Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Jewish tradition has long cautioned the Jewish people not to emulate the religious ways of the non-Jew. Despite numerous biblical and rabbinical proscriptions, urging Israel to walk the straight and narrow, today’s Ultra-Orthodox Jews seem to be borrowing a page from the Taliban, a group not especially known for its tolerance, or for its respect for women.

A couple of years ago, the Haredi rabbis complained about mannequins that were immodestly dressed. In addition, they must never be shown without wearing a head-covering known as “hijab.” I know what some of you must be thinking: You must be kidding!

Well, you might be surprised to know that the sexiness of mannequins is forbidden in Iran as well. Iranian women have to adhere to a very strict dress code much like the Haredi do in Jerusalem and other cities.

For example: In Iran, men cannot sell women’s underwear, nor are they allowed to wear form-fitting trousers, or any kind of Western styles that are viewed as symbols of Western decadence.

Barbershops have been closed down because these shops offer good grooming techniques for men, e.g., eyebrow-plucking (you see, the uni-brow is the fashion rage in both Haredi and Iranian communities among the men and the women!?), hair-gel for men, bowties.

But wait a minute!! The Haredi are not about to lose the “Modesty race,” and so in the spirit of upmanship, the Haredi have banned all female mannequins; in addition, no woman’s face can even appear on a billboard in Jerusalem. Israeli soldiers have also been told by some of the wacky Ultra-Orthodox Zionist rabbis that Israeli soldiers should rather allow themselves to be shot at a firing squad rather than listen to a woman singing. S0me extremists have adopted wearing the same kind of burka that is worn by the Taliban.

Despite the similarities, there are significant differences between the Haredi women of Jerusalem and the women of Iran. What we do know is that women in Iran regard the entire country like one gigantic prison. Women are stoned for allegedly “committing adultery,” and according to the penalty for adultery:

• The penalty for adultery under Article 83 of the penal code, called the Law of Hodoud is flogging (100 lashes of the whip) for unmarried male and female offenders. Married offenders may be punished by stoning regardless of their gender, but the method laid down for a man involves his burial up to his waist, and for a woman up to her neck (article 102). The law provides that if a person who is to be stoned manages to escape, he or she will be allowed to go free. Since it is easier for a man to escape, this discrimination literally becomes a matter of life and death.[1]

Bear in mind that if a woman in Iran is raped, and she happens to be married—she still gets stoned for having committed “adultery.”

Well, the Haredi would love to treat their wayward wives this way, but the State of Israel prevents this from happening. However, should the Haredi succeed in creating a true Torah theocracy in Israel, I would not be surprised to see corporeal punishment distributed to all the women who are immodestly attired. The difference is only a matter of degree rather than kind.

Both religious communities are misogynous to the core and both societies have tremendous contempt for Western culture. For the Israeli government, some experts have warned that the Haredi attitude is much more dangerous to the future of Israel than the nuclear missiles Iran is trying to construct.

The American psychologist Abraham Maslow once said that “All pathologies pathologize, and all pathologies dichotomize.” The inability of both societies to respect the freedom of their women is what is at the heart of the fundamentalist war against modernity in our times. Continue Reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

בְּרֵאשִׁית בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים — In the beginning when God created — From a purely human perspective, the act of creation ought to be seen as an act of self-giving on the part of the Creator; Creation exists solely because of God’s unconditional love (ἀγάπη = agápē). This divine love makes a space (kένωσις = a kenosis or “self-emptying”[1]) so that there may be room for the Other—namely, Creation. At the deepest metaphysical level imaginable, we surprisingly discover that God is also a relational Being; by creating the universe, God reveals He has a personal stake in the existence of Creation.[2]

God merely contemplates Creation as a possibility, and effortlessly, it comes into being. Unlike the creator of Plato’s universe, who struggles mightily with the recalcitrant chaotic matter as he attempts to model it in the image of the ethereal Forms[3], the God of Israel creates chaotic matter with ease and grace. Unlike the pagan gods of antiquity—who themselves were the by-products of the primal chaos—God’s reality transcends the boundaries of the temporal and spatial universe. His ontology and existence are totally independent of Creation. God is, in the most literal sense, wholly Other than Creation.

Sometimes misunderstandings occur when foreign concepts and terminology are grafted onto the text from other ancient texts or mythologies that have no bearing whatsoever on a given verse (see notes on Gen. 1:2). For all of its elegant simplicity, the biblical writer does not appear to be concerned with such theological conjectures or speculations. Yet, in the opening verse the biblical narrator makes a straight-forward theological claim—God created everything[4] and this is why we find the use of a merism[5] appearing in the opening passage.[6] Why begin the first book of the Torah with such a revolutionary introduction? Philosopher Susan Handelman explains:

With the deceptively simple words “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth,” the Hebrew Bible begins. In fact, however, this statement was (long before Derrida) a supreme challenge to the entire classical tradition of Western metaphysics: to assert that matter was not eternal, that the world had a temporal origin, that substance came into being through divine fiat, indeed through divine speech (“And God said: ‘Let there be . . . ‘”) threatened the foundations of Greek ontology.[7]

The Judaic creation story certainly has other broad implications that are no less challenging to classical Greek thought. If creation has an ultimate purpose and direction a τέλος (telos=“completion” or “consummation”), then we, as God’s creation, cannot self-consciously live our lives as if we lack ultimate meaning and spiritual direction. In a God-centered existence, there is responsibility and accountability that each of us—by virtue of being made in the likeness of our Creator—must give. Briefly stated, the entire cosmic order is (1) grounded in the will of the Divine, (2) established since the beginning of time, (3) founded in the ethical order that governs human existence. Continue Reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.amazon.com/Birth-Rebirth-through-Genesis-Conversation/dp/1456301713/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309652244&sr=1-2.

Notes:

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

Continue Reading