It is not simply the bounty of novel directives found in Sefer Ḥasidim that constitute the most puzzling feature of that work, nor even their occasional strangeness, but rather the awesome authority claimed for these prescripts. Divine punishment of the direst sort awaits those who fail, even unwittingly, to comply with them. Indeed, entire communities have been doomed by just such unintended transgressions.

Perhaps no one figure is more responsible for the legitimization of kabbalah as an authentic esoteric tradition of Judaism than Moses ben Nahman (1194–1270). Although from the beginnings of its literary history kabbalah was associated with men of rabbinic standing, such as R. Abraham ben David of Posquieres, no one before Nahmanides had attained a reputation for excellence in halakhic and mystical matters and had written extensively in both domains. Nahmanides' involvement with kabbalah, especially in the context of a commentary on the Torah written for the layman, as the author plainly states in his introduction, surely lent a stamp of approval to the whole enterprise. R. Shem Tov ibn Gaon in his Baddei ha-'Aron u-Migdal Hananel gave the following characterization of Nahmanides' kabbalistic literary activity:

The great rabbi, Moses ben Naḥman, may his memory be for a blessing, wrote his book [i.e., the commentary on the Torah] and a book [on] Job. He alluded to hidden matters in every place () to arouse [people's awareness] as is appropriate and according to what he received. However, he concealed his words to a high degree, for it is written, “Honey and milk are under your tongue” (Song of Songs 4: 11).

In 1597 King Philip II of Spain expelled the Jews from Milan at the end of a thirty-year power struggle between secular and religious Italian authorities and Spanish imperial powers. These conflicts reveal that the expulsion followed less from Philip II's personal feelings about the Jews than from his approach to governing and the necessity to preserve and increase his power in Italy. They also expose the fluctuating boundaries of imperial powers in distant territories resistant to accepting them, highlighting both the extent and the limits of Spanish rule in Italy. Examined in detail and in its larger historical context, the case of Milan elucidates the mechanisms of an expulsion, foregrounding the intricate political, financial, and religious issues that led up to the last Spanish expulsion in Europe.

Throughout the Talmudic era, the Jewish community of Babylonia lived under Persian rule while Zoroastrianism, serving as a state religion, was enjoying something of a renaissance. In Babylonia, known in the later geographical literature as the Persian heartland, Jews lived alongside Persians. Babylonian Jews had also already experienced Persian rule for centuries prior to the Talmudic era under the Achaemenids, and later under the persianized Arsacid dynasty. This alone should have sufficed to lure a number of scholars into exploring various cross-cultural contacts between the two neighboring religious communities during this period. Until recently, however, scholarship has not been greatly drawn to this field, despite an exhaustive focus, of venerable antiquity, on the relationship between Israel and Persia in the biblical and Second Temple periods, including the Qumran library.

This article addresses the philosophical sources of Soloveitchik's unique account of time and repentance as presented particularly in the second part of Halakhic Man. In the past, thinkers such as Max Scheler, Hermann Cohen, and Henri Bergson have been suggested as sources of influence on Soloveitchik on this account. While the influence of these thinkers is undeniable, a fuller appreciation of the philosophical layers at play is still required. This article aims to show that the event of repentance in Soloveitchik's description is formulated in accordance with Kierkegaard's notion of Øieblikket (the moment), and to discuss the place of Heidegger in Soloveitchik's interpretation of repentance.

In this essay, I explore the history of what has conventionally been described as “Jewish music” research in relation to parallel developments in both ethnomusicology and Jewish studies in the American academic world during the twentieth century. As a case study, I argue, the issues inherent in understanding Jewish music's historical trajectory offer a complex portrait of scholarship that spans the discourses of community, practice, identity, and ideology. Subject to the principles of Wissenschaft since the second half of the nineteenth century, Jewish music study has constantly negotiated the lines between the scholar and practitioner; between the seminary, the conservatory, and the university; between the good of science, the assertion of a coherent Jewish narrative in history, and the perceived need to reconnect an attenuating Jewish populace with its reinvented traditions; and between the core questions of musicology, comparative musicology, theology, and modern ethnomusicology.

For the Jews of France, as for their fellow countrymen, the French Revolution came to constitute the myth of origin, the birthdate of a new existence. On September 27, 1791, two years after the storming of the Bastille and the Declaration of the Rights of Man, the French National Assembly voted to admit the Jews of Alsace-Lorraine to citizenship. Subsequent generations would recall this momentous event as a turning point of extraordinary magnitude, and would view themselves as compelling evidence of its transformative power. Their memories tended to be dominated by images of celebration and glory, comparing the Revolution to the Sinaitic revelation and referring to it in messianic-redemptive terms. Not surprisingly, the many setbacks and misfortunes suffered by the generation of 1789 were largely absent from these recollections, while only meager appreciation for the complexities introduced into Jewish cultural life can be detected in the half-century following the Revolution. Even more significant was the ascendant historical view, undoubtedly colored by a pervading sense of optimism among leaders of French Jewry, that credited the Revolution with having put an end to centuries of humiliation, legal discrimination, and exclusion from the mainstream of society.

In 1920, a brief but fatal battle between Arabs and Jews took place at the Jewish settlement of Tel Hai in the northern Galilee. The defense of Tel Hai soon became a landmark in the history of Israeli society. The story of Tel Hai was regarded as a major symbolic text of the pioneering ethos and an important step toward the development of a new national Hebrew culture. Highlighting the theme of collective death and rebirth, Tel Hai offered a modern, secular text that sanctified the new nation and dramatized the emergence of a new type of Jew. For the Jewish pioneers in Palestine, Tel Hai embodied the ideals of settlement and defense, providing a concrete example of their resolute determination to hold on to new settlements at all costs.The present study examines the role of Tel Hai as a national myth, name-ly, a symbolic narrative relating to an important event in the nation's past that embodies sacred national values and is used as a charter for political action.1 Following Halbwachs's pioneering approach to the study of collective memory,2 this article explores the meaning of Tel Hai as it was constructed in public discourse, focusing upon two periods of conflict within Israeli society. Thus it is not a historical study of the event that took place at Tel Hai in 1920, but a study of how this event has been remembered and reinterpreted in Israeli culture.

The messianic dream owes its roots to biblical prophecy and its rich development to generations of sensitive and creative exegetes anxiously awaiting redemption. Scripture itself is less than generous in providing detailed information about the end of days, so ungenerous, in fact, that some modern scholars have expressed skepticism about the very appearance of a messianic figure in the biblical text. While this skepticism is excessive, it reflects a reality which troubled the ancients no less than the moderns and left room for the diversity and complexity that mark the messianic idea by late antiquity.

“Fever is no sickness and Purim is no holiday.” So runs a surprisingly self-reflective proverb concerning the festival of Purim, the strangest Jewish holiday. Ostensibly the celebration of the triumph of the Jews over the wicked Haman described in the Book of Esther, at a popular level something much larger and far more complex is going on. Folk customs throughout history have always transcended the celebration of the triumph of Mordecai and Esther. Elaborate pageants, grotesque masks, drunken revelry, noisemaking, buffoonery, burning of effigies, costume parades, feasts with special delicacies, and every manner of carousing and merrymaking have characterized Purim since rabbinic times. A diverse body of Purim literature has accumulated, including drinking songs, short stories, parodies, and intricate plays.

The forms of interpreting sacred texts are many, and, of course, the concept of sacred text is fluid and part of a process depending on the attitudes of society which change over time. For Maimonides, an important method of interpretation was the philosophical mode. In order to get a better understanding of what Maimonides understood by that method of interpretation, Chapter Two of the First Part of his Guide of the Perplexed on the fall of man is examined in terms of structure and content. Then, the principle underlying the possibility of the philosophic mode of interpretation of the Hebrew Bible according to Maimonides is discussed. Finally, the general place of the philosophic mode of interpretation within the general theory of the interpretation of literature is touched on briefly.

At the end of his short treatise Understanding the Sick and the Healthy, Franz Rosenzweig predicated the restoration of what he called healthy consciousness upon the recognition of death7apos;s sovereignty. “[One] must direct [one's] life to no other goal but death,” he wrote. “A healthy man has the strength to continue towards the grave. The sick man invokes death and lets himself be carried away in mortal fear.” Rosenzweig juxtaposed the Grim Reaper with weary life. The healthy understanding knows that death will dash life to the ground. Yet it takes comfort from knowing that death will accept it with open arms. In the end, eloquent life falls silent as the eternally taciturn one speaks, “Do you finally recognize me? I am your brother.”In his notes to the English translation, Nahum Glatzer remarks with shock, “This concluding chapter–on death–stands in a striking contrast to the final passage of The Star of Redemption.” As if to offset our text's more mordant tone, Glatzer then quotes verbatim the seemingly life-affirming paragraphs that conclude Rosenzweig's magnum opus. Glatzer is not the only commentator to emphasize the importance of life in Rosenzweig's system. Indeed, Else-Rahel Freund notes that The Star of Redemption begins with the phrase “from death” and concludes with the words “into life.”

Although there has been much in modern scholarship written about the historical and theosophical background of the Zohar, scholars have paid little attention to the literary structure of the work and its relationship to the thematic content contained therein. There is, as far as I know, not one in-depth study of such a nature.

The question whether prophecy is a natural phenomenon or a divine gift goes back to classical antiquity. A natural explanation of divination in sleep was first attempted by Democritus whose theory operates with the notion of ‘images’ (eidōla) that affect the soul in dreams and foretell the future. Whence these images emanate does not seem to be too clear from the sources at our disposal. Democritus is said to have described them as “great and gigantic … although not indestructible,” and from this we may, perhaps, infer that he associated the images with the statues of gods to which the ancients ascribed an odd assortment of capacities. The ‘images’ may therefore signify certain emanations from those statues, especially since Aristotle distinctly speaks of Democritus′ theory as one involving ‘images and emanations’ that derive from certain objects. The theory thus understood bears some resemblance to what Maimonides reports as the manner in which the Sabians explain prophecy: statues in temples and holy trees give prophetic revelation to people. Whatever the correct interpretation of Democritus' theory of dream visions, its intent was clearly scientific. This first effort to see divination in naturalistic terms—Cicero criticized it as far too crude—was to be superseded by Aristotle's more sophisticated theory in his small treatise On Divination in Sleep which forms part of the so-called Parva naturalia.

I met Simcha Jacobovici in 1998 while doing my dissertation research in Uzbekistan. Long-haired, fair-skinned, and dressed in American garb, he was clearly an outsider like myself, and we introduced ourselves. I told him I was a cultural anthropologist doing fieldwork among the Bukharan Jews. He told me that he was a filmmaker collecting footage for a documentary about the ten lost tribes. I had heard the theory that the Bukharan Jews were among the lost Israelite tribes, but I considered it far-fetched and had trouble taking Simcha's enthusiasm about the possibility seriously.

National myths and public policies in Israel long assumed that the country's diverse Jewish immigrant groups would all eventually, and indeed within a short span of time, be absorbed and fused into a unified social, economic, political, and cultural entity, but this expectation is now giving way to widespread doubts as to its feasibility. Some of these doubts were expressed during the 1970s in a series of studies which demonstrated not only that there were still gaps between Israelis of Middle Eastern and North African extraction (often called Sephardim or Oriental Jews) and those of European extraction (Ashkenazim), as regards occupational and residential mobility, income and educational achievements, political representation and social prestige, but that the gaps were widening.1 The growing disillusionment on the part of Middle Eastern Jews (North Africans included) was dramatically revealed in the 1981 general elections by the emergence of a new ethnic party, Tami, which seemed to have better prospects of success and survival than any previous ethnic party. Moreover, the results at the polls obtained by most of the other parties seemed to reflect an intensifying ethnic polarity.

For many years scholars of Judaism were reluctant to employ the analytic tools distilled in anthropology for studying Jewish culture. One reason for this reluctance was that the classical ethnographic field, consisting of a small-scale tribal society with no written tradition, did not appear pertinent to the study of the text-informed “great tradition“ of Judaism. In addition, the notion of comparative research implicit in most anthropological studies appeared dubious to many scholars of Judaism, who were alarmed by the sweeping, methodologically unfounded comparisons evident in the treatment of biblical material by such precursors of modern anthropology as Robertson Smith and Frazer.1 This methodological consideration was augmented by an emotional unwillingness to equate the “primitive’ religious systems of “savage’ societies with concepts and rituals pertaining to the oldest monotheistic religion.

Our tale opens in some little town in the Pale of Settlement between the 1880s and World War I. A well-spoken, well-dressed young man appears and courts an attractive girl of a family belonging to the great majority of the Jewish townspeople—that is, impoverished and burdened with many children. The unknown suitor offers charm and gifts, and speaks knowingly of the great places he has seen and where he has a good business—Paris, Johannesburg, London, or New York. Will the girl accompany him westward and become his bride once they reach their destination.He does not want to stay long enough in town to marry publicly, since he might be seized for military conscription. The girl, excited by the prospect, implores her parents to give their consent to this proposal. She feels she loves this young man. With him, the bleak life and dismal future in the town will be exchanged at a stroke for happiness and prosperity in a great, distant city. Every month a few young townspeople were leaving, mainly for America. Already there were many more marriageable girls in town than there were young men for them. How could such a chance be thrown aside? Might it ever recur? If the girl wondered why of all the numerous poor girls in town she was enjoying these attentions, she would answer in her own mind by complimenting herself on her prettiness. Her parents, or her surviving parent or step-parents, gave their consent.

This study investigates the history and nature of Gentile impurity in ancient Judaism. It is deceptively simple to assume that Gentiles, who did not observe purity laws, would have been considered ritually impure as a matter of course. Indeed, a number of scholars maintain this position. In fact, however, the situation is a bit more complex. Ancient Jewish sources reflect two conflicting tensions. On the one hand, both biblical and rabbinic law(considered Gentiles to be exempt from the laws of ritual purity. On the other hand, Gentiles ate impure foods, came into regular contact with impure substances, and–what is worse–committed idolatry and defiling sexual acts. Ultimately, some rabbinic sources do state that Gentiles are, in fact, ritually impure (e.g., T. Zabim 2:1). The goal of this paper is to analyze, distinguish, and trace the history of these tensions and developments in ancient Judaism.

The exchange of letters between Abba Mari of Montpellier (fl. 1300) and Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret of Barcelona (ca. 1235–1310), collected in the book Minfiat qena'ot [Zealous Offering], opens with a controversy over medical astrology. While the outcome of this controversy, the ban issued in the summer of 1305 in Barcelona against premature study of philosophy, constitutes a well-known event in Jewish history, it is not at all that clear why Abba Mari chose to attack his adversaries, the students of philosophy, by raising the issue of their alleged medical-astrological practices. The data in his first letters to Ibn Adret hint at what might have been the extent of these practices in Montpellier of 1300 as well as who the personalities that he had in mind might have been.From the very first letter we learn that at the source of all the trouble were some Jewish physicians in Montpellier–the name of Isaac de Lattes is specifically mentioned–who employed an astrological talisman which was supposed to bring relief to an ailing right kidney. To his great astonishment, Abba Mari came to learn in about the year 1300 that Ibn Adret was not ready to condemn such a practice and that he actually approved of it, while Abba Mari considered it to be straightforward idolatry.