Studies in Medieval Jewish Intellectual and Social History Supplements to the Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy

Studies in Medieval Jewish Intellectual and Social History Supplements to The Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy

Edited by Elliot R. Wolfson (New York University) Christian Wiese (University of Frankfurt) Hartwig Wiedebach (University of Zurich)

VOLUME 15

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/sjjt Robert Chazan Studies in Medieval Jewish Intellectual and Social History

Festschrift in Honor of Robert Chazan

Edited by David Engel Lawrence H. Schiffman Elliot R. Wolfson

Managing Editor Yechiel Y. Schur

Leiden • boston 2012 This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Studies in medieval Jewish intellectual and social history : festschrift in honor of Robert Chazan / edited by David Engel, Lawrence Schiffmann, Elliot Wolfson. p. cm. — (Supplements to the Journal of Jewish thought and philosophy, ISSN 1873-9008 ; v. 15) Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978-90-04-22233-5 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Jews—Europe—History—To 1500. 2. Christianity and other religions—Judaism—History. 3. Judaism—Relations—Christianity— History. 4. Europe—Ethnic relations—History—To 1500. 5. Rashi, 1040–1105. Perush Rashi ‘al ha-Torah. 6. tosafists. 7. Martyrdom—Judaism. 8. Jewish law. I. Chazan, Robert. II. Engel, David. III. Schiffman, Lawrence H. IV. Wolfson, Elliot R.

DS135.E81S78 2012 296.09’02—dc23 2011041579

ISSN 1873-9008 ISBN 978 90 04 22233 5 (hardback) ISBN 978 90 04 22236 6 (e-book)

Copyright 2012 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. CONTENTS

List of Contributors ...... vii

Robert Chazan: In Appreciation and Friendship ...... 1 David Engel, Lawrence H. Schiffman, and Elliot R. Wolfson

Guibert of Nogent and William of Flay and the Problem of Jewish Conversion at the Time of the First Crusade ...... 9 Anna Sapir Abulafia

Rashi’s Choice: The Humash Commentary As Rewritten Midrash ...... 29 Ivan G. Marcus

The Commentary of Rashi on Isaiah and the Jewish-Christian Debate ...... 47 Avraham Grossman

Were Jews Made in the Image of God? Christian Perspectives and Jewish Existence in Medieval Europe ...... 63 Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak

Jewish Knowledge of Christianity in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries ...... 97 Daniel J. Lasker

Dreams As a Determinant of Jewish Law and Practice in Northern Europe during the High Middle Ages ...... 111 Ephraim Kanarfogel

Orality and Literacy: The French Tosaphists ...... 145 Gérard Nahon

Torah and the Messianic Age: The Polemical and Exegetical History of a Rabbinic Text ...... 169 David Berger vi contents

Textual Flesh, Incarnation, and the Imaginal Body: Abraham Abulafia’s Polemic with Christianity ...... 189 Elliot R. Wolfson

The Jewish Cemeteries of France after the Expulsion of 1306 ...... 227 William Chester Jordan

The Cruel Jewish Father: From Miracle to Murder ...... 245 Kenneth Stow

From Solomon Bar Samson to Solomon Ibn Verga: Tales and Ideas of Jewish Martyrdom in Shevet Yehudah ...... 279 Jeremy Cohen

Salo Baron’s View of the Middle Ages in Jewish History: Early Sources ...... 299 David Engel

Bibliography of the Works of Robert Chazan ...... 317 Yechiel Y. Schur

Index ...... 327 LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, Professor of History at New York University, has published extensively on medieval seals as conceptual tools, markers of identity, and social agents, including Form as Order in Medieval France (Aldershot, 1993), and When Ego was Imago. Signs of Identity in the Middle Ages (Brill, 2010).

David Berger is Ruth and I. Lewis Gordon Professor of Jewish History and Dean at the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Yeshiva University. His publications include The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Mid- dle Ages (Jewish Publication Society, 1978) and two recent collections of essays: Persecution, Polemic and Dialogue: Essays in Jewish-Christian Relations (Academic Studies Press, 2010) and Cultures in Collision and Conversation: Essays in the Intellectual History of the Jews (Academic Studies Press, 2011).

Jeremy Cohen holds the Abraham and Edita Spiegel Family Foundation Chair for European Jewish History at Tel Aviv University. His books include: Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Chris- tianity (University of California Press, 1999), Sanctifying the Name of God: Jewish Martyrs and Jewish Memories of the First Crusade (Univer- sity of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), and Christ Killers: The Jews and the Passion from Bible to the Big Screen (Oxford University Press, 2007).

David Engel is Greenberg Professor of Holocaust Studies, Professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies, and Professor of History at New York University. He studies Modern Jewish history and historiography with particular focus on Eastern Europe and the Holocaust. His publications include Facing a Holocaust: The Polish Government-in-Exile and the Jews, 1943–1945 (University of North Carolina Press, 1993), The Holocaust: The Third Reich and the Jews (Longman, 2000), and Histo- rians of the Jews and the Holocaust (Stanford University Press, 2010).

Avraham Grossman is Professor Emeritus of Jewish History at the Hebrew University. His research focuses on the history of the Jews in the Middle Ages, especially in the Muslim Caliphate and in Germany viii list of contributors and France until the thirteenth century. Among his publications are The Early Sages of Ashkenaz: Their Lives, Leadership and Works (The Magnes Press,1981), The Early Sages of France (The Magnes Press, 1995), and Pious and Rebellious: Jewish Women in Medieval Europe (Brandeis University Press, 2004).

William Chester Jordan is Dayton-Stockton Professor and Chair of the Department of History at Princeton University. He has published widely on medieval Jewish-Christian relations and is the author of The French Monarch and the Jews from Philip Augustus to the Last Cape- tians (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989).

Ephraim Kanarfogel is the E. Billi Ivry Professor of Jewish History at Yeshiva University. His two most recent books are Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages (Wayne State University Press, 2007), and The Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture of Medieval Ashkenaz: New Perspectives (Wayne State University Press, 2012).

Daniel J. Lasker is the Norbert Blechner Professor of Jewish Values in the Goldstein-Goren Department of Jewish Thought at Israel’s Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. His areas of interest are medieval Jewish philosophy, the Jewish-Christian debate, Karaism, and selected issues in Jewish theology and law. His latest book is From Judah Hadassi to Elijah Bashyatchi: Studies in Late Medieval Karaite Philosophy (Brill, 2008).

Ivan G. Marcus is the Frederick P. Rose Professor of Jewish History, Professor of History and of Religious Studies, Yale University. He works on medieval and early modern Jewish history and is the author of Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of medieval Germany (Brill, 1981), Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (Yale University Press, 1996), and The Jewish Life Cycle (University of Washington Press, 2004).

Gérard Nahon is professor emeritus at the École Pratique des Hautes Études in Paris, France. Since 1980 he is Director of the Collection de la Revue des Etudes Juives. He has published mainly on medieval and modern French Jewry. His publications include Inscriptions hebraïques et juives de France medievale (Belles Lettres, 1986), Juifs et judaïsme à Bordeaux (Mollat, 2003), and La terre sainte au temps des kabbalistes: 1492–1592 (A. Michel, 1997). list of contributors ix

Anna Sapir Abulafia is a Fellow and College Lecturer in History at Lucy Cavendish College at the University of Cambridge. She has published widely on the medieval Christian-Jewish debate and her books include Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (Routledge, 1995), Christians and Jews in Dispute (Ashgate, 1998) and Christian-Jewish Relations, 1000–1300 (Longman, 2011).

Lawrence H. Schiffman is Ethel and Irvin A. Edelman Professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York University. He studies ancient Judaism with special focus on the Dead Sea Scrolls. His publications include From Text to Tradition: A History of Judaism in Second Temple and Rabbinic Times (Ktav Pub. House, 1989), Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls: The History of Judaism, the Background of Christianity, the Lost Library of Qumran (Jewish Publication Society, 1994) and Qumran and Jerusalem: Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the History of Juda- ism (William B. Eerdmans, 2010).

Kenneth Stow is Professor Emeritus of Jewish History at the Univer- sity of Haifa. His research encompasses the medieval and early modern Catholic Church and the Jews of Rome in the same time period. His works include Alienated Minority: The Jews of Medieval Latin Europe (Harvard University Press, 1992), Theater of Acculturation: The Roman Ghetto in the Sixteenth Century (University of Washington Press, 2001), and Jewish Dogs: An Image and Its Interpreters, Continu- ity in Catholic-Jewish Encounter (Stanford University Press, 2006). He is the founder and for twenty-five years the editor of the journal Jewish History (Haifa University Press).

Elliot R. Wolfson is the Abraham Lieberman Professor of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York University. He has published widely in the history of Jewish mysticism and philosophy, including Through a Speculum That Shines: Vision and Imagination in Medieval Jewish Mysticis (Princeton University Press, 1994), Language, Eros, Being: Kabbalistic Hermeneutics and the Poetic Imagination (Fordham Uni- versity Press, 2005), and Open Secret: Postmessianic Messianism and the Mystical Revision of Menahem Mendel Schneerson (Columbia Uni- versity Press, 2009). Robert Chazan: In Appreciation and Friendship

David Engel, Lawrence H. Schiffman, and Elliot R. Wolfson

The Festschrift that follows honors a colleague for two pivotal roles that he has played in the field of Hebrew and Judaic Studies in the American university context. Through his books and articles, Robert Chazan has reshaped the study of European Jewry in the Middle Ages, particularly as it relates to Jewish-Christian relations. At the same time, through his work in the major organizations representing the field of Judaic Studies—the Association for Jewish Studies and the American Academy for Jewish Research—Chazan has helped to build the field and to situate it firmly in the context of the American academy. Additionally, through his service as founding chair of the Skirball Department of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York Uni- versity, and later through his leadership of the dual-degree programs of the Skirball Department together with the Wagner School of Public Administration and the Steinhardt School of Education, he pioneered in making the university a place for the training of professionals dedicated to Jewish communal service and education. To all of these efforts he has consistently brought his impeccable scholarly credentials, his administrative acumen, and the integrity and friendship for which he is so well known. Chazan was born in 1936 and grew up in Albany, New York, where he received his earliest Hebrew education. In 1958 he earned his B.A. from Columbia College and B.H.L. from the Jewish Theological Semi- nary. He received an M.H.L. and Rabbinical Ordination from the Seminary in 1962. During his years at the Jewish Theological Semi- nary he was privileged to be part of the Talmud Program, which was essentially a program to train scholars. There he met and established permanent relationships with leading scholars who brought together deep understanding of traditional Hebrew texts and critical historical inquiry. He went on to acquire his Ph.D. at Columbia Univer- sity, where he studied with Salo Baron and completed his dissertation under the supervision of Gerson Cohen in 1967. His dissertation was entitled Thirteenth-Century Jewry in Northern France: An Economic and Political History. This topic and the wider interest it indicated 2 david engel, lawrence h. schiffman, and elliot r. wolfson would define his research program throughout his career. He holds honorary degrees from Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion and the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Chazan taught at the Jewish TheologicalS eminary already in his days as a graduate student, from 1962–67. His appointment at the Ohio State University, where he taught from 1967–80, can be seen with hindsight as part of the spread of Judaic Studies in North America beyond its early East-Coast context. At Ohio State Chazan also served as director of the Melton Center for Jewish Studies, where he helped to develop an interdisciplinary program that continues to flourish today and that set the pattern for many programs in North American colleges and universities. After a brief stay at Tel Aviv University Chazan moved to Queens College of the City University of New York, where he served from 1981–87. At Queens he again took an administrative and leadership role, serving as director of the Center for Jewish Studies. In 1987 Chazan was asked to serve as the first chair of the Skir- ball Department of Hebrew and Judaic Studies at New York Univer- sity, where he was appointed S. H. and Helen R. Scheuer Professor of Jewish History with an associated appointment in the Department of History. Chazan had been part of an advisory committee that helped New York University plan and execute the development of what would become the Skirball Department. The University intended to build its new department into a top-tier academic unit, one that would be one of its star programs as it moved ahead in becoming an elite university with a distinguished Faculty of Arts and Science. Chazan served as chair from 1987–1997 and succeeded in creating a department that was intimately linked with a variety of academic structures at NYU. This formula served as the basis for the growth and excellence of the department. Since the Skirball Department’s inception he has participated in the training of doctoral students, many of whom currently teach Jewish history at North American colleges and universities. In addition, Chazan served as director of the general education program of the College of Arts and Science, where he contributed greatly to NYU’s climb to greater quality and reputation. In the wider field of Judaic Studies Chazan served as the editor of the AJS Review from 1983–88 and as president of the Association for Jewish Studies from 1988–91. He was a member of the executive committee of the American Academy for Jewish Research and served as its president from 1996–2000. In addition, he chaired the Academic Advisory Board of the National Foundation for Jewish Culture and robert chazan: in appreciation and friendship 3 served as an advisor to the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Cul- ture and chair of the Graduate Fellowship Committee of the Wexner Foundation. He edited the section on medieval Jewish history for the Center for Online Jewish Studies and conducted numerous seminars in the use of online materials for the teaching of Jewish history. In these wider roles, beyond the walls of his own university, Chazan has distinguished himself for his concern for the field as a whole, whether pursued in a denominational or a university context, on the under- graduate or graduate level, in small colleges or in great research universities. Among his singular achievements has been the expansion of graduate fellowships and research grants for young scholars. In addition, he has served on evaluation committees at various institutions, always praised for his fairness, rigor and sagacious judgment. In 1997 he stepped down as chair of the Skirball Department. He immediately threw himself into a new set of challenges, continuing to take an active leadership role in the department and the university long after his years as chair. He participated in the planning and administration of dual Masters programs in Jewish education, sponsored by the Skirball Department and the Steinhardt School, and in Jewish communal service, with the Wagner School. He continues to serve as co-director of these programs, which have become distinguished in their own right. He played a major part in the organization of NYU’s Taub Center for Israel Studies. In addition, he helped with the founding of the Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at NYU. What is perhaps most remarkable about Chazan’s career, though, is that alongside his accomplishments as a teacher and his prodigious professional service, his scholarly output has placed him in the first rank of historians of medieval Jewry and of the Middle Ages in general. Indeed, it is in recognition of the central role his scholarship has played in shaping his chosen academic field that he has been named a Fellow both of the American Academy for Jewish Research and of the Medieval Academy of America. He was also the recipient of the National Foundation for Jewish Culture Achievement Award for scholarship in 1999. This volume constitutes yet another testimony and tribute to his seminal intellectual achievements. In his first book, Medieval Jewry in Northern France: A Political and Social History, Chazan already showed himself an innovator. Whereas earlier generations of scholars had given attention to medieval France primarily as a center of rabbinic learning and exegesis, Chazan directed his attention toward the larger Jewish population in its economic roles; 4 david engel, lawrence h. schiffman, and elliot r. wolfson its relation to the state, the Church, and the majority Christian society; its demographic and residential patterns; and its internal communal organization, educational system, and social behavior. At the heart of his investigation lay a conundrum with which he has wrestled throughout his career: how a prosperous and creative Jewish community could fail in the end to establish itself permanently despite more than a century of sustained demographic growth and cultural achievement and after having developed a seemingly sophisticated set of economic ties and political alliances with key sectors of the surrounding society. Chazan’s representation of that community as a vibrant force both in its immediate environment and in the larger Jewish world clearly owed much to his teacher, Salo Baron, who had consistently dispar- aged the longstanding popular view of the Jewish Middle Ages as an uninterrupted succession of misfortunes. Nevertheless, he argued that a society as thoroughly imbued with a Christian world view as was medieval France was bound ultimately to relegate Jews to the status of the marginal, undesirable “other.” In subsequent works he sought to understand how and why the religious attitudes that asserted themselves so forcefully in Western Christendom between the eleventh and the fifteenth centuries had this effect. The first focus of his attention was the Crusades. Beginning in 1969 Chazan published a series of pathbreaking articles analyzing the Hebrew chronicles that had been produced following the violence against Jews that accompanied the crusading movements of 1096, 1145, and 1189. In 1987 his book, European Jewry and the First Crusade, offered a comprehensive look at look at the first ofthese episodes. The book, which won the National Foundation for Jewish Culture Book Award in 1988, complicated the picture of the role of Christianity in shaping the contours of medieval Jewish life that he had developed in his earlier work. Chazan found that the behavior of Christian society toward Jews in the Rhineland communities that fell victim to Crusader assaults was not uniform. He also found evidence that those Jews had been better integrated into that society than historians had previously thought, to the point where they actually shared with their Christian neighbors several important intellectual and religious attitudes, including a heightened spirituality that generated new interpretations of hallowed texts and traditions. Such new currents, he argued, were apparent both in the behavior of the Crusad- ers and in the range of responses that Jews demonstrated when under attack, especially in the martyrdom that constituted the most radical robert chazan: in appreciation and friendship 5 way in which Jews demonstrated their contempt for their tormentors and their rejection of their demands. He maintained that earlier Jew- ish models of martyrdom influenced Rhineland Jewry less than did a new conception of the meaning of sacrifice inspired, at least in part, by the example of the Crusaders themselves, who had determined to put their lives on the line in demonstration of their devotion to their savior. Therefore, Chazan concluded, the history of medieval Ashkenazic Jewry must be understood first of all within the synchronic context of the history of medieval Latin Christendom. European Jewry and the First Crusade offered the additional thesis that the destruction of the Rhineland communities at the end of the eleventh century did not result in extensive changes in the basic patterns of Jewish life in medieval Europe. On the other hand, Chazan noted that the Crusade of 1096 did inaugurate a tendency on the part of Christian society to seek increasing exclusion of Jews from its midst, one that continued throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. One manifestation of that tendency was, he observed, the emergence in the thirteenth century of a new type of Christian missionizing activity directed at Jews. That activity formed the subject for two subsequent books, Daggers of Faith and Barcelona and Beyond. Yet after analyzing the polemical literature, conversionist sermons, and public disputations of the period Chazan concluded that thirteenth-century missionizing did not mark a crucial step toward the ultimate failure of European Jewry to guarantee for itself a degree of political security that matched its cultural vibrancy. Like the Crusades, he argued, the missionary onslaught, culminating in the disputation of Barcelona in 1263, changed little of medieval Jewish life: the Church’s effort produced relatively few conversions, and on the whole Jews were left confident in their ability to withstand the pressure directed at them. However, that determination left him still without satisfactory answer to the central question that appears to have driven him from the time of his earliest researches: How did the rapid growth and mount- ing prosperity of medieval Ashkenazic Jewry notable from the tenth through the late twelfth century come to be reversed from that point forward? His 1997 study, Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemi- tism, posed the question directly and offered a response. In Chazan’s view, beginning in the middle decades of the twelfth century perceptions of the Jew turned sharply negative among broad segments of Christian society. Whereas before that time Jews were scorned by their neighbors largely as newcomers, religious deviants, 6 david engel, lawrence h. schiffman, and elliot r. wolfson and business rivals enjoying the unjust advantage of royal protection, Chazan noted the subsequent replacement of those images with an alternate one depicting Jews as implacable enemies of all things Chris- tian, whose everyday behavior toward their neighbors was supposedly governed by a boundless determination to do them harm. Accord- ing to Chazan, this change was connected with a parallel shift from commerce to money lending as the primary focus of Jewish economic activity throughout the Ashkenazic realm. That transition, in turn, brought Jews into most intense conflict with social classes below the ruling elites; in Chazan’s reconstruction, when those ecclesiastical and temporal elites turned upon the Jews whom they had once protected, they did so largely in response to pressure from below. It was that pressure, born chiefly of the ordinary historic antipathy between creditors and debtors, which, Chazan suggested, set in motion a process that not only reversed the Jewish gains of earlier centuries but also bequeathed to the West a legacy of hostile imagery that underlay the catastrophic anti-Jewish violence of the twentieth century. Many of these theses challenged the interpretations of other scholars, both older and contemporary. Not surprisingly, then, his principal conclusions have been the subject of much scholarly discussion. That Chazan has been attentive to this discussion, and that he continues to reflect on the principal problems that have occupied his attention in light of the ongoing work of his colleagues, is evident in several studies published during the first decade of the twenty-first century. In God, Humanity, and History, for example, he revisited the question of the extent to which the three Hebrew First Crusade chronicles may be used as historical sources—a problem that some critics had noted in his earlier book on the First Crusade. Among other things, this work developed an intriguing observation at which Chazan had only hinted before: that among the intellectual and cultural predilections that medieval Western European Jews shared with their Christian con- temporaries was a common notion of how historical events should be interpreted and narrated. Fashioning Jewish Identity in Medieval West- ern Christendom returned to the theme of Jewish-Christian polemics, this time amplifying on how those intellectual debates affected Jewish society as a whole. Chazan ventured here that the responses of the Jewish intellectual elite to Christian missionizing actually strengthened the confidence of medieval Jews in their position in the Christian world even in a time when Christians were assuming increasingly aggres- sive attitudes toward them. That seemingly confounding behavior, robert chazan: in appreciation and friendship 7

suggesting that the medieval experience for Jews could not have been quite as dark as modern historical representations and popular notions have largely portrayed it, brought him back in a sense to the conundrum that he first confronted in his work on the Jews of northern France: the apparent disparity between the precariousness of medieval Jewish existence on the one hand and the self-assurance and vitality consistently displayed by medieval Jews themselves on the other. Chazan took up that conundrum once again in Reassessing Jewish Life in Medieval Europe, this time largely through the lens of historiography, offering in the end his own formulation of the balance between what he called the destructive and constructive features of the Jewish encounter with the Western Christian world. That formulation defies easy summary, and perhaps that is the book’s main point: history is rife with unintended consequences; what seems to some people a positive situation can yield unexpectedly negative results for their descendants and vice versa; and the history of neither medieval Jewry nor medieval Christendom was of a single piece. In addition to addressing his fellow scholars, Chazan has been attentive throughout his career to the needs of other audiences as well. His anthology of historical sources, Church, State, and Jew in the Middle Ages, placed before students many of the texts on which his field and his research were based, providing them with introductions and commentary that helped make them accessible to nonspecialists. Similarly, In the Year 1096: The First Crusade and the Jews presented his findings on that subject, including his insistence that the episode displays not only sordid but also uplifting aspects, to a broad readership. The offerings in this Festschrift focus on several of the honoree’s main academic interests and thereby continue his many contributions to the study of the Jewish experience in the Middle Ages. The essays by Brigitte Miriam Bedo-Rezak, David Berger, Avraham Grossman, Dan- iel Lasker, William Chester Jordan, and Elliot R. Wolfson treat different dimensions of medieval Christian-Jewish relations and the polemic between the two communities. Ivan G. Marcus deals with medieval biblical exegesis. Anna Sapir-Abulafia, Jeremy Cohen, and Kenneth Stow discuss the issues of conversion and martyrdom, and Ephraim Kanarfogel and Gérard Nahon focus on literary and religious aspects of medieval Ashkenazic culture. Finally, David Engel investigates the sources that informed the historiographic picture of the Middle Ages that may be elicited from Salo Baron, a scholar who has had a lasting impact on Chazan’s own work over these many decades. 8 david engel, lawrence h. schiffman, and elliot r. wolfson

In sum, the volume seeks to express our thanks and admiration to Robert Chazan for his years of intellectual and organizational service to the field of Judaic Studies. Some members of the academy make their mark through the quantity of their publications; others by virtue the analytical insights they offer; still others as builders of institutions and programs. Robert Chazan has made a substantial mark in all three realms. But the truth is, as anyone will testify who knows him well, that even the great accomplishments described here are only a small part of what we have gained from him. The example he has set of integrity, devotion, friendship and sacrifice has inspired students and colleagues. Each one of us in some way has tried to emulate his example. We offer this volume in gratitude for his work and his example. Guibert of Nogent and William of Flay and the Problem of Jewish Conversion at the Time of the First Crusade

Anna Sapir Abulafia

Many scholars have commented on how Guibert of Nogent (d. ca.1125) seemed ahead of his time in the way he spoke about Jews and Judaism. Before it became commonplace to do so, he, for example, connected Jews to the Devil. Guibert also seemed to think that Jews remained impervious to the evident truths of Christian teaching because their minds were blocked by their reliance on the letter of Scripture and by their lust for material gains. His particularly dim view of all things Jewish would become more common in later forms of anti-Judaism.1 Guibert did, however, praise the successful conversion of one Jew, a little boy who was snatched to safety from the murderous attack by crusading knights on the Jews of Rouen in 1096. The child was baptized and named William. He grew up to become a pious monk at Guibert’s first monastery, St Germer at Flay and produced a number of sermons and some interesting commentaries on books of the Bible.2 This chapter will reassess Guibert’s account of William’s history within the context of his views on crusading and conversion and in light of William’s own writings in order to come to a better understanding of the complexities surrounding Jewish conversion at the time of the First Crusade.

1 G. Dahan, “Sainte Anselme, les Juifs, le Judaïsme”, in R. Foreville, ed., Les Muta- tions socio-culturelles au tournant des XIe–XIIe siècles, Spicilegium Beccense (Paris, 1984), 2: 530–31; J. Rubenstein, Guibert of Nogent: A Portrait of a Medieval Mind (New York, 2002), pp. 116–24; A. Sapir Abulafia, “Christian Imagery of Jews in the Twelfth Century: A Look at Odo of Cambrai and Guibert of Nogent” and “Theology and the Commercial Revolution: Guibert of Nogent, St Anselm and the Jews of North- ern France”, in idem, Christians and Jews in Dispute: Disputational Literature and the Rise of Anti-Judaism in the West (Aldershot, 1998), 10: 387–88 and 11: 26–40. 2 on William, see G. Dahan, “Guillaume de Flay et son commentaire du Livre des Juges: Etude et édition,” Recherches Augustiniennes 13 (1978): 37–104; J. Sherwood, “A Convert of 1096: Guillaume, Monk of Flaix, Converted from the Jew,” Viator 39 (2008): 1–22. 10 anna sapir abulafia

Guibert referred to William in the second book of his autobiography, which he wrote circa 1115. His version of the events exposed the aspects of crusading rhetoric that were most likely to upset the ambiguous theory that had underpinned Jewish presence in Latin Christendom since antiquity. In theological terms, Jews were allotted a space in Christian society to serve Christians by safeguarding the prophecies concerning Christ in the Hebrew Bible and by remind- ing Christians of the punishment meted out to the enemies of Christ through their dispersion. At the same time, Jewish presence was meant to help Christians nurture expectations for the end of time in which Jews would finally accept Christian teaching. The preaching ofreli- gious violence against the enemies of Christ did not mesh well with these theories. Taken at face value, crusading rhetoric could easily be seen to contradict the traditional Christian ideology of toleration of Jews. To use the words Guibert put into the mouths of the crusaders, “We desire to attack the enemies of God in the East once we have covered vast stretches of land, when before our very eyes are the Jews who are more inimical to God than any other people—that is going about our labor back to front.”3 Strong leadership with a firm commitment to ensure that Jews did not suffer from overzealous knights was necessary for the message of violence to remain focused on the official Muslim targets of the crusade. That leadership seems to have been lacking in Rouen when a (till now unidentified) group of crusaders grabbed their weapons and rounded up Jewish men and women and children into what Guibert calls a “certain church,” but what must have been some kind of house of Jewish prayer. He was unsure whether force or guile was used to get them into the building. All were put to the sword except those who agreed to submit themselves to Christianity. Amid the carnage, William of Eu took pity on a little boy and took him to his mother, Hélisende, the widow of the Count of Eu, who was brutally mutilated in 1096 for rebelling against William Rufus. Hélisende asked the child “with a friendliness which was most praiseworthy” whether he would

3 Guibert de Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. and trans. Edmond-René Labande. Les Classiques de l’Histoire de France au Moyen Ages 34 (Paris, 1981), pp. 246–48; Self and Society in Medieval France: The Memoirs of Abbot Guibert of Nogent (1064?–ca. 1125), ed. John F. Benton, trans. C. C. Swinton Bland (New York, 1970), pp. 134–35; P. J. Archambault, A Monk’s Confession: The Memoirs of Guibert of Nogent (University Park, Pa., 1996), p. 111. guibert of nogent and william of flay 11 like “to be placed under the laws of Christianity.” Fearing for his life, he did not refuse and was quickly brought to the font. At the point in the ceremony when a wax candle was lit and some wax was dripped on the water an exquisite tiny cross became visible to all. In Guibert’s view this cross signified the perfect faith that the boy would acquire. From someone who had defected to Christianity under duress he became a true convert to Christianity in the monastery of Flay where he was brought to prevent his Jewish family from reclaiming him. Guibert, who was unbelievably stingy in his praise of others, had only good words for William’s diligence in his studies and taste for the rigors of monastic discipline. A special tutor was assigned to him to keep a watchful eye over him and to give him extra tuition in Christianity. Guibert, who by now was Abbot of Nogent, sent him his “work against the judaizing and heretical Count of Soissons,” i.e., his anti-Jewish treatise on the Incarnation, which he wrote circa 1111, “to augment the strength of his unbroken faith.” According to Guibert, William “was so taken by his work that he emulated it by putting together arguments concerning the reason of faith.” For Guibert, the man’s spiritual progress was a victory over his vile nature and a triumph over his recently troubled condition. According to Guibert, Jews rarely made this kind of progress and for him the whole episode of this former Jew’s Christian development was little short of miraculous.4 What do we learn from this? First, it is clear that the Rouen crusaders broke every ecclesiastical rule in the book about permitted behavior toward Jews. Jews were not supposed to be slaughtered, nor were they supposed to be coerced into submitting to baptism. From John Gilchrist’s work we know how very important canon 57 of the Visigothic Fourth Council of Toledo (633) was in canonical collections between 906 and 1141. This canon explicitly forbade forced conversion although it also legislated that, even if baptism had been conferred by the wrong means, it could not be undone. In other words, Jews who had been forced to the font through King Sisebut’s legislation in previous years had to remain Christians whether they liked it or not. Con- cern for possible backsliding of Jewish converts and the concomitant fear that they would contaminate the Christian body politic through their judaizing made ecclesiasts especially wary of compelling Jews to convert. Another popular text in canonical collections was a ruling

4 labande, 246–53; Benton, 134–37; Archambault, 111–13. 12 anna sapir abulafia from the Council of Agde in southern France of 506 which demanded a delay of eight months before Jews could be baptized to make sure they were seeking baptism out of pure faith. The charters of 1090 of Henry IV for the Jews of Speyer and Worms made Jews who freely sought baptism wait three days to make sure they were not acting out of any duress. No one was allowed to baptize their children against their will. It is, indeed, telling that Guibert thought William would benefit from the work in which he had fulminated against Jewish criticisms of the Virgin Birth, which he claimed John of Soissons had made his own. It was as if he wanted to make absolutely sure there would be no backsliding on William’s part.5 In view of the well-known canonical disapproval of forced baptism it is quite astonishing that the hypercritical Guibert did not breathe a word of criticism against the knights for forcing Jews to choose between death and baptism. Guibert only betrayed some feeling when he recorded how a nobleman took pity on a little boy caught up in the bloodletting. But here there was hardly a question of saving a Jew as a Jew; the boy quickly worked out for himself that his life was only his if he accepted Hélisende’s offer of Christianity. Here, too, baptism was conferred under duress. In his history of the First Crusade, the Gesta Dei per Francos, which he composed in 1107–8, Guibert waxed lyrical about the knights of Christ and it would seem that, as far as he was concerned, the only thing that mattered with regard to what had happened in Rouen was the miraculously successful adoption of Christianity by a Jew. Indeed, it seems pretty clear that it was only on account of the Jewish monk at Flay that he mentioned the affair at all. It would seem that Guibert had been struck by the contrast between the Jews who had been massacred because they refused to accept baptism and the Jewish boy who had developed so prodigiously after he had agreed to convert. By the time he wrote about the event in his autobiography, Guibert must have known that many Jews who had been forcefully baptized had been allowed to return to Judaism in Normandy by William Rufus and in Germany by Henry IV. After all,

5 J. Gilchrist, “The Canonistic Treatment of Jews in the Latin West in the Elev- enth and Early Twelfth Centuries,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte Kanonistische Abteilung 106 (1989): 70–106 and “The Perception of Jews in the Canon Law in the Period of the First Two Crusades,” Jewish History 3 (1988): 9–24; A. Linder, The Jews in the Legal Sources of the Early Middle Ages(Detroit, Mich., 1997), pp. 391–400, 466–67, 486–87. guibert of nogent and william of flay 13 he stated himself that William was moved to the monastery at Flay to escape his family’s attempts to retrieve him for Judaism. This would only have strengthened his conclusion that it was a miracle for a Jew to be able to rid himself of his “vile nature.” Recent research on Guibert of Nogent makes it necessary to pause before drawing any further conclusions about Guibert’s views on the challenges Jews faced who accepted baptism. After all, Guibert was much more than a highly neurotic monk who disliked Jews. Just as some of his views on Jews seem to presage his day, Guibert was the first person in the medieval West to pen his autobiography since Augustine wrote his Confessions in 397. Guibert also incurred much contemporary wrath for his critical stance on the authenticity of relics. And he was a forerunner in his marked preference for tropological or moral commentaries in his exegetical oeuvre. Before we do anything else we need to gain a much better understanding of what conversion meant to Guibert.6 Guibert did not use the term conversio in his description of what befell the Jews in Rouen. Nor did he use it for William’s baptism. There was no actual conversion in the full eleventh- and twelfth- century sense of the word, which in the words of Karl Morrison was “a long process of empathetic transformation . . . [which] was always probationary, full of discouragement, pain, and temptation, and never sure of final blessedness.” Morrison specifies that “actual [as opposed to formal] conversion did not mean accepting Christianity, submitting to Church authority, or changing from one way of life within the Church to another. Actual conversion was a turning of the heart . . . into Christ by a mystic union or incorporation.”7 Nor did Guibert use the term at the end of his Treatise against the Judaizer and the Jews where he related how a Jew refused to accept Christianity even after the cleric with whom he was arguing managed to remain unscathed while holding a piece of burning wood in order to prove that Christ was God. For Guibert this summed up how impervious Jews were to all the biblical and rational proofs they were exposed to concerning the truths of Christianity.

6 rubenstein, 4, 27–29, 63. 7 K. F. Morrison, Conversion and Text: The Cases of Augustine of Hippo, Hermann- Judah, and Constantine Tsatos (Charlottesville, Va., 1992), pp. xii–xiii; idem, Under- standing Conversion (Charlottesville, Va., 1992); Sherwood, “A Convert,” 2. 14 anna sapir abulafia

One of the issues Guibert explored in the Treatise against the Juda- izer was what it was that kept Jews from accepting that Jesus Christ was God and man. He concluded that Jews were caught up in a vicious circle of living evil lives because of their literal understanding of scriptural truths, which in turn made them evil. Their involvement in money lending made their hearts inaccessible to the Holy Spirit. Thus, they could not be spiritually raised beyond the murkiness of their daily toil to perceive the spiritual truths of Christianity concerning the pure birth of Jesus from his virginal mother. As Guibert put it so graphically: “The enemies of the divine birth throw out stinking words from their filthy gaping jaws . . . But the private parts which have devoted themselves to Christ’s birth are more worthy than their mouths . . . which they fill daily with deceit and excesses and which mock the life-giving sacraments. . . . You [John of Soissons and the Jews] who love disgrace- ful things will justly be damned because you damn the members themselves although it is you who befoul them.”8 But Guibert did use the term conversus for a monk of Jewish descent when he narrated how he and another monk were saved when light- ning struck in Flay. The convert is described as ex Judaeo conversus, sed praecordialiter fidelis erat (“converted from Judaism but a sincere believer”); it makes sense to follow Sherwood in assuming this is probably a reference to William. Here Guibert’s praise of a former Jew’s devotion to his new faith has the flavor of a backhanded compliment. In his edition of Guibert’s autobiography, Labande notes that the verb convertere (“convert”) is cleverly used in its metaphorical and literal sense of “turning upside down or turning over.” For the bolt of light- ening lifted the two boy monks who had been lying prostrate facing the altar and dropped them with their heads facing in the opposite direction.9 This was, indeed, the complete, internal, spiritual turnaround kind of conversion to which Guibert had devoted a number of earlier chapters in his autobiography. In them he recorded the spiritual transformation of the founding father of the strictly ascetic Carthusian order, Bruno

8 Guibert de Nogent, Contra iudaizantem et Iudeos, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, in idem, ed., Serta Mediaevalia: Textus varii saeculorum x–xiii in unum collecti, CCCM 171 (Turnhout, 2000), pp. 372, 328; Sapir Abulafia, “Theology and the Commercial Revo- lution,” 28–33; Sapir Abulafia, “Christian Imagery,” 387. 9 labande, 186–87; Benton, 108–9; Archambault, 82–83; Sherwood, “A Convert,” 3–4. guibert of nogent and william of flay 15 of Cologne, and others, like his own mother, who, as Rubenstein puts it, progressed from refraining from sin out of fear to living virtuously through a thorough understanding of her own spiritual make-up. This knowledge of self would be the starting point of her contemplative quest for God.10 For Guibert this was in general an age of spiritual conversion of men, women, and children, an age which sadly no longer existed by the time he was writing his autobiography circa 1115.11 Following Rubenstein, one can read the first book of Guibert’s autobiography as an analysis of his own painful quest for God with numerous pitfalls on the way.12 But it is to his exegetical work that we must turn to comprehend more fully what Guibert understood conversion to comprise. Anselm of Bec was apparently instrumental in sparking Guibert’s interest in the workings of the mind and the effect different parts of the mind had on one’s behavior. Rubenstein has analyzed how Guibert applied Anselmian lessons to his tropological or moral commentary of Genesis (Moralia Geneseos), which had grown out of a reworking of the moral commentary he had written on the Hexameron (the creation narrative in chapter one of Genesis) in 1084. Guibert dedicated the Moralia to Bartholomew, who became Bishop of Laon in 1113, but they seem to have been pretty well completed by 1108. The point of the exercise was to encourage his readers along a path of continual spiritual reform that had as its ultimate goal the joy of communing with God. Human beings had to work continuously to understand the imperfections in themselves and to correct them if they were ever to rise to a state of inner composure in which their intellect, the finesse of untrammeled reason, could engage in contemplation. Throughout this process the convert’s will was engaged in a ceaseless battle to negotiate the right balance between his/her reason and affection or desire. In short, Guibert read the book of Genesis as the internal psychological struggle of Christian converts like himself toward the goal of sublime perfection, which lay in the vision of God.13 With this model in hand it is not surprising that Guibert marveled at William’s progress, which we can judge for ourselves from the exegetical works he himself produced. Like Guibert, William preferred to

10 labande, 52–107; Benton, 54–76; Archambault, 25–47; Rubenstein, 64–65. 11 labande, 72–75; Benton, 62–63; Archambault, 33–34; Rubenstein, 64. 12 rubenstein, 63–82. 13 rubenstein, 26–60, 95–96. 16 anna sapir abulafia read moral lessons into the biblical narrative. In the opening passage of his sermon on 1 Maccabees 3:58–59, “And Judas said: Gird your- selves, and be valiant men, and be ready. . . . For it is better for us to die in battle, than to see the evils of our nation, and of the holies,”14 he contrasted the soldiers of Christ—who had armed themselves with a shield of faith, a cuirass of justice, a helmet of salvation, and a sword of the word of God—with the sons of the world who were weakened by the desire of vices. These soldiers governed their nation well when they “preserved the senses of the exterior and interior man from the incursions of vice so that sight was not subject to curiosity, hearing not open to detractions or vain rumors, and taste not directed toward superfluous eating. [They] saw the evils of the nation when [they] permitted [their] senses to serve corrupt desires.”15 This is the language of monastic service of Christ; as we shall soon see other exegetes would link the Maccabees to the knights of the First Crusade. Dahan has demonstrated how his exposition on verses one to eight of the first book of Deuteronomy (“These are the words, which Moses spoke to all Israel beyond the Jordan, in the plain wilderness, over against the Red Sea, between Pharan and Thophel andL aban and Hase- roth, where there is much gold: Eleven days’ journey from Horeb by the way of mount Seir to Cadesbarne. . . .”) shows how William loved to base his moral lessons on his interpretation of the meaning of biblical place names. He used the text to pursue his ideas about the need to turn one’s back on the life of the flesh, to conquer pride, hypoc- risy and vainglory. The geographical places that marked the stages of Israel’s protracted journey to the Holy Land stood for a person’s moral development; Israel’s battles against its enemies stood for the necessary battles against the onslaught of the vices. William alluded to the arduous nature of spiritual progression by stating that “no one can grasp the law of God in a fitting manner before he has left behind the valley of carnal lusts and will hasten to seize the mountains, which is the life of religion, as the law teaches.”16 It would be tempting to assume that William would have been able to interpret these names for himself on the basis of the Hebrew he would have learnt before he was taken in 1096. But Dahan has demonstrated

14 biblical translations are taken from the Douay Rheims version of the Bible. 15 Passage edited in Dahan, “Guillaume,” 44. 16 dahan, “Guillaume,” 45–46. guibert of nogent and william of flay 17 that his interpretations were plainly based on an anonymous successor of Jerome’s Liber interpretationis hebraicorum nominum. In his “Sermon on the Birth of the Lord,” William said he had to consult a learned Jew on the meaning of Genesis 15:5. We must remember how young he was at the time of his baptism. Guibert informed us that Hélisende’s household waited awhile before they started William on Latin and Guibert said explicitly that he had only started learning Hebrew. Jewish boys would have started lessons at about five, so we can assume that William was around six years old when he was baptized. His own Hebrew had clearly been of the most rudimentary kind and was soon forgotten.17 William was in his element in his commentaries on the first chapter of the book of Judges, which to the untrained eye would seem a rather dull account of a series of battles that Judah fought against the Canaanites. But for William, the letter of the text needed to be overcome by insights into its innate spiritual quality for it to come to life.18 Thus William used the different names of persons, nations, and places to elucidate the changing condition of the Church as well as the several phases of the tortuous path of individual spiritual conversion. Because William’s moral readings of the text depended on a spiritual interpretation of Scripture he repeatedly insisted that the literal understanding of Jews needed to be abandoned. In so doing he often seemed to be moving seamlessly from contrasting Judaism to Christianity to emphasizing the need to abandon carnality for spirituality, and creating in the process an interface between the need for Jews to accept Christ and inner Christian conversion. In this way, the supersession of Judaism was transformed into an integral component of inner conversion. William juxtaposed the necessary destruction of vices in the soul for the advent of scriptural understanding with the worldly happiness Jews sought, and opposed this to Christians, who desired heavenly happiness rather than keep to the costly worthlessness of the letter, which was so dear to the Jews. The apostles and evangelists understood the interior speech of Scripture, which was hidden in the letter.19

17 dahan, “Guillaume,” 39–43, 58–59; Labande, 250–51; Benton, 136; Archambault, 112. On Jewish schooling, see I. G. Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (New Haven, 1996). 18 Expositio prime partis Libri Iudicum, ed. Dahan, in idem, “Guillaume,” 67–68. 19 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 79. 18 anna sapir abulafia

Because the Jews refused to understand what was contained in their scriptures, understanding of these matters was given to the Gentiles so they might seek to enter the kingdom of Heaven. For William the kingdom of God, was the house of God and also the Holy Scriptures, “in whose innermost parts cognition of God is imparted, ‘the treasures of wisdom and knowledge are preserved [cf. Col. 2:3]’, the jewels of virtues radiate light . . .”20 In the spirit of St. Paul, William looked forward to the end of time when “the Jews would ascend . . . to the sacrament of sublime Christianity once they have abandoned their carnal understanding of the law in which also today they dwell victoriously to their ruin.”21 A spiritual approach to Scripture was critical to the process of conversion, which William saw as a continuous battle against the snares of the devil, a battle in which the memory of Christ’s passion helped to combat vices. Good works were needed to supplement faith and confession of sins. The vice of pride, in particular, had to be conquered. Only a few would be able to overcome all carnal stirrings; heavenly speech would be revealed to those who had been able fully to cleanse their hearts.22 William admonished his monastic readers that everyone in this world was wretched because they lacked the salvation they were seeking. The pious faithful were ever mindful of this and adopted a life of voluntary poverty. But they could only persevere in this life with the help of the grace of God. The importance of leaving all carnal yearning behind is exemplified by the way William insisted that monks should not just abandon the lusts of this world but also their families, to whom they had licit ties of affection. Using Matthew 10:35–36, he spoke of a son separated from his father, a daughter from her mother, a daughter-in-law from her mother-in-law, “and a man’s enemies shall be they of his own household.” In this way monks would be guarded from falling back into their old ways or being kept from the path of truth they were supposed to be following.23 Following Dahan, Sherwood has remarked how this passage and others of a similar tenor could be read as an allusion to William’s own traumatic past. Whatever the case may be, William evidently

20 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 92–93. 21 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 87. 22 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 67–68, 69–70, 73, 95, 99, 103–4, 101. 23 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 76, 94. guibert of nogent and william of flay 19 internalized the event to such an extent that it became part and par- cel of his view of the right way to go about monastic conversion. As Sherwood has noted, William’s expectations of monastic life seem to have been particularly severe.24 As for his statements about Jews and Judaism there is nothing particularly startling about them; Jews plainly performed a similar function for him as they did for so many other Christian exegetes: hermeneutical tools with which to extrapolate useful lessons from the biblical text. What is remarkable in William’s case is that he did not just talk about Jewish supersession as the necessary preliminary to Christian spiritual growth. He embodied that process through his own life as a child convert. Both Dahan and Sherwood have pointed out that William’s language about Jews was mild in comparison both to that of other Jewish converts—like Herman the Jew, who composed a record of his conversion circa 1150—and to Guibert’s vitriol.25 Nonetheless, William was uncompromising enough in his censure of Jewish rejection of Christ and of alleged Jewish responsibility for maliciously spilling His blood. In his commentaries on Lamentations he claimed that Jews were men of blood on this account.26 The fact that no work of William’s has survived that would easily fit Guibert’s description of the text William was supposed to have written in imitation of Guibert’s Treatise against the Judaizer does not mean that William did not engage in anti-Jewish polemics. Polemics were not confined to treatises specifically designed to oppose Jews. Direct and oblique polemical comments in every register of harshness were a consistent component of both Christian and Jewish exegesis and, as we have seen, William was no exception. We should also not ignore the fact that in several places in his

24 sherwood, “A Convert,” 14–16; Dahan, “Guillaume,” 42. 25 There has been much scholarly debate on the nature of Herman’s autobiography and its interpretation, including my “The Ideology of Reform and Changing Ideas Concerning Jews in the Works of Rupert of Deutz and Hermannus quondam Iudeus,” in my Christians and Jews in Dispute, no. 15; Morrison, Conversion and Text, 39–75; J.-C. Schmitt, La Conversion d’Hermann le Juif: Autobiographie, histoire et fiction (Paris, 2003); idem, The Conversion of Herman the Jew. Autobiography, history, and fiction in the twelfth century, trans. A.J. Novikoff (Philadelphia, 2010); P. Hilsch, “Die Schrift des Hermannus quondam Iudeus und ihrer Frage der Authentizität”, Deutsches Archiv 66 (2010), 69–91 and H. J. Hames, “ ‘Ante omnia, fratres caris- simi, diligatur Deus, deinde proximus’: Herman-Judah’s Opusculum de conversione sua re-examined,” in R. ben Shalom and Y. Yuval, eds., Festschrift for Ora Limor, forthcoming. 26 dahan, “Guillaume,” 62–66; Sherwood, “A Convert,” 9–11. 20 anna sapir abulafia

commentaries on Judges he faced up to Jewish denial of Christianity and Christian rational doubts concerning the Incarnation. Christians wondered how a pure majestic God could have assumed the frail- ness of human flesh. As for Jews, they continued to deny Jesus Christ, his Incarnation, the Virgin Birth, Resurrection, and Ascension, while emphasizing his death.27 This reminds us once again how intricately connected anti-Jewish polemic was to inter-communal Christian discussions about difficult Christian doctrines.28 Further insights about the connections between ideas on spiritual conversion and attitudes to Jews and Judaism can be gleaned from Guibert’s History of the First Crusade. As was the case for so many histories of the First Crusade, Guibert’s History was closely modeled on the anonymous Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum, but scholars have stressed the importance of his own contribution, in particular with regard to how people in France responded to the preaching of the crusade.29 As Rubenstein has shown, Guibert talked of crusading as an expression of conversion. He spoke movingly of how knights left behind everything they held dear, their wonderful wives and beloved children, and also their possessions and honors, to go on crusade.30 These words call to mind William’s vivid description of how a monastic convert needed to sever himself from his loved ones. Only those with pure intentions were true crusading converts whose psychological make-up was fully geared to the task at hand, which was to do God’s work in Jerusalem. For them crusading was a penitential exercise of spiritual focus combined with physical deprivation. Their personal spiritual development was thus put in the service of God; their work was part of the unfolding of salvific history toward the cul- mination of time when the Antichrist and his minions would be overcome by Christ. In his manual on sermons Guibert had provided four

27 Expositio Jud., ed. Dahan, 77–78, 87–88; see also 84–85 where the divine and human natures of Jesus Christ are discussed. 28 This is one of the themes of my book, Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-century Renaissance (London, 1995). 29 rubenstein, 95–97; Dei gesta per Francos, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCCM 127A (Turnhout, 1996), pp. 76–352; M.-C. Garand (trans.), Geste de Dieu par les Francs: histoire de la premiere croisade / Guibert de Nogent (Turnhout, 1998); R. Levine (trans. and ed.), The Deeds of God through the Franks: a translation of Guibert de Nogent’s Gesta Dei per Francos (Woodbridge and Suffolk, Va., 1997). 30 ed. Huygens, CCCM 127A, 132; Levine, 54; Rubenstein, 99. guibert of nogent and william of flay 21 different definitions of Jerusalem according to the four different levels of biblical exegesis: “Jerusalem is a city according to history; according to allegory it signifies the holy church; according to tropology, that is morality, it is the [soul] of one of the faithful yearning for a vision of eternal peace; and according to anagogy, it signifies the life of heavenly citizens who openly see the face of the God of gods in Sion.” In Guib- ert’s eyes true crusaders embodied the multi-layered meaning of Jeru- salem in their holy endeavor. Those with baser impulses, like Peter the Hermit, however, got the lashing of Guibert’s sharp tongue. Describ- ing Peter’s abandonment of the siege of Antioch, Guibert berated him for not being able to apply the lessons he had learned from being a hermit to the deprivations of a siege. Guibert clearly thought he was a hypocrite.31 Real crusaders were made of sterner stuff: “When weakness was compelling them to despair of victory, God alone remained steadfast in the minds of all in their suffering for You.”32 Lapina has analyzed the comparisons Guibert drew between the crusaders and biblical heroes like the Maccabees. Using the glorious victory of Judah Maccabee and his warriors over King Antiochus and the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem as a precedent for contemporary crusading endeavors was common enough. What Lapina has noted is how Guibert insisted that the crusaders were so much better than their biblical models. The Maccabees fought for material things that had been superseded in Christian thinking: circumcision and the cessation of pig sacrifices in the Temple. Guibert ridiculed the latter by saying that the Maccabees had fought for “the meat of swine.”33 Jewish revulsion of pork, their adherence to circumcision as well as their inability to obey the biblical laws of sacrifice after the destruction of the Temple were all themes he would belabor in his Treatise against the Judaizer.34

31 rubenstein, 95–101; Guibert, Quo ordine sermo fieri debeat, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCCM 127 (Turnhout, 1993), p. 53; trans. Rubenstein, p. 27 (he translates anima as “mind” rather than “soul”). 32 Dei gesta, ed. Huygens, 238; trans. Levine, 109; E. Lapina, “Anti-Jewish Rhetoric in Guibert of Nogent’s Dei gesta per Francos,” Journal of Medieval History 30 (2009): 245. 33 Dei gesta, ed. Huygens, 240; trans. Levine, 110; in Lapina, “Anti-Jewish rhetoric,” 246. 34 sapir Abulafia, Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-century Renaissance, 103–4, 125; Tractatus, ed. Huygens, 321–22, 364–67. 22 anna sapir abulafia

Of course, crusaders, too, were engaged in material warfare, but what mattered to Guibert was what he saw as an amazing confluence between their fighting and their inner spirituality. For him this was one of the marvels of the crusade. Thus he made sure consistently to distinguish between crusading spirituality and the carnality of biblical Jewish warfare.35 “Let us rejoice then in the battles they won, undertaken purely out of spiritual desire . . . let us not admire the fleshly wars of Israel, which were waged merely to fill the belly.”36 “[God] granted glory to our own times, so that modern men seem to have undergone pain and suffering greater than that of the Jews of old, who, inthe company of their wives and sons, and with full bellies, were led by angels who made themselves visible to them.”37 These sentiments fit with everything we know about Guibert’s (and William’s) views on conversion and on the superiority of the spiritual over the material and the positions they thought Jews took in the alignment of both. In this way of thinking Jews functioned solely on a material level and would continue to do so until they accepted Christ; at the same time, they were bound to reject Christ as long as they remained loyal to the letter of the law. If anything, the heady atmosphere of the crusade could only exacerbate the perceived dichotomy between Christian spirituality and Jewish carnality. The fact that Guibert himself bemoaned the rapid dissipation of spirituality in the aftermath of the crusade did nothing to diminish this.38 In view of the above it is clear that Guibert’s doubts about the efficacy of Jewish conversion were wrapped up in his monastic demands for actual spiritual conversion. This particular conception of conversion effectively demanded that every Jewish convert join the monastic life as well as be an exemplary monk. As we have seen, in both Guibert’s and William’s work every convert had to wage an unceasing battle within his psyche to overcome evil; a Jew in this line of thinking would first have to extricate himself from the evils of Judaism before being able to start the process of spiritual conversion.39 In this light it

35 lapina, “Anti-Jewish Rhetoric,” 246–53. 36 Dei gesta, ed. Huygens, 267; trans. Levine, 124; in Lapina, “Anti-Jewish Rhetoric,” 250. 37 Dei gesta, ed. Huygens, 305; trans. Levine, 143; in Lapina, “Anti-Jewish Rhetoric,” 250. 38 rubenstein, 64, Labande, 74–75, Benton, 63; Archambault, 34. 39 see also S. F. Kruger’s gendered analysis of the difficulties facing Jewish converts in his, The Spectral Jew: Conversion and Embodiment in Medieval Europe (Minneapo- lis, Minn., 2006). guibert of nogent and william of flay 23 is hardly surprising that Guibert reflected on William’s “victory over his evil nature and a triumph over his recently troubled condition.” The waxen cross that appeared at William’s baptism presaged that he would enjoy the essential help of God’s grace in the process. But that William was able to start the process at all was thanks to his forced baptism, and one cannot help wonder whether post factum Guibert had some sympathy for the removal of a child from his Jewish parents to give him the opportunity to engage in actual Christian conversion, especially because in this case it had been such a success from Guib- ert’s point of view. Maybe Guibert felt on balance that removing Jews as children from what he considered to be the rut of Jewish carnality was the only way to give Jews a chance of converting in the full sense of the word. That Guibert knew the value of learning things as a child is clear from the way he explained his old tutor’s ineptitude as a teacher as the result of learning grammar late in life.40 Gregory the Great had recognized the value of getting Jews used to a Christian lifestyle from childhood. In a letter of 594 concerning Jews living on church lands in Sicily, he suggested that Jews should be encouraged to convert by giving them a discount in their rent. “For even if they themselves come with but small faith, their children after them shall be baptized with greater faith.”41 One of the widely disseminated canons of the Fourth Council of Toledo concerned children in the household of Jews who had been forced to convert. This was canon 60, Iudaeorum filios vel filias (“Sons and daughters of the Jews”), which ruled that the children of these families be taken from their parents to avoid their bad influence and given to monasteries or good Christian families so they could be brought up as faithful Chris- tians. The canon was included in the important canonical collections of Burchard of Worms at the beginning of the eleventh century, Ivo of Chartres at the end, and Gratian’s Decretum of the mid twelfth century. Although Burchard and Ivo made it explicit, and Gratian implicit, that this concerned children who had been baptized already, by the end of the twelfth century scholastics were already wondering whether or not Jewish children should be taken from their parents by force to be brought up as Christians.42 It is not for nothing that the Jews

40 labande, 26–27; Benton, 45; Rubenstein, 19. 41 linder, The Jews, 423–24, 428–29 quotation: p. 429. 42 linder, The Jews, 488, 635, 654–55, 677–78; C.28 q.1 c.11, ed. E. Friedberg, Cor- pus Iuris Canonici. 1, Decretum Magistri Gratiani (Leipzig, 1879), col. 1087; Gilchrist, “The Canonistic Treatment of Jews in the Latin West in the Eleventh and Early Twelfth 24 anna sapir abulafia of Germany repeatedly sought confirmations of Henry IV’s Worms’s charter, which protected Jewish children from being baptized against their parents’ will.43 Theoretical legal protection is one thing; the violent reality ofthe attack of the so-called popular crusaders on the Jews of the Rhineland was an entirely different matter. Many Jews were forcibly baptized; they were allowed to return to Judaism by Henry IV against the wishes of the anti-pope Clement III, his own papal appointee. Many others chose to martyr themselves and their children to avoid baptism or death at the hands of the crusaders. It was this self-martyrdom, the Kiddush ha-Shem, the Sanctification of God’s name, that was memorialized in the Hebrew Chronicles of the First Crusade. The authors of the Chronicles, who tried to make sense of the traumatic events, injected a host of ambiguous feelings concerning self-martyrdom into their emotive accounts of the violence. Woven into graphic descriptions of horrific bloodletting was horror of actions that were not sanctioned by halachah (Jewish law), combined with admiration for Jewish steadfastness in the face of Christian attacks, and tinged with guilt for having survived, perhaps in some cases because of not having been brave enough to face death instead of baptism. Particularly harrow- ing are the accounts of killing children, as, for example, the account of Rachel of Mainz who slaughtered her four children, including little Aaron who tried to hide. “She raised her voice and called to her son: ‘Aaron, Aaron, where are you? I shall not have mercy nor pity on you. . . .’ She pulled him by the leg from under the bureau where he was hidden and she sacrificed him before the sublime and exalted God.”44 The difference between Aaron’s fate and that of William of

Centuries,” Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte Kanonistische Abteilung 106 (1989): 70–78, 84, 88, 99 and “The Perception of Jews in the Canon Law in the Period of the First Two Crusades,” Jewish History 3 (1988): 9–24; A. Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum (Cambridge, 2000); S. Grayzel, The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century. Vol. 2: 1254–1314, ed. Kenneth R. Stow (Detroit, Mich., 1989), pp. 7–8; C. Magin, “ ‘Wie es umb der iuden recht stet’: Der Status der Juden in spät- mittelalterlichen deutschen Rechtsbüchern” ([Göttingen, 1999]), pp. 185–88; W. Pakter, Medieval Canon Law and the Jews (Ebelsbach am Main, 1988), pp. 314–30. 43 see also B. Z. Kedar, “The Forcible Baptisms of 1096: History and Historiog- raphy”, in K. Borchardt and E. Bünz (eds.), Forschungen zur Reichs-, Papst- und Landesgeschichte. Peter Herde zum 65. Geburtstag von Freunden, Schülern und Kol- legen dargebracht (Stuttgart, 1998). 1, pp. 187–200, especially pp. 198–99. 44 e. Haverkamp, ed., Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während des Ersten Kreuzzugs, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Hebräische Texte aus dem Mit- telalterlichen Deutschland 1 (Hanover, 2005), pp. 354–59; translation from R. Chazan, guibert of nogent and william of flay 25

Flay is breathtaking. Whatever happened during the terrible weeks of persecution, however many Jews of all ages were caught up in a socially driven communal response of self-martyrdom, however many Jews succumbed to baptism, the memory of the crusade was carefully crafted to encourage German Jewry to do everything in its power to prevent its children from being taken from their Jewish environment to be baptized.45 A cited ruling by the prominent halachist Rabbenu Jacob Tam (ca. 1100–1171) graphically evokes the conflicted anguish Jews felt about the loss of their children. In response to the question whether it was permitted to mourn the death of a Jewish child who had been baptized, Tam emphasized that the death was a cause for rejoicing not mourning because, if the child had lived, it would have followed in the path of idolatry. Once the child had fallen into the hands of Christians it could not be saved for Judaism. Other authorities felt the child should be mourned because it was too young to distinguish right from wrong.46 The First Crusade did not precipitate a sea change in Christian- Jewish relations. But the brutal realities of the First Crusade did accen- tuate and exacerbate the differences between Jews and Christians. In a period of spiritual renewal and reform, monks like Guibert developed an exacting program of inner Christian conversion. As he and other thinkers celebrated the virtues of Christian spirituality over alleged Jewish materialism, Christians found it ever more compelling for Jews to abandon Judaism in favor of Christianity. But ironically enough, the more intense Christians became about their own conversions and

European Jewry and the First Crusade (Berkeley, 1987), pp. 258–60; translation on p. 259. 45 of the vast literature on the Hebrew Crusade Chronicles, see J. Cohen, Sanctify- ing the Name of God: Jewish Martyrs and Jewish Memories of the First Crusade (Phila- delphia, 2004); Simha Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, trans. Yigdal Levin, trans. ed. C. Michael Copeland (Turnhout, 2008). David Malkiel, “Vestiges of Conflict in the Hebrew Crusade Chronicles,” The Journal of Jewish Studies 52 (2001): 323–39 highlights how important it is not to imagine that all Jews thought the same way about self-martyrdom. See also R. Chazan, God, Humanity and History: The Hebrew First Crusade Narratives (Berkeley, 2000). Israel J. Yuval’s ideas on the connection between Jewish self-martyrdom and the emergence of blood libels can be found in his Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages translated from the Hebrew by Barbara Harshav and Jonathan Chipman (Berkeley, 2006). 46 s. Goldin, “Juifs et Juifs convertis au Moyen Age: ‘Es-tu encore mon frère?’,” Annales 54 (1999): 867; E. Baumgarten, Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe (Princeton, 2004), pp. 181–82, 238 n. 138. 26 anna sapir abulafia the more urgent it seemed to them for Jews to accept the teachings of Christianity, the harder it was for Jews to become Christians in an acceptable way, at least in the eyes of monks like Guibert.47 That is why Guibert was so careful to underline how exceptional William the child-convert was. This paradoxical situation overlapped with the misguided actions of crusading knights like Emicho of Flonheim, who made Jews choose between baptism and death. Many Jews who chose baptism continued to live as Jews to the best of their ability and seized the chance to revert to Judaism as soon as they could. As Stow has stressed, this could only have served to encourage latent Christian fears of Jewish recidi- vism and the contamination of Christian society through false Jewish conversion.48 The Jews who chose death for themselves and their children embodied the utter rejection of the very thing Christian ecclesi- astics considered so precious: the saving grace of baptism. While the Jewish community commemorated and celebrated self-martyrdom as Kiddush ha-Shem, the purest way to express devotion to God, Bernold of Konstanz (d. 1100), one of the Latin sources on the First Crusade to mention the pogroms in the Rhineland, condemned it as something Jews had done at behest of the Devil and on account of their own obduracy.49 Albert of Aachen, the author of the fullest Latin account of the First Crusade from the early decades of the twelfth century, was critical of the pogroms. However hostile Jews were of Christ, it was not God’s will that they should be forced into Christianity. Albert believed the crusaders had acted out of love of money rather than out of a desire to serve God. Yet he was horrified at the way the Jews chose death: “Mothers with children at the breast—how horrible to relate—would cut their throats with knives, would stab others, preferring that they should die thus at their hands, rather than be killed by the weapons

47 J. M. Elukin emphasizes the role Christian interest in the individual played on Christian doubts about the efficacy of Jewish conversion in his “The Discovery of the Self: Jews and Conversion in the Twelfth Century,” in M. A. Signer and J. van Engen, eds., Jews and Christians in Twelfth-century Europe (Notre Dame, 2001), pp. 63–76; see also his “From Jew to Christian? Conversion and Immutability in Medi- eval Europe,” in J. Muldoon, ed., Varieties of Religious Conversion in the Middle Ages (Gainesville, Fla., 1997), pp. 171–89. 48 K. Stow, “Conversion, Apostasy, and Apprehensiveness: Emicho of Flonheim and the Fear of Jews in the Twelfth Century,” Speculum 76 (2001): 911–33. 49 bernoldus Constantiensis, Chronicon, ed. G. H. Pertz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores (Hanover, 1844), 5: 465. guibert of nogent and william of flay 27 of the uncircumcised.”50 The abusive term for Christians echoed one of the many anti-Christian invectives used in the Hebrew Crusade Chronicle to express Jewish condemnation of and hostility to Chris- tianity.51 Attitudes hardened in both camps, and the fate of Jewish children exemplified how the heartfelt desires of one camp uncom- promisingly clashed with the fervent hopes of the other.52 Guibert said little about the Jewish experience of the First Crusade. But careful consideration of his brief mention of William’s rescue, baptism, and future career has revealed valuable insights into some of the causes of the growing complexities concerning Jewish conversion in the long twelfth century.

50 albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. S. B. Edgington, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford, 2007), pp. xxix–xxv, 50–53, 56–59; quotation on p. 53. 51 sapir Abulafia “Invectives against Christianity in the Hebrew Chronicles of the First Crusade,” in idem, Christians and Jews in Dispute, 18: 66–72. 52 see also Elisheva Baumgraten’s discussion of shared attitudes toward children between Christian and Jewish mothers in relationship to Kiddush ha-Shem and its perception by Christians in her Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe (Princeton, 2004), pp. 180–83. Rashi’s Choice: The Humash Commentary as Rewritten Midrash*

Ivan G. Marcus

Although many have written supercommentaries, essays, and even books about Rashi as a biblical or Talmudic exegete, until recently few have looked at him as an original medieval Jewish thinker, let alone as a historical source reflective of northern European Jewish mentalité. And yet no medieval Jew shaped the collective identity of Ashkenazic and even Sefardic Jewry more than this remarkable figure, whose genealogy is obscure but who is often compared to and contrasted with his Sefardic analogue, Maimonides, whose genealogy was long and distinguished. Could Rashi have been so widely accepted as “the” interpreter of biblical-talmudic Judaism for all times had he himself not been a person of his own time as well as a refashioner of it?1 The master exegete, Rashi of Troyes (c. 1040–1105), proposed Jew- ish core values to his readers, especially in his Humash commentary. He did not write a treatise; his biblical commentaries were rather in the form of a selective editing of rabbinical lore. Even when he did

* The original version of this article was published in Midrash Unbound: Transfor- mations and Innovations edited by Michael Fishbane and Joanna Weinberg (Oxford and Portland, Oregon: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization 2013). 1 among the many studies that have been written on Rashi, see Eliezer Meir Lip- schuetz, “Rashi” in idem, Ketavim (Jerusalem, 1947), 1: 9–196; Benjamin J. Gelles, Peshat and Derash in the Exegesis of Rashi (Leiden, 1981); Esra Shereshevsky, Rashi: The Man and His World (New York, 1982); Sarah Kamin, Rashi: Peshuto shel mikra u-midrasho shel mikra (Jerusalem, 1988); Dov Rappel, Rashi: Temunat olamo ha-yehudit (Jerusalem, 1995); Abraham Grossman, Hachmei tsarefat ha-rishonim (Jerusalem, 1995), chapters 4, 6; Moshe Ahrend, “L’adaptation des commentaires du midrash par Rashi et ses disciples à leur exégèse biblique,” Revue des études juives 156 (1997): 275–88; Abraham Grossman, Rashi (Jerusalem, 2006); Daniel Krochmalnik, Hanna Liss, and Ronen Reichman, eds., Raschi und sein Erbe (Heidelberg, 2007); Abraham Grossman, Emunot ve-de’ot be-olamo shel Rashi (Elon Shevut, 2008). Several important studies are in Abraham Grossman and Sara Japhet, eds., Rashi: Demuto vi-ytsirato (Jerusalem, 2008). On Rashi’s supercommentaries, see Eric Lawee, “From Sepharad to Ashkenaz: A Case Study in the Rashi Supercommentary Tradition,” AJS Review 30 (2006): 393–425. 30 ivan g. marcus not interpret narrative biblical irregularities, he wrote what I would call “rewritten midrash.”2 Readers have been divided over what Rashi did as a commentator. Religious educators saw him as a master teacher who sought to inculcate specific Jewish values. Although some anthologized his comments according to their own lights, others, like Eliezer Lipschuetz and the renowned Bible teacher Nechama Leibowitz, taught that Rashi’s values were always answers to textual difficulties and not freely offered words of his own wisdom.3 Academic Bible scholars shifted the focus to Rashi as a literal or literary exegete who should be studied as a transition figure leading to later northern French exegetes—like his grandson, Rashbam; R. Eliezer of Beaugency; R. Joseph Qara; R. Joseph Bekhor Shor—and as being more traditional and less grammatically up to date than the Sefardi commentator, R. Abraham Ibn Ezra. Since the nineteenth century, modern scholars have been biased in favor of appre- ciating a strict philological style of biblical interpretation in medieval Spain and northern France under the lure of “the Sephardic Mystique.” Consequently, they have seen Rashi as a transitional figure between ancient midrash and literal or so-called plain-style commentaries.4 Precisely because Rashi’s Humash commentary is an enigmatic mixture of more midrash than philology, Bible scholars have tended to emphasize Rashi’s method, including the idea that Rashi used midrash

2 This notion draws on and extends to medieval figures the idea of understanding some midrashic texts as “rewritten Bible.” See, for example, Steven Fraade, “Rewritten Bible and Rabbinic Midrash as Commentary” in Carol Bakhos, ed., Current Trends in the Study of Midrash (Leiden, 2006), pp. 59–78. 3 see Lipschuetz, Rashi, pp. 93–95. On Leibowitz, see Grossman, Rashi, pp. 88–89, quoting Leibowitz’s reliance on Rashi’s methodological dictum on Gen. 3:8. Leibowitz believed Rashi quoted a midrash only when commenting on textual problems, but Grossman notes correctly that Rashi did not adhere to this practice. A text-centered view of Rashi is also found in Moshe Greenberg’s comparison of Rashi and his grandson, Rashbam. See Moshe Greenberg, “Ha-yahas bein peirush Rashi le-feirush Rashbam la-torah,” in Yair Zakovitch and Alexander Rofe, eds., Sefer Yitzhak Arieh Zeligman (Jerusalem, 1983), pp. 559–67 (Hebrew vol.); Moshe Greenberg, “Parshanei Zarfat,” [in Moshe Greenberg, ed., Parshanut ha-mikra ha-yehudit: Pirkei mavo (Jeru- salem, 1985), pp. 70–75, 77–79. See also Ed Greenstein, “Sensitivity to Language in Rashi’s Commentary to the Torah,” in Mayer I. Gruber, ed., The Solomon Goldman Lectures (Chicago, 1993), 6: 51–71. 4 on the northern French school, see Abraham Grossman, “The School of Lit- eral Jewish Exegesis in Northern France,” in Magne Saebø, ed., Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation (Göttingen, 2000), pp. 321–71. For two statements of the “Sephardic Mystique,” see Ivan G. Marcus, “Beyond the Sephardic Mystique,” Orim 1 (1985): 35–53; Ismar Schorsch, “The Myth of Sephardic Suprem- acy,” Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 34 (1989): 47–66. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 31 in certain cases where he thought the ambiguous text required it, the so-called “double” interpretations. These scholars point to Rashi’s methodological aside in Genesis 3:8 or to his introduction at the beginning of Song of Songs as warrant for this view. In light of Bible scholars’ legitimate concern for getting at the text of the Bible as written, it is understandable that they were concerned by the way Rashi’s use of midrash did or did not compromise his commitment to the contextual meaning of the biblical text.5 Neither the educators nor the Bible scholars were open to the possibility that Rashi was sometimes interested in expressing his own point of view despite the text. The third, or historical, approach, in contrast, takes an empirical view of what Rashi actually did in practice and is willing to ignore or play down the centrality of Rashi’s own so-called methodological statements as well as the comment his grandson offered about Rashi’s preference for contextual comments (see below). All of these comments reinforce the plain-sense bias of the Bible scholars, who value Rashi only to the degree that he used interpretive tools, including midrash, as a way to understand the biblical text as written.6 The new historical approach to Rashi as a medieval thinker takes for granted a need to establish a methodology for distinguishing Rashi’s own voice from those of his rabbinical sources. The method emphasizes that Rashi repeated a comment in different settings or edited his sources by omitting a section that differs from the words he included. In these cases of repetition for emphasis or of editing an earlier text, the method argues that the words of the biblical text do not require these repetitions or edits and are Rashi’s voice, not requirements of the text (see below). Regardless of how Rashi is understood, all agree that of the northern French commentators on the Pentateuch, Rashi became the most popular, even if he wrote originally for a select circle of students.7

5 on “double” comments, see Kamin, Rashi, pp. 158–207, Grossman, Rashi, pp. 94–96, Greenstein, “Sensitivity,” and Amnon Shapira, “Hapeirush hakaful etsel Rashi: Netiyah ledu’alism?” in Sara Japhet, ed., Hamikra bire’i mefarshav (Jerusalem, 1994), pp. 287–311. 6 For a historical approach to Rashi as a medieval Jewish thinker, see Jacob Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance: Jewish-Gentile Relations in Medieval and Modern Times (London, 1961), pp. 14–18; Rappel, Rashi; Elazar Touitou, “Ha-peshatot ha-mithad- shim be-chol yom”: Iyunim be-feirusho shel Rashbam la-Torah (Ramat Gan, 2003), pp. 34–47, Grossman, Rashi, and Grossman, Emunot ve-de’ot. 7 see Eran Weisel, “Le-mi mi’ein Rashi et peirusho la-mikra?” Beit Miqra 52 (2007): 139–68. I thank Ed Greenstein for the reference. See also Elazar Touitou, “Mah heini’a 32 ivan g. marcus

By the thirteenth century, his Humash commentary was standard even in Spanish circles, despite the local preference for a grammatically based literal reading. Soon the ancient religious requirement of studying Humash with the Aramaic Targum could be fulfilled by studying Humash and Rashi, a practice that continues to the present day.8 Moreover, well over 150 supercommentaries were written on Rashi’s Humash commentary alone, and the commentary is the first dated printed Hebrew book (1475). There are so many different manuscripts of the commentary that the original text can sometimes be established only with difficulty. In contrast, the texts of the literal northern French Jewish commentaries died on the vine, often surviving in a single manuscript, and were not published until modern times—Rashbam in 1705 and the others only in the nineteenth century.9 The Christian ad litteram interpreters fared no better.10 What, then, did Rashi do in his Humash commentary? He did not write a midrash on the Bible; he wrote a commentary. A commentary can be midrashic, but it is not a midrash. The difference lies in the principle of selectivity and authorship. By adding so much rabbinical material to his own selected gloss he made his commentary look and sound like a midrash. In part this technique may explain his success. The authority of rabbinical midrash augmented his own. If a writer declares that he is interpreting the Bible on its own terms, the author stands before us as author, with nothing to screen his own interpretive work as commentator. If, as Rashi did in the Humash commentary, he produces both a florilegium or anthology of rabbinical midrashic comments and his own grammatical and other glosses, the figure/ground relationship of the two is blurred. Is Rashi adding to a collection of et Rashi lichtov peirush la-torah?” in Grossman and Japhet, eds., Rashi, 1: 51–62, esp. 54. 8 on Rashi’s popularity in Spain, see Abraham Gross, “Rashi u-masoret limmud ha-torah she-bichtav bi-sefarad,” in Zvi Arie Steinfeld, ed., Rashi: Iyunim bi-ytsirato (Ramat Gan, 1993), pp. 27–55; Grossman, Rashi, pp. 53–57; R. Yaakov b. Asher, Tur, Orah hayim par. 285; Grossman, Hachmei tsarefat, pp. 175–81; and Eric Lawee, “The Reception of Rashi’s Commentary on the Torah in Spain: The Case of Adam’s Mating with the Animals,” Jewish Quarterly Review 97 (2007): 33–66. 9 see Grossman, “School.” An earlier edition was published in Rome ca. 1470. See A. K. Offenberg, “The Earliest Printed Editions of Rashi’s Commentary on the Pentateuch,” in Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, ed., Rashi 1040–1990: Hommage à Ephraim E. Urbach (Paris, 1993), p. 493. 10 on literal-sense Christian scholars, see Beryl Smalley, “The Bible in the Medieval Schools,” in G. W. H. Lampe, ed., The Cambridge History of the Bible: The West from the Fathers to the Reformation (Cambridge, 1969), p. 219. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 33 rabbinical comments, or are the rabbinical comments embedded in his continuous gloss? There is no right answer. By making hiscom- mentary appear to be a rabbinical anthology while at the same time writing his own running commentary, Rashi did both.11 What, then, did his grandson, Rashbam, mean when he quoted his grandfather as saying that had he (Rashi) had enough time he would have rewritten his commentary to emphasize the literal interpretations that are appearing every day? The text reads as follows: And also Rabbenu Shlomo, my mother’s father, enlightener of the eyes of the exile, who interpreted the Torah, Prophets and Writings, applied himself to interpret the meaning of the text of Scripture (peshuto shel mikra). And, even I, Samuel, son of R. Meir, his son-in-law, may the memory of a righteous person be blessed, argued with him, and he conceded to me that had he enough time he should produce other comments in accordance with the literal meanings that are being rediscovered every day (lefi ha-peshatot ha-mithadeshim bechol yom).12 Maybe Rashi said it and meant it. Maybe he was flattering his grandson or just putting him off (“Can’t you see I’m busy? I have no time for this!”) Maybe Rashbam misinterpreted something the old man told him. We have Rashbam’s words, not Rashi’s, on the matter. Maybe Rashbam made it up. Those words, if true, are certainly self-serving. One would hardly guess from this comment that Rashbam tended to bend over backwards frequently (perhaps too frequently?) to show respect for ancient midrashic comments (on Gen. 1:1) and to credit his grandfather’s approach (on Exod. 21:1, end of Exod. 40, and just before Lev. 1:1). At other times, without citing those with whom he disagreed except as “predecessors” (rishonim), he lashed out at their errors and foolishness.13

11 on authorship and authority in medieval Latin Bible commentaries, see A. J. Min- nis, Medieval Theory of Authorship, 2nd ed. (Aldershot, 1988). 12 R. Samuel b. Meir (Rashbam), Perush ha-Torah, David Rosin, ed., 1882 (1949), p. 49. For earlier skepticism toward Rashbam’s claim about Rashi, see Greenstein, “Sensitivity,” pp. 53–54. On Rashi’s use of the phrase “peshuto shel mikra” as “contextual” based on the meaning of PShT “extend,” see Menahem Banitt, Rashi: Interpreter of the Biblical Letter (Tel Aviv, 1985), p. 1 n. 6; Kamin, Rashi. 13 see Sarah Kamin, “Affinities between Jewish and Christian Exegesis in Twelfth Century Northern France,” in idem, ed., Bein yehudim la-notserim be-farshanut hamikra, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem, 2008), pp. xxv–xxvi; Rashbam, Perush, ed. Rosin, pp. 3, 113, 144, and 145. On Rashbam’s, attacks of his unnamed predecessors, see his comments to Gen. 45:28 (Peirush, ed. Rosin, p. 65): “they are worthless” (ve-hinam hevel); 34 ivan g. marcus

Perhaps their inter-generational relationship is a case of “the anxiety of influence”? For as Sarah Kamin has shown, Rashbam’s departure from Rashi’s approach lay more in its execution than in a new theory of exegesis. Rashi himself forged a new exegetical principle from two rarely used Talmudic rules. In his introduction to the Song of Songs commentary, Rashi referred to the principle, “Though one verse may have several meanings, it is never to be deprived of its literal meaning” (mikra ehad yotse le-chamah te’amim ve-sof davar ein lecha mikra yotse midei mashma’o).14 This new rule combined the first half of a dictum in BT Sanhedrin 34a: “One verse has several meanings; one meaning is not derived from several verses” (mikra ehad yotse le-chama te’amim; ve-ein ta’am ehad yotsei mi-kamah mikra’ot) with a slight modifica- tion of another that appears only three times in the Talmud: “a verse is never to be deprived of its literal meaning” (ein mikra yotse midei peshuto) (BT Shabbat 63a, BT Yebamot 11b and 24a). Basing himself on Rashi’s two newly defined separate spheres of meaning, in theory, Rashbam now “drew a clear line of demarcation between literal and non-literal, both in theory and in practice.”15 Thus, Rashbam acknowledged his debt to Rashi but found his approach wanting because Rashi persisted in blurring midrashic readings with the literal meaning of the text, even though he claimed to acknowledge their difference when juxtaposing them (Rashi to Gen. 3:8; introduction to Song of Songs). R. Jacob b. Meir, known as Rabbenu Tam, offers insight into Rash- bam, his older brother, who also differed from their grandfather’s more conservative practice about how one should emend sacred texts: And Rabbenu Shlomo [Rashi] when he emended a text did so in his commentary, but he did not emend the [text in the] book itself. . . . And may the Lord forgive Rabbenu Shmuel [Rashbam] because for every one emendation Rabbenu Shlomo made, he [Rabbenu Shmuel] made

Exod. 3:11 (p. 83): “Whoever wants to reach the real meaning of the text should study my comment here because my predecessors did not understand it at all (“mi she-rotseh la’amod al iqar peshuto shel mikra’ot halalu yaskil be-ferushi zeh ki ha- rishonim mimeni lo hevinu bo klal u-chelal”), both cited in Samuel Poznanski, Perush al Yehezk’el u-terei asar le-Rabbi Eliezer mi-Belganzi (Warsaw, 1913), p. xlvi. On Rash- bam’s attitude toward his grandfather, see also Touitou, Iyunim, pp. 68–76. Touitou also sees Rashbam mainly as expressing independence from Rashi’s approach. 14 see Kamin, “Affinities,” 152; Judah Rosenthal, ed., “Peirush Rashi ‘al shir ha- shirim,” in S. Bernstein and G. A. Churgin, eds., Samuel K. Mirsky Jubilee Volume (New York, 1958), p. 136. 15 Kamin, “Affinities,” p. 153. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 35

twenty. Moreover, he also erased [readings and emended them] in the book itself! I know that he did so only out of his great learning and analytical ability.16 From the backhanded compliment at the end of his comment, we see that R. Jacob was critical of his older brother as being too cavalier with tradition and also too independent of their grandfather’s ways. Perhaps his very dependence on Rashi’s exegetical originality made Rashbam need his grandfather’s approval for his own new consistency in applying the method Rashi had invented but had not applied throughout his commentaries. Whatever Rashbam said or meant to say about his grandfather’s attitude toward the newer approach to exegesis, Rashi produced a midrashic commentary with a tendency to account for the values and words in the biblical narrative as he understood them, and he claimed that his understanding was also rabbinical Judaism’s understanding, even if in a new key. He thus insisted that the written and oral Torah are harmoniously unified and that he could rewrite ancient midrashim to explain the biblical narrative’s true meaning. That basic working principle, which Rashi scholars take for granted, is fraught with important methodological as well as ideological implications. Methodologically, it is possible to distinguish between the text of an ancient midrash and Rashi’s rewriting of it. Ancient midrashim survive in medieval manuscripts, and when we compare Rashi’s comment to the best editions or manuscript witnesses of ancient midrash sources such as Genesis Rabba or Tanhuma or the Talmuds, Rashi’s comments display a consistently different style, sometimes combining different elements into a seamless new whole that amount to a rewritten text, not to another witness to the ancient midrash. This stylistic consistency is apparent even when one takes into account the variations in language in different Rashi manuscripts. One way to minimize these variations in Rashi’s Humash commentary is to rely on early manuscripts such as Leipzig Hebrew 1, which includes distinctly identified elements that were added by Rashi’s student, R. Shemaya; and that is what scholars have done. In this way there is a high degree of probability that we can compare Rashi’s Humash commentary with

16 see R. Jacob b. Meir (Tam), Sefer ha-yashar le-Rabbeinu Tam: Helek ha-hidushim, Shimon Schlesinger, ed., (Jerusalem, 1959, reprinted 1980), p. 9. Others commented on Rashi’s practice of emending a text in his commentaries. See R. Isaac b. Moshe (of Vienna), Sefer or zaru’a (Zhitomir, 1862), part i, par. 63. 36 ivan g. marcus his sources and see how he rewrote them to illustrate his belief in the unity of rabbinic lore and the Hebrew Bible.17 To whom did Rashi address his rewritten midrash commentary on the Humash? What was competing with it in the world of eleventh-century Germany, where he studied, or Champagne, where he was born, lived, and died? If Rashi were writing in Baghdad or in Spain, for example, one might be tempted to think that his insistence on connecting midrash to Bible was an anti-Karaite argument. But there were no Karaites in northern France in Rashi’s day.18 From the earliest Christian centuries, however, when Church writers reinterpreted the Hebrew Bible in Christological terms, some also tried to prevent Jewish post-biblical, midrashic teachings from immunizing Jews from exposure to Christian interpretations. They argued that the Rabbis who taught or preached deuterosis, that is, rabbinical midrashic interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, were keeping Jews from seeing the true Christological meaning of the Hebrew text.19 Rashi could not have been aware of the ancient Christian insistence that Jews not study postbiblical rabbinical texts, a move that erupted in full force in France only in the mid-thirteenth century, although Christian thinkers were becoming increasingly familiar with postbiblical Jewish writings.20 On the other hand, there is abundant evidence that Rashi’s familiarity with and wish to resist Christian claims and

17 on Rashi’s distinctive style, see Ephraim Hazan, “Melei’ut ha-signon be-Feirush Rashi la-mikra,” in Zvi Arie Steinfeld, ed., Rashi: Iyunim bi-ytsirato (Ramat Gan, 1993), pp. 87–95; Yonah Frankel, Darko shel Rashi be-ferusho la-Talmud (Jerusalem, 1975), p. 123; Grossman, Rashi, pp. 77–112. On Leipzig Hebrew 1, see Grossman, Hachmei tsarefat, pp. 187–93 and the literature cited there, and Joseph Ofer, “Map- pot erets yisrael be-feirush Rashi la-torah—u-ma’amado shel ketav yad Leipzig 1,” Tarbiz 76 (2007): 435–43, cited in B. Z. Kedar, “Mappat erets yisrael she-tsiyyeir Rashi ve-rik’ah ha-kartografi,” in Joseph R. Hacker, Yosef Kaplan, and B. Z. Kedar, eds., Rishonim ve-aharonim: Mehkarim be-toledot yisra’el mugashim le-Avraham Grossman (Jerusalem, 2010), p. 128. 18 on the hints about Karaites in medieval Germany and France see Judah Rosen- thal, Mehkarim u-mekorot (Jerusalem, 1967), 1: 234–52; Shlomo Eidelberg, “Iyunim be-farashat karaim ve-kara’ut be-germaniya bi-mei ha-beinayim ve-‘al saf ha-zeman he-hadash,” Ha-Do’ar 78: 20 (20 August 1999): 8–10. 19 For the prohibition in Emperor Justinian’s legislation, Novella 146 (553), and discussion, see Amnon Linder, ed., The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation (Detroit, 1987), pp. 402–11. 20 it is frequently noted that church figures do not seem to have known about the Talmud until the twelfth century, but others were aware of other types of postbiblical Jewish writings, such as Agobard of Lyons’s knowledge of versions of the Toledot Yeshu (Life of Jesus) traditions. On the Church’s growing awareness of Jewish writings before the thirteenth century, see Chen Merhavia, Ha-Talmud bi-re’i ha-natsrut (Jerusalem, 1970), pp. 71–223. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 37 assumptions about the Bible’s meaning motivated him to select and weave into his commentaries carefully rewrittenal rabbinic sources. Rashi was keenly aware of his Christian surroundings. His use of thousands of French vernacular expressions (le’azim) about everyday life demonstrates this awareness.21 He also was explicit in offering some interpretations of verses in Isaiah, Psalms, and Proverbs, for example, that were to be answers to “minim,” whom he often referred to as Christians.22 Even if he was subtler most of the time in his Humash commentary and rarely stated that an interpretation was meant to answer an opponent, he clearly was aware of Christian readings of Hebrew Bible. Indeed, when Rashi was interpreting a large literary unit in an anti-Christian way, he rarely used expressions like “an answer to sectarians” (teshuvah la-minim); he did so when he commented on single disjunctive verses. Thus, his extensive polemical commentaries on texts that the Church interpreted Christologically, such as Song of Songs or Isa. 53, do not contain explicit indicators of a polemical intent. This is because the entire text was meant to be a polemic. This stylistic convention also applies to the Humash commentary as well.23 Rashi’s choice of midrash that he rewrote constituted a series of brush strokes that formed a positive portrait of a community that appears to be rejected and insignificant but that is actually the central part of God’s plan for humanity. In this way he reiterated for his time the eternal validity of the biblical saga as being about God and the Jew- ish people, when interpreted selectively from the midrash by a single

21 arsène Darmesteter, Les Gloses françaises de Raschi dans le Bible (Paris, 1909); Shereshevsky, Rashi, pp. 155–239. 22 For Rashi’s explicit identification of minim with Christians, see Rosenthal, Meh- karim, 1: 101–16, esp. 105. On Rashi’s polemics in general, see especially Kamin, Bein yehdim le-notserim, pp. 22–57; Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance; Rappel, Rashi; Grossman, Rashi; and Grossman, Emunot ve-de’ot. 23 Basing himself on Rashi’s use of explicit indicators of polemics elsewhere (teshuvah la-minim), Shaye Cohen has argued that Rashi’s Humash (Torah) commentary lacks them and that he did not engage in polemics in that work. See Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Does Rashi’s Torah Commentary Respond to Christianity? A Comparison of Rashi with Rashbam and Bekhor Shor,” in Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman, eds., The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (Leiden, 2004), pp. 449–72. Rashi on Gen. 6:6 (and Gen. 49:10, pace Cohen) are exceptions to Cohen’s otherwise correct stylistic observation about Rashi’s polemical writings. For Rashi on Isa. 53, see Adolf Neubauer, ed., The Fifty-Third Chapter of Isaiah According tothe Jewish Interpreters ([1876] reprinted New York, 1969), 1: 37–40. Rashi seems to have been responsible for making the equation of the Servant of the Lord and the people of Israel into an accepted trope in later Jewish literature. See Rosenthal, Mehkarim, p. 112. 38 ivan g. marcus commentary attached to the sacred text itself. In their books about Rashi’s worldview as shaped by his rewritten midrash, Rappel and Grossman, in particular, have offered hundreds of examples worked out in detail. I offer here a small sampling of Rashi’s comments on the important subject of God’s relationship to Israel and the Nations.

Rashi: On God and Israel and the Nations

One of the central themes that all agree Rashi featured in his Humash commentary is an emphasis on God’s love of the people of Israel and his critique of Gentiles, especially as personified in such figures asE sau. The Hebrew Bible makes this point the center of its message, and any commentator would have to emphasize it. Scholars who have focused on Rashi as author, however, note that Rashi is more consistent on this score than the rabbis of the midrash. The midrash is made up of thousands of opinions and can express many views about any theme; Rashi did not reflect this midrashic variability but instead repeated or edited sources so that a more homogeneous point of view emerges. In his study of rabbinical legal discussions of how the laws about idolatry apply to contemporary economic situations with medieval Christians, Jacob Katz discussed Rashi as a writer who made his case by repetition and selection. Thus, Katz noted that Rashi praised Israel and faulted the nations by teaching three times that God first offered the Torah to the nations but they refused to accept it; only Israel accepted it.24 The first time (Deut. 2:26) reads: “Then I sent messengers from the wilderness of Kedemot [a name that implies “from ancient times,” K-D-M] to King Sihon of Heshbon with an offer of peace.” Rashi commented on the “wilderness of Kedemot”: “Even though God did not command me to offer peace to Sihon, I learned it from Sinai—that is, from the Torah that existed from before [K-D-M] the world was created. When the Holy One Blessed be He came to give [the Torah] to Israel, he offered it first to Esau and Ishmael. Even though He knew that they would not accept it, He began ‘with an offer of peace.’” The comment plays on the root K-D-M and inserts the principle that the nations, especially Esau and Ishmael, representing Christendom and

24 Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance, p. 14 n. 3. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 39

Islam, refused to accept the Torah when God offered it to them; Israel, on the other hand, did so. A second time (Deut. 33:2): “The Lord came from Sinai; He shone upon them from Seir; He appeared from Mount Paran. . . .” On Seir, Rashi commented: “First he spoke to the sons of Esau [who are from Seir; i.e., Christians] and offered them the Torah but they did not want it”; on Paran, “Then He went there and offered it to the children of Ishmael [who are from there: Gen. 21:21; that is, Muslims] who did not want it.” Although, as Katz noted, the idea is found in the rabbinical Midrash Sifrei Devarim, that midrash contains elaborate and diverse comments, but Rashi reduced them to two phrases that emphasize that Christian Edom and Muslim Ishmael refused the offer of the Torah before Israel accepted it. Similarly, we find the general idea in BT Avo- dah Zarah 2b that God offered the Torah to “the nations,” but that text does not specify just Esau and Ishmael, as Rashi did.25 A third time (Song of Songs 2:3): “Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest. . . .” Rashi: “As all run away from the apple tree that does not provide shade, so all the nations ran from the Holy One blessed be He at the giving of the Torah. But, in contrast, ‘I delight to sit in its shade’” (ibid.).26 Although Katz emphasized that Rashi expressed his view by sheer repetition, it is clear even in these cases that Rashi selected and rewrote his midrashic sources. We see this practice as well in examples that Dov Rappel cited in his short but very illuminating study of Rashi as thinker.27 For example, Rashi comments on the word “enemy” in Ps. 9:7: “The enemy is no more—ruins everlasting (netsah).” Rashi: “The enemy whose ruins from his hatred were for us an eternity refers to [standard ed.: Amalek; ed. Maarsen: Esau] about whom Scripture says, ‘and his fury stormed unchecked (netsah)’ ” (Amos 1:11).28 The passage in Amos is about Esau (“Thus says the Lord: For three transgressions of Edom”), but Rashi replaced that specific enemy with the generic

25 see Sifre Devarim, par. 343. 26 see Rosenthal, “Peirush Rashi,” p. 145. For other midrashic comments on this verse that Rashi did not adopt, see R. Shimon ha-Darshan, Yalkut Shim’oni (Jerusa- lem, 1960), 1: par. 273. For other examples of Rashi as engaged in rewritten midrash, see Katz, Exclusiveness, pp. 15–17. 27 Rappel, Rashi. 28 Rappel, Rashi, p. 32 n. 7. For the reading “Esau,” see I. Maarsen, ed., Parshan- data ve-hu peirush Rashi ‘al nach, Part III: Psalms (Jerusalem, 1936), p. 9. 40 ivan g. marcus

“enemy” in the verse—Edom=Esau=Christendom, the enemy par excellence of the Jewish people. He transferred the meaning from one verse to the other based on the ancient rabbinical midrashic technique of “gezerah shavah” or having terms in common, since the word “netsah” is found in both verses.29 Rappel has also pointed out that Ibn Ezra’s comment on the verse in Amos 1:11 refers to Edom in the past, whereas Rashi put it in the present. Thus, the verse continues: “because his anger raged unceasing and his fury stormed unchecked.” Rashi: “It still rages and he storms without any remorse.” Rappel has offered many similar examples of Rashi selectively drawing on midrashic comments.30 Abraham Grossman, like Jacob Katz, has pointed to Rashi’s repetition as a sign of his own voice in cases where the text does not require the comment. Thus, to emphasize the values of the Torah and of the Jewish people, Rashi repeated the idea that the world depends on Israel accepting and following the Torah. First time (Exod. 32:16, on “the tablets were God’s work” [or “occupation”]): Rashi: “It is like a person who tells his neighbor that his sole occupation is doing such and such; so, here, the Holy One blessed be He’s sole occupation is with [giving the] Torah [to Israel].” The world was created so that Israel would accept the Torah. Second time (Gen. 1:31): “the sixth day”(yom ha-shishi). Rashi: “God added to the completion of creation the Hebrew letter heh [signifying the number five, that stands for the five books of Moses], to mean: He made a condition with humankind: the world will continue to exist only on condition that Israel will accept the five books of the Torah.” Third time (Ps. 40:6): “The wonders You have devised for us.” Rashi: “You created Your world for our sake.”31 As in the examples of Rashi’s repetition that Jacob Katz offered, here too Rashi reinforced his central values by repetition even when the text did not require reiteration in each passage. Grossman has offered another example of Rashi’s own point of view, also mentioned by Dov Rappel, that involves quoting a midrashic source

29 on the term and its exegetical use, see H. L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash. 2nd ed. (Minneapolis, 1996), pp. 18–19. 30 Rashi on Amos 1:11 in I. Maarsen, ed., Parschan-data ve-hu peirush Rashi ‘al \nach, Part I: The Minor Prophets (Amsterdam, 1930), p. 34. 31 The passages from the Pentateuch are in ed. Berliner, pp. 197 and 4–5; the one from Psalms is in ed. Maarsen, p. 39. See Grossman, Rashi, p. 166. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 41 beyond the requirement of a particular biblical passage. The full quotation reinforces a central value Rashi addressed, God’s love for Israel. Thus, to Song of Songs 3:11, “wearing the crown that his mother gave him on his wedding day.” Rashi’s source, Midrash Tanhuma (Pekudei [sec. 8]), includes a parable with three special relationships, not just one between a mother and child, required by the verse. Rashi included all three loving relationships in the midrash: “Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai asked Rabbi Eleazar b. R. Yosi: Did you ever hear from your father the meaning of ‘wearing the crown his mother gave him’? He said to him: A parable of a king who had an only daughter and loved her dearly. He loved her so much he called her ‘my daughter,’ as in ‘Listen, daughter, and realize’ (Ps. 45:11); he loved her so much he called her ‘my sister’ as in ‘Open for me, my sister, my darling’ (Song of Songs 5:2); he loved her so much he called her ‘my mother’ as in ‘Listen to me, my people (le-‘ami), my mother (le’umi)’ (Isa. 51:4). The word ‘le’umi’ is written as though pronounced ‘le-imi’ (my mother). Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai rose and kissed him on the head.”32

Rashi’s Midrashic Commentary As an Object of Christian Scorn

Rashi wrote his Humash commentary to provide Jewish readers with a Jewish worldview that selectively reinforced the rabbis’ understanding by rewriting it to undermine a Christian interpretation of the world. Jews appreciated the positive Jewish rewriting of ancient sources, which Rashi made an integral part of the weekly reading of the Humash. In marked contrast, when the Church authorities finally learned that Jews were studying the Talmud as well as the Bible, they also discovered Rashi’s commentaries on both texts as being worthy of their scorn. At issue was the Church’s objection to Jews adding rabbinical teachings to biblical study such that the truth of the Old Testament would be hidden. In addition, complaints were raised about the Talmud containing insults to the Church. A papal inquiry was addressed to several princes of the Church, but only the ecclesiastical authorities in France conducted an investigation and trial. This investigation resulted in the

32 see Rappel, Rashi, p. 58; Grossman, Rashi, p. 168. The source is in Midrash Tan- huma, ed. Solomon Buber (Jerusalem, 1964), Pekudei, 67b; see Buber’s n. 72 about the form of the word “le’umi/le’imi.” The quotation from Rashi on Song of Songs is in ed. Rosenthal, p. 154. 42 ivan g. marcus burning of several cartloads of the Talmud and other Jewish manuscripts in 1242.33 A product of the investigation was the Extractiones de Talmud, a Latin collection of translated passages from the Talmud as well as from Rashi’s commentaries on the Talmud. In addition, a separate section contained 160 passages from Rashi’s commentaries on the Hebrew Bible.34 This separate section of the Extractiones indicates that ecclesiastical authorities correctly understood Rashi as relying on rabbinical midrash. They ignored all of the other northern French Hebrew Bible commentators who had written after Rashi.35 The introduction to the selected quotations from Rashi’s biblical commentary makes it clear that the Christian authorities knew about Rashi’s influence on Jewish readers: “The Jews . . . repute authority to whatsoever he said as if it had been spoken to them out of the mouth of God.”36 How did they read Rashi? To paraphrase a question that is often used in the study of Rashi on the Humash: “What bothered the Dominicans who read Rashi”? The compilers did not translate the passages that dealt withclas- sical polemical verses between Jews and Christians. We do not find Rashi, for example, on Genesis 1:26 or 49:10.37 Rather, the passages

33 For the papal texts, see Solomon Grayzel, ed., The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century, revised ed. (New York, 1966), pp. 251–53 n. 104 and 275–80 n. 119. On the Paris Talmud trial, see Isadore Loeb, “La controverse de 1240 sur le Talmud,” Revue des études juives 1 (1880): 247–61; 2 (1881): 248–70; 3 (1881): 39–57; Judah Rosenthal, “The Talmud on Trial: The Disputation at Paris in the Year 1240,” Jewish Quarterly Review 47 (1956–1957): 58–76, 145–69; Robert Chazan, Medieval Jewry in Northern France: A Political and Society History (Baltimore, 1973), pp. 124–33; Jer- emy Cohen, The Friars and the Jews: The Evolution of Medieval Anti-Judaism (Ithaca, 1982), pp. 60–76; William C. Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews (Philadelphia, 1989), pp. 137–39. For the Hebrew text of the event, see Cohen, Friars and the Jews, p. 66 n. 26. 34 Part of this text has been edited by Gilbert Dahan, “Rashi, sujet de la controverse de 1240,” Archives Juives 14 (1978): 43–54; and see Herman Hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars (Pittsburgh, 1963), pp. 103–34. 35 on the Latin list of Rashi’s Bible quotations, see Merhavia, Ha-Talmud bi-re’i ha-natsrut, p. 419; for selected English translations, see Hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars, pp. 116–28. See also Gilbert Dahan, “Un dossier latin de textes de Rashi autour de la controverse de 1240,” Revue des études juives 151 (1992): 321–36. On Augustinian theory, see Cohen, Friars and the Jews; also idem, Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity (Berkeley, 1999), pp. 23–71; idem, “Revisiting Augustine’s Doctrine of Jewish Witness,” Journal of Religion 89 (2009): 564–78. 36 hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars, p. 276 n. 48 (Latin), 117 (English). 37 dahan, “Un dossier,” p. 327. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 43 were selected according to six categories written alongside the texts themselves: foolishness (stultitia); errors (error); superstition (sortile- gium); Talmud, blasphema, goy; and sages (sapientes).38 That is what the compiler meant when he said in the introduction: “Of the glosses of Solomon of Troyes on the Old Testament I have translated almost nothing although there are there infinite wonders (mirabilia infinita); and they contain a great part of the Talmud.”39 What bothered the compiler was that Rashi “left almost nothing without corruption, to the extent that he kept neither literal nor spiritual meaning or sense, but perverted the whole and turned it into fables.”40 From the ecclesiastical point of view, Rashi was not successful at interpreting either the “literal” or the “spiritual” meaning of Scripture. His commentary was filled with Talmudic nonsense and blasphemy.

Rashi’s “Double Polemical Approach” in His Bible Commentary

Although ecclesiastical authorities in the thirteenth century may have found in Rashi what they were looking for—a compiler of rabbinic tales and insults to the Church—they did not appreciate how successful he had become in replacing Christian readings with Jewish ones with his rewritten midrash. His Jewish readers understood him as providing both some guidance about the Hebrew text itself as well as an edited rabbinical midrashic commentary on the Humash about God and Israel. Because he did this, he was more popular than any of his successors.41 Was a literal approach adequate to negate Christian readings of the Bible? This issue has been addressed by the late Sarah Kamin, who argued that the motivation for the Jewish literal interpretive move in northern France cannot be explained by a need for Jews to develop anti-Christian readings of the Hebrew Bible. This is because according to Christian exegetical theory the literal sense did not undermine the allegorical meaning of the Bible, as it could for Rashi and Rashbam

38 ibid., pp. 328–29, with examples of each type. 39 merhavia, Ha-Talmud bi-re’i ha-natsrut, par. 46, 458 (Latin)=Hailperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars, p. 117 (English). 40 ibid. 41 Poznanski, Perush, pp. xv–xvi. 44 ivan g. marcus and others. Since at least the time of the Church Fathers, a three- or fourfold approach to different meanings of the Bible meant that they were not mutually exclusive. To paraphrase the Talmud, the biblical text never loses any of its senses: One of the reasons for ascribing an anti-Christian polemical factor to the emergence and development of the literal method of exegesis is the assumption that the literal method was an efficient weapon in repudiat- ing the Christian allegorical sense of Scripture.42 But Christian interpreters, such as Hugh of St. Victor, basing himself on earlier Christian multiple levels of Scripture, did not see a mutually exclusive opposition between the literal and the spiritual meanings of the text, as Rashi, Rashbam, and the other northern French Jewish exegetes did.43 Did the Jewish interpreters, then, project their own sense that there was a dichotomy between peshuto shel mikra and midrash agadah onto their Christian opponents and assume that their new literal readings would undermine Christological and other Christian readings of the Hebrew Bible? There is no way of knowing if the medieval French rabbis even knew Christian exegetical theory. Besides, did the Christians whom rabbis and other Jews encountered to discuss the meaning of the Hebrew Bible understand the Christian theory? Some comments in Rashbam’s commentary suggest that he was successful in convinc- ing his Christian opponents with his literal interpretations.44 Still, even if a learned Jew could use literal interpretations to win an argument with a Christian, it left most Jews with only the literal meaning of the Bible and nothing else. Rashi, however, offered his Jewish readers much more. In addition to providing many isolated analytical, philological comments, directed at “minim,” and aimed at negating Christological interpretations, in his synthetic commentaries, as on the Humash or the Song of Songs or Isaiah 53, Rashi provided his Jewish readers with positive traditional Jewish readings of Jewish history and experience that replaced any putative Christian worldview. The literal interpreters did not.

42 Kamin, “Affinities,” p. 155. 43 ibid., p. 152. 44 For example, on Exod. 20:13, see Perush ha-Torah, ed. Rosin, p. 111; on “thou shall not murder”: Poznanski, Perush, p. xlviii; or on Lev. 19:19, Perush ha-Torah, ed. Rosin, p. 161, both cited in Poznanski, Perush, p. xlviii. the humash commentary as rewritten midrash 45

I refer to these two complementary strategies in Rashi’s polemical biblical exegesis as his “double polemical approach.” By this I mean not his methodological justification, as in Gen. 3:8, of “double” comments on a verse in which Rashi says that he selected a midrash that he thought was compatible with a more philological or contextual meaning. Rather, Rashi’s extended “double polemical approach” refers to Rashi’s analytical and synthetic polemical readings of Scripture. When confronted with a verse’s Christological meaning, he directed his literal interpretation as an “answer to Christians” to undermine their Christological readings. His emphasis on the inner-biblical Hebrew meaning of those passages sought to rebut a Christological reading by restoring the Hebrew text to its contextual literary meaning. That, however, was not sufficient. In addition, Rashi offered his Jewish readers rewritten midrash, not, as he said in his methodological statements, because it fits the words in question but because his rewritten midrash is a positive synthetic reading of large units and replaces the Christian allegorical meaning of those texts. Rightly or wrongly, Rashi thought that a literal reading of the biblical text could refute a Christological allegorical meaning but could not replace it. Only rewritten midrash could do that. By the thirteenth century, then, the Church understood that Rashi was popular and that he had created a midrashic barrier between Jews and the attractiveness of Christianity. Although they dismissed him as promoting Talmudic foolishness and insults, deserving of censure, they missed the real contribution Rashi had made for his Jewish readers. Although the ecclesiastical denigration of the Talmud and midrash in the thirteenth century could not have motivated Rashi to concentrate on rabbinical lore in the first place, he did just that for his own reasons. The result was that Jews embraced him. Christian investigators proscribed him, but they could not stop Jews from reading him. Without midrash, Jews and the Hebrew Bible were relatively defense- less under Christian attack over the alleged Christological meanings of their text. Rashi’s rewritten midrash provided just such a defense. The Commentary of Rashi on Isaiah and the Jewish-Christian Debate*

Avraham Grossman

Scholars have long debated whether it is possible to trace the escalat- ing Jewish-Christian debate in Rashi’s biblical exegesis. In the past, many scholars posited a select number of scriptural loci that revealed an indirect polemical engagement with Christological scholarship.1 Recently, there has been increased attention to the centrality of Jewish- Christian polemics in Rashi’s Torah commentary, specifically in his comments on the Latter Prophets and Writings (Ketuvim).2 The shift in the academic approach stems mainly from the discovery of preferred versions, in extant manuscripts, of Rashi’s biblical commentary. Bearing the hand of the Christian censors, the printed editions are free of any derisive comments about Christianity, and thus they obscure the full picture.3 Current research maintains that the polemical debate is intrinsic to Rashi’s exegetical approach to the Bible, leaving numerous impressions far beyond those identified until now. I maintain this opinion in my own research. The rare instances where Rashi explicitly acknowledged his polemical engagement with Christological scholarship occur in reference to Jesus and his disciples. Such comments are mostly found in his exegesis of Daniel, although the polemical references are concealed. The polemical references become overt only through knowledge of Rashi’s style, and the fact that he chose scriptural interpretations that did not employ the simplest sense (pshat). A survey of his comments

* The article was translated from Hebrew by Dana Fishkin. 1 yitzhak Baer was of the exceptional opinion that Rashi paid much attention to the Jewish-Christian debate and that it informed his biblical commentary. 2 There is an extensive bibliography on this subject that will not be cited here. Much of the relevant studies can be found in my book, A. Grossman, The Early Sages of France (Jerusalem, 1995), pp. 457–506. 3 for a detailed treatment of Christian censorship in the 16th century and its effects on Jewish printed books, see Amnon-Raz-Krakotzkin, Censorship, Editing and the Text, Catholic Censorship and Hebrew Literature in the Sixteenth Century (Jerusalem, 2005). 48 avraham grossman

juxtaposed against the original midrashic sources and the use of the aforementioned preferred extant versions reveal this polemical layer.4 It is not surprising that Rashi engaged Christological scholarship in much of his Torah commentary. In his gloss, Rashi assumed three important tasks: 1) the interpretation of Bible and Talmud in order to impart Torah to the public. This enabled Jews to learn Torah locally, despite being distant from the established Babylonian (yeshivot) academies; 2) the mediation of feuds that developed in the Jewish communities of France and Germany due to conflicting cultural and economic interests caused by recently migrated peoples; 3) the protection of Judaism from Christian propaganda, which, increasingly, had an influential power on both Christian society and the Jews. The sources have preserved testimony of such propaganda and they provide examples of Jews who apostatized their faith at that time. Henceforth, I will focus on the debate with Christological scholarship implicit in Rashi’s commentary on Isaiah. The Jewish-Christian debate occupies an important place in this book, as evidenced by the preferred extant manuscript editions of Rashi’s words that are based on uncensored manuscripts rather than on printed editions of his commentary that include many corrections by Christian censors.5 The debate is embodied by four central topics: 1) The prophecy in chapters 11–12, known as the “shoot of Jesse;” 2) The prophecies to the world’s nations in chapters 17–27; Rashi interpreted the prophecies concerning the nations defeated by Sancherib as referring to Israel’s exiled state under centuries of Christian dominion; 3) The prophecies

4 There has been a recent exploration of the effects of religious polemics on Rashi’s commentaries on Song of Songs, Job, Psalms, and Proverbs that is based on the extant manuscript versions of Rashi’s commentaries. For Song of Songs, see Sarah Kamin, “Rashi’s Commentary on the Song of Songs and Jewish-Christian Polemic,” in idem, Jews and Christians Interpret the Bible (Jerusalem, 1991), pp. 31–61; Robert Chazan, “Rashi’s Commentary on the Book of Daniel,” Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge, ed. G. Dahan, G. Nahon, and E. Nicolas (Paris, 1997), pp. 111–21; For Psalms, see G.G. Gevaryahu, “Nusḥa’ot Rashi le-Tehilim ve-Hazenzurah,”̣ Meḥqarim be-Miqra u-Bemaḥshevet Yisrael (Jerusalem, 1989), pp. 248–261; Avraham Grossman, “Perush Rashi le-Tehilim ve-Hapulmus ha-Yehudi Nozri,”̣ Sefer ha-Yovel le-Professor Moshe Ahrend (Jerusalem, 1996), pp. 59–74; For Proverbs, see idem, “Nusaḥ Perush Rashi la-Nakh ve-Hapulmus ha-Yehudi Nozri,”̣ Sinai 137 (2006), pp. 32–58. 5 i. Maarsen, Parshandatha: The Commentary of Rashi on the Prophets and Hagio- graphs, Part II: Isajah (Jerusalem, 1933); Mikra’ot Gedolot ‘Haketer,’ ed. Menachem Cohen (Jerusalem, 1996). All subsequent citations from Rashi’s gloss on Isaiah are found in these two works. the commentary of rashi on isaiah 49 of God’s servant in chapters 52–54; and 4) The prophecies concerning Edom’s chastisement and Israel’s redemption in chapters 63–66. Before we survey Rashi’s stance on these topics, it is important to review three assumptions fundamental to Rashi’s composition of his commentary on Isaiah. 1) It is a unified text written entirely by the prophet Isaiah. This article is not the appropriate place to dwell on the chronology of the prophecies, since my primary interest is to dis- till Rashi’s anti-Christian position; 2) Rashi believed that the author intentionally conflated prophecies about the Assyrian downfall at Jeru- salem’s gates in the time of Hezekiah (701 BCE) with eschatological prophecies. Sanherib’s downfall paradigmatically represents Israel’s miraculous salvation, even at the height of anti-Jewish violence; 3) the eschatological prophecies that prophesy about the fall of Israel’s enemies at the end of days refer to the Christians whom Rashi designates: Esau, Edom, Amalek, Seir, and Rome. Deleted by the hands of a Chris- tian censor, or as a preliminary measure, the absence of such words renders the printed editions deficient and, therefore, unreliable for a study of Rashi’s attitude toward Christianity.

The Miraculous Child

Isaiah 9:5–6 describes a miraculous child who will bring salvation to Jerusalem and, perhaps, to Israel. The verse states, “For a child has been born to us, a son has been given us, and authority has settled on his shoulders. He has been named ‘the Mighty God is planning grace, the Eternal Father, a peaceable ruler. In token of abundant authority and of peace without limit upon David’s throne and kingdom, that it may be firmly established in justice and in equity now and evermore.” It is well known that Christianity identified the miraculous child as Jesus, and viewed these verses as a prophecy about Jesus’s birth/arrival.6 Some traditional Jewish exegetes interpreted these verses as referring to the Messiah, especially in light of the phrase “now and evermore” in

6 see Luke 1:32–33. On the role of this prophecy in the Jewish-Christian debate, see Sefer Joseph Hamekane, ed. Judah Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1970), § 80, pp. 76–77; David Berger (ed.), Sefer Nizẓ aḥ ̣on Yashan. The Jewish Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages (Philadelphia, 1969), pp. 59–60; Wagenseil edition, pp. 86–88. The proximity of this prophecy to the “maiden” who birthed a son prophecy (Isaiah 7:14) increased the usage of this source in Christian propaganda. 50 avraham grossman the verse. Others posited that the prophecy referred to King Hezekiah, whose reign would see Jerusalem’s salvation from Sancherib. Usually, Rashi would tend to support the opinion that the prophecy referred to the Messiah. However, there are multiple versions of his commentary on these verses, and the unilateral establishment of an authentic version is difficult. Rashi interpreted the verses as referring to King Hezekiah, and he ended the comment with: “this is in response to the apostates (the Christians),” indicating that this was not Rashi’s preferred interpretation. In a self-professed admission, Rashi proposed it in service of the polemical debate with Christians, in order to reject their basic interpretation of this verse as a messianic prophecy. Gloss- ing “now and evermore,” Rashi explained: “all the days of Hezekiah’s life,” but he added a charge against Christian scholars who posit Jesus as the referent of the verse. According to him, the word “now” is problematic for Christians, since Jesus was not born for another several hundred years. Were we positive that this is the authentic version, this would have been an explicit proof of Rashi’s polemical exegesis against Christianity in the book of Isaiah, characterized by Rashi’s intentional selection of far-fetched interpretations to undercut Christian propaganda, a tactic that Rashi explicitly takes in his commentary on Psalms.7 This version, however, that explicitly engages polemically with Christianity, is found only in a small number of manuscripts, leading one to question/doubt its authenticity. Even if Rashi did not directly engage in polemics with Christianity in this text, it underlies his exegesis.

The Shoot of Jesse

Rashi’s treatment of the “shoot of Jesse” prophecy is especially sensitive in light of its Christological interpretation as a prefiguration of Jesus’s arrival.8 It is revealing that the authors of both the Sefer Yosef Ha-Meqane and the Sefer Nizẓ aḥ ̣on Vetus—two classic medieval Jew- ish polemical tracts—rebut Christian claims that this prophecy refers

7 see my article “Perush Rashi le-Tehillim,” pp. 59–74 [full reference in note 5 above]. On the variant manuscript editions, see Maarsen, Parshandatha, pp. 30–32 and relevant notes. 8 see Romans 15:12. the commentary of rashi on isaiah 51 to Jesus.9 The author of the Sefer Nizẓ aḥ ̣on Vetus (p. 96) omitted the messianic interpretations of this verse proposed by the sages, of blessed memory, and opted to gloss the prophecies of comfort allegorically, or as references to King Hezekiah. This attests to the deep fear of Chris- tian propaganda, and it reveals the author’s resolute intent not to fur- nish Christian propaganda with any messianic Jewish interpretation. Despite his fear of Christian propaganda, Rashi interpreted “in that day, my Lord will apply His hand again to redeeming the other part of His people” (Isaiah 11:11) as an eschatological prophecy about the messianic age, a gloss that could potentially bolster the Christian argument. However, Rashi’s motivation stemmed from his reading of the verse as a basis for eschatological prophecies about the Redemption, and specifically Israel’s redemption from exile in Christendom.10 In his comment, Rashi confronts Christian contentions in two ways. He claims that one of the fundamental messages of “the shoot of Jesse” is the obliteration of Christianity and the safeguarding of exiled Diaspora Jews beyond Christian reach. Furthermore, Rashi claims that the prophecy blatantly refers to Jews living in Christian lands. The word “again” (shenit) connotes the final redemption, and Isaiah calls it “the second one” to distinguish it from the first redemption from Egypt. One cannot read this vision as the return to Zion for the Israel- ite redemption from Egypt was complete, “clearly without slavery, but the Redemption of the Second Temple is not counted, because they were enslaved to Cyrus.” Therefore, this verse must refer to the future Redemption in the Messianic era.11

9 Sefer Joseph Hamekane, ed. Judah Rosenthal, §§ 81–82, pp. 77–78; David Berger (ed.), Sefer Nizẓ aḥ ̣on Yashan. The Jewish Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages, pp. 60–62. [See full citation in no. 6 above]. 10 rashi did not follow this path in his gloss of Psalms 2. There, he explicitly wrote that even though one must apply a messianic interpretation according to the sages, he chose to gloss the chapter as a reference to David himself in service to the Jewish- Christian debate. See my article, “Perush Rashi Le-Tehillim,” p. 61. Apparently, Rashi chose this direct method in response to Christians’ frequent return to this specific text in their propaganda. For the use of Psalms 2 in Christological exegesis in the early period, see Acts of the Apostles 4:24–30. For Christian exegesis of Psalms, see M. J. Rondeau, Les Commentaries patristiques du Psautier (IIIe–Ve siècles). Orientalia Christiana Analecta 219, vol. 1 (Rome, 1982); M. L. Colish, “Psalterium Scholastico- rum: Peter Lombard and the Emergence of Scholastic Psalms Exegesis,” Speculum 67 (1992): 531–48. 11 The Talmud preserved a lone opinion of a sage who interpreted this prophecy as a reference to Hezekiah and Sanherib’s downfall during his reign (TB Sanhedrin 98b, 99a). 52 avraham grossman

The coastlands are one of the places from which God will redeem the Jews, and Rashi interprets their residents as “Romans, descendants of Esau.” “Rome” and “Esau” are quintessential symbols of Christi- anity, both in rabbinical literature and in Rashi’s commentary.12 His intention is even more explicit in his comment on Isaiah’s praise of redemption. Rashi interpretss the verse “For the Lord is my strength and might” (Isaiah 12:2) as: “until this point, God’s name had been divided, but upon Esau’s downfall, God’s name is complete.” His interpretation is founded on a rabbinical midrash on Exodus 17:16 containing a description of Amalek’s victory and the order to destroy him. Explicating this verse, Rashi claims that the directive to obliterate all memory of Amalek applies to Christianity as well (Esau). It is no coincidence that he uses the epithet Amalek to refer to Christian- ity. From a methodological perspective, Rashi’s words contain an important foundational principle. He advanced an interpretation that is far from the simplest (pshat) sense, and one assumes that he was aware of this. His interpretation has, at least, two essential flaws. The assumption that the second redemption—whenever it will be—must resemble the first in intensity is not necessary. Additionally, the identification of “the coastlands” with Christian dominions is tenuous. Isa- iah 11:11 mentions eight locations, “my Lord will apply his hand again to redeeming the other part of His people from Assyria, as also from Egypt, Pathros, Nubia, Elam, Shinar, Hamath, and the coastlands.” Rashi correctly explains that the verse includes southern locales like Egypt and Pathros as well as the northern locales of Assyria and Elam. What, then, are “the coastlands?” Rashi identified the residents of the coastlands as “Romans, descendants of Esau,” namely, Christians. Later, Rashi adds: “It is not on the same side.” This means that the coastlands are not adjacent to the other seven locales, nor are they in the same region. Rashi could be referring to Christian Europe when he says “it is not on the same side” or he could be referring to Tyre and Zidon, a reading that emerges from Rashi’s gloss on Isaiah 23, as will be examined below. The first opinion is preferable because Tyre

12 This assertion was well demonstrated by G. D. Cohen, “Esau as Symbol in Early Medieval Thought,” Jewish Medieval and Renaissance Studies, ed. A. Altmann (Cam- bridge, Mass., 1967), pp. 19–48. the commentary of rashi on isaiah 53 and Zidon are still “on the same side.” One cannot argue that the identification of “the coastlands” with Christianity is not indicated. Most contemporary scholars understand “the coastlands” as islands in the Mediterranean Sea.13 What impelled Rashi to specify that “the coastlands” are under the dominion of Esau’s descendants, namely Christians, and to specify that they are not located near the other seven locations? Most certainly, Rashi’s motive is to describe the future downfall of Christianity and his association of the Romans with Esau’s descendants serves this end. Exemplary proof is Rashi’s explication of “for the Lord is my strength and might” (Isaiah 12:2) as an allusion to Esau’s (Christianity’s) downfall as a precursor to the unity of God’s throne. Since the text enu- merates eight nations whom God will thwart in order to redeem the Israelites, why is Esau’s downfall specified as cause for divine praise? The message is not specific to “the coastlands.” Generally, Rashi’s reading of the “shoot of Jesse” prophecy is tendentious, meant to fortify the Jewish spirit in exile under Christian dominion in Europe by assuring the Jews that their redemption is foretold.14

The Prophecies to the World’s Nations

Chapters 17–18 describe the destruction of the Aramean and Israelite monarchies by Assyrian forces. The survivors will return, in repentance, to the Samarian kingdom. However, parts of this prophecy refer

13 scholars are divided over the identification of “the coastlands.” Some claim that the term signifies a portion of the Persian Empire or islands and beaches in general, such as settlements near the Mediterranean, the Aegean, and the Greek islands, especially those locales frequented by the sailors of Zidon. The plural form of the name appears a few times in texts of Ramses III, texts narrating Pharoah’s victories over the northern nations who tried to penetrate Egypt. 14 This tendency in Rashi’s treatment of this expression is also found in the introduction to the book Sefer Joseph Hamekane (see notes 6 and 9), p. 4: “in the consolation [prophecies] it is written that The Israelites will be gathered in the days of redemption from the coastlands . . . During the first exile no Israelite exiled from Eretz Yisrael to the coastlands, let alone that they will be gathered there.” The writer means that this prophesy cannot refer to the early Second Temple Period, since it is unknown whether the Jews were exiled to the coastlands during that time, therefore they must refer to the exile of the Jews in medieval Europe. 54 avraham grossman to Sanherib’s downfall at the gates of Jerusalem in 701 BCE, after the Assyrian kings defeated Aram in 732 BCE and Samaria in 722 BCE. Rashi also explained these prophecies as references to the Aramean and Israelite downfall and, in his opinion, they are concentrated in chapter 17. Chapter 18 treats the punishment of the Samarian kingdom, Israel’s redemption from the hands of Esau, and the return or ingathering of the exiles. Rashi explains “for thus the Lord said to me: I rest calm andconfident in My habitation” (Isaiah 18:4) as an allusion to Israel’s redemption after the punishment of the Chris- tian kingdoms (“The payment of Esau’s reward”). The following verse describes the downfall of Esau’s descendants before they can execute their plans and destroy Israel, “that he plans to destroy his brethren (Israel) . . . he shall kill (God) the kings and officers of Gog, Esau’s forces and auxiliary armies.” Knowing Rashi’s association of the Christians as allies of Gog and Magog, they will all be thwarted as punishment for their planned obliteration of the Israelites. It is clear that Rashi’s identification of the Christians as allies of Gog and Magog attests to the intensity of his hatred of Christian dominion in medieval Europe. Chapter 19 returns to a discussion of Egypt’s fate, and how San- herib’s army will demolish it, a prophecy that Rashi links to the ultimate demise of Christianity. For Rashi, Sanherib’s downfall symbolizes the future demise of all of Israel’s enemies, chiefly the Christians. Con- sequently, all mention of Esau is neither explicit nor implicit in the verses. Rashi’s agenda to encourage his downtrodden nation, to fortify their spirits, impelled him to gloss the text in such a way. Although rabbinical midrash could have aided him, in limited cases, Rashi specifically chose other midrashic statements about Esau. The end of chapter 19 narrates Sanherib’s downfall at Jerusalem’s gates, and the deep impressions of this defeat that brought new converts to Judaism in Egypt, as the text states: “In that day, Israel shall be a third partner with Egypt and Assyria as a blessing on Earth; for the Lord of Hosts will bless them saying, ‘Blessed be My people Egypt, My handiwork Assyria, and My very own Israel’ ” (Isaiah 25:24). The nation of Israel is described as God’s inheritance alongside Egypt and Assyria, after these two defeated kingdoms have acknowledged the Israelite deity. Rashi has difficulty accepting these words of praise for Assyria and Egypt, and he follows the Targum and interprets the following expressions as solely referring to Israel. He equates “blessed be my nation Egypt” with “blessed is my nation Israel whom I chose to the commentary of rashi on isaiah 55 be my nation, while they dwell in Egypt.” He glossed “handiwork of Assyria” as “I displayed greatness by . . . Assyria.”15 Rashi’s interpretation of chapter 23, treating Sanherib’s defeat of Tyre, offers two possible meanings. First, as was previously seen, Rashi identified the “land of Kithim” in the verse as “Romans,” namely Chris- tians. Second, he proposed a literal reading of the biblical Tyrethat was to be defeated by Sanherib. Rashi preferred the second interpretation because “Zidon” appears alongside “Zor,” but at the end of the chapter, he reinterpreted the verses as referring to Christian Rome, which the righteous will sack upon the Messiah’s arrival.16 If Rashi glossed Christianity’s dominion over Jews and its ultimate demise in chapters 17–23, how much more should he gloss the prophecies in chapters 24–27, prophecies of a clear eschatological nature. Rashi describes the difficult afflictions that various nations such as Babylonia, Media, Persia, Greece, and Edom (Christianity) will inflict on the Jews. He notes, “that they will be enslaved in Israel before their redemption.” Subsequently, salvation will arrive hand in hand with a difficult blow on “Esau, the man of Mount Seir.” There is no scriptural mention of Esau or Mount Seir, and Rashi’s interpretation stems from his polemical agenda, as previously demonstrated. Rashi bases his gloss on the words, “ ‘resident of the land,’ that is a strong, centralized leader, that aptly characterizes Christianity.” Christianity is Israel’s final enemy before the Redemption, and, sturdiest among Israel’s enemies, it was called “resident of the land.” Chapter 25 describes a cruel enemy seeking to destroy Jerusalem, whose plans fail and result in his demise. The enemy is Esau and his fate is obliteration. “ ‘The mountain of Esau’ is destined for destruction and the bustling city will be transformed into a mound of desolation” (Isaiah 25:2). Glossing other verses in this chapter, Rashi explains that “this is all in the time of the war of Gog and Magog.” It has already been demonstrated that Rashi depicts Christianity as an ally of Gog

15 rashi claims that Isaiah 21:11–12 treats “the gloom brought by the kingdom of Seir (Christians) to the nation of Israel, that will be reversed in the eschaton.” In his gloss on Isaiah 23:5, Rashi wrote, “Zor is Edom, Rome.” 16 rashi based his reading on a midrash in Genesis, Rabbah, in the edition of J. Theodor-Ch. Albeck (Jerusalem, 1996), chapter 61, p. 669, even though he did not mention this midrash: R. Eliezer said, “Every Zor, written fully, in the Bible refers to the city of Tyre. When it is written lacking a vav, the text refers to Rome, stemming from the language of ‘an oppressor and an enemy (zaṛ ve-’oyev)’.” In our case, Zor is written without a vav. See the editor’s notes. 56 avraham grossman and Magog, and he sometimes conflates the two. Rashi tends toward this interpretation in chapter 26 as well. There is great significance in Rashi’s explication of the verse that God will subjugate “the residents of Marom” (Isaiah 26:5). He reads the verse as a reference to three urban centers: Tyre, Rome, and Italy, and he mentions God’s vengeance upon “the evil Esau.” The identification of “residents of Marom” with Tyrepossibly stems from Crusader control over the environs of Mus- lim Tyre, which was besieged during the Crusader conquest of The Land of Israel in 1099. This detail is essential fo an understanding of Rashi’s exegesis of Isaiah, as he sought proof of prophecies concerning Christianity’s triumph followed by its final demise.17 Rashi repeatedly returns to the description of Esau’s downfall in chapter 26. Though they conquered the land, and populated it, Rashi spoke of the Redemption that would emerge from the devastation. Referring to the righteous Jewish martyrs, Rashi assures his readers that they will rise again during the Resurrection. Intended to assuage Rashi’s audience, his description of the martyrs conveys the sense that he wrote these comments following the First Crusade.18 Chapter 26 serves as the pinnacle of Rashi’s scriptural search for proof of the downfall of Christianity and Israel’s redemption. Among several examples, he addressed “new troubles as signs of Redemption and salvation, for we were promised redemption amidst travails and suffering” (26:17). The motif of dire travails as a clear indicator of the coming Redemption is also emphasized in Rashi’s commentary on Psalms, and all such descriptions serve to fortify contemporary Jews overtaken by despair. Rashi’s sense of purpose reached its apex in these words. Rashi continues to search for allusions to the ultimate demise of Christian governments in chapter 27. I shall focus on two telling examples. The first verse reveals that God will strike two types of Leviathans “with his sword,” and kill “the crocodile.” Initially, Rashi quotes the Targum and adds: “And I say: due to the importance of

17 i believe that Rashi’s gloss of Psalms was written after the First Crusade in 1099. See my article mentioned in note 5. The Crusaders besieged the city of Tyre in June 1099 and it was conquered by the Fatimids in 1124. Had we have tangible evidence that Rashi wrote his gloss of Isaiah after the First Crusade, Tyre’s inclusion with Rome and Italy would be better understood. Tyreis depicted negatively in midrashic literature. 18 see Rashi’s comment on Isaiah 26:17–21. the commentary of rashi on isaiah 57 the three nations of Egypt, Assyria, and Edom . . . since the nations were compared to biting snakes . . . and he killed the crocodile in the water—this is Zor (Tyre), the leader of Esau’s descendants who sits at the heart of the seas,” later identifying them as Romans. The reference to Tyrewas deleted from the printed editions by the censor, indicating that the censors suspected Rashi’s polemical agenda in his comment on Tyre. There is no explicit mention of these nations in the scriptural text, and Edom should not be included with the other two superpowers, Egypt and Assyria. However, Rashi viewed Edom as a symbol of Christianity and thus, in light of his agenda, he added Edom to the “important nations.” The second example is found in verse 10 in the image of a “fortified city” destined to be emptied. Rashi interpreted the verse as “a fortified city of Esau will be empty.”19 This image recalls the city of Tyrethat was besieged by Crusaders in 1099; we lack evidence, however, that Rashi’s gloss was written after the Crusader conquest in that year. Chapter 30 mentions a covenant between Judah (according to Rashi: Israel) and Egypt against Assyria. Vehemently opposed to this covenant, Isaiah includes general prophecies about Israel’s redemption and Assyria’s downfall. In horrifying visions, Scripture tells about “the toppling of buildings,” a day of great slaughter, and the moon’s light resembling the sunlight. Rashi explicates the “death of multitudes” as a reference to “great slaughter in the land of Edom,” yet Edom is never mentioned in the scriptural verse. Thus, Edom clearly represents Christianity in Rashi’s exegesis. In various comments, Rashi couples Assyria’s downfall with Christianity’s demise so that the wondrous downfall of Assyria represents and prefigures the fall of Christianity at the end of days. Rashi’s intended conclusion is that one should trust in the redemption and words of comfort promised by God through the prophets, for they will be fully realized in the future (30:18).

19 The printed editions changed this to read, “a fortified city of Ishmael,” but this emendation is the work of Christian censors. In verse 11, Rashi provides an allegorical reading against Edom and he described him as “one who honored his father.” This is based on a midrash in Genesis Rabbah, chapter 76:7. Called Edom, Esau is clearly the referent of this text. The comment is based on Hazal’s words in the Talmud and in the midrash Genesis Rabbah. 58 avraham grossman

Chapter 32 describes Sanherib’s damaging campaign in the cities of Judah before his defeat at the gates of Jerusalem. The verses recount how the king’s palace was usurped and transformed into “a stomp- ing ground for wild asses” (Isaiah 32:14). Who are these “wild asses?” Rashi posits that they are “the desired ones of Ishmael and the pas- ture of Edom and its forces” (Rashi loc cit). He glossed this verse as a reference to Jerusalem, but failed to explain its full significance, since Jerusalem was saved from Sanherib. Apparently, Rashi was referring to Jerusalem’s fate as it began under Muslim hegemony and was conquered by “Edom and its forces” during the First Crusade. Rashi explained that the city would be governed by enemies of Israel until the Redemption, when God would shower destructive rain upon the wicked descendants of Seir, “since they are currently standing and filled and filled with cities like a forest.”I nstead of a subjugated Israel, “now Edom’s metropolis will be subjugated (32:19). The printed editions have the term “Persia” instead of Edom. Although Rashi based his gloss on the Targum, the Targum mentions the subject of nations, but they are anonymous. Rashi inserted the terms “Edom,” “Esau,” or “descendants of Seir” to refer to Christianity. Concerning the image of the anchorless ship, Rashi explains that they severed the ropes “that pull the ship, the guilty Rome” (23:23). This is an example of an arbitrary verse about a ship in peril, and Rashi interprets it as a reference to Christianity. In opposition to Rashi, Radak interpreted this verse as a reference to Assyria, and other exegetes followed suit. Rashi saw a severe attack on Christianity in Isaiah 34, equating Christianity with God’s archenemy Amalek. This is no coincidence. The image of the divine sword in Isaiah 34:6 will cause “great slaughter in the land of Edom.” The scriptural reference to Edom served as Rashi’s point of departure to review rabbinical midrash concerning Edom’s destruction. Rashi describes God’s impending attack on Amalek, another quintessential symbol of Christianity, until “the Mes- siah’s generation.” Rashi connected the prophecy about the flowering of the desert and the wasteland in Isaiah 35 with Edom’s destruction, even though Edom is not mentioned in the text. He lashed out against impatient Jews, accusing them of “expediting the Redemption.” Gloss- ing the language of Elam (Isaiah 35:6), Rashi explained: “the language of the Israelites who are dispersed amongst mute nations. They hear disgrace but they do not respond.” Rashi’s grievance about Israel’s mockery and disgrace in the Diaspora is a common motif in his exegesis as well as that of his peer, Rabbi Joseph Kara. the commentary of rashi on isaiah 59

Chapters 40–66 (Including the “Divine Servant”)

In chapters 40–66, Rashi found suitable locations for the integration of derisive anti-Christian prophecies and prophecies about Christianity’s bitter historical destiny. Isaiah 41:8–9 describes Israel’s fine quality, as it was divinely chosen and not rejected by God. Rashi, who was aware of the Christian belief in Israel’s dejection in favor of Christianity’s election as the verus Israel, utilized this text. He claimed that the scriptural text praises Israel, and even describes Isaac as one who “sinned against the Lord” because “he loved my enemies,” namely Esau. In Isaiah 49:24, Rashi dwelt on a future when God would remove all that Esau had stolen from the Israelites. Rashi also linked most of the “divine servant” prophecies with Isra- el’s fate in Christian (Edom) lands. Summing up their experiences, Rashi says: “All these final, comforting words only refer to Edom’s dispersion [52:11]. Behold, in the end of days, my servant Jacob will thrive . . . as many nations wondered about them when they saw their subjugation, so will his hand triumph” (52:14). In chapter 53, Rashi discussed the severity of the attack on Israel during the persecutions in the Diaspora, and Jews’ readiness to die as martyrs: “Giving himself up to be buried in whatever cruel fashion imposed by the wicked of the nations who decreed death and a donkey’s internment in the guts of a dog . . . he sought burial instead of betraying the living God . . . he sacrificed himself to any form of death decreed upon him [by the leader], so that he would not accept apostasy to sin as all the Gentiles amongst whom he lives” (53:9). Yitzhak Baer has argued that these descriptions bear the imprint of the 1096 attacks during the First Crusade, and I concur.20 In the following prophecies, founded on the notion of comfort, Rashi integrated derisive descriptions of Esau with comments about his awful destiny. Chapter 54 commences with a call to the land of Israel, represented by a barren woman, to rejoice because her children will outnumber those of the married woman. Rashi posited that Isaiah

20 see Yitzhak Baer, “Rashi ve-Hameziuṭ Ha-Historit shel Zemano,” Tarbitz 20 (1949), p. 326. Nicholas de Lyra had a different version of Rashi’s gloss of the divine servant prophecies, but because it is absent from most extant manuscripts of Rashi’s commentary, I did not find it appropriate to cite his words here. For Nicholas de Lyra’s biblical exegesis, see Ph. D. W. Krey and L. Smith, eds., Nicholas of Lyra: The Senses of Scripture (Leiden, 2000). For his engagement with Jewish exegesis, see H. Heilperin, Rashi and the Christian Scholars (Pittsburgh, 1963). 60 avraham grossman commands Jerusalem to rejoice, and that the married woman is a “daughter of Edom.” In his gloss on that same chapter, Rashi addressed “wicked Esau and his friends” who shall endure “evil decrees” (54:14). In his gloss on Isaiah 61:8, Rashi returned to the recurrent theme of Israel’s mockery amongst the nations. In my opinion, Rashi was influenced by his historical realities and incited by Christian recourse to Israel’s dejection as a symbol of its own authenticity. In chapter 63, Rashi’s task is alleviated by the scriptural mention of God’s vengeance on the nations, as well as specific mention of Edom in the opening verse. It is no coincidence that several of Rashi’s comments were extensively changed by the printers as a response to censorship. A better edition is preserved in manuscript, as exemplified in Rashi’s gloss on the opening verses. He writes: “Isaiah prophesied about God’s vengeance against Edom in the future by slaughtering their archangel first . . . afterward, his sword will fall upon Edom. It will be apparent by the anger in his visage that he executed great slaughter [in Edom].” According to Rashi, Isaiah speaks on behalf of God, expressing divine anger toward the nations for their harsh treatment of the Israelite nation (63:5). Explicating “then he remembered the ancient days, Moses who pulled his people out” (63:11), Rashi states: “the prophet laments and beseeches: ‘today, in exile, his nation (Israel) remembers the ancient days.’ ” Rashi’s agenda, linking the content of the prophecies to his historical realities and suffering in exile, is tan- gibly felt in his commentary on these specific chapters and the Isaiah as a whole. Rashi sought textual allusions to the punishment of the gentile nations in Isaiah’s final prophecies of redemption, as well as other citations describing conditions of peace, serenity, and the rebuild- ing of Jerusalem. Citing an Aggadic midrash in his comment on “the lion shall eat straw like the ox” (Isaiah 65:25), Rashi proposed that the verse referred to “tribes that were likened to a lion . . . [and] will consume Esau who is represented by straw.” An additional proof of Rashi’s polemical agenda in his gloss of Isaiah is found in his comment on the final verse of chapter 66. The chapter opens with the wicked Israelites mocking the devout “fearers of the Lord,” claiming that God is glorified through their (the wicked ones) 21 merit. Isaiah proclaims

21 “Your kinsmen who hate you, who spurn you because of Me are saying, ‘Let the Lord manifest his Presence’ ” (Isaiah 66:5). the commentary of rashi on isaiah 61 to his followers that “we will see your joy and their disgrace.” The antagonizers are simultaneously called “your brothers and enemies.” Who are these “brothers?” Rashi claims that Esau’s descendants mock and deride Israel, saying: “In our grandeur, God is glorified because we are closer to him than you.” The antagonizers’ claim of being closer to God is the classic Christian argument that they represent “verus Israel.” Rashi was prepared to characterize Christians as “brothers” so as to explicate the verse as a reference to the Jewish-Christian debate. Most traditional medieval Jewish commentators glossed these verses as referring to an internal Jewish debate, and referring neither to Chris- tians nor other nations.

Conclusion

Rashi incorporated several polemical arguments against Christian- ity into his gloss of Isaiah. Due to Christian censorship, most of the polemical statements were expunged from the printed editions, but preserved in manuscripts. A small number of Rashi’s comments stem from rabbinical midrash, but they do not employ the simplest sense (pshat). The fact that Rashi chose these interpretations demonstrates his tendentiousness. The clearest example of Rashi’s tendentious anti- Christian exegesis remains his willingness to apply non-literal interpretations that stray far from the scriptural text. Well aware that his interpretations violated grammatical rules and scriptural content, Rashi seized the opportunity before him. Yitzhak Baer, in his previously cited article, wrote: “One can interpret entire chapters of Rashi’s commentary on Isaiah in an anti-Christian polemical way.”22 He did not clarify his statement, but the examples herein reveal that his assertion was correct. Why did Rashi choose Isaiah as a vehicle to express his polemic with Christianity as well as his words of comfort and encouragement for the Jews, as he had done in a number of glosses on books of the Prophets and Writings? I see three main reasons: 1) The numerous eschatological prophecies in Isaiah; 2) the blending of such prophecies with those about Sanherib’s downfall at the gates of Jerusalem;

22 baer, “Rashi ve-Hameziuṭ Ha-Historit shel Zemano,” p. 6 [full reference above in note 20]. 62 avraham grossman and 3) the prophecies about the “divine servant” that retain a special character. The depictions of the servant’s current anguish tugged at Rashi’s heart; the drastic change in the servant’s future status when general stupor will befall the nations appealed to him. As previously stated, Rashi believed that the prophecies were spoken by Isaiah. The fusion of these elements led Rashi to gloss these prophecies as referring to Christianity, viewed as the greatest enemy of Israel and Judaism. One of Rashi’s assumed missions was the fortification of the Jewish spirit, which had been subdued and weakened by Christian prosperity. Christian propaganda gained strength at that time, as evidenced by several sources, and Rashi felt obligated to engage Christian claims.23 He was one of the earliest sages to deal with Jewish-Christian polemics in his literary oeuvre, and a great influence on later sages to assume the same task. The wondrous capture of Sanherib at the gates of Jeru- salem and the demise of an enemy who had vowed to conquer Jerusa- lem at the height of his victory, served Rashi as a miniature model of his own historical reality. Christian conquests that were cast as proof of its authenticity and the mockery of the Jewish dejection were influential factors in Rashi’s employment of Isaiah as an anti-Christian tool. If Rashi did write the gloss after the first Crusade in 1099, as previously mentioned, one must add another cause for the palpable anti-Christian enmity in his commentary. Generally, the conquest of the Land of Israel and the specific conquest of Jerusalem resulted in sever Jewish oppression until 1187 when Saladin defeated Crusading armies. His victories were celebrated as a herald by Jewish sages, and they reverberated deeply amongst European Jews.24

23 regarding the persecutions of the Jews and their struggle in dealing with them, see A. Grossman, “Shorashav shel Kiddush Ha-Shem Be-Ashkenaz Ha-Qedumah,” in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom, ed. I. M. Gafni and A. Ravitzky (Jerusalem, 1992), pp. 99–130; S. Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom (Israel, 2002). 24 see A. Grossman, “Nizḥ ̣onot Saladin ve-Hahit‘orerut be-’eropah le-‘Aliyah le- ’retz Yisrael” in Ve-Zot li-Yehuda: Studies in the History of Eretz Israel, Presented to Yehuda Ben Porat, eds. Yehoshua Ben-Arieh and Elchanan Reiner (Jerusalem, 2003), pp. 361–382. Were Jews Made in the Image of God? Christian Perspectives and Jewish Existence in Medieval Europe

Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak

Scholars inclined to consider European Jews and Christians of the central Middle Ages find themselves in the enviable position of being able to do so from an excellent vantage point, the legitimately praised shoulders of giants, among whom Robert Chazan is eminent. Within the landscape he has helped render accessible, I propose to pursue a path exploring the ways it may, or may not, have contributed to the road map of intolerance that emerged in and came to characterize postmillennial Europe. More specifically, I wish to add the theme of the imago Dei to the list of topoi, hermeneutical tools, and social scaffolding that were active in the organization of Christendom from the mid-eleventh century onward. For even as the notions of natura and ratio, logic, law, literacy, bureaucracy, and money entered western thought and praxis, so too did the concept of the imago Dei, and with great force. Although Augustine (d. 430) had devoted much interpretation to the passage of Genesis (1:26) in which man is held to have been made in the image of God, this biblical passage and others dealing more or less explicitly with the creation of man did not again attract substantial Christian scholarship until the twelfth century.1

1 The relevant scriptural passages on the creation of man in the image of God are: Genesis 1:26–27 (the creation account); 5:1, 3 (the transmission of the image from Adam to posterity); 9:6 (the doctrine of the image relative to homicide); 1 Corinthi- ans 11:7 (discussion of headship in the family); Colossians 3:10 (exhortations to the believer to put on the new man); and James 3:9 (treatment of the proper use of the tongue). Psalm 8 does not contain the words “image of God,” but the passage deals in poetic form with the creation of man and the area of his dominion, as does, to a certain extent, Heb. 2:6–8. I owe this excellent tableau to Charles Lee Feinberg, “The Image of God,” Bibliotheca Sacra 129 (1972): 235–246, at p. 236. Twelfth-century Christian exegesis focused particularly on Genesis 1:26–27, on the Psalms, and particularly on the Pauline letters, 2 Corinthians 4:4; Colossians 1:15–17; and Hebrews 1:2, 3, where Paul enunciated the notion that Christ was the image of God. John E. Sullivan, The Image of God: The Doctrine of Saint-Augustine and its Influ- ence (Dubuque, 1963); David N. Bell, The Image and Likeness: The Augustinian Spiri- tuality of William of Saint-Thierry (Kalamazoo, 1984). 64 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak

Within that century, however, there were few scholars who did not, at some point in their exegetical, theological, polemical, or legal writings invoke and consider the creation of man in the image of God.2 The question of whether Jews were made in the image of God is not one I have found directly addressed in medieval texts. In laying out the reasoning which inspired this essay, I will follow the semantic map covered by the twelfth-century Christian exegesis of the imago Dei, and argue that its radical Christological and incarnational components came to complicate the Jewish question considerably. Where the imago Dei posits Christ as Ratio in the ontological constitution of mankind, Jews may be seen as lacking humanity and the human ability to think rationally, a point made vociferously by Peter the Venera- ble.3 Furthermore, Christian thought about the imago Dei also led, in conjunction with the eucharistic debate, to a semiotic of immanence, whereby signs were no longer valued primarily for what they signified, that is, otherworldly ideas, but also for their own material content and signifying modes. The eucharistic sign was a case in point, an exceptional one for sure but one that realigned signification away from transcendence and toward immanence, ushering in a mediatic turn by enabling material modes as representative of reality. Signs of identity, badges, images, and heraldic emblems flooded twelfth-century Euro- pean society.4 In the midst of this rehabilitation of the material, Chris- tians came to face their own carnal thinking. In this context, although they accused Jews of taking signs for things, it was ultimately they, and not the Jews, who took man for God, sign for truth. I submit that confronted with their own semiotic logic of the Eucharist, of the imago Dei, and of truth, Christian thinkers faced an impasse, and came to deploy the hermeneutical Jew as a probe of the implications of their own carnal thinking.5 The argument that incarnational thinking was problematic for twelfth-century Christian theologians and fueled their

2 The standard work on the treatment of the Imago Dei in twelfth-century Chris- tian theology is by Robert Javelet, Image et resemblance au douzième siècle, de saint Anselme à Alain de Lille, 2 vols. (Chambéry, 1967). 3 see below, note 52. 4 Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, When Ego was Image. Signs of Identity in the middle Ages (Leiden, 2010), and Eadem, “A Semiotic Anthropology: The Twelfth-Century Experiment,” in European Transformations 950–1200, ed. Thomas F. X. Noble and John Van Engen (Notre Dame, 2012), pp. 426–467. 5 i borrow the expression from Jeremy Cohen, who gives the history of the expression in his Living Letters of the Law (Berkeley, 1999), p. 3, note 3. were jews made in the image of god? 65 negative reactions toward Jews is not new.6 I share the contention that Jews came to epitomize Christians’ concerns about their own carnality and about the growing role of materiality in their own culture. Jews, however, did not so much as embody the doubts and inadequacies of Christendom as perhaps expose the extent to which a particular component of the otherness, which had been created to justify their marginalization, was losing some of its purchase. The concurrent need to associate Jews with Muslims, pagans, and heretics thus served to cloak a newly perceived notion that there were hermeneutical similarities between Jews and Christians. In fact, the viciousness of linguistic, if not physical, attacks against Jews, reached a similar ungainly pitch in disputes among Christians.7 My purpose here, therefore, is to high- light the ways in which a theme central to twelfth-century Christian anthropology, the imago Dei, specifically rerouted both Christian self- perception and Christian attitudes toward Jews. At this point, the vexed question of the relationship between attitudes toward the rhetorical and the actual Jew arises.8 The polymor- phic and devastating deterioration of Christian treatment of Jews both in discourse and within society is well established for the period under consideration.9 Jews were accused, expelled, and killed; Jews also regrouped, and survived, as a people. The survival of Jews in medieval Christian society is often attributed to patristic positions, in particular

6 This seminal, if slightly controversial, argument was made by Gavin Langmuir, History, Religion, and Antisemitism (Berkeley, 1990), and Toward a Definition of Antisemitism (Berkeley, 1990); Anna Sapir Abulafia, Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (London and New York, 1995) inflected the argument by retrieving twelfth-century understanding and deployment of ratio, thus eschewing the rational empirical entity adopted by Langmuir in his argument; Robert Chazan, Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemitism (Berkeley, 1997), chapter 8, summa- rizes Langmuir’s positions before reviewing reactions to them and presenting his own perspective. 7 B. M. Bedos-Rezak, “A ‘Difformitas’: Invective, Individuality, and Identity in Twelfth-Century France,” in Norm und Krise von Kommunikation: Inszenierungen literarischer und sozialer Interaktion im Mittelalter (Geschichte: Forschung und Wis- senschaft, vol. 24), ed. Alois Hahn, Gert Melville, and Werner Röcke (Münster, 2006), pp. 251–71; see below at note 44. 8 The distinction introduced by scholars concerning the types of Jews who were at the receiving end of Christian behavior is useful and important. In addition to the hermeneutical Jew (above, note 5), Paula Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jew (New York, 2008), pp. 261, 273, 306, makes a cogent distinction between the scriptural Jew, the historical Jew (of post 70CE-dispersion), and the rhetorical Jew. 9 The bibliography on this subject is considerable. In this essay, I will limit citations to studies that have been of immediate relevance to the specific argument I am attempting here. 66 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak that of Augustine, who proposed that Jews be protected because of their testimonial value for the legitimacy of Christian truth.10 Although the survival of Jews and their tolerance granted by host countries, owes much to their historical agency, I will here concentrate on the impact the Christian concept of imago Dei may have had on an understanding of the Jewish condition, and on the formulation of policies for the protection of Jews. To the extent that recourse to the theme of the imago Dei in canon law represented a transformation of the Augus- tinian rationale for safeguarding Jews, I will query the reasons for its introduction and the modalities of its new relevance. I have approached the interactions between Christians and the various types of Jews with whom they dealt—historical, rhetorical, hermeneutical—in a centrifugal manner, starting with the Christian exegesis of the imago Dei and following this thematic presence throughout medieval thought and society. In so doing, I was led to juxtapose texts and objects that have rarely, if ever, been mutually contextualized in modern scholarship although I have come to believe that they may have formed a recognizable motif in the medieval pattern of life and argumentation. The most difficult thing when dealing with texts from the past is to avoid writing in continuity with them. On the threshold of the second millennium, Christian rhetoric about the Jews was repetitive, conforming to the exegesis of early patristic figures. Concepts originating between the first century and Augustine had ossified, their meanings had become formulaic replications of blueprints, unques- tioned for centuries, yet always accepted as authoritative because they had been crafted by celebrated fathers of the Church. Interestingly, the same is true of discussions of the imago Dei, of which Augustine is the pre-eminent expositor. That postmillennial western Christianity engaged in reinvigorated discussions of the imago Dei and of Jews, however formulaic the terms, indicates to me that we should be alert, not only for novel statements about Jews or images, but also for new associations between issues that, until then, had belonged to different realms of concern and reasoning. Augustine, the theologian par excellence both of the imago Dei and of the Jew as witness, did not, to my knowledge, consider these issues in tandem. That they came to overlap in the central Middle Ages thus constitutes their discursive novelty. To

10 on Augustine’s elaboration of the “witness theory,” see most recently Paula Fre- driksen, Augustine and the Jews. were jews made in the image of god? 67 ignore their mutual relevance incurs the scholarly risk I mentioned, of writing in continuity with past texts instead of identifying the contours of interaction from which multiple discourses, now separated by the modern phenomenon of editions and disciplinary specialization, in fact derived their contemporary meaning and import.

Imago Dei, Imago Christi: Jewish Carnality and Christian Incarnation

Jews and Christians disagreed about the advent of the messiah, the incarnation and related issues of the virgin birth and the Trinity, and scriptural hermeneutics. With respect to the interpretation of Genesis 1:26, they agreed that, in the biblical context of Genesis 1, the notion of man as the image of God affirmed man’s dignity and dominion over the rest of creation.11 Beyond that, they parted ways. Nowhere in the Jewish canonical texts is there any indication that the divine image and likeness were lost after Adam and Eve were forced out of Eden. In the Mishna and in the early Tannaitic layer of rabbinic literature (ca. 200 CE), rabbis drew heavily upon the Platonic exegesis of Philo (d. 50 CE). In several instances, Philo resorted to the term “seal” to invoke the force of the pattern after which the earthly man was modeled. Moreover, Philo spoke of a “form which God has stamped on the soul as on the tested coin.”12 A combination of these two motifs, the seal and the coin, appears in the Mishna Sanhedrin 4:5: “Man was created as a single being in order to teach [us] that one who destroys one person is considered as having, as it were, destroyed a whole world, and [that] one who preserves one person has, as it were, preserved a whole world . . . in order [also] to tell of the greatness of the King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, for a man stamps many coins with one seal, and all of them are alike, and the King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He, stamped all men with the seal of the first Adam, and no one is like the other. Hence every one is obliged to say: For my sake the world was created. . . .”13

11 alexander Altmann, “Homo Imago Dei in Jewish and Christian Theology,” The Journal of Religion 48 (1968): 235–59, p. 235. 12 for this succinct exposé of Philo’s exegesis, I rely heavily upon Altmann’s insightful developments in “Homo Imago Dei,” pp. 240–41 13 Cited here after Altmann, “Homo Imago Dei,” p. 241. 68 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak

Sanhedrin 38a anchors the seal metaphor in Job 38:14,14 although it is more likely that the rabbis of the early Tannaitic period drew the simile from Philo’s platonic material and vocabulary.15 The rabbinical introduction of Plato’s concept of image fostered an iconic understanding of the relationship between man and God, whereby the similarity between them indicated that their relationship was ontological: man was a theurgic extension of God, so that human actions affected God. Murdering man humiliated God. Procreating glorified God.16 Thus Rabbi Akiva (d. ca. 135 CE): “he who sheds blood negates the Image for it says: ‘Who so sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God made He man’ ” (Gen- esis 9:6) (Tosefta Yevamoth 8.4). Rabbinical interpretation of Genesis 1:26, therefore, was less an object of theological speculation than of reflection in the pragmatic context of Halacha, where it buttressed the argument against both celibacy and the death penalty, and stated the dignity and value of every single human being.17 In his Commentary on Genesis 1:27, Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki (Rashi of Troyes, 1040–1105) formulated his understanding of the Mishna and its parallel text in Tosefta (Sanhedrin 8.4) in terms that echo the Talmudic vocabulary: “ ‘In his image’: in the mould that had been cast for him [man]; for all else had been created by word, but he [man] by hand, as it is stated (Psalms 139:5): ‘Thou hast laid Thy hand upon me.’ He was made with a stamp like a coin which is made by means of a die, which is called coin in Old French. And so he says (Job 38:14) ‘It is changed as clay [under the] seal!’ ‘In the image of God he created him’: It explains to you that the image which was made for him is the image of the likeness of his Creator.”18 With Moses Maimonides (the Rambam, d. 1204) and later Jewish thinkers, the earlier resolutely halachic focus of the rabbis took on a more philosophical overtone and, imbued with neo-Platonism or Aristotelism, ascribed the essence

14 restituetur ut lutum signaculum et stabit sicut vestimentum (from the Vulgate). 15 altmann, “Homo Imago Dei,” pp. 241–42; Yair Lorberbaum, The Image of God: Halacha and Aggada [in Hebrew], (Schoken, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, 2004), chapter 2. 16 altmann, “Imago Dei,” p. 242; Lorberbaum, The Image of God, chapters 2, 4. 17 altmann, “Imago Dei,” p. 243; Lorberbaum, The Image of God, chapters 2, 4; J. Cohen, “Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It.” The Ancient and Medieval Career of a Biblical Text (Ithaca, 1989), pp. 109–15. 18 The Pentateuch and Rashi’s Commentary, ed. Abraham ben Isaiah and Benja- min Sharfman (Brooklyn, 1949), pp. 13–15; see comments by Altmann, “Imago Dei,” p. 243, especially in note 33. were jews made in the image of god? 69 of man, his intellect in particular, to the quality of being created in the image of God. Christian exegesis of the creation of man in the image of God was primarily driven by the doctrine of original sin. Since Adam’s disobe- dience had blemished man into irrevocable deformity, the creation of a new image was needed (1 Cor. 15:49), one that would offer humankind redemption by providing a regenerative template in conformity with which men and women could achieve salvific reformation. The new image of the invisible God was himself a man, Jesus, believed to be the son of God, as the divine Logos, and the messiah. Thus, in Christian thought, the image of God as it appears in Genesis underwent four degrees of transformation: it was formed at the time of Cre- ation; deformed by sin; reformed by Christ; conformed by imitatio Christi. The theological equation of the image with Christ forcefully stated in Pauline theology and in the fourth Gospel (by John),19 had implications for Jews, and not only because Jews did not accept Christ as the messiah. Of course, the Jewish refusal of Christianity did not fare well with Augustine, who was, to repeat, the single most influential source for commentary on the image of God. Augustine’s theory of the imago Dei posited that the human mind, made in God’s image and likeness, will provide the way back to God. Augustine’s conception of God’s image in man thus transcended bodily activity to target those highest pinnacles of the self, rationality, will, and the capacity to share the divine life. Augustine extended the earlier patristic interpretation by identifying the divine plural of Genesis 1:26 (Let us make . . .) with the Trinity, thus positing a resemblance between man and the Trinitar- ian Godhead.20 As this updated story of creation challenged Jewish ontology, Augustine considered the issue within the framework of his historical periodization of the six ages of the world.21 Thus, in his

19 Col. 1:15; Phil. 2:6; 2 Cor. 4:4; see full references to Paul’s statements in Altmann, “Imago Dei,” pp. 244–46, together with an analysis of Paul’s assimilation of Philo’s Logos with Christ. The relevant passages in John’s gospel are: John 1:14, 12:45, 16:9. 20 Maryanne Cline Horowitz, “The Image of God in Man—Is Woman Included?” Harvard Theological Review 72 (1979): 175–206, p. 201; see also Fredriksen, Augustine and the Jews, pp. 202–3. 21 augustine exposed his theory of the Six Ages in chapter 22, 39–44, of his De cat- echizandis rudibus, ed. J.-P. Bauer (Turnholti, Brepols, 1969; Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina 46), pp. 121–178, consulted on the Library of Latin Texts—Series A, Exported at: 2011-07-12 17:50 (CET) (Brepols, Turnhout, 2011), http://www.brepolis .net: Peractis ergo quinque aetatibus saeculi, quarum prima est ab initio generis 70 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak

Quaestiones in Evangelium secundum Matthaeum, Augustine excused the Jews for being foolish throughout the first five ages (Adam to Noah, Noah to Abraham, Abraham to David, David to the Babylo- nian captivity, Babylonian captivity to Jesus), but reproached them for not comprehending the truth of Christ’s revelation in the sixth age (Jesus to Doomsday), which God had announced to be the age of truth when he made man in his image on the sixth day. Since they refused Christ, Augustine reasoned, Jews have the imprinted images of the secular prince six times five (6 × 5, or 30, an echo of the thirty silver coins for which Judas allegedly betrayed Jesus), but they do not have the imprint of Christ, whose radiant face seals him into Christians. Since for Jews the word of God is silver, concludes Augustine, Jews understood the Law carnally even as, by holding on to the image of the secular ruler imprinted in silver, they missed God.22 humani, id est, ab Adam, qui primus homo factus est, usque ad Noe, qui fecit arcam in diluuio, inde secunda est usque ad Abraham, qui pater electus est omnium quidem gentium, quae fidem ipsius imitarentur; sed tamen ex propagine carnis suae futuri populi iudaeorum: qui ante christianam fidem gentium unus inter omnes omnium terrarum populos unum uerum deum coluit, ex quo populo saluator Christus secundum carnem veniret. Isti enim articuli duarum aetatum eminent in ueteribus libris: reliqua- rum autem trium euangelio etiam declarantur, cum carnalis origo domini Iesu Christi commemoratur. Nam tertia est ab Abraham usque ad Dauid regem: quarta a Dauid usque ad illam captiuitatem, qua populus Dei in Babyloniam transmigrauit: quinta ab illa transmigratione usque ad aduentum domini nostri Iesu Christi; ex cuius aduentu sexta aetas agitur: ut iam spiritalis gratia, quae paucis tunc patriarchis et prophetis nota erat, manifestaretur omnibus gentibus: ne quisquam deum nisi gratis coleret, non uisi- bilia praemia seruitutis suae et praesentis uitae felicitatem, sed solam uitam aeternam, in qua ipso Deo frueretur, ab illo desiderans; ut hac sexta aetate mens humana renouetur ad imaginem Dei, sicut sexta die homo factus est ad imaginem dei. This small treatise has been translated into English, Instructing Beginners in Faith, trans. R. Canning (Hyde Park, NY, 2006), pp. 142–143. 22 s. Aurelii Augustini Quaestiones evangeliorum, ed. Almut Mutzenbecher (Turn- holti: Brepols, 1980, Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina; 44B); (PL 35, col. 1331): S. Aurelii Augustini Hipponensis episcopi. Quaestionum Evangeliorum Libri Duo. Liber Primus, PL 35, col. 1331: De quo tempore talibus insultat propheta dicens, Filii hominum, quousque graves corde? utquid diligitis vanitatem, et quaeritis mendacium (Psalms 4:3)? ut si quinque aetatibus fuisset aliqua excusatio sequendae vanitatis, vel sexta comprehenderent veritatem, quae per Dominum nostrum praedicabatur, et demonstrabatur, sicut sexta die homo factus est ad imaginem Dei (Gen. 1:26). Quod quia noluerunt, habent sexies quini impressam imaginem principis saeculi, et non habent Christum per quem signatum est in nobis lumen vultus tui, Domine (Psalms 4:7). Et quia eloquium Domini argentum est (Psalms 11:7), illi autem etiam ipsam legem carnaliter intellexerunt, tanquam in argento impressam saecularis principatus imaginem amisso Domino tenuerunt. See note 21 above for Augustine’s explicit association between the creation of man in the image of God on the sixth days and the sixth age, when the human mind is renewed in accordance with the image of God. were jews made in the image of god? 71

This passage is enormously interesting, as it conflates coins stamped with the imperial image and owned by the Jews, the Christic imprint upon the faithful, and the creation of man in the image of God. In this rhetorical juxtaposition, Jews appear to have missed out on their creation in the divine image and are seen as left with merely material, metallic images. To my knowledge, Augustine did not push the argument to its ultimate limit. In fact, he concurred in his De Spiritu et littera that the divine image is not wholly effaced in the infidels.23 On the other hand, as far as I am aware, Augustine never explicitly tied his witness theory of Jewish safeguard to the notion that Jews, as members of humankind, were made in the image of God. As already mentioned, the apex of the medieval Christian exegesis of Genesis 1:26–27 is the twelfth century. At that time, misreadings of Paul supported the notion that women were not made in the image of God.24 The introduction of this notion into Gratian’s (fl. mid-twelfth century) Decretum gave it some momentum.25 Abelard and Thomas Aquinas, for instance, subscribed to it, but the majority of scholars from Anselm to Alan of Lille asserted that both men and women were made in the image of God.26 Still, this debate illustrates the extent to which Christian thought could entertain the idea that half of humankind was not made in the image of God. Before reviewing further the directions taken by Christian exegesis, I would like to consider whether the then pervasive theme of the creation of man in God’s image was raised in contemporary dialogues between Jews and Christians, however rhetorical such interaction might be. This, in turn, touches on the question of twelfth-century Christian awareness of the rabbinical interpretation of the imago Dei. The influence

23 s. Aurelii Augustini Hipponensis episcopi. De Spiritu et Littera. Liber unus, Caput XXVIII, PL 44, col. 230. 24 1 Cor 11:7–9: “For a man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God: but woman ought to, since she is neither in the glory or image of God,” Horowitz, “The Image of God,” pp. 177–78. 25 Corpus Iuris Canonici, eds. A. Richter and A. Friedberg; 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1879– 81), vol. 1: Decretum magistri Gratiani, p. 1254: 2.33, q. 5, c. 13. Vir est caput mulieris. Idem in Questionibus Veteris et Noui Testamenti. [exutroque mixtim, c. 106.] Hec imago Dei est in homine, ut unus factus sit ex quo ceteri oriantur, habens inperium Dei, quasi uicarius eius, quia unius Dei habet imaginem, ideoque mulier non est facta ad Dei imaginem. Sic etenim dicit: “Et fecit Deus hominem; ad imaginem Dei fecit illum.” Hinc etiam Apostolus: “Vir quidem,” ait, “non debet uelare caput, quia imago et gloria Dei est; mulier ideo uelat, quia non est gloria aut imago Dei.” 26 horowitz, “The Image of God,” pp. 177–80; Javelet, Image et resemblance, vol. 1, pp. 236–245. 72 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak of Rashi’s commentary on Christian exegesis is evidenced by the contact Hugh (ca. 1141) and Andrew (d. 1175) of St. Victor had with the schools at Troyes founded by Rashi (1041–1105).27 Significantly, in the Dialogus inter christianum and judeum (1123–1148) attributed to Pseudo-William of Champeaux,28 the Christian debater aims to prove the unity of the Trinitarian God by recourse, among other vetero- testamentary texts, to the creation of man in the image of God, whereby the biblical plural (let us make . . .) refers to the Trinity,29 the previously noted Augustinian argument.30 The Jewish debater dismisses this reasoning by pointing out that the Christian was wrong in assuming that God spoke to himself, when He was in fact addressing his court of angels.31 This interpretation is found in the Targum Pseudo-Jonathan and, temporally closer to Pseudo-William, in Rashi.32 In Petrus Alfonsi’s Dialogi Petri and Moysi Judaei (ca. 1109), the Christian Petrus blamed the Jews for attributing a body to God in their literal understanding of Gen. 1:27, condemning them for the very step

27 horowitz, “Image of God,” p. 187; Beryl Smalley, “Andrew of Saint-Victor, Abbot of Wigmore: A Twelfth-Century Hebraist,” Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 10 (1938): 358–73 and Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Oxford, rev. ed. 1952); Arieh Graboïs, “The Hebraica Veritas and Jewish-Christian Intellectual Relations in the Twelfth Century,” Speculum 50 (1975): 613–34; Rainer Berndt, André de Saint-Victor (d. 1175), exegete et théologien (Turnhout, 1991), pp. 108–63; Michael Singer, “Polemic and Exegesism: The Varieties of Twelfth-Century Hebraism,” in Hebraica Veritas? Christian Hebraists and the Study of Judaism in Early Modern Europe, ed. Allison P. Coudert and Jeffrey S. Shoulson (Philadelphia, 2004), pp. 21–32. 28 abulafia, Christians and Jews, p. 81, links the Dialogus to the school of Laon. I wonder whether it might not be possible to explore the Dialogus’s ties with the school of St. Victor, founded by William of Champeaux, with whose writings the Dialogus entertained enough closeness to warrant the attribution of authorship to him, however erroneously. 29 PL vol. 163, cols. 1057C: Deus dixit: Faciamus hominem ad imaginem et ad similitudinem nostram, scilicet rationalem et intellectualem, atque in animam aeternaliter viventem, in quo cum dicit faciamus hominem, utique personarum commemorat Tri- nitatem, et cum ad imaginem et similitudinem deitatis, significat unitatem. 30 see above, note 20. 31 PL vol. 163, cols. 1058B: sed cum te modo audirem loquentem a risu vix conti- nere potui, videlicet cum narrares Deum sibimet dixisse, quod non sibi dixit, id est, faciamus hominem ad imaginem et similitudinem nostram: quoniam hoc non sibi, sed suis angelis dixit, aliunde itaque Trinitatem tuam si potes approba. 32 for the Targum pseudo-Jonathan, see Altmann, “Homo Imago Dei,” pp. 236–38; Rashi, Bereshit 1.26: ‘Let us make man.’ The modesty of the Holy One, Blessed Be He, we learn from here: because man in the image of angels was [to be]created] and they would be jealous of him; therefore, He took counsel with them. The Pentateuch and Rashi’s Commentary, p. 13. were jews made in the image of god? 73 that Christians had previously undertaken when giving God an actual body.33 Such accusations may well express a concern by Christians about the place of carnality in their own religion,34 but they do not clarify the matter: How could Jews be accused simultaneously for denying that God assumed flesh and for worshiping an anthropomorphic God?35 The contradictory nature of such reasoning emerged clearly when Petrus and Moses agreed that God bears a likeness to nothing. Petrus then proposed that the image of God, mentioned in Genesis 1:26–27, should be understood as the image (that is, human form) that the incarnate son of God assumed. To Moses, who remonstrated that this image had not been assumed at the time Adam was made, Petrus replied that even if the image did not actually exist, it was already present in God’s providence and will.36 Thus, a discussion of the creation of man was in effect an opportunity to introduce and substantiate the

33 PL 157, cols. 541B–C: MOYSES. In primis itaque mihi volo ostendas, ubi docto- res nostri Deum corpus et formam habere dixerunt, et quomodo super hac re locuti fuerunt. PETRUS. Si nosse cupis ubi scriptum sit, in prima parte vestrae doctrinae, cujus vocabulum est benedictiones. Si igitur vis scire quomodo dixerunt Deum habere caput et brachia, et in caesarie pixidem gestare ligatam corrigia, ipsiusque corrigiae nodum a postera capitis parte sub cerebro firmatum, intra pixidem vero quatuor esse cartulas, Judaeorum laudes continentes, in summo autem sinistri brachii gestare aliam pixidem, simili modo corrigia ligatam, chartamque ibi esse continentem omnes laudes quae in praedictis quatuor scriptae dicuntur. Concedis haec omnia in eo quem dixi loco hoc modo scripta haberi? A. S. Abulafia, “Bodies in the Jewish-Christian Debate,” in Framing Medieval Bod- ies, ed. Sarah Kay and Miri Rubin (Manchester, 1994), pp. 123–37, p. 126; Abulafia, Christians and Jews, pp. 91–92, 117. 34 abulafia effectively demonstrates, in “Bodies in the Jewish-Christian Debate,” pp. 123–24, that the incarnation of God was an issue that Christians had difficulty explaining to themselves. See also her “Jewish Carnality in Twelfth-Century Renais- sance Thought,” in Christianity and Judaism, ed. Diana Wood (Oxford, 1992), pp. 59–75. That Jews and Christians accused each other of carnality has been pointed out by Dominique Iogna-Prat, Ordonner et exclure: Cluny et la société chrétienne face à l’hérésie, au judaïsme, et à l’islam, 1000–1150 (Paris 1998), p. 308, and by Gilbert Dahan, Les intellectuels chrétiens et les Juifs au Moyen Age (Paris, 1990), p. 500. Cohen, Living Images of the Law, p. 210, challenges those scholarly interpretations of Alfonsi’s attack on the rabbinic attribution of human characteristics to God that suggest that this attack might indicate an understanding that rabbinical Judaism had split from Biblical Judaism and that Jews could no longer be the witnesses that Augus- tine thought they deserved to be on account of their attachment to the Bible. For Cohen, the dispute pertains to hermeneutics. 35 see below, note 95, and Jean Wirth, “L’interdit sur l’image de Dieu,” in Les inter- dits de l’image (Chevillon, 2006), pp. 21–30, p. 26. 36 i draw heavily from the translation of the Dialogi by Irven Michael Resnick, Petrus Alfonsi: Dialogue against the Jews (Washington, D.C., 2006), p. 187. See the Latin text in PL 157, cols., 618C–619C. 74 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak matter of the incarnation of God. In fact, Pseudo-William’s Dialogus also becomes a disquisition on the necessity of the incarnation.37 It is significant that expositions of the proper interpretation of Genesis 1:26 were never far from denunciations of Jewish carnal and anthropomorphic thinking. I would like to submit that the reason for such a linkage emerged from the very specific ways in which, during the twelfth century, Christian anthropology came to account for the incarnation and to justify its related sacrament, the Eucharist. It was during this period that the irreversible move toward the doctrine of transubstantiation, of the real presence of the historical body of Christ in the Eucharist, began. The issue was strongly debated.38 At stake was substance, that of Christ in relation both to God, of whose substance he was the image, and to the host, whose substance he was. The identicalness of substance betweenG od and the Son was an important issue, since there was a danger in describing the Son as the visible image of God—such a statement would make the Son essentially different from God who was neither visible nor an image. Schoolmen dealt with the issue by using a seal metaphor. The seal’s matrix consists of a substance—gold or bronze—into which is engraved a figure. In terms of the metaphor, the substance is God; the figure engraved into this substance, and therefore consubstantial with it, is the Son.39 Pure substance, pure reality cannot be wholly grasped by the human mind. Yet, the engraved figure of Christ animates reality, brings it within

37 abulafia, Christians and Jews, p. 81. 38 The argument made here for a turn toward immanent semiotics is derived from B. M. Bedos-Rezak, When Ego was Imago, and from her essays listed below, all of which analyze the eleventh- and twelfth-century Eucharistic debates as well as their historiography: “Medieval Identity: A Sign and a Concept,” American Historical Review 105/5 (2000): 1489–533; Bedos-Rezak, “Une image ontologique: Sceau et ressemblance en France préscolastique (1000–1200),” Etudes d’histoire de l’art offertes à Jacques Thirion: Des premiers temps chrétiens au XXe siècle, ed. Alain Erlande-Brandenburg et Jean-Michel Leniaud (Paris, 2001), pp. 39–50; Bedos-Rezak, “Replica: Images of Iden- tity and the Identity of Images,” The Mind’s Eye: Art and Theological Argument in the Medieval West, ed. Jeffrey Hamburger and Anne-Marie Bouché (Princeton, 2006), pp. 46–64; Bedos-Rezak, “Semiotic Anthropology: The Twelfth-Century Experiment.” 39 see, for instance, how in his Commentaria in Evangelium Sancti Johannis, Rupert of Deutz (d. ca 1130) integrated the Pauline formula from Hebrews 1–3 in those terms: Imago autem Dei, splendorque, ut ait apostolus, et figura substantiae ejus est hoc Verbum, hic Filius de Deo Deus, figura videlicet per similitudinem dictus. Quia Pater cum hoc Verbo sic unus est Deus, sicut aurum vel ebur, et imago regis in eo, sigillum unum esse dignoscitur : Ruperti Tuitiensis Commentaria in Evangelium Sancti Johan- nis, ed. Rhabanus Maurus Hacke, Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio Mediaevalis 9 (Turnhout, 1969), I, 3c–4, p. 14. were jews made in the image of god? 75 the sphere, if not of the fully knowable, at least of the conceivable. But until the seal is impressed, as in the creation of man and in the incarnation, the figure engraved within it remains invisible and characterized by its substance. Thus, the seal metaphor articulates how an image may have identity, be consubstantial rather than representational, be intrinsic and not readily visible, and yet remain an image. Through the metaphor of the seal, the Son is understood as the invisible image of God (identical in substance), and also as the image of the invisible God (a figuration of His substance). As this deployment of the seal metaphor makes clear, the larger issue facing theologians was signification, since Christ, a God identical to God, and the Eucharist, a self-referential sign, ultimately bypassed the mediation and deferral of images and signs. In both cases, but in particular in the Eucharist, substance, that is, the incarnate Christ, substitutes for meaning. His fleshly being is truth, conceived as a self- identical present being that therefore nullifies interpretation and can- cels texts in favor of communion with pure presence.40 Sacramental theology reinforced the notion that those who partook in the host shared in Christ’s body.41 The central pattern of Christian hermeneutics, therefore, displaced meaning away from text and toward things, epitomized by the incarnate Christ who was actually present in signs. Thus, even as they denounced Jewish sensuous literalism, Christian scholars argued for a transcendent spiritual referent that, in effect, was materialized in a sign pointing to its own self-fulfillment. The twelfth- century inflection toward immanent semiotics emerged in great part from Eucharistic debates and the related issue of the divine incarnation, both of which greatly re-enforced the notion that the image of God was Christ, in whose image man was created. Such incarnational logic obviously had the potential of denying Jews, as nonbelievers of Christ, any place among humankind.42 The greater threat that incarnational logic posed to Jews, in my opinion, came from the ways in which, in twelfth-century Christian semiotics, the Augustinian supremacy of the signified was reversed in favor of

40 rupert of Deutz stated that Christ was the ultimate truth: Abulafia, “Bodies in the Jewish-Christian Debates,” p. 133. See how Peter the Venerable opposed Jews who saw in Psalms 2:7–8, a reference to David in image, whereby Peter argued for a substantial interpretation of Christ, Iogna-Prat, Ordonner et exclure, pp. 283–87. 41 abulafia, “Bodies in the Jewish-Christian Debates,” pp. 131–32. 42 see below, notes 48–52. 76 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak an interest in the material signs themselves and their contents.43 The traditional denunciation of Jewish carnality and materialism that had underlain the Adversus Judaeos theology of early patristic times rested on a clear appreciation of the distinction between signs and things. With the new reification of signs, at least in the case of the Eucharist, the distinction may have seemed to be lessened.44 The contemporary Christian discovery of a Jewish interpretive tradition, as evidenced by Talmudic texts, would have fostered a perception that the Chris- tian typological reading of the Bible articulated a revelation that was disclosed in historical time. In this interpretation of the biblical past, present, and future, Christian history, and not metaphysical realities, became the referential blueprint for understanding the deeper meaning of the Old Testament.45 How much Christians understood the nature of Jewish hermeneutics and rabbinical concepts of language and meaning remains a matter of speculation.46

Imago Dei: From Ratio to Impressio

The forceful association of the imago Dei with Christ did not preclude an interest in the creation of man in the image of God. In fact, it stimulated a renewed attention to those parts of men and women that could be said to be in the image and likeness of God. Reason was a strong candidate.

43 for further references, see studies quoted in note 38, and Irène Rosier-Catach, La parole efficace. Signe, ritual, sacré (Paris, 2004), pp. 35–90; Abulafia, Christians and Jews, pp. 28–33. 44 see Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, p. 192, note 67, for other authors in the twelfth century who, like Anselm of Bec, addressed their Eucharistic treatises to Chris- tians. Guibert of Nogent, in turn, in his Tractatus de incarnatione contra Judaeos, refuted the horror Jews felt at the incarnation: the treatise is aimed at a Christian inclined toward the ideas of a Jew (p. 193). Bernard, too, indicted Christians in the course of his various condemnations of the Jews: Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, p. 224. Abelard denounced materialistic Christians as being worse than the Jews: Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, p. 285 (in Historia Calamitatum). In his Opusculum, Herman quondam Judeus criticized Christians for their attitude toward the law and worship of images: Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, p. 298. 45 one might note here that Christian exegetes focused their typological readings on the Old Testament, with very little attention paid to the New Testament. 46 on a comparative analysis of rabbinic and Christian hermeneutics, see Susan A. Handelman, The Slayers of Moses: The Emergence of Rabbinic Interpretation in Modern Literary Theory (Albany, 1982). were jews made in the image of god? 77

The twelfth-century promotion of ratio, reason, in search of veritas, truth, owed a lot to the absorption by Christian intellectuals of Stoic understandings of natural law and reason. The use of proper reason, however, no longer held its classical concurrence with Natura.47 Schoolmen emphasized that ratio was the image of God in man, an innate human capacity to perceive truth. Two restrictions, however, qualified this universalist construct. One suggested that the image of God in man was Christ. The other equated truth with the Christic incarnation. We have seen that each of these qualifiers, in conflating sign and thing in the fleshly Christ, imposed on Christian hermeneutics a radical literalism by providing unmediated presence for the mediations of the text. The equation of ratio with imago Christi had several further consequences. It entailed the notion that the proper use of reason was coterminous with Christian doctrine, and therefore the denial of this doctrine implied the absence of reason and thus denoted exclusion from humanity.48 The dehumanization of Jews to the point that they were called swine and dogs antedates the twelfth century. The vocabulary itself has its roots in Psalms 48:1349 and in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, as reported in Matt. 7:6.50 Its specific application to Jews is found in patristic and early medieval polemical literature,51 and in early medieval papal letters.52 These insults acquired intensity and currency during the twelfth century, particularly in the vituperations

47 abulafia, Christians and Jews, p. 6. 48 a. S. Abulafia, “Twelfth-Century Renaissance Theology and the Jews,” in From Witness to Witchcraft: Jews and Judaism in Medieval Christian Thought, ed. Jeremy Cohen (Wiesbaden, 1996), pp. 125–39, at pp. 130–32. 49 Psalms 48:13: et homo in honore non commorabitur adsimilatus est iumentis et exaequatus est (from the Vulgate). 50 nolite dare sanctum canibus neque mittatis margaritas vestras ante porcos ne forte conculcent eas pedibus suis et conversi disrumpant vos (from the Vulgate). 51 Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, p. 261, note 121. 52 Papal letter issued by Stephen III between 768–772, denouncing the possession by Jews of allods in Christian (northern Iberian) lands: “masculi et feminae Chris- tianorum cum eisdem [Judeis] praevaricatoribus habitantes, diu noctuque verbis blasphemiae maculantur, et cuncta obsequia quae dici aut excogitari possunt, miseri miseraeve prenotatis canibus [i.e., Judeis] indesinenter exhibeant. . . .” Shomo Simon- sohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews. Documents: 492–1404 (Toronto, 1988), no. 29, p. 25; Papal letter of Leo VII enjoining (in ca. 937–939) the Archbishop of Mainz not to force baptism upon Jews: “Per virtutem autem et sine illorum voluntate atque peticione nolite eos baptizare; quia scriptum est: Nolite sanctum dare canibus et nolite mittere margaritas vestras ante porcos, ne forte conculcent eas pedibus suis. . . .” Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews, no. 34, pp. 32–33. 78 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak of two churchmen, Arnulf (d. 1181), Archdeacon of Séez and, later, Bishop of Lisieux (from 1141 to 1181), and Abbot Peter the Vener- able of Cluny (d. 1156).53 Nevertheless, both sets of diatribes remained atypical in their virulence. Arnulf’s personal correspondence is extant in nineteen manuscripts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. His Invectiva, by contrast, is preserved in but a single fifteenth-century manuscript, appearing neither in the collections Arnulf himself made of his epistolary communications nor in any of the manuscripts col- lating Arnulf’s correspondence.54 Similarly, only five manuscripts of Peter’s Adversus remain extant.55 If, in his Tractatus or Invectiva in Girardum Engolismensem Epis- copum (ca. 1133),56 Arnulf deviated from the traditional tone of the adversus Judeos rhetoric, he also deployed a theme, the imago Dei, that had wide currency within twelfth-century theological anthropology. Arnulf’s Invectiva was written in the wake of a specific event, the dual papal election that, following the death of Pope Honorius II in 1130, brought Innocent II and Anaclet II to the see of St. Peter. Although Anaclet was able to remain in Rome until his death in 1138, it was Innocent who ultimately obtained recognition from most of the churches and rulers of Western Europe. Particularly forceful propaganda was produced in Innocent’s favor by Arnulf, Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux (d. 1153), and Peter the Venerable. Their support took the form of a campaign of defamation, mercilessly blackening the character of their antagonists, Girard, Bishop of Angoulême and papal legate (d. 1136), and Pope Anaclet II (d. 1138), whose papal election Girard supported. In his Invectiva, Arnulf repeatedly dwelt on descriptions of Bishop Girard’s bodily form, particularly mocking Girard’s abnormally large, globular, and squinting eyes, attributing a generalized duplicity

53 Peter’s own denunciations of Jews as inhuman and bestial are found in his Adversus iudaeorum inueteratam duritiem (1143–1144), ed. Yvonne Friedman (Turn- hout, 1985; Corpus Christianorum, Continuatio mediaevalis 58), pp. 125, 151; Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, pp. 258–59; Iogna-Prat, Ordonner et exclure, pp. 321–322. References to and excerpts from Arnulf’s vituperative pamphlet are given below at notes 56–64. 54 Bedos-Rezak, When Ego was Imago, p. 211. 55 Jean-Claude Schmitt, La conversion d’Hermann le Juif: Autobiographie, histoire et fiction (Paris, 2003), p. 158; Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, pp. 255, 264, stresses the small influence and narrow circulation of Peter’s polemical writings. 56 arnulfi Sagiensis Archidiaconi Postea Episcopi Lexoviensis Invectiva in Girar- dum Engolismensem Episcopum (thereafter,Invectiva ), ed. Julius Dietrich (Hannover, 1987; Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Libelli de lite 3), pp. 81–108. were jews made in the image of god? 79 to his strabismus.57 Girard is further characterized as an animal (homo animalis) that, fleshy in appearance and sensual, is unable to perceive the divine.58 Arnulf also termed the Count of Poitou, another supporter of Girard and Anaclet, an animal (voluptatum vir, homo animalis) who remained in error because he was incapable of reaching the higher levels of spirituality.59 Pope Anaclet had been born Petrus Leonis to a powerful, formerly Jewish, Roman family. His Jewish ancestry became a target for denigration, and his detractors, Arnulf chief among them, made ample use of this ancestral material.60 In Arnulf’s terminology, Petrus’s origins were not merely humble and ignoble, but foul since they were spoiled by Jewish ancestry: “Desiring to spare my readers horrors, I [Arnulf] judged it appropriate to avoid mentioning Pietro’s vile familial ancestry and his Jewishness, although it is from such Jew- ish origins that Pietro contracted both his flesh (materiam carnis) and the basis for his congenital error (primitias ingeniti . . . erroris).”61 Arnulf supplements his genealogical denigration with an attack upon Anaclet’s physical appearance and its negative religious significance: “Such is the genetic mixture, Girard, from which your Pietro comes, he whose face depicts a Jewish image (qui et judaicam facie repraesentat imaginem),

57 arnulf’s ungenerous if astute use of Girard’s squint to explain his duplicity appears in Invectiva, chapter 7, p. 104: Non potes negare, quin falsi crimen et incon- stantiae simul incurreris, levissime transfuga, modo harum, modo illarum partium malefidus assertor, cujus in singulis operibus duplices vias duplex signat intuitus, et affectus mentis ancipites ambiguus manifestat aspectus. Sicut enim corporales ocu- los tuos innaturalis quedam distorsit enormitas, ut ad idem contuendum mirabili nequeant discordia convenire, sic et mentis oculi dissident, ration scilicet et affectus. 58 Invectiva, chapter 1, p. 87. 59 Invectiva, chapter 8, p. 107. 60 on the strength of the anti-Jewish propaganda during the schism, perpetrated by Archbishop Walter of Ravenna, Manfred of Mantua, Peter the Venerable, Bernard of Clairvaux, and Arnulf, see Mary Stroll, The Jewish Pope: Ideology and Politics in the Papal Schism of 1130 (Leiden and New York, 1987), pp. 156–68 and Symbols as Power: The Papacy Following the Investiture Contest (Leiden and New York, 1991), pp. 124–26. As Stroll herself remarks in The Jewish Pope (pp. 1–9), scholars have been divided about the role of Anaclet’s Jewish ancestry in his rejection as a legitimate pope. Dahan, Les intellectuels chrétiens et les Juifs, states (p. 528), in his only mention of Anaclet in that study, that no one in the twelfth century would dare reproach a baptized Jew for his origins, and that only political expediency made Bernard of Clairvaux denounce Anaclet’s origin in an accusation that did not seem to have played an important role in the schism. 61 Invectiva, chapter 3, pp. 92–93: Libet igitur preterire antiquam nativitatis ejus originem et ignobilem similem prosapiam, nec Judaicum nomen arbitror opponen- dum, de quibus ipse non solum materiam carnis, sed etiam quasdam primitias ingeniti contraxit erroris. 80 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak he whose wishes and feelings connote Jewish perfidy62. . . “You, Pietro, as you roll from vice to vice, obfuscating the brightness of the divine face that was sealed upon you (signatum super te lumen divini vultus [Psalms 4:7]), deforming the image of God (deformata jam divinitatis imagine Dei), obscuring by your turpitude the resemblance to this image (et ipsius similitudine flagitiis offuscata), how dare you presume to be the successor of Christ, without first assuming his resemblance? ‘There has never been an agreement between Christ and Satan, never a communication between light and darkness’ [Paul, 2 Cor. 6:15].”63 From this scripturally charged vituperation to the identification of Anaclet as the Antichrist the leap was short and Arnulf did not hesitate to make it. The lynchpin ofA rnulf’s construction, the image formed in the flesh, was thus seen as heuristic, as imparting knowledge of its organizing principle. The corporeal forms of Girard and Anaclet were held to be self-representational because they failed to represent something other than their own contingent and transient selves. By virtue of their status as individual self-referential beings, they are accused of having deliberately affirmed their alienation from the mold of the imago Dei. Arnulf made the point forcefully on two occasions: first, when he accused Girard of using a seal that bore the image of his own deformity;64 and second, when he claimed that Anaclet’s Jewish face signaled the deformation of the divine image that had been imprinted upon him. By non-conformity with the divine model, by eschewing resemblance to it, by thus rejecting it, Anaclet is said to have distorted the model’s image within him. Thus, in the midst of Arnulf’s fury, lurks the suggestion that Jews were in fact originally created in the image of God, and that their self-willed distortion from the divine imprint resulted in its deterioration but not in its complete disappearance.

62 Invectiva, chapter 3, p. 93: Ex hac itaque diversorum generum mistura, Girarde, Petrus iste tuus exortus est, qui et judaicam facie repraesentat imaginem, et perfidiam voto referat et affectu. 63 Invectiva, chapter 3, p. 96. 64 Invectiva, chapter 5, p. 100: Cui concilio quoniam interesse, Girarde, non poteras, Cum litteris tuae deformitatis imagine consignatis nuntium destinasti. For a full analysis of this passage, see Bedos-Rezak, Bedos-Rezak, When Ego was Imago, pp. 220–22, and “L’Individu, c’est l’autre: Signes d’identité et principes d’altérité au XIIe siècle,” in Bedos-Rezak and Dominique Iogna-Prat, eds., L’Individu au Moyen Age: Individuation et individualisation avant la modernité (Paris, 2005), pp. 43–57, 311–16. were jews made in the image of god? 81

Arnulf’s harnessing of the imago Dei for his polemical purpose emphasizes three significant points, all consonant with the anthropological theology of his time. He asserted that deformation of the divinely imprinted image was not specific to Jews but also occurred among Christians. He linked the permanence of the image to its imprinted dimension, to a seal-like quality. And he extended imago from ratio to facies, from an ontological quality to a physical trait. With reference to the first point, it is clear that while the discourse of the imago Dei as ratio may well have contributed to conceptualizing Jews as inhuman, the same discourse could also be problematic for Christians. Christian commitment to the notion of ratio as imago Dei was challenged by their belief that original sin had dimmed the image, marred the resemblance, in all descendants of Adam, thus potentially affecting the rational dimension of all humans. We have seen how the partisans of Pope Innocent II did not hesitate to denigrate individuals of indis- putablly Christian origin, assigning them the status of animals, blind to the divine. Peter Lombard (d. 1160) wrote that man remains a carnal creature so long as he distorts God’s image by sinning.65 In his second sermon on the nativity (ca. 1140), Bernard of Clairvaux lamented that man, though originally divinely sealed, for he had been created in God’s image, had broken that imprint, while still warm, and dissolved the resemblance so that miserable humans now resembled stupid beasts of burden. A bandit came, who promised the ignorant a better seal, and who thereby broke the seal, which had been imprinted by the divine hand, thus severing man from his affinity to justice and to truth.66 Bernard’s dramatic staging of original sin concludes with the sep- aration of God from man, whose initial resemblance to his Maker

65 In Epistolam ad Romanos, PL 191, col. 1443D: Homo enim sigillo imaginis propter peccatum amisso remansit tantummodo creatura. 66 denique sensus omnis ab anima est. . . . Nunc autem licet divino fuerit munita sigillo, ad imaginem quippe et similitudinem suam creavit Deus hominem, heu! diruptum est sigillum, et unitas dissipata. Accedens ille pessimus latro recens adhuc sigillum fregit, et sic, mutata similitudine divina, comparatus est miser homo jumen- tis insipientibus, et similis factus est illis [Psalms 48:13]. Rectum quippe fecit Deus hominem: atque haec similitudo ejus, de quo scriptum est, Quia rectus Dominus Deus noster, et non est iniquitas in eo [Psalms 91:16]. Veracem quoque et justum fecit eum, sicut et ipse veritas et justitia est: nec unitas ipsa posset disjungi, dum sigilli hujus integritas permaneret. Verum supervenit falsarius, qui indoctis sigillum promittens melius, vae, vae! fregit quod erat manu divinitatis impressum. Sancti Bernardi Opera: Sermones I, ed. J. Leclercq and H. Rochais (Rome, 1966) and Sermones ad annum: De Nativitate II, 2–4, pp. 252–54 (PL 183, col. 120C–121B). 82 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak was conceived in terms of ontological unity,67 a unity now disrupted. Though the image had lost its form, however, it was not entirely lost. In this, Bernard echoed Rupert of Deutz (d. ca. 1130) who, in book VII of his De divinis officiis, posed the following question, to which he gave an immediate answer: Why is it that the rational creature may discard that which has been made in resemblance of God, yet not lose that which has been built in God’s image? That is because resemblance to God is retained by imitating his goodness, which requires man to exercise his will, while reason, which is sculpted in the soul by the impression of God’s image, proceeds singly from the Creator.68 This is not the place to discuss the merits of Rupert’s argument. It is his association, a recurrent one in twelfth-century Christian theological discourse, between the imprinted image and its permanence, which is significant. Early twelfth-century commentators of Genesis 1:26 characteris- tically conceived of creation as an imprinting process whereby the divine model applied itself to man.69 Seal metaphors were recurrently invoked to exemplify this act of creation. God was the seal-die’s material (the bronze), engraved with the image of his substance (Christ), which in turn applied itself to the malleable framework of man (the

67 Bernard further wrote that the unity would be recreated in a stronger seal, made not in the image but image itself, not created but engendered, that is Christ, the image of God’s substance: Novam, inquit, ego facio commixturam, ubi et expressius, et robus- tius pono sigillum, eum qui non ad imaginem meam factus est, sed est ipsa imago, splendor gloriae, et figura substantiae, non factus, sed genitus ante saecula. Et ne forte timeas esse frangendum,: Aruit, inquit, tanquam testa virtus mea [Psalms 21:16], sed talis testa, quam nec ipse malleus universae terrae nocere ullo modo possit. Sane cum prima ex duobus facta sit, secunda jam cunjunctio fit ex tribus, ut discas ex hoc ipso ad sacramentum accedere Trinitatis. Verbum, quod erat in principio apud Deum et Deus erat, anima quae de nihilo creata est et ante non erat, caro de massa corruptionis sine corruptione aliqua divino segregata artificio qualis nulla jam caro erat, vinculo indis- solubili in personae coeunt unitatem. Sancti Bernardi Opera: Sermones I, Sermones ad annum: De Nativitate II, 2–4, pp. 252–54 (PL 183, col. 120C–121B). 68 “Potuit autem creatura rationalis amittere id quod ad similutidinem Dei facta est, non potuit vero eo carere quod ad imaginem Dei condita est. Quare? Quia videlicet, divinae bonitatis imitatio, per quam Dei similitudo retinetur, creaturae quoque voluntatem exigit; rationalitas autem, quae impressione imaginis Dei humanae ani- mae insculpta est, a sola Creatoris arte processit,” Ruperti abbatis, De divinis officiis, PL, col. 184B–C; Ruperti Tuitiensis Liber de divinis officiis, ed. Rh. Haacke (Turnhout, 1967, CCCM 7), p. 228. 69 Bedos-Rezak, “Replica,” pp. 51–53. were jews made in the image of god? 83 wax seal impression).70 In becoming an impressio, the imago became a special type of image. Impression implies a contact between archetype and copy; the die not only produces a like image but also deposits, and remains as, the constitutive mark of its original presence. The notion of image as imprint therefore promoted, like the Eucharist, a form of immanent semiotics whereby the image, in actualizing its constitutive relationship to an originating model, signified by formulating likeness as a relationship between form and matter, which involved gradations of contact and presence. An image, thus, not only represented, it also presented, that is, rendered present. The presence of God in man, however jeopardized by sin, was conceptually crucial for twelfth-century Christians. To the extent that, as we have seen, this presence was that of Christ, the unimpeachable presence of the imago Dei in all humans underlay the Christian program of individual self- reformation and institutional claim to universalism. I thus contend that the twelfth-century insistence on the imago Dei as an imprint, by signifying the permanence of the imago Dei in man, program- matically asserted Christian universalism. Thus, imago Dei, even as imago Christi, was considered to be present in Jews too, though the Jews themselves might not yet recognize it. As bearers of the image of Christ, however, Jews in the present were less witnesses to Christian truth than the bearers and emblems of its potential deformation, or diffusion, via conversion. The third point made byA rnulf in deploying the imago Dei to fusti- gate his adversaries concerned the body’s ability to register and translate the quality of inscriptions left both by ethnic origin and the form of God’s image stamped in men. For Arnulf, ethnicity and deformity of God’s image are one and the same, an encoding of sin materialized as physical signs. Thus, Pope Anaclet’s racial features spoke both of Adam’s fault and of the Jewish denial that Jesus was the messiah. The trope of physicality was not unique to Arnulf. Orderic Vital (d. ca. 1142) resorted to it when he described, in his Historia ecclesiastica, the brother of the future Anaclet, Gratianus. Gratianus had accompanied the pope at the Council of Reims (1119) where, according to Orderic, the audience thought that he looked more like a Jew or a

70 see examples and discussion of seal metaphors in Bedos-Rezak, “Medieval Iden- tity,” pp. 1522–26, and in When Ego was Imago, passim. 84 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak

Saracen than a Christian and commented that his beautiful clothes could not disguise his bodily deformity (corpore deformen). The papal entourage and the French crowd (Franci) derided Gratianus, curs- ing his repulsive appearance and his very presence at the council, he whose father had been a horrible usurer.71 Considering that it was Anaclet’s and Gratianus’s grandfather who had converted to Christi- anity, and that their maternal lineage descended from elite Christian Roman families, as Arnulf himself pointed out with disapproval,72 the imago judaica seems to have had equal if not greater permanence than the imago Dei. Both images, however, were located in bodily manifestations. The iconic relationship between man and God, as predicated upon a cont(r)actual ma(r)king of the imago Dei in man, came to underlie general attitudes toward the body, the self, and the other. Consonant with incarnational thinking and its semiotic concept of presence, parallels between anthropological theology, carnal hermeneutics, and human affairs in Christianity are manifest in new attitudes toward the body, as an image of substance, as a medium of significance. The brief review offered here may suffice to illustrate the roleof the body as image. That Jews were distinguished by certain physical marks, such as the seal of circumcision, as Abelard and Peter Lombard termed it, was not news. Markings in the flesh were characteristic of Jewish carnality; even conversion could not rid male Jews of such a marking. Circumcision was conflated with the mark of Cain, as the

71 Coloniensis archiepiscopus legatos et epistolas domino papae direxit, et professa subjectione, pacem et amicitiam cum illo pepigit. Filium quoque Petri Leonis, quem obsidem habebat ob amoris specimen gratis reddidit. Haec dicens, quasi ob insigne tripudium laetitiamque mirabilem, digito monstravit nigrum et pallidum adoles- centem, magis Judaeo vel Agareno quam Christiano similem, vestibus quidem optimis indutum, sed corpore deformem. Quem Franci, aliique plures papae assistentem intu- entes, deriserunt, eique dedecus perniciemque citam imprecati sunt, propter odium patris ipsius, quem nequissimum foeneratorem noverunt. PL 188, cols. 878C–D; His- toria Ecclesiastica 6, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford, 1969), pp. 266–68 72 Invectiva, chapter 3, p. 93: Cuius avus, cum inestimabilem pecuniam multiplici corrogasset usura, susceptam circumcisionem baptismatis unda dampnavit. . . . Sus- ceptis itaque fidei sacramentis, urbi novus civis insitus est factus dignitate Romanus. Cumque ipsi numerosam progeniem series successionis afferret, dum genus et formam regina pecunia donat, alternis matrimoniis omnes sibi nobiles civitatis ascivit, machinante iam humani generis hoste, ut quasi quodam veteri fermento tota Roma- nae sinceritatis conspersio corrumperetur. were jews made in the image of god? 85 rhetoric of the counciliar decree that enforced the badge for Jews made clear when it associated the badge with these earlier Jewish signs.73 An unexpected consequence of crusading zeal, the imitation of Christ by taking the cross, was the appearance of stigmata, usually in the form of a cross, on a number of crusaders’ bodies. Bernold of Saint-Blasien recorded how, in 1096, “Pope Urban II made all of those who devoted themselves to this journey mark themselves with the sign of the cross on their clothes; but the sign also appeared on the flesh itself of some of them.”74 Bernold’s tale is representative of the many accounts we have of such bodily phenomena. These physical manifestations of Christo- logical spirituality, which antedate the later officially recognized stigmata of Francis of Assisi (d. 1226) by well over a century, were not specific to crusaders. A biography by Peter Damian and an obituary sermon by Bernard of Clairvaux both mention that Dominic Loricatus and Humbert of Igny (both d. 1148) bore the stigmata of Jesus upon their bodies. Similarly, the biographer of Stephen of Obazine (d. 1154) remarked on the presence of stigmata on his body.75 From such cases emerges a sense that impressibility came to characterize the embodied individual. Peter Damian, shortly after his eleva- tion to the cardinalate, around 1057, sent a letter to six other cardinal bishops exhorting them to be models of virtue to other bishops and to their flocks. He wrote: “My dear friends, since you should not only be bishops but the teachers of bishops, it is imperative that your life should be a design, as if it were a seal of steel that configures life for others. . . . And so indeed, by deservedly becoming Peter’s partners, we will receive the keys of the Church while . . . being a seal to the rest of the faithful.”76 Anselm of Canterbury stated that youth is like a piece

73 schmitt, La conversion d’Hermann le Juif, pp. 213–32. Ruth Melinkoff, The Mark of Cain (Berkeley, 1981). 74 William J. Purkis, “Stigmata on the First Crusade,” in Signs, Wonders, Miracles: Representations of Divine Power in the Life of the Church, ed. K. Cooper and J. Gregory, Studies in Church History 41 (2005), pp. 99–108; W. Purkis, Crusading Spirituality in the Holy Land and Iberia, c. 1095–c. 1187 (Rochester, 2008), pp. 35–38, with mention of fraudsters who tried to imitate divine stigmatization. I am grateful to Daniel Roy, whose excellent paper submitted in my workshop on “Media and Communication in the Middle Ages” brought Purkis’s studies to my attention. 75 giles Constable, Three Studies in Medieval Religious and Social Thought (Cam- bridge, 1995), pp. 202, 214–15. 76 Quia igitur, dilectissimi, non modo sacerdotes, sed et sacerdotum vos decet esse magistros, necesse est ut vita vestra quaedam sit linea, et velut adamantis signaculum, quod vivendi caeteris adhibeat formam. . . . Sic sic videlicet cum Petro claves Ecclesiae 86 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak of wax, which must be of the right consistency, neither too hard nor too soft, in order to receive a perfect impression.77 Hugh of St. Victor urged men to reform themselves, that is, to restore God’s image within themselves, by allowing the models of the godly life offered by good men to imprint themselves on them.78 As experience of the imprint produced the possibility, and the actual occurrence, of resemblance in the flesh, in matter, the praised malleability of the human person stood in sharp contrast to the duritia (or durities) of the Jews,79 who were too hard to receive the imprint of goodness. However, their duritia seems not to have explicitly been seen as preventing their imprinting in the image of God.

The Matter of Images

The twelfth-century engagement with the physical, with the useand referential modes of material signs, had been part of schoolmen’s hermeneutical considerations of the imago Dei and, not surprisingly,

merito facti participes, obtinemus: dum nosmetipsos certam vivendi formam atque signaculum caeteris fidelibus exhibemus. PL 144, col. 259 A–C. 77 De similitudinibus, PL 159, col. 695B–C: “De similitudine cerae. Videas hominem in vanitate ab infantia usque ad profundam senectutem conversatum, sola terrena sapientem, et in his penitus obduratum. Cum hoc age de spiritualibus, huic de subti- litate divinae contemplationis loquere, hunc secreta rimari coelestia doce, et prospicies eum nequaquam posse haec videre. Nec mirum, indurata est cera, in istis aetatem nutrivit, aliena ab istis sequi didicit. E contra consideres puerum aetate et scientia tenerum, nec bonum, nec malum discernere valentem, nec te quidem intelligere de hujusmodi disserentem. Nec quidem mirum. Mollis enim est cera, et quasi liquens, nec imaginem sigilli quoquomodo recipiens. Medius horum adolescens et juvenis est, ex teneritudine atque duritia quasi ex senectute et pueritia congrue temperatus. Si ergo hunc instruxeris, ad quemcunque utilitatis profectum voles, sive honentatis, apte informare valebis.” 78 L’œuvre de Hugues de Saint-Victor. Vol. 1: De institutione novitiorum (Turn- hout, 1997), pp. 18–114, at chapter 7, pp. 40–43 (PL 176, col. 925B–C, 932D–933A). See Caroline Walker Bynum’s pioneering analysis of Hugh’s seal metaphor addressing the education of novices in her Jesus as Mother, pp. 97–98. Further remarks on Hugh’s pedagogical use of the metaphor can be found in Bedos-Rezak, “Medieval Identity,” p. 1526; Jaeger, The Envy of Angels, pp. 258–59; Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory. A study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge, 1990), p. 71; and Giles Constable, “Renewal and Reform, Concepts and Realities,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Robert L. Benson and G. Constable (Cambridge, 1982),” p. 46, note 119. 79 see, for instance, the title of Peter the Venerable’s polemic treatise: Petri Venera- bilis Adversus Iudaeorum inveteratam duritiem, ed. Yvonne Friedmann. (Turnhout, 1985, CCCM 58). were jews made in the image of god? 87 did not stop at the divine image. As meaning came to inhabit the material and the visible in such a way that signs and images could embody knowledge of their referents, objects and images came to be conceived as evidential and, as such, played an increasing role in sociocultural exchanges. The capacity of engraved and imprinted images to be the conduits of their originators’ powers became very much a part of the ordinary thinking of twelfth-century men and women. In contractual situations individuals were now increasingly represented by signs that were endowed with the capacity both to verify personal commitment and to embody personhood. These signs were imprinted images: seals testi- fied to written agreements,80 and artifacts worn by pilgrims proved that their pilgrimage had been accomplished.81 The utilization of imprints as personal signs guaranteed legitimate representation by staging it as an act of contact, with and from an origin. The authorship and authority of the seal depended on the person and the personal participation of its owner—often rendered even more tangible by the incorporation of bodily marks within the actual wax of the seal impression.82 Jews also had seals and were full participants in these sealing practices, although their imagery, unlike that of Christian seals, eschewed anthropomorphism.83 Images entered extensively the realms of twelfth-century liturgy and devotion, in some cases with surprising vitality. The Chronicle of Thietmar (d. 1018) relates that a three-dimensional wooden crucifix

80 i have argued elsewhere that the practice of sealing documents spread within society from prescholastic milieus where scoliasts launched this experiment in documentary signing as part of the new immanent semiotics we have been reviewing, Bedos-Rezak, “Medieval Identity,” and When Ego was Imago, pp. 109–139. 81 esther Cohen, “In Haec Signa: Pilgrim-Badge Trade in Southern France,” Journal of Medieval History 2 (1976): 193–214: by the thirteenth century, pilgrim signs had been forged so often that they were no longer admitted as proofs that pilgrimages had actually occurred. 82 The seal impression was appreciated as a relic commemorative of the sealer’s physical contact and participation. On the fact that during the eleventh and twelfth centuries kings and magnates added to their charters thin sheets of wax onto which they imprinted the sign of the cross, leaving as signs for posterity bits of hair and beard also inserted into the wax, see Bedos-Rezak, “In Search of a Semiotic Paradigm: The Matter of Sealing in Medieval Thought and Praxis (1050–1400),” in Good Impres- sions: Image and Authority in Medieval Seals, ed. John Cherry and James Robinson (London, 2007), pp. 1–7, at p. 2. 83 “Sceaux de Juifs en France médiévale,” [in Hebrew] in Timorah: Articles on Jew- ish Art, ed. Bracha Yaniv (Bar-Ilan, 2006), pp. 47–60. 88 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak commissioned by Gero, Bishop of Cologne, had a defect, a crack in its head. Gero decided to entrust the repair to the supreme artist, and inserted a host in the fissure, which closed immediately.84 The cross, like the Eucharist, was a self-referential sign. In administering the host to the wooden Christ, Gero signaled his belief in the living status of both host and statue. Representations of Christ, in particular, were thus imbued with living attributes. Miracles aside, this belief was often enacted by trans- forming the crucifix’s head into a receptacle for consecrated hosts. It was the face of Christ, specifically, that had life-giving and salvific capacity. Twelfth-century schoolmen glossed Pslams 4:7: “Signatum est super nos lumen vultus tui, Domine” in Christological terms. Peter Lombard’s enthusiasm is typical of his colleagues’ sensitivity: “The radiance of your face, that is, the radiance of your grace through which your image is formed in us, thanks to which we are similar to you, this radiance is signed upon us, it is impressed on our reason, which animates the soul with a superior force by which we resemble God, upon reason this radiance is imprinted, like a seal to wax.”85 The combination of these two entities, the imprint and the Face of God, gave rise in the twelfth century to a specific type of acheiropoietic (not made by human hands) image, a cloth imprinted with the features of Christ.86 This cloth, known as the Veronica or the vera icon, was kept in St. Peter’s in Rome, where its presence is documented

84 Thietmarus Merseburgensis, Chronicon, ed. R. Holtzmann (Berlin, 1935; MGH, Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, Nova series 9); book 3, chapter 2: Interim Gero, Agripinae sedis egreius provisor, obiit; de quo quia pauca prelibavi, quae tunc reser- vavi, paucis edicam. Hic crucifixum, quod nunc stat in media, ubi ipse pausat, aeccle- sia, ex ligno studiose fabricari precepit. Huius caput dum fissum videret, hoc summi artificis et ideo salubriori remedio nil de [se] presumens sic curavit. Dominici corpo- ris porcionem, unicum in cunctis necessitatibus solacium, et partem unam salutifere crucis coniungens posuit in rimam et prostratus nomen Domini flebiliter invocavit et surgens humili benediccione integritatem promeruit. Annika Elisabeth Fisher, “Cross Altar and Crucifix in Ottonian Cologne: Past Narrative, Present Ritual, Future Resurrection,” in Decorating the Lord’s Table: On the Dynamics Between Image and Altar in the Middle Ages, ed. Søren Karpersen and Erik Thunø (Copenhagen, 2006), pp. 43–62. 85 in Psalms 4, PL, 191: col. 88 A; Bedos-Rezak, “Medieval Identity,” p. 1525, with additional medieval glosses on this particular Psalm. 86 The comprehensive history, which includes the edition of relevant sources, of the acheiropoietic portraits of Christ is by Ernst von Dobschütz, Christusbilder (Leipzig, 1899). See suggestive comments by Georges Didi-Huberman, Confronting Images: Questioning the End of a Certain History of Art, trans. John Goodman (University Park, 2005), pp. 188–94. were jews made in the image of god? 89 with some certainty from the mid-twelfth century onward.87 At first, however, the existence of the Veronica was recorded not as an image but as a textile, a sudarium.88 The earliest Western appreciations of the sudarium convey a sensitivity to its status as a contact relic. The sudarium was an object. It was not until the end of the twelfth century

87 for the doubtful possibility of an earlier presence of the Veronica in Rome, see Christoph Egger, “Papst Innocenz III. und die Veronica: Geschichte, Theologie, Litur- gie und Seelsorge,” in The Holy Face and the Paradox of Representation, ed. H. L. Kes- sler and G. Wolf (Bologna, 1998), pp. 181–203, at pp. 192–93. For evidence of the presence of the Veronica in St Peter, see Stefano Pedica, Il Volto Santo: Nei Documenti della Chiesa (Turin, 1960), pp. 168–72. For the history of the Roman relic known as the Veronica and its legend, see Dob- schütz, Christusbilder, pp. 197–262; G. Wolf, “La Veronica e la tradizione romana di icone,” in Il ritratto e la memoria. Materiali, II, ed. A. Gentili et al. (Rome, 1993), pp. 9–35. On the legends of St. Veronica and her acquisition of the holy face that appeared in the mid-twelfth century, see Jeffrey Hamburger, “ ‘Frequentant Memo- riam Visionis Faciei Meae’: Image and Imitation in the Devotion to the Veronica Attributed to Gertrude of Helfta,” in The Holy Face, pp. 229–46, at p. 242, and Eva Kuryluk, Veronica and her Cloth: History, Symbolism, and Structure of a “True” Image (Cambridge, Mass. and Oxford, 1991), pp. 122–23. 88 Kuryluk, Veronica and her Cloth, pp. 4–5, 115. In the Ordo of Canon Benedict of 1143, the cloth was said to be the sudarium Christi, quod vocatur Veronica: ‘Liber Politicus di Benedetto canonico,’ Codice topografico della cità di Roma, ed. Roberto Valentini and Giuseppe Zucchetti, vol. 3 (Rome, 1946), pp. 210–70, at p. 210; Benedic- tus canonicus, Ordo Romanus in Liber Censum, ed. P. Fabre and L. Duchesne (Paris, 1910), vol. 2, pp. 141–64, at p. 143; PL 78, col. 1029B; Wolf, “From Mandylion to Veronica,” p. 167. A contemporary mention by Peter the Deacon in his Liber de locis sanctis (ca. 1140) was slightly more explicit, describing the sudarium at St Peter’s as the handkerchief with which Christ wiped his face. Peter’s Liber borrowed heavily, at times verbatim, from Bede’s Liber de locis. The passage on the sudarium was, however, not part of Bede’s text: Petri diaconi Liber de locis sanctis, ed. R. Weber, in Itineraria et alia Geographica (Turnhout, 1965), pp. 93–103, at p. 96 (PL 173, col. 1121C): Sudarium vero, cum quo Christus faciem suam extersit, quod ab aliis Veronyca dicitur, tempore Tyberii Caesaris Rome delatum est; also PL 173, col. 1121C. In Petrus Mallius’s mid-twelfth-century description, given in the Descriptio Basili- cae Vaticanae he wrote for Pope Alexander III, the sudarium was presented as the cloth “with which, according to tradition, Christ dried his Holy Face before the Pas- sion, when his sweat became like drops of blood falling down to the earth”: Petrus Mallius, Descriptio basilicae Vaticanae, c. 27, Codice topografico della cità di Roma, vol. 3, pp. 375–442, at p. 420: est sudarium Christi, in quo ante passionem suam sanc- tissimam faciem, ut a nostris majoribus accepimus, extersit, quando sudor ejus factus est sicut guttae sanguinis decurrentis in terram; (see also at p. 411: est etiam sudarium Christi, quod vocatur Veronica); Pedica, Il Volto Santo, p. 163; Egger, “Papst Innocenz III. und die Veronica,” p. 193. A partial translation of the text is given in Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence. A History of the Image before the Era of Art (Chicago, 1993), p. 541, no. 37/A. Belting, Likeness and Presence, pp. 218, 220, 541, no. 37/B, in dating the description of the Veronica as an image to ca. 1210 does not take into consideration the earlier such description by Roger of Howden, see below, note 89. 90 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak that an English chronicler, Roger of Howden, who had accompanied the French king Philip Augustus on crusade, introduced a visual element to the description of the sudarium: The Veronica had become a holy cloth, on which the impression of the face of Christ appeared “as if it were present.”89 The prayer allegedly composed by Innocent III (in ca. 1216) after the Veronica had miraculously moved during a procession establishes a mimetic parallel between the memento imprinted by Christ, of his face on Veronica’s handkerchief, and those affected by this memento, the praying faithful, signed, in the words of the Psalm- ist (Psalms 4:7), by the light of the Lord’s face.90 We have returned full circle to Peter Lombard, with a major difference. Peter’s divine anthropomorphism was expressed in words. By the late twelfth century, anthropomorphic images enacted divine life in human affairs, among crowds of devotees. The new place of material images and their encapsulation of bodily contacts, or even parts (relics) in Christian devotion was consonant with the incarnational logic that, since the late eleventh century, had re-inserted the formative role of matter in signification. Such reliance upon concrete images, however, was foreign to Jews, who kept God’s commandment against the engraving and worshipping of images (Exo- dus 20:4–5, and Deut. 5:8–9). Peter the Chanter recalled that, when the city of Reims was affected by a drought, the Christians organized a three-day procession of the holy relics to produce rain. In vain. The Jews then offered to parade their Torah scrolls in a similar fashion. The offer was declined.91

89 Philip Augustus stopped in Rome where he was received with great honor by Pope Innocent III: Et [Coelestinus papa] ostendit regi Franciae et suis, capita apostolorum Petri et Pauli, et Veronicam, id est, pannum quendam linteum, quem Jesus Christus vultui Suo impressit; in quo pressura illa ita manifeste apparet usque in hodiernum ac si vultus Jesus Christi ibi esset; et dicitur veronica qui mulier cujus pannus erat dicebatur Veron- ica. The Chronicle of the Reigns of Henry II and Richard I, A.D. 1169–1192, ed. William Stubbs (London, 1867), pp. 228–29. 90 text of the prayer: Deus qui nobis signatis lumine vultus Tui memoriale tuum ad instantiam Veronicae sudario impressam imaginem relinquire voluisti, Matthaei Parisiensis, Chronica Majora. Vol. 3: AD 1216–1239, ed. Henry Richards Luard (London, 1876); Belting, Likeness and Presence, p. 543, 37/E, English translation. The miracle and the prayer are reported by Matthew of Paris in an insertion that has no connection with the history of Roger of Wendover that Matthew was transcribing, see Luard, Chronica Majora, vol. 3, p. x. 91 John Baldwin, Masters, Princes, and Merchants; the Social Views of Peter the Chanter & his Circle (Princeton, 1970), 2 vol., vol. 1, pp. 153, 328. Verbum: PL 205, col. 229C, 546 A–B. were jews made in the image of god? 91

Image and bodily parts versus written scrolls: whereas, for Chris- tians, the incarnation justified representations of God, in rabbinical thought the resemblance between man and God underlay the interdiction of replicating the human face, since that object would imply the divine image (Havod.Zar. 43a–43b).92 Of the seventeen dialogi between Jews and Christians, four, all from the early twelfth century, deal with the question of images. These treatises were written by Gilbert of Crispin, Guibert of Nogent, Petrus Alfonsi, and Rupert of Deutz.93 Christians relied heavily upon texts from the Old Testa- ment both to support accusations that biblical Jews had produced and worshipped images and artifacts, and to legitimize the place of iconic objects in their own culture.94 While Petrus Alfonsi reproached Jews for having an anthropomorphic God, he remained silent about Jew- ish iconophobia.95 Not so Peter the Venerable, who interpreted the mosaic interdiction against fabricating images as a specific reprimand to Jewish anthropomorphism. Yet Peter exonerated Christian images from this charge, thus introducing an interesting distinction between verbal anthropomorphism and the cult of images.96 Peter Lombard’s exegesis of Psalms 98:5: exaltate Dominum Deum nostrum et adorate scabillum pedum eius quia sanctus est (Vulgate), that the flesh of Christ might be adored without impiety,97 went well beyond linguistic anthropomorphism and the cult of images. He too made clear the extent to which the developing cult of the Eucharist and of the Holy (imprinted) Face, enabled twelfth-century theologians to accept the

92 horowitz, “Image of God,” pp. 181–82. 93 schmitt, La conversion d’Hermann, p. 155; Schmitt reviews the position of each treaty on images, pp. 155–73. This is not to say that Christians did not discuss images in other contexts: they did, and abundantly so. 94 see the texts gathered by Joan DelPlato, “On Jews and the Old Testament Prec- edent for Sacred Art Production: The Views of Some Twelfth-Century Abbots,” Comi- tatus: A Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 18 (1987): 34–44. 95 Dialogi, PL 157, cols. 457–672; Wirth, “L’interdit sur l’image de Dieu,” p. 26. 96 for this insightful reading of Peter the Venerable, see Wirth, “L’interdit de l’image de Dieu,” p. 26; Peter the Venerable, Adversus Iudaeorum, p. 152 sq. 97 PL 192, cols. 776–77: Petrus Lombardus, SENTENTIARUM LIBRI QUATUOR: Liber III—DISTINCTIO IX. DE ADORATIONE HUMANITATIS CHRISTI; AN EADEM SIT ADORATIO HUMANITATI ET DEITATI EXHIBENDA: Idem super psalm. 98, ubi dicitur: Adorate scabellum pedum ejus, quoniam sanctum est: Sciendum quia in Christo terra est, id est, caro, quae sine impietate adoratur. Suscepit enim de terra terram, quia caro de terra est, et de carne Mariae carnem accepit; haec sine impietate a Verbo Dei assumpta adoratur a nobis, quia nemo carnem ejus manducat nisi prius adoret; sed qui adorat, non terram intuetur, sed illum potius cujus scabellum est, propter quem adorat. His auctoritatibus praemissae investigationis absolutio explicatur. 92 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak cult of the flesh as a legitimate form for the adoration of divinity, from which flesh could not be separated. By the end of the twelfth century, the imago Dei, mark of man, flesh of Christ, and substance of God had become experienced in Christen- dom at the level of actuality. This spatiotemporal contextualization of the imago Dei affected hermeneutics as well as human activity, including activities with and against Jews.

The Imago Dei: A New Rhetoric for the Safeguard of the Jews?

Augustine had predicated the toleration of Jews upon their particularism, as guardians and observers of the vetus lex. In the Sicut Judeis of June 598, by which Pope Gregory I (d. 604) extended protection to the Jews of Palermo at the request of the Jews of Rome, no mention of the Augustinian position is made to legitimize the Pope’s gesture.98 Conversely, in the canonical collections of Burchard of Worms (d. 1025) and Ivo of Chartres (d. 1115), protection is to be extended to Jews and robbers precisely on the grounds that they were made in the image of God.99 Both Burchard and Ivo stressed that should the Jew or the robber be killed hope for their conversion would die with them.

98 simonsohn, The Apostolic See: Documents, no. 19, p. 15. 99 for Burchard’s canon, see PL 140, cols. 772C–D: BURCHARDI WORMACIEN- SIS ECCLESIAE EPISCOPI DECRETORUM LIBRI VIGINTI: CAP. 33.—De illo qui propter cupiditatem Judaeum interfecerit. (Ex concilio Mogunt., capite 6.) Qui odii meditatione vel propter cupiditatem Judaeum, vel paganum occiderit, quia imaginem Dei, et spem futurae conversionis extinxerat, XL dies in pane et aqua poeniteat. In checking all councils of Mainz, held in 847, 852, 861–863, I could not find any decree that had the formulation adopted by Burchard. Ivo’s canon appeared in his Decretum X 162: De illo qui propter cupiditatem Iudeum interfecerit. Ex concilio Magontiensi, cap. 6 Qui odii meditatione, vel propter cupiditatem Iudeum vel paganum occiderit, quia imaginem Dei et spem future conversionis extinxerat, quadraginta dies in pane et aqua peniteat. (Cap. 27 conc. Vorm. fere his verbis legitur) BD 6.33] (Gratian Dist. 50, c. Qui vero.) . Here again, I checked the canons of the council of Worms (868), which is supposed to have served as the basis of Ivo’s decree, but the canon that bears a slight relevance has nothing on Jews or on the image of God, Concilia aevi Karolini, ed. W. harmann (MGH. Leges), 4, Concilium Worms, chap. 3, p. 265: De eo qui meditatione odii vel propter avaritiam paganum occiderit. John Gilchrist, “The Perception of Jews in the Canon Law in the Period of the First Two Crusades,” Jewish History 3 (1988): 9–24, stressing the negative character of Burchard’s canons as they refer to the Jews. were jews made in the image of god? 93

Ivo’s statement entered Gratian’s Decretum,100 but no Sicut Judeis bulls promulgated before 1233 contain statements that Jews were to be protected specifically because they were made in the image of God.101 It was Gregory IX (1227–1241) who, in 1233, introduced this theme in his Sicut Judeis decretal.102 Gregory invoked most of the traditional calumnies about Jews throughout his documentary output; his role in the Parisian burning of the Talmud (1242) is also well established. Gregory was further responsible, in 1234, for the promulgation of the Liber Extra, the five books of decretals that were outside Gratian’s Decretum. The drafting of this enormous work of codification was supervised by the Domini- can Raymond of Pennafort. It may well be that the editorial activities necessary to create the Liber Extra were responsible for rediscover- ing Burchard’s and Ivo’s texts, but this seems doubtful since they had been included, in Ivo’s version, within the Decretum. Furthermore, Gregory’s deployment of the motif is much more elaborate. He asserts that the conversion of the Jews is useful to Christians; that Jews bear the image of the Christian (nostri) Savior, are created by the Maker of all, and that they should not be killed by their co-creatures, that is, by the Christian faithful. The statement is a masterpiece of deterministic rhetoric, averring that Jews, stamped by the Christic sign, should be allowed to meet their fate, the full recognition of what they actually and already are: Christians.

100 decretum Dist. L, c. 40. De eodem. Item ex Concilio Maticensi c. 6. Qui uero uel propter odii meditatione cupiditate Iudeum uel paganum occiderit quia imaginem Dei et spem futurae conuersionis exterminate, quadraginta this peniteat in pane et aqua. 101 all references are to Simonsohn, The Apostolic See: Documents. The Sicut Judeis of Alexander III, 1159–1181, no. 49, p. 51 has nothing on the image of God, but the two preceding versions by Popes Calixte and Eugenius are no longer extent; in the protective bull issued by Pope Clement III in 1188, doc. 63, p. 66, the argument for safeguard is that Jews are the archives of the Christians; the bull was re-issued by Pope Celestine III (1191–1198), doc. 64, p. 68, but has not survived, although it is mentioned in the sicut Judeis bulls of Pope Innocent III and his successors; the bull of Innocent III has survived (1199), doc 71, pp. 74–75: it contains for the first time the injunction stressed by Augustine, ‘slay them not.’ See John A. Watt, “Jews and Chris- tians in the Gregorian Decretals,” in Christianity and Judaism, pp. 93–105. 102 simonsohn, The Apostolic See: Documents, doc. 135, p. 143: Etsi Iudeorum sit reprobanda perfidia, utilis tamen est et necessaria quodammodo Christianis conver- satio eorundem, qui salvatoris nostri habentes ymaginem et ab universorum Creatore creati, a concreaturis suis, videlicet Christi fidelibus, non sunt, prohibente Domino, perimendi. The topos remained in use in later protective bulls, see, for instance, doc. 155, p. 165 (1236), though its use is never systematic. 94 brigitte miriam bedos-rezak

Conclusion

I have argued that the theme of the imago Dei afforded Christians a heuristic for discussions about the role of corporeality and the significance of matter in their culture, as defined by God’s incarnation but predicated upon God’s transcendence. This essential conundrum, that there could not be transcendence when truth was the host, the body of Christ, became hard to avoid in the twelfth century, with its growing practice of identifying polarities (sic et non) so as to advance rational arguments by means of dialectics. Not all contrasts, however, could be easily managed; it was one thing to deal with dissenting earlier authorities, and to harmonize legal decisions, another to realize, if this is what happened, that the claim of spirituality in fact located truth in the flesh. Perhaps it was a better understanding of the ramifi- cations of their religious episteme that prompted Christians to realize, and to enact, the place of the carnal in their theology. From 1050 to 1250, the range of Christian considerations about the imago Dei pursued three main directions: carnality and incarnation, signification and truth, protection. The first two supported a discourse that was negative to Jews but also to Christians who were perceived as opposing the Church’s tenets. The last one was part of a rhetoric of protection for the Jews, remaining current in papal Sicut Judeis decretals, albeit without displacing the Augustinian rationale. My purpose here was not so much to consider the extent to which the introduction of the imago Dei might have affected the condition of Jews in Europe. I did suggest, however, that the Chris- tian topos of the imago Dei, after undergoing a radicalized Chris- tological association, became the means of articulating universalistic concepts about humankind. This raises a new question about the transition from, or addition to, the Augustinian theory of the Jew as witness. For in such a movement, the rationale for protecting Jews went from a particularist argument, the special function of the Jews as witnesses to the Christian truth, to a universalistic argument, the membership of Jews in humankind. An argument has been made that in the twelfth century Jews lost some of their particularism in the eyes of Christian polemists, with such loss attributed to Chris- tian discovery of the Talmud and the Jewish capacity for interpretation, and also to churchmen’s sustained dealings with Muslims and were jews made in the image of god? 95

dissenters.103 The perspective developed here from the Christian interpretation of the imago Dei may suggest other possible components in the relative diminution of Jewish functional particularism within Christendom. A growing Christian sensitivity to and experience with the place of carnality and materiality within its own doctrine and liturgy fueled the need to establish a clear distinction from Jewish hermeunit- ics as they were imagined, even as it stimulated a re-articulation of the connection to Jews along another axis highly prized by the Church of the central Middle Ages, universalism. This latter, however, provided no portal to tolerance since it led to a renewed and forceful Christian crusade for the salvation of others, including Jews.

103 Jeremy Cohen, The Friars and the Jews: The Evolution of Medieval Anti-Judaism (Ithaca, 1982), argues for a thirteenth-century hallowing of the Augustinian concept at the hands of the friars. Cohen revisited the argument that the Augustinian theory legitimizing the existence of Jews lost momentum during the twelfth century in his Living Letters of the Law. On the twelfth-century weakening of Augustine’s theory, see Abulafia, Christians and Jews, passim and pp. 134, 137–38. Jewish Knowledge of Christianity in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries

Daniel J. Lasker

Accessing knowledge is becoming easier and easier as newer techno- logical advances have been applied to the world of learning. From the invention of movable type to the availability of data via the Internet, the basic work of discovering sources for research has been progres- sively simplified over the past 500 years. Whereas once a student’s quest for information might be met with restrictions on access or with problems of translation, if that information was written in a foreign language, data of all kinds are freely available today in almost any language imaginable. Thus, someone anywhere in the world who wishes to learn about Christianity has a plethora of resources from which to choose, many of them available at no cost and accessible from the comfort of one’s home.1 What, however, was the case with Jews in the European Middle Ages who wished to learn about the majority religion, in order to refute its doctrines, or to answer its attacks on Judaism, or even just to understand their neighbors better? Where could they find information about Christianity? There were no public libraries, and most books of Christian doctrines were housed in monasteries and were available only later at the universities, both of which were generally closed to Jews. Even assuming some Jews had access to these libraries, which was obviously not universally the case, the books found there were written in Latin, a language that most Jews could not read. So, how exactly did medieval Jews learn about Christianity? What did the Jew- ish elites and the masses know about that religion? In the following, we will discuss these questions in light of evidence of Jewish knowledge of Christianity in the twelfth and thirteen centuries. *

1 see, e.g., Christine L. Borgman, Scholarship in the Digital Age: Information, Infra- structure, and the Internet (Cambridge, Mass., 2007); Kirsty Williamson et al., “Research Students in the Electronic Age. Impacts of Changing Information Behavior on Information Literacy Needs,” Communications in Information Literacy 1: 2 (Fall 2007): 47–63. 98 daniel j. lasker

Questions about medieval Jewish familiarity with Christianity are easier to answer with respect to the Arabic-speaking world, where Jews, Christians, and Muslims all shared the same cultural space and language. For instance, we know of public debates, the majalis, where members of each religion argued their side.2 From the ninth century on, Christians and Jews turned more and more to Arabic as their literary language, meaning that literate Jews could read Christian, as well as Islamic, sources.3 Furthermore, refutations of Christian doctrines were not uncommon in those Muslim theological works from which Jews obtained some of their philosophical knowledge.4 It is not surprising, therefore, that such well-read Jews as Rav Saadia Gaon, in tenth- century Baghdad, or Maimonides, in twelfth-centuryF ostat, had extensive knowledge of Christian doctrines, such as the Trinity, and were even aware of internal Christian doctrinal differences as they played out in Eastern Christianity. Dawud al-Muqammas, in ninth-century Iraq, the first medieval Jewish philosopher and the first identifiable Jewish anti-Christian polemicist, had direct access to Christian sources since he had once converted to Christianity before returning to Juda- ism and criticizing his former religion. Although Jews and Christians were forbidden to proselytize each other by Islamic law, there obviously were exchanges of information between the two groups, sufficient so that members of one religion had adequate opportunities of learning about the other.5

2 hava Lazarus-Yafeh, ed., The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam (Wiesbaden, 1999). 3 it was more difficult for Christians and Muslims to access Jewish writings in Ara- bic since Jews generally wrote Arabic in Hebrew letters, namely in Judaeo-Arabic. Jewish familiarity with Christian literature in Arabic is attested by the fragments of that literature found in the Cairo Geniza; see Krizstina Szilági, “Christian Books in Jewish Libraries: Fragments of Christian Arabic Writings from the Cairo Geniza,” Ginzei Qedem 2 (2006): 107*–62*. 4 see, e.g., Shlomo Pines, “Some Traits of Christian Theological Writing in Rela- tion to Moslem Kalām and to Jewish Thought,” in Studies in the History of Arabic Philosophy (The Collected Works of Shlomo Pines, vol. 3), ed. Sarah Stroumsa (Jerusa- lem, 1996), pp. 79–125; Sarah Stroumsa, “Al-Farabi and Maimonides on the Christian Philosophical Tradition: A Re-evaluation,” Der Islam 68 (1991): 263–87. 5 for Jewish criticism of Christianity in Muslim countries, see Daniel J. Lasker, “The Jewish Critique of Christianity Under Islam in the Middle Ages,” PAAJR 57 (1991): 121–53; idem and Sarah Stroumsa, The Polemic of Nestor the Priest, 2 vols. (Jerusalem, 1996). For the context of the debate among all three religions, Moritz Steinschneider, Polemische and apologetische Literatur in arabischer Sprache (Leipzig, 1877), is still useful. jewish knowledge of christianity 99

But what was the case of Jews in Christian Europe and their knowledge of Christianity? If one starts with Ashkenaz, one sees that eleventh-century French and German Jews were obviously aware of Christianity and had negative feelings toward it; yet it would seem that their knowledge of Christian teachings was not extensive. Unlike their counterparts in Islamic lands, and later on in Christian Spain, Ashkenazic Jews restricted their educational curriculum to Jewish sources. True, some may have discussed religion with their Christian neighbors, some may have been the target of missionaries, and others may have seen the iconography in the churches, which reflected the Christian narrative, even though eleventh-century churches were in no way as impressive as their later counterparts. We have little evidence that Ashkenazic Jews, at least in the early period before the Crusades, had direct contact with Christian texts and doctrines.6 Some have claimed that anti-Christian polemic was a major moti- vating factor behind the Bible commentaries of Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, 1040–1105), but I do not believe that they have made their case. Many of the references in his commentaries to Christian interpretations seem to be dependent upon older midrashic material, such as his comments on Christian proof texts like Gen. 1:26 (“Let us make man”) or Gen. 18 (the visit of the three men). Rashi most likely did not know Latin and, in his day, the Christian mission to the Jews was not extensive. All those who try to place Rashi in the context of the Chris- tian renaissance of the twelfth century should remember thatR ashi died in 1105, just as that renaissance was beginning.7 Even the Crusades, which are said to have made a strong impression on Rashi, causing him to fill his commentaries with anti-Christian statements and arguments, occurred less than ten years before his death and contributed,

6 The situation must have been different in Byzantium, where Jews and Christians both spoke and read Greek. We do not have examples of specific anti-Christian polemics, but the Byzantine Karaite Judah Hadassi (fl. 1148–1149) did include anti-Christian material in his Eshkol Ha-Kofer; see Wilhelm Bacher, “Inedited Chapters of Jehudah Hadassi’s Eshkol Hakkofer,” Jewish Quarterly Review, o.s. 8 (1896): 431–44. 7 avraham Grossman, one of the main proponents of the theory that Rashi’s writings are replete with anti-Christian polemic, argues that the renaissance actually began in the eleventh century and, thus, Rashi could have been influenced by it; see Avra- ham Grossman, “Rashi’s Rejection of Philosophy—D[i]vine and Human Wisdoms Juxtaposed,” Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 8 (2009): 95–118. Even if Grossman is correct that Rashi was motivated by anti-Christian animus and a desire to refute Christianity, he provides little evidence that Rashi had first-hand knowledge of Chris- tian doctrines as such. 100 daniel j. lasker perhaps at most, to increased feelings of animosity, but certainly not to greater knowledge of Christian doctrines. It is unlikely that Rashi had any direct access to Christian books, and his commentaries indicate that his knowledge of Christianity was mostly superficial.8 In the generations of Rashi’s daughters and grandsons, there was close contact with some Christian scholars, for example, the association with the Victorines of Rashi’s grandson Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam). This contact indicates that some mid-twelfth-century northern European Jews had a fair amount of familiarity with Chris- tian biblical exegesis. Rashbam, his older contemporary Joseph Kara, and his younger contemporary Joseph Bekhor Shor all directed many more of their exegetical comments against Christian interpretations than did Rashi, and undoubtedly vituperative remarks against idolaters were made with contemporary Christians in mind. None of these exegetes, however, was a serious anti-Christian polemicist; none wrote a full-fledged refutation of Christianity or devoted more than isolated comments to disagreement with Christian exegesis.9 Just as knowledge of the Hebrew Bible did not make one an expert in Judaism, knowledge of Christian exegesis of the Hebrew Bible did not qualify one as an expert in Christianity, which would require knowledge of the New Testament and later Christian developments. There is no - evi dence that these northern French Jewish exegetes could read Latin. If that is the case, their acquaintance with Christian doctrines must have been derived only from Christian informants and was most likely superficial. There was not even a full-fledged Christian mission to the Jews before the thirteenth century and, therefore, almost no Christian missionaries from whom to learn about that religion.10 In

8 see my “Rashi and Maimonides on Christianity,” in Ephraim Kanarfogel and Moshe Sokolow, eds., Between Rashi and Maimonides: Themes in Medieval Jewish Thought and Exegesis (New York, 2010), pp. 3–21, for further documentation and references to the regnant theory of the anti-Christian nature of Rashi’s commentaries. See also David Berger, “Polemic, Exegesis, Philosophy, and Science: On the Tenac- ity of Ashkenazic Modes of Thought,” Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 8 (2009): 32–38. It should be remembered that literate Jews had the opportunity to learn about Christianity from the occasional references to it in rabbinical literature, which had not yet been removed by censorship; see R. Travers Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash, various editions; Peter Schafer, Jesus in the Talmud (Princeton, 2007). 9 see Martin I. Lockshin, Rashbam’s Commentary on Deuteronomy: An Annotated Translation (Providence, 2004), pp. 19–25. 10 see David Berger, “Mission to the Jews and Jewish-Christian Contacts in the Polemical Literature of the High Middle Ages,” The American Historical Review 91: 3 (June, 1986): 576–91. jewish knowledge of christianity 101 twelfth-century Ashkenaz, then, Jewish knowledge of Christianity was apparently very limited. * Jews in Christian countries began writing specifically anti-Christian polemics only in the generation after Rashbam, and the first such works were written by authors with strong connections to Islamic Andalusia: Joseph Kimhi and Jacob ben Reuben.11 Kimhi probably learned about Christianity while still in Andalusia, since his Sefer ha- Berit (“Book of the Covenant,” written in Provence in approximately 1170)12 shows evidence of being influenced by anti-Christian Jewish arguments formulated by Iberian Jewish authors who wrote in Judaeo- Arabic.13 Kimhi’s book, however, gives no indication of the source of his knowledge of Christianity. The literary framework of the polemic, namely a dialogue between a Jew and a Christian, does not necessarily indicate that Kimhi had such conversations with Christians. Kimhi does, however, state that the motivation behind his writing was the request of one of his students for a polemical guidebook. It is of interest that this student (assuming he existed and is not just a literary device) was most likely a product of Christian Provence, but he had to turn to a refugee from Islamic Andalusia to learn Jewish refutations of Christianity. Jacob ben Reuben is more forthcoming about the sources of his knowledge. Jacob tells us in his Milhamot Ha-Shem (also from 1170) that it was decreed that he live in the city of Huesca (or maybe Gas- cony) where he dwelled among Gentiles. A certain Christian, who was one of the leading citizens of the town and one of the learned of the generation, took a liking to him. He was a priest who was expert in logic (hokhmat ha-ma’amar) and sophisticated in other sciences

11 The celebrant of this volume has studied these authors intensely and focused on issues in their work that go beyond strict polemics; see Robert Chazan, Fashioning Jewish Identity in Medieval Western Christendom (Cambridge, 2004), and a wealth of additional articles. See also Daniel J. Lasker, “Jewish-Christian Polemics at the Turn- ing Point: Jewish Evidence from the Twelfth Century,” Harvard Theological Review 89: 2 (1996): 161–73. 12 Joseph Kimhi, Sefer ha-Berit, ed. Frank Talmage (Jerusalem, 1974); The Book of the Covenant, trans. Frank Talmage (Toronto, 1972). 13 see my “The Jewish-Christian Debate in Transition: From the Lands of Ishmael to the Lands of Edom,” in Benjamin Hary et al., eds., Judaism and Islam: Boundaries, Interaction, and Communication (Leiden, 2000), pp. 53–65. 102 daniel j. lasker

(hokhmot penimiyyot).14 Nevertheless, according to the author, the priest had a blind spot and could not separate himself from idol worship. During the many hours in which Jacob would study philosophy (hokhmah va-daʿat) with the priest, the latter would ask him (in the words of Elijah to the Israelites, I Kings 18:21): “How long will you waver on the threshold?” Did not Jacob and his fellow Jews see how the Christian were becoming stronger every day while the Jews were becoming weaker? Suggesting that Jacob refute him if he could, the priest is described as giving Jacob a book written by three early authors, whom Jacob names as Jerome, Augustine, and Paul. Accord- ing to Jacob, these were the three people who founded the Christian error and firmly established it. In addition, Gregory was responsible for Christian musical instruments (tiqen lahem kelei shir). “And I,” Jacob continues, “inclined my ear to all [the priest’s] questions, understood his statements, and gave my heart to hear and to understand, to search and to investigate answers to his questions.”15 What is significant here is not Jacob’s description of how he came to write his Milhamot Ha-Shem, which may be only a literary device (as are, surely, the priest’s presentations of Christian doctrines written in rhyming Hebrew). Rather, it is the claim that Jacob learned about Christianity by reading primary sources, apparently in an anthology. The truth of this account might be substantiated by the inclusion in Milhamot Ha-Shem of Hebrew translations of Latin texts, such as Jacob’s renditions of sections of Gilbert Crispin’s Disputatio,16 as well as passages of the New Testament Matthew.17 Undoubtedly, if Jacob’s friend the priest gave him Latin books, he was able to read them. Jacob does not, however, provide information about the process by which he learned Latin. Jacob ben Reuben hence offers the earliest first-hand evidence that some Jews in medieval Christendom derived their knowledge of Chris- tianity not only from oral contacts with Christian sages but by actual examination of Christian texts. As in the case of Rashbam, collegiality or friendship with Christians was one way for a Jew to access Christian

14 The meaning of this term is uncertain. 15 Jacob ben Reuben, Sefer Milhamot Ha-Shem, ed. Judah Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1963), pp. 5–6. 16 david Berger, “Gilbert Crispin, Alan of Lille, and Jacob ben Reuben: A Study in the Transmission of Medieval Polemic,” Speculum 49: 1 (1974): 34–47. 17 Milhamot Ha-Shem, chap. 11, pp. 141–53. jewish knowledge of christianity 103 knowledge, but Jacob’s much superior knowledge of Christian doctrines apparently was the result of the study of Christian literature and not just of personal contacts. * Until the thirteenth century, therefore, we have few documented examples of Jews in Christendom with intimate knowledge of Chris- tian doctrines acquired by reading Latin texts. Yet, at the same time that Jacob ben Reuben was almost the only identifiable Jew who was reading Christian theological texts in Latin, some Jews, especially in Provence, were reading and translating Latin medical texts into Hebrew, indicating that when Jews had a professional or personal need to know Latin, they were capable of learning that language and using it profitably.18 Thus, lack of Jewish familiarity with Christian religious texts in Latin would seem to indicate that attaining such knowledge was not a high priority for most twelfth-century Jews. The situation changes in the thirteenth century with the intensifi- cation of the Christian mission to the Jews.19 Jews were increasingly targeted for conversion and some were forced into public disputations, most notably those of Paris, 1240, and Barcelona, 1263. Many informal debates between Jews and Christians occurred as well. This meant that, on the one hand, Jews had many more opportunities to learn about Christianity from Christian informants, and, on the other hand, that they had greater incentives to investigate Christian doctrines for the purpose of refuting them.20 Thus, the thirteenth century provides

18 we know of eighteen Latin to Hebrew translations before 1200, all of them medical texts, and seventeen of them from Provence; see Gad Freudenthal, “Arabic and Latin Cultures as Resources for the Hebrew Translation Movement: Comparative Considerations, Both Quantitative and Qualitative,” in idem, ed., Science in Medieval Jewish Cultures (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 74–105. We do not know, however, of any Jewish sage who was a leading doctor and who employed his knowledge of Latin for anti-Christian purposes. 19 The thirteenth-century changes, and their significance, have been a major issue in the historiography of the Jewish-Christian debate in which the celebrant of this volume has been a central participant. For references, see Daniel J. Lasker, Jewish Philosophical Polemics Against Christianity in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (Oxford and Portland, Ore., 2007), pp. xviii–xix. 20 as the example of Jewish anti-Christian writings in Islamic countries illustrates, there is no necessary connection between a Christian mission to the Jews and Jewish polemics against Christianity. Yet, it appears that there is a relation between the quantity of Jewish polemical output and Christian conversionary intensity, and, therefore, Jews apparently did have a greater motivation to investigate and to refute Christianity in times of missionary activity than in the absence of such pressure. 104 daniel j. lasker much more evidence of Jewish knowledge of Christianity and Latin, and direct Jewish contact with Christian sages and texts, than can be seen previously. Since Jewish study of Christianity was generally done in the context of the interreligious debate, greater familiarity did not lead to greater sympathy for the other religion.21 A good example of an anti-Christian polemicist with close relations with Christians, and undoubtedly with access to Christian literature, is Moses ben Solomon of Salerno (d. 1279). Moses studied Maimo- nides’ Guide of the Perplexed with Christian scholars, most notably Nicholas of Giovinazzo,22 even composing a Hebrew-Italian glossary of philosophical terms as a study guide (in addition to his Hebrew commentary on the Guide).23 He wrote two anti-Christian compositions, Ma’amar ha-’Emunah, which has not survived, and Taʿanot, a philosophical polemic based on selections from the Guide, most notably Maimonides’s formulation of the twenty-five propositions of Aristotelian physics. In this latter work, Moses describes back-and- forth discussions with a number of Christian scholars, many of whom he cites by name, including the aforementioned Nicholas. Although Moses does not make reference to any specific Christian composition, he does cite Augustine and Boethius and he uses a number of Latin

21 There may have been Jews who studied Christianity for the purpose of refuting it who then converted to that religion, such as Joshua Lorki, the instigator of the Dis- putation of Tortosa (1413–1414) as Geronimo de Santa Fe. Indeed, a fuller account of Jewish knowledge of Christianity should include apostates who obviously became familiar with some of the tenets of their new religion either before or after their conversions. We have little indication, however, of the level of knowledge of most apostates who presumably had no more acquaintance with the intricacies of Christian doctrines than did the average Christian layman. Apostates who later became anti- Jewish polemicists such as Abner of Burgos/Alfonso de Valladolid (d. c. 1347) obviously were well acquainted with Christian sources. 22 see Joseph Sermoneta, “Moses ben Solomon of Salerno and Nicholaus of Gio- vinazo on Maimonides’ ‘The Guide of the Perplexed’,” Iyyun 20 (1969): 212–40 (in Hebrew). For the identification of Nicholas, see Caterina Rigo, “Per un’identificazione del ‘sapiente cristiano’ Nicola di Giovinazzo, collaboratore di Rabbi Mošeh ben Šelomoh da Salerno,” Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum 69 (1999): 61–146 (I would like to thank Maurice Kriegel for bringing this article to my attention). One of Rigo’s considerations in her identification of Nicolas is a 1270 dating of Moses of Salerno’s Taʿanot based on the second part of the manuscript, a part which is manifestly not Moses’s; see my “Jewish Polemics Against Christianity in Thirteenth-Century Italy,” in Yaakov Elman and Jeffrey S. Gurock, eds., Hazon Nahum: Studies in Jewish Law, Thought and History. Presented to Norman Lamm on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (New York, 1997), pp. 253–54. 23 see Joseph Sermoneta, Un glosario filosofico ebraico-italiano del XIII secolo (Rome, 1969). jewish knowledge of christianity 105 and Italian theological terms and phrases which he transliterates into Hebrew letters.24 In addition, he also mentions recent Christians who had adopted an innovative Christology, which, Moses claims, they were forced into accepting by the strength of Aristotelian philosophy. It is highly likely, therefore, that Moses did read Christian literature. Nevertheless, among all the Christian doctrines, he discusses in his Taʿanot only Trinity and incarnation and not other beliefs; of course, we do not know what doctrines were discussed in his lost Ma’amar ha-’Emunah.25 Thirteenth-century polemicists in Ashkenaz with close familiarity with Christian texts and practices included Joseph ben Nathan Official, author of Sefer Yosef ha-Meqanne;26 the anonymous author of Sefer Nitzahon Yashan;27 and the author of a short polemical miscellany of New Testament verses found in Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale, Heb. ms. 712).28 Latin words and New Testament verses are transcribed into Hebrew letters indicating the authors were linguistically equipped to study Christian texts for their polemical enterprises. Since both Sefer Yosef ha-Meqanne and Sefer Nitsahon Yashan contain references to proselytes, perhaps these former Christians served as sources for Jewish knowledge of Christianity in the same way that some Jewish apostates were provided Christians information about Judaism.29 The author of the latter work also seems to be quite conversant with Christian

24 The use of transliteration for terms in the source language for which there is no accepted equivalent in the target language is a common feature of translations. Since many Christian concepts are foreign to Judaism, there is often no accepted Hebrew translation for them, and transliteration is used instead. Eventually, some Hebrew terms for Christian theological notions became standard and replaced transliterations. See my “Latin into Hebrew and the Medieval Jewish-Christian Debate,” to appear in Gad Freudenthal and Resianne Fontaine, eds., Medieval Hebrew Translations from the Latin. Vol. 1, Terminology, Methodology and Conceptual Frameworks. 25 see S. Simon, Mose ben Salomo von Salerno und seine philosophischen Ausein- andersetzungen mit den lehren des Christentums (Breslau, 1931); for a general discussion of this work, see my “Thirteenth-Century Italy,” pp. 251–63. 26 ed. Judah Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1970). 27 edited, with annotated translation, in David Berger, The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages (Philadelphia, 1979). 28 This manuscript was described and discussed by Philippe Bobichon and Tamás Visi at a conference entitled: “Latin into Hebrew. The Transfer of Philosophical, Scientific, and Medical Lore from Christian to Jewish Cultures in Southern Europe (12th–15th Centuries),” Paris, December, 2009. 29 see Rosenthal, Introduction to Sefer Yosef ha-Meqanne, p. 27; Berger, Debate, p. 252. 106 daniel j. lasker rituals as well.30 A Provençal example of a mid-thirteenth-century Jewish expert in Christianity is Meir ben Simeon of Narbonne, who records a number of formal and informal discussions with Christians that took place over a number of decades and whose breadth of argumentation indicates familiarity with Christian texts and doctrines.31 It would seem, then, that as Christian missionary pressure on Jews increased in the thirteenth century, there developed a guild of what we might think of as “professional” polemicists. These polemicists tried to learn as much as they could about Christianity; some may have read Christian theological texts, and others may have learned what they knew about Christianity from Christian missionaries. The thirteenth century also saw an increase in the number of Latin treatises translated into Hebrew, not only medical works as in the twelfth century but scientific and philosophical works as well.32 Scientific cooperation between Jews and Christians in the thirteenth century seems to have been particularly strong in Italy, as can be seen not only in the case of Moses ben Solomon but also in the careers of Hillel ben Samuel of Verona33 and Jacob Anatoli.34 Although some thirteenth-century Jewish polemicists were apparently turning to original Christian literature in order to prepare for their oral and written debates with Christians, presumably not all were equally equipped with close knowledge of Christianity. The two major public disputants, Rabbi Yehiel (d. c. 1260) in Paris and Rabbi Moses ben Nahman (Nahmanides, 1194–1270) in Barcelona, had little opportunity to demonstrate much knowledge of Christianity. Both disputations centered on Christian understandings of rabbinical literature, a subject on which the Jewish representatives were experts and, hence,

30 see, e.g., Berger, Debate, pp. 219–20; and cf. Peter Jeffery, “A Medieval Jewish View of the Catholic Liturgy,” Colloquium: Music, Worship, Arts 1 (2004): 29–38, for a corrected reading of that passage. 31 see William Herskowitz, “Judaeo-Christian Dialogue in Provence as Reflected in Milhemet Mizvah of R. Meir ha-Meili,” Ph.D. Diss. (Yeshiva University, 1974); Robert Chazan, Daggers of Faith (Berkeley, 1989), pp. 49–66. R. Meir’s contemporary from Avignon, R. Mordecai ben Joseph, seems to have been less conversant with Christian doctrines; see ibid., pp. 103–14. 32 see Gad Freudenthal, “Arabic and Latin Cultures.” 33 see Hillel ben Shemu’el of Verona, Sefer Tagmulé Ha-Nefesh, ed. Joseph Sermon- eta (Jerusalem, 1981). 34 anatoli’s polemics against Christianity are discussed in Marc Saperstein, “Chris- tians and Christianity in the Sermons of Jacob Anatoli,” Your Voice Like a Ram’s Horn: Themes and Texts in Traditional Jewish Preaching (Cincinnati, 1996), pp. 55–74. jewish knowledge of christianity 107 they could answer the Christian interpretations without having to learn much about the other religion. Nahmanides was obviously aware of major Christian biblical proof texts, such as the “seventy weeks” of Daniel 9:20–27, the “suffering servant” of Isaiah 53, the “Shiloh passage” of Gen. 49:10, and the like.35 When the Christian protagonist Pablo Christiani invoked a Christological interpretation of Ps 110:1: “The Lord said to my lord: Sit at my right hand,” Nahmanides replied: “Are you the clever Jew who made this new discovery and became an apostate because of it? Are you the one who bade the king to assemble before you the sages of the Jews to hold a disputation over your dis- coveries? Do you think we have never heard this argument before? Is a there a priest or Christian child who will not present this question to the Jews? This is already an old argument.”36 And when King James I of Aragon and his entourage arrived at the synagogue in Barcelona on the Sabbath after the disputation to preach about the Trinity, here, again, Nahmanides was equipped to refute the Christian doctrine.37 It is unclear, however, if Nahmanides knew Latin or had any special expertise in Christianity other than that of an educated thirteenth- century Jew who was familiar with Christian missionary arguments.38 There probably were Jews who engaged in debate, or who were tempted to, who did not know very much about Christianity. Moses ben Solomon’s Italian contemporary Solomon ben Moses pointed out to the readers of his anti-Christian polemic, ʿEdut Ha-Shem Ne’emanah, that not everyone should accede to Christian requests to debate. Solo- mon wrote that potential polemicists should be those who have a good character and are generous, naturally intelligent, and careful in their

35 in addition to the discussions of these passages in the Disputation, Nahmanides devotes the third book of his Sefer ha-Ge’ulah to an analysis of Daniel 9; see Moses ben Nahman, Kitvei Rabbeinu Moshe ben Nahman, ed. Hayyim Dov (Charles Ber) Chavel (Jerusalem, 1963), 1: 281–87. The interpretation of Isaiah 53 is the subject of a separate commentary; see ibid., pp. 322–26. See also Nahmanides’s Commentary to the Torah in Gen. 49:10. 36 Moses ben Nahman, Kitvei, 1: 317; translation based on Hyam Maccoby, Judaism on Trial (Rutherford, 1982), p. 135. 37 Moses ben Nahman, Kitvei, 1: 319–20; Maccoby, Trial, pp. 142–46. 38 from the few non-Hebrew words used in Nahmanides’s account of the Disputa- tion, it seems obvious that it was conducted in the vernacular. The language of the Disputation of Paris is less clear since Rabbi Yeúiel makes the point that the Chris- tians cited a particularly offensive Talmudic passage in the vernacular so that Queen Blanche would understand; that would seem to indicate that at least the other rabbinical citations were in Latin; see Reuben Margoliot (Margulies), ed., Vikuah Rabbeinu Yehiel Mi-Paris (Lemberg, 1928?), p. 15; Lasker, “Latin into Hebrew.” 108 daniel j. lasker speech. They must know the prophetic books by heart, which they can recite easily; they must be articulate and accustomed to being with sages, and, finally, Solomon says, they must know the vernacular well. Solomon makes no statement about the putative polemicist’s knowledge of Christianity, but rather his knowledge of Judaism. Solomon’s own work is mostly a collection of biblical messianic prophecies which, he claims, had not been fulfilled by Jesus, and the interpretation of a few “Christological” verses.39 * In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, there were different levels of Jewish knowledge of Christianity in Europe. The most knowledgeable Jews were a small group of polemicists who had contact with Christian sages, exploited their access to Christian literature and may even have initiated theological discussions with Christians.40 There may have been a few Jews whose knowledge of Christianity was not acquired for polemical reasons, but most likely only in those localities where Jewish and Christian intellectuals cooperated, such as on translation projects. Other Jews, who were the objects of Christian missionary advances, became familiar with the basic outlines of Christian exegesis and Christian polemical strategies through contact with missionaries, including hearing forced sermons in the synagogues.41 Some of them used the knowledge gained in this way to argue against Christianity either orally or in literature. The lowest level of Jewish knowledge of Christianity was held by the masses who learned about Christian practices from their neighbors; these Jews have generally not left us much evidence of the state of their familiarity with the dominant religion,

39 solomon bar Moses bar Yekutiel, ʿEdut Ha-Shem Ne’emanah, in Judah Rosenthal, Studies and Sources (Jerusalem, 1967), 1: 373–430. The reference to the vernacular, laʿuz in Hebrew, is found on p. 378. This may possibly refer to Latin, but the context seems to indicate the need for articulateness rather than linguistic erudition; cf. Ram Ben-Shalom, “Between Official and Private Dispute: The Case of Christian Spain and Provence in the Late Middle Ages,” AJSReview 27: 1 (2003): 44. Ben-Shalom’s article (pp. 23–72) includes much important information about public and private debates from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries. 40 even assuming that such polemical experts did read Christian theological works in Latin, we have no descriptions of how they, or other Jews, such as translators of Latin treatises into Hebrew, learned Latin. Thus, we do not know if Jewish knowledge of Latin was self-learned (perhaps expedited by the similarities between Latin and the vernacular Romance languages) or taught to Jews by Christians, formally or informally. 41 see Chazan, Daggers, pp. 38–48. jewish knowledge of christianity 109 even if it often influenced their own practices.42 Jews obviously were aware of many of their neighbors’ holidays and rituals; as Yehiel of Paris informs us, Jewish merchants did a brisk business with Chris- tians on the eve of their holidays.43 Even those authors with the most knowledge of Christianity in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were by no means as knowledgeable as their later counterparts such as Profiat Duran or Hasdai Crescas. Scholasticism, which included comprehensive defenses of Christian doctrines, had yet to make the inroads into Jewish thought as it would do in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.44 If the Jews with the most knowledge of Christianity of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were only slightly familiar with contemporary Christian theological developments, it is hardly likely that other Jews had such knowledge. It should also be remembered that Christian polemicists, from whom many Jews learned about Christianity, were themselves usually not from the first tier of Christian thinkers and, if they were, they had to lower the level of their discussions to match the ability of their Jewish audiences to understand them. It would seem, therefore, that most twelfth- and thirteenth-century Jews knew very little about Christianity, except for a select few who studied Christianity mainly for the sake of polemics. This does not mean, of course, that Jews and Christians did not have much in common in terms of popular religion and knowledge of each other’s rituals. They shared the same vernacular languages and often had the same concerns in terms of economics, health, and personal security. It does mean, however, that if someone wants to learn about Christianity, medieval Jewish literature is certainly not the place to look.

42 ivan Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Culture and Acculturation in the Middle Ages (New Haven, 1996); Elisheva Baumgarten, Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe (Princeton, 2004). 43 Vikuah, p. 21. 44 Mauro Zonta, Hebrew Scholasticism in the Fifteenth Century: A History and Source Book (Dordrecht, 2006); see also Daniel J. Lasker, “The Impact of Christian- ity on Late Iberian Jewish Philosophy,” in Bernard Dov Cooperman, ed., In Iberia and Beyond: Hispanic Jews between Cultures (Newark, Del. and London, 1998), pp. 175–90. Thirteenth-century Italy seems to have been an exception to the general rule concerning Jewish ignorance of Christian philosophy. Dreams as a Determinant of Jewish Law and Practice in Northern Europe During the High Middle Ages

Ephraim Kanarfogel

Jewish society in northern Europe (Ashkenaz) during the high Middle Ages has been characterized as decidedly halakhocentric—religious norms and rituals were meant to conform to authoritative texts of Jew- ish law. In situations where long-standing rituals or practices appeared to conflict with talmudic rulings or other halakhic prescriptions, the most important rabbinical figures in northern France and Germany, the Tosafists, attempted to reconcile these practices with canonized texts, by means of newly developed forms of dialectical interpretation.1 Jacob Katz has charted the noteworthy degree to which laymen were devoted to the instructions of the rabbinical elite, as well as the “ritual instinct” that was generally prevalent throughout medieval Ashkenazic society, both of which allowed these reconciliations to be pursued effectively and without hesitation.2 Given their allegiance to textuality as the ultimate arbiter of Ashke- nazic practice and ritual, it is rather surprising to discover that a number of leading Tosafists and other rabbinical scholars in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries made use of dream experiences as a means of determining Jewish law or ratifying earlier legal opinions. As we shall see, such an approach was clearly at odds with contemporary Span- ish or Sefardic (halakhic) rationalism as represented by Maimonides (1138–1204); with the position of leading halakhists who were also strongly grounded in Kabbalah such as Nahmanides (1194–1270); and even with view of Rashi (1040–1105), the non-philosophically inclined doyen of Ashkenazic talmudic (and biblical) interpretation.3

1 see, e.g., my “Halakhah and Mezi’ut (Realia) in Medieval Ashkenaz: Surveying the Parameters and Defining the Limits,” Jewish Law Annual 14 (2003): 193–224. 2 see, e.g., J. Katz, Goy shel Shabbat (Jerusalem, 1984), pp. 43–56, 176–81; idem, Bein Yehudim le-Goyim, (Jerusalem, 1960), pp. 35–72. 3 on Rashi’s attitude toward philosophy, see, e.g., Avraham Grossman, “The Ten- sion between Torah and Hokhmah in Rashi’s Commentary to the Bible,” [Hebrew] Teshurah le-Amos: Studies Presented to Amos Hakham, ed. M. Bar-Asher et al. (Alon 112 ephraim kanarfogel

R. Eliezer b. Nathan (Raban) of Mainz, the leading German Tosafist in the mid-twelfth century, records the following episode in hiscol- lection of talmudic commentary and responsa, Even ha-‘Ezer (Sefer Raban), in a passage dated to 1152. At the Sabbath meal, Eliezer’s son- in-law Elyaqim inquired about the halakhic status of a (stoneware) utensil that had been used at the meal to transfer wine from the barrel to the table. A Gentile member of the household had used this utensil earlier, to drink (kosher) wine. Nonetheless, this use had the potential to render the wine for the meal Gentile wine, since it had been transferred to the table in this utensil. Raban ruled that if any residue (or absorption) remained from the earlier use by the Gentile servant, the utensil would indeed be problematic. If no residue remained, however, the wine was fit for consumption by Jews. Raban then asked his son- in-law if in fact the utensil was residue-free (keli naguv). He answered in the affirmative, and Raban, in turn, permitted the wine.4 After the meal, Raban took a nap. While he slept, his late father-in- law (and major teacher) R. Elyaqim b. Yosef of Mainz appeared to him in a dream, reciting verses from the biblical books of Amos (6:6) and Isaiah (66:17) that allude to the wine and pork consumed by non-Jews. In his dream, Raban understood this initially to refer to some kind of broad warning about the actions of those (Gentiles) who typically partook of these foods. When Raban awoke, however, it occurred to him that his father-in-law had in fact been referring to the wine that he had permitted earlier; R. Elyaqim was apparently suggesting that this wine was unfit for Jewish consumption, since the utensil involved was not completely free of absorptions or residue. R. Eliezer proceeded

Shvut, 2007), pp. 13–27; idem, “Rashi’s Rejection of Philosophy: Divine and Human Wisdom Juxtaposed,” Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 8 (2009): 95–118. 4 see Sefer Raban, sec. 26, ed. S. Z. Ehrenreich (Simluya, 1926; repr; Jerusalem, 1975), fol. 12v (= ed. Prague, 1811, fol. 14). See also the gloss in Haggahot ha-Mordekhai .and ms ,(מרדכי הארוך le-Massekhet ‘Avodah Zarah, sec. 858 (from a text of the Wolfenbüttel (Herzog August Bibliothek), Cod. Guelf. Auf. Fol. 5.7 (late twelfth- century Ashkenaz, IMHM #2130), fol. 49, cited in Matania Ben-Ghedalia, “Ha-Reqa ha-Histori li-Ketivat Even ha-‘Ezer,” M. A. thesis (Touro College, Israel, 2002), p. 31. The son-in-law Elyaqim is mentioned in Sefer Raban only in this instance, and he does not appear to have been of the same stature as Raban’s other (Tosafist) sons-in-law, (ר' שבט or רשב"ט R. Yo’el b. Isaac ha-Levi and R. Samuel b. Natronai (known as of Bonn. Raban’s (initial) ruling was based on ‘Avodah Zarah 74b, where a talmudic the complete drying of any residue, as a sufficient means for ,ניגוב view prescribes rendering permissible for Jewish (kosher) use a stone utensil (or vat) that had once contained Gentile wine. Cf., e.g., Nimmuqei Yosef, loc. cit., in Shitat ha-Qadmonim ‘al Massekhet ‘Avodah Zarah, ed. M. Blau (Brooklyn, 1969), pp. 310–12. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 113 to test the utensil. He discovered, in fact, that it retained wine residue for a (relatively lengthy) period of two days and one night (perhaps the night in between), indicating that he had ruled improperly in allowing the wine. Raban then prohibited all the remaining wine in the barrel and he fasted for two days, instructing the others who had partaken of the wine to do the same.5 Although Raban may have considered his dream to be a case of felicitous (Divine) intervention, it appears to have been mainly somatic (and was certainly not the result of an intentional “dream question” that he initiated—a technique to which we shall return). He went to sleep with his ruling fresh on his mind, and perhaps with an element of doubt concerning the retention properties of the utensil in question. During his dream, Raban was guided by the familiar, yet respected presence of his father-in-law and major teacher, whose rulings and guidance had certainly helped him in the past. Raban was initially unsure of the message that his father-in-law wished to convey, but upon awakening, Raban realized that his own halakhic ruling may have been in error. Nonetheless, Raban did not treat the dream itself as a definitive ruling or directive. Rather, he conducted an experiment or test, acting only after he had verified the results. In the dream, Raban’s teacher helped him to wrestle with his own insecurities or uncertainties about his initial halakhic ruling, but Raban took full responsibility for the changed ruling that resulted. At roughly the same time, a somewhat different kind of dream was experienced by R. Ephraim b. Isaac of Regensburg (d. 1175), a German Tosafist and rabbinical judge, who had studied in northern France with Rabbenu Tam.6 R. Ephraim decided to permit the consumption

5 Both the Haggahot Mordekhai and ms. Wolfenbüttel passages record clearer versions of the verses involved than do the printed version(s) of Sefer Raban. On Raban’s conceptualization of the prohibition of yayn nesekh, cf. Israel Ta-Shma, Knes- set Mehqarim, vol. 4 (Jerusalem, 2010), pp. 324–26, 329–30. On R. Elyaqim b. Yosef, see Avidgor Aptowitzer, Mavo la-Rabiah (Jerusalem, 1938), pp. 48–49; E. E. Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot (Jerusalem, 1980), 1: 173–74, 182; and M. Ben-Ghedalia, op cit, pp. ואני נשאלתי על זה) Cf. David Ibn Zimra, Teshuvot ha-Radvaz, pt. 6, no. 2286 .40–25 ]להחליף תפילין של ר"ת לתפילין של רש"י[ והוריתי שהדבר מותר ובאותה הלילה, הראוני בחלומי שלא הוריתי יפה וחזרתי בי ועיינתי בדבר וראיתי שיש בזה זלזול בכל .(גאוני עולם ולכן אני גוזר ואומר שאסור לעשות כן מן הדין מן הטעמים שכתבתי 6 see Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 1: 199–207; Rami Reiner, “Rabbenu Tam: Rab- botav (ha-Zarefatim) ve-Talmidav Bnei Ashkenaz,” M. A. thesis (Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997), pp. 82–92; and my “R. Judah he-Hasid and the Rabbinic Scholars of Regensburg: Interactions, Influences and Implications,” Jewish Quarterly Review 96 (2006): 27–37. 114 ephraim kanarfogel of a fish called balbuta (or barbuta, which apparently shed its scales, either during an early stage of its development or as it was taken out of the water), and partook of it himself. Rashi and his two illustri- ous grandsons in northern France, Rashbam and Rabbenu Tam, had already ruled that this fish was kosher, which may well have affected R. Ephraim’s decision in this matter.7 R. Ephraim’s dream is described by two younger German rabbinical figures, R. Judah b. Samuel he-Hasid (of Regensburg, d. 1217), and R. Ephraim’s student, R. Barukh b. Samuel of Mainz (d. 1221, and author of the voluminous but no longer extant halakhic compendium, Sefer ha-Hokhmah). According to R. Barukh’s version, Ephraim dreamed during the night following his permissive ruling that he was being presented with a brimming plate of non-kosher crustaceans by an elderly man with a pleasant countenance, white hair, and a flowing white beard. The elderly man bid R. Ephraim to eat from this plate, but Ephraim adamantly (and even angrily) refused, explaining to the man that these were non-kosher sea creatures. The man responded, “These are as permitted (for consumption) as the non-kosher species (sher- azim) that you allowed today.” When R. Ephraim awoke, he understood that Elijah the Prophet had appeared to him, and he refrained away from (eating) those fish from that day on (me-hayom va-hal’ah piresh me-hem).8 The (essentially similar) version of R. Ephraim’s dream that was heard by R. Isaac b. Moses of Vienna from his teacher, R. Judah he- Hasid (who had himself heard about the dream from an unidentified source; R. Judah arrived in Regensburg only in 1195, some twenty years after the death of R. Ephraim) does not describe in such specific

7 see, e.g., Sefer Or Zarua’, pisqei massekhet ‘Avodah Zarah, sec. 199, ed. Machon Yerushalayim (Jerusalem, 2010), 3: 630 (which also includes, from manuscript, the halakhic summary by R. Hayyim b. Isaac Or Zarua’); Tosafot ‘Avodah Zarah 40a, s.v. ‘amar (which also notes comments by Ri of Dampierre and R. Judah Sirleon with respect to Rabbenu Tam’s view); and see also R. Moses of Coucy, Sefer Mizvot Gadol (Venice, 1547), lo ta’aseh 132, fol. 44, col. 4. Cf. R. Yehezqel Landau, Teshuvot Noda bi-Yehudah (mahadura tinyana, Yoreh Dea’ah, no. 30) and the responsum of his son, R. Samuel, in Shivat Zion (New York, 1966), no. 52. 8 r. Barukh’s description is found in Sefer Tashbez (Lemberg, 1858), sec. 352 (= Tes- huvot u-Pesaqim u-Minhagim le-R. Meir mi-Rothenburg, ed. I. Z. Kahana, 2: 196, sec. 60); Haggahot Asheri to ‘Avodah Zarah, 2: 41: and cf. Simcha Emanuel, Shivrei Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’alei ha-Tosafot (Jerusalem, 2007), p. 105 n. 7. Semag (in the above note) concludes by noting that despite the permissive approach found in See also .לא בכל מקום נהגו כן כי באשכנז נהגו שלא לאוכלה ,northern France Rabbenu Perez’s glosses to this passage in Sefer Tashbez (= Kahana, op cit, n. 3). dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 115 terms the figure who brought R. Ephraim the plate. He is characterized simply as the ba’al ha-halom (ve-ka’as ‘al ha-mevi . . . ve-ka’as ‘al ba’al ha-halom). According to this version, the dream itself caused R. Ephraim to awaken, at which point he realized that he had (mistakenly) permitted the balbuta fish earlier that day. He immediately got out of bed and broke the cooking utensils and plates from which people had consumed this fish, announcing that anyone who refrained from eating this fish would have a blessing placed on his head (ve-khol ha-poresh mile-‘okhlam yanuhu lo berakhot ‘al rosho).9 Unlike Raban, R. Ephraim (whose dream definitely occurred at night) does not see someone close to him (or even known to him) in his dream. Rather, he encounters the ba’al ha-halom (which typically refers, in rabbinical parlance, to the angelic figure who is responsible for granting or showing dreams to an individual),10 or he experiences a gillui Eliyyahu.11 Moreover, Ephraim has a “give and take” conversation with the authority figure; he does not simply receive a message as Raban did. It was perhaps these very factors that led Ephraim to accept the results of his dream as incontrovertible “fact,” and to move

9 see Sefer Or Zarua’ (above, n. 7), sec. 200. On the relationship between R. Judah he-Hasid and R. Isaac Or Zarua’, see, e.g., my “The Appointment of Hazzanim in Medieval Ashkenaz: Communal Policy and Individual Religious Prerogatives,” Spiri- tual Authority: Struggles Over Cultural Power in Jewish Thought, ed. H. Kreisel et al. (Beersheva, 2009), pp. 5–31. 10 see, e.g., Rashi to Sanhedrin 30a, s.v. ba’al ha-halom. Cf. Reuven Margaliot, Mar- galiot ha-Yam ‘al Massekhet Sanhedrin (Jerusalem, 1958), ad loc., for Zoharic and other sources that identify this figure as the angel Gabriel, and see also below (nn. 26, 53), for additional angelic names. Sefer ha-Razim, ed. B. Rebiger and P. Schafer (Tübingen, 2009), pp. 32*–35* (sec. 107–8), lists more than forty angels who serve in the “seventh camp” and are involved with dreams, but this appears to include not להחכים את) only the initiation of dreams, but also the providing of interpretations .(כל הקרוב אליהם בטהרה מה החלום ומה פתרונו 11 see, e.g., A. J. Heschel, “ ‘Al Ruah ha-Qodesh Bimei ha-Benayim,” Sefer ha- Yovel li-Khvod Alexander Marx, ed. S. Lieberman (New York, 1950), p. 199. Many (though by no means all) of the published passages cited in the present study are noted by Heschel in his classic study, op cit, pp. 175–209, and in She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim le-R. Ya’aqov mi-Marvege, ed. R. Margaliot (Jerusalem, 1957), editor’s introduction, pp. 3–41. However, the almost ahistorical treatment of these (and other related) texts has served to mask the suggestive body of evidence on the unique perspective of Ashkenazic rabbinical scholars that will be developed in the present study, and expanded significantly on the basis of material still in manuscript. (Indeed, מבעלי R. Jacob of Marvege is identified in the subtitle of Margaliot’s edition as which is patently inaccurate; see below, n. 53, and in the text, following ,התוספות n. 55). The same problematic holds true, in large measure, for Mordechai Goldstein, “Histayyut be-Gormim min ha-Shamayim be-Hakhra’at ha-Halkahah,” Ph.D. thesis (Bar Ilan University, 2005), pp. 86–105, 142–57, 216–24, 238–41, 248–60. 116 ephraim kanarfogel immediately to destroy the utensils in question, without any further evaluation or investigation akin to the one conducted by Raban. Indeed, according to the version presented by R. Judah he-Hasid, R. Ephraim expresses his prohibition (ve-hazar bo ve-‘asro) in meta-halakhic terms (one who refrains will be blessed). The dream caused him to embrace a stringent position, without feeling the need to (technically) reverse his initial ruling. At the same time, however, R. Ephraim (like Raban) had himself consumed the food that was involved. As such, R. Ephraim’s vision of Elijah (or of the ba’al ha-halom), might also have been induced, at least in part, by his diet.12 We encounter yet another, related kind of dream that was experienced by R. Isaiah b. Mali [= Emanuel] di Trani (RiD, d. c. 1240). R. Isaiah was a prolific Italian Tosafist and halakhist, who studied in the Rhineland in the late twelfth century with R. Simhah of Speyer, and was familiar with the Tosafist teachings of Rabbenu Tam (which reached the Rhineland via Rabbenu Tam’s German students, such as R. Moses b. Solomon ha-Kohen of Mainz).13 Toward the end of a lengthy responsum concerning a ritually slaughtered animal, whose lungs were subsequently found to have a significant adhesion that might render the animal unfit for consumption as a terefah (an unhealthy animal that could not have lived for a very long time), R. Isaiah sums up his halakhic position using a recast biblical phrase (Isaiah 41:7), that “one who suggests that such an adhesion is permitted (literally, is good, ‘omer la-deveq tov hu) has erred.” R. Isaiah goes on to note that while the Talmud maintains (in Gittin 42a and elsewhere) that divrei halomot lo ma’alin ve-lo moridin (dream contents do not enhance and do not detract), and that he stands firmly and fully by the lengthy and involved halakhic reasoning and proofs that he had adduced for his stringent ruling in this case, Elijah the Prophet had (also) appeared to him in a dream with regard to this matter. In this dream, Isaiah asked Elijah if the (halakhic) truth rests with those who rule leniently, and Elijah responded by saying that such an animal is unfit for consumption (in accordance with the view held by R. Isaiah). R. Isaiah then reiterates that his stringent ruling was

12 indeed, both R. Yehezqel Landau and his son R. Samuel (above, n. 7) characterize (and dismiss) R. Ephraim’s dream as purely psychosomatic. 13 see I. Ta-Shma, Knesset Mehqarim, vol. 3 (Jerusalem, 2005), pp. 20–25, 40–43; S. Emanuel, Shivrei Luhot, 108; and my The Intellectual History of Medieval Ashkenazic Jewry: New Perspectives (Detroit, 2012), chapter three, section two. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 117 predicated nonetheless on the talmudic and rabbinical materials that he had presented and analyzed.14 Like R. Ephraim (and unlike Raban), R. Isaiah experiences a gillui Eliyyahu that is quite clear in its message, which he describes in his own words. Moreover, like R. Ephraim, R. Isaiah speaks with Elijah during the dream, and Elijah responds. This gillui Eliyyahu has an almost vision-like quality, which is much closer overall to the dream experienced by R. Ephraim than it is to the (daytime) dream of Raban (in which Raban’s teacher helps him, in effect, to wrestle with his own insecurities or uncertainties about his initial ruling). To be sure, all three of these dreams revolve around the status of various foods (or animals) for consumption. The extreme (almost vis- ceral) level of sensitivity (and angst) associated with even the mere possibility of eating prohibited food is reflected already within the Talmud itself.15 Indeed, the rulings that these dreams yielded (or supported) were all stringent ones; neither Elijah the prophet nor Raban’s father-in-law, R. Elyaqim of Mainz, permitted anything. R. Isaiah di Trani put forward a fully developed (stringent) halakhic approach, which the gillui Eliyyahu that he experienced confirms. R. Ephraim of Regensburg acts stringently based on his gillui Eliyyahu. And Raban does not rule until he tests (and fully ratifies) the guidance that he received in his dream, which had suggested a problem with the wine in question.

14 see Teshuvot ha-Rid, ed. A. Y. Wertheimer (Jerusalem, 1975), pp. 507–12 (sec. 112). Ta-Shma notes (op cit, p. 9) that while RiD’s sphere of rabbinic activities (including his responsa) typically reflect the period during which he had already returned -remained fun (אופי תורתו) ”to Italy (and Byzantium), the “character of his Torah damentally Ashkenazic. Indeed, RiD maintained contact (and exchanged responsa) throughout the course of his career with fellow students from R. Simhah of Speyer’s study hall, including R. Isaac b. Moses Or Zarua’ of Vienna. On the use of a biblical verse (Is 41:7) in this context, and the implications for both heavenly dreams and hilkhot terefot more broadly, see below, nn. 55, 62. בהמתן של צדיקים אין הקב"ה מביא תקלה על ידן, צדיקים) see, e.g., Hullin 7a 15 .and the ensuing discussion concerning the donkey of R. Pinhas b ,(עצמן לא כל שכן Ya’ir). On the heightened level of sensitivity expressed specifically with regard to the consumption of Gentile wine (and non-kosher meat) in medieval Ashkenaz, see Haym Soloveitchik, Yeinam (Tel Aviv, 2003), pp. 16–17, 59–63, and Elliot Horowitz’s review essay, “Tosafists and Taboo,” AJS Review 29 (2005): 355–60. Within the literature of medieval Jewish thought, the kosher laws were sometimes understood fundamentally as a means of avoiding idolatry; see, e.g., Emunot ve-De’ot le-R. Sa’adyah Gaon, 3:2, and Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed, 3:46, 48. Cf. Joel Hecker, Mystical Bodies and Mystical Meals (Detroit, 2005), pp. 110–11. 118 ephraim kanarfogel

There are, however, at least two additional instances from medieval Ashkenaz (during the second half of the thirteenth century), in which dreams were invoked in connection with the issuing of a halakhic ruling, for which none of these considerations was present. A ruling by R. Meir of Rothenburg on a matter of compensation, that appears to have been expressed on the basis of a dream, is cited by two of R. Meir’s students, R. Mordekhai b. Hillel and R. Meir ha-Kohen, author of the Haggahot Maimuniyyot. According to talmudic law (Bava Mezi’a 118a), a worker who is hired to work with straw and chafe (teven ve- qash) can object to receiving his compensation from an (appropriate) amount of these commodities (whose value accords with the sum due to him), since they are difficult to gather and control, and are considered to be low-quality goods that are not always easily exchanged for currency or more saleable items. Medieval halakhists considered whether this restriction applies only to the two commodities specifically listed in the Talmud, or whether it should also apply to other items (such as wheat and fruits, or other kinds of foodstuffs), which ostensibly have similar kinds of difficulties in terms of transference and marketability. Maimonides rules that the worker may reject payment from “straw and chafe and other similar derivatives” (ve-kayoze bahen), which perhaps suggests that the worker must accept payment from edible items that are inherently more useful; Maggid Mishneh, however, understands this passage to mean that the worker can reject all types of commodities and can demand monetary payment instead.16 Moreover, Rabbenu Tam, the leading Tosafist in northern France during the twelfth century, ruled clearly (and emphatically) that the worker always had the right to demand monetary payment.17 After mentioning the interpretation which suggests that the worker may reject all forms of non-monetary payment, R. Mordekhai b. Hil- lel notes that “my teacher R. Meir saw in a dream that only teven and qash [can specifically be rejected by the worker]. With respect to edible commodities, however, such as wheat and barley, the hirer may say to the worker ‘take from this produce as compensation for what you did,’

16 see Mishneh Torah, hilkhot sekirut, 9:10, and Maggid Mishneh, ad loc. ;רב הונא .Tosafot Bava Qamma 9a, s.v ;אי דליכא .see Tosafot Bava Batra 92b, s.v 17 and cf. the passage in the name of R. Isaiah [di Trani], found in) הכי גרסינן .46b, s.v Shitah Mequbbezet, loc cit, which cites R. Isaac b. Abraham of Dampierre’s explana- .לבעל חוב .tion of Rabbenu Tam’s position); and Tosafot Ketubot 86a, s.v dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 119 and [the hirer] is to be heeded. And R. Meir decided the halakhah in accordance with this view.”18 R. Meir ha-Kohen specifies that Maharam received this dream (and ruling) “from the mouth of (mi-pi) the ba’al ha-halom,” the angelic source of dreams. R. Meir ha-Kohen also includes a technical talmudic proof by Maharam for his position, adding that this interpretation and ruling are to be found in R. Meir’s of Rothenburg’s hiddushim to Bava Mezi’a.19 As we shall have the opportunity to see in a moment, these (no longer extant) hiddushim were composed (along with other similar works) while R. Meir was being held captive in the tower or fortress of Ensisheim (following his arrest in Lombardy in 1286, as he fled Germany in the face of impending persecutions).20 Although there is a responsum found (unsigned) in the Prague collection of R. Meir of Rothenburg’s responsa (ed. M. A. Bloch [Budapest, 1895], no. 804), which follows the position taken by Rabbenu Tam (and others) that a worker can refuse to be paid even in wheat or other foodstuffs (the position that Maharam himself opposed), this responsum was actually composed by the earlier German Tosafist, R. Barukh b. Samuel of Mainz (noted above in connection with the dream of R. Judah he- Hasid) and was included (along with many other rulings by R. Bar- ukh) in this collection of Maharam’s responsa.21

ולמורי ר' מאיר נראה בחלום דוקא בתבן ובקש אבל במידי דאכילה כגון חטין 18 See Sefer Mordekhai .ושעורין ואמר טול מה שעשית בשכרך שומעין לו, וכן פסק להלכה le-Massekhet Bava Qamma, ed. A. Halperin (Jerusalem, 1992), 4. As Halperin notes, reference to R. Meir’s dream is found in only one of the (relatively early) manuscripts used in this edition, ms. Bodl. 670 (in a marginal addendum), although it is also found in the standard (printed) edition of the Sefer Mordekhai, sec. 1 (to Bava Qamma 6b). It is likely that the dream aspect of R. Meir’s ruling was dropped from most of the manuscripts, precisely because of its seemingly anomalous nature. Cf. below, n. 23. The Mordekhai passage subsequently presents (by name) the opposing view held by Rabbenu Tam (in the above note) and by R. Barukh of Mainz (below, n. 21). Cf. S. Emanuel, Shivrei Luhot, p. 139 (n. 166). מפי בעל החלום :see Haggahot Maimuniyyot to hilkhot sekhirut, chap. 9, sec. 40 19 דוקא בתבן וקש דלאו מידי דמיכל . . . והא דפריך בגמרא ותניא שומעין לו לא בעי לשנויי ההיא במידי במיכל איירי ולהכי שומעין לו משום דקים ליה לתלמודא דמתניתין איירי בתבן וקש ומסתבר לי. עכ"ל מהר"ם זצ"ל שכתב בחידושיו בפרק הבית והעלייה .]= בבא מציעא דף קיח ע"א[ 20 on the circumstances of R. Meir’s captivity in Ensisheim (where R. Meir was able to study and to work on his hiddushim and other compositions, and to meet on occasion with colleagues and students and even to exchange texts with them), see, e.g., Irving Agus, R. Meir of Rothenburg (New York, 1947), 1: 151–53 (and esp. p. 153, n. 120). See also Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 2: 545–46, 563, and below, n. 28. 21 see S. Emanuel, “Teshuvot Maharam she-Einam shel Maharam,” Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-‘Ivri 21 (1998–2000): 159 (n. 146). R. Yosef Caro, in Bedeq ha-Bayit 120 ephraim kanarfogel

In the case of a daily worker (a po’el, specifically a teacher or tutor, a melammed) who backed out of his work assignment in the middle of the day due to an unforeseen occurrence such as illness, R. Meir of Rothenburg initially ruled that since a po’el is akin (in a number of ways) to an ‘eved ‘ivri, he is entitled to compensation for the full day (just as an ‘eved ‘ivri does not lose any of the money that his owner had applied toward the reduction of his debt if he could not work on a particular day due to a mitigating circumstance). R. Meir notes that he received this point of comparison (and its implications) from his teachers in northern France (ve-khen qibbalti me-rabbotai be-Zarefat).22 In another passage from his (no longer extant) hiddushim to Bava Mezi’a that was preserved by R. Meir ha-Kohen, R. Meir of Rothen- burg notes again that he had received this approach from his teachers and that this was the common judicial practice in northern France, adding that he himself had ruled this way in cases that had come before him. The tutor was to be compensated for the full day in such a situation (albeit for the second half of the day according to the rate of a furloughed worker, a po’el batel), just as an ‘eved ‘ivri lost nothing in such a situation. Subsequently, however, while being held in the tower at Ensisheim, Maharam reports that he experienced a dream that caused him to reverse this earlier ruling, and to adopt instead the

(which is appended to his Beit Yosef commentary to Arba’ah Turim), Hoshen Mishpat, ואני) sec. 336, cites and rejects the position put forward by Haggahot Maimuiniyyot without mentioning Maharam by ,(איני יודע מנין לו. ולא עוד אלא שהתוספתא וכו' name, and without noting the dream experience at all. In his Shulhan ‘Arukh, loc cit, R. Yosef Caro rules that the worker may reject all non-monetary forms of compensation, while R. Moses Isserles (Ramo) notes (in his Darkhei Mosheh commentary to Arba’ah Turim) that Maharam’s position was espoused by the fourteenth-century Spanish commentary, Nimmuqei Yosef (to Bava Mezi’a 118a); see also Darkhei Mosheh ha-Shalem, ed. H. S. Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1983), p. 207. R. Shabbetai Kohen, in his ,commentary to Shulhan ‘Arukh, Hoshen Mishpat 336 ש"ך (mid-seventeenth-century) sec. 2, mentions and rejects Maharam’s “dream ruling” out of hand, citing the talmu- .see below, n. 24 ;דברי חלומות לא מעלין ולא מורידין ,dic aphorism 22 see She’elot u-Teshuvot Maharam b. Barukh (defus Prague), ed. Bloch, no. 85. וכן ,See also the brief citation in Sefer Mordekhai le-Bava Mezi’a, sec. 346 (fol. 79c where the support of R. Meir’s father, R. Barukh, for ,כתב רבינו במאיר בתשובתו וכו' this view is also noted). This responsum is also cited at the beginning of the Teshuvot Maimuniyyot passage in the next note. See also, e.g., ms. Vercelli C 435, [Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts (hereafter IMHM) # 30923] fol. 49a; Budapest (National Library) 1 (IMHM # 31445), fol. 138c; ms. Vienna 72, (IMHM # 1294) fol. 115r; ms. Paris BN 407, fol. 98c; ms. Parma (De Rossi) 929, fol. 149v; ms. Bodl. 666, fols. 222r–v; and ms. Bodl. 668, fol. 32c. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 121 ruling (and distinction) that he learned about within his dream, mi-pi ba’al ha-halom. If the worker had already been paid for the full day, he did not have to return his compensation. If, however, he had not yet been paid when he took sick, he was only entitled to be paid for the portion of the day that he worked.23 There is no particular indication in these (halakhic) texts about the way that R. Meir came to experience these dreams, or about the specific format of these dreams (other than that R. Meir transmitted their

23 see Teshuvot Maimuniyyot le-Sefer Qinyan, sec. 31 (to hilkhot sekhirut, chapter וזו תשובת מורי רבינו זצ"ל. אשר שאלת על תינוק שחלה, כך הוא הדין דמלמד :(five שחלה אין פוחתין לו וראיה מפ"ק דקידושין )יז ע"א( עבד עברי שחלה אינו חייב להשלים וכו' . . . שוב חזר בו מורי רבינו מאיר זצ"ל במקצת. וז"ל אשר כתב במגדל אינזי"ג שהיי"ם אהא דפרק האומנין וכו' . . . וי"ל שאני התם שכבר קבל העבד הכסף אבל הכא עדיין לא נתן לו בעה"ב שכר. הילכך אם נתן לא יטול ואם לא נתן לא יתן אלא שכר פעולתו, מפי בעל החלום במגדל אינזי"ג שהיי"ם וכן נ"ל הלכה במלמד שחלה וכל הפועלים. ואע"פ שלא קיבלתי מרבותי שקיבלו מרבותיהם חילוק בין הקדים לו שכרו ללא הקדים וכן דנין בכל צרפת וכן דנתי עד עכשיו כדברי רבותיי, חוזרני בי ונ"ל הלכה למעשה כמו שהוכחתי מפי בעל החלום. עכ"ל אשר כתב בחידושיו בפרק ,See also Haggahot Maimuniyyot to hilkhot ‘avadim .האומנין במגדל אינזי"ג שהיי"ם chapter two, sec. 1. Both R. Asher b. Yehi’el, in his Pisqei ha-Rosh to Bava Mezi’a, 8:6, and R. Samson b. Zadoq, in his Sefer Tashbez (Lemberg, 1858), sec. 527, make reference to the newer ruling of their teacher Maharam, albeit without any reference to his dream (although R. Asher appears to rule according to Maharam’s original position). See also the marginal glosses in ms. Vercelli (in the above note), and For .פרק השוכר את הפועלים ,ms. Sasoon 534 (no. 9334) to tractate Bava Mezi’a the northern French view that a tutor who took sick should be paid in full, see the responsum by R. Samson of Sens, recorded in Teshuvot Maharam (defus Prague), no. 385, and in Teshuvot Maimuniyyot le-Sefer Qinyan, sec. 30. Tosafot Qiddushin 17a, but ,(יש שהיו רוצים לומר וכו') s.v. halah shalosh cites this view without attribution proceeds to challenge it. As demonstrated by Urbach (Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 2: 630–33), these Tosafot were produced primarily in the academy at Evreux, where Maharam also studied; cf. Urbach, 1: 479–84. It is quite possible, however, that this view was developed only after Maharam had returned to Germany. See also the gloss to Sefer Mordekhai le-Bava Mezi’a (op cit, based on a passage from a non-extant responsum by R. Menahem of Merseburg), in which R. Elhanan suggests that his father, Ri ha- Zaqen of Dampierre, held the position that R. Meir of Rothenburg adopted as a result of a his dream, a claim that is not found, however, in any earlier texts. Cf. Sefer Or Zarua’, pisqei massekhet Bava Mezi’a, sec. 242 (end), ed. Machon Yerushalayim, 3: 294, and see also Sefer Raban, ed. Ehrenreich, fol. 204d; Tosafot Rabbenu Perez le- Massekhet Bava Mez’a, ed. H. Hershler (Jerusalem, 1970), p. 151 (77a, s.v. savar lah); Teshuvot Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, ed. I. Agus (New York, 1954), p. 198; Darkhei Mosheh to Hoshen Mishpat 333, sec. 4 (= ed. Rosenthal, 200–201); and my Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages (Detroit, 1992), pp. 21–30, 125 n. 31, and 175 n. 73. Technically, the ruling with which Maharam emerged from his dream is something of a compromise between the two other expressed positions in this matter (in a case where the tutor had already received full payment). For Maharam’s larger tendency to undertake such kinds of compromises within his halakhic rulings, see my Peering through the Lattices: Mystical, Magical and Pietistic Dimensions in the Tosafist Period (Detroit, 2000), pp. 118–22, 235–36 n. 44. 122 ephraim kanarfogel results), although there does not appear to be a somatic dimension in these situations.24 Moreover, R. Meir’s rulings, inasmuch as they reflect monetary matters (where one side stands to gain and the other to lose), are not simply applications of ritual (or kashrut) stringen- cies. Like R. Isaiah di Trani (albeit to a somewhat lesser extent), R. Meir provides talmudic interpretations that support the halakhic rulings and conclusions transmitted in his dreams. The implication of these dream passages is that R. Meir may have re-thought the halakhic matters at hand as he authored his commentary to Bava Mezi’a, and the dream experiences helped him in some way to clarify a particular position (even when the results went against the view of his teachers and predecessors).25

commentary to Hoshen Mishpat 333 (sec. 25), R. Shabbetai ha-Kohen ש"ך in his 24 presents the differing approaches described in the above note, and again rejects the (dream) position of R. Meir of Rothenburg, based on the Tosefta (to Ma’aser Sheni), cited in Sanhedrin 30a (cf. above, n. 10). The Tosefta describes the case of a person about (not knowing) the extent (or the whereabouts) of (מצטער) who was troubled the assets that his deceased father had left him. He subsequently experiences a dream, in which the (angelic) ba’al ha-halom informs him about the extent (and the loca- tion) of these assets, as well as their (halakhic) disposition. If the person is able to ultimately recover these funds, the Tosefta rules that he may nonetheless ignore the (restrictive) halakhic status that the ba’al ha-halom had assigned to them (e.g., they דברי חלומות had been designated as ma’aser funds), because of the principle that Although R. Shabbetai (here and above, n. 21) employs this .לא מעלין ולא מורידין talmudic principle strategically, in order to weaken the halakhic weight of Maharam’s “dream rulings,” the fact is that the dream described in Sanhedrin 30a occurred in the context of a charged situation that directly affected the (assets of the) individual who experienced the dream (which is therefore considered to be only partly binding or true). This was not the case, however, for R. Meir of Rothenburg as he composed his hiddushim to Bava Mezi’a. Even if he was under some duress during his incarceration in Ensisheim, he surely had nothing personal at stake in rendering these decisions and interpretations, and the dreams that he experienced were not linked, as far as we can tell, to his own troubles or travail. Cf. below, n. 28. 25 for another possible instance in which Maharam ruled on the basis of a dream experience, see (the Tashbez-like) Sefer ha-Parnas le-R. Mosheh mi-Rothenburg, ed. גם מהר"ם אמר שלא להתענות ]בראש :(Z. Domb (Tel Aviv, 1969), p. 468 (sec. 415 השנה[ אך קבלה היא בידינו שהמתענה פעם אחד בר"ה יתענה שני הימים. וכן נהג -and cf. She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim le-Ya’aqov mi ,הוא בעצמו ע"י חלום Marvege, ed. R. Margaliot, (Jerusalem, 1957), editor’s introduction, 9. Although this passage seems to suggest, prima facie, that Maharam based his ruling that one must fast on both days of Rosh ha-Shanah if he had decided to fast on one of them (since both days of Rosh ha-Shanah must be accorded precisely the same status) on a dream that he had experienced (ve-khen nahag hu ‘azmo ‘al yedei halom), this cryptic final phrase ostensibly means something else. R. Meir himself once had to undertake a ta’anit halom on Rosh ha-Shanah, due to a bad dream that he had the previous evening. He ruled that since he had to fast on the first day of Rosh ha-Shanah, as atonement for this dream, he was also required to fast on the second day as well. See Haggahot dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 123

Although nowhere explicitly indicated in the textual witnesses produced by his students, we cannot rule out the possibility that R. Meir of Rothenburg initiated these oneiric experiences through a form of she’elat halom, a dream question that a mystical adept could put forth to the Heavenly realm before he went to sleep, for which an answer would be communicated either while he was asleep or upon awakening. The best-known practitioner of such mystical she’elot halom in halakhic contexts (i.e., to resolve questions of Jewish law) is the Provençal rabbinical figure, R. Jacob b. Levi (or ha-Levi) of Marvege (c. 1200), to whom we shall return below. More notably, a variety of mystical she’elot halom, with significant roots in Hekhalot literature,26 are to be found within the teachings of Hasidei Ashkenaz,27 and this

Maimuniyyot, hilkhot shofar, chapter one, sec. 1; Teshuvot, Pesaqim u-Minhagim le- Maharam mi-Rothenburg, ed. I. Z. Kahana, (Jerusalem, 1957). 1: 297–98 (secs. 527– 30), 309 (sec. 572). As such, the correct meaning of the Sefer ha-Parnas passage is that R. Meir followed this ruling in his own case of a ta’anit that was occasioned by a halom, rather than that he arrived at this ruling on the basis of a dream experience. מסדרין לבעל חוב כמו שהשיב אליהו) Cf. Teshuvot Maharam (defus Prague), no. 929 ”,S. Emanuel, “Teshuvot Maharam she-Einam shel Maharam ;(ז"ל דגמר מיכה ממיכה p. 172 n. 95; and below, n. 66. 26 see, e.g., Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur, ed. P. Schafer (Tübingen, 1981), secs. 501–7, 613. Cf. Annelies Kuyt, “Hasidut Ashkenaz on the Angel of Dreams,” Creation and Re-Creation in Jewish Thought: Festschift in Honor of Joseph Dan, ed. R. Elior and P. Schafer (Tübingen, 2005), pp. 162–63; Michael Swartz, Scholastic Magic (Princeton, 1996), pp. 48–49; Y. Dan, “Hithavvut Torat ha-Sod ha-‘Ivrit,” Mahanayim 6 (1994): 13–14; Moshe Idel, Nocturnal Kabbalists [Hebrew] (Jerusalem, 2006), pp. 15–36; and cf. P. Schafer and S. Shaked, Magische Texte aus der Kairoer Geniza, vol. 1 (Tübingen, 1994), pp. 133–50; and Rebecca Lesses, Ritual Practices to Gain Power (Harrisburg, 1998), pp. 274–98. Cf. Ibn Ezra’s (long) commentary to Exodus 14:19, citing Sefer Razi’el (as well as his short commentary to Exodus 3:13), and R. Moses b. Hisdai Taku, Ktav Tamim, ed. I. Blumenfeld, in Ozar Nehmad 3 (1860): 85 [= ms. Paris H711, ed. ואבן עזרא כתב בספרו מה הוא מראה אדם ויזכיר :[J. Dan (Jerusalem, 1984), p. 66 שמות הקדושים או שמות המלאכים כדי להראות לו רצונו או להודיע לו דבר סתר ואז .רוח הקדש נגלה אליו . . . וזה נקרא חזון ומראה ע"כ דבריו 27 see, e.g., Tamar Alexander-Frizer, The Pious Sinner (Tübingen, 1991), pp. 87–97; M. Idel, “On She’elat Halom in Hasidei Ashkenaz: Sources and Influences,” Materia Guidaica 10: 1 (2005): 99–109; idem, Nocturnal Kabbalists, pp. 95–108; A. Kuyt, op cit, 148–75; and below, n. 35. In its typical nuanced fashion, Sefer Hasidim also cautions against undertaking she’elot halom that address mundane matters. See also Gerald Necker, Das Buch des Lebens [Sefer ha-Hayyim] (Tübingen, 2001), pp. 64*–66* (secs. 82–83, 88). Although the attribution of this work to the northern French Tosafist (and student of Rabbenu Tam) R. Hayyim Kohen remains largely unsubstantiated, it certainly reflects an Ashkenazic mystical tradition that is contemporaneous with and similar to that of R. Judah he-Hasid. These passages in Sefer ha-Hayyim also distinguish between dreams and visions; cf. below, n. 73. 124 ephraim kanarfogel technique (and other related ones) are also associated specifically with Maharam of Rothenburg.28 Indeed, as I have demonstrated elsewhere, R. Meir of Rothenburg is an excellent example of an Ashkenazic Tosafist and leading rabbinical figure with strong connections to the German Pietists, who had an ongoing interest in certain forms of mysticism as well as an awareness of Hekhalot texts and other forms of early Jewish mystical literature.29 There is also ample evidence for the involvement ofthe Tosafists R. Ephraim of Regensburg and R. Isaiah di Trani in mystical studies and practices.30 At the same time, however, R. Eliezer b. Nathan of Mainz, who did not experience a gillui Eliyyahu or interact with the angelic ba’al ha-halom in his (fundamentally somatic) dream, and did not act

התשובה שהשיבו) see Gershom Scholem, in Qiryat Sefer 7 (1930–31): 447–48 28 ,ms. Parma (De Rossi) 1221 ;(השמים אל הר"מ מרוטנבורג וז"ל על ענין הקץ וכו' נוסח שאלת ה"ר מאיר מרוטנבורק . . . על קץ גאולתינו . . . מה שהראו לו) fols. 189r -and cf. She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, ed. Margaliot, no. 72; my Peer ,(בחלום ing through the Lattices, p. 238 n. 49 (regarding goralot and other oracular techniques); and Sha’arei Teshuvot Maharam b. Barukh, ed. M. A. Bloch (Berlin, 1891), p. 201 (ms. Amsterdam II, no. 108, end, = Teshuvot Mamuniyyot le-Sefer Nashim, no. 30): תוספי גיטין אין בידי ולא ספרי פסקים. בארץ הנגב סבבתי כל, אלא כאשר הראוני מן השמים. ואם ימצא שהתוס' וספרי הפסקי' חולקים עלי בשום דבר, דעתי מבוטלת .להם. כי מה עני יודע יושב חשך וצלמות )ולא סדרים( ]בלא ספרים[ זה ג' שנים ומחצה Note that R. Ezra ha-Navi of Moncontour, a student of RiD and teacher of Maharam (who is referred to by this title within Tosafot texts) is recorded as expressing his “prophetic” views only with regard to messianic calculations and scenarios (and not in matters of halakhic or talmudic study). See Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 1: 336–37, 2: 528; Alexander Marx, “Ma’amar ‘al Shenat Ge’ulah,” Ha-Zofeh le-Hokhmat Yisra’el 5 (1921): 195–98; M. Idel, Ascensions on High in Jewish Mysticism (Budapest, 2005), pp. 35–37; 86; my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 192–93, 196, 234, 244; and my “Ash- kenazic Messianic Calculations from Rashi and his Generation through the Tosafist Period,” [Hebrew] Rashi: The Man and his Works, ed. A. Grossman and S. Japhet (Jerusalem, 2008), 2: 387–88, 398–400. Neither R. Troestlin ha-Navi of Erfurt nor R. Mikha’el ha-Mal’akh of northern France wrote anything in the realm of Jewish law or talmudic studies. See my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 229, 244 n. 67, and cf. Idel, “Some Forlorn Writings of a Forgotten Ashkenazi Prophet: R. Nehemiah ben Shlomo ha-Navi,” Jewish Quarterly Review 95 (2005): 183–96. 29 see my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 234–45, and cf. R. J. Z. Werblowsky, Joseph Karo: Lawyer and Mystic (Oxford, 1962), pp. 41–44. 30 see Peering through the Lattices, pp. 164–65; my “R. Judah he-Hasid and the Rab- binic Scholars of Regensburg,” (above, n. 6); my “Mysticism and Asceticism in Italian Rabbinic Literature of the Thirteenth Century,” Kabbalah 6 (2001): 135–49 (and note וכ"כ ,esp. Arba’ah Turim, Yoreh De’ah, at the end of sec. 179 regarding divination ה"ר ישעיה כל אדם שעושה ע"י שמותיו הקדושים מותר שהוא גדולתו וגבורתו של and my “Sod u-Mageyah ba-Tefillah be-Ashkenaz ;(הקב"ה. ואין אסור אלא ע"י שדים bi-Tequfat Ba’alei ha-Tosafot,” Mehqarim be-Toledot Yehudei Ashkenaz, ed. G. Bacon et al. (Ramat Gan, 2008), pp. 203–06, regarding R. Barukh of Mainz’s association with Hasidei Ashkenaz and various mystical doctrines. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 125 on what he had seen in his dream until he methodically verified the results, was (intentionally) uninvolved in mystical studies. In a word, then, those Tosafists who engaged matters of Jewish law and practice directly on the basis of their dream experiences had recognizable proclivities for and involvements with forms of mysticism, or with formulaic magic that was centered around Divine names.31 Medieval Ashkenazic texts, from the pre-Crusade period and beyond, record liturgical practices (and even some prayers) that were purportedly transmitted to rabbinical luminaries via dreams or visions, which also describe on occasion the appearance of departed souls who related their experiences in the hereafter.32 R. Judah he-Hasid (and apparently the mid-thirteenth-century Tosafist, R. Yehi’el of Paris as well) prohibited conversation during the brief recapitulation of the ‘amidah on Friday evening (known as the berakhah ‘ahat me-‘ein sheva) because a departed soul had indicated that he was being treated poorly by the angels for talking during this prayer. According to one version of this

31 for Raban’s tendency to play down mystical considerations (parallel to similar efforts by his contemporary Tosafists in northern France, Rashbam and Rabbenu Tam), see Peering through the Lattices, pp. 161–65. Raban did, however, support (at least partially) perishut practices found in the Baraita de-Massekhet Niddah (Peer- ing through the Lattices, p. 128. See also ibid., n. 81, and 42–44, for Rabbenu Tam’s anti-perishut stance, and cf. below, n. 42). Rabbenu Tam did countenance the use of a divinatory dream to locate the remains of his brother-in-law, R. Samson b. Joseph כשהגיד עליו) of Falaise, who had been killed ‘al qiddush ha-Shem six months earlier see Sefer ha-Yashar le-Rabbenu ;(עליו בעל החלום לאחר חצי שנה, ניכר כאלו הוא חי Tam, heleq ha-teshuvot, ed. S. Rosenthal (Berlin, 1898), p. 191 (sec. 92), and Sefer Or Zarua’, hilkhot ‘agunah, sec. 692, ed. Machon Yerushalayim, 1: 581, just as he allowed (along with R. Elijah of Paris) the mystical adjuration of a Divine name in order to raise the image of a child who had been murdered, where the father had been absent and unable to attend the burial. See my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 170–71. אופן לרבינו שמעון הגדול בניגון.) see, e.g., ms. Bodl. 1153, fols. 167v–168r 32 ms. JNUL ;(וקבלתי שהניגון מסר לו בעל החלום הוא כעין ניגון שיר של מלאכים אלו החרוזים ששמע ר' שמואל משפירא בשעה שעלה לרקיע בשם) fol. 58v ,1070*8 .and cf. Daniel Abrams in Kabbalah 1 [1996]: 285–87); ms ,הנורא הנכבד שבח יפה סליחה זו עשאה בחזיון ליל אורי החסיד בן ר' יואל הלוי בניגון) Bodl. 1155, fol. 171v ;[Uri, brother of the German Tosafist Rabiah, was martyred in 1216] תוחלת ישראל סליחה יסד החבר ר' אורי בן רבינו יואל הלוי אחר) Aptowitzer, Mavo la-Rabiah, 67 אשר נפגע בו ונהרג ונשרף . . . וצוה להעתיקה לר' מרדכי בן אליעזר בחלומו כי רמז בו .and Sefer Or Zarua’, pt. 2, sec ;(שמו, וצוה לו להתפלל אותה בניגון תוחלת ישראל 276, ed. Machon Yerushalayim, 2: 342–43, regarding the heavenly transmission of ,as recorded by R. Ephraim of Bonn. See also Shraga Abramson, “Navi ,ונתנה תוקף Ro’eh ve-Hakham—R. Avraham ha-Hozeh,” Sefer ha-Yovel likhvod ha-Rav Mordekhai Kirshblum, ed. D. Telsner (Jerusalem, 1983), pp. 121–23; I. Marcus, “Qiddush ha- Shem be-Ashkenaz ve-Sippur R. Amnon mi-Magenza,” Qedushat ha-Hayyim ve-Heruf ha-Nefesh, ed., I. Gafni and A. Ravitzky (Jerusalem, 1993), pp. 140–45; and my “Sod u-Mageyah ba-Tefillah be-Ashkenaz,” 206–8. 126 ephraim kanarfogel account, the angels were throwing him up and then allowing him to drop, without catching him.33 Citing two talmudic passages, the Tosafist (and student of Rab- benu Tam) R. Eli’ezer b. Samuel of Metz (d. 1198, and author of Sefer Yere’im), permits the taking of an oath that would bind a person who is dying to “return” after his death, for the purpose of responding to questions that are put to him by an acquaintance. Since this request was made while the dying individual was still alive, it not prohibited under the stricture of communicating with the dead (doresh ‘el ha- metim).34 This process adumbrates one that is found, with additional dimensions, in Sefer Hasidim.35 In both of these instances, the affinity of the Tosafists in question for mystical teachings is also attested.36 R. Menahem b. Jacob of Worms (d. 1203), a senior rabbinical judge, poseq, and payyetan (and the uncle of R. Eleazar b. Judah of Worms),

33 see Sefer Hasidim, ed. Judah Wistinetski (Berlin, 1073); Arba’ah Turim, Orah Hayyim, sec. 268; and H. S. Sha’anan, “Pisqei Rabbenu Pere ve-‘Aherim be-‘Inyanei יש לדקדק בברכה מעין שבע) Orah Hayyim,” Moriah 17 [9–10] (1991): 14, sec. 26 שפעם אחת ספרה נשמה אחת לרבי יחיאל מפריש שהמלאכם זורקים אותה למעלה ומניחים אותה ליפול מעצמה על שהיה ]מדבר[ בשעה שהחזן היה מתפלל ברכה מעין .and see below, n. 36 ,(שבע 34 see Sefer Yere’im ha-Shalem, ed. A. A. Schiff (Vilna, 1892–1902), secs. 334–35 -See also Shib .(המשביע את החולה לשוב לאחר מיתה להגיד לו אשר ישאל לו וכו') bolei ha-Leqet le-R Zidqiyyah b. Avraham ha-Rofe (ha-heleq ha-sheni), ed. S. Hasida (Jerusalem, 1988), p. 43, sec. 11, and Beit Yosef, Yoreh De’ah, sec. 179, s.v. ‘ov, and Haggahot Maimuniyyot, hilkhot ‘avodah zarah, 11:13, sec. 8. Cf. Shulhan ‘Arukh, ad loc. (sec. 16), which notes ,ש"ך Yoreh De’ah, sec. 179:14, and the commentary of the correlation between R. Eli’ezer’s view and the position of the Zohar, as well as unnamed hakhmei ha-qabbalah. See also Sefer Yere’im, secs. 239 and 241 (fol. 110a), for further evidence of R. Eli’ezer’s familiarity with occult practices; and cf. Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 1: 16l; and my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 195–97. אם שני בני אדם טובים בחייהם :see Sefer Hasidim, ed. Wistinetski, sec. 324 35 נשבעו או נתנו אמונתם יחד אם ימות אחד מהם שיודיע לחבירו היאך באותו העולם אם בחלום או ער. אם בחלום יבוא הרוח וילחש באזני החי או אצל מוחו כמו בעל .החלום. ואם נשבעו שידבר עמו ער יבקש למלאך הממונה להלבישו דמות מלבוש וכו' Cf. Monford Harris, Studies in Jewish Dream Interpretation (Northvale, 1994), p. 20, and Sefer Hasidim, ed. R. Margaliot (Jerusalem, 1957), sec. 528. 36 for R. Eli’ezer of Metz (who was also a teacher of R. Judah he-Hasid’s main Pietist student and colleague, R. Eleazar of Worms), see above, n. 34. For R. Yehi’el of Paris, see my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 234–35. The additional mystical affinities of R. Yehi’el further weaken the possibility that the (common) abbreviated form in the ר' יחיאל was perhaps misunderstood to refer to (רי"ח) ר' יהודה החסיד for passage published by Sha’anan (above, n. 33) which appears, in any case, within a larger collection of northern French rabbinical rulings from the mid- to late thirteenth century). There are, however, several instances in which comments to the Torah made by R. Judah and R. Yehi’el may have become confused. See my The Intellectual History of Medieval Ashkenazic Jewry, chapter four, section two. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 127 provided justification for the recitation of the blessing prior to a circumcision as ‘al ha-milah in all instances (whether or not the father of the child served as the mohel, rather than reciting lamul when the father himself performed the circumcision, an issue that engendered halakhic discussion in medieval Ashkenaz and elsewhere),37 on the basis of a dream experience. As recorded by R. Menahem’s relatives, R. Jacob ha-Gozer and his son R. Gershom, in their manuals of circumcision, “ta’am zeh katav mi-pi dod R. Menahem, she-‘amar lo ba’al ha-halom.” The explanation that R. Menahem learned in his dream (and then presented) follows a gematria approach. The word ‘al is equivalent in gematria to one hundred, which was the age of Abraham when he circumcised Isaac. The gematria of the word ha-milah equals precisely ninety, which was the age of Sarah when she gave birth to Isaac (and which, like the age of Abraham at the circumcision, is mentioned explicitly in the Torah; see Gen. 17:17, and Gen. 21:5). There- fore, according to the communication from the ba’al ha-halom to R. Menahem, the rabbis intended that the blessing ‘al ha-milah should always be recited at a circumcision (irrespective of who performs it), since Abraham and Sarah were the first to fulfill the precept to circumcise their son when he was eight days old.38 The English Tosafist (and contemporary of R. Meir of Rothenburg), R. Eliyyahu Menahem of London (1220–84), clarified a liturgical reading (within the text of the grace after meals) through a question that was asked of him in a dream. He concludes his report of this dream by exclaiming, “and I awoke from my sleep and before me was a prophetic dream, and not only one sixtieth” (as regular dreams are

37 see, e.g. Beit Yosef to Yoreh De’ah, sec. 265 (at the beginning). On R. Menahem b. Jacob, see Aptowitzer, Mavo la-Rabiah, pp. 262, 382–84; and R. Eleazar mi-Ver- maiza—Derashah le-Pesah, ed. S. Emanuel (Jerusalem, 2006), editor’s introduction, pp. 39–40 (nn. 152–53), 72–73 (n. 36). See also my The Intellectual History of Medi- eval Ashkenazic Jewry, chapter six, for a fuller discussion of R. Menahem’s mystical tendencies. 38 see Zikhron Brit la-Rishonim ed. J. Glassberg (Berlin, 1892), p. 80 (Kelalei ha- Milah le-R. Ya’aqov ha-Gozer), and 130 (Kelalei ha-Milah le-R. Gershom b. Ya’aqov ha-Gozer). These manuals were copied by a third mohel (who was not related to R. Jacob or to R. Gershom). See the introduction to Glassberg’s edition by Joel Mueller, pp. xii–xix. See also Henry Malter, “Dreams as a Cause of Literary Composition,” in Studies in Honor of Kaufmann Kohler (Berlin, 1913), p. 202; Ya’akov Elbaum, “Shalosh Derashot Ashkenaziyyot Qedumot me-Kitvei Yad Beit ha-Sefarim,” Qiryat Sefer 48 (1973): 343 (n. 22); and She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, ed. Margaliot, editor’s introduction, p. 22. 128 ephraim kanarfogel characterized by the Talmud in Berakhot 57b).39 To be sure, R. Elijah of London does not identify his questioner(s) in this dream in any way, and it is possible that the dream merely clarified a textual question that he had been wrestling with on his own. R. Elijah is also cred- ited, however, with transmitting a magical adjuration (that invoked both Divine and angelic names), which was designed to bring about a visionary experience that would answer particular questions (similar to a she’elat halom, and characterized as a seder ha-she’elah). A related procedure involved the release (and use) of a Divine name, which could be achieved by pronouncing certain formulae over grasses and herbs (described as Shem ha-katuv ba-yereq).40 Several additional dream episodes are found that involve mainly northern French Tosafists.41 Although these episodes appear in literary (or other non-halakhic) contexts (and the Tosafists who experienced

39 see Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 2: 505–6 (who reproduces the passage from a ונשאלתי בחלומי על :(published collection of R. Elijah’s commentaries and rulings שאנו אומרים רצה והחליצנו שלא תהא צרה ויגון ביום מנוחתינו, מה זה שלא תקנו לומר שלא נהא בצרה ויגון ביום מנוחתינו הלא טוב לנו להתפלל עלינו מ]ל[התפלל על היום. ואען בחלומי אם כה יאמרו היה במשמע וכו' . . . והנה אקיץ משנתי והנה חלום .נבואה ולא אחת מששים זה מה שיסד ה"ר :see ms. Sassoon 290 (IMHM # 9273), fol. 381r (sec. 1003 40 אליהו מלונדריש כשתרצה לעשות שאלתך תפנה לבבך משאר עסקים ותיחד כוונתך .and see also my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 232–33 ,(ומחשבתך וכו' 41 r. Isaac b. Moses of Vienna opens his Sefer Or Zarua’ with a description of how he (felicitously) learned that the proper spelling of R. Aqiva’s name, for the purpose of writing this name in a get (with a heh at the end rather than an ‘alef, from the sofei Several later .(אור זרוע לצדיק ולישרי לב שמחה ,tevot of the words in Psalms 97:11 rabbinical works suggest that R. Isaac learned of this in a dream. Despite R. Isaac’s association with R. Judah he-Hasid (above, n. 9), his reference to other (mystical) dreams in several passages in Sefer Or Zarua’ (as we have noted above a number of times) and to Hekhalot texts and mystical concepts and practices, and the discussion about the proper spelling of this name that appears in texts of Hasidei Ashkenaz and within other mystical contexts, there is no clear indication of any dream experience within the original passage by R. Isaac himself. See She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, ed. Margaliot, editor’s introduction, p. 8; Sefer Or Zarua’, ed. Machon Yerushalayim, 1: 1 n. 1; ms. Parma (De Rossi) 541, fol. 266v; and my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 221–25 (and esp. 222, n. 4). A responsum included in the collection of responsa of R. Isaac b. Moses son, R. Hayyim (who was a student of R. Meir of Rothenburg) was in fact authored by a colleague of R. Hayyim’s, R. Isaac b. Elijah. See Teshuvot Maharah Or Zarua’, no. 164, ed. M. Abitan (Jerusalem, 2002), fols. 155–56. In this responsum, R. Isaac b. Elijah (who had not seen or met Maharam when he was alive) reports that he experienced a dream in which R. Meir appeared to him and instructed him to retain a particular talmudic reading (and halakhic approach) that he נראה לי רבינו מאיר בחלום אחר פטירתו. אמרתי ללבי אפשר) had wanted to discard Note that R. Isaac b. Elijah .(שגאון זה שלא זכיתי לראותו מעולם נראה לי בחלום וכו' also approved using an adjuration of shedim for purposes of locating stolen prop- See Teshuvot Ba’alei .(להגיד עבור גניבות ועתידות) erty and for predicting the future dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 129 them were not necessarily connected with mystical studies), they provide additional evidence for the weight and significance of dream experiences as sources of knowledge and aids for Torah study within medieval Ashkenazic rabbinical culture and society. Perhaps the most striking example of this type begins with R. Solomon (b. Abraham) of Troyes, a brother of the Tosafist, R. Samson of Sens (or perhaps R. Solomon [b. Judah] ha-Qadosh of Dreux, a Tosafist student of Ri of ,טרוי"ש ,and Troyes ,דרוי"ש ,Dampierre; the Hebrew spellings of Dreux are quite similar, and were often confused). R. Solomon put forward a postulate of cause and effect according to the rabbinical interpreta- whereby an object that serves as the ,(היה כייל כלל) tion of the Bible witness (‘ed) for a covenant will also serve to punish those involved, if the covenant is subsequently violated. R. Solomon presented several biblical episodes that appear to confirm this rule, but he was “deeply troubled” (huqshah ve-nizta’er) by the fact that Laban (who is identified according to one talmudic view, in Sanhedrin 105a, with Bil’am) violated the covenant that he made with Jacob by attempting to curse the Jewish people (as Bil’am) and yet Bil’am was never punished by the pile of stones that served to the testify to the original covenant between Jacob and Laban. The Tosafist R. Moses b. Shne’ur of Evreux reports that R. Solomon was then told in a dream to look carefully (‘ad she-her’u lo be-halomo puq ve-doq) into a work (that is currently unknown) called Bereshit Zuta. R. Solomon went and found this slender volume, and discovered within it (an interpretation) that a sword had been stuck into the pile of stones that marked the agreement between Jacob and Laban. The (stone) wall that hurt Bilam’s leg when he was riding his donkey (in Nm 22:25) consisted of (or contained) the original stones from this covenant. Moreover, the sword used to ultimately kill Bil’am (Nm 31:8) was that same sword from the covenant (and was designated as such in this verse, by the use of the word be-harev, which connotes a particular sword).42

ha-Tosafot, ed. I. Agus (New York, 1954), pp. 223–24; Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 2: 543–44; and Peering through the Lattices, pp. 245–46 n. 72. 42 see Sefer ha-Gan, ed. M. Orlian (Jerusalem, 2009), p. 179, see also p. 249. R. Moses of Evreux, from whom the compiler of Sefer ha-Gan, R. Aaron b. Yose ha- Kohen, heard this account, had a number of affinities with the German Pietists; see, e.g., my Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages, pp. 75–79, and I. Ta- Shma, Knesset Mehqarim (Jerusalem, 2004), 2: 110–18 (although such affinities are not evident for either R. Solomon of Troyes or R. Solomon of Dreux). In his commentary 130 ephraim kanarfogel

From an interior perspective then, the degree or extent of rabbinical mysticism present is a key to categorizing the dreams that we have discussed to this point, and to measuring their validity. Tosafists and other Ashkenazic rabbinical scholars who were conversant and comfortable with mystical teachings and concepts were apparently prepared to allow dreams and visions to play a role in the halakhic process, while those Tosafists who were less involved with mysticism would not necessarily concur. Indeed, a passage in Rashi’s talmudic commentary shows that he sought to carefully limit the extent of Eli- jah the Prophet’s input (after his ascension on high) into a matter of halakhah. The Talmud in tractate Shabbat (108a) raises the question of to the Ezekiel (ed. S. A. Poznanski [Warsaw, 1909], p. 97, to Ez 42:6), the twelfth- century northern French peshat exegete, R. Eli’ezer of Beaugency, mentions that he פתרון זה נראה) received an explanation via a dream for a verse that had troubled לי בחלום שמרוב צערי שנצטערתי מה הוא הענין נמנמתי על הספר וראיתי . . . כל זה ,and cf. She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, ed. Margaliot ;היה מפרש בו בחלום editor’s introduction, p. 10). In this instance, R. Eliezer’s personal angst is more than evident, and the somatic nature of this dream is obvious. R. Solomon of Troyes/Dreux also expresses a degree of za’ar, but the revelation of a book that would provide him with a solution is on a somewhat different order; cf. above, n. 24. Note also the better- known dream of R. Moses of Coucy, about the scope and form of Sefer Mizvot Gadol, ובתחלת אלף ששי בא אלי מראה ,included in the introduction to his work (fol. 3b בחלום, קום עשה ספר תורה משני חלקים. ואתבונן על המראה והנה השני חלקים לכתוב ספר מצוות עשה בחלק אחד וספר מצוות לא תעשה בחלק שני . . . גם בענין לאוין בא אלי בחלום בזה הלשון . . . ואתבונן אליו בבקר והנה יסוד גדול הוא ביראת ה' . . . וה' א-להים יודע כי לפי דעתי איני משקר בענין המראה וה' יודע כי לא הזכרתים בספר See, e.g., Yehuda .(הזה אלא למען יתחזקו ישראל בתורה ובתוכחה וחפץ ה' בידי יצלח Galinsky, “Pen Tishkah ‘et E-lohekha: le-Pittaron Halomo shel R. Mosheh mi-Coucy,” Mi-Safra le-Sayefa 44–45 (1995): 233–39; idem, “Mishpat ha-Talmud bi-Shenat 1240 be-Paris: Vikkuah R. Yehi’el ve-Sefer ha-Mizvot shel R. Mosheh mi-Coucy,” Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-‘Ivri 22 (2001–04): 66–69; and cf. E. Kupfer’s note, “Ta’alumat Sarid mi-Ketav Yad ‘Atiq shel Sefer Mizvot Gadol,” Qiryat Sefer 48 (1973): 524–25. R. Moses of Coucy tended toward pietism and asceticism rather than mysticism; see my Peer- ing through the Lattices, pp. 68–80. Similar to Raban (above, n. 5), R. Moses’s dream experience clarified for him the (literary) plan that he should pursue (about which he had undoubtedly been thinking), although it certainly did not present him with a fait accompli, as quite a bit of effort was still required in order to execute his project. Interestingly, however, a kind of collective dream is perhaps alluded to by R. Moses ואמץ הקב"ה זרועותי בחלומות היהודים ובחלומות ,in mizvat ‘aseh, no. 3 (fol. 96d ,(Cf. Hida, Shem ha-Gedolim (Warsaw, 1876 .(הגוים וחזיונו' הכוכבים ויט עלי חסד וכו' ma’arekhet ha-gedolim, p. 101 (sec. 179), s.v. R. Mosheh mi-Coucy. Note also that R. Barukh b. Isaac (d. 1211), author of the northern French halakhic compendium Sefer ha-Terumah (and a student of RiD), asserts that the quasi-midrashic material grouped under the title Tanna de-Bei Eliyyahu consisted of teachings that Elijah the prophet himself had taught to one of the Amoraim. See Sefer ha-Terumah (Jerusalem, 2004), hilkhot ‘akkum, fol. 223a (sec. 135). Cf. Tosafot Ta’anit 20b, s.v. nizdamen, and Tosafot Hullin 6a, s.v. ‘ashkeheh. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 131 whether tefillin may be written on the skin of a kosher fish. Although the skin itself is kosher (which is a crucial requirement for the writing of tefillin), the question was whether the strong odor of the fish skin (zuhama) would ever dissipate sufficiently, so that such tefillin could appropriately be used. The determination of this aspect was left by the talmudic sugya to Elijah. Only he could offer the necessary assessment of the properties of this skin, so that its appropriateness for tefillin could be determined. When the Talmud asserts, however, that this matter can be determined only “if Elijah will come and tell us,” Rashi hastens to note that whether something “is permitted or prohibited is not dependent on him, since lo ba-shamayim hi, the Torah is not in heaven.”43 Rashi’s point is that heavenly phenomena such as the instruction of Elijah (and other similar kinds of techniques that are beyond the scope of normal human endeavor), cannot be employed in order to decide matters of Jewish law. At best, these occurrences can provide “data” that are difficult to obtain elsewhere, which may nonetheless be needed in order to make a proper halakhic determination. Although Rashi’s comment here perhaps reflects the talmudic sugya at hand (rather than his personal view), one has the sense that Rashi would feel the same way about deciding or impacting matters of Jewish law via dreams. Rashi was familiar with mystical teachings and techniques (and with the notion of the angelic sar ha-halom), but he cannot be classified as a supporter (or a consumer) of these techniques.44 In this regard, Rashi is perhaps closer to the view of Maimonides than he is to those Tosafists whose dream experiences we have studied to this point. Maimonides ruled that a (true) prophet who suggests that a standing aspect of Jewish law should be (permanently) changed on the basis of a prophecy that he received was to be put to death, since lo ba-shamayim hi. The prophet did have the ability, however, to suspend

43 see Rashi, Shabbat 108a, s.v. mai ‘im yavo Eliyyahu ve-yomar. Cf. Rashi, Bekhorot 56a, s.v. R. Yohanan; Rashbam, Bava Batra 143a, s.v., haynu (and below, n. 64); R. Zvi Hirsch Chajes, Torat ha-Nevi’im (toward the end of chapter one), Kol Kitvei Maharz Hayyut, ed. Hoza’at Divrei Hakhamim (Jerusalem, 1958), pp. 15–17; and below, n. 50. 44 see, e.g., my “Rashi’s Awareness of Jewish Mystical Literature and Traditions,” in Raschi und sein Erbe, ed. D. Krochmalnik et al. (Heidelberg, 2007), pp. 23–34; Avraham Grossman, Hakhmei Zarefat ha-Rishonim, (Jerusalem, 1995), pp. 204–5; and cf. above, n. 3. 132 ephraim kanarfogel a particular law temporarily, on the basis of his prophetic knowledge and direction.45 Indeed, it appears that even Nahmanides (Ramban, 1194–1270), the leading Spanish talmudist and kabbalist during the thirteenth century, did not put much stock in dreams or other extra-sensory phenomena for deciding halakhic matters. In his glosses to Maimonides’s Mish- neh Torah, Rabad of Posquieres (d. 1198) had ruled (against Maimo- nides) that a myrtle whose uppermost leaves had been cut off (hadas she-niqtam rosho, for which the Talmud in tractate Sukkah records a conflict between two Tannaitic sources) was disqualified for use on the basis of the “holy spirit that had appeared already several years ago in our study hall” (kevar hofi’a ruah ha-qodesh be-beit midrashenu mi-kammah shanim). Rabad further notes that “all [of his reasoning] is made clear in our [separate] treatise . . . for they have left me room from the heavens to do so” (u-maqom henihu li min ha-shamayim).46

45 see Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Yesodei ha-Torah, 9:1–4. For an analysis of the Maimonidean approach, which fundamentally separates prophecy from the halakhic process (in this chapter of Mishneh Torah and elsewhere within Maimonides’s other works), see, e.g., Howard Kreisel, Prophecy: The History of an Idea in Medieval Jew- ish Philosophy (Dordrecht, 2007), pp. 165–67; David Hartman, Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest (Philadelphia, 1976), pp. 105–8, 116–19; Ya’akov Blidstein, “Mi-Yesod ha-Nevu’ah be-Mishnato ha-Hilkhatit shel ha-Rambam,” Da’at 43 (1999): 25–42; idem, Samkhut u-Meri be-Halakhat ha-Rambam (Tel Aviv, 2002), pp. 100–101, 156–62; Isadore Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimondies (New Haven, 1980), pp. 234 n. 92, 488 n. 331; and E. E. Urbach, Me-‘Olamam shel Hakhamim (Jerusalem, 1988), pp. 20–21. Cf. Tosafot Sanhedrin 89b, s.v. Eliyyahu; Tosafot Yevamot 90b, s.v. ve-ligmar; and Derashot ha-Ran, ed. L. Feldman (Jerusalem, 1973), pp. 85–86, 112. Interestingly, R. Haim Yosef David Azulai (Hida, d. 1806), followed by R. Ovadyah Yosef, maintain that Maimonides would not condemn the use of dreams in halakhic contexts since, unlike a pronouncement of (true) prophecy, the results of dreams are not binding on those who hear of them (or who experience them), and whether (or not) they should be followed (and to what extent) is also subject to the determination of a rabbinical decisor. See, e.g., Hida, Shem ha-Gedolim, ma’arekhet ha-gedolim, ,and R. Ovadyah Yosef, Yabi’a Omer ,(ר' יעקב ממרויג') pp. 62–64, sec. 224 ,אות י' vol. 1: Orah Hayyim, sec. 41 (fols. 142–49). Clearly, however, Maimonides nowhere explicitly endorses reliance upon dreams, nor in any way recognizes their legitimacy for the halakhic process. Note that R. Yehudah ha-Levi espouses a different attitude than Maimonides about prophecy and the halakhic process, and about the importance and genuineness of dreams as well. See, e.g., R. A. Y. ha-Kohen Kook, Igrot R’AYH (Jerusalem, 1985), 2: 101 (no. 467); Urbach, op cit; Yochanan Silman, Philosopher and Prophet (Albany, 1995), pp. 63, 111–12, 225, 246 (n. 35); and Diana Lobel, Between Mysticism and Philosophy (Albany, 2000), 98–100. 46 see Rabad’s gloss to Mishneh Torah, hilkhot lulav, 8:5, and the commentary of Maggid Mishneh, ad loc. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 133

Rabad did compose a treatise on the laws of lulav (and the other species), and he lays out the full reasoning for his position on hadas she-niqtam rosho in a distinct section within that treatise. In his own lengthy reaction to this passage (written well after Rabad’s death in 1198), Nahmanides rejects Rabad’s ruling (which conflicts with that of both Rif and Maimonides, among others) on the basis of the Jerusalem Talmud and other talmudic sources.47 Writing in the sixteenth century, R. Yosef b. David Ibn Lev, stresses that Ramban did so without concern for (or reference to) the confirmation via ‘ruah ha-qodesh’ that Rabad had received for his ruling (despite the fact that Ramban believed that a form of ruah ha-qodesh had in fact been present), suggesting that this (quasi-mystical) approach to halakhic decision-making did not hold any interest for Ramban.48 To be sure, however, the seventeenth-century rabbinical authority, R. Moses ibn Haviv (following Maggid Mishneh), suggests that in fact, Rabad’s reference to ruah ha-qodesh was simply an exaggerated means of expressing his certitude for his position; indeed, Rabad himself (in his treatise) expends a good deal of effort laying out his position on the basis of talmudic and other rabbinical texts. For his part, Ramban disagrees strongly with Rabad’s position (which was also held by R. Zerahyah ha-Levi, with whom Ramban also disagrees),49 on the basis of his analysis of Rabad’s (and Razah’s) talmudic proofs. Nahmanides neither invokes the principle of lo ba-shamayim hi nor accepts Rabad’s

47 see Teshuvot u-Pesaqim le-R. Avraham b. David (Rabad), ed. Y. Kafih (Jerusalem, 1964), pp. 13–15, 38–44 (Ramban’s response). See also p. 11 n. 1, and cf. Temim De’im (Warsaw, 1897), sec. 228. ואין ספק) see Teshuvot R. Yosef Ibn Lev (Bnei Brak, 1988), 3: 116, fol. 369 48 שהרמב"ן האמין לדבריו ]של הראב"ד[ שהופיע רוה"ק בבית מדרשו . . . ועם כל זה חלק -Note that Nahmanides barely makes any reference to kabbalistic concep .(על דבריו tions or interpretations in his hiddushim to the Talmud (which also contain scores of halakhic rulings), a development that stands in marked contrast to his Torah commentary, where kabbalistic interpretations frequently appear. See my Peering through the Lattices, p. 12; Hiddushei ha-Ramban to Bava Batra 12a, s.v. ha de-‘amrinan; and cf. Yaakov Elman, “Reb Zadok ha-Kohen of Lublin on Prophecy in the Halakhic Pro- cess,” in Jewish Law Association Studies, vol. 1: The Touro Conference Volume, ed. B. S. Jackson (Chico, 1985), pp. 1–16; and Elliot Wolfson, “Sage is Preferable to Prophet: Revisioning Midrashic Imagination,” Scriptural Exegesis—The Shapes of Culture and the Religious Imagination (Essays in Honor of Michael Fishbane), ed. D. A. Green and L. S. Lieber (Oxford, 2009), pp. 186–210. On the relationship between prophecy, ruah ha-qodesh and hokhmah in Nahmanides’s thought, see Moshe Halbertal, Nahmanides and the Creation of Tradition [Hebrew] (Jerusalem, 2006), pp. 72–76, 198–205. 49 see R. Zerahyah’s Ma’or ha-Qatan and Nahmanides’s Milhamot ha-Shem to tractate Sukkah, fol. 15b (according to the pagination of the Hilkhot ha-Rif ). 134 ephraim kanarfogel point of view, despite the claimed imprimatur of ruah ha-qodesh. Whether or not Ramban understood this (heavenly) description “literally,” it was of no consequence to him.50 At the same time, Span- ish students of kabbalah, including those in the somewhat variegated school at Gerona in the first half of the thirteenth century (of which Ramban was a member), were certainly familiar with both the she’elat halom and the gillui Eliyyahu as vehicles for transmitting kabbalistic material and lore,51 and with the significance of dreams for establishing and imparting kabbalistic teachings and traditions more broadly.52 Leaving the intent of Rabad’s glosses aside (which, in any case, do not refer specifically to dreams), the only (sustained) contemporary rabbinical analogue to the Ashkenazic use of dreams in halakhic contexts that we have described to this point can be found in an unusual work by another Provençal halakhist and mystic, R. Jacob b. Levi (or R. Jacob ha-Levi) of Marvege (or, more likely, Viviers). This work, known as She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, was composed early in the thirteenth century.53 In it, R. Jacob makes unabashed use of

50 see, e.g., R. Moses Ibn Haviv, Kappot Temarim (Warsaw, 1861), fol. 45a (to Suk- kah 32b. s.v. niqtam rosho), and cf. H. Y. Klapholtz, ‘Iqvei Hayyim (Jerusalem, 1969), pp. 254–55 (sec. 46, pt. 2). A similar difference of opinion can be found among leading twentieth-century scholars concerning the valence of this phrase and others (such as כך נגלה לי מסוד ה' ,the one found in Rabad’s gloss to Hilkhot Beit ha-Behirah, 6:14 ;See Isadore Twersky, Rabad of Posquieres (Philadelphia, 1980), pp. 286–300 .(ליראיו J. Katz, Halakhah ve-Qabbalah (Jerusalem, 1986), pp. 16–17; Gershom Scholem, Origins of Jewish Mysticism (Princeton, 1987), pp. 205–271; E. E. Urbach, Me-‘Olamam shel ואני לא היה לי לא רב ולא עוזר) Hakhamim, pp. 21–22; and cf. Rashi to Ezekiel 42:3 -Haviva Pedaya, Ha-Shem veha-Miq ;(בכל הבנין הזה אלא כמו שהראוני מן השמים dash be-Mishnat R. Yizhaq Sagi Nahor (Jerusalem, 2001), pp. 42–55; and Rav Kook, Mishpat Kohen (Jerusalem, 1985), pp. 206–12 (no. 96, sec. 7). 51 see, e.g., Moshe Idel, “ ‘Iyyunim be-Shitato shel Ba’al Sefer ha-Meshiv,” Sefunot 17 (1983): 201–26; idem, “Astral Dreams in Judaism,” Dream Cultures, ed. D. Shul- man and G. Stroumsa (New York, 1999), pp. 239–45; and E. Wolfson, “Transmis- sion in Medieval Mysticism,” in Transmitting Jewish Traditions, ed. Y. Elman and I. Gershoni (New Haven, 2000), pp. 189–92, 218. On Ramban’s relative conservatism in kabbalistic matters, and other differences between him and the other members of the Gerona school, see, e.g., my “On the Assessment of Moses b. Nahman (Ramban) and his Literary Oeuvre,” Jewish Book Annual 54 (1996–97): 69–71, and above, n. 48. 52 see, e.g., Eitan Fishbane, As Light Before Dawn: The Inner World of a Medieval Kabbalist (Stanford, 2009), pp. 101–14. 53 on R. Jacob’s locale, see Joseph Shatzmiller, “Hazza’ot ve-Tosafot le-Gallia Judaica,” Qiryat Sefer 45 (1975): 609–10. Several manuscript versions of R. Jacob’s work place him in Viviers, which is located in Provence (in the district of Ardeche in the Rhone Valley), although it is possible that R. Jacob initially hailed from Marvege (which is located in northern France) and reached Provence only later; the manuscripts also vary on whether Levi was Jacob’s father or his title. As Israel Ta-Shma has dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 135

“dream questions” (she’elot halom) to answer a host of unresolved or contested questions in Jewish law; all of the more than seventy questions that he considered concerned long-standing debates that had

shown conclusively, however, R. Jacob worked within a Provençal rabbinical milieu, in addition to individual ,חכמי נרבונה and to חכמי ההר )= מונפלייה( referring to Provencal scholars (and works and issues) of the twelfth century. Also mentioned are leading northern French figures who were well-known in Provence, such as Rashi and Rabbenu Tam, not to mention R. Isaac Alfasi, whose halakhic digest of the Tal- mud was central to Provençal rabbinical studies. Interestingly, only two of the more than twenty-five full and partial manuscript versions of this work have a confirmed Provençal provenance, ms. Bodl. 2343, fol. 124r–127r (copied in a Provençal hand during the thirteenth century), and ms. Bodl. 781, fols. 95r–101r (copied in Avignon in an Ashkenazic hand, in 1391), although ms. Munich (National Library of Bavaria), 237, fols. 157v–163v, written in a Spanish hand, also appears to be of Provençal origin. The vast majority of these manuscripts were copied in Ashkenaz, or in Italy/ Byzantium, often together with standard medieval Ashkenazic halakhic works such as Semaq or glosses to the Sefer Mordekhai. See I. Ta-Shma, “She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim,” Tarbiz 57 (1988): 51–66 [= idem, Knesset Mehqarim, 4:112–29, with a handful of additional notes.] Later rabbinic works (both Ashkenazic and Sefardic) occasionally confused R. Jacob of Marvege/Viviers with the leading northern French Tosafist, R. Jacob Tam of Ramerupt, while some (later) manuscript copyists confused him with a student of Rabbenu Tam, R. Jacob of Corbeil. See, e.g., Teshuvot Maharil, ed. Y. Satz (Jerusalem, 1980), pp. 233–34 (no. 137), sec. 6; Teshuvot ha-Radvaz, 1:380, and cf. 4:1084 (10), and cf. above, n. 5 (end); ms. Bodl. 2274, fols. 28r–v; ms. Ramat Gan 269, fol. 8; ms. Moscow Yevr 51, fols. 396r–v; ms. Yeshiva University 351, fol. 10. A Parma manuscript dated 1426 (De Rossi 286, fols. 172r–173v) attributes this work to R. Eleazar of Worms; see Yosef Dan, “Shu”t min ha-Shamayim me-Yuhasot le-R. Eleazar mi-Worms,” Sinai 69 (1971): 195. Indeed, this kind of confusion can already be seen in one of the earliest citations of R. Jacob’s work. R. Ephraim b. Samson, an associate of Hasidei Ashkenaz writing toward the end of the first half of the thirteenth century, includes the following (noted by Ta-Shma, op cit, 57, based on a passage preserved by Hida) in his Torah commentary to the portion of Va-Yelekh [Deut. 31:16], שמעתי מרבינו תם ששאל לבעל החלום פי' :ed. J. Klugmann, (Jerusalem, 1992), p. 223 שר החלום ושמו רזיאל וי"א גבריאל אם נרמז ישו ומרים אמו והשיב לו בעל החלום This is also perhaps the case for the two setsof .'אלהי נכר הארץ' גימ' ישו מרים acrostics attributed to Rabbenu Tam, which were intended to disable the claimed presence of the name Yeshu in Gen. 49:10 (although these acrostics have been attributed to the pashtan and polemicist, R. Yosef Qara, as well). See Sefer Yosef ha-Meqanne, ed. J. Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1970), p. 45; Nizzahon Vetus, ed. D. Berger (Philadelphia, 1979), pp. 248–49 (notes to p. 60); Tosafot ha-Shalem, ed. Y. Gellis (Jerusalem, 1986), 5: 57, sec. 17; and R. Ephraim b. Samson’s Torah commentary, ed. Klugmann, p. 163. Cf. A. J. Heschel, “ ‘Al Ruh ha-Qodesh Bimei ha-Benayim,” pp. 182 nn. 36–37, 183–84 n. 46; Nizzahon Vetus, ed. Berger, editor’s introduction, p. 13 (n. 22); and my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 185–86 (n. 119). The above discussion of the manuscripts that contain R. Jacob’s work was greatly aided by a detailed manuscript review prepared by my student, Pinchas Roth, in the course of his doctoral research at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem on the rabbinical literature of Provence during the thirteenth century. Among other corrections and addenda to Ta-Shma’s definitive study, Roth notes the presence of two additional Sefardic manuscripts of this work. 136 ephraim kanarfogel important rabbinical predecessors on both sides.54 R. Jacob writes that he addressed his questions directly to the Godhead and received the answers from a cohort of ministering angels. Perhaps not surprisingly, the answers were formulated and conveyed mostly in the form of biblical verses and phrases.55 Although his precise motivations remain unclear, the nature of R. Jacob’s work suggests that he was not seeking heavenly guidance to initiate halakhic discussions or to identify basic considerations and conduct fundamental investigations into a matter of halakhah in order to determine the law, but rather to break existing rabbinical logjams. Since all of these cases had outstanding rabbinical decisors on each side, R. Jacob was seeking guidance and clarity (birur) from the heavenly source, rather than a halakhic decision (hakhra’ah) per se. Those medieval rabbinical authorities who shied away from any heavenly involvement in matters of Jewish law would probably not have agreed with this distinction, but R. Jacob, who is not otherwise known to us as a (leading) Talmudist (and who composed no other works of which we are aware) was attempting in the main to “resolve the un-resolvable.” R. Jacob’s work did impact (fairly quickly) at least one thirteenth- century halakhist with important connections to Ashkenaz, R. Zedekiah b. Abraham ha-Rofe Anau (min ha-‘Anavim; d. c. 1260). R. Zedekiah cites R. Jacob’s collection of dream questions (usually with the comment, mazati bi-she’elot halom ’asher sha’al ha-zaddiq R. Ya’aqov mi-Marvege) eight times in his halakhic compendium, Shibbolei ha- Leqet.56 In six of these instances, R. Zedekiah essentially accepts and

54 in an unpublished paper (associated with the manuscript review mentioned in the above note), “Questions and Answers from Heaven: Halakhic Diversity in a Medi- eval Community,” P. Roth notes that the alternative positions presented by R. Jacob in his questions for consideration often represent two different geographical centers (and text traditions): southern France and Spain, southern France and Ashkenaz, and even Ashkenaz and Spain. This perhaps suggests that R. Jacob was attempting to address an ongoing and highly significant issue for Provençal rabbinical authorities as to whether the customs and halakhic practices there should be fixed mainly according to existing (indigenous) considerations, or whether they should perhaps be aligned with the major talmudic centers and scholarship to the north or south. 55 see Ta-Shma, Knesset Mehqarim, 4:126–29; and cf. above, n. 14, and below, n. 62. 56 on Shibbolei ha-Leqet as a repository of Ashkenazic rabbinical materials, see I. Ta-Shma, Knesset Mehqarim, 3:10–11, 20–23, 70–75, and my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 54–55, 107–11, 147 (for his citation of Hekhalot literature), 228–31. (R. Zedekiah considered himself to be a student of R. Isaiah di Trani, although he never studied directly in his presence.) For the impact of Ashkenazic mysticism on this dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 137 follows the position espoused by R. Jacob (which is sometimes cited in the name of other rabbinical authorities as well).57 In one case, R. Zedekiah notes R. Jacob’s position and disagrees with it, citing the opposing view of R. Isaiah di Trani and other authorities.58 Only in the one remaining instance does R. Zedekiah strongly disagree with R. Jacob, stating that “we do not need the dream of R. Ya’aqov ha-Zaddiq of Marvege, nor do we need his interpretation (or solution) that he asked via a she’elat halom. Furthermore, we do not pay attention to dreams, since we hold that lo ba-shamayim hi.”59 On the whole, however, it appears that Shibbolei ha-Leqet was more than comfortable with R. Jacob’s work as a source of Jewish law.60 Interestingly, Shibbolei ha-Leqet is also the source for a she’elat halom that is attributed to unnamed rabbis in northern France at the time of the burning of the Talmud in Paris in the 1240s. At the end of a section on the four rabbinically ordained fast days during the year (which include occasions that commemorate the burning of Torah scrolls in the Jewish past), Shibbolei ha-Leqet notes the contemporary burning of twenty-four wagonloads of the Talmud and related rabbinical texts in northern France (which is dated in this passage to 1244, but is typically assumed to have occurred in 1242), that took place on the Friday of parashat Huqqat (and was commemorated by a fast on that day). R. Zedekiah writes that “we have heard from some of the rabbis who work, especially with regard to prayer and rituals, see also my “Mysticism and Asceti- cism in Italian Rabbinic Literature of the Thirteenth Century,” (above, n. 30), 137–41, 148–49. 57 see Shibbolei ha-Leqet, ed. S. Buber (Vilna, 1887), secs. 31 (fols. 15a–b); 93 (fol. 33b); 127 (fol. 50a); hilkhot tefillin (fols. 191b–192a); part 2 (ed. Hasida, above, n. 34), 4 (at the end of sec. 1); and 75 (sec. 17). השיבו לו הקטנים עם הגדולים יוסף ה' עליכם. ונראה ,see ed. Buber, sec. 9 (fol. 5a 58 .(בעיני שאין קטן עולה למנין עשרה וכן כתב רבינו ישעיה וכו' ואין אנו צריכין לחלומו של רבינו יעקב הצדיק ממרוי"ש ,ibid., sec. 157 (fols. 61b 59 ולא לפתרונו ששאל על ידי שאלת חלום . . . ואין משגיחין בדברי חלומות דקיימא לן .(לא בשמים היא 60 r. Ovadyah Yosef refers in several places in his responsa to Shibbolei ha-Leqet, sec. 157 (and once to sec. 9), giving the impression that R. Zedekiah was fundamentally opposed to She’elot u-Teshuvot min Ha-Shamayim. See Teshuvot Yabi’a Omer, vol. 1: Orah Hayyim, sec. 42:1 (which also refers to sec. 9); vol. 5: Orah Hayyim, sec. 43:8; and Teshuvot Yehavveh Da’at, vol. 1, no. 68. (As far as I can tell, R. Yosef does not cite any of the six sections in which Shibbolei ha-Leqet concurs with R. Jacob’s rulings.) This selective citation perhaps constitutes additional evidence (from a different quarter) for R. Yosef’s desire to minimize the extent to which pesaq halakhah is based on mystical teachings or phenomena. See Binyamin Lau, “Meqomah shel ha-Qabbalah be-Pesiqato shel ha-Rav Ovadyah Yosef,” Da’at 55 (2005): 131–51 (esp. 150–51), and cf. above, n. 45. 138 ephraim kanarfogel were present that a she’elat halom was done, in order to know whether this decree was ordained by the Almighty. And they responded [from on high] that this was a Torah decree.”61 This episode—and the approach ofShibbolei ha-Leqet more broadly— further support the notion that leading Ashkenazic rabbinical scholars were familiar with and may have made use of she’elot halom in ways that were consistent with those of R. Jacob of Marvege. In similar fashion, Elqanah, a student of R. Meir of Rothenburg (whose own affinities to she’elot halom were noted earlier) and a learned copyist of rabbinical texts during the late thirteenth century, inserted a dream ruling recorded by R. Jacob of Marvege with regard to a particular adhesion of the lung (which was described in Elqanah’s insertion as “a ruling given to us by Elijah”) directly into a passage on this matter that had originally been composed by Rabiah. In the same manuscript, Elqanah also refers to Hekhalot Rabbati, and copies a formula for a she’elat halom.62

וגם מהרבנים שהיו שם שמענו שעשו שאילת חלום ,see sec. 263 (end, fol. 126b 61 This passage .(לדעת אם גזירה זו היא מאת הבורא והשיבו להם ודא גזירה אורייתא is also found in (the parallel compendium) Tanya Rabbati (Jerusalem, 1962), fol. 63c (sec. 58), citing Shibbolei ha-Leqet. The (angelic) response to the dream question in the plural accords with the plural response form typically found in She’elot u-Tes- huvot min ha-Shamayim; see I. Ta-Shma, above, n. 55. On the similarities between the efforts here (even in the phrasing of the question and the response), and R. Yishma’el’s heavenly ascent in order to verify the fate of the ten rabbinical martyrs (and whether it was in accordance with the will of God or could be repealed), as reflected and described in various medieval midrashic collections (and liturgical texts) and allied passages within Hekhalot literature, see, e.g., Die Geschichte von der Zehn Märtyrern, ed. G. Reeg (Tübingen, 1985), pp. 19*–32*; and R. S. Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic (Tübingen, 2005), pp. 81–84, 113–21, 298–11, 289–93. :(הלכות טריפות מאבי העזרי see ms. Paris BN 1408, fol. 2v (in a section labeled 62 אונא ואומא כסידרן במיינצא ובקולניא נוהגין לאסור . . . ובגרמייזא ובצרפת נוהגין להתיר כר' יעקב בן יקר . . . ואליהו זכור לטוב הורה לנו לאסור אונא באומא והרבה גאונים חולקים בדבר. רבינו גרשום וכו' כולם מכשירין . . . ורבינו אלעזר הגדול ורבינו -This passage, without the refer .תם ומר רב יוסף ורבינו יב"א ורבי' שיחי' כולם אוסרין ence to Elijah, appears almost verbatim in Sefer Rabiah, ed. D. Deblitzky (Bnei Brak, It also appears in very similar form (again .(עניין הסירכות ,sec. 1089) 93 :4 ,(2005 minus the reference to Elijah) in Haggahot Maimuniyyot (composed by another of R. Meir’s students, R. Meir ha-Kohen) to chapter 11 of Mishneh Torah, hilkhot shehitah, See .רבינו המחבר אבי העזרי (sec. 5, where the passage includes (and is attributed to also the related passages (cited by Deblitzky, op cit, n. 22) in Sefer Or Zarua’ (hilkhot terefot, sec. 411), and in Sefer Mordekhai to Hullin (sec. 616, which was composed by Rabiah’s contemporary, R. Barukh of Mainz, and see also ms. Vercelli C435, fol. 129, ms. Parma [de Rossi] 929, fol. 15r, ms. Paris 407, fol. 12a, ms. New York JTS Rab. 674, fols. 221a–c, ms. Vienna 72, fols. 193v–194r, ms. Sassoon 534, fols. 470v–471a); in Pisqei R. Hayyim Or Zarua’, hilkhot terefot ha-re’ah, secs. 84–85, found in Shitat ha- Qadomonim ‘al Massekhet Hullin, ed. M. Blau (New York, 1990), 2: 317; in Shibbolei dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 139

At the same time, we have seen that a number of Ashkenazic halakhists resorted to and employed dream results even in instances where the questions before them had not been addressed by large numbers of weighty predecessors on each side so as to make them “un-resolvable.” Moreover, these figures, unlike R. Jacob of Marvege, were often Tosafists of note, who certainly had the standing (and competence) to issue rulings that would be followed by others without recourse to dreams. In light of their familiarity with and positive tendencies toward mysticism and magic, these Tosafists apparently held that dream results, including situations where Elijah the prophet or the so-called ba’al ha-halom appeared in a dream and caused a rabbinical decisor to re-think and reformulate (or recant) his approach or position, were sufficiently (and perhaps mostly) a function of human understanding, cognition and effort, in evaluating all the relevant factors and materials. Therefore, such results were not considered to be a violation of the principle of lo ba-shamayim hi. Although it is difficult to locate any explicit statements in this direction within the many Ashkenazic rabbinical texts that we have presented and reviewed, there are several talmudic sugyot that describe the appearance of one’s teacher or another great rabbinical authority (or a close variant ,]א[חזאי בח]י[למא in a dream (using the phrase that serve to encourage, to confirm or even to support halakhic rulings. In one such instance (Menahot 67a), Rava, at least as interpreted by the so-called Perush Rabbenu Gershom (which has been shown in fact to be a composite commentary from the academy at Mainz during the eleventh century, whose affinities to mystical teachings have also

ha-Leqet, hilkhot terefot, ed. Buber, fol. 199b (sec. 8), and in hilkhot shehitah u-terefah by the Italian rabbinical scholar, R. Judah b. Benjamin, in ms. Parma (de Rossi) 62, (IMHM # 13777), fol. 326v (none of which mention either Elijah or R. Jacob of Mar- vege); and see also Tosafot Hullin 46b–47a, s.v. haynu. Just after the passage in Sefer Rabiah itself, a biblical phrase is included (in one textual variant, cited by Deblitzky in n. 30) to describe another form of adhesion. See also Sefer Assufot (composed by an unidentified student of Rabiah), ms. Montefiore 134, fol. 7c (and correct Deblitzky, op cit.). On Elqanah’s role in copying portions of ms. Paris BN 1408 (including several sections from Rabiah’s work), as well as his identity, see Colette Sirat, “Le Manuscript Hebreu No. 1408 de la Biblioteque Nationale de Paris,” REJ 123 (1964): 335–58, esp. 338–39, 348, 355. Elqanah refers to the passage from Hekhalot literature on fol. 75d, -The she’elat halom (involving the angels San .אני אלקנה ראיתיה במעשה מרכבה וכו' dalfon and Gabriel) is found in Elqanah’s hand at the bottom of fol. 146r (although it is shifted on the page), after a series of halakhic discussions and rulings that Elqanah had copied in the name of Rabiah (on fols. 144r–146r). See also my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 147 n. 37, 183–84 n. 115, 234 n. 40. 140 ephraim kanarfogel been documented),63 requests that he receive a dream that will provide support for his halakhic position. Ultimately, Rava provides his own support, but the dream possibility remains available, if elusive. These sugyot, however, are located in relatively “out of the way” places, and do not have the usual range of medieval comments on them (including comments by Tosafot).64 Nonetheless, the respect that the Tosafists had for dreams as potential sources of halakhic guidance (as opposed to relying on larger heavenly phenomena) may perhaps be confirmed on the basis of the other (more heavenly) side of the equation. In several places within the Talmud, Tosafot considers the effectiveness of a bat qol, or of the (physical) appearance of Elijah, even in matters of Jewish law. The Talmud, for example, indicates that the law typically follows the school of Hillel rather than that of Shammai, because a bat qol emerged and declared this to be so. Tosafot immediately questions this assertion based on the principle of lo ba-shamayim hi, but concludes that the halakhic primacy of the school of Hillel had already been determined by a proper, binding majority. The heavenly voice was simply ratifying or amplifying this conclusion.65 Similarly, Tosafot maintains that Elijah the prophet, as an angelic figure who may appear in an earthly venue, cannot himself issue halakhic decisions and rulings at that time. He can, however, help to elucidate difficult questions, and thereby point the (human) decisors in the right direction.66 In these instances, the Tosafists were unwilling to allow the heavenly signs or indicators to play a significant role in determining

63 see I. Ta-Shma, Ha-Sifrut ha-Parshanit la-Talmud (Jerusalem, 1999), 1: 35–40, and A. Grossman, Hakhmei Ashkenaz ha-Rishomim (Jerusalem, 1981), pp. 418, 423. 64 see also Menahot 84b (with regard to bikkurim), Bekhorot 5a, and Bekhorot 56a (regarding ma’aser), where the appearance of R. Yohanan in a dream is deemed to be significant. Although Rashi to Bekhorot 56a suggests that this is mostly a matter of encouragement (i.e., seeing R. Yohanan causes or encourages the rabbinical scholar in question to offer a proper halakhic interpretation), the so-called Perush Rabbenu Ger- shom (= Perush Magenza) again appears to posit a larger role for these dream appear- ances in the formulation of the halakhic positions themselves. See also Bava Batra 143a, where the so-called commentary of Rabbenu Gershom (and see also Perushei Rabbenu Gershom ‘al Massekhet Bava Batra, ed. Machon Or ha-Hayyim [Jerusalem, 1998], p. 311) gives the role of the dream greater weight than does Rashbam in his commentary, ad loc. For Rashi’s (and Rashbam’s) tendency toward lesser reliance on dreams, cf. above, n. 43. 65 see Tosafot Yevamot 14a, s.v. R. Yehoshua’ hi; Tosafot Bava Mezia 59b, s.v. lo ba- shamayim hi; Tosafot Berakhot 52a, s.v. ve-R. Yehoshua’; Tosafot ‘Eruvin 6b, s.v. kan; Tosafot Pesahim 114a, s.v. de-‘amar; Tosafot Hullin 44a, s.v. ve-R. Yehoshu’a. 66 see Tosafot Bava Mezi’a 114a–b, s.v. mahu, and cf. above, n. 43. dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 141 the halakhah. They could provide confirmation for decisions already taken, or provide points of information, but they had no role in formulating any (final) rulings. On the other hand, the much wider role given to dreams (including oneiric gilluyei Eliyyahu) in medieval Ash- kenazic rabbinical circles (within halakhic and talmudic contexts, and even at the point of meaningful textual interpretation or decision making) is striking, and is well beyond the status and authority accorded to dreams by other leading medieval halakhists, as we have seen. Parallel to these interior dimensions, an understanding of the nature of dreams and visions within contemporary Christian society in northern Europe may provide additional perspective. The possibility of cultural interaction in these matters should not be overlooked, since there is ample reason to believe that the Jews were aware of some of the larger ideas and tendencies about dreams that were prevalent within Christian circles.67 Although this investigation requires a separate study, it is helpful here to briefly point to two examples of how dreams were regarded by contemporary Christian figures.68 Peter the Venerable (d. 1156, in Cluny) writes that he would only relate those oneiric experiences in which the holiness or nobility of his informant was unimpeachable (or if he himself was the one doing the dreaming). In his dream accounts, the dead are never intercessors to God on behalf of the living. They may, however, provide useful spiritual guidance and advice, and indicate why they were suffering in the hereafter.69 Moreover, Guibert of Nogent-sous-Coucy (c. 1055–1125)

67 for examples of similar interactions, see, e.g., my Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages, pp. 69–73, 101–17; my “Progress and Tradition in Medieval Ashkenaz,” Jewish History 14 (2000): 287–315; Ivan Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (New Haven, 1996), passim; Talya Fishman, “The Penitential System of Hasidei Ashkenaz and the Problem of Cultural Boundar- ies,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 8 (1999): 201–29; Ephraim Shoham- Steiner, “‘For a Prayer in This Place Would Be Most Welcome’: Jews, Holy Place and Miracles—A New Approach,” Viator 37 (2006): 369–95. I discuss the transfer of such “larger ideas” more expansively at the end of the first chapter in my The Intellectual History of Medieval Ashekenazic Jewry, above n. 13. 68 on the links between medieval Christian dream theory and earlier patristic thought see, e.g., Steven Kruger, Dreaming in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1992), pp. 17–29, 41–44, 58–77, 83–105; Patricia Cox Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity (Princ- eton, 1994), pp. 42–51, 59–73; and Jean-Claude Schmitt, “The Liminality and Cen- trality of Dreams in the Medieval West,” in Dream Cultures, ed. D. Shulman and G. Stroumsa (New York, 1999), pp. 274–79. 69 see Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society (Chicago, 1998), pp. 71–75, and cf. above, nn. 5, 32–36. 142 ephraim kanarfogel presents a number of dreams, which he suggests had the capacity to predict the future, or to provide a window into the divine realm.70 Included in Guibert’s autobiography is a dream experienced by his tutor, in which a white-haired elderly man, of distinguished appearance and bearing, leads the young Guibert by the hand to the room of the sleeping tutor, promising that the tutor will love him very much and will instruct him well. Within the course of this dream, Guibert kisses the tutor, who returns his affection and agrees to become his teacher. Subsequently, the tutor has another dream vision in which the same old man with beautiful white hair appears to him, and criti- cizes in severe and specific terms Guibert’s efforts at versification. The elderly man demands that the tutor account for himself, since Guibert has become too aware of (and enamored of ) the style of pagan poets.71 These descriptions, together with his reports of dreams by others, occupy an important place in Guibert’s autobiography.72 Guibert’s narratives call to mind some useful observations and distinctions about dreams and visions recently made by a number of medievalists that can be effectively applied to medieval Ashkenaz as well. A vision, in which clear messages were transmitted and the person who was asleep interacts with those who appear to him, was often accepted as a “real” message from the heavenly realm that was to be heeded. More common dream forms, however, were typically considered to be less significant, since they might well have been the result of the food that was consumed prior to retiring. Similarly, greater weight was given to the dream accounts of religious leaders and figures who experienced “higher” dreams as opposed to those of laymen although, to be sure, authentic visions might also be attributed to laymen as well, if other people saw or experienced them collectively or if the subject of the dream was a saint or holy place.73

70 see J. F. Benton, Self and Society in Medieval France (Toronto, 1984), introduction, pp. 18, 26. 71 see Benton, op cit, 45–46, 87–88. 72 cf. ibid., 79–80, 82–85, 92–96, 158–59, 177–78; Schmitt, “The Liminality and Centrality of Dreams,” 281, 283; and above, nn. 9–11, 14. 73 see, e.g., Valerie Flint, The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe (Princeton, 1991), pp. 146–49, 193–99; Kruger, Dreaming in the Middle Ages, pp. 14–16, 119–30, 150–59; Schmitt, “The Liminality and Centrality of Dreams,” 280–85; idem, Ghosts in the Middle Ages, pp. 40–52; Richard Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims: Popular Beliefs in Medieval England (New York, 1995), pp. 33–34, 50–53, 63–67, 83–85; Mary Car- ruthers, The Craft of Thought (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 169–96; Isabel Moreira, Dreams, Visions, and Spiritual Authority in Merovingian Gaul (Ithaca, 2000), pp. 3–7, 29–34, dreams as a determinant of jewish law and practice 143

In sum, the (surprisingly) positive or receptive attitude that a number of Tosafists expressed with respect to the potential impact of dreams on the halakhic process, as well as the differences between them about how such dreams should be evaluated and classified, had much in common with the surrounding host culture, even as the Tosafist attitudes were clearly a function of their own rabbinical and mystical sensibilities. As leading students and teachers of talmudic law, the Tosafists were surely cognizant of the principle, lo ba-shamayim hi, “it is not in heaven.” As religious authorities of their age, however, they were more than willing to entertain the possibility that heavenly, dream-like contra-texts could nonetheless contribute to the halakhic enterprise, and to Jewish life and practice more broadly.

41–44, 74–75, 226–27. Cf. Jacques Le Goff, Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages (Chicago, 1980), pp. 201–4; idem, The Medieval Imagination (Chicago, 1988), pp. 193–229; Jeremy Cohen, Living Letters of the Law (Berkeley, 1999), pp. 274–305; P. Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity, pp. 93–105. 117–23, 131–47; Monford Harris, Studies in Jewish Dream Interpretation, pp. 19–20; ms. Sasoon 290, fol. 612 (she’elah be-haqiz ‘amitit u-menusah be-qabbalah mi-pi ha-Rav Shim’on ha-Gadol); my Peering through the Lattices, pp. 135–36 n. 8; and above, n. 32. Note also the status of dreams as appropriate vehicles for considering literary issues. See Kruger, op cit, 130–40, and above, nn. 38–42. Orality and Literacy: The French Tosaphists*

Gérard Nahon

It is commonly believed that in the Middle Ages, while the great majority of Christians were illiterate, all the Jews read and write. Roughly speaking, with the exception of the women,1 this was generally true. For the Jews, People of the Book par excellence, written language and letters played a major role. Nevertheless, the Talmud, the second source of religious law after the Bible, called Torah she-beal pé (lit.: the Law upon the mouth), the oral law of Judaism, was transmitted orally from teacher to student. Until the third century, committing oral law to a written form was forbidden. Two talmudical logia quote this prejudice. Juda bar Nahmani comments on the verse: “For after the tenor of [lit. upon the mouth of ] these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel” (Exod. 34: 27) as: דברים שבכתב אי אתה רשאי לאומרן על פה דברים שבעל פה אי אתה רשאי לאומרן בכתב (what has been in writing, thou mayest not say orally, what has been said orally, thou mayest not say in writing) (Git. 60 b). R. Yohanan b. Nappaha adds: כותבי הלכות כשורף התורה והלמד מהן אינו נוטל שכר

* On this topic I delivered a lecture at the Colloquium of the Leiden Institute for the History of Religions (LISOR) and the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes “Oral Tra- dition and Written Tradition in the Transmission of Religious Knowledge” in Leiden on the 28th and 29th of May, 1998. I am grateful to Evelyne and David diel-Grausz for their help in preparing my English text. 1 see Colette Sirat, Du scribe au Livre: Les manuscrits hébreux au Moyen Age (Paris: Editions du CNRS, 1994), and “Les femmes juives et l’écriture au Moyen Age,” Les Nouveaux Cahiers 101 (1990): 14–23; in that last paper, Sirat reviews medieval Hebrew manuscripts written by women. On the problem in antiquity and the Middle Ages in general see Colette Sirat, “Orality/Literacy, Language and Alphabets: Examples of the Jewish People,” in Cl. Pontecorvo, ed., Writing Development: An Interdisciplin- ary View (Amsterdam and Philadelphia, 1997), pp. 101–15; Christophe Batsche, “La halakha rabbinique entre oral et écrit,” in Tsafon: Revue d’études juives du Nord 58 (fall 2009–winter 2010): 31–43. 146 gérard nahon

(He who writes down halakhot is as one who commits the Torah to flames, and whosoever studies these written collections has no reward) (Temura 14 b). Among the various explanations of this prejudice, R. Juda b. Shalom contends: כשאמר הקב"ה למשה כתב לך בקש משה שתהא המשנה בכתב ולפי שצפה הקב"ה שאומות העולם עתידין לתרגם את התורה ולהיות קוראים יונית והם אומרים אנו ישראל (When the Holy One, blessed be He—said to Moses: “Write down!,” Moses asked that the Mishna be written, but because the Holy One, blessed be He—knew that the Nations of the World will translate the Torah and read it in Greek and say: “We are Israel”).2 Therefore the Mishna was given orally to Moses. So the oral law must remain the unique property of Israel in order to prevent Gentiles from appropriating it as they appropriated the written law when it was translated into Greek. Rashi’s comment on the prohibition of writing the oral law: מכאן אתה למד שהתלמוד ניתן לכתוב אלא מפני שהתורה משתכחת (from here you learn that in order to prevent the oral law from being forgotten, Rashi on Git. 60 b) was generally accepted as the reason for the oral law was finally committed to writing, first in the Mishna, then in the Jerusalem and Babylonian Talmuds. But, according to contemporary research, “Up to the very end of the Geonic period, the Talmud remained literally in the category of Oral Law.” Indeed, we don’t know exactly when written copies of the Talmud began to be used but we may admit that it was not before the middle of the eighth century. By the way, Robert Brody quotes two responsa of the tenth-century Academy of Pumbedita. In the first, Aaron Sarjado speaks of the recitation of “the entire academy—and it is known that the recitation (girsa) is from the mouths of the Masters, and most of them do not know what a book is—.” In the famous Epistle that Sherira Gaon sent to Jacob b. Nissim and to the men of Kairwan (987), he answers the question: “How were the Mishnah and Talmud written?” and explains: “The Tal- mud and the Mishnah were not written but rather composed and the

2 Midrash Tanhuma, ed. with comment. Hanokh Zundel (Jerusalem, 1975), Péri- cope, Ki Tissa, p. 12a. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 147

Rabbis are careful to recite it orally, but not from copies.”3 Manuscripts of the Talmud came to Europe in a limited number around the tenth century and we don’t know when and how copies were at the disposal of scholars, students, and laymen. The difficulty of understanding Tal- mud as well as the weigth of tradition made transmission by word of mouth compulsory since the majority of students had no written copy or textbook at their disposal. The situation underwent a change when Rashi’s (1040–1105) commentary on the Babylonian Talmud began to be used. On the one hand, Rashi and his students prepared an authoritative text of the Talmud from which copies were made. On the other hand, for the first time one complete commentary began to be used in the French and German schools of the twelfth century. However, this commentary—the qunters—along with the authoritative text of the Babylonian Talmud were kept by a limited number of scholars, all of them Rashi’s offspring. So when his grandson Jacob b. Meir known as Rabbenu Tam writes: בדקתי בספרים שלו (I have checked in his [Rashi’s] own manuscripts), for readers who viewed in oral teaching the authentic tradition he emphasizes the exceptional value of his written sources both in Talmudic texts and commentaries. So he legitimates his role in the Jewish community: the translatio studii may be operated by him even without orality.4 During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the rabbis of France and Germany came to use more and more manuscripts of the Talmud and built a

3 On the talmudic literature, see Hermann L. Strack, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (New York, 1959): the “Interdict on Writing Down,” pp. 12–20; H. L. Strack and G. Stemberger, Introduction au Talmud et au Midrash, trans. Maurice- Ruben Hayoun (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1986); Alexander Guttmann, Rabbinic Juda- ism in the Making; A Chapter in the History of the Halakhah from Ezra to Judah I (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1970); Richard Kalmin, The Redaction of the Babylonian Talmud: Amoraic or Saboraic? (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1989). On the “publishing” of the Babylonian Talmud, cf. Israel M. Ta-Shma, Early Franco-German Ritual and Custom (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1992) [in Hebrew], and Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 156–57. 4 On translatio studii, see John W. Baldwin, “Masters of Paris from 1179 to 1215: A Social Perspective,” in Robert L. Benson, Giles Constable, and Carol Lanham, eds., Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), pp. 161–63. 148 gérard nahon huge corpus of commentaries called tosaphot or additions.5 The first Tosaphists were Asher Halévi from Spire, Jacob b. Isaac Halevi, Meir b. Samuel from Ramerupt (Aube) and the latter’s son Jacob b. Méir- Rabbenu Tam. With the addition of tosaphot to Rashi’s commentary, the transmission of talmudic learning, which was until then essentially oral, was transferred to a medium directly available to the student. The fundamental book—the Talmud—was multiplied in two ways: through the influx of talmudic manuscripts, on the one hand, and through the writing and collecting of tosaphot, on the other. What was the impact of this massive writing process upon the relationship between teacher and student, which had been basically dependant on oral transmission? In order to answer this question we will study the connections between orality and literacy transmissions both within and outside the school and the translatio from one place to another. Rabbinical matters under consideration here are limited to halakha, that is to say the rabbinical norm; the pesaq, or rabbinical decision about ritus or personal law; and exegesis. The new trend toward written material as a source of religious practice and learning appeared first in France. In Germany, at the same time, Jewish communities followed oral tradition and custom.6 The passage from orality

5 The book by the late E. E. Urbach, The Tosaphists, Their History, Writings and Methods (Jerusalem, 1980), 2 vols. [in Hebrew] remains fundamental. See Gérard Nahon, “Les tosafistes,” in Gabrielle Sed-Rajna, ed., Rashi: 1040–1990, Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach. Congrès européen des Etudes juives (Paris: Ed. du Cerf, 1993), pp. 33–42. A valuable description of “the intellectual milieu of the Tosafist academies” is found in E. Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), pp. 66–85; Charles Touati, “Les Tosafot, ou la quête indéfinie de la cohérence,” in Gilbert Dahan, Gérard Nahon, and Elie Nicolas, ed., Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge (Paris and Louvain, 1997), pp. 331–41. On Rashi, there is a huge literature; among the very valuable studies, see Ezra Shereshevky, Rashi: The Man and His World (Northvale, N.J. and London: Jason Aronson, 1986) and all the recent books by Avraham Grossman, see especially his Rashi: Religious Beliefs and Social Views (Alon Shevut: Tevunot Editions, 2008) [in Hebrew] and Rashi: The Man and his Works, eds., Avraham Grossman and Sara Japhet, Jerusalem, The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, 2008 [Hebrew]. 6 henri Gross, Gallia Judaica: Dictionnaire géographique de la France d’après les sources rabbiniques contenant l’identification de tous les noms géographiques français mentionnés dans la littérature rabbinique du Moyen Age; une notice sur l’histoire des juifs des localités ou provinces désignés sous ces noms; une notice littéraire sur les rab- bins et écrivains juifs originaires de ces localités ou qui en ont porté le nom; avec un supplément bibliographique (Paris, 1897); 3rd ed. with additions and corrections by Simon Schwarzfuchs (Paris-Louvain: Peeters, 2011). On the Jewish medieval culture in France, see Simon Schwarzfuchs, A History of the Jews in Medieval France (Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuhad, 2001) [in Hebrew], pp. 129–33. Cf. I.-S. Ta-Shma “La orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 149 to written tradition happened slowly in two areas: the realm of custom, which is the rule for ordinary people and for scholars, and the school where masters handed down Halakha or talmudic law to students. In this article we will start with the hegemony of orality. We will then analyze the changes that took place in the age of the Tosaphists, and finish with the permission given de facto to the student to teach halakha, before his master, permission which was really innovative since it grounded orality on written matter. It may be added that the problem of the intercourse between literacy and orality in medieval learning and teaching remains an open question.7

The Domination of Orality: de jure and de facto

In principle, the teaching by word of mouth from master to student was the norm in medieval Judaism. Joseph b. Meir ha-Levi Ibn Megas, a Spanish twelfth-century authority, quotes as an extraordinary case, איש שלא קרא מעולם הלכה עם רב ואינו יודע דרך הלכה ולא פירושה ולא קריאתה אלא שהוא ראה הרבה מתשובות הגאונים ז"ל וספרי הדינים

(a man who has never read halakha with one master and does not know the way of halakha nor its commentary, nor its reading, but he saw many of the responsa of the Geonim and the books of laws).

bibliothèque des Sages d’Ashkenaz des XIe–XIIe siècles,” Kiryath Sepher 60 (1985), pp. 298–309 [in Hebrew]. 7 On orality, see M. T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066– 1307 (London: Edward Arnold, 1979); Jack Goody, The Interface Between the Written and the Oral (Cambridge, 1987); Viv Edwards and Thomas J. Sienkewicz, Oral Cul- tures Past and Present: Rappin’ and Homer (Oxford, 1991); Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the World (London, 1992); Susan Niditch, Oral World and Written World: Ancient Israelite Literature (Louisville, 1996); see the remarks by Jacques Verger, Les Universités au Moyen Age (Paris: PUF, 1973), pp. 62–63; G. B. Gerhardson, Memory and Manuscript: Oral Tradition and Written Transmission in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity (Uppsala, 1961); Colette Sirat, “Orality/ Literacy, Languages and Alphabets: Example of the Jewish People,” in Cl. Pontecorvo and Cl. Blanche-Benveniste, eds., Proceedings of the Workshop on Orality versus Lit- eracy? Concepts, Methods, and Data (Strasbourg Cedex: European Science Founda- tion, 1993), pp. 49–88; M. C. A. Macdonald, “Literacy in an Oral Environment,” in P. Bienkowski, C. Mee, and E. Slater eds., Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society: Papers in Honor of Alan R. Millard (New York, 2006), pp. 49–118. 150 gérard nahon

This man had studied from books only and he became so expert in rabbinical matters that Joseph Ibn Megas allowed him to teach law.8 Such a case did not exist in France and Germany—the lands of Tosa- phists—where people who possessed manuscripts of the Geonim and books of Law were the happy few. During the time of the early Tosaphists, the teaching derived its authority from an oral dynasty through Rashi’s offspring. Rashi himself acquired the knowledge from his masters. Orality in theory as well as in practice still prevailed in the thirteenth century, with perverse consequences. One fierce controversy flared up in Languedoc between supporters and opponents of Maimonides. The scholars of northern France took position against the philosopher. The Provençal scholar Asher b. Gershom defended the supporters of Maimonides רק דרבונות ומסמרות נטועים לחזק האמונה והתורה שבכתב ושבעל פה איש מפי איש נמסרה (they are—so he writes men—as goads and as nails fastened to strengthen faith and Torah by writing and by word of mouth from one to another). His adversaries, however, condemned Maimonides without reading his work and on the basis of false news. ואם הספרים לא הגיעו לידכם איך השיאו אתכם משיאי שמע שוא (Maimonides’s books did not come unto you and how bearers of false news may induce you against him)?9 The prestige of orality is often expounded in sentences of the follo רבי אמר ,and our master comments for us ופירש לנו רבינו :wing type and says Rabbi. The discussion in school is ואומר רבי ,Rabbi said

8 Joseph Ibn Megas, Responsa (Thessaloniki, 1791, Warsaw, 1870), no. 114, quoted in Urbach, Tosaphists, 2: 738. 9 Joseph Shatzmiller, “Les tossafistes et la première controverse maïmonidienne: Le témoignage du rabbin Asher ben Gershom,” in Gilbert Dahan, Gérard Nahon, and Elie Nicolas, eds., Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge (Paris and Louvain, 1997), pp. 55–82, quotations pp. 66–67. On the conflicts, see Charles Touati, “Les deux conflits autour de Maimonide et des études philosophiques,” Juifs et Juda- ïsme de Languedoc = Cahiers de Fanjeaux 12 (1977): 173–84; G. Nahon “Géographie occidentale et orientale des controverses maïmonidienne et post-maïmonidienne,” in Danièle Iancu and Elie Nicolas, eds., Des Tibbonides à Maïmonide: Rayonnement des Juifs andalous en pays d’Oc médiéval (Colloque international Montpellier, 13–14 décembre 2004) (Paris: Editions du Cerf, Nouvelle Gallia Judaica, 2009), pp. 19–31. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 151 conducted by many students listening to the master. The greatT osaphist Jacob b. Méir-R. Tam was teaching, as did Hillel the Ancient in his time,—comp. Sukka 28a—eighty Tosaphists in the same session and each of them attained the degree of teacher. According to a tradition concerning Isaac ben Samuel of Dampierre, handed down from his masters by R. Menahem b. Aaron b. Zerah, ורבינו יצחק בן אחותו של רבינו תם בעל התוספות אשר למד ולימד בישיבה כי העידו לי רבותי הצרפתים בשם רבותיהם כי נודע ונתפרסם שהיו לומדים בפניו ששים רבנים שכל אחד מהם היה שומע ההלכה שהיה מגיד גם היה לומד כל אחד לבדו מסכתא שלו היה לומד חברו חוזרים על פה ולא היה מגיד רבנו יצחק הלכה שלא היה בפיהם בין כולם כל התל־ מוד בין עיניהם באותה הגדה עד שנתברר להם כל ספקות שבתלמוד וכל הלכה ומאמר תנא או אמורא שנראה הפך או סתירה במקום אחר ישב ותקן על אופנו כאשר מבואר לכל מי שראה תוספותם ושאלותם ותשובתם ופירושם על זקנם רבנו שלמה And Rabbenu Isaac, the son of Rabbenu Tam’s sister the well known- Tosaphist, who learned and taught in the yeshivah, that my French masters attested in the name of their masters that it was well known and famous that sixty masters learned before him [Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre], each of them understood the halakha he said and also each of them learned one treatise [of the Talmud] that his fellow had not learned. They revised orally and our master Isaac did not say one halakha that was not in their mouth together. So the whole Talmud was put before their eyes during the lesson up to the solution of all the doubts of the Talmud, the whole halakha and ruling, tanna or amora where contradiction appeared in another place. He sat down and corrected as is clear for whoever saw their tosafot, their questions and answers and commentaries and hassagot that they obtained from their grandfather Rabbenu Selomo [i.e., Rashi].10 In this instance, the oral presence of the text under examination and of the whole Talmud

10 On Rabbenu Tam and his eighty students, see Salomon Luria, Sefer Yam shel Shel- omo [The Sea of Solomon], vol. 2: Hulin (Stettin, 1861, repr. Jerusalem, 1987), second introduction. On Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre, see Menahem b. Aaron b. Zérah, Seda la-darekh in Adolf Neubauer, Mediaeval Jewish Chronicles and Chronological Notes, Réimpr. Amsterdam 1970, vol. II p. 243; about this text—maybe a legend with a kernel of truth—see Avraham (Rami) Reiner “Rabbi Isaac the Ancient: Between Continuity and Innovation. Reflexions about Yenam [their wine] of Hayim Soloveitchik,” Sidra 21 (2006): 165–74. The same story is viewed by S. Schwarzfuchs (A History of the Jews in Medieval France, p. 131) as an enthusiastic description and a proof that the number of the students had grown in the time of R. Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre. 152 gérard nahon was the condition for its oral explanation by the teacher. According to the wording of Rami Reiner, all the talmudic knowledge became in the yeshiva a huge database. So the ideal remained oral learning. Juda b. Yom Tov from twelfth-century Paris explained the oral pedagogy of the tanna—one author of Mishna: דכן דרך התנא לאחר שפירש הלכות מהמסכתא חוזר ושונה אותם בלשון קצר כדי שיהיו מסודרים בידך ושמורים בפה ובלב (in such a way the tanna is doing after he has commented upon the halakhot of the treatise: he reviews them again briefly in order that they should be filed on your hand and kept upon the mouth and in the heart) (Tos. Yeb. 84 a). The sequence hand-mouth-heart starts from the hand—it may concern writing, finishes with the heart—that is to say memory—and puts the mouth—orality—at the center of the process. But the possessive is only before the word hand. So we may assume that for him a primordial but not central function belongs to writing. In the monastic schools, too, the masters taught orally. Even when they composed written works, these works were the results of oral teaching and “sometimes betray the originally oral character of their teaching.”11 In his Didascalicon (3.11), the famous Parisian master Hugh of St Victor explained: “We ought, therefore, in all that we learn, to gather brief and dependable abstracts to be stored in the little chest of memory.” And it is assumed “that Hugh of St Victor seems to be the last major figure to propose memory as the sole or principal meansof retrieving information.”12 Recitation of halakhot is conducted with a musical tone. Did the Tosaphists practice the same with their students? The tosaphot of Meguilla 32 a has a comment on quoting the wording of R. Shefatia on behalf of R. Yohanan about a man who happened to teach [Mishna] without music

11 On orality in monastic schools, see Jean Leclercq, “The Renewal of Theology,” in Robert L. Benson, Giles Constable, and Carol Lanham, eds., Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), p. 83. 12 The Didascalicon of Hugh of Saint-Victor, Guide of the Arts, trans. Jerome Taylor (New York and London, 1961); Hugues de Saint Victor, Didascalicon L’Art de lire, trans. Michel Lemoine (Paris, 1991). Richard H. Rouse and Mary A. Rouse, “Statim invenire: Schools, Preachers, and New Attitude to the Page,” in Benson, Constable, and Lanham, eds., Renaissance and Renewal, pp. 202–3. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 153

שהיו רגילין לשנות המשניות בזמרה לפי שהיו שונין אותם על פה ועל ידי כך היו נזכרים יותר (for they were in the habit of repeating the mishnaiot with music because people learned them by heart and in such a way they remember more). From the present tosaphot does this mean that the method of teaching mishna was different than that of the Tosaphists? Or does this mean that helping oneself with music was still the norm in talmudic times? The second interpretation seems more plausible.13 The strength of oral transmission goes further than the simple pas sive faithful and repetitive conservation of the knowledge handed down from generation to generation. During the twelfth century, discussion followed simple learning from the master and prepared the collective advance of knowledge. Samson b. Abraham of Sens (13th c.) remarks on this process in his epistle against Maimonides’s Mishne Torah: יש תלמיד רואה מה שאין רבו רואה בדברו מחכים את רבו (There is a student who sees what his master does not see. By his own word, he is making his master wiser).14

The Change in the Time of Tosafot

During the twelfth century, written learning was by necessity authen- ticated by a lesson received orally from one master. So a copyist found it necessary to point to the oral provenance of a written lesson. מכאן ואילך יסוד ר' שמעיה מנוחתו כבוד כאשר שמע מרבי שלמה ב"ר יצחק (Henceforth the Base of R. Shémaya—may honor be his rest—as he heard it from Rabbi Solomon bar Isaac).15

13 Urbach (Tosaphists, 2: 723) provides the comment on Megilla 32a in a footnote, but only in order to explain in what way the Tosaphists understood the talmudic text and times. 14 Méir b. Todros Abulafia, Kitab al Rasa’il, ed. Yehiel Brill (Paris, 1871), Epistle 1, p. 132. 15 cambridge Univ. Ms Add. 394 f ° 49a, quoted by Abraham Grossman, “Exegesis of the Piyyut in 11th-Century France,” in Dahan, Nahon, and Nicolas, eds., Rashi et la culture juive, 261–77, see p. 263. 154 gérard nahon

Similar formulas are found in the incipit or the explicit of rabbinical commentaries of the same century. But the purpose of such a formula is not to certify a transmission ipsa verba, literally, of received knowledge. It is often nothing more than a topos used for the aim of promoting a manuscript. The composition of tosafot was the result of discussions held in before the master and with לפני the school. Recording took place on his approval. Only what the teacher orally agreed to was allowed in the script. For example, we have evidence that oral teaching may be deliberately omitted by the student who had received it orally. ופירוש רבינו שמואל אין נראה לרבי יצחק כלל, לכך לא כתבתיו (And the commentary of our master Samuel [b. Méir] did not agree at all to R. Isaac [b. Samuel de Dampierre], therefore I did not write it down) (Tos. Baba Mesia 94 a). So handwriting remains within limitations and under control. There was one student in the Jewish academy specially chosen to transcribe the contents of the lecture. Arsène Darmesteter published, from a Vati- can manuscript, a dirge describing the martyrdom of thirteen Jews that took place in Troyes on April 24, 1288. The dirge had the following בון דפורטור :praise about one of the victims, Rabbi Isaac Châtelain which reads: Bon deportor etet de Thosefot ,איטייט דתוספות אי דפליין et de plain. The editor adds in one footnote: deportor or reportor and translates: “Good author of thosphoth, good author of plains.” I would -which are very close at the begin ,ד instead of ר choose the reading ning of the word and the definition of the title by Littré from the late Latin reportator “Nom donné dans le moyen âge à celui qui rédigeait les leçons orales d’un professeur” (Name given in the Middle Ages to one who edited the oral lecture of a teacher). So Isaac Châtelain could have been a reportor in the talmudic school of Troyes. The word plain is problematic too: I believed that it refers not to an elegy but to a literal commentary in the vein of the school of Rashi and his followers.16 There

16 Mahzor,̣ French rite, XIIIe s. ms 322 in 4° f ° 188; cf. Benjamin Richler, Malachi Beit-Arié, Nurit Pasternak, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Vatican Library-Catalogue, città del Vaticano, Biblioteca apostolica Vaticana, 2008, pp. 271–273, published by Arsène Darmesteter, “Deux élégies du Vatican,” Romania 3 (1874): 445–86, quotation pp. 462–63; and “L’autodafé de Troyes (24 avril 1288),” Revue des Etudes Juives 2 (1881): 199–217; on the rabbinical reportatio, cf. Haym Soloveitchik “Catastrophe and Halakhic Creativity: Ashkenaz—1096, 1242, 1306 and 1298,” Jewish History 12: 1 (1998): 71–85. Soloveitchik translates the formula “from the mouth of the master.” On reportatio, see orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 155

classrooms in the rabbinical schools—as we can see מדרשים were two —מדרש הפשט ומדרש התוספות :in the rules called Huqqe ha Torah one of biblical commentary and one of talmudic tosaphot.17 Isaac Châtelain was at home in both classes. As noted by Haym Soloveit- chik, the great Tosaphist R. Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre “wrote little, or perhaps it has simply not survived. He certainly adopted the widespread method of reportatio.” The teacher or master would either dictate his teachings to a select student or the student would write up the master’s teaching. The master would then check, if necessary, emend, and then approve it. We know of one student of Hugues of Saint Victor in Paris, Laurent by name, who described in a letter he sent to one monk the manner of “reporting” in the famous school. The students were struggling to take notes during the lectures. They begged Laurent to write down the content of the course with the permission of Hugues. Every week, Hugues received the student and checked his notes: here he deleted text that was not useful, there he added an omitted point with corrections or approbation.18 Reportatio became an established and well-known prac-

Beryl Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1978), 3: 200–209; and G. Muller, “La reportatio,” Salesianum (1959): 647–59; Palémon Glorieux, “L’enseignement au Moyen Age: Techniques et méthodes en usage à la Faculté de Théologie deP aris au XIIIe siècle,” Archives d’Histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Age 43 (1968): 65–186; on collections of reportationes, see pp. 85, 88, 113; on réportations as tools for students and masters, see P. Glorieux, op. cit., pp. 175–77; and John W. Baldwin, “Masters of Paris from 1179 to 1215: A Social Perspective,” in Benson, Constable, and Lanham, eds., Renaissance and Renewal, pp. 138–172: on “designated students known as reportares, they [the masters] wrote down their expeditions in the form of commentaries and glosses, and their debates in the form of questions.” 17 For the two medrashim or classrooms the Huqqé ha Torah are published. See Simha Assaf, Sources for the History of Education in Israel from the Beginning of the Middle Ages to the Haskala Period (Tel Aviv, 1954), p. 16 [in Hebrew] and Ephraim Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), p. 115 nn. 200–201. On the peshat, see Sarah Kamin, Rashi’s Exegetical Categorization in Respect to the Distinction Between Peshat and Derash (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1986), p. 12 n. 2 [in Hebrew] on the translations of the word as: literal, simple, plain, natural, straightforward sense; gewöhnliche Erk- lärung; einfache Bibelerklärung, natürlicher Schriftsinne. Simha Emanuel gives an accurate description of the whole process of the Tosaphists’ oral teaching and having their lectures written down by students or the Sofer after classes, see “Scholars, Pupils and their Writings,” in Avraham Grossman and Sara Japhet, Rashi: The Man and His Work, vol. 2: Rashi’s Sources and His Influence (Jerusalem, 2008), pp. 465–78. 18 Semel in septimana ad magistrum Hugonem tabellas reportabam ut eius arbi trio, si quid superfluum esset resecaretur, si quid pretermissum suppleretur, si quid viciose positum mutaretur, si quid vero quandoque forte fortuitu bene dictum tanti veri 156 gérard nahon tice in medieval schools and universities; indeed it has survived in contemporary colleges and universities. According to Haim Soloveitchik, Hebrew manuscripts from the Tosaphists’ schools bear the hallmark of reportatio. At the end of a rabbinical commentary we find the two -from the mouth of my master.” Col“ מפי רבי which mean מ"ר letters lections of Latin reportationes exist in manuscript form; some of them were published under this name by Palémon Glorieux and others as Richard de Basoches: Réportation de la lecture des Sentences de Pierre Plaoust 1392–1393 (BNF Ms Lat. 3074). But we do not have Hebrew reportationes clearly identified as such. In the same manner, a large number of legal decisions enacted outside the school by a teacher were systematically written down by students. Moise b. Hasdai called Tachau (Bohemia, 13th c.) sent one responsum to the community of Magdeborg on the controversial problem of Herem ha-Yishuv, a disposition that would allow residency rights to be refused to newcomers. He explains that he has a letter by Eliézer of Orléans containing a testimony collected from an oral answer of Rabbenu Tam’s when he was leaving the Troyes synagogue.19 R. Tam himself disseminated a collection of his own responsa, the Sefer ha-yashar, among his colleagues and students. The oral teaching from master to student was thus conveyed by a translatio to a potential audience in another place. By that logic we can mention a letter from R. Tam to the Sages of Paris upon the issuing of a bill of divorce.20 Written communication came to supersede the direct oral connection between master and student. In the course of the thirteenth century, when R. Meîr of Rothenburg was studying at the feet of French

auctoritate comprobaretur, in Bernard Bischoff, “Aus der Schule Hugos von St Vic- tor,” Mélanges Grabmann (Munich, 1935), pp. 246–50, quoted by Philippe Delhaye, “L’organisation scolaire au XIIe siècle,” Traditio 5 (1947): 211–68, reprint. in Enseigne- ment et morale au XIIe siècle (Fribourg and Paris, 1988), pp. 1–58. 19 isaac b. Moses of Vienna, Sefer Or zaru‘a (Zhitomir, 1862), § 115, p. 44; on that responsum, cf. G. Nahon, “Jacob b. Méir, R. Tam et les premières tossafot: Espaces, collégialité, écriture, minhag,” Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes: Section des Sciences religieuses, Annuaire, Résumé des Conférences et Travaux 106 (1997–1998): 233–36. On Moses Tachau, cf. Patrick Guez, Edition et commentaire d’un manuscrit hébreu, le Ketav Tamim de Rabbi Moïse Taku, thesis, Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, Sec- tion des sciences historiques et philologiques, under the direction of Professor Colette Sirat, 1998. 20 simeon-Salomon Schlesinger, ed., Sefer ha-yashar, Heleq ha-hiddushim (Jerusa- lem, 1959), § 139 [in Hebrew]; and Yosef Qafah, “Responsa de Jacob de Ramerupt [Rabbénu Tam],” in Kobez al Yad, Minora Manuscripta Hebraica 7: 17 (1968): 81–100 [in Hebrew], § 6, pp. 91–93. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 157 rabbis, committing to writing lessons taught by the master became an absolute obligation for the students of R. Abraham; they had to review and correct their notes on Friday: מהר"א אמר לנו כי הבחורים היו כותבים לעצמם דברים שצריכין ללימודם שכתיבתם היא לימודם (And R. Abraham said to us that the students wrote for themselves the things that were necessary for their learning since [lit.: like the mouth] their writing is their learning).21 In this practice we find a way of learning corresponding to private reportationes, which were common in the Christian schools as well as in the first universities. Beginning at the end of the twelfth century, using notes from their courses, the students compiled collections of that sort on the talmu dic treatise Yebamot. These collections were found by Eliézer b. Joël נסדרו Halévi, who was happy to make use of them. These collections were dictated before Isaac b. Samuel [of) לפני רבי יצחק בר שמואל Dampierre]). But the Tosaphists did not content themselves with dic- tating to their students: they also wrote much themselves. And other pious circles were very critical for this reason. Juda b. Samuel he- hassid in his Sefer Hassidim, the Book of the Pious, strongly disliked their way of writing more and more: ואם חכם כותב ספרים הרבה כגון תוספות אל יחזיק טובה לעצמו לומר אנצל מגהינם הרי שלמה המלך איזן ותיקן לישראל עיקר של התורה אעפ"כ רצו למנותו עם ג' מלכים שאין להם חלק לעולם הבא (If a Sage has written many books like the Tossafot , he must not think he will escape Hell: King Solomon, in spite of having studied and established the whole of Torah for Israel, they thought to count him among the three kings who have no part in the world to come.”22

21 Maharam Bar Burich, Sefer Sheelot u-teshuvot: Responsa (Lemberg, 1860, repr. Jerusalem, 1968), § 119. We do not know the identity of the master whose name is written only with an initial alef. 22 Juda Ha-Cohen Wistinetzky, ed., The Book of the Pious According to the Parme Manuscript (Berlin, 1891), § 746, p. 189 (comp. Erub 21b, Eccl. 12:9, Sanh. 104b). See the French edition annotated by the late Edouard Gourévitch, Jehudah ben Chamouel le Hassid, Sefer Hassidim, le Guide des Hassidim, preface by Josy Eisenberg (Paris: Edi- tions du Cerf, 1988), pp. 104–5 n. 70. On the negative attitude of medieval Hassidim to the Tosaphists, cf. Haym Soloveitchik “Three Themes in the Sefer Hassidim,” ASJ Review 1 (1976): 311–57. 158 gérard nahon

According to Israel-M. Ta-Shma, this huge shift to literacy paved the way in the long run for a complete change in religious practice. Before the twelfth century, the minhag, that is to say the oral transmission of custom, prevailed among the western Jewish community. In the so-called Renaissance of the twelfth century people had written tosaphot at their disposal. They therefore followed the norms enuncia ted by the Tosaphists and committed to writing. According to a story handed down in the fourteenth century by Menahem b. Aaron b. Zérah, the traditional way of learning the Talmud became difficult with the increasing attacks on the Jewish community. In 1236 a Jewish apostate Donin—thereafter named Nicolas—submitted a memorandum to Pope Gregory IX listing thirty-five charges against the Talmud. At the top of his list was the discovery that the Jews had elevated oral law to the same level as the Bible and that prevented them from converting to Christianity. Upon the demand of the Pope, all Jewish books were confiscated in Paris on the first Saturday of Lent (March 3, 1240). Franciscans and Dominicans staged a public disputation between Jews and Christians from June 25 to 27, 1240. Two years later, the Talmud was condemned to fire and burned in Paris: twenty-four wagon loads of Hebrew books totaling thousands of volumes were burned. What was the impact of this blow on rabbinical learning? Apologetic sources contend that, in spite of the destruction and the ensuing outlawing of the books, the rabbis pursued their learning by word of mouth only. Even if there is some truth in the argument, without books the academies declined, primarily the Parisian one, which “ceased to be what it had been for two generations, the major Talmudic center in France.”23 Far from Paris, at Sens, at Touques in Normandy, the masters endeavored to put an end to collections of tosaphot and compose books of precepts instead of glosses on the Talmud. Paradoxically, the shift from orality to Scripture was precipitated by the victory of the Church over Jewish oral law reduced to writing. Of all the Hebrew talmudic manuscripts that were in use in medieval France and Europe,

23 among the huge literature on the burning of the Talmud, see Robert Chazan, Church, State and Jew in the Middle Ages (West Orange, N.J., 1980), pp. 221–38; Hyam Maccoby, ed., Judaism on Trial: Jewish-Christian Disputations in the Middle Ages (London and Toronto, 1982), pp. 19–38, 153–67; and Gilbert Dahan and Elie Nicolas, eds., Le brûlement du Talmud à Paris, 1242–1244 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1999). orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 159 only one complete copy of the Babylonian Talmud remained extant, the Codex Munich, written in 1339.24 Of the numerous tosaphot only a few survived through the centuries until the first printing of the complete Talmud by Daniel Bomberg in Venice in 1522. From this time, the oral legacy of Talmudic medieval knowledge followed in a written form all the printed volumes of the Babylonian Talmud. Let us return to Menahem b. Aaron b. Zerah explaining how learning the Talmud from a master was superseded by the copying of manuscripts: אמרו חכמי צרפת: בזמן הזה שאין רגילין ללמוד תדיר בספר תורה מצוה מן המובחר לכתוב התורה והנביאים והכתובים והפירושים כי זה עיקר לימודינו (The rabbis of France said: Nowadays when one is not in the habit of learning regularly in the Sefer Torah, copying Torah Prophets and Hagiographa as well as the commentaries is a pious deed, for it is the best of our studies).25 Here it is a case of emergency, when writing seems to take the place of orality. This is not actually the case, because only the duty of learning is fulfilled by the pious action of copying holy scriptures. But the concern is no longer with the transmission of religious knowledge. At this point, the hierarchy of values between orality and writing seems about to undergo a complete change.

“Licentia Docendi,” given to the student in the locality of his master

The shift to writing in the time of the tosaphot jeopardized the dependence of the student upon the master and prepared for his eman cipation. According to a logion in Sanhedrin 17a, accounting for the episode of Eldad and Medad who dared to prophesy instead and before Moses and the fierce defense by Moses to Joshua in Num. 11:28: לאו דרך ארעא דהוה ליה כתלמיד המורה הלכה לפני רבו (It is not right that a student should teach law before his master).

24 colette Sirat, “Le premier Talmud complet,” in Mise en pages et mise en texte du livre manuscrit (Paris: Promodis, 1990), pp. 184–87. 25 Menahem b. Zérah, Seda la-darekh (Warsaw, 1840), 1:4:4. 160 gérard nahon

Another sentence foresees transgression and punishment: כל המורה הלכה בפני רבו חייב מיתה (Whoever is teaching halakha before his master is worthy of the death penalty) (Eruvin 63 a). From this rule, it was determined that a student should not teach in the same town as his master. But the enforcement of that rule was declining in the time of the Tosaphists since the students got the words of the master at hand through his manuscripts. Moses b. Jacob of Coucy (13th c.) quoted a commentary of Isaac b. Samuel de Dampierre on Baba Qama 47a. At the end of the quotation he pointed out: זה לשון רבינו יצחק בכתב ידו (That is the very word of our master Isaac in a writ from his hand.)26 Does this mean that word of mouth was now drawn from a manuscript?. Urbach remarked upon this matter: “Even when they [the Tosaphists] were transcribing his words [of Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre], not from his voice but from one manuscript, they wrote at the begin- wording of the Rabbi]. Now the terms] לשון רבי :ning or at the end for orality have a new content: indeed they are speaking of written documents.”27 The proliferation of written texts at the disposal of the students invalidated the rule connecting the student to his master’s voice and depriving him of his own. The licentia docendi, which the chancellor granted to a master and which permitted him to teach, appeared in the Christian schools at the end of the twelfth century.28 We don’t know if the same provision was granted in the Jewish schools, but an entirely new situation emerges from some letters of the brothers Moses and

26 Moses b. Jacob of Coucy, Sefer Mizwot Gadol [The Great Book of Precepts], (Venice, 1547), § 67 f ° 148 d; these tosaphot by Isaac b. Samuel are different from our tosaphot, see Urbach, Tosaphists, p. 246. 27 Urbach, The Tosaphists, Their History, Writings and Methods. p. 246. The name of Isaac from Dampierre is missing in our editions of the Talmud; it is to be found in the Bodleian ms Oxford manuscript 430 and in M.-I. Blau, ed., Tosefot talmid R. Tam ve-Rabbenu Eliezer (New York, 1977). 28 G. Post, “Alexander III, the ‘Licentia docendi’ and the Rise of the Universi- ties,” in C. H. Taylor and J.-L. LaMonte, eds., Anniversary Essays in Medieval History by the Students of Charles Homer Haskins (Boston, 1929), pp. 255–77. P. Glorieux, op. cit., p. 177. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 161

Samuel b. Senior from Evreux—the so-called Greats of Evreux (beginning of the 13th c.)—quoted by Aaron b. Jacob Ha-Cohen of Lunel: והרב שמואל מאיור"א רבו של הרב יונה ז"ל ואחיו של שמואל דאיור"א כתבו באגרותיהם: מיום שגלו אבותינו וחרב בית מקדשנו ונשתבשו הארצות ונתמעטו התורות והללבות אין לנו עוד לומר מורא דרב כמורא שמים וכן הדינין הראויין לעשות תלמיד לרב נתבטלו כי הגמרות והפירושים והחבורים הם המורים האנשים (The rabbi Samuel of Evreux, master of Master Jonas of blessed memory, and the brother of R. Samuel of Evreux [Moses] wrote in their letters: from the day when our ancestors were exiled and our Sanctu- ary was destroyed and the lands were corrupted and the laws and the hearts were reduced, we no longer have to say the rule: Fear of your master is like fear of Heaven and also the rules by which the student is bound to his master are abrogated, for the gemarot [= the Talmud], commentaries, novellæ, and treatises, are [the masters] who are teach- -treatise or textbook, refers to a rela ,חיבור ing the men.)29 The word tively new type of book: it contained material about law, systematically edited, and could correspond to the medieval redaction, the normal state of the major part of texts that the Middle Age bequeathed to us. The major question is without a doubt the amount of written material found in any given Jewish home. The picture is not clear because we have very few Hebrew manuscripts from the twelfth and thirteen centuries at our disposal. It may be assumed that a large part of them were destroyed, lost, or replaced by others. In the Tosaphists’ times any master, any student, almost any layman possessed his own collection of tosaphot and biblical commentaries. Simha Emanuel has found a huge number of lost books whose titles have been preserved and of those whose very titles have not come down to us.30 We may thus

29 Max Arzt, “The Teacher in Talmud and Midrash,” Mordecai M. Kaplan Jubi- lee Volume (New York, 1953), pp. 335–47; Moshe Auerbach, “The Relations between Master and Disciple in the Talmudic Age,” in Essays Presented to Israel Brodie (Lon- don, 1967), pp. 1–24; and Aaron b. Jacob Ha-Cohen of Lunel, Sefer Orhot Hayyim (Florence, 1750) = Stamparia d’Isach di Moise di Pas, Part One: Hilkhot talmud Torah § 21 f ° 29. On Aaron of Lunel, cf. Moses Schlesinger, ed., Orchot Chajim von R. Aharon Hakohen aus Lunel, Part Two (Berlin, 1902), pp. ix–xxviii. I have checked the excerpts quoted by Urbach in The Tosaphists, p. 479 with the Florence edition: there are discrepancies between the two texts. I have used and quoted from the Florence edition, which is newly printed as an appendix to this chapter. 30 see Simha Emanuel, The Lost Halakhic Books of the Tosaphists, Ph.D. diss. (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1993), under the supervision of Professor I. Ta-Shma. 162 gérard nahon understand the point the Evreux brothers were making: “in the time of the Sages—i.e., the rabbis of the Talmud—books were scarce, therefore people could learn only by word of mouth, from one master. But nowadays we have plenty of books: sources, explanations of sources, treaties, which make one student able to learn by himself and without any help or guidance.” For the late Ephraim-Elimelech Urbach, the brothers from Evreux were very free and independent toward the “Ancients” and “Great”: they kept the spirit of the Tosaphists’ schools. Moses and Samuel b. Senior point to a drastic change, which is to be viewed like the exile of Israel and the lost of the Temple. The reason for the new way of learning was to be found in recent history: legislation against the Jews, local expulsions under the reign of Louis IX, perhaps the burning of the Talmud. The “editor” of these words, Aaron b. Jacob Ha-Cohen of Lunel, lived in the time of the Great Expulsion of 1306. In the introduction to his book Orhot Hayyim, written between 1327 and 1330 in Majorca, he lamented the pains and sorrows of exile. Had he added this wording of his own, the meaning would not have been different. However that may be, scholars of these times were conscious of the fact that an authentic revolution had taken place in the relation between master and studnt, between orality and scripture. Therefore they took great pains to explain this change as due to historical circumstances and absolute necessity. We know the position of Abélard toward Maître Anselme on the grounds that he needed no master in order to explain the Holy Scrip- ture: Respondi . . . me vehementer mirari, quod his qui litterati sunt, ad expositiones sanctorum intelligendas, ipsa eorum scripta vel glossae non sufficiant, ut alio scilicet egeant magistro. And so he did: he commented on a text of Ezechiel’s.31 In our logion from Evreux the passage from drastic events to the hegemony of books is not evident. It would be advisable to make a comparison with the Christian concept of the whole work, whose emergence in the twelfth century was emphasized by Richard and Mary Rouse: “The whole works possess the authority

I am indebted to Dr. Simha Emanuel not only for his friendly advice but also for graciously putting at my disposal his excellent work before its publication under the title, Fragments of the Tablets: Lost Books of the Tosaphists (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2007). On the death of medieval manuscripts see the fascinating chapter “La mort des manuscrits” in Colette Sirat’s Du Scribe au Livre: Les manuscrits hébreux du Moyen Age (Paris, 1994), pp. 193–202. 31 abélard, Historia calamitatum, c. 3, quoted by Philippe Delhaye, op. cit., p. 257. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 163 or authenticity of the original lacking in mere excerpts.” In the same vein, the Tosaphists wished to put together all the parts of the Talmud and make them a perfectly coherent corpus of law. In order to fulfill that purpose, it became necessary to obtain all the written treatises, not only in the memory of the students, but in books, which by themselves were becoming authoritative.32 Manuscripts were teaching, instead of the master. The same can occur today with our discs, tapes, computers, and USB ports. What part will the masters play in such a situation? The masters don’t dis- appear but, in order to survive, they must possess tosaphot. The Sefer Hassidim, which starts from a circle hostile to tosaphot, contains a strong testimony about the absolute necessity of a teacher possessing tosaphot: אם יש לאדם תלמידים יעסוק בתקנתם וכך רב אחר טוב בעיר ויש תלמידים טובים כתלמידיו יעסוק בתקנתם כמו תקנת תלמידיו ואם יש לו תוספות ואין לרב אחר תוספות לא יאמר לא אשאיל לו ויבאו תלמידיו לפני ללמוד לכך אומר יהי כבוד חברך חביב עליך כשלך וכתיב ואהבת לרעך כמוך (If one man has students and takes care of them and there is another good rabbi in the town who has good students like his own and he takes care of them as he does with his own; if he has tosaphot and the other rabbi has not, he may not say: “I will not lend to him [my tosaphot] so that his students will come to me in order to study.” Therefore keep the rule: “Be the honor of your colleague beloved as your own.” (Abot 4:13) and it is written: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself (Lev. 19:18).33 In that example, tenure of tosaphot may be viewed like licentia docendi, the right to teach. Written material has become the condition and warranty for orality. The imperative of writing also invested the primary schools, where orality was the prevailing method. The seventh regulation of theHuqqe ha-Torah (Rules of Study), a bilevel educational system from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, whose provenance is unknown, states: על המלמדים שלא ילמדו הנערים בעל פה כי אם במכתב

32 richard H. Rouse and Mary A. Rouse, “Statim invenire,” pp. 222–24. 33 Wistinetzky, ed., The Book of the Pious, § 1478, p. 358. On the pietist view, see Colette Sirat, Michèle Dukan, Claude Heymann, Carsten L. Wilke, and Monique Zerdoun, La conception du Livre chez les piétistes ashkenazes (Geneva: Droz, 1996). 164 gérard nahon

(The schoolmasters must not teach the children orally but by written material). Even if one surmises that the rules of the Huqqé ha-Torah were not really enforced, that they were only a theoretical blueprint, the passage to scripture became an evidence for their author: it has attained the level of vulgarization. In the mid-thirteenth century, the French Master Moses ben Jacob of Coucy went to Spain in order to preach Torah. Many times he was asked to write a book of Torah for laymen. One day he had a dream in which he received the plan for his book Sefer Mizwot gadol. Quoting at length Moses of Coucy, Simon Schwarzfuchs adds: “Pour lui, le livre était devenu le moyen d’enseignement le plus souhaitable.”34

Conclusion

Can one speak of a transfer of power from oral to written, or of a simple legitimization of writing? The cardinal principle of oral transmission remains predominant at all levels of instruction. But its practical enactment has changed, for oral teaching stems from a written text. Language, which maintains the traditional link between master and disciple, perpetuates the fiction of orality, so much so that Isaac b. Samuel of Dampierre reportedly interrogated his master’s mouth 35.(שאל את פיו בכתב) Rabbenu Tam] in a written form]

34 copied in 1309, the manuscript of Huqqe ha Torah [Rules of Study] is an uni cum: Oxford Bodleian Library 873 f ° 196r–199; cf. A. Neubauer, Catalogue of Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library (London, 1880), 1: 181; it has been published many times since 1880, cf. E. Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1992), pp. 101–15, seventh regulation p. 108 n. 60. Moses of Coucy, Ha-Smag ha-Shalem (Jerusalem, 1993), 1: 13–14, cf. Simon Schwarzfuchs “La vie interne des communautés juives du nord de la France au temps de Rabbi Yéhiel et de ses collègues,” in Gilbert Dahan, ed., Le brûlement du Talmud à Paris 1242–1244 (Paris, 1999), p. 25. On the making, lending, and trading of books in the Jewish community, cf. Denis Lévy-Willard, Le livre dans la société juive médiévale de la France du Nord (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 2010). 35 e. Kupfer, ed., “Rules of Divorce Established by Rabbenu Isaac b. Samuel,” in Kobez al Yad Minora manuscripta Hebraica 16 (1966): 132–33 [in Hebrew]. Upon the survival among the French Tosafists of oral preference (“they did not preserve and collect their original responsa”), see the remarks by Haym Soloveitchik, Pawnbroking: A Study in the Inter-Relationship between Halakhah Economoc Activity and Commu- nal Self-Image (Jerusalem, 1985), p. 83 [in Hebrew]; and Rami Reiner, “Rabbinical Courts in France in the Twelfth Century: Centralization and Dispersion,” Journal of Jewish Studies 60: 2 (fall 2009): 317. orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 165

This substitution, in which mouth and ear gave way to pen,ink, and parchment, led to a sharp increase of the number of schools, and, according to Israel.-M. Ta-Shma, “the closed system of study, popular in the eleventh century, came to a end.”36 There was no transfer of power to the written medium, for oral teaching remained the rule. The same held true in the universities. Upon examination by his masters, the student was obliged to speak and not simply to read, but he wass allowed to bring his notes and make use of them: Quod nullus legens Sententias legat questionem suam aut suum principium per quaternum aut alias in scriptis. Non tamen prohibetur vel inhibetur quin bachelar- ius possit portare ad cathedram aliquid ex quo possit, si necesse fuerit, sibi reducere ad memoriam aliquas difficultates tangentes questioem suam aut argumenta seu auctoritates ad ipsam questionem aut aliquam expositionem pertinentes.37 Apparently, nothing had changed, but, in fact, a radical change had taken place in the process of transmission, as far as quality, quantity, and freedom were concerned. Nor was there a prohibition of the written word, which had by then become current. Oral transmission persisted only to the extent that one acquired knowledge and mastery of the written tosaphot and of their teaching. Generally speaking, as far as particular tosaphot were concerned, until the thirteenth century they were referred to the master of one school. So people spoke of the School of Rashi (Solomon b. Isaac), of Rabbenu Tam (Jacob b. Meir), of the RI (Isaac b. Samuel of Dampi- erre). From of the beginning of the thirteenth century on, tosaphot were referred to after a particular town:E vreux, Sens, or Touques. First, they depended on the (oral) master, then they lived by themselves: they became the written material put at the disposal of every student of the Talmudic. The same phenomenon took place in the Christian schools: “In 1100 ‘the school followed the teacher,’ by 1200 the teacher followed the school.”38 Did this new type of orality, enriched by ancient and recent literary treasures, fill the potential gaps in transmission? The mere fact that only a part of the tosaphot—these mainly derived from the collection

36 israel-Moses Ta-Shma “Halakha and Reality: The Tosafist Experience,” in Dahan, Nahon, and Nicolas, eds., Rashi, pp. 315–29, quotation p. 317. 37 heinrich Denifle and Emile Chatelain, eds., Chartularium universitatis Parisien- sis (Paris, 1889–1897, 1937–1964), 2: 701; see P. Glorieux, L’enseignement, p. 166. 38 charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1927), p. 368. 166 gérard nahon of Eliézer b. Solomon of Touques—were printed in the standard editions of the Babylonian Talmud would answer the question negatively. Conversely, the bulk of manuscript tosaphot now extant and awaiting scientific publication provides us with an opportunity to approach the medieval tradition that prevailed orally in their schools.

Appendix

From the fear of the master to “Licentia docendi” before the master Aaron b. Jacob Cohen of Lunel, Sefer Orhot Hayyim (Firenze: Stam- paria d’Isach di Moise di Pas, 1750), Part One: Hilkhot Talmud Torah, § 20 and 21 f° 29.

The beginning is a quotationipsis verbis of Maimonides, Mishne Torah, Hilkhot Talmud Torah, 5: 1–4. כשם שאדם מצווה על כבוד אביו ויראתו כן הוא חייב על כבוד רבו ויראתו ורבו יותר מאביו שאביו הביאו לחיי העולם הזה ורבו מביאו לחיי העולם הבא . . . ואין לך כבוד גדול מכבוד הרב ואין מורא יותר ממורא הרב ואז"ל: מורא רבך כמורא שמים ועוד אמרו: כל החולק על רבו כאלו חולק על השכינה . . . והמהרהר אחר רבו כמי שמהרהר אחר השכינה . . . איזהו חולק על רבו זה שקובע לו מדרש ויושב ודורש ומלמד שלא ברשות רבו ורבו קיים ואפעפ"י שהוא במדינה אחרת. ואסור לו להורות לפני רבו לעולם והמורה לפני רבו חייב מיתה. היה בינו ובין רבו י"ב מיל ושאל לו אדם דבר הלכה משיב ולהפריש אדם מן האיסור אפי' בפני רבו מותר להורות . . . אפילו לא נתן לו רבו רשות שכל מקום שיש חילול השם אין חולקין כבוד לרב בד"א בדבר שנקרה מקרה אבל לקבוע עצמו להוראה ולישב ולהורות לכל ישראל אפילו הוא בסוף העולם אסור לו עד שימות רבו או נתן לו רשות והוא שיהיה תלמיד שהגיע להוראה . . . ומי שהגיע להוראה ואינו מורה הרי זה מונע תורה ונותן מכשולות לפני העורים ועליו נאמר: ועצומים כל הרוגיה. ואלו התלמידים הקטנים שלא הרבו תורה כראוי ומבקשים להתגדל בפני עמי הארץ ובין אנשי עירם ויושבים בראש להורות בישראל הם מכבים נרה של תורה ומרבים את המחלוקות והם מחייבים את העולם ועליהם נאמר: אחזו לנו שועלים שועלים קטנים עכ"ל הר"ם ז"ל והרב שמואל מאיור"א רבו של הרב יונה ז"ל ואחיו של ר' שמואל דאיור"א כתבו באגרותיהם: מיום שגלו אבותינו וחרב בית מקדשנו כי נשתבשו הארצות ונתמעטו התורות והלבבות אין לנו עוד לומר מורא רבך כמורא שמים וכל הדינין הראויין לעשות תלמיד לרב נתבטלו הגמרות והפירושים והחדושין והחבורים הם המורים האנשים והכל לפי פקחות הלבבות ולכך היו רגילין שבעירם יחזיק התלמיד מדרש ולא אמרי' בהא כל המורה הלכה לפני רבו חייב מיתה וכן יסתור דבריו התלמיד לרב אם יוכל לפי פלפולו ע"כ לשונם orality and literacy: the french tosaphists 167

Translation

As man is bound to his father’s honor and fear so he is bound to his master’s honor and fear. And his master’s more than his father’s, for his father brought him to the life of this world and his master brings him to the life of the world to come . . . and you have no greater honor than the master’s honor and Our Sages of blessed memory said: “Fear of your master is like fear of Heaven” and they said also: “Whoever disputes with his master disputes with the Divine Presence . . . and whoever disagrees with his master is like he who disagrees with the Divine Presence. . . . Who disagrees with his master? The man who establishes a school, sits, lectures, and teaches without his master’s permission and his master is living, even if he dwells in another city. Rendering a decision in his presence is for ever prohibited to him. Whoever renders a decision in the presence of his master incurs the penalty of death (Eruv. 63a). Be between him and his master twelve miles and one man asks him something on halakha. In order to save someone from prohibition even before his masters, he is allowed to teach . . . even if his masters did not give him permission. For all places where there is profanation of the divine Name, people do not care about the rule of honoring the master in cases of emergency. But to teach, to sit and lecture to all Israel, even he is at the end of the world, he is prohibited until his master dies or gives him permission. In the case of a student who has reached the level to teach, . . . , and doesn’t teach, he prevents people from studying Torah and puts a stumbling block before the blind (Lev. 19:14) and upon him it is said: “Many strong men have been slain by her [the strange woman]” (Prov. 7:26). They are little students who did not teach Torah as much as it needs and search to glorify themselves before the Nations of the earth and men of their town and are seated in front to teach in Israel. They extin- guish the candle of Torah and cause conflict to grow and make the universe sin. Upon them it is said “Take us the foxes, the little foxes [that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes]” (Cant. 2:15). End of the quotation from Rabbi Moses [ben Maimon = Maimonides] of blessed memory.

The rabbi Samuel of Evreux, master of Master Jonas of blessed memory, and the brother of R. Samuel of Evreux [Moses] wrote in their 168 gérard nahon letters: from the day when our ancestors were exiled and our Sanc- tuary was destroyed and the lands were corrupted and the laws and the hearts were reduced, we no longer have to say the rule: Fear of your master is like fear of Heaven and also the rules by which the student is bound to his master are abrogated, for the gemarot [= the Talmud], commentaries, novellæ, and treatises, are [the masters] who are teaching the men All is according the to intelligence of the hearts and therefore they were in the habit of allowing the student to support the school in their town and not to say: Whoever teaches before his master deserves death. So the student will contradict the master if he can do so according to his skill.

End of the citation. Torah and the Messianic Age: The Polemical and Exegetical History of a Rabbinic Text

David Berger

It was taught in the school of Elijah: The world will endure six thousand years: two thousand desolation, two thousand Torah, two thousand the messianic age, but because of our many sins some of [those final two thousand years] have already passed.1 It is no accident that this is the first Talmudic passage adduced by a medieval polemicist as a direct demonstration of a specific Christian doctrine.2 The citation, which appears in a polemic written by Alan of Lille in the 1190’s, was surely not discovered by the author, who evinces no other familiarity with rabbinic texts and who composed the brief anti-Jewish chapter of his work “against the heretics” largely on the basis of a compilation that had already been used by Jacob ben Reuben in 1170. Consequently, although we cannot know if that particular compilation contained this argument, we can be quite confident that the passage from what Alan calls “Scola Helye,” or the school of Elijah, had embarked on its polemical career well before the final decade of the twelfth century.3

1 Bav. Sanhedrin 97a; Bav. ʿAvodah Zarah 9a; Tana de-bei Eliyyahu, ed. Shmuel Yehuda Weinfeld (Jerusalem, 1991), 2:1, p. 14. For a discussion of some Christian and Jewish sources relating to the concept of six ages, see Norman Roth, “ ‘Seis edadas durara el mundo’: Temas de la polémica judia espanola,” Ciudad de Dios 199:1 (1986): 45–65. Despite the title, the article is not concerned to any significant degree with our rabbinic text. 2 i think that this formulation avoids the objections in Jeremy Cohen, The Friars and the Jews (Ithaca and London, 1982), p. 31. 3 see De fide catholica contra haereticos, PL 210: 410. I argued for the existence of a compilation utilized by both Jacob and Alan in “Gilbert Crispin, Alan of Lille, and Jacob ben Reuben: A Study in the Transmission of Medieval Polemic,” Speculum 49 (1974): 34–47. The argument was endorsed by M.H. Vicaire, “ ‘Contra Judaeos’ méridionaux au début du XIIIe siècle. Alain de Lille, Evrard de Béthune, Guillaume de Bourges,” in Juifs et Judaisme de Languedoc, ed. Marie-Humbert Vicaire and Bernhard Blumenkranz (Toulouse, 1977), pp. 271–73. The printed text of De Fide Catholica attributes the rabbinic passage to a work called Sehale. This mysterious term has elicited various interesting conjectures that 170 david berger

The utility of this passage, then, was so evident that it began to cir- culate nearly a century before the first concerted effort to demonstrate the truth of Christianity from rabbinic sources, which was launched by Pablo Christiani in a campaign marked most dramatically by the Bar- celona disputation of 1263.4 In a single striking sentence, the Rabbis appeared to have confirmed two Christian assertions about the messianic age that were critical to the debate with Jews: (1) It is not an age of Torah. (2) It has already begun.5 Each of these issues raised far-reaching questions involving both polemical tactics and fundamental theological positions. Before we examine them, however, we need to direct some fleeting attention to a curiosity in this passage that appeared to deprive Jews of their crucial fallback position in a dispute about the meaning of an aggadic text. In his debate with Pablo, Nahmanides argued that midrashic statements have no binding force and in the final analysis Jews are free to reject them. While Jewish polemicists were uncomfortable with this assertion as a first line of defense, it was very important as a safety net in the event of an unpersuasive Jewish argument with respect to any particular passage. In this instance, however, the statement was attributed

have been rendered moot by Vicaire’s citation (p. 272 and note 13a) of the manifestly correct manuscript reading Scola Helye (the school of Elijah). In light of this version, the illusory error in ascription can no longer be used to demonstrate Alan’s ignorance of the original source; see Cohen, Friars, p. 31, where he cites Vicaire’s article but overlooks the new reading. Even in the absence of the new manuscript evidence, general methodological considerations would require extreme caution in drawing conclusions about an author’s knowledge or ignorance on the basis of errors that might well have been made by later copyists. This caveat attains overwhelming force when the error is in a word transliterated from a language that the copyists did not know. (In this instance, the newly discovered information that Alan cited the source accurately hardly matters; the chances that he had direct access to the Talmudic passage in its original context are in any event infinitesimal.)A s recently as 1993, Amos Funkenstein retained a discussion of the possible explanations of Sehale in a revised version of a 1968 essay in which he first pointed to the passage in Alan’s work. See his Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford, 1993), p. 197, where he com- bines material from “Ha-Temurot be-Vikkuah ha-Dat she-bein Yehudim le-Nozerim ba-Meah ha-Yod-Bet,” Zion 33 (1968): 142, n. 62, with a remark in his later study, “Parshanuto ha-Tippologit shel ha-Ramban,” Zion 45 (1980): 41, n. 23. See also the phrase “Legitur in studio Helye,” which introduces the citation of this passage in the much later Tortosa disputation (Antonio Pacios Lopez, La Disputa de Tortosa, vol. 2 [Madrid and Barcelona, 1957], p. 31). 4 see Robert Chazan, Barcelona and Beyond: The Disputation of 1263 and Its After- math (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford, 1992). 5 as we shall see, Christians regarded the final clause about “our many sins” as a gloss. torah and the messianic age 171 to the school of Elijah, whom some Christians identified as none other than the prophet himself.6 Consequently, some Jewish polemicists took pains to insist that the authority responsible for this schematization of history is a post-biblical rabbi, whose opinion—in extremis—could be dismissed.7 Nonetheless, the issues here are so central that the passage in its Christian interpretation could not be attributed comfortably to any rabbi, and Jews had to confront the questions raised by their adversaries with high seriousness and profound concern.

Is the messianic age an age of Torah? Since Maimonides listed the immutability of the Torah as a cardinal principle of Judaism, it appears that any medieval Jew would have felt compelled to respond to this question with a resounding, even indignant “of course.” In the context of a polemic with Christians, this response would have been particularly vigorous and uncompromising, and Jewish polemicists

6 an analogous Christian argument appears in connection with an alleged Christo- logical reference in the apocryphal book of Baruch. Christians responded to the Jewish assertion that the book was non-canonical and hence not authoritative by maintaining that a statement by Jeremiah’s secretary can hardly be dismissed even if embedded in a non-canonical work. See my references to Christian sources in The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages (Philadelphia, 1979), p. 290. In non-polemical contexts, Jews too periodically affirmed that Tana de-bei Eli- yyahu is a record of revelations by the prophet to a Talmudic sage. Cf. Bav. Ketubbot 105b–106a, and see the affirmation of this belief by the most recent editor of the work (Tana de-bei Eliyyahu [above, n. 1], editor’s int., p. 14), who notes R. Hayyim Yosef David Azulai’s vigorous criticism of several Rabbis who pointed to a different Elijah; see Azulai’s Shem ha-Gedolim, ed. by Elazer Gartenhaus (Brooklyn, N.Y., 1958), II: Maʿarekhet ha-Sefarim s.v. Seder Eliyyahu Rabba ve-Seder Eliyyahu Zuta, p. 104. 7 hayyim ibn Musa, Sefer Magen va-Romah ve-Iggeret li-Beno (Jerusalem, 1970), p. 95; La Disputa de Tortosa, vol. 2, p. 32; Yehudah Aryeh da Modena, Magen va- Herev, ed. Shlomo Simonsohn (Jerusalem, 1960), p. 69, where Nahmanides’ assertion that one may reject aggadic statements is explicitly cited in this context. See too note 8 below. At Tortosa, Geronimo de Santa Fe replied that whoever Elijah may be, the statement is authoritative for Jews because it is endorsed by the Talmud. This, however, simply brought the discussion back to the normal parameters of the debate about Talmudic texts, which is all the Jews could have hoped for. For an illustration of the difficulties facing Jewish polemicists who attempted to defend aggadot while retaining the option of rejecting them, see my “Christians, Gen- tiles, and the Talmud: A Fourteenth-Century Jewish Response to the Attack on Rab- binic Judaism,” in Religionsgespräche im Mittelalter, ed. Bernard Lewis and Friedrich Niewöhner (Wiesbaden, 1992), pp. 115–130. 172 david berger confronting the Christian citation of “Elijah’s” assertion fully confirm our expectations. Pablo Christiani himself pointed to this rabbinic passage in the “second Paris disputation” that took place some time between 1269 and 1273, arguing that the age of desolation was without Torah and the age of Torah was (or, in the Jewish view, is) without desolation; hence, the final, messianic age, is without both desolation and Torah. TheJew- ish protagonist responded that both Noah and Abraham observed at least some Torah in the first age, and many Jews committed idolatry in the second; thus, the age of desolation was not without Torah and the age of Torah was not unmixed with desolation. It follows that the messianic age will not be bereft of Torah.8 Similarly, the late-thirteenth century polemicist Mordecai of Avignon cited Pablo’s argument and replied that “the Torah will not be annulled; rather, it will attain a higher level in that the commandments will be observed in all their fullness and the [Jewish people] will reign supreme.” Moreover, said Mordecai, if the characteristic defining each age is to end when the age itself ends, then the era of the Messiah would end after the year 6,000, hardly a congenial position for Christians.9 R. Menahem ha-Meiri underscored the centrality of this discourse by explicitly asserting that he felt the need to digress from the primary intent of his work and insert a response to the Christian interpretation of our rabbinic statement into an otherwise non-polemical work. He consequently declares in the most vigorous language that the characterization of the last two millennia as the days of the Messiah does not

8 see Joseph Shatzmiller, La Deuxième Controverse de Paris: Un chapitre dans la polémique entre chrétiens et juifs au moyen age (Paris-Louvain, 1994), pp. 57 (Hebrew text), 75–76 (French translation), where the Jewish disputant also denies that the Elijah in this Talmudic passage is the prophet. It is not difficult to account for Pablo’s failure to utilize this aggadah in the earlier Barcelona disputation. Although it could have been used to support the Christian position regarding the first item on the agenda (whether or not the Messiah has already come), he was saving it, as he did in Paris, for the final item (“that the laws and ceremonials ceased and should have ceased after the advent of the . . . Messiah”). But that final topic was never discussed. For a discussion of the agenda and the reasons for the interruption of the disputation, see Robert Chazan, Barcelona and Beyond: The Disputation of 1263 and Its Aftermath (Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford, 1992), pp. 59, 75–78. See too my review essay, “The Barce- lona Disputation,” AJS Review 20 (1995): 379–88. 9 Mahaziq (or Mehazzeq) Emunah, Vatican ms. 271, chapter 13, p. 17. Shatzmiller (p. 20) noted Mordecai’s citation of Pablo’s argument, which is attributed to that “well-known fellow” (ha-ish ha-yaduaʿ). torah and the messianic age 173 mean, “God forbid,” that the Torah, which was given for all eternity, will be absent from that period.10 Similarly, Isaac Abravanel maintained that the six thousand years of this aggadah correspond to the six days of creation, so that the middle millennia of Torah are symbolized by the creation of the two luminaries—representing the written and oral law—on the fourth day. Just as the sun and moon did not cease to exist during the fifth and sixth days, so will the Torah remain in full force during the messianic millennia. The reason that only two thousand years are specifically designated as the age of Torah is either that they represent the period through the redaction of the Mishnah after which all is commentary or else they refer to the period when the Torah will be confined to Israel alone. As a final salvo, Abravanel noted that Christians hardly believe that “their Messiah will cease” after his allotted millennia. Aside from its obvious function, this argument is probably intended, as it was by Mordecai of Avignon, to weaken the Christian claim, cited earlier by Abravanel, that because the age of desolation clearly ended with the onset of the age of Torah, the Jewish position affirming the persistence of Torah into the messianic age destroys the symmetry of history. The Christian pattern, Abravanel implies, is no less asymmetrical.11 Notwithstanding the vigorous Jewish denial that the messianic age brings the age of Torah to an end, some intriguing nuances could emerge when Jews considered the message of the “school of Elijah” in a less explicit context or in a non-polemical environment. A well known passage in Nahmanides’ commentary to Deuteronomy making no overt mention of our aggadah unquestionably presents a daring construction of its meaning that Nahmanides would surely have hesi- tated to articulate in debate with a Christian. “And the Lord your God will circumcise your heart” (Deut. 30:6). Simi- larly, the Rabbis said, “He who comes to be purified will be assisted” (Bav. Shabbat 104a). God promises that you will return to him whole- heartedly and he will help you.

10 Beit ha-Behirah ‘al Massehkhet Avot, ed. by Binyamin Prag (Jerusalem, 1964), p. 13 = R. Menahem ha-Meiri, Seder ha-Qabbalah, ed. by S. Z. Havlin (Jerusalem and Cleveland, 1992), pp. 20–22, and cf. the two parallels cited by Havlin in n. 69. See too the brief discussion in Gregg Stern, Philosophy and Rabbinic Culture: Jewish Interpre- tation and Controversy in Medieval Languedoc (London and New York, 2009), pp. 55–57. 11 isaac Abravanel, Sefer Yeshuʿot Meshiho (Koenigsberg, 1861), p. 20b. He sets forth the Christian argument fully and fairly on p. 18a. 174 david berger

The following point appears to emerge from Scripture: From the time of creation, man had the choice of becoming righteous or wicked in accordance with his will; this is the case throughout the age of the Torah, so that people could achieve merit through their choice of good and be inflicted with punishment through their choice of evil. In the messianic age, however, the choice of good will become part of human nature; the heart will not be attracted by anything inappropriate and will feel no desire for it at all. This is the circumcision mentioned here, for coveting and improper desire are a foreskin for the heart, while the circumcision of the heart is that a person does not covet or desire. At that time, man will return to the state that he was in before the sin of Adam, when he did by nature that which was proper and was not driven by contrary desires, as I explained in my commentary to the portion of Bereshit. This is the point of the verse in Jeremiah, “See, a time is coming— declares the Lord—when I will make a new covenant with the House of Israel and the House of Judah. It will not be like the covenant I made with their fathers. . . . But such is the covenant I will make with the House of Israel after these days . . .: I will put my Torah into their inmost being and inscribe it upon their hearts” (Jer. 31:31–33). This refers to the destruction of the evil inclination and the heart’s natural pursuit of proper behavior. That is why the passage continues, “Then I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer will they need to teach one another and say to one another, ‘Heed the Lord’; for all of them, from young to old, shall heed me” (Jer. 31:33–34). Now, it is known that man’s inclination is evil from his youth (Gen. 8:21), and so people require instruction. At that time, however, this will not be necessary; rather, their evil inclination will have ceased entirely. So too it is written in Ezekiel, “And I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit into you . . . and I will cause you to follow my laws” (Ezek. 36:26–27). The new heart refers to human nature and the spirit to desire and will. This too is what our Rabbis said, “ ‘And those years arrive of which you will say, I have no desire in them’ (Eccles. 12:1). This refers to the messianic age, when there is neither merit nor fault” (Bav. Shabbat 151b). In the period of the Messiah, then, human beings will have no desire but will behave properly by nature; consequently, those are years when there is neither merit nor fault, for merit and fault are linked to desire. The expression, “This is the case throughout the age of the Torah” demonstrates decisively that Nahmanides was writing with our passage in mind and that he understood it as a declaration that the messianic age marks a significant break with the age of Torah. While he did not envision a change in the content of the law or in its binding force, he did not see the messianic character of the final age as the mere addition of an eschatological ingredient to an otherwise unchanging era of Torah. The end of meaningful choice is the end of the ageof Torah as we know it. torah and the messianic age 175

This exegesis of the Talmudic schema is so disturbing to Jewish ears that I suspect an inclination to elide the discordant phrase and miss the reference. Those who did see the point made every effort to soften or eliminate it. One medieval Rabbi who often copied passages from Nahmanides’ commentary was so clearly shaken by the formula that he emended it out of existence. In R. Menahem Ziyyuni’s commentary we read, “And this is the case in the period of exile and bondage.” The remainder of Nahmanides’ presentation remains intact, but the contrast between “age of Torah” and “messianic age” has disappeared.12 In a direct commentary on the rabbinic passage, a student of Nah- manides incorporated enough elements of his teacher’s remarks on Deuteronomy 30:6 to demonstrate that he made the connection, but the sharpness of the original point is blunted and significantly transformed. R. David Bonafed’s novellae on Sanhedrin 97a read as follows: “Two thousand desolation, two thousand the messianic age.” That is, the world is divided into thirds in the following manner: A third of the

12 Sefer Ziyyuni: Perush ʿal ha-Torah ʿal Derekh ha-Emet (Lemberg, 1882, reprint, Jerusalem, 1964), p. 78b. C. Chavel cites Ziyyuni’s version as a variant reading in his Perush ha-Ramban ʿal ha-Torah, vol. 2 (Jerusalem, 1963), p. 480. The fact that Nahmanides formulated his discussion within a framework established by the rabbinic passage may help explain his imprecise assertion that man had the choice of becoming righteous or wicked “from the time of creation” when this choice really began—as we are told a few lines later—only after the sin. Because he was thinking of a triad of millennia beginning from creation, he described free will in broad strokes as a characteristic of the first two ages even though it really began after an infinitesimal percentage of the first age had already passed. The imprecision was pointed out by Bezalel Safran, “Rabbi Azriel and Nahmanides: Two Views of the Fall of Man,” in Rabbi Moses Nahmanides (Ramban): Explorations in His Religious and Literary Virtuosity, ed. Isadore Twersky (Cambridge, Mass., 1983), pp. 87 and 93, n. 68, but I am unpersuaded by his proposed resolution. Nahmanides’ allusion to his commentary to Bereshit refers to his remarks on Gen- esis 2:9. For some of the problems inherent in his position, including the question of how Adam could have sinned in the absence of a capacity to choose evil, see Safran, pp. 86–88. Nahmanides alludes to his position again in a brief comment in Sefer ha- Ge’ullah; see Kitvei Ramban, ed. by C. Chavel (Jerusalem, 1963), vol. 1, p. 280. Some contemporary supercommentaries on Nahmanides recognize the allusion to our rabbinic passage. See Yaakov Koppel Schwartz, Sefer Yeqev Ephraim: Reshimot shel He‘arot u-Be’urim be-Perushei Ramban ‘al ha-Torah (Brooklyn, NY, 1995), p. 167, where the author takes pains to assert that “it is not that in the Messianic age there is no Torah, God forbid.” Yehudah Meir Devir, Perush ha-Ramban al ha-Torah im Be’ur Beit ha-Yayin (Jerusalem, 2000/2001), vol. 5, p. 278, notes our passage in a context that may be limited to its use of the phrase “the days of the Messiah.” In his comment on Nahmanides’ reference to the absence of the evil inclination, Devir insists that “it is clear that even then choice will exist.” Indeed, he writes, sinners during the messianic age will be punished all the more severely because of the absence of the inclination to do evil. 176 david berger

history of the world was in desolation, when there was no merit, and God sustained his creation through his own glory and lovingkindness. . . . The next third was sustained through the merit of the Torah, for the world was governed by the curse imposed on Adam except that it survived because of the merit of the Torah. And a third of history is prepared for the messianic age, when the world will be cured of the sin of Adam and will then be in a state of completion as it was at the initial creation so that it will no longer survive through the merit of the Torah.13 The references to merit and to restoration to a state before Adam’s sin establish Bonafed’s dependence on Nahmanides, but the point is no longer that free choice will end and that people will be without merit or fault. Rather, the effects of Adam’s sin will be removed and the world will survive for the simple reason that survival is implicit in its pristine nature; it will not need to rely on the merit of the Torah or an infusion of special divine grace. One copyist was still sufficiently disturbed to feel impelled to add the word “alone” to the end of the final sentence, thus making clear that the merit of the Torah will still exist and even play some role in ensuring the survival of the cosmos. I do not believe that this was what Bonafed wrote, but even without the additional word, the passage says only that the world will not depend on the merit of the Torah. There is not even a hint of Nahmanides’ assertion that individual merit or fault will end in an age in which human nature will be so transformed that the moral implications of observing the Torah will lose their current force. If a Talmudic commentator addressing our passage felt the need to avoid Nahmanides’ contrast between the age of Torah and the messianic age, the rejection of such a contrast was, as we have already seen, all the more crucial for polemicists. It is consequently no accident that not the slightest echo of Nahmanides’ commentary to Deuteronomy appears in any polemical discussion of the school of Elijah’s tripartite division of history. Yet the dynamics of religious debate are so deli- cately poised that a slight change in context can render the unthinkable not merely possible but positively desirable. The “new covenant” passage from Jeremiah cited by Nahmanides was the central biblical prooftext for the Christian contention that the Torah would be replaced in the messianic age. The debate about that

13 Hiddushei Rabbenu David Bonfil, in Sanhedrei Gedolah le-Massekhet Sanhedrin I, ed. Yaʿakov ha-Levi Lipshitz (Jerusalem, 1968), p. 90. torah and the messianic age 177 verse, however, contained a subtle but crucial change of emphasis. In the discussion of the rabbinic passage, the question was, “Does the messianic age stand in significant contrast to the age of Torah?” To this question, Jewish polemicists had to respond with an unequivocal “no.” Even the assertion that the school of Elijah meant to establish such a contrast in the limited sense that the same Torah would be observed by radically transformed people risked the appearance of concession on the key point. In the debate about Jeremiah’s prophecy, however, the questions were, “What is this new covenant that will be inscribed in the hearts of the people? Does it differ in content from the old one?” In this context, the issue was framed in a manner that granted Jews victory the moment they could establish that the Torah itself would not change. Indeed, the very point of the Jewish response had to be that the same Torah would be observed by people with newly receptive hearts. It is, then, precisely the transformation of human nature that converts a covenant whose content does not change into a new one. A position that could be asserted cautiously or not at all with respect to the school of Elijah could now be shouted from the rooftops. One polemicist, in fact, made the point in the very words of Nah- manides’ commentary to Deuteronomy 30:6. Needless to say, he did not reproduce the allusion to the “age of Torah” since in this slightly modified context, the whole point appears to be that the messianic age remains an age of Torah in the fullest sense. Otherwise, although there is no explicit citation, Simon ben Zemah Duran’s discussion of Jeremiah 31 is an unabashed and uncompromising repetition of Nah- manides’ assertions. After affirming that the new covenant is a renewal of the old one, Duran writes, For the Lord, may He be blessed, promised them that when he effects their return at the time of the true redemption, they will not be stiff- necked but will believe in the Lord and in His righteous Messiah. It is written in the Torah, “Even if your outcasts are at the ends of the world . . ., the Lord your God will circumcise etc.” (Deut. 30:4–6). All this demonstrates that when the true redeemer arrives, they will not be stiff-necked but will heed his words. God made this promise when he said, “The Lord your God will circumcise,” for circumcision means that they will do good by nature and the evil inclination will not rule them just as it did not rule Adam before his sin. This too is what the Rab- bis said, “ ‘Days in which there is no desire’ (Eccles. 12:1); this refers to the messianic age, when there is neither merit nor fault” (Bav. Shabbat 151b). What this means is that the observance of the commandments 178 david berger

at that time will happen by nature. Thus, there will be no merit because their nature will lead them to proper behavior, and there will be no fault because they will do no evil. Similarly, Ezekiel said, “And I will remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh” (Ezek. 36:26).14 Even with respect to Jeremiah 31, not every Jew, polemicist or otherwise, was willing to embrace the radical implications of Nahmanides’ position. Shem Tov ibn Shaprut, in his polemic Even Bohan, made the usual observation about how the same law would find a more receptive audience in the messianic age and went on to cite the verse in Deuter- onomy on the circumcision of the heart. He felt the immediate need, however, to add the following caveat: This does not mean that God will compel us to observe the Torah in a miraculous fashion, for the Rabbis have taught us, “All is in the hands of Heaven except fear of Heaven” (Bav. Berakhot 33b). Moreover, this would mean the abolition of reward and punishment as well as the nature of the contingent. The meaning is rather that God will remove all external impediments and bring them a teacher of righteousness who proclaims the truth.15 The one medieval author that I know who undertook the polemical risk of explicitly connecting the biblical passages about a new heart with the statement of the school of Elijah also stopped well short of endorsing the Nahmanides’ position in its fullness. R. Isaac Arama criticized the ineffectual Jewish response to the Christian citation of this passage at the Tortosa disputation and went on to propose his own explanation. What the Rabbis meant, he argued, was that just as two thousand years had sufficed to prepare the world—or at least the descendants of Abraham—to receive the Torah, so two thousand

14 Prosper Murciano, Simon ben Zemah Duran, Keshet U-magen: A Critical Edi- tion, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, New York University, 1975 (University Micro- films, Ann Arbor, 1983), Hebrew section, pp. 49–50 (my translation). Murciano, whose translation appears on pp. 49a–50 of the dissertation, was unaware of Duran’s source. In his refutation of the Christian reading of Jeremiah 31, Abravanel too was willing to speak of a miraculous change in human nature (“ha-shefaʿ ha-hu me-ahavat ha-Torah . . . maggiaʿ aleihem be-derekh nissiyyi”); see Yeshuʿot Meshiho, p. 68b. See also Yair b. Shabbetai da Corregio, Herev Pifiyyot, ed. Judah Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1958) pp. 29, 46. 15 Even Bohan, section 7 (Jeremiah), chapter 6, unpublished critical edition by Libby Garshowitz, p. 273. I am grateful to Prof. Garshowitz for making this edition available to me. torah and the messianic age 179 years of Torah should suffice to prepare us for the great overflow of divine knowledge that will mark the final age. Although he characterized this age as one in which the evil inclination would cease and the prophecies of a new, circumcised heart would be fulfilled, he did not explicitly speak of the end of choice, let alone of an age without merit or guilt. From the perspective of our discussion, there is no doubt that Arama proposed a relatively daring interpretation, but it remains far more moderate than Nahmanides’ bold assertions in his commentary to Deuteronomy.16 The contention that the messianic age reverts to conditions before the first sin and that this change has implications for the Torah does appear in kabbalistic texts. In the Raʿaya Mehemna, the messianic era is apparently governed by the Tree of Life rather than the Tree of Knowledge, and the Torah of Exile is transformed into the Torah of Redemption. Isaiah Tishby has challenged this understanding of the text and argued that some kabbalists live under the Tree of Life even in pre-messianic times while inferior people continue to be governed by the Tree of Knowledge even after the Redemption. Nevertheless, even this reading does not entirely eliminate the element of change, and the radicalism of the position, needless to say, is in no way diminished.17 To Nahmanides, then, the messianic age will be a world with no merit and no guilt. This position, along with the kabbalistic eschatology of the Raʿaya Mehemna and even some polemical and exegetical approaches to Jeremiah’s new covenant, afforded an opening for a Jewish understanding of the school of Elijah’s prophecy that would have acknowledged a transformation of the meaning of Torah in the

16 see Isaac Arama, Sefer ʿAqedat Yitzhak (Pressburg, 1849), ch. 28, pp. 217b–219b. See too ch. 7, p. 58b, on the centrality of man’s choice—cited in Safran, pp. 86–87). Da Modena adopts the Nahmanidean understanding of the circumcision of the heart as the elimination of choice, but he applies it in a temporary and limited context. If the Jews stubbornly refuse to accept the Messiah, God will make sure that they do. See Magen va-Herev, p. 72. 17 see Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism (New York, 1971), pp. 22–24; Isaiah Tishby, The Wisdom of the Zohar (New York, 1989), vol. 3, p. 1108. The issue of the status of the commandments in the messianic age and/or world to come deserves far more extended treatment, and I hope to turn to some of its implications in another study. A glance at Hiddushei ha-Ritva: Massekhet Niddah, ed. David Metzger (Jerusalem, c. 1978), cc. 390–92, cited among other sources in Norman Roth’s important but sometimes problematic article, “Forgery and Abrogation of the Torah: A Theme in Muslim and Christian Polemic in Spain,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 54 (1987): 234, will provide some indication of how interesting such discussions can become. 180 david berger messianic age; the dynamics of the debate, however, precluded such a Jewish interpretation in direct discussion of this passage. The Torah is eternal. Period. Nonetheless, despite the centrality of this affirmation for Jewish polemicists, even a full concession to the Christian position on the messianic annulment of the Torah would not have led medieval Jews to abandon their faith unless the third age could be shown to have begun. We turn, then, to the second critical question.

Has the messianic age already begun? Here again the medieval Jewish answer appears self-evident: “Of course not.” Yet here again we shall see that although Jews in fact proffered this response in exchanges with Christians, it was not quite as uncomplicated as it might seem. Before presenting their own interpretation of the rabbinic assertion that the final two thousand years are the messianic age, some Jews attempted to abort the question by arguing that their opponents can take no real comfort from the apparently straightforward Christian interpretation of the passage since Jesus was born well before the end of the fourth millennium. Structurally, this is reminiscent of Nah- manides’ argument that Christians cannot make effective use of the midrash that the Messiah was born on the day the Second Temple was destroyed because Jesus’ birth came later.18 Similarly, Jews routinely maintained that whatever the meaning of the verse, “The rod shall not pass from Judah . . . until Shiloh comes” (Genesis 49:10), it cannot help Christians in their assertion that the absence of Jewish rule proves that the Messiah must already have come; after all, Jesus was born well after the rod had passed from Judah with the destruction of the First Temple.19 Moses ha-Kohen of Tordesillas dismissed the Christian argument regarding the final two millennia by calculating that Jesus appeared on the scene 2,221 years before 6,000 A.M.20 At Tortosa, Geronimo

18 Kitvei Ramban, vol. 1, p. 306. 19 see my discussion in The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages, pp. 249–250. 20 yehudah Shamir, Rabbi Moses Ha-Kohen of Tordesillas and his Book ʿEzer Ha- Emunah, Part II (Coconut Grove, Florida, 1972), p. 133. torah and the messianic age 181 de Santa Fe refuted a Jewish assertion that Jesus appeared 212 years too early by arguing that given the absence of a Messiah during the more than 1,100 years that had passed since the end of the fourth millennium, it is perfectly clear that a reasonable approximation is sufficient to satisfy the words of Elijah.21 In the seventeenth century, Leone da Modena underscored the centrality of our passage by maintaining that Christians rely upon it for “everything they say” about the time of the messianic advent; nevertheless, he says, they must concede that “the two thousand years of the messianic age did not begin after the [first] four millennia, since in the time of Jesus [only] 3,800 years had elapsed.”22 Needless to say, Jews could not be fully content with this negative argument; they needed to supplement it with their own understanding of the messianic nature of Elijah’s third era. At first glance, this posed no serious problem. The statement, after all, explicitly asserts that “because of our many sins, some of [those final two thousand years] have already passed.” Thus, Elijah was speaking of the period in which the Messiah could potentially appear, but there is no guarantee as to the precise time of his advent. This interpretation, however, was by no means as compelling as it seems. In his candid presentation of the Christian argument, Abra- vanel noted the difficulty of assuming that the final phrase wasan original part of the school of Elijah’s statement. The literary setting of the Talmudic passage is tannaitic, and by definition, a tannaitic statement must have been composed before the end of the fourth millennium. Hence, the reference to the passage of time beyond the year four thousand must be a gloss inserted by later rabbis attempting to

21 La Disputa de Tortosa, p. 31. 22 Magen va-Herev, p. 69. The translation is based on my emendation of what seems to be a clearly corrupt text. In Simonsohn’s text, the second part of the sentence reads, “Since in the time of Jesus, 4,800 years had already elapsed; thus the Messiah should have come 800 years earlier (she-kevar bi-zeman Yeshu hayu dalet alafim tav tav shanah, u-lefi zeh hayah lavo mashiah tav tav shanah qodem). The number 4,800 is an obvious error for 3,800. The final phrase (“thus the Messiah etc.”), which is missing from one group of manuscripts, appears only in the single manuscript that Simonsohn used as the basis for his edition and is clearly an elaboration of the erroneous number. I read simply she-harei (or just she-) bi-zeman Yeshu hayu gimel alafim tav tav shanah. Although some Christian chronologies may have dated Jesus well after 4,000 A.M. (see n. 25 below), it is hard to imagine that da Modena would have alluded in so matter- of-fact a manner to a date that contradicts Jewish chronology. 182 david berger account for a prophecy that had apparently gone unfulfilled.23 From the Christian perspective, then, the date of the original statement unmasked a desperate Jewish effort to escape the Christological implications of Elijah’s prophecy. Consequently, despite the fact that Jews rarely conceded that the qualification about sins was a later gloss, they did make some effort to show that the full two thousand year period is in some sense a messianic age even though the Messiah has not actually come. In the Christian account of the Tortosa disputation, Rabbi Astruc is alleged to have proposed an original, highly problematic interpretation. The two thousand years of desolation (vanitas), he said, represent a period in which people debated the issue of vanitas, i.e., “Was the world created or not? Was it eternal or not?” Similarly, the ages of Torah and the Messiah are eras in which those subjects will be matters of contentious, lively discussion.24 In response, Geronimo de Santa Fe pointed out that the major disputes about creation took place in the second era, not the first, and that it was during that period as well that the prophets initiated considerable discussion of the Messiah. He then proceeded with a particularly ironic argument: If this is indeed the meaning of the two millennia of the messianic age, how can we account for the remark that our sins have delayed the effective implementation of the final era? The usual Christian assertion that this remark is a gloss was entirely forgotten for the purpose of the response; nonetheless, the point was telling. The more effectively a Jew pursued an alternative explanation of “messianic age,” the more hard-pressed he would be to explain the very line of Elijah’s statement that was usually invoked to defend the Jewish position.25

23 Yeshuʿot Meshiho, p. 18a. In Solomon ibn Verga’s report of the Tortosa disputation, he quotes Geronimo de Santa Fe’s argument that Elijah and his disciples lived well before the Jewish exile and could surely not have composed this closing remark. See ibn Verga, Shevet Yehudah, ed. Azriel Shohet (Jerusalem, 1947), p. 98. 24 La Disputa de Tortosa, p. 32. 25 in Hayyim ibn Musa’s Magen va-Romah, we find a highly idiosyncratic interpretation that the author explicitly proposes just for the sake of argument. In reality, he says, this statement is not by a student of Elijah but dates from the tannaitic period. Nevertheless, if we accept the Christian dating (and, one might add, ignore the Talmud’s own assertion in ʿAvodah Zarah 9a that the age of Torah begins with Abraham), the passage could well mean the following: From this point on (i.e., from the time of Elijah), the world will experience three periods of two millennia each. The torah and the messianic age 183

Abravanel himself confronted the issue with vigor and ingenuity. The qualification about sin, he said, is assuredly part of the original tannaitic statement. A similar statement attributed to Elijah on the same page of tractate Sanhedrin asserts that the world will endure for eighty-five jubilees. Immediately following we find the qualification, “R. Ashi said, . . . ‘Until then do not expect him; from that point on you may expect him’,” which proves that the Talmud is scrupulous about identifying and even attributing such addenda. What the qualification means in our case is that the sins that caused the destruction of the second Temple determined that the same sort of delay which affected the beginning of the first two ages would also affect the last. The first era did not become one of desolation until the generation of Enosh began to worship idolatry well over two hundred years after creation, and the second era did not really become one of Torah until the revelation at Sinai well over two hundred years after the year 2,000. Similarly, the messianic potential of the last age will not begin until a similar period of time will have passed after the year 4,000, and Abravanel cleverly coordinates this assertion with several other messianic dates in the Talmud.26 In a final flourish, he reinterprets the very wording of the crucial phrase. The sentence that I translated, “Because of our many sins, some of [those final two thousand years] have already passed” literally says, “Because of our many sins, there have passed from them what passed.” To Abravanel, the deeper meaning of the statement is that it is now determined that the same period that passed in each of the previous ages before its essential character became effective will also pass in the final age. (“There

first is characterized as desolation because idolatry will persist even though the Torah will also be present. This period will give way around the time of ibn Musa to an age of Torah only, an assertion that he supports by pointing to contemporary religious innovation and ferment in Bohemia and elsewhere. He appears to understand the messianic age to be precisely the same as this incipient age of Torah. If this is his intention, then the phrase “six thousand years” really represents four thousand, an implication that moves an already peculiar reading to the threshold of the absurd. See Magen va-Romah, pp. 95–97. In another argument based on a Christian assumption that he does not share, ibn Musa (p. 93) points to Christian chronographers who place the date of Jesus’ birth well after the year 5,000 A.M., thus rendering his advent manifestly irrelevant to the prophecy of the school of Elijah. 26 on these messianic dates, see my discussion in “Three Typological Themes in Early Jewish Messianism: Messiah ben Joseph, Rabbinic Calculations, and the Figure of Armilus,” AJS Review 10 (1985): 149–155. 184 david berger have passed [or will have passed] from the final era what passed from the first two.”) This is no guarantee that the Messiah will come at that point, but the potential will then begin.27 Despite this tour de force, Abravanel was (understandably) not content, and he too made an effort to explain the last two millennia in a way that renders them a messianic age from the very beginning. His proposal reverses the Christian understanding of the passage in the most pointed fashion of all—by embracing it. Indeed, he said, the final age is called messianic from the outset precisely because it begins with the spread of Christianity. It was God’s plan to prepare the way for the true redeemer by utilizing false messiahs to initiate widespread discussion of the Messiah’s advent and of the era that he will inaugurate. If people’s minds were not attuned to this subject, the Messiah would have to overcome extraordinary obstacles in order to validate and publicize his nature and mission. Indeed, Maimonides has already taught us that illusory messiahs like Jesus and Muhammad were brought into the world for the purpose of paving the way for the real messianic king. Christianity, then, is one of the false messianic movements that define the initial stages of the final age. Abravanel attempted to avoid the problem of approximation which Jewish polemicists had invoked against the original Christian interpretation by implying that it was not Jesus’ birth but the spread of Christianity that inaugurated this rather special “messianic” era. “At the beginning of these last two millennia, there arose the disciples of Jesus who raised his banner and publicized the assertion that he was the Messiah promised by the prophets so that their belief spread throughout most of the world at that time.” One wonders whether Abravanel realized that this very attractive suggestion could be borrowed by Christians without any change as a response to the most effective Jewish argument against their position. In any event, Abravanel did not insist on a rigorous dating of this era since he listed Bar Kokhba, who appeared “close to that time . . . at the end of the fourth millennium,” as the first relevant figure, to be followed by Jesus, Muhammad, and medieval Jewish messianic pretenders. This proposal has the disadvantage of rendering useless Abravanel’s ingenious explanation of the qualification about the delaying effect of

27 Yeshuʿot Meshiho, pp. 19b–20a. torah and the messianic age 185 sin. Consequently, he suggested another re-reading of that sentence. This one, however, while undoubtedly clever, could not fail to strike even the medieval reader as forced. Abravanel now translates the phrase “there have passed from them what passed” ( yaze’u me-hem mah she- yaze’u) in even more literal fashion: “there have come out from them what came out.” Because of our sins, says the school of Elijah, various persecutions have emerged (or will emerge) from this era.28 The utilization of Maimonides’ naturalistic perception of the messianic process may well be the most interesting aspect of Abravanel’s second interpretation of the final two millennia. In his discussion of the role of Christianity and Islam, Maimonides himself drew upon a consistent, naturalistic position that he formulated throughout his oeuvre and applied to every stage of the messianic era.29 In this case, God cannot be expected to engender a spiritual earthquake in the mind and soul of non-Jews so that they should recognize the Messiah with no preparation. As we have seen, however, Abravanel was prepared in a related context to speak of the miraculous eschatological elimination of the evil inclination, so that the need for naturalistic preparation appears much less compelling.30 Similarly, Nahmanides endorsed the Maimonidean understanding of the preparatory function of Christianity and Islam despite his own affirmation of a fundamental change in human nature at the endof days.31 Since Nahmanides associated the circumcision of the heart with the rabbinic principle that “he who comes to be purified will be assisted,” he may have regarded the miraculous transformation of Gentiles as improbable. To a very limited extent, we might even regard the invoking of this principle as injecting an element of naturalism into the process. In the final analysis, however, the embrace by both Nahmanides and Abravanel of Maimonides’ strongly naturalistic doctrine regarding the preparatory function of Christianity is striking in

28 abravanel’s various approaches to this passage appear in Yeshuʿot Meshiho, pp. 19a–20b. 29 see Amos Funkenstein, Tevaʿ, Historiyyah u-Meshihiyyut ezel ha-Rambam (Tel Aviv, 1983). Cf. my discussion in “‘Al Toze’oteha ha-Ironiyyot shel Gishato ha-Razi- onalistit shel ha-Rambam la-Tequfah he-Meshihit,” Maimonidean Studies 2 (1991): 1–8 (Hebrew section); English translation: “Some Ironic Consequences of Maimo- nides’ Rationalistic Messianism,” in The Legacy of Maimonides: Religion, Reason, and Community, ed. Yamin Levy and Shalom Carmy (New York, 2006), pp. 79–88. 30 see above, n. 14. 31 Torat Hashem Temimah, Kitvei Ramban, vol. 1, p. 144. 186 david berger light of their general adherence to a far more supernaturalistic messianic vision than that of Maimonides. Elsewhere in Yeshuʿot Meshiho, Abravanel makes further allusion to naturalistic preparation for the end of days. In addressing the Talmudic assertion that immediately before the coming of the Messiah “the kingdom will be transformed into heresy” (Bav. Sanhedrin 97a), he points to the burning of many heretics at the stake and goes on to maintain that “all the priests and bishops of Rome at this time pursue lucre and take bribes while caring nothing for their faith, because they have been afflicted by heresy.” The last remark is interesting in its own right as the reaction of a hostile outsider to clerical behavior in the pre-Reformation Church at precisely the time of Luther’s well- known visit to Rome. For our purposes, however, it is Abravanel’s theological explanation of the phenomenon that matters. The divine purpose, he says, in bringing about the erosion of traditional faith is that the absence of such belief makes a person more receptive to the truth, which no longer has to compete with contradictory doctrines. The perception of heresy as non-belief is significant in itself and may have been suggested by Abravanel’s impression of contemporary Churchmen. Whether or not this is the case, the argument once again presumes a process through which people’s hearts and minds are gradually prepared to accept the Messiah and his message.32 And so—has the messianic age already begun? Of course not. And yet. . . . * * * * It is hard to imagine that even the prophetic powers of the school of Elijah could have envisioned the dimensions of the debate that would swirl around our brief passage. Leone da Modena cannot be faulted for his hyperbolic remark that Christians rely on it for “everything they say” about the onset of the messianic age. The Jewish response ranged across a remarkably wide spectrum and encapsulated some of the central issues of late medieval polemic from a tactical as well as

32 Yeshuʿot Meshiho, pp. 34a–b. Note too Abravanel’s argument that Rabbinic statements about extreme poverty and other forms of privation in the period immediately preceding the Messiah reflect the fact that the redemption follows “the natural order ([ha]-havayah ha-tivʿit), which proceeds through the alternation of opposites.” Thus, for example, the redemption is “necessarily” preceded by a great famine (Yeshuʿot Meshiho, pp. 33b–34a). torah and the messianic age 187 a substantive perspective: the subtle dynamic that allows a polemicist to say something in one context but not in another; the rejection of the binding character of aggadah; the deflection of an argument by maintaining that whatever a problematic passage may mean, it cannot refer to Jesus; the perception of Christianity as a preparation for the Messiah; naturalistic and supernaturalistic messianism; and the fundamental question of Torah in the messianic age. Textual Flesh, Incarnation, and the Imaginal Body: Abraham Abulafia’s Polemic with Christianity

Elliot R. Wolfson

It is hardly necessary to assert that incarnation is one of the most charged words in philosophical and theological discourse. The celebrated use of the term to denote the foundational dogma of the Chris- tian faith, proclaimed as authoritative in the Nicene Creed, that Jesus is both divine and human, ought to raise questions about the suitabil- ity of appropriating it to discuss phenomena exemplified in different religious and cultural contexts. Seemingly, this should be especially so with respect to rabbinic Judaism and its many offshoots, especially in the contentious times of the Middle Ages, inasmuch as this doctrine has been singled out as the key fracture that divided Synagogue and Church.1 Medieval Jews, as Robert Chazan astutely observed, “disagreed vehemently” with the Christian belief that the Messiah is both human and divine, a combination they considered to be “unthinkable.”2 In an accompanying note, Chazan adds that there was no more “divergent element in this complex relationship” between Christianity and Juda- ism “than the claim of divinity for Jesus.”3 The Christian notion of an incarnate deity and the allied doctrine of the Trinity represented an “ultimate irrationality” that was viewed as corrosive of the very core of monotheism and therefore “responsible for the profound gulf between the two traditions.”4

1 moshe Idel, Ben: Sonship and Jewish Mysticism (London: Continuum, 2007), pp. 59–61. 2 robert Chazan, Fashioning Jewish Identity in Medieval Western Christendom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Pres, 2004), p. 233. See idem, Daggers of Faith: Thirteenth-Century Christian Missionizing and Jewish Response (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), p. 60. 3 chazan, Fashioning Jewish Identity, p. 233 n. 1. 4 Ibid., p. 349. Similar observations have been made by other scholars. See Dan- iel J. Lasker, Jewish Philosophical Polemics Against Christianity in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Litman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2007), p. 105; David Berger, Persecu- tion, Polemic, and Dialogue: Essays in Jewish-Christian Relations (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2010), pp. 86 and 186. 190 elliot r. wolfson

Setting of Boundary and the Proximity of the Other

The rich scholarly literature of the last few decades has challenged this commonplace. In a number of studies, I myself have explored the Judaic roots of the Christocentric incarnationalism, marking thereby a historical juncture when the chasm between the two Abrahamic faiths may not have been as wide as it was eventually to become,5 and in other studies, I have examined incarnational tendencies in later rabbinic and kabbalistic sources that, while engaged polemically with the Christian canon, nevertheless strive to articulate an indigenous Jew- ish viewpoint.6 I am well aware that the incarnational tropes to be extracted from Jewish texts are distinct from and in opposition to the Christian formulations; indeed, in my estimation, it is the disparity that justifies the use of the same nomenclature.7 This is not to deny the adverse portrayal of Christians by Jews and Jews by Christians. However, the rejection of the “other” does not mean the other has no

5 elliot R. Wolfson, “Iconic Visualization and the Imaginal Body of God: The Role of Intention in the Rabbinic Conception of Prayer,” Modern Theology 12 (1996): 137–62; idem, “Judaism and Incarnation: The Imaginal Body of God,” in Christianity in Jewish Terms, ed. Tikvah Frymer-Kensky, David Novak, Peter Ochs, and Michael Signer (Boulder: Westview Press, 2000), pp. 239–54; idem, “Inscribed in the Book of the Living: Gospel of Truth and Jewish Christology,” Journal for the Study of Judaism 38 (2007): 234–71. 6 elliot R. Wolfson, “The Tree That Is All: Jewish-Christian Roots of a Kabbalistic Symbol in Sefer ha-Bahir,” Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 3 (1993): 31–76, reprinted with slight emendations in idem, Along the Path: Studies in Kabbalistic Myth, Symbolism, and Hermeneutics (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 63–88; idem, Language, Eros, Being: Kabbalistic Hermeneutics and Poetic Imagination (New York: Fordham University Press, 2005), pp. 190–260; idem, “The Body in the Text: A Kabbalistic Theory of Embodiment,” Jewish Quarterly Review 95 (2005): 479–500; idem, “Suffering Eros and Textual Incarnation: A Kristevan Reading of Kabbalistic Poet- ics,” in Toward a Theology of Eros: Transfiguring Passion at the Limits of Discipline, ed. Virginia Burrus and Catherine Keller (New York: Fordham University Press, 2006), pp. 341–65; idem, “Angelic Embodiment and the Feminine Representation of Jesus: Recon- structing Carnality in the Christian Kabbalah of Johann Kemper,” in The Jewish Body: Corporeality, Society, and Identity in the Renaissance and Early Modern Period, ed. Maria Diemling and Giuseppe Veltri (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 395–426. 7 This crucial point is missed in the criticism Idel leveled against me (and other scholars) for using the “theologically loaded” term “incarnation”; see Ben, p. 60. If, as Idel argues, incarnation should be limited to the belief in a “supernal being taking a human body” and an insistence on the “flesh” as the “locus of suffering” in a “unique historical and theological event,” not to mention the constellation of other ideas connected to it, such as the immaculate conception and virgin birth, then the term cannot be used with reference to Jewish texts. My own analysis, however, is predicated on a different philological assumption fostered by a hermeneutical model that diverges from his own. See below, n. 130. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 191 impact on the formation of one’s own sense of self; on the contrary, condemnation of the other bespeaks contiguity with the other, and this is so even when the other has preached intolerance or perpetrated violence in the sociopolitical arena. By utilizing the term “incarnation” in explicating kabbalistic texts I do not mean to paint a monolithic picture. Precisely by deploying one term to ponder disparate phenomena I call attention to the rift that both unifies and splits the two. In the long and variegated history of Jews and Christians, framed typologically as the struggle between Jacob and Esau, self-definition and definition of the other are inextricably interwoven.8 As Derrida sagaciously put it in his depiction of the process of auto-affection (Selbstaffektion), a concept that can be traced to Kant,9 “the same is the same only in being affected by the other, only by becoming the other of the same.”10 In accord with this philosophical truism—the referen- tiality of self cannot be demarcated in isolation from an intricate mesh of social interconnectivity—we find many instances where a Jewish sage has been swayed by the very doctrine or practice that he discards as blasphemous. Just as appropriating from an external environment is often based on resonance with something internal to the Jewish landscape, so the disposing of something from the outside may actually betray an inherent affinity; the very proximity to the “other” demands a sharper demarcation and setting of boundary. The deeper the resemblance, it would seem, the greater the need to discriminate.11

8 see Israel Jacob Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. Barbara Harshav and Jona- than Chipman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), p. xvii. As Yuval notes, his approach bears affinity to the orientation of Daniel Boyarin in Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford: Stanford Univer- sity Press, 1999) and Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). 9 see references cited in Dieter Lohmar, “Husserl’s Type and Kant’s Schemata,” in The New Husserl: A Critical Reader, ed. Donn Welton (Bloomington: Indiana Univer- sity Press, 2003), p. 121 n. 43. 10 Jacques Derrida, Speech and Phenomena and Other Essays on Husserl’s Theory of Signs, trans., with an introduction by David B. Allison, preface by Newton Garver (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1973), p. 85. On the notion of auto-affection, see Dan Zahavi, Self-Awareness and Alterity: A Phenomenological Investigation (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1999), pp. 110–37; Leonard Lawlor, Der- rida and Husserl: The Basic Problem of Phenomenology (Bloomington: Indiana Uni- versity Press, 2002), pp. 4, 188–96, 231–32. 11 yuval, Two Nations, p. 29, notes that “the extremist religious pietism of the Ash- kenazic Hasidism may also be seen as a kind of internalization of the world of Christian values, which may also account for their mighty effort to defend themselves against its 192 elliot r. wolfson

This, incidentally, would explain why Jewish authors in the Middle Ages recoiled from using the radical bsr in any of its conjugations for their own speculation on divine embodiment, since its principal connotation in their lexicon is the Christological doctrine that they castigated as religiously heretical and theologically untenable.12 It is thus hardly surprising that this locution was steadfastly avoided as a suitable way to speak about one of the most sublime mysteries of the Jewish tradition. But this does not mean that there was no allure lurking beneath the repulsion. The kabbalistic use of the expressions hitlabbeshut or levush to denote either the emanation of the infinite in the sefirotic potencies or the indwelling of the divine presence in the physical universe indicates precisely this kind of pull to reclaim the Christian belief as the mystical truth of Judaism.13 Even a figure as sober as Moses ben Naḥman, who placed the doctrine of incarnation at the heart of the Jewish-Christian dispute according to his written record of the debate with Pablo Christiani,14 affirmed the secret of the garment (sod ha-malbush), which involved the corporealization of the angelic glory in a human form seen by the “fleshly eyes of the pure souls.”15 The selfsame idea, therefore, marks discrepancy and coincidence: in its Christological guise, incarnation is offensive and revolting, since it is neither sanctioned by prophetic utterance nor logically defensible; in its kabbalistic guise, however, it communicates the secret at the core of the prophetic vision, which is still available to the spiritual elite.

influence.” Consider the argument about the consumption of bread, emblematic of the body of Christ, in the sacrament of the Eucharist and the Jewish custom of ingesting a honey cake, symbolic of the Torah, as an initiation rite for Jewish schoolchildren, offered by Ivan G. Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), pp. 16–17, 83–88, 102–16. 12 I am here responding to Idel’s comments, Ben, pp. 59 and 100 n. 180. 13 compare the observation of Shoshana G. Gershenzon, “A Study of Teshuvot la- Meharef by Abner of Burgos,” DHL, Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1984, pp. 138–40, on the use of the term hitlabbeshut rather than terms related to basar, which are more typically employed by Jewish polemicists. 14 Kitvei Ramban, ed. Ḥayyim D. Chavel (Jerusalem: Mosad ha-Rav Kook, 1963), 1: 311. See David Berger, The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages: A Critical Edition of the Nizẓ aḥ ̣on Vetus with an Introduction, Translation, and Com- mentary (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1979), p. 352; Robert Chazan, Barcelona and Beyond: The Disputation of 1263 and Its Aftermath (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), pp. 60–61; idem, Daggers of Faith, pp. 80–81; idem, Fashioning Jewish Identity, p. 349; Idel, Ben, p. 103 n. 186. 15 elliot R. Wolfson, “The Secret of the Garment in Naḥmanides,” Da‘at 24 (1990): xxv–lxix, esp. xxx (English section); idem, Language, Eros, Being, p. 252. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 193

A number of historians have argued that polemical othering had a critical role in the identity formation of Jews and Christians through the centuries. For the purposes of this essay let me cite the observation of Israel Yuval: “The dialogical affinity of one culture with- itsenvi ronment does not necessarily impair its uniqueness or authenticity. Specifically, in Ashkenazic Jewry, previously considered a bastion of closure and loyalty to its internal religious tradition, there developed a profound affinity, albeit one mixed with hatred, with its sister religion, Christianity.”16 Disowning the need of the previous generation of scholars to emphasize the “authenticity” of Judaism as an insular and impermeable phenomenon, Yuval affirms the “dialogic position,” which “sees Jewish life in Christian Europe as involving the absorption and internalization of many values of the environment, along with its body language, ceremonies, and holy time.” Yuval makes an appeal for the uniqueness of the Jews of Ashkenaz, in contrast to the Jews of Spain, on the grounds that the latter “were only one element in a varied and heterogeneous milieu,” whereas the former “were the only alien element in an otherwise rather homogeneous environment.” Belong- ing to the only minority required building strong barriers, but for this very reason there was a stronger exposure to the majority culture.17 Kabbalistic sources confirm that the dialogic model can be extended to Jewish fraternities in Provence and Spain in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, precisely the time that Jewish polemical works proliferated across western Christendom in the wake of the amplified vilification of Jews.18 One could counter that these are still part of Christian Europe, but we are nevertheless speaking about cultural orbits that must be distinguished from Ashkenazic Jews (even if we recognize that there are important channels of transmission of esoteric doctrines, practices, and texts linking these different segments of the Jewish population).19

16 yuval, Two Nations, p. 21. 17 Ibid., p. 22. 18 chazan, Fashioning Jewish Identity, pp. 8–10, 356–57. 19 see Wolfson, Along the Path, pp. 1–62, and reference to studies by Dan, Farber, Kanarfogel, Pedaya, Scholem, and Ta-Shema cited on p. 114 n. 21. In addition to the sources mentioned there, see Daniel Abrams, “The Literary Emergence of Esoteri- cism in German Pietism,” Shofar 12 (1994): 67–85; idem, “From Germany to Spain: Numerology as a Mystical Technique,” Journal of Jewish Studies 47 (1996): 85–101; idem, “Ma‘aseh Merkabah as a Literary Work: The Reception of the Hekhalot Tradi- tions by the German Pietists and Kabbalistic Reinterpretation,” Jewish Studies Quar- terly 5 (1998): 329–45. Also pertinent are various studies by Moshe Idel; see especially “Ashkenazi Esotericism and Kabbalah in Barcelona,” Hispania Judaica Bulletin 5 (2007): 71–113. 194 elliot r. wolfson

Yuval himself addresses this issue, at least for Sephardic Jews, by noting that the medieval sensibilities arise from the rabbinic precedent, the contours of which took shape through rejecting Christianity as a viable path after the destruction of the Temple and the cessation of the priestly rite; confrontation with the other is at the core of Jewish identity as it is rabbinically constructed. I am not convinced of Yuval’s endeavor to see rabbinic Judaism in such a uniform light. But I agree that the controversy between Israel and Edom revolved about the poles of antagonism and attraction, convergence and divergence. In Yuval’s felicitous summation: “Self-definition is an extensive and open process, one based not solely on automatic denial, but also on absorbing new religious ideas, ceremonies, and symbols from the outside.” Yuval goes on to distinguish the anti-Christian polemic in the rabbinic period, which is characterized by “the processes of appropriation and the struggle over that which is appropriated,” and in the Middle Ages, where the “tendency of mutual denial came to dominate.”20 The shift from the earlier historical epoch to the later is valid, but even in the medieval period polemic is built on dissent combined with assent.

Congruent Truth and the Irreducibility of Difference

Support for this supposition may be elicited from a plethora of sources, including both the zoharic compilation and the literary corpus of Abraham Abulafia, which are often taken as illustrative of the two dominant trends of medieval Jewish mysticism, the theosophic- theurgic kabbalah and the prophetic-ecstatic kabbalah, according to the Scholemian typology taken over and expanded in contemporary scholarship. For the purposes of this essay I will concentrate on the attitude toward Christianity in Abulafia,21 since the topic in zoharic

20 yuval, Two Nations, p. 23. 21 For my previous explication of Abulafia’s engagement with Christian doctrines, see Elliot R. Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia—Prophet and Mystic: Hermeneutics, The- osophy, and Theurgy (Los Angeles: Cherub Press, 2000), pp. 131–33 n. 101, 188–89 n. 26. Abulafia’s relationship to Jesus and Christianity has been analyzed as well by Moshe Idel, Studies in the Ecstatic Kabbalah (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), pp. 33–61 (see additional reference cited below in n. 25), and Harvey J. Hames, Like Angels on Jacob’s Ladder: Abraham Abulafia, the Franciscans, and Joachi- mism (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2007). Many of my insights have been expanded in my student Robert Sagerman’s dissertation, a revised version of which has been recently published as The Serpent Kills or the Serpent Gives Life: The textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 195 literature has been treated comprehensively in other studies.22 Not only did Abulafia recognize the part that Christianity played in salvation history, typified, for instance, in the association of Jesus with the sixth day as opposed to the Jewish messiah, who is linked to the seventh day,23 but there are passages that point to Abulafia’s fascination with and appropriation of Christological doctrines, especially trinitarian imagery, even if we accept that these passages are themselves part of his polemical strategy.24 Abulafia’s spiritualized messianism, with

Kabbalist Abraham Abulafia’s Response to Christianity (Leiden: Brill, 2011). On the particular theme of incarnation or divine corporealization, see especially pp. 223, 334–40. See also the references to Scholem cited below, n. 24. For the possible influence of the Cathars on Abulafia, see Shulamit Shahar, “Écrits cathares et commentaire d’Abraham Abulafia sur le ‘Livre de la Création’: Images et idées communes,” Cahiers de Fanjeaux 12 (1977): 345–61, and see Idel’s criticism, Studies, pp. 33–44. This is but one of several studies by Shahar arguing for the influence of Catharism on the emergence of kabbalah in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. For a review of the topic, see Aina Balastegui Medina and Eduard Ponte Pellicer, “Càbala i catarisme: Estat de la recerca a l’entorn de les possibles influències del catarisme en la Càbala del segle XIII en territori de llengua catalana,” Actes del I Congrés per a l’Estudi dels Jueus en Territori de Llengua Catalana (2004): 173–84. The categorical denial of the influence of Christianity on Abulafia by Raphael Kohen in the introduction to his edition of Abraham Abulafia, The Book of New Testament (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 7 [in Hebrew], does not seem to me to be defensible on scholarly grounds. Another edition of the text has been published as Sefer ha-Berit in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel we-Sefer ha-Ot, ed. Amon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001). 22 From many homilies included in the zoharic literature we discern themes that suggest an affinity to Christological symbols and concepts, for example, the threefold unity of the divine and the iconic depiction of the invisible as the mystery of faith in which the pious adept somatically and pneumatically participates. The very same texts, however, are replete with the demonization of Christianity as the locus of an inherent impurity, often illustrated by the image of menstruation, the earthly embodiment of Satan or Samael, the archangel of Edom or Esau, as well as the theological denigration of Christian piety by identifying it with idolatry. See Yehuda Liebes, Studies in the Zohar, trans. Arnold Schwartz, Stephanie Nakache, Penina Peli (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), pp. 139–61; Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 255–60; idem, Venturing Beyond: Law and Morality in Kabbalistic Mysticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 135–54; Daniel Abrams, “The Virgin Mary as the Moon that Lacks the Sun: A Zoharic Polemic Against the Veneration of Mary,” Kab- balah: Journal for the Study of Jewish Mystical Texts 21 (2010): 7–56. 23 abraham Abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 64; idem, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 125. On the association of the “secret of the king Messiah” and the seventh day (both expressions melekh ha-mashiaḥ and yom ha-shevi‘i equal 453), who rules over the body of Satan, identified as Tammuz, see Abraham Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, ed. Amnon Gross, 2nd ed. (Jerusalem, 1999), p. 183; Idel, Studies, pp. 51–52; Harvey J. Hames, “A Seal Within a Seal: The Imprint of Sufism in Abraham Abulafia’s Teachings,” Medieval Encounters 12 (2006): 163; idem, Like Angels, p. 79; Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 208–9. 24 gershom Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New York: Schocken, 1954), p. 129; idem, The Kabbalah of Sefer ha-Temunah and Abraham Abulafia, ed. 196 elliot r. wolfson its emphasis on individual as opposed to collective redemption, which is indebted primarily to the philosophical paradigm of intellectual conjunction,25 may also smack of Christian influence.26 It is conceivable as well that Abulafia’s intensified messianic activity was a reaction to the “militant missionizing” and “messianic fervor” of Christianity in the later part of the thirteenth-century.27 Finally, there is the possibility that some of the techniques Abulafia incorporated into his meditational practice reflect hesychastic exercises that he may have learned in his sojourn in Greece.28 In addition to doctrinal issues, Abulafia’s complex relationship to Christianity is enhanced by the sporadic comments he offers that reveal the possibility of personal engagement with Christians. In his

Joseph Ben Shlomo (Jerusalem: Akadamon, 1965), p. 184 [in Hebrew]. Scholem’s more nuanced perspective, which affirms attraction and antagonism to Christianity on the part of Abulafia, is critical of the one-sided portrayal of him as exemplify- ing a “special inclination to Christian ideas” (Major Trends, p. 129), tendered by thinkers such as Meyer Heinrich Landauer and Simon Bernfeld (see references, ibid., p. 379 n. 35). On Abulafia’s “numerical interpretation” of the Christian Trinity, see Idel, Ben, pp. 315–18, 330. 25 abraham Berger, “The Messianic Self-Consciousness of Abraham Abulafia: A Tentative Evaluation” in Essential Papers on Messianic Movements and Personalities in Jewish History, ed. Marc Saperstein (New York: New York University Press, 1992), p. 253; Moshe Idel, “Typologies of Redemption in the Middle Ages,” in Messianism and Eschatology: A Collection of Essays, ed. Zvi Baras (Jerusalem: Zalman Shazar Cen- ter, 1983), pp. 259–63 [in Hebrew]; idem, Studies, pp. 52–53; idem, Hasidism: Between Ecstasy and Magic (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 209–10; idem, Messianic Mystics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 58–100, 295– 307; idem, “ ‘The Time of theE nd’: Apocalypticism and Its Spiritualization in Abraham Abulafia’s Eschatology” in Apocalyptic Time, ed. Albert I. Baumgarten (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 155–85; idem, “Multiple Forms of Redemption in Kabbalah and Hasidism,” Jewish Quarterly Review 101 (2011): 39–44. 26 Berger, “The Messianic Self-Consciousness,” pp. 253–54. It should be noted that in the same essay, Berger concluded that in spite of the “many influences of Chris- tian ideas . . . in his Messianic self-interpretation, Abulafia saw himself as Antichrist” (p. 252). 27 chazan, Barcelona and Beyond, p. 190. 28 moshe Idel, The Mystical Experience of Abraham Abulafia (Albany: State Uni- versity of New York Press, 1988), pp. 14, 24, 40 (in that context, a crucial difference is noted between the contemplative practice of Abulafia, on the one hand, and that of Yoga, Sūfism,̣ and Hesychasm, on the other), 80, 176–77 n. 338. Scholem, The Kab- balah of Sefer ha-Temunah, pp. 169–70, suggested that gazing at the navel as a means to concentrate, attested in Abulafia (Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 164), may reflect a similar technique in Christian Hesychasm, which he characterizes as “the wisdom of permutation in Christian garb and with Christian content,” even referring to Greg- ory Palamas (1296–1359) as the “Christian Abulafia.” Idel, The Mystical Experience, p. 35, rejects Scholem’s hypothesis with regard to this practice, even though he does acknowledge the likelihood of Hesychasm’s influence on Abulafia. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 197

prophetic-apocalyptic treatise, Sefer ha-Ot, Abulafia states explicitly that Zechariah—an allusion to Abulafia based on the fact that the numerical value of this name is 248, the same as Avraham—was commissioned to communicate the “words of the living God” to the Jews, who are described as being “circumcised in the flesh” but “uncircumcised in the heart.” However, since these impoverished ones, to whom he had been sent and for whom he was revealed, did not turn their hearts to the “form of his coming,” God commanded the prophet to speak “in his name” to the “Gentiles, the uncircumcised of the heart and the uncircumcised of the flesh.” Most astonishingly, Abulafia insists that even though the Gentiles “believed in the message of the Lord,” they did not “return to the Lord, for they relied on their swords and bows, and the Lord hardened their uncircumcised and impure hearts.”29 In my judgment, the reliability of Abulafia’s claims is dubious, but what is important is that they are indicative of his messianic aspiration to deliver God’s message—to seek the truth and to cleave to the name30— to Jew and non-Jew alike. Even though both potential recipients ultimately frustrated his ambition, it is significant that Abulafia expressed the desire to dispense this wisdom to both communities. Two other extraordinary passages that suggest Abulafia’s contact with Christians are found in the introduction to Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot.31 The first one32 occurs in the context of Abulafia’s delineation of the three gradations of human beings—the righteous (saddiq̣ ), the pious (ḥasid), and the prophet (navi)—and the corresponding levels of meaning in the scriptural text—the literal (peshat),̣ the philosophical or allegorical (mashal we-ḥiddah), and the kabbalistic, which is identified further as

29 adolph Jellinek, “Sefer ha-Ôt: Apokalypse des Pseudo-Propheten und Pseudo- Messias Abraham Abulafia,” in Jubelschrift zum Siebzigsten Geburtstage des Prof. Dr. H. Graetz (Breslau: S. Schottlaender, 1887), p. 76. Concerning this passage, see Moshe Idel, Kabbalah in Italy 1280–1510: A Survey (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), pp. 34–35. Idel cites this text as evidence of Abulafia’s “propagandistic activities” and “messianic mission,” which he contextualizes in the broader shift from a more esoteric to a more exoteric orientation regarding the dissemination of kabbalistic lore, related more specifically in Abulafia’s case to contemplation of the divine name. 30 Jellinek, “Sefer ha-Ôt,” p. 76; see Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, p. 80. 31 The passages are referred to by Scholem, Major Trends, p. 129. Scholem’s assertion that these texts verify Abulafia’s “connection with non-Jewish mystics” is not borne out by a close reading of the material. There is no indication from Abulafia’s own words in either context that he was talking specifically to Christian mystics. 32 I briefly mentioned this text in Abraham Abulafia, pp. 188–89, and see Sager- man, The Serpent Kills, p. 48 n. 72. 198 elliot r. wolfson the permutation of letters and names (seruf̣ ha-otiyyot we-ha-shemot).33 The gradations are correlated further with three methods of exegesis, the “way of righteousness” (derekh ha-sedeq̣ ), the “way of mercy” (derekh ha-ḥesed), and the “way of prophecy” (derekh ha-nevu’ah).34 After distinguishing the Torah from all other books, the Jews from all other nations, and Hebrew from all other languages,35 Abulafia relates that there are Christians who say that “their Messiah” maintained that the Torah scroll is true, but that some commandments are not to be taken in their literal sense. Abulafia gives Jesus the benefit of the doubt, so to speak, insofar as he explains the ostensible rejection of the ritual laws as a tactic to lure the heart of the foolish to the Torah. Offering a more sophisticated explanation, Abulafia submits that Jesus did not succeed in adhering to the “true philosophical sages” because he accepted some of the Torah and rejected the rest, and consequently, he did not discern that the first path is entirely for the masses. Abulafia acknowledges that “amongst the Christians there are a few sages who know this secret, and they spoke to me surreptitiously and revealed to me that this is their opinion without doubt. And thus I deemed as well that they are in the rank of the pious ones of the nations of the world, and one should not be concerned with the words of the fools in any nation, for the Torah was not given except to masters of knowledge.”36 In the second passage, Abulafia recounts the experience of apar- ticular non-Jew who confronted him with the following exegetical question: if the Patriarchs and all those who came before Moses were

33 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, pp. 21–23. See p. 27, where Abulafia extends the three modes of exegesis into the seven paths, which he outlined in greater detail in the epistle Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, published by Adolf Jellinek, Philosophie und Kabbala, vol. 1 (Leipzig: Heinrich Hunger, 1854), pp. 1–48, and in Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2000), pp. 379–82. See Moshe Idel, Language, Torah, and Hermeneutics in Abraham Abulafia (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), pp. 82–109. 34 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, p. 26. 35 The supremacy of Hebrew vis-à-vis the other languages is repeated on many occasions by Abulafia. See my analysis of some of the relevant passages in Ventur- ing Beyond, pp. 64–66. Insofar as all the languages are viewed as a corruption of the aboriginal one, it is possible to perform the meditational practice using any language. See Scholem, Major Trends, pp. 134–35; and the different perspective in Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 62–65. See also Idel, Language, pp. 3–7, 19–21; idem, “À la recherche de la langue originelle: La témoignage du nourrisson,” Revue de l’Histoire des Religions 213–14 (1996): 415–42, esp. 423–32. 36 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, pp. 48–49. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 199 perfect, what need is there for the Torah that was first revealed by the latter, and if they were not perfect, why are the narratives about them included in the sacred writ?37 What is important for our purposes is the comment at the end of the anecdote. After listening to Abulafia’s exposition, the non-Jew congratulated him for offering a rejoinder that exceeded the replies he had previously received from other Jewish sages. So enthralled was the non-Jew that he befriended Abulafia and took upon himself an oath to receive from him “something of the mysteries of the Torah.” Abulafia boasts that he “established in his heart the arrow of desire for the knowledge of the name to the point that he confessed and said ‘Moses is true and his Torah is true.’ And there is no need to reveal more than this about the matter of the non-Jew.”38 In gauging the validity of this report, we must sound a note of caution. Abulafia was a man given to fanciful flights of imagination, even blurring his own identity in some treatises by registering the words he wrote under the authorship of Raziel or Zechariah,39 and thus the fic- tive and factual are not threads that can be easily disentangled. There is just cause to be skeptical about the historicity of the events he alleges transpired. This suspicion is enhanced by the fact that the words attributed to the non-Jew, moshe emet we-torato emet, are based on the declaration of the sons of Korah according to a talmudic legend.40 It is a bit incredulous to believe that a non-Jew with no knowledge of rabbinic literature would be familiar with these words. Even so, I think it reasonable to presume that Abulafia’s story provides plausible evidence of his willingness not only to converse with non-Jews, but to inculcate in some of them the desire to receive the gnosis of the name usually proffered as the exclusive patrimony of the people of Israel, a belief buttressed by both the archaic nexus between circumcision

37 Ibid., p. 89. 38 Ibid., p. 93. 39 Both names have the numerical value 248, which is the same as Avraham, Abu- lafia’s first name. See Scholem, Major Trends, p. 127. 40 Babylonian Talmud, Baba Batra 74a and Sanhedrin 110a. The version in both of these contexts is moshe we-torato emet. See also Bemidbar Rabbah 18:20. The variant of the statement utilized by Abulafia, moshe emet we-torato emet, is found in the version of the Sanhedrin passage preserved in MS Yad-Rav Herzog, Jerusalem (I thank my colleague Jeffrey Rubenstein for this information) and in Midrash Tanḥuma, Qoraḥ, 11, and is cited this way in several other medieval sources. Abulafia uses the expression as well in Ḥ ayyei ha-Nefesh (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 82. 200 elliot r. wolfson and the Tetragrammaton41 and the homology of circumcision of the tongue (milat lashon) and circumcision of the foreskin (milat ma‘or) affirmed in Sefer Yesiraḥ ,42 a text that had an inordinate influence on shaping the phallomorphic nature of Jewish esotericism. To be sure, Abulafia posits a hierarchy such that the covenant of circumcision (associated with Abraham) promotes the perfection of the attributes of the body related to this world and the covenant of the tongue (associated with Moses) promotes the perfection of the attributes of the soul related to the world to come.43 Nonetheless, the literal circumcision of the male organ is not displaced by the metaphorical circumcision of the tongue or, as it is sometimes called, based on Deuteronomy 10:16 and 30:6, the circumcision of the heart,44 because there is no way to be conjoined to the spiritual except through the physical.45 Abulafia, as

41 wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 87–90, 216–18; idem, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 139–40; idem, Venturing Beyond, pp. 63–65. It seems that my focusing on this dimension of the prophetic kabbalah has provoked Idel, Ben, p. 371 n. 213, to contrast his “more metaphorical or allegorical” and hence “more universalist” reading of Abulafia and my more “concrete” and “particularistic” reading. This is obviously not the place to reply to this grossly misleading appraisal of my work, but suffice it to say that I do not deny the universal dimension of Abulafia’s prophetic kabbalah. What I do maintain is that the universal is enrooted in and radiates from the particular. See especially the citation and analysis of a passage from Abulafia’s Imrei Shefer in Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 203–4. I myself have said (Venturing Beyond, pp. 64–65 n. 201) that Idel’s approach is more abstract and disembodied than my own to the extent that he is willing to entertain the idea that the term “Jew” for Abulafia allegorically denotes one who has perfect knowledge of the name irrespective of ethnic identity. I recognize that the essence of Judaism consists of this universal knowledge, but I do not agree that Abulafia would have been inclined to divest this knowledge of its cultural-linguistic specificity. The promotion of this knowledge is dependent on the inherently incomparable comportment of the Jew. See Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, pp. 195–96. Appreciably, even after affirming that every human (kol adam) is the “fruit” of the divine and thus has the possibility of becoming an immaterial intellect, Abulafia extols the distinctiveness of the Jews and their unparallel closeness to God at length. 42 a. Peter Hayman, Sefer Yesira:̣ Edition, Translation and Text-Critical Commen- tary (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), § 3, pp. 67–69. 43 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, pp. 193, 285; idem, Mafteaḥ ha-Ra‘yon, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2002), p. 14. 44 abraham Abulafia, Or ha-Sekhel, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 45; Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 106. In both contexts, circumcision of the heart is connected to repentance. 45 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 286, cited in Wolfson, Venturing Beyond, p. 66. See also the passage from Imrei Shefer, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 1999), p. 48, translated there. On the rite of circumcision and esotericism, see Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 87–92, 194–95, 216–20. Abulafia’s attitude regarding the physical circumcision of the phallus and the spiritual circumcision of the tongue/mouth or the heart is discussed as well by Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 47–48, 160–61, 171–72, 223, 296, 302–3. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 201 other medieval Jews, roundly criticized Christians on this very point.46 Just as the Jew cannot reach the covenant of the tongue, which is the Torah or the Tetragrammaton, without the covenant of the phallus, so the non-Jew cannot have the same access to the former, since he has completely disposed of the latter. To cite one of many relevant texts: in Mafteaḥ ha-Ra‘yon, Abulafia writes that the “divine light is hidden, buried, and concealed from the eyes that are blind, and it is revealed, known, and comprehended by the eyes of the heart that are illumined on account of having been in the class of those who are circumcised in the commandments of the Torah.”47 Perhaps reversing the architec- tural representation in some medieval cathedrals of the synagoga as the blindfolded woman carrying a broken staff, Abulafia utilizes the image of blindness to characterize the non-Jews. Inverting another common Christian polemical trope, the Jews are the ones who possess the “eyes of the heart” that are illumined and capable of beholding the divine light in virtue of their being circumcised in the commandments of the Torah, which surely includes the commandment of circumcision. In the specific case of the non-Jew who won Abulafia’s favor, there is no mention of conversion, but, in the end, he does allegedly affirm— echoing a well-known rabbinic dictum48—two of the basic tenets of Judaism, the truth of the prophet and of scripture. It is possible that Abulafia alludes here to one of the most provocative secrets ofhis

46 For example, see Abulafia, Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 2. In expounding the second of the seven hermeneutical paths, what he calls perush, Abulafia gives the example of the directive to circumcise the foreskin of the heart (Deuteronomy 10:16), which cannot be interpreted literally and therefore is explained as figuratively signifying the need to repent. By contrast, he is disparaging of the Christians, referred to (on the basis of Ezekiel 44:7) as the “uncircumcised of the heart” (arlei lev) and the “uncircumcised of the flesh” (arlei vasar), for interpreting the physical circumcision figuratively rather than literally. See also Sitrei Torah, p. 97: Jesus is described as replacing circumcision with baptism on the “deceptive premise” that Jewish women become pure to their husbands through ritual immersion. As a consequence, those men who follow Jesus alter their gender from masculine to feminine (nishtanu mi-suraṭ zakhar le-suraṭ neqevah), an idea that Abulafia links to the scriptural expressions arlei lev and arlei vasar. Discarding circumcision is thus portrayed as a form of castration that effeminizes Christian males. Concerning this passage, see Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, p. 77. On idolatry and castration in Abulafia’s representation of Christianity, see ibid., pp. 159–72. As Sagerman duly notes, his Lacanian reading is inspired in part by my own reflections in Language, Eros, Being, pp. 128–131. On Abulafia’s insistence on preserving the rite of bodily circumcision as a possible polemic with Christianity, see Moshe Idel, “The Kabbalistic Interpretation of the Secret of ‘Arayot in Early Kab- balah,” Kabbalah: Journal for the Study of Jewish Mystical Texts 12 (2004): 167 n. 554 [in Hebrew]; Wolfson, Venturing Beyond, pp. 67–69. 47 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ra‘yon, p. 15. 48 see above, n. 40. 202 elliot r. wolfson kabbalah. Inasmuch as the Torah, mystically conceived, is the Active Intellect49—the last of the ten immaterial intellects in the medieval Aristotelian-Neoplatonic cosmology—it follows that in the moment of conjunction, the prophet (represented prototypically by Moses) is identical with the Torah. In Sefer ha-Ot, Abulafia hints at this secret: “Moses engraved all the eternal forms in the Tree of Life, whose script is carved on the tablets, in his likeness and in his image.”50 The comment that the script engraved on the tablets is in the likeness and image of Moses only makes sense if we assume that the latter is identical with the Torah, which is the divine name—hence, the letters of moshe are transposed into ha-shem.51 As Abulafia put it in the commentary to his Sefer ha-Edut, “This is the knowledge of God by means of the name [yedi‘at ha-shem ba-shem], for Moses knew God through the name [ki moshe yada ha-shem al pi ha-shem], and God also knew Moses by means of the name [we-gam ha-shem yada et moshe ba-shem].”52 That Moses serves as the paradigm for the potential prophetic accomplishment of each individual may be educed from Abulafia’s characterization in Osaṛ Eden Ganuz of the last of the seven hermeneutical paths, the “holy of holies” and the “seal within the seal,” as the comprehension of the kabbalistic principle that the Torah in its entirety consists of the names of God, which is based on the premise that each letter is a discrete name and therefore should stand on its own. After having passed through the sixth path, the atomistic decon- struction of verses into their component parts, or in Abulafia’s exact language, the restoration of all the letters to their prime matter,53 one embarks upon the final path, a reconfiguration of the letters such that it is “as if ” one “creates the words and their conventional meaning.”54 The act of poiesis induces a state of prophetic ecstasy, wherein the

49 Idel, Language, pp. 34–41, 79–80, 163 n. 33; idem, Absorbing Perfections: Kab- balah and Interpretation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), pp. 348–50. 50 Jellinek, “Sefer ha-Ôt,” p. 77. Compare Sefer ha-Edut, in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel, p. 65. 51 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 285; Sitrei Torah, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2002), p. 186; Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 18 (in that context, the letters of moshe and ha-shem are linked as well to metaṭ roṇ sar ha-panim, the angelic name of the Active Intellect). See Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 139 and 487 n. 209; Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, p. 305. 52 abulafia, Sefer ha-Edut, in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel, p. 68. See Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, p. 73. 53 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, pp. 379 and 381. Compare Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 4; Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, p. 27; Idel, Language, pp. 97–101. 54 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 382; Idel, Language, pp. 101–2. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 203 difference between internal and external is no longer operative55 and one imagines that one has produced the scriptural text in accordance with one’s will.56 Whether or not Abulafia had this in mind when reporting the aforementioned response of the non-Jew, his insisting that nothing more should be revealed with respect to him clearly suggests something of a very sensitive nature. At the very least, Abulafia intimates that the non-Jew was privy to the kabbalistic teaching generally reserved for Jews.57 It is relevant to recall that at the end of We-Zo’t li-Yehudah, the epistle written to Judah Salmon, Abulafia says there is little difference between the kabbalists who do not attend to the thought of their rational souls, that is, in contemporary scholarly parlance, the theosophic kabbalists, and the “tradition of the kabbalists from the rest of the nations” (qabbalat mequbbalei she’ar ummot).58 Abulafia does not elaborate on the substance of the kabbalah of the non-Jews, but the passage does seem to bolster the idea that he was cognizant

55 see the description of prophecy on the part of the ba‘alei ha-shemot, as opposed to the ba‘alei sefirot, in We-Zo’t li-Yehudah, in Adolph Jellinek, Auswahl kabbalistischer Mystik, vol. 1 (Leipzig; A. M. Colditz, 1853), p. 16: “until their inner word is conjoined to the primordial word [dibbur ha-qadmon, emended according to MSS Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale 774, fol. 64b and Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale 1092, fol. 160a] that is in the fountain of every word, and they ascend more from word to word until the inner, human word is a potency in itself, and it prepares itself to receive the divine word, whether from the side of the form of the word itself or from the side of the word itself.” On this aspect of Abulafia’s kabbalah, see Scholem, Major Trends, p. 142; Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 238–42. 56 see Abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 379. In Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, p. 27, Abu- lafia describes those who walk on the seventh path as being worthy of “producing [through] it a world, a language, and an understanding” (leḥaddesh lah olam lashon we-havanah). In Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 4, the seventh path, which is limited to the prophets, is similarly classified as the “holy of holies,” the “distinctive path that comprises all the other paths.” The understanding of prophecy is based, as Abulafia overtly notes, on the Maimonidean ideal of intellectual conjunction. But the philosophical approach is combined with the Jewish esoteric tradition, and thus prophecy is depicted as the “knowledge of the comprehension of the essence of the unique name,” which results in the Active Intellect’s creation of the divine word in the mouth of the visionary. For different translations and analyses of these passages, see Idel, Language, pp. 103–5. 57 For example, in Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 3, Abulafia describes the fifth of the seventh exegetical paths, the one that is related to the wisdom of letter-permutation, as exclusive to Jewish kabbalists (ḥakhmei ha-qabbalah ha-yisra’elim). The first four paths—the literal, commentarial, homiletical, and allegorical—are shared by Jews and non-Jews. See Abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, p. 27. 58 Jellinek, Auswahl kabbalistischer Mystik, p. 28. 204 elliot r. wolfson of some Christians promulgating esoteric wisdom, even though the context indicates that he was critical of such efforts. Here it is apposite to mention the section in Or ha-Sekhel where Abulafia employs a version of the widely circulated medieval parable of three rings. In Abulafia’s version, a king has a pearl that he wishes to bequeath to his son, but when the latter angers him, he hurls the pearl into a pit, waiting for the son to repent. Before the son complies to his father’s will, he is tormented by two of the king’s servants, who covet the pearl.59 The prince obviously refers to the Jews, the two servants to Christians and Muslims. The pearl is the truth that belongs, most properly, only to the Jews. There is no indication that Abulafia embraced an egalitarianism or ecumenism that would categorically dis- solve the differences between the three monotheistic faiths. It is surely not immaterial that the leitmotif of the section of the treatise in which the tale appears is the superiority of Hebrew to all other languages. The Jews are compared to a prince, the Christians and Muslims to servants. In the final analysis, Abulafia availed himself of the parable to undermine the credibility of Christianity and Islam as adequate expressions of the truth and to insinuate that even Judaism in its present state did not possess the truth in its entirety. In the messianic future, however, the pearl will be lifted from the pit and restored to the king’s son, and Judaism will fulfill its calling to be the “universal religion” (ha-dat ha- kelalit), which denotes the propensity through the Hebrew letters to stimulate the “divine overflow that moves the universal word [dibbur ha-kelali].”60 All three Abrahamic faiths contribute to the cultivation of the truth, but the Jews uniquely possess the knowledge that can bring about the redemption. Just as one cannot ascertain the “intelligible truth” except through the “sensible,”61 so the particular is necessary for the universal to be realized. Abulafia’s interpretation of the messianic promise “for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea” (Isaiah 11:9) drives home the point that the realization of a more universal state does not eradicate the ethnic particularity and the

59 abulafia, Or ha-Sekhel, pp. 34–35. See Idel, Studies, pp. 48–50; Iris Shagrir, “The Parable of the Three Rings: A Revision of Its History,” Journal of Medieval History 23 (1997): 171–72; Hames, Like Angels, pp. 66–69; Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, p. 58 n. 98. 60 abulafia, Or ha-Sekhel, p. 34. 61 Ibid. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 205 linguistic advantage appended thereto: “all will know the Lord . . . all will acknowledge from then that the holy language is the privileged of all languages. Therefore, what was known to the prophets was known in the secret of the explicit name, which was not known apart from them to any other individual from the human species.”62 Hebrew is the “first matter” (ḥomer ha-ri’shon) whence all languages originate and to which they should be returned through the meditational practice,63 an idea supported frequently by the numerical equivalence of seruf̣ ha- otiyyot (“permutation of the letters”) and shiv‘im leshonot (“seventy languages”)—the sum of both is 1214.64 I grant that the metaphysical significance ofH ebrew as the Ursprache is to be sought not in existing semantic morphemes but in its phonemic and graphemic potentiality.65 I also concede that Abulafia’s conception of Hebrew as comprising all seventy languages allows him to use Greek, Latin, or Arabic in order to corroborate a point linguistically or numerologically.66 The utopian vision led Abulafia to believe that every nation—Christianity and Islam are singled out as representative of all the rest—would acquire knowledge of the name. An interesting iteration of this theme is found in Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot. Abulafia links Hebrew, Arabic, and the “script of the Christians” (ketivat ha-nosriṃ ), which I assume refers to either Greek or Latin, to the seventy-two- letter name derived from Exodus 14:19–21, since all languages are contained in these three. The manner in which the name is permutated on the basis of these verses signifies that “in the future, in the days of

62 Ibid., pp. 35–36. 63 see above, n. 53. See also Abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 334. 64 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, pp. 77, 95, 313, 381; Or ha-Sekhel, p. 85; Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 17; Sitrei Torah, pp. 37, 89, 144; Imrei Shefer, p. 183; Ḥ ayyei ha-Nefesh, p. 122; Sefer ha-Ḥ ayyim, in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel, p. 81; Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, p. 106; Shomer Miswaḥ , ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2001), p. 16. See Scholem, Major Trends, p. 381 n. 53; idem, “The Name of God and the Linguistic Theory of the Kabbala,” Diogenes 80 (1972): 190–93; Idel, Language, pp. 9 and 142 n. 47; Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, p. 62; Hames, Like Angels, pp. 134–35 n. 24. 65 moshe Idel, “The Infant Experiment: The Search for the First Language,” in The Language of Adam: Die Sprache Adams, ed. Allison P. Coudert (Wiesbaden: Harras- sowitz, 1999), pp. 70–71, and my rejoinder in Language, Eros, Being, pp. 203–4. 66 see, for example, Abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 344. See ibid., p. 121: “The faculty of speech is the natural, human form by means of which the human is distinguished from the rest of the living beings. And this faculty is entirely the speech innate in the human in the seventy languages through the permutation of the twenty-two letters, and it is the faculty that is found potentially in every speech and it goes out in its form from potentiality to actuality time after time.” 206 elliot r. wolfson the final redeemer,67 all three will know God through the name, as it says ‘For then I will make the nations pure of speech, so that they will invoke the Lord by name and serve him with one accord’ (Zephaniah 3:9).”68 While this is surely astounding, Hebrew is still distinguished as the language of revelation. As Abulafia writes in Sitrei Torah, “the beginning of the truth of prophecy is the inner speech created in the soul through the seventy languages in the twenty-two holy letters. And all of them are purified [mesurafiṃ ] in the heart through the permutation of letters [be-seruf̣ ha-otiyyot] in potentiality from the aspect of the faculty of speech and in actuality from the aspect of the Active Intellect.”69 Restating this theme in Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, Abulafia describes the “essence of prophecy in truth and the cause of its existence” as “the word reaching the prophets from God by means of the perfect language that comprises beneath itself the seventy languages, and this is the holy language exclusively, which is subsumed under the twenty-two holy letters.”70 The universalism of Abulafia’s message notwithstanding, he unwaveringly distinguishes Hebrew and the other languages. The messianic future is thus described as a state in which the other nations will attest to the preeminence of Hebrew and, by extension, the Jewish people, a verity based on rational demonstration and scriptural proof.71 There is a fundamental inconsistency in Abu- lafia’s thinking: all languages are thought to be comprised in Hebrew and yet, the latter alone is tagged as the natural language. Tellingly, in Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, after stating that he follows the view of Aver- roës and Maimonides regarding the conventionality of all languages with the exception of Hebrew, Abulafia admits that this matter is not

67 The title applies to Abulafia, insofar as he is charged with the mission todis- seminate the salvific knowledge of the name. See ibid., p. 82, where Abulafia sub- stantiates his messianic duty by offering a kabbalistic exegesis of the verse “Behold my enlightened servant shall be elevated, exalted and raised to great heights” (Isaiah 52:13): “Elevated above Moses, exalted above Abraham, and raised above the ministering angels, higher than all other human beings.” 68 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 81. 69 abulafia, Sitrei Torah, p. 138. 70 abulafia, Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, pp. 8–9. See the introduction to Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, p. 9, where Abulafia laments that because of the exile Jews speak foreign languages, even when studying Torah, and thus he sets as his task to reinstate the glory of the holy language, the “beginning all existence,” to the holy nation. See ibid., p. 38. 71 Mafteaḥ ha-Ra‘yon, p. 24. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 207 subject to rational deliberation; it must be accepted on the basis of prophetic authority.72 Further confirmation of Abulafia’s bias is found in a passage from Osaṛ Eden Ganuz in which he defends the proposition that Jews are the “chosen nation of all the nations in relation to God” and that their religion73 is “above all the languages.” Dismissing the stock argument that Jews are in a depraved and diminished state, Abulafia insists that Israel has not lost its unique standing. Even if their actual condition might not justify this assertion, their potentiality, which derives from the three instruments entrusted to them, the law (torah), the oral language (lashon), and the written script (mikhtav), assures them of their unrivaled supremacy. The possibility of repentance, by which they may reclaim their divine status, is thus always open to them. Responding to the hypothetical query that Jesus and Muhammad both harbored the intention to unify the name, Abulafia writes: “I would say to you that this is true if I could discern from what they innovated a physical, psychical, and intellectual benefit in relation to that from which they separated, for both of them were from the class of our nation, and they innovated things that distanced those who are close to God.” Abulafia then goes on to brand many non-Jews as “fools” (shotiṃ ), but he avows that those who have “already recognized the truth” may be considered “perfect” (shalem). These individuals, who are “drawn after” the Jewish people, are designated “the pious of the nations of the world, who have a share in the world to come.”74 Despite the positive role accorded to Christianity and Islam, a careful scrutiny of the full context of this text patently demonstrates that Abulafia does not abandon the ethnocentric privileging of Judaism as culturally and linguistically exceptional. Even the fact that the righteous

72 abulafia, Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, pp. 16–17. A portion of this passage is translated and analyzed in Idel, Language, pp. 12–13. .preserved in MS Oxford-Bodleian 1580, fol שדתינו according to the reading 73 .ועדתינו 93a; the printed text (see following note) mistakenly reads 74 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, pp. 192–93. See Hames, Like Angels, pp. 64–65; Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 75–76. On the righteous or pious of the nations of the world attaining the world to come, see Tosefta, Sanhedrin 13:2; Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 105a; Moses Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 3:5; Hilkhot Melakhim 8:11. It is probable that Abulafia was influenced by the Maimonidean formulations, which have been discussed by many scholars. Finally, I note that in Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 49, the “souls of the pious of the nations of the world” together with the “souls of the righteous of Israel” are described as being incorporeal intellects, who are worthy of meriting the life of the world to come. 208 elliot r. wolfson

Gentiles are called the “pious of the nations of the world” (ḥasidei ummot olam) is instructive: the pious individual (ḥasid) is on a lower level than the prophet (navi), a classification that is restricted to the Jewish people. Thus, in the continuation of the passage, he notes that the Jews, who are from the seed of Judah, are called yehudim, for they “admit the truth and say ‘More than all the goods of this world, it is sufficient for us to have knowledge of the name.’ ” The inimitable destiny of the Jews is to cultivate and propagate this soterial knowledge— are rearranged as yh”w dayam (יהודים) the letters of the word yehudim that is, it is sufficient (dayam) for them to call upon the ,(יהו דים) name (yh”w). Assuredly, this knowledge imparts to Jews a mission of universal proportions, but they can fulfill that destiny only as members of a particular religion, one constrained by specific rites and beliefs that cannot be abrogated. Even if we were to accept that in Abulafia there is a “progression to the true faith based on the knowledge of the Divine name which supersedes the Jewish religion as it is practiced today and will unify humanity,” it is not evident that his “ideal was of a universal redemption and perfection, regardless of the faith that people belong to, in the knowledge of God through knowledge of the Holy Name.”75 The universal is not only achieved through the agency of the particular, but its very instantiation preserves the particularity. Knowledge of the name, on this score, does not supersede Judaism but rather expresses its innermost spiritual essence.

Accursed of God: Jesusolatry and the Temptation of Christ

On other occasions Abulafia portrays Christianity with standard derogatory images, for instance, referring to Jesus as the “bastard son of a menstruant” and denigrating those who worship him as idolaters.76 Jesus and Mary are explicitly identified as the “alien gods of the land”

75 hames, Like Angels, p. 69. The author concurs with Idel’s stance (see p.136 n. 31). See also Phillipe Gardette, Djalâl-od-Dîn Rûmî, Raymond Lulle, Rabbi Abra- ham Aboulafia ou l’amour du dialogue interconfessionnel (Istanbul: Les Éditions Isis, 2002), pp. 77–86. 76 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 130; Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, p. 47; Sefer ha-Ḥ ayyim, in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel, p. 83; Sitrei Torah, p. 97; Idel, Studies, pp. 52–53; Wolfson, Venturing Beyond, p. 137 n. 27; Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 45–49, 304. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 209

(Deuteronomy 31:16).77 For Abulafia, the charge of idolatry is to be understood in the Maimonidean sense of ascribing corporeality to the divine, which is an epistemological error that arises from a false imagination.78 The belief in Jesus as the incarnation of the divine epitomizes the demonic potential of the imagination, a point accentuated by the fact that the words dimyon and daemon are made up of the same letters.79 In Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, Abulafia decodes the word sataṇ as an acrostic for sekhel (intellect), tevạ (nature), and nefesh (soul); the title “absolute Satan” is applied to the soul prevented from comprehending the influx (shefa) of the divine in the universe. Although no mention is made of Jesus or Christianity, I do not think it inappropriate to apply this characterization to the Christian topos of incarnation of which Abulafia is severely critical.80 One of the more strident reproaches appears in Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot. Abulafia writes that the “Greek Christians” call the Messiah “anti- Christ,” for he “stands opposite [Jesus] to notify everyone that his saying to the Christians that he is God, and the son of God, is a complete lie, for he did not receive the power from the unique name but rather all his power hangs on the image of the Teli, which is hanging on the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.”81 The true Messiah, by contrast, is suspended from the Tree of Life. It would seem that the intent of this text is that Abulafia is the Jewish messianic figure who rises to expose the deceit of the Christian savior and therefore he is called the anti-Christ;82 the former corresponds to the Tree of Life, the intellect

77 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 125. In Sitrei Torah, p. 97, the expression “alien gods” is applied to Jesus alone based on the fact that yeshu and elohei nekhar both equal 316. See Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, p. 77. 78 abulafia, Sitrei Torah, pp. 59–60, and compare the analysis of this text in Sager- man, The Serpent Kills, pp. 196–97. See also Idel, Messianic Mystics, pp. 62, 97–99; Wolfson, Venturing Beyond, pp. 61–62; idem, “Kenotic Overflow and Temporal Tran- scendence: Angelic Embodiment and the Alterity of Time in Abraham Abulafia,” Kabbalah: Journal for the Study of Jewish Mystical Texts 18 (2008): 162–63. On the false imagination (dimyon ha-shiqri or dimyon shiqri), see Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Nefesh, p. 110; Mafteaḥ ha-Ra‘yon, pp. 16 and 24; and Sefer ha-Melammed, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2002), p. 17. 79 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 121; Idel, Language, pp. 21, 56–57; idem, Studies, pp. 35–39; Wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” p. 147. 80 Idel, Ben, pp. 61 and 330. 81 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 130. 82 Berger, “The Messianic Self-Consciousness,” p. 252; Idel, Studies, p. 52; Hames, Like Angels, pp. 80–81; and Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, p. 83 n. 144. The presump- tion that there were actual Christians who proclaimed Abulafia to be the anti-Christ insofar as he exposed the spuriousness of Jesus is preposterous. We have once again an 210 elliot r. wolfson or form, and the latter to the Tree of Knowledge, the imagination or matter, also represented by the astrological image of the Teli, the astral serpent-dragon.83 In Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, Abulafia invokes the numerological equivalence of the words ha-naḥash and ha-mashiaḥ (both equal 363) to ground the idea that the serpent who deceived Eve and brought transgression to the world is a prefiguration of Jesus, a point validated by the fact that the numerical value of the word arum, “cunning,” which describes the serpent (Genesis 3:1), when written out in full, ay”n r”sh w”w m”m (70 + 10 + 50 + 200 + 300 + 6 + 6 + 40 + 40 = 722), is the same as the expression arum min yeshu (70 + 200 + 6 + 40 + 40 + 50 + 10 + 300 + 6 = 722), which signifies that the wili- ness of the snake derives from Jesus, that is, the serpentine craftiness is related to the power of magic, echoing the longstanding polemical depiction of Jesus in particular or the Christians more generally.84 To return to the text of Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot: Abulafia satirically interprets the eucharistic images of the bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, which are correlated typologically to the dreams of the baker and cupbearer of Pharaoh as interpreted by Joseph (Gen- esis 40:5–19). The bread is identified as the corpus daemones, which is glossed as the “bodies of demons [gufei shedim], the opposite of dominus, whose matter is spiritual and divine.”85 Rather than being the body of God, corpus domini, Jesus is the body of the demon, the force of Satan, which, for Abulafia, connotes the imaginative faculty that has the capacity to deceive. Christians are denigrated as “fools” for thinking that the powers they venerate are divine; the bread, which is a

example of Abulafia fabricating reality in order to make a didactic point. It is striking how little self-reflection there has been on the part of scholars assessing the claims to factuality made by a man of such considerable imaginative skills as Abulafia. 83 see Abulafia, Sitrei Torah, p. 144; Mafteaḥ ha-Sefirot, ed. Amnon Gross (Jeru- salem, 2001), p. 85, where the Teli is connected to the “copper serpent” (Num 21:9), whose power is magic; Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, p. 8. On the astrological symbol of the Teli in Abulafia, see Idel, Studies, pp. 77–78; Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, p. 145 n. 135. This image, and especially its connection to Jesus, has been explored most extensively by Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 139–40, 185, 187, 189–90, 191–97, 204, 208, 211–16, 218, 220, 222, 227–29, 233, 239–42, 245–46, 248, 253, 255–61, 263, 265–66, 308, 326, 332–33, 349–50; and see reference to Hames in the following note. 84 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Ḥ okhmot, pp. 64–65. See Hames, Like Angels, pp. 77–78. On the association of Jesus and/or Christianity and magic, see sources cited in Wolf- son, Venturing Beyond, pp. 44 n. 112, 140–41, and further reference to Abulafia cited on p. 141 n. 47. 85 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 131. I mention this text briefly in Venturing Beyond, p. 63 n. 195. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 211 matter of carnal desire, is offered as a sacrificio, but it is, in fact, sheqer officio, that is, “false worship” (avodat sheqer). By deifying Jesus, therefore, Christians are guilty of bearing false witness, as their sacramen- (שקריטו) tum is veritably sheqer mendo, an “erroneous lie.” The secreto -which Abulafia con ,(קרשטו) can be transposed into the name christo strues as a hybrid of the Hebrew sheqer and the Latin tu, that is, “you are a lie.” On the basis of this wordplay, the fallacy of the Trinity is laid bare: “Thus they say to him ‘you are a lie’ [sheqer attah], for [the word] sheloshah [three] is numerically equal to sheqer we-khazav [lie and deception].86 Whoever thinks that God is divisible into two, three, or more persons, is an idolater and a heretic.”87 Abulafia similarly undermines the eucharistic symbol of the wine by transposing (through the principle of numerical equivalence) the word ha-sarigim, “vines,” into sarei moaḥ, “archons of the brain,” or sarei yovel, “archons of the jubilee,” which is also sar magiyah, “archon of magic.”88 In a passage from Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, Abulafia offers a philosophical critique of the Christian incarnation in the context of eluci- dating the admonition against heeding the enticement of a prophet or a dream-diviner to worship another god, even if a sign or portent that he named comes true (Deuteronomy 13:2–6): As far as the claim of the Christians concerning that man who is known,89 Jesus, that he performed wonders, and their reason is to be able to worship him as a god, it is possible to say that “[your God] is testing you” (ibid., 4). With respect to every perfect sage, and all the more so the true prophets, that God will be materialized [she-yitgashem ha-shem]

86 That is, the numerical value of both expressions is 635. The numerology appears as well in Abraham Abulafia, Sefer ha-Ḥ esheq, ed. Amon Gross (Jerusalem, 2002), p. 54: “If a man should say to you that the divinity is three [ha-elohut sheloshah], tell him [that is] sheqer we-khazav, for [the word] sheloshah is numerically equal to sheqer we-khazav.” See also Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 26; Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 87. 87 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, pp. 132–33. The passage is partially translated and discussed in Hames, Like Angels, p. 82. In We-Zo’t li-Yehudah, Abulafia’s com- pares the delineation of the ten emanations by the “masters of the sefirotic kabbalah” (ba‘alei ha-qabbalah ha-sefirot) to the trinitarian belief of the Christians (Jellinek, Aus- wahl kabbalistischer Mystik, p. 19). See Isaiah Tishby, The Wisdom of the Zohar: An Anthology of Texts, trans. David Goldstein (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), p. 974; Idel, Studies, pp. 55–56 n. 8; Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, p. 131. 88 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 134. 89 In this instance, the Hebrew expression ha-ish ha-yadu‘a is likely meant to echo the well-known Latin phrase ecce homo, the Vulgate translation of the words ascribed to Pontius Pilate, idou ho anthrōpos (John 19:5) when the scourged Jesus appears before him wearing a crown of thorns and a purple robe. 212 elliot r. wolfson

is absolutely impossible [nimna be-takhlit ha-meni‘ah]. No wondrous deed is sufficient to refute the knowledge of this faith, and there is no rational proof at all in the hand of those who believe in the incarnation [ma’aminei ha-higashmut].90 On the face of it, Abulafia ridicules the literal understanding of the incarnation on both rational and supernatural grounds. Addressing directly the death of Jesus and the accusation by Christians that the Jews are guilty of deicide, Abulafia contrasts the death of Moses by a kiss91 with the punishment of crucifixion handed to Jesus because he was a false prophet, a sentence justified scripturally by the words ki qillat elohim taluy (Deuteronomy 21:23), which Abulafia reads as “the accursed of God will hang.”92

Serpent/Rod: Overcoming the Polarity of Truth and Deception

Jesus personifies the supreme deception and the Jewish messiah the supreme truth. But if the mystery of the name dictates, as Abulafia insists, a coincidence of opposites, can the extreme dichotomization of truth and deceit be upheld? The paradoxical conception is expressed ontically by the androgynous image of Metatron as angelic and satanic, and psychologically as the good and evil inclinations in each person. The soul transformed into this angel—the figurative way that Abulafia labels conjunction with the Active Intellect93—imitates the divine by integrating opposites in its own being,94 a process referred

90 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, p. 66. 91 see Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 180–84; Michael Fishbane, The Kiss of God: Spiritual and Mystical Death in Judaism (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1994), 39–44. 92 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Tokhaḥot, pp. 76–77. 93 scholem, Major Trends, pp. 139–40; Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 116–19. 94 wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 172–73 n. 213; idem, “Kenotic Overflow,” pp. 150, 155–57. See Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 113, where the rank of angel (mal’akh) is attributed to one who “returns from opposite to opposite.” I don’t mean to deny that there are passages in Abulafia’s writings where he portrays truth and deception in a more dichotomous fashion. For example, in Sitrei Torah, pp. 96–97, the Christians are described as not having the “scales of wisdom” in their hearts to “discriminate truth and deception.” See also the first paragraph of Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 43, where Abulafia instructs his reader “to love truth and to despise deceit.” The introduction is not found in all the manuscripts of this treatise; see, for example, MSS Moscow- Günzberg 133 and Braginsky 251, available at http://www.braginskycollection.com/start .php (I thank Avi Solomon for drawing this manuscript to my attention). Assuming textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 213 to as the “secret of inversion” (sod ha-hippukh) or as the “inversion of attributes” (hithappekhut ha-middot).95 In one striking passage in Sitrei Torah, Abulafia applies the former expression to the transmuta- tion of the rod cast by Aaron before Pharaoh into a serpent (Exodus 7:8–10). That the serpent in this context alludes to Jesus, and the rod, by implication, to the power of the Jewish redeemer—the status of Aaron as the high priest is not insignificant, since for Abulafia the scripturally mandated rite of anointment juxtaposes the messianic and the priestly96—may be teased out from the web of verses spun by Abu- lafia’s exegetical dexterity: When you discern the serpent, who is called the “fleeing serpent” [naḥash bariaḥ] and the “crooked serpent” [naḥash aqallaton], you will discern the secret of what is said: “The prominent97 elder is the head; the prophet who teaches lies is the tail” (Isaiah 9:14), “The Lord will make you the head, not the tail” (Deuteronomy 28:13), “Take in your hand the rod that turned into a serpent” (Exodus 7:15), and it says “[he cast it on the ground] and it became a serpent, and Moses recoiled from it” (ibid., 4:3), and it says “[Then the Lord said to Moses,] ‘Put out your hand and grasp it by the tail,’ and he put out his hand and seized it, and it became a rod in his palm” (ibid., 4). . . . The entire secret of the rod that turned into a serpent is made known to you, and its reality is explained in the secret of the inversion.98 The twofold description of Leviathan as the “fleeing serpent” and the “crooked serpent” (Isaiah 27:1) refers to the twofold nature of the demonic force. The serpent is identified further as the tail that is set in contrast to the head, the former designated as the prophet who gives false instruction and the latter as the elder of the prominent countenance. To decipher this we must bear in mind that the images of the elder (zaqen) and the youth (na‘ar) denote the Janus quality

these words were written by Abulafia, we can still make the following distinction: in the initial stage of entering the path, the language of polarity is appropriate, but at a more advanced stage, there is a collapse of that very polarity in the discernment that the opposites are identical. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that only by separating truth and deception can one come to apprehend that there is no truth without deception and no deception without truth. 95 wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, p. 59 n. 167. 96 Idel, Messianic Mystics, pp. 94–97. 97 I am translating the Hebrew nesu panim in accord with what I take to be Abu- lafia’s own understanding. The literal sense relays the more negative connotation of practicing partiality. 98 abulafia, Sitrei Torah, pp. 33–34. I mentioned this text briefly in Abraham Abu- lafia, p. 59 n. 167, and see the analysis in Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 236–37. 214 elliot r. wolfson of Metatron, the “fount of the double life” (meqor ḥayyim kefulim).99 Abulafia divulges the secret of the dual deportment in sundry ways, for example, the first and last of the ten separate intellects;100 the angel of the moon with her dark and light phase;101 the draconic constellation of the Teli, which is associated, as we have seen, with the figure of Jesus;102 and the Torah as an elixir of life or as a drug of death.103 It is reasonable to assume, moreover, that the deceptive prophet is an allusion to Jesus and the prominent elder to the Jewish messiah. This con- jecture is strengthened by the images of the rod and the serpent: the latter symbolizes the demonic potency of the feigned messiah, and the former the divine potency of the genuine messiah.104 Abulafia anchors this idea in the scriptural claim that the serpent became a rod in the palm of Moses, wa-yehi matṭ eḥ be-khappo (Exodus 4:4), for the word be-khappo can be read as be-kaf waw, that is, “by means of twenty-six,” an allusion to the Tetragrammaton, whose numerology is twenty-six, marked in Hebrew characters as kaf waw. Through the power of the name, entrusted to the hand of Moses, the “first redeemer” ( go’el ha- ri’shon), the serpent becomes the rod. Inasmuch as Abulafia understood his mission messianically as disseminating the mystical regimen

99 The image is derived from Abulafia’s description of the source of the letters in the poem emet sullam ber’o suṛ lehorot, which begins the second part of Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 5. I hope to translate and comment on this poem in a separate study. 100 Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 117–18, 165 n. 206; Wolfson, Abraham Abu- lafia, pp. 83–85 nn. 263–64, 140 n. 123, 143–44 n. 135. 101 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 56; idem, Ḥ otam ha-Haftaraḥ , in Masref̣ ha- Sekhel, p. 112, previously cited and analyzed in Wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” pp. 155–56 n. 85. In the first passage, the good and evil aspects of Metatron, the light and dark side of the moon, are connected to the attributes of mercy and judgment, and in the second passage, to Mordecai and Haman. Abulafia refers to the rabbinic custom (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 7b) that one should become so inebriated on Purim that the distinction between the hero Mordecai and the villain Haman is blurred, an idea supported by the numerical equivalence of the expressions “cursed is Haman” (arur haman = 502) and “blessed is Mordecai” (barukh mordecai = 502). 102 see above, n. 83. 103 abulafia, Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 8. See Wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” p. 161 n. 109. 104 see Abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Sefirot, p. 84. Commenting on God’s instruction to Moses and Aaron to take the rod in hand and to speak to the rock in order to draw water therefrom (Numbers 20:7–8), Abulafia sets the parallel between the rod and the tongue such that hitting the rock by means of the former is equivalent to speaking to it by means of the latter. Abulafia’s recasting of the biblical images is reminiscent of the two covenants specified in Sefer Yesiraḥ (see above, n. 42), as noted by Sager- man, The Serpent Kills, p. 237. On the role of these covenants in Abulafia’s mystical scheme, see Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 87–90, 194–95, 216–20; idem, Venturing Beyond, pp. 63–69. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 215 that culminates in knowledge of the name, it is not unreasonable to assume that he saw himself as Moses redivivus, the “final redeemer” ( go’el ha-aḥaron).105 The dualistic tone of passages such as these is unmistakable, but there are others in which Abulafia enunciated a far more harmonistic perspective. This is implied in the aforecited text from Sitrei Torah where one thing is described as turning into its opposite. In another passage from this treatise, the principle of the coincidentia opposi- torum is applied specifically to the relationship between Jews and non-Jews: The bodies of all the nations on the face of the earth are uncircumcised [ gufam arel], and they are nothing but amorphous mass and dust [ golem we-afar].106 . . . Therefore, we inherited the splendor of the fes- tivity to distinguish us from every nation, which is profane in relation to him and we are holy unto him. They are the blood and we are the religion, for “From his right hand was a fiery law” (Deuteronomy 33:3). He revealed to us that the attribute of his right is the attribute of his left, and the attribute of his left is the attribute of his right, for there is no left107 above. “Your right hand, O Lord, is glorious in power, Your right hand, O Lord, shatters the enemy” (Exodus 15:6).108 The obligation on the Jews to commemorate the three annual festivals distinguishes them in their holiness from the mundane status of the Gentiles. The discord between the two is underscored by allocating the term “religion” (dat) to the Jew and the term “blood” (dam) to the non- Jew. Abulafia closes the gap, however, by interpreting the description of

105 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 109, and see above, n. 67. On Abulafia’s self- perception in relation to Moses, see Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 140–41. On the connection between Moses and the Messiah, see the recent survey, which includes references to previous scholars, by Semadar Cherlow, “How Moses Became the Messiah? From Tikkunei-Zohar to Rav Kook’s Mystical Mission,” in Moses the Man—Master of the Prophets in the Light of Interpretation Throughout the Ages, ed. Moshe Hallamish, Hannah Kasher, and Hanokh Ben-Pazi (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2010), pp. 449–81, esp. 449–54 [in Hebrew]. 106 That is, the letters of gufam arel are the same as golem we-afar. 107 The printed edition (see n. 105) reads here “no left or right,” but I have followed the version preserved in MS Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale héb. 774, fol. 153a, which is a more accurate rendering of the rabbinic text to which Abulafia is referring (see n. 109). 108 abulafia, Sitrei Torah, p. 132. In the introduction to the same treatise, p. 9, Abulafia insists that for the “masters of truth” (ba‘alei ha-emet) the “true intention” of the wisdom of letter-permutation is to discern the difference between truth and falsity and between good and evil. It is for this reason that opposites are contained in the combination of letters. 216 elliot r. wolfson the Torah as a “fiery law” (esh dat) that comes from the right hand of God, that is, the quality of fire, which is usually associated with the left, is here apportioned to the right, whence we know that “the attribute of his right is the attribute of his left, and the attribute of his left is the attribute of his right.” To shore up his argument, Abulafia summons the rabbinic teaching that there is no left above,109 which signals that the dichotomy between sacred Israel and the unholy nations is sur- mounted by the paradoxical identification of the right and left. The adept who acquires mystical insight discerns that thetwo aspects, which appear antinomical from the more pedestrian point of view informed by the law of contradiction, are in reality identified. In Sefer ha-Melis,̣ Abulafia transmitted the secret in the following way: “And this is the spirit of Samael, and know that its opposite110 is the angel, and from him you will know that the merciful one is the judge and also that the judge is the merciful one.”111 As Abulafia expressed the esoteric wisdom in Ish Adam, one who visualizes Metatron in the “countenance of the living man” comes to know that “death is life, and that life, too, is death, and that if the living die, the dead shall live.”112 Reiterating the theme in Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, Abulafia writes: “And the eminent secret that one must know is that his head is in the tail and his tail is in the head.”113 Elsewhere in this treatise, Abulafia ties this insight to the characterization of the sefirot in the first part of Sefer Yesiraḥ ,114 “their end is fixed in their beginning, and their beginning in their end, like the flame bound to the coal”: “The secret of the ‘coal’ [gaḥelet] is ‘truth’ [emet], and the secret of the bond [qesher] is deceit [sheqer], as in the matter of our existence, that is, in deceit there is truth [ki ha-sheqer bo emet].”115

109 Shir ha-Shirim Rabbah 1:13. 110 I have here followed the reading temuro in MS Munich 285, fol. 15a, rather than ḥomro, “his materiality,” according to the printed text (see following note). 111 abulafia, Sefer ha-Melis,̣ p. 28. It is of interest to note that in the same text, Abulafia uses the image of “circular ladder” (sullam agol) to portray visually the mystical comprehension of the Tree of Knowledge (ibid., p. 30). See Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 109–11. Without entering into the details of this image, I merely note that it corresponds precisely to the idea of linear circularity that I have articulated in “Kenotic Overflow” in an effort to characterize the nature of temporality in Abulafia’s kabbalah. 112 abraham Abulafia, Ish Adam, in Masref̣ ha-Sekhel, p. 44. 113 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 243. 114 hayman, Sefer Yesirạ , §6, pp. 74–75. 115 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 20. This passage, as well as the one referenced below at n. 117, have been previously cited and analyzed in Wolfson, “Kenotic Over- flow,” pp. 154–55. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 217

The mystery of the coincidence of opposites is educed from the uro- boric representation of the sefirot, an idea that is substantiated exegeti- cally by the numerical equivalence of gaḥelet (3 + 8 + 30 + 400 = 441) and emet (1 + 40 + 400 = 441), and by the transposition of qesher into sheqer (they are composed of the same consonants and thus both numerically equal 600). The unity of the sefirot illustrates that in every falsehood there is truthfulness; by the logic of the paradox, we must suppose the inverse as well, and thus in every truthfulness there is falsehood.116 For the prophet, there is no binary opposition; the three matrix letters delineated in the second part of Sefer Yesiraḥ —alef, mem, and shin—form the acrostic emet makhri‘a sheqer, “truth medi- ates deception,” and hence the “deceptive truth” (ha-emet shiqri) is the “truthful deception” (ha-sheqer amitti). Through the faculty of the intellect, the enlightened one (maskil) can make the deception true (ye’ammet ha-sheqer) and the truth deceptive (yeshaqqer ha-emet).117

(Dis)incarnating the Flesh into Word

The ruse associated with Jesus, as we have seen, is the fallacious belief in the somatic incarnation, which is fostered by a faulty imagination that conceives of God anthropomorphically, but, like all deceptions, in this one there must be truth. The deceptive truth—the true fiction, as it were, the truth that is true because of the untruth of its truth— is related to the imaginal form of the angel, the concretization of the divine efflux, which is envisioned by the individual who has been ecstatically transmogrified into an angelic body through knowledge of the name. This transmogrification is facilitated by the permutation of the letters, a process that is referred to by one of Abulafia’s disciples as malbush, the taking on of the garment.118 This knowledge, and not

116 The logical inference of the reversal was not always drawn by kabbalists. For instance, compare Sefer ha-Peli’ah (Przemyśl, 1883), pt. 1, 32b: “From the lie the truth will be clarified, for the truth is contained in the lie, but the lie is not contained in the truth.” The asymmetry implied in this statement is not logically defensible, for if truth is contained in the lie, then, analogously, the lie should be contained in the truth. 117 abulafia, Osaṛ Eden Ganuz, p. 111. Compare Sheva Netivot ha-Torah, p. 9, where Abulafia describes the Tree of Life, in contrast to the Tree of Death, that is, the Tree of Knowledge, as revealing truth and falsity. Truth consists of affirming the “existing reality,” whereas falsity is the “privation of existence.” To discern this difference constitutes partaking of the eternal life. 118 The text is cited and analyzed in Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 234–36. Although my name is not mentioned, Idel, Ben, p. 103 n. 187, evidently has me in mind 218 elliot r. wolfson belief in the messianic savior, the hypostasis of the triune God, is the mechanism that brings about “eternal salvation” (teshu‘at olamim).119 As Abulafia remarked in We-Zo’t li-Yehudah, “When I attained [the knowledge of ] the names, and when I loosened the knots of the seal, the Lord of everything was revealed to me, and he disclosed to me his secret, and he advised me of the termination of the exile and the time of the beginning of the redemption, and of the redeemer of blood.”120 The expression go’el ha-dam is the scriptural idiom for the one who avenges the blood of a relative who has been murdered (Numbers 35:10–28). For Abulafia, it signifies the messianic task of liberating matter or the imagination represented by the image of blood, which is usually paired with ink, the symbol of form or the intellect.121 There may also be a subtle jab at the Christian belief in the redemptive value of the sacrificial blood of Jesus.122 The true redeemer of blood is not when he writes that “Abulafia’s view of the concept of Malbush—the garment—is in my opinion quite different from incarnation. It deals with the imaginary representation of the mystic’s self as part of a revelation or an experience.” For further elucidation of this theme, see Natan ben Sa‘adyah Har’ar, Le Porte Della Giustizia: Ša‘are Sedeq̣ , ed. and with an essay by Moshe Idel, Italian edition ed. Maurizio Mottolese (Milan: Adelphi Edizioni, 2001), pp. 245–49. It behooves me to respond that a careful reading of my analysis shows that I state unambiguously that, for Abulafia, the object of vision is not a physical body but an internal psychic image projected outward. I contend, however, that the heart of the prophet or mystic is a “translucent mirror” in which the internal is externalized at the same time that the external is internalized, a double mirroring in which the “difference of identity between seer and seen is overcome in the identity of their difference” (Language, Eros, Being, p. 235). To do justice to my point of view, one must take full measure of this paradox. See below, n. 125. 119 Jellinek, “Sefer ha-Ôt,” p. 76. Compare Abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 126: the messianic coming is delineated as the mentioning of the name (hazkarat ha- shem) on the part of the redeemer. The word hazkarah is linked through numerical equivalence to harkavah (both have the value of 237) to indicate that it is through letter-combination that the messiah mentions the name and brings about the light of remembrance (zikkaron), which dispels the darkness of forgetfulness associated symbolically with Amaleq. On the messianic nature of the revelation of Abulafia’s kabbalistic path, see also the self-justification in We-Zo’t li-Yehudah, in Jellinek, Auswahl kabbalistischer Mystik, p. 18. 120 Jellinek, Auswahl kabbalistischer Mystik, p. 18. 121 Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 96–99, 112–13, 157–58 n. 138; idem, Absorbing Perfections, pp. 443–44. 122 an implicit polemic against Christianity may be found in the following passage from Sitrei Torah, pp. 170–71: “Know that Adam and Eve [adam we-ḥawah = 45 + 25 = 70] numerically equal ‘my father and my mother’ [avi we-imi = 13 + 57 = 70], and their secret is blood and ink [dam wi-deyo = 44 + 26 = 70]. . . . Know that a taw is engraved on the forehead of one who is righteous and a taw is engraved on the forehead of one who is guilty, a taw of blood on this one and a taw of ink on the other. And the secret of the taw of blood [taw shel dam = 406 + 330 + 44 = 780 ] is that she is born [she-muleted = 780]. Its matter is the taw of blood [taw dam = 406 textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 219 he who died on the Cross, but the one who broadcasts the divine secret, which consists of knowledge of the name, and thereby unfet- ters the intellect from its physical internment. The following passage from Ḥ ayyei ha-Nefesh illumines Abulafia’s intent. Commenting on the verse “And God said further to Moses, ‘Thus shall you speak to the Israelites: The Lord, the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you: This shall be my name forever, this my appellation for all eternity’ ” (Exodus 3:15), Abulafia writes: It is known that this prophecy was for Moses our master, peace be upon him, the beginning of his prophecy, and it came to him to publicize the redemption of Israel, that is, the exodus from Egypt. God instructed us that by means of the knowledge of his name the redemption comes. And thus the name when expressed in full numerically equals dam ha- ge’ullah, which is in truth the avenger of the blood [ go’el ha-dam] of one who has murdered accidentally on account of which a man is exiled [ goleh adam], and every imagined body [is the] body of the Lord from the blood through which he augments his existence.123 The mystic confronts the Active Intellect in the shape of Metatron, a human figure that is formed in the imagination of the visionary.124 In the epiphanic moment, the boundary between inside and outside disintegrates—the self mirrors the angelic guide that mirrors the self, a double mirroring prompted by the prior individuation of the universal through the universalization of the individual.125 Moreover, insofar

+ 44 = 450] and its secret is the image [demut = 450], the implication being that it precedes the existence of man. From it comes ‘your soul’ [nafshekha = 450], and every magician [kashfan = 450] will turn to the path of magical acts [keshafim = 450]. And the one who does this spills blood [shofekh dam = 406 + 44 = 450]. And the secret of the taw of ink is that she gives birth [she-yoledet]. Thus you have one form that is born and another form that gives birth.” The text is translated differently and without any reference to Christianity by Idel, The Mystical Experience, p. 99. See, however, the examination of a similar text from “Sefer ha-Ôt,” p. 82, in Hames, Like the Angels, pp. 130–31 n. 85. 123 abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Nefesh, p. 62. On the pairing of the expressions mashiaḥ and go’el ha-dam, see Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 86. 124 abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 49: “It is known that we, the community of Israel, the congregation of the Lord, know in truth that God, blessed be he and his name, is not a body or a faculty in a body, and he is never materialized. However, his overflow created a corporeal intermediary, that is, the angel, in the moment ofthe prophecy of the prophet.” See Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 89–90, 95–100. 125 see sources translated and analyzed in Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 239–40. In that context, I contemplated the matter in light of Corbin’s notion of the “essential theophanism,” which implies that “every form of theophany has the form of 220 elliot r. wolfson as the Active Intellect is identified as the Torah,126 we can speak of a linguistic embodiment,127 the configuration of the Tetragrammaton, which encompasses all twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet, in the form of an anthropos. The body of which I speak is imaginal rather than material, that is, a theophanic apparition that assumes shape as virtually real within the imaginative faculty.128 Kabbalistically, the imaginal body intimates the conception of semiotic enfleshment. It is precisely this notion that justifies thinking of incarnational tendencies in the Jewish mystical sources that are distinct from—albeit in dialogue with—the predominant Christian creed. I hasten to add that the precise period when kabbalah begins to emerge as a defined historical phenomenon is one in which there is much theoretical deliberation about the mystery of incarnation, inspired by the growing scholastic sentiment regarding the indivisibility of faith and reason.129 For medieval Christians, the paradoxical conjunction of the mundane and the sacred was mediated by the Eucharist, the central priestly ceremony believed to occasion liturgically the presence of Christ. Jews and Muslims provided alternative narratives to explain the commin- gling of the corporeal and incorporeal, the visible and invisible. In spite of insurmountable differences, underlying the logocentric and

an angelophany” (reference is cited on p. 536 n. 331, and see other references cited in nn. 330, 332–34). For Corbin, the invisible God becomes manifest through the figure of the Active Intelligence, the angelic totality that individuates itself in the features of a definite person whose soul has been incorporated in or conjoined to the imaginal body of that intellectual form. See also Wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” pp. 145–47, 160. 126 see above, n. 49. 127 The expression “linguistic embodiment” was used by Edmund Husserl in his essay “The Origin of Geometry,” appended to The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology, trans., with an introduction, by David Carr (Evan- ston: Northwestern University Press, 1970), p. 358. For a critique of Husserl’s notion of “linguistic flesh” or “linguistic incarnation,” see Jacques Derrida, Edmund Husserl’s Origin of Geometry: An Introduction, trans., with a preface and afterword, by John P. Leavey, Jr. (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1989), pp. 76–79, and compare the analysis in Michael O’Sullivan, The Incarnation of Language: Joyce, Proust and a Philosophy of the Flesh (London: Continuum, 2008), pp. 15–30. 128 wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” p. 147. In n. 53, ad locum, I mention thatmy thinking is indebted to the incarnational element of Corbin’s thinking, and refer the reader to Elliot R. Wolfson, “Imago Templi and the Meeting of the Two Seas: Liturgi- cal Time-Space and the Feminine Imaginary in Zoharic Kabbalah,” Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 51 (2007): 121–25. 129 saadia R. Eisenberg, “Reading Medieval Religious Disputation: The 1240 ‘Debate’ Between Rabbi Yeḥiel of Paris and Friar Nicholas Donin,” Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 2008, pp. 179–94. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 221 ontographic perspectives is a shared juxtaposition of the theomorphic rendering of the human and the anthropomorphic rendering of the divine. The Jewish and Muslim conception (especially pronounced in kabbalistic and Sūfīc teaching) necessitates the transfiguration of flesh into word, which should be positioned alongside the Christological transubstantiation of the word into flesh. Needless to say, it is con- trived to distinguish these positions too sharply, for the tenability of the word becoming flesh rests on the assumption that flesh is, in some sense, word, but flesh can be entertained as word only if and when word, in some form, becomes flesh. The logic of this reversal and the empirical evidence to substantiate it are compelling, but the distinction should still be upheld in an effort to elucidate the incongruities in the narratological frameworks of the three traditions. Simply put, my taxonomic categorizations “textual embodiment” and “poetic incarnation”130 are based on the assumption that the utilization of anthropomorphic imagery to delimit the divine and of theomorphic imagery to delimit the human is meant to convey the ontological claim that the Hebrew letters assigned to each of the pertinent limbs constitute the reality of the body on both planes of being. Indeed, as any number of scholars have discerned, a rudimentary principle of Jewish esotericism, which runs its course from Late Antiquity through the Middle Ages and into the present, consists of the convic- tion that the letters of the Hebrew alphabet are not only instruments of divine creation, but that they comprise the hyletic stuff of being.131 As I noted above, Abulafia presumes that all languages are comprised within Hebrew. This view is certainly an intriguing innovation, but it does not diminish the ascendancy of Hebrew. Abulafia does not depart substantially from the bias of Jewish esotericism. The visionary imagination he espoused—and with regard to this matter the typological

130 see Wolfson, Language, Eros, Being, pp. 190–260. Although my name is not specified, it seems fairly obvious that Idel, Ben, p. 61, is criticizing me when he writes that “a more complex understanding of the various forms of informment and embodiment will help in understanding the specificity of incarnation and sonship. There is no reason not to create more adequate categories, in order to account for the huge variety of religious phenomena, rather than fall time and again on the same quite conceptually and religiously loaded nomenclatures regarding incarnation, and then have to qualify them by terms like ‘poetic’ or other similar terms.” My name is mentioned explicitly, op. cit., pp. 100 n. 180 and 101 n. 182. 131 as Abulafia puts it in Sitrei Torah, p. 160, in the manner that material reality fortifies the truth of what exists for the philosopher, so the Hebrew letters instruct the kabbalist about the nature of being. 222 elliot r. wolfson distinction between theosophic and ecstatic kabbalah is of no consequence—attests to this confluence of letter and anthropomorphic symbolism. In Abulafia’s contemplative praxis, the name is visualized in concrete and embodied terms as an anthropos. The matter is expressed succinctly in Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba: “Prepare your true thought to imagine God, blessed be his name, and his supernal angels, to imagine them in your heart as if they were human beings, standing or sitting around you, and you are in their midst like the messenger the king and his servants want to send. . . . And after you imagine all of this, prepare your intellect and your heart to comprehend in your mind the many things or actions that the letters contemplated in your heart will bring you, and contemplate them in their generalities and in their particu- larities like a man who is informed of a parable, a riddle, or a dream, or as if he contemplated in a book of wisdom a matter too deep for his comprehension.”132 Only one who transforms the coarse physical body through ascetic renunciation into an ethereal or angelic body is capable of imaging the divine form somatically.133 The materialization of the immaterial depends on the immaterializing of the material. The crucial difference between the incarnational perspectives adopted by the prophetic kabbalist and his Christian counterpart turns on understanding the text of the Torah as the imaginal body of the divine as opposed to understanding the living body of Jesus as the text of the divine. Since the nature of body is determined by the Hebrew letters, corporeality belongs ideally to those who are incorporated into the Active Intellect, the Shekhinah, or the Community of Israel. Such a person, emulating Moses and Elijah, receives the “divine name [shem ha-elohi] that is in its secret [meaning] the name of the son [shem ha-ben],” and thus he is called the “son of God [ben

132 abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, pp. 146–47. Compare a parallel description in Sefer ha-Ḥ esheq, p. 16. Both passages are cited in Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, p. 207. See also Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 159, where the Hebrew letters, identified as the “matter of prophecy,” are said to “appear in the mirror of prophecy as if they were dense bodies that speak to a man mouth to mouth in accord with the abundance of the rational form that is contemplated in the heart that converses with them, and they appear as if they are pure, living angels that move them.” Compare a similar formulation in Sefer ha-Ḥ esheq, p. 10. These passages are previously cited in Wolfson, “Kenotic Overflow,” p. 143. See now Idel, Kabbalah in Italy, pp. 53, 56–58. 133 with respect to this matter, Abulafia follows Maimonides, especially the ideal of intellectual worship in The Guide of the Perplexed 3.51. See Abulafia, Sitrei Torah, p. 61. On asceticism in Abulafia, see Idel, The Mystical Experience, pp. 143–44, and Wolfson, Abraham Abulafia, pp. 89–91. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 223 ha-shem], and its secret [meaning] is in the soul [ba-neshamah].”134 Abulafia detects in the names of both Moses and Elijah a reference to their divinization: The hidden letters of the name Moshe are “from nothing” [me-ayin],135 which indicate that “I am from God” [ani me-ha-shem],136 and this is the truth. The hidden letters of the name Eliyahu are lpm”d wda”w, and its secret is the “man and his guide” [adam u-melamdo], for the mouth is the mem, and Eliyahu is elohi [“my God”], and concerning him it says “he is mine” [li hu]137 . . . and the numerology of Eliyahu is ben. Thus, his secret is that he is the son of man and his guide.138 From Abulafia’s vantage point, to deprive Judaism of the doctrine of incarnation would be to remove from its spiritual economy the means to access the ultimate mystery, the secret of the divine that is the carnality of the cosmos.139 In this connection it is of interest to consider the

134 abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 93. See Idel, Messianic Mystics, pp. 91–92; idem, Ben, pp. 295–96. are written out in full, mem (משה) That is, when the letters of the name moshe 135 which can be transposed ,(מינא) the hidden letters are myn”a ,(מם שין הא) shin he ”.and vocalized as me-ayin, “from nothing (מאין) into may”n 136 according to MS Oxford-Bodleian 1582, fol. 23a, the precise text is mh”sh which corresponds to the fifth triplet of the seventy-two-letter name derived ,(מה"ש) from the 216 letters in Exodus 14:19–21, then followed by the variant “or I am Moshe” From the context, however, it is clear that the correct reading should be .[אני משה] can (מאין) and its hidden letters (משה) me-ha-shem, for the letters of the name moshe I am from God” or “I am from the“ ,(אני מהשם) be transposed into ani me-ha-shem name.” Compare MSS Moscow-Günzberg 133, fol. 60a, Braginsky 251, fol. 33a. .אליהו are the same as the name לי הוא exodus 13:2. The letters 137 138 abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 94. 139 an interesting articulation of this idea is found in Abulafia, Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, pp. 86–87: “The numerical sum of the three names [YHWH, Elohim, and Adonai = 26 + 86 + 65] equals 177, and their secret is gan eden [3 + 50 + 70 + 4 + 50 = 177], mentioned above in the secret of the three gradations, which allude to the three worlds, for the providence in them, in general and in particular, is to establish what is worthy of being established in perpetuity, and the secret is the name el olam [1 + 30 + 70 + 6 + 30 + 40 = 177], and his name is delight for the righteous and the prophets. And the secret of the two names alone [Elohim and Adonai = 86 + 65 = 151] is ha-olam [5 + 70 + 6 + 30 + 40 = 151], and the secret of ha-olam is qanna [100 + 50 + 1 = 151] and also qomah [100 + 6 + 40 + 5 = 151]. . . . However, the secret of the two names [whose numerical value is] twenty-six [YHWH] and sixty-five [Adonai] is mal’akh [40 + 30 + 1 + 20 = 91] ha-elohim [5 + 1 + 30 + 5 + 10 + 40 = 91], and his name is el qanna [1 + 30 + 100 + 50 + 1 = 182], and his secret is ya‘aqov [10 + 70 + 100 + 2 = 182].” I cannot here enter into all the details of this rich passage, but let me simply note that the expression el olam is to be decoded in the construct state as the God of the world, that is, it signifies the divine providence in the cosmos. The expression “the world” (ha-olam) is linked numerically to the two terms qanna and qomah. I suggest that qanna is an abbreviated reference to el qanna, the “impassioned 224 elliot r. wolfson diagram of a cruciform that appears in Abulafia’s Sefer ha-Berit.140 The lateral axis is made up of the words we-kharat berit ḥadashah, “and he will decree a new covenant,” which are derived from Jeremiah 31:30. The upper half of the horizontal axis is made up of the words yimlokh yhwh le‘olam, “the Lord will reign eternally,” which are based on Exo- dus 15:18, and the lower half of the words le‘ammo, “to his nation,” and u-shemo ye’amen, “and his name will be fulfilled.” An analysis of this text in all of its intricacies cannot be pursued here, but the main point is clear enough: Abulafia undermines the scriptural foundation of Christianity by affirming that the real “new testament” consists of the gnosis of the name YHWH, which is the unique and eternal heri- tage of the Jewish people. An allusion to this is found in the fact that the first and last letters of the expression we-kharat berit ḥadashah are waw-he, the last two letters of the Tetragrammaton. Moreover, the first and last letters of yimlokh at the top of the cross are yod and kaf, and the first and last letters of ye’amen at the bottom are yod and nun; all four together spell yakhin. When the letters waw and he are added to these four, the result is the expression wa-yehi khen, “and so it was,” the “seal of the account of creation” (ḥotam ma‘aseh bere’shit), the “secret of being” (sod ha-hawayah).141 The combination of yakhin and waw-he spells wa-yehi khen, the slogan that terminates the sixth day of the creation story (Genesis 1:30), and thus Abulafia refers to it as the secret of being—both expressions numerically equal 101. It is likely that the latter phrase denotes as well the mystery of the name, since

God” (Exodus 20:5), which is mentioned later and associated (through numerological equivalence) with the angel of God (mal’akh elohim) and Jacob (ya‘aqov); the term qomah signifies the stature or measure, perhaps related to the notion ofthe shi‘ur qomah. By juxtaposing ha-olam, qanna, and qomah, Abulafia wishes to convey the idea that the measure of the world is Metatron, or alternatively, that the measure of Metatron is the world. On the identification of qomah and ha-olam, see also Ḥ ayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba, p. 92, and see my comments in “Kenotic Overflow,” p. 184 n. 196. Finally, I note that Maimonides cites the words be-shem yhwh el olam (Genesis 21:33) as an epigraph to each of the three parts of The Guide of the Perplexed. On this matter, see Maimonides, The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Michael Schwartz (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2002), pp. 298–99 n. 14 [in Hebrew]. 140 abulafia, Sefer ha-Berit, p. 54. For a detailed exposition of the passage, related especially to Abulafia’s notion of the warp and woof(sheti wa-erev), see Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 273–75 (the relevant folio from MS Munich, Bayerische Staats- bibliothek 285 is reproduced on p. 272). See also Kohen, The Book of New Testament, pp. 3–4, and the conclusion he reaches on pp. 7–8: “R. Abraham Abulafia can be compared to Jesus, but unlike him he did not bring a new religion or a new gospel, but rather testimony of God, testimony that is found in the explicit name.” 141 abulafia, Sefer ha-Berit, p. 55. textual flesh, incarnation, and the imaginal body 225

Abulafia .(יהוה) are the same as YHWH (הויה) the letters of hawayah seems to be intimating that the name is made flesh in the being of the universe, and that this cosmological corporealization of the divine effluence constitutes the new covenant that is the real cross, the intersection of the two lines that signify the paradoxical materialization of the immaterial in the concatenation of the chain of becoming.142 Again we see the ingenious way that Abulafia concurrently appropriated and rejected Christological symbols and doctrines. In the memorable language of the passage itself, the task is “to straighten what is bent and to bend what is straight” (yishsher he-hafukh we-happekh ha-yashar). In the recovery of this messianic secret, one can discover the theological depth of Judaism through which, ironically enough, the very threshold of theism may be traversed. We might say, therefore, that the incarnational doctrine culled from Abulafia sheds light on the dis- figuration that is the final objective of the monotheistic configuration. The quietistic divestiture of self by which the human becomes divine corresponds to ridding the imagination of images that confabulate the divine as human, but the path beyond the image is through the image. The overcoming of the division of humankind into separate religious factions would require an undoing of the theistic personification of God. This, I propose, is the eschatological import of the cosmological myth of incarnation advanced by Abulafia, an atemporal truth he sought to implement within the vicissitudes of time. The pretense of Abulafia’s messianic prominence, which reached a crescendo of sorts in the report in his Sefer ha-Edut (as well as the intimations in Sefer ha-Ot) of the aborted attempt—whether imagined or real—to gain the audience of Pope Nicholas III in Rome,143 is tied to

142 For a different, but not totally unrelated, explanation, see Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 296–97. 143 scholem, Major Trends, p. 128; idem, The Kabbalah of Sefer ha-Temunah, pp. 113–15; Berger, “The Messianic Self-Consciousness,” p. 253; Moshe Idel, “Abra- ham Abulafia and the Pope: The Meaning and the Metamorphosis of an Abortive Attempt,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 7/8 (1982/1983): 1–17 [in Hebrew]; idem, Studies, pp. 46–47; idem, Messianic Mystics, pp. 97–99; idem, Kabbalah in Italy, pp. 43-47, 79; Hames, Like Angels, pp. 42, 84–85, 88, 90–94, 99–101. For additional references, see Idel, Studies, p. 55 nn. 3, 4, and 8, and Messianic Mystics, p. 361 nn. 149–50. Previous scholars have taken Abulafia at his word that he is recounting actual events, but I am somewhat dubious. The evidence that Idel adduces from the zoharic passage that describes the appearance of the Messiah in Rome at the time that the ruler of that city perished (Studies, p. 46) or from the Latin texts that describe the papal death (Messianic Mystics, p. 98) indicate, at best, that Abulafia’s tale is woven from some historical threads; it is not sufficient to prove the veracity of all the details 226 elliot r. wolfson the dominance he could claim vis-à-vis Christianity and Islam. More than other human beings, he considered himself wise in the ways of the other religions. As he boldly states in Sefer ha-Ḥ ayyim, “Raziel, the son of Sham’uel, discerns the blessing and the curse, he discerns the bastard son of a menstruant, he discerns Jesus/ Muhammad.”144 Just as all created entities derive from God and yet are distinct, so, too, the nations share a common nature but each is diverse. Abulafia argues, accordingly, that every ethnic group had to remain faithful to its own religious customs and cultural-linguistic vocation. In the days of the “final redeemer”—an expression that is likely self-referential145 and thus points to a futurity proleptically realized in his own lifetime—all three liturgical communities will know the name of God.146 Such knowledge, in turn, would result in the disincarnation of the incarnate through the unveiling of the world as the incarnation of the disincarnate.

of his report. The same can be said of the suggestion of Abba Hillel Silver, A History of Messianic Speculation in Israel From the First Through the Seventeenth Centuries (New York: Macmillan, 1927), p. 146 n. 145, and repeated by Scholem (Major Trends, p. 127; idem, The Kabbalah of Sefer ha-Temunah, p. 113) and Idel (Studies, p. 55 nn. 3 and 7), that Abulafia may have been inspired by the comment of Naḥmanides in his disputation with Pablo Christiani that the Messiah “will come and command the Pope and all the kings of the nations in the name of God ‘Let my people go that they may worship me’ (Exodus 8:16). And he will perform signs and many, great wonders in relation to them, and he will not fear them at all, and he will stand in their city Rome until he will destroy it” (Kitvei Ramban, 1: 312). This provides more literary evidence to explain Abulafia’s story, but it does not demonstrate the facticity of what is alleged to have occurred historically. 144 abulafia, Sefer ha-Ḥ ayyim, p. 83. See Sagerman, The Serpent Kills, pp. 46–47. 145 Berger, “The Messianic Self-Consciousness,” p. 251. 146 abulafia, Mafteaḥ ha-Shemot, p. 81. See Berger, “The Messianic Self-Conscious- ness,” p. 252; Idel, Studies, p. 50. The Jewish Cemeteries of France after the Expulsion of 1306*

William Chester Jordan

The dew glistened on the green mounds, Like tears shed by Good Spirits over the dead. Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop In the Middle Ages, as now, Christians held contrasting views of their cemeteries. Sometimes they held that these cities of the dead were dreadful places, especially at night, inhabited by both unclean spirits (in part, a literary trope) and embodied dangers, corpses possessed by demons and what we would now call zombies and vampires.1 And yet, to the consternation of conservative churchmen, the open spaces they offered were often used for dramatic spectacles, fairs, markets, dances, jousting, wrestling matches, feasts, public assemblies, and other profane business.2 On the one hand, Christian cemeteries were ceremonially holy places, areas of formal legal sanctuary, and singu- larly appropriate sites for the expression of the deepest sorrow through

* i want to thank Dr. Angela Gleason for urging me to work on this topic as a contribution to Professor Chazan’s Festschrift. 1 nancy Caciola, “Wraiths, Revenants and Ritual in Medieval Culture,” Past & Present 152 (1996): 10–44; Jean-Claude Schmitt, Les Revenants: Les vivants et les morts dans la société médiévale (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1994), pp. 209–11; Roberta Gilchrist and Barney Sloan, Requiem: The Medieval Monastic Cemetery in Britain (London: Museum of London Archaeological Service, 2005), pp. 27–28, 194, 199– 201; Michel Lauwers, Naissance du cimetière: Lieux sacrées et terre des morts dans l’Occident médiéval (Paris: Aubier, 2005), p. 178. 2 Jean-Claude Schmitt, Le Corps, les rites, les rêves, le temps: Essais d’anthropologie médiévale (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 2001), p. 172; Schmitt, Revenants, p. 210; Gil- christ and Sloan, Requiem, pp. 44–45; Philippe Ariès, The Hour of Our Death, trans. Helen Weaver (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), pp. 69–70; Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes toward Death from the Middle Ages to the Present, trans. Patricia Ranum (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1975), pp. 23–24; Hervé Martin, Mentalités médiévales: XIe–XVe siècle (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1996), pp. 287, 371; Mary Mansfield, The Humiliation of Sinners: Public Penance in Thirteenth-Century France (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1995), pp. 152, 155–56; Medieval Folklore: An Encyclopedia of Myths, Legends, Tales, Beliefs, and Customs, 2 vols., ed. Carl Lindahl et al. (Santa Barbara, Calif.: ABC- CLIO, 2000), I: 396. 228 william chester jordan hymn singing, prayer, and keening.3 On the other, they were, especially at night, places for trysts—sexual and criminal—most notably, in the latter category, for grave robbing.4 In the year 1306, King Philip IV the Fair (1285–1314) expelled 100,000 Jews from France, and almost overnight a number of Jewish cemeteries were seized by the state’s officials and later redistributed as auctioned or leased properties to an array of purchasers and les- sees.5 The purpose of this chapter is to consider how these properties were regarded, in particular how Christians’ perceptions of them were similar to or different from those they had of their own cemeteries. Additionally, the paper, drawing on my own earlier work and that of Céline Balasse, assembles the available evidence for what happened to the properties as a result of the transfer. It closes with some speculation about the most haunting longtime “success” of the expulsion, the virtual obliteration of the memory of the Jewish presence from the cityscape of France. Let us begin to explore these questions by recovering the various sentiments that European Christians in general and French Christians in particular had about Jewish cemeteries in the Middle Ages. A few points seem relatively certain; first and foremost among these is that whatever Jews may have felt about their own cemeteries, ordinary Christians, if they had opinions, tended to have negative ones about their rivals’ burial grounds.6 That this was a powerful sentiment and motif in Jewish-Christian relations is no better symbolized than, for example, by Christians’ naming a medieval Jewish graveyard in

3 Derek Rivard, Blessing the World: Ritual and Lay Piety in Medieval Religion (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2009), pp. 90–107; Derek Rivard, “Consecratio cymiterii: The Ritual Blessings of Cemeteries in the Early Middle Ages,” Comitatus 35 (2004): 22–44; Ariès, Hour of Our Death, p. 68; Ariès, Western Attitudes toward Death, p. 23; William Jordan, “A Fresh Look at Medieval Sanctuary,” in Law and the Illicit in Medieval Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), p. 20. 4 schmitt, Revenants, p. 210; Ariès, Hour of Our Death, p. 70; Gilchrist and Sloan, Requiem, p. 201; William Jordan, The Great Famine: Northern Europe in the Early Fourteenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), p. 115. 5 william Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews from Philip Augustus to the Last Capetians (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989), pp. 200–213. See also Céline Balasse, 1306: L’Expulsion des juifs du royaume de France (Brussels: De Boek, 2008), which, despite both the author’s and the preface writer’s oft-repeated claims, does not go much beyond the preceding scholarship, although it brings together an inventory of texts conveniently. 6 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 20. the jewish cemeteries of france 229 the Rhineland town of Erkelenz the “Jew and Dog Cemetery.”7 I must stress the clause, if they had opinions, however, for the vast majority of medieval Christians probably never had any thoughts whatsoever about Jewish graveyards. In thousands of villages there were no Jews and therefore no Jewish cemeteries. In others, there were only a few Jews, not a sufficient number to justify establishing burial grounds; these Jews and those of other small communities usually interred their dead in cemeteries, at some distance, which they shared with large communities.8 So, again, there was no reason and little opportunity for most Christians to have any opinion on the nature and “aura” of Jews’ final resting places. Nevertheless, the occasional comments and, equally striking, the actions of those Christians who did encounter Jewish cemeteries are almost universally negative, albeit in various ways. First, among Christians, there was a general dread of the precincts and the stark monoliths inscribed in the strange and to ordinary Catholics quite incomprehensible Hebrew script.9 The existence of such superstitious dread was not universally shared, or, rather, even if it was, it did not prevent hooligans from entering the sites to desecrate the graves. The cemeteries were easily recognized by the upright memorial stones; an early depiction exists in an engraving of the sixteenth-century cemetery of Metz.10 Neither walls nor caretakers effectively deterred desecration.11

7 Juden- und Hundskirchhof; see Wolfgang Herborn and Wilfried Krings, “Kultur- landschaft und Wirtschaft im Erkelenzer Raum,” in Studien zur Geschichte der Stadt Erkelenz vom Mittelalter bis zur frühen Neuzeit. Schriftenreihe der Stadt Erkelenz 1 (Cologne: Rheinland-Verlag, 1976), p. 103. 8 roger Kohn, Les Juifs de la France du Nord dans la seconde moitié du XIVe siè- cle (Louvain and Paris: E. Peeters, 1988), p. 204; Emily Taitz, The Jews of Medieval France: The Community of Champagne (Westport, Conn. and London: Greenwood Press, 1994), p. 125; Gilchrist and Sloan, Requiem, p. 46; David Hinton, “Medieval Anglo-Jewry: The Archaeological Evidence,” in Jews in Medieval Britain, ed. Patricia Skinner (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2003), p. 103; Suzanne Bartlet, “Women in the Medieval Anglo-Jewish Community,” also in Jews in Medieval Britain, p. 125; Adolf Kober, “Jewish Monuments of the Middle Ages in Germany: One Hundred and Ten Tombstone Inscriptions from Speyer, Cologne, Nuremberg and Worms (1085–c.1428): Part I,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 14 (1944): 169. 9 Cf. Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 171. 10 in general, see Gilchrist and Sloan, Requiem, p. 29. On Metz, see Émile-Auguste Bégin, “Histoire des Juifs dans le nord-est de la France,” Mémoires de l’Académie de Metz, 24 (1842–1843), part 1, facing p. 336. 11 walls are frequently attested for both Christian and Jewish cemeteries; Gil- christ and Sloan, Requiem, pp. 34, 46. Indeed, their presence, on the Christian side, 230 william chester jordan

Such behavior was illegal, of course. The inviolability of Jewish cemeteries, like that of Christian ones, was supposed to be guaranteed; this was official ecclesiastical policy, repeated regularly in the bull Sicut judaeis by at least sixteen popes, some more than once, from Calixtus II (1119–1124) until the French expulsion of 1306: “ut nemo coeme- terium mutilare vel invadere audeat [vel minuere], sive obtentu [or optatu] pecuniae corpora humana [or humata] effodere.”12 The brack- eted readings indicate variants in the wording, but the meaning is consistent: “No one should dare to disfigure or transgress [or diminish] a cemetery, or for money offered [or desired] dig up human [or buried] bodies.” Lords also bestowed their special peace on Jewish burial grounds.13 This peace, however, was not a bar, theoretically or practi- cally, to legitimate kinds of disturbance, only to illegal intrusions— vandalism—of the precincts. Legal seizures by public right—the equivalent of the modern and highly controversial doctrine of eminent domain—became more common in the High Middle Ages, undoubtedly because, to borrow an observation of Gaines Post, the medieval theory of public right was also being “revived along with the Roman law [and] was being stated in the thirteenth century.”14 This paralleled in temporal terms and may in part have been stimulated by the population explosion, one result of which was the perceived need of space for residential and

is taken as standard in such contemporary literature as the Arthurian romances. See Schmitt, Revenants, p. 210; Lauwers, Naissance du cimetière, p. 176; Kober, “Jewish Monuments . . . Part I,” p. 188; Adolf Kober, “Jewish Monuments of the Middle Ages in Germany (Continued),” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 15 (1945): 9–10; Taitz, Jews of Medieval France, p. 125; Hinton, “Medieval Anglo- Jewry,” p. 108. 12 shlomo Simonsohn, comp., The Apostolic See and the Jews, Documents: 492–1404 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1988), nos. 44, 46, 48, 63–64, 71, 98, 144, 179, 183, 201, 206, 213, 234, 238, 242, 247–48, 252, 256. The bulls are available in a number of collections such as Solomon Grayzel’s compilation, The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century, 2 vols. (the second with Kenneth Stow as co-compiler; Philadelphia: The Dropsie College for Hebrew and Cognate Learning, 1933, and New York and Detroit: Jewish Theological Seminary and Wayne State University Press, 1989). See also Kober, “Jewish Monuments . . . Part I,” p. 169; Kober, “Jewish Monu- ments . . . (Continued),” p. 10. 13 Kober, “Jewish Monuments . . . Part I,” pp. 169–70. 14 Gaines Post, Studies in Medieval Legal Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964), p. 11. See also Susan Reynolds, Before Eminent Domain: Toward a His- tory of Expropriation of Land for the Common Good (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 2010). the jewish cemeteries of france 231 commercial expansion.15 This in turn, at least potentially, could have encouraged a reimagining of cemeteries as sites for building, a point to which we shall have to return momentarily. To be sure, Christian and Jewish burial grounds were very differently situated. Christian ones were typically hard by churches, hence the locution churchyards in English, attested from as early as 1154, and parallel usages in other Germanic languages (Scots English kirkyard, German Kirchhof, Dutch kerkhof ); they were located at the very center of the faith communities they served.16 The Old French aitre for churchyard, which derived from ecclesiastical Latin atrium, hall or hearth, carries similar conno- tations.17 Because of religious proscriptions Jewish cemeteries, on the contrary, were deliberately laid out at considerable distances from the communities and communal institutions that owned or leased them.18 Yet as big towns grew much bigger in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, most of these properties came to be surrounded by new urban and suburban structures and very valuable as well.19 The church in general and local churches in particular were typically strong enough and local sentiments among lay folk supportive enough to resist the impulse to disturb the urban landscape with regard to Christian burial grounds. Even so, selling pieces of Christian cemeteries sometimes occurred as “a result of rising prices for building lots as the density of settlement increased within the town walls.”20 Fewer concerns appear to have troubled the consciences of Christian authorities when they considered Jewish graveyards, whose acreage was sometimes partly reduced or wholly confiscated for the “public good.” Perhaps the inhu- mation of Jews abutted Christian sacred spaces: in 1256 a complaint was made by the Augustinians of Montpellier in the present département of

15 The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. V: c.1198–c.1300 (Cambridge: Cam- bridge University Press, 1999), 27–29. 16 martin, Mentalités médiévales, p. 234. 17 ariès, Western Attitudes toward Death, pp. 18–19. 18 lauwers, Naissance du cimetière, p. 166; Kober, “Jewish Monuments . . . Part I,” p. 169. For a discussion of corpse pollution in Judaism, in the context of the purity concerns of the other two major monotheistic religions of Europe in the Middle Ages, see Alexandra Cuffel, Gendering Disgust in Medieval Religious Polemic (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007), pp. 26–27, 50–51, 141, 143, 254, 261, 263, 266, 271, and 285. 19 for general trends in demographic growth in the High Middle Ages, see Philippe Contamine and others, L’Économie médiévale (Paris: Armand Colin, 1993), pp. 211– 14. On cemetery property, see Hinton, “Medieval Anglo-Jewry,” p. 104. 20 henrik Jansen, “Archeological Investigations in Medieval Svendborg,” Medieval Scandinavia 6 (1973): 158. See also Gilchrist and Sloan, Requiem, pp. 54–55, 195. 232 william chester jordan the Hérault that the Jewish cemetery of the town was too close to the Augustinians’ own graveyard. The cemetery was seized and the bodies exhumed. The abbot of the religious house, the Cistercian monastery of Valmagne, on which the land was bestowed, agreed to pay for the exhumations preceding their reburial at a new site. All the arrangements, from seizure to reburial, were approved by Pope Alexander IV (1254–1261).21 Jewish cemeteries or parts of them were also appropriated in making access routes or providing land for the expansion of governmental and ecclesiastical buildings.22 (The clergy or perhaps cunning men and women probably lent their spiritual support to reconsecrate them or to exorcise the cemeteries before they were built on.)23 The public good in some forms—access routes, for instance— may have benefitted both Christians and Jews to a certain degree, but in Jewish religious sentiments the actions necessitated by creating such routes amounted to desecration of the dead.24 There were also other legitimate reasons, according to the dominant spiritual logic of the time, for authorities to interfere in the use of cemeteries. If a person interred in a Christian cemetery was later determined to have been a heretic, his or her remains might be exhumed from the sanctified soil of the churchyard and buried elsewhere or, more likely, burned and the ashes scattered.25 Similarly, burials in Jew- ish cemeteries of Jews who had converted to Christianity but lapsed back into Judaism provided occasions for disinterment. To Christians, the apostates were heretics whose remains deserved humiliation. For Jews, as Joseph Shatzmiller has powerfully argued, the situation was

21 simonsohn, Apostolic See and the Jews: Documents, no. 208. 22 henry d’Arbois de Jubainville, Histoire des ducs et comtes de Champagne, 6 vols. in 7 parts (Paris: A. Durand, 1859–66), VI: 43–44; Salo Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews, 27 vols., 2d ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1952– 1983), XI: 308; Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 172. 23 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 20, 183. 24 isaac Klein, A Guide to Jewish Religious Practice (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1979), pp. 297–98. 25 almost every study of heresy and/or inquisition in the Middle Ages offers instances of these practices. See, for example, Mark Pegg, The Corruption of Angels: The Great Inquisition of 1245–1246 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), p. 110; James Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society: Power, Discipline, and Resis- tance in Languedoc (Ithaca, N.Y. and London: Cornell University Press, 1997), pp. 71, 74–75. Christine Ames also does so in her Righteous Persecution: Inquisition, Domini- cans, and Christianity in the Middle Ages (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), pp. 48, 79, 117, 123, but her book has the additional merit of trying to situate these practices and criticisms of them in contested medieval understandings of community, pp. 220–23. See also, Lauwers, Naissance du cimetière, p. 167. the jewish cemeteries of france 233 more complex.26 Some pious Jews, regarding the deceased relapsi with compassion, did bury them and try to keep the burials secret. Oth- ers, community leaders who were probably equally pious, appear to have felt that the danger to their communities was too great to ignore; their silence would tacitly be condoning the practice. So, they opted to inform Christian authorities, who otherwise, if they found out on their own, would have punished them and their community as a whole for their complicity. As valuable as the cemeteries might have been for residential and commercial development, however, in some provincial towns the church probably reconsecrated the necropolises as Christian cemeteries, at least in local expulsions in France before the general one of 1306. One such instance is that of the graveyard of the Jews of Niort. The Jews were expelled from Niort in the 1290s. Their cemetery there was sold by 1296 and later reconsecrated as a Christian burial place.27 Steles routinely marked Jewish graves in France.28 They, too, had considerable value. On occasion, perhaps, the old inscribed Hebrew gravestones were pushed aside and ignored, if local lore attributed dan- gerous powers to them.29 Most often, however, they were redeployed to construction projects—both secular and sacred, as, for example, in making a mill, for improving a Christian cemetery wall or for repair- ing old or building new churches.30 Similar patterns of usage of confiscated stones from Jewish graves- ites and communal buildings are documentable elsewhere in medieval Europe. A few examples: Hebrew grave steles of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries from the Jewish cemetery of Nancy were recovered during the razing of the church of Saint-Evre.31 In Worms and Speyer, Jewish gravestones were employed to build the city towers and

26 Joseph Shatzmiller, “Paulus Christiani: Un aspect de son activité anti-Juive,” in Hommages à Georges Vajda: Études d’histoire et de pensée juives, ed. Gérard Nahon and Charles Touati (Louvain: Éditions Peeters, 1980), pp. 203–17. 27 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 183. 28 Gérard Nahon, ed., Inscriptions hébraïques et juives de France médiévale (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1986), passim. 29 or so I have argued in French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 245–46. 30 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, pp. 149, 151–52; Philippe Goldman, “Eléments pour une histoire des Juifs à Bourges,” Archives juives 23 (1987): 4; François- Hubert Forestier, “Les Juifs du Puy au Moyen Age,” Cahiers de la Haute-Loire (1999): 202, 206; Kober, “Jewish Monuments . . . Part I,” pp. 1645–65; Kober, “Jewish Monu- ments . . . (Continued),” pp. 19–21, 23, 65. 31 see the photograph in Gilbert Cahen, “Les Juifs dans la région lorraine des origins à nos jours,” Le Pays lorrain 53 (1972): 57. 234 william chester jordan improve the city walls.32 Stones from the yeshiva (Judenschule) were used to rebuild a wall of the Kilianskirchhof (Saint Kilian’s cemetery) in Marburg.33 One thousand five hundred eight gravestones and fragments have been recovered from the ruins of a medieval hospital in Würzburg.34 Indeed, so intense was the use of such Jewish stones in Christian buildings in England after the expulsion of 1290 that this has been used to explain why so few isolated stones remain in that kingdom.35 In this way, the memorials of the Jewish dead supported the material fabric of what Christians held was Verus Israel—the True Israel—the Catholic faith and its believers.

In dealing with many of the issues that faced them in 1306 the men who supervised the confiscation and disposition of Jewish cemeteries in the aftermath of the expulsion could draw not only on the kinds of parallels just described but also on the precedent of the expulsion of Jews from the royal domain ordered by King Philip II Augustus (1179/80–1223) in 1182.36 True, that expulsion took place more than a century earlier, but many of the men who gave the orders in 1306 and set the tone of the campaign—Guillaume de Nogaret, Jean de Saint-Just, P. de Bonavalle, and Raoul Rousselet—were major figures in royal and/or regional policy and administration, with access to the central and local government archives.37 Guillaume de Nogaret,

32 fritz Klotz, “Ein jüdischer Grabstein aus dem Jahre 1282,” Mitteilungen des his- torischen Vereins der Pfalz 67 (1969): 237. 33 ilana Fach and Angus Fowler, “Romanistik in Marburg: Die ehemalige Kilian- skapelle,” in Marburg: Eine illustrierte Stadtgeschichte (Marburg: Verlag Arbeiterbewe- gung und Gesellschaftswissenschaft, 1985), p. 32, and Eberhard Dähne, “Marburg im Mittelalter,” in Marburg: Eine illustrierte Stadtgeschichte, p. 27. 34 Karlheinz Müller, “ ‘Der Stein schreit aus der Maurer’ (Habakuk 2:11): Geschichte und ‘kulturelles Gedächtnis’ der mittelalterlichen Grabsteine aus dem großen Juden- friedhof im Würzburger Stadtteil ‘Pleich’,” in Recht, Gewalt, Erinnerung: Vorträge zur Geschichte der Juden. Kleine Schriften des Arye Maimon-Instituts 6 (Trier: Kliomedia, 2004), pp. 9–44. 35 marcus Roberts, “A Northampton Jewish Tombstone, c. 1259 to 1290, Recently Discovered in Northampton Central Museum,” Medieval Archaeology 36 (1992): 173–78. But there may be a few more unembedded stones than the singular example Roberts was aware of; cf. Hinton, “Medieval Anglo-Jewry,” p. 102. 36 on the expulsion of 1182 and also the repercussions for Jewish cemeteries, see Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 31–34. See also Balasse, 1306, pp. 245–46. 37 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 203–4, 314 n. 44; Balasse, 1306, pp. 124–28, 315–16, including material related to Série J, Trésor des Chartes: Supplément, Inventaire, comp. Henry de Curzon, online (J 1044, no. 43, at p. 17, dated mistakenly as thirteenth rather than fourteenth century): http://www.archivesnationales. the jewish cemeteries of france 235 formally Keeper of the Seals, was tantamount to the king’s first minister.38 Jean de Saint-Just was a beneficed clergyman (collecting the revenues of the office of Cantor of Albi), who served as one of the chief clerks in the treasury, that is, the Chambre des Comptes; some of his precious notes have survived on wax tablets.39 Master P. de Bonavalle (or Bonneval) was also a churchman, who acted as royal procurator, dealing with judicial and financial matters, in the Touraine.40 And Raoul Rousselet, a canon of Paris, special investigator and tax expert, was later Bishop of Laon.41 These men would have known far more about the expulsion of 1182 than we do or can know, owing to the immensely different depth of the archival record then and now. This is because of the destruction, principally by fire, of enormous amounts of the centrally stored royal fiscalia. As John Baldwin has written, “Of all the records produced by the French government in the Middle Ages, none have suffered greater damage than the financial ones. Whatever survived war, neglect, and pillaging by antiquarians was decimated by a fire that gutted the building of the Chambre des Comptes on the night of 26/27 October 1737. Further losses occurred,” he adds, “during the French Revolution.”42 So, the actual process of arrest, temporary incarceration, confiscation of land and chattels, expulsion and disposition of property in various towns is at best very unevenly documented. It must also be acknowledged upfront, concentrating merely on the cemeteries, that many of these sites are known solely or mainly from surviving gravestones or descriptions of now lost gravestones. This is true, for example, of the Jewish burial grounds of Auxerre, Béziers, Bourges,

culture.gouv.fr/anparis/chan/fonds/EGF/SA/InvSAPDF/SA_index_J/J_suppl_pdf/ J1041_1046.pdf. 38 Joseph Strayer, The Reign of Philip the Fair (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), index, s.v. “Guillaume de Nogaret”; Robert Holtzmann, Wilhelm von Nogaret, Rat und Grossiegelbewahrer Philipps des Schönen von Frankreich (Freiburg im Breisgau: Mohr, 1898). 39 Joseph Petit et al., Essai de restitution des plus anciens mémoriaux de la Chambre des Comptes de Paris (Paris: F. Alcan, 1899), p. 28. Extracts of the wax tablets are published in Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, ed. Martin Bouquet et al., 24 volumes (Paris: V. Palmé [and subsequent publishers], 1738–1904), XXII: 503–34. 40 Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, XXIV: 165*. 41 strayer, Reign of Philip the Fair, index, s.v. “Raoul Rousselet”; Recueil des historiens, XXIV: 268*. 42 John Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1986), p. 406. 236 william chester jordan

Bray-sur-Seine, Ennezat, Loudun, Meaux, Narbonne, Nîmes, Niort, Orléans, Provins, Reims, Saint-Riquier, and Viviers.43 Additional surviving charter evidence occasionally makes locating the cemeteries in the urban landscape possible; this is the case for Tours (département Indre-et-Loire).44 On other occasions the sites are also revealed by toponyms that have survived into the modern period. Thus, in Châ- teauroux, the present capital of the département of the Indre, a local residence in the later Middle Ages had a garden abutting it called the “Cimetière aux Juifs.”45 Presumably the garden was only a small part of the whole burial ground; the house probably also stood on part of it. (Elsewhere in the town there was a rue des juifs, still called by this name as late as 1630.)46 What happened to these and other cemeteries in 1306? All the Jews’ real property was auctioned off as soon as possible. The qualifier “as soon as possible” is necessary because ad hoc and mandated delays were inevitable if fraud was to be inhibited. Given the extent of the cemeteries and their valuable topographical siting in the heart of the urban landscapes by the early fourteenth century, they could—and when they were offered, they did—command high bids that probably made them more susceptible than any other properties to purchase by groups. The alternative was for the government to take the initiative and divide the expanses into parcels, say, house-lot sizes, and auction them off as units. There is no evidence, as far as I know, that this was undertaken in the first disposition of cemetery property, although after

43 auxerre (département, Yonne): Frédric Viey, “Les Juifs dans l’Yonne,” http:// www.alliancefr.com/culture/viey/lyonne.html. Béziers (Hérault), Bourges (Cher), Ennezat (Puy-de-Dôme), Loudun (Vienne), Meaux (Seine-et-Marne), Narbonne (Aude), Nîmes (Gard), Orléans (Loiret): Nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, pp. 177–78, 248–52, 318–20, 325–29, 336–61. On Bourges, see also Goldman, “Élements pour une histoire des Juifs à Bourges,” p. 4; and on Ennezat, see also Forestier, “Juifs du Puy,” pp. 202, 206. Niort (Deux Sevres): Henri Clouzot, “Cens et rentes dus au comte de Poitiers à Niort au treizième siècle,” Bulletin et Mémoires de la Société des Antiquaires de l’Ouest, 2nd series, 27 (1903): 454. Provins (Seine-et-Marne): Arbois de Jubainville, Histoire des ducs et des comtes de Champagne, VI: 43–44. Bray and Reims: Taitz, Jews of Medieval France, p. 125. Saint-Riquier (Somme): “Les Juifs de Picardie,” Alliance (http://www1.alliancefr.com/les-juifs-de-picardie-news0,42,4559 .html). Viviers (Ardèche): Forestier, “Juifs du Puy,” pp. 208–9. 44 louis de Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” Revue des Études juives 19 (1889): 262–75. 45 Inventaire-Sommaire des Archives départementales: Indre, série A, ed. Eugène Hubert (Châteauroux: L. Badel, 1901), A. 105. 46 Inventaire-Smmaire . . . Indre, série A, A. 107. the jewish cemeteries of france 237 the land entered the initial buyer’s or group of buyers’ possession, the old burial grounds were subdivided for purposes of residential and business construction. In any case, it presumably took time for potential purchasers to arrange and commit to partnerships. Moreover, the auctions themselves were announced by criers repeatedly and far in advance so as to spread the word to as many potential bidders as possible.47 The royal government also carefully screened all individual bidders and bidding consortia, leaving them waiting after the auctions for months, even years, or requiring new auctions before the authorities were persuaded that no illegitimate buyers, such as churches and nobles, had somehow managed to mask their identities and insinuate themselves as purchasers.48 Finally, there were still unavoidable inefficiencies and unpreventable corruption in some cases that delayed the full execution of orders for many more months and years, or in Yves Dossat’s words, “Le désordre et la confusion sont des faits certains.”49 To be sure, Dos- sat was evaluating the royal campaign following the re-expulsion of 1322, but he was aware that that later commission had to deal with some issues still left over from 1306. Yet, over time, as Robert Chazan has concluded, sizable sums did accrue to the royal treasury from the disposition of the cemeteries.50 And, these sums added substantially to the profits that accrued to the government from the sale of the whole array of other confiscated Jew- ish real property, chattels, and outstanding debts. Indeed, the crown made a colossal windfall, which I have estimated at one million pounds, although of course, because of the drawn-out process of disposition, this money did not enter the royal treasury all at once.51 Now, let us turn to details and follow the evidence geographically in a more or less circular route, from Tours ultimately to Toulouse. Louis de Grandmaison surmised that the Jewish cemetery in Tours

47 repeated references to bidding and criers are provided in Balasse, 1306, pp. 154– 58, 322–40. See also Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 207. 48 Balasse, 1306, p. 167; Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 206–7. 49 Yves Dossat, “Les Difficultés d’un commissaire du roi à Toulouse en 1314–25,” Bulletin philologique et historique (1978): 143–53. The quotation is on p. 144. See also Balasse, 1306, pp. 188–96, and Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 205–7. 50 robert Chazan, Medieval Jewry in Northern France: A Political and Social History (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), p. 197. 51 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 209–212. See also Stéphane Mechou- lan, “The Expulsion of the Jews from France in 1306: A Modern Fiscal Analysis,” Journal of European Economic History 33 (2004): 555–84. 238 william chester jordan was alienated soon after the expulsion of 1306. He could not be sure, because there was no definitive record of an auction or bill of sale that specifically mentioned the cemetery.52 Records that have survived show a strong market for confiscated Jewish property in Tours, and healthy receipts.53 These could and, I would now venture to guess, probably do include the proceeds from the sale of the burial ground. What is known for certain, however, is that the gravestones were put on the market and appear to have been purchased by the municipal government. The stones were used to refortify the town soon after.54 Rouen (Haute-Normandie), the old capital of the Duchy of Nor- mandy and the largest city in the province, may be considered next. It had a large and vibrant Jewish community for three centuries, which the expulsion of 1306 destroyed.55 In the case of the Jewish cemetery in the city, there is documentary evidence that it was auctioned off. The successful bid was put in by the municipal government and the sale effected in February 1307.56 The explicit and certain role of the munici- pality in seeking and getting control of the property makes the argument about the disposition of the cemetery in Tours that much more likely, given the success of the government of that city in getting possession of the gravestones for its walls. That is to say, rather than purchasing the gravestones separately, the city fathers of Tours may simply have purchased the cemetery along with the monuments. The initial disposition of the cemetery of Mantes (the present-day Mantes-la-Jolie in the département of Yvelines) would have been made in 1308.57 But properties in the Mantois were being held by the king’s stepmother, Marie de Brabant, as part of her dower lands and were not the crown’s to dispose of. In March 1309, Philip IV implicitly

52 Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 269. 53 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 211. 54 Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 269. 55 The reader may be directed to my own, “Anciens maîtres/nouveaux maîtres: Les Juifs de France de l’Ouest et la transition des Angevins aux Capétiens,” in Plantagenêts et Capétiens: Confrontations et heritages, ed. Martin Aurell and Noël-Yves Tonnerre (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006), pp. 387–94, where I discuss the community and provide a critique of more exaggerated views of Rouen’s and Normandy’s importance in Jewish history. 56 Registres du Trésor des Chartes, vol. I: Règne de Philippe le Bel, ed. Robert Fawtier (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1958), no. 308; Balasse, 1306, p. 326; Norman Golb, The Jews in Medieval Normandy: A Social and Intellectual History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 561–62. 57 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, pp. 151–52; Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” pp. 267–69. the jewish cemeteries of france 239

recognized her right to the cemetery and ratified the subsequent gift she made of it to her servant, Hennequin de Pervyse. It was valued at 200 pounds parisis, a huge sum.58 This sum was, in Joseph Strayer’s words, half-way “literally [to] a princely income.”59 There were two Jewish cemeteries in Paris.60 The disposition of one of these is known. Its value was highly estimated, probably comparable to that of the Jewish cemetery at Mantes. The king gave it by 1311 to the sisters of the abbey of Saint-Louis of Poissy, the monastery he had founded in honor of his grandfather, Louis IX, in the village where Louis had been baptized. The gift helped pay down obligations the king already had to the abbey. He did reserve high and low justice to himself.61 In making the grant the king permitted the abbey to hold it in mortmain, that is to say, the nuns would owe no feudal dues, despite the fact that the crown’s general policy called for restraint on these so-called amortissements and that the disposition in particular of Jewish property seized in the expulsion was not to go to churches.62 Philip IV acted similarly with regard to the cathedral chapter of Sois- sons (Aisne) when in April 1307 he bestowed on it a garden, which had been created from the Jewish cemetery of the city, and a house adjacent to it as an outright gift.63 The priests who were to hold the land in mortmain promised to say mass for the king and to celebrate annual requiem masses for the queen, Jeanne of Navarre, who had died in 1305, and for Philip after his death.64 The Jewish community of Châlons-sur-Marne (the present-day Châlons-en-Champagne, département Aisne) left its cemetery behind in 1306 like Jewish communities everywhere in royal France, but the

58 Registres du Trésor des Chartes, I: no. 560; Balasse, 1306, p. 340. 59 strayer, Reign of Philip the Fair, p. 56; he estimates a princely income as 500 pounds tournois (= 400 pounds parisis). 60 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, p. 47. 61 Registres du Trésor de Chartes, I: no. 1427; Balasse, 1306, pp. 166, 326. Grandmai- son, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 269. The value placed on it was 1,000 pounds tournois, noted as weak money. Philip IV had manipulated his coinage. 62 for the general policy and its application, see William Jordan, Unceasing Strife, Unending Fear: Jacques de Thérines and the Freedom of the Church in the Age of the Last Capetians (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), pp. 59–60. On the restrictions on bidders, see Balasse, 1306, p. 167, and Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 207. 63 Balasse, 1306, p. 340. Nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, p. 162; Grandmai- son, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 267. 64 Registres du Trésor des Chartes, I: no. 317. 240 william chester jordan disposition of this property was not fully accomplished until 1314.65 This was the year before Jews were readmitted to the kingdom.66 This fact is significant, in that the decree allowing resettlement gave the returnees, among other privileges, the option of redeeming those cemeteries that had not been conveyed to new owners or were still intact.67 There is no evidence that Jews sought to exercise this option in Châlons-sur-Marne. They were probably too late. Troyes’s Jewish cemetery, “including its trees and the buildings per- taining to it,” was purchased for 600 pounds tournois.68 That of Sens, with an adjacent house, both of which can be very precisely localized thanks to an exceptionally large number of surviving documents relating to their purchase, sold for 400 pounds tournois.69 One Master Jean (Jehan), an assistant clerk (petit clerc) in the municipal administration, made the purchase, which was ratified on the Thursday after Bran- dons, the first Sunday of Lent, in 1308 (1309 new style).70 It is highly unlikely that the clerk acted purely for himself. Four hundred pounds was not a sum a junior clerk could typically muster. The cemetery of Dijon’s Jewish community is reasonably well documented both by parchments and gravestones.71 The sale of the community’s property returned at least 11,000 pounds tournois, part of which may have come from the separate disposition of the steles for use in building.72 I use the word “may,” because the stones or some proportion of them might rather have been conceded to the Sainte-

65 Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 269. 66 on the negotiations for return and the experiences of the immigrants in the duration of the return, see William Jordan, “Home Again: The Jews in the Kingdom of France, 1315–1322,” in The Stranger in Medieval Society, ed. F. R. P. Akehurst and Stephanie Cain Van D’Elden (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), pp. 27–45. 67 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 241; Robert Chazan, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom, 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 153. 68 Balasse, 1306, p. 326. Taitz, Jews of Medieval France, pp. 96–97, 125, 221 (for the quotation). 69 Registres du Trésor des Chartes, I: no. 482; Auxerre, Archives Départmentales [AD], Yonne, H 537, MSS marked DH 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 10, etc.; see also H 489; Balasse, 1306, p. 324. Taitz, Jews of Medieval France, p. 221. 70 auxerre, AD, Yonne, H 537, MS marked DH 2. See also Grandmaison, “Note sur le cimetière des Juifs à Tours,” p. 269. 71 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 315 n. 75. Nahon, Inscriptions hébra- ïques et juives, pp. 267–68. 72 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 210. Nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, p. 267. the jewish cemeteries of france 241

Chapelle of Dijon.73 One half of the surface area of the cemetery, worth 600 pounds, was later sold to the abbey of Bussière by the duke in 1331.74 Although the king expelled all the Jews—both his and his magnates’—those barons, like the duke of Burgundy, who had immediate dominium collected the profits of sales, just as the queen dowager had done in Mantes.75 Among other sites in eastern France where dispositions of cemetery property can be traced are Chalon-sur-Saône and Mâcon (both in Saône-et-Loire).76 The Jewish burial ground of Chalon-sur-Saône, it has been discovered, was conveyed to the cathedral chapter of the city.77 By 1310, following the adjudication of a dispute, the earlier auction of part of the Jewish cemetery of Mâcon, known as Monjuyf, to one Alexandre de Tournus, a burgher of Mâcon, for fifty pounds tournois was confirmed.78 We may conclude this survey with two southern communities, Montpellier (Hérault) and Toulouse (Haute-Garonne).79 The cemetery of the Jews of Montpellier was confiscated in 1306, but dominium over the part of the town where it was located lay with the king of Majorca. In the years between the expulsion and the readmission of 1315, its integrity remained intact. How or why this was so is unclear to me. Because of the history of reversals of policies of expulsion, departing Jews elsewhere in Europe sometimes managed to contract with clerics, who officially at least were not partisans of expulsion, in order to try to secure possession of their communal buildings and cemeteries, in the expectation that in time the exiles would be allowed to return and retake possession of them. This practice is documented in the later Middle Ages in Bari, for instance.80

73 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 315 n. 75. 74 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 247; Kohn, Juifs de la France du Nord, p. 203. 75 on the king’s relations with other lords who enjoyed dominium over Jews on the eve of the expulsion and during the campaign, see Balasse, 1306, pp. 353–64. 76 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, pp. 265–67. 77 Kohn, Juifs de la France du Nord, p. 203. 78 Registres de Trésor des Chartes, I: no. 729; Balasse, 1306, pp. 159, 324. Nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, nos. 305–12. 79 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, p. 362. 80 Cesare Colafemmina, “The Commercial and Banking Activities of the Jews of Bari during the Spanish Vice-Regency,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews: Banking, Finance and International Trade (XVI–XVIII Centuries), ed. Ariel Toaff and Simon Schwarzfuchs (Ramat-Gan, Isr: 1989), pp. 108, 111. 242 william chester jordan

The practice, however, does not appear to have been employed in France in 1306, for Jews had no time or opportunity to make such arrangements. They were arrested all over the kingdom in a single day and immediately incarcerated. They remained isolated from the general population until, stripped of their property, they were ordered to leave the kingdom as quickly as possible.81 As awful as were earlier seizures of Jewish cemeteries or parts of them by the equivalent of eminent domain, the situation in 1306 was much worse. Taking a burial ground to expand a government building or to “protect” a nearby religious house from having to suffer the proximity of and keening at Jewish interments at least was predicated on an orderly transfer of the remains of the dead to new graves. This was the case, as we have seen, in Montpellier itself in 1256, and the cost of effecting the transfer was laid not on the Jewish community but on the monastery to whom the cemetery was conveyed. In 1306, Jews simply had to leave their dead behind. Christians either immediately disinterred the bodies, a messy affair where recent burials were concerned, or let the properties sit more or less idle, as pasturage perhaps, until the good earth did its duty and decomposition made removal of bones, as opposed to putrefying cadavers, a less unpleasant process. If anyone in France genuinely cared about what happened to the dead remnants of the exiled Jewish population, the information has not survived. The Jewish cemetery of Montpellier may have lain idle for a few years, waiting for an opportune time when working the land or building on it would not have yielded up bodies in unsightly stages of decay and with the overpowering stench of corruption. If so, this lag time offered an opportunity to those expellees who returned to France in 1315 and after. They did not fail to seize the opportunity. Quite the contrary, since the cemetery was available, they exercised their option to retake possession. In 1319 they finalized their repurchase of it from the Lord of Montpellier, the Majorcan King Sancho the Peaceful (1274–1324). The purchase price was 500 pounds melgoriens, a money of account virtually equal to tournois.82

81 Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, pp. 202–4, 214–16; idem, “Administering Expulsion in 1306,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 15 (2008): 241–50. 82 for the transaction, see Salomon Kahn, “Documents inédits sur les Juifs de Montpellier,” Revue des Études juives 18–19 (1889): 264–65. On the exchange rate, cf. Peter Spufford, Handbook of Medieval Exchange (London: Royal Historical Society, 1986), p. 181. the jewish cemeteries of france 243

The Jewish cemetery of Toulouse has left pitifully few stony memorials.83 Others must be in the foundations and walls of old buildings, one supposes. Nor is it known what happened to the cemetery immediately upon the expulsion of 1306. It does seem to have remained intact, however, and may like Montpellier’s have been redeemed by returning Jews. If so, the subsequent expulsion of Jews from the kingdom in 1322 would have led to a new confiscation, a second clear- ing of the cemetery, and another placing of the property at auction.84 What is known for sure is that one Raymond Ysalguier, a businessman (changeur) who specialized in currency exchange but who had earlier been employed by the government to help carry out the great confiscation of 1306, purchased the former cemetery of the Jews of Toulouse in 1325, as ironic an end to our story as one can imagine, for as an administrator of the earlier expulsion Raymond had not been allowed to bid on any Jewish property in 1306.85 A macabre evocation, if ever there was one, of the late medieval proverb, “Tout viens à celui qui sait attendre,” all things come to him who waits.

In a very careful article detailing what was known in 1999 about the premodern history of the Jews of Le Puy in the Ardèche, François-Hubert Forestier lamented the gaps in scholars’ knowledge. He expressed his disappointment with a sentence that began, “Où était le cimetière?”86 It seemed to him almost inconceivable that a large expanse of land had disappeared from recognition without any evident physical trace and that the documentary record had become so thin that there was not a single mention of the place of repose of the medieval Jewish dead of Le Puy. A year later Danièle Iancou-Agou used the same technique, the fatalistic question (“Disposa-t-il alors d’un lieu de . . . sépulture?”), to register equal regret with the meager relics of Jewish life in Le Puy.87

83 nahon, Inscriptions hébraïques et juives, pp. 362–64. 84 Despite the argument of Elizabeth Brown, “Philip V, Charles IV, and the Jews of France: The Alleged Expulsion of 1322,” Speculum 66 (1991): 294–329, that there was no expulsion in 1322, other historians (including myself) feel the evidence is persua- sive; see, for example, Gerd Mentgen, “Die Vertreibungen der Juden aus England und Frankreich,” Aschkenas: Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur der Juden, 7 (1997), 50. 85 Balasse, 1306, pp. 164, 339; Jordan, French Monarchy and the Jews, p. 247; Gustave Saige, Les Juifs du Languedoc antérieurment au XIVe siècle (Paris: Alphonse Picard, 1881), pp. 94, 103, 253, etc. 86 forestier, “Juifs du Puy,” p. 211. 87 La Cathédrale du Puy-en-Velay, ed. Xavier Barral i Altet (Milan: Skira and Paris: Seuil, 2000), p. 118. 244 william chester jordan

In quoting the foregoing sentence, I modified it slightly: “Où étaient le cimetière? la synagogue de la communauté?” For Iancou-Agou also lamented the loss of every trace of Le Puy’s medieval Jewish place of worship. A favorite story I tell happened to me in 1983, while pursu- ing research on The French Monarchy and the Jews. I was in Bourges in January staying at a hotel while I worked at the Archives Départe- mentales of the Cher. The hotel was mine alone. It had closed for a long winter break, but I was given a key to the building by the owner and allowed to occupy a small room. He promised to come by and check me out so I could pay my bill the morning I intended to leave the city. Bourges is lovely. Its cathedral is one of the greatest monuments of the Middle Ages, and perhaps my favorite. I had visited and enjoyed the city on more than one occasion. On the morning of my departure the hôtelier insisted on serving me a coffee and croissant and could not resist asking me what subject I was studying. I told him, the Jews of Bourges in the Middle Ages. He was surprised and responded that there were Protestants in Bourges who had their temple (church), but Bourges never had any Jews. “Il n’y avait pas de juifs en Bourges.” Then why, I responded, was there a rue des juifs near the cathedral square. For him the question was an epiphany. I never thought of that, he said. Whatever happened to them? Those determined to “purify” the Most Christian King’s realm in 1306 and efface the presence of things Jewish were not wholly successful in doing so, as the several rues des juifs still scattered about the modern country and recalling medieval settlement patterns attest. Nev- ertheless, the degree to which they did still almost takes one’s breath away and is at a minimum a stark witness to the awesome power the medieval state could command when it concentrated its attention and its resources. It could literally change the landscape forever and eradicate the memory, among Christians, of people who had been their neighbors for a thousand years. The Cruel Jewish Father: From Miracle to Murder

Kenneth Stow

Robert Chazan has spent much of his career studying Jewish martyrdom, asking who was martyred during the Crusades, why, and detailing the martyrological ideal that grew out of these events, as well as he has probed the significance of kiddush ha-shem, both for the victims and those who memorialized them. In homage to these achievements, I would like to further the examination initiated by Mary Minty into Christian perceptions of the martyrdom of Jewish children at the hands of their parents. What myths were created about this terrible act in the aftermath of the Crusades, and how did these myths affect thinking and action as much as six centuries later? In particular, what was their impact on the case of Shimon Abeles in 1694, which Eli- sheva Carlebach has meticulously analyzed, and why was this impact so great just then?1 Answering these questions requires traversing a complex path from the twelfth through the eighteenth century. The central issues are the same throughout; the nuances are not. Those issues, whose constant undercurrent is ritual murder, are martyrdom, the Eucharist, the protection of corpus Christi (defined as the body of the faithful), and the validation of Christian (and eventually Catholic) truth. Moreover, they were “international,” occupying Catholic thinkers in all lands. Ideas travelled from England to Spain, Rome, Prague, and even Lima, Peru, in the Middle Ages, but especially in the time of the highly centralized post-Tridentine Church.2

1 mary Minty, “Kidush ha-shem be-einei ha-notserim be-germaniyah bi-ymei ha- beinayim,” Zion 59 (1994): 209–66; Elisheva Carlebach, The Death of Shimon Abeles: Jewish Christian Tension in Seventeenth-Century Prague (New York, 2001). 2 on idea-movement, see John McCulloh, “Jewish Ritual Murder: William of Norwich, Thomas of Monmouth, and the Early Dissemination of the Myth,” Speculum 72: 3 (1997): 698–740; Adriano Prosperi, Dare L’Anima, storia di un infanticidio (Turin, 2005), p. 76; and see n. 107, below, on Peru. 246 kenneth stow

Medieval Martyrdom As Eucharistic

We begin with the harsh reaction to the deaths of Jewish children at their parents’ hands during the Crusades, most notably that of the twelfth-century Rupert of Deutz. Rupert was troubled because these children, he believed, were no longer Jews. They were Christians, baptized in the mayhem (something the Hebrew chronicles refrain from admitting),3 just as were the Holy Innocents purportedly slaughtered by Herod “by (or in) their own blood”—a form of baptism characterized by Durandus of St. Pourcain in the thirteenth century as the fruit of “divine generosity.”4 These children, as Rupert saw them, were Christian martyrs, and as all such martyrs, they were deemed Eucharistic. Ignatius, martyred in the second century, imagined himself metamorphosed into “the bread of Christ,” and in the sixteenth century Edmund Campion called martyrs “holy hosts and oblations.”5 What Rupert thus imagined as he saw (or heard about) Jews killing their (baptized or virtually baptized) children was Jews attacking the Host. This critical nexus, the true heart of the issue, has remained virtually unexplored.6 A second, equally neglected element is the saving role of the Virgin in stories of Jewish malfeasance, whose presence ensures that Jewish intentions remain unrealized. Marian elements are being increasingly identified with tales that led to the diffusion of accusations ofritual murder.7 The collections of these legends that spread throughout

3 on Rupert see nn. 17 and 36, below, and Willis Johnson, “Before the Blood Libel: Jews in Christian Exegesis After the Massacres of 1096,” unpublished MA thesis, Cambridge University, 1994; A. M. Haberman, Sefer gezerot tsarefat ve-ashkenaz (Jerusalem, 1945), p. 33. This edition of the Hebrew Crusade chronicles has now been superseded by Eva Haverkamp, Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen wäh- rend des Ersten Kreuzzugs (Hannover, 2005). On forced conversion’s possible varieties, see Maggie Anton’s novel (!), Rashi’s Daughters, Book 3: Rachel (New York, 2005). 4 see Minty, “Kidush ha-shem.” 5 Kenneth Stow, Jewish Dogs, An Image and Its Interpreters (Stanford, 2006), p. 24, points to Cyprian and others who link martyrdom, and martyrs themselves, with the Eucharist. 6 minty, “Kidush ha-shem,” p. 241 n. 132, notes Eucharistic aspects fleetingly. Robert C. Stacey, “From Ritual Crucifixion to Host Desecration: Jews and the Body of Christ,” Jewish History 12 (1998): 11ff, discusses twelfth-century host theology as linked to Jewish action. See also Stow, Jewish Dogs, pp. 63–65. 7 robert Stacey has kindly shared his unpublished lecture, “People and Places in the Life of St. William of Norwich,” Norwich, England, 3–4 September 2009, as well as his unpublished English translation of HM-TS, Miracle 24, in Miracula Sanctae the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 247

western Europe and Iberia by the end of the twelfth century (about the same time as the chronicle attributed to Shlomo bar Shimshon was being completed) contain four stories involving Jews, two of which pertain especially to our discussion. The first, told no later than the sixth century by Gregory of Tours, is that of the Jewish boy of Bourges, who is shoved into a roaring furnace by his father upon learning that this son has taken Eucharistic communion, but whom the Virgin saves.8 The second takes place on Ascension Day (15 August), when the Virgin warns the faithful in the Cathedral of Toledo that the Jews are molding a ball of wax to murder Jesus anew, this time, the corpus verum, the technical Latin term for the Eucharist.9 In both stories, the dominating element is Eucharistic, which, though not obvious in the story about the Jewish boy itself, is explicit in other tales involving Jews and ovens. In one, the Jews are accused directly of stealing the (Eucharistic) bread from the hearth. In the Toledo story, moreover, the wax is infinitely malleable. Not only Christ himself but any individual Christian could have been the victim, for every Chris- tian is said to unite with Christ upon taking communion, to become part of the social and political corpus Christi—a Eucharistic body.10 The idea of sympathetic magic worked through waxen figures was not new. Wax motifs and murderous Jewish plots lie at the center of two mirror stories,” as I like to name the many tales that mirror each other in a Christian and Jewish version. The first is a Latin text in which Jews kill a bishop by sticking pins into his image, the second, the so-called Hebrew tale of 992, in which Jews are accused of (at least planning) this same crime but are apparently saved.11 A further version of the Marian legends links the Toledo incident to a Jewish

Virginis Mariae, ed. Elise F. Dexter (Madison, 1927), pp. 39–40 (all rights reserved by R. C. Stacey). 8 The Oxford database on the Cantigas de Santa Maria contains all versions of this tale: http://csm.mml.ox.ac.uk/?p=intro (accessed November 2009). 9 stacey, “From Ritual Crucifixion”; Miri Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture (Cambridge, 1992). 10 stow, Jewish Dogs, introduction; idem, “Holy Body, Holy Society: Conflicting Medieval Structural Conceptions,” in B. Z. Kedar and R. J. Z. Werblowsky, eds., Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land (New York, 1998). 11 robert Chazan, Church, State, and Jew in the Middle Ages (New York, 1980); for the originals, see Julius Aronius, Regesten zur Geschichte der Juden im Fraenkischen und Deutschen Reiche bis zum Jahre 1273 (Berlin, 1902), 1066, no. 160. See also Stow, Jewish Dogs, p. 260. 248 kenneth stow conspiracy led by the Nasi of Narbonne.12 These interchangeable elements naturally blended together. They also had a long “after-history.” When speaking of one supposed victim of Jewish treachery, Lorenzino di Marostica (1485), the late nineteenth-century bishop Antonio de Pol of Vicenza said that the Jews did not have it in mind to kill just one single Christian; they were bent on murdering Christianity itself (lo stesso Cristianesimo). The story of another alleged victim, Werner of Oberwesel (1287), who is said to have died in Christo, pro Christo, and propter Christo, removes all doubt.13 It was the common Christian opinion that when Jews killed a child, whether a born Christian or one of their own, to prevent baptism, they were going after Christianity’s jugular vein. The images coalesce most demonstrably in the painting of a murder libel hanging in the Sandomierz cathedral in Poland. It is a blood libel as well, for blood is being extracted from the child victim by rolling it in a nail-studded barrel. The child is also being consumed by a dog, an image used to denote Jews since no later than the fourth century; directly above the dismembered child is a second one, decidedly the Christ child—the corpus verum—with its bent knee. The background colors are the Virgin’s, blue and red, with the implication that she is saving the victim. Host, murder, and blood libels, with the Virgin’s salvific presence, have been compressed into one.14 (See fig. 1)

Jewish Response

Jews would have none of this: the children killed by their parents were Jewish martyrs, ritually slaughtered to exalt God’s name. Yet, as recounted in stories like Shlomo bar Shimson’s version of the mass suicide at Xanten, their martyrdom was recalled not only to venerate the act but to challenge Christian claims. Eva Haverkamp has shown that the Xanten story was composed largely to respond to and rebuff

12 stacey, “People and Places.” 13 stow, Jewish Dogs, pp. 51, 59, and 68; Thomasso Caliò, A“ ntisemitismo e culto dei santi in età contemporanea: Il caso del beato Lorenzino da Marostica,” in Paolo Golinelli, ed., Il pubblico dei santi: Forme e livelli di ricezione dei messaggi agiografici (Rome, 2000), pp. 421, 427, 412, in that order. 14 reproduced in both Stow, Jewish Dogs, and Magda Teter, Jews and Heretics in Catholic Poland: A Beleaguered Church in the Post Reformation Era (New York, 2006). the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 249

Figure 1. Carol de Prevot, Roman Martyrdom, Sandomierz Cathedral, Poland.

the local cult of the martyred St. Victor.15 In my estimation, Shlomo bar Shimshon was responding to that cult’s Eucharistic aspect—denoted by the words in his Passio (composed shortly before Shlomo’s text) that Victor (like Werner) died in Christo—to say that the true sacrifice was that of the Jewish martyrs. They alone were the true “bread” of which Ezekiel had spoken (44:7: “You offer [the sacrifice of ] my bread, the fat and the blood”). Shlomo employed sophisticated allusion. The potential martyrs, who had assembled for their Sabbath repast, he said, had gotten only to the motsi before their refuge was stormed, thus leaving the hearer to wonder whether the morsel of motsi bread had actually been consumed. By implication, that morsel was the martyrs themselves;

15 haverkamp, Hebräische Berichte, pp. 9–14, 568–71; also idem, “Martyrs in Rivalry: The 1096 Jewish Martyrs and the Thebean Legion,” Jewish History 23 (2009): 319–42. 250 kenneth stow the other “bread,” the Eucharist], was a sham. This representation effectively accused Paul of creating a “false distillate” of Ezekiel and preaching it to his followers in the founding verses of Eucharistic ritual (I Cor. 10:16: “. . . is not the bread that we break a participation in the body of Christ?”). Paul, Shlomo retorted, had falsely usurped Jewish principles; the real sacrificial bread is the one embodied by the Jew- ish martyrs of Xanten, who, through their deaths, reclaimed what was truly theirs. The Christian martyr Victor had died a useless death.16 We may imagine Christians replying sharply that if the slaughtered Jewish children were martyrs, they were martyrs to Christ. For were not most of these children—at least according to Rupert of Deutz (and no doubt many others)—already baptized?17 As for those considered murdered on the verge of baptism, it was their souls the Jews had destroyed, more than their bodies, and since all martyrdom was Eucharistic, it was clear that by killing their children the Jews were again attacking the Host. Indeed, rather than saying that Jewish acts stimulated later charges of ritual murder, I believe we should say the reverse: it was the preexisting belief that Jews would attack the Host that led to the martyrdom of Jewish children in 1096 being conceived as such.18 We should not forget that ritual murder stories, Marian legends, and the reports, both Latin and Hebrew, of Crusade slaughter were all written at about the same time.

The Cruel Jewish Parent

The cruelty of Jewish parents was seemingly limitless. Christiane Klapisch-Zauber has written of the cruel mother, the widow who

16 Jeremy Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God: Jewish Martyrs and Jewish Memories of the First Crusade (Philadelphia, 2004), pp. 73–75, who does not call the Jews themselves Eucharistic; Robert Chazan, European Jewry and the First Crusade (Berkeley, 1987), pp. 280–83. 17 Johnson, “Before the Blood Libel,” citing Cambridge University Library Ii. 4, 26 (xii. e, English), f. 9v. 18 The Marian stories, solidified by the mid-twelfth century, make it clear that Jews were considered the Host’s enemies. The formal charge solidifies the unexpressed yet definitely present ideas in early tales. The Eucharistic aspect of the boy of Bourges becomes explicit in parallel “oven tales.” See Miri Rubin, “Mary,” History Workshop 58 (2004): 3. The Protogospel of James has Jesus playing with neighboring Jewish children, whose parents hide them in an oven, only to find them as pigs when the door is opened. The Bourges story sounds like a reversal. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 251

abandoned her children in the care of her late husband’s family in order to remarry.19 Jews rarely resorted to this practice.20 Their parental cruelty was said to be systematic aggression against both the soul and the Eucharist, a cruelty so harsh that it prompted Christians like Rupert to see the slaughtered children of the Crusades as baptized by blood, whose souls thus were saved and their martyrdoms affirmed.21 Yet was not the commission of so great a crime something the Jews had always desired and striven to achieve? John Chrysostom said it bluntly at the end of the fourth century in his Homilies Against the Jews, commenting on Matthew 15:24–26, where Christ said he had brought the bread (the Eucharist, as all later agreed) for the children, not to be thrown to the dogs. Applying the dog metaphor to the Jews, he said: Although those Jews had been called to the adoption of sons, they fell to kinship with dogs; we who were dogs received the strength, through God’s grace, to put aside the irrational nature, which was ours, and to rise to the honor of sons. How do I prove this? Christ said: “It is not fair to take the children’s bread and to cast it to the dogs.” Christ was speaking to the Canaanite woman [who petitioned him] when He called the Jews children and the Gentiles dogs. But see how thereafter the order was changed about: they became dogs, and we became the children.22 By implication, Jews, seducing Christians to Jewish practices (as Chrysostom went on to say), always want the bread back, claiming it is theirs. The story of the Jewish boy of Bourges took Chrysostom a fatal step forward: if they are unable to repossess the sacrificial bread, Jews will stop at nothing to destroy it. Christian readers of this story certainly identified the potentially martyred figure in the oven with the Eucharist. Variations on the theme of “bread in the oven” leave no doubt. In the fifteenth-century

19 Christiane Klapisch, “The ‘Cruel Mother’: Maternity, Widowhood, and Dowry in Florence in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” in Women, Family, and Ritual in Renaissance Italy, trans. Lydia Cochrane (Chicago, 1985). 20 Kenneth Stow, “The Jewish Woman as Social Protagonist: Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Rome,” in Claire Honess and Verina Jones, eds., Le Donne delle minoranze: Le ebree e le protestanti d’Italia (Turin, 1999), pp. 87–100. 21 adriano Prosperi, Dare l’anima, pp. 175–218, discusses this concept in general, including the consequences of Christian women slaughtering unbaptized children, also termed “innocents.” 22 Homilies Against the Jews, tr. Wayne Meeks and Robert Wilken, in Jews and Christians in Antioch in the First Four Centuries of the Common Era (Missoula, 1978). 252 kenneth stow

“Croxton Play of the Sacrament,” a Host that the Jews wish to torture is oven-baked into a bloodied child. The Eucharistic martyrological fusion is transparent, as it is again in the 1322 tale about the Span- ish town of Sogorb (Segorbe), whose Jews were accused of burning a Christ-figure molded out of bread in an oven. In the earlier story of Adam of Bristol, the baked child is the Eucharist itself. The German chronicler Friedrich Cosener reported that a Host Jews tried to bake remained unconsumed, whence the Virgin (as at Bourges) appeared to charge the Jews with murdering her son.23 The intrinsic cannibalism of these stories, in which real and Eucha- ristic bodies, the flesh and the bread, readily substitute for each other, is patent. An early thirteenth-century text of Guillaume le Breton recounts that King Philip II of France heard that each year Jews immo- labant et comedabant (sacrificed and consumed) the heart of the living Eucharistic embodiment, a Christian child.24 A clear development on this theme is the accusation that Jews burned to ashes figures of Christ made out of dough while baking matzot.25 Bread, Host, Christ—and sometimes Christian children, or even Jewish ones seeking eucharistic succor—were thus freely exchanged as well as ravished at Jewish hands. The point is most striking in its modern incarnation inthe children’s rhyme that lies at the heart of a game played in Chilean schoolyards even today. A group of youngsters surrounds a classmate and chants: quien rubò los panes del horno? El perro Judio (“Who has stolen the bread from the oven? The Jewish dog”). Not all dogs are Jewish, nor are all references to Jews as dogs necessarily eucharistic; but Chrysostom’s vision of the eucharistically thieving Jewish dog is still compellingly present.

23 see Lisa Lampert, “The Once and Future Jew: The Croxton Play of the Sacrament, Little Robert of Bury and Historical Memory,” Jewish History 15: 3 (2001): 235–55; idem, Gender and Jewish Difference from Paul to Shakespeare (Philadelphia, 2004); David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton, 1996), p. 220 (I thank Katherine Beller for this reference). Dean P. Bell, Sacred Communities: Jewish and Christian Identities in Fifteenth-Century Germany (Leiden, 2002), p. 106; and Gonzalo de Berceo, Los milagros de nuestra señora, ed. Brian Dutton (London, 1971), pp. 140–41. 24 Guillelmus Armoricus in Martin Bouquet, comp., Recueil des historiens des Gau- les et de la France, ed. Léopold Deslisle (Paris, 1877), 17: 66. See also Stow, Jewish Dogs, p. 138. Jews who did not attack directly were said to corrupt through “excessive familiarity.” 25 Nirenberg, Communities of Violence, p. 220. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 253

Death and Redemption

For Christians, certainly medieval ones, these interlinking concepts were fearsome. As the story of the Toledan waxen image might lead readers or hearers to ponder, the infinitely malleable wax was capable of bridging the gap separating the Eucharist from individual Chris- tians. Nonetheless, the fearsomeness of suffering led also to redemption. Had not the twelfth-century Odo of Cambrai said, “He feeds us with his blood and body, so that we unite in one body in him, and so that we are him, and he is one with us.” This notion applied also in the throes of death.26 Hence the passion of the Toledan or of any other martyrological (ritual murder) story held out the promise that through Jewish malfeasance, every Christian’s eucharistic potential might be realized. In a sense, then, Jewish assaults on Christians were to be encouraged. Each case not only demonstrated Eucharistic truths and the powers of the Virgin—for which proof was constantly sought—but even more, these fantasies demonstrated that, like the Church, the Eucharist was a “ship” that no force could sink,27 including that of its greatest and perennial enemy, the Jew. Through multiplying Jewish assaults, collectively and individually, Christians might foster visions of glory and renewed sensations of Christ and, vicariously, of themselves suffering in the blood.28 Paul’s Corinthian vision of unus panis would be validated as well: we are one loaf, though we are many; we, though individuals, are collectively triumphant; we are “eucharistic Hosts” who have survived an ordeal, one that might even be called a rite de passage. These “virtues” are explicit in the Passion of Werner of Oberwesel (1287): Werner suffered in place of Christ (loco Christi): For since the Jews could not have the corpus verum, they took their wrath out on Werner, the corpus mysticum. . . . Werner suffered, too, as Christ (in Christo), for the blessed child was made part of Christ’s body. . . . Werner also suffered for Christ (pro Christo), for since the Jews could not lay their hands on Christ reigning in heaven, they persecuted his Christian devotee. Indeed,

26 Quoted in Anna Sapir Abulafia, Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (London, 1995), p. 130. 27 This image, still alive, appeared in the “Dialogue of Justin Martyr with Trypho the Jew.” 28 For example, the Christ in Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, who is a ritual murder victim projected backward. 254 kenneth stow

he suffered for Christ (pro Christo), for just as Christ underwent the passion so that the Christian could be saved, so Werner underwent a passion for Christ’s benefit (propter Christum), so that the faith be exalted.29 Werner, who stands for all Christians, whether individuals or Christi- anity as a whole, is at once the corpus verum (the Eucharist), the corpus mysticum (the Church), and the societas fidei (the society of the faithful), as well as the fleshly incarnation of Christ. His martyrdom also appears to benefit Christ’s work, a concept that in the later sixteenth century was openly espoused.30 However, the full potential in a scenario like this one was realized not when Jews assaulted Christians. It was far more exhilarating when Jews attacked their own, especially if, like the boy of Bourges, these children were already baptized, about to be baptized, or considered baptized because they died on the verge of baptism. Here martyrdom was instant, sometimes of the “innocent baptized by their own blood,” who had died pro Christo.31 Here, too, the Eucharist and baptism were vindicated, as well as unimpeachable testimony given to the depths of the Jews’ perceived “hatred of the Christian faith” and to the fury of the “Jewish dogs” out “to steal” the Eucharist back.32 The Jews’ perverse zeal could be even more reprehensible. However attacked, the physical Host could not be vanquished, but individuals, who dined or had sexual contact with a Jew were spiritually condemned. Thus a converted Jewish man was to refrain from sharing his wife’s bed until she joined him in baptism. As a Jew, her eradi- cable impurity would defile both altar and Eucharist, vitiating the latter’s power to unite the recipient with Christ. Still more noxious was “excessive familiarity”—the canonical euphemism for illicit contact— between a Jew and a priest, whose resulting impurity the infected priest would transmit to persons to whom he offered the communion wafer. Such a priest, Agobard of Lyons ranted, would be as guilty as the priests described by Cyprian, who offered pagan sacrifices, in order

29 acta Sanctorum a Ioanne Bollando S. I. colli feliciter coepta. A Godefrido Hen- schenio et Daniele Papebrochio, S.I., aucta . . . (Antwerp, 1668); reprinted under the editorship of the Socii Bollandiani, 69 vols. (Paris, 1863–40). XIX APRILIS. DE S. VVERNHERO. 30 stow, Jewish Dogs, p. 65, also for the full Latin citation for n. 29, above; and Douai-Rheims New Testament (1582) to Colossians 1:24. 31 see Minty, “Kidush ha-shem,” pp. 214–15, 235–40. 32 adriano Prosperi, Dare l’anima, pp. 175–218. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 255 to avoid persecution by the Emperor Decius, before returning to offici- ate in the church. Worse yet was a priest aiding a criminous Jewish father. Mary Minty has unearthed a Latin story from shortly after the First Crusade of a child drowned by his father for wanting to become a Christian, whose body, thanks to its faith in the Virgin, began to emit an eternally shin- ing glow. The child’s baptism had been delayed by a corrupt priest, however, and his death at the stake is the story’s fitting climax (the child’s parents convert).33 Priests like this may also have existed, not literally, to be sure, but in the form of those disturbed by the uncanon- ical forced conversions of 1096, who, following the lead of Emperor Henry IV, assisted or did not oppose the return to Judaism of the converted. For clergy like Emperor Henry’s own appointee, the antipope Clement III, such acts were anathema: baptism was indelible; to renege was apostasy. Clerical acquiescence in allowing Jews to slip back to Judaism may, in fact, have catalyzed outbursts like that of Rupert of Deutz, who lived near the time of the Crusades not far from Xanten. Rupert was out- raged at the “murderous Jewish mother,” a type he utterly condemned in his De Sancte Trinitate: Though even the lamia [a kind of female demon] bares her breast to feed her pups, the daughter of my people is cruel like the ostrich. The lamia is a monstrous animal. Its name means tearing. Yet it has a natural affection toward its young [and feeds them]. But the daughter of my people is very cruel and has not even bared her breast [like the ostrich that scatters its eggs in the desert]. On top of that, she killed it, saying, “His blood is on us” [Matt. 27:25]. [Hence] from then until today, the tongue of the nursing infant clings to its palate; and there is no one to break bread for the children who are asking it. They have too much hunger and thirst to hear the word of God, not because they want the word of God, but because they [the mothers] prefer [the children] to perish rather than [for the children] to break for themselves the bread of the scriptures that they might live from the marrow of spiritual understanding.34 Rupert, explains Willis Johnson, is referring to actions by Jews in 1096, and is echoed by Shlomo bar Shimson: “The hands of merciful women

33 minty, “Kidush ha-shem,” pp. 234–35; and Acta Sanctorum, April 2:699–700. When the Jews throw the corpse into the Rhine, it does not sink. Haberman, Sefer gezerot, pp. 51, 80, 103. See also J. Aronius, Regesten zur Geschichte der Juden im fränkischen und deutschen Reiche bis zum Jahre 1273 (Berlin, 1902), nos. 202, 203, 204, 205, 206. 34 on Lamentations 4:2–5. 256 kenneth stow

(ritually) slaughtered their children.”35 For Rupert, however, these mothers, rather than merciful, were worse than the lamia, “preferring [their infants] to perish,”36 infants, moreover, who were already Christians and who had died in Christo and loco Christo and, hence, as eucharistic martyrs. Their deaths appear also as dual—first natural, then spiritual, through the denial of eucharistic sustenance. Rupert must have seen in his interpretation of these events verification of his teaching that Christ’s real presence was to be found in the Eucharist.37 When, eight hundred years later, Bishop de Pol said Jews who murdered Christian children were destroying Christianity, he was drawing a logical conclusion and voicing an idea that had been gestating for centuries. If Jews would kill the bodies and threaten the souls of their own, would they not do the same to any Christian, whether by murder, deceit, or pollution transferred by corrupt priests to the faithful? Jews may also have contributed unwittingly to this imagery’s growth, for although it preexisted 1096, it seemed immeasurably strengthened when Jews themselves confirmed it. Thus, in Ephraim of Bonn’s poem on the binding of Isaac, Abraham actually slays his son and then raises his knife again to counter God’s reviving dew. Only divine intervention halts the fearsome scene of kiddush ha-shem. Christians, however, including the many Hebraists of Ephraim’s day, might easily have interpreted the reviving mist as baptismal water, ending Isaac’s true suffering, as his now-baptized soul escaped eternal punishment much as the Virgin had succored the boy in the furnace. As for Abra- ham’s desire to slaughter Isaac twice, here was a Jewish father killing a Christian child, if not Christ himself—with both personae, as in all stories of martyrdom, freely interchangeable. Some Christian accounts indeed imagine Christ carrying his cross in the likeness of Isaac, just as Isaac himself bore the wood to the sacrificial place.38 Had Ephraim of Bonn played into the Christian mythmaker’s hand?39 More likely,

35 haberman Sefer gezerot, pp. 31, 33. 36 Johnson, “Before the Blood Libel”; and see Tomasso Caliò, La leggenda dell’ebreo assassino (Rome, 2007), p. 89, who identifies the lamia with a witch. The tradition of the witch killing and eating children can be seen in the Megillat Ahimaaz, ed. B. Klar (Jerusalem, 1974), p. 24. 37 Carlebach, Death of Abeles, p. 15, citing Minty, pp. 215–16, on the baptismal blood of the Holy Innocents, themselves eucharistic martyrs. 38 minty, “Kidush ha-shem,” p. 262. 39 This is not to imply that Jewish actions were provocative. Rather, Christians had their own, internal “table of Jewish contents,” into which a poem like Ephraim’s could the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 257

Ephraim, much like Shlomo bar Shimson in the tale of Xanten, was the respondent. As in the many other instances where Jewish and Christian tales invert one another polemically, Ephraim was claiming that Jewish children sacrificed like Isaac were all the original Isaac redivivus, eternally devoted Jews. For Ephraim, the idea of baptism by blood was, like Christianity itself, a chimera.

Imagination Transformed: The Vision of Eucharistic Martyrdom Applied

Ultimately, of course, Christian charges against Jews were all fruits of the imagination, whether the victim was Christian or Jewish. The child in specific accusations, however, unlike in generic literary ones, was always a Christian, or a consecrated Host. No direct charge of Jews killing their own children (or at least none we know of ) arose before 1694, when the father of Shimon Abeles, resident in Prague, was accused of murdering his son, who was on the verge of conversion and whose interred body was then venerated as a Christian martyr.40 This difficult episode has been masterfully studied by Elisheva Car- lebach, who has unraveled the thorny records of the trial that led to the suicide of Shimon’s father and the condemnation of his assistant Lobl (Lazar) Kurtzhandler. Carlebach, following Minty, has also distinguished that the charge was not simply “murder” but murder motivated by “hatred for the Christian faith.” The martyrdom of a child perched on baptism’s doorstep is the key to explaining the event; the hatred assumed of Jews, as the preceding discussion makes clear, was indivisible in Christian minds from the ideal of eucharistic martyrdom, whose victims all died pro Christo. Indeed, in odium fidei, the Latin for “hatred of the [Christian] faith,” is the common motivation attributed repeatedly to Jews accused of ritual murder, for example, by Pope Benedict XIV (1750–58), in his letter on canonization, De servo- rum Dei beatificatione, which names William of Norwich and Simon of Trent (and many others) and in Beatus Andreas, of 1755, beatifying Andreas of Rinn. During their trial in 1476, the hapless Trentine Jews

neatly fit to Jewish detriment—if, that is, Ephraim’s poem preceded Christian claims, which is not certain. 40 Carlebach, Death of Abeles, p. 16. 258 kenneth stow were accused of acting in vilipendium Christianae fidei.41 The charge of murdering Shimon Abeles in odium fidei thus realized and animated the heretofore (solely) imagined scenario in which Jews killed their own children to avoid baptism, as this scenario, whose origins lie in the archetype tale of the Jewish boy of Bourges, was elaborated, from the time of Rupert of Deutz, into one of eucharistic validation.42 But why did what had long remained an abstract idea came suddenly to real life in 1694? Carlebach has pointed rightly to contemporary issues,43 such as the miracle-laden tales of convert-murder by parents like those unearthed by Mary Minty,44 which, alongside the Marian miracle tales of the twelfth and thirteenth century, were now being heard and retold in the mainstream of the Church’s hierarchy.45 Likewise, the writings of the late fifteenth-century jurist Ulrich Zasius were perpetuating the themes of Rupert of Deutz, as were also the responsa of the later sixteenth-century legist Marc Antonio Natta, and, importantly, the work of the influential, yet temperate eighteenth- century judge Giuseppe Sessa.46 Zasius further insisted that Jewish

41 anna Esposito and Diego Quaglioni, Processi contro gli ebrei di Trento (Padua, 1990), p. 71. See, too, the usages offered by Massimo Introvigne in http://www.cesnur .org/2005/ganga_02.htm (accessed November 2009). Note the interesting alternate use of contemptum in Codex Theodosianus 16.8.18, followed by Codex Justinianus 1,9,10, with respect to the alleged annual burning of Haman (as later in Bourges), viewed as a reenactment of the crucifixion; and note the continuity of the term, recently used in Japan, November 2009, in a ceremony recognizing the martyrdom of Chris- tians, including children, in Japan between 1603–1639 http://www.30giorni.it/us/ articolo.asp?id=20163 (accessed November 2009); the papal legate Cardinal Martins said repeatedly that these martyrs were killed in odium fidei (using the Latin) and added that the church recognizes the once-debated martyrdom of passive children, on which, see Caliò, La leggenda, pp. 102, 104, also 92, also on odium fidei. See, finally, http://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C1CHFX_enUS397US397&sourceid=chrome&ie =UTF-8&q=in+odium+fidei, for the absolute link between the term and martyrdom (accessed January 2011). 42 miri Rubin, “Imagining the Jew: The Late Medieval Eucharistic Discourse,” in In and Out of the Ghetto, ed. Ronnie Po-Chia Hsia and Hartmut Lehmann (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 177–208, on Bourges, notes the Eucharist in the background, which I see in the foreground. 43 Carlebach, Death of Abeles, p. 10. 44 minty, “Kidush ha-shem,” pp. 241–43. 45 see Nicola Cusumano, “Ricerche sull’accusa di omicidio rituale nel settecento,” Mediterranea 1 (2004): 81–104; see also Tomasso Caliò, La leggenda dell’ebreo assassino, passim; Marina Caffiero, Battesimi forzati (Rome, 2004), p. 171; Carlebach, Death of Abeles, pp. 15–17, on Lotharius Fried. 46 m. A. Natta, Consiliorum seu responsorum (Lyons, 1566), 2: 394; Giuseppe Sessa, Tractatus de Iudaeis (Turin, 1716), p. 237. See also Kenneth Stow, “Jews and Christians—Two Different Cultures,” in Uwe Israel, Robert Juette, and Reinhold the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 259 nefariousness justified seizing and baptizing Jewish children despite parental refusal, and he added, this time echoing John Duns Scotus, that should the parent kill the child before it could be baptized, it mattered little. The child would be considered baptized by blood.47 Nonetheless, these were nonspecific ruminations. A more immediate trigger has to be found. Otherwise the Abeles accusation must be considered an aberration. Carlebach pointed to the missionary successes of Prague’s Jesuits, which were part of a wider, imperially supported mission pursued throughout Catholic lands. In Prague, the Jesuits were determined to regain the city for the Catholic faith, where it had been challenged as recently as the early seventeenth century, culminating in 1609 in the famous Battle of White Mountain.48 The Jesuits’ great weapon in reestablishing unity was the same “discipline” that historians have labeled the leading avatar of the entire post-Tridentine Catholic offensive, a multivalent but almost self- explanatory term.49 Discipline extended to Jewish behavior and its control. Conversionary success was to be guaranteed, interference by parents and relatives blocked. A doctrine concerning the treatment of converts, whatever their origin, was also being elaborated, which would culminate in strong measures announced by Benedict XIV in the mid-eighteenth century. In this context, the death of a potential convert was grave—and it was the Jesuits who seem to have persuaded Shimon to convert. Aware of this, in 1706 the neofito Paolo Medici, anxious to expose what he considered Jewish folly and evildoing,50 translated the account of Shimon’s death written by the Prague Jesuit Johan Eder into Italian.51 Medici had to know he was striking a responsive chord. His report

Mueller, eds., Interstizi: Culture Ebraico-Cristiane a Venezia e nei suoi domini tra basso medieovo e prima epoca moderna (Rome, 2010). And see n. 115, below. 47 steven W. Rowan, “Ulrich Zasius and the Baptism of Jewish Children,” Sixteenth Century Journal 6 (1975): 3–25, citing Zasius, De Judaeis questiones III, in Opera omnia (Tubingen, 1508), 5: 332. 48 on Prague, see Benjamin Kaplan, Divided by Faith (Cambridge, Mass., 2007); Francis Yates, The Rosacrucian Enlightenment (Oxford, 2001), pp. 34–35. 49 see, notably, Paolo Prodi, ed., Disciplina dell’anima, disciplina del corpo e disciplina della società fra Medioevo ed Età moderna (Bologna, 1994). 50 see his major work on Jewish rites, Riti e costumi degli ebrei confutati (Venice, 1801). 51 P. S. Medici, Patimenti e morte di Simone Abeles fanciullo ebreo di dodici anni tormentato e ucciso crudelmente da Lazzaro Abeles suo padre, in Praga, il 21 febbraio dell’anno 1694 perche’ era constante nell’abbracciare la sante Fede. Istoria composta in latino dal padri Giovanni Edera della Compagnia di Gesu’ e tradotta in italiano da 260 kenneth stow of Shimon’s death concretely verified what everyone already thought, justifying, as we shall see, the negativity with which Jewish acts were constantly being judged. We must be cautious then of the optimism with which scholars view contemporary Jewish commerce in the Atlantic and the Mediterra- nean and a growing Jewish resettlement in the West. Too often, this optimism obscures the darker side, that this was also the age of the ghetto in Italy, an epoch of sometimes subtle Jewish political and legal disenfranchisement, and the nadir of Jewish-papal relations. Jewish existence in the Papal State, which until the mid-sixteenth century had never been debated, was now being called into question.52 The popes did not speak of expulsion. Catholic theology, complemented by the Roman law–based ius commune, the principal legal system in force in the state, would not condone it. Theologically, Jews were needed to sig- nal the millennium, but more importantly, ius commune denominated Jews cives—roughly, citizens, albeit second-class and heavily restricted. Still, they were citizens, at least in the sense that they were considered permanent residents. Nonetheless, the Jewish presence could be cir- cumscribed, which it was by turning to a form of social segregation unknown in the past, namely, the serraglio, as the popes first called the Roman ghetto, in which a physical limes was added to the emotional and theological one that had held firm for over a thousand years. The Jews were figuratively “expelled into the ghetto” until they decided “to save their souls.”53 In 1555, the year of the Roman ghetto’s founding, millennial fantasies led Paul IV to envision the ghetto and strict legal application as provoking conversion en masse.

“Offerings”

Conversion as a policy was hardly new, but the way it was about to be pursued was. The great waves of conversion in 1096, 1391, and 1497

Paolo Sebastiano Medici sacerdote, lettor pubblico e accademico fiorentino in Firenze da Piero Matini (Florence, 1715). 52 The 1322 expulsion from Avignon was brief and a fluke; see Kenneth Stow, “The Avignonese Papacy, or After the Expulsions,” in From Witness to Witchcraft: Jews and Judaism in the Medieval Christian Thought, ed. Jeremy Cohen (Wiesbaden, 1996), pp. 275–98, reprinted in Stow, The Roman Church and the Jews (Aldershot, 2006). 53 see Kenneth Stow, Catholic Thought and Papal Jewry Policy (New York, 1977); idem, Theater of Acculturation (Seattle, 2001). the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 261 were sudden spurts, and even the missionary efforts in Spain from the mid-thirteenth century had been sporadic. In distinction, from about 1540, areas under papal domination, especially in Italy, witnessed the start of an unrelenting mission. This mission was marked by activities like preaching and the burning of the Talmud but most notably the establishment of houses of converts (case dei catecumeni). The first was that in Rome in 1542–43. Many who approached these institutions were poor or scoundrels, and there was also the rare believer. Others, however, were confined in the houses of converts because they had been kidnapped. Technically, these unfortunates had been “offered” (or “oblated”) or “denounced.” Most often they were minors with a converted parent, or an uncle, or aunt who was conceded the power of a parent, patria potestas, to determine a child’s future.54 Converted spouses often (falsely) “denounced” their (actual or desired) mates, as having expressed a will to convert.55 The greatest danger, however, attended the “offer” of an unborn child, whose pregnant mother would be arrested by papal police and taken to a casa dei catecumeni, and whose child would be seized and baptized at birth. The despairing mother normally soon followed.56 On more than one occasion, the entrance of papal police into the ghetto provoked a riot. These sequestrations were largely justified by thinking like that we have seen of Ulrich Zasius, even though his arguments about seizing children challenged majority canonical and theological tradition. The canons, followed by the commentaries of theologians like Thomas Aquinas, prohibited forced baptism. Thomas also said that Jews exercised patria potestas, parental authority, over their children, since legally Jews were cives.57 Zasius demurred. Jews, he said, disingenuously

54 see Marina Caffiero, Battesimi forzati, passim. 55 see the noted case of Anna del Monte, Ratto della Signora Anna del Monte trat- tenuta al Catecumini tredici giorni dalli 6 fino alli 19 maggio anno 1749, ed. Giuseppe Sermoneta (Rome, 1989). 56 Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 111–41, 162–73. Assigning Patria potestas exercised legists for centuries. Hostiensis, in the thirteenth century, assigned it to a baptized mother (wife of an unbaptized father), since in hoc casu debet mulier reputari vir, quia viriliter agat, see n. 71, below. The Glossa Ordinaria on Gratian, Decretum, C.28, q.1, c.11 (12th century) said that baptism dissolves patria potestas. Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century legists made sharper distinctions, although in practice, as Jews feared, any converted relative might, and sometimes did, claim it. Caffiero’s opening discussion lacks clarity. 57 Cited by Sessa, Tractatus, p. 64. 262 kenneth stow melding their civil status (in the Empire) as servi camerae nostrae with their canonical status of perpetua servitudo, were the slaves of the Emperor. Servi camerae was really artificial, a term created to justify a direct relationship between Jews in the Empire and the Emperor and to grant them a clear legal status in places where ius commune had no sway. Perpetua servitudo meant subservience to Church canons, not real servitude. Fusing the two, however, gave perpetua servitudo civil effect, with the result being the Jews’ complete subservience tothe ruler and their loss of patria potestas, a right slaves did not possess. As disingenuousness as it was dubious, many legal scholars, like the noted Marquardus de Susannis, author of the first early modern synthesis of laws about Jews, De Iudaeis et aliis infidelibus, rejected this argument outright.58 Yet Zasius also argued that the “Christian state exercised tutelage over every child, and that the Christian prince was responsible not only for the prevention of mistreatment and waste of substance of minor children, but also for their adequate education in the faith,”59 in other words, that civil authorities could forcibly baptize all Jewish children. This, said Giuseppe Sessa, was going too far. There were cases when a child might be taken, but the gap between the permissible and the obligatory was significant.60

Child Custody and Abortion

Nonetheless, Zasius’s brand of thinking ultimately made headway. The Papal State, in particular, began asserting rights in the matter of custody (a right universally accepted, after all, in modern legal thought),61 which it justified by conferring patria potestas on relatives as distant as paternal grandmothers (and, in practice, on other relatives, too), and more than one Jewish child was “offered” and baptized despite the objections of living Jewish parents.62 It did not take long for the

58 de Susannis (Venice, 1558, and four times subsequently), and Zasius, there; and particularly the distinctions of Giacobo Pignatelli, Consultationum Canonicarum pro publico usu quotidiano (Rome, 1675), vol. 8, consilium 139. 59 steven W. Rowan, “Ulrich Zasius and the Baptism of Jewish Children,” Sixteenth Century Journal 6 (1975): 23. 60 sessa, Tractatus, pp. 167–230. 61 Canon law had always assigned children to the converted parent; see Marquardus de Susannis, De Iudaeis et aliis infidelibus (Venice, 1558), part III, passim. 62 Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 164–68, discussing a case like this from 1762. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 263 grand web of myth surveyed above to raise its head. Might not Jews whose children were threatened with oblation, said Giovanni Battista Colombini, commit “a terrible crime, with the innocent child miser- ably perishing.”63 Moreover, Jews who prevented their children’s baptism through bodily murder were guilty of a second, more heinous crime, that of murdering the child’s soul. The earlier seventeenth- century Spaniard Nicholas Rodriguez argued in his tract on crime that parents who refused to allow their children’s baptism lost all moral right to their custody.64 Commenting on Rodriguez, Laura Luzi has observed that simple inaction on the part of a parent to bring a child to salvation through baptism seemed like an act of murder.65 Indeed, for precisely this reason it became the common opinion that Jewish children (directly threatened with spiritual death) were better removed and baptized. Here, Rodriguez was following Duns Scotus, although Scotus urged removing the children stealthily, lest the parents do their children in to prevent their salvation.66 It was at this point that Scotus comforted himself by saying that should these children be murdered, they would be baptized in blood.67 Rodriguez, though, had reservations: were forceful removal and baptism to be given wholesale authorization, all Jewish children would be seized. Transferring custody must, therefore, have a concrete justification; traditional protections against forced baptism had been weakened, but they had not ceded to anarchy. Antonio Ricciulo even cited the protective Sicut iudaeis directly on this score.68 But legal reasons for removal could be found, especially in the case of a child baptized on the verge of (bodily) death.69 Such cases, however, were rare and the act of baptism usually clandestine, as in the most famous instance of all, that of Edgardo Mortara in 1858. More frequent, but also more menacing, was the case we have noted of the pregnant woman whose fetus had been offered. Might not this

63 ibid., p. 178, gravissimi delitti, e a far miseramente perire più innocenti creature. 64 Nicolas Rodriguez Fermosinus, Tractatus Secundus Criminalium (Lyon, 1670), p. 41 n. 9. 65 laura Luzi, “Inviti non sun baptizandi: La dinamica delle conversioni degli ebrei,” Mediterranea, Ricerche storiche 10 (2007): 225–70, esp. 250. 66 Zasius, De Judaeis questiones III, in Opera omnia 5: 331–50, esp. 336, 342. 67 duns Scotus, In 4 Sent. D. 4, q. 9, Opera Omnia, Vives, 26 vols. (Paris, 1891–95), 16: 487–89. 68 see below at note 100. 69 rodriguez, Criminalium, p. 41. 264 kenneth stow woman and her consort seek an abortion? And did not this child’s soul, too, need saving, threatened as it was with death? In one such case, the Vice Regent of Rome, ultimately in charge of the casa dei catecumeni, spoke out: the mother must be confined until she gives birth, “to protect the fetus and save it from the frauds [abortion or worse] the Jews may commit to prevent its baptism.”70 The moderate Sessa, too, agreed that the fetus must be protected. In 1716, he went further, saying that Jews are suspect of murdering any child on the threshold of conversion,71 to prevent which, the mother of an “offered” child, or the child itself, should be sequestered. Sessa’s reasoning, though, was startlingly modern. Rather than relying on canonical and papal rulings that ordered a transfer of custody to a converted parent or grandparent,72 or on Zasius’s concept of Jewish servitude,73 Sessa appealed directly to the “the good of the State.” As cives, Jews were to enjoy the benefits but also bear the burdens of this status. And cives, he said, “are born [to serve] the State, so that just as the state conscripts soldiers, it may also invade Jewish parental privi- lege.” Rodriguez’s arguments about the “moral rights” the state was entitled to define and police had reached full flower.

Favor fidei

This ingenious reasoning was too advanced for its day. At the start of the eighteenth century the idea that the state might heavily direct individuals’ private lives was inchoate, leaving those who defended oblation, whether of a child or a fetus, to rely on a more venerable legal staple known as favor fidei (“the priority of the faith”). This concept, whose origins were theological, spoke directly to the eighteenth-century Catholic legal and theological mind. Its eventual legal force was enormous. To wit, the late fourteenth-century legist Gaspar Calderini, citing Gratian’s twelfth-century Decretum, said the laws always cede to

70 Caffiero, Battesimi, p. 172, per . . . preservarlo dale fraudi . . . per privarlo del Battesimo. 71 sessa, Tractatus, pp. 172, 182, 207, 225, 237; causam . . . bonum publicum. 72 Gratian, Decretum, C.28, q. 1, c. 11; see also the words of Hostiensis at Comm. X,3,33,2, fol. 124r, s.v. non suspectum. And see Digest, de haereticis, l. 18, providente and l. 19, cognovimus. 73 rowan, “Zasius,” p. 23. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 265 favor fidei, since there is no higher value than faith.74 The concept reap- peared in de Susannis’s De Iudaeis et aliis infidelibus,75 which Sessa cited freely, declaring: “Favor fidei [as a legal principle] amplissimus est.”76 Favor fidei was a marvelous umbrella that protected both legal and theological need, for it sanctioned acts that might otherwise border on the illegal. Nor was it a euphemism invented to allow repression. The term still has wide application,77 and relying on it was not a ruse;78 it incorporates true legal values.79 In the long run, favor fidei was a way of expressing the idea of communis utilitas, “the common good,” which legists were using already in the thirteenth century.80 Sessa wrote that “the conversion of Jews to Christianity (something done favor fidei) is a matter of the commonweal.”81 The good of the Church and the good of the state were identical: the “confessional state,” that is, as the Papal State and many others strove to be.82 With respect to the Jews, this political and religious unity made favor fidei all the more devastating. Its invocation neatly checked learned arguments advanced against granting parental powers to relatives other than living Jewish parents.83 Parental power, said Sessa, resides ultimately in the Church, the true teacher of morals.84 A converted relative would be the Church’s surrogate, a rationale that enabled the

74 C. 2, q. 7, c. 26, Consilia (Venice, 1497), no. 487.3, fol. 72v; cited in an unpublished and untitled essay by Aviad Kleinberg. 75 de Susannis, part I, chapter 3, explains prohibitions invoking favor fidei and ad favorem et decorum fidei. 76 sessa, Tractatus, 172. 77 For instance, in the contemporary Code of Canon Law, to define when a marriage may be annulled. Can. 1143 §1, whose text is available at: http://www.vatican.va/ archive/ENG1104/_INDEX.HTM (accessed January 2010). 78 Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 167–82, incorrectly discusses favor fidei as an excuse, with no legal standing. 79 Gratian commenting on, D. 45, c. 5, originally at the Fourth Toledan Council, seventh century, said children might be taken from their parents, lest the name of the Lord be blasphemed and faith considered contemptible. 80 see Kenneth Stow, Alienated Minority: The Jews of Medieval Latin Europe (Cambridge, Mass., 1992), ch. 12, passim. 81 sessa, Tractatus, p. 225; Sessa prefers, however, secular control of the state, see ibid., p. 88. 82 see J. H. Merchant, A Review of the Proposed Naturalization of the Jews (London, 1753), p. 66, “[in] every nation . . . faith and temporal government walk hand in hand— so how can we naturalize those who oppose Christ?” and, recently, Heinz Schilling, Early Modern European Civilization and Its Political and Cultural Dynamism (Han- nover and London, 2008). 83 Caffiero, Battesimi, p. 164. 84 sessa, Tractatus, pp. 207–8. 266 kenneth stow oblation of almost any Jewish child, for did not every Jew, especially in a ghetto like Rome’s, have a converted relative who might serve in loco parentis? Favor fidei also overrode centuries-old guarantees forbidding forced baptism, and it neutralized Jewish communal action. In the early eighteenth century, penalties were instituted in the name of favor fidei pro- hibiting Jewish communal officials from interfering in the processes of conversion,85 in particular, from assisting Jewish women whose fetuses had been, or might be, offered to escape from Rome.86 A frontal assault on internal Jewish jurisdiction launched in the later sixteenth century was coming to a head. In 1621, the Roman Rota ordained that Jews must live by ius commune. The purpose was to alter the centuries-old status quo that had permitted Jews to submit internal disputes to con- sensual arbitration. Hereafter, Jews would be virtually forced to use ius commune in internal litigations, which would also have to be aired before civil or even papal courts. For good measure, the “office” of the Jewish notary was closed in 1640. The testimony on which litigation depended could now be given only before (non-Jewish) civic nota- ries. Cynically, the 1621 decision was justified by saying that Christian creditors had to feed jailed Jewish debtors, a proviso that applied only to those governed by ius commune and thus proving that Jews were subject to this law.87

Ius commune and Jewish Integration

This shift was in theory, not only in fact. Sessa, for instance, though insisting that Jews enjoy all the benefits ofius commune, also cautioned that full civil and civic rights were synonymous with membership in the faith of the majority. This argument was no innovation; the common legal opinion was that spiritual regeneration (conversion) alone

85 see Mario Rosa, “Tra tolleranza e repressione: Roma e gli ebrei nel ’700,” Italia Judaica III (Rome, 1989); and idem, “La Santa Sede e gli ebrei nel Settecento,” in Gli ebrei di Italia, ed. C. Vivanti (Turin, 1996), 2: 1069–87. 86 Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 270–71, 163. 87 For other examples, see Kenneth Stow, “Jewish Pre-Emancipation: Ius commune, the Roman Comunità, and Marriage in the Early Modern Papal State,” in Festschrift for Robert Bonfil (Jerusalem, 2011), first appearing in Kenneth Stow, Jewish Life in Early Modern Rome: Challenge, Conversion, and Private Life (Aldershot, 2007). the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 267 conferred equal civil rights.88 What was new were attitudes toward the question of Jews governing themselves by Jewish law, which was permitted as late as 1558, when de Susannis said that Jews could resort to their own law whenever it did not contradict ius commune. This ruling, originating in the sixth-century Code of Justinian, had been the bedrock on which internal Jewish arbitration had rested.89 Sessa, too, recognized this principle. However, he restricted the use of Jew- ish religious law, permitting its use only in ceremonialia, that is, apart from ritual, in matters concerning marriage and sometimes inheritance.90 Inheritance was previously considered an almost exclusively internal affair. Furthermore, no decision of Jewish arbiters was exempt from secular judicial review. Jews, Sessa said flatly, are “incapable of jurisdiction.”91 On both counts, Sessa was following (and citing) Antonio Ricciulo, whose theoretical innovations had set a new tone. In 1622, just a year after the Rota’s critical decision, Ricciulo published his Tractatus de iure personarum extra ecclesiae,92 in which he stipulated that the only internal law Jews might observe was Mosaic law, which, he said, was not the halakhah. It was, rather, the law of the Torah.93 The enfran- chisement seemingly heralded by Sessa’s touting that Jews enjoyed all the benefits of ius commune turns out, instead, to have been a disenfranchisement. The state was givencarte blanche. The problem, said the Mantovan noble and polemicist Giambattista d’Arco in 1782, writing to support the recently issued Toleranzpatent of Habsburg Emperor Joseph II, was that “the rabbis possesses a political and civil authority independent from that of the state [exercised under] the modest name of arbitration.” The remedy was to suppress Jewish self-governance by “making Jews submit to the laws of the nation where they were living.”

88 For example, De Susannis, Part III, chapter 2, no. 13: “Judaeus suscipiens baptismum in aliqua civitate, efficitur civis . . . , cum generatio naturalis, & regeneratio spiritualis aequiparentur.” 89 L. omnes, Code, 1,9,8. 90 sessa, Tractatus, p. 107. 91 ibid., pp. 143–44 (esp. p. 262). 92 Tractatus de iure personarvm extra ecclesiae gremium existentivm. Libris nouem distinctus, cui propter argumenti similitudinem annexus est alter Tractatus de neophy- tis / auctore Antonio Ricciullo roblanense patritio rhegino, in Aula romana aduocato (Rome, 1622). 93 This was a revival, and practical application, of the nova lex charge leveled against the Talmud in 1236, which was also—as goes unnoted—the charge leveled against the Decretals of Gregory IX in 1234. 268 kenneth stow

D’Arco went on somewhat disingenuously (as I read him) to say that the result would be “equality and fraternity.”94 Most likely, equality for d’Arco implied conversion; it certainly did for Sessa. For Ricciulo, conversion was the true aim of his legislative upheaval. By taking full command in matters of parental discretion through the enforcement of ius commune the state had entitled itself to determine questions of child custody. In other words, it had justified (to its satisfaction) its “full powers” (plenitudo potestatis) to validate “offerings” and to interfere in matters of inheritance, as it did repeatedly in favor of converts.95 It might insist, for example, that converts receive their inheritances while parents were still alive, which would wreak havoc on family solidarity and perhaps prompt dissatisfied children to bolt from Judaism.96 The state could also reserve to itself the right to decide whether a Jewish betrothal had taken place, opening the way for ever more oblations should a convert “denounce” his betrothed or supposed betrothed. It was to justify their actions as fully legal that in circumstances like these judicial authorities in the Papal State appealed to favor fidei. In the confessional state that the Papal State was, with the good of the state identical to the good of the faith, the laws of the one served the laws of the other, and to ensure that this reciprocity was not obscured, authorities declared observing all law indispensable, although sometimes this entailed considerable casuistry. Was it not in the name of the law that the papal police yanked Jews out of their homes and deposited them in the casa dei catecumeni? Nor should we be surprised that when Ricciulo composed his tract he was also papal Vice Regent of Rome and the direct supervisor of the Rector of the Roman casa. Jews were being put under enormous pressure, and wherever, especially in Italy, there was a casa dei catecumeni, they no doubt appreciated their plight. They also had to know that the reach of the legal

94 Giambattista Gherardo D’Arco, Della influenza del Ghetto nello Stato (Bologna, 1981, reprint of In Venezia, Dalle stampe di G. Storti, 1782): in the “rabbini [one finds] consolidata un autorità politica e civile, indipendente dall’autorità di che regge lo stato . . . sotto la denominazione modesta di arbitrimento . . . [whence Jewish self- governance must end and be replaced by] . . . suggezione delle leggi stesse cui ubbidisce la natione in mezzo alle quale esiste.” 95 see Kenneth Stow, “Neofiti and the Families, or perhaps, the Good of the State,” Leo Baeck Yearbook 46 (2002): 105–16. 96 see Luciano Allegra, “A Model of Jewish Devolution: Turin in the Eighteenth Century,” Jewish History 7 (1993): 29. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 269 writings sustaining the practices of the case was international, and that their impact was strengthened when rules concerning the baptism of newborns and unborn fetuses—which were then enforced with respect to “offered” Jewish newborns—were applied as far away as Peru, Spain, and the Empire.97 The trend to apply ius commune was also advancing. Pronounce- ments of the German school of Judenrechtswissenschaft, such as “Jews are prohibited to use their own law” or “they must appear before Christian judges,” could not have been clearer, pronouncements that were also known in Italy, indicating reciprocity between students of ius commune everywhere.98 Portentously, ius commune was also about to be introduced in matters of Jewish marriage. The law of the Code of Justinian that underwrote this development: “they should contract marriage following Roman laws and statutes,” was now revived to complement or even supplant Jewish religious law.99

“Offerings,” Sequestrations, and a New Concept of Life’s Inception

Jews, whether in Italy or the Empire, could not escape recognizing their weakness, a recognition that must have sensitized them to their pow- erlessness even more. Nor could they resort to the old tactic of playing off religious against civil authorities, especially in Rome, where the two were one.100 The same applied in other confessional states. When, therefore, a fellow Jew was dragged into the casa dei catecumeni, the old guarantees like those in the bull Sicut iudaeis, even if people like Ricciulo had cited them, availed little. Nor could trust be put in the traditional petitions to the pope made by leaders like the fattori, the Roman Jewish communal heads. Rather, Jews had to do the improbable and hire civil lawyers, whose only hope was to persuade the court

97 see below, n. 107. 98 wilhelm Guede, Die rechtliche Stellung der Juden (Sigmaringen, 1981), citing the noted Johannes Kitzel: ut iudaei legibus propriis uti prohibentur . . . legisbusque Romanis vivere compellantur, or, Atque coram Christiano Judice agere et conveniri debent . . . ut iudaei legibus propriis uti prohibentur . . . legisbusque Romanis vivere compellantur. 99 ibid., citing Eberhard Speckham, and Hupber Giphanius: quibus legibus cavetur ne Judaei nuptias legem suam, sed Romanam sortiantur. (C.1,9,7). 100 Notably the 1354 petition to Pere IV of Aragon threatening to turn to the pope if the king refused to act; see Louis Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages (New York, 1964), pp. 190–215. 270 kenneth stow of the Roman Inquisition (never to be confused with its counterparts in Iberia) that an “offering” or a “denunciation” was false and violated the rules.101 Only then might the sequestered person be released. Mad- deningly, the law was being perfectly observed.102 Our story has yet to introduce its most disturbing element. We must return to the question of abortion. As late as 1584, in the second printing of his highly cited De Iudaeis, de Susannis added an appendix reflecting the current theology and law on this subject. No less an authority than Thomas Aquinas held that a fetus was a part of the mother and that the soul entered only after the pregnancy was a number of weeks advanced.103 Abortion was wrong, but at the start of the pregnancy, it was neither a mortal sin nor murder.104 De Susan- nis, however, marked the end of an era. Already in his own day ideas were changing. The fetus, said Thomas Fyens of Louvain (1567–1631) and others, whose arguments became standard, should be viewed as an independent living being, wholly distinct from the mother.105 As for the soul, it was present and alive in every drop of male seed. This thinking was elaborated magisterially in the 1745 Embriologia Sacra by the Jesuit Francesco Cangiamila with its revealing full title: Embriolo- gia sagrada, o tratado de la obligacion que tienen los curas, medicos, comadres, y otras personas, de cooperar a la salvaci6n de los niios que aun no han nacido, de los que nacen al parecer muertos, de los aborti- vos, de los mon-struos, etc.106 Cangiamila even argued that the uterus of a mother in childbirth should be cut open and the live remains of the fetus baptized.107

101 an example was Carlo Luti; see Microfilm 4843B, in the Central Archive of the Jewish People, Jerusalem, no. 4843B; original in the Archivio Storico of the Roman Jewish Community. 102 see Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 268–70. 103 see Prosperi, Dare l’anima, p. 242. 104 Caffiero, Battesimi, pp. 266, 269. 105 see Prosperi, Dare l’anima, pp. 264–67. 106 Francesco Emmanuele Cangiamila, Embriologia sacra (Palermo, 1745), “Sacred Embryology, a tract on the obligations of parish priests, physicians, midwives, and others to participate in the salvation of a child, even as yet unborn, of those who appear dead at birth, of aborted fetuses, monsters, etc.” For a biography, see Andrea Vitello, “Francesco Emanuele Cangiamila e la sua opera ostetrica,” Atti e Memorie della Accademia di Storia dell’Arte Sanitaria 21 (1955): 110–27, 165–77. Its teachings became law in Spanish territories and Sicily. See also José G. Rigau-Pérez, “Surgery at the Service of Theology: Postmortem Cesarean Sections in Puerto Rico and the Royal Cedula of 1804,” Hispanic American Historical Review 75 (1995): 377–404. 107 These teachings applied as far away as Peru. See Anne S. Blum, Tamara Marko, Alexandra Puerto, and Adam Warren, “Women, Ethnicity, and Medical Authority: the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 271

Catholic theology’s understanding of the inception of life had undergone a major change, which was now said to occur at the very moment of conception.108 To abort a fetus at any time during a pregnancy was thus to murder both the physical body and the soul, the true object of Catholic concern. Moreover, like infanticide, abortion was punishable by death, and the two crimes judged identical. People asked whether the murdered child had died unbaptized, senza anima (without a soul), meaning its soul was consigned to limbo while its physical remains were unfit for burial in sacred ground. Partly to resolve this dire predicament, such children, called “Innocenti,” were deemed baptized through martyrdom, just as the children slaughtered by Herod were said to have been “baptized by blood.”109 Here, then, is the origin of this term, which is precisely the one Mary Minty discovered in medieval German chronicles and which Scotus, followed by Zasius, applied to the unbaptized fetuses or newborns that Jews were suspected of plotting to abort or kill. We need go no further to understand why in the later seventeenth and into the eighteenth centuries Jewish mothers carrying an “offered” fetus were so quickly interned in a casa dei catecumeni. Ideas like these surely instilled fear. Sequestrations, once perhaps slightly delayed, leaving time for possible flight, would now occur simultaneously with the “offering.” And most unnervingly, with abortion a capital crime, following a papal decree of 1679 that declared that even saving the life of the mother did not justify the act,110 what might happen should a Jewish mother carrying an offered fetus miscarry?111 Nobody knew, but proof exists that Jews were not ignorant of the dangers, although it comes from the Rhineland, not Rome. In 1696, Rabbi Yair Haim Bacharach issued a detailed responsum favoring abortion for reasons such as to save the mother’s life; Cangiamila and others preferred to preserve the life of the child to ensure the soul’s salvation. Nonetheless, Bacharach concluded, “following our customs and

Historical Perspectives on Reproductive Health in Latin America,” Center for Iberian and Latin American Studies, CILAS Working Papers 21 (San Diego, 2004). See also Ole Peter Grell and Andrew Cunningham, Medicine and Religion in Enlightenment Europe: The History of Medicine in Context (Aldershot, 2007). 108 Prosperi, Dare l’anima, p. 260. 109 Prosperi, Dare l’anima, pp. 173–74. 110 Prosperi, Dare l’anima, p. 283. 111 Caffiero, Battesimi, p. 271. 272 kenneth stow those of them (the Christians), we do not [permit it], lest there be licentiousness.”112 Perhaps Bacharach is to be taken literally. Yet in a society that viewed and punished abortion and infanticide as capital crimes, it is hard to imagine that Bacharach’s sense of what constituted licentiousness did not embrace far more than sexual impropriety and that Bacharach was apprehensive that Jews practicing abortion might be charged with murder—including the murder of a potential Christian soul.113 Tales of the consequences of “offerings” in the ghetto of Rome had almost certainly reached his ears, just as he had to have known about the fate of Shimon Abeles in Prague: In Jewish circles the air must have been ringing with the charge and with the fear of another just like it. Bacharach may have been thinking, too, that prohibitions against Jewish physicians attending Christians, newly reiterated in his day, were motivated in part at least by anxieties that these physicians might perform abortions. Whether Jews other than Bacharach were reacting to the themes of the day and linking them to Jewish affairs, I cannot yet say. Christians certainly were, and not simply, as was the case of Paolo Medici and Lotharius Fried, as acts of revenge. It was not by happenstance that Giuseppe Sessa, discussing the question of Jewish parental authority, including its transfer to a relative or the Church (and knowing that the discussion referred both to living children and those still in the womb) mentioned in one breath the possibility of these children’s murder and the case of Shimon Abeles: “Rather than see their children baptized— they so hate the Christian faith—they would rather kill them, as I learned about an episode that took place recently in Prague.”114 Nor was this unusual, “. . . as so often the chronicles report them.”115 The

112 Resp. Havvot Ya’ir, no. 31. “mipnei geder pirtzut ha-pritzut ve-ha-zonim aharei- hem.” I thank Jay Berkovitz for sharing this material with me. 113 among the factors that may have affected Bacharach’s choice of phrasing was likely the Metz libel of 1670; see Y. H. Yerushalmi, From Spanish Court to Italian Ghetto: Isaac Cardoso (New York, 1971), pp. 455–68. See also Elchanan Reiner, “Ma’aseh she-ira be-k”k vorrmayza ba-ra’ash ha-gadol shel shenat 1636,” Haaretz 6 (Oct. 2006), Tarbut ve-sifrut, p. 4, which suggests that Bacharach wrote a fictional romance responsum. 114 sessa, Tractatus, p. 239, which says the grandfather committed the murder “ut potius eos interficerent quam Christianos fieri paterentur, . . . et novissimi mihi relatus est casus qui Pragae non multis abhinc annis contiget. . . .” 115 sessa, Tractatus, 207: “[Jews are always suspect of ] dolus et mala fides . . . ut filios potius interficerent quam Christianos fieri patiantur, ut saepius fecisse testantur the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 273 old myths had indeed held on, but they had also blended with what was deemed, even by the best minds, as a horrible reality. Nor had the fear abated that Jews would do the converse, too, seeking “to steal back the Eucharistic bread” by impregnating Christian women, then kidnapping their children and rearing them as Jews.116

Baptismal Efficacy: The “Virtues” of Shimon’s Death

There was more. What underlay the great concentration on infanticide and its increased persecution at this time was the drive to confirm the efficacy of Catholic baptism. Did baptism alone confer salvation, or was baptism but a sign, as Protestants and some dissident Catho- lics held? The baptism of newborns clearly about to die and of fetuses barely alive still in their mother’s womb, it was said, verified the former position. Such baptism in extremis also ensured an end to another great preoccupation, the fear, reported already in the time of Burchard of Worms in the eleventh century, but still alive seven centuries later, that the ghosts of the unbaptized would plague the living; this fear had only escalated as Catholicism wrestled with Protestant belief. To eliminate it, miracles were said to occur in which there was a sudden revival of the dead for that brief moment required to affect the baptism, followed by an immediate return to earthly repose. The now-baptized fetus or newborn body could be buried safely in consecrated ground. It might even be considered a martyr. Complementary to beliefs about the Innocenti, a miraculous baptism by blood—perhaps even performed by God himself—was said to take place, thus to confirm what was so desired, namely, the baptismally-acquired salvation of those considered to have died on the verge of receiving the sacrament. This was precisely what was imagined regarding the death of Shi- mon Abeles.117 In the person of this unfortunate youth, myths about the soul and its baptism and myths corroborating Catholic truth were magnificently realized—in a youth nearing adulthood, furthermore,

Historiae;” Natta, Consiliorum, 2: 394, opposes taking children, nam si abstraherentur a iudaeis eorum filii ad fidem ipsis nolentibus, occiderent eos iudaei et ita homicidia commiterentur. 116 see Dana Katz, “ ‘Clamber Not You Up to the Casements’: On Ghetto Views and Viewing,” Jewish History 24 (2010). 117 Prosperi, Dare l’anima, pp. 199–203, 214–16. 274 kenneth stow not a fetus or newborn, about which there may have been lingering doubt. But so, too, were the myths of martyrdom itself. For was not Shimon, who had suffered at Jewish hands, a martyr in the moldof Werner of Oberwesel, making him a true surrogate Eucharist, the corpus Christi, and the embodiment of the Church itself and the body of the faithful, the corpus mysticum? But unlike Werner, Shimon was a Jew; the Eucharistic Jewish victim was no longer a faceless character, as in stories like those from the Rhineland. The escalation in terms of what could be imagined of Jewish dolus et mala fides, and of their insidias—as they plotted, to cite Sessa, filios . . . interficerent—had been enormous.118 The reins of discipline had been loosened. Thus, the fantasy of Shimon’s murder was followed but sixty years later with the ratifica- tion of a second fiction (this time with a Christian victim), Benedict XIV’s 1755 beatification of Andreas of Rinn. No previous pope had ever granted full approval to a ritual murder libel, not even Benedict himself in lauding the cult of Simon of Trent years earlier.119 Yet was this not the same Benedict who, in 1751, had suggested that Rudolph, who preached Jewish destruction in 1146, was correct? Anything said about Jews was now believed possible. The line was direct to Bishop Antonio de Pol of Vicenza, who, we recall, said in 1885 with respect to Lorenzino of Marostica, “. . . the [Jews] dream of killing not just a single Christian, but to do away with Christianity itself.”120 Only perceived in this light can we appreciate the enormity of the Abeles episode. The metonymy of the part signifying the whole was perfect. The road had been long from Rupert of Deutz, but in many ways the Abeles affair was the logical extension of Rupert’s way of thinking: Jews kill anyone, even their own, to defeat Christianity, and the fear that they would do so was especially heightened in Shimon Abe- les’s day. As much as the Church was gaining ground, it could not make peace with having lost large portions of Europe to the Prot- estants. It was also dealing increasingly with Catholic states that

118 sessa, Tractatus, p. 207. 119 Cecil Roth, The Ritual Murder Libel and the Jew (London, 1938); Caliò, La Leggenda, pp. 92–110. 120 Thomasso Caliò, “Antisemitismo e culto dei santi in età contemporanea: Il caso del beato Lorenzino da Marostica,” in Il pubblico dei santi: Forme e livelli di ricezione dei messaggi agiografici, ed. Paolo Golinelli (Rome, 2000), pp. 421, 427, 412, in that order: “aspirano non tanto ad uccidere un cristiano, quanto ad uccidere lo stesso Cri- stianesimo.” the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 275 were confessional but wanted nevertheless to run their own affairs, including the affairs of religion, not to mention the first inklings of the Enlightenment, with ideas like “freedom of conscience,” which the Church would vehemently oppose. This was, therefore, a Church beset with problems, fearful for its own continuity, and open to fantasy and to seeing in symbols entire worlds. For a Church like this, a glorious baptismal ceremony bespoke renewal; the murder of a baptismal candidate marked the threat of defeat. The Church clearly needed a triumph over the Jews, which would be so much more efficacious should that triumph take place within the context of the Church’s own internal struggles about the soul and the validity of Catholic baptism. But the Jews remained fast in their obduracy, and the drive to realize the political corpus Christi as it was embodied in the confessionalized Papal State was virtually assured to picture its confrontation with Jews in potentially catastrophic terms. In this multi-layered context, and in the continuity of older themes and their blending into newer ones, the accusation of murdering Shimon Abeles was almost literally waiting to happen. No less lying in wait was the eventual transfer of the Jewish archetype to the Protestants, that second nemesis of the Church after the Jews. In 1762, the Protestant Jean Calas of Toulouse was put to death, charged with killing his son who was about to become a Catholic.121 Just as with the Jews, and in the same terms, Catholics feared that Protestants wished to murder the true (read Catholic) body of Christ and, of course, to deny baptismal efficacy. Was it a coincidence that also in this year two children “offered” in Rome by their grandmother were baptized despite the objections of their living parents?

Imaginary Enemies

Yet had not the theme of the Corpus Christi, its opponents—however imaginary—and the need to defeat them driven Christian thought and action for centuries? This reflection brings us back to where we began, the time shortly after the First Crusade. Victory over faith’s

121 Carlebach, 21; and David Bien, The Calas Affair (Westport, Conn., 1979); also discussed by Benjamin Kaplan, Divided by Faith, p. 335. The progression of inter- changeability here, of child, Host, Church, and Christian society in all its forms, is something that would have been self-evident to almost any medieval person, certainly those at any level of the clerical hierarchy. 276 kenneth stow opponents, as Eva Haverkamp has explained, was the essential motif in the stories of St. Victor at Xanten. But, as Lisa Lampert has shown, the defeat of opponents was also a leading theme in that central body of medieval Romance literature, the late twelfth- and early thirteenth- century stories of the Grail. Those opponents were often the Jews. The Grail stories, Lambert argues, composed, notably, at about the same time as many tales of ritual murder, are deeply suffused with ideas of supersession. The Grail itself, variously seen as the recipient holding Christ’s blood or a chalice, is eucharistic, and its pursuit, as in all matters related to supersession, implies joining battle with Judaism, if not with Jews themselves. The Knight of the Grail, Lampert concludes, “by defeating the Jew, (thus) comes, at least in part, to create his identity.”122 His sword, in the form of the cross, makes him a protagonist of Chris- tian triumph. At least one Jewish author said this vision was completely wrong. This was the author of the tale known as “the terrible affair of 1007.” When Richard, named the Duke of Normandy, raises a sword to strike the Jewish hero Jacob ben Yequtiel, its baldric (the shoulder belt), described as a “petil hazahav attached to the blade, flips over in his grip (qishrei ‘etzba’otav) and pierces his palm.”123 At which point, the Duke announces that this wound has sent him a clear message: Jacob should go to the pope.124 The allusion is incontrovertible. The Duke’s sword is the weapon known as the Espee des estranges renges in the Quest for the Holy Grail,

122 lisa Lampert Weisig, “Why is This Knight Different from All Other Knights? Jews, Anti-Semitism, and the Old French Grail Narratives,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 106 (2007): 224–47, who also cites Fanni Bogdanow, “The Grail Romances and the Old Law,” in Arthurian Studies in Honour of P. J. C. Field, ed. Bonnie Wheeler (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2004), pp. 1–14; and Anne Marie D’Arcy, “Li Anemis Meismes: Satan and Synagogue in La Queste del Saint Graal,” Medium Ævum 66 (1972): 207–35. 123 Petil hazahav is rare, a golden thread, which here might refer to a gold cord woven into a sword’s baldric for strength. The Queste speaks of a baldric, a belt, with fringe, never to be detached. 124 wanting to make the context Jewish, the God of Israel determines the outcome. Thus: “and the petil hazahav (golden strands in the belt) of the sword flipped over (lit: turned upside down) in the grip of his fingers (qishrei ‘etzba’otav—the joints between the fingers and the palm) and pierced his palm.” Jacob ben Yequtiel, whom the Duke wanted to kill, then cites Deut. 4:32, where Moses says God has never done for others as he has for the Jews, nor will He do so. That is, attacking Jews, God’s people, is no way to God; hence, the Duke: “I know from the strands that just pierced me as I grasped the sword that now is not the hour to kill you.” And see nn. 128 below. the cruel jewish father: from miracle to murder 277 written about 1220. Our author has transferred onto the Duke the various and destructive mishaps experienced in the Romance by those who tried and failed to wield this sword. The petil hazahav stands for the marvelous baldric woven by Perceval’s sister, into which she braided strands of gold and her own hair, which, too, was golden, and it was from this golden baldric that the sword gained its name. The 1007 author’s reference to the petil hazahav ensured his allusion would not be missed; other Jews, too, must have been reading courtly literature.125 In the Romance, only the most elect of the three Grail knights, Galahad, who is to lead the quest, can hold the sword fast, which must never be detached from its belt, the baldric, and whose hilt bears the warning: no man can grip the weapon except for its rightful owner; indeed, “any man drawing the sword unworthily shall be killed or maimed,” as happens in the Romance to Kings Varlan, Nascien, and Parlan (otherwise faithful Christians and just kings)—and, in the 1007 tale, to the Duke.126 And just as the identification of the

125 The original Conte de Graal, 1181, hints that this sword may be harmful to a wrongful wielder. However, its misuse causes injury or worse only in La Queste del Saint Grail, which offers three horrific examples; on the dating to 1220, see, Thomas E. Kelly, Le haut livre du Graal, Perlesvaus (Geneva, 1974), p. 9, which, in turn, dates the 1007. Its unequivocal use of the Queste places it in this year or after. By contrast, in Chrétien de Troyes, Conte del Graal, the text says: “The lord invested the young stranger with the sword, holding it by the renges (the baldric, or belt), [but here, they] were worth a treasure.” In the Queste, the baldric originally is a “vile” (vil) hempen belt, which Perceval’s sister remedies with a belt principally of her own hair, but with gold interwoven. The Queste goes on to relate that of the three Grail knights, only Galahad can grasp the hilt securely (the other two, Bors and Perceval, failed) enti- tling him to wield the sword safely; see Ben Ramm, “ ‘Por coi la pucele pleure’: The Feminine Enigma of the Grail Quest,” Neophilologus 87 (2003): 517–27, who notes, too, that the hair is described as golden. Notably for us, Perceval’s sister is sometimes pictured as Mary (p. 526). The precision in borrowing, from the later Quest, not the earlier Conte, is striking. 126 La queste del saint Graal, ed. Albert Pauphilet (Paris, 1949), esp. p. 227, describes “renges ouvres de or et de soie et de cheve mout richement.” See also p. 228 for Galahad’s grasping the sword, and for the misfortunes of the three kings, pp. 204–10. In Parlan’s case, a lance flew out of the air to kill him, close enough tothe Duke, who must remain alive to suit the 1007. See Andrea M. L. Williams, “The Enchanted Swords and the Quest for the Holy Grail: Metaphoric Structure in La Queste del Graal,” French Studies 48 (2004): 385–401, esp. 393 and 396: “The Espee as estranges renges is protected by a multiplicity of enchantments, chief among them . . . its hilt cannot be gripped, except by him for whom the sword is destined” (388); “. . . on the blade there is engraved another warning, declaring that any man drawing the sword unworthily shall be killed or maimed” (393; citing La Queste del Saint Graal, ed. A. Pauphilet, and also p. 209). La Queste, says Williams “interprets the Grail legend in a Christian context, and suggests that succeeding in the Quest is equivalent to finding Grace, or to the achievement of communion with God” (385). 278 kenneth stow sword is unmistakable, so is the implication: the quest for the Grail, the 1007 author is saying—in his intimacy with contemporary vulgar literature—is ill-pursued by those who would attack the Jews.127 The knight who wields the sword against them cannot be God’s chosen. Indeed, like the Duke, he will not wield it at all. Rather, as the 1007 author adds, God will ensure he comes to harm.128 It is not the Jews, therefore, who are the enemies of the Eucha- rist and whose defeat will guarantee Christianity’s triumph. The real enemies are those malevolent Christians who would venture to wield a sword that is beyond their grasp, the very Christians, that is, who would persecute Jews during the Middle Ages. These were the same Christians, of course, whose descendants, over three centuries later, would accuse Lazar Abeles of murdering his son Shimon.

127 he was not alone; see Susan Einbinder, “Signs of Romance: Hebrew Prose and the Twelfth-Century Renaissance,” in Michael A. Signer and John Van Engen, eds., Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe (Notre Dame, Ind., 2000), p. 224; and Kirsten A. Fudeman, Language and Identity in Medieval French Jewish Communities (Philadelphia, 2010). 128 lampert-Weisig, 246: “These Jewish figural symbols, while not central to the plot, come to haunt the Grail narratives. The Christian knight is defined by his opposition to the Jew, and the stories of Arthur and the Grail, so foundational to Europe’s mythic narrative of itself, become defined against the Jews . . . Christianity’s central institutions and symbols become defined by their opposition to Jews and Judaism . . . ” From Solomon bar Samson to Solomon ibn Verga: Tales and Ideas of Jewish Martyrdom in Shevet Yehudah*

Jeremy Cohen

Since my days as a graduate student nearly four decades ago, my research has engaged me in an ongoing conversation with the ideas and publications of Robert Chazan. With regard to the interreligious polemics of the Middle Ages, the martyrdom of Jews during the First Crusade, and the nature of medieval Jewish historiography, I have learned much from Professor Chazan and his scholarship, and precisely the convergence of these various shared interests underlies the ensuing discussion of Solomon ibn Verga’s Shevet Yehudah (The Rod of Judah), offered in tribute to him and his impressive career. Ibn Verga (who probably died before 1520) compiled this collection of tales of trials and tribulations from the Jewish past, from the latter days of the Second Temple to his own generation, in a world that was fraught with the crisis and drastic change that the transition from medieval to early modern times signaled in the institutions and communities of Europe’s Christian majority and Jewish minority alike. Exiled from Spain in 1492, and presumably baptized against his will in Portugal before the turn of the century, ibn Verga subsequently left Portugal after the great massacre of Jewish conversos in Lisbon in 1506. He thus experienced the downfall of Iberian Jewry (the largest, most urbane, and most creative Jewish community in medieval Europe) and the dispersion of Sephardic Jews throughout various parts of Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. And he himself thus numbered among the tens of thousands of Iberian Jewish conversos who, for diverse reasons and under a variety of circumstances, had received Christian baptism by the end of the fifteenth century but failed to assimilate into the society and culture of the majority. Shevet Yehu- dah, in turn, reflects the dynamic processes whereby a transplanted

* research for this project has been supported by the Israel Science Foundation (grant 245/08), and the Abraham and Edita Spiegel Family Foundation Chair for European Jewish History at Tel Aviv University. 280 jeremy cohen and dispersed European Jewish minority reassessed its religiosity and ethnicity in order to reenter the Christian West on a qualitatively new basis.1 Shevet Yehudah’s reflection on the history of Sephardic Jewry from the late fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries understandably highlights this complex and highly problematic phenomenon of Marranism, much like the reflections of Jewish historians in our own day. Certainly the baptism of so many Iberian Jews inflicted a mortal wound on Spanish Jewish communities before the expulsion, both in its immediate demographic consequences and in the reconfiguration of majority-minority (that is, Christian-Jewish) relations in Spain that it precipitated. Yet for all its deleterious effects, conversion ultimately facilitated the basis for long-term Jewish survival in a late medieval Christian world that sought to eliminate a Jewish presence from within itself. Ibn Verga’s perspective on the conversos and their conversion accordingly assumes considerable importance for understanding his world view and his program for addressing the crises confronting the Jews of his day. And, in view of the focus on decrees of forced conversion amid the stories in his collection, the question of what constitutes the correct or better response in the face of persecution—reluctant conversion or impassioned self-sacrifice—arises naturally and conspicuously. Laying the groundwork for a lengthier study on the conversos as portrayed in Shevet Yehudah, this paper will consider ibn

1 on Shevet Yehudah and its author, see: Yitzhak Baer, Untersuchungen über Quellen und Komposition des Schebet Jehuda (Berlin, 1923), and “New Notes on Shebet- Yehuda [Hebrew],” Tarbiz 6 (1934): 152–79; J. D. Abramski, Al Mahuto u-Tekhano shel “Shevet Yehudah”: Deyokan shel Sefer (Jerusalem, 1943); Abraham A. Neuman, “The Shebet Yehuda and Sixteenth-Century Historiography,” in Louis Ginzberg Jubilee Volume, ed. Saul Lieberman (New York, 1945), pp. 253–73; Meir Benayahu, “A New Source concerning the Spanish Refugees in Portugal; Their Move to Saloniki after the Edict of 1506; Concealment and Discovery of the Book Sefer ha’Emunot [Hebrew],” Sefunoth 11 (1967–1973): 233–65; Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, The Lisbon Massacre of 1506 and the Royal Image in the Shebet Yehudah, Hebrew Union College Annual Supplements 1 (Cincinnati, 1976), and Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle, 1982), ch. 3; Eleazar Gutwirth, “The Expulsion of the Jews from Spain and Jewish Historiography,” in Jewish History: Essays in Honour of Chimen Abramsky, ed. Ada Rapaport-Albert and Steven J. Zipperstein (London, 1988), pp. 141–61, and “Italy or Spain? The Theme of Jewish Eloquence in ‘Shevet Yehudah,’ ” in Daniel Carpi Jubilee Volume (Tel Aviv, 1996), pp. 35–67; José Faur, In the Shadow of History: Jews and Conversos at the Dawn of Modernity (Albany, 1992), ch. 9; Margarete Schlüter, “Zuchtrute und Königszepter; zur Frage der Komposition des ‘Shevet Yehuda,’ ” in Jewish Studies in a New Europe, ed. Ulf Haxen et al. (Copenhagen, 1998), pp. 712–31; and Joseph Dan, Jewish Mysticism (Northvale, N.J., 1999), ch. 2 (“Shevet Yehudah: Past and Future History”) among others. from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 281

Verga’s treatment of the alternative to conversion open to medieval Jews faced with this ultimate decision: the option of kiddush ha-Shem (the sanctification of the name of God), martyring oneself on behalf of God and his Torah. Against the background of the mass conversions in Spain and Portugal that began in 1391, how do tales of Jew- ish martyrdom figure in Shevet Yehudah? What is their contribution to the overall structure and underlying message of the book? How do they reflect the world view of the author? Though certainly intertwined with its representation of the conversos, Shevet Yehudah’s treatment of kiddush ha-Shem also offers insight into the development -of Jew ish ideas of martyrdom since the attacks on Ashkenazic Jewry during the First Crusade in 1096 and the martyrological Hebrew “chronicles” of those pogroms—the longest of which is attributed to Solomon bar Samson of Mainz. Curiously, both the Ashkenazic Jews left to tell the stories of 1096 and Solomon ibn Verga shared the perspective of Jews whose baptism enabled them to escape slaughter at the hands of their Christian attackers, at least inasmuch as it offered temporary refuge and security until circumstances would allow them openly to reassume their Jewish identities. As such, our inquiry will invariably return to basic questions concerning the ideology of medieval Jewish martyrdom on the one hand and its place in the culture of Spanish Jewry on the other.2 * * * Shevet Yehudah relates instances of Jewish martyrdom in four clusters of tales interspersed throughout the work and in three individual stories as well.3

Chapters 2–6

Chapter 2 tersely records that in the days of Ben Sira (who lived early in the second century BCE) 30,000 Jews left the fold of Judaism, while

2 on the history of Jewish attitudes toward martyrdom in the Middle Ages, see, among others: Isaiah M. Gafni and Aviezer Ravitzky, eds., Sanctity of Life and Martyr- dom: Studies in Memory of Amir Yekutiel [Hebrew] (Jerusalem, 1992); Shmuel Shep- karu, Jewish Martyrdom in the Pagan and Christian Worlds (Cambridge, Eng., 2006); and Simha Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, trans. Yigal Levin and C. Michael Copeland (Turnhout, 2008). 3 Chapter and page numbers refer to Solomon ibn Verga, Shevet Yehudah [Hebrew], ed. Azriel Shochat and Yitzhak Baer (Jerusalem, 1947). 282 jeremy cohen

“those that resisted in sanctification of the name were burned (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem nisrefu)” (p. 20). Chapter 3 turns to Persia on the eve of its conquest by the Muslims, where the king, fearing a popular rebellion, submitted to public pressure and persecuted the Jews, despite a history of good relations with them (owing to the wisdom and fine character of the local Jewish leadership). He imprisoned three Jewish notables and tortured them so that they would apostatize, although “they withstood the trial and sanctified the great God” (‘amedu ba- nissayon ve-kiddeshu ha-El ha-gadol, p. 21); and seeing that he would not prevail, the king had them killed. He then jailed and tortured all of the Jewish leaders until many of them submitted and converted. But the Persian kingdom soon fell to a benign Muslim king, who allowed the Jews their freedom, and even the Persians admitted that their defeat derived from their maltreatment of the Jews. Chapter 4 makes no mention of Jewish martyrdom, but reports that the violent king Ben Humard4 set out to kill all Jews who would not apostatize and confiscate their property; try as they did, the Jews failed to have the decree retracted. “As a result of the great tribulations, many communities left the fold of Judaism” (p. 22). Within a month, however, the king died, and his son assured the forced converts that they could return to their ancestral faith, and many did so. Chapter 5 tells very briefly of the assassination of Rabbi Joseph Halevi, son of Samuel ibn Nagrela the Naggid of Spanish Jewry in twelfth-century Granada. Ibn Verga cites his source as Sefer ha-Kabbalah (The Book of Tradition) of Abraham ibn Daud, who “was hanged in sanctification of the name (nitlah ‘al kedushat ha-Shem), since the king wished to compel him to convert, but, when he failed, he ordered him hanged” (p. 22). Chapter 6 offers a much more discursive account of the French Shepherds’ Crusade of 1320, whose participants first set Muslim Granada as a target for their campaign, but then reasoned, albeit more opportunisti- cally, in a manner that nevertheless recalls the rationale underlying the crusaders’ attacks on Jews in 1096: Our reasoning is not sound. For how shall we fight against the seasoned Ishmaelite warriors when they are many and we are few, when they have weapons and we have not even a small pin? If you agree, let us first set out against the Jews, since they are a weak, helpless people whom we can defeat with our bare hands; once we are fortified by looting the great

4 Perhaps a reference to the Berber Almohade leader Ibn Tumart; see Azriel Shochat’s note in Shevet Yehudah, p. 168. from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 283

wealth of the Jews, we shall acquire weapons … so that we can then go and wage battle against the Ishmaelites with confidence (p. 23).5 At that point a Jewish tailor mocked them and aroused their wrath, or, according to a different source, one of them engaged a Jew in debate and grew furious when the Jew appeared to prevail; in either case, “they resolved to obliterate the Jewish presence from the world” (p. 23). Despite the efforts of the authorities to curb the violence, it spread and resulted in severe losses to the Jewish communities of southern France. All (but one) of the Jews in Toulouse, for example, converted to Christianity, while in Castell Verdun,6 the Jews agreed to kill themselves and the last two jumped to their deaths from the tower where they had taken refuge.

Chapter 9

In ibn Verga’s account of the Visigothic King Sisebut’s anti-Jewish decrees in 615, the Jews repeatedly state their preference for death or punishment over conversion, but after much oppression and tribulation most Spanish Jews in fact submit to baptism.

Chapter 18

When subjected to a decree ordering them to convert, the Jews of England—reportedly a large, learned, and accomplished community—

5 See the similar reasoning attributed to the crusaders in Eva Haverkamp, ed., Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während des Ersten Kreuzzugs, Monu- menta Germaniae Historica: Hebräische Texte aus dem mittelalterlichen Deutschland 1 (Hannover, 2005), pp. 253, 259, 299 (539, 561, 609, 615). Although some additional details reminiscent of 1096 in ibn Verga’s account are echoed in other accounts of the Shepherd’s Crusade, I have found no other attestation to this particular formulation. See H. Geraud, ed., Chronique latine de Guillaume de Nangis de 1113 à 1300, 2 vols. (1843; repr., New York, 1965), 2:26–27; the chronicle of John of Saint-Victor, Excerpta e memoriali historiarum, in Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France 21 (Paris, 1855): 671–72; Samuel Usque, Consolation for the Tribulations of Israel, trans. Martin A. Cohen (Philadelphia, 1965), pp. 186–90; Joseph ben Joshua Ha-Kohen, Emek ha- Bakha, ed. M. Letteris (Cracow, 1895), pp. 72ff. Cf. also Joachim Miret y Sans, “Le Massacre des Juifs de Montclus en 1320: Episode de l’entrée des Pastoureaux dans l’Aragon,” Revue des études juives 53 (1907): 255–66; and Bath Sheva Albert, The Case of Baruch: The Earliest Report of the Trial of a Jew by the Inquisition (1320) [Hebrew] (Ramat Gan, 1974), ch. 1. 6 See Shevet Yehudah, p. 170n. 284 jeremy cohen stood fast in sanctification of the name (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem, p. 66) and refused. Only then did a libel accusing the Jews of clipping (or otherwise defacing) royal coinage induce the king reluctantly to expel them from his land.

Chapters 26–28

Three short and consecutive stories relate instances of kiddush ha- Shem among the Jews of fourteenth-century Europe. Chapter 26 recounts the well-poisoning libels leveled against the Jews upon the outbreak of the Black Death in 1348; although the king appreciated the spuriousness of the accusations, popular pressure, nourished by false testimony that the Jews were seen poisoning the water supply, caused him to order their baptism. “Then there were widespread persecutions in all the lands of northern and southern Europe—tribulation of unprecedented proportion. Yet the Ashkenazic Jews in every case stood fast in sanctifying the great God (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-El ha- gadol) and his Torah, and they did not give up their honor” (p. 71). Chapter 27 briefly describes the massacres of Spanish Jews in 1391, indicating that some Jews chose to die a martyr’s death while others opted for baptism. “Many were killed in sanctification of the name (ve-nehergu rabim ‘al kedushat ha-Shem); so it was in the Kingdom of Aragon, in Valencia, Majorca, Barcelona, Lerida. Yet a small number from these same places left the faith owing to their fears and tribulations, inasmuch as they were rendered powerless. Even so, the glory of Israel will not be proven false” (p. 71). Chapter 28 recounts that when ordered by a royal decree to convert, the Jews of Greece (the Byzantine Empire), young and elderly alike, stood fast in sanctification of the name (‘al kedushat ha-Shem, p. 72). Moved by their resolve, the king then reneged on his decree of forced baptism and settled for more limited forms of social and economic restriction.

Chapters 34–36

A series of three brief tales reports on instances of martyrdom and heroism among Ashkenazic Jews who are given a limited amount of time to choose between conversion and death. Chapter 34 relates that the Christians of an unnamed German town gave the Jews three days from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 285 to reach a decision. The Jews convened, prayed, fasted, and agreed to die rather than apostatize. Yet the young men among them sought revenge on their oppressors before dying as martyrs (namut ‘al kiddush ha-Shem ha-gadol, p. 91). Having arranged with their wives to set fire to the town in different places, they themselves hid their swords under their clothing and fell upon the Christian councilors after ostensibly consenting to accept baptism. In Chapter 35, the Jews in a French town similarly resist a decree of forced conversion, when “they all stood fast in sanctification of the name and were burned (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem ve-nisrefu) together with their children” (p. 91). Here, too, one Jew succeeded in luring the local potentate close to a fire meant for his own execution and pulled him into the flames together with him. Chapter 36 describes an Ashkenazi Jewish community similarly given three days to convert, and its opting for collective suicide so as not to be slaughtered “by the hands of the uncircumcised.” After two days of fasting, having assembled in the synagogue, “they first killed their wives and children, and when the warden of the community alone remained, he stabbed his neck with his dagger and died.” Concluding this series of stories, ibn Verga prayed in conclusion: “May the merit of these saints (kedoshim) and those like them benefit the people of Israel everywhere. Amen” (p. 92).

Chapters 43–49

Four of these seven tales make mention of Jewish martyrdom, while the three intervening stories (chaps. 44, 45, 48) relate instances of persecution without reference to Kiddush ha-Shem. Chapter 43 tells how the Jews of France were accused of colluding with lepers to poison riv- ers, and how, though knowing the charges to be false, the king ordered their imprisonment, torture, and forced conversion. “They stood fast in sanctification of the name and 15,000 people were burned (ve- ‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem, ve-nisrefu.)” (p. 117). Chapter 46 quickly recounts the persecution of Spanish Jews in 1412 owing to the efforts of the new pope (Benedict XIII). Sixteen thousand Jews converted, yet “many stood fast in sanctification of the name and were burned (ve- ‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem ve-nisrefu), and many died from torture” (p. 118). The following two stories return to the persecutions of 1391. Chapter 47 lists several communities that converted to Christianity, while elsewhere the Jews “stood fast in sanctification of the name and 286 jeremy cohen were burned (ve-‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem ve-nisrefu)” (p. 119). And without mentioning martyrdom, chapter 48 quotes a letter of R. Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov bemoaning the baptism of masses of Jews, especially in Castile. Chapter 49 first reports of the harsh discriminatory decrees imposed upon those Jews who survived the violence of 1391 and 1412; it then moves on to a heartfelt exclamation in which ibn Verga concludes his treatment of Jewish martyrdom: How many unrecorded persecutions and exiles has Israel endured? We shall never know all the realms and cities in which the nation of Israel has been dispersed; moreover, there are things best left unrecorded. The [biblical prophecy] of “you shall perish among the nations” has been fulfilled in us. There remain among the people of Israel not even one in a thousand of the Jews who left Jerusalem and the cities of Israel and came to Spain. As for those who went to France and Germany, many of whom stood fast in sanctification of the name, thousands were killed (hirbu la‘amod ‘al kedushat ha-Shem, nehergu mehem la-’alafim), and there survive of those who went there—who were like the hordes that left Egypt— not one in five thousand. The notables of Ashkenaz wrote a scroll about their misfortunes and compiled a lengthy account of what they experienced in those lands. Yet I have not seen here what they wrote, and the full truth of what transpired there certainly has not reached us who are far away. God is in the right for we have disobeyed him. Once we have remitted our obligations, may God shine his countenance upon us and restore us to our homeland. (p. 120)

Chapter 62

Judah ibn Verga, the family member whose notes, according to our author, provided the basis for Shevet Yehudah and whose heroic inter- cession on behalf of the Jews of Seville is described in a previous tale, here refuses to betray Judaizing conversos to the inquisition and flees from Spain to Portugal to avoid punishment. There “they subjected him to heavy torture so that he would identify those practicing Juda- ism. Yet he, may he rest in peace, withstood the trial and died in prison as result of the torture. May the merit of all the holy ones work to our benefit” (p. 127). * * * The data reviewed here do not suffice for a definitive elaboration of Solomon ibn Verga’s stance with regard to Jewish martyrdom in the face of Christian persecution. Yet they do facilitate questions and from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 287 observations that can prove helpful as we attempt to situate Shevet Yehudah and its author in an instructive historical and cultural context. Any reader of Shevet Yehudah should notice that the stories we have cited number among the shorter chapters in the work; as a general rule, they do not figure among the more discursive, detailed, and frequently quoted tales that readily offer insight into the author’s novel, even controversial, ideas. Except for several instances of Jew- ish martyrdom in stories (among the longest of those we have cited here) that allowed ibn Verga to express his distinctive opinions of the ruling political establishment and his criticisms of contemporary Jew- ish behavior,7 these are not the tales in which modern scholars typically find the author revealing his program for renewed Jewish life in a patently hostile non-Jewish world. Interestingly, those more revealing tales—like those of blood libels or religious disputations, which I have discussed elsewhere8—are largely or entirely fictional; acts of kiddush ha-Shem, on the other hand, appear in stories grounded in historical events and in sources that ibn Verga deemed trustworthy. Both the brevity and the historicity of these tales militate against their giving expression to the creativity with which ibn Verga addressed other, more pressing issues on his personal agenda. I fully agree with Margarete Schlüter that the structure and organization of Shevet Yehudah—the ordering of its stories, its overall chronological progression from antiquity to the present, and its frequent shifting of its focus from past to present even as that progression unfolds—must inform our understanding of the work and its goals.9 And the clusters of tales referring to kiddush ha-Shem offer an instructive case in point: The tales of the first cluster (chaps. 2–6) and two of the individual stories (chaps. 9, 18) appear remote; they tell of earlier centuries, from Ben Sira to the early fourteenth-century Pastoureaux, and do not concern Christian Spain since the Visigoths. The second cluster (chaps. 26–28) progresses through the fourteenth century and, with its mention of the pogroms of 1391, momentarily

7 For example, chaps. 6, 9, 26. On ibn Verga’s criticisms and call for change among world Jewry, see Amos Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley, 1993), pp. 211ff.; José Faur, In the Shadow of History: Jews and Conversos at the Dawn of Modernity (Albany, 1992), ch. 9, and “Imagination and Religious Pluralism; Maimo- nides, Ibn Verga, and Vico,” New Vico Studies 10 (1992): 36–51, in addition to other studies cited above. 8 See below, nn. 10, 12. 9 margarete Schlüter, “Zuchtrute und Königszepter,” pp. 712–31. 288 jeremy cohen focuses on Christian Spain alongside Ashkenaz and Greece. The third cluster (chaps. 34–36) returns us to Ashkenazic Jews of Germany and France, praising them for their activist heroism and longing to share in the merit that accrued from their martyrdom: “May the merit of these saints and those like them benefit the people of Israel everywhere” (p. 92). The fourth cluster of stories (chaps. 43–49) deflects concern from kiddush ha-Shem still further by interspersing tales of persecution that make no mention of martyrdom among those that do. Although it does consider events that transpired in Christian Spain, it relates incidents no later than the anti-Jewish violence of 1391 and 1412 and conspicuously steers away from the events of ibn Verga’s own lifetime, notably the forced conversion of the Jews of Portugal in 1497.10 As recent research has shown, other Jewish writers did tell of forced baptism and martyrdom in 1497. Ibn Verga, on the other hand, while undoubtedly an eyewitness to that persecution, deliberately avoided the subject,11 much as he made no mention of the most recent blood libels of Trent (1475) or La Guardia (1490–1491) among the numerous stories of blood libels included in Shevet Yehudah.12 Among recent Spanish Jewish victims of Christian persecution, only Judah ibn Verga merits inclusion in the same category of the holy (kedoshim) that Solo- mon elsewhere applies to the Jewish martyrs of Ashkenaz; and he, as Solomon reports in Chapter 62, submitted to death not to avoid baptism but so as not to betray conversos who clung to their Jewish observance. What Shevet Yehudah does have to say about kiddush ha-Shem seems to compound a sense of misgiving, ambivalence, and a reluc- tance on the part of its author to tackle the issues that the subject

10 in view of the suggestion of Ram Ben-Shalom, “Kidush ha-Shem and Jewish Martyrdom in Aragon and Castile in 1391: Between Spain and Ashkenaz [Hebrew],” Tarbiz 70 (2001): 268ff., that fifteenth-century Spanish Jews had relatively little need to grapple with issues of Kiddush ha-Shem but had much more pressing concerns for the theological issues of Jewish-Christian polemics, one should note that these latter issues, too, receive short shrift in Shevet Yehudah; see my “Polemic and Pluralism: The Jewish-Christian Debate in Solomon ibn Verga’s Shevet Yehudah,” in Festschrift for Ora Limor, ed. Israel J. Yuval and Ram Ben-Shalom (Turnhout, forthcoming). 11 on accounts of Jewish martyrdom in Portugal in 1497, see Abraham Gross, “On the Ashkenazi Syndrome of Martyrdom in Portugal in 1497 [Hebrew],” Tarbiz 64 (1994): 83–114; and, on ibn Verga’s avoidance of the matter, pp. 85–86 and n. 7. 12 Cf. my “The Blood Libel in Solomon ibn Verga’s Shevet Yehudah,” in Jewish Blood: Reality and Metaphor in Jewish History, Religion, and Culture, ed. Mitchell Hart (London, 2009), pp. 116–35. from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 289 raised. Granted that in discussing earlier persecutions, especially those outside Spain, Solomon ibn Verga clearly expresses his esteem for those who heroically refused to convert under the threat of death—and he prays that all can share in their merit. Even so, Shevet Yehudah makes no mention of the Ten Martyrs whose story played a truly formative role in the developing traditions of kiddush ha-Shem—mention that we find repeatedly in Abraham Zacuto’s Sefer Yuchasin and Joseph Ha-Kohen’s Emek ha-Bakha.13 And unlike these and other narrators of events preceding and following the expulsion from Spain—writers who paid more attention to kiddush ha-Shem and to the issues involved in choosing death over baptism—ibn Verga systematically steered his attention away from Jewish martyrdom in his own generation. His avoidance extended from events to issues, which ibn Verga circum- vented no less conscientiously. Shevet Yehudah never airs criticism of the converts or their motivations like that both voiced and implied throughout Solomon Alami’s Iggeret Musar;14 even in cases where some Jews opted for death and others for baptism (as in his reports of 1391), ibn Verga never expresses a preference for one group over the other. He methodically refrained from relating to kiddush ha-Shem as a halakhic obligation, and one looks in vain for the halakhic consideration of active as opposed to passive martyrdom that we encounter in Zacuto’s Yuchasin or in other rabbinical writings of his generation.15 Shevet Yehudah lacks any trace of the exhortation to martyrdom that one finds in a sermon on the Akedah delivered in the years preceding the 1492 expulsion (perhaps) by Shem Tov ben Joseph ibn Shem Tov: All those who want to number among the seed of Abraham must be prepared to offer their lives for the sanctification of God’s name when the proper time comes. Otherwise they do not number among the seed of Abraham. That is why all of the righteous and virtuous Jewsmar- tyred themselves: to demonstrate that they number among the seed of

13 abraham Zacuto, Liber Juchassin [Hebrew], ed. Herschell Filipowski (London, 1857), pp. 25, 42, 50, 67, 71, 231; Joseph Ha-Kohen, Emek ha-Bakha, p. 13. Cf. also Gedaliah ibn Yachia, Shaleshelet ha-Kabbalah (Jerusalem, 1962), pp. 69–70; and David Gans, Zemah David: A Chronicle of Jewish and World History [Hebrew], ed. Morde- chai Breuer (Jerusalem, 1983), pp. 90–92. 14 Solomon ibn Lachmish Alami, Iggeret Musar, ed. A. M. Habermann (Jerusalem, 1946), esp. pp. 40ff. 15 Zacuto, Liber Juchassin, pp. 32, 51; see also the additional authors discussed in Gross, “On the Ashkenazi Syndrome of Martyrdom,” pp. 90–99, and 102 n. 64, where Gross attempts to argue (from silence and, to my mind, unsuccessfully) that ibn Verga approved of active, self-inflicted martyrdom. 290 jeremy cohen

Abraham and Isaac. All Jews should think that, being from the seed of Abraham, they should be prepared to take the lives of their children, and the children should be prepared to be bound by their fathers and to bind them, as Abraham did to perform the will of his heavenly father.16 Indeed, one wonders if for ibn Verga the true sanctification of God’s name necessarily entailed the sacrifice of one’s life or just a refusal to convert in the face of persecution.17 On several occasions (chaps. 3, 18, 26, 28), ibn Verga’s description of those who “stood fast in sanctification of the name (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem)” suggests that they were not necessarily killed, while in even more cases (chaps. 2, 5, 27, 34, 35, 43, 46, 47, 49) his report specifies explicitly that the steadfast were, in fact, burned to death (‘amedu ‘al kedushat ha-Shem ve- nisrefu) or otherwise killed (nehergu). In this usage ibn Verga was by no means unique,18 but his interest in martyrdom is considerably less than among other historical writers of his generation. Curiously, another Spanish Jewish exile’s rousing call to kiddush ha- Shem does resonate in one of the later chapters of Shevet Yehudah, though in a manner that actually confirms our general impressions. In R. Abraham b. Eliezer Halevi’s Megillat Amrafel we read: As for the manner of one’s resolve to sanctify the name of God when they torture him excessively and implore and demand of him, saying that if he gives up his faith they will leave him and cause him no pain, or in a case where he must inform them of his decision . . . he should answer thus: “I am a Jew and I shall remain a Jew and I shall die a Jew. . . .” He should resolve and be sure to sanctify his creator and not to desecrate the name of his God. And such a one will not feel the tortures that they inflict upon him.19

16 marc Saperstein, “A Sermon on the Akedah from the Generation of the Expul- sion and Its Implications for 1391,” in Exile and Diaspora: Studies in the History of the Jewish People Presented to Professor Haim Beinart, ed. Aharon Mirsky et al. (Jeru- salem, 1991), pp. 111, 121. 17 on Keri’at Shema as a means of sanctifying God’s name—a possibility ignored by ibn Verga—see below. 18 Cf. Abraham Zacuto’s account, in Liber Juchassin, p. 223, that he and his son Samuel were privileged by God to sanctify his name, after which they found refuge in North Africa. 19 Megillat Amrafel in Abraham ben Eliezer Halevi, Nevu’at ha-Yeled, ed. Amnon Gross (Jerusalem, 2005), p. 188; and see the comments of Gross, “On the Ashkenazi Syndrome of Martyrdom,” pp. 108–14. Cf. also Gershom Scholem, “Chapters from the History of Cabbalistical Literature, 9: New Researches on R. Abraham b. Eliezer Halevi [Hebrew],” Kirjath Sepher 7 (1930): 149–65. from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 291

Chapter 52 of Shevet Yehudah (which some scholars have attributed to Solomon ibn Verga’s son Joseph)20 tells of a Jewish émigré from Spain, whose wife and son died after being forced ashore in an unin- habited place by the captain of the ship in which they had fled, and his own heartrending exclamation to God: “Master of the universe, You do much to induce me to leave my religion, but know well that, notwithstanding the contrary designs of the heavenly host, I am a Jew and shall be a Jew, and nothing that you have done or will do to me can prove otherwise” (p. 122). But the absence of any association to kiddush ha-Shem in this tale in Shevet Yehudah is no less striking than the determination of this unfortunate Jew to remain Jewish. God himself bears primary responsibility for his sufferings, and it is God, not his Christian oppressors, whom this Spanish Jew defies in affirming his faith. * * * These and other issues of kiddush ha-Shem at the time of the Spanish expulsion stand at the intersection of several discussions and debates among present-day historians, and it is interesting to consider Shevet Yehudah in their light. First, in debate over the extent to which the self-sacrificing ideal of kiddush ha-Shem was indigenous to Iberian Jewry during the centuries leading up to the expulsion from Spain, investigators on both sides have drawn on ibn Verga and his book. Abraham Gross has argued that the martyrdom of Jews in 1497 in Lis- bon marked the first widespread manifestation of a willingness to die rather than convert in the face of persecution on the part of Sephardic Jews, and that this tendency derived from an “Ashkenazic syndrome” first imported to Spain from northern Europe during the anti-Jewish violence of 1391. Shevet Yehudah, as we have noted, recounts valorous instances of kiddush ha-Shem on the part of Franco-German Jews, reports that include motifs prominent in the well-known stories of Jewish martyrdom in the Rhineland during the First Crusade: collective suicide, the preemptive slaughter of women and children before they could be killed (or baptized) by their Christian attackers, and

20 See Heinrich Graetz, Divre Yemei Yisra’el, trans. S. P. Rabinowitz, ed. A. A. Harkavi (Warsaw, 1898), 369–70n; Shevet Yehudah, p. 208n.; and Joseph R. Hacker, “The Responses of the Exiles to the Spanish Expulsion and to the Forced Conversion in Portugal [Hebrew],” in Jews and Conversos at the Time of the Expulsion, ed. Yom Tov Assis and Yosef Kaplan (Jerusalem, 1999), pp. 230–32 (where both Shevet Yehu- dah and Megillat Amrafel are likewise cited in tandem). 292 jeremy cohen

Jews’ efforts to exact revenge on the attackers even as they wentto their own deaths.21 Responding to Gross, Ram Ben-Shalom has argued for a long-standing Spanish Jewish interest in—and commitment to— kiddush ha-Shem that resulted not from an infusion of Ashkenazi piety beginning in 1391 but perhaps, as Haym Soloveitchik has contended, from the impact of the medieval Christian idealization of martyrdom.22 Indeed, ibn Verga’s tales of Ashkenazi martyrdom lack specific information concerning the time and place of the events, and he notes that he has not seen the scroll compiled by the rabbis of Ashkenaz recounting their history of persecution. Notwithstanding Azriel Shochat’s suggestion that ibn Verga intended to contrast the heroism of German Jews with Spanish Jews who converted when threatened with death,23 nothing in the stories of Shevet Yehudah explicitly suggests as much or underscores that heroism as an example to be emulated in Spain. As Ben-Shalom points out, Shevet Yehudah and other Jewish writings of the generation of the expulsion tell of Spanish Jews’ resistance to decrees of forced baptism—as early as in the case of the seventh-century Visigothic King Sisebut and as recently as in 1391, where ibn Verga followed Hasdai Crescas in emphasizing the resolve of many Jewish communities not to convert to Christianity.24 Yet Shevet Yehudah

21 gross, “On the Ashkenazi Syndrome of Martyrdom”; “Conversions and Mar- tyrdom in Spain in 1391: A Reassessment of Ram Ben-Shalom [Hebrew],” Tarbiz 71 (2002): 269–78; “On Revisionism, Reading Comprehension, and Academic Aggres- siveness: A Response to Ram Ben-Shalom,” in his Struggling with Tradition: Reserva- tions about Active Martyrdom in the Middle Ages, Brill Reference Library of Judaism 19 (Leiden, 2004), pp. 93–99. 22 ben-Shalom, “Kidush ha-Shem,” pp. 227–77, and “Jewish Martyrdom and Con- version in Sepharad and Ashkenaz in the Middle Ages: An Assessment of the Reas- sessment [Hebrew],” Tarbiz 71 (2002): 279–300; Haym Soloveitchik, “Bein Chevel Arav le-Chevel Edom,” in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom, ed. Gafni and Ravitzky, pp. 149–52. One must situate the Gross–Ben-Shalom debate against the background of discussion evoked by Gerson D. Cohen, “Messianic Postures of Ashkenazim and Sephardim,” in Studies of the Leo Baeck Institute, ed. Max Kreutzberger (New York, 1967), pp. 117–58. Among others, see Elisheva Carlebach, Between History and Hope: Jewish Messianism in Ashkenaz and Sepharad, Annual Lecture of the Victor J. Sel- manowitz Chair of Jewish History 3 (New York: Touro College, 1998); Israel J. Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, trans. Barbara Harshav and Jonathan Chipman (Berkeley, 2006), esp. chs. 3–4; and David Berger, “Sephardic and Ashkenazic Messianism in the Middle Ages [Hebrew],” in From Sages to Savants: Studies Presented to Avraham Grossman, ed. Joseph R. Hacker et al. (Jerusalem, 2010), pp. 11–28. 23 Shevet Yehudah, p. 188n. 24 ben-Shalom, “Kidush ha-Shem,” pp. 271–72, 276, with nn. Crescas’s report on the violence of 1391 appears in M. Wiener, ed., Liber Schevet Jehuda auctore from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 293 recounts, just as evenhandedly and as a matter of fact, that many Jews converted—even those who initially proclaimed their determination to resist King Sisebut. Second, on a related but more general level, scholars have debated the fate of the medieval Jewish ideal of kiddush ha-Shem—especially as it had expressed itself in the Hebrew chronicles of the Crusades—at the end of the Middle Ages and the dawn of modern times. Not quite a half century has elapsed since Jacob Katz published his groundbreak- ing article, “From 1096 to 1648–1649,” in which he argued that by the end of the Middle Ages, the earlier activist ideal of kiddush ha-Shem had waned in the religious praxis of Ashkenazi Jewry, as evidenced above all in the Chmielnitzky massacres of the mid-seventeenth century. Katz maintained that, despite the attempts of the Hebrew chronicles of 1648–1649 to make things look otherwise, the fervor that led Jews of the crusading era to kill themselves and their loved ones, and in so doing to demonstrate their devotion to Judaism and hatred toward Christianity, was largely lacking in seventeenth-century Poland. The religious obligation to sanctify God’s name had undergone a process of spiritualization, whereby the linkage between it and martyrdom gradually receded from rabbinical discourse. Katz’s thesis generated discussion in many quarters and disagreement in some, most notably in the responses of Edward Fram, who, rejecting Katz’s discounting of the representations of kiddush ha-Shem in the Hebrew chronicles as unjustified, maintained that the ideal of kiddush ha-Shem as expressed in active martyrdom still contributed significantly to the drama of 1648–1649.25 Yet beside the points of contention between Katz and Fram, the spiritualization of the commandment to sanctify God’s name warrants consideration in its own right. As Joseph Hacker has demonstrated, this trend found expression among mystically and pietistically inclined rabbinical sages in Spain from the mid-thirteenth century through the aftermath of the expulsion, rabbis who taught that one fulfilled the obligation of kiddush ha-Shem by committing himself

R. Salomone aben Verga, 2 vols. (Hannover 1855–1856), 1:128–30; see also Saperstein, “A Sermon.” 25 Jacob Katz, “Martyrdom in the Middle Ages and in 1648–49 [Hebrew],” in Yitz hak F. Baer Jubilee Volume, ed. Salo Wittmayer Baron et al. (Jerusalem, 1960), pp. 318–37; Edward Fram, “Between 1096 and 1648–1649: A Reappraisal [Hebrew],” Zion 61 (1996): 159–82; Katz, “More on ‘Between 1096 and 1648–1649 [Hebrew]’,” Zion 62 (1997): 23–29; Fram, “And Still a Gap Exists between 1096 and 1648–1649 [Hebrew],” Zion 62, pp. 31–46. 294 jeremy cohen to the ultimate self-sacrifice in reading (several times daily) the words of the Shema (Deuteronomy 6): “Hear, O Israel. The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You must love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” As Hacker hastens to point out, however, for these spiritualizing teachers in Spain, such an interpretation of sanctifying God’s name complemented, but in no way replaced, the ideal of martyrdom; in their view, “the daily praxis of affirming the unity of God in reading the Shema is a spiritual incen- tive and emotional basis for successfully standing the trial, whenever it might occur.”26 The same Megillat Amrafel, whose exhortation to martyrdom we quoted above, proceeded to elaborate this understanding of kiddush ha-Shem and reading the Shema just several lines hence. To be sure, Shevet Yehudah allows for the possibility that one could sanctify God’s name without actually being slain, but it utters not a word, not even a hint, of this spiritualized sense of kiddush ha-Shem, however current and relevant it may have been for Spanish Jews and conversos in the wake of the expulsion. And third, various historians of the last several decades have studied the complex self-image of Spanish Jewry in the years preceding, during, and following the expulsion. How did they now relate to their Spanish homeland, which had once struck many as the ideal venue for fulfilling their Jewish aspirations? How did they explain their own predicament, from the violence of 1391 and the early fifteenth century, and the mass conversions that it precipitated, to the collapse of the community and the expulsion itself?27 As Joseph Hacker has shown, one marker of change appears in the biblical exegesis on the words of Psalm 44:21–23 that in earlier generations had typically served to

26 Joseph R. Hacker, “Kelum Hu‘atak Kiddush ha-Shem el Techum ha-Ruach?” in Sanctity of Life and Martyrdom, ed. Gafni and Ravitzky, pp. 221–32 (quotation on p. 227). 27 See, among others: Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, “Exile and Redemption through the Eyes of the Spanish Exiles [Hebrew],” in Yitzhak F. Baer Jubilee Volume, pp. 216–27, and “The Generation of the Spanish Exiles on Its Fate [Hebrew],” Zion 26 (1961): 23–64 [abridged translation in “The Generation of Spanish Exiles Considers Its Fate,” in Studies in Jewish History, ed. Joseph Dan, Binah: Studies in Jewish History, Thought, and Culture 1 (New York, 1989), pp. 83–98]; Robert Bonfil, “The Legacy of Sephardi Jewry in Historical Writing,” in Moreshet Sepharad: The Sephardi Legacy, ed. Haim Beinart (Jerusalem, 1992), pp. 461–78; and Eleazar Gutwirth, “The Expulsion of the Jews from Spain,” and “Continuity and Change after 1492,” in Jews and Conversos at the Time of the Conversion, ed. Yom Tov Assis and Joseph Kaplan (Jerusalem, 1999), pp. 93–108. from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 295 express Israel’s ultimate commitment to God and were repeatedly invoked to exemplify the devotion the martyr: If we forget the name of our God and spread forth our hands to a foreign god, God would surely search it out, for He knows the secrets of the heart. It is for your sake that we are slain all day long, that we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered. Beginning in the 1480s, Spanish Jewish exegetes understood these words as bespeaking not their dedication to God but their collective failure in withstanding the trials through which God tested their faith. “A centrally important text, once a foundational expression of the pride and self-confidence that accrued from their endurance as a community and a nation now became a cause for embarrassment and apology . . . proof of their failure” to live up to the traditional ideal of Jewish martyrdom.28 Again, Shevet Yehudah reveals no concern for or engagement with this perspective on martyrdom. Although its stance with regard to the conversos lies beyond the purview of this essay, one notes with interest that it never alludes to Psalm 44, nor does it berate Spanish Jews for a lack of willingness to sacrifice their lives. Still, in at least one dimension of its presentation of kiddush ha- Shem, I would suggest an instructive parallel between Shevet Yehudah and the stories told in the Hebrew crusade chronicles of the Ashkenazi martyrs of 1096. As I argued at length in an earlier study, I believe that one can fully appreciate the complexity and ambivalence that characterize those stories only as a result of the trauma experienced by those who told them. In order to survive the pogroms of 1096 and thereby function as martyrologists for those killed, many of them—or their parents— converted to Christianity, and, of those, most returned quickly to the Jewish community once the immediate physical danger had subsided. Those glorifying the valorous self-sacrifice of the martyrs, then, were those who had opted to take precisely the opposite course of action: that of submitting to baptism in order to live. At the same time as they memorialized the heroism of those who died, their memories gave expression to their own situation: their guilt, their conflicted misgiv- ings, their pangs of conscience, and the basis for continued Jewish life

28 Joseph R. Hacker, “ ‘If We Have Forgotten the Name of Our God’ (Psalm 44:21): Interpretation in Light of the Realities in Medieval Spain [Hebrew],” Zion 57 (1992): 247–74 (quotation on p. 273). 296 jeremy cohen in the Rhineland that their actions facilitated.29 Solomon ibn Verga, so far as we know, likewise survived the decrees of 1497, along with the overwhelming majority of Spanish Jews who had migrated to Portugal, by undergoing baptism when the only other option was death. Follow- ing the massacre of conversos in Lisbon in 1506, as soon as the king allowed the New Christians to leave the country, ibn Verga departed Portugal and set out on a journey that would eventually bring his son Joseph to the Ottoman Empire, although he himself evidently died en route. His composition of Shevet Yehudah dates from these last years of his life.30 Like the Ashkenazi martyrologists who recalled the pogroms of the First Crusade upon their return to Judaism, stories of suffering endured by his people served ibn Verga as a meansof charting a course for the future, for empowering contemporary Jews to recuperate and rebuild on a more viable basis in the wake of the trauma they had undergone. Surely, as we have seen, the stories of martyrdom in Shevet Yehudah differ greatly from those in the Hebrew accounts of Gezerot TaTNU— the persecutions of 1096. The latter idealize the active self-sacrifice of those who killed themselves and their loved ones; the more violently they expressed their rejection of Christianity, the more praiseworthy they became in the eyes and the voice of the storyteller. For his part, Solomon ibn Verga veered away from detailed descriptions of violence and death, and, as I have argued, he downplayed the importance of theological debate between Jews and Christians; interreligious polemic, medieval style, had outlived its purpose. He ignored instances of kiddush ha-Shem in his own day almost entirely. Neither did he beckon Jews of his day to emulate the actions of Jewish martyrs of the past, nor did he embellish his reports of self-sacrifice in sanctification of God’s name with the biblical, rabbinical, and even Christian symbolism so prominent in the martyrologies of 1096, symbolism that endowed the events transpiring in the Rhineland with a truly cosmic significance or, as Robert Chazan has suggested, giving the timebound a timeless importance.31

29 See my Sanctifying the Name of God: Jewish Martyrs and Jewish Memories of the First Crusade (Philadelphia, 2004). 30 See above all Benayahu, “A New Source,” esp. pp. 247–57. 31 robert Chazan, “The Timebound and the Timeless: Medieval Jewish Narration of Events,” History and Memory 6 (1994): 5–35; and God, Humanity, and History: The Hebrew First Crusade Narratives (Berkeley, 2000). from solomon bar samson to solomon ibn verga 297

No, Shevet Yehudah does not follow the “timeless” course that kabbalists and others offered for grappling with the catastrophe of 1492. While he took considerable freedom in presenting fictional tales as reports of historical events, ibn Verga anchored his perspective firmly in the political and social realities of the here and now. And yet, no less than in the crusade chronicles, the representation of martyrs and martyrdom in Shevet Yehudah—that which engages the narrator and that which the narrator ignores—gives expression first and foremost to the predicament of the living, rather than that of the dead. In its own distinctive fashion, Shevet Yehudah attests to Judith Perkins’s apt formulation concerning martyrdom in early Christianity: that narrative accounts of a community’s suffering and persecution work “not simply to represent a realistic situation so much as to provide a self- definition” for those that created and transmitted them.32

32 Judith Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative in the Early Christian Era (London, 1995), p. 12. Salo Baron’s View of the Middle Ages in Jewish History: Early Sources

David Engel

Robert Chazan studied with Salo Baron, and much of his work has built upon foundations first laid by that central figure in twentieth- century Jewish historiography. Recently, Chazan has explored the evolution of modern Jewish representations of the Middle Ages, an evolution in which Baron, who famously enjoined against depicting “the destinies of the Jews in the Diaspora” during the millennium preceding the French Revolution as “a sheer succession of miseries and persecutions,” occupied a pivotal position.1 Indeed, Baron himself portrayed his injunction against “the lachrymose conception of Jewish history” as a radical departure from the tendency of earlier historians of the Jews to limit their treatment of the medieval period to “stories of sanguinary clashes or governmental expulsions.”2 Baron insisted that greater emphasis be afforded “the beautiful aspects (ha-tsedadim ha- yafim) of [medieval Jewish] history, especially the pioneering contributions of Jews to social and economic relations and to matters of the spirit” than to “afflictions and violent episodes.”3 Chazan, for his part, has hardly ignored the existence of a centuries-long history of Jewish- Christian acrimony, but, like his teacher, he has refused to allow that history to overshadow what he has consistently termed the vibrancy of medieval Ashkenazic and Sefardic Jewish life. If Chazan’s conception of the Middle Ages clearly owes much to Baron, the sources of Baron’s own conception are less clear. Most commentators have associated his historiographical revisionism with

1 Salo Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews (New York, 1937), 2: 31. 2 ibid. Cf. idem, “Ghetto and Emancipation: Shall We Revise the Traditional View?” Menorah Journal 14 (1928): 515–26, in which he explicitly ascribed “the lachrymose theory of pre-Revolutionary woe” to Heinrich Graetz, Ludwig Philippson, and Simon Dubnow. 3 Baron to Y. Amir, 21 March 1960, Stanford University Libraries, Department of Special Collections, M580, box 83, folder 1. 300 david engel

“an optimistic view of Exile”4 reflecting “the historical consciousness [of] several generations of American Jews” who have “pursued and defended an expanded Jewish role within the surrounding society.”5 In other words, Baronian antilachrymosity is commonly understood as an expression of a quintessentially American perspective. One of Baron’s students even went so far as to venture that his teacher might have chosen to migrate from Vienna to New York in 1926 because “America . . . gave promise of a Jewish existence that would better accord with his own paradigm.”6 On the other hand, the possibility that Baron, who was raised in the west Galician town of Tarnów and began his academic studies at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków in 1913–1914 before fleeing invading Russian troops and transferring to the University of Vienna at the outset of the First World War, absorbed significant aspects of his outlook from Polish or Austrian sources has not been seriously explored.7 Yet his earliest works, published before he left Europe (some even before leaving his Polish birthplace) contain tantalizing hints that many of the arguments he would eventually mar- shal in the service of his antilachrymose program figured in his assessment of aspects of the Jewish past from an early stage in his intellectual development. Moreover, those early traces suggest that debates among historians of Poland during the decade and a half before the outbreak of war in 1914 played a formative role in the crystallization of his historiographical approach. Fundamental to that approach was Baron’s call to reevaluate the relative standing of the Middle Ages and the modern era in Jewish

4 Michael Brenner, Propheten des Vergangenen: Jüdische Geschichtsschreibung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Munich, 2006), p. 171. 5 robert Liberles, Salo Wittmayer Baron: Architect of Jewish History (New York, 1995), pp. 337, 341. 6 ismar Schorsch, ‘‘The Lachrymose Conception of Jewish History,’’ in idem, From Text to Context: The Turn to History in Modern Judaism (Hanover, N.H. 1994), p. 380. 7 Baron’s connections with Poland in particular have not been widely noted, even though following his migration to the United States and throughout the 1930s he retained close connections with colleagues and former students in that country. In 1933 he published an early version of what would eventually become the first chapter of his signature Social and Religious History of the Jews in the Polish Jewish intellectual journal Miesięcznik żydowski, of which he served as a contributing editor. See S. Baron, “Żydzi a żydostwo,” Miesięcznik żydowski 3 (1933): 193–207. On his contacts with Poland, see David Engel, “Sefer nolad: Min ha-hitkatvut bein Philip Friedman ve-Shalom (Salo) Baron,” Gal-Ed 21 (2008): 142–56. See also Zwi Ellenberg to Baron, 25 July 1930, Stanford, M580, box 1, folder 5; Baron to Majer Bałaban, 30 July 1939, ibid., box 22, folder 11. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 301 history. Where his predecessors had tended, he claimed, to portray Jewish life in the centuries before the French Revolution as one of “extreme wretchedness,” contrasting it in the sharpest terms with “the dawn of a new day” that accompanied the revolutionary acts of emancipation, Baron insisted that “in the light of present historical knowledge, the contrast [between the two periods] is open to great qualification.”8 “The status of the Jews in the Middle Ages,” he noted, “implied certain privileges which they no longer have under the modern State,” including a “full internal autonomy” that endowed the Jewish community with “more competence over its members that the modern Federal, State, and Municipal governments combined.”9 In his view, this legal arrangement—which, though understood following emancipation as discriminatory in nature and tagged with the pejorative label “ghetto,” was actually a normal feature of the overall medieval system of state administration—promoted the Jews’ physical security and material well-being: under its terms Jews could “live in comparative peace, interrupted less by pogroms than were peasants by wars,” while “the average Jewish income much surpassed the average Christian income in pre-Revolutionary times.”10 Moreover, he observed, “in this ghetto . . . Jewry was enabled to live a full, rounded life, apart from the rest of the population, under a corporate governing organization”—a situation that endowed Jews with “in effect a kind of territory and State of [their] own” and “contributed in large part toward the preservation of Jewry as a distinct nationality.”11 Jews lost those advantages, he warned, precisely as a result of the disappearance of the medieval system and the spread of emancipation: “When the modern State came into being and set out to destroy the medieval cor- porations and estates and to build a new citizenship, it could no longer suffer the existence of an autonomous Jewish corporation.”12 The abrogation of the Jews’ autonomy and the transformation of their legal status from protected subjects to equal citizens did not always work to their advantage, he cautioned. He presented statistical estimates indicating that whereas during the century and a half prior to the French Revolution Jews in Europe increased their population at a rate two

8 Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” pp. 515, 516. 9 ibid., pp. 518–19. 10 ibid., p. 523. 11 ibid., p. 520. 12 ibid., p. 524. 302 david engel or even three times that of their non-Jewish neighbors, their rate of increase fell (and at times even became an absolute decrease) in the countries that granted them equal civic rights. Similarly, he ventured that “a comparison between the [Jews’] loss of life by violence in the two eras—pre- and post-Emancipation—would probably show little improvement since the French Revolution.”13 Because “equal right meant equal duties,” he admonished, “Jew[s] now found [themselves] subject to military service” and consequently became exposed to the perils of war from which the medieval regime had tended to shield them.14 Nor were the dangers to Jewish life posed by the rise of the modern centralized state confined, according to Baron, to the physical plane alone; they extended to the spiritual realm as well: “The Jews were no longer to be a nation within a nation . . . politically, culturally and socially the Jew was to be absorbed into the dominant national group.”15 Hence, he concluded, “Emancipation has not brought the Golden Age.” Accordingly he expressed his hope that certain features of the medieval political order and the positive values they embodied might be restored, at least in modified fashion, so as to provide Jews with “the equilibrium between their full rights as citizens and the special minority rights they think necessary to protect their living national organism from destruction and absorption by the majority.”16 He rejected “the lachrymose theory of pre-Revolutionary woe” in the first instance because its alleged denigration of everything associated with the middle ages tout court impeded achievement of the desired restoration. Baron had begun to think about the optimal political arrangements for Jews (and for the world as a whole) a decade and a half before migrating to the United States.17 His concern with the subject is evident, for example, in the two doctoral dissertations he wrote at the University of Vienna—the first, in history, submitted in 1917, on the treatment of the Jewish question at the Congress of Vienna of 1814– 15; the second, in political science, submitted in 1920, on the political philosophy of the German socialist thinker and activist of Jewish

13 ibid., p. 522. 14 ibid. 15 ibid. 16 ibid., p. 526. 17 david Engel, “Crisis and Lachrymosity: On Salo Baron, Neo-Baronianism, and the Study of Modern European Jewish History,” Jewish History 20 (2006): 243–64. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 303 origin, Ferdinand Lassalle.18 In each of these works Baron noted possibilities for restraining the all-embracing power of the modern centralized state in order to create space for autonomous national communities to operate within its framework. The first dissertation lauded the purported determination of the diplomats who convened in Vienna to restrict the prerogatives of individual states with regard to Jewish legal status and to institute standards in that matter that would be applicable throughout the European continent. Baron clearly represented that situation as preferable to the one he claimed had prevailed since the 1648 Peace of Westphalia, in which each state, no matter how small, jealously guarded its sovereignty and immunity from external intervention in its internal affairs.19 Baron described the new international order created at Vienna and its approach to the Jewish question in terms striking similar to the ones he would employ twenty years later to describe the parallel order he discerned in the Middle Ages, in which “Islam and the [Catholic] Church determined the position of the Jews, much more than any individual country,” and “the Jews had to live in accordance with the fundamental policies of the dominant religion.”20 He also reviewed the history of the legal status of Jews in certain German states since the mid-seventeenth century, evidently with a mind to demonstrating that conditions had worsened for Jews the greater the power of the centralized state had become.21 In the second dissertation Baron employed Lassalle’s theoretical writings on politics and economics as a springboard for examining the most desirable relation between individual, civil society, state, nation, and class and the constitutional arrangements necessary to establish that relation, offering in the process a subtle criticism of liberal capitalism similar to the one incorporated in his initial antilachrymose foray.22

18 Both were eventually published: Salo Baron, Die Judenfrage auf dem Wiener Kon- greß, auf Grund von zum Teil ungedruckten Quellen dargestellt (Vienna and Berlin, 1920); S. Baron, Die politische Theorie Ferdinand Lassalles (Leipzig, 1923). 19 Baron, Judenfrage, pp. 178, 206. 20 Baron, Social and Religious History, 2: 316. Cf. his description of the Middle Ages as an era of “organization, standardization, and regulation”; Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” p. 526. On the other hand, Baron termed the efforts of several Ger- man states to bypass the norms established at Vienna concerning the status of Jews “a return to the Middle Ages.” Baron, Judenfrage, p. 179. 21 Baron, Judenfrage, pp. 23–45. 22 Baron, Politische Theorie, pp. 110–22; cf. Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” p. 526. 304 david engel

Some passages from the doctoral dissertations, especially the earlier one, appear to have anticipated several fundamental features of Baron’s later criticism of lachrymosity nearly word for word: [In the Middle Ages Jews] were free from many civic duties, such as the duty of military service. . . . In addition they formed . . . a separate community of their own, which was easier to do in a state that was struc- tured in any case along class divisions. The state . . . fostered communal cohesion. . . . And if we take into account that Jews lived for centuries in separate neighborhoods, and access to the general schools was closed to them nearly everywhere, we can see clearly how the internal cohesion of the community developed over the years. This community was governed by a well-established internal constitution. Even the judicial system was under its control. In this fashion the Jews built for themselves their own internal life, which also provided for their spiritual needs, and they hardly expressed any desire for change with regard to their civil status. At most they hoped . . . for abrogation of certain specific restrictions on their economic activity.23 Moreover, it seems that even before his student days in Vienna Baron had already sensed that several advantages that Jews had enjoyed as part of the medieval political order had been attenuated with the rise of the modern state and the grant to Jews of equal citizenship rights. In fact, in his very first published article, a brief opinion piece on the participation of Jewish soldiers in the First Balkan War that appeared in the Kraków Hebrew periodical Hamicpe in 1912 (when the author was a 17-year-old gymnasium student living with his parents in Tarnów), Baron warned against what he thought of as the excessive identification with their countries of residence that Jews in all of the belligerent states had demonstrated: In the course of the present war we have heard much about Jews who have volunteered to fight in the armies of the warring kingdoms. . . . What a sad sight this is! Brothers who belong to a single people have taken to fighting against one another, not because they are forced to but volun- tarily. . . . We belong to a nation that has been called “the eternal wan- derer.” We, who always say, “Here today, somewhere else tomorrow,” have decided all of a sudden that wherever we live, there is our homeland. We, whom all other nations, even the most enlightened ones, regarded

23 Baron, Judenfrage, pp. 11–12. On the other hand, Baron characterized this situation as one of “foreignness” and indicated that Jews’ lack of a “homeland” (Hei- mat) exposed them to condemnation for constituting “a state within a state.” He described the conditions under which they lived as “severe and oppressive” (hart und drückend). salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 305

as strangers, have suddenly become more loyal citizens even than those who “properly” bear the title! Every nation that wishes to preserve its existence needs some political foundation. We and the Gypsies are the only ones who have survived thus far without such a foundation; but the Gypsies are gradually disappearing from the face of the earth, and their days as a nation appear to be numbered. In our case, we were saved by the ghetto and our cultural distinctiveness, along with our political aspirations, which never ceased. . . . Nowadays the walls of the ghetto have fallen and the general culture makes ever greater inroads into our camp. Only our political aspirations remain. Earlier generations with their own distinct culture, who lived sequestered in the ghetto, whose walls served them as a fortress against foreign influence, had no fear of assimilation; hence they took no action aimed at realizing their political aspirations. But today, now that we have come out of the narrow ghetto into the wider world, when foreign influences impinge ever more strongly upon us and the danger to our national existence has become correspondingly greater, we have responded by increasing our search for some political foundation that will strengthen our position.24 Thus it appears that as early as his teenage years Baron had formulated a historical narrative identifying modernization with a progressive weakening of collective Jewish strength and distinctiveness—quali- ties that the overall medieval political order and the ghetto in particular had made it relatively easy to preserve. It appears further that he retained the basic features of this narrative throughout his university career and beyond, bringing them to the United States and eventually incorporating them into his criticism of lachrymosity. To be sure, this narrative was not the only version of Jewish history he encountered in the early stages of his professional development or that found expression in his mature historiographical vision: his doctoral dissertations contain clear traces of a fundamentally positive attitude toward emancipation,25 and in none of his later antilachrymose pronouncements did he disavow the view that “Emancipation has meant a reduction of ancient evils, and . . . its balance sheet for the world at large as well as for the Jews is favorable.”26 Nevertheless it seems clear that his objection to representing emancipation as redemption from a

24 Sh[alom] B[en] E[liyahu] (=Salo Baron), “Hizayon ma’atsiv,” Hamicpe, 8 Novem- ber 1912, p. 3. 25 for example, in the concluding chapter of his first dissertation Baron called the implementation of emancipation in the Germanic lands “a positive result” of the Con- gress of Vienna. Baron, Judenfrage, pp. 205–6. 26 Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” p. 526. 306 david engel protracted nightmare worthy of nothing but condemnation and scorn first surfaced while he was still a resident of his Galician home town, long before he came to the United States. The same appears to apply with regard to another element ofthe antilachrymose position—the postulate that medieval Jews lived under more favorable conditions than did most of their non-Jewish neighbors. Baron advanced this notion for the first time in a long polemical piece published in Hamicpe in five installments in February–March 1913.27 In this article Baron confronted the prominent Kraków jour- nalist Antoni Chołoniewski, who had acquired fame inter alia as the author of popular histories composed in a Polish nationalist key. Chołoniewski was an outspoken supporter of the anti-Jewish boycott that the leader of the Polish National Democratic Party, Roman Dmowski, had proclaimed in October 1912 following his defeat in the electoral contest to represent Warsaw in the Imperial Russian Duma, which he attributed to the support Warsaw Jews had extended his rival, the socialist Eugeniusz Jagiełło.28 In two extensive articles published in a leading Kraków intellectual journal, Krytyka, in January and February 1913, Chołoniewski had argued vehemently that throughout their entire history in Poland Jews had constituted a destructive alien element that had consistently undermined the vital interests of the Polish community, even though Poland’s rulers had initially received them with warmth and beneficence when they had sought shelter from persecution elsewhere in medieval Europe.29 Accordingly, he endorsed Dmowski’s boycott as a first step toward “the liquidation of the Jewish question in Poland,” which would eventually be achieved by “driv- ing the Jews out” (wyparcie Żydów) of the country.30 Baron undertook to refute Chołoniewski’s argument by offering an alternative analysis of the history of Polish Jewry. “All of the peoples of contemporary Europe,” he noted, “came to their present places of residence some time

27 Sh[alom] B[en] E[liyahu] (=Salo Baron), “Ha-boykot ha-polani,” Hamicpe, 14 February–14 March 1913. The full text, together with an introduction and anno- tations, has been published in David Engel, “Tsa’ir mi-Galitsiyah al ha-herem ha- anti-yehudi be-polin ha-kongresa’it: Mi-kitvei ha-ne’urim shel Shalom (Salo) Baron,” Gal-Ed 19 (2004): 29–55 (Hebrew pagination). 28 for a survey of this episode see, among others, Stephen D. Corrsin, Warsaw Before the First World War: Poles and Jews in the Third City of the Russian Empire 1880–1914 (Boulder, Colo.) 1989, pp. 89–104. 29 antoni Chołoniewski, “Sprawa żydowska w Polsce,” Krytyka 1913, no. 2, pp. 92–111, no. 3, pp. 145–59. 30 ibid., p. 110. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 307 in the past, but all of them are of Asiatic origin.” Hence, he inferred, the human geography of Europe in his own day was a consequence of conquest and displacement: “If one barbarian people attacks another barbarian people that has been resident in a country for a long time and expels it . . . then we say that [the invading] people has a ‘historical claim’ upon the conquered territory.” Yet the Jews came to Poland, he explained, not as a barbarian people seeking to expel another one by force but as a civilized nation “settling in a country in peace and tranquility” alongside another civilized nation and enriching the country’s common weal with its material and cultural assets. As a result, he concluded, the Jews of Poland possess “one of the greatest historical rights” of any people to live in its current territory of residence, a right no less compelling than that of Poles to live in Lithuania, which is similarly based upon continuous, centuries-long residence alongside another people that had settled in the same territory previously. And lest Chołoniewski and his supporters challenge his argument by claiming that the right of Poles to settle in Lithuania stems from their political control of that country, whereas Jews live in Poland only by the grace of earlier Polish monarchs, Baron added that “the Jews’ ‘historic right’ is not diminished in any way by the fact that throughout their entire period of residence in the country, until recently, their rights were limited, for the fact of the matter is that the peasants of Poland were also limited in their political and human rights, and their situation was much worse than that of the Jews.” “Yet,” he asked rhetori- cally, “would anyone claim that the [Polish] peasants do not possess the right of residence in the country, or that they are nothing more than aliens and foreigners?” In short, he held, “just like the peasants who inhabit the rural villages, so too are the Jews who inhabit the cities citizens of the country in the fullest sense of the word.”31 Because certain elements of Baron’s later criticism of the lachrymose theory can be discerned, even if only in embryonic form, in his earliest writings, it makes sense to assume that the environment in which he composed those early writings must have played some role in the development of his historical thinking. The Polish language and Polish culture comprised a significant part of that environment, as did the political questions that occupied the Polish community in Galicia during the first decades of the twentieth century—a fact attested to not

31 engel, “Tsai’r mi-galitsiyah,” p. 51 (Hebrew pagination). 308 david engel only by the articles in Hamicpe but by Baron’s later autobiographical recollections as well.32 And indeed, it turns out that both of the elements in question had close parallels in a debate that exercised Polish historians during precisely the same interval. That debate concerned the reasons for the collapse of the old Polish- Lithuanian Commonwealth during the final third of the eighteenth century and its partition among three neighboring powers—Prussia, Russia, and Austria. A central role in shaping the lines along which the debate proceeded was played by the Jagiellonian University’s senior historian, Michał Bobrzyński, and his controversial “Outline History of Poland” (Dzieje Polski w zarysie), first published in 1877 and in expanded editions in 1881 and 1887. During the years in which Baron was coming of age this book, which for two decades had occupied a hegemonic position in Polish historiography, found itself under increasing attack for its central claim that “the true causes of the fall [of the Polish Commonwealth] must be sought within [the Pol- ish nation itself], because [the nation], lacking a strong government, could not defend itself against foreign belligerence.”33 Around the turn of the century a conscious opposition movement to Bobrzyński’s so- called pessimistic approach crystallized around the figure of Szymon Askenazy, a well-known historian from the University of Lwów, who declared in 1902 that “the deterioration of internal relations within the Polish state during the final stages of its expiration” had constituted at most “one of a number of causes” and not “the reason—not the only one, not the decisive one, not even the chief one”—why the Commonwealth had fallen apart.34 At Bobrzyński’s own Jagiellonian University, Askenazy’s oppositional position found strong support among younger members of the history department, most notably Stanisław Kutrzeba and Franciszek Bujak, two of the university’s most

32 “Apart from Polish and Jewish studies, I was deeply interested in the political and social problems of the society in which I lived, as well as those of the world at large. . . . Between the ages of ten and fifteen, I was an outspoken Polish nationalist. . . . In [sic] the same time I was also a voracious reader of Polish literature which I greatly admired.” Salo Wittmayer Baron, Under Two Civilizations—Tarnow, 1895– 1914 (Stanford, Calif., 1990), pp. 10–11. 33 Michał Bobrzyński, Dzieje Polski w zarysie, 4th ed. (Warsaw, 1927), 1: 21. In this edition, Bobrzyński followed this statement of his thesis with a survey of the objections that his colleagues had recently expressed. 34 Szymon Askenazy, “‎Przedmowa‎.” in J. I. Kraszewski, Polska w czasie trzech roz- biorów 1772–1799: Studya do historyi ducha i obyczaju (Warsaw, 1902), 1: iii. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 309 respected teachers during Baron’s student days.35 In 1900, Kutrzeba had offered an alternative narrative of Polish history that challenged Bobrzyński’s representation directly,36 and in 1906 Bujak, a pioneer in the study of Polish economic history, placed the bulk of responsibility for the deterioration of the old regime in Poland not upon Polish society’s own internal defects but upon the fact that during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries Poland had become “a passive party in the mercantilist economic regime that ruled the roost in the lands of western Europe at that time,” to the point where it eventually “became a victim of that regime.”37 Questions of periodization occupied a central role in the debate. The chronological boundaries and defining characteristics of the Middle Ages in Polish history were a matter for particularly sharp disagreement. Bobrzyński identified the medieval period with the existence of a monarchy that, although limited in its authority by powers vested in other orders of society, was nonetheless sufficiently strong “to maintain the equilibrium among the estates and to carry out foreign policy.”38 He regarded this period as an era of “enormous cultural progress” that was made possible by the achievement of a proper balance between state and society.39 That balance was violated, he argued, when the Polish nobility began, in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, to work toward weakening the monarchy and to turning the Polish parliament into an instrument for the promotion of its own narrow class interest above that of society as a whole. In this fashion, he claimed, Poland, instead of creating “a strong central authority”

35 on these two figures see, among others, Anita Krystyna Shelton, The Democratic Idea in Polish History and Historiography: Franciszek Bujak (1875–1953) (Boulder, Colo., 1989), pp. 23–28; Stanisław Grodziski, “Wstęp,” in Stanisław Kutrzeba, ed., Swoistość polskiej kultury i jej stosunek do zachodu: Wybór pism (Kraków, 2006), pp. vii–xxii. It is not known whether Baron studied with either of them during his year at the Jagiellonian University. According to his official academic record (Index Lectio- num) for that year, he participated in a lecture course on “Austria and France during the Period of the Great Revolution” and a proseminar entitled “Introduction to the Historical Sciences.” The rest of his courses were in the Department of Philosophy. The names of his teachers were not recorded. The document is located in Stanford, MS 580, box 141, folder 1. 36 Stanisław Kutrzeba, Historya ustroju Polski w zarysie, vol. 1: Korona, 4. wyd. (Lwów, 1917), esp. pp. v, 269–71. 37 franciszek Bujak, “Rzut oka na historię stosunków gospodarczych w Polsce,” in idem, Wybór pism (Warsaw, 1976), 1: 471. 38 Bobrzyński, Dzieje Polski, 1: 33. 39 ibid., p. 34. 310 david engel capable of assuming “a series of functions unknown during the Middle Ages that constitute part of the patterns of leadership and cultural and economic policies that we call modern,” after the example of the great states of Western Europe, sank into a condition of anarchy that led ultimately to its destruction.40 Against this position, Askenazy, Bujak, and Kutrzeba represented the modern centralized state not as a model to be imitated but as “a radical departure from the international order that had prevailed for hundreds of years”—a departure that had brought about “the final destruction of the law of nations (jus gentium)” that had ruled Europe until that juncture, along with “the old European order that had preserved a permanent balance (aequili- brium in statu quo).”41 This departure left Poland, in their view, as the last remaining standard-bearer of what Kutrzeba called the values of “freedom and social rights” that all of the states of Europe had allegedly affirmed during the Middle Ages.42 Accordingly, they understood Poland’s purported ongoing adherence to these values not as a sign of backwardness in comparison with Western European progress but as proof of the Polish community’s steadfast allegiance to an exalted medieval ideal that placed the welfare of society above that of the ruling powers and sought to expand the freedoms of all social classes to the maximum possible extent.43 Accordingly, they postulated the boundary between the Middle Ages and the modern era not during the time of the ascendancy of the nobility, as Bobrzyński had done, but in the period of the partitions themselves, when the modern state, as exemplified by the three partitioning powers, put an end to Poland’s independence.44 Still, for all of the differences between them, advocates of both positions appear to have been united on at least one point: the story that both told concerning the transition from the Middle Ages to the modern age was one of decline and loss of political, economic, and cultural

40 ibid., p. 35. See also Philip Pajakowski, “History, the Peasantry, and the Pol- ish Nation in the Thought of Michał Bobrzyński,” Nationalities Papers 26 (1998): 254–66. 41 askenazy, “Przedmowa,” 1: iii. 42 Stanisław Kutrzeba, “Społeczno-państwowe idee Polski,” in idem, Swoistość polskiej kultury, p. 64. Cf. Kutrzeba, Historya ustroju Polski, 1: 76–78, 167–68. 43 See Kutrzeba’s discussion in “Charakterystyka państwowości polskiej,” in idem, Swoistość kultury polskiej, pp. 19–39. 44 Kutrzeba, Historya ustroju Polski, 1: 1–2. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 311 vitality.45 Both cast doubt upon the ability of modern capitalism and the global economy that it generated to engender long-term improvement in the quality of human life, both material and spiritual.46 Simi- larly, they tended to describe the political arrangements they labeled as “medieval” in terms conveying a positive valence, like “order,” “balance,” and “freedom,” in contrast to the negatively tinged descriptions they routinely attached to the modern political regime, such as “lacking restraint,” “one-sided,” and “destructive of public liberty.”47 The leading historians of both schools portrayed the medieval Polish regime, based upon the grant of differential privileges to the various estates that comprised Polish society, as preferable to the modern one, “which regards the entire [social organism] as a single unit” with a uniform political will.48 Even the French Revolution’s affirmation of the principle of human rights was not sufficient in their eyes to repair the damage inherent in the concentration of political authority in the hands of a single sovereign, whether individual or collective. On the contrary, in their view concentration bred, even among democratic states, an appetite for territorial expansion to which Poland became a notable victim: We admire . . . the state of laws and the constitutional state (państwo prawne i konstytucyjne) . . . to which England, America, and France have given birth as one of the greatest recent accomplishments of the human spirit. . . . But it would be a great mistake . . . to see the constitutional state as the antithesis of absolute monarchy. To be sure, monarchies attributed to themselves a divine right to rule, ignoring human beings. To be sure, the French Revolution and the revolutions that came in its wake . . . restored human dignity to a level well above that of the Middle Ages, when humans were not considered worthy in their own right but only as members of a particular social class, and the extent of the rights granted them were a function of the class to which they belonged. But if we look incisively at the modern state . . . we will discover that it closely resembles the absolutist state. . . . French [revolutionary] political theory provided a new structure to the modern state . . . but the modern

45 This point of agreement evidently facilitated a certain rapprochement between the two camps noticeable around the beginning of the First World War. On this matter see Shelton, Democratic Idea, pp. 73–76. 46 See, for example, Franciszek Bujak, “Siły gospodarcze,” in Przyczyny upadku Pol- ski: Odczyty (Warsaw, 1918), pp. 81–83. 47 for examples of such usages see Bobrzyński, Dzieje Polski, 1: 35–36; Kutrzeba, “Charakterystyka państwowości polskiej,” pp. 29–33. 48 Kutrzeba, “Charakterystyka państwości polskiej,” p. 32. 312 david engel

[postrevolutionary] state took its notions about [the need for] political unity and the extent of its tasks from the absolutist state. . . . When the state became unified it began to expand the extent of its activities. . . . The result of . . . the state’s expansion into areas of activity that were foreign to it in earlier times . . . has found expression [also] in a rapacious expansion beyond the borders of Europe. Spain and Holland seized colonies around the world and subjected them to their rule; France and England followed in their footsteps.49 These were a few of the ideas about the relative merits and demerits of the Middle Ages and the modern era that prevailed in the Galician- Polish environment in which Baron grew up, began his education, and published his first writings. Those ideas stressed that the process of modernization extracted a high price; they presented modern political and economic arrangements as a source of serious difficulties to be overcome. Their echoes can be heard clearly in Baron’s repeated criticism, beginning in the late 1920s, of the lachrymose view of Jewish history. It thus appears plausible that the appreciation he indicated for various aspects of the medieval order was influenced to at least some degree by the writings of leading historians at the university where he began his academic training. In fact, it may even be that some of those historians (mainly the opponents of Bobrzyński), contributed notably to the development of Baron’s assessment of the relative valence of the medieval and modern periods not only in European history overall but in Jewish history in particular. From the beginning of the twentieth century, Bujak and Kutrzeba were known for the significant attention their studies devoted to the history of the Jews in Poland, especially to their legal status and economic activity.50 Askenazy went even further in promoting the study of Polish Jewish history: in 1912 he established a quarterly journal devoted entirely to the subject, in order “to explore in an entirely systematic and academic fashion those historical problems

49 ibid., pp. 33–36. 50 Kutrzeba, Historya ustroju Polski, 1: 52, 109–11, 185–87, 237–38, 2:74–76; idem, “Stanowisko prawne żydów w Polsce w XV. stuleciu,” Przewodnik naukowy i lite- racki 29 (1901): 1007–18, 1147–55; idem, Handel Krakowa w wiekach średnich na tle stosunków handlowych Polski (Kraków, 1902), p. 185; Franciszek Bujak, Limanowa: miasteczko powiatowe w zachodniej Galicyi—stan społeczny i gospodarczy (Kraków, 1902), pp. 37–45, 53–55, 58–60, 183–204; idem, Galicya, vol. 1: Kraj, ludność, społeczeństwo, rolnictwo (Lwów, 1908), pp. 99–119, 198, 211. In 1919, the two scholars served as advisers on the Jewish question to the Polish delegation to the Paris Peace Conference. salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 313

[concerning Jews] that belong in so many ways to the bailiwick of Pol- ish historiography.”51 More than a decade earlier he had endeavored to foster such exploration by persuading the prominent Jewish phi- lanthropist from Warsaw, Hipolit Wawelberg, to offer a cash prize for young scholars at Polish universities interested in studying the history of the Jews in the historic Polish lands. Three of the historians who laid the foundations for the efflorescence of historical writing among Pol- ish Jews between the two world wars—Moses Schorr, Majer Bałaban, and Isaac Schiper—received the award during the first decade of its existence, using it to publish pioneering monographs on the history of the Jews in medieval Lwów and Przemyśl and on the material conditions of Jewish life in Poland during the Middle Ages.52 The approach taken by Askenazy, Kutrzeba, and Bujak in studying the history of Polish Jewry comported with their general tendency to emphasize the virtues of the old Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and to attribute its demise to factors originating beyond its borders. In contrast to the dominant tendency in nineteenth-century Polish historical writing to criticize the leadership of the Commonwealth for failing to take proper advantage of the contributions Jews might have made to the state’s well-being, these historians depicted prepartition Poland as a “Jewish paradise” (paradisus judaeorum), a “secure and beneficent oasis” in comparison with other European countries, in which Jews were said to have suffered repeatedly from hatred, persecution, and violence.53 In fact, Askenazy even reportedly told one of his Jewish protegés that his primary reason for encouraging the study of Jewish history in the Polish academy was to infuse popular consciousness with the notion that “the Jews always had it good in Poland, and things changed for the worse when Russia helped bury” the Polish

51 redakcja, “Słowo wstępne,” Kwartalnik poświęcony badaniu przeszłości Żydów w Polsce, 1 (1912): 2. 52 M. Schorr, Żydzi w Przemyslu do końca XVIII wieku (Lwów, 1903); M. Bałaban, Żydzi lwowscy na przełomie XVIgo i XVIIgo wieku (Lwów, 1906); I. Schiper, Studya nad stosunkami gospodarczymi Żydów w Polsce podczas średnowiecza (Lwów, 1911). On the history of the Wawelberg prize see Jacob Shatzky, Geshikhte fun yidn in Varshe, vol. 3: Fun 1863 biz 1896 (New York, 1953), p. 93. 53 Stanisław Kutrzeba, La question juive en Pologne: Essai historique (Kraków, 1919), pp. 4, 22; cf. Franciszek Bujak, The Jewish Question in Poland (Paris, 1919), p. 6. On the history of the image of prepartition Poland as paradisus judeaorum, whose origins lie in seventeenth-century political satire, see David Engel, “On Reconciling the Histories of Two Chosen Peoples,” American Historical Review 114 (2009): 919. 314 david engel state.54 It was no doubt in that spirit that Bujak declared in 1908 that in the prepartition Polish economy “the situation of the Jewish population . . . was always superior to that of the local population.”55 A few years later, he pointed to the steady rise in the number of Poland’s Jewish residents that began in the mid-seventeenth century as clear proof of the advantages they enjoyed there.56 Similarly, Kutrzeba wrote in 1901 about Jews’ ostensible legal privileges: “The tendency . . . of the common law (prawo zwyczajowe), which regulated the legal status during the Middle Ages . . . was to guarantee them the enjoyment of all of the liberties that they required for their existence and development.” He added that “the law provided effective guarantees of their security and not infrequently granted them advantages over others, as in matters related to testimony in court.”57 The precise extent to which Baron knew the writings of the scholars who promoted this version of the Polish Jewish past cannot be determined. It does appear fairly certain, though, that even in his youth he had absorbed at least some of the key ideas presented in them, if only through the polemical literature in which they frequently appeared, like the articles by Chołoniewski that prompted his response in Hamicpe in 1913. To be sure, those ideas need not necessarily have led him in the direction of negating lachrymosity. Indeed, they do not seem to have moved other Jewish historians who came of age in roughly the same intellectual and cultural environment and began to formulate their historiographical platforms shortly before Baron took his first steps in the profession in a similar direction.58 Moreover, adoption of

54 Quoted in Jacob Shatzky, “Mayne zikhroynes,” in E. Lifschütz, ed., Shatzky-Bukh (New York, 1958), p. 131. Cf. Izraelita 14/27 September 1900, p. 347: “[The Wawel- berg Prize is meant to foster] the comparative historical study of the behavior of the Polish Commonwealth toward the Jewish population and especially to point out the exceptionally favorable conditions of religious and political tolerance in Poland that brought about an unprecedented concentration of Jewish residents within the country’s borders.” (Thanks to Natalia Aleksiun for the reference.) 55 Bujak, Galicya, p. 198. 56 Bujak, Siłe gospodarcze, p. 89. According to his estimate, Poland’s Jewish population grew from 182,000 in 1676 to 621,000 in 1765. Cf. Baron’s observations on the growth of the Jewish population throughout Europe during the same interval; Baron, “Ghetto and Emancipation,” pp. 521–22. 57 Kutrzeba, “Stan prawny,” pp. 1154–55. 58 for example, Schiper (like Baron a native of Tarnów) concluded his 1907 survey of the development of “capitalist” practices among medieval Western European Jews with what Baron would surely have labeled a “lachrymose” observation: “Schon der flüchtigste Einblick in die jüdische Geschichte läßt uns in dem äußeren Druck, dem salo baron’s view of the middle ages in jewish history 315 an antilachrymose view of the history of Polish Jewry did not require adoption of the same view with regard to Jewish history altogether, as if the situation of Jews in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth could be equated with that of medieval Jewish communities in general. Such generalization depended upon other influences, which Baron most likely encountered first in Vienna and later in New York.59 Never- theless, it seems highly likely that Baron’s close familiarity during his formative years with a historiographical discourse that challenged, if only indirectly, the regnant negative image of the Middle Ages and the widespread faith in the superiority of modern political and economic arrangements over medieval ones made it easier for him eventually to free himself from those notions and to imagine an alternative historical representation. The Galician-Polish context in which Baron was raised no doubt played a significant role in the development of the Baronian approach to the Middle Ages, which has in turn been instrumental in shaping Robert Chazan’s own formidable contribution to the study of medieval Jewish history.

die Juden als Volksfremde stets ausgesetzt waren, jene mächtige Triebfeder erkennen, welche den gehetzten Juden in seiner Suche nach dem ‘Steine der Weisen’ so verz- weifelt ausdauernd machte. So frühzeitig hatte er das Zaubermittel des Geldes ken- nengelernt. . . . Es war sein Heiler und Retter; nur das Geld konnte seinen Bedrücker milder stimmen. . . . Die traurige Lebensweisheit der Juden im Mittelalter!” 59 for example, it seems likely that the pioneering work of the American medievalist Charles Homer Haskins on “the renaissance of the twelfth century,” published a year following Baron’s arrival in New York and a year before the appearance of “Ghetto and Emancipation,” had an impact upon his thinking. Haskins argued, inter alia, that “modern research shows us the Middle Ages less dark and less static, the Renaissance less bright and less sudden, than was once supposed.” Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, Mass., 1927), p. v. (Thanks to Robert Chazan for the reference.) Bibliography of the Works of Robert Chazan

Compiled by Yechiel Y. Schur

1967

1. Thirteenth-Century Jewry in Northern France: An Economic and Political History. PHD Thesis. Columbia University.

1968

2. “The Blois Incident of 1171: A Study in Jewish Intercommunal Organization.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 36: 13–31.

1969

3. “A Twelfth-Century Communal History of Spires Jewry.” Revue des études juives 128: 253–257. 4. “Jewish Settlement in Northern France, 1096–1306.” Revue des études juives 128: 41–65. 5. “The Bray Incident of 1192: ‘Realpolitik’ and Folk Slander.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 37: 1–18.

1970

6. “The Persecution of 992.” Revue des études juives 129: 217–221.

1971

7. “1007–1012: Initial Crisis for Northern-European Jewry.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 38–39: 101–117. 8. Review of The Heroic Age of Franco-German Jewry, by Irving A. Agus. Speculum 46: 120–122.

1973

9. “R. Ephraim of Bonn’s Sefer Zechirah.” Revue des études juives 132: 119–126. 10. “Archbishop Guy Fulcodi of Narbonne and His Jews.” Revue des études juives 132: 587–594. 11. Review of A Jewish Princedom in Feudal France, 768–900, by Arthur J. Zuckerman. Jewish Social Studies 35: 163–165. 318 yechiel y. schur

1974

12. Medieval Jewry in Northern France: A Political and Social History. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. 13. “Anti-Usury Efforts in Thirteenth-Century Narbonne and the Jewish Response.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 41–42: 45–67. 14. “The Hebrew First-Crusade Chronicles.” Revue des études juives 133: 235–254. 15. “A Jewish Plaint to Saint Louis.” Hebrew Union College Annual 45: 287–305. 16. “Confrontation in the Synagogue of Narbonne: A Christian Sermon and a Jewish Reply.” Harvard Theological Review 67: 437–457. 17. “The Hebrew First-Crusade Chronicles.” Revue des études juives 133: 235–254.

1975

18. [Editor] Modern Jewish History: A Source Reader. Edited by Robert Chazan and Marc L. Raphael. New York: Schocken Books.

1976

19. [Editor] Medieval Jewish Life: Studies from the Proceedings of the American Acad- emy for Jewish Research. New York: KTAV Publishing House. 20. Review of Recherches sur la communauté juive de Manosque au moyen âge, 1241– 1329, by Joseph Shatzmiller. Speculum 51: 539–541. 21. Introduction to Anti-Semitism in Europe: Sources of the Holocaust, edited by David W. Zisenwine. New York: Behrman House. P. vii.

1977

22. “Emperor Frederick I, the Third Crusade, and the Jews.” Viator 8: 83–93. 23. “The Barcelona ‘Disputation’ of 1263: Christian Missionizing and Jewish Response.” Speculum 52: 824–842.

1978

24. “The Hebrew First-Crusade Chronicles: Further Reflections.” AJS Review 3: 79–98.

1980

25. Church, State, and Jew in the Middle Ages. New York: Behrman House. 26. “A Medieval Hebrew Polemical Mélange.” Hebrew Union College Annual 51: 89–110. 27. Review of Juifs et judaïsme de Languedoc. The Catholic Historical Review 66: 608–609.

1983

28. “An Ashkenazic Anti-Christian Treatise.” Journal of Jewish Studies 34: 63–72. 29. “From Friar Paul to Friar Raymond: The Development of Innovative Missionizing Argumentation.” Harvard Theological Review 76: 289–306. bibliography of the works of robert chazan 319

1984

30. “Maestre Alfonso of Valladolid and the New Missionizing.” Revue des études juives 143: 83–94. 31. “The Deeds of the Jewish Community of Cologne.” Journal of Jewish Studies 35: 185–195. 32. “The Story of the Jewish Community of Cologne—1096.” Alei Sefer 11: 63–71 [Hebrew].

1985

33. “The Early Development of Ḥ asidut Ashkenaz.” Jewish Quarterly Review 75: 199–211. 34. “The Impact of the Crusades Upon Medieval European Jewry.” The Solomon Gold- man Lectures 4: 135–148. 35. “Jewish Studies within the City University of New York: A Report of the Office of Academic Affairs.” New York: City University of New York, Office of Academic Affairs.

1986

36. “Polemical Themes in the Milḥemet Mizvaḥ .” Les Juifs au regard de l’histoire: melanges en l’honneur de Bernhard Blumenkranz, edited by Gilbert Dahan. Paris: Picard. Pp. 169–184. 37. “Medieval Anti-Semitism.” History and Hate: The Dimensions of Anti-Semitism, edited by David Berger. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society. Pp. 49–65. 38. Review of The Carrière of Carpentras, by Marianne Calann. The American Histori- cal Review 91: 1210–1211. 39. “Zakhor: Reflections on Metaphors of Healing.” AJS Newsletter 36: 10–12.

1987

40. European Jewry and the First Crusade. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. 41. Review of The ‘1007 Anonymous’ and Papal Sovereignty: Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages, by Kenneth R. Stow. Speculum 62: 728–731. 42. Review of The Jew as Ally of the Muslim: Medieval Roots of Anti-Semitism, by Allan Harris Cutler; Helen Elmquist Cutler. AJS Review 12: 163–168.

1988

43. “The New Christian Missionizing of the Thirteenth Century.” The Rudolph and Sara Wyner Memorial Lecture. March 19, 1987. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Uni- versity Library. 44. “The Condemnation of the Talmud Reconsidered (1239–1248).” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 55: 11–30. 45. “Representation of Events in the Middle Ages.” Essays in Jewish Historiogra- phy, edited by Ada Rapoport-Albert. Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University. Pp. 40–55. 320 yechiel y. schur

1989

46. Daggers of Faith: Thirteenth-Century Christian Missionizing and Jewish Response. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. 47. “The Christian Position in Jacob ben Reuben’s Milḥamot ha-Shem.” From Ancient Israel to Modern Judaism: Essays in Honor of Marvin Fox, vol. II, edited by Jacob Neusner et al. 4 vol. Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press. Pp. 157–170. 48. “The Study of Judaism and the Jews: The American Perspective.” Shofar 7: 48–56.

1990

49. “In the Wake of the Barcelona Disputation.” Hebrew Union College Annual 61: 185–201. 50. Review of Les Sources Hébraïques Médiévales, 1: Chroniques, Lettres, et “Responsa,” by Arieh Graboïs. Speculum 65: 990–991.

1991

51. “The Facticity of Medieval Narrative: A Case Study of the Hebrew First-Crusade Narratives.” AJS Review 16: 31–56. 52. “Chapter Thirteen of the Maḥazik Emunah: Further Light on Friar Paul Christian and the New Christian Missionizing.” Michael 12: 9–26. 53. Review of Les Juifs de la France du Nord dans la Seconde Moitié du XIVe Siècle, by Roger Kohn; Jean Favier. Speculum 66: 658–660.

1992

54. Barcelona and Beyond: The Disputation of 1263 and Its Aftermath. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. 55. “The Barcelona Disputation of 1263: Goals, Tactics, and Achievements.” Reli- gionsgespräche im Mittelalter, edited by Bernard Lewis and Friedrich Niewöhner. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Pp. 77–91. 56. “Joseph Kimhi’s Sefer ha-Berit: Pathbreaking Medieval Jewish Apologetics.” Har- vard Theological Review 85: 417–432. 57. “The Letter of R. Jacob ben Elijah to Friar Paul.” Jewish History 6: 51–63. 58. “Medieval Jewish Political Institutions: The Foundations of Their Authority.” The Quest for Utopia: Jewish Political Ideas and Institutions through the Ages, edited by Zvi Gitelman. Armonk, N.Y.: M.E. Sharpe. Pp. 67–79. 59. Review of Les intellectuels chrétiens et les Juifs au moyen âge, by Gilbert Dahan. AJS Review 17: 305–308. 60. “Le Rabbin Moshe Ben Nahman et la controverse de Barcelone.” Cinq siecles de vie juive a Gerone. Paris: Editions Hispaniques. Pp. 121–136. 61. “Salo Wittmayer Baron (1895–1989).” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 58: 7–13.

1993

62. “The Historiographical Legacy of Salo Wittmayer Baron: the Medieval Period.” AJS Review 18: 29–37. bibliography of the works of robert chazan 321

63. “The Messianic Calculations of Nahmanides.” Rashi 1040–1990: hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach: Congres Europeen des etudes juives, edited by Gabrielle Sed- Rajna. Paris: Cerf. Pp. 631–637. 64. Review of La polémique chrétienne contre le judaïsme au moyen âge, by Gilbert Dahan. Speculum 68: 744–745.

1994

65. “Ephraim ben Jacob’s Compilation of Twelfth-Century Persecutions.” Jewish Quarterly Review 84: 397–416. 66. “The Timebound and the Timeless: Medieval Jewish Narration of Events.” History and Memory 6: 5–34. 67. Review of Three Jewish Communities in Medieval Valencia: Castellon de la Plana, Burriana, Villarreal, by J. Doñate Sebastià; J. R. Magdalena Nom de Déu. Specu- lum 69: 132–133.

1995

68. “Teaching Jewish History on the American Campus.” Teaching Jewish Civiliza- tion: A Global Approach to Higher Education, edited by Moshe Davis. New York: New York University Press. Pp. 104–111.

1996

69. In the Year 1096: The First Crusade and the Jews. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America. 70. “Daniel 9:24–27: Exegesis and Polemics.” Contra Iudaeos: Ancient and Medieval Polemics between Christians and Jews, edited by Ora Limor and Guy G. Stroumsa. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr. Pp. 143–159. 71. Review of Disputatio Contra Iudeos/Controverse avec les Juifs, by Inghetto Con- tardo and Gilbert Dahan. Speculum 71: 411–412. 72. Review of The Red Jews: Antisemitism in an Apocalyptic Age, 1200–1600, by Andrew Colin Gow. The American Historical Review 101: 1533. 73. “The Deteriorating Image of the Jews—Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries.” Chris- tendom and Its Discontents: Exclusion, Persecution, and Rebellion, 1000–1500, edited by Scott L. Waugh and Peter D. Diehl. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 220–233.

1997

74. Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemitism. Berkeley and Los Angeles: Uni- versity of California Press. 75. “Twelfth-century Perceptions of the Jews: A Case Study of Bernard of Clairvaux and Peter the Venerable.” From Witness to Witchcraft: Jews and Judaism in Medi- eval Christian Thought, edited by Jeremy Cohen. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Pp. 187–201. 76. “The Trier Unit of the Lengthy Hebrew First-Crusade Narrative.” Between His- tory and Literature: Studies in Honor of Isaac Barzilay, ed. Stanley Nash. Tel Aviv: ha-Qibuz ̣ ha-Me’uḥad. Pp. 37–49. 322 yechiel y. schur

77. “Rashi’s Commentary on the Book of Daniel: Messianic Speculation and Polemi- cal Argumentation.” Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen age, edited by Gilbert Dahan et al. Paris: E. Peeters. Pp. 111–121. 78. “Jewish Studies in the College Curriculum.” AJS Newsletter 47: 3–4. 79. “Crusading Assaults on the Jewish Communities of Worms, Mainz, and Cologne, the Three Great Centers of Late-Eleventh-Century Jewish Life in Northern Europe.” Yale Handbook for Jewish Writing in Germany, edited by Sander L. Gil- man and Jack Zipes. New Haven: Yale University Press. Pp. 1–7.

1998

80. [Editor] Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine, edited by Robert Chazan et al. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. 81. “The Hebrew First-Crusade Narratives and Their Intertextual Messages.” Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine, edited by Robert Chazan et al. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 467–481. 82. “The First Crusade as Reflected in the Earliest Hebrew Narrative.” Viator 29: 25–38. 83. “The Mainz Anonymous: Historiographic Perspectives.” Jewish History and Jewish Memory: Essays in Honor of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, edited by Elisheva Carle- bach et al. Hannover, N.H.: University Press of New England. Pp. 54–69. 84. “Jewish Suffering: The Interplay of Medieval Christian and Jewish Perspectives.” Lectures on Medieval Judaism at Trinity University. Occasional Papers II. Kalama- zoo: Medieval Institute Publications.

1999

85. “Christian and Jewish Perceptions of 1096: A Case Study of Trier.” Jewish History 13: 9–22. 86. “The Hebrew Report on the Trial of the Talmud: Information and Consolation” Le brûlement du Talmud à Paris, 1242–1244, edited by Gilbert Dahan. Paris: Cerf. Pp. 79–93. 87. “The History of Medieval Jewry.” From Mesopotamia to Modernity: Ten Introduc- tions to Jewish History and Literature, edited by Burton L. Visotzky and David E. Fishman. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press. Pp. 103–126. 88. “Jerusalem as Christian Symbol during the First Crusade: Jewish Awareness and Response.” Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, edited by Lee I. Levine. New York: Continuum. Pp. 382–392. 89. “Pope Innocent III and the Jews.” Pope Innocent III and His World, edited by John C. Moore. Aldershot: Ashgate. Pp. 187–204. 90. “The History of Judaism: Medieval Christendom.” The Encyclopedia of Judaism, edited by Jacob Neusner et al. 3 vol. New York: Continuum. Pp. 631–644. 91. “Undermining the Jewish Sense of Future: Alfonso of Valladolid and the New Chris- tian Missionizing.” Christians, Muslims, and Jews in Medieval and Early Modern Spain: Interaction and Cultural Change, edited by Mark D. Meyerson and Edward D. English. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press. Pp. 179–194.

2000

92. God, Humanity, and History: The Hebrew First-Crusade Narratives. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. bibliography of the works of robert chazan 323

93. In the year 1096: The Jews and the First Crusade. Translated by Irit Sivan. Jeru- salem: Shazar [Hebrew]. 94. “Christian-Jewish Interactions over the Ages.” Christianity in Jewish Terms, edited by Tikva Frymer-Kensky et al. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press. Pp. 7–24.

2001

95. “From the First Crusade to the Second: Evolving Perceptions of the Christian- Jewish Conflict.” Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, edited by Michael A. Signer and John Van Engen. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame. Pp. 46–62. 96. “The Earliest Hebrew First-Crusade Narrative.” Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages Through the Early Modern Period, edited by Lawrence Fine. Prince ton: Princeton University Press. Pp. 438–452. 97. “The Anti-Jewish Violence of 1096: Perpetrators and Dynamics.” Religious Vio- lence between Christians and Jews: Medieval Roots, Modern Perspectives, edited by Anna Sapir Abulafia. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire; New York: Pal- grave. Pp. 21–43.

2002

98. “On the Threshold of the New Millennium—Reflections on the Jewish History in the Last Millennium.” Upheaval and Change: A Millennium of Jewish His- tory (1000–2000 C.E.), edited by Lee I. Levine. The Dinur Center: Jerusalem. Pp. 31–40 [Hebrew]. 99. Review of Juden und Christen zur Zeit der Kreuzzüge, by Alfred Haverkamp. Speculum 77: 546–547. 100. Review of Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity, by Jeremy Cohen. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 70: 406–409.

2003

101. “Jewish Settlement in the New World and its Antecedents.” American Jewish History 91: 345–352. 102. “Then and Now: Jewish Life at the End of the First and Second Christian Mil- lennium.” The Solomon Goldman Lectures 8: 51–70.

2004

103. Fashioning Jewish Identity in Medieval Western Christendom. Cambridge, Cam- bridge University Press. 104. “Latin and Hebrew Crusade Chronicles: Some Shared Themes.” The Medieval Crusade, edited by Susan J. Ridyard. Woodbridge, UK; Rochester, NY: Boydell Press. Pp. 15–32. 105. “Crusading in Christian-Jewish Polemics.” The Medieval Crusade, edited by Susan J. Ridyard. Woodbridge, UK; Rochester, NY: Boydell Press. Pp. 33–51. 106. “The Jews in Europe and the Mediterranean Basin in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries.” The New Cambridge Medieval History IV, part I, edited by David Luscombe and Jonathan Riley-Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 623–657. 324 yechiel y. schur

2005

107. “Christian Condemnation, Censorship, and Exploitation of the Talmud.” Print- ing the Talmud: From Bomberg to Schottenstein, edited by Sharon L. Mintz and Gabriel M. Goldstein. New York: Yeshiva University Museum. Pp. 53–59. 108. “The Historiography of Premodern Jewish Education.” Journal of Jewish Educa- tion 71: 23–32. 109. [With Benjamin M. Jacobs] “Jewish History from the Academy to the Schools: Bridging the Gap.” Educational Deliberations: Studies in Education Dedicated to Shlomo (Seymour) Fox, edited by Mordechai Nisan and Oded Schremer. Jerusa- lem: Mosad Bialik. Pp. 157–180.

2006

110. The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 111. Review of Pious and Rebellious: Jewish Women in Medieval Europe, by Avraham Grossman, translated by Jonathan Chipman. Speculum 81: 856–858.

2008

112. [Editor] The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom, 1000–1500. www.cojs.org/ cojswiki

2009

113. “ ‘Let Not a Residue or a Remnant Escape’: Millenarian Enthusiasm in the First Crusade.” Speculum 84: 289–313. 114. “Radical Jewish Martyrdom.” AJS Perspectives: 18–20.

2010

115. Reassessing Jewish Life in Medieval Europe. New York: Cambridge University Press. 116. “Jewish Life in Western Christendom.” The Cambridge Guide to Jewish History, Religion, and Culture, edited by Judith R. Baskin and Kenneth Seeskin. Cam- bridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 113–139. 117. “Philosemitic Tendencies in Medieval Western Christendom.” Philosemitism in History, edited by Jonathan Karp and Adam Sutcliffe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 36–48. 118. “Perspectives of the Powerless: The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom.” Power in the Middle Ages: Forms, Uses, Limitations, edited by Susan J. Ridyard. Sewanee, Tenn.: University of the South. Pp. 25–39. 119. “Defining and Defaming Israelites and Judeans: Jews in the Pugio Fidei,” Iberia Judaica 2: 105–119. 120. “The First Crusade Narrative of R. Eliezer bar Nathan.” Between Rashi and Mai- monides: Themes in Medieval Jewish Thought, Literature and Exegesis, edited by Ephraim Kanarfogel and Moshe Sokolow. New York: Yeshiva University Press. Pp. 191–203. 121. “Faith and Critical Jewish History: A Complex Relationship.” Ha-Yedion: 50–53. bibliography of the works of robert chazan 325

2011

122. Review of Philosophy and Rabbinic Culture: Jewish Interpretation and Contro- versy in Medieval Languedoc, by Gregg Stern. Speculum 86: 556–557.

Forthcoming

123. [with Marina Rustow] The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 5–6. 124. “The 1096 Assaults: Conversion, the Anticipation of Return to Judaism, and the Reality of Return to Judaism”—to appear in the proceedings of a conference held at Touro College in 2006. 125. “Jews in the Christian World: The Early Legacy”—to appear in the Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 6. 126. “Jews in the Christian World: Northwestern Europe”—to appear in the Cam- bridge History of Judaism, vol. 6. Index

Aaron ben Jacob ha-Kohen of Lunel, 56n17, 281, 291–292, 296; Hebrew 162, 166 chronicles, 24, 246–250, 293; Kiddush Abelard, 71, 76n44, 84, 163 ha-Shem, see Martyrology Abraham Abulafia, see Abulafia, Abraham David Bonafed, 175–176 Abraham ben Eliezer ha-Levi, 290 Dawud al-Muqammas, 98 Abraham ibn Daud, see ibnDaud, Derrida, Jacques, 191 Abraham Dialogus inter christianum and judeum, Abraham Zacuto, see Zacuto, Abraham 72 Abravanel, Isaac, 173, 181, 183–185, Disputations: in Paris, 106, 158–159; in 186n32 Barcelona, 106–107, 170, 172n8; in Abulafia, Abraham, 194–226 Tortosa, 171n7, 178, 180, 182 Adversus Judaeos, 76 Dreams: 111–143 Agobard of Lyons, 254–255 De pol, Bishop, 256 Alan of Lille, 71, 169 Duns Scotus, 259, 263 Albert of Aachen, 26 Andrew of St. Victor, 72 Eliezer ben Joel ha-Levi, 157 Anselm of Bec, 15 Eliezer ben Nathan of Mainz, 112–113, Anselm of Canterbury, 85 124 Anti-Jewish accusations: wax motifs, Eliezer ben Judah of Worms, 126 247; blood libel, 25n45, 245–278, Eliezer ben Samuel of Metz, 126 287–288; desecration of host, 248, Eliezer ben Solomon of Touques, 166 250n18, 252, 254; ritual murder, 246, Eliyyahumenahem of London, 127 250, 253, 257, 274, 276 Elyaqim ben Yosef of Mainz, 112, 117 Antonio Ricciulo, 267 Ephraim ben Isaac of Regensburg, Arnulf, 78–81, 83 113–117 Asher ben Gershom, 150 Ephraim of Bonn, 256–257 Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, 13, 63, 66, Ephraim of Regensburg, 124 69–71, 73n34, 75, 92, 94 Friedrich Cosener, 252 Baron, Salo, 299–315 Francesco Cangiamila, 270, 271 Baruch ben Samuel of Mainz, 114, 119 Francis of Assisi, 85 Bernard of Clairvaux, 76n44, 78, 81–82, 85 Bruno of Cologne, 14n45 Gaspar Calderini, 264 Burchard of Worms, 92 Gero, Bishop of Cologne, 88 Geronimo de Santa Fe, 171n7, 181, 182, Cemeteries, Jewish, 227–244 German Pietists, 124 Chazan, Robert, 63, 189, 245, 279, 299 Gershom ha-Gozer, 127 Chronicle of Thietmar, 87 Gilbert Crispin, 91, 102 Clement III, antipope, 255 Girard, Bishop of Angoulême, 78, 79, 80 Conversion, 9–27, 260–262, 280–281, Giuseppe Sessa, 258, 262, 264–267 283–285, 288, 294 Gratian, 23, 71, 83–84, 93, 264 Conversos, 280, 295, 296 Gregory of Tours, 247 Council of Toledo, 11, 23 Guibert of Nogent, 9–27, 91: Crusades: First, 9–27, 56n17, 58, 59, 62, Autobiographie, 10, 15, 141–142; 281, 291–292; persecutions of Jews anti-Jewish treatise on the Incarnation, during the First Crusade, 9–13, 25, 11, 76n44; Gesta Dei per Francos, 12, 328 index

20n29; contra iudaizantem at Iudeos, Maimonides, see Moses ben Maimon 14, 21; Moralia, 15 Marburg, 234 Guillaume de Nogaret, 234–235 Marc Antonio Natta, 258 Guillaume le Breton, 252 Martyrology, 24, 26, 27n52, 245–278; Shevet Yehuddah, 281, 284–285, Hassidei Ashkenaz, see German Pietists 287–296 Hayyim ibn Musa, 171n7 Meir ben Simeon of Narbone, 106 Hayyim Yosef ben Azulai, 171n6, Meir ha-Kohen, 118, 120–122 Henry IV, Emperor, 12, 24, 255 Meir of Rothenburg, 118–120, 123–124, Hugh of St. Victor, 44, 86, 152, 155–156 127, 157 Menahem ben Aaron ben Zerah, 151, ibn Daud, Abraham, 282 158–159 Isaac Abravanel, see Abravanel, Isaac Menahem ben Jacob of Worms, 126 Isaac Arama, 178–179 Menahem ha-Meiri, 171 Isaac ben Samuel of Dampierre, 151, Menahen Ziyyuni, 175 154–155, 157, 160, 165 Messianic speculations, 169–187 Isaac Châtelain, 155 Mordecai of Avignon, 172–173 Isaiah ben Mali di Trani, 116, 117, 122, Mordekhai ben Hillel, 118–119 124 Moses ben Hasdai Taku, 156 Isaiah Tishby, 179 Moses ben Jacob of Coucy, 164 Ivo of Chartres, 92–93 Moses ben Maimon, 29, 98, 104, 111, 118, 132, 166–168, 171, 173, Jacob Anatili, 106 184–185 Jacob ben Levi of Marvege, 123, 134, Moses ben Nahman, 106–107, 111, 136–139 132–133, 150, 170, 173–180, 185–186, Jacob ben Meir, 25, 34–35, 113, 116, 192 118–119, 147, 156–157, 165 Moses ben Senior of Evreux, 129, 161, Jacob ben Reuben, 101–103, 169 168 Jacob ha-Gozer, 127 Moses ben Solomon ha-Kohen of Jean Calas of Toulouse, 275 Mainz, 116 Jean de Saint-Just, 234–235 Moses ben Solomon of Salerno, 104–106 Jewish-Christian polemics, 41–45, Moses ha-Kohen of Tordesillas, 180 47–62, 67, 97, 169–187, 189–226 Moses ibn Haviv, 133 John Chrysostom, 251–252 John Gilchrist, 11 Nachmanides, see Moses ben Nahman Johan Eder, 259 Nicholas Rodriguez, 263 Joseph Bekhor Shor, 30, 100 Nicolas Donin, 158 Joseph ben Meir ha-Levi ibn Megash, 149–150 Odo of Cambrai, 253 Joseph ben Nathan Official, 105–106 Orderic Vital, 83 Joseph Ha-Kohen, 289 Judah ben Samuel he-Hasid, 114, 116, P. de Bonavalle, 234–235 125, 157–158, 163 Pablo Christiani, 170, 172, 192 Judah ben Yom Tov, 152 Paolo Medici, 259, 260 Peter Damian, 85 Karaites, 36 Peter Lombard, 81, 90–91 Kiddush ha-Shem, see Martyrology Peter the Chanter, 90 Kimhi, Joseph, 101 Peter the Venerable of Cluny, 64, 78, 91, 141 Lachrymose conception of Jewish Petrus Alfonsi, 72–73, 91 history, 299–300, 302–303, 305–307, Petrus Mallius, 89n88 312, 314–315 Philip II Augustus, 234, 252 Leone da Modena, 181, 186 Philip IV the Fair, 228, 238–239 Louis IX, 162 Philo, 67 index 329

Popes: Alexander III, 89; Alexander Sefer Nitsahon, 50–51, 105 IV, 232; Anaclet II, 78–79, 80, 83, Sefer Yetsirah, 200 84;Benedict XIV, 257, 259, 274; Sicut Judaeis, 92–94, 230, 263, 269 Gregory I, 92; Gregory IX, 158; Simhah of Speyer, 116 Honorius II, 78; Innocent II, 78, 81; Simon ben Zemah Duran, 177–178 InnocentIII, 90, 93n101; Nicholas III, Solomon Alami, 289 225; Paul IV, 260; Urban II, 85 Solomon ben Abraham of Troyes, 129 Pshat (literal sense), 43–44, 47–48, 52 Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes, 29–45, 47–62, 68, 72, 99–100, 111, 114, Ra‘aya Mehemna, 179–180 130–131, 147, 151, 165 Rabad of Posquieres, 132–133 Solomon ben Moses, 107–108 Rabbenu Tam, see Jacob ben Meir Solomon ibn Verga, 279–297 Rambam, seeMoses ben Maimon Speyer, 12, 233 Ramban, see Moses ben Nahman Stephen of Obazine, 85 Rashbam, see Samuel ben Meir Raoul Rousselet, 234–235 Thomas Aquinas, 71, 84, 261, 270 Rashbam, see Samuel ben Meir Thomas Fyens of Louvain, 270 Rashi, see Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes Raymond of Pennafort, 93 Ulrich Zasius, 258–259, 261–262, 264 Rid, see Isaiah ben Mali di Trani Roger of Howden, 90 Valmagne, Cistercian monastery of, 232 Rupert of Deutz, 75n40, 82, 91, 246, 250–251, 255–256, 258, 274 Werner of Oberwesel, 253–254, 274 William of Flay, 9–27 Saadia Gaon, 98 William of Norwich, 257 Samson ben Abraham of Sens, 129, 153 William Rufus, 12 Samuel ben Meir, 30, 32–35, 43–44, Worms, 12, 233 100–102, 154 Samuel ben Senior of Evreux, 161, 168 Yair Haim Bachrach, 271–272 Sefer Hasidim, 126 Yehiel of Paris, 106, 109, 125 Shem Tov ben Joseph ibn Shem Tov, Yehudah Aryeh da Modena, 171n7 289–290 Yosef ben David ibn Lev, 133 Shem Tov ibn Shaprut, 178 Yuval, Israel, 193–194 Shimon Abeles, 245, 257–259, 274, 278 Simon of Trent, 257 Zacuto, Abraham, 289 Simhah of Speyer, 116 Zerahyah ha-Levi, 133 School of Elijah, 169–171, 173, 176–179, Zedekiah ben Abraham ha-RofeAnau, 181, 183n25, 185–186 136–137