Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

As a child, I used to love reading the golem stories attributed to Rabbi Judah Lowe, a.k.a., the famous “MaHaral of Prague” (1525-1609).  Since my father came from Czechoslovakia, I grew up hearing many family tales about the golem. These stories were especially delightful since my father was a naturally talented storyteller.  The golem was something like a medieval super-hero who protected the Jewish community from pogroms in its time.  It is interesting to note that despite the numerous tracts MaHaral wrote on various philosophical, talmudic, and mystical themes, never once does he ever refer to the golem that is associated with his name.

What is a Golem?

The term gōlem is a “shapeless mass” (Ps. 139:16), but according to Jewish folklore, a golem is a creature that is made from clay and is animated by magical and mystical means. One of the more apocryphal stories of the Talmud relates how a 4th century scholar named Rava, magically created a man through the Sefer Yetzirah and sent him to Rabbi Zera. The latter tried speaking to him, but the poor golem could not speak. When there was no response, he declared: ‘You must be a  product of our colleague. Return to your dust!’ and so he died (BT Sanhedrin 65b).

(By the way, in Yiddish, a “golem” can refer to someone who has marginal intelligence, who is almost incapable of sensible communication.)

Ironically, it is with no precedent in the Bible, except for the creation of Adam. It is remarkable how modern literature contains countless stories of how man has attempted to make an artificial “Mini-me.” I guess, since God has created us in His image, human beings have been trying to pay God back by creating a life-form in man’s image. Man has long fantasied about becoming a mini-creator. How could such hubris not fail? The mythos of the golem story always leads to chaos and destruction. How can it not be? Man’s own chaos is reflected in his handiwork–the golem.

Indeed, in nearly all the golem legends, it appears that anytime mortals attempt to create human life, it is an activity that is fraught with danger. It seems that our ancestors felt suspicious about the full extent of man’s creative powers. In many of the stories, the golem goes out of control, destroying everything in sight.

Adaptations of the Golem in Western Literature and Cinema

The Frankenstein story is a European re-adaptation of the Golem legends. In J. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, Hobbit Gollum devolves into a treacherous shape-shifter under the malign influence of the Ring, it seems obvious that the author had these legends in mind.

In Star Trek: The Next Generation, the character Data personifies  the golem legend. When attempting to integrate the emotional chip, he becomes capable of erratic behavior–even violence. Countless sci-fi films have developed this theme in numerous tales about humanoid-like robots turning against their masters, i.e., like the Terminator series. Even the X-Files had an interesting episode of a betrothed woman who turns her murdered husband into a golem, in order to avenge his death.

Some poor women I know, happen to be married to golems. It’s more common than you may realize.

According to some medieval tales, the golem is indestructible; if the golem had been created by writing the Hebrew word “אמת” (emet; “truth”) on its forehead, it could be destroyed by erasing the first letter to produce the word “מת” (met; “dead”). If one had created a golem by placing the name of God in its mouth, all that was needed was to remove the parchment.

Can a Golem Join a Minyan?

The golem has found a respectable place even in the Halachic literature. In one case study, Rabbi Zvi Ashkanazi (1660-1718) writes in a responsa how his grandfather, Rabbi Elijah of Chelm, once made a golem in his garage. In this remarkable responsa, he asks whether (1) can a golem count as one of the ten who make a minyan or quorum for prayer?  (2) If someone killed such an entity, would be considered a murderer? Each of these questions revolves around one basic question: could such a creature possess a human soul?

If the golem can be counted, does that mean that a golem may be considered as a Jew?  Or does he have a gentile status? On the other hand, it is logical to say that the golem should be no worst than an adopted child, who is considered “Jewish.”

The rabbi wondered:

“’Should it occur to you that a golem could have been counted for a minyan (or for that matter any occasion requiring a minyan),  why would R. Zeira deliberately destroy it? It could only mean that the Golem is not considered  a person, for otherwise Rava would have most certainly used him for a minyan! (I can hear him say, “Yo, Golem, we need ya for a minyan!”

According to this piece of “dazzling” wisdom (of course I am not being real serious) , it would appear that a golem is not really a ‘person’ in any real sense of the word, for the Torah clearly states, ‘If anyone sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; For in the image of God has man been made” (Gen. 9:6). In fact, were one to kill such a creature, it would not even be considered murder! [1]

In the case of Rava’s golem, since he was artificially made, therefore,  he could not actually be considered “human.” Rabbi Ashkenazi concludes, “Nevertheless, Rabbi Zeira should not have done away with it, unless it served no constructive purpose. If that is the case, its destruction can be of no consequence; therefore, it could not qualify for a minyan or, for that matter, any other sacred purpose . . . Moreover a golem is inferior even to the souls of women, and they are never counted for anything pertaining to a minyan.”

Defining “Personhood”

Right, Rabbi Ashkenazi, “inferior even to  the souls of women. . . ” I am curious: Since when is a soul, by itself, subject to gender? But that is another topic for future day.

It seems strange that the idea of a woman being a part of the minyan was not even a consideration, but the golem at least made the venerable rabbi pause for reflection. I suspect the Ortho-feminists of our time would most certainly have straightened Rabbi Ashkenazi out, if they could go back in time and argue with the rabbi.

Needless to say, a modern medical ethicist would definitely have serious problems with Rav Ashkenazi’s assertion that any person who  is artificially created– intrinsically–lacks the status of a “person.”

If Rav Askenazi’s logic is consistent, would a human being who  is in a deep comatose state also be considered like a “golem,” since he lacks the obvious visible signs of personhood?

Ultimately, it really boils down to the question: What is personhood? Using Descartes’ cogito ergo sum, if an entity is capable of thinking and self-reflection, then it is safe to presume it has the property of “personhood,” irregardless whether its origin is artificial or not. Equally important is the  matter of “reverence for life,” for once sentience and self-consciousness have been established, how can anyone not respect the “person” who possesses these two traits?

I often think of the Terry Schiavo story and how the State facilitated her death–by starvation. Within a year, Discover Magazine has produced a number of medical stories where consciousness did not die, and even people suffering from a chronic vegetative are still capable of regaining part of their mind back.[1]

Was Terri Schiavo a golem? No, I don’t think so.

Golems play an important role in the modern synagogue–a fact I can personally attest to seeing. As one of my colleagues once said, “If you wish to see ten golems, just come to an evening service  at my Shul.”

Ditto . . . but not in Chula Vista! 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

Q. Why is there a tradition to say chapters of Tehillim  (the Psalms) when someone is ill?

A. Certain psalms give expression to our deepest yearnings that God is attentive to our prayers. Jewish mystics seem to believe that the psalms act as spiritual conduits, providing the worshiper with a language of prayer, since not everyone is articulate!

When the ancient psalmists gazed into the heavens, they did not behold an endless abyss of cosmic nothingness; rather, they beheld a God with whom they could audaciously and personally address as “You.” All these sundry personal pronouns and anthropomorphic metaphors serve to convey something profound about the mystery of God’s Presence and closeness to the world, without which God could not be known. Martin Buber notes that in addition, anthropomorphic language reflects.

• Our need to preserve the concrete quality is evidenced in the encounter. . . .It is in the encounter itself that we are confronted with something compellingly anthropomorphic, something demanding reciprocity, a primary You. This is true of those moments of our daily life in which we become aware of the reality that is absolutely independent of us, whether it be as power or as glory, no less than of the hours of great revelation of which only a halting record has been handed down to us. [1]

When viewed from this perspective, the God we encounter in the Psalms is not the God of the philosophers who often conceived God as the Creator of the Cosmos. In the Psalms, God is also a Redeemer Who takes cognizance of human prayer and the heart that suffers. In the final analysis, to the Psalmists of old, God is a relational Being Who seeks to heal the shattered human heart (Psalm 147:2). The psalmists believe in a concept that is sometimes better described as “cosmic personalism.”

Psalm 8:5-10 really captures the beauty of this theological and spiritual concept in a way that captures the fragility and potential greatness of the human condition.

What are humans that you are mindful of them,

mere mortals that you care for them?

Yet you have made them little less than a god,

crowned them with glory and honor.

You have given them rule over the works of your hands,  

put all things at their feet:

All sheep and oxen, even the beasts of the field,

The birds of the air, the fish of the sea,

and whatever swims the paths of the seas.

O LORD, our Lord,

How awesome is your name through all the earth!

Not all Psalms are the same; the Psalter (i.e., the composer) expresses feelings of doom and gloom, sickness, homelessness, birth and rebirth, death, joy, reflections, gratitude—a cacophony of emotions that even the most common worshiper in a synagogue or church can readily identify and understand.

Jewish tradition has long encouraged Jews of all generations to see their personal narrative as something that is embedded in the words of the Psalms. The Psalmist in essence created a liturgical template for all Jews to use regardless of their spiritual circumstances.

Psalms of healing vary from community to community; Chabad is fond of saying Pss. 20, 6, 9, 13, 16, 17, 18, 22, 23, 28, 30, 31, 32, 33, 37, 38, 39, 41, 49, 55, 56, 69, 86, 88, 89, 90, 91, 102, 103, 104, 107, 116, 118, 142, 143, and 148—a total number of 36, which equals 2 x 18 (chai, “life”). Bratzlav Hassidim are fond of saying Psalms 16, 32, 41, 42, 59, 77, 90, 105, 137, 150 during their midnight prayers that mourn for the loss of the Temple.

Sephardic and many Kabbalistic  Jews are accustomed to  recite Psalm 119, which is an acrostic psalm that contains all the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. It is apropos to say out loud the verses letters of the verses corresponding to each of the sick person’s—or deceased person’s Hebrew name (i.e., the latter would apply on a Yahrzeit). Continue Reading

וְרוּחַ אֱלֹהִים – while a wind from God — Older bible translations^[1] defined רוּחַ אֱלֹהִים  (rûah´élöhîm) as “the spirit of God.” Both these readings are plausible.^[2] The term רוּח (rûah) connotes a moving power that is both mysteriously intangible and unseen; hence, “mighty wind” is an apt metaphor. When read in this context, °élöhîm is used not as a noun but rather as a descriptive adjective connoting a sense of that which is “powerful” and “awesome,”^[3] or suggesting a quality akin to that of a mighty tempest. This may also be the meaning of Genesis 2:4, where the Divine Name יְהוָה אֱלֹהִים   (YHWH [´ädönäy] ´élöhîm) are linked so as to suggest the meaning, “Almighty God”, for only an Almighty God can create a world (see notes to 2:4).

One might further add that רוּחַ is the life-breath and life-principle that transforms the chaos of creation into a cosmos. In theological terms, רוּחַ alludes to the most profound dimension that converts, liberates, and sublimates human existence. Johann Peter Lange (1802-1884) is partial to the older translation, “The breath is the life-unity and life-motion of the physical creature; the wind is the unity and life-motion of the earth; the spirit is the unity and life-motion of the life proper to which it belongs; ‘the spirit of God’ is the unity and life-motion of the creative divine activity. It is not a ‘wind of God’ to which the language here primarily relates.”[4] However, it seems that both translations are equally worthy of consideration.

• A Hellenistic Reading of the Text 

And the Spirit of God – Older bible translations like the KJV follow the Septuagint’s rendering πνεῦμα θεοῦ (pneuma Theo = “Spirit of God”)—an opinion that most modern bible scholars reject on the basis of the text’s contextual meaning. Obviously this translation differs considerably from the more recent rendering which prefers “a mighty wind.” However, one 19^th century scholar gives nothing less than a “spirited” defense of the older translation.

• Ruach Elohim is not a breath of wind caused by God (Theodoret), for the verb does not suit this meaning, but the creative Spirit of God, the principle of all life (Ps. xxxiii. 6, civ. 30), which worked upon the formless, lifeless mass, separating, quickening, and preparing the living forms, which were called into being by the creative words that followed.[5]

Several feminist theologians also prefer the older translation—albeit for different reasons. An assertion can be made that despite the seemingly ubiquitous amount of masculine metaphors that exist within the world of the Tanakh, there is much activity that is ascribed to God that is admittedly maternal: giving birth to and nurturing children.[6]

Yet it is important to keep in mind that God is never directly addressed as “mother,” or in feminine terms. According to some thinkers, רוּחַ is a feminine noun and this would imply that the “Spirit” of God ought to be viewed not in masculine terminology, i.e., not as “He,” but as “She.”[7]  While it is true that רוּחַ is usually used as a feminine noun, sometimes it can connote the male gender as well. For instance, in Numbers 11:31, רוּחַ is masculine, as well as in Isaiah 57:16.

But more importantly, it is specious to exegetically assume that the gender of a word invariably indicates something about the sexual identity of the object being named. They are not one and the same. For example: the Hebrew word for “foot” רָגֶל (räºgel) is feminine; יָד (yad) “hand” is also feminine; עַיִן  (aºyin) “eye” is feminine, אֹזֶן (´öºzen) “ear” is also feminine. Curiously, “penis” שָׁפְכָה (šäpkâ) is feminine while the name for “womb” רֶחֶם (reºhem) is masculine; the word for “breasts”  שָׁדַיִם (šädaºyim) is also a masculine noun.

In the Hebrew language, gender is relevant only to grammar and not to sexuality; no logical reason is given as to why inanimate objects are engendered. On the semantic level, a distinction is made between masculine and feminine. Indeed, there are many more examples that can be cited, but the point of these illustrations is to show that one cannot theologically extrapolate the sexual ideation of the Divine on the basis of the gendered word. More important than linguistic shades of meaning—God is not bound by gender. Continue Reading

In Late Antiquity the Greek cynic and philosopher Epicurus fleshes out the cognitive dissonance people experience when contemplating the problem of theodicy:

1. Is God unable to prevent evil?

2. Is God unwilling to prevent evil?

3. If God is able and willing to prevent evil, then where does evil come from?

4. If God is neither able nor willing to prevent evil, then why do we call him “god”?

If God micromanages creation, as the Flood narrative seems to teaches, then why does the Creator tolerate natural evil? More to the point: Is all natural evil directly or indirectly due to moral evil? When the Lisbon earthquake struck in 1759, many skeptics wondered how God could allow such a devastating disaster to strike. From the modern critical perspective, the story of the Flood raises serious issues regarding the relationship between natural evil, commonly referred to as “acts of God,” and God’s justice.  In the case of moral evil, the impact felt by the victim is identifiable and with the help of the law, the perpetrator(s) can be brought to justice. But natural evil poses a different kind of problem. One cannot subpoena an earthquake or a fire, or a disease after they strike. When natural evil strikes, the effects leave for the most part, little positive benefits with nobody to blame—except God.

After the Lisbon earthquake, the French philosopher Voltaire articulated his own brand of Epicurean doubt. Voltaire wondered how religious people could still refer to God as “benevolent” or “loving” after the death of so many thousands of innocents. In response to Voltaire’s criticism, his fellow Frenchman, Jean Jacques Rousseau argued that human beings must take the primary responsibility for what happened during the Lisbon earthquake. Poorly designed structural buildings, along with a lack of thoughtful urban planning and human error, played a role in the corporate damage the earthquake caused. A superiorly designed city might have suffered much less casualties and death. [1]

It is remarkable and ironic that Voltaire would put greater reliance on God given his penchant for upsetting the local ecclesiastical authorizes on matters of faith. It is no less ironic to see one of the great secular philosophers of his age, Rousseau, defend God’s order of creation with the vim and vigor of a skilled theologian.  “If,” as the philosopher Susan Neiman writes, “Enlightenment is the courage to think for oneself; it is also the courage to assume responsibility for the world which one is thrown into.”[2]  This message applies to all the genocides that we have witnessed in the last 100 years or more. Mature faith calls for diligence and activism.

Rousseau and Voltaire’s debate could apply no less to the destruction of New Orleans produced by Hurricane Katrina. Voltaire would certainly condemn the faith of those who believed in a benevolent deity. By the same token, Voltaire would have also scoffed at the religious leaders of today who saw Katrina as a divine tribulation for the city’s brazen sins. Religious leaders from numerous faiths ascribed a variety of reasons as to why Hurricane Katrina was so devastating. Some leaders blamed the licentious life-style of New Orleans[3], while others claimed it was divine retribution for the United States’ support of the removal of Jewish settlers in the Gaza Strip.[4] Buddhist and Hindu scholars blamed it on karma, while Muslim across the globe imams proclaimed in unison, “The Terrorist Katrina is one of the Soldiers of Allah…”[5]

One can only respond with the famous words of Thomas Hobbes, who popularized this ancient Roman proverb, Homo homini lupus—“man is wolf to man.”

Evidently, according to these religious men, God never left the Flood Business.  But on a more serious note,  Katrina illustrates how the various bodies of government (e.g., the City of New Orleans, the State of Louisiana, the Federal Government, FEMA, the Mayor, the Governor, the President, the local residents, and so on) failed to make maximum use of the resources available. Local officials knew in advanced that this type of storm was possible and that the levees could break. Why was nothing done about it? Why were the monies allocated for rebuilding the levees not utilized decades after they were collected from the government? Why was there no effective evacuation plan? Why did it take so long for the relief agencies to respond? How the local inhabitants compound the problem with their disregard for the law. Although the weather was fierce, the onus of Katrina’s damage did not come from the weather but from the systemic breakdown of government.

The Lisbon earthquake and Hurricane Katrina represents only one kind of theological dilemma involving theodicy. On December 26, 2004, an undersea earthquake measuring 9.3 100 miles off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia produced the second largest earthquake in recorded history and generated massive tsunamis. Over 230,000 people lost their lives in just a matter of hours. Given the destructive force of the tsunamis, would Rousseau agree with Voltaire, and hold God responsible for the tsunamis?

Not necessarily.

One could logically argue that given the technology, wealth, and information we possess of weather patterns and seismic conditions, nations can now take steps to help minimize natural catastrophes. Tectonic plates will continue to shift; magma from volcanoes will continue to explode with fiery force; the wind will continue to generate hurricanes and tornadoes (which incidentally, were also detected on the planet Saturn—a place far removed from human habitation).

Natural law will not change; yet, when these disasters occur, people of good faith can bring tikkun (repair) through a tsunami of compassion. When God enjoined Adam to, “Fill the earth and subdue it!” (Gen. 1:28), the biblical narrator may have had this type of thought in mind. “Conquering the earth” may very well involve fixing nature’s many imperfections. A mature faith in God requires that we be responsive to the various mishaps and flaws of creation through a covenantal co-relationship with the Divine.

Among the medieval theologians, Aquinas argued that all types of natural disaster derive from the fact that they are earthly phenomena, which are by their very constitution prone to corruption and dissolution.[6] A physical world based on the laws of physics, has no choice but to be subject to the reverberating fluctuations of imperfection. Only in the truly spiritual realm are entities believed to be bereft of deficiency. Thomistic theology asserts that had Adam refrained from sinning, his physical constitution would have been completely subservient to the soul’s spiritual life-force (a point which Augustine and Ramban both agree). Natural evil would exist, but it would not have any effect upon him; Adam and his progeny would have remained spiritual supermen, completely unaffected by aberrant changes in the environment. The human capacity to exercise ethical judgment would remain unimpaired, due to the soul’s complete harmony with the body, which God ensures. However, in a “fallen world,” humankind must come to terms with the world’s state of disrepair.

This writer takes sharp issue with Aquinas’ view that the world is “fallen,” but would agree that we have to come to terms with the world’s state of disrepair.” Maimonides stresses time and time again that natural law will operate on this planet whether man exists or not. Much of our problem with the natural evil that occurs in this world is due to a mistaken belief that is human-centric. As human beings, because of our higher intelligence we get disturbed at the great loss of life that occurs whenever a hurricane or a tsunami strikes. Animals do not obsess over the question: Why do bad things happen to good lions or tigers? Nature seems to accept the inherent randomness of the universe. We suffer perhaps because we tend to think our technology can save us; while that is certainly true some of the time, it is not true all the time.

In Genesis 1:31, the biblical narrator tells us, “God saw everything that he had made and indeed, it was very good.” Some subtleties get lost in translation, and this verse illustrates this point well.  Every aspect of Creation, from the most majestic galaxies to the most infinitesimal particle, functions as God intended it to.[7]  In my Genesis commentary on this verse I wrote:

• Although the term “good”  טוֹב (tôb) appears six times earlier [8] in the creation narrative, here it appears for the seventh time to symbolize completeness. The peshat reveals that it is only after God has created humankind—after His image and likeness—that Creation graduates from being merely “good” to becoming “very good.” Some Jewish mystics observed that the letters of the word מְאֹד (mĕ’ōd = “very”) may also be read as an anagram for אָדָם (‘ādām = “human being”).^[9]

In a Talmud class I had just given last night, I was privileged to hear a most wonderful insight from a young 17 year old student named Austin, who has a promising career as a future zoologist. He pointed out that pine cones have a very unusual way of releasing its seeds. Pine cones remain tightly closed until the cones are heated at an extremely hot temperature, as in the case of a forest fire. At the death of the parent pine cone, the seeds are then released, which produce future pine trees. The story about the pine cones illustrates that in the face of a natural catastrophic event, like when a lightning bolt strikes a dry patch producing a raging forest fire; something can arise from the ashes of death itself–even when we least expect it.

Continue Reading

One of the more interesting themes I try to examine in my new Genesis commentary is the complicated issue of God and chaos. This is the first of several articles that takes issue with some of the leading exegetes of our time. Enjoy, and please send me your feedback.

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1:2   וְהָאָרֶץ הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ– the earth was a formless void – The 10^th century Jewish grammarian and theologian, Saadia Gaon, astutely observes that neither the existence of wind or water precede the creation of the heavens and the earth; rather, both these forces are only subsequent to the earth’s creation, which consists of the elements earth, water, and wind.[1] He further contends that intratextual passages from the Tanakh also bear this point out: “For lo, the one who forms the mountains, creates the wind. . . .” (Amos 4:13); and “The sea is his, for he made it, and the dry land, which his hands have formed” (Psa. 95:5); and finally, “Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens! Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he commanded and they were created” (Ps. 148:4-5).[2] Saadia’s point supports what we just mentioned in our notes on Genesis 1:1.

Scholars often assume the biblical idea of  תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ is the Hebraic equivalent of the Greek notion of “chaos” (from the Greek Χάος). However, this translation only begs the issue: What exactly is meant by the Greek term “chaos”? How was chaos originally used in the ancient Greek texts? Did its definition change over time, and if it did, how? Historically, chaos first appears in Hesiod’s Theogony (ca. 850 B.C.E.); its original meaning simply meant “chasm” or “gaping void.”[3] For Hesiod, Chaos is the progenitor of the primeval deities: Gaia (Earth), Tartarus, Erebus (Darkness), and Nyx (Night). From Chaos emerged the worlds of the gods, the earth, and humankind.[4] When Hesiod wrote his work, he drew upon earlier mythical sources; his essential view of Chaos was unquestionably critical, for the Titans personified the surging and undisciplined passion of the earth’s primordial condition, which ultimately had to be violently defeated by Zeus, the god responsible for establishing the stability and universality of the Olympian order.

For the Roman poet Ovid, chaos is a confused and formless mass from which the Maker of the Cosmos fabricated the ordered universe.^[5] As later Hellenistic thought developed, chaos eventually became specifically associated with the notion of primordial matter, e.g., either with water[6], or with primordial time[7] and the netherworld.[8] In the Gnostic[9] literature, chaos takes on a more philosophical meaning, and is bound up with darkness, shadow, and non-being.[10] The presence of chaos is dispelled only by the power of “Pistis Sophia,” who is the “Spirit of Wisdom.”[11]

The mythical association of Greek mythology does not fit with the biblical cosmogony of the universe. The תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ of Genesis 1:2 hardly resembles the Greek idea of “chaos,” or for that matter, the Latin “Nihil.” Cultural and mythical concepts do not always translate from one language to the other, nor do they always have an equivalent parallel. The biblical writer does not say the world was a disorderly chaos and confused mass, but simply that it was not yet ready to be inhabited by humankind. At the beginning of creation, the earth was nothing more than a barren wasteland—a world desolate of life.[12]

According to the biblical imagination, YHWH is Creator and Author of good and evil,יוֹצֵר אוֹר וּבוֹרֵא חֹשֶׁךְ עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם וּבוֹרֵא רָע אֲנִי יְהוָה עֹשֶׂה כָל־אֵלֶּה “I form the light, and create the darkness, I make well-being and create woe; I, the LORD, do all these things” (Isa. 45:7). This verse is a complete rejection of the Zoroastrian belief that the universe is governed by two opposing principles, the power of light and the power of darkness.[13] In Isaiah’s monistic vision, there is no duality whatsoever. YHWH is the sole Creator of opposites—there is no ontological state that exists apart from God’s sovereignty—even evil and chaos serve God’s creative purpose. Lastly, the Book of Job also echoes this same sentiment, גַּם אֶת־הַטּוֹב נְקַבֵּל מֵאֵת הָאֱלֹהִים וְאֶת־הָרָע לֹא נְקַבֵּל “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” (Job 2:10). The destructive forces alluded to in Isaiah 45:7 all fulfill an important purpose in the overall grand scheme of history and nature.

In Arabic tīh can mean “wilderness” and “empty place.” The semantic fields of other Semitic languages seem to bear this out as well. In Ugaritic thw denotes a “wasteland,” or “wilderness.” This pattern occurs elsewhere in the Tanakh; every instance where either תֹהוּ  (töºhû) or בֹּהוּ (böºhû)  appears it almost always refers to a barren tract of land.[14] This land may have been barren to begin with (as seen here in the creation story), or else it might have become a wasteland as a result of war, natural disaster, or as an act of divine retribution (Isa. 34:11). A biblical text must first be properly understood in terms of its language and context before advancing any kind of theological or metaphysical speculative interpretation. When exegesis fails to adhere to this simple principle, the speculative reading being advanced lacks a solid foundation.

Among early Christian exegetes, Martin Luther appears to have a far better grasp of the nature of תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ than did many of his postmodern counterparts:

• A wider significance attaches to the Hebrew words תֹהוּ  (töºhû) andבֹּהוּ  than can be reproduced in translation. Yet they are used frequently in the Holy Scripture.תֹהוּ  is employed in the sense of “nothing,” so that the earth is a בֹּהוּ, which so far as it itself is concerned, is empty, where there are no roads, no separate localities, no hills, no valleys, no grass, no herbs, no animals, and no men. Such indeed was the first appearance of the unfinished earth; for since mire was mixed with the water, it was not possible to observe the distinctive marks which are observable now, after it has been finished. Thus Isaiah, in the chapter where he threatens the earth with desolation, says (34:11): “There will be stretched over it the line תֹהוּ  and the plummet בֹּהוּ,” i.e., the earth will be laid waste to such an extent that neither human beings nor beasts of burden will remain, and the houses will be laid waste and everything thrown into confusion and disorder. This is how Jerusalem was later laid waste by the Romans, and Rome by the Goths, to such an extent that the traces of the very famous ancient city cannot be pointed out. You now see the earth standing out above the waters, the heaven adorned with stars, the fields with trees, the cities with houses, etc.; but when all these are removed and thrown together into a shapeless mass—what then results Moses calls תֹּהוּ  and בֹּהוּ.[15]

One last thought: תֹהוּ וָבֹהו is the Torah’s first example of how the biblical writer(s) takes pleasure in expressing alliteration[16]  and rhyming.  Later in this chapter we find another similar type of alliteration: פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ (Pürû ûrübû ûmil´û), “Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill. . .” (Gen. 1:22). Indeed, there are many other examples of this type of rhythmic pattern scattered throughout the Pentateuch and the Tanakh.[18]

Marvin Wilson calls attention to an insight by historian of Near Eastern cultures and languages, Cyrus Herzl Gordon (1908-2001), who fondly refers to this particular type of alliteration as possessing a “boogie-woogie” construction. The reader will recall that boogie-woogie is a style of blues music characterized by an up-tempo rhythm, a repeated melodic pattern in the bass, and a series of improvised variations in the treble.

Notes:

[1] Rashbam arrives at a similar conclusion on Genesis 1:1.

[2] Saadia, Emunot VeDeot 1:1.

[3] For a similar usage in other classical texts, see Aristophanes, Aves 1218; Bacchylides 5, 27.

[4] First came the Chasm; and then broad-breasted Earth, secure seat for everof all immortals who occupy the peak of snowy Olympus; the misty Tartara in a remote recess of the broad-pathed earth; and Eros, the most handsome among the immortal gods, dissolver of flesh, who overcomes the reason and purpose in the breasts of all gods and men . . .

Hesiod’s Theogony, trans. M. L. West (New York: Oxford, 1988), 6.

^[5] In Ovid’s poetic compendium of mythology known as the Metamorphosis, the poet describes the state of chaos that existed before the earth assumed its present form:

Before the ocean and the earth appeared—

before the skies had overspread them all—

the face of Nature in a vast expanse

was naught but Chaos uniformly waste.

It was a rude and undeveloped mass,

that nothing made except a ponderous weight;

and all discordant elements confused,

were there congested in a shapeless heap.

P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses, Book 1, line 5

[6] The Stoics, deriving the word from χὲω, defined Chaos as the elemental Water (school of Apoll. Rhod. i. 498).  Continue Reading

A number of Judaic scholars explain בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים to mean “in the image of the angels.”[1] However, some medieval rabbinic scholars differ. In the spirit of Midrashic exegesis, R. David Kimchi (1160-1235) and others[2] take a different approach, suggesting that God solicited all of Creation to participate in humankind’s formation; the Creator intended for a human being be a composite of the spiritual and the terrestrial realms. Jewish mystics also tend to see all parts of Creation—from the spiritual heights of the heavenly realm to the nether regions of the earth—converging in humankind.

Modern anthropology illustrates the wisdom of Kimchi’s insight. Humankind also derives many of its basic personality traits not only from God—but from nature.[3] The philosopher, Michael Shermer, observes that morality is not unique to human beings, per se, but can be seen in the animal kingdom as well:

• The following characteristics appear to be shared by humans and other mammals, including and especially the apes, monkeys, dolphins and whales: attachment and bonding, cooperation and mutual aid, sympathy and empathy, direct and indirect reciprocity, altruism and reciprocal altruism, conflict resolution and peacemaking, deception and deception detection, community concern and caring what others think about you, and awareness and response to the social rules of the group. Species differ in the degree to which they express these sentiments, and with our exceptionally large brains (especially the well-developed and highly convoluted cortex) we express most of them in greater degrees than other species. Nevertheless, the fact that such premoral sentiments exist in our nearest evolutionary cousins may be a strong indication of their evolutionary origins. Still, something profound happened in the last 100,000 years that made us—and no other species—moral animals unprecedented in nature.[4]
  

Biologist Lyall Watson also takes a scientific look at the existence of evil, and like Shermer, he sees a mutual affinity between human and animal behavior. Watson once observed a group of young penguins standing on the edge of an ice floe, learning how to swim. Fearful that there might be a leopard seal lurking in the murky waters, the penguins stood their ground and refused to go into the water. As thousands of penguins crowded on the floe, some pushing occurred from the back of the ranks until one of the penguins slipped into the water. After the lone penguin entered the water, a leopard-seal suddenly appeared and ate the small creature.

Reticently, the other penguins backed off until eventually, the group pushed another one of its members into the water. Sure enough, the leopard-seal reappeared and swallowed the second penguin as well. The same process occurred again, and by the fourth time, apparently, the leopard-seal had eaten enough and the fourth penguin was left safe and sound. Afterwards, the entire penguin group jumped in and enjoyed the swimming as if they hadn’t a care in the world. From this incident, Watson deduced that selfishness and cowardice are not just human traits; there are many other species of animals that share these qualities as well.[5]

From a theological perspective, one could say that since God created humanity as a microcosm of the created order, it is only natural that humankind would possess all these traits as part of its moral and evolutionary constitution.  Our genetic makeup as a species is hardwired for survival. Driven by a ruthless and determined desire to survive, the success of a species depends upon its ability to reproduce itself, in spite of the odds that face it. Only by understanding the nature of our genetic history, as Watson and Shermer (and others) have formidably argued, will we ever be able to rise above our genetic heritage.

Our ability to see life in synergistic terms is another aspect that makes us different from the rest of Creation. This self-awareness enables us as a species to transcend our own biological evolution by probing the mystery and nature of our being. The actual source of evil does not exclusively derive from the “Fall.” On a deeper level, evil may also emanate from a natural source, which humankind shares with the rest of the animal kingdom.[6] Our will to survive by any means possible, at least in neo- Darwinian terms, may partially explain why human tragedies of the Holocaust and other genocides continue to plague civilization even in the 21^st century.

So, how does one define the uniqueness of the Divine image in an age of scientific awareness and incredulity? How do human beings differ from their evolutionary predecessors? Shermer notes there are several aspects that make human beings different from the rest of the animal world, and they are (1) self-awareness and knowledge that others are also self-aware; (2) possessing the ability for human choice and freedom; (3) awareness of one’s own consciousness; (4) the ability to utilize symbolic logic in evaluating and determining ethical behavior; (5) recognizing the consequences of one’s deeds; (6) taking responsibility for one’s decisions. From a religious perspective, I would add that humankind’s ability to respond to a Higher Authority outside of one’s own psyche is also indicative of a human spiritual vocation. In the final analysis, the ability to experience personal transformation, individuation and transcendence is what makes human beings more 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

When we think about animal rights, we tend to identify this movement with Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), which in turn was modeled after the British Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), was set up in Victoria in 1871. Yet, the spiritual roots of animal rights derive from the Bible itself.  Here is a brief story that I think pet-owners will enjoy, which points out how sentient and spiritually aware animals may actually be. For those of us who enjoy pets, this is no great secret  . . .

Actually, the Bible is one of the great works of antiquity that first proclaimed the rights of animals in its Sabbath legislation of the Ten Commandments: “But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates” (Exod. 20:11). Animals are sentient beings, endowed with moral standing–they too, are entitled to the wonders of the Sabbath rest!

There is the story of a certain pious man who owned a plowing heifer. In the course of time, his wealth slipped out of his hand, and he had to sell her to a heathen. The new master plowed with her during the six [working] days of the week. On the Sabbath, he brought her out again to plow for him, but she lay down under the yoke and would not work. Though he kept beating her, she would not budge from her place. Seeing this, the heathen went to the pious man and said to him, “Come, take back your heifer. Six days I worked her, but when I took her out on the Sabbath, she lay down under the yoke and would do no work whatever. And though I beat her again and again, she would not budge from her place.”

After the heathen spoke, the pious man understood why the heifer would do no work–it was because she had become accustomed to rest on the Sabbath. So he said to the heathen, “Come along, and I will get her up and make her plow.” When he came to the heifer, he whispered into her ear “O heifer, heifer, you know that when you were in my domain, you were allowed to rest on the Sabbath. But since my sins brought it about that I had to sell you to this heathen, I beg of you, stand up and do the will of your [new] master.”

At once the heifer stood up and was ready to work. The heathen then said to the pious man, “I won’t let you go until you tell me what you did to her and what you whispered in her ear. Perhaps you bewitched her.” The pious man replied, “I put it to her thus and so.”

Upon hearing these words the heathen, shaken and amazed, reasoned with himself: If a heifer, which has neither speech nor knowledge nor understanding, could acknowledge her Creator, shall not I, whose Maker made me in His own image and likeness, and put knowledge and At once the heifer stood up and was ready to work. The heathen then said to the pious man, “I won’t let you go until you tell me what you did to her and what you whispered in her ear. Perhaps you bewitched her.”

The pious man replied, “I put it to her thus and so.” Upon hearing these words the heathen, shaken and amazed, reasoned with himself: If a heifer, which has neither speech nor knowledge nor understanding, could acknowledge her Creator, shall not I, whose Maker made me in His own image and likeness, and put knowledge and understanding into me–shall not I acknowledge my Creator? At once he went off, became a proselyte, and was privileged to acquire so much Torah that he came to be called R. Yohanan ben Torta (“son of a heifer”). [1] Continue Reading