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

Have you ever wondered how the synchronicity of events impacted the history of the world? Everything that occurs sets a cascading series of reactions. One of the most intriguing questions historians often ask is, “What If?” One of my favorite books deals with this type of historical questioning. Robert Cowley’s remarkable book, “What If?: The World’s Foremost Military Historians Imagine What Might Have Been” raises some fascinating questions that will stretch the imagination to its limits.

Questions like:

• What if George Washington had never made his miraculous escape from the British on Long Island in the dawn of August 29, 1776?

• What if a Confederate aide hadn’t accidentally lost General Robert E. Lee’s plans for invading the North?

• What if Alexander the Great had been slain in battle, instead of saved at the last instant by a loyal bodyguard?

• What if the Allied invasion on D-Day had failed?

• What if the Mongols had succeeded in conquering Europe?

As you can see, the seemingly chaotic accidents of history transform the world we live in so many unexpected ways. Years ago, there was a great science fiction show, “Sliders,” which deals with similar themes, e.g., What if America had been conquered by the Soviet Union, if Britain had won the American War of Independence, if penicillin had not been invented, or if men were subservient to women? These scenarios unfold in series of parallel worlds that earthly explorers discover and experience.

Well, I felt like looking up some details about Julian the Apostate’s life (332–63), ‘Flavius Claudius Julianus’, Roman Emperor from 361 and lasted only 19 months. This young Emperor’s name is probably not too familiar to most of our readers; yet, his brief life story very nearly changed the course of human history.

Unlike the Christian Emperors before him, who helped define Christianity as a religion of the Empire, Julian rejected Christianity on his 20^th birthday. On that day, he openly embraced paganism! Rome had a long history of worshiping the sun as the supreme god, and all other deities were considered to be mere aspects of the sun god. Here it is enough to remark that the worship of Sol was one of the principle cults in the fourth century; Constantine (prior to his conversion) and his father were alleged by some to be Solar monotheists and Emperor Julian carried on that venerated Roman religious tradition.

Julian had the qualities of a classical Roman leader; he had distinguished himself on the battlefield by defeating the powerful tribes of Gaul. This was no small accomplishment. Not only was he a capable military commander, he was also an able administrator and philosopher. These were qualities the Romans greatly missed since the reign of Marcus Aurelius (121-180 CE.), who was Roman Emperor from 161 to 180 CE.

Julian’s contempt for Christianity was well-known; he referred to the religion as a “disease,” and its followers were demented. By the time Julian became emperor, he was hostile to both Christianity, which he referred to as a “disease,” and Christians, whom he called “demented.”¹

After assuming the throne, one of the first official acts of business was the reopening of the pagan shrines the Christian emperors had put out of commission. In fact, the Christian churches had to return all confiscated properties that were previously used as churches. To make a long story short, Julian did everything to marginalize the influence of the Christian Church.

But wait!! Adding insult to injury, Julian revealed that he always had an admiration for the Jewish religion. On his agenda of things he was planning to accomplish, was the rebuilding of the Jerusalem Temple! We can just imagine the Church theologians gasping for air, saying to one another, “Tell me Theodosius, that it ain’t so!” Julian and his pagan cohorts must have partied through the night.

The early Church doctrine of supersessionism, also known as “replacement theology,” had long taught that the Church was the new Israel. Suddenly the theological dreams of priests and men were suddenly in dire jeopardy. Julian wished to strike a mortal blow to the theological heart of Christianity. But he also respected Judaism and felt that the monotheistic God of Israel was very similar to his understanding of Sol. Beyond that, Julian was also a huge fan of animal sacrifice-a practice the Church had done its best to eliminate.

Judging by the testimony of the early Christian theologians, the Jews of Jerusalem sounded the shofars and danced in the streets. Perhaps God had given them a new Cyrus.[1] Curiously, neither the Jerusalem or Babylonian Talmud, or Midrashic literature make any mention of Julian’s amazing plan. In one of his famous decrees, Julian declared:

To the Community of the Jews

• In times past, by far the most burdensome thing in the yoke of your slavery has been the fact that you were subjected to unauthorized ordinances and had to contribute an untold amount of money to the accounts of the treasury. Of this I used to see many instances with my own eyes, and I have learned of more, by finding the records which are preserved against you. Moreover, when a tax was about to be levied on you again I prevented it, and compelled the impiety of such obloquy to cease here; and I threw into the fire the records against you that were stored in my desks; so that it is no longer possible for anyone to aim at you such a reproach of impiety…No one is any longer to have the power to oppress the masses of your people by such exactions; so that everywhere, during my reign, you may have security of mind, and in the enjoyment of peace may offer more fervid prayers for my reign to the Most High God, the Creator, who has deigned to crown me with his own immaculate right hand…When I have successfully concluded the war with Persia, I may rebuild by my own efforts the sacred city of Jerusalem, which for so many years you have longed to see inhabited, and may bring settlers there, and together with you, may glorify the Most High God therein.[3]

And so the plot thickens . . .

While on a military expedition in Persia, Julian dies in battle. How exactly he dies, nobody really knows. Was he murdered by an enemy soldier? Or was he really killed by a Christian soldier acting in the best interest of the Church? Sounds like a plausible conspiracy theory.

Despite such auspicious beginnings, work on the Temple probably lasted only a few days. There are numerous reports, both pagan and Christian, attribute the work stoppage to a fire and, possibly even an earthquake. The Roman historian Ammianus Marcellinus reported that “terrifying balls of flame kept bursting forth near the foundations of the Temple,” burning some of the workers to death and putting a stop to the enterprise.[4]

In my opinion, this sounds an awful like “spin,” which was designed to prove that the Jews were indeed, “an accursed people,” as Augustine and other Early Church Fathers believed. Given how the Church doctored and reedited the writings of Josephus, the Church officials probably did the same thing with the writings of Ammianus Marcellinus after they returned to power. Heavenly signs and portends would certainly have an appeal to the unsophisticated Roman citizen.

Although he reigned for only 19 months, he enshrined his name in the annals of Roman history. One can only wonder how the world might have changed had Julian lived to a ripe old age. Would the Temple of Jerusalem have been rebuilt?

One further wonders: Would Christianity have ever grown to be a world class religion? How would history have changed if events were ever so slightly different? It is a pity the author Robert Cowley never discussed this possible scenario in his book.

By the way, kudos go to Menachem Mendel for bringing Julian’s birthday to my attention . . . BTW, Julian was actually born sometime between May and June.

Notes:

[1] Julian, Rescript on Christian Teachers, in W.C. Wright, trans., The Works of the Emperor Julian, vol. 3 (London: William Heinemann, 1913–1926), pp. 117–123.

[2] Gregory of Nazianzus, Oratio V contra Julianum, 4, in C.W. King, trans., Julian the Emperor (London: George Bell and Sons, 1888). Ephraem of Syria, Hymni contra Julianum, 1.16 and 2.7, in Samuel N.C. Lieu, trans., The Emperor Julian: Panegyric and Polemic (Liverpool, England: Liverpool Univ. Press, 1986).

[3] Louis H. Feldman and Meyer Reinhold, “Jewish life and thought among Greeks and Romans: Primary Readings” (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2009), 98-99.

[4] Ammianus Marcellinus, 23.1,3.

One of Erich Fromm’s most penetrating insights pertains to his distinction between authoritarian vs. humanistic religion. Fromm’s “You Shall Be as Gods: A Radical Interpretation of the Old Testament and Its Tradition” is one of the most remarkable books I have ever read on the early chapters of Genesis. This book is a personal favorite. Although Fromm wrote this book back in 1966, much of the book has great applications for today’s troubled times.

In the first stage of human development, Fromm contends that the primitive origins of religion in the Bible began with a rudimentary understanding of the gods. Ancient biblical writers conceived of God as an authoritarian power. In the early chapters of Genesis, God (upon a whim)—decides to terminate His own Creation! (See Gen. 6:7; 8:21).

However, as humankind evolves, the early biblical theology of God undergoes a metamorphic change. After the Flood, God promises humankind that He will no longer act like an authoritarian dictator, decreeing death upon everyone and everything. Human courts now must bear the onus of carrying out God’s justice (Gen 8:16; 9:5-6; Exod. 21-23ff.).

Fromm argues that the covenant represents one of the most important developments in the history of Judaism—and religion. God now becomes a constitutional monarch who respects human freedom, and partakes in a freedom that God Himself actually shares. Both parties must treat life with respect and honor sentience. As God’s co-partner, Abraham holds God morally accountable; Abraham demands that even the wretched Sodomites receive a fair hearing and acts as their defense attorney! No longer are human beings at the mercy of a capricious God, fearful of God’s penchant for random acts of violence. Even the most awful citizen is entitled to a trial and has a presumption of innocence until the court arrives at its decision.

In the biblical consciousness, the Bible refines the idea of the covenant, and eventually God makes a covenant with Israel to embody the principles of justice and equity that now characterize ethical monotheism. Israel’s task is to model and bear witness to this radical new message of faith to a cynical world. The ethos of the Exodus and its vision of liberation must pertain to all of society’s indignant and marginalized people. [1]

The biblical drama is replete with stories where mere mortals contend with God, challenging the limits of divine forgiveness and tolerance. There is a reason why Abraham or Moses and numerous other biblical heroes and prophets challenge God’s tendency to relapse and assume authoritarian power once again.[3]

After everything has been said and done, ancient Israel gradually came to a new understanding of Divine power, one that is ethically engaged with the welfare of Creation. Thus, the second stage of human evolution is the notion of the covenant, which binds God and humans alike to a moral code.

Of course this has important social implications for human beings. For one thing, no authority—human or Divine—can break the power and purity of human conscience. Although YHWH makes a wager with Satan to test the moral strength of Job, Job forces God to stand trial. Not even God can escape the moral arena of justice. Although Fromm does not refer to the binding of Isaac, Fromm would undoubtedly have viewed the narrative in Kantian terms, where God expects Abraham to simply say “No . . .” to the Divine behest ordering him to offer his son as a sacrifice. More importantly, Fromm asserts the entire ethos of biblical and rabbinical literature[3]weighs decidedly against God’s occasional use of autocratic power.

Fromm then develops what he calls, the third stage of religious evolution—the notion of a Nameless God, Who is man’s eternal dialogical partner. The Bible’s war against idolatry is predicated on the belief that man cannot merely talk about God, but must talk to God. Human constructs of God, as Maimonides writes in his Guide to the Perplexed, end up in creating an idolatrous image of God—and cognitive images of God’s Reality are potentially more damaging than the graven kind, and much harder to eradicate because they reify the Divine! The God image of the Bible evolves as people come to understand the moral implications of ethical monotheism. From this perspective, the God-human relationship is no longer confrontational; rather, each party is bound to the eternal principles of truth and justice. God is no longer viewed as an extrinsic force to human history, but instead moves within history—not as a coercive force, but as a persuasive force commanding humanity to honor the moral voice of conscience. Up to a point Fromm agrees with Maimonides, but he goes somewhat beyond Maimonides and asserts that humanity’s spiritual evolution depends upon letting go of its pagan concepts of a capricious and authoritarian God.

The early 20^th century Jewish mystic and scholar Abraham Isaac Kook offers words that fit well with the sentiment expressed in Maimonides and Fromm:

• The greatest impediment to the human spirit, upon reaching maturity, results from the fact that the conception of God is crystallized among people in a particular form, which goes back to childish habit and imagination. This is an aspect of making a “graven image” or a “likeness of God,” against which we must always beware, particularly in an epoch of greater intellectual enlightenment.[4]

Kook is correct. Sometimes people never outgrow the childish perceptions they have of God. Faith demands wrestling with our beliefs, testing them, and purifying them from their conceptual dross. Kook adds further:

• All the ideological arguments among people and all the inner conflicts that every individual suffers in his own world outlook are caused by a confused conception of God . . . .One must always cleanse one’s thoughts about God to make sure they are free of the dross of deceptive fantasies, of groundless fear, of evil inclinations, of wants and inadequacies. Faith in God must enhance human happiness . . . . When the duty to honor God is conceived of in an enlightened manner, it raises human worth and the worth of all creatures, filling them with largeness of spirit, combined with genuine humility. But a crude conception of God tends toward the idolatrous, and degrades the dignity of man and of other beings . . . [5]

Historically, every Western religion has at different times of its history, embraced attitudes toward the Other that may justifiably be called “anti-life.” It behooves the children of all the Abrahamic faiths to find a way to spiritually sublimate the texts of terror. The true “holy war” is the war against one’s own darker impulses; recognizing the human penchant for violence and taking steps to control these urges is the only way to ensure the survival of the human species. Humanistic religion, as understood and developed by Fromm and Kook, offer a powerful path to transform the darkness of today’s religious societies into communities that honor life with reverence and respect.

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• The fact that evil confronts good, gives man the possibility of victory. —R. YECHIEL MICHAEL OF ZLOTSHOV, Hassidic Aphorism

Let us assume for a moment that the rabbis and the allegorical school are correct in identifying the serpent as a metaphor for the evil inclination. But why did God create the impulse for evil? Would humankind have been better off not having to deal with such an urge? The Zohar raises this question, and offers the reader a most intriguing thought-provoking response with respect to the phenomena of moral evil:[1]

• Should it be asked, “How can a man love Him with the evil inclination? Is not the evil inclination the seducer, preventing man from approaching the Blessed Holy One to serve him? How, then, can man use the evil inclination as an instrument of love for God?” The answer lies in this, that there can be no greater service done to the Holy One than to bring into subjection the “evil inclination” by the power of love to the Holy One, blessed be He. For, when it is subdued and its power broken by man in this way, then he becomes a true lover of the Holy One, since he has learned how to make the “evil inclination” itself serve the Holy One. Here is a mystery entrusted to the masters of esoteric lore. All that the Holy One has made, both above and below, is for the purpose of manifesting His Glory and to make all things serve Him. Now, would a master permit his servant to work against him, and to continually lay plans to counteract his will? It is the will of the Holy One that men should worship Him and walk in the way of truth that they may be rewarded with many benefits. How, then, can an evil servant come and counteract the will of his Master by tempting man to walk in an evil way, seducing him from the good way and causing him to disobey the will of his Lord? But, indeed, the “evil inclination” also does through this the will of its Lord.

• It is as if a king had an only son whom he dearly loved, and just for that cause he warned him not to be enticed by bad women, saying that anyone defiled might not enter his palace. The son promised his father to do his will in love. Outside the palace, however, there lived a beautiful harlot. After a while the King thought: “I will see how far my son is devoted to me.” So he sent to the woman and commanded her, saying: “Entice my son, for I wish to test his obedience to my will.” So she used every trick in her book to lure him into her embraces. But the son, being good, obeyed the commandment of his father. He refused her allurements and thrust her from him. Then did the father rejoice exceedingly, and, bringing him in to the innermost chamber of the palace, bestowed upon him gifts from his best treasures, and showed him every honor. And who was the cause of all this joy? The harlot! Is she to be praised or blamed for it? To be praised, surely, on all accounts, for on the one hand she fulfilled the king’s command and carried out his plans for him, and on the other hand she caused the son to receive all the good gifts and deepened the king’s love to his son.[2] Continue Reading

One critic of Augustine refused to accept such a pessimistic view of humankind. The Christian monk Pelagius taught his followers that Adam’s Fall did not directly affect his posterity at all, nor did the behavior of Adam and Eve spiritually transmit a disease to the human race. The primal parents’ sins affected only themselves. Every child born into the world is as Adam was at Creation: entirely innocent; each human being is born with the freedom to choose his or her own path in life.[1] Pelagius contends that Augustine’s doctrine of “sovereign grace” went against the biblical belief that God endowed humanity with natural goodness and free will. Even before the advent of Jesus, there were sinless and righteous human beings, “gospel men before the gospel,” such as Noah, Melchizedek, Abraham, and Job.[2] We owe much of the information we have about Pelagius to his critic Augustine, who preserved the words of his adversary:

• Sin is carried on only by imitation, committed by the will, denounced by reason, manifested by the law, punished by justice. . . . If sin is natural, it is not voluntary; if it is voluntary, it is not inborn. These two definitions are as mutually contrary as are necessity and free will. Adam was created mortal and would have died whether he sinned or not sinned; the sin of Adam injured only him, not the human race; the law leads to the kingdom of Heaven, just as the gospel does; even before the coming of Christ there were men without sin; newborn infants are in the same state which Adam was before his transgression; the whole human race does not die with the death and transgression of Adam, nor does it rise again through the resurrection of Christ. . . . One can be neither praised nor blamed, neither rewarded nor condemned, except for one’s own acts and self-acquired character, which must be within the compass of one’s ability. What is innate, inherent, or infused is clearly not within the power of the will, and therefore cannot have any moral character.[3]

For Pelagius, it was wrong to convict the entire human race because of one man’s sin. On numerous occasions, Augustine felt that Pelagius’s “Judaic”[4] ideas[5] threatened to undermine the authority of the Church and the Church’s claim that it alone could liberate man from the chains of Original Sin.[6] However, Pelagius countered that the Bible teaches that nature is good, as God created it to be, and that humankind is morally free to chart its own spiritual destiny, because human beings are fashioned in the likeness of the Divine image.

Since every human being derives his or her own essential goodness from God, therefore, no newborn infant deserves to be damned because of Adam’s sin. Moral goodness or evil are potentialities that each person can choose to realize. If we act righteously, we become righteous; if wickedly, we become wicked. Numerous Scriptural injunctions make it perfectly clear that “Parents shall not be put to death for their children, nor shall children be put to death for their parents; only for their own crimes may persons be put to death” (Deut. 24:16). This principle precludes the possibility of innate, hereditary depravity such as Original Sin.

The severity of Adam’s sin ought to be viewed in terms of the deed’s pedagogic effect. In effect, Adam becomes a poor role model for subsequent generations. Human corruption is due to the habit of evil that if left uncorrected, spreads like a contagion. Humans are born without virtue or vice, but have the capacity for either type of behavior.

Pelagius’s moral strictness is as exacting as it is demanding; his view of human nature is sober and grounded in reality. According to him, the onus of personal responsibility for all sins, both large and small, is upon each of us as individuals; hence there can be no excuse—not even for the most minor or venial of sins. It behooves everyone to know that sin involves a conscious and preventable defiance of God’s will; sin is, in the final analysis, an act of deliberate rebellion against God’s sovereignty and wisdom. Pelagius believes that even the smallest infraction—since it could be avoided—carries with it the possibility of eternal punishment.[7]

For Pelagius, God would never impose duties and responsibilities upon people that they could never possibly hope to fulfill. Without freedom of will, humankind is no better than moral idiots. The obligation to live a moral life is in accordance with individual ability. Deny a person of his freedom and capacity to act rationally, and one might just as well give license to all those who—much like the pre-converted youthful Augustine—behave with reckless abandon. After all, couldn’t he just as soon wait to “be saved” from Above after enjoying all of the tasty forbidden pleasures of this world? Why, asks Pelagius, should we bother avoiding the sins of this world if, in the final analysis, moral behavior doesn’t really matter—so long as one makes a declaration of faith in Christ? Conversely, Augustine counters that Pelagianism made the saving work of Christ unnecessary, that it undermined the central drama of the New Testament. Pelagius had made men independent of God in the sense that their salvation was entirely in their own hands.

Although historically Augustine’s view became normative theology for the next millennium and longer, still and all, Thomas Aquinas did not fully accept Augustine’s dim view of human nature. While it is true that human sinfulness weakens our innate capacity to live virtuously—sin, argues Aquinas, cannot eradicate the fact we are, in the final analysis, rational beings. Our human goodness cannot be fully extinguished. In the case of Adam, Original Sin causes him to lose the special gifts that enable him to sublimate and control his lower bodily functions.

Prior to his sin, Adam’s rational faculties were perfect. That being said, it is possible that this gift can be restored to us by supernatural grace alone for our human efforts to obtain salvation would always fall short of the divine benchmark. Naturally, reasons Aquinas, this infusion of special grace could never happen without the assistance of the Catholic Church and its rich sacramental system. Aquinas understands the implications of his doctrine, and how he virtually hedges on Pelagian teaching. Without the assistance of the Church, its capacity to function as an intermediary agency would have been undermined; its ecclesiastical ability would not have been able to function.[8]

Jewish thinkers concur with Pelagius’s position that no human being is tainted by the sins of Adam—but only by his own sinful deeds. Human nature was not at all corrupted, nor did a human being become an inherently immoral, “evil” creature, outside the realm of “grace” by merely being born. Each of us, through acts of will, freely decides our moral and spiritual destinies. Even when a person has sinned, that breach in his relationship with God is repairable through sincere penitence. Rather than pointing to human depravity, the rabbis sought to encourage their followers to adopt an optimistic approach, thus awakening the capacity for human goodness. The human instinct for pleasure and power becomes a problem only when it runs amok. There is no inherited predisposition that prevents us from becoming virtuous and pious. Only the quality of our behavior can determine whether the light of the Divine image will ever find its reflection in us.

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Hello again,

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Notes:

[1] Notes: Like Pelagius before him, Immanuel Kant attacked the old Augustinian and Protestant view of Adam’s fall from grace, and said that the belief that sinfulness is passed on to a person’s posterity was nothing more than a superstition.

[2] See Augustine’s work The Merits and Forgiveness of Sins 1:30, 58; On the Baptism of Sins 4:24.31; 51.129.

[3] Translated by Jaroslav Jan Pelikan, The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine, Vol. 1 The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition (100-600) (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1971), 315. Cf. Anti-Pelagian Writings 11:23 published in Vol. V of the Early Church Fathers Nicene–Post/Nicene Part I (New York: T. & T. Clark, 1887).

[4] Aside from some of the other Early Church Fathers, Pelagius’s views may have also been shaped by his encounters with rabbinic teachers from the Jewish community as he travelled through the Holy Land before settling in Rome. Jerome, who was also a contemporary of Pelagius, learned Hebrew from a rabbi in Palestine. It would seem that despite the polemically-charged era both faiths lived in, Jewish and Christian scholars exchanged theological views of the Bible in the spirit of fellowship and open-mindedness—millennia before the advent of modern Jewish-Christian interfaith relations.

[5]Augustine, ECF 2.5.0.0.3.3.

[6] Luther and Calvin understood original sin as “a hereditary depravity and corruption of our nature” See John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, trans. Henry Beveridge, (Edinburgh 1865, II .i.8). Unlike Augustine, Calvin relates Original Sin not so much to heredity, as to an ordinance of God, a heavenly decree from God passed on all humankind.

[7] With the exception of the Qumran Jewish community, Saadia Gaon and possibly Ramban, no other major Jewish theologian subscribed to the doctrine of “eternal damnation” or more precisely, “the soul that sins shall be cut off from its people” (Num. 15:30). See Ramban’s commentary on Leviticus 18:29.

[8] Thomas Aquinas, The Basic Writings of St Thomas Aquinas, ed. A. C. Pegis, 2 vols. ii. (New York: Random House, 1945); Summa Theologica, Part 1 Q. 81, Art. 1; Q. 85 Art. 2; Q. 85 Art. 3. See also F. C. Copleston, Aquinas (New York: Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1982), 156-98.

• “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

Yes, men can cite this poetic verse by heart. Although many attribute the famous quote to William Shakespeare, it actually comes from a play called the “The Mourning Bride” (1697) by William Congreve.

However, when talking about a Sumerian demoness named, “Lilith,” one may want to paraphrase Congreve’s verse:

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / Nor hell a fury like a demoness scorned.”

One of the most interesting personalities listed in rabbinic and non-rabbinic literature is the figure of Lilith, who is said to be Adam’s “first wife” and sometimes referred to as “the first Eve.” The only reference to Lilith may be found in Isaiah 34:14 where the term לִילִית (lîlît) first appears. Older bible translations render לִילִית as “screech owl.”[1] This interpretation is consistent with the previous stanzas that speak about other wild animals or birds. Newer translations seem to prefer “Lilith” because of its strong connections to Sumerian, Babylonian, and Assyrian mythologies. In Sumerian, the word lil “wind” is related to the name; as such, she was also known as a storm-demon. If this definition is correct, then the other creature mentioned in the same verse שָׂעִיר must mean the hairy goat-demon. The fact that Lilith does not appear in any other Scriptural reference is significant—especially given the antiquity of the belief of her existence.[2]

For many years scholars thought that the name “Lilith” was connected to the popular folk etymology לָיְלָה (laylâ = “night”). However, the real origin of the name derives from the Assyrian lilîtu and Akkadian the lilū, lilītu and ardat lilī, who were the three storm deities.[3] In Sumerian, the term líl means either “wind” or “spirit.” The Jews probably first learned of this feminine demonic being after the Northern Kingdom of Israel was deported to Assyria in 721 B.C.E., and shortly later when the Southern Kingdom was deported to Babylon.[4]

Although the origin of Lilith is not mentioned anywhere in the Talmud, she is mentioned in the popular medieval composition known as The Alphabet of Ben Sira (ca. 8^th century). According to medieval Jewish folklore, God created Lilith from the earth just as He created Adam. From the beginning of their relationship, Adam and Lilith immediately begin to fight. One version of the myth, recounts how Adam insists on making love in the missionary position and Lilith agrees—provided she can be in the dominant position instead:

• After God created Adam, who was alone, He said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone (Genesis 2:18). He then created a woman for Adam, from the earth, as He had created Adam himself, and called her Lilith. Adam and Lilith immediately began to fight. She said, “I will not lie below,” and he said, “I will not lie beneath you, but only on top. For you are fit only to be in the bottom position, while I am to be in the superior one.” Lilith responded, “We are equal to each other inasmuch as we were both created from the earth.” But they would not listen to one another. When Lilith saw this, she pronounced the Ineffable Name and flew away into the air. Adam stood in prayer before his Creator: “Sovereign of the universe!” he said, “the woman you gave me has run away.” At once, the Holy One, blessed be He, sent these three angels to bring her back.[5]

The quarrel is profoundly psychologically nuanced, similar in many ways to an ordinary day in the battle of the sexes. The myth draws attention to the pattern of dysfunction that affects the complicated world of human relations. It is conjectured that Adam could not endure having an egalitarian relationship and so their conflicts quickly lead to Lilith’s sudden departure—she did not want to be Adam’s underling! Rather than playing the role of marriage counselor, YHWH sends for three angels to bring her back, issuing the following ultimatum. “If she agrees to return, then fine. If not, she must permit one hundred of her children to die every day.” [6] The ancients believed demons were very prolific beings, populating much more quickly than mortals—a view that many of the rabbis uncritically accepted in the Midrash.[7]

After the Lilith prototype proves to be a failure, and to make sure that there would never be a problem regarding who would be the “head of the family,” God—this time—creates a woman out of Adam’s rib to symbolize her subservience to her husband. Continue Reading

Jewish scholars and laypeople ought to be interested in Christian theological discussions regarding the “Historical Jesus.” Christians tend to think of Jesus in supernatural terms, as traditionally defined in the Catholic traditions. Judaism has no interest in Jesus “the Christ,” but only in “Jesus the Jew.” As a figure of 1st century Judaism, Jesus’s teaching has much to offer in terms of his ethical teachings, wisdom and parables.

The quest for understanding the historical Jesus has a long history that begins with the German philosopher Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694-1768). According to him, one must discern what Jesus actually said vis-à-vis the Jesus of the Early Church creeds. He was the first thinker to express interest in a purely non-supernatural Jesus, whose message called upon Israel to repent so that God’s kingdom might be realized on earth. Reimarus suggested that over time, Jesus became preoccupied with the idea that he might be the Messiah and thought he could force God’s hand to transform the world by dying a martyr’s death. In the end, Jesus died disillusioned, for he felt God had forsaken him.[1]

The second important historical figure to extract the essential teachings of Jesus was Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826). Jefferson composed a marvelous little book, “The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, extracted textually from the Gospels in Greek, Latin, French, and English” (1904). Being the deist that he was, Jefferson did not subscribe to a supernatural deity who micromanages human affairs. Jefferson reorganizes collections of parts from the gospels, while omitting any reference to miracles, angels and prophesies, would invite comparisons to those of the other famous ancient philosophers.

Later in the 19^th century, the German theologian David Freidrich Strauss (1808-1874) openly and categorically revolutionizes the study of the New Testament by arguing that only the “historical Jesus” was worthy of serious study. The boldness of this statement did not endear Strauss to many of his colleagues or the local Church. Strauss denied the miraculous and supernatural nature the Church had long attributed to Jesus. In his studies, he argues that the synoptic gospels present a much more realistic portrayal of Jesus in contrast to the Gospel of John, which completely spiritualizes Jesus as a hypostasis of God in the flesh. Unlike the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), the Gospel of John portrays a Jesus who is well aware of his identity and reflects the early Church’s portray of Jesus as a cosmic figure and the exclusive spiritual intermediary to God. All this points to the idea that early Christianity evolved over time and the traditions reflect this movement within the Church.

Strauss laments in his The Life of Jesus Critically Examined, how the study of New Testament has been viewed in solely supernatural and legendary terms. Strauss is the first thinker to argue that the New Testament must be interpreted in mythical terms. He correctly observes that the principle reason why the mythic approach was not used by the earlier studies of the NT was due to the mistaken notion that myth only pertained to the pagan religions. Moreover, the more time that elapsed, the more fantastic the supernatural claims became in Christianity. Nobody thought that myth might apply also be used as hermeneutical way of interpreting the Gospels.

Of course this begs the question: How did Strauss understand “myth”? Strauss defines myth as “the representation of an event or idea in a historical form but characterized by the pictorial and imaginative thought and expression of primitive ages” (Lawler, 42). Accordingly, there are three categories of myth: 1) the historical which reflects an actual event; 2) the philosophical in which a thought, precept, or idea of that time is presented in the guise of history; and 3) the poetic which refers to “historical and philosophical myth blended together, and partly embellished by the creations of the imagination, in which the original fact or idea is almost obscured by the veil which the fancy of the poet has woven around it” (Strauss, 53). Thus, Strauss held that the sundry gospel miracles ought to be understood as natural events, but due to the gospel narrators, these events later became misinterpreted and misrepresented. Strauss was far ahead of his time, but within the next two centuries, he would later find several advocates and champions who did not feel threatened by his controversial ideas.

It seems to me that there are numeous parallels to the wisdom expressed by Jesus that later appears in rabbinical literature. While there is a tendency of many Jewish scholars to minimize the original contributions expressed by Jesus, the fact remains that many of the rabbinical ethical teachings came after Jesus’ time. This might suggest a number of possible scenarios worth considering: Either the 1^st century Sages held Jesus’ moral teachings in high regard and even quoted or paraphrased his wisdom, or the Sages independently arrived at a similar conclusion.

In some instances, the similarity of nomenclature suggests the similarities are more than coincidental. One may surmise that once the Talmud became redacted, the latter rabbis wanted to distance themselves from the true source of some of their teachings! Given the aggressive behavior of the Catholic Church, the rabbis’ reticence is quite understandable. It is also important to note that many of Jesus’ teachings have numerous parallels in the writings of Ben Sira, Philo, The Letter of Aristeas, The Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs, and other works of the Pseudepigrapha. One thing we can say is that the ethical teachings of Jesus fit into a new ethical understanding of Judaism that placed the primacy of morality over ritual, as seen in the teachings of Ben Sira, Hillel, Rabbi Yochannan ben Zakkai and Philo of Alexandria. Continue Reading