prefers unendlich, whichis a literal translation. The Hebrew ‘bli takhlit (without telos) is similar. Eter-nal is another translation often used which has its own difficulties. Infinite isperhaps the best because it tells us the least and, in a sense, defines God bywhat he is not (in-finite, i.e., not-finite).

19. Yehudah Liebes notes that this formulation is Cordoverean rather than Luri-anic in nature and seems to be adopted by R. Shabbtai Sheftel to explain hisLurianic version of zimzum. See Liebes, “The Kabbalistic Myth as Told byOrpheus,” 86, 87, and note 79. This tripartite description also seems to re-flect the Aristotelian notion of God as “thought thinking itself,” which is reit-erated (and Judaized) in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah “Laws on the Founda-tion of the Torah.” See Aristotle, Metaphysics, Book 12.

20. R. Shabbtai Sheftel Horowitz, Shefa Tal (Jerusalem, 1971), 30a.21. See Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality (New York: Waveland Press, 1998), chap-

ters 2 and 3, and C. Long, Alpha: The Myth of Creation (Chico, CA: ScholarsPress, 1983). The distinction between origin and beginning is discussedbriefly in Michael Fishbane’s Text and Texture: Close Readings of Selected Bibli-cal Texts (New York: Schocken Press, 1979), 1–39.

22. Biblical theologians are not as convinced as traditional readers with the cen-trality of Genesis 1 as the foundation of biblical reflection on creation. JonLevenson, for example, argues that Genesis 1 is a latter stage in biblical reflec-tion on creation, one that had all but erased the more ancient notions of pre-existent creatures such as the Leviathan, depicted in Psalm 104. See his Cre-ation and the Persistence of Evil (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988),53–65.

23. Mishna Avot 5:1, which describes the ten utterances of God in creation, is areading of Genesis 1. The number ten comes from the ten times the phrase“And He said” appears. Sefer Yezeriah reads this differently in its description ofthe 32 paths of wisdom, comprised of the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabetand the 10 numbers. The number 32 is also the numerical value of the lettersBet and Lamed, the first and last letters of the Pentateuch.

24. This is the topic of an early Kabbalitsic treatise on this issue. See R. Azriel ofGerona’s Perush ‘al Eser Sephirot, printed in the beginning of R. Meir IbnGabbai’s Derekh Emunah, pp. 1a/4d. The language of essence and existence(mahut and meziut) is originally Platonic (Timeaus) and becomes the nomen-clature of most theosophic kabbalistic discourse.

25. A collection of these midrashic reflections is compiled in Genesis Raba, Chap-ter 1. Some of these midrashic comments speak about “creation before cre-ation” (Genesis Raba, 1:4). Many begin exegetically, “Why is the world cre-ated with the letter beit” (1:10). None, to my knowledge, speak about thenature or movement of God before creation.


26. My translation of tekhilat ha-kol as “before everything” is based on the factthat our text intentionally does not use the standard phrase b’reshit ha-kol,reshit referring to the biblical term b’reshit (in the beginning). I would suggestthat the term tekhilat ha-kol is used precisely to indicate origin rather thancreation, which is illustrated though the word reshit.

27. The translation of receptacle for avir panui (lit. empty light) is taken fromPlato’s Timeaus, which posits a receptacle of pattern of the Divine, that pre-cedes creation. The space or halal brought about via zimzum becomes the re-ceptacle (ne’ezal) of the Emanator (ma’azil).

28. The use of the adjective pashut (lit. simple, without differentiation) to defineboth God’s light and Will before creation is significant. This term distin-guishes between created will, which always wills a thing and divine Will,which wills no thing other than itself. In Aristotelian terminology razonpashut is will willing itself. This phrase is telling when used in the context ofeyn sof. The kabbalistic eyn sof is a notion close to Aristotle’s notion of the un-moved mover (Metaphysics, Book 12, Physics, Book 8) except that Aristotle’sGod, being perfect, can have no will. The Kabbalists, living in the ideationalworld of the Bible, must construct a God who wills, as will is the operatingprinciple of covenant. Most Lurianic Kabbalists, except those like R. MosheHayyim Luzzato who are more philosophically oriented, do not reflect on thenotion of their radically transcendent God who wills creation. For example,see R. Moshe Hayyim Luzatto, 138 Paths of Wisdom (KLAH Pithei Hokhma),(Bnei Brak: Gitler Bros. Books, 1992), 58ff. and his essay “Perush l’Arimityadei b’Zlotav” in Ginzei Ramhal, (Bnei Brak: Gitler Bros. Books, 1984), 227.In those texts, it is interesting that Ramhal often substitutes the word koah(potential) for razon (will). See Luzzato, KLAH Pithei Hokhma, no. 24, 59.“The Lofty Will (razon ha-elyon), which is eyn sof, blessed be He, includes in-finite potential.” It is noteworthy that Luzzato here identifies eyn sof as Willitself. God as eyn sof/ Infinite does not have Will, He is Will! Cf. KLAH, no.26, 69, “Therefore, reshimu [the remnant of divine light after zimzum] is thelimited potential that emerges from infinite potential. In it [reshimu] the razonha-elyon [Infinite Will] becomes apparent...”

29. It is significant that Vital uses the phrase “emanate emanations” instead ofusing creation language. This could be translated as “the becoming of being.”The same is true of his description of God as Lofty Emanator, which may betranslated as “Unemanated emanantor.”

30. Vital offers a standard midrashic understanding of the “why” of creation. Itake this as a throwaway statement. That is, Vital is not really interested in thequestion and has nothing new to say about it. He preempts his reader’s inter-est by offering the standard rabbinic explanation beginning with “as is wellknown . . .” and then he quickly moves on to his main point, which is, whathappens in/to God to make Him a creator. Cf. Vital’s Adam Yashar (r.p.Jerusalem: Yeshivat Ahavat-Shalom, 1994), 1a–2a. In this later text Vital of-fers a more elaborate discussion of what he determines as “reasons for the cre-ation,” representing rabbinic midrashic material.


31. R. Hayyim Vital, ‘Ozrot Hayyim, (Jerusalem, 2000), 1. For a Hasidic readingof a similar text that attempts to understand the nature of divine will in refer-ence to eyn sof see R. Zvi Hirsch Eichenstein of Zhidachov (1763–1831), Zurme Rah ve Aseh Tov, (Pest, 1942), 107.

32. Contrast this with the opening of the Zohar 1.16a, which uses the term Resh(from rosh, rishon, be’reshit) to inaugurate its reading of creation.

33. See Adam Yashar, 2b. The GRA seems to adopt and even extend this creationlanguage. He states, “The notion of zimzum is at the time of the creation.When it went up in God’s Will to create the world . . .” See GRA, ‘Asara Ke-lalim, printed in Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA (Jerusalem: Kerem Elijah, 1991),129. Even though R. Menahem Mendel of Sklov, a disciple of the GRA,likely wrote the text it generally reflects the GRA’s kabbalistic system.

34. Cf. Vital, Mevo Shearim 1, “Here [in discussing zimzum] I will expound uponwhat precedes emanation, which resulted in the ten sephirot. . . ”

35. Note in the three exegetical Lurianic texts, Sefer Ha-Likkutei, Sha’ar Ha-Pe-sukim and Likkutei Torah, the discussion of Genesis 1:1 largely relies on theZohar’s description and contains no discussion of zimzum whatsoever.

36. The notion of a second zimzum in Lurianic Kabbala suggests interesting par-allels to the second coming of Christ in Christianity. To my knowledge nostudy has explored these similarities, even as Lurianic Kabbala was influentialin the development of Christian Kabbala in the early modern period.

37. See Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragedy, J. Osborne trans. (Lon-don: Verso Books, 1977), originally published as Ursprung des deutschenTrauerspiels, appearing in Benjamin, Gesammelte Schriften I, 1 (1974).

38. Ibid., 46.39. The notion of finite perfection in defining the sephirot originates in R. Azreil of

Gerona’s Perush ‘al Eser Sephirot, one of the first systematic presentations of thesephirot as divine potencies. This most widely read edition of this short mono-graph is the edition published at the beginning of R. Meir Ibn Gabbai’s DerekhEmunah (Warsaw, 1850), 3–9. A translation of the entire text into English canbe found in The Early Kabbala, Ron Keiner, Joseph Dan, eds. (New York:Paulist Press, 1986), 89–96. Joseph Dan states, “The sephirot are stages in thecreation process which preceded the creation itself, which prepared the existencefor ‘let there be light,’ the actual beginning of creation.” See also The AncientJewish Mysticism (Tel Aviv: MOD Press, 1993), 208. Yet, the sephirot, even asthey are divine, are created and therefore finite, as opposed to eyn sof, which isinfinite.

40. R. Hayyim Vital stressed the voluntary nature of zimzum, but an earlier ver-sion of the doctrine preserved by R. Joseph Ibn Tabul suggests that its volun-tary status is not uncontested. See I. Tishby, Torat ha-Ra ve Ha-Kelippah(Jerusalem: Magnus Press, 1963), 56-61. Cf. Yehudah Liebes, “The Kabbalis-tic Myth as Told by Orpheus,” 87.

41. See, for example, R. Isaiah Horowitz’s Shnei Lukhot Ha-Brit (Jerusalem,1993), Parshat Balak, vol. 5, 80b, “The curse (referring to Balaam’s curse inNumbers 22) which is the destruction is itself the blessing. This is necessary



for the purposes of purification at which point the light which will emergewill be loftier than what it was before [destruction]. . .

42. Ibid., 96.43. Richard Wolin, Walter Benjamin: An Aesthetic of Redemption, (Berkeley, CA:

University of California Press, 1994), 97. For a more detailed discussion ofthis Wolin suggests that Benjamin’s notion of origin comes from his readingof Scholem’s kabbalistic essays where origin is presented as that which “repre-sents an original condition of harmony and perfection, which is subsequentlysquandered, yet ultimately recaptured. . . ”

44. See Benjamin, “Nachtrage zum Trauerspielbuch,” in Gesammelte Schriften 1(3): 953-955 cited in Wolin, ibid., 97, and Handelman ibid., 125.

45. The volitional as opposed to necessary nature of zimzum is stressed by Cor-dovero yet remains somewhat problematic in Luria’s writings. For Cordovero’sposition see ‘Or Yakar, vol. 4, 107. See Berakha Zak, Sha’arei Ha- Kabbala shelR. Moshe Cordovero (Jerusalem: Ben Gurion University Press, 1996), 77. Cf.I. Tishby, Torat ha-Ra ve Ha-Kelippah, 56-61. Cf. Yehudah Liebes, “The Kab-balistic Myth as Told by Orpheus,” 87.

46. Therefore, as David Novak has noted, the Kabbala is almost devoid of anytheory of natural law. See, David Novak, Judaism and Natural Law, (Cam-bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 145.

47. This is complicated by the fact that Kabbalists see the world as divine or atleast containing some element of divine essence. However, the divinity of theworld is often framed by distinguishing between God’s essential nature (eynsof ) and his relational nature (torat ha-sephirot).

48. The redemptive character of kabbalistic reading has a long history, becominga central motif of the Zohar. See Yehuda Leibes, “R. Shimon bar Yohai: Mes-siah of the Zohar,” in idem., Studies in the Zohar (Albany, NY: SUNY Press,1993), esp. 48–55. For a recent study on this phenomenon in Lurianic andpost-Lurianic Kabbala see Boaz Huss, “The Anthological Interpretation: TheEmergence of Anthologies of Zohar Commentaries in the Seventeenth Cen-tury,” Prooftexts 19 (1999):1–19, esp. 6–9.

49. On this see Scholem, On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead, (New York:Schocken Press, 1991), 182-196. On the mourning of the Shekhina see my“Conjugal Union, Mourning and Talmud Torah in R. Isaac Luria’s TikkunHazot,” in Da’at 36 (1996):xvii-xlv and Moshe Idel, Messianic Mystics (NewHaven: Yale University Press, 1998), 308–20.

50. On restoration subsuming history see Benjamin, The Origin, 45-46 andWolin, Walter Benjamin, 96-97. On revealing the esoteric as the culminationof the reading of Scripture see my, “From Theosophy to Midrash: LurianicExegesis and the Garden of Eden,” AJS Review 22-1 (1977):37–75.

51. Harold Bloom correctly comments on the curious absence of any substantiveliterature on the “literary motives of the Kabbalists.” See, Bloom, Kabbala andCriticism (New York: Continuum, 1993), 71. In this essay I attempt to viewhow the cosmological phenomenon of zimzum is used by the Kabbalists as atrope of sacred reading or reading redemptively.

52. See Karl Jaspers, “The Creation of the World,” in idem., trans. E.B. Ashton,Philosophy and the World: Selected Essays (Washington, D.C.: Gateway Edi-tions, 1963), 132, “Once the ‘before’ is fully, completely clear, there is noneed for an ’afterward’ to clarify it. We would no longer be living in the pos-sibilities of our situation; we would command a view of it, would have con-trol over it, and thus would have terminated it. Knowing our beginnings, wewould be at the end of our humanity.”

53. Ibid.54. Emile Fackenheim, God’s Presence in History (New York: HarperCollins,

1970), 38.55. See Antione Faivre, Access to Western Esotericism (Albany, NY: SUNY, 1994),

3-48. Cf. Daniel Matt, “‘New-Ancient Words’: The Aura of Secrecy in theZohar,” Gershom Scholem’s Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism: 50 Years After, ed.P. Schafer (Tubingen: Mohr, 1993), 181–207.

56. Paul Riceour, From Text to Action: Essays in Hermeneutics II (Evanston, IL:Northwestern University Press, 1991), 95, 96.

57. See Moshe Halamish, “Silence in Kabbala and Hasidism,” [Heb.], in Da’at ve-Safah (1982):79–89.

58. For an overview of how this notion serves as a central motif of Jewish identity, seeArnold Eisen, Galut (Bloomington, IN: University of Indiana Press, 1986), 3-58.

59. David Roskies, The Jewish Search for a Usable Past (Bloomington, IN: Univer-sity of Indiana Press, 1999), 43.

60. The necessity of exile as purification is developed systematically by Nah-manides in his Sefer Ha-Geula. See ed. C. Chavel, Kitvei Ramban, vol. 1(Jerusalem: Mosad Ha-Rav Kook, 1973), 261-275. Building on the temporalnature of collective exile in rabbinic literature, philosophic and kabbalisticviews of redemption focus on return and restoration respectively. See ShalomRosenberg, “The Return to the Garden of Eden: Thoughts on the Idea ofRestorative Redemption in Medieval Jewish Philosophy” [Heb.], The Mes-sianic Idea in Jewish Thought: A Study Conference in Honor of the 80th Birthdayof Gershom Scholem, ed. S. Re’em (Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of the Hu-manities, 1982), 37–86. The necessity of exile is used by Nahmanides in apolemical manner in his argument against the viability of the Christian mes-sianic claim because it argues for a notion of the premessianic Messiah. SeeNahmanides, Sefer Ge’ulah, Book 3, in Kitvei Ramban, 281–95.

61. On the relationship of the expulsion to the sixteenth-century notion ofzimzum, see relevant texts in Scholem and Idel’s equivocation in “One From aTown, Two From a Clan: A New Look at the Problem of the Diffusion ofLurianic Kabbala and Sabbateanism,” Jewish History 7, (1993):79–104.

62. KLAH Pithei Hokhma, no. 24, 60.63. Rabbi Joseph Baer Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, trans. Lawrence Kaplan,

(Philadelphia: JPS, 1983), 49.64. I do think that Soloveitchik deeply understood the problematic nature of radi-

cal transcendence and opted for a more mystical definition of God. See WalterWuzberger, “Imitatio Dei in the Philosophy of R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik,” in


Hazon Nahum, Y. Elman, J.S. Gurock, eds. (New York: Yeshiva UniversityPress, 1997), 557–75. Wurzberger argues that Soloveitchik rejects the Mai-monidean notion of God and adopts the mystically influenced God idea in R.Hayyim of Volozhin’s Nefesh Ha-Hayyim.

65. See Moshe Idel, “Maimonides and Kabbala” in Studies in Maimonides, ed. I.Twersky (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 31-82 and my“Maimonides and Kabbala,” in Hasidism in Transition [dissertation, BrandeisUniversity, 1994], 147–200.

66. In this sense I agree with Scholem that the Lurianic myth corresponds to thecultural and spiritual breakdown of the Spanish exile. See Scholem, MajorTrends, 248–59, idem., “After the Spanish Expulsion,” [Heb.] in Devarim b’Go1, (Jerusalem: ‘Am Oved, 1976), 262-269. Cf. I. Tishby, Messianism in theTime of the Expulsion from Spain and Portugal [Heb.] (Jerusalem: Merkaz Za-lach Shazar, 1985) and Moshe Idel’s critique of the Scholemanean position inMessianic Mystics, 169–75, esp. 179–82.

67. See R. Moses Cordovero, ‘Or Ne’erav, (r.p. Jerusalem: ‘Ohr Hadash, 1999),Part II, 17–19.

68. The notion that creation was an act of love also appears in Soloveitchik’s writ-ings. On this David Hartman notes, “The creation of an imperfect universewas an act of love, since it enabled the human species to undertake the task ofperfecting that which God brought into being in an imperfect and incompleteform.” See David Hartman, A Living Covenant (r.p Woodstock, VT: JewishLights, 1997), 66.

69. Conjugal and parental love are arguably the two dominant themes of theLurianic system. Piety (love of God) is an outgrowth of these two naturalhuman tendencies. On zimzum as the genesis of love see R. Moshe Cor-dovero, Pardes Rimonim (Jerusalem; Ha-Hayyim ve Ha-Shalom Press, 1972),Gate 3, Chapter 4, 12b. On zimzum in Cordovero, see Brakha Zak, “R.Moshe Cordovero’s Doctrine of Zimzum” [Heb.] Tarbiz 58 (1989):207–38and idem., Sha’arei Ha-Kabbala shel R. Moshe Cordovero, (Jerusalem: Ben Gu-rion University Press, 1995), 57–82.

70. See Zohar 3.193b and R. Hayyim Vital’s gloss, ad loc. Liebes, “Eros and theZohar,” ‘Alpayim 9 (1994):67–110. Cf. Wolfson in Speculum and in Circle inthe Square where he challenges Liebes on the status of masculine verses femi-nine and the temporality of the feminine as the result of exile.

71. This is succinctly captured by the German Romantic philosopher FriedrichSchelling, (whose use of zimzum is well known) when he said “God makesHimself.” Friedrich Schelling, ed. K. F. A. Schelling, Sammtlich Werke (Stug-gart: Augsburg, 1855-1861): 7–432. On this, see Christoph Schulte,“Zimzum in the Works of Schelling,” Iyyun 41 (1992):21–40.

72. See Sefer Yezeriah 1:1. For an explanation of these three concepts and its usein subsequent Kabbala see Aryeh Kaplan, Sefer Yezeria: The Book of Creation(York Beach, Maine: Samuel Weller Books, 1990), 19–22. The use of theseterms in interpreting later sixteenth-century Kabbala was a chief contributionof Rabbi Elijah, the Gaon of Vilna. See his Biur Ha-GRA l’Sifra d’Zniuta in


Sifra d’Zniuta im Perush Ha-GRA ve Yadid Nefesh (Jerusalem, 1995), 1. Cf.Joseph Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, esp. 32–74.

73. This “pattern” consists of the reshimu or remnant of divine light that remainsin the inner divine space after zimzum.

74. Mishna Avot 5:1; B. Talmud Haggigah 12a; Avot de Rebbe Natan, chapter31.

75. For some examples of ma’amar satum in post-Lurianic Kabbala, see R. ShnuerZalman of Liady, Torah ‘Or (Brooklyn: Kehot Press, 1975), 91b/c; R. Nah-man of Bratslav, Likkutei MoHaRan I:12; R. Nathan of Nemerov, LikkuteiHalakhot, vol. 3, “Laws of Rosh Ha-Shana” no. 6:1, 2 and idem. vol. 5, “Lawsof Honoring One’s Parents,” 4:1. Cf. R. Yizhak Isik Yehudah Safrin of Ko-marno, Nozer Hesed (Jerusalem, 1982), 80, 81.

76. The importance of the visualization of the text (reading) is already present inmidrash, although it becomes prominent later in Kabbala. See Daniel Bo-yarin, “The Eye of Torah: Occular Desire in Midrashic Hermeneutics,” Criti-cal Inquiry 16 (1990):532–50 and M. Lieb, The Visionary Mode: BiblicalProphecy, Hermeneutics, and Cultural Change (Ithica: Cornell University Press,1991), 8ff. On the notion of a seen text in Kabbala see E. R. WolfsonThrough a Speculum That Shines (Princeton: Princeton University Press,1994), 53ff, “It may be said that the way of seeing in simultaneously a way ofreading.”

77. See Morris Faierstein, “God’s Need for the Mitzvot in Medieval Kabbala,”Conservative Judaism 36 (1982):45-59; and Daniel Matt, “The Mystic and theMitzvot,” in Jewish Spirituality I, Arthur Green ed. (New York: CrossroadsBooks, 1986), 367–404.

78. On the identity of God, Torah, Israel see Zohar 3.73a/b.79. The necessity of exile (or creation) in Lurianic Kabbala is complex. David

Biale, for example, argues that Lurianic Kabbala contains a strong “undercur-rent of determinism” even as he admits that R. Hayyim Vital incorporates themedieval notion of divine Will into his description. Biale is correct thatLuria’s unwillingness to espouse a more simple model of creation ex nihilobased on divine Will alone, lends itself to a determinist reading. See DavidBiale, “Jewish Mysticism in the Sixteenth Century,” in An Introduction to theMedieval Mystics of Europe, ed. Paul E. Szarmach, (Albany, NY: SUNY Press,1984), 322–24.

80. Genesis Raba 1:6. Cf. Leviticus Raba 36:4 and Rashi on Genesis I:1 ad loc.81. Martin Buber, “The Faith of Judaism” in Mamre—Essays in Religion (Green-

port, CT: Greenwood Press, 1970), 218.82. This may be one way of understanding the distinction between Lurianic and

post-Lurianic Kabbala. The post-Lurianic Kabbalists, which included Renais-sance Kabbalists, certain Lithuanian Kabbalists, and Hasidic masters, used Luri-anic metaphysics as a foundation for devotional, ethical, or humanistic ends.

83. See, for example, R. Nahman of Bratslav, Likkutei MoHaRan II:5. 84. See Nisim Yosha, Myth and Metaphor, 205, 206, and Alexander Altmann,

“Notes on the Development of the Kabbalistic Thinking of R. Menahem


Azaria da Fano,” [Heb.], in Mekharim b’Kabbala: Presented to Isaiah Tishby,eds. Joseph Dan and Joseph Hacker, (Jerusalem, 1986), 241–67.

85. Edward Said, Beginnings: Intention and Method (New York: Columbia Univer-sity Press, 1975), 34. Said, commenting on Erik Erikson’s reading of Freud’sMoses and Monotheism, suggests that beginning is a movement that by its verynature creates a new authority (in Foucault’s words, a discontinuity). Althoughall beginnings, according to Said, create new boundaries, they never let go ofthe past completely, building on a remnant of the past. This notion of a rem-nant of the past has a kabbalistic correlate in the notion of reshimu, the rem-nant of divine light in the vacuum created as a result of divine absence.

86. On this see Yehudah Liebes, “Myth verses Symbol in the Zohar and in Luri-anic Kabbala,” in Essential Papers on Kabbalah, ed. L. Fine, (New York: NYUPress, 1995), 212–242; and Shaul Magid “From Theosophy to Midrash: TheLurianic Reading of the Garden of Eden,” AJS Review Spring/Summer(1997):37–75.

87. In the Lurianic tradition, recitation or reading without understanding takeson special significance. As we will see, both in Lithuanian Kabbala (Haver)and Hasidism (Schneersohn) understanding plays an essential role in the re-demptive nature of kabbalistic reading. On Luria’s position see Lawrence Fine,“Recitation of Mishna as a Vehicle for Mystical Inspiration: A ContemplativeTechnique Taught by Hayyim Vital,” Revue des estudes juives 1–2(1982):183–98.

88. Harold Bloom, Kabbala and Criticism, 41. For the zoharic source of “breakingof the vessels” see Zohar 2.42b.This may have been drawn from the rabbinicmidrash Genesis Raba 12:15. See Liebes, “The Kabbalistic Myth as Told byOrpheus,” 85.

89. It is true that Luria’s system exhibits a Gnosticism rarely found in medieval Kab-bala, which was dominated by Neoplatonism. It is therefore not surprising thatBloom, through Scholem, should find a strong affinity for Luria and later Shab-batai Zevi. However, I would argue that even Luria’s most Gnostic readings arestill refracted through the Neoplatonic prism of the Zohar and thus maintain astrong Neoplatonic foundation. See I. Tishby, “Gnostic Doctrines in 16th Cen-tury Jewish Mysticism,” Journal of Jewish Studies 6 (1955):146–52.

90. See Paul Ricoeur, Interpretaion Theory: Discourse and the Surplus of Meaning(Fort Worth, Texas: Texas Christian University Press, 1976), 25–44, esp. 43,44. Cf. idem, “The Hermeneutical Function of Distantiation” PhilosophyToday 17–2 (Summer, 1973):129–41.

91. On this see E.R. Wolfson, “Occultation of the Feminine and the Body of Se-crecy in the Medieval Kabbala” in Rending the Veil: Concealment and Secrecy inthe History of Religions, ed. E.R. Wolfson, (Chappaqua, NY: Seven BridgesPress, 1999), esp. 113–24. This is implied in R. Horowitz’s statement in ShefaTal, 31b, “. . . it was necessary to create worlds below Azilut that would bedistant from Godliness in order that they should reveal God’s power, greatnessand action. This [distance] would increase God’s power, greatness and action.”This implies that the concealment of God results in the revelation of his in-


fluence. Cf. Joseph Ben Shlomo, Torat Ha-Elohut shel R. Moshe Cordovero[Heb.] (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1986), 95–100.

92. For an interesting description of nistar in Hasidism that reflects this idea see R.Kolonymous Kalman Shapiro of Piasceno, Derekh Ha-Melekh (Jerusalem,1991), vol. 2, 180. “What is esotericism (sitrei torah)? It is the “hidden God” (‘elmistater). God is hidden in the Torah in the realm of divine commandments.The Torah is called ‘commandment’ (pikudei) from the language of deposit(pikadon). This means that God is deposited and hidden in the Torah.”

93. See Gershom Scholem, “The Name of God and Linguistic Theory in Kab-bala,” Diogenes 79 (1972):164–94. Cf., Moshe Idel, “Reification of Languagein Jewish Mysticism,” in Steven Katz ed. Mysticism and Language (New York,London: Oxford University Press, 1992), 3–41. The kabbalistic correlation oflanguage and creation is based on Sefer Yezeriah, where language becomes thetool of divine creativity. On this see A. P. Hyman, “The Doctrine of Creationin Sefer Yezeriah: Some Text-Critical Problems,” in Studies in Religious Philoso-phy and Mysticism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1969), 129ff.

94. See ‘Esara Kelalim # 8, (attributed to the Vilna Gaon) printed for the firsttime in Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 138, 139.

95. See GRA’s commentary to Sifra d’Zniuta ‘im perush yadid nefesh (Petah Tikva,1995), 1.

96. For a useful introduction to this phenomenon in English see Aryeh Kaplan,Sefer Yezeriah: The Book of Creation, 19–22.

97. See Sifra di-Zniuta ‘im Perush ha-GRA (Petah Tikva, 1995), 1.98. Ibid., and Tikkunei Zohar ve Tikkunim Hadash ‘im Perush Ha-GRA (Vilna,

1867), 156a. See Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 32–33. Cf. Sifra di-Zniuta ‘im Pe-rush Ha-GRA, 14c/d, and Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 49. Cf. the GRA’s ‘EsaraKelalim, reprinted in Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 126–27.

99. Elliot R. Wolfson, “From Sealed Book to Open Text: Time, Memory andNarrativity in Kabbalistic Hermeneutics,” in Interpreting Judaism in a Post-modern Age, ed. Steve Kepnes, (New York: NYU Press, 1996), 145–75. Cf.GRA, ‘Esara Kelalim, # 2 in Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 126, 127.

100. In theosophic terms, this represents the world of rupture called ‘Olam Ha-Nikudim (lit. the world of points). The mapping of the descent of divinesparks to the nether world constitutes the second part of the tripartitecosmos: The World of Boundedness (‘Olam Ha-Akudim), the World ofPoints (‘Olam Ha-Nikudim), and the World of Repair (‘Olam Ha-Berudim).Linguistically, the middle world represents the movement from silent letters(unvowelled to speech. See GRA ‘Esara Kelalim # 8 in Avivi Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 138, 139.

101. On this see E. R. Wolfson, “From Sealed Book,” n. 50, 59. Cf. R. HayyimVital Etz Hayyim, “Drush Iggulim ve Yoshar,” Gate 1, 11d; R. Moshe HayyimLuzzato (Ramhal) Da’at Tevunot 9:10; idem. Sefer Ha-Kelalim no. 100, 249;and “Esarah ‘Orot” in Ginzei Ramhal, ed. R. Hayyim Friedlander (Bnei Brak:Gitler Bros. Books, 1984), 307. Cf idem. KLAH Pithei Hokhma no. 24, 61,“Zimzum is not only concealment alone but also existence. Limitlessness is


concealed but existence is established. This is the root of judgment (din)which is revealed.”

102. See Yehuda Liebes, “Myth vs. Symbol in the Zohar and Lurianic Kabbala,” Es-sential Papers in Kabbala, L. Fine, ed. (New York: NYU Press, 1995), 212–42.

103. See Mordecai Pachter, “Circles and Lines: The History of an Idea” [Hebrew],Da’at 18 (1987):59-90, and idem., “Clarifying the Terms Katnut and Gadlutin the Kabbala of the Ari and a History of its Understanding in Hasidism”[Heb.], Mekharei Yerushalayim 10 (1992):171–200.

104. On this see R. Moshe Cordovero, ‘Or Yakar, vol. 4, 125, to Zohar 1.77b. Onthe rabbinic use of the term see Dalia Heshen, “Torat Ha-Zimzum and theTeachings of R. Akiva: Kabbala and Midrash” [Heb.], Da’at 34 (1995):33–60.

105. See Gershom Scholem, Kabbala, 131. Cf. R. Shabbtai Sheftel Horowitz, ShefaTal, 31b.

106. The notion of reshimu is not new in Lurianic Kabbala but comes from Zohar3.72, among other places. Cf. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism,246ff, and I. Tishby, Torat Ha-Ra ve Ha-Kelippah, 22-28. Reshimu plays a pro-nounced role in Luzzato’s kabbalistic system. See Rivka Shatz-Uffenheimer,“The Metaphysics of Ramhal in an Ethical Context,” [Heb.], Shlomo Pines Ju-bilee Volume, Part II (Jerusalem: Magnus Press, 1990), 365–70.

107. There is a direct correlation between the creation of nature and the humanbody in Kabbala. One of the more striking examples of this can be found inthe GRA’s commentary to the creation story in Genesis 1 in Likkutei Ha-GRAl’Sefer Yezeriah, Sefer Yezeriah (r.p. Brooklyn, 1989), 24a–25d.

108. In fact, one can say that exile includes redemption. In the mind of the Zoharthe world to come is not some future moment but exists in the present. ’OlamHa-Bah is defined as “the world that is coming, constantly, without stopping.”See Zohar 3.290b.

109. See Scholem, “The Concept of Kavannah in Early Kabbala” A. Jospe ed., Stud-ies in Jewish Thought (Detroit, Mich.: Wayne State University Press, 1981),162-180, and Mark Verman, “The Development of Yihudim in Spanish Kab-bala” Mekharei Yerushalayim 8 (1989): 25-40. In Luria’s tradition see LawrenceFine, “The Contemplative Practice of Yihudim in Lurianic Kabbala,” JewishSpirituality II, ed. A. Green, (New York: Crossroads Press, 1987), 64–98.

110. See Paul Riceour, Text and Action, 110–13.111. On the transmission of Luria’s teachings in Italy see J. Avivi, “Lurianic Kab-

bala in Italy Before 1600” [Hebrew], ‘Aley Sefer 11 (1984): 134–91. On theinfluence of Herrera on Luzatto see R. Shatz -Uffenheimer, “The Metaphysicsof Ramhal,” 365–70. For a broader discussion on the influences on Ramhalsee S. Ginzburg, Letters and Documents—R. Moses Hayyim Luzatto and HisGeneration [Heb.], (Tel Aviv, 1937).

112. See, for example, in I. Tishby, “The Relationship of R. Moshe HayyimLuzatto to Sabbateanism” and “The Impact of R. Moshe Hayyim Luzatto toHasidism” [both in Hebrew] in Hikrei Kabbala u Shalukhoteha, Volume III(Jerusalem: Magnus Press, 1993), 756–79, 961–94.


113. On the metaphorical interpretation of Kabbala in Habad see Moshe Hala-mish, “The Doctrine of R. Shneur Zalman of Liady and Its Relationship toKabbala and the Beginning of Hasidism” [Hebrew] (dissertation, HebrewUniversity, Jerusalem, 1976), esp. 95–106; Yoram Jacobson, “The Doctrine ofCreation of R. Shneur Zalman of Liady,” [Hebrew] Eshel Be’er Sheva 1 (BeerSheva, Israel, 1976): 316–31; and Tamar Ross, “Two Interpretations of theDoctrine of Zimzum: R. Hayyim of Volozhin and R. Shneur Zalman ofLiady,” [Hebrew] Mekharei Yerushalayim 1-2 (1982): 153–69.

114. Ramhal deals with the purpose of creation in many of his writings. 138 Paths toWisdom (KLAH Pithei Hokhma) is from the third period of Ramhal’s writing. Itwas written in 1732 and published in Warsaw in 1888. Ramhal’s opinions onthese matters change slightly in each of his major works. My treatment will belimited primarily to KLAH. For a survey of his position on creation in all of hiswritings, see Joseph Avivi, “The Purpose of Creation in Ramhal’s Writings”[Hebrew] Ma’ayan 25 (1985): 1-18. Scholem suggested that the nonliteral un-derstanding of zimzum began in the Italian Renaissance when Lurianic Kabbalainterfaced with Renaissance philosophy. See Scholem, Kabbala, 131.

115. On this see Nisim Yosha, Myth and Metaphor [Hebrew], 190-192. Yosha ar-gues that zimzum as the volitional act of God rather than the catastrophicmyth of the earlier Lurianic teaching begins with Herrera’s synthesis of Luri-anic and Cordoveren ideas. Cf. Ramhal’s stance on this in KLAH # 30, 90.On Cordovero’s influence on Ramhal, see Ginzberg, R. Moses Hayyim Luzattoand His Generation, 102.

116. See Ramhal, Hoker ‘u Mekubal (Jerusalem, n.d.), 16a/b. Cf. Shatz-Uffen-heimer, “Ramhal’s Metaphysics,” 379.

117. This itself is not new. See Perush Eser Sephirot shel R. Azreil, printed in R.Meir Ibn Gabbai’s Derekh Emunah, 2b.

118. This is similar to R. Moshe Cordovero in ‘Or Yakar to Sifra d’Zniuta cited inBoaz Huss, “Tefisat ‘Or Ganuz b’Sefer Ketem Paz l’R Shimon Lavi,” inMekharei Yerushalayim 10 (1992): 349.

119. It seems that the midrashic statement “there is no King without a people” re-ferring to God and Israel underlies Ramhal’s suggestion that creation was nec-essary to fulfill God’s infinite nature.

120. It is significant that Altmann uses the birth metaphor in his description ofHerrera’s understanding of zimzum. See Altmann, “Lurianic Kabbala in a Pla-tonic Key: Abraham Cohen Herrera’s Puerta del Cielo,” in Jewish Thought inthe Seventeenth Century, I Twersky and B. Septimus, eds. (Cambridge, MA:Harvard University Press, 1987), 36. “The emanation as such was but thepassive recipient of the divine power, not perfecting anything but being itselfperfected, not giving but receiving, like a pregnant woman giving birth byvirtue of the infinite power of Eyn Sof.” Cf. R. Zvi Hirsch Eichenstein, Zurme Ra ve ‘Aseh Tov, 106. R. Zvi Hirsch understood this by differentiating be-tween eyn sof and divine Will. Divine Will (sometimes referred to as Keter) iscreated, and it is the first condition of creation and the first result of zimzum.


On this, see Dov Schwartz, “R. Zvi Hirsch of Zhidachov—Between Kabbalaand Hasidism” [Heb.], Sinai 102 (1988): 241–50.

121. R. Abraham Ha-Kohen Herrera, Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim, (Warsaw, 1864), BookThree, cited in Shatz-Uffenheimer, “Ramhal’s Metaphysics,” 366, n. 11. It isimportant to note that the kabbalistic view of eyn sof, while it shares a greatdeal with Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, is an entity that has a will. Ramhal,who in my mind was aware of the apparent similitude between eyn sof and theUnmoved Mover stressed the volitional nature of eyn sof by emphasizing anearlier kabbalistic notion that Keter (crown), the first manifestation of God increation, is called razon (Will). See his KLAH, 59, “For the Lofty Will (ha-razon ha-elyon), which is eyn sof. . . ” The need for the Infinite to have a willemerges from the biblical notion of God as a relational partner of Israel, rela-tion (covenant) as necessitating volition.

122. For a rendering of this, that reflects Luzzato’s reading, see R. Yizhak IsikHaver, Magen ve Zina (Bnei Brak: Nezah Books, 1985), 17a.

123. Daniel Matt, “Ayin: The Concept of Nothingness in Jewish Mysticism,” inThe Problem of Pure Consciousness, Robert K. C. Forman (New York: OxfordUniversity Press, 1990), 121–59.

124. See Zohar Ha-Rakiya, 23a, and KLAH # 26, 66-72. Cf. S. Ginzburg, ed., Ig-grot Ramhal u B’nei Doro, (Tel Aviv, 1937), Letter # 4, and Kinat Ha-Shem Zi-va’ot in Ginzei Ramhal¸ ed. R. Hayyim Friedlander, (Bnei Brak: Gitler Bros.Books, 1980), 89. Cf. Luzzato, Hoker u M’Kubal, 19d.

125. See also R. Joseph Igras Shomer Emunim Ha-Kadmon (Vilna, 1882), 38bf. 126. In one of the early systematic attempts to understand creation, this “leap”

from the infinite to the finite remains a mystery. See Azriel of Gerona’s Perush‘al Eser Sephirot, printed in the beginning of R. Meir Ibn Gabbai’s DerekhEmunah, 1a/4d.

127. For both Herrera and Ramhal, ayin (nothing or no-thingness) is not eyn sofbut the by-product of eyn sof. It is already a part of creation. See Luzzato,Hoker u Mekubal, 16. On the notion that kav ha-yashar is the confinement ofthe infinite God see R. Yizhak Isik Haver Waldman, Pithei Shearim (Tel Aviv:Sinai Publishing, 1989), “Netive Ha-Zimzum,” 7b/8a.

128. In the words of R. Shimon Lavi, “With its [divinity’s] concealment, all indi-vidual existence was created.” See Lavi, Ketem Paz (Jerusalem, 1981), 1:124ccited in Matt, “New Ancient-Words,” 187.

129. KLAH #’s 25, 27. Cf. Avivi, “The Purpose of Creation,” 5, 6.130. For both Luzzato and Haver ayin (no-thing-ness) is not eyn sof but the prod-

uct of eyn sof in the finite world. See Luzzato, Hoker u Mekubal, 16, andHaver, Pithei Shearim, “Netive Ha-Zimzum 13,” 7b/8a.

131. KLAH # 30, 94, 95. 132. See Etz Hayyim, “Drush Iggulim ve Yosher,” 11d, Zohar Ha-Rakiya, 23c, and

KLAH # 30. In Luzzato’s second period of literary activity, which includesKLAH Pithei Hokhma, Pithei Hokhma ve Da’at, and Vikuah Mar Yenukah veMar Kashisha, he adopts Vital’s basic stance adding his own ethical reading.See Avivi, “The Purpose of Creation,” 115, 16. Cf. Yosha, Myth and


Metaphor, 188–206, and Alexander Altmann, “Lurianic Kabbala in a PlatonicKey: Abraham Cohen Herera’s Puerta del Cielo,” in Jewish Thought in the Sev-enteenth Century, ed. I. Twersky and B. Septimus, (Cambridge, Mass.: Har-vard University Press, 1987), 1–39.

133. See Rivka Shatz-Uffenheimer, “The Metaphysics of Ramhal in an Ethical Con-text,” [Heb.] 365-370 Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought 9 (1990): 361–97.

134. This type of mystical reading is particularly true of the Lurianic Kabbalists,who pay little attention to the plain-sense meaning (peshat) and formulatetheir reading in opposition to peshat. See my “From Theosophy to Midrash:Lurianic Exegesis and the Garden of Eden,” AJS Review 22/1 (1977): 37–75.The Zohar’s relationship to peshat is more complicated. See Elliot R. Wolfson,“Beautiful Maiden Without Eyes: Peshat and Sod in Zoharic Hermeneutics,”in The Midrashic Imagination, ed. Michael Fishbane, (Albany, NY: SUNYPress, 1993), 155–204, and Yehudah Liebes, “Myth and Symbol in the Zoharand Lurianic Kabbala,” in Essential Papers in Kabbala, ed. Lawrence Fine,(New York: NYU Press, 1995), 212-242.

135. Zohar 1.100b.136. Almost no scholarly work has been done on Haver. For a biographical intro-

duction see R. Hayyim Friedlander’s preface to Haver’s Magen ve Zina (BneiBrak: Nezach Press, 1985), 3–33. A slightly revised version of this introduc-tion can be found in Haver’s Sefer Ha-Zemanim (Jerusalem, 1994), 1–13.

137. As a student of the GRA (via R. Menahem Mendel of Sklov) Haver’s Kabbalais largely drawn from the Ramhal’s writings.

138. This sermon was first published in R. Joshua Alter Waldman’s ‘Amek Yehoshua(Warsaw, 1913), reprinted in ‘Ozrot R. Yizhak Isik Haver (Jerusalem, 1990).

139. This is explicit in the GRA’s understanding of creation. See ‘Esara Kelalim,reprinted in Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 125. “It was God’s Will to create finitecreatures in order that the human being should have free-will and choosegood [over evil]. . . Therefore, he had to limit His own Will in order that itwould be finite. This is the beginning of existence—the concealment of divineWill. This is the secret of zimzum—that God limit His Will in order for it tobe possible for creation to receive goodness even though they are limited andfinite.” Cf. Haver, Pithei Shearim, 3a, “It is said among Kabbalists and ex-plained in the writings of the Rav [GRA] that the purpose of the zimzum andcreation is the existence of free-will.” The correlation between zimuzm andfree-will plays a role in Cordovero’s understanding as well. See Pardes Ri-monim, Gate 3, Chapter 4, 12b.

140. On the GRA’s use of these terms see Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 32–36.141. See Tikkunei Zohar, Introduction, 4d. This is also strikingly similar to

Descartes’ comment in Rules for the Direction of the Mind, “For the humanbeing has in it something that we may call divine, wherein are scattered the firstgems of useful modes of thought.” See Descartes, Philosophical Works, trans. E.S.Haldane and G.R.T. Ross (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1931),1:10.

142. Haver, “Drush l’Shabbat Shuva,” 3b/4a.


143. This is strikingly similar to Franz Rosenzweig’s description of human language(revelation) as the unfolding of God’s language (creation). For Rosenzweig,human speech is revelation as it completes creation by keeping it alive as a dayto day renewal of God’s creation. See Rosenzweig, Star of Redemption, trans.William Hallo (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame Press, 1970), 111f, andJoseph Turner, “Franz Rosenzweig’s Interpretation of the Creation Narrative,”Jewish Journal of Thought and Philosophy 4-1 (1994): 28, 29, and n. 23.

144. On the perspectivity argument in the Kabbala of R. Hayyim Volozhin, a dis-ciple of the GRA, see Tamar Ross, “Shnei Perushim le-Torat Ha-Zimzum: R.Hayyim of Volozhin ve-R. Shneur Zalman mi-Liady,” Jerusalem Studies inJewish Thought 2 (1982): 153–69, and my “Deconstructing the Mystical: TheA-Mystical Kabbalism in R. Hayyim of Volozhin’s Nefesh Ha-Hayyim,” Journalof Jewish Thought and Philosophy, 9 (1999): 21–67.

145. Pithei Shearim, 3b/4a.146. See Haver, Magen ve Zina, 17a. “Everything we are speaking about in terms of

the supernal worlds, zimzum, and sephirot. . . are all from our perspective—thatwhich God revealed to us according to our understanding. From God’s perspec-tive, however, He remains the true One, both before and after creation.”

147. Haver, “Drush l’Shabbat Shuva,” 3b.148. Ibid., 2a. On bozina d’kardenuta as the first existent, see Zohar 1.15a, Cf.

Zohar 1.16b 3.135b.149. This is apparently based on Psalms 109:22, My heart is empty within Me (libi

hallel b’kirbi). A strikingly similar formulation can be found in R. Nahman ofBratslav’s Likkutei MoHaRan I:8. For R. Nahman, however, it is the primalscream and not knowledge attained through study that brings light into thedark empty recesses of the human heart. On R. Nahman’s warning against thedependency of knowledge in general, see Likkutei MoHaRan II: 12, 19d.

150. Haver, “Drush l’Shabbat Shuva,” 3b, in the gloss Beit Netivot. 151. This reflects a similar attitude in the GRA. See GRA Biur l’Mishle (Petah

Tikva, 1985) 4:2, 6:20 and 19:9. Cf. Biur Tikkunei Zohar Hadash (Vilna,1866), 19c. Cf. Avivi, Kabbalat Ha-GRA, 54, 55.

152. The inclusion of recitation as part of the mystical depiction of talmud torahhas been treated by Lawrence Fine, “Recitation of Mishna as a Vehicle forMystical Inspiration: A Contemplative Technique Taught by Hayyim Vital,”Revue des estudes juives 1-2 (1982):183-198. This model has also been adoptedby early Hasidism. See Joseph Weiss, “Torah Study in Early Hasidism,” inidem. Studies in Eastern European Jewish Mysticism (New York/London: Ox-ford Univeristy Press), 56–68; and Norman Lamm, Torah Lishma: Torah forTorah’s Sake (New Jersey: Ktav Press), 102–37. The Lithuanian mystical tradi-tion, devoted to the GRA’s understanding of Torah study, was reluctant to in-corporate recitation as an adequate model for study. See, R. Hayyim ofVolozhin Nefesh Ha-Hayyim, Gate Four, Chapters 11–29.

153. Cordovero formulated the notion of zimzum as the catalyst for human appre-hension earlier. On this see Brakha Zak, Sha’arei Ha-Kabbalal shel R, Moshe


Cordovero, 68. For a source in Luria on zimzum and human apprehension, seeMeir Benayahu, Toldot Ha-Ari (Jerusalem, 1967), 164.

154. On R. Dov Baer see, Rachel Elior, The Doctrine of the Divine in the SecondGeneration of Habad Hasidism [Heb.], (Jerusalem: Magnus Press, 1982).Moshe Rosman, in Founder of Hasidism (Berkeley, CA: University of Califor-nia Press, 1996), 187–211 offers an interesting analysis of the controversy ofthe leadership of the second generation of Habad between R. Dov Baer andR. Aaron Ha-Levi of Staroselye.

155. See Vital, ‘Ozrot Hayyim, 16d-18b, “Sha’ar Ha-Kelalim,” Chapter 2 in EtzHayyim, 8d-9b.

156. The word is a play on the Hebrew root M-S-SK, The feminine form of the verbmasakhot means “to veil,” while the masculine form, masakhim, is “to mask.” R.Dov Baer, following the Lurianic tradition, utilizes the masculine form of theverb in describing divine veils that separate one cosmic realm from the next.

157. See Etz Hayyim, “Drush ABY”A”, Gate 42, Chapter 14, 92dff.158. Cf. R. Abraham David of Posquieres’ commentary to Sefer Yezeriah, Pri

Yizhak, ad. loc. 159. R. Dov Baer Schneurson of Lubavitch, “Sha’ar Ha-Yihud” in Ner Mitzvah ve

Torah ‘Or (Brooklyn: Kehot Press, 1979), 37b–38a.160. On this see N. Loewenthal, Communicating the Infinite (Chicago: University of

Chicago Press, 1990), 156. The notion that zimzum creates darkness, whichprevents clarity of vision, appears in certain Geronese kabbalistic thinkers suchas Nahmanides and Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov. On this, see Scholem, Ha-Kab-bala b’Gerona (Jerusalem: Akadamon Press, 1964), 289, 290; idem. Kabbala,129; and Idel’s comment in “On Zimzum in Kabbala and its Research,” 68, 69.

161. See Zohar 2.224b, “Just as eyn sof is concealed, so too all words of Torah areconcealed.”

162. On God’s writing before speaking, see E. R. Wolfson, “From Sealed Book toOpen Text,” 147–51.

163. Although there is midrashic precedent for the notion of Torah as the blue-print of creation, only in Sefer Yezeriah is this idea developed and expanded.See Genesis Raba 1:1, “God gazed into the Torah and created the world.” Cf.Zohar 2.161a/b, 2.34b. Zohar 2.151b states that God looked at the “letters”and created the world. Zohar 3.239a states that God gazed at the form of“the holy Malkhut” and created the world.

164. Mishna Pe’ah 1:1, Talmud Shabbat 127a.165. The recognition of this danger is shared by the GRA as well. See his Biur

l’Mishle, 24:31, “Torah to the soul is like rain to the earth. It can produceboth beneficial and poisonous produce. Therefore, regarding Torah, afterstudy one must extract the extraneous matter [of study] through fear ofheaven and acts of kindness.” For a discussion on this, see Hillel Ben-Sasson,“The Personality of the GRA and his Influence on History” [Hebrew], Zion(1966): 60. Cf. Zohar 1:102a and 3.144b on the punishment for revealing se-crets. Michael Fishbane has recently developed what he has called “exegetical


spirituality,” which reflects some of the kabbalistic ideas discussed here. SeeFishbane, The Exegetical Imagination (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UnviersityPress, 1998), esp. 105–122. Cf. Daniel Matt, “New-Ancient Words,” 186,187.

166. See Zohar 3.73a/b.


chapter 8

Cyclical Motions and the Force of Repetition in the Thought of Franz Rosenzweig

Zachary Braiterman

Explaining his decision to join the propaganda division of the Zionist Con-gress, Martin Buber wrote to his wife Paula: “Of the various choices offered me,I have chosen the Propaganda Committee, because that is what I love: commu-nicating movement (Bewegung mitteilen).”1 This particular devotion to a politi-cal movement (on the one hand) dovetailed with a love for spiritual movement(on the other). Writing back, Paula denounced the bourgeois spirit for levelingdifference. Consciously echoing Nietzsche’s critique of Schopenhauer, she in-toned, “[D]ivergencies, movement, life. We don’t want to sleep. O you hob-bling, you lazy, you used-up people!”2 I cite this exchange because it formed partof a broader European sensibility. The work of the Italian Futurist UmbertoBoccioni, Marcel Duchamp’s famous Nude Descending a Staircase, WassilyKandinsky’s ghostly horsemen all reflected a keen postromantic interest inmovement.3 So too the aesthetic driving Franz Rosenzweig’s philosophical re-flections. Indeed, our example from the Buber correspondence indicates howthe temporal structure of movement organized modern “religious” thought inthe early twentieth century. Viewed from this perspective, the key words to un-derstanding religious life and thought are rhythm, alteration, stasis, rest.4

To my mind, Rosenzweig’s The Star of Redemption evokes the modern turntoward motion far more clearly than Buber’s own magnum opus. The degreeto which movement characterized Buber’s mature thought was confined to theoscillation between the schematized poles of the I-Thou and the I-It. By turn-

ing to the motif of movement in Rosenzweig’s system, I mean to make moreof a point made by Stéphane Mosès. According to Mosès, Rosenzweig has“eternity” refer to static, motionless time.5 Ironically, however, the immobi-lization of time depends upon a particular type of motion. As Mosès observes,the “movement” that creates “stasis” in Rosenzweig’s system is circular.6 Build-ing upon this paradoxical relationship between movement and stasis showsthe following. Circular motion generates epiphanies in which time stops deadas eternity breaks into the temporal order. At the same time, this very samecircular motion brings the person back from what would be an otherwise pre-mature climax and back into the prosaic cycles of everyday life.

In an anthology devoted to the theme of beginning, I want to argue that“repetition” defines Rosenzweig’s understanding of Jewish life. This takes theform of two overarching cycles: [1] The ritual calendar (discussed throughoutpart III of The Star of Redemption) constitutes the most obvious cycle. Thecalendar continuously ends, begins anew, and as such repeats itself. Thisrepetitive rhythm is said to both reflect and generate eternity within a this-worldly temporal framework. By eternity, Rosenzweig means that which is“wholly alive,” the transition of momentary existence into something endur-ing, the durability of the world that takes place beneath constantly momen-tary existence.7 The experience (the event) of eternity in this-world is the sta-tic effect created by the whirring hum of a ritual calendar cycle. A circularfigure (Gestalt) of eternity, the calendar endures through and in spite of lineartime and historical change. Again and again, we will see Rosenzweig attend-ing not just to the ideational content of each particular ritual, but to the for-mal structure of repetition that defines the cycle as such. [2] The second cycledriving The Star of Redemption has been less recognized in the scholarly liter-ature. We will call it “existential,” but with one caveat: this cycle points be-yond temporal existence. Rosenzweig begins his text by describing the humancreature’s terror before death. He ends the text alluding to the “kiss” of God(i.e., returning to the figure of death). I call this cycle “existential” because itcharts the soul’s movement from the fear of death, into unredeemed terrestriallife, and back again to death.8

The stasis of repetitive motion should not lead one to overlook the cre-ative force of repetition. The recurring movement of the ritual and existentialcycles does not indicate identity; it does not signify the monotonous repeti-tion of the same. As this argument unfolds, I will turn to the writings ofJacques Derrida and Soren Kierkegaard. These theorists elucidate the powerof repetitive motion to introduce difference, to effect change, and to trans-form existence and consciousness. In Rosenzweig’s text, religious thoughtclearly picks up where it began: at a new year, at the encounter with death.


But the cyclical process will have transfigured both. In the first case, repeti-tion includes new moments and generates affective flux. In the second case,the force of repetition proves more radical. By the end of the text, Rosenzweighas rendered death practically unrecognizable. Repetition turns the fear of itinto ecstatic embrace. In both cases, the experience of love is the force of rep-etition. Revelation and redemption are figures of love that power the holiday’scyclical form. Love redeems the human soul from the fear of “creaturelydeath” by pointing it to “redeeming death.”9

The Holiday Cycle: The Force of Repetition, Eternity in Time

In the Kuzari, Judah Halevi claims that the servant of God does not detachhimself [sic] from the world, does not hate life. And yet, Halevi makes thisclaim only insofar as this-world prepares the servant for life in the-world-to-come. The cyclical movement of the Jewish calendar provides the servant ofGod the structure with which to accomplish that end. The systematic intro-duction of holiday-moments into the yearly cycle nourishes the human soul.It offers the servant regular opportunities to free itself from worldly matters,youth, women, and wicked people.10 This understanding of the holidayshares a great deal with Rosenzweig’s. Both Halevi and Rosenzweig point tothe calendar’s cyclicality, the way in which holiday-points recur throughoutthe year on an even, repetitive basis. Moreover, both accounts (Halevi’s ex-plicitly and Rosenzweig’s implicitly) link the holiday cycle with the contem-plation of death and eternal life.

I have noted elsewhere that Yom Kippur and the figure of death representhighpoints in Rosenzweig’s discussion of the ritual cycle.11 Indeed, Yom Kip-pur serves to dramatize the interplay between death, love, and life at its high-est pitch. With the beloved soul standing alone before God on the Day ofJudgment, the holiday cycle has reached its crescendo. In Rosenzweig’s de-scription,

On the Days of Awe . . . [the soul] confronts the eyes of his judge in utterloneliness, as if he were dead in the midst of life . . . beyond the grave inthe very fullness of living . . . God lifts up his countenance to this unitedand lonely pleading of men in their shrouds . . . And so man to whom thedivine countenance is lifted bursts out into the exultant profession: the‘Lord is God:’ this God of love, he alone is God!12

Yom Kippur represents the jubilant soul’s last confident cry at the apex of theholiday year.13

cyclical motions and the force of repetition 2 1 7


Following this climax, Rosenzweig briefly returns to the holiday ofSukkot. In his description of the holiday cycle, the observance of Sukkot doesnot merely follow Yom Kippur. The line between the two holidays forms acircular pattern, not a linear one. Rosenzweig concedes, “. . . it is difficult toimagine that a way can lead back from here into the circuit of the year.”14 Inother words, the soul has reached a highpoint, but must now return to every-day life. Referring back to Yom Kippur, he continues,

To neutralize the foretaste of eternity, the Feast of Booths reinstates the real-ity of time. Thus the circuit of the year can recommence, for only withinthis circuit are we allowed to conjure eternity up into time.15

Mosès has already noted the melancholy that attends the transition betweenYom Kippur and Sukkot. In turn, I would link this shift in mood to repeti-tion. Rosenzweig describes the transition between Yom Kippur and Sukkotwith the words “reinstate,” “recommence,” and “circuit.” This language sug-gests a return to the beginning of a cycle that has just concluded. From theapex of Yom Kippur anticipating death, the ritual cycle has forced the belovedsoul back into ephemeral life, back into daily, unredeemed existence.16

This melancholic repetition concludes the section of Part III, Book One,entitled “The Holy People: The Jewish Year” by bringing us back into the cir-cuit of the year. Having anticipated the goal within this-world, having “con-jured” (beschworen) eternity within a temporal framework, the soul returns tounredeemed, historical existence. Having finished his discussion of the holi-day structure, Rosenzweig turns to “Messianic Politics.” He begins this unitby reflecting back on the calendar. “It was the circuit of a people. In it, thepeople was at its goal and knew it was at the goal.”17 Rosenzweig’s languagemakes clear that the experience of eternity occurs within a repeating cycle.However, this cycle does not stand still or move backward. It moves forward,like the motion of a bicycle or automobile wheel, but with one crucial differ-ence. The riders of bicycles and the drivers of automobiles propel themselves.In contrast, calendar time is pulled forward (like astronauts by tractor beamsin low-budget science fiction films). Explaining the forward pull of repetition,Rosenzweig writes, “The future is the driving power in the circuit of its year.Its rotation originates, so to speak, not in a thrust, but in a pull.”18

Rosenzweig rejects the notion of linear time held out by the proponentsof historicism and progress. The year circles forward, but within its own pre-scribed ambit: [1] from empirical life and unredeemed existence to [2] spiri-tual apex and back to [3] empirical life and unredeemed existence. Yom Kip-


pur had signified nothing less than the people’s dramatic foretaste of redemp-tion, eternity within time: a moment of perfect stasis where time stops stillbefore the face of God at the anticipated border of life and death. One mighthave thought that Rosenzweig’s discussion of the holiday cycle might haveended at such a consummate moment. But we have just seen that it doesn’t.The discussion shifts from Yom Kippur to Sukkot. This movement suggeststhat the calendar resumes its cycle instead of ending at a climax.

By what power then does the year repeat itself? According to Rosenzweig,the consciousness that redemption is nevertheless not yet gives the year thepower to repeat itself and (and in the process link itself into the linear chainof historical time). Rosenzweig must proceed cautiously here. On one hand,he has to acknowledge that this-world remains unredeemed; therefore thecycle must repeat itself. On the other hand, he must insist that this circularmovement does not represent historical growth (i.e., development, progress,change). Since (as Rosenzweig also insists) the Jewish people is eternal, it mustalways already have reached or anticipated its goal in time.19 The image of thecircle allows him to have it both ways: the cycle moves on (and as such ispulled into the forward moving flow of unredeemed time); at the same time,the circle moves according to its own predetermined trajectory, returningagain and again to the consummate moment epitomized by Yom Kippur.

This shift from the highpoint of Yom Kippur to the mundane realia sym-bolized by Sukkot does not represent the first and only such transition betweenclimax and anti-climax in Rosenzweig’s system. A similar transition had alreadymarked the passage from part II to part III of The Star of Redemption. Part IIconstituted the formal and thematic heart of the program, including chapterson creation and revelation and concluding with redemption. This final chapterof part II had ended on the same high note with which Rosenzweig concludeshis discussion of the ritual calendar in part III. Like Yom Kippur, redemptionrepresents a consummate figure. Rosenzweig has redemption symbolized by thecommunity’s chorus welling into an immense vision of a universal, fraternalWe. This chorus drags all future eternity into the present now of the moment.Rosenzweig proclaims “The We are eternal: Death plunges into the Nought inthe face of this triumphal shout of eternity. Life becomes immortal in redemp-tion’s eternal hymn of praise.”20 As we will see in the third section of this chap-ter, these words represent the penultimate confidence of the redemption chap-ter. For now, it is enough to note the lyric force of this climactic moment.

The question that I want to address here concerns the composition ofRosenzweig’s text. It would have seemed that he could have stopped at anynumber of consummate moments. His description of the ritual cycle might


have ended with Yom Kippur. The entire Star of Redemption might have endedat the high point of Redemption. We ask once again: why then does Rosen-zweig repeatedly bring us to and then bring us back from these climatic highpoints? The answer reflects time and timing. We noted above that the calen-dar cycle repeats itself because this-world remains unredeemed. Eternal life isplanted in temporality.21 In other words, eternity must occur in time, withinthe temporal and social structures that Rosenzweig will discuss in part III.22

Ultimately, this planting of eternity within time has to do with timing. Hav-ing concluded part II invoking the apex of redemption, Rosenzweig resumeshis discourse in part III on a more sober note. In the introduction to part III,he reflects on how one must time the coercion of the “kingdom.” The king-dom (the “visible representation of what is experienced only in the soul’s holyof holies,” the “reciprocal union of the soul with all the world”) represents amessianic figure of redemption.23 By messianic, Rosenzweig means a this-worldly end. The kingdom grows step by step as the beloved soul turns in loveto redeem the social world through love. Rosenzweig vigorously rejects thepath of the fanatic who would leap to this end point without taking the inter-mediary step of turning toward one’s neighbor.24

Rosenzweig situates himself between the fanatic and Goethe. This too re-quires proper timing. Like so many other German intellectuals, Rosenzweighas Goethe stand as the purest symbol of this-worldly living.25 Against the fa-natic and with Goethe, Rosenzweig acknowledges the importance of tempo-rality and temporal life. Rosenzweig explains, “Life, and all life, must first be-come wholly temporal, wholly alive before it can become eternal.” But thenhe adds, “An accelerating force must be added to it.”26 How fast is too fastand how slow is too slow? To be sure, the fanatic proceeds too quickly towardthe end. However, Goethe does not move fast enough; he lingers. The belovedsoul’s prayer must therefore supplement, must quicken, Goethe’s unbelievinghumanism. The believer “supplements the nonbeliever’s devotion to puretemporal life into a plea for eternal life.”27 As such, the repetition of the litur-gical cycle (and the prayers it includes) accelerates the person’s motion towardthe anticipation of eternity in time and toward eternal life.

The beloved soul seeks to anticipate eternity today, an infinite Now thatwould not perish. And yet, Rosenzweig recognizes that within the flow of timeeternal moments remain especially fleeting. How then make a transient mo-ment imperishable? The answer depends on a cyclical notion of sacred time:“The moment which we seek must begin again at the very moment that it van-ishes; it must recommence in its own disappearance; its perishing must at thesame time be a reissuing.” The hour represents such a symbol of eternity.


Because it is stationary, the hour can already contain within itself the mul-tiplicity of old and new, the fullness of moments. Its end can merge backinto its beginning because it has a middle, indeed many middle momentsbetween its beginning and its end. With beginning, middle, and end it canbecome that which the mere sequence of individual and every new mo-ment never can: a circle returning in upon itself. In itself it can now be fullof moments and yet ever equal to itself again . . . This recommencement,however, would not be possible for the hour if it were merely a sequence ofmoments—such as it indeed is in its middle. It is possible only because thehour has beginning and end.28

As Robert Gibbs notes, the experience of eternity in time is the effect of ahuman institution.29 The hour does not occur in “nature”—by which Rosen-zweig here means an interminable succession of moments organized roughlyby solar and lunar cycles. The hour contains an end and a beginning markedby human artifice, the ringing of a clock. Having once struck, the hourrecommences, exactly like the one that had just ended. “In the hour, then,one moment is re-created, whenever and if ever it were to perish, into some-thing newly issued and thus imperishable, into a nunc stans, into eternity.”30

The Kingdom, the incursion of eternity into time, unfolds in its ownproper time through temporal structure, through the repeating motion ofhuman institutions: the hour and (more importantly for Rosenzweig’s discus-sion) the calendrical cycle of cultic prayer and gesture. The introduction topart III of The Star of Redemption (with its discussion of hour, week, and year)sets the reader up for the descriptions of Jewish and Christian congregationallife that follow. For Rosenzweig, the soul senses earthly eternity within thehuman community.31 The human institution of the week (and here Rosen-zweig already has Shabbat in mind) is a law for the cultivation of the earthlaid down by human beings. At the same time, it holds a higher significance:

It is meant to regulate the service of the earth, the work of “culture,” rhyth-mically, and thus to mirror, in miniature, the eternal, in which beginningand end come together, by means of the ever repeated present, the imper-ishable by means of the Today.32

Rosenzweig’s description of the week segues seamlessly into cult. Here he fi-nally shows how the hour and the calendar’s repetitive movement effects eter-nity in time. Rosenzweig goes on to say that “The cycles of the cultic prayerare repeated every day, every week, every year, and in this repetition faith

turns the moment into an ‘hour,’ it prepares time to accept eternity, and eter-nity, by finding acceptance in time, itself becomes—like time.”33 For Rosen-zweig, the calendar’s most important characteristic is its repetition. As arhythmically repeating structure it is always there. As an enduring figure, itboth reflects and generates eternity in time.

The Holiday Cycle: Repetition and Difference

To all intents and purposes, Rosenzweig ignored historical difference in TheStar of Redemption. Yet surely, he must have known that the calendar does not“simply” repeat itself. With the passing of time, new observances, newprayers, new gestures, new ideas filter into and change the calendar year. Theahistorical quality of Rosenzweig’s thought therefore constitutes a majorweakness. However, I would argue against his critics that repetition (and thestasis that it effects) does not preclude historical change and nova.34 While theritual cycle effects repetition, the ultimate collapse of beginning and end, itdoes not ignore new moments in the middle. We have already quoted Rosen-zweig’s discussion of the hour: “In itself it can now be full of moments andyet ever equal to itself again.”35 By “full of moments,” Rosenzweig includesnew moments. That is, the hour is “equal to itself ” in as much as it retains itsformal identity with every other hour. But that formal structure containsmany moments, many new and variegated contents. We again requote Rosen-zweig’s statement that, “the hour can already contain within itself the multi-plicity of old and new, the fullness of moments.”36 In our view, these “newmoments” complicate, even if they do not confound, the critique of Rosen-zweig’s ahistoricism.

Rosenzweig’s critics have overlooked a fundamental distinction between“formal” identity and variable “content.” In fact, this conceptual contrastmight have helped them isolate an irreducible tension in Rosenzweig’s dis-cussion of repetition that terms such as “stasis” otherwise obfuscate. The hourserves as a paradigm for the ritual calendar. Like the hour, the calendar isstructured by formal repetition and variable content. To be sure, Rosenzweigdescribes Sabbath and holidays in terms of an even steady flow that underliesthe year. However, this does not mean that he has overlooked the “surge ofjoy and sorrow, of anguish and bliss that the feasts bring with them.” Thesteady flow of Sabbaths throughout the year does not stand over against thissurge in order to contain it. Rather, this even flow constitutes the very condi-tion of possibility that generates “these whirlpools of the soul.” Both Sabbathand Creation are “renewed throughout the year, week after week the same,and yet week after week different, because of the difference in the weekly


[Torah] portions.”37 As such, the formal repetition of Sabbaths has intro-duced the variables of affective flux and textual succession into the year.

These comments do not in themselves dispel doubts regarding the ahis-torical quality of Rosenzweig’s system. Unfortunately, the tension betweenrepetition and variation and its relationship to ritual remain largely under-stated in The Star of Redemption. However, Rosenzweig’s treatment of thistension proves more explicit in the afterword to his Judah Halevi translation.At the very end of this essay, most famous for its theory of translation, Rosen-zweig has the following to say about liturgical prayer. Returning to the themeof the holiday year, he describes how:

In the recurrence [the words of the liturgical poem] are the variable, butbecause . . . they are bound nevertheless to recurrence, they are necessarilyforced into a certain similarity. That is not conspicuous as long as theystand in their natural relationship to application; [i.e.,] the different poems. . . were then divided by a . . . full year full of events in the life of the syna-gogue. Repetitions were not experienced as such, or, as far they are experi-enced, it is entirely in order. For this recurrence in the year is after all theessence of the festival. As in the final analysis, repetition is altogether the greatform which man has for expressing what is entirely true for him. In thesepoems one can find the always renewed words of humility and devotion, ofdespair and trust in redemption, of world-aversion and longing for God. . . That [the heart] does not become tired of saying anew this always Oneagain and again testifies to [the poem’s] enduring power. In the mouth ofthe lover the word of love never becomes old . . . ”38

This explicit passage from the Judah Halevi commentary helps interpret theimplicit tension between repetition and variation in part III of The Star of Re-demption. Rosenzweig recognized the changes that the passage of a year in-troduces into the meaning of a liturgical poem. Yet the very fact that the read-ing of the poem repeats itself allows the poem to maintain a loose identityover against time. The “great form” of repetition allows the heart to expresscontinuously the contradictions that are most true to it (i.e., despair andtrust, aversion and longing). These contents and their expression, preciselybecause they are subjective and contradictory, vary over time.

Rosenzweig’s short treatise Understanding the Sick and the Healthy con-tains the theoretical foundation for understanding liturgical repetition anddifference. In this text, Rosenzweig sets out to debunk essentialist notions ofidentity. Taking as his example a stick of butter, Rosenzweig rejects any at-tempt to locate any single, substantive essence underlying the surface varia-



tions in taste and texture that subsist between it and any other stick of butter.No underlying essence (no “butter in itself,” no “idea of butter”) makes thebutter that I eat today identical with the butter that I remember from yester-day. In Rosenzweig’s words, “The butter remembered, the butter desired, andthe butter finally bought, are not the same.”39 The only link between all thepossible varieties of butter is the word (the name) “butter.” In other words,human beings maintain the identity of butter over time through repetition:through the formal repetition of a name.

The same theory holds true for personal identity. Rosenzweig recognizesthat a person’s identity shifts over time. John proposing marriage today is notthe same person who receives his lover’s consent or rejection. The lover whoaccepts or rejects his offer has also changed since it was proffered. Since “timemust elapse, the answer is unavoidably given by another person than the onewho was asked, and it is given to one who has changed since he asked it.” Bywhat right then do people marry? How can one know that one’s partner willremain the same through time? According to Rosenzweig,

the lovers dare not deny, not even Romeo and Juliet, that changes, involv-ing both of them, will inevitably take place. Nevertheless they do not hesi-tate . . . They cling to the unchangeable. What is the unchangeable? Unbi-ased reflection reveals once more that it is only a name.40

At the further reaches of philosophical inquiry, the vagaries of temporalchange cast personal identity into considerable doubt. In the name of healthyunderstanding, Rosenzweig calms his readers, “as soon as the ‘person’ becomes‘John’—well defined by his name—the doubt disappears.”41 Building uponRosenzweig’s analysis, we might add: as surely as a circular motion defines theholiday form, the repetition of a name establishes the identity of a person orthing.

This is not to say that single names exhaust the identity of a person orthing. First, Rosenzweig recognizes the point made by Saussure that the rela-tionship between name and referent, signifier and signified, remains arbitraryand conventional. However, Rosenzweig accounts for the historical andequivocal character of language. Things have many words. They receive newnames that sit alongside old names. People appropriate old names and trans-late them into new ones. This, according to Rosenzweig, is the secret ofhuman continuity.42 The object can change, the person can change, but theyretain their identity. How? By the repetition of a name. But names change,new names enter the historical record, and yet the thing still retains its iden-tity. How? By the act of human memory that repeats old names along withnew names in the process of transmission.


In short, Rosenzweig knows that “formal” repetition includes new “con-tent.” Reading backward, the discussion of identity in Understanding the Sickand the Healthy helps unpack Rosenzweig’s discussion of the holiday cycle inpart III of The Star of Redemption. We now see (perhaps more clearly thanRosenzweig himself ) that an ostensibly static cycle generates difference withinits ambit. Change (in terms of content) is worked into the formal structure ofcyclicality. The holiday structure can thereby include historical variation. Ofcourse, the biblical Yom Kippur does not resemble the exact same event as de-lineated in the mishna, gemara, or as practiced today. Yet they share the samename. The thoughts expressed in the Halevi commentary and in Understand-ing the Sick and the Healthy suggest that the calendrical structure retains anominal identity by retaining the name of each festival within a precise se-quential order. Identity is preserved through language, through the formalrepetition of names, not through any ideal or essential content. To be sure,Rosenzweig ascribes rich and meaningful content to Sabbaths and holidays.The calendar sets the stage where the romance between God, soul, and worldunfolds through the course of creation, revelation, and redemption. But as ahistorian, Rosenzweig surely knows that the precise content of a particular hol-iday remains subject to historical variation. As such, the festival cycle’s formalrepetition is as important as any particular set of particular contents (prayers,piyyutim, kavvanot, gestures, customary observances, or theological interpre-tations) that it may have assumed or jettisoned over time. In other words,Rosenzweig suggests that the importance of the holiday structure lies less inexact historical content than in the repetition of the names “Shabbat,”“Sukkot,” “Passover,” “Shavuot,” “Rosh HaShana,” and “Yom Kippur.” It isprecisely this formal repetition that reflects and (re)creates Eternity (under-stood as identity in the face of change, especially in the face of death).

To use the language of Understanding the Sick and the Healthy, repetitioncontributes to “health.” The repetition of a name (and the way it compoundswith new names) constitutes the linguistic condition for an object or subject’snominal identity in the face of temporal change. Likewise, the holiday cycle’scontinuous passage back and forth reflects the workday’s sleep and wakefulness.

The holiday moves steadily from one to the other, and then back again—itis in continuous transition. This movement is identical with that whichgoverns the work day. Here we discovered that waking and sleeping, ten-sion and realization alternate.43

The holiday trains sick reason in the art of living. Respecting the “rhythmicmovement” of the holiday structure allows the convalescent to yield to thework-day’s rhythm. Shifting metaphors, Rosenzweig compares this rhythm to

breathing—the signature of good health. “What rhythm dominates everydayoccurrences? What pulsation appears in even the minutest phase? Through-out the day in every single breath, inhalation gives way to exhalation; work isreplaced by rest.”44

The Existential Cycle: From Death, to Life, to Death

The momentary rest formed by the holiday structure anticipates ultimate restand brings us to our second cycle. However, the cryptic quality of this cycle(the one that moves from the creature’s fear of death and back again to thesoul’s ecstatic climax at the gates of death) makes it harder to identify. Indeed,most interpretations of The Star of Redemption would have the reader trace alinear development leading from [1] an analysis of death and the fear of deathto [2] an analysis of speech, love, social structure and terrestrial life. Else-Rahel Freund was among the first to note that the text begins with the phrase“from death” and concludes with the words “into life.” In her view, “fromdeath into life” constitutes the entire meaning of Rosenzweig’s existential an-alytic.45 However, this neat schematization overlooks how the figure of deathreappears at highpoints throughout and at the very end of The Star of Re-demption. That is, it ignores repetition. In our view, the course Rosenzweigcharts does not proceed in a linear direction from death to love and everydaylife. A circular pattern, it instead jolts back and forth from [1] created deathand creaturely existence to [2] love, terrestrial life, and the anticipation oftruth in time and [3] back again to redeeming death and a spectacular visionof the truth.

As practically all of Rosenzweig’s commentators agree, love (revelation)constitutes the pivotal point in the system. One might have thought that loveoverwhelms the figure of death, giving credence to the idea that Rosenzweig’sthought proceeds in a linear direction away from death and into life. To besure, love is a symbol of life in the midst of death; it refracts eternity withinthe calendrical and ritual structures of terrestrial life. However, the eternitythat love effects takes the form of a static, cyclical repetition in which the flowof time stands still within the linear parameter of historical time.46 As such, itmirrors that final stasis that lies beyond the line separating life and death. Onecan imagine time standing still at the moment of death and at those momentswhen the human person anticipates it. One might want to argue that love andaesthetic pleasure constitute additional and more life-affirming examples. Butas I see it, the intimate link between love and death severely complicates thoseinterpretations that would otherwise privilege love and life in Rosenzweig’sthought.


We have already quoted Rosenzweig proclaiming in the redemption chap-ter that “Death plunges into the Nought . . . Life becomes immortal in re-demption’s eternal hymn of praise.”47 Freund takes this passage to buttress herargument that the move from death to everyday life constitutes the meaningof Rosenzweig’s thought. Others have pointed to the messianic character ofRosenzweig’s thought. Indeed, death lies vanquished, but not in the sense in-tended by Freund. In our view, everyday life and this-worldly messianism donot exhaust his understanding of redemption. Something supplements this-worldly messianism. According to Rosenzweig, “the kingdom may build itsgrowth on the growth of life. But in addition it is dependent on somethingelse, something which first assures life of the immortality which life seeks foritself.”48 By “addition to life,” Rosenzweig alludes to the eternal life that liesbeyond this-world and the messianic.

With this suspicion in mind, the conclusion to the redemption chaptershould not surprise anyone. Immediately after the passage quoted by Freund,Rosenzweig points to the rabbinic sage Rav’s depiction of the pious in theworld-to-come. Rosenzweig comments, “For only thus did the Rabbis dare todescribe the eternal bliss of the world to come, which differs from that everrenewed peace which the solitary soul found in divine love: the pious sit, withcrowns on their heads, and behold the radiance of the manifest deity.”49 Soends the chapter on redemption. Its veiled allusion to a luminous appearanceof a deity-become-manifest does not belong to this-world. This image of eter-nal life in the world-to-come combines the trope of light with the promise ofa spectacular vision. It suggests that life and love propel the beloved soul to-ward the goal of death and the radiant vision described by the rabbis. Thismovement confounds Freund’s contention that the passage “from death intolife” exhausts the meaning of Rosenzweig’s system. In projecting the soul to-ward this vision of eternal life, The Star of Redemption returns to its own pointof origin: the anticipation of death. Rosenzweig had begun his text describ-ing the creature’s fear of death. He has now returned us to a figure of death,that is to eternal life after death.

Rosenzweig does not, of course, believe in the literal truth of Rav’s ac-count. He suggests no reason to suppose that he believed in personal immor-tality. His understanding of the spirit’s passage from this-world into the nextassumes a more apocalyptic color. It is well known that Rosenzweig had builtpart I of The Star of Redemption upon the recognition that no idea, no singlename can exhaust reality. The following goes less recognized in the Rosen-zweig literature. The course charted by the soul ultimately leads to the anni-hilation of all finite names, names such as “God,” “world,” and “soul.” In asection of the redemption chapter entitled “The End,” Rosenzweig describes


the last judgment: “. . . All merges into [God’s] totality, the names of all intoHis nameless One.” Returning again to the theme of repetition, Rosenzweigwrites,

Redemption lets the day of the world end beyond creation and beyond rev-elation with the same stroke of midnight with which it began. But of thissecond midnight, it is true, as it is written, that “the night is light withHim.” The day of the world manifests itself at its last moment as thatwhich it was in the first: as day of God, as the day of the Lord.50

In Rosenzweig’s apocalypse, the last day is like the first. It repeats itself, butwith one difference. All names (the sixfold All of God, world, soul, creation,revelation, and even redemption) return to and disappear within the void ofGod’s totality. Only now, a “dark” and terrifying midnight has turned. It hasturned into one glorious flash of blinding light, signifying eternal life, the endof this-world, the end of time.

We have already seen that the Redemption chapter and the discussion ofYom Kippur represent highpoints in Rosenzweig’s text. Mosès and RichardCohen remind us that Rosenzweig writes one last climax into The Star of Re-demption: a vision of God’s face.51 We have just seen that Rosenzweig associ-ates redemption with death. We remember him associating death with theYom Kippur rhapsody. Now at the very end of the book, the soul encountersa detailed vision of the divine face. In this last vision, the soul sees the eyes,ears, nose, and mouth of God. According to Rosenzweig, the life of this faceis gathered in the mouth. He writes, “The mouth is consummator and ful-filler of all expression of which the countenance is capable, both in speech as,at last, in the silence behind which speech retreats: in the kiss.” Having de-scribed God’s face, Rosenzweig concludes, “But for Moses . . . God sealed thiscompleted life with a kiss of his mouth.”52 The face, of course, represents theconfiguration of absolute truth. God, world, person, creation, revelation, andredemption form into the unitary pattern that speculative cognition hadfailed to grasp. Not the lyric refrain “into life,” but this vision of the face con-stitutes the apex of Rosenzweig’s system.

This climactic vision at the end of The Star of Redemption occurs nowhereelse but at the gates of death. Or rather, the vision of the face represents a spir-itual death that anticipates the physical death that awaits the beloved soul. Ineither case, the figure of death brings us full circle, back to the same figurewith which Rosenzweig had opened the book. I will grant that this last allu-sion is not immediately obvious. Rosenzweig’s final rendering of the figure ofdeath remains cryptic, almost as if he had meant to hide it. The association



between the vision of the face and death reveals itself gradually. First, the cou-pling of death and God’s face had marked the text’s previous highmarks. Allu-sive references to the divine presence and divine countenance appeared at theconclusion of the Redemption chapter; there Rosenzweig had described the re-ward of the righteous in the world-to-come. A divine countenance appearedagain at the apex of Yom Kippur. Now again, Rosenzweig mentions the face(without having to refer explicitly to death). Textual allusion constitutes oursecond reason for associating the appearance of the face with death. The de-piction of the face concludes with God kissing Moses on the mouth.53 Inmidrashic literature, the rabbis picture Moses resisting the Angel of Death.Since Moses refuses to yield to death, God must come, and personally, to drawout Moses’ last breath with a kiss. Maimonides will later associate the kiss ofGod with the philosopher’s ecstatic apprehension of the Active Intellect at themoment of death.54 By citing midrash (or more likely Maimonides but possi-bly Schiller), Rosenzweig subtly links the spectacular vision of absolute truthwith death’s advent.55 The image of light provides one further warrant for as-sociating this appearance with death. At the end of the Redemption chapter,Rosenzweig had associated light with the reward of the righteous in the world-to-come (as described by the rabbis in Berakhot). We saw the apocalyptic lightin which all names disappear. Once again, now at the very end of The Star ofRedemption, Rosenzweig returns to this motif. He describes the gate leadingout of the mysterious, miraculous light filled sanctuary in which no man canremain alive.56

The vision of the face does not entirely obviate Freund’s reading. After all,the beloved soul has only anticipated its own death. Like Redemption, its owndeath is “not-yet.” As such, the face does not pull the beloved soul through thegate into the light-filled sanctuary, but rather back “into life.” These remain thelast words of The Star of Redemption, even if they do not exhaust its meaning.

In our view, the linear schematization “from death into life” does not cap-ture the cyclical movement of Rosenzweig’s system. Death appears in the be-ginning, in the middle, and at the end of Rosenzweig’s text. As such, the fig-ure of death repeats itself. However, this repetition does not mean repetition ofthe same. In this second cycle, repetition has transformed the soul’s encounterwith death. At the beginning of the text, death had terrified the human crea-ture. No luminous face illuminated the creature’s terror. At the end of thebook, Rosenzweig returns to the figure of death but now associates it with apictogram of absolute truth. Love, of course, is the difference between the firstand last appearance of the figure of death. It has intervened in the process ofrepetition. In Rosenzweig’s system of cyclical motions, the revelation of love isthe force of repetition. It proves as strong as death; that is, as strong as the


“creaturely death” that terrifies the human creature. Only love can yield “re-deeming death” and so transfigure the fear of death into ecstatic vision.

The Existential Cycle: Derrida, Kierkegaard, and Rosenzweig

It should be understood that Rosenzweig’s vivid treatment of repetition inThe Star of Redemption occurs within broader literary and philosophical para-meters set by Neoplatonism, Romanticism, and German Idealism.57 My ownunderstanding of repetition depends heavily on Kierkegaard and Derrida asread by John Caputo in Radical Hermeneutics. By “radical hermeneutics,” Ca-puto means a radical type of antimetaphysical philosophy that interpretsidentity and existence in terms of flux and repetition. His more complete sur-vey of our theme includes mediation in Hegel’s thought, Nietzsche’s eternalrecurrence, internal time-consciousness in Husserl’s phenomenological analy-sis, and Heidegger’s understanding of temporality and appropriation. I nei-ther can nor want to provide an exhaustive review of Caputo’s study or hislarger project. That would bring us to epistemological and ontological issuesthat go beyond the immediate scope of this essay.58 Nevertheless, a quick lookat Kierkegaard and Derrida can help unpack the significance of repetition andits relationship to stasis and change in Rosenzweig’s religious system. Derrida’sdiscussion of iteration and grafting provides the original impetus;Kierkegaard’s linking repetition and transcendence completes the picture.Both suggest how repetition generates difference and transforms experi-ence/consciousness.

Derrida takes up the theme of repetition in Limited Inc, a composite textdocumenting what was a running argument with the Anglo-American philoso-pher John Searle. Derrida argues that the irreducible iterability of all utterances(all signs, written and spoken) disrupts any possible attempt to elucidate au-thorial intent. In his view, any sign (insofar as it constitutes an iterable mark)can be “grafted” into an infinite number of contexts. He explains that,

Every sign, linguistic or nonlinguistic, spoken or written . . . , in a small orlarge unit, can be cited, put between quotation marks; in so doing it canbreak with every given context, engendering an infinity of new contexts ina manner which is absolutely illimitable. This does not mean that a mark isvalid outside of a context, but on the contrary that there are only contextswithout any center or absolute anchorage.59

In the process of this dissemination, the meaning of the sign changes. Its sig-nificance at T2 (the moment and context in which we hear or read it) has


changed since its inception at T1. This does not preclude Derrida’s interest inintentionality or in the context in which an utterance was first uttered. Au-thorial intent and literary origins retain a place in the interpretation of an ut-terance, but they lose their privileged hermeneutical status. They can nolonger govern the entire system of shifting contexts in which a mark will begrafted.60

There are plenty of points at which one might take issue with Derrida:the conflation of different signs under one single rubric (writing, or rather“archewriting”), remarks concerning the “absolutely illimitable” field of newpossible contexts, the radical difference that subsists between contexts, theuniqueness that characterizes each context, and the exaggeration that suchclaims entail. At the same time, Derrida’s position in Limited Inc throws lighton the repetition of signs in The Star of Redemption. The signs in Rosenzweig’stext that have concerned us so far in this essay are “holidays” and “death.”Derrida’s contribution to our discussion of the holidays proves fairly obvious.We have already argued that the calendrical cycle’s repetition does not pre-clude the introduction of historical change. According to Derrida, each holi-day would constitute a sign that subsists within the calendrical structure. Themeaning of each sign is context-dependent. This dependence dissolves theidentity of neither the sign nor the structure (as critics of deconstructionmight fear). It does indicate that the precise content and meanings of the hol-iday shift as the formal sign-structure breaks off from one historical contextand grafts onto another.

Derrida’s analysis throws more dramatic light on Rosenzweig’s treatment ofdeath. Looked at in one way, death is a sign in Rosenzweig’s text—and an un-stable one at that. Its iteration throughout the text transfigures both the mean-ing this sign carries and its literary appearance. The first occurrence of death inThe Star of Redemption does not resemble its last because Rosenzweig hasgrafted this sign into an entirely new thematic context. From the original con-text of terror, death now occurs in a context that has been redefined by pas-sionate love. In fact, the new graft proves so radically transformed that we barelyrecognize the figure of death. No longer an explicit subject, Rosenzweig hidesthe presence of death with aesthetic markers such as light, face, and the “kiss ofGod.” Iteration and the graft are the conditions that make this transformationpossible. Death has been reinscribed within a radically transformed context andthus takes on new thematic meaning and literary form. As such, the graft allowsdeath to become a redeeming figure (the border at which the beloved soul ap-prehends a detailed vision of the face), not the object of creaturely terror.

It remains to be seen what will become of ideas like iteration and thegraft, now that Derrida has begun to pay more attention to religion in his


more recent writings.61 Apart from pointing to a shift in context, Derrida can-not (at least not in an early text like Limited Inc) explain why the meaning ofthe sign shifts in the process of iteration. From the standpoint of religiousthought, Kierkegaard proves more interesting. For the early Derrida, itera-tion, grafting, and the generation of new meaning occurs in an immanent, se-mantic framework. In contrast, Kierkegaard’s exploration leaves open the pos-sibility of a transcendent event sitting midway between the first appearance ofa figure and its repetition.

In the pseudonymous book entitled Repetition, one Constantin Constan-tius ostensibly sets out to advise a young poet how to break off an engagementwith a young woman. The plan involves a pretence by which the young poetwould seem to carry on a love affair with another woman. This would thenallow the young woman to retain her honor against the young poet. Theyoung man, however, seeks to uphold his own honor. He flees to Stockholmwhere he prepares himself for some thunderstorm from God that would allowhim to acquire the necessary ethical attributes that would make him suitablefor marriage. But the thunderstorm occurs differently than imagined: theyoung woman has married another man. This fortuitous change in circum-stances allows the poet to preserve his original aesthetic nature. He writes hisolder friend, “Is there not, then, a repetition? Did I not get everything dou-ble? Did I not get myself again and precisely in such a way that I might havea double sense of its meaning?”62 The comparison of course is with Job whoalso stands by his own honor, is met by a thunderstorm, and (in the end) re-ceives back double everything that he had lost.

Constantin Constantius himself had sought to experience repetition in agrosser form. He had abandoned an earlier faith in repetition, having failedin a farcical attempt to repeat a previous vacation to Berlin (with its myriadof fortuitous circumstances). The poet, on the other hand, learns the secret ofrepetition (albeit still at a primitive level) first from the book of Job and thenfrom the recovery of his true poetic nature. In Kierkegaard’s text, repetitionmeans a critique of Platonic stasis and Hegelian mediation, a pressing for-ward, the preservation of identity, the actualization of eternity by virtue of theabsurd. For our purposes it is enough to note that repetition is made possibleonly by the incursion of a foreign and unexpected element—the thunder-storm in Job and the good news that the poet’s estranged fiancee has marriedanother man. Rosenzweig’s repetition occurs at a more sublimated level, butremains just as surprising. Grafting the poet’s experience of repetition intoRosenzweig’s system shows the incursion of infinity into time. The differencebetween the figure of death at the beginning of The Star of Redemption and its


reappearance at the end is the intervening thunderstorm, the revelatory in-tervention of love.

Conclusions

Rosenzweig’s The Star of Redemption suggests a way in which to understandreligious existence in nonlinear terms. He has brought a cyclical model oftime into a religious culture that has too often been interpreted along a linearmap leading from creation to redemption. Rosenzweig’s thought allows us tosee how the pattern of redemption unfolds in circular time. The regular un-folding of the liturgical calendar allows the Jewish soul to anticipate on ayearly basis Yom Kippur’s vision of God’s countenance at the moment ofjudgment. As understood by Rosenzweig (and richly suggested by the Mah-zor’s unetanah tokef), this vision occurs as the religious soul contemplates itslife and the decree that threatens to end it now, this very year. In the processRosenzweig shows how religious contemplation stands transformed at thevery point from which it had begun (with the threat of death now turned intopromise). In more traditional terms, yirat shamayim (understood here as thefear of heavenly decrees) turns into the love of God.

However, this rich dramatization of life and death should not go withouta strong critique. To be sure, the circular pattern of yearly living coupled withthe religious contemplation of death represents an example of religiousthought that is existentially profound and aesthetically compelling. That doesnot preclude the following questions: First, how are we to warrant Rosen-zweig’s shift from the holiday cycle to the figure of redemption? Why shouldthis repetitive motion yield revelation and redemption and not boredom?More to the point, perhaps the repetition of the liturgical calendar (perhapsthe very observance of Judaism) will generate visions and drive energies moredemonic than divine. Baruch Goldstein’s massacre of Muslim worshippers atthe Cave of Machpelah on Purim and Yigal Amir’s assassinating YitzhakRabin remind us of this point. Similarly, why should the existential cycle fromdeath-to-life-to-death (ad infinitum) yield confidence and joy instead of nau-sea and terror? Yom Kippur’s yearly reminder (that this might be the yearwhose end we don’t live to see) might frighten the beloved soul and twist itsspirit into something ugly and dangerous. In both cases, Rosenzweig truststhe power of love. Love justifies his confidence that the force of repetition willyield good in this world, not evil. It also warrants his faith that repetitionpoints to a great light at the other side of the gate separating this-world fromthe next.

Perhaps, however, we need to approach love, circles, and their spiritualpower less trustingly. Without wanting to lend too much credence to thespeculations of Mircea Eliade and other phenomenologists of religion, onemight still accept the power that circles possess as a mediated form of spiri-tual consciousness. To be sure, the circle might easily represent a host of goodsas understood in Western and non-Western religious history and thought. Atthe level of social symbol and spiritual metaphor, circles can represent andgenerate completeness and harmony, community and communion. Onemight even follow Kierkegaard and Derrida and argue that repetition doesnot necessarily mean closure. Rosenzweig’s thought amply illustrates this as-pect of the circle. On the other hand, the circle can simultaneously representan exclusive figure that resists the introduction of radical heterogeneity withinan ostensibly pure matrix. It can organize terrific energies with which peoplestrike out against those who are perceived to threaten them from within andwithout. Symbol and metaphor are of course multivalent, but for that reasonshould not yield the unequivocal confidence that we find in Rosenzweig’sthought.

This suspicion takes on a historical hue when we remember the politicalcontext in which Rosenzweig wrote. Those who find themselves enchanted byRosenzweig (and I count myself among them) should not forget too easily Sc-holem’s stated opinion regarding “marked dictatorial inclinations” in Rosen-zweig’s personality.63 Indeed, the political tensions that defined Weimar Ger-many were no less operative in Rosenzweig’s thought than they were in thework of such compatriots as Martin Heidegger. Repetition represents a casein point—but to see this means bringing Rosenzweig under the rubric of earlytwentieth-century modernism.

In his book on the rise of the modern German novel, Russel Berman(1986) has noted the recurrence of cycles in the writings of a liberal human-ist such as Thomas Mann. Berman understands Mann’s aesthetic to oscillatebetween development and permanence. He points to the unchanging dy-namic beneath the vicissitudes that characterize the Bruddenbrook familychronicle. Referring to Faustus, Berman argues that theology, compositionand temporal structure converge in a seriality that alone allows for the possi-bility of dialectically inverting damnation into hope.64 However, Berman alsonotes the use of cycles by another group of German modernists. Here repeti-tion denies change; it means a plethora of interchangeable episodes, the re-currence of destruction and destiny, an alliance between the archaic and thefuturistic. In the works of Ernst Junger and Hans Grimm, nothing new is ut-tered as a spectacular image transfixes the helpless and uncomprehending



viewer. These writers fall under the rubric of what Berman calls “fascist mod-ernism.”65

This does not mean to say that Rosenzweig was a fascist. Without entirelydismissing the observation, I would not take too seriously Scholem’s causticappraisal of Rosenzweig’s character flaws. In its formal structure, The Star ofRedemption shares a strong family resemblance with the best features of twen-tieth-century art and literature. Rosenzweig shows how cycles define religiouslife (in the form of the holiday structure) and religious contemplation (turn-ing again and again to the figure of death). These cycles oscillate between rep-etition and difference according to a redemptive pattern. The human soul re-tains its integrity throughout the worldly course of creation, revelation, andredemption. On the other hand, we should not forget that the soul (active inits relationship with the world) remains relatively passive before God. Notetoo that The Star of Redemption ends in the very spectacle described inBerman’s account of fascist modernism. Berman reminds us that cyclesformed part of a broader modernist aesthetic. We now know better thanRosenzweig admits that circular motion powers religious and utopian systemswhose intensive rhythm can always turn against other people.

Notes

1. Martin Buber to Paula Winkler Buber in Nahum N. Glatzer and Paul Mendes-Flohr, ed., The Letters of Martin Buber. A Life of Dialogue, trans. Richard andClara Winston and Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1991), 66.

2. Ibid., 693. For a discussion of Kandinsky, Italian Futurism, and Duchamp see, “The Cos-

mopolitan Eye” in John Russel, The Meanings of Modern Art (New York: TheMuseum of Modern Art, 1981, 1974), 126–155. For a discussion of move-ment in romantic literature and German Idealism see, M. H. Abrams, NaturalSupernaturalism. Tradition and Revolution in Romantic Literature (New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1971), chapters 3–5.

4. I use the terms “religion” and “religious” guardedly. Clearly, both Buber andRosenzweig rejected these terms insofar as they delineate a separate, narrow, cleri-cal sphere of existence. For both Rosenzweig and Buber, the terms “Judaism” and“revelation” comprehend so much more than “religion.” I retain and use theterms “religion” and “religious” insofar as they indicate a family resemblance thatJudaism shares with other traditional cultures. That Rosenzweig would rejectcomparing Judaism and Christianity (as “systems of revelation”) with Buddhismor Islam speaks more to the limits of his conception than to the term “religion.”As such, I apply the terms “religious” to his thought against the grain.

5. Stéphane Mosès, System and Revelation, trans. Catherine Tihanyi (Detroit:Wayne State University Press, 1992), 138.


6. Ibid., 170.7. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 222–23.8. My discussion of this second cycle depends heavily on my “’Into Life’? Franz

Rosenzweig and the Figure of Death,” AJS Review 23, no 2 (fall 1998), where Iargue this point more thoroughly.

9. Ibid. The difference between “creaturely death” and “redeeming death” occursin the Rosenzweig correspondence.

10. Judah Halevi, The Kuzari (New York: Schocken Books, 1964), 139–40.11. Again, I refer to my “’Into Life’? Franz Rosenzweig and the Figure of Death.”12. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 327.13. Emil Fackenheim refers to Yom Kippur as “apex” in his “The Systematic Role

of the Matrix (existence) and Apex (Yom Kippur) of Jewish Religious Life inRosenzweig’s Star of Redemption.” In Wolfdietrich Schmied-Kowarzik (ed.), DerPhilosoph Franz Rosenzweig (1886–1929), vol. 2 (Munich: Verlag Karl Alber,1988), 567–75.

14. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 327.15. Ibid., 327–328 (emphasis added).16. Stéphane Mosès, System and Revelation, 196.17. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 32818. Ibid.19. Ibid.20. Ibid., 253.21. Ibid., 259.22. Here my analysis dovetails with that of Robert Gibbs, Correlations in Rosen-

zweig and Levinas (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1992),chapter 5.

23. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 233.24. Ibid., 270–271, Cf. 265–71.25. For a general appraisal of Rosenzweig’s estimation of Goethe, see Stéphane

Mosès, System and Revelation, 162–63.26. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 288.27. Ibid.28. Ibid., 29029. Robert Gibbs, Correlations in Rosenzweig and Levinas, chapter 5.30. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 290.31. Ibid., 291.32. Ibid. (emphasis is added).33. Ibid., 292.34. Emil Fackenheim, To Mend the World (New York: Schocken Books, 1982), 95;

Arthur Cohen, The Tremendum (New York: Crossroads Press, 1981), 102–107,esp. 104–105. See also Eliezer Berkovits, Major Themes in Modern Jewish Phi-losophy, 47.

35. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 290.36. Ibid.


37. Ibid., 310–11.38. Barbara Ellen Galli, Franz Rosenzweig and Jehuda Halevi. Translating, Transla-

tions, and Translators (Montreal & Kingston, London, Buffalo: McGill-Queen’sUniversity Press, 1995), 183 (emphasis is mine).

39. Franz Rosenzweig, Understanding the Sick and the Healthy (New York: Noon-day Press, 1953), 36.

40. Ibid., 37.41. Ibid.42. Ibid., 60.43. Ibid., 87.44. Ibid., 85.45. Else-Rahel Freund, Franz Rosenzweig’s Philosophy of Existence: An Analysis of

The Star of Redemption (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1979), 3–5.46. Stéphane Mosès, System and Revelation, 170–72, 223.47. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 253.48. Ibid., 225. Emphasis is mine.49. Ibid, 253.50. Ibid., 238 (emphasis added).51. Stéphane Mosès, System and Revelation, 284–86. Richard A. Cohen, Elevations.

The Height of the Good in Rosenzweig and Levinas (Chicago and London: TheUniversity of Chicago Press, 1994), 241–73.

52. Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 423.53. Ibid.54. Moses Maimonides, Guide of the Perplexed trans. Shlomo Pines (Chicago: Uni-

versity of Chicago Press, 1962), 3:51.55. See, for instance, Schiller, who wrote in The Gods of Greece:

. . . no ugly skeleton cameTo the bed of the dying. A kissDrew the last breath of life from his lips;A Genius lowered his torch . . .

Cited in Hugh Honour, Neo-classicism (Penguin Books, 1968), 149.56. Ibid., 424. Cf. Stéphane Mosès, System and Revelation, 286.57. See M. H. Abrams, Natural Supernaturalism, chapters 3 and 4. Abrams locates

the theme of the circuitous journey in (among others) Plotinus, Proclus, Kab-balah, Fichte, Schelling, Schiller, Hegel, Holderlin, Goethe, and Novalis.

58. John D. Caputo, Radical Hermeneutics. Repetition, Deconstruction, and theHermeneutic Project (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press,1987).

59. Jacques Derrida, Limited Inc (Evanston IL: Northwestern University Press,1988), 12.

60. Ibid., 18.61. See John D. Caputo, The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida. Religion without

Religion (Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1997), 51,68, 157, 194–96, 227, 254, 272, 329.

62. Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling/Repetition. Howard V. Hong and EdnaH. Hong (ed. and trans.), (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983),220–21.

63. Gershom Scholem, From Berlin to Jerusalem. Memories of My Youth, trans.Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1980), 140.

64. Russel A. Berman, The Rise of the Modern German Novel. Crisis and Charisma(Cambridge, MA & London: Harvard University Press, 1986), 280–82.

65. Ibid., 222–25.
