Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Back in 1970, I remember Beit Shemesh as a little village, one that barely had people. Today, it is a city of 80,000 people—but this is one small city where its Orthodox citizens are imploding.

The time: Any day of the week you choose .  . .

The place: The local elementary school in Beth Shemesh.

The scene: Haredi Jews threaten young 8-12 year old Jewish girls with violence.

No, this is not Cracow, 1943. No, the anti-Semites are not the ones threatening Jews—Jews are threatening Jews.

The elementary school happens to be an Orthodox school for girls. The children are modestly dressed in accordance with Jewish law. Yet, the Haredi (better known as “Ultra-Orthodox” Jews) are screaming at the girls, “Prostitutes,” “whores,” and so on. The police provided an escort so that none of the girls would be attacked by the pious Haredim.

Why are the Haredim so upset? Well, to put it simply: they hate women. This is the same group that wants women to sit at the back of the bus, or avoid walking on the Haredi streets. Although their neighbors are Orthodox Zionists, they are not “kosher,” in the eyes of the Haredim. By the way, this is the same group of people who are known for spitting at the Greek Orthodox priests in Jerusalem. By the way, they also spit on women whenever they try praying at the Western Wall.

According to one article, “The campaign [ of normal people fighting back] is being driven by a small group, say parents and activists who label their Haredi opponents kanaim – loosely translated as extremist, fanatic, zealot, fundamentalist. What they do is described as “terrorism”. ‘They [the Haredi] instil fear, they use terror tactics,’ Michal Glatt, the mother of a 10-year-old pupil, says. ‘Screaming at little girls? What other word is there but terrorism?’”

Yet, Haredi terrorism also has a deviant side that the news media fails to bring out in their coverage: When a community activist named Rabbi Dov Lipman asked one protester why they were focusing on the way small girls dress, he was told “even an eight-year-old draws my eyes”.

Yeah, there’s a name for this kind of man . . .

In their warped minds, the Haredim do not see anything wrong with their behavior.

Yet, there is also a political agenda at here: By making life miserable for their religious neighbors, the Haredim are hoping to take over the city because normal people do not want to see their precious children get hurt.

Frankly, I do not understand why the Israeli government does not arrest the culprits and thrown them in jail for a couple of years. Spitting at a Greek Orthodox or non-Haredi Jew ought to be considered assault and battery. The rule ought to apply to spitting a young girls and women of all ages who refuse to look and talk like Haredim. 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

For Jewish Values Online:

Question:I am taking a college course on Politics and Religion. Why don’t Jews, like Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses and other faiths go out and spread the word?

Answer: Your question is an excellent one. People often ask me, “Why doesn’t Judaism openly try to spread its message of faith to the non-Jewish world like other faiths? Why does Judaism discourage new perspective converts?”

Historically, there was a time when Judaism went out of its way to encourage proselytes. Prior to the Temple’s destruction and even for about a century afterwards, Judaism really did its best to spread the message of Judaism as the religion of philosophical and ethical monotheism. The city of Alexandria purposely tried to make Judaism more meaningful by translating the Bible into Greek. This proved to be a great success and many people from all nationalities and ethnic groups started to study and embrace Judaism as a viable spiritual path. After the destruction of the Temple, most of the attitudes toward the non-Jews continued to be somewhat positive, although not uniformly. Many of the Sages of the first and second century came from families of proselytes. Their family names bear witness to this development, e.g., Antigonous, Alexander, Ben Bag-bag, or Onkelos–and numerous others bears witness to how deeply accepted proselytes were for a time of our history. Here is one of my favorite stories:

• “And the Levite . . . and the proselyte shall come” (Deut. 14:29). Moses spoke up to the Holy One, “Do You really consider a proselyte as important to You as a Levite?!” God replied, “He is even more important to Me, since he became a proselyte for My sake. A parable of a stag that grew up in the wilderness and on his own joined the flock. The shepherd not only gave him food and drink, but loved him more than any of the other animals in his flock. Someone asked the shepherd, “How is it that you love the stag more than any other in the flock?” He replied: I had to perform many kinds of labor for my flock until they grew up: I took them out in the morning and brought them back in the evening. But this one, who grew up in the wilderness and forests, came into my flock—all on his own! Should I not love him very much?” Likewise the Holy One said, “Much did I have to labor for Israel: I brought them out of Egypt, lit the way for them, sent down manna for them, swept in quail for them, made the well gush up for them, and encompassed them with clouds of glory before they were willing to accept My Torah. But this one came on his own volition. I consider him to be not only the equal of an Israelite, and even as equal to a Levite!” [1]

However, the changes began to unravel with Emperor Constantine I, and especially later on when Emperor Constantine II assumed control of the Roman Empire, for it was under his reign Jewish proselytizing became a crime punishable by death.[2] Some historians claim he was worried that the Jews might possibly force a slave or a Christian spouse to convert, but the animus he felt toward the Jews was aimed at marginalizing them as a potential competitor.  Instant liberation was granted to any Jewish or Muslim slave who declared his intention to become Christian. Similar policies were adopted by subsequent Christian emperors who later prescribed the death penalty for any Jew attempting to proselytize a Christian. Similar decrees were also made in the Muslim communities, where the penalty of proselytizing was–and still is (in several contemporary Muslim states)–death. Conversion from Islam to Christianity is considered apostasy (kefirah)—a religious crime that is punishable by death.

Throughout this period of time, the rabbis were concerned with the survival of Judaism; anyone coming to them who expressed a desire to convert was understandably viewed with suspicion. What else would anyone expect from a traumatized people who have experienced terrible persecutions? Had these changes not occurred, who knows how large the Jewish people might have been?

On the other hand, the greatness of a people is not contingent upon its numbers. The Jewish people—despite their size—has produced in our day more Nobel Prize winners, 25% of the total winners.[3]

That’s nothing to sneeze at!

Over the last few decades, Rabbi Alexander Schindler, president of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations, proposed in 1991 that Reform Judaism actively seek converts among non-Jews. In 1996, Rabbi Harold Schulweis, a prominent Conservative leader posted an advertisement in the LA Times welcoming all non-Jews to come and discover Judaism. This is a change for the better.

One last note, more and more rabbis, like myself, are doing whatever we can to encourage anyone who is interested in converting to Judaism. The time has finally arrived for us to re-embrace the Alexandrian tradition that won the hearts of many spiritual seekers of the 1st century and beyond. Our world today reflects more the kind of cultural pluralism that epitomized the great city of Alexandria. It’s time we learn to welcome the spiritual pilgrim that comes our way.

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Notes: Continue Reading

According to an apocryphal legend,^[1] Egyptian King Ptolemy Philadelphus (who ruled 285-246 B.C.E.) sent a delegation to a high priest named Eleazar in Jerusalem, who  organized  a group of 72 scribes  to write a new translation of the Bible for the city of  Alexandria.^[2] These men purportedly translated the Hebrew Pentateuch into Greek in only seventy-two days.

A Jewish philosopher named Aristeas, records how the scribes felt inspired and arrived at a synchronous translation. Philo of Alexandria also claims that each of the translators, working under divine inspiration, arrived at identical phraseology as though dictated by an invisible prompter (Moses, 302).

Historians know that this apocryphal tale does not represent the composition of the Septuagint that we have today. Rather, it was composed over a sustained period of time from approximately the  middle of  2^nd B.C.E. to the 1^st century C.E. In any event, the name “Septuagint,” actually derives from the Latin septuāgintā, “seventy” (from the traditional number of its translators) : septem, seven; see sept in Indo-European roots + -gintā, ten times; see dek in Indo-European roots]. [3]

Sleuthing One of the World’s Great Mysteries

Scholars and lay-people often wonder what inspired the first translation of the Bible? Why was the first translation of the Bible written in Greek? What was the motivation of the early translators of  the Bible? What did they hope to achieve?  The real story behind the Septuagint almost reads like a good detective novel.

Actually, there were many practical reasons why the Alexandrian Jews embarked on this most ambitious literary project. First and foremost, the Septuagint made it easier to educate a generation of Jews who had partially forgotten their ancestral language after having settled in Egypt. Alexandria rapidly became known as the Athens of the Ancient Near East. In fact, by many accounts, Alexandria rivaled Athens in brilliance.

Established by Jewish merchants at the time of Alexander, Alexandria became the world’s first cosmopolitan city–comparable to what Paris now is in Europe. The world’s very first university was built in Alexandria; libraries containing the works of many great Greek thinkers and other famous non-Greek thinkers found a home in a society that was remarkably tolerant of different ethnic groups. Alexandria was proto-modern in a way that was unique.

The Commonalities Between Jewish and Greek Cultures

Obviously, the Greeks and Jews of Alexandria realized that both of their cultures had much in common. Greeks believed they had a chosen vocation to spread Hellenistic culture throughout the world; the Greeks were “chosen” by the gods to achieve this task. The Jews also believed that they have a chosen divine destiny to spread ethical monotheism throughout the world. Obviously, the Greeks were very curious about the Jews and their traditions. A new translation of their works made a lot of sense.

Practical Reasons for Writing the Septuagint

For the Jews who lived in Alexandria, Greek was for these Jews much like what English is today for American Jews, the “lingua franca.” Greek was the language of commerce which made communication in the diplomatic and business world possible. Jewish masses forgot how to speak in Hebrew.

Recognizing that without a translation of the Torah in Greek, the Alexandrian Jewish community would further assimilate, something had to be done.  A Greek translation would make the Torah service at the synagogue more meaningful and relevant. With such a translation, the Alexandrian Jews now had a key to understanding their own religious heritage. The Septuagint also served as a guide for everyday instructional usage.

The Unexpected Consequences of the Septuagint’s Translation

There were other compelling reasons for advocating such a translation. Jewish translators hoped that the Septuagint would promote a greater tolerance towards the Alexandrian Jewish community. To some degree, it succeeded; to some degree this plan backfired. While many of the Greeks admired the wisdom portions of the Bible, some readers became alarmed after they read about the exploits of the Jew’s ancestor, Jacob, who deceived both his blind dying father and his older brother. To some degree, the Septuagint might have created anti-Semitism. Enemies of the Jews, like Apion, probably said,”Look at these dishonest Jews! It’s no wonder why they are so deceitful–they get it honestly. Just read their book about their ancestors!”

The Modern Historical Appreciation of the Septuagint

Modern scholars view the Septuagint as a treasure house of information. The Septuagint is historically important because it is  the parent text that inspired other translations of the Bible, e.g., Coptic, Ethiopic, Old Latin, Arabic, and Armenian, to name a few. Furthermore, one cannot understand fully the world of the Apocrypha and much of the Pseudepigrapha until one is familiar with the general concerns and content of the Greek Bible. From the perspective of textual criticism, the Septuagint, along with the materials from Qumran, the Samaritan Pentateuch, and to some extent the Targum literature, provide the textual tapestry against which the Masoretic textual (MT) tradition must properly be viewed, weighed and interpreted – especially with questions concerning the MT that are not easily discernible to the reader’s eye.

The Study of Textual Criticism and the Septuagint

The Septuagint differs from the Masoretic Text of the Tanakh in many important ways.  Significantly, there are more books in the Septuagint, than there are in the Hebrew Tanakh. The threefold division into the Pentateuch, the Prophets, and the Writings is abandoned. Writers of the Septuagint included other books dealing with the sequence of law, history, wisdom literature, and prophets.  Some of the books not included in the Hebrew canon are Greek translations of Hebrew originals (Tobit, 1 Maccabees, and Ecclesiasticus, also known as The Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach), and others are of Greek composition (Wisdom of Solomon; 2, 3, and 4 Maccabees; and others).^[4] Generally speaking, those books that had a Greek translation were deliberately left out of the biblical canon; unfortunately, The Wisdom of Sirach got left out despite its popularity among the Rabbis.  The real reason why Sirach got left out is for another study we shall examine at a future time.

The Birth of a Philosophical Biblical Translation

Historically, the Septuagint not only provided the populace with a readable translation of the Torah, it also rewrote numerous passages in a strenuous effort to banish all anthropomorphism, which were inconsistent with the translators’ ideas of the Divine.  It set a new tone for how to re-examine and reinterpret biblical language. Instead of reading a text literally, the biblical translators taught their generation how to read the text metaphorically–this was no small achievement.

Centuries later, the Aramaic translation of the Torah that was written by Onkelos, followed the template found in the Septuagint.  Many (but not all) of the Sages admired Onkelos’ effort in purging biblical language from the dangers embedded in anthropomorphism. Given the status of Onkelos’ great translation in rabbinical circles, it is safe to assume that many of the early rabbis in the first two centuries had a much more sophisticated grasp of theological subtleties than is commonly presumed.

Yet despite their similarities between these two great translations, there were broad differences separating Onkelos and the Septuagint. Onkelos eschews the use of anthropomorphism because of objective, theological and dogmatic reasons. In contrast,  the translators of the Septuagint were more concerned with subjective,  philosophical and apologetic reasons. The Greek world was already moving away from the mythic tradition of Homer, the Alexandrian communities were determined to preserve the essence of the Bible and not let it become a philosophical anachronism. To achieve this, they softened the the crudeness of biblical language in order to meet a new contemporary sensibility.

Both the writers of the Septuagint and Onkelos felt that the words of Scripture could be paraphrased, and if need be even modified, so as to eliminate any possible theological  misunderstandings in an effort to make the sacred text intelligible. Continue Reading

Biblical writers regarded the Divine Word as a cosmic force reverberating throughout the created order. According to Psalms 33:6, the Word of God animates the cosmos:  בִּדְבַר יְהוָה שָׁמַיִם נַעֲשׂוּ “By the Word of the LORD the heavens were made.”  To the Hebraic (as well as the Semitic) imagination, words are powerful—it is the stuff reality is made of. In Biblical Hebrew, among its various nuances, דָּבַר (dabhar) connotes a “thing” (Exod. 35:1); or a “promise” (Deut. 15:6); and a “decree” (Jer. 51:12) or “affair” or “history” (1 Kgs. 14:12).[1] In each of these examples, דָּבַר connotes something substantive and real. Everything that exists in the world is viewed as a manifestation of the Word of God that animates it.

Primal cultures regarded the word as an instrument of power; in fact the power of the word was considered to be the ultimate weapon—a fact that is especially evident in the pericope about King Balak of Moab and Balaam (Num. 22:6ff). In this narrative Balak hires the soothsayer Balaam of Pethor to curse the Israelites who are approaching his land.

Like other ancients, Balaam believes in the power that suffuses the spoken word to change and alter physical reality. With Balaam’s assistance, Balak believes that he can help him avoid certain defeat, and advise him how to defeat the Israelites (Num. 22:6). Similarly, this theme is also present in the beginning of Genesis 12:2-3, where God verbally blesses Abram with the power to convey a blessing or curse at his discretion. Another illustration occurs when Jacob asks for the name of his mysterious assailant; he refuses to grant Jacob that knowledge—since to know the name of an angelic being or deity is to have mastery over it (Gen. 32:30). The word resonates with power and presence . . .

It is tragic that our appreciation of the spoken word pales in comparison to how the ancients enshrined it in their mythologies and cultures. As a result, the word in contemporary society tends to be devalued. There are many practical reasons for this phenomenon. Since the invention of the printing press, the world has become more literate than at any other time of recorded history. Along with the proliferation of literacy, the word has become increasingly more secularized due to advances made by technology. Cell phones, radio/TV, the Internet, and all other forms of electronic digital media and telecommunication devices have inundated civilization with a continuous stream of words—wherever and whenever—twenty-four hours a day.

Spiritual impact stemming from this inundation of verbiage renders the Divine Word fleeting and banal; this may in part help explain why many people find it difficult to hear the Divine Voice in our daily lives. Amidst our busy schedules, and the pressures of everyday existence, it is essential for us to create the space inside our hearts to search our thoughts and examine our potential for spiritual awakening. Oftentimes our thoughts get tangled with false perceptions and other cognitive distortions. To avoid this state, we must bring silence to the mind and senses. The peacefulness of stillness or silence allows for the possibility of spiritual awakening flowing from the higher regions of consciousness.

To discover the mystery of our being, we must sometimes withdraw (a kind of reverse “tsimtsum”; see Excursus 11) from the outer world and create a space for God to enter and embrace our inner world. This is exactly what the prophet Elijah did, who found God in “the stillness of being” (2 Kgs. 2: 1-2, 6-14). In this sacred space, we can safely listen, wonder, question, and dialogue about our place in the cosmos. Continue Reading

To decipher the symbolic and mythic significance of the serpent, one must understand its role as personifying the trickster archetype. According to Jung, the trickster archetype is invariably associated with wisdom and the beginnings of spiritual endeavor. Sometimes, as is the case with Genesis 3, it represents the first obstruction to true self-knowledge.[1] Traditionally, there are four aspects of the trickster’s identity that include: the divine, the profane, the human, and the animal. Its powers in many myths seem to be more of a supernatural order, and as such, tricksters possess the uncanny ability of frustrating the Supreme Being’s creative plans. From a literary perspective, the present text suggests that the Creator is not present or is possibly a silent observer. In light of this dramatic staging, the trickster always lives up to its potential for creating mischief—often to its own detriment.

By many mythic depictions, the trickster has an enormous capacity for lust and sensuality, as well as a hearty appetite for the forbidden (which would explain why in many Midrashic traditions, the serpent had sexual relations with Eve). In many tales of its exploits, the trickster’s deception consists of feigning ignorance, while laying a trap for its adversary worthy of a hunter. Quite often, the trickster is the unwitting victim of his own complicated plots. Although it is an intelligent being, it usually does not think of the consequences of its behavior. Throughout human history, the trickster parodies the norms of society; their expertise is to evoke paradox, self-reflection, unpredictability, and alternate visions of reality. As a contrarian spirit, the trickster lives to break down a society’s taboos, although they are certainly capable of creating mischief. In the final analysis, they are catalysts of change.

True to the trickster archetype, the serpent in Eden blurs the boundaries between the categories of animal, human, and divine. Although the Torah describes the primordial serpent as an animal, it differs from its fellow creatures in that it possesses the ability to speak and reason. In addition, it has an esoteric grasp of knowledge that makes it more akin to God and the angels. The serpent’s mysterious personality leaves the reader wondering what its motivation might have been. Like other such myths, the pay-off for the trickster is both a gain and a loss for which humans pay the price (this pattern also occurs in the Greek myth of Prometheus, who steals the celestial fire of the gods to give it to the mortals). Frequently, it is the trickster who pays the price for his deceit.

In many cultures throughout the world, the serpent acts as the instrument and catalyst of change. Ancient Mesopotamian and Oriental literature associates the serpent with the destructive forces of chaos that threaten to unravel the fabric of creation.[2] When the serpent was untamed, it symbolized destruction and evil; when it was conquered and subdued, it assumed the role of a protector.[3] In other mythic traditions, serpents symbolize esoteric wisdom, as portrayed in Genesis 3, The Epic of Gilgamesh, and Buddha and the Boda Tree.  For the unwary desert traveler, serpents were frequently associated with danger and death.[4] The ancients utilized snakes in many of their oracular magical rites; the serpent’s ability to rejuvenate itself by shedding its skin gave rise to the widely held belief that the serpent was immortal, as seen in The Epic of Gilgamesh, which dates back to about 2700 B.C.E. However, based on the appearance of serpents crafted onto numerous cultic objects dating back as early as the 6^th millennium B.C.E., some recent archeological discoveries indicate that the python was worshiped in African caves dating back 70,000 years ago—30,000 years earlier than the oldest previously known human rites.[5]

To decipher the symbolic and mythic significance of the serpent, one must understand its role as a personification of the trickster archetype.  According to Jung, the trickster archetype is invariably associated with wisdom and the beginnings of spiritual endeavor. Sometimes, as is the case of the Genesis 3, it represents the first obstacle to true self-knowledge. [6] The serpent also epitomizes masculine potency and sexuality—a notion that Sigmund Freud would later heartily endorse. Across the cultural divide, mythic depictions of the serpent reveal a creature endowed with a mysterious knowledge, power, and wisdom. In Greek mythology, “being licked” by a serpent’s tongue was considered a good omen; it meant that the gods would bless a person with supernatural gifts such as prophecy or extraordinary strength. Snakes were also associated with Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, and later in the Middle Ages with Prudentia, the personification of prudence or practical wisdom. Then again, there is the well-known saying of Jesus: “Be wise as serpents” (Mt. 10:16).

The primordial serpent’s role as trickster in this narrative raises many questions that remain unanswered by the biblical narrator. Why does the serpent resent humankind? Why would it want to deprive God’s choice creation of the gifts of immortality? Was its intention sincere, or did it have ulterior motives? What did the serpent stand to gain by Adam’s disobedience? Exegetes propose several plausible answers. The serpent may have been motivated by envy.

If this early exegetical insight is accurate, one could argue that the serpent projects onto Eve its own inner and unresolved conflict with the Divine, and by doing so, the serpent triangulates the couple into a personal struggle with God. When triggered, a psychological defense mechanism may cause a person to project certain objectionable traits, feelings, desires, or motivations onto another person as a means of protecting the walls of one’s ego.

It logically follows that when the serpent asserts that YHWH is “jealous” of His foremost creation obtaining this esoteric knowledge of good and evil, the serpent’s accusation actually reveals more about its own jealousy and its contempt toward the Creator.[7] Josephus explains that the serpent grew jealous of the happiness Adam and his wife enjoyed by virtue of obeying the Divine commandments. The serpent realized that “these gifts would be lost if it could persuade the woman to taste of the tree of wisdom.”[8] Another variant of this idea is explored centuries later in Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton writes that after a failed coup d’état against Heaven, Satan is expelled and later enters into the body of the serpent in order to estrange Adam and Eve from their Maker.[9] Ultimately, both stories of the Edenic “Fall”—as depicted in Genesis and in Paradise Lost—can be attributed to failure to live in accordance with the hierarchy that YHWH established for all of His Creation.

Some of the early Christian exegetes offer a number of possible motivations. John of Damascus (ca. 650-750) argues that the serpent did not wish to be under Adam’s dominion. Ambrose (ca. 333-397) makes a similar point: the serpent did not like the human couple’s special standing in the world of Paradise. Some Jewish mystics propose that the serpent acted out of jealousy for it sensed its existence was only temporary. It knew that God intended for Adam and Eve to live forever.  By means of a cleverly laid trap,[10] it hoped to “even the playing field,” thus making them mortal, like itself.[11]

There is one answer the early exegetes did not consider—the serpent wished to appropriate for itself the very blessing that it had thought to deny the first couple—the gift of immortality. By diverting their attention away from the Tree of Life, and persuading them to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, the serpent hoped that it alone would eat of the Tree of Life and live forever. The Epic of Gilgamesh definitely resonates with this latter interpretation and provides the key to answering many of the questions thus far raised in the Genesis story. In this ancient tale about the origin of death, a serpent steals a magic plant from Gilgamesh that would have given him immortality, while he was bathing in a nearby pool. Although the story does not say that the serpent ate the coveted plant, the narrator implies that it did. However, in the Edenic narrative, the serpent does not achieve its goal. Unlike the Gilgamesh serpent, which disappears with the coveted prize, the serpent of Genesis suffers a talionic fate, and becomes the “most cursed of creatures.”[12] Continue Reading

Remember the Coneheads?

They were one of Saturday Night Live’s most beloved characters. For the young folks reading this blog, the Coneheads were television’s very first extraterrestrial family from the planet Remulak, who accidentally got stuck on Earth. Their most distinguished feature is their cone-shaped heads; they speak in a monotone, gorge food, smoke entire packages of cigarettes, and gulp down a six pack of beer in one sitting. Whenever people ask them, “Where are you folks from?” They would answer, “France.”

Unfortunately, Rod Serling died in 1975, two years before the Coneheads made their first appearance. Although they were not from the Twilight Zone, they just as well might have been!

Well, most of you might be surprised to know that the Coneheads are back! But this time, they are no longer living in the United States or France, but actually in Israel. A group of Ultra-Orthodox women dubbed by observers as the “Jewish Taliban Women,” have come up with a new stringency not even Moses and the ancient rabbis could have imagined.

Until now, the “Taliban women” wore a veil covering their entire face except for their eyes. Their long cloaks were meant to hide the contour of their bodies. They looked indistinguishable from the actual Taliban Muslim women. But evidently, these Jewish “Taliban Women” decided that the veil was no longer good enough. Their new head coverings consist of wearing a pipe in the form of a cone, which they wear on their heads under the veil.

The most ultra-Orthodox group—the Eda Haredit (one of my teachers was a part of this court) have surprisingly come out against this group, but to no avail. The rabbis warned these women to stay away from the customs and ways of the “Taliban women”, who “are doomed.” On the other hand, the pious Haredim of Beth Shemesh see nothing wrong with such displays of religious modesty. In fact, they seem to view it as something desirable, judging by the recent television interviews.

Feats of piety, not to mention contests of piety are nothing new in the history of religion. In the days of Late Antiquity, both Judaism and Christianity had sects that engaged in such activities. Rabbinical literature contains valuable records about their antics and desire to live a holy life. Here is one story in particular that really stands out:

• After the Second Temple was destroyed, many people became ascetics and abstained from eating meat or drinking wine. Rabbi Joshua engaged them in discussion. He asked them, “My Children, why do you choose not to eat meat nor drink wine? They replied, “Shall we eat the flesh which used to be brought as a continual offering on the altar, and now it is no more?  He said to them, “Then why will you not drink wine?” They replied, “Because wine was poured on the altar as a drink offering, and now it is no more.” He said to them, “Fine and well, let us not drink it. However, by the same token we should not eat bread either, for from it they brought the two loaves of the Showbread! While we are at it, we should probably abstain from drinking water too, for they used to pour a water-offering for the holiday of Succoth. We should neither eat fruit either because there is no longer an offering of the first fruits on the holiday of Aseret.”[1] They became silent. . . [2]

Two thousand years ago, the Jewish community had an entire class of people who delighted in such feats of piety. Among the inhabitants of the Qumran community, they refrained from having sexual relations in the city of Jerusalem, which they regarded as an extension of the Temple vicinity.

The Jerusalem Talmud writes, “Who is a man of piety that is a fool? “He, for example, who, if a woman is drowning, says, ‘It is unseemly for me to look at her, and therefore, I cannot rescue her. . . . Who is the pious fool? He who sees a child struggling in the water, and says, ‘When I have taken off my phylacteries, I will go and save him.’ By the time he arrives to rescue him, the child has already expired. Who is the crafty scoundrel? R. Huna says, ‘He is the man who behaves leniently toward himself, while teaching others only the strictest rules.’”[3]

“Our Rabbis have taught: There are seven types of Pharisees, of which five are criticized: the ostentatious Pharisee[4]the Pharisee who knocks his feet together and walks with exaggerated humility[5], the Pharisee is one who knocks his face against the wall rather than gaze at a woman.[6] The Pharisee who feigns religious piety while constantly exclaiming, ‘What is my duty that I may perform it?’”[7]  Only two of these,  the “God-fearing” Pharisee, who lives in holy awe and the fear of God, the Pharisee who is one for the love of God, are worthy of praise (JT Berachoth, 9.7).

(A parenthetical note: To the best of my knowledge, I am unaware of any Talmudic text that speaks about spitting at little girls who are “immodestly dressed.” By today’s standards, the Pharisees of today make the seven listed in the Mishnah look pale in comparison.)

The Mishnah in Sotah 20a, mentions that the “female Pharisee,” is “among those who bring destruction to the world.” The “Taliban Women” of Jerusalem could certainly qualify as modern-day examples of the “Pharisee woman,” who in all likelihood became the forerunner of the Christian convent for women that was so popular in the medieval period.

Actually, these rabbinic passages support Jesus’ criticism of the Pharisees for their ostentatious show of religious piety (cf.  Mat. 6:1-4). Of course, not all the Pharisees behaved in such a weird and strange way, but a number of them did! In every generation there are people who are genuinely pious; and then we have the imitators . . . like we see today.

Historically, the super-pious Pharisees of antiquity also inspired their Christian cousins too. Will Durant explains in his Story of Civilization, in his volume on “The Age of Faith” writes about the ascetics of the 4^th century, who did their best to escape temptation; they used to punish their bodies and live a hermetic life. The extremes to which they went in their attempts to deny gratification of “physical lusts” are by modern standards, quite incredible.

For example, St. Ascepsimas wore so many chains that he had to crawl around on hands and knees. A monk named “Besarion,” would not even give in to his body’s desire for restful sleep—for forty years he would not lie down while sleeping. Macarius the Younger sat naked in a swamp for six months until mosquito bites made him look like a victim of leprosy. St. Marion spent eleven years living in a hollowed-out tree trunk. Others lived in caves, dens of beasts, dry wells—even tombs.

Is cleanliness the closest thing to godliness? Well, this attitude was not always historically the case. Durant points out that the early Christian saints suffered the discomfort of filth, stench, worms, and maggots, which were considered to be spiritually beneficial and a sign of victory over the body . . .

Some of the most celebrated saints of this era were Simeon the Stylite of Syria and Daniel the Stylite of Constantinople. Simeon spent 37 years on different pillars, each one loftier and narrower than the last. The last pillar was 66 feet high. He died in 460, aged 72.[8]

Frankly, I am amazed he managed to live such a long life and did not get struck by lightning. Not to be outdone, Daniel lived 33 years on a pillar, and was not infrequently nearly blown off by the storms from Thrace. He died in 494. I am unsure how long he lived; he might not have been as luck as his colleague, Simeon. Alfred Tennyson wrote a poem on Simeon Stylites, “Simeon of the Pillar” by surname–Stylites among men—”was the watcher of the column till the end.”

Rabbinic wisdom challenged many of these early conceptions of piety that existed in both the Jewish and early Christian communities. Rather than retreating from the pleasures of this world, the rabbis taught that the greater challenge is to spiritualize the mundane activities of our lives. Thus, Samuel (180-257 C.E.) exclaimed, “If this man (i.e., the Nazirite) who denied himself wine only is termed, ‘a sinner,’ how much more is the person who denies himself the enjoyment of ever so many things.”[9] R. Dimi, another 4^th century Babylonian scholar (290 – 350 CE) criticized these groups in unflinching terms, “Are there not enough prohibitions in the Torah? Why would you want to take upon yourself even more prohibitions?[10]

The problem with the “Taliban women” of Jerusalem or Beth Shemesh, Israel is that these groups of women feel that God wants them to live a holy life that demands a withdrawal from the sinfulness and forbidden temptations of the world. In reality, this attitude would not exist were it not for the excessive piety many rabbis in Jerusalem have championed over the years. When women’s faces become perceived as something pornographic, burkas are the next logical step in the Haredi evolution toward the creation of “Taliban Judaism.”

It’s a lot easier to be fussy about the length of a woman’s skirt, or examine how many bugs can be found on a leaf of lettuce  than it is to actively fight the problems of corruption, defrauding the government, pedophilia, spousal abuse, intolerance, sexism, bigotry, which seem to emanate continuously from within the rank and file members of the  religious community. If we are ever going to become a “light unto the nations” (Isa. 60:3), shouldn’t we  try to be a light unto ourselves first?

True piety requires a willingness to live within the confines of the world. Obviously, that requires a lot more inner strength. Holiness comes from being a part of a community of individuals who vary in their spiritual abilities. Some people will be further along the track than others.

One 10^th century work cautions would-be-ascetics, “Someday a person will have to give an accounting for all the pleasures of this world that he abstained from enjoying, for such an ingrate shows no appreciation for King’s bounties and grace.”[11] The Taliban women along with their rabbis would be wise to take these practical words to heart. The real righteous (I prefer “just” over the term “righteous”) person is someone who sincerely lives the honest life, walks his talk, and treats his neighbor with kindness, compassion and integrity—even in the face of dishonesty and social corruption.
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• Lilith as an Archetype of the “Terrible Mother”

  The following article comes from my new Neo-Jungian commentary on Genesis, “Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation (Genesis 1-3).” In this selection, we shall explore other aspects of the Lilith archetype based on the insights of the Jungian psychologist Erich Neumann.

Afterwards we shall look at other portraits of Lilith found in a variety of different literary resources, such as: the Talmud and Zohar, archaeological discoveries—and lastly—from the literature of Jewish feminism, which has transformed Lilith into a modern folk-heroine for women. While these portrayals introduce a definite recasting of the Lilith story, one fascinating feature remains: Lilith is a resilient figure of ancient mythology; over time Lilith continues to receive a new facelift to disguise her personality to a new generation of readers—from rabbis who fantasized about her sexual availability, to feminists who find Lilith’s desire for freedom most compelling.  (Note that * are used for paragraph indentations because of the limitations of Word Press word processing)

Jungian psychologist Erich Neumann argues in his psychological study, The Great Mother (2d ed., New York, 1963), that Lilith personifies the archetype of the “Terrible Mother,” while also analogous to the Greek Gorgon and harpies. These mythic figures personify the archetypal image of negativity—that of destroyer—latent in the feminine psyche; as such. Horrified by what they saw, the ancients retold this tragedy in the language of myth. Lilith represents the sinister side of femininity. Neumann shows how this pattern develops cross-culturally:

• And the dark side of the Terrible Female is a symbol for the unconscious. And the dark side of the Terrible Mother takes the form of monsters, whether in Egypt of India, Mexico or Etruria, Bali or Rome. In the myths and tales of all peoples, ages, and countries—and even in the nightmares of our own nights—witches and vampires, ghouls and specters, assail us, all terrifyingly alike. . . . Thus the womb of the earth becomes the deadly devouring maw of the underworld, and beside the fecundated womb and the protecting cave of earth and mountain gapes the abyss of hell, the dark note of the depths, the devouring womb of the grave and of death, of darkness without light, of nothingness. For this woman who generates life and all living things on earth is the same who takes them back into herself, who pursues her victims and captures them with snare and net. Disease, hunger, hardship, ware above all, are her helpers, and among all peoples the goddesses of war and the hunt express man’s experience of life as a exacting blood.

• [1] It is in India that the experience of the Terrible Mother has been given its most grandiose form as Kali, “dark, devouring time, the bone-wreathed Lady of the place of skulls . . .[2] But all this—and it should not be forgotten—is an image not only of the Feminine but particularly and specifically of the Maternal. For in a profound way life and birth are always bound up with death and destruction. That is why this Terrible Mother is ‘Great,’ and this name is also given to Ta-urt, the gravid monster, which is hippopotamus and crocodile, lioness and woman, in one. She too is deadly and protective. There is a frightening likeness to Hathor, the good cow goddess . . .”[3]

Talmudic and Kabbalistic Depictions of Lilith

The Talmud makes ample mention of Lilith’s activities. Lilith is described as a female night-demon whose erotic nature evokes a desire for illicit sexual relationships (succubus). Lilith’s physical attributes are also described in detail; she is depicted as having long hair and wings[4] and the rabbis warn all men not to sleep alone in a house lest Lilith come and seduce them in their dreams (T. B. Shabbat 151b).[5] Lilith is especially popular in the Zohar where she appears as the seductress supreme.[6] In all likelihood the rabbinic stories about Lilith were, in part, intended to prevent young rabbinic scholars from the sins of masturbation and illicit sexual relations which the Zohar equates to the crime of murder. The scholar, Rabbi Joshua Trachtenberg explains:

• As a result of the legend of Adam’s relations with Lilit [sic], although this function was by no means exclusively theirs, the Lilits were most frequently singled out as the demons who embrace sleeping men and cause them to have nocturnal emissions which are the seed of a hybrid progeny. . . . As the demons whose special prey is lying-in women, it was found necessary to adopt an extensive series of protective measures against her. . . . We seem to have here a union of the night demon with the spirit that presides over pregnancy, influenced no doubt by the character of the Babylonian Lamassu, and the lamiae and striga of Greek and Roman folklore.[7]

Trachtenberg’s insight is obviously accurate. According to the Zohar, a man who masturbates in this world will be treated in the next life like one who is worse than a murderer—since he has, in effect, murdered his own seed; in God’s eyes he is considered the most reprehensible kind of human being.[8] In a strange way, the Zohar sees Lilith as the guardian of family purity. Any couple failing to observe the laws governing sexual abstention risks incurring her wrath. Even making love by candle light can result in Lilith causing children to become epileptic and risk being pursued and killed by Lilith.[9] One may deduce from the Zohar’s condemnation that the fate of young men or children dying is a talionic punishment for having spilled seed. The proof text for this is the story of Er and Onan, who died rather than give their seed to Tamar (Gen. 38:1-10).[10]

Archaeology has discovered special incantation bowls that were used to help a person seek protection from “demons, demonesses, lilis, liliths, plagues, evil satanic beings and all evil tormentors that appear.”

• As one scholar notes, “The liliths were but one class of an elaborate taxonomy of malevolent spiritual beings. The sexually aggressive character of the lilis and liliths accounts for the fact that exorcistic texts are often expressed in formal divorce terminology, such as this text (No. 35, Isbell): ‘Again, bound and seized are you, evil spirit and powerful lilith. . . . But depart from their presence and take your divorce and your separation and your letter of dismissal. [I have written against] you as demons write divorces for their wives and furthermore, they do not return [to them].’”[11]

• Recasting Lilith—A Bad Girl Becomes Good—Judith Plaskow’s New Midrash

With the advent of women’s liberation movements, Lilith has undergone a dramatic make-over; now, Lilith is widely regarded by many women as a heroine who is the first woman to insist on having an egalitarian relationship with her mate. Judith Plaskow blames Adam for the expulsion of Lilith from her home, which gave rise to men’s subjugation of women as we have witnessed throughout history. Different from the story recounted earlier from The Alphabet of Ben Sira, Plaskow weaves a short neo-midrashic story about Lilith’s moral rehabilitation, entitled “Applesource”:

• In the beginning, the Lord God formed Adam and Lilith from the dust of the ground and breathed into their nostrils the breath of life. Created from the same source, both having been formed from the ground, they were equal in all ways. Adam, being a man, didn’t like this situation, and he looked for ways to change it. He said, “I’ll have my figs now, Lilith,” ordering her to wait on him, and he tried to leave her the daily tasks of life in the garden. But Lilith wasn’t one to take any nonsense; she picked herself up, uttered God’s holy name, and flew away. “Well, now, Lord,” complained Adam, that uppity woman you sent me has gone and deserted me.” The Lord, inclined to be sympathetic, sent His messengers after Lilith, telling her to shape up and return to Adam or face dire punishment. She, however, preferring anything to living with Adam, decided to stay where she was. And so God, after more careful consideration this time, caused a deep sleep to fall on Adam and out of one of his ribs created for him a second companion, Eve  . . . Meanwhile Lilith, all alone, attempted from time to time to rejoin the human community in the garden. After her first fruitless attempt to breach its walls, Adam worked hard to build them stronger, even getting Eve to help him. He told her fearsome stories of the demon Lilith who threatens women in childbirth and steals children from their cradles in the middle of the night. The second time Lilith came, she stormed the garden’s main gate, and a great battle ensued between her and Adam in which she was finally defeated. This time, however, before Lilith got away, Eve got a glimpse of her and saw she was a woman like herself  . . . One day, after many months of strange and disturbing thoughts, Eve, wandering around the edge of the garden, noticed a young apple tree she and Adam had planted, and saw that one of its branches stretched over the garden wall. Spontaneously, she tried to climb it, and struggling to the top, swung herself over the wall.

• She did not wander long on the other side before she met the one she had come to find, for Lilith was waiting. At first sight of her, Eve remembered the tales of Adam and was frightened, but Lilith understood and greeted her kindly. “Who are you?” they asked each other, “What is your story?” And they sat and spoke together, of the past and then of the future. They talked for many hours, not once, but many times. They taught each other many things, and told each other stories, and laughed together, and cried, over and over, till the bond of sisterhood grew between them. Meanwhile, back in the garden, Adam was puzzled by Eve’s comings and goings, and disturbed by what he sensed to be her new attitude toward him. He talked to God about it, and God, having His own problems with Adam and a somewhat broader perspective, was able to help out a little—but He was confused, too. Something had failed to go according to plan. As in the days of Abraham, He needed counsel from His children. “I am who I am,” thought God, “But I must become who I will become.”[12] Continue Reading

• “No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses”–Herman Melville

Father always used to say, “Never say anything or do anything in private that you would be ashamed to do in public.” Dad always was a wise man; a philosopher who was much in the mold of an Eric Hoffer, one of San Francisco’s great heroes. President Obama’s decision to permit domestic consumption of horse meat is alarming to say the least. Many of these animals are old retired race horses, who over the span of their brief lives have developed a profound sentient relationship with their owners. The fact that President Obama did not go public with this announcement is indicative that he knew such a decision would not be appreciated by over 70% of all Americans who oppose using horses for their meat. On the other hand, countries like Japan, Belgium, and France view horse meat as a delicacy and look forward to the exportation of American horse meat. Maybe  dog meat is next for consideration.

Obama’s behavior is all the more perplexing —especially since in 2008, Obama pledged, “Federal policy towards animals should respect the dignity of animals and their rightful place as cohabitants of our environment. We should strive to protect animals and their habitats and prevent animal cruelty, exploitation and neglect…. (Excellent! -MLS)  I have consistently been a champion of animal-friendly legislation and policy and would continue to be so once elected.” During the campaign Obama co-signed a bill banning horse slaughter in the US and was asked, “Will you support legislation …to institute a permanent ban on horse slaughter and exports of horses for human consumption“? He answered in the affirmative.

This article is not meant to be political in nature, but this writer feels that the President is making a very poor ethical decision—one which he ought to seriously reconsider before the Congressional bill becomes law. As someone who is politically independent, I would be upset regardless who signed the bill!

Jewish tradition has much to say about humanity’s profound relationships with the animal world. In the ancient Perek Shirah, which is a tract dedicated to exploring the spiritual song of Creation which reports that after King David  finished writing  the book of Psalms, he felt boastful, saying to “The Holy Blessed One and  Master of the Universe: Is there any [other] creature You created in Your world that utters more songs and paeans of praise than I? In that instant a frog happened to meet him and said: David, don’t be so boastful. I utter more songs and paeans of praise than you.” This ancient tract seems to imply that animals have some conscious awareness of their Maker.

Our relationships with horses in particular is attested in Jewish texts going back to the first century Jewish philosopher—Philo of Alexandria, who writes:

• As, therefore, when the charioteer has his horses under command and guides the animals with the rein—the chariot is guided wherever he pleases; but if they become stiff, and get the better of the charioteer, he is often dragged out of his road, and sometimes it even happens that the beasts themselves are borne by the impetuosity of their course into a pit, and everything is carried away in a ruinous manner.[1]

According to Philo, there is a remarkable union of consciousness when the skilled charioteer and the mind of his horses merge as it were, into a single being. This is a distinction that is probably more unique with horses than other animals.

Most people who are familiar with Martin Buber’s seminal concept of the “I and Thou” are undoubtedly aware of how God is triangulated in every human relationship. Buber stresses that each person must come to see the Divine Presence that is manifest in all interpersonal relationships.

But can a person have an “I and Thou” relationship with something Other than human? Although ecology as a philosophical discipline was in its infancy for most of Buber’s life, Buber had a great love of nature; for him the “I and Thou” had a profound ecological dimension as well. Ecological themes appear throughout much of Buber’s writings. In his famous, “I and Thou,” Buber tells us a story that most pet owners can easily relate to:

• The eyes of an animal have the capacity of a great language. Independent, without any need of the assistance of sounds and gestures, most eloquent when they rest entirely in their glance; they express the mystery in its natural captivity, that is, in the anxiety of becoming.  This state of the mystery is known only to the animal, which alone can open it up to us – for this state can only be opened up and not revealed.”[2]

Cats in particular are interesting. Buber admits that the I and Thou relationship can quickly turn into an I and It relationship rather quickly–a fact that never ceases to amaze cat owners. Cats almost at times seem indifferent to our presence; other times, they seem to peer into the depths of our souls. But one could even have an I and Thou relationship with a tree.

• I can look on (a tree) as a picture: stiff column in a shock of light, or splash of green shot with the delicate blue and silver of the background. I can perceive it as movement: flowing veins on clinging, pressing pith, suck of the roots, breathing of the leaves, ceaseless commerce with earth and air – and the obscure growth itself. I can classify it in a species and study it as a type in its structure and mode of life. I can subdue its actual presence and form so sternly that I recognize it only as an expression of law… I can dissipate it and perpetuate it in number… In all this the tree remains my object, occupies space and time, and has its nature and constitution. It can, however, also come about, if I have both will and grace, that in considering the tree I become bound up in relation to it. The tree is no longer It. I have been seized by the power of exclusiveness.

Buber discovered within the Hasidic tradition a great spirituality that nature can teach us, provided we are attentive. In one of his favorite anecdotes, Buber tells a lovely story about the great Maggid, Dov Baer of Metzitch, who had just died. The students gathered around to talk about the greatness of their master. He writes:

• After the Maggid’s death, his disciples came together and talked about the things he had done. When it was Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s turn, he asked them: “Do you know why our master went to the pond every day at dawn and stayed there for a while before coming home again?” They did not know why. Rabbi Zalman continued: “He was learning the song with which the frogs praise God. It takes a very long time to learn that song.”[4]

Yes, the eyes of an animal express unconditional love—an experience that dog and horse owners can easily attest to. As sentient and intelligent beings, their face commands that we act ethically toward them—as much as is humanly possible. As we have mentioned in other blog postings, animals are not mere automatons as Aristotle, Descartes and modern-day vivisectionists tend to believe. When we name our animals, we enter into a moral relationship. Moral relationships are bilateral in nature. We cannot treat them as though they are mere commodities; their eyes speak volumes about their love and trust of their owners. Buber’s love of horses helped provide him with the profound insights that would later from expression in his ethical theology of the “I and Thou.”

• When I was eleven years of age, spending the summer on my grandparents’ estate, I used, as often as I could do it unobserved, to steal into the stable and gently stroke the neck of my darling, a broad dapplegray horse. It was not a casual delight but a great, certainly friendly, but also deeply stirring happening. If I am to explain it now, beginning from the still very fresh memory of my hand, I must say that what I experienced in touch with the animal was the Other, the immense otherness of the Other, which, however, did not remain strange like the otherness of the ox and the ram, but rather let me draw near and touch it.

• When I stroked the mighty mane, sometimes marvelously smooth-combed, at other times just as astonishingly wild, and felt the life beneath my hand, it was as though the element of vitality itself bordered on my skin, something that was not I, was certainly not akin to me, palpably the other, not just another, really the Other itself; and yet it let me approach, confided itself to me, placed itself elementally in the relation of Thou and Thou with me. The horse, even when I had not begun by pouring oats for him into the manger, very gently raised his massive head, ears flicking, then snorted quietly, as a conspirator gives a signal meant to be recognizable only by his fellow-conspirator; and I was approved. But once—I do not know what came over the child, at any rate it was childlike enough—it struck me about the stroking, what fun it gave me, and suddenly I became conscious of my hand. The game went on as before, but something changed, it was no longer the same thing. And the next day, after giving him a rich feed, when I stroked my friend’s head he did not raise his head. A few years later, when I thought back to the incident, I no longer supposed that the animal had noticed my defection. But at the time I considered myself judged.[5]

In short, each of us has a responsibility to act with compassion toward all animals, but especially the higher animals that have long enjoyed the companionship of human beings. Continue Reading

People often ask: “Was David gay?” The question is simple, but the answer is unfortunately complex.

Before examining this question, I wish to make some preliminary remarks about the nature of hermeneutic interpretation as an enterprise of human thought. The comments below are selected from my new book, “Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation (Genesis 1-3).” The issues we shall soon examine have great relevance for how we approach any biblical passage. In the interest of brevity, I have left out some of the longer footnotes so we can focus primarily on the text that is before us.

• With all the literature that has been written on Genesis, this commentary was written utilizing two fundamental interpretive sets of guidelines: exegesis and eisegesis.[1] Exegesis involves a process by which one draws out a meaning or meanings from a text. In contrast to exegesis, the process of eisegesis is a way of reading or imposing a pre-existing interpretation onto the text, especially whenever it supports a predetermined position,[2] custom, or conclusion.[3] To borrow a famous analogy from R. Yaakob Kranz[4] (1741-1804), the process of eisegesis is analogous to a person shooting a bull’s-eye. One way involves using skill to hit the center of the target. The other method involves shooting at a random target and then painting concentric circles around wherever the arrow lands. For this reason, eisegetes are often criticized because they sacrifice objectivity for the sake of subjectivity. One could argue that if there is such a thing as an “objective truth” and an objective standard of right and wrong given by the Tanakh, then eisegesis and subjectivism must be marginalized in favor of exegesis.

• Although eisegesis may seem arbitrary because of its inherent subjectivity, it does permit readers to situate themselves within the text, allowing for certain moral and practical lessons to be deduced and applied. No sermon would ever have the power to inspire a faith community if it did not convey a strong eisegetic message. Eisegesis allows for the text to remain practical and relevant.[5] If the Torah is truly as its name implies—a book of spiritual “instruction”—then its message must transcend the original context of its historicity to reveal a pathway for readers of every generation to experience the Divine. Unlike an exegetical approach, eisegesis allows the text to speak to new situations, thus acknowledging that the sacred text is polyvalent. It behooves a modern interpreter to integrate both exegetic and eisegetic approaches. Any new conceptual applications ought to find its grounding in an exegetical way within the text, i.e., its historical context, language and cultural background, rabbinic models of interpretation, and so on. Albeit such a concept may not be explicitly expressed, nevertheless, its meaning is certainly intimated by the text’s more subtle nuances.

• One might well argue that the distinction between these two categories is not as great as it may seem, since texts are inevitably read in the light of the reader’s beliefs system. Indeed all exegesis involves a certain degree of eisegesis, then paradoxically—exegesis is eisegesis . . .  [6]

Thus far, we have tried to demonstrate the importance of reading the Scriptures through our unique interpretive lenses. The dialogical relationship each of us has with the Bible will yield different results and will produce a different kind of interpretive understanding of a text. In simple terms, we all want someone in the Bible we can identify with.

Our original question about David and Jonathan’s love has intrigued me ever since I taught the book of Samuel in the yeshiva. There is a famous quote from Oscar Wilde, who describes David’s love for Jonathan as, “the love that dare not speak its name.” This phrase comes actually from Lord Alfred Douglas in his poem, “Two Loaves.”

To begin with, it is impossible for a contemporary reader to logically answer this question. The reader inevitably cannot be completely impartial because each individual approaches a text with a certain bias and predisposition to begin with. Those individuals who view homosexuality as an “abomination,” would never think to impute such behavior to someone as beloved as David. Gay theologians and interpreters approach the same biblical text with a special “hermeneutic of suspicion.” For them, there is a possible hidden message that must be extracted from the biblical narratives.

Some scriptural support for this theory derives from a number of passages pertaining to David’s great love of Jonathan. Part of this theory is also based on the idea that soldiers in times of war often developed erotic love for one another, which was especially the case in Greek society, where homosexual love was openly accepted. However in ancient Israel, homosexual love was never something Israelites would openly talk about because of the traditional stigmas associated with homosexuality. In light of this, the biblical narrators were careful to suppress the details of their relationship.

Given what we now understand about psychology, there seems to be a credible case for suggesting that David may have been bisexual in nature.

Consider the verses in question:

I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan;

greatly beloved were you to me;

your love to me was wonderful,

surpassing the love of women.

2        Sam. 1:26

Centuries before the term “homosexuality” even existed in the ancient lexicons of Israel, the phrase “surpassing the love of women,” could easily be understood euphemistically as a love between men. Another biblical passage might also be a source for this conjecture:

• Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. ⁴ Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that he was wearing, and gave it to David, and his armor, and even his sword and his bow and his belt (1 Sam. 18:3-4).

Saul’s  violent behavior toward his son Jonathan is reminiscent of how “straight” fathers react when they discover that their sons are “gay.” When I was working on my doctorate, many of the gay participants in our collegiate group related similar experiences once they told their fathers that they were homosexual. After Saul learns that Jonathan acquiesced to David’s request to excuse himself from the New Moon meal, Saul explodes with anger:

• Then Saul’s anger was kindled against Jonathan. He said to him, “You son of a perverse, rebellious woman! Do I not know that you have chosen the son of Jesse to your own shame, and to the shame of your mother’s nakedness? ³¹ For as long as the son of Jesse lives upon the earth, neither you nor your kingdom shall be established. Now send and bring him to me, for he shall surely die.”  (1 Samuel 20:30-31).

The perspective of the gay theologians and other advocates of this position can yield this type of understanding, but the reader should be aware that eisegetical readings offer merely one way of looking at the text. Evangelical and Orthodox approaches have every right to view the text differently—ultimately, the interpretive process says more about us than it does about the scriptural text. Continue Reading