According to French philosopher and theologian Paul Ricoeur, a text is any kind of discourse that is fixed to writing, but its origins are frequently oral in nature, as in the art of storytelling and myth.  Ricoeur explains, “Fixation by writing takes the very place of speech, occurring at the site where speech could have emerged.”[1] The text however, is not a static entity that is hermeneutically fixed or reified—texts invite encounter, discovery, dialogue, and interaction. In most instances, the reader cannot question what the author had in mind when penning his words and neither can the writer respond to the queries of the reader.

Ricoeur terms this formation as a “double eclipse”[2] for in a sense, both writer and reader escape the notice of the Other; this absence of presence also creates an interpretive tension between reader and text. On one level, a text presents a trace of the writer’s imagination and experience of the world. Once this experience is transcribed, the writer loses complete control of how his work will be interpreted, as Ricoeur and M. Bakhtin so note.[3] Left to its own, the written word remains in a dormant state until a reader enlivens the text’s capacity to challenge and transform his   personal worldview. Each instance of engaging the text becomes an event where the minds of the past and present meld together and become one.

The etymological meaning of “text” bears this point out. The English word “text” comes from the Latin textus “woven material,” which in turn derives from the root texere “to weave.” It is still fairly common to speak about “spinning a tale” or “spinning a yarn,” or “weaving a tale,”[4] or “weaving a theme.”[5] While a text may be described as a “literary composition,” when it comes to its readers and interpreters it ought to be viewed perhaps more accurately as a “literary tapestry.”

The imagery of a literary tapestry is intriguing with respect to the Torah since each generation’s interpretations and commentaries continue to add new strands of thought that keep the text pertinent and contemporaneous. As a divine tapestry, Jewish tradition has always understood that each new generation re-weaves the sacred tradition, and in doing so, contributes toward its beauty and deeper understanding. The threads of interpretation may be different in their texture, quality, and color; nevertheless, each strand of interpretive insight adds, enhances, and preserves the ancestral tradition for future generations.

Theologian R. David R. Blumenthal also touches on the theme of text as a woven fabric that continues to be rewoven by each new generation: “The text is a fabric, woven (Latin texere/textus) from many threads. One thread is the received text—signs scratched, erased, and re-inscribed in eternity by many hands. One thread is the tradition— many conflicting voices echoing in the same eternity. One thread is the interpreter—gathering in, com-prehending, the threads into one fabric; but differently at different times. And one thread is the reader—calling and called to. All text-fabrics are created from other text—fabrics. Every reading is a gathering-in of older threads into a new tissue; an interweaving of the particular life of the reader with the tissue of the tradition. The text-fabric is never finished.“[6] (Emphasis added.)

Briefly defined, the process of making an intelligible analysis of a given text is what scholars commonly refer to as “hermeneutics,” a word deriving from the Greek ἑρμηνεύω (hermēneuō) to “interpret,” or “translate.” This method aims to make intelligible one’s own thoughts or the thoughts of others, whether oral or written.[7] Hermeneutics is the critical reflection of the interpretive process, especially with respect to biblical texts, with a goal to understanding its deeper meaning. Aside from ascertaining the straightforward meaning of the text, the study of hermeneutics is also concerned with the various influences that impact a reader’s subjectivity and interpretation, such as beliefs, personal history, traditions, and so on.

The polyvalence of scriptural interpretation was well known in ancient times. The Academy of Rabbi Ishmael (ca. 2^nd century) taught, “My word is like a fire that purges dross! It is like a hammer that breaks a rock in pieces!” (Jer. 23:29), i.e., “Just as a hammer can produce many sparks when it hits a flint,  so too every single word that goes forth from the Holy Blessed One, splits up into seventy languages.”[8] Such interpretive diffusion creates the possibility of diverse and contrarian viewpoints—all of which have a degree of legitimacy.[9] To the religious imagination of the rabbis, the process of revelation continues to unfold in new and unpredictable ways whenever two people or more have a thoughtful exchange of wisdom and scripture. Just as God’s Oneness is inclusive of the many, so too does the Torah embrace infinite facets of meaning.

———— Continue Reading

Rabbi Samuel offers wide-ranging religious discussion in ‘Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis’

Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation, Vol. 1: Genesis 1-3 by Rabbi Michael L. Samuel, CreateSpace, ISBN-13: 978-1456301712; ©2011 p. 495, including excursuses, bibliography, and index.

By Fred Reiss, Ed.D.

Fred Reiss, Ed.D

WINCHESTER, California – The biblical narrator of the first three chapters of Genesis, whoever he may be: Moses at God’s direction, a divinely inspired priest, or even a scribe recording the most ancient mythology of the Hebrew people, begins with a simple, yet profound sentence, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” But, what does this sentence imply and what does it mean? The implication is that there is a creator, whose name is God, and who worked alone to fashion all that there is. And, when was the beginning? What did God use to build the heavens and earth? Were the heavens and earth created from the same thing? Explanations about the allusions and applications of the Torah, the Five Books of Moses, if the Talmudic sages are to be believed, go back to Mt. Sinai in the form of a God-given oral law. Written comments about the Torah’s meaning began about the time of Philo, in the latter part of the first century BCE. Since then hundreds of thousands of pages have been written to explain what the Torah “really” means.

Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis written by Rabbi Michael L. Samuel, a pulpit Rabbi who is descended from a long line of distinguished Rabbis and a graduate of an Orthodox seminary, is not another commentary on the Torah, but rather a meta-analysis of commentaries that offer comprehension and insight on the first three chapters of the Book of Genesis, which cover from creation through the Expulsion from the Garden of Eden.

Judging from Rabbi Samuel’s background, one would expect to read a series of explanations only from main-line orthodoxy, but this is not the case. In Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis’ lengthy introduction, Rabbi Samuel examines the Genesis stories as myth, comparing them to other similar stories found in the Middle East and explores and analyzes the Genesis stories from the perspective of the four-level of interpretation suggested by the rabbinic sages by presenting a wide spectrum of Jewish and non-Jewish sources, covering the earliest interpretations through the modern and post-modern critical approaches of Torah criticism. In the middle section, which examines the passages of Genesis 1-3, Rabbi Samuel draws from his extensive knowledge of biblical commentaries to provide the reader with extensive and comprehensive understandings about these passages. The reader is just as likely to find an interpretation by a Hasidic master as a quote from a Hindu text or a quote from the Zohar or Friedrich Nietzsche. In the final section, an appendix, which he calls, Excursus, Rabbi Samuel provides the reader with additional thought-provoking material, which sometimes offers more interpretations and sometimes asks deep and fundamental questions about the biblical text.

Readers of Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis are treated to a superb variety of interpretations, perspectives, and analyses, all of which shows why the Bible is still the most widely-read, yet among the least comprehended books.

**

Dr. Fred Reiss is a retired public and Hebrew school teacher and administrator. He is the author of The Standard Guide to the Jewish and Civil Calendars;  Ancient Secrets of Creation: Sepher Yetzira, the Book that Started Kabbalah, Revealed; and Reclaiming the Messiah.  He may be contacted at fred.reiss@sdjewishworld.com

As we give pause to the memory of Martin Luther King and his profound ethical message concerning the evils of racial intolerance, it behooves us to ask ourselves: Have we, as a religious community, fully embraced the principles that cost this great man his life? Most American Jews have taken valuable steps in combating racism in our great country. However, some of us have yet to take a meaningful first step.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe spent many years preaching about the importance of ahavat Yisrael—on how, “we should love our fellow Jews.” However, the Rebbe and his Hasidic followers were careful never to admit that this great commandment does not apply to Ethiopian Jews. Since the famous rescue of the Ethiopian Jews (Beta Israel) in the 1980s, Chabad schools have adopted a policy that openly discriminates against Ethiopian Jews—despite the fact they have undergone Orthodox conversions in Israel and have been accepted in many Haredi yeshivas!!

Ethiopian parents often hear from Chabad principals, “We don’t take in Ethiopian children. We don’t think you match our lifestyle and we’re not sure about your Jewishness either.” This is exactly what five young girls of Ethiopian descent heard when they arrived with their parents at the “Or Chaya” school in Petah Tikva. By the way, Or Chaya is a Chabad school. Moshe Ashgara, the father of another girl, experienced the same treatment. “My daughter is a diligent student. Why won’t they take her?” That is a good question and the Principal of Or Chaya was unavailable for questioning.

The answer is simple: Chabad endorses racial discrimination against people it does not feel are “real Jews.” The late Lubavitcher Rebbe expressed doubts over the Jewish origins of Ethiopian immigrants to Israel and instructed that they be excluded from Chabad institutions—regardless whether they went through the most rigorous conversions.

Mind you, they have no problem accepting Jews from Ashkenazi and Sephardi backgrounds, not to mention, Jewish immigrants from the former Soviet Union. But not a single Ethiopian Jew is enrolled in the educational network. This policy applies not only to the Israeli secondary schools—it applies to every Chabad Heder and yeshiva all over the world.

Menachem Brod, spokesman for Chabad, confirms that Ethiopian children are not accepted in the Hasidic movement’s institutions. “This is an instruction from the Lubavitcher Rebbe and also a ruling by our rabbis,” he said. He also reiterated that the “Ethiopians are not being singled out, since Chabad policy applies to anyone whose Jewishness is in question.”[1]

When the Ethiopian Jews began their immigration from Ethiopia, the Chief Rabbinate obliged all immigrants to undergo giyur lehumra (pro forma conversion) because of doubts raised about their Jewishness by Ashkenazi ultra-Orthodox rabbis. However, in 1984 the rabbinate adopted as its official policy the well-known halakhic ruling that Rabbi Ovadia Yosef – the spiritual leader of Shas – issued a decade earlier, which held that there was no doubt about the Jewishness of the Falasha, the Beta Israel (Ethiopian Jews ). From this point on, instead of the demand to undergo conversion, members of Beta Israel wishing to marry had to undergo a “clarification of Jewishness.”

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein wrote to his son-in-law, Rabbi Moshe Tendler concerning the Ethiopian Jews:

• As you mentioned, they should not be brought to the Land of Israel, unless they have undergone a conversion, in order to not increase the concern for assimilation [i.e., intermarriage with Jews who do not have a doubt regarding their Jewish status and also a weakening of the faith of Ethiopian Jews themselves]. But if they have legally converted, and as I have heard they are doing, we shall consider them like all Jews, and one must assist them and support them for all needs of livelihood, both physically and spiritually. And I suffered great anguish because I have heard there are those in Israel who are not drawing them close in spiritual matters and are causing, G-d forbid, that they might be lost from Judaism. And it seems to me these people are behaving so only because the color of the Falashas’ skin is black. It is obvious that one must draw them close, not only because they are no worse than the rest of the Jews – and because there is no distinction in practical application of the law because they are black – but also because one can say perhaps they are gerim [converts], and are therefore included in the mitzva “and you shall love the convert.”[2]

For the record, the Lubavitcher Rebbe never endorsed the rescue of Ethiopian Jews in their most critical time of their history.  Every other major Halachic scholar accepted the Ethiopian Jews as Jews, but many did insist upon a pro-forma conversion in the event of marriage.[3] This is all the more amazing when one considers that the Lubavitcher Rebbe always stressed the importance of saving lives superseded even the laws of the Shabbat!

Last week,  Channel 2 in Jerusalem exposed an agreement signed by residents of an apartment complex in Kiryat Malachi that forbade the sale or rental of apartments to Ethiopian Jews – even if the potential renter was an exemplary Israeli citizen, and their decision was extensively backed by a Chabad neighbor who wrote an essay defending the racism. Such behavior embarrasses Jews everywhere, and our enemies use these stories to tarnish Israel’s reputation to the world.

If the Haredim in Israel are willing to accept the Ethiopian Jews, one must wonder: Why won’t the Chabad also accept the Beta Israel? Why should the Chabad institutions receive a free pass to continue their racial discrimination? In fairness to the Chabad public, it is doubtful whether most of their supporters are even aware of this problem. However, the organization leaders may want to rethink the Rebbe’s position because it goes against the vast majority of Haredi rabbis, who have for the most part, openly embraced the Ethiopians in Israel. Clearly, Rabbi Schnersohn has been overruled by the vast majority of Torah scholars of his time, and it is foolish to continue a policy that is so morally offensive, not to mention—contrary to Halacha.

About 2,000 people gathered on Tuesday to demonstrate against racism in Kiryat Malakhi, after members of the Ethiopian immigrant community there said that local homeowners’ committees refuse to rent them apartments. They were joined by hundreds of people who came from around the country to support them.

What a shanda!

A pig with lipstick is still a pig, and racism–even–with a smiley face is still racism.

The Israeli government is outraged about this shabby treatment of Israel’s beloved Ethiopian Jewish community and promises to strike hard at the racist policies that are harming the Jewish people of Israel. President Shimon Peres expressed our sentiments with eloquence, “The racists should be ashamed of their actions and their words,” Peres said on Thursday. “When we established the state, our dream was that Ethiopian Jews would immigrate to Israel, along with Libyan Jews, Russian Jews and Jews from all over the world.”

Notes:

[1] “Chabad School Refuses to Accept Ethiopian Students,” Chabad News on September 08 2011, http://www.crownheights.info/index.php?itemid=37556.

[2] Cited in Igrot Moshe Vol. 9 (I have personally ordered the book, and I promise to cite the response when I receive it in the mail.

[3] R. Eliezer Yehudah Waldenberg, Ziz [i.e, Tzitz] Eli’ezer, 10:25,ch. 3, sec. 10; Tzitz Eli’ezer, X, no,. 25, chap. 3, sec. 19.

For our blog readers, I wish to present some new ideas for you to consider concerning the verb (bärä´ = “created”). The font anomalies are due to Word Press’s limitations. This material comes from my new Genesis commentary, enjoy!

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בָּרָא – created – The verb  בָּרָא (bärä´ = “created”) connotes God’s absolute effortless creativity. In the Tanakh, this term is used exclusively with respect to Divine creativity, for human creativity is limited by the materials it has access to—this is not so with God. This distinction may also explain why many medieval rabbinic thinkers like Saadia[1], Maimonides[2], Ramban[3], Abarbanel[4], Seforno[5] and others believe this verb alludes to the concept of creatio ex nihilo (creation from “nothing”) since only God can create from the non-existent. Elsewhere in the Tanakh, בָּרָא’ introduces something surprisingly novel, wonderful, and awe-inspiring.[6] For a theological exposition on the importance of novelty, see Excursus 8a and 8e.

However, Ibn Ezra is less convinced and contends that the linguistic evidence does not support such an interpretation.[7] The verb בָּרָא’ may also mean to fashion something out of already existing materials (e.g., the creation of man, whose body came from the dust of the earth, and whose soul issued forth from God’s breath).[8] Ibn Ezra’s comments could also suggest the universe was constructed out of pre-existent matter. However, pre-existent matter need not imply a dualism; it may imply that this ethereal substance is “pre-eternal” only in relationship to the world but not in relationship to God. In conclusion, Ibn Ezra theorizes that the primary meaning of בָּרָא means “to cut down” or “set a boundary.”[9]

S.R. Driver supports Ibn Ezra’s perspective and adds that the verb  בָּרָא (bärä´) is related to the Arabic barā^y “to fashion” or “shape by cutting.” Nevertheless, Driver admits that “in its simple conjugation, it refers exclusively to God and denotes the production of something fundamentally new, by the exercise of a sovereign originative power, altogether transcending that possessed by man.”[10]

Some modern Hebraists contend that בָּרָא is related to the South Arabic word “br” meaning “to build,” or  “to bring forth,” or “give birth to” and is probably related to the Aramaic word בַּר  (bar), “child”[11] (as in the modern “Bar Mitzvah” = “a son of a precept”), or “son” (e.g., Ezek. 28:13,15). Creativity is expressed in the way we give birth to something from the very depths of our innermost being.^[12] Often, when the Scriptures speak about Creation, it involves “giving birth” to a new reality.^[13]

However, there is no clear consensus as to the meaning or origin of this important term. Lastly, the principle of creatio ex nihilo is not contingent upon the verb ברא. Light was created only when God spoke the words, “Let there be light” (v. 3); there is not even the slightest hint that God formed the light out of the primordial chaos and this theological approach has sometimes been called creatio per verbum—”creation from the word.” Such a concept reflects a more precise mythopoetic understanding concerning the nature of reality as a creative expression of the Divine (see notes on Genesis 1:3; 1:27 and Excursus 8). Continue Reading

What is a text? The question sounds simple enough; the answer, however, is philosophically and hermeneutically complex.

According to French philosopher and theologian Paul Ricoeur, a text is any kind of discourse that is fixed to writing, but its origins are frequently oral in nature, as in the art of storytelling and myth.  Ricoeur explains, “Fixation by writing takes the very place of speech, occurring at the site where speech could have emerged.”[1] The text however, is not a static entity that is hermeneutically fixed or reified—texts invite encounter, discovery, dialogue, and interaction. In most instances, the reader cannot question what the author had in mind when penning his words and neither can the writer respond to the queries of the reader.

Ricoeur terms this formation as a “double eclipse”[2] for in a sense, both writer and reader escape the notice of the Other; this absence of presence also creates an interpretive tension between reader and text. On one level, a text presents a trace of the writer’s imagination and experience of the world. Once this experience is transcribed, the writer loses complete control of how his work will be interpreted, as Ricoeur and M. Bakhtin so note.[3] Left to its own, the written word remains in a dormant state until a reader enlivens the text’s capacity to challenge and transform his   personal worldview. Each instance of engaging the text becomes an event where the minds of the past and present meld together and become one.

The etymological meaning of “text” bears this point out. The English word “text” comes from the Latin textus “woven material,” which in turn derives from the root texere “to weave.” It is still fairly common to speak about “spinning a tale” or “spinning a yarn,” or “weaving a tale,”[4] or “weaving a theme.”[5] While a text may be described as a “literary composition,” when it comes to its readers and interpreters it ought to be viewed perhaps more accurately as a “literary tapestry.”

The imagery of a literary tapestry is intriguing with respect to the Torah since each generation’s interpretations and commentaries continue to add new strands of thought that keep the text pertinent and contemporaneous. As a divine tapestry, Jewish tradition has always understood that each new generation re-weaves the sacred tradition, and in doing so, contributes toward its beauty and deeper understanding. The threads of interpretation may be different in their texture, quality, and color; nevertheless, each strand of interpretive insight adds, enhances, and preserves the ancestral tradition for future generations. Theologian R. David R. Blumenthal also touches on the theme of text as a woven fabric that continues to be rewoven by each new generation:

• The text is a fabric, woven (Latin texere/textus) from many threads. One thread is the received text—signs scratched, erased, and re-inscribed in eternity by many hands. One thread is the tradition— many conflicting voices echoing in the same eternity. One thread is the interpreter—gathering in, com-prehending, the threads into one fabric; but differently at different times. And one thread is the reader—calling and called to. All text-fabrics are created from other text—fabrics. Every reading is a gathering-in of older threads into a new tissue; an interweaving of the particular life of the reader with the tissue of the tradition. The text-fabric is never finished.[6] (Emphasis added.)

Briefly defined, the process of making an intelligible analysis of a given text is what scholars commonly refer to as “hermeneutics,” a word deriving from the Greek ἑρμηνεύω (hermēneuō) to “interpret,” or “translate.” This method aims to make intelligible one’s own thoughts or the thoughts of others, whether oral or written.[7] Hermeneutics is the critical reflection of the interpretive process, especially with respect to biblical texts, with a goal to understanding its deeper meaning. Aside from ascertaining the straightforward meaning of the text, the study of hermeneutics is also concerned with the various influences that impact a reader’s subjectivity and interpretation, such as beliefs, personal history, traditions, and so on (see Excursus 1).  Continue Reading

According to Rashi (1040-1105), one of humanity’s chief distinctions from the animal world lies in its unique ability to formulate speech in expressing ideas about itself, the world, and God. As proof, Rashi cites the Aramaic translation (Targum) of Onkelos (2nd cent. c.e.), who paraphrases the verse to mean: וַהֲוָת בְאָדָם לְרֻוחַ מְמַלְלָא “and it became within man, a speaking spirit,” as if to say humanity represents the most evolved of all created entities, for humankind alone was granted the power of understanding and speech.

These traditional interpretations regarding the human capacity for complex and abstract speech raise important questions in light of our contemporary knowledge of zoology, comparative linguistics, anthropology, and neuroscience. Simply put, how unique is the human capacity to speak and communicate through language? Is human language the by-product of a long evolutionary history, or is it more the result of spontaneous development that is unique to people?

There is a large scientific interdisciplinary debate about the nature of human communication going back to the time of Darwin, who originally theorized that human language is simply an evolved form of communication, no different in principle from the grunts, gestures, and calls generated by other non-human species. Darwin posits, “I cannot doubt that language owes its origin to the imitation and modification of various natural sounds, the voices of other animals, and man’s own instinctive cries, aided by signs and gestures.”[1] While natural selection argues for a gradualist account for language, the appearance of organized language makes its mysterious but spontaneous appearance only in humankind. Until the 20^th century, the origin of language remained a forbidden topic in certain academic circles, probably because of its highly speculative nature.[2]

Still and all, some linguistic scholars like Noam Chomsky reject the Darwinian idea that language could have evolved by natural selection. Chomsky asserts that the human language instinct is fundamentally incompatible with the modern Darwinian theory of evolution, in which complex biological systems arise by gradual accumulation over generations of random genetic mutations that enhance reproductive success. As such, language is a skill limited strictly to humans, who are the sole possessors of the cognitive hardware which makes language possible.

Chomsky contends that human language is radically different from primate communication and draws attention to the incredible ease with which children learn to communicate (as opposed to learning, for instance, mathematics) far beyond the intellectual capacity of their years.[3] Such ability is actually hardwired within the brain itself, which enables it to grasp the words along with its grammar, intuitively knowing how to make symbolic sense of the words that are spoken. Chomsky refers to this mental faculty as the “Language Acquisition Device” or simply “LAD.” The child’s innate ability to acquire the grammar necessary for a language can best be explained only if one assumes that all grammars are variations of a single, generic “universal grammar,” which is a cross-cultural phenomenon that reveals how all human brains come “with a built-in language organ that contains this language blueprint.” He postulates that there is an “organ” within the brain that enables it to effortlessly learn the meaning of symbolic language. It is this “instinct” or “innate facility” that makes human language unique.

Among modern linguists, M.I.T. Professor Steven Pinker offers one of the most controversial theories about human language in his book, The Language Instinct.[4] While Pinker is sympathetic to many of Chomsky’s original insights regarding the uniqueness of human language, he also sides with the Darwinian view that the brain’s innate grammatical abilities are not necessarily incompatible with natural selection and mutation. He writes, “There must have been a series of steps leading from no language at all to language as we now find it, each step small enough to have been produced by random mutation of genes and with each intermediate grammar being useful to its possessor.”[5]

One could argue that once a person defines language from a purely human perspective, other forms of non-human language are at a disadvantage from the start. It is perhaps more relevant to ask ourselves, how do animal species communicate with one another? Or, can human beings, for example, train primates to understand or speak human language? If in fact, the understanding of symbols is a vital prerequisite to the development of language, then, is the phenomenon of syntax, as Chomsky argues, the most important defining feature that is exclusive to human language?

Some scientists, like primatologist Sue Savage-Rumbaugh, contend that certain species of primates are capable of developing a basic sense of syntax. She offers an altogether different approach to the relationship of animals and language, through the use of lexigrams and computer-based keyboards, the same kind of technology that is used for children and adults with language deficits. With this method, each lexigram or symbol represents a word; however, a symbol is not necessarily characteristic of the words it represents. Remarkably, the information gathered at the center regarding the primates’ abilities to acquire symbols, comprehend spoken words, decode simple syntactical structures, learn concepts of number and quantity, and perform complex perceptual-motor tasks have revolutionized the way  scientists understand primate communication. [6] Other researchers have also managed to teach gorillas how to utilize sign language.[7]

Studies with the African Grey Parrot, named “Alex,” have been studied for the past thirty years by animal psychologist Irene Pepperberg, initially at the University of Arizona and later at Harvard and Brandeis University. Prior to her studies, most scientists believed that birds were only capable of mimicking human speech, but were incapable of using words creatively. According to Pepperberg, birds actually possess a capacity to reason and utilize words in expressing themselves and can even count! Alex’s intelligence is believed to have been comparable to that of dolphins and great apes, if not that of a five-year-old human child. Had it not died prematurely because of illness, it might have developed an even greater capacity to express itself through human language.[8]

Marine biologists have also discovered that the humpback whales’ songs continue to change as the season progresses. The New Year’s song will start off where last year’s song has ended, providing evidence of an enormous memory capacity. As the season progresses, the song will gradually change. New pieces will be added while other sections will be dropped. One whale may carry a note a bit longer than another whale, but the structure and components are the same. One recent study points out that their language sophistication is so great, that some whales seem to sing in different dialects depending on their place of origin. For example, blue whales off the Pacific Northwest sound differently from blue whales in the western Pacific, which sound differently from those living off of Antarctica. Moreover, they all sound differently from the blue whales living near Chile. Whales in the eastern Pacific are purported to emit lower-pitched sounds followed by a tone, while other whale populations use a different variety of pulses, tones, and pitches. Perhaps the regional differences in their tones are similar to the distinctions between French and Italian, or are variations of the regional accents found in this country. In addition, whales even have a grasp of grammar whenever they communicate with one another.[9] Continue Reading

•  The just man knows the soul of his beast, but the heart of the wicked is merciless.                                            

—Proverbs 12:10

The author of Proverbs stresses an important ethical lesson: a humane person considers the needs of his animals and acts kindly towards them.^[1] The world of Creation is full of sentient beings, which also experience many of the joys and blessings that people commonly enjoy: like humankind, these creatures also experience pain. Suffering is a common language that links humanity with other species of animal life. Therefore, Jewish ethics take sharp issue with French philosopher Rene Descartes (ca. 1596–1650), who compares animals to machines that service people, stating that their suffering “means nothing more than the creaking of a wheel.”[2] In physiological terms, according to Descartes, what human beings and animals share is that their bodies function by the laws of mechanics. One might respond: How then do human beings differ from animals? Descartes argues that the Creator endows human beings with a divine soul and a moral conscience—qualities that are lacking in animals. In addition, unlike animals, human beings possess the ability to conceptualize and verbalize ideas. Most importantly, only human beings are capable of conscious and rational thought since they are uniquely endowed with the ability to be self-reflective. Only a human being is capable of exclaiming, “Cogito ergo sum.”

Philo of Alexandria explains that the Mosaic proscription prohibiting the boiling of a kid in its mother’s milk aims to teach Israel that mercy and self-restraint should govern people’s relations with animals no less than with each other.[3] According to biblical law, a person may not satisfy his or her appetite disregarding the feelings of animals, especially where mothers and their young are concerned. A worshipper in ancient times, for example, is barred from sacrificing a newborn animal until it is at least eight days old (Exod. 22:28–29; Lev 22:27). “Nothing could be more brutal,” writes Philo, “than to add to the mother’s birth pangs the pain of being separated from her young immediately after giving birth, for it is at this time that her maternal instincts are strongest.” In other respects, too, the Law calls for self-restraint. Thus, it would be an act of unnatural excess, Philo argues, to cook a young animal in the very substance with which nature intended it to be sustained. In a similar vein, the Law prohibits one from sacrificing an animal together with its young (Lev 22:28), since this would again involve an unnatural combination of that which gives life and that which receives it.[4]

Pursuing a similar approach found in Philo, Maimonides comments on a number of biblical precepts dealing with preventing cruelty towards animals in his Guide:

• It is also prohibited to kill an animal with its young on the same day (Lev. 22:28), the reason being, is so that people should be restrained and prevented from killing the two together in such a manner that the young is slain in plain sight of the mother; the pain of the animals under such circumstances is very great. There can be no difference in this case between the pain of man and the pain of other sentient beings, since the love and tenderness of the mother for her young ones is not produced by reasoning, but is a matter determined by instinct and this faculty exists not only in man but in most living beings. This law applies only to ox and lamb, because of the domestic animals used as food these alone are permitted to us, and in these cases the mother recognizes her young. . . . If the Torah provides that such grief should not be caused to cattle or birds, how much more careful must we be that we should not cause grief to our fellow human beings![5]

According to Maimonides, an animal’s ability to feel emotional pain gives it moral standing; it is for this reason that the Torah prohibits these acts. Not all Jewish thinkers concur with Maimonides. Ramban claims that the prohibitions against cruelty to animals are not so much for the animal’s benefit, but for the sole moral development of humankind. Cruelty towards animals is desensitizing (commenting on Deuteronomy 22:6 and Leviticus 22:28), which will eventually produce brutality and insensitivity to the pain and suffering of others.

• The ruling on the mother bird is not predicated upon the Almighty’s “pity” for the animal. Otherwise, God would have forbidden their slaughter altogether! The reason, however, for the prohibition is to instill within us compassion and the avoidance of cruelty; butchers and slaughterers often become insensitive to the suffering on account of their occupation. Therefore, to avoid engendering these negative traits, the Torah proscribed precepts that a person should not slaughter the mother and its young on the same day (Lev. 22:28) and sending away the mother bird (Deut. 22:6). Such laws are not inspired by feelings of consideration for their suffering but are decrees to inculcate humanity in us. [6]

Is the origin of the creatio ex nihilo doctrine truly a post-biblical theological concept introduced during the Hellenistic era, as many scholars in the last hundred years wish to assert? The Tanakh itself does not speak of such an explicit philosophical idea; in fact, it appears for the first time in 2 Maccabees 7:28, in a text written in Greek and originating in the 2^nd century B.C.E. In this famous passage, a mother pleads with her son who is about to be executed for his faith, exclaiming: “I beg you, child, to look at the heavens and the earth and see all that is in them; then you will know that God did not make them out of existing things; (οὐκ ἐξ ὄντων ἐποίησεν - ouk ex onton epoiesen), and in the same way the human race came into existence” (NAB). That is to say, the same God that creates the universe out of nothingness also possesses the power to raise a person from the ashes and non-being of death. It seems highly unlikely that such a story would not have also been based on a common attitude that Jews subscribed to for many, many centuries, nor is it a huge conceptual leap for those already believing that God created the universe!

Another one of the oldest references to the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo comes from the Letter of Aristeas, which is believed to have been written sometime between 150-100 and 1^st century B.C.E., and records: “For it would be utterly foolish to suppose that anyone became a god in virtue of his inventions. For the inventors simply took certain objects already created and by combining them together, showed that they possessed a fresh utility: they did not themselves create the substance of the thing.” [1]

On the other hand, a different perspective appears in The Wisdom of Solomon, a work believed to have originated between the 3^rd century B.C.E. and the early 1^st century C.E. The author was very adept in Judaic and Greek thought, and expresses the biblical story of Creation in terms that appear in Plato’s Timaeus,[2]  “And indeed Your all-powerful hand which created the world from formless matter . . .” (καὶ κτίσασα τὸν κόσμον ἐξ ἀμόρφου ὕλης—kai katisasa ton kosmon ex amorthou hyles). It is commonly assumed that the author was referring to Genesis 1:1; however, the author may have been referring to Genesis 1:2 and not 1:1!

From Philo of Alexandria’s writings, it is unclear whether he actually subscribes to creatio ex nihilo or not. Some argue that Philo believes that God created all things—including the pre-existing matter—from nothing.[3] Subsequently, once the creative process begins, God acts more like an Artist than an actual Creator by utilizing the raw materials that already exist. Others read Philo differently, contending that Philo does not believe in creatio ex nihilo[4], and that his theological position derives from Plato and Aristotle. As Wolfson observes, the difference in perspective may have been attributed to Philo’s listening audience. To those of a Platonic mindset, Philo “Platonizes” his doctrine; to those more traditionally oriented, he emphasizes the doctrine of creatio-ex nihilo. It may well be that Philo sees no theological or philosophical problem with either viewpoint—provided it is properly articulated. Alternatively, Philo may have personally hedged on this issue at different stages of his thinking.[5]

Alternatively, Josephus is a different matter, he substitutes the verb ἔκτισεν (ektisen = “created”) in place of the Septuagint’s ἐποίησεν (epoiēsen, “made”). With this alteration, Josephus makes it obvious to his readers that God continuously creates the world ex nihilo and has no need to form it out of preexistent matter.[6] One famous Midrash records a discussion between a Gnostic philosopher and R. Gamaliel (1^st century C.E.), who uses an intratextual approach in explaining the opening lines of the Genesis creation narrative:

• “Your God was indeed a great artist, but surely He utilized good materials that assisted Him!” Rabbi Gamaliel asked: “And what do you think they are?” He replied, “Tohu, bohu, darkness, water, wind (ruah), and the deep.” Rabbi Gamaliel exclaimed, “Woe to that man . . .” while adding, “The term creation is used by Scripture in connection with all of them. Regarding tohu and bohu is written, “I make peace and create evil” (Isa. 55: 7).[7] Concerning darkness is written, “I form the light, and create darkness” (ibid.). Concerning the creation of water, is written, “Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens! (Ps. 148: 4) How so? “For He commanded, and they were created” (ibid. 5); concerning wind is written, “For lo, the one who forms the mountains, creates the wind . . . (Amos 4:13); and concerning the depths is written, “When there were no depths I was brought forth, when there were no springs abounding with water. (Prov. 8: 24).[8]

This pagan philosopher of the Midrash expresses a thought that is reminiscent of a comment made by a second century Neo-Pythagorean philosopher named Numenius, who sought to demonstrate how the wisdom of Pythagoras and Plato could be found in the Torah of the Jews. Numenius has been often quoted as saying, “What else is Plato but Moses speaking Attic Greek?” [9] Like the Midrash of the pagan philosopher, the story of God creating the world from pre-eternal matter seems compatible with the teachings of Plato.

One might wonder why the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo is not widely discussed in the Talmud itself, however, the rabbis were certainly familiar with much of the philosophical and Gnostic speculation concerning the universe’s cosmology, and they felt this was not a topic that ought to be discussed in public. The study of philosophy was considered to be potentially dangerous, thus it was to be avoided. The Ma’aseh Berashit (“The Work of Creation”) was not to be studied in the academies or in public.[10]  Still and all, the cosmology of Genesis does find occasional expression in the Midrashic literature. Recorded in a 3^rd century Midrashic text, R. Yochananand Resh Lakish discussed the difference between a human and divine creativity.

• R. Yochanan said: When a mortal king builds a palace, after having built the lower stories he builds the upper ones; but the Holy One, blessed be He, created the upper stories and the lower stories within a single act. R. Simeon b. Lakish said: When a human being builds a ship, first he brings the beams, then the ropes; after this he procures the anchors, and then erects the masts. But the Blessed Holy One, created them [i.e., heaven and earth] and their crew, as it is written, “Thus says God the LORD, Who created the heavens and stretched them out”—we-notehem (Isa. XLII, 5); this is written we-nawtehem (“and their mariners”).[11]

Although the proof text of Resh Lakish is not at all grammatically convincing, the theological point both these Sages make is a valid one: both stress the sheer novelty in how God creates the world—with complete simultaneity in accordance with His will.   Continue Reading

Structuralist Roland Barthes’s essay on The Death of the Author raises a number of important issues that have vital implications for biblical exegesis. While his ideas bear similarity to Derrida’s, Barthes goes one step further. He insists that after the death of the author, nobody can lay claim or authority over a text:

The death of the Author means that nobody has authority over the meaning of the text, and that there is no hidden, ultimate, stable meaning to be deciphered: Once the Author is removed, the claim to decipher a text becomes quite futile. To give a text an Author is to impose a limit on that text, to furnish it with a final signified, to close the writing. Such a conception suits criticism very well, the latter then allotting itself the important task of discovering the Author (or his hypostases: society, history, psyche, liberty) beneath the work: when the Author has been found, the text is “explained” – victory to the critic. . . . In the multiplicity of writing, everything is to be disentangled, nothing deciphered; . . . the space of writing is to be ranged over, not pierced; writing ceaselessly posits meaning ceaselessly to evaporate it, carrying out a systematic exemption of meaning.[1]

In short, if there is no reality behind the text, then the Author of the text is irrelevant. Theologically speaking, if the Author (God) is “dead” and is no longer accessible, does this diminish the importance of the Bible as a Divine work? Does the “death of the Author” imply that there is no longer any source for meaning to be discovered from the Author’s work, and that all meaning is relatively imposed unto the text? The hermeneutical  theologian Anthony Thiselton explains, “If, as we suggest, that the Bible is a love letter from the heart of God, to read the words, ‘I love you’ as the words of a dead or an anonymous lover, would destroy this act of love, and transpose it into a tragedy.”[2] Barthes writes that the refusal to assign a fixed meaning either to the world or to texts “liberates an activity we may call counter-theological, properly revolutionary, for to refuse to halt meaning is finally to refuse God.” However, from the biblical perspective, the biblical writers affirm just the opposite: God is the ultimate Author and Source of meaning and object of reference.

One literary scholar, Nike Kocijancic Pokorn, responds to Barthes’s critique by referring to a well-known medieval classic that was written anonymously known as “The Cloud of Unknowing.” This work was written by someone from a monastic order that had the practice of leaving his text unsigned. Although this practice might seem to be in harmony with the postmodern view that the author is dispensable, Pokom points out that this was not the case with this celebrated mystical classic. Whereas Barthes’s argument only pertains to an actual known author; it does not pertain to an anonymous author:

The author of the Cloud was convinced that his text did not remain open to endless interpretation, if his intended message was accessible only to those who shared with him a sincere wish for the experience of mystical union. And finally, the Cloud author expressed his belief in the existence of the final, transcendental truth, which ensures the meaning of the text. The “right” understanding of the message of the text is thus guaranteed by the faith shared by the author and his readers, by their common faith in the hyper-essential God, who revealed himself in the person of Jesus Christ. And if in the poststructuralist world “the absence of the transcendental signified extends the domain and the play of signification infinitely,” in the world of our fourteenth-century mystic the presence of the Transcendental God, of the divine auctor[3], the source of auctoritas, ensures the meaning, if the author and the reader of the text share the same horizon of understanding and faith.

The reasons for the authorial disappearance are then essentially different in the two cases; while Roland Barthes proclaims the death of the author because he wants to announce the birth of the reader and above all that of the critic with his/her own interpretation of the text, the medieval author of the Cloud conceals his name because he thinks that his authority is not needed, and that the shared experience with the reader of his book will grant access to the divine transcendental authority, which bestows meaning on the text.[4]

One could similarly argue that the absence of an author’s name in the biblical books indicates that the writer’s identity is not what is really important: but the message certainly is. By sharing the stories of faith in the Tanakh, one can arrive at the same shared experience by those who live by the prophetical values of these seers and moral teachers.

That being said, Barthes’s premise may have a basis in Aggadic and Midrashic thought, which frequently describes what may be termed as “an absence of God.” Kabbalistic thought especially crystallizes this concept in the tsimtsum where God relinquishes some of His power, in order for human beings to make their own decisions pertaining to right and wrong—without any coercion from Above. For this goal to occur, God “withdraws” from the world, and this “absence” allows for human free will to define a pattern of religious and moral behavior, as the Sages say, “All is in the hands of Heaven—except the fear of Heaven.”

An important antecedent to the doctrine of the tsimtsum can be seen in the following Talmudic account, where Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus debates the Sages over the ritual status of a certain type of newly designed oven that could be disassembled. “Could such an oven become ritually impure? The Sages ruled that it could be ritually defiled, but Rabbi Eliezer differed.  Despite attempts to persuade his colleagues, Rabbi Eliezer does not succeed. After resorting to several miraculous interventions to prove his point, R. Eliezer saves his greatest proof for last:

Then R. Eliezer raised his voice and said, “Let Heaven itself attest that the law is in accordance with my opinion!” Suddenly, a Heavenly Voice declared, “Why do you disagree with R. Eliezer? Do you not realize that law is always in accordance with his opinion?”

R. Joshua arose from his place and declared to God, “Is it not written that, ‘The Torah is not in Heaven?” R. Jeremiah said, “This means that we do not adjudicate law on the basis of a Heavenly Voice, for the Torah was already given to humankind at Mt. Sinai.” R. Joshua continued his speech, “We do not listen to a Heavenly Voice because You God already wrote in the Torah at Sinai, ‘The matter shall be decided according to the majority” (Exod. 23:2). Later, one of the Sages, R. Nathan, had a dream where he encounters Elijah the Prophet. He asks him, “What did God say after this argument?” Elijah replies, “God was laughing and proudly said, “My children defeated me, My children defeated me!” [5]  Continue Reading

One of the important questions raised by Rashi (1040–1105) in the beginning of his famous commentary is this: “Why did the Torah begin with the Book of Genesis and not with the first commandment found in the book of Exodus—the precept of sanctifying the New Moon?” For Rashi, who lived during the period of the Crusades, the creation story stresses how God is the Owner and Proprietor of the universe and, therefore, God alone has every right to give the Land of Canaan to whomever He pleases; in this case, He bequeaths it to the nation of Israel. As God’s people, Israel has a bond with the land that is eternal and irrevocable.[1] Rashi’s opening salvo was quite a remarkable comment to make at a time when Christians and Muslims were fighting for control of the Holy Land. What began long ago as an ideological struggle during the age of the Crusades continues to haunt present-day reality in the Middle East.

Ramban[2] (1194–1270), as well other Judaic commentators, finds Rashi’s answer to be inadequate.[3] The importance of Genesis goes beyond the primacy of the Land of Israel as Rashi envisages. In fact, the purpose of the creation narrative is to teach the importance of creatio ex nihilo—nothing would exist were it not for the creative power of God. Every creature and entity could not exist were it not due to the conscious act of the Divine bringing each being into existence at every moment.

Like Ramban, Rashbam[4] (ca. 1085-1158) also  supports the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo, while adding, “Do not imagine that this world you now see and experience had existed forever, for everything in the universe had an absolute beginning—that is why the Torah states from the onset: “At the beginning of the creation of the heaven and the earth . . .” (1:1). Furthermore, reasons Rashbam, the purpose of the creation narrative is to explain why the Sabbath is the cornerstone of all the Jewish holidays—a point that is emphatically stressed in the Decalogue: “Remember to keep holy the Sabbath day. . . . In six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them; but on the seventh day he rested. That is why the LORD has blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy” (Exod. 20:8-10). By observing the Sabbath, Israel bears witness to the world that God is the sole Creator of the universe.

Among the patristic fathers, Theodoret of Cyprus (393-457) explains that after centuries of oppression and assimilation, the Israelites became religiously indistinguishable from their Egyptian masters who believed solely in a visible creation. Consequently, the Israelites had forgotten about the one and true God of their ancestors, who created the heavens and the earth. “The statement that heaven and earth and the other parts of the universe were created and the revelation that the God of the universe was their Creator provided a true doctrine of God sufficient for people of that time.”[5] Theodoret’s point is significant. From the very outset of their freedom, Moses begins re-educating his people by teaching them about the creation story. The purpose of the Sabbath thus serves to teach the people of Israel about the nature of true faith and belief in God. Maimonides later expresses a similar point. According to him, each biblical precept—in one manner or another—aims to raise humankind, as theologian David Hartman notes, “from an anthropocentric to a theocentric concept of religious life.”[6]

Karaite exegete and theologian Aharon ben Eliahu (1260-1320), sharing a somewhat similar opinion to that of Rashbam, points out that the principles of Providence and prophecy would be inconceivable were it not for the belief that God created the world. “Moses,” argues Aharon, “wished to impress upon his people that they look only to God as the Ultimate Cause of their existence.” Like Rashbam, Aharon explains that the purpose of the Creation narrative also serves to theologically reinforce the celebration of the Sabbath.

[Hello again, I hope you liked reading the article. Better still, I would greatly appreciate if you would purchase my book, “Birth and Rebirth through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation Genesis 1-3, which is available at:

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Notes:

[1] Rashi’s subtle insight captures one of the most important themes of Genesis: the concept of land. In the Abraham pericope, God promises the Holy Land as a gift to Abraham and his descendants. “Land” has a rich and sacred dimension that is inextricably connected to Israel’s possession of it. Israel’s capacity to believe in the divine promise that God made to Abraham is the key that enables future generations to take physical possession of it; this same faith is also what defines Israel’s stewardship of the Land. Although the patriarchs and their children (with the exception of Isaac) experienced life outside of God’s Promised Land, their invisible and sacred bond remained eternally intact.  The theme of land is what ties all the books of the Pentateuch together. The God who created the heavens and the earth is also the God who guided His people to their Promised Land through the prophet Moses and his successor, Joshua, thus fulfilling the biblical promise given to the patriarchs. From Rashi’s comment, God’s designation as “Creator” is historically and inextricably bound up with the success of Israel as His people. To achieve their ultimate purpose, Israel requires the Promised Land to fully realize their mission in the world. For this reason, the Creation narratives form an essential basis for the biblical legislation that follows in the other books of the Pentateuch as noted in Mizrahi’s supra-commentary on Rashi.

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