Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

The identity of Nimrod continues to be an enigma. Five different approaches have been pursued.  The first identifies Nimrod as a god, usually the Mesopotamian god of hunting and war Ninurta or Marduk; both these names are phonetically similar to the Nimrod’s name. Jewish tradition connects Nimrod’s name נִמְרֹד (literally “we shall revolt”) with the verb מָרַד (m¹rad = “to rebel” or “revolt”). The rabbis regarded Nimrod as the mastermind of the Tower of Babel. Under Nimrod’s rule (v. 10), all the various Mesopotamian city-states became consolidated. Other speculations include:

Some scholars think that Nimrod was Gilgamesh, the legendary leader who ruled the S. Mesopotamian city of Uruk around 2600 B.C.E. and was thus a contemporary of Agga, the ruler of Kish.  Gilgamesh was believed to be two-thirds god and one-third human. According to some of the Sumerian legends about Gilgamesh, he was a Semitic, who lived during the Second Early Dynastic period who fortified Uruk (biblical Erech, modern Warka) and went on to defeat King Agga of Kish (cf. ANET, pp. 44–52).

Gilgamesh is also mentioned in the Sumerian list of kings as reigning after the flood and parallels Nimrod as the first king to rule after the Flood.  In terms of Assyrian mythology, Gilgamesh was regarded as a demigod who imposed his will upon his subjects, reducing them to forced labor, causing them to suffer under his tyranny. Like Nimrod of later rabbinic tradition, Gilgamesh was said to be a mighty builder. Gilgamesh’s subjects prayed that the gods would send him a rival who would curb Gilgamesh’s harsh rule. Among his exploits, Gilgamesh would fight against monsters and wild beasts alike.

In the third approach Nimrod has been equated with an historical personage, possibly Tukulti-Ninurta I, an Assyrian king who reigned c. 1238-c. 1197 B.C.E. Tukulti-Ninurta I established  Assyrian supremacy over King Kashtiliash IV, ruler of the Kassites to the southeast  of his country (about the Persian Gulf), and subjugated ancient Armenia to the northeast. For a short time, Tukulti-Ninurta became the first Assyrian king to rule over Babylon. Among his accomplishments, Tukulti-Ninurta I erected a noted ziggurat temple to the goddess Ishtar-Dinitu (“Ishtar of the Dawn”) that served as a model for Assyrian architecture.[1]

Wiseman has suggested a possible fourth approach, namely, that Nimrod resembles Sargon I of Akkad (reigned c. 2334-2279 B.C.E.), who was one of the earliest of the world’s great empire builders. The extension of Nimrod’s kingdom from southern Mesopotamia (Gen.10:10) to northern Mesopotamia (Gen. 10:11) parallels the growth of the first known empire in history, the dynasty of Akkad.

According to the Sumerian king list, the first five rulers of Akkad (Sargon, Rimush, Manishtusu, Naram-Sin, and Shar-kali-sharric. 2305-2000  B.C.E.) ruled for a total of 142 years;  Sargon and Naram-Sin (about 2300  B.C.E.), were among the greatest of the heroic kings of old.  Sargon I conquered all of southern Mesopotamia as well as parts of Syria, Anatolia, and Elam (Western Iran) The Sumerian king list has Sargon I reigning for 56 years. He established the region’s first Semitic dynasty and was considered the founder of the Mesopotamian military tradition. Although his throne name was Sargon I, he may have had other names.[2]

Lastly, Nimrod may be related to the Akkadian word for the Amorite kingdom, Amurru. Cassuto thinks that Nimrod may have been an Amorite conqueror who conquered the city of Asshur, the capital of the Assyrian kingdom c. 19^th century B.C.E.   The Ammaru were also believed to have been partly responsible for causing of the downfall of the 3rd dynasty of Ur and Akkad at the beginning of the second millennium (c. 2112 — 2004 B.C.E.).  The Amorites are believed to have originated from the great tribal federations of Arabia who immigrated en masse to Babylon, as well as to the mid-Euphrates region, and Syria-Palestine.

Whether Nimrod was indeed the same person as Gilgamesh, Sargon I or Tukulti-Ninurta I, is subject to conjecture, but one thing for certain — Nimrod became the  true archetype of  Assyrian monarchs who followed and belongs to the sphere of Babylonian mythology.[3]

It might seem odd that Nimrod, a son of Cush, a Hamite would establish the region’s first Semitic dynasty, but one must remember that there was considerable intermingling in the families of Shem and Ham and all the peoples of Mesopotamia as seen in the languages and in the architecture. If the Table of Nations was written 7^th- 10^th centuries B.C.E., then the biblical writers probably had in mind the mighty Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian emperors who ruled the world with an iron fist. That explanation seems like the most plausible. Continue Reading

* This is an older article I wrote back in 2009. So, if there is any overlap of ideas, please forgive me.

Abortion, as such, is not discussed in the Tanakh. Explanations  as to why it is not legislated or commented are at best speculative. The biblical world was much more concerned with the survival of its members, rather than with the willful termination of its unborn. Archaeological evidence suggests that in ancient Israel the infant mortality rate was about 50%.

Discussions concerning abortion are ancient indeed. The Torah imposes a fine on the assailant for causing abortion of a woman’s fetus in the course of a quarrel, and the penalty of death if the woman’s dies as a result of the assailant’s attack. “When two people who are fighting injure a pregnant woman so that there is a miscarriage, and yet no further harm follows, the one responsible shall be fined what the woman’s husband demands, paying as much as the judges determine. If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe” (Exod. 21:22-23).

Ancient Discussions

If the Code of Hammurabi is of any indication, the Torah had in mind only financial damages but did not advocate the death penalty for the death of the fetus—regardless how premature or maturely it was. In Section 209: Hammurabi writes, “If a man strike a free woman and cause her fruit to depart, he shall pay ten shekels of silver for her fruit.”

Perceptions regarding the status of the embryo changed centuries later during the days of Greek culture. A new interpretation was introduced that radically transformed our understanding of the biblical text. According to the ancient Greek translation of the Scriptures, the Septuagint, the Torah decreed that under certain circumstances, the death of the fetus could be imposed for causing an abortion:

ἐὰν δὲ ἐξεικονισμένον ἦν δώσει ψυχὴν ἀντὶ ψυχῆς

[And if two men strive and smite a woman with child; and her child be born imperfectly formed, he shall be forced to pay a penalty: as the woman's husband may lay upon him, he shall pay with a valuation.] But if it be perfectly formed, he shall give life for life . . . (Exod. 21:22)

Philo of Alexandria comments on this passage of the Septuagint, “But if anyone has a contest with a woman who is pregnant, and strike her a blow on her belly, and she miscarry, if the child which was conceived within her is still unfashioned and unformed, he shall be punished by a fine, both for the assault which he committed and also because he has prevented nature, who was fashioning and preparing that most excellent of all creatures, a human being, from bringing him into existence. But if the child which was conceived had assumed a distinct shape in all its parts, having received all its proper connective and distinctive qualities, he shall die; for such a creature as that is a man, whom he has slain while still in the workshop of nature, who had not thought it as yet a proper time to produce him to the light, but had kept him like a statue lying in a sculptor’s workshop, requiring nothing more than to be released and sent out into the world.[1]

Philo juxtaposes abortion with the ancient practice of exposure. He writes: “On account of this commandment he also adds another proposition of greater importance, in which the exposure of infants is forbidden, which has become a very ordinary piece of wickedness among other nations by reason of their natural inhumanity . . .”

Josephus also regards abortion as morally akin to murder.[2] Nevertheless, in practice, he followed rabbinical tradition, “He that kicks a woman with a child, so that the woman miscarry, let him pay a fine in money, as the judges shall  determine, as having diminishing the multitude by the destruction of what was in her womb.”[3]

Josephus and Philo may have been of the opinion that the assailant had to pay two fines, one to the husband, and the second fine to charity for depriving the human race of one less person. It is also possible the Hellenistic understanding did run contrary to what later became Talmudic Halacha. Nevertheless, it does reflect the disdain Jews have had throughout history concerning abortion—at least as a method of birth-control. Given the high degree of infant-mortality, this reaction was quite understandable.

Unlike the Septuagint, Talmudic scholars maintained that the word אָסוֹן (´äsôn) “harm” refers to the woman and not to the fetus, since the scriptural injunction, “He who fatally strikes a man shall be put to death” (Exo. 21:12), did not apply to the killing of a fetus.[4] Ancient rabbis did not consider abortion a sin unless the fetus was viable בן קיימא  (ben keyama)—still and all, if the infant was so much as only  one day old , his killer is guilty of murder (Niddah. 5:3).[5]

According to the view of R. Ishmael, only a Gentile, to whom some of the basic transgressions applied with greater stringency, incurred the death penalty for causing the loss of the fetus (Sanhedrin 57b). Though abortion was frowned upon in the ancient world, it did not constitute murder.[6] In one well known Responsa of R. Yosef Trani (14th century), the author argued against a Jew assisting in an abortion, because it “places a stumbling block before the blind (Lev. 19:14).” This Halachic attitude did not apply to therapeutic abortion.

All this doesn’t necessarily mean that the rabbis had a permissive attitude concerning abortion. Clearly, it wasn’t. Thus we find in one medieval Midrashic work that Israel is praised because in spite of Pharaoh’s genocidal decree, in Egypt, “Every boy that is born you shall throw into the Nile,  (Exod. 1:22), “Not one Israelite woman so much as harmed her foetus, much less after its birth. By virtue of their reverence for life, Israel merited the exodus” (Zohar II 3b).

Abortion is permitted if the fetus endangers the mother’s life. The Mishnah reads: “When a woman travails to give birth [and it is feared she may die], one may sever the fetus from her womb and extract it, member by member, for her life takes precedence over his”[7 This is the case only as long as the foetus has not emerged into the world, when it is not a life at all and “it may be killed and the mother saved.”[8] Once the birthing process has begun,  if the greater part of the fetus has emerged into the world-either its head only, or its breach—it may not be touched, even if it endangers the mother’s life  אין דוחין נפש מפני נפש (ein dohin nefesh mi-penei nefesh) “one may not discard one life to save another.”

In another passage of the Talmud, a newborn child is not considered to be viable, until it has lived for 30 days![9] How do we reconcile this passage with the above?

Back to the Future: Contemporary Perspectives

Rav Ben Tsion Uziel, the late Chief Sephardic Rabbi, observes in his Responsa, “When a child dies within 30 days, it is considered as if it was a stillborn and is not mourned for like a person who has died. It becomes evident only in retrospect, that it was stillborn [nofale] and that the period of its life was only a continuation of the mother’s vitality. Since there was no way to ascertain whether the foetus was indeed stillborn or not, it is not a crime one can be executed for because of doubt. Nevertheless, it is certainly prohibited to kill it because of doubt.”[10] This passage of Ben Uziel does have ramifications to another area of Halacha pertaining to discontinuing life-support mechanisms for a  seriously impaired newborn baby. A more contemporary  scholar, Rav Abraham Steinberg, notes “when in doubt, it is better to error in favor of life.”

Just to digress, it is interesting to note  that in a similar way, Christian theologian Augustine raised a key question in his own time, as it is now, was “at what time the infant begins to live in the womb; whether life exists in a latent form before it manifests itself in the motions of the living being.” Augustine admits that he cannot assuredly say at exactly what point human life begins. He seriously questions whether any human has the power to decisively say. Nevertheless, he asserts that anyone who looked at the cut-up remains of an aborted baby would have to recognize that this had been a human life. Although Augustine apparently had a firm belief that a developing foetus participates in human life, he argues equally strongly here that a conclusive proof is outside our human ability. There is some leniency if for example, the abortion will save the mother from an  illness deriving from an inflammation not connected with the pregnancy, or a poisonous fever . . . in these cases the fetus is not [per se] the cause of her illness.”[11]

Among modern Halachic authorities, psychological reasons are also a factor to allow abortions. The great 18th century Halachic giant,  Rabbi Yaakov  Emden, permitted abortion “as long as the foetus has not emerged from the womb, even if not in order to save the mother’s life, but only to save her from the harassment and great pain which the foetus causes her.[12]

One early 20th century scholar, Rav Ben Tsion Uziel, rules in favor of allowing an abortion in order to save the mother’s hearing, even though her life was not endangered. Disgrace and the quality of life are a very important factor to take into consideration when deciding whether one is undergo an abortion.[13] In the case of pregnancy resulting from incest, or any adulterous union, the 18^th century savant, R. Yaakov Emden, permitted abortion so that the stigma of bastardy be attached to her offspring.[14]

With regard to the dreaded Tay-Sachs disease, Rav Eliezer Waldenberg permits the abortion, since as he writes in his Responsa: “One should permit abortion as soon as it becomes obvious from the results of the test that the child is indeed, a Tay-Sach’s baby will be born—even until the seventh month of pregnancy. If we are able to permit abortion according to the Halacha because of great need and because of pain and anguish, it seems reasonable that this is the classic case for extending such permission. And it is irrelevant in what way pain and suffering is expressed; whether it be physical or psychological—It is all the same. Indeed, psychological suffering in many ways in greater than the bodily suffering.”[15]

R. Eliezer Waldenberg also notes that whenever possible, all such abortions should be performed within the first forty days of the pregnancy or at least within the first three months.[16] Pope Gregory XIII [1572-85) expresses a similar view, and wrote that an embryo less than forty days was not yet considered human. Incidentally,  it was only in 1869, Pope Pius IX who along with this doctrine of infallibility, decreed that the destruction of an embryo—even to save the mother’s life — was a mortal sin that merited excommunication from the Church.[17]

Many Orthodox scholars differ and are of the view that Jewish law prohibits abortion when its sole justification is to prevent the birth of a physically deformed or retarded baby. Likewise, abortion—on demand—purely for the convenience of the mother or even society is considered morally repugnant.”[18]

Suffice it to say as in any Halachic matter, there is no carte blanche answer for every conceivable case in Halacha—especially with regard to abortion.  Every case must be determined by its own unique circumstances. A competent rabbi should be able to help guide any person who is wrestling with this important decision. There is no one answer for such a complex issue as abortion. Continue Reading

There can be no doubt rabbinic tradition took a dim view of capital punishment. Mishnahic law required that those accused be warned by witnesses immediately before they commit the offense, and that they acknowledge such warning—a clear indication of the rabbinic distaste for capital punishment, explicitly found elsewhere.[1] Life imprisonment did exist for cases that could not technically be legally prosecuted, even though the evidence left no room for doubt[2]; such a person had to subsist on sparse diet of barley bread and water, and the Talmud indicates the criminal usually died from starvation. There may be a Scriptural allusion to this practice: the prisoner was condemned to eat “the bread of misfortune and the water of distress” (Isa. 30:20). Other rabbinic statements express even greater ambivalence:

• R. Yose says, “Under no circumstances is one put to death unless both witnesses against him have given warning to him,” as it is said, ‘At the testimony of two witnesses’ (Deut. 7:6).”[3] He whose trial ended and who fled and was brought back before the same court—they do not reverse the judgment concerning him and retry him. He whose trial ended and who fled and was brought back before the same court—they do not reverse the judgment concerning him and retry him . . . A Sanhedrin which imposes the death penalty once in seven years is called murderous. R. Eleazar b. Azariah says, “Once in seventy years.” R. Tarfon and R. Akiba say, “If we were on a Sanhedrin, no one would ever be put to death.”[4] Rabban Simeon b. Gamaliel says, “So these Sages would multiply the number of murderers in Israel.”[5]

Moreover, the defendant may not be put to death unless two (or in some cases three) eyewitnesses testify against him or her.  Each witness must be so certain of his testimony that he personally would be willing to carry out the execution.  A passage from Deuteronomy 19:13-21 asserts that a plotting witness is subject to the same punishment as the defendant—including, presumably, death. Although the Torah prescribes the death penalty in the case of adolescent rebellion (i.e., “the rebellious son” of Deut. 21:18-21), the Sages admit, “Such a case never occurred, and it never will happen.” The entire passage is heuristic, so, “That you may study [the Torah for its own sake] and receive reward.”[6] The rabbinic angst and reticence to implement the death penalty, and its alternative system of imprisonment is of great relevance for modern biblical scholars and laity.

Rabbinic law is pretty straightforward about such cases. Maimonides writes, “The following rules apply when two groups of witnesses offer conflicting testimonies. If one witness from one group came together with one witness from the other group and they both delivered testimony concerning another matter, the testimony is of no consequence for it is obvious that one of them lied, but we cannot ascertain which one.”[7]Likewise Maimonides also notes, “Should a court err with regard to a case involving capital punishment and convict an innocent person, ruling that he is guilty, and they discover a rationale that would require that the ruling be nullified and he be vindicated, they nullify the ruling and retry the case. If the Court erroneously ruled and acquitted a person liable to be executed, then the judgment is not nullified and the case is not retried.”[8]

“I will send rain on the earth for forty days and forty nights.” —(Gen. 7:4)

Forty  is a portentous number, for it represents the fullness of time. In general, it is usually a round number or estimation more so than an actual precise chronological measurement of time. As the medium of purification in the Torah, water has a unique power in that it can dissolve all the sundry forms it encompasses. In the realm of ritual, the waters of purification determine a new status, hence a new creation. Rabbinic literature develops this concept concerning the various laws pertaining to ritual purification and conversion.

In the Mishnah, for example, the waters of the mikvah (a “ritual bath”) must contain 40 se’ah (approximately 120 gallons) of water—the amount that is necessary to completely cover the human body as it undergoes ritual purification.[1] Ritual immersion represents a symbolic death for the person undergoing ritual. Upon arising, s/he becomes like a new person, as indicated by the Talmudic dictum, “Anyone who has become a proselyte is likened to a newborn baby.”[2]

Ritual immersion always introduces a change in status. For a priest, immersion enables him to eat from the priestly tithes; for the leper, immersion terminates his ceremonially impure  status and facilitates his reintegrate to the community. In the same manner, the Flood lasted for 40 days and 40 nights and served as a means of purifying and purging the world of the violence that had infected it.[3]

Throughout the Tanakh and much of early rabbinic tradition, the number 40 is also associated with dramatic change, upheaval,[4] judgment [5] , hardship, affliction and censure, temptation and punishment, probation, [6] purification, forgiveness,[7] wisdom,[8] redemptive rescuing (as evidenced here) and finally, revelation.[9] The Jewish mystical tradition also sees a profound relationship among all these seemingly disparate nuances associated with the number.

On a psychological level, the number 40 seems to suggest that it is only when we are most broken and humbled we become spiritually open and receptive to God’s revelation and promise of renewal. From a Jungian perspective, 40 also corresponds to the period of life commonly known as midlife, when one often experiences turbulent changes as one comes to grips with mortality and the meaning of human existence. At midlife, that is when we start asking the great questions–even now as we wade our way through the current economic deluge our country is experiencing. Use this time to rediscover the real “You.” Continue Reading

Biblical commentators love to portray Noah as a man who truly loved God for saving his family, even though the rest of the world perished. However, one could argue that Noah is not motivated by love, but by fear—and for good reason.

8:20 וַיִּבֶן נֹחַ מִזְבֵּחַ  – Then Noah built an altar — Without delay, Noah immediately builds an altar after reaching dry-land. The Torah did not disclose what may have been the motivation behind Noah’s sacrifice.

Noah does not offer a sin offering, nor does he sacrifice a thanksgiving offering as one might expect. At this point, let us ask a relevant question: What is the psychology that prompts the desire to offer a sacrifice? The giving of a gift, even between human beings, is not a purely external transaction; at the same time it establishes a personal relationship between giver and recipient.  Giving a gift creates a bond of friendship, which on some psychological level bounds the person receiving the gift to the giver.

Gift giving may be based on a desire to “buy” the affection of another. Anthropology teaches that archaic man often offered sacrifices as a bribe to the gods for personal enrichment or to placate the gods so they would not harm the worshiper.

While Noah may have felt compelled to offer thanksgiving for his miraculous deliverance from danger, it is also possible that Noah chose to “bribe” God because of his anxiety. Would God someday unleash another disaster to destroy the world and his future descendants?

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Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation — Vol. 2 Genesis 4-11.

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The imagery of sin “lurking at the door,” (Genesis 4:7) has puzzled commentaries since ancient times. Modern biblical scholarship approaches the text differently from traditional exegetes, but no less Midrashically. The Hebrew word for “crouching,” רֹבֵץ (röbëtz), is the same as an ancient Babylonian word referring to an evil demon named Rabisu, which awaits its prey along the roadside or at the door of a building (ANET 103c).[1] Sin may thus be pictured here as a demon, waiting to devour Cain like a wild animal attacking its prey; it desires to have him. The older JPS version of Genesis translated the verse much the same way: “Sin is the demon at the door.” E. Fox similarly renders this passage as: “at the entrance is sin, a crouching-demon toward you his lust—but you can rule over him.”^[2]

If it is true that the verb רֹבֵץ  is indeed related to the Akkadian mythical demon named rabisu, then the following neo-Midrashic interpretation may apply: Cain failed to grasp God’s words properly. God referred to “the demon within him,” who was his real enemy, but Cain instead perceived that his brother was the real “demon” standing at the door waiting to trip him up. Thus, getting rid of his brother would finally vanquish his personal demon. One of the perennial messages of the Cain and Abel story now becomes clear: When a man demonizes his own brother, he ceases to be brother and becomes the “Other”—an enemy who must be vanquished at all costs.

Another extrapolation is possible. Resentment and anger remain embedded in the individual’s psyche until these negative emotions are consciously confronted, released and discarded. The Torah thus teaches us that every person must recognize the inner conflicts that rage within one’s soul; these unconscious forces are capable of becoming demonic influences. In Jungian terms, the Shadow can be a potent ally once its presence is confronted in an honest and straightforward way. However, if a person denies this presence, these dark emotions (psychologically characterized as one’s “inner demons”) may surface unexpectedly and may powerfully overwhelm one’s judgement.

R. Hirsch takes issue with the idea that sin is “lurking” as though it wishes to pounce upon its innocent prey. Quite the contrary! The verb רֹבֵץ   invariably connotes “the most peaceful, undisturbed resting, with no incitement to attack or molest. . . . Therefore, “Aptly, is חַטָּאת ‘sin,’ appeal to the senses, here given the masculine gender רֹבֵץ  .[3] Its power is not to be underestimated. It has the power to master you, but it remains quietly behind your door.”[4]

Hirsch’s insight is theologically and sound and it has a strong basis in numerous rabbinic texts concerning free will. Sinfulness (or perhaps more specifically— human evil and malevolence) has a power and a presence only if we invite it into our lives.  Sinfulness becomes a personal reality whenever we give in to the path of least resistance. When this occurs, the feeling of guilt gradually becomes non-existent. Although its negative influence is incremental and steady, giving in to evil’s temptation produces a state of psychological and spiritual enslavement in its unwitting victims. One Sage likened the evil inclination to a spider-web: if a person continues to yield to temptation, that “spider-thread” becomes like cart ropes; as it is said “Woe to those who tug at guilt with cords of vanity, and at sin as if it were with a cart rope!” (Isa. 5:18).[5]

Another rabbinic source likened the overall process of sin to a slow seduction, which ultimately enslaves its master: “The evil prompting is at first like a wayfarer who comes to the door of a house and, finding that there is no one to stop him goes into the house and becomes a guest. Finding that there is still no one to stop it; the unwanted presence of evil takes liberties and acts as if it were the master.”[6] The more aware we are of it, the more we become conscious of our guilt. On the other hand, the more oblivious we are of our evil, the more unconscious we are of its effects. This same theological point will become even more obvious in the story of Pharaoh and his famous “heart condition”; after misusing his freedom, he loses his capacity to be an autonomous person. In the end Pharaoh becomes like an addict, a slave of his compulsion.

Notes: Continue Reading

4:4 וְהֶבֶל הֵבִיא גַם־הוּא מִבְּכֹרוֹת צֹאנוֹ וּמֵחֶלְבֵהֶן  – and Abel for his part brought of the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions— Robert Alter writes that the biblical narrator uses several techniques to convey meaning, e.g., statements by the anonymous narrator, by God, by heroes or heroines, by verbal clues, by juxtaposition of material, by characterization, and by effects of actions.^[1]

In contrast to the Scripture’s silence with regard to Cain’s sacrifice, the biblical narrator lavishes considerable detail on the quality of Abel’s offering. First of all, he offers his “firstlings,” which the Torah would later view comes from the best of one’s flock.^[2] Second, he offered the animals’ fattest parts, i.e., he sacrificed his choicest animals.^[3] In other words, Abel didn’t just offer the firstborn of his flock; he also offered even the very best of his flock—even if the animals weren’t necessarily the firstborn. Third, the verse intimates a clever pun in the words: וְהֶבֶל הֵבִיא גַם־הוּא (wühe’bel hëbî´ gam-hû´) — “he also brought himself.” A literal translation of the text indicates that Abel realizes that the true sacrifice reflects the inner person and the heart of the person offering it. Philo of Alexandria adds some of the most profound comments on the nature of sacrifice that touches on the true meaning of worship:

• God does not necessarily derive pleasure even if someone brings hecatombs to his altar. God possesses all things and does not require anything. Instead, he delights in minds which love God, and in men who practice holiness, from whom he gladly receives cakes and barley, and the cheapest things, as if they were the most valuable in preference to such which are most costly. Even when they bring nothing else, they still bring themselves … by doing so, they are offering the most excellent of all sacrifices that honoring God, as their Benefactor and Savior with hymns and thanksgivings. Some honor God by the organs of voice, while others honor God without the agency of the tongue or mouth. These worshipers make their exclamations and invocations with their soul alone. They realize that the ear of the Deity hears them.[4]

Various Hasidic writers homiletically note that Cain’s offering is motivated by his ego: Cain feels convinced that his sacrifice would be gladly accepted because it was he who was doing the offering. In contrast, Abel felt grateful for God’s many blessings, and that everything that he had amassed was because of God’s generosity. Without fanfare and with a genuine spirit of humility, Abel saw his offering as an opportunity to express his personal gratitude to God. To his credit, Abel succeeds in detaching his ego from the act of sacrifice, whereas Cain does not. Kahil Gibran expresses an identical thought: “You give but little when you give of your possessions; it is when you give of yourself that you truly give.”

Maimonides takes a different approach and views Abel’s sacrifice as a paradigm for all kinds of charitable giving. Every sacrifice must be given as an act of love and devotion; indeed, the absence of these qualities invalidates and cheapens the religious experience. Without the cultivation of the giving spirit, no virtue is possible. Although this is not a strict requirement in the legalistic sense, nevertheless anyone aspiring to become closer to God must go beyond mere perfunctory worship. Abel’s sacrifice functions as a paradigm for all types of voluntary charitable giving:

• Every sacrifice must be given as an act of love and devotion; indeed, the absence of these qualities invalidates and cheapens the religious experience. Without the cultivation of the giving spirit, no virtue is possible. Although this is not a strict requirement in the legalistic sense, nevertheless the one who is truly concerned about becoming close to God must go beyond mere perfunctory worship.

• Anyone wishing to become personally worthy of merit should overcome the urge toward selfishness and make it a point to offer one’s best and finest, so that his offering will be most exemplary. The Torah says: “and Abel for his part brought of the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions” (Gen. 4:4). The same rule ought to apply to every conceivable offering. Give your offering only from the finest and best. The house of prayer that you build must be nicer than your personal dwelling. The same principle ought to apply to other areas of your ethical life. Feed the poor with only the finest foods that are on your table. When clothing the naked, give him from the very finest of  your wardrobes. Always give from the very best of all your possessions, for the Torah states, “All fat belongs to the Lord” (Lev. 3:16).[5]

For Maimonides, the main issue raised in the story of Cain and Abel story is not so much about the quality of the sacrifice; it is also about the personal dimension each person brings with the offering. Cain and Abel represent the difference between selfless worship and selfish worship. Cain’s sacrifice reveals how even spiritual worship can degenerate into an act that is self-serving and perfunctory. Toward the end of Maimonides’ life, he focuses on the importance of love in sacrifice. Cain’s sacrifice fails because he is miserly in his giving; he withholds his best from God. He further elaborates:  Continue Reading

One 16^th century rabbinic scholar, Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi, exhibited integrity transcending the parochial world he inhabited, and called upon his readers to show an independence of thought that challenged the theological correctness of his era.  His prescription for honesty and intellectual truthfulness can certainly apply to our own generation as well:

• Neither should we be concerned about the logic of others—even if they preceded us—preventing our own individual investigation. Much to the contrary, just as [our forbearers] did not wish to indiscriminately accept the truth from those who preceded them, and that which they did not choose [to accept] they rejected, so it is fitting for us to do. Only on the basis of gathering many different opinions will the truth be tested. . . . Do not be dismayed by the names of the great personalities when you find them in disagreement with your beliefs; you must investigate and interpret, because for this purpose were you created, and wisdom was granted you from Above, and this will benefit you.[1]

From R. Ashkenazi’s opinion, one may surmise that the truth can always stand up to scrutiny. All the various approaches concerning the origin and redaction of the Pentateuch have much value and wisdom to impart. Early rabbinic exegetes deserve considerable credit for pointing out many textual anomalies that require clarification. Granted, many of the Midrashic answers given may not be grounded in a realistic understanding of the text, but the questions they raise regarding the text’s meaning are important. Conflicting interpretations—especially in a dialogical setting—frequently draw attention to nuances and ideas that one participant or interpreter may have overlooked or failed to take adequately into account. Conflicting interpretations also expand the text and force each participant to re-articulate earlier stated ideas that take into account the criticisms of the other side. In the midst of a discussion, one party may see truth in an oppositional point of view.

The need to occasionally acknowledge interpretive fallibility is an essential feature if one is to arrive at a truth. The absence of consensus is not a negative thing per se—in fact, quite the opposite. Contrary to Aristotle’s law of non-contradiction;[2] namely, “a thing and its opposite cannot both be true,”[3] rabbinic wisdom believes that truth is best served when contrarian interpretations challenge one another.[4] Truth is frequently discovered through a process of adversity and contradiction. Regardless how a person interprets a classical text like the Bible—or for that matter any great work of literature—there will always be somebody else who will interpret it differently. Disagreement is something that is not only endemic—it is inevitable. Whenever a new idea or approach is introduced, attention is drawn to aspects of a text that one might have overlooked or failed to take adequately into account. Arguments—whether they happen to be contrarian or supportive—force a person to modify an earlier stance. By the same token, one person’s ideas may have an equally powerful influence on someone else. While interpretation typically refines the next interpretation, controversy remains our constant companion.

How should one respond to this conundrum? If unanimity is really the goal, what incentive would there be for new interpretive ideas? Conversely, dissent is not necessarily indicative of a communications breakdown. Oftentimes a consensus of a people may be predicated upon an error (e.g., Ptolemy’s geo-centric view of the universe is but one obvious example). The desire to create a stable consensus can threaten to immobilize a person(s) or a society in error.

Dissent can be beneficial, and often leads to new discoveries and ideas. Moreover, dissent ensures that there will be some sort of accountability on the part of the originator. This would explain why peer review is a necessary process whenever new articles on any subject are introduced. A community of readers and interpreters create a network that produces alternative viewpoints worthy of reflective consideration. Differences of insight do not necessarily mean disagreement on the core issues of a story or discussion. Throughout Jewish and Christian exegetical traditions, rarely has there been a stable consensus. If this was the case in ancient times, why should it be any different today? The focus of scholarly dissent may change over time, but the fact of disagreement does not go away; indeed it is a necessary part of the learning process.

Every biblical commentary (to a greater or lesser extent) offers varying responses, often to the same question; at times they pose different questions and may also argue as to which questions ought to serve as the focal point of a discussion. The purpose of their commentaries is not to create a monologue with the reader but to stimulate a living dialogue for both the reader and his community. In light of this, we can boldly say that questioning the great interpreters of the past need not undermine faith; on the contrary, it has the potential of strengthening it. Conversely, the fear of new ideas in many ways undermines faith in the Divine message of the Torah. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of the Socratic and Talmudic milieu to the Western world is the need to question everything that is believed to be the “truth.” The fluid nature of Judaic theology demonstrates a historical resiliency that has the innate ability to maintain its structural and spiritual integrity against any wave of modernity or textual criticism.

While Birth and Rebirth through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation is primarily a theological exposition of biblical themes that are scattered throughout the chapters of Genesis, the title implies that it is also an exegetical work, intended to honor the nature of the peshat (the contextual meaning of the text)[5] with its rich history of intertexuality. The text is a nexus where ideas and thoughts of the past converge with the present and future. The exegetical component is extremely important, for good exegesis can provide a solid contextual basis for eisegetical insight and wisdom.

[1] Cited from Alan Dershowitz’s The Genesis of Justice (New York: Time Warner, 2000), 18-19.  Continue Reading