The investigation of the history of the Jews in the Polish Commonwealth requires not only research on specific topics but broader reflection as well. The special place and role of the Jews in Polish society and the distinguishing characteristics of the Jewish experience in Poland need to be rescued from unwarranted generalizations which may result in misrepresentation. 1 On the broadest level, this essay is an initial step in the direction of the development of a conceptual framework for the study of this subject. The particular concern will be to compare some aspects of the experience of the Jews with that of some of the other non-Polish nonautochthonous groups in Poland from around 1500 to the beginning of the eighteenth century.

During the past decade or so, there has been a “veritable boom … of projects that investigate questions of place and space” in Jewish studies. In this arena, scholars in various fields of Jewish studies have begun to engage with developments in the humanities at large. Since the 1980s, many disciplines in the humanities and social sciences have become more attentive to the cultural challenges of globalization, prominent among them the effects of increased movements of migration. From these movements have arisen questions about the effect and meaning of uprooting and dislocation, the significance of belonging to a place (or to various places), the emergence of diaspora communities, and so on. The spatial dimension of human existence began to move to the forefront of scholarly considerations, and with it, new names of fields of study, such as human, critical, or cultural geography. While Jewish studies has, of course, for the longest time been aware of “diaspora” as a dimension of human existence, often perhaps with the understanding that diaspora was historically a uniquely Jewish experience, to a certain degree our field remained caught in the binarism of diaspora versus nationalism or Zionism, at least until the advance of this new impulse in the humanities, identified by some as a “spatial turn.” Against such binarisms, the volumes under discussion repeatedly appeal to “multidimensionality” in Jewish topographies and in our approaches to them.

My aim in this essay is to analyze a section of Moses Mendelssohn's Jerusalem largely ignored by previous readers. The treatise has generally been recognized as epochal in the history of modern Judaism, and Altmann, Guttmann, Rawidowicz, and Rotenstreich have therefore focused quite understandably on that which made it so: the novel political theory set forth in part 1, or the controversial assertion near the start of part 2 that Judaism “knows of no revealed religion” in the common sense of that term, its uniqueness consisting only in the “divine legislation” revealed to the Jews at Sinai. Only Heinemann has made a serious attempt to unravel Mendels sohn's tortuous explanation of the “divine legislation” as “a kind of living script,” and his often excellent account is marred by explicit Orthodox apologetic and utter reverence for Mendelssohn, both of which prevent him from seeing just how radical a theory of the commandments Jerusalem sets forth.3 Mendelssohn coyly terms most of the section devoted to this theory a “digression.“ Altmann notes charitably that it contains not only “some flights of speculation” but “the least substantiated of all [the] theories Mendelssohn ever advanced.”

They just don't fit very neatly; they never did. Ever since it became clear that the law-free mission to the gentiles would create a church and not a synagogue, Jewish-Christianity has been an uncomfortable reality with which to deal. The “Synagogue” didn't like it. The “Church Catholic” didn't like it. And modern scholarship, far less ready to accept the vagaries of a religion that resembles but cannot be made to fit known varieties of religion, seems to like it even less. Jewish-Christians seemed to want to hang on to an anachronism, a mission that should have failed already in Paul's lifetime.

Back in 1993, as senior librarian at the Vernadsky Library in Kiev, Ukraine, in charge of cataloguing a newly uncovered Judaica collection, I came across an enigmatic manuscript entitled Sefer ha-ḥeshek. It did not match the bulk of the Judaica holdings. Nor did it fit in Abraham Harkavy's collection of medieval manuscripts. It was too Ashkenazic for Abraham Firkovich's Karaite papers, and too early for most of S. Ansky's nineteenth-century folkloric materials. The manuscript had a wooden cover, separate from the text, with a copper monogram Sefer ha-ḥeshek in Hebrew (hereafter—SH). SH's title appears randomly as a running head; the author occasionally refers to the title of the manuscript. Primarily because of its size—411 folios, 23 of them blank, some 760 filled pages altogether—and due to its magical contents, I discarded any attempts to identify the manuscript as a version of the well-known Sefer ha-ḥeshek, a twenty-or-so-page kabbalistic treatise on the names of the archangel Metatron attributed to Isaac Luria. Also, since the manuscript is not a commentary on the book of Isaiah or Proverbs, it could neither be Solomon Duran's nor Solomon ha-Levi's Ḥ eshek shelomoh.

The description of the divine world as a mythical struggle between good and evil is one of the basic symbols of the kabbalah, and a detailed mythology based on it is found in the Zohar late in the thirteenth century. The main source of the Zohar on this subject is a treatise by Rabbi Isaac ha-Kohen, called “On the Emanation on the Left,” written in Spain at the beginning of the second half of the thirteenth century, a generation before the Zohar. The problem studied here is: What were the sources of Rabbi Isaac's myth of evil?

Rabbi Isaac described Samael and Lilith as a pair, being the central powers in the Emanation on the Left. It seems that the literary development which brought forth this formula began with the myth of Lilith as presented in the satirical Pseudo-Ben Sira (tenth century?) and later revisions of that work which were known in Europe in the eleventh century and included a description of a sexual relationship between Lilith and a “Great Demon,” who was later identified as Samael. Both Lilith and Samael in these stories are not principles of evil; this transformation probably occurred only in the work of Rabbi Isaac.

When describing the levels of the spiritual world, Rabbi Isaac discussed a sphere he called “third air” which is the source of both prophetic visions and “use” of demons. This concept seems to be derived from the writings of Rabbi Judah the Pious and Rabbi Eleazar of Worms, the Ashkenazi Hasidim, early in the thirteenth century. In their works, however, there are no dualistic or mythical elements; these were probably added by Rabbi Isaac.

Rabbi Isaac formulated the myth of the evil worlds which were destroyed before this world was created, a myth which became a central motif in the kabbalah. It seems that this too is derived from the works of the Ashkenazi Hasidim, though it was Rabbi Isaac who added the mythology and the dualism. It should be noted that among such additions and elaborations by Rabbi Isaac we also find a detailed messianic myth which was rare if not absent among previous kabbalists.

Scholars have frequently portrayed early modern German Jewish history as underresearched and fragmentary, with an underdeveloped pool of historical sources. Even the very productive historian Stefan Rohrbacher, for example, has rued that “[t]he early modern period numbers among the till now very little researched epochs in the history of the Jews in Germany. It has recently received increased attention from historians, however, this interest is distributed very unevenly in the various areas and aspects of Jewish life.”

Thus we are told in one of the most famous narratives in talmudic literature, in its most elaborate and complex version in the Babylonian Talmud. The late ancient and early medieval rabbinic popularity of Rabbi Shimeon bar Yohai's (henceforth Rashbi) sojourn in the cave is demonstrated by the wide distribution of the motif in various rabbinic texts. It later gained additional prominence in the Jewish collective imagination to such a degree that no less than the composition of the Zohar was attributed to Rashbi; indeed, the text was considered a product of his sojourn in the cave. As is the case with other extensive narratives in the Babylonian Talmud about early rabbinic sages from the days of the Mishnah, different and most likely earlier versions of the whole or parts of this story can be found elsewhere in rabbinic literature. Others have gone about the task of carefully assembling and comparing the versions of the story, and various interpretations of it have been offered. Surely, any additional attempt at making sense of the story and decoding what the rabbinic narrators in the Babylonian Talmud sought to convey with its inclusion in the larger corpus needs to take this work into account.

While discussing the rites and customs of burial and mourning in his book Tashbeẓ katan, the early fourteenth-century Rabbi Shimshon ben Ẓadok made the following remark:

In this paper we shall study an aggadic tradition from the Babylonian Talmud while trying to find traces of early Iranian mythological conceptions that were absorbed by the talmudic sages as a part of their own biblically enrooted knowledge. We shall also attempt to gain a better understanding of the talmudic text by presuming that it reflects ideas absorbed from the Iranian—or, rather, “Iraqian”—environment. Occasionally, however, early Iranian myths do not always survive in their original, complete forms, and sometimes only fragmentary remains in medieval Zoroastrian literature can be used for their reconstruction. The so-called ninth-century books in Pahlavi were edited by Zoroastrian priests at a rather late date, and in a quite tendentious manner. Significantly, the bulk of the numerous “pagan” strains were excised, probably because the editing work took place in a Muslim environment, and our knowledge of the actual popular religions of Sasanian—or, for our purpose, talmudic—western Iran and Mesopotamia/Iraq is far from adequate. Thus, every piece of secondary evidence regarding the popular Iranian beliefs is precious.

It is fashionable to imagine a great dichotomy between the feudal monarchies in the West and the brittle, particularistic entity of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. To Voltaire's mean-spirited gibe that the latter was neither holy, Roman, nor an Empire might be added that it was also not really German, since millions of Netherlanders, Italians, and Slavs, as well as Provencals and Savoyards, lived within its territorial limits. France and England, the stereotype goes, had achieved a precocious unity, at least in the thirteenth century. Nothing could be clearer, one might conclude, than the contrast between the great kingdoms of the West and the so-called Empire. The fashionable cliche even affects our understanding of Jewish life in the Middle Ages. Fritz Backhaus put the commonplace this way: “The territorial division (Zersplitterung) of Germany prevented a comprehensive expulsion [of the Jews] as could be carried out in England, France, and Spain.” This neat dichotomy is inadequate. At best it makes sense in a comparison between England and Germany. Only in England, a few exceptions aside, were the claims of a paramount lord, the king, to the control and exploitation of the Jews more or less uncontested by other secular authorities or by ecclesiastics in the role of secular lords.

Several years ago Gershom Scholem's authoritative work on the seventeenth century messianic figure Sabbatai Sevi, first published in Hebrew in 1957, appeared in a revised English translation. The importance of Scholem's work for an informed understanding of the Sabbatian movement and for the general study of religious and political movements must be acknowledged by all readers. The relevance of Sabbatai's career in the Levant to the specific historical context of post-Restoration England may be less evident. If the English involvement with Sabbatai is compared with the excitement generated in other European countries by his appearance, the English connection cannot fail to appear questionable. The Jewish community in London was a relatively small one at the time of Sabbatai's ascendancy, and the mass of contemporary material on which Scholem has drawn to document this extraordinary episode in Jewish history includes little that was produced for or by “English Jews.” Moreover, Scholem takes pains to discredit the common notion that English Christian speculations on the year 1666 played a direct, causal role in determining Sabbatai's public emergence in the summer of the preceding year, without denying the historical interest of this conjunction of Christian expectations and Jewish developments. In the following discussion, I hope to establish the major significance of Sabbatai Sevi for England by examining several questions—limited in comparison with those entertained by Sabbatai's most profound and exhaustive historian—concerning the English awareness of him 300 years ago. How and in what form did the unparalleled developments in the Levant from 1665 to 1667 first become known to English-speaking people? What contribution was made by the Sabbatian movement to Christian eschatology and to the expectations aroused among its devotees by the approach of the “wonderful year” 1666? What was the range of response to the movement among English observers; what was its ideological or sectarian meaning to contemporaries? In confronting these questions I will, of course, rely heavily on Scholem's analysis and documentation of Sabbatai's career.

This paper offers a novel perspective regarding the interface between law, mysticism, and social reality. The inner turn that characterizes Hasidism is often understood through a binary model defined by the Christian Hebraists, and followed by many academic scholars, in which law and spirit exist in intractable tension. We suggest, however, that in the specific contexts of Hasidism, nomos, eros, and mystical piety often merged in distinctive ways, and that these are visible in novel forms of Jewish legal method and discourse. Our appreciation of the multifaceted Jewish religious and pietistic expressions of modernity should not be made to conform to the generally accepted definition of an era of strict “Orthodox” formulation and monolithic, conservative legal stagnation. Instead, we argue that the spiritual and legal ethos of Hasidism took on new forms in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as local identities became increasingly complex and new cultural fusions led to creative re-expressions of law and theology.

In rabbinical literature the belief in a postmortem existence is rather obvious. Related terminology is relatively abundant, although fluid and obscure at times. The use of this terminology by a diversity of Jewish sources further complicates the understanding of the enigmatic notion called afterlife.

The purpose of this article is to explore one aspect of the Jewish credo of the afterlife: the nature of divine recompense in relation to martyrdom. The article aims at determining when a relationship between voluntary death and divine recompense was first established and what the nature of this recompense was. While this relationship does not contain answers to every question regarding Jewish tenets on the afterlife, I believe it to be indicative of general Jewish attitudes toward life and death in various periods and Jewries.

The period from the middle of the fifteenth century to the middle of the sixteenth century marks a transition in Jewish intellectual history in the Italian Renaissance characterized by the decline of Jewish rationalism and the rise of kabbalah. This process reached its culmination with the printing of Sefer ha-Zohar in 1558–59, an event accompanied by heated controversy on many fronts. During these years we find those thinkers who unambiguously profess their allegiance to one camp or the other, but we also find many whose allegiance is at least superficially ambivalent.

A bit more than a quarter of a century has passed since the publication of Thomas Thompson's landmark The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives, inaugurating what has been called the Copenhagen School, typified by the works of Thompson and Niels Peter Lemche, who now both teach at the University of Copenhagen. Few works have changed the face of biblical scholarship so completely. In conjunction with John Van Seters' Abraham in History and Tradition, Thompson's book sounded the death knell for those who insisted on the historicity of the patriarchal period, a relatively common position up to that point, especially in America. By illustrating that details of the Genesis narratives reflect first rather than second millennium institutions, contrary to the claims of Albright, Gordon, Speiser, and others, Thompson began a revolution in biblical scholarship.

In 1871, the board of the Jewish community of Vienna attempted to reform Sabbath and holiday services in the two synagogues under its official jurisdiction. Following the guidelines established by the Leipzig Synod in 1869, the board decided to remove from the liturgy all prayers that called for a return of the Jewish people to the land of Israel and for the restitution of the ancient sacrificial system of worship. In addition, Vienna's Jewish leaders announced that the introduction of an organ, the symbol of the Reform movement, was a good idea. The board never implemented these radical reforms. An enormous protest from Vienna's Orthodox community, as well as from numerous individuals who professed no particular commitment to religious Orthodoxy but who preferred to pray in the traditional manner, forced the leaders of the community to back down from these ideological reforms and to implement only a few, relatively minor “modifications” in the services in the temples. Viennese Jews rejected the ideological changes which were gaining in popularity in German Jewish communities in the last third of the nineteenth century.

In this essay, I posit that the ’aylonit essentially receives her sex/gender assignment from her parallel, the natural eunuch. I reach this conclusion by demonstrating that the aggregate simanim (signs) of the ’aylonit are chosen specifically for their sex/gender-crossing attributes, fitting neither any known modern condition nor any ancient condition. Given that in the legal material the rabbis do not, in fact, understand the ’aylonit as a sex/gender crosser, the list of attributes seems to emerge from nowhere. The answer to the riddle of its origin is to be found in the text describing the seris ḥammah (the congenital eunuch, whose description parallels that of the ’aylonit in many ways). That is, the simanim of the seris ḥammah also present him as a sex/gender crossover despite the lack of supporting halakhic literature. But whereas the ’aylonit has no ancient corollary in the Greek and Roman literature, the attributes of the seris ḥammah directly match those of the Roman eunuch, who does appear in many of the contemporaneous Christian and Roman materials as a sex/gender crosser. It would seem, then, that the seris ḥammah shares his sex/gender with the Roman eunuch, and the ’aylonit receives her sex/gender from her mirror image, the seris ḥammah.

Mary Douglas. Leviticus as Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. xv, 280 pp; Hyam Maccoby. Ritual and Morality: The Ritual Purity System and Its Place in Judaism. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1999. xii, 231 pp.

These are good times for those who are fascinated by the book of Leviticus. While denigrations of the Israelite purity system and priestly traditions are still to be found, there seems to be an increasing willingness to give Leviticus the benefit of some doubt, considering it to be something other than a dry, rigid, ritualistic, and hierarchical code. These two books argue forcefully, convincingly—and quite differently—against many previous misunderstandings of Leviticus. What is more, we can perhaps even begin to speak of an emerging consensus on one important issue that both books deal with: the nature of ritual impurity. More and more scholars seem to be saying what these two are: that ritual impurity is a complex ritual structure, not a blunt instrument of social control. But if the evaluation of Leviticus in general (and ritual impurity in particular) is positive in both of these books, they share little else. It is difficult to conceive of two scholarly books with as many overlapping concerns, published in the same year and country, which differ so much with regard to scope, structure, and method. They differ too, in the end, with regard to both quality and importance.