EJM 030 Woolf - The Fabric of Religious Life in Medieval Ashkenaz (1000–1300).pdf

The Fabric of Religious Life in Medieval Ashkenaz (1000–1300)

Études sur le Judaïsme Médiéval Fondées par Georges Vajda

Rédacteur en chef Paul Fenton

Dirigées par Phillip Ackerman-Lieberman Benjamin Hary Katja Vehlow

TOME XXX

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ejm

The Fabric of Religious Life in Medieval Ashkenaz (1000–1300) Creating Sacred Communities By

Jeffrey R. Woolf

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Woolf, Jeffrey R., author. The fabric of religious life in medieval Ashkenaz (1000-1300) : creating sacred communities / by Jeffrey R. Woolf. pages cm -- (Études sur le Judaïsme médiéval ; volume 30) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-30024-8 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Ashkenazim--History--To 1500. 2. Judaism--France-History--To 1500. 3. Hasidism, Medieval. 4. Jews--Europe--Social life and customs--To 1500. 5. Jews-France--Social life and customs--History--To 1500. 6. Jews--Germany--Social life and customs--History-To 1500. 7. Jewish way of life--History--To 1500. I. Title. BM316.W66 2015 296.0944’0902--dc23 2015018945

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0169-815x isbn 978-90-04-30024-8 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-30025-5 (e-book) Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. 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. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

For Toby

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Contents Preface ix Abbreviations xv 1 Introduction 1 2 The Community 22 3 The Synagogue 81 4 Purity and Impurity 131 5 Martyrdom 170 Bibliography 209 Index 242

Preface This book started with a phone call from Professor Joshua Schwartz, in 1998, inviting me to participate in a conference that was jointly sponsored by the Ingeborg Rennert for Jerusalem Studies at Bar Ilan University and the Catholic Theological University of Utrecht in the Netherlands. The subject was ‘Purity and Holiness: the Heritage of Leviticus,’ and I chose (somewhat on a whim), to examine the Ashkenazic custom that barred women from the synagogue, either when menstruating or after child birth. The research for that paper led me to the discovery that medieval Ashkenazic Jews perceived of their synagogues as almost total embodiments of the Temple in Jerusalem, a fact that directly affected synagogue design, etiquette and practice. In particular, it emerged that Laws of Ritual Purity that had regulated entry to the Holy Temple were applied to contemporary synagogues.1 I found the implications of these insights to be very exciting and highly suggestive. However, as I was deeply involved in various other projects, I put this line of inquiry aside, at least for the time being. Four years later, I received another phone call, inviting me to return to the above conclave. This time, the subject was to be ‘Holy People.’ This time, my response was not based on a whim. For years, I had been aware both of the ubiquity of the phrase ‘Sacred Community’ (Qehilla Qedosha) in medieval Ashkenazic literature, and of the fact that prominent historians had invoked it in order to account for the extraordinary authority that Ashkenazic rabbis attributed to popular practice, even when that practice contradicted explicit Talmudic Law. Here, I thought, was an opportunity to begin to ‘unpack’ this term, in order to elicit its component ideas and ideals. Using a passage from the late eleventh century dictionary, the Sefer ha-Arukh, as my point of departure, I tried to delineate some of the major values that the author associated with the idea of community. The author of the Arukh, R. Nathan b. Yehiel of Rome (d. 1106), defined the word community (qahal) by citing passages in rabbinic literature that referred to a second century confraternity known as the ‘Sacred Community of Jerusalem’ (Qehalla Qadisha de-Yerushalayim). For R. Nathan, this group was distinguished by five qualities: Labor, Prayer, Torah Study, Ritual Purity and Supererogatory Piety.

1 J. Woolf, ‘Medieval Models of Purity and Sanctity: Ashkenazic Women in the Synagogue,’ in Purity and Holiness: The Heritage of Leviticus, ed. M.J.H.M. Poorthuis & J. Schwartz, Leiden: Brill 2000, 263–280.

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I am still unsure whether the author intended these passages as a heuristic device to define the nature of a community, or whether there was some type of continuity between ancient Israel and Italy that lay behind R. Nathan’s choice. What was clear to me was that for the Arukh, these were meaningful components of the qahal.2 Investigating what Ashkenazic literature had to say about them seemed promising, and the fact that concern with ritual purity appeared on the Arukh’s list connected this effort with my previous investigation.3 I started by returning to the perception of the Synagogue. My initial conclusion about the identity between Synagogue and Temple was confirmed, to a degree far greater than I had previously assumed.4 I discovered that the rabbinic equation between prayer and the sacrificial offerings was understood quite literally throughout the period, and that the Temple/Synagogue equation dictated synagogue comportment to a significant degree (including actual prostration). In particular, I was struck by the palpable descriptions of the Divine Presence in the Synagogue and – again – by the important role of purity concerns in the context of synagogue life. I next addressed the values that the Arukh had cited in connection with the idea of community. Here the ground upon which I worked was already welltrodden by historians. Nevertheless, a number of novel insights emerged from my research. There was, for example, the formative role of communal prayer in defining the self-image of the community as an integrated whole. More importantly, it emerged that Ashkenazic writers believed that the same sense of material in-dwelling of the Divine Presence that characterized the synagogue was equally true of the community per se, especially when it gathered for purely administrative purposes. Meanwhile, I discovered that the quantity of sources dealing with ritual purity had justified devoting an entire chapter to the subject. In what I believe to be this book’s major contribution, I discovered that concern with ritual purity at home and in the synagogue was a central issue of medieval Ashkenazic piety, far beyond anything that other historians had noted. Moreover, Ashkenazic 2 As will be noted below, in this period Southern and Central Italian Jewry was part of the Ashkenazic cultural orbit. 3 J. Woolf, ‘Qehillah Qedoshah: Sacred Community in Medieval Ashkenazic Law and Culture,’ in  A Holy People: Jewish and Christian Perspectives on Religious Communal Identity, ed. M. Poorthuis and J. Schwartz, Leiden: Brill 2006, 217–235. 4 The initial findings appeared in J. Woolf, ‘Bet Ha-Knesset be-Ashkenaz: Beyn Dimui le-Halakhah,’ Kenishta 2 (2003): 9–30. The third chapter of this book is a much expanded version of that study.

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religious discourse was permeated with references to purity and impurity. The ubiquity of the idea of ritual purity was responsible for creating popular rituals of repentance and penitence.5 As I proceeded, I became increasingly aware of the fact that almost every single value and religious category that I was discussing found expression in the Hebrew literature that was written in the wake of the First Crusade, both chronicles and elegies. These had been noted by the many historians who have analyzed this literature: i.e. Temple imagery, sacrificial imagery, the proximity of Heaven, the impurity of the Gentiles and so on. However, after having seen that every single one of these motifs reflected elements of their daily religious life, it struck me that herein lay a different way of approaching the horrific patterns of martyrdom, including suicide and murder, which the chronicles described. It became obvious to me that the deeds of the martyrs, and certainly the way in which they were understood, were a natural extension and expression of central religious ideas and categories of Ashkenazic religious tradition. Even if, as some maintain, the crusade chronicles and elegies were intended solely to inspire future generations to martyrdom, the fact that these particular tropes were employed testifies to their significance for their intended audience. By extension, I became convinced that the elaborate rituals of immersion and purification that returnees to Judaism underwent were not mainly ‘reconversions’ as some might have it, but rather ersatz rituals of purification which were a direct result of the very real role that ritual impurity played in Ashkenazic religiosity. For this reason, I added the fifth and final chapter. In addition, since martyrdom was viewed by the survivors of the First Crusade, and their descendants, as the ultimate expression of their uniqueness and values, it seemed a most appropriate way to draw the investigation to a close. The result is a study that is composed of four interdependent monographs, prefaced by a methodological introduction. These are inter-locked by what I have identified as central themes of medieval Ashkenazic religious life in the Central to High Middle Ages. My findings are, by definition, the result both of my own original research, as well as that of others. I cast a very wide net over both primary and secondary sources. In the case of the former, I discovered that many colleagues in a variety of disciplines had touched upon a number of ideas that I had distilled, without realizing their relevance in other contexts. 5 I first broached a limited version of this insight in an appendix to J. Woolf, ‘Issur “Pat Akum” Beyn Keseh le-Asor: le-Hithavuto u-le-Mashma’uto shel Minhag,’ in Sefer Ha-Yovel le-Yitzhaq Zimmer, ed. G. Bacon, Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press 2008, 83–99.

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By synthesizing their work together with my own research, I seek to provide a broader, more nuanced picture of Ashkenazic life than has previously been available. Given the tendency of scholarly literature toward specialization and literary diffusion, I am confident that this policy is salutary both for specialists and interested non-specialists. I have consciously chosen to examine medieval Franco-German-Jewry as a discrete unit, over a defined period of time. My goal, as already stated, is to identify consistent ideals and values that unify that community. In the interest of presenting a coherent picture, I have limited other angles of inquiry. Among these are the impact of the Christian environment within which medieval Ashkenazim lived, the etiology of Ashkenazic beliefs and traditions, and comparisons with other contemporary Jewish communities, such as Spain and Provence. Where I have discussed such issues, it was in the interest of sharpening our understanding of Ashkenaz, per se. Expansion of these supplementary lines of research will have to wait for another time. * Looking back over the decade long gestation of this book, it is humbling to recognize the debt I owe to so many people. I am eternally indebted to my beloved master and teacher, R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik zt’l. During the ten years that I was privileged to sit at his feet, in Boston and New York, he introduced me to the study of Torah in its widest sense. Everything that I have accomplished in the study of Talmud and Halakhah is ultimately based upon what I learned from him. Indeed, it is from the Rav’s teachings that I was first exposed to the delicate balance between Law and its religious content. His impact upon my life has been incalculable. The multi-disciplinary character of the present undertaking reflects the broad range to which I was exposed by my primary academic mentors. The late Professor Isadore Twersky taught me how to carefully, sensitively and critically read medieval texts. He instilled in me the importance of casting a wide scholarly net and of seeking thematic continuity in Judaism and Jewish Literature, while mapping how those themes change and evolve. Professor Haym Soloveitchik introduced me to the History of Halakhah. More than that, he taught me the need for caution and responsibility in mapping the interaction between Jewish Law and Life, and the obligation of the historian to respect the integrity of Halakhah and Halakhists. Professor Robert Bonfil, aside from being my mentor in the History of Italian Jewry, introduced me to contemporary historical theory, especially to the potential that lies in the application of the tools

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of Anthropological and Sociological to Jewish History. Finally, while never ­formally his student, I must record my gratitude to the late Prof. Yisrael Ta Shma who always made time to meet with me, despite his failing health. Our long conversations were critical to the development of my thinking about Ashkenazic Jewry, and of the Halakhic process, generally. My friends and colleagues have been ever ready to answer questions, react to ideas and provide ongoing support and encouragement. Ted Fram read different drafts of a number of chapters. His comments and suggestions, such as the need to take the measure of medieval Ashkenazic literacy, have been invaluable. Richard Landes has been an endless fount of ideas, insights and challenges to received wisdom. A special word of thanks goes to Professor Daniel Sperber. For over thirty years, he been a source of friendship and inspiration, support and encouragement, knowledge and insight. In addition, I would like to thank a number of people who have generously shared their erudition and insight withy me: Daniel Abrams, Elie Assis, Benjamin Bar-Tiqva, David Berger, Simha Emanuel, Paul Fenton, Anna Geifman, Simha Goldin, Avraham Grossman, Suzie Handelman, Chaim Ilson, Isaac Lifshitz, Zev Maghen, Vered Noam, Sara Offenberg, Jordan Penkower, Rami Reiner, Ben Zion Rosenfeld, Joshua Schwartz, Sarit Shalev-Eyni, Avi Shmidman, Ephraim Shoham-Steiner, Yosef Tabory, Eliezer Tauber and Bracha Yaniv. My friends and family from outside of the academy have a large share in this project; the degree of which I’m not sure they always knew. I owe a deep and abiding debt of gratitude to Erica and Ludwig Jesselson, both of blessed memory, and (yibadlu le-hayyim tovim va-arukhim) Nimrod Barri, Miriam and Alan Goldberg, Rena and Sheon Karol, Moshe Koppel, and David Polaner. I would like to single out my brother and sister-in-law, Rabbi David and Paulette Woolf for their love, support and hospitality. A special thank you goes to my son, Avi Woolf. His incredible editing, and incisive suggestions, rendered the manuscript far clearer and focused. Much of my research and writing were undertaken during sabbaticals at New York University and Yeshiva University. My thanks go to Professor Lawrence Schiffman (then at nyu), President Richard Joel and Professor David Berger for sponsoring me. I would like to thank the staffs of the National Library in Jerusalem, the Rare Book Room of the Jewish Theological Seminary and the Gottesman and Pollack Libraries of Yeshiva University for all of their help. In particular, thanks go to Mrs. Leah Adler, Senior Judaica Librarian at Yeshiva University. I would like to thank Professor Paul Fenton, editor of E.J. Brill’s series, Études sur la Judaïsme Mediévale, for including my book in his distinguished series.

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I am very grateful to Jennifer Pawelko and Katlyn Chin for their patience, assistance, suggestions and support. The project was received financial support from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture and the Bayit Shalom Academic Fund. * I thank HaQadosh Barukh Hu daily for blessing me with a remarkable, loving, talented and inspiring family. My parents, Betty and Irving Woolf (of blessed memory), provided me with a living example of how to create a life whose fabric is comprised of Fear of Heaven, values, depth, fun and love. Despite the many years since their passing, their example inspires me daily and guides me as I make my way in terra incognita. My debt to them transcends words. My in-laws, Dora and Jacob Bergstein (of blessed memory), exemplified the essence of this book. In their lives they demonstrated that there is no Jewish Past; simply an eternal Jewish Present. To paraphrase their words, I am eternally grateful that they accepted me into their family. My children Avi, Ariel and Talya, Chana, Elisheva and Moriah have enriched my life and soul beyond measure. Now, with the arrival of Elchanan Yaakov Zev, I can truly say that I have exceeded the measure of my fathers. Above all, God has blessed me with a life’s partner who has been a perpetual source of support, needed perspective, profound wisdom and endless patience. She provided the inspiration for our settling in the Land of our Fathers, and lends a depth and clarity to my life that I cannot hope to describe, much less repay. In dedicating this book to her, I simply offer a symbolic expression of gratitude for a gift whose value is beyond measure.

Abbreviations ahr American Historical Review ajs Review Association for Jewish Studies Review b. Babylonian Talmud b. ben et Encyclopedia Talmudit Hil. Hilkhot htr Harvard Theological Review Journal of Jewish Studies jjs jmh Journal of Medieval History jsij Jewish Studies Internet Journal jqr Jewish Quarterly Review ks Kiryat Sefer m. Mishnah mt Mishneh Torah MV(H) Mahzor Vitry-Horowitz MV(G) Mahzor Vitry-Goldstein n. note paajr Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research p. Palestinian Talmud r. Rabbi rej Revue des Études Juives Resp. Responsa sa Shulhan Arukh shb Sefer Hassidim, ms Bologna (Margaliot edition) shp Sefer Hassidim, ms Parma (Wistinetzki-Freimann edition) SMaG Sefer Mitzvot Gadol SMaQ Sefer Mitzvot Qatan t. Tosefta

chapter 1

Introduction The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.1 Throughout the Middle Ages, Jewish existence in Christian Europe was ­synonymous with the autonomous Jewish Community, the Qehillah.2 In a society whose corporate structure was all pervasively Christian, its establishment created the legal basis for Jewish existence. As a corpus separatum, the Qehillah served as a framework within which medieval Jews could live their lives in accordance with Rabbinic Law and Lore. Its centrality finds expression in the intensive scholarly attention that the Qehillah has attracted. Some have even gone so far as to describe the Qehillah as the key to unlocking ‘the enigma of Jewish Survival’ in the Middle Ages.3 Historians have paid very close attention to both the legal structure and the internal functioning of the qehillah. In my opinion, a crucial element of medieval Jewish communal existence has yet to receive appropriate attention. I  refer to the constellation of values and perceptions that sustained it. The present study attempts to identify and characterize central defining values, aspirations, ideals and religious sensitivities that informed Jewish life during the heyday of medieval Franco-Germany (Ashkenaz).4 In the Preface to this book, I have already described the genesis of the research which it culminates. Here, I would like to discuss a number of methodological considerations that guided me along the way.

Geographic and Chronological Termini

Traditionally Medieval Ashkenaz is described as ranging from France, north of the Loire basin, continuing eastward into the Rhineland, up to the 1 L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between, New York 2006, 17. 2 Debra Kaplan has shown that from the sixteenth century onward, patterns of Jewish existence in Germany were markedly different than those which had obtained previously. See D. Kaplan, Beyond Expulsion: Jews, Christians, and Reformation Strasbourg, Stanford: Stanford University Press 2011. 3 S. Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad: Hiddat Hisardutan shel ha-Qevutzot ha-Yehudi’ot be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Tel-Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 1997. 4 On the similarities and differences between the French and German components of Ashkenaz, see below. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004300255_002

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confluence of the Elbe and Saale Rivers.5 Smaller communities were also found in England after 1066, and, in the eastern reaches of the German empire, as far as Poland.6 Southern French, or Provençal, Jewry constituted a different world. It possessed its own religious traditions and because of its political ties was more closely oriented toward Catalonia and the Mediterranean basin than to more northern regions.7 As a result, while retaining its cultural integrity and identity, it bridged the two great centers of Jewish creativity in the High Middle Ages: Franco-Germany and Spain. It absorbed, developed and adapted many salient features of Hispano-Jewish culture, while ongoing contacts between Provence and Ashkenaz led to the reception of Ashkenazic creativity. Nevertheless, throughout the period under consideration, Provence possessed a unique identity. As a result, this community will largely remain outside the purview of the present study.8 Medieval Italian Jewry presents a different case. Demographically and culturally, Italy was a major ‘feeder’ of classical Ashkenaz. Its most prominent families, e.g. the Qalonymides, hailed from the southern half of the Apennine Peninsula, from Rome to Apulia and Calabria.9 The liturgical, ritual and s­ piritual 5 See Y. Ta Shema, ‘Ashkenazi Jewry in the Eleventh Century: Life and Literature,’ in Ashkenaz; the German Jewish Heritage, ed. G. Hirschler, New York: Yeshiva University Museum 1988, 23–26 and H. Soloveitchik, Ha-Yayin be-Yeme Ha-Beynayim: Pereq be-Toldot ha-Halakhah beAshkenaz, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2008, 37–56. 6 Jewish settlement in Germany is best approached via the magisterial works of Avraham Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1989 and E.E. Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot,5 Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1985. For England and Poland respectively, see R. Stacey, ‘Recent Work on Medieval English Jewish history,’ Jewish History 2 (1987): 61–72 and Y. Ta Shma, ‘On the History of the Jews in Twelfth and Thirteenth Century Poland,’ Polin 10 (1997): 287–317. 7 See I. Twersky, ‘Aspects of the Social and Cultural History of Provencal Jewry,’ in Jewish Society through the Ages, ed. H. Ben-Sasson and S. Ettinger, New York: Schocken 1973, 185–207; Y. Ta Shma, Rabbi Zerahiah ha-Levi u-vene Hugo: Le-Toldot ha-Sifrut ha-Rabbanit be-Provence, Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook 1992; D. and C. Iancu, Les Juifs de Midi: Un Histoire Millénaire, Avignon: A. Barthélemy 1995; and S. Pick, The Jewish Communities of Provence Before the Expulsion in 1306, PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University 1996. 8 Concerning medieval Provencal Jewish culture see, inter alia, Twersky, ‘Aspects,’ passim; M.  Halbertal, Beyn Torah le-Hokhmah Rabbi Menahem ha-Meiri u-Ba’ale ha-Halakhah haMaimuni’im be-Provence, Jerusalem: Magnes 2000; P. Roth, Hakhme Provence ha-Me’uharim: Halakhah u-Posqe Halakhah be-Darom Zarefat (1215–1348), PhD dissertation, Hebrew University 2012; and Y. Ta Shma, Knesset Mehqarim, iv: Artzot ha-Mizrah u-Provence, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 2010. 9 A. Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 29–43.

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roots of Franco-Germany are buried deep in the soil of Southern Italy.10 Ties between the communities continued throughout our period, though the nature of their interaction changed.11 In the ninth and tenth centuries, it was Italy that left its imprint upon Ashkenaz. By the thirteenth century, the relationship was reversed and Italian Jewry became a cultural and halakhic satellite of Ashkenaz.12 Either way, Italian rabbinic culture remained part of the Ashkenazic world. Chronologically, our discussion runs from the tenth until the early fourteenth centuries. The terminus a quo roughly coincides with the migration of the Qalonymos Family to Mainz and the foundation of rabbinic scholarship in the Rhineland. The period ends with the expulsion of the Jews from Capetian France in 1306, and the sharp decline of German Jewry starting with the Rindfleisch persecutions of 1298–1303.13 10

There is a large literature documenting the formative impact of Southern Italy Jewish culture in the ninth and tenth centuries upon the nascent communities in the Rhineland. See the discussions and the bibliographic references in Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 1–78; R. Bonfil, Beyn Eretz-Yisrael le-veyn Bavel: Qavim le-Heqer Toldot ha-Tarbut shel haYehudim be-Italia ha-Deromit u-ve-Europah ha-Notzrit be-Yeme ha-Beynayim ha-Muqdamim,’ Shalem 5 (1987): 19–26; idem, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle, Leiden: E.J. Brill 2009, 3–86; and E. Fleischer, Shirat ha-Qodesh ha-Ivrit be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem: Keter 2008, 421–448 and 474–485. Recently, Haym Soloveitchik has proposed a totally new reconstruction of Ashkenazic origins. H. Soloveitchik, Collected Essays, ii, Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, chs. 1–9. However, he acknowledges the importance of the Italian heritage for its spiritual outlook. 11 During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, most of the contact between Italy and Franco-Germany was due to Italian scholars travelling (e.g. R. Isaiah di Trani) or migrating (e.g. R. Samuel b. Natronai) to France or Germany. See S. Emanuel, ‘Les liens entre les hakhamin de France et les hakhamin d’Italie aux xi et xii siècles,’ Héritages de Rachi, ed. R. Sirat, Paris: Éditions de l’Éclat 2006, 59–64 and Y. Ta Shma, ‘R. Yeshaya di Trani ve-Sifro Tosafot RiD,’ Mehqare Talmud iii (2005): 916–943. 12 J. Woolf, ‘Ha-Omnam Massoret Halakhah Italqit?’ Sidra 8 (1994): 57–59. 13 See Germania Judaica, ii, ed. Z. Avneri, Tübingen: Mohr-Sieback 1968, 993 s.v. Rindfleisch; F. Lotter in Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 15 (1988), 385–422; W.C. Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews: From Philip Augustus to the Last Capetians, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1989, 200–238 and H. Soloveitchik, ‘Catastrophe and Halakhic Creativity: Ashkenaz – 1096, 1242, 1306 and 1298,’ Jewish History 12 (1998): 71–85.  French Jews tried to maintain their religious and cultural identities in their new places of residence (Provence, Catalonia, Franche-Comté, Savoy and Italy). Similarly, German Jewry reconstituted itself in the Rhineland, Bohemia, Moravia and Austria. However, despite significant points of continuity, these reconstituted communities were sufficiently different from their predecessors as to justify their exclusion from the present discussion. See Y. Dinari, Hakhme Ashkenaz be-shelhe Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem:

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The Jewish communities of Northern France and the Rhineland are often referred to as if they formed an undifferentiated whole. That characterization is not totally accurate.14 The French and German communities differed significantly in their liturgical traditions and on many points of ritual and law.15 Broadly speaking, French rabbinic intellectual activity was more commentarial and school based. German rabbinic activity was more court-based, and its literature emphasized legal decision making.16 Nevertheless, more united the French and German wings of Ashkenaz, than divided them. They shared the same literary heritage, historical experience, historical memories, communal awareness, and religious/pietist sensitivities. Their scholarly and communal leadership was extensively bound by a combination of familial ties and bonds of discipleship. In addition, throughout the period, French and German scholars (and their students) constantly travelled back and forth between the two centers.17 Hence, while due attention will be paid to significant differences between the French and German portions of Ashkenaz, the emphasis here will be placed upon their commonalities.

Considerations of Method

‘In the Middle Ages the language of religion provided a language of social relations, and of a cosmic order; it described and explained the interweaving of

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Mossad Bialik 1984; Y. Yuval, Hakhamim be-Doram: Ha-Manhigut ha-Ruhanit shel Yehude Germania be-shelhe Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1989; J. Woolf, ‘Between Diffidence and Initiative: Ashkenazic Legal Decising in the Late Middle Ages (1350–1500),’ jjs, 52 (2001): 85–97 and idem, ‘French Rabbinic Culture in the Late Middle Ages,’ Jewish History 26 (2013): 1–20. A. Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 24–33. Regarding the liturgical differences between the communities, see Y.T. Assis, ‘Nusach ApaM: A Medieval Liturgical Survivor,’ Ebrei Piemontese: The Jews of Piedmont, ed. J. Woolf, New York: Yeshiva University Museum 2008, 49–54; S. Emanuel, ‘Ha-Pulmos shel Hasside Ashkenaz al Nusah ha-Tefillah,’ Mehqare Talmud iii (2005): 591–625; and D. Goldschmidt, ‘Leqet, Shikha u-Pe’ah le-Nusah APaM,’ Mehqare Tefillah u-Piyyut, Jerusalem 1980, 80–122. E. Kanarfogel, ‘Religious Leadership during the Tosafist Period: Between the Academy and the Rabbinic Court,’ Jewish Religious Leadership: Image and Reality, I, ed. J. Wertheimer, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary 2004, 297–305 and R. Reiner, ‘Rabbinical Courts in France in the Twelfth Century: Centralisation and Dispersion,’ jjs 60 (2009): 298–318. Aryeh Graboïs has mapped out those areas of Ashkenaz where the Jews spoke French, German, or both. It is unclear how this impacted upon the interaction between the two sectors. Cf. A. Graboïs, ‘L’exégèse rabbinique,’ Le Moyen Âge et la Bible, ed. P. Riché and G. Lobrichon, Paris: Beauchesne 1984, 233–260.

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natural and supernatural with human action.’18 This characterization of medieval Christian society is equally apt for contemporary Jews. Religious belief and concerns permeated, defined, inspired and instilled content into the lives of both. Life was experienced as refracted through the lens of religion.19 It is important to keep this fact in mind when approaching medieval culture. While historians may employ a broad range of methods to critically parse experience into various component parts, it would be a disservice to medieval men, women, and their culture to forget that the totality of their existence was perceived, understood and experienced in integrated, fundamentally religious terms.20 Hence, the primary way to retrieve the central values of the medieval Jewish world is through the unmediated study of its religious literature.21 Since we are examining a specific community over a defined period of time, we must look for consistent emphases. Regular references to similar ideas and concepts, by different authors in different places and over extended periods, allow us to conclude that these continued to resonate with their authors and audiences. Otherwise, they would have ceased to be employed. And while ideas and perceptions do develop and change over time, attitudes and perceptions changed much more slowly in medieval society than in later periods.22 The sources available for this examination are many. Medieval Ashkenaz left behind a large heritage. Its literature is broadly discursive and deeply intertextual. There are no firm boundaries between different literary genres. Everything is connected to everything else. Thus, any search for ideas, beliefs and values requires understanding genres as varied as Biblical exegesis, piyyutim, piyyut commentary, Talmudic and Midrashic commentaries, Halakhic compendia, responsa, manuscript illuminations and synagogue furnishings. I  scoured medieval Ashkenazic literature – and, to a lesser degree, material remains – in an attempt to identify those themes and ideas that appeared to 18 19 20

21 22

M. Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1991, 1. See A. Gurevich, Categories of Medieval Culture, London and Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul 1985. In this regard, Judaism is more similar to Islam than it is to Christianity. See the important comments in M. Holmes-Katz, Body of Text: The Emergence of the Sunni Law of Ritual Purity, Albany: suny Press 2002, 1–13. We will discuss the question of elite vs. popular religion below. Cf. Gurevich, Categories of Medieval Culture, 1–24; M. Vovelle, ‘Hearts and Minds: Can We Write Religious History from the Traces?’ Ideologies and Mentalities, trans. E. O’Flaherty, Chicago, 1990, 13–23 and J. Burrow, Gestures and Looks in Medieval Narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2008.

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express representative elements of Jewish religious life.23 Determining which sources were representative was a challenging task. I based my decisions upon the conflation of several considerations: the identity of the author(s), the frequency which writings and/or ideas appeared, and instances wherein the idea under discussion is implicit in a passage. It was also necessary to make difficult decisions concerning the breadth of the sources to be examined. As noted, the literary output of Ashkenazic Jewry was enormous. In addition, new material is constantly being examined and published. On the other hand, the fact that I was searching for the typical and the representative led me to largely confine my investigation to the already formidable quantity of primary sources that are available in print.24 Where the same ideas, themes and tropes appeared repeatedly, expressed by different authors in different times, genres and places, I concluded that these were, indeed, representative.25 I am well aware that additional manuscript ­evidence 23

24

25

Cf.M. Rosman, ‘A Prolegomenon to the Study of Jewish Cultural History,’ Jewish Studies Internet Journal 1 (2002): 109–111 [= idem, How Jewish is Jewish History? Cambridge: Littman Library 2007, 131–153]. To a certain degree, this is a ‘thick descriptive’ position in the sense made famous by Clifford Geertz. See C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, New York 1973. Although there have been calls for a reevaluation of Geertz’ method and assumptions, I have found his definitions of culture – though not that of Law – to be relevant for the study of Medieval Ashkenazic Culture. See N. Frankenberry and H. Penner, ‘Geertz’s Longlasting Moods, Motivations and Metaphysical Concepts,’ Language, Truth and Religious Belief: Studies in Twentieth Century Theory and Method in Religion, Atlanta: Oxford University Press 1999, 218–245 and S. Ortner ed., The Fate of Culture: Geertz and Beyond, Berkeley: University of California Press 1999. Where scientific editions were available, they are the ones cited. In other instances, published readings were checked against the manuscripts.  There was one exception to this rule. In recent years, largely owing to the efforts of Elisabeth Hollander, it has become apparent that commentaries attached to liturgical poetry (piyyut) were a widespread and significant genre of literature in medieval Ashkenaz. Cf. E. Hollender, Piyyut Commentary in Ashkenaz, Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyer 2008. Most of this material remains in manuscript, though two significant collections have been published. These are Urbach’s edition of Abraham b. Azriel’s, Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, i–iv, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1939–1963 and Roth’s facsimile editon of ms Cod. Hebr. 152, Jerusalem 1980. I have made use of both and examined selected collections of commentary in manuscript. My overall impression confirms an observation that was made to me by Dr. Ezra Chwat, of the Microfilmed Manuscript Division at the National Library in Jerusalem. He observed that in terms of actual content, the various collections of piyyut commentary overlap to a significant degree (over 60% or so). Attribution of authorship to specific piyyut commentaries and collections of commentaries is frequently difficult. See Hollender, Clavis, 6–12. As with other genres, I have tried to single out themes and ideas that appear to be representative.

Introduction

7

may well modify the overall picture. However, I suspect that it will not fundamentally alter the tableau that I am presenting.26 The quest for common ideas also posed methodological challenges regarding the proper use of the sources to be examined. Each literary genre presents its own demands on the student. Thus, Biblical exegetes and Talmudic commentators are, first and foremost, duty bound to grapple with demands of the texts that they undertook to explain on their own terms. Nevertheless, these constraints do not rule out the possibility that statements reflecting their own time may be found there. For example, Ashkenazic Biblical exegetes, starting with the Rashi (1040– 1105),27 maintained a primary fealty to the text and its demands – be they lexical, grammatical or literary. After all, they viewed themselves as explicating the Word of God. Rashi himself famously declared that his appointed goal in his commentary was to eschew fanciful homiletics. He strove instead to present the ‘plain, sense of Scripture’ (peshuto shel miqra).28 Prima facie, such an approach left no room for the inclusion of any comments that were not directly  required in order to resolve a difficulty in the Biblical text. Indeed, this  had long been the operative assumption of students of Rashi’s Bible commentaries.29 Avraham Grossman has argued for a more nuanced approach. He acknowledged, as anyone who studies Rashi must, that Rashi was primarily interested in  elucidating the Bible. Nevertheless, he convincingly points out that Rashi had  multiple agendas in his commentary. Rashi consciously set out to counter  Christian exegesis and to thereby arm his audience with responses to 26

27 28 29

A case in point is the manner in which Mahzor Vitry will be employed here. Mahzor Vitry is a miscellany that emerged from the school of Rashi in early twelfth century France. While the core of the work is identifiable, its many manuscripts contain various editions from other sources. The printed edition (Nüremberg 1923) is based on a late manuscript (ms Bodley 1102), while the three volumes produced by Goldschmidt (Jerusalem 2004–9) rely on manuscripts that were not available to Horowitz. All of the material in the Nüremberg edition dates to our period, though, making it relevant in toto to our discussions. See Y. Ta Shema, Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumah: Peraqim be-Ofya u-veToldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2003, 15–29; and idem, ‘Al Kama Inyyane Mahzor Vitry,’ Knesset Mehqarim, I: Ashkenaz, Jerusalem 2004, 62–76. All dates are to the Common Era. Rashi ad Gen. 3, 8 s.v. va-yishme’u (and others). This was the position of Nehama Leibowitz and Sarah Kamin. See S. Peerless, To Study and to Teach: The Methodology of Nechama Leibowitz, Jerusalem: Urim Publications, 2005 and S. Kamin, Rashi: Peshuto shel Miqra u-Midrasho shel Miqra, Jerusalem: Magnes 1986.

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Christological interpretations, in an age of ever increasing inter-religious ­polemic.30 This aspect of his enterprise was both explicit and acknowledged by all.31 Beyond purely exegetical considerations, Rashi also composed his commentary to serve an internal, pedagogic function.32 He intended it to serve as a statement of the religious, spiritual and moral values that stood at the center of Ashkenazic Jewish tradition, either as he had received or developed them, and to inculcate them in his audience.33 Again, this is not to say that every statement that Rashi – or any other Biblical commentator – wrote is ideological per se. On the contrary, there is no question that Rashi’s primary goal was the explication of the Bible, largely in light of rabbinic tradition.34 Hence, one should assume a ‘default’ that any given comment is text generated.35 30

31 32

33

34

35

Polemical considerations played a much larger role in Rashi’s commentaries on the Prophets and the Hagiographa than they did in his comments on the Pentateuch. See A. Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 204–206; idem, ‘Perush Rashi le-Tehillim ve-ha-Pulmos haYehudi ha-Notzri,’ in Sefer ha-Yovel le-Moshe Arend, ed. D. Rappel, Jerusalem 1996, 59–74; idem, ‘Pulmos Dati u-Megamah Hinukhit be-Ferush Rashi la-Torah,’ in Pirqe Nehamah: Sefer Zikkaron le-Nehamah Leibowitz, ed. M. Arend et al., Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization 2001, 187–205; J. Rosenthal, ‘Ha-Pulmos ha-Anti-Notzri be-Rashi al ha-TaNaKH,’ in Mehqarim u-Meqorot, Jerusalem: Reuben Mass 1967, 101–116; and E. Touitou, ‘Ha-Reqa haHistori shel Perush Rashi le-Parashat Bereshit,’ in Rashi: Iyyunim be-Yetzirato, ed. Z.A. Steinfeld, Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University 1993, 97–105. Cf. S. Kamin, Beyn Yehudim le-Notzrim be-Parshanut ha-Miqra, Jerusalem: Magnes 1992. Grossman was preceded in this by the late Professor Dov Rappel, in his book Rashi: Temunat Olamo ha-Yehudit, Jerusalem 1995. See also, A. Grossman, ‘Le-Heqer “Temunat Olamo ha-Yehudit” shel Rashi,’ in Zekhor Davar le-Avdekha: Assufat Ma’amarim le-Zekher Dov Rappel, ed. S. Glick, Jerusalem and Ramat Gan: Lifshitz College and Bar Ilan University 2007, 283–298 I. Marcus, ‘Rashi’s Historiosophy in the Introductions to his Bible commentaries,’ rej 157 (1998) : 47–55; and idem, ‘Rashi’s Choice: The Humash Commentary as Rewritten Midrash,’ in Festschrift in Honor of Robert Chazan, ed. D. Engel et al., Leiden: Brill 2012, 29–45. This is not to deny that Rashi was also an innovative exegete and thinker. However, he was profoundly deferential to his teachers and received traditions. Hence, the representative character of his ideas may be safely assumed as a working assumption. This is especially so when confirmed by other, independent sources. See J. Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance, New York: Schocken 1969, 17–25. The question of patterns of recourse to rabbinic sources in Rashi’s commentaries has long been moot. Strikingly, the question has never been systematically addressed. In the interim, see Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 193–200. (My thanks to Professor Martin Lockshin for his help in clarifying this point.) Some scholars are admittedly more liberal in divining such pedagogy. See the discussion in Grossman, Temunat Olamo, 43–47 and idem, Rashi, trans. J. Linsider, Cambridge: Littman Library 2012, 165–168.

Introduction

9

Nevertheless, there are ways to carefully discern statements of Rashi’s values and religious outlook. For example, there are many instances where Rashi explicitly digresses from his topic in order to impart a lesson. On other occasions, he employs rabbinic comments which, while related to the verse under consideration, veer from the straightforward interpretation that was his stated aim and hallmark. Such comments indicate that Rashi had an added for using a particular text. Similarly, Rashi was wont to carefully edit midrashic passages. A critical addition or deletion from the original likely intended to convey an added message to the student, without damaging his exegetical line of argument.36 On other occasions, when a number of different midrashic explanations were available, Rashi’s specific choice can be seen to reflect his pedagogic agenda. Similar considerations apply to the examination, evaluation and enlisting of Jewish legal sources. Since fidelity to Jewish law and observance stood at the center of Ashkenazic Jewish Life, those values and ideals that they held most dearly might be expected to find expression in their ritual observance.37 Furthermore, Halakhic creativity stood at the center of the Ashkenazic oeuvre, whether it took the form of Talmudic commentary, the composition of Halakhic codes and handbooks, or the penning of responsa to legal issues. Hence, any study of Ashkenaz must place law at its center. At the same time, that recourse must be undertaken with a clear awareness of its potential pitfalls. To begin with, study of Halakhic literature requires the historian to consider the way in which rabbis perceived the nature of their undertaking. Halakhists throughout the ages have believed there to be a unified, though dynamic, cross-generational universe of discourse within which they move. Second, halakhists were consistently conscious of and sensitive to their responsibility as interpreters of God’s Law. As a result, they strove to determine that which they believed to be the ‘true’, or at least the most convincing interpretation of the law. This was no mean undertaking, and there have been multiple ways in which halakhists have managed to overcome their diffidence in the face of the awesome responsibility before them.38 36 Grossman, Temunat Olamo, 47–60. 37 See I. Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe, New Haven: Yale University Press 1996. 38 This characterization varied and was not infrequently function of both the personality and/ or the legal method of the halakhist. See the examples noted by H. Soloveitchik, ‘Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?’ 178–182 and R. Reiner, ‘Parshanut ve-Halakhah: Iyyun ­me-Hadash be-­ Pulmos Rabbenu Tam ve-R. Meshullam’, in Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-‘Ivri, 21(1998–2000): 207–240.

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By extension, consciously changing law to the needs of circumstance would have appeared to them as nothing short of blasphemous. In the eyes of its practitioners, rulings had to represent reasonable interpretations of the relevant sources. As Haym Soloveitchik once noted: ‘…Nothing could be farther from the mind of any religious person, not to speak of a man of the Middle Ages, than an attempt of set purpose to align a divine norm with temporal needs.’39 Obviously, theory does not easily align itself life’s complexities. In addition, the angle of evaluation adopted by the halakhist will inevitably affect his choice from among the constellation of precedents and opinions which resulted from his research as well as his reading of the situation before him. Mechanical imposition of precedent was rarely an option, in large part because precedent was not viewed as binding; the decisor was endowed with a significant degree of judicial discretion in lining up ruling and reality. Perfunctory application of the law is not always just and rendering equitable rulings is inherent in the mandate of the halakhist.40 The task of the historian is to follow and evaluate the manner in which rabbis navigated their path between competing judicial considerations. The most trumpeted of all the ‘external’ considerations that impinge upon halakhic decision-making are economic ones. Historians have underscored how medieval halakhists adopted Talmudic law to economic necessity. Nor were such ‘adaptations’ always unconscious. For example, as Soloveitchik has demonstrated, due to intense pressure to allow intra-Jewish usury in twelfth century France despite its being biblically prohibited, R. Jacob Tam (c. 1100– 1171) advocated the a priori use of Christian intermediaries self-consciously asserting that he did so “in order to given sustenance to the children of the covenant” (latet mihya le-vene berit).41 39

40

41

H. Soloveitchik, ‘Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?’ 174.  On the power of precedent, see Cf. B. Baba Bathra 131a-b; S. Morell, Precedent and Judicial Discretion: The Case of Joseph Ibn Lev, Atlanta 1991 and J. Woolf, ‘Methodological Reflections on the Study of Halakhah,’ eajs Newsletter 11 (2001): 9–14. Factors such as equity are often described as ‘extra-halakhic’ or ‘meta-halakhic’, which impinge upon the legal process. In my opinion, they are better understood as integral, albeit unwritten components of the Jewish Legal system. See my remarks in Azure, 12 (2002): 202–210. Sefer ‘Or Zaru’a, no. 202. See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Pawn broking: A Study in Usury and of the Halakah in Exile’, in Collected Essays, I, 130–136; idem, Halakhah, Kalkalah ve-Dimui Atzmi: Ha-Mashkona’ut be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem 1985. Regarding the later period, see E. Fram, Ideals Face Reality: Jewish Law and Life in Poland, 1550–1655, Cincinnati 1997. It is important to keep in mind that Jewish commercial Law (Dine Mamonot) is primarily

Introduction

11

However, in light of the religious integrity of the halakhist, it is particularly at this juncture that the historian must be prudent in his evaluation. Adjustments of law to life there no doubt were. However, halakhists did not behave unfettered. They did not consciously and deliberately wreak havoc with Talmudic law in order to assure Jewish economic survival. Even so great a revolutionary such as R. Tam did not perceive his interpretations or rulings as doing violence to the integrity of Halakhah. On the contrary, in a broad range of instances, such as the revocation of longstanding limits on the amount of income which a Jew might derive from usury taken from a Christian, resolving Jewish economic distress was viewed as a legitimate halakhic category which a priori allowed far-reaching changes in hitherto accepted norms.42 The subject of perception brings us to the present discussion. Assuming the ostensibly closed character of the halakhic system as posited above, there ought to be no place for extra-halakhic or ideological considerations in the decision-making process. However, in rabbinic Judaism, Religion and Law coexist in a tense, dialectical relationship. The latter provides form and uniformity, while the former informs the law with both content and telos. One is left to wonder, then, if purely non-legal, religious ideas play a role in determining the parameters of that observance.43 On the one hand, spiritual and ideological factors are but infrequently invoked as part of halakhic discourse and decision-making – and even then, with extreme reticence and caution.44 On the other hand, a legist’s religious posture can shape the way in which he evaluates his reality. It can cause him to ask certain questions of his sources. More to the present point, it can lead him to perceive specific nuances and implications in the texts that he investigates, which are themselves conditioned by these factors.

42 43

44

c­ ontractual. Hence, it is much easier to consciously adjust tax and contract law than it is to make a priori changes in ritual law (Issur ve-Heter). Soloveitchik, ‘Religious Law and Change,’ 207–208 [=Collected Essays, I, 241–244]. Cf. I. Twersky, ‘Religion and Law,’ in Religion in a Religious Age, ed. S.D. Goitein, Waltham 1974, 69–82 and J. Katz, ‘Post-Zoharic Relations Between Halakhah and Kabbalah,’ in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, ed. B.D. Cooperman, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1983, 283–286. A prominent exception to this rule is found in the complex and highly nuanced interaction between Jewish Mysticism in its varied forms and Halakhah. See, H. Soloveitchik, ‘Three Themes in the Sefer Hassidim,’ AJSReview I (1976): 311–357; J. Katz, Halakhah veQabbalah, Jerusalem: Magnes 1984 and M. Hallamish, An Introduction to the Kabbalah, trans. R. Bar-Ilan and O. Wiskind-Elper, New York: suny Press 1999, 207–246; and idem, Ha-Qabbalah: Ba-Tefillah, ba-Halakhah u-va-Minhag, Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University 2000.

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Hence, Halakhic literature must play a central role in our attempt to identify the ideals and ideas, aspirations and values that lay behind the self-image of medieval Ashkenazim. Its study overshadowed and informed every one of its other intellectual activities.45 The Talmudic commentaries and legal decisions of medieval Ashkenazic authorities are an especially promising source of discovery. Straightforward assertions of values and ideals are, of course, significant per se – especially if they prove ubiquitous. However, if the same values find expression in Halakhic decisions, their weight must be deemed even greater, if only because of the resistance of halakhic decision-makers to external considerations. As a result, I sought halakhic discussions and rulings that postulate values or perceptions as part of their legal calculus, often as their point of departure. Two examples will suffice to illustrate different aspects of this point. The central thesis of chapter three is that Ashkenazic Tradition regarded the synagogue as almost identical in its sanctity with the Temple in Jerusalem. This contention is borne out not only by declarative statements to that effect in Bible or liturgical commentaries, but by the existence of explicit halakhic rulings that both presume that identity to be true and validate problematic customs based upon its reality. Similarly, Chapter four argues for the centrality of purity and impurity – Tum’ah and Taharah – as formative religious concepts in Ashkenazic spirituality. While much of the discussion there focuses upon the ubiquity of the rhetoric of purity and impurity in Ashkenazic literature from the tenth until the fourteenth centuries, the crucial element is found in the frequency with which questions involving ritual purity are addressed by rabbis; as well the many cases where specific questions are perceived as influenced by considerations of impurity, even when such an interpretation is not imminently required.

Mentalités and Their Discontents

It should be obvious at this point that this undertaking has much in common with the ‘History of Mentalities.’ Until the second half of the twentieth century, 45

This is in marked contrast to Spain and Provence, where Halakhah competed with other disciplines desipite its obvious importance. There is some evidence that Ashkenazic scholars were more aware of scientific doctrines than had hitherto been thought. See G. Freudenthal (ed.), Science in Medieval Jewish Cultures, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2011 and Y. Langerman, ‘Was There no Science in Ashkenaz? The Ashkenazic Reception of Some Early-medieval Hebrew Scientific Texts,’ Jahrbuch des Simon-DubnowInstituts 8 (2009): 67–92.

Introduction

13

scholars of Jewish history have largely worked within the positivist, heavily philological tradition of Wissenschaft des Judenthums, with a primary emphasis on intellectual history. In recent years, historians have broken out of this mold, enlisting the insights of other disciplines in the study of medieval Ashkenaz. Jacob Katz led the way through his sociological analysis of the late medieval/early modern Jewish Community,46 and was followed therein by Simha Goldin.47 Ivan Marcus and Robert Bonfil pioneered the application of anthropological method in their researches.48 Historians of Jewish Ceremonial Art and Illuminations, especially Katrin Kogman-Appel, Sarit Shalev-Eyni, and Bracha Yaniv, have expanded our understanding of the interface between rabbinic literature, popular perceptions and medieval Ashkenazic art.49 Excited by the new vistas that these scholars had opened, I wondered whether the study of mentalities was appropriate for the history of medieval Ashkenaz per se.50 To start with, scholars have questioned the existence of a 46 47

48

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50

E.g., J. Katz, Tradition and Crisis, Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages, trans. and afterword by B. Cooperman, New York: New York University Press 1993. See S. Goldin, ‘The Role of Ceremonies in the Socialization Process: The Case of Jewish Communities of Northern France and Germany in the Middle Ages,’ Archives de Sciences Sociales des Religions 95 (1996): 163–178 and idem, ‘The Synagogue in the Medieval Jewish Community as an Integral Institution,’ Journal of Ritual Studies 9 (1995): 15–39. I. Marcus, ‘Medieval Jewish Studies: Toward an Anthropological History of the Jews,’ in The State of Jewish Studies, ed. S.J. Cohen and E. Greenstein, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 1990, 113–127; idem, Rituals of Childhood; and R. Bonfil, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle: The Family Chronicle of Ahima’az ben Paltiel, Leiden and Boston: Brill 2009. Some of Bonfil’s students have continued this line of investigation. See E. Baumgarten, Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe, Princeton: Princeton University 2004 and A. Isaacs, An Anthropological and Historical Study of the Role of the Synagogue in Ashkenazi Jewish Life in the Middle Ages, PhD dissertation, Hebrew University 2002. K. Kogman-Appel, A Mahzor From Worms: Art and Religion in a Medieval Jewish Community, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 2012, S. Shalev-Eyni, Jews Among Christians: Hebrew Book Illumination From Lake Constance, Turnhout: Brepols 2010; idem, ‘Purity and Impurity: The Naked Woman Bathing in Jewish and Christian art,’ Between Judaism and Christianity: Art Historical Essays in Honor of Elisheva Revel-Neher, ed. K. Kogman-Appel and M. Meyer, Leiden: Brill, 2009, 191–213; and B. Yaniv, Ma’aseh Roqem: Tashmishe Qedushah me-Teqstil be-Vet ha-Knesset ha-Ashkenazi, ha-Sepharadi ve-ha-Italqi, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 2009. For the following discussion, see W. Bouwsma, A Usable Past: Essays in European Cultural History, Berkeley: University of California Press 1990; P. Burke, The French Historical Revolution: The Annales School 1929–1989, Cambridge: Polity 1990; idem, Varieties of Cultural History, Oxford: Polity 1997; idem, What is Cultural History?, Cambridge 2008 and

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uniform or unifying system of values and symbols that may have bound a given society together.51 In addition, the objection has been made that studies of mentality incorrectly assume the latter to be static over time. Life, they observe, is dynamic and so are world views.52 In light of the extensive research of popular, middle and lower class culture, undertaken by scholars such as Natalie Zemon Davis, Carlo Ginsburg, and Emmanuel le Roy Ladurie, it seems inappropriate to discuss the mentality of any age. Furthermore, such attempted reconstructions appear to be fatally flawed, as they are usually based upon the written record, which only reflect the ideals of the given ruling and/or lettered class.53 These demurrals do not, however, affect the present undertaking. While life is dynamic, transformations occur over long periods of time, a point that is certainly true of the Middle Ages.54 Hence, I have made a concerted effort to demonstrate that every major theme discussed in this book found expression in sources that were written throughout the three centuries that it cover, and in both Northern France and Germany. Again, this does not mean that shifts of emphasis, variations or endorsements did not occur. However, the present goal is to present an initial model, a base line (as it were), upon which further work can elaborate or with which it may contend. Similarly, the objection that one cannot speak of a mentality because the sources reflect only the governing and lettered classes is less relevant to

51

52

53

54

A. Grafton, ‘The History of Ideas: Precept and Practice, 1950–2000,’ Journal of the History of Ideas 67 (2006): 1–32. Cf. P. Hutton, ‘The History of Mentalities: The New Map of Cultural History,’ History and Theory 20 (1981): 237–259 and Burke, ‘Strengths and Weaknesses in the History of Mentalities,’ in Varieties of Cultural History, 162–182. See W.J. Bouwsma, ‘From History of Ideas to History of Meaning,’ in A Usable Past, 336– 347 and S. Reynolds, ‘Social Mentalities and the Cases of Medieval Scepticism,’ Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 6th series, 1 (1991): 21–41. The distinguished British medievalist Christopher Brooke presents a pointed critique of the field in the latest edition of his classic work, Europe in the Central Middle Ages 962–1154,3 Harlow: Longman 2000, 7–8. See N. Zemon Davis, The Return of Martin Guerre, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1983; C. Ginsburg, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-century Miller, London: Routledge & Paul 1980; and E. Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou, The Promised Land of Error, New York: Vintage 1978. Of continued relevance to the present discussion is R. Finlay, ‘The Refashioning of Martin Guerre,’ ahr 93 (1988): 553–571 and Zemon Davis’ reply (‘On the Lame,’ ibid: 572–603). Cf. J. Van Engen, ‘The Christian Middle Ages as an Historiographical Problem,’ ahr 91 (1986): 519–552.

Introduction

15

F­ranco-German Jewry, than to contemporary Christian society.55 Popular European religiosity was still heavily syncretistic, and incorporated pre-Christian beliefs and perceptions.56 Nevertheless, a growing number of historians maintain that the texture of religious life can be characterized as Christian only after the first millennium. Even then, access to the literary sources of Christian belief was largely restricted to the clergy.57 Among Ashkenazic Jews, however, the gap between ‘high’ and ‘popular’ ­religious culture was much narrower.58 The rabbinic and commercial élites frequently over lapped. Despite the early importance of rabbinic dynasties, access to knowledge was not restricted.59 The religious ideals of society appear to have been overwhelmingly shared.60 Of course, one may correctly object that the sources in our possession regarding popular religiosity were, themselves, written 55

56

57 58

59 60

See B. Bedos-Rezak, ‘The Confrontation of Orality and Textuality: Jewish and Christian Literacy in Eleventh and Twelfth Century Northern France,’ in Rashi: 1040–1990: Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna, Paris: Cerf 1993, 541–559; R. McKitterick, ed., The Uses of Literacy in Early Mediaeval Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University 1990; B. Stock, The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, Princeton: Princeton University 1983; and J. Thompson, The Literacy of the Laity in the Middle Ages, Berkeley: University of California Press 1939. Concerning the qualities of popular religion, piety, and belief, see, C. and R. Brooke, Popular Religion in the Middle Ages: Western Europe 1000–1300, London: Barnes and Noble 1984; Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture, xiv–xviii; B.Z. Kedar, ‘Introduction,’ in Ha-Tarbut ha-Amamit: Qovetz Mehqarim, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1996, 1–5; A. Remensnyder, ‘Un problème de cultures ou de culture? La statue-reliquaire et les joca de Sainte-Foy de Conques dans le Liber miraculorum de Bernard d’Angers,’ Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale, 33 (1990): 351–379; J.C. Schmidtt, The Holy Greyhound: Guinefort, Healer of Children since the Thirteenth Century, Cambridge University Press 2009; and C. Watkins, ‘“Folklore” and “Popular Religion” in Britain During the Middle Ages,’ Folklore 115 (2004): 140–150. Van Engen, ‘Christian Middle Ages,’ 540–546 (esp. 544). See S. Benin, ‘A Hen Crowing Like a Cock: “Popular Religion” and Jewish Law,’ Journal of Jewish Thought and Philosophy 8 (1999): 261–281. Benin argues the two tiered model of Formal/Popular Religion is not relevant to Ashkenazic Judaism. A. Grossman, ‘Yerushat Avot ba-Hanhagah ha-Ruhanit shel Qehillot Yisrael be-Yeme haBeynayim ha-Muqdamim,’ Zion 50 (1985): 189–220. Cf. Ben Sasson, ‘The “Northern” European Jewish Community,’ 209–219; Ta Shema, ‘Ashkenazi Jewry,’ 23–56 and Soloveitchik, Ha-Yayin be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, 358–369. This is despite the fact that, especially in its early years, there was a distinction between rabbinical/merchant oligarchs and the balance of the Jewish population. Cf. A. Grossman, ‘Yihus Mishpahah u-Meqomo ba-Hevrah ha-Yehudit be-Ashkenaz ha-Qadmon,’ in Peraqim be-Toldot ha-Hevra ha-Yehudit … Mugashim le-Professor Ya’aqov Katz, ed. E. Etkes et al., Jerusalem: Magnes 1980, 9–23.

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by members of a putative élite. However, there are reasons to give them some degree of credence. For example, over the course of our discussion, we will encounter a number of ritual practices that were rejected by rabbis, but which reflect basic halakhic knowledge on the part of those who practice them. In addition, a review of the literature makes it clear that throughout our period, Jewish parents made extraordinary efforts to teach their sons (and, not infrequently, their daughters) to read Hebrew.61 In most communities, educational frameworks, both formal and informal, were established to provide both elementary and advanced education.62 Jewish literacy was so typical as to attract the envy of Christian observers. In the middle of the twelfth century, a student of Peter Abelard observed: ‘If the Christians educate their sons, they do so not for God, but for gain, in order that the one brother, if he be a clerk, may help his father and mother and his older brothers. They say that a clerk will have no heir and whatever he has will be ours and the other brothers.’ A black coat and hood to go to church in, and his suplice, will be enough for him. But the Jews, out of zeal for God and love of the law, put as many sons as they have to letters, that each may understand God’s law … A Jew, however poor, if he had ten sons would put them all to letters, not for gain, as the Christians do, but for the understanding of God’s law, and not only his sons, but his daughters.’63 61

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Concerning women’s education in Ashkenaz, see A. Grossman, Pious and Rebellious: Jewish Women in Medieval Europe, trans. J. Chipman, Waltham: Brandeis University 2004, 160–169. Jews were also proficient in the vernacular (French and/or German), and used it for literary purposes. See S. Einbinder, A Beautiful Death: Jewish Poetry and Martyrdom in Medieval France, Princeton: Princeton University 2002; idem, No Place of Rest: Jewish Literature, Expulsion, and the Memory of Medieval France, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2008; and K. Fudeman, Vernacular Voices: Language and Identity in Medieval French Jewish Communities, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2010. E. Kanarfogel, Jewish Education and Society in the High Middle Ages, Detroit: Wayne State University 1992; idem, ‘Devarim she-bi-Khtav I Ata Rashai le-Omran Al Peh: Amirat haPesuqim she-ba-Tefillah- u-Middat ha-Oryanut be-Ashkenaz u-ve-Sefarad be-Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ in Rishonim ve-Aharonim: Mehqarim be-Toldot Yisrael Mugashim le-Avraham Grossman, ed. Y. Haker et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2010, 187–211; and Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 277–279. Relevant sources are easily accessible in the new edition of S. Assaf, Meqorot le-Toldot ha-Hinnukh be-Yisrael, i–iii, ed. S. Glick, Jerusalem: Schocken Institute and Lifshütz College 2001–2. Commentarius Cantabrigiensis in Epistulas Pauli e schola Petri Abelardi, ii, ed. A. Landgraf, Notre Dame 1935, 434 (cited in B. Smalley, The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame 1983, 78).

Introduction

17

Contemporary reports confirm the jealous scholastic’s impression. Literacy is composed of two elements: Decoding and Comprehension. The sources at our disposal indicate that teachers sought to teach their students both to decode Hebrew letters and to maximize their ability to comprehend sacred text. For example, at the turn of the thirteenth century, R. Eleazar of Worms (1165-c. 1240) put it this way: ‘Initially, he should learn to recognize the letters. Then he should combine them into words; after that the verse, and after that the passage (parashah),64 and after that the Mishnah and after that the Talmud.’65 This is an educational approach that pushed its students toward maximal Hebrew text comprehension, and not merely textual decoding. It was assumed that the typical male Jew was both obligated and able to undertake some type of Torah study. This assumption was expressed in the famous ordinances of the combined communities of Speyer, Worms and Mainz (Taqqanot ShuM; 1220) that ordered ‘every man should set aside a definite time for study, every day. If he is unable to study Talmud, he should read the Bible, the weekly portion or the Midrash, according to his ability. He who does more and he who does less are equally valuable, so long as his intentions are for the sake of Heaven.’66 It is against this background, of presumptive facility in Hebrew, Rashi could have realistically intended his Bible commentary to be accessible, on some level, much of society.67 64 65

Presumably the reference is to the portions of the Torah that are read in the synagogue. Sefer Roqeah ha-Shalem, 11. It might be objected that R. Eleazar was a leading German Pietist. As such, his dictates might not be representative. The material assembled by Kanarfogel (Oryanut be-Ashkenaz, passim) however, shows this was not the case.  Edward Fram has noted that by the sixteenth century the situation among the heirs of Ashkenaz was very different. Hebrew competence was in serious decline for men and a fortiori woman. See E. Fram, My Dear Daughter: Rabbi Benjamin Slonik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland, Cinncinnati: Hebrew Union College Press 2007. 66 L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964, 231. I have adjusted the translation to combine complementary elements of the two versions of this clause. Admittedly, deriving realia from prescriptive texts of this sort is tricky. However, as a collective communal act, I think it reasonably reflects that which the enactors thought realistic. 67 Grossman, Rashi, 3–11 and 133–134. Rashi’s commentaries on other Biblical books pose a thornier problem, and these may have been written for a more learned audience. The printed version of mv (H, sec. 528) cites a passage from Kallah Rabbati (1, 6) that assumes that unlettered people (ame ha-aretz) are capable of studying the laws regulating the various festivals. Interestingly, the parallel Talmudic passage (Sanhedrin 101a), which the author of mv does not cite, refers to ‘masters of Talmud’ (Ba’ale Gemara) who study these laws. The choice of this version appears to be both significant and repurcussive.

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Pre-Tosafist, i.e. pre-twelfth century, Jewish elementary education commenced with, and was based upon, close study of the Five Books of Moses.68 Ashkenazic scholars in pre-Crusade Europe were intensely involved in the explication and exposition of the Biblical text.69 The Talmudic requirement that everyone review the weekly Bible portion was taken very seriously.70 Late eleventh century sources describe the study of the weekly portion as part of the established rhythm of the Sabbath.71 The Talmud mandated that every Jewish male was required to devote time every week to study the portion of the Pentateuch that would be read on the upcoming Sabbath.72 Initially, this was meant to be achieved by studying the Hebrew text together with the ancient Aramaic interpretive translation (Targum). From the twelfth century on, however, facility in Aramaic declined, rendering the original mandate increasingly unpopular. There were calls for substituting linguistic aides for the Aramaic Targum.73 If the French Biblical glossaries published by Banitt are typical of these, then one can conclude that many contemporary Jews knew sufficient Hebrew to enable them to study the Bible in the original, together with such ‘crutches.’74 In the first half of the thirteenth century, the famed Tosafist and Preacher, R. Moses of Coucy (d. c. 1250), proposed substituting Rashi’s commentary for the difficult recitation of the Targum.75 This proposal, which by the fourteenth 68

Cf. E. Kanarfogel, ‘On the Role of Bible Study in Medieval Ashkenaz,’ Frank Talmage Memorial Volume, I, ed. B. Walfish, Haifa: Haifa University Press 1993, 152 and the sources cited there in note 9. 69 Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 64–66. 70 B. Berakhot 8a. The obligation included the Aramaic paraphrase (Targum), as well. 71 Cf. mv(H), sec. 228 s.v. hamesh shanim la-miqra and Roqea’h ha-Shalem, 11. 72 B. Berakhot 8a-b. The history of the practice is discussed in detail by J. Penkower, ‘Tahalikh ha-Kanonizatziyah shel Perush Rashi la-Torah,’ in Limmud va-Da’at ba-Mahashavah Yehudit, H. Kreisel ed., Beersheba: Ben-Gurion University Press 2006, 137–142. See also, F. Talmage, ‘Keep Your Sons from Scripture: The Bible in Medieval Jewish scholarship and Spirituality,’ Understanding Scripture: Explorations of Jewish and Christian Traditions of Interpretation, ed. C. Thomas and M. Wyschogrod, New York: Paulist Press 1987, 81–101 and E. Kanarfogel, ‘On the Role of Bible study,’ 151–153. 73 Penkower (ibid) notes that a vigorous controversy swirled around this suggestion. 74 See M. Banitt, L’ étude des glossaires bibliques des juifs de France au Moyen Âge: méthode et application, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1967; idem (ed.), Le glossaire de Bale, 2 vols., Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 1972; and idem, Le Glossaire de Leipzig, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 1995. Fudeman (Vernacular Voices, 23–26) points out such glossaries probably existed in German as well. (My thanks go to Professor Penkower for his help with these points.) 75 Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, pos. 19 (end).

Introduction

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century had carried the day, has important implications for the present discussion.76 It confirms the fact that a significant population was exposed to Rashi’s commentary and that the commentary was a fixture of the intellectual life of the laity.77 All of this further strengthens the contention that Rashi’s commentary on the Pentateuch reflected and deepened established ideals. In this way it served as a formative element for the ongoing Ashkenazic worldview.78 As mentioned, one should distinguish between knowledge and the ability to read and understand sacred texts in Hebrew and Aramaic. Obviously, there was a broad spectrum of both types of literacy. One cannot compare the situation in large established communities, such as Speyer, Worms and Mainz, with that of the type of tiny hamlet in which many Jews lived. Many Jews were unable to read, much less comprehend, either the liturgy or more advanced texts. Such people learned their prayers by heart and relied upon the precentor to help them fulfill those devotional obligations of which they were incapable on their own.79 Others studied with more knowledgeable individuals and, as Kirsten Fudeman has shown, had the texts translated into contemporary French or German.80 Religious and cultural literacy and knowledge are not limited to the ability to read with comprehension. Values and perceptions are not only internalized through intellection. As is well known to students of medieval art and architecture, texts (including religious texts) are not always written, even though they are ‘read.’81 Synagogue architecture, furnishings, manuscript illumination, r­ itual 76 77

78

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80 81

Penkower, “Tahalikh ha-Kanonizatziyah,” 143–146. One can deduce as much from a comment of R. Moses’ younger contemporary, R. Isaac of Corbeille (d. 1280), who opposed the suggestion. Nevertheless, in his highly influential code, Sefer Mitzvot Qatan (Introduction), he concedes that ‘if one does not know how to study Targum (le-targem), let him read the commentary (i.e. Rashi)’. Lack of texts may not have been as great an obstacle to general literacy as one might assume. Simcha Emanuel has noted that of the 300,000 Hebrew manuscripts that are attested to as existing in the fourteenth century, a mere five thousand have survived. See S. Emanuel, Shivre Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Magnes 2006, 18–19. Kanarfogel (‘Oryanut be-Ashkenaz,’ 189–200) describes at length the frequency with which people prayed from memory. He correctly observes that this was largely due to the lack of prayer books among the general population, citing passages that assume that when books were available then individuals could be assumed to read and understand them (195–200). Nevertheless, there is no question that many people simply memorized what they could and relied upon the prayer leader for the rest. K. Fudeman, Vernacular Voices, passim. See G. Duby, The Age of the Cathedral: Art and Society, 980–1420, trans. E. Levieux and B. Thompson, Chicago: University of Chicago 1981; idem, Art and Society in the Middle Ages, trans. J. Birrell, London: Polity 2000; E. Mâle, The Gothic Image: Religious Art in France of

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decorum and liturgical choreography are capable of both inculcating and reinforcing central values and ideas. Oral instruction and explanation, which were definitely present, combined to ‘socialize’ the population to internalize the community’s central values and perspectives.82 These educational modes resulted in a narrow divergence between popular and official religious culture that was noted above.83 Popular customs, for example, were cast in traditional forms,84 even when the immediate stimulus behind any given practice might have been from Christian society.85 Ashkenazic religiosity showed a marked tendency toward ritual stricture and prohibition. Individuals asserted their personal piety by going beyond the demands of the Law itself. Of special note is the supererogatory pattern that apparently characterized many Ashkenazic women, who expressed their spiritual yearnings by voluntarily adopting the observance of commandments and

82

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85



the Thirteenth Century, New York: Harper and Row 1972; R. Scott, The Gothic Enterprise, Berekeley: University of California Press 2005; and P. Sheldrake, ‘Reading Cathedrals as Spritual Texts,’ Studies in Spirituality 11 (2000): 187–204. Mahzor Vitry reports that the ethical tractate, Avot, was taught orally on Sabbath afternoons, ‘since the ignorant gather for the [afternoon] reading of the Torah; one then teaches them the singular qualities contained in this tractate, one chapter at a time’ (MV(H), sec. 424). This is not to imply that superstition, theurgy and such played no role in Ashkenazic culture. They did indeed. Yet, here too, the distance between the intellectual elite and the populace was not overwhelming. See J. Dan, ‘Sippurim Demonologi’im mi-Mikhtave R. Yehudah he-Hassid,’ Tarbiz 30 (1961): 273–289; E. Kanarfogal, Peering through the Lattices: Mystical, Magical and Pietist Dimensions in the Tosafist Period, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2000, 131–188; and R. Kushelevsky, Sigufim u-Pituyyim: Ha-Sippur ha-Ivri be-Ashkenaz, Jerusalem: Magnes 2010. In this connection, one should note that the impact of folk magic and superstion here remains to be fully examined. See Kanarfogel, Peering through the Lattices, 269 s.v. magic, and J. Treachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition: A Study in Folk Religion, foreward by M. Idel, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2004. J. Le Goff, Time, Work, and Culture in the Middle Ages, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1980, 153–158. See E. Baumgarten, ‘Circumcision and Baptism: The development of a Jewish Ritual in Christian Europe,’ in The Covenant of Circumcision: New Perspectives on an Ancient Jewish Rite, ed. E.W. Mark, Lebanon nh: Brandeis University Press 2003, 114–127 and T. Fishman, ‘The Penitential System of Hasidei Ashkenaz and the Problem of Cultural Boundaries,’ Journal of Jewish Thought & Philosophy 8 (1999): 201–229.  Elements of Pre-Christian, pagan folklore did penetrate Jewish life, and were similarly ‘Judaized.’ The subject is underexamined. Still useful, mirabile dictu, are M. Güdemann, Geschichte des Erziehungswesens und der Culture der abendländischen Juden während des Mittelalters, I, Hebrew trans. A.S. Friedberg, Warsaw 1897, 157–185 and Trachtenberg, Jewish Magic and Superstition. (See, especially, Idel’s remarks, ibid., ix–xxvi).

Introduction

21

rituals from which they were formally exempt.86 They engendered religious change by maximizing their involvement in established religious structures. Their initiative was, in the end, ratified by R. Tam when he ruled that they could recite the attendant blessings (‘who has sanctified us by His commandments and commanded us’) upon performing those actions.87 Even where popular practices were not approved by rabbinic authorities; they were frequently modelled upon normative rabbinic practice.88 Thus, even ritual ‘outliers’ reflected the ideals and beliefs of Ashkenazic higher religious culture.

86 Grossman, Pious and Rebellious, 174–197 and Y. Ta Shma, ‘Ma’amad ha-Nashim ha-Mitnadvot le-Qayyem Mitzvot she-ha-Zeman Gerama,’ in Halakhah, Minhag u-Metzi’ut be-Ashkenaz 1000–1350, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 262–279. Elisheva Baumgarten has argued that the famous practice by menstruant or partrient women to avoid the synagogue originated among Ashkenazic women. If she is correct, then it would constitute further proof of the ability of mimesis – in its broad sense – to instill the unstated values of contemporary Ashkenaz, in this case the identity of the Synagogue with the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. See E. Baumgarten, ‘“Ve-Yafeh Hen Osot”: Mabat Hadash al Minhag Nashim she-lo Le-hikanes le-Vet ha-Knesset be-Yeme Niddutan be-Ashkenaz be-Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ in Sefer ha-Zikkaron le-Yisrael M. Ta-Shma, ed. A. Reiner et al., Alon Shvut: Tevunot 2012, 85–104. 87 Cf. Tosafot Eruvin 96a s.v. dilma (and parallels). The question of reciting a blessing proved to be controversial. However, this does not detract from the essential point. See also, B. Har Shefi, Nashim be-Qiyyum Mitzvot ba-Shanim 1050 – 1350: Beyn Halakhah le-Minhag, PhD dissertation, Bar-Ilan University 2003. 88 Two such examples, which are discussed below, are reciting a blessing before immersion in a miqveh on the Eve of Yom Kippur and the rite of purification that was invented for penitent apostates.

chapter 2

The Community The legal and conceptual status of Jews in medieval Christendom required the resolution of two fundamental and repercussive anomalies. Theologically, Jewish existence was itself highly problematic. From the time of Paul, Christian thinkers and legists had assumed that with the coming of Jesus, the Jews had fulfilled their historical mission and could now descend the stage and fade into oblivion. The continued existence of Jewish populations within Christendom required theological explanation. That justification was supplied to Western Christianity by Augustine of Hippo (354–430) in his blueprint for the ideal Christian society, The City of God (De Civitate Dei). In that work, Augustine presented a history of human salvation. This review prompted him to consider the status of the Jews, in a world where their Torah had been superseded by the Gospel, and their chosen status had been transferred to the ‘True Israel’ (Verus Israel), those who believed in Jesus. Faced with the fact of their presence within Christendom, Augustine provided the theological argument that became the dominant basis for their toleration.1 His theory of toleration was based upon a novel interpretation of a verse in Psalms (59, 12): ‘Slay them not, lest my people forget.’2 Augustine interprets the verse to mean that God is exhorting Christians (‘my people’) not to slay the Jews so that the latter may serve as living testimony to the events in the Gospel, and as guardians of the literal sense of Scripture (sensus litteralis). As Bernard of Clairvaux later put it, they were to be preserved as ‘living letters of Scripture.’3 Thus, with a deft exegetical gesture, Augustine enshrined traditional Christian hostility toward the Jew and Judaism, while simultaneously justifying their existence as a protected minority within Christendom. That existence was not, however, predicated upon equal rights with Christians. Equality between believers and infidels (and in this case, deicides) 1 See J. Cohen, ‘“Slay them Not”: Augustine and the Jews in Modern Scholarship,’ Medieval Encounters, 4 (1998): 78–92; and idem, Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christendom, Los Angeles: ucla Press 1999, 23–66. 2 Augustine, City of God (Civitas Dei), vi, trans. W.C. Green, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1967, Book xviii, Ch. 46. 3 Bernard of Clairvaux, Opera, viii, ed. J. Leclercq et al., Rome 1977, 316.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���� | doi 10.1163/9789004300255_003

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would have been incomprehensible to medieval Christians. Jews may have been afforded physical and religious protection. However, the circumstances of their existence were supposed to be dramatically reduced and restricted. Toward that end, ecclesiastical legislation was repeatedly enacted to ensure that proper distance be maintained between Jews and Christians, and that the former be maintained in a position suitable for the deniers of Christ.4 This conflicted dynamic remained the centerpiece of official Church doctrine toward the Jews until the modern era.5 From the point of view of the various and sundry feudal authorities, the Jewish right of residence was also not a given.6 Medieval society was largely corporate in structure. An individual’s standing, rights and immunities were determined by the legal entity or status to which he belonged. Since, these were essentially Christian in character, Jews did not possess a natural framework that could determine their rights or regularize their status.7 Hence, the 4 See R. Chazan, Church, State and Jew in the Middle Ages, New Jersey: Behrman House 1980, 1–8 and 19–35. The double-edged character of Church policy is expressed in the well known Papal Bull, the Constitutio Pro Judeis. While it was only first issued in 1120 by Pope Calixtus ii, it neatly reflects classic Church doctrine. See S. Grayzel, ‘The Papal Bull Sicut Judeis,’ in Studies in Honor of Abraham Newman, ed. M. Ben-Horin, Leiden: E.J. Brill 1962, 243–280. 5 As Jeremy Cohen has demonstrated, the Augustinian doctrine of Jewish witness was militantly opposed by the Dominican and Franciscan Orders. In its place, from the thirteenth century onward, they developed a full scale theology and strategy to undermine Judaism with an eye to mass conversion – or expulsion. The influence and impact of the mendicants and their new approach were admittedly profound. However, the Augustinian theory remained the official policy of the Church – albeit, to varying degrees of consistency. See Cohen, Living Letters of the Law, 313–390 and the balanced observations of D. Berger, ‘Mission to the Jews and Jewish-Christian Cultural Contacts in the Polemical Literature of the High Middle Ages,’ ahr 91 (1986): 576–591. 6 One exception was Italy, where Jews retained a residual form of citizenship that survived from Roman times. Ironically, that citizenship only complicated their lives, insofar as it prevented them from having full autonomy. See V. Colorni, Legge ebreica e leggi locali: ricerche sull’ambito d’applicazione del diritto ebraico in Italia dall’epoca romana al secolo xix, Milan: Giuffrè 1945 and R. Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy, Berkeley: University of California Press 1994, 19–78. 7 See G. Duby, The Three Orders: Feudal Society Imagined, trans. A. Goldhammer, Chicago: University Of Chicago Press 1982. I have been consciously schematic in my remarks here, as the variety of legal jurisdictions and forms of status that marked medieval Europe in the period under consideration did not significantly affect the basic question of the legal basis for  Jewish settlement. Similarly, the scholarly debate over the existence or definition of ­feudalism as a consistently identifiable entity does not significantly affect the question of

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basis for their legal existence was created through the granting of charters and privilegia. These were, as the word ‘privilegium’ implies, privately improvised laws that filled this void.8 Furthermore, since secular authorities were usually motivated to encourage Jewish settlement in their jurisdictions based on an expectation of economic gain, the terms of these charters were often more generous than Church policy might have allowed.9 For the Jews, the key phrase in these charters was that which allowed them to live and adjudicate all internal issues ‘according to their Law’ (legem suam). Such provisos, which appear with variations in all charters, provided the community with religious and juridical autonomy.10 In other words, while the form of the Qehillah was set by governmental charter, the substance and texture of communal life were provided by Jewish tradition. As a result, the Qehillah not only provided Jews with crucial legal standing: it created an all-embracing environment that was the key vehicle for ­socializing

8

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10

medieval Jewish status. However one might characterize contemporary Christian society, the Jews had no clearly defined place therein. Their status, therefore, needed to be improvised. See E.A. Brown, ‘The Tyranny of a Construct: Feudalism and Historians of Medieval Europe,’ AHR 79 (1974): 1063–1088; G. Kisch, The Jews in Medieval Germany: A Study of  Their Legal and Social Status, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1949; S. Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad: Hiddat Hisardutan shel ha-Qevutzot ha-Yehudi’ot be-Yeme ha-­ Beynayim, Tel-Aviv: Tel Aviv University and Ha-Qibbutz ­ha-Me’uhad 1997, 13–30 and L.K. Little and B. Rosenwein, Debating the Middle Ages, Oxford: Blackwell 1998, 105–210. Many historians see a parallel between this development and the status of the medieval commune – later ‘city’. See S. Simonsohn, ‘Ha-Qehillah Ha-Yehudit be-Italia ve-ha-Qorporatziyah Ha-Notzrit,’ in Dat ve-Hevrah be-Toldot Yisrael u-ve-Toldot ha-Amim, Jerusalem: Israel Historical Society 1965, 81–102; and G. Duby (ed.), La ville mediévale; des Carolingiens a la Renaissance, Paris 1980. Kenneth Stow, per contra, has argued vigorously that the qehillah could not technically be described as a corporation. See K. Stow, ‘Ha-Qehillah ha-Yehudit lo Haytah Qorporatziyah,’ Kehunah u-Melukhah: Yahase Dat u-Medinah be-Yisrael u-va-Amim, ed. I. Gafni and G. Motzkin, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1987, 141–148 and idem, An Alienated Minority: The Jews of Medieval Latin Europe, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1992, 179–184. This was typically the case in the early stages of Jewish residence, when the authorities had need of the Jews. As that need declined, so did governmental largesse. In such cases, secular authorities were more inclined to align their policies with those of the Church. They, after all, believed as Christians. On the other hand, as in the case of King Louis ix of France, religious considerations could upend more practical ones. Cf. W.C. Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews: From Philip Augustus to the Last Capetians, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 1989, 142–154. Cf. Chazan, Church, State and Jew, 58–75.

The Community

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and instilling Jewish behavioral norms and values in its members and to its posterity. It created a spatial and psychological context that grounded the Jews emotionally, spiritually and socially.11 It provided a refuge in the face of the ongoing deterioration of Jewish legal and economic status over the course of the High and Late Middle Ages.12 It held at bay the assimilationist dynamic that normally obtains between majority and minority groups.13 It also provided the structural context for the religious and cultural efflorescence of medieval Franco-German Jewry.14 Nevertheless, scholarly study of the Qehillah has focused overwhelmingly upon its legal and institutional characteristics.15 Among the major topics that  have been addressed may be counted: the legal status of the community,  the origins of the traditions of communal self-government, majority rule, and the nature of the ruling class, the rabbinate, social and philanthropic groups, inter-communal relations, majority rule, and super-­communal 11 Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 7–9. It is noteworthy that Jacob Katz identified the termini of the Jewish Middle Ages with those of Jewish communal self-government. See J. Katz, ‘Meqomam shel Yeme ha-Beynayim be-Toldot Yisrael,’ in Mehqarim be-Madda’e ha-Yahadut, M. Bar-Asher (ed.), Jerusalem 1986, 209–225. 12 See J. Cohen, Living Letters, Parts i and ii and D. Berger, From Crusades to Blood Libels to Expulsions: Some New Approaches to Medieval Antisemitism, New York: Touro College 1997. 13 Apostasy occurred throughout the period, to a larger degree than Jews would like to think and far less than Christians hoped. See J. Cohen, ‘The Mentality of the Medieval Jewish apostate; Peter Alfonsi, Hermann of Cologne, and Pablo Christiani,’ in Jewish Apostasy in the Modern World, T. Endelman (ed.), New York: Holmes and Meier 1987, 20–47; E. Fram, ‘Perception and Reception of Repentant Apostates in Medieval Ashkenaz and PreModern Poland,’ ajs Review 21/2 (1996): 299–339; C. Levin, Jewish Conversion to Christianity in Medieval Northern Europe: Encountered and Imagined, 1100–1300, PhD dissertation, New York University 2006; Jews and Christians in Twelfth-Century Europe, ed. M. Signer and J. Van Engen, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press 2001 and E. Carlebach, Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany, 1500–1750, New Haven: Yale University Press 2001, 28 ff. 14 I. Marcus, ‘A Jewish-Christian Symbiosis: The Culture of Early Ashkenaz,’ in Cultures of the Jews: A New History, ed. D. Biale, New York: Schocken 2002, 449–516. 15 Exceptions are H.H. Ben-Sasson, ‘The Northern Jewish Community and its Ideals,’ Jewish Society through the Ages, 208–220 and K. Stow: ‘Sanctity and the Construction of Space: The Roman Ghetto as Sacred Space,’ in Jewish Assimilation, Acculturation and Accom­ modation, ed. M. Mor, Lanham 1992, 54–76; and idem, ‘Holy Body, Holy Society: Conflicting Medieval Structural Conceptions,’ in Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land, ed. B. Kedar and R.J.Z. Werblowsky, Jerusalem and London: Israel Academy of Arts and Sciences 1998, 151–171.

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organization.16 However, missing from these discussions is the content of their communal life.17 What kind of world did the Qehillah comprehend? What were the ideological and emotional elements that infused, energized and were embodied therein? Until we undertake to ascertain the answers to these, and other related, questions we will remain with half a picture, for forms can only survive so long as their content is deemed relevant. Sacred Community In medieval Ashkenaz, Jewish communities were consistently described, and described themselves, with the words ‘Qehillah Qedoshah’ or ‘Qahal Qadosh’ (lit. a ‘Holy’ or ‘Sacred Community’).18 Each Sabbath before returning the Torah Scroll to the Ark, a prayer was offered for the welfare ‘of this holy community’ (qehalla qadisha haden).19 The Hebrew chronicles that 16

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See Y. Baer, ‘Ha-Yesodot ve-ha-Hathalot shel Irgun ha-Qehillah ha-Yehudit be-Yeme HaBaynayim,’ Zion 15 (1950): 1–41; L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964; A. Grossman, ‘Yahasam shel Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim leShilton ha-Qahal,’ Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri, 2 (1975): 175–199; H. Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1990; E. Kanarfogel, ‘Unanimity, Majority, and Communal Government in Ashkenaz During the High Middle Ages: A Reassessment,’ paajr 58 (1992): 79–106; Y. Kaplan, ‘Rov u-Mi’ut be-Hakhra’ot ba-Qehillah ha-Yehudit beYeme ha-Beynayim,’ Shnaton ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri, 20(1995–1997): 213–280 and idem, ‘Ha-Shilton ha-Atzmi ha-Yehudi be-Mishnat Ba’ale ha-Tosafot,’ Qahal Yisrael: Ha-Shilton ha-Atzmi ha-Yehudi le-Dorotav, 2: Yeme ha-Beynayim ve-ha-et ha-Hadashah ha-Muqdemet, ed. A. Grossman and Y. Kaplan, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2004, 85–100. Cf. Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 41–66 and 102–115. I first formulated my ideas on the subject in ‘Qehillah Qedosha’: Sacred Community in Medieval Ashkenazic Law and Culture,’ in A Holy People: Jewish and Christian Perspectives on Religious Communal Identity, ed. M. Porthuis and J. Schwartz, Leiden: Brill 2006, 217–235. Sefer Kol Bo, nos. 142 and 147, and Sefer Tashbetz, no. 322. As far as I have been able to determine, only Franco-German communities described themselves in this manner. The Rabinowitz edition of Maimonides’ ‘Letter to Yemen,’ (Jerusalem, 1968), does contain a reference to the destruction of a French(!)community. However, that appears to be a mistranslation of the Arabic original. See Iggerot HaRambam, trans. Y. Shilat, Maaleh Adumim 1987, 162–165. The prayer is first referred to in the earlier stratum of Mahzor Vitry, which dates from the first third of the twelfth century. One may, therefore, assume that Yequm Purqan was already part of the Sabbath liturgy in the eleventh century. See Mahzor Vitry, ed. S. Horowitz, Nüremberg 1923, sec.  190 (p. 172); Mahzor Vitry, iii, ed. A. Goldschmidt, Jerusalem: Otzar ha-Posqim 2004–9, 286; Siddur Rashi, ed. S. Buber, Berlin 1912, par. 214 and Perush Siddur ha-Tefillah le-Roqeah, 561. See also C. Duschinsky, ‘The Yekum Purkan,’ in Livre d’Hommage a la mémoire du Dr. Samuel Poznanski, Warsaw 1927, 182–198; I.

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describe the massacres visited upon the Jewish communities of the Rhineland refer to the latter over and over as ‘the sacred communities’ (haQehillot ha-Qedoshot).20 Scholarly gatherings are described as being comprised of ‘holy ones’ and their academies are sacred (yeshivah qedoshah).21 Liturgical poems (piyyutim) that were inserted into the regular liturgy on special occasions expressed the same ideas.22 Historically, it is unclear whether some of these passages were originally composed in Babylonia, the Land of Israel, or, even in Franco-Germany. For our purposes, though, the answer is not critical. What is important is that the prayer was recited from early on, and that the self-reference as a qehalla qadisha was a regular part of the regnant religious vocabulary. Similarly, on the High Holy Days, Jews commonly recited a poem entitled ‘Adire Ayumah.’ There the poet declares: ‘The Holy Communities proclaim His sanctity loudly: The Lord is King’ (Qehillot Qodesh yaqdishu be-qol).23 It was recited at a high point of the liturgy, and was frequently (and extensively) commented upon. No doubt the worshippers viewed themselves as being included among these ‘Holy Communities.’24 What did this terminology connote for Franco-German Jews?

Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy-A Comprehensive History, trans. R. Scheindlin, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1998, 151; K. Frankel, ‘Tefillat Yequm Purqan ba-Shabbat,’ Ha-Kerem 1 (1955): 18–24; and S. Tal, ‘Yequm Purqan,’ Ma’ayanot 10 (1974): 139–146. 20 Cf. S. Eidelberg, The Jews and the Crusaders: The Hebrew Chronicles of the First and Second Crusades, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 1977. The same is true of the memorial prayer that was composed in memory of the martyrs, Av ha-Rahamim, although there the term qadosh bears the added nuance of martyrdom. 21 Or Zaru’a, I, Hil. Rosh Hashanah no. 275. See A. Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1989, 119–121 and R. Bonfil, Mythos, Rhetoriqa, Historia? Iyyun be-Megillaht Ahima’az.’ in Tarbut ve-Hevrah be-Toldot Yisrael be-Yeme ha-Baynayim: Qovetz Ma’amarim le-Zikhro shel H.H. Ben-Sasson, ed. M. Ben-Sasson et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1989, 115. 22 Cf. Mahzor le-Yamim Nora’im, v. 1: Rosh Hashanah, ed. D. Goldschmidt, Jerusalem: Koren 1970, 78 l. 19. Similarly, those gathered in the precincts of the Temple on Yom Kippur are described as ‘A gathering of holy ones’ (Qehal Qedoshim). See also ibid., 78 l. 19 and idem, v. 2: Yom Kippur, 486 l. 10. 23 I. Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, I, New York 1970, no. 1132–33. The piyyut was composed in the Land of Israel, by the famous payyetan, R. Eliezer be-Rabbi Kallir. 24 Cf. E. Hollender, Clavis Commentariorum of Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in Manuscript, Leiden: Brill 2005, 102–104. Some of those described as praising God in this piyyut are clearly angels. However, commentators interspersed Angels and Humans in identifying the actors. See, for example, MS Vatican Biblioteca Apostolica ebr. 306, fol. 50a.

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To get a handle on the answer to this question, we will begin with an attempt to understand the constituent words, ‘qahal’ and ‘qadosh.’ The word ‘qahal’ means a gathering of some kind. In Biblical and Rabbinic Literature, it can mean, inter alia, a tribe, a community, a congregation, or an assembly.25 The actual size of the group can vary from the entire nation to a local community.26 Not infrequently, it refers to both, as the local community was viewed as an organic part of the whole. The same, multiple levels of meaning are found in medieval Ashkenazic literature.27 Each qahal possessed a strong sense of identity, based upon the simple fact of its existence as a Jewish collective.28 Thus, in contrast to those medieval Christian communes whose status as ‘Holy Communities’ (Heilige Städte) was predicated upon the presence of a holy site or the relics of a saint in its midst, it was the mere presence of the Jews themselves that rendered their community holy.29 Ultimately, that inherent sanctity was seen to be an

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See, Rashi’s comments on Gen. 48, 4 s.v. u-netatikha; ibid. 49, 6 s.v. be-qehalam; Ex. 34, 3 s.v. eleh; Lev. 4, 13 s.v. ha-qahal; Deut. 23, 3 s.v. lo(3); Ps. 89, 6 s.v. af; Prov. 21, 16 s.v. be-qahal; and Eccles. 1, 1 s.v. qohelet. The same range of meanings for ‘qahal’ is produced by R. David Qimhi. Cf Sefer ha-Shorashim, ed. J. Biesenthal and F. Lebrecht, Berlin 1847, 645 s.v. q’ h’ l’. See also, Arugat ha-Bosem, iii, 98. Cf. G. Blidstein, ‘Shaliah Tzibbur: Tivo, Tafqidav, Toldotav,’ Me-Qumran ad Qahir, ed. Y. Tabory, Jerusalem 1999, xlviii–xvix, esp. n. 18. This point was summed up by Gerald Blidstein: ‘A straight line can be drawn connecting the Biblical edah in which the individual realized his existence to the fullest, the Tannaitic tzibbur which ‘did not die’ (B. Temurah 15b) and which appeared primarily in the sacred realm, and the midrashic Knesset Israel which personified the entire nation in all generations.’ G. Blidstein, ‘Individual and Community in the Middle Ages: Halakhic Theory,’ in  Kinship and Consent: The Jewish Political Tradition and Its Contemporary Uses, ed. D. Elazar, Ramat-Gan: Turtledove 1997, 335. Y. Yuval, ‘Heilige Städte, Heilige Gemeinden – Mainz ales des Jerusalem Deutschlands,’ Jüdische Gemeinden und Organisationsformen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, hrsg. R. Jütte u. A. Kustermann. Wien: Böhlau 1996, 93. By way of contrast, the sanctity of the contemporary Christian town was based upon the presence of sacred relics in its midst (ibid. 92–93). Cf. A. Haverkamp, ‘Heilige Städte” im Hohen Mittelalter,’ Mentalitäten im Mittelalter: Methodische u. inhaltliche Probleme, ed. F. Graus, Sigmaringen: Thorbecke 1987, 119–156. Yuval, ‘Heilige Städte, heilige Gemeinden,’ 93: ‘Die christliche Stadt gründete ihre Heiligkeit auf den Besitz von Reliquien, Überresten von Heiligen vergangener Zeiten, die ihr einen Status wie Jerusalem oder Rom verleihen … Allerdings beruht die Heiligkeit der jüdischen Gemeinde in Europa nicht auf dem Vorhandensein von heiligen Gegenständen, sondern auf der Anwesenheit von Juden.’

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expression of the immutable covenant between God and their Biblical ancestors, which was perpetually renewed by God.30 The only Talmudic lexicon to survive from medieval Ashkenaz, the Sefer ha-Arukh by R. Nathan b. Yehiel of Rome (1035–1106), conveys the impression that a community possessed identifiable components.31 When defining the meaning of the root word q’h’l’, R. Nathan b. Yehiel invoked Rabbinic passages that described the ‘Sacred Congregation of Jerusalem’ (Qehalla Qadisha de-Yerushalayim).32 The ‘Sacred Congregation of Jerusalem’ was a pietist fraternity that flourished in Jerusalem at the end of the Tannaitic period, in the second half of the first century ce.33 Its members were distinguished by dedication to residing in the Land of Israel (especially Jerusalem),34 placing special emphasis on the 30

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Cf. Rashi, Deut. 14, 2 s.v. ki: ‘Your own sanctity comes from your ancestors. Furthermore, God chose you.’ The polemical intent of this comment is self-evident. See J. Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance, New York: Schocken 1969; H.H. Ben-Sasson, ‘Yihud Am Yisrael le-Da’at Bene ha-Me’ah ha-12,’ Peraqim 2 (1974): 145–218; and A. Grossman, Emunot ve-De’ot be-Olamo shel Rashi, Alon Shvut: Tevunot 2008, 61–77. This work was completed toward the end of the eleventh century. See I. Ta Shma, Sifrut ha-Parshanut la-Talmud, I, Jerusalem: Magnes 1999, 217–221. See also, H.J. Zimmels, ‘Scholars and Scholarship in Byzantium and Italy,’ in The World History of the Jewish People: The Dark Ages (711–1096), ed. C. Roth, Tel Aviv: Masada 1966,182–185. Arukh Completum, ed. A. Kohut, New York 1955, s.v. qahal, (71–72). Granted, it is not always clear whether R. Nathan intended the sources he cites to precisely define the words he discusses. In this instance, though, he prominently features the Qehalla Qadisha. This, along the clear correspondence between it and the Ashkenazic Qehillah Qedoshah, strongly suggests that this was his intent. See Y. Ta-Shma, Ha-Reqa ha-Italqi le-Sefer haArukh shel R. Natan b’r Yehiel mi-Romi,’ Knesset Mehqarim, iii, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 2005, 3–8. I have found no significant reference to the Qahalla qadisha de-Yerushalayim in Provencal or Spanish Halakhic literature. The group was also known as the ‘Holy Congregation’ (ha-Edah ha-Qedoshah), and was largely composed of disciples of the second century scholar, R. Meir. See S. Safrai, ‘Qehalla Qadisha de-be-Yerushalayim,’ Bi-Yeme ha-Bayit u-Be-Yeme ha-Mishna: Mehqarim be-Toldot Yisrael, I, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 171–181 and idem, ‘Ha-Yehudim be-Yerushalayim beTequfa ha-Romit,’ in Sefer Yerushalayim: Ha-Tequfah ha-Romit ve-ha-Byzantit, ed. S. Safrai and Y. Zafrir, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 1999, 27–28. Baer (Ha-Yesodot, 8–10), based upon Christian sources and archaeological evidence, suggests that the usage was actually much wider (e.g. Corinthians 1, 2). The period following the Bar Kokhba revolt witnessed large-scale emigration from the Land of Israel to the Diaspora. See Z. Safrai, ‘Matzav ha-Yishuv ha-Yehudi be-Eretz Yisrael le-ahar Mered Bar-Kokhba,’ Mered bar-Kokhba: Mehqarim Hadashim, ed. A. Oppenheimer and U. Rappaport, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 1988, 182–214 and J. Schwartz, ‘Eretz Yehudah be-Iqvot Dikui Mered Bar-Kokhba,’ibid., 215–223.

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centrality of prayer,35 eating in a state of ritual purity (hullin be-taharah),36 and an a priori commitment to strictness and supererogatory behavior in the observance of ritual law.37 In addition, according to the Midrash this ‘holy congregation’ would divide its time into three equal parts – for study, for prayer and for work.38 R. Nathan duly noted the passages describing these identifying markers, leaving the impression that this qehalla qadisha represented the ideals that marked a Jewish community.39 Obtaining a working definition of the words qadosh, i.e. sacred or holy, is somewhat easier. In addition to the Arukh, we have the benefit of Rashi’s Bible commentaries that mirror the basic values of pre-Crusade Ashkenazic culture. The Arukh emphasizes that sanctity is ultimately derived from God, who is ‘holy in all manner of holiness.’40 Thus, if a group is sacred, it is a reflection of their relationship with God. Rashi expands upon this insight.41 The Jew is made holy by virtue of the covenant between him and God, and that state of holiness – as 35

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Safrai suggests that the emphasis on prayer was at the expense of Torah study. See Safrai, ‘Qehallah Qadishah,’ 177–178. Ta Shma notes that Palestinian rabbinic tradition generally ranked prayer higher than study. To this end, he notes the statement of the third century Palestinian scholar, R. Yohanan, ‘Would that a person would pray the entire day’ (B. Berakhot 28a). See Y. Ta Shma, Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumah: Peraqim be-Ofya u-ve-Toldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2003, 8. See, however, B. Berakhot 9b and Sefer Or Zaru’a, I, no. 14. Cf. P. Shabbat 3a and the discussion by Safrai, ‘Qehalla Qadisha,’ 179–180. One example is the position attributed to this group that ‘even if there are ten mats, one on top of the other, and a garment of wool and linen (kilayim) is under them, one may still not sleep upon them’ (Cf. B. Betzah 14a and Hiddushe ha-Ritva, ad loc.) Qohelet Rabbah, 9, 9. R. Nathan attributes the passage to Haggadat Qohelet. The text is also cited in a gloss to Rashi’s commentary to B. Betza 27a. Cf. Diqduqe Sofrim ad loc. and Otzar Ha-Geonim, Berakhot 9b s.v. he’id (attributed to the eighth-century Babylonian authority, R. Yehudai Gaon). It has been suggested that the full text of Qohelet Rabbah was not available in Western Europe in the Central Middle Ages. This observation, confirmed by the fact that Rashi cites this passage second hand, makes the awareness of this specific citation all the more notable. The desire to define the characteristics of a qahal is likewise responsible for the fact that R. Nathan did not cite other references to the Qehalla Qadisha such as B. Berakhot 9a and B. Rosh Hashanah 19b, which do not add to the discussion. For other uses of the term in ancient times, see L. Rost, Die Vorstufen von Kirche und Synagoge im Alten Testamen: Eine wortgeschichtliche Unterschung, Berlin 1938. Arukh, s.v. qadesh (68–70). Rashi asserts that the Temple (or the Tabernacle), by virtue of its being the place where the Divine Presence in-dwells, is per se holy. The same is true of everything connected to it. See Rashi, Ex. 25, 8 s.v. ve-asu and 31, 15 s.v. qadesh and others.

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with the covenant that generates it – is ineffable and inviolate.42 Holiness also requires that one control one’s physical drives by separating oneself from nonkosher food, from sexual impropriety (arayot) and from sin, generally.43 By extension, sanctity goes hand in hand with purity.44 The bottom line is that careful observance of the laws of the Torah is an ultimate expression of the sanctity of the Jew. Taking these definitions as a point of departure, it emerges that the identity markers of the Qehalla Qadisha de-Yerushalayim match values that distinguish Ashkenazic writings on the quality of the community, throughout our ­period.45 Ashkenazic Jews took a great deal of pride in the punctiliousness of their observance of Jewish Law. They deferred with awe to the extraordinary piety of their ‘holy ancestors’ (avotenu ha-qedoshim) whose religious behavior (minhag) was treated as binding law, even when these practices, prima facie, went  beyond Talmudic norms.46 They maintained  a pronounced tendency toward legal stricture in religious observance, especially in such sensitive areas

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See Rashi, ad Num. 5, 18 s.v. ha-mearerim; Deut. 32, 2–3; and Jer. 2, 3 s.v. qodesh. In addition, note Rashbam, Lev. 19, 2. The added polemical import of his comment is self-evident. Cf. Rashi, Ex. 22, 29 s.v. qodesh and Lev. 19, 2 s.v. qedoshim. The definition of holiness as the restraint of appetite appears in Sephardic writings as well. Maimonides combines his discussion of the dietary laws and the regulation of sexual conduct in Sefer Qedushah, the ‘Book of Holiness.’ See I. Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides, New Haven: Yale University Press 1980, 264. Rashi, I Sam. 21, 6 s.v. va-yehyu. Historians have long argued to what degree, if any, medieval Ashkenazic practice and tradition derives ultimately from a putative ancient Palestinian custom. I do not believe that the answer to this question is critical for the present discussion. For the present purposes, it is sufficient to note that R. Nathan viewed these as defining characteristics of a community. The question of their ultimate origin, while certainly important, is not critical to the present discussion. Thus R. Isaac b. Judah (fl. c. 1060) stated that ‘it is a religious duty to be strict’ (mitzva lehahmir) and to prohibit food concerning which there is any doubt as to its permissibility. See Teshuvot Hakhme Zarefat ve-Lothair, ed. J. Mueller, Vienna 1881, no. 71 and Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim, ed. J. Freimann, Berlin 1917, 4. Similarly, R. Eliezer b. Isaac demanded extraordinary care (mitzva min ha-muvhar) in the observance of the building of a sukkah (MV(H), sec., 413). Interestingly, in this case R. Isaac b. Judah actually adopted the more lenient approach. Another example may be adduced from the trend to avoid Talmudic allowances regarding the ritual fitness of animals (bediqat terefah) were put aside, in the name of piety. See Rashi, B. Hullin 52a s.v. be-tre and H. Zimmels, ‘The Significance of “We are Not Acquainted Anymore”,’ Leo Jung Jubilee Volume, New York 1962, 223–236.

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as ritual slaughter, dietary laws and family purity.47 Finally, there was a pronounced tendency among Ashkenazim to culti­vate modes of supererogatory pietism (perishut) and, sometimes, outright asceticism.48 Finally, while I am unaware of evidence that Ashkenazic Jews literally organized their days according to the tri-partite regimen described by the Midrash. However,they did place a premium on the three activities around which they organized their lives: Labor, Prayer and Torah Study. Labor From the early tenth century onward, the capitals of Ashkenazic Jewry, Mainz and Worms, were renowned centers of Jewish economic activity.49 Rhenish Jews played a critical role in maintaining commercial ties between Western Europe and the East. In fact, it is commonly assumed that their commercial acumen and connections were the major reason that Jews were invited to settle in Capetian France and Ottoniam Germany50 This cultivation of worldly pursuits was not just a matter of convenience or necessity. It was viewed as a deeply rooted value. 47

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See E. Kanarfogel, Peering through the Lattices: Mystical, Magical and Pietist Dimensions in the Tosafist Period, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2000, 37–58. One should add Rashi’s comment to B. Shabbat 114b s.v. ela to Kanarfogel’s discussion. MV(H), sec. 337 (p. 373). Cf. SHP, no. 1069. This tendency tallies will with early Christian medieval usage. Robert Bonfil has noted that the tenth century Southern Italian progenitors of Ashkenazic Jews used the word qadosh as a synonym for the Latin term ‘saint’ (sanctus). Like their Christian neighbors, they understood a saint to be someone who undertakes greater, more rigorous religious practices than usual. Cf. R. Bonfil, ‘Beyn Eretz Yisrael le-Bavel,’ Shalem 5 (1985): 22–23 and idem, ‘Tra due mondi; prospettive di ricerca sulla storia culturale degli ebrei nell’Italia meridionale nell’alto medioevo,’ in Italia Judaica, I, Roma: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali 1983, 135–158. The saint is thus the equivalent of the hassid, i.e. the pietist. For the definition of hassid, see G. Scholem, ‘Three Types of Jewish Piety,’ Eranos Jahrbuch 38 (1939): 331–348. A. Grossman, ‘Communication among Jewish Centers during the Tenth to the Twelfth Centuries,’ in Communication in the Jewish Diaspora: The Pre-Modern World, ed. S. Menache, Leiden: Brill 1996, 107–126. Both men and women were intensively involved in this economic activity. See A. Grossman, Pious and Rebellious: Jewish Women in Medieval Europe, trans. Jonathan Chipman, Waltham: Brandeis University Press 2004, 117–132. The wider significance of this activity has been questioned by M. Toch, ‘Jews and Commerce: Modern Fancies and Medieval Realities,’ in Peasants and Jews in Medieval Germany, Great Britain: Ashgate 2003, xv: 43–58 and idem, ‘The Formation of a Diaspora: The Settlement of Jews in the Medieval German Reich, ibid, ix: 55–78. See, however, H. Soloveitchik, Ha-Yayin be-Yeme Ha-Beynayim (Yeyn Nesekh): Pereq be-Toldot ha-Halakhah be-Ashkenaz, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2008, 327–343.

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According to the Mishnah,51 among the obligations (mitzvot) of a father visà-vis his son is the duty to teach him a trade. Rashi understood this use of the word mitzvah to denote a specifically religious obligation. Thus, when the Talmud includes ‘teaching a trade’ among the various activities that are allowed to be discussed on the Sabbath, Rashi comments: ‘This is also a mitzvah, for one who does not teach him a trade is, de facto, teaching him brigandage.’52 Or, in a parallel passage: ‘It [i.e. learning a trade] is a mitzvah, as it is written (Eccles. 9, 9): ‘Enjoy life with the wife whom you loved’- [Life refers] to the trade from which you will live, with the Torah.’53 One important factor that contributed to the Ashkenazic attitude toward labor was the conviction that no pecuniary benefit should be derived from the study or the teaching of Torah. The Mishnah’s observation that one who ‘used the crown [of the Torah] will pass away,’ was understood to refer to ‘anyone who derived benefit from teaching Torah.’54 The eleventh century scholar, R. Simon b. Isaac ‘the Great’ (c. 950-c. 1020), took for granted that ‘those who drink its [sc. The Torah’s] waters, and sate themselves from its well … derive no benefit from its honor or enjoy its crown, neither will they use it as an axe or a diadem.’55 In fact, this conviction inhibited the appearance of a professional

51 M. Qiddushin 1, 7. 52 B. Shabbat 150a and Rashi, s.v. le-lamdo. The Talmud is discussing the prohibition of inappropriate conversation on the Sabbath, which does not include ‘shop talk’ relating to a child’s professional training. Obviously, no violation of the Sabbath rules against melakhah is intended. 53 Rashi, B. Ketubot 5a s.v. le-lamdo. See also Rashi, B. Megillah 27a s.v. ela lilmod Torah. 54 See M. Avot 1, 13 and 4, 5 and the commentary of MV(H), sec. 427. There were limited and begrudging allowances for paying teachers. See Tosafot Bekhorot 29a s.v. ma ani and MV(H), sec. 524. E. Kanarfogel, ‘Compensation for the Study of Torah in Medieval Rabbinic Thought,’ in Of Scholars, Savants, and Their Texts: Essays in Honor of Arthur Hyman, ed. R. Link-Salinger, New York: Peter Lang 1989, 135–147. Maimonides’ polemically negative position on this point is well-known. However, the practice of accepting payment for Torah study appears to have been more prevalent in the Arab World than in Ashkenaz. See the sources marshalled by R. Joseph Caro to blunt Maimonides’ position (Kesef Mishneh, Hil. Talmud Torah 3, 10). 55 Piyyute R. Simon b. Yitzhaq, ed. A.M. Haberman, Berlin-Jerusalem 1938, 186 l. 47 and 53–54. The lines are from a piyyut calling a bridegroom up to read from Torah (reshut). The ‘axe’ is a reference to Hillel’s admonition (M. Avot 4, 5) against using the Torah as ‘an axe to hew with.’ Along similar lines, R. Gershom expressed his pleasure that a certain scholar was able to support himself from commerce, which allowed him to teach free of charge (behinam). Cf. MV(H), sec. 484.

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rabbinate in medieval Ashkenaz until the middle of the fourteenth century.56 Ipso facto, scholars had no practical choice but to support themselves and their families through commerce or trade. Still, was the pursuit of a livelihood deemed to be an unavoidable necessity or a religious ideal? If the latter is the case, what was its relationship to Torah Study?57 For the sake of comparison, it is worthwhile to first have a look at contemporary Christian attitudes toward these activities. Medieval Christian thinkers maintained conflicting attitudes toward labor, wealth and commerce.58 Theologians overwhelmingly asserted that while laboring for one’s sustenance was a necessity, it was also a form of punishment. Adam and Eve had no need to labor.59 It was only after they sinned that man was forever condemned to abide by God’s declaration (Gen. 3, 19) that, ‘By the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread.’ The ideal remained the vita contemplativa spiritualis, which was cultivated in monasteries and retreats.60 56

See S. Schwarzfuchs, Études sur l’origine et le développement du rabbinat au Moyen Âge, Paris 1957; idem, A Concise History of the Rabbinate, Cambridge (Ma.): Oxford University Press 1993; M. Breuer, Ha-Semikhah ha-Ashkenazit, Zion 33 (1968): 15–46; and Y. Yuval, Hakhamim be-Doram, Jerusalem: Magnes 1988. 57 Cf. D. Schnall, ‘Six Days Shall You Toil: Classic Jewish Work Values in Summary and Comparative Religious Perspective,’ Torah u-Madda Journal 10 (2001): 69–94 and idem, By the Sweat of Your Brow: Reflections on Work and the Workplace in Classic Jewish Thought, New York: Yeshiva University Press 2001, 40–102. 58 R.S. Lopez, The Commercial Revolution of the Middle Ages 950–1350, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1976; Gurevitch, Categories of Medieval Culture, London and Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul 1985, 259–270; G. Ovitt, ‘The Cultural Context of Western Technology: Early Christian Attitudes Toward Manual Labor,’ Constructing the Past: Essays in Historical Methodology, ed. J. Le Goff, and P. Nora, Cambridge and New York 1985, 71–94; idem, The Restoration of Perfection: Labor and Technology in Medieval Culture, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press 1987; C. Whitney, Paradise Restored: The Mechanical Arts from Antiquity through the Thirteenth Century, Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society 1990; and L. Farber, An Anatomy of Trade in Medieval Writing, Ithaca: Cornell University Press 2006. 59 Gurevitch, Categories of Medieval Culture, 259–260. Gurevitch notes that Jesus himself is depicted as never having worked. On the contrary, he was described as providing food effortlessly, in anticipation of a redeemed world. Cf. Matthew 14, 15–21 and 15, 32–38. 60 Cf. D. Knowles, Christian Monasticism, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson 1969; J. LeClerq, The Love of Learning and The Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture, New York: Fordham University Press 1982; and G. Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century, Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press 1996. The Cistercians, of course, are a prominent exception. See the most recent discussions in M.B. Bruun (ed.),

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By way of contrast, throughout the High Middle Ages, Ashkenazic Jews did not view earning a living by one’s own efforts as a punishment. At worst, it was a practical obligation; yet, it possibly represented a religiously ordained duty. Rashi expressed both ideas. On the one hand, he observed that gainful employment prevents an individual from falling into a life of crime, and insures that the individual is able to study Torah, since ‘if you become dependent upon other, in the end you will totally neglect the words of the Torah.’61 Previously, we have seen that he viewed earning a living as a religious duty, per se.62 Rashi’s student, R. Jacob b. Samson (fl. c. 1100), implies that there is both dignity and inherent value in toiling for one’s sustenance. Commenting on the Mishnah’s injunction to ‘Love Labor,’ he observes that ‘let a person not hold himself so great as to be above working.’63 Work, as noted by R. Joseph Bekhor Shor (fl. 12th century), is spiritually cathartic.64 The independent, religious value of labor is further borne out by the way that parallel Talmudic passages in Baba Qamma (99b-100a) and Baba Metzia (30b) were understood. The Talmud discusses Jethro’s advice to Moses (Ex. 18, 20): ‘And you shall show them the way which they must pursue, and the deed that they must do.’ R. Joseph: ‘And shall show them’ refers to the source of their lives; ‘the way’ refers to deeds of loving-kindness; ‘that they must pursue’ refers to visiting of the sick; ‘which’ refers to means burial, ‘and the deed’ refers to the law; ‘which they must do’ refers to acting beyond the borders of the strict judgment. Rashi explains the enigmatic words ‘the source of their lives’ (bet hayyehem) in two different ways. In Baba Qamma, he states simply that this refers to Torah Study.65 In the parallel passage in Baba Metzia, however, he asserts

The Cambridge Companion to the Cistercian Order, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2012 and J. Burton and J. Kerr, The Cistercians in the Middle Ages, Suffolk and New York: Boydell Press 2013, 103–124. 61 Rashi, Qiddushin 29a s.v. ke-ilu and B. Berakhot 8b s.v. minhag. 62 See also, Rashi, B. Baba Metzia 30b s.v. zeh. 63 MV(H) ad M. Avot 1, 1 (sec. 424 s.v. Ehov). Based upon B. Gittin 67b, the author underscores the salutary nature of labor. 64 Perushe R. Yosef Bekhor Shor, Gen. 3, 18. Rashi (ad loc.) goes to great pains to emphasize that Adam’s curse was not the requirement to work per se, but the added effort that would hitherto inhere to his labor. 65 S.v. beit.

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that  ‘one must teach them a craft to support themselves.’66 Subsequent Ashkenazic authorities also cite Rashi’s second explanation, implying their endorsement.67 It will be recalled that the Qehalla Qadisha de-Yerushalayim reportedly divided its time evenly between Torah Study and economic endeavors. In that spirit, medieval Ashkenazim definitely viewed the time that they allocated to their economic pursuits as being religiously justified. This conclusion emerges from a lively debate among Ashkenazic writers, revolving around two Tannaitic passages. The first is cited in B. Berakhot (35a): Our Rabbis taught: ‘And you shall gather in your grain’ (Deut. 11, 14). What is to be learnt from these words? Since it says, ‘This book of the law shall not depart from your mouth’ (Josh. 1, 8), I might think that this injunction is to be taken literally. Therefore it says, ‘And you shall gather in your grain,’ which implies that you are to combine study with a worldly occupation. This is the view of R. Ishmael. R. Simeon b. Yohai says: Is that possible? If a man plows in the plowing season, and sows in the sowing season, and reaps in the reaping season, and threshes in the threshing season, and winnows in the season of wind, what is to become of the Torah? No! Rather, when Israel performs God’s will, their work is performed by others, as it is written: ‘And strangers shall stand and feed your flocks’ (Isa. 61, 5), and when Israel does not perform God’s will, they perform their own work, as it is written, ‘And you shall gather in your grain’ …. Said Abaye: Many have followed the advice of R. Ishmael, and it has worked well; ­others have followed R. Simeon b. Yohai and it has not been successful. The Tosafists focused on two troublesome implications of this passage.68 First, they were bothered by the idea that the fact that one must work to support 66 67

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S.v. zeh. Sefer Ravan, She’elot u-Teshuvot, no. 60; SMaG, Mitzvot Aseh de-Rabbanan, no. 2; and Mordekhai, Shabbat, I no. 258. They offer this reason in order to allow one to sail on a business trip less than three days before the Sabbath, an act which would otherwise be forbidden, because it constitutes a mitzvah. Cf. B. Shabbat 19b and commentaries, ad loc. R.  Eliezer of Metz (Yere’im ha-Shalem, nos. 153–154), however, adopts Rashi’s first explanation. The Tosafists, from the second third of the twelfth century, revived Talmudic dialectic and applied it to the Talmud itself. The result revolutionized and dramatically expanded Talmud study and Jewish jurisprudence. See E.E. Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1985; H. Soloveitchik, ‘The Printed Page of the Talmud: The Commentaries and Their Authors,’ Collected Essays, I, Collected Essays, I, Oxford: Littman Library of

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himself meant that he does not perform God’s will.69 This implication was per se problematic, especially in light of what they saw to be the obvious devotion of their community to their ancestral faith. They resolved this difficulty by asserting that only the absolutely righteous were relieved of the need to work. Hence, the overwhelming majority of people, who ‘combine study with a worldly occupation’ were also righteous, only a bit less so. The second point of perceived difficulty was the priority of these two activities in a less than perfect world. Rashi had already opened up the question by asserting that a person must set fixed times for Torah study ‘because a person needs a livelihood, for if one does not earn a living there can be no study of Torah. [Therefore], he must set aside a fixed amount of time for Torah, lest he be involved in his livelihood all day.’70 Earning a livelihood was a positive necessity. The danger was that it might so take up one’s time that no time would be left for Torah study. Hence, the individual needed to be committed to strictly set hours for study. Rashi’s comment leaves the question moot as to the relative value of earning a living. However, his grandson, R. Jacob Tam (better known as Rabbenu Tam) was militant in his conviction that pursuing a livelihood might even take precedence over Torah study.71 As transmitted by his nephew and premier disciple, R. Isaac of Dampierre (Ri; d. c. 1185), his position was based M. Avot (2, 2), which stated that ‘Torah study is good together with a worldly occupation.’72 The structure of the sentence, R. Tam argued, indicates that Torah study is

69 70 71 72

Jewish Civilization 2013, 3–10; idem, ‘Catastrophe and Halakhic Creativity: Ashkenaz – 1096, 1242, 1306 and 1298,’ Jewish History 12 (1998): 71–78 [=Collected Essays, I, 11–23]; and E. Kanarfogel, The Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture of Medieval Ashkenaz, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2013, 37–110. Tosafot, s.v. kan; Tosafot ha-Rosh, s.v. u-khetiv; and Tosafot R. Judah Sire Leon, s.v. kan. Rashi, B. Shabbat 31a s.v. qavata. Tosafot ha-Rosh, Yoma, 85b s.v. teshuva baya. In addition, see MV(H), sec. 425 ad M. Avot 2, 2; Tosafot Yeshanim, Yoma ad loc. S.v. ve-im tomar hakha; Tosafot R. Judah Sire Leon and Tosafot ha-Rosh, B. Berakhot 35b s.v. ve-asafta; and Hagahot ha-Maimuni’ot, Hil. Talmud Torah no. 2. Many scholars attribute this commentary on Avot to Rashi’s disciple, R. Jacob b. Samson (fl. 1070–1140). However, even those who affirm this attribution, acknowledge that the extant text is rife with interpolations and additions. The passage under consideration takes R. Tam’s interpreation as its theoretical point of departure, and then posits a more balanced understanding of the Mishnah. It seems clear to me that it was written in direct response to R. Tam’s words, which makes it unlikely that R. Jacob b. Samson was its author. See A. Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 413–416 and Kanarfogel, Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture, 499 n. 37.

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meant to accompany one’s worldly occupation (‘together with’), with the latter being the central value (iqqar). The idea that anything had priority over Torah study was emphatically rejected by Ri’s son, R. Elhanan (d. 1184).73 For him, there was no question that Torah study was the supreme value and should be reflected in the manner in which one divides one’s time. Pursuing a livelihood was certainly important. However, this should be far less emphasized, or time consuming, than Torah study, as borne out by the continuation of the same passage from Avot, that ‘any Torah study without work will result in waste and will lead to sin.’74 Others adopted a middle position. Thus, based upon the symmetrical formulations in this Mishnah, the commentary on Avot in Mahzor Vitry concluded that Torah study and earning a living were of equal value and status. Therefore, he advised that one’s time should be equally divided between the two activities.75 What all of these have in common is that supporting oneself through labor represents a positive, and, perhaps, inherently valuable activity.76 73 74

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Ri himself observed that ‘one’s real occupation is Torah study.’ Teshuvot u-Pesaqim Ri haZaqen, no. 152. Over the course of the tirteenth century, R. Elhanan’s position gained increasing traction. It was endorsed by Ri’s other premier disciple, R. Samson of Sens (M. Taharot 7, 4 s.v. veahat). R. Peretz of Corbeille (d. c. 1295) summarily rejected R. Tam’s idea, maintaining that the need to work for one’s living was a punishment for not devoting oneself exclusively to Torah study. The same sentiment was expressed toward end of the fourteenth century by the author of the moralising tract, Sefer Orhot Tzadiqqim. The writer, who was exiled from France in 1394, expresses many of the values and ideals of medieval Ashkenaz. In connection with the present topic, he writes (Orhot Tzaddiqim, Jerusalem 1954, Sha’ar ha-Simha, 59): ‘For now, the Lord (may He be exalted), has given two tasks to man: One – his Labor, and the second – Laboring in the Study of Torah. And man must take the middle way (memutza), with regard to these two endeavors, and set aside exclusive hours for the laboring Torah, and for laboring in this world.’ MV(H), ibid. Rashi (ibid., sec. 47) is quoted as saying that after the daily prayer service, Jews used to ‘study Torah. If one wished to occupy himself with Mishnah, he did so; with Talmud, he would do so. And why was this so? In order to fulfill that which the Sages said (B. Qiddushin 30a): ‘A person should always divide his years into three equal parts: a third, Scripture; a third, Mishnah and a third, Talmud. Once poverty increased, and scholars needed to work, they could no longer occupy themselves with the Torah, as much, and devote equal thirds on a daily basis.’ Rashi is not bemoaning the need to work, but that economic necessity impinged upon the minimum daily requirement of Torah study. The passage is found (with some variations) in Sefer ha-Pardes (306) and Siddur Rashi, no. 62. I have followed the version cited in MV(G), 49. Again, I want to emphasize that the goal  here is to map out the values that find expression in Franco-German literature,

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Torah Study Torah, and its study, stood at the apex of Ashkenazic religious values and national self-awareness.77 Franco-German Literature is so permeated with expressions of this conviction that, perhaps ironically, it requires less discussion here than other elements of the Ashkenazic worldview.78 In his famous Selihah, Zekhor Berit Avot, R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golah (c. 960–1028) cries out to God that ‘all that remains for us is this Torah.’79 Similarly, Rashi’s Bible commentaries resonate with the primacy of Torah and Torah Study.80 Already at the start of his commentary to Genesis, Rashi declares that ‘[The world was created] for the sake of the Torah,’81 and its very existence was predicated upon Israel’s ultimate acceptance thereof.82 True joy is only vouchsafed s­pecifically. Other communities addressed similar tensions between Labor and Study; and they resolved them in different ways. 77 In fact, it is R. Tam’s extreme formulation concerning the primacy of work that requires explanation. The author of an anonymous Ashkenazic commentary to VaYiqra Rabbah seems to be polemicising against placing too much emphasis on work to the detriment of Torah. See Perush Qadum le-Midrash Va-Yiqra Rabba, ed. M.B. Lerner, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1995, 136. 78 Of course, all Jewish communities subscribed to this conviction, which is hammered away at in rabbinic literature. As the tenth century philosopher and halakhist, R. Sa’adiah Gaon, famously stated: ‘Our nation’s identity is predicated solely upon its Torah’ (Sefer ha-Emunot ve-ha-De’ot, iii). Again, though, our examination is confined to Ashkenaz as a distinct entity. In addition – and more importantly – there were important differences of opinions between Ashkenazic Jews and their brethren in the Muslim orbit as to what disciplines were included in Torah. The latter had a much broader definition thereof than did the former. See D. Berger, ‘Judaism and General Culture in Medieval and Early Modern Times,’ in Cultures in Collision and Conversation: Essays in the Intellectual History of the Jews, Boston: Academic Studies Press 2011, 21–116. 79 Gershom b. Judah, Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah: Selihot u-Pizmonim, ed. A.M. Haberman, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 2004, 30. Cf. Hizquni, Lev. 26, 44 s.v. ve-af. 80 See A. Grossman, ‘Ha-Metah Beyn Torah le-Hokhmah be-Ferush Rashi le-Sifrut ha-Hokhmah she-baMiqra,’ in Teshura le-Amos: Assufat Ma’amarim be-Farshanut ha-Miqra Mugeshet le-Amos Hakham, ed. M. Bar Asher et al., Alon Shvut 2007, 13–27 and idem, Emunot ve-De’ot be-Olamo shel Rashi, 78–92 and 278–292. 81 Rashi, Gen. 1, 1 s.v. Bereshit. 82 Rashi, ibid. 1, 31 s.v. yom and Ps. 75, 4 s.v. nemogim. In his comment on Jer. 33, 25, Rashi (s.v. im lo beriti) admits that the midrashic interpretation does not reflect the plain meaning of the verse. This only underscores the pedagogic intent of the interpretation. This interpretation is frequently cited by Rashi himself and throughout Ashkenazic literature. Cf. Rashi, Ta’anit 3b s.v. be-lo Yisrael; Pseudo-Rashi, Nedarim 32a s.v. im lo; MV, no. 425 s.v. Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai (2); Liqqute Pardes, 13b; Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, no. 395; Rosh, Sanhedrin, 11, 3; Sefer Kol Bo, no. 14 s.v. qadosh qadosh and 121, s.v. zeh ha-hibbur.

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the person who studies Torah, and only through its study does one earn a place in the World to Come.83 And while all of Rashi’s comments are drawn from rabbinic literature, his specific choices for quotation and the prominence with which such statements feature in his writings, underscore their centrality in his vision and educational message. It was the key marker of Jewish uniqueness, and a major line of communication with God; an act of metaphysical and transcendental import. These messages continued to reverberate, with ever greater intensity, in the writings of Bible commentators and Piyyut commentaries throughout our period.84 For example, just sticking with Bible commentators, the various collections of Tosafist exegesis return repeatedly to the motif that Torah study sustains the world.85 In the middle of the thirteenth century, R. Hezekiah b. Manoah, repeats many of the themes highlighted by Rashi, adding that Torah study guarantees God’s blessings upon Israel.86 Toward the turn of the fourteenth century, R. Haim Paltiel (c. 1300) emphasized the importance of Torah study for guaranteeing the salvation of one’s soul.87 Jews in medieval Franco-Germany took their study obligations very seriously. From an early age, sons were introduced to the study of the Pentateuch through an elaborate and memorable ceremony, which was usually held on the festival of Shavuot.88 Instruction, in the earliest phases placed special emphasis upon the completion of the weekly portion of the Torah, which would be 83 Rashi ad Ruth 3, 7 s.v. va-Yitav, (based upon Ruth Rabbah 5, 15). 84 Even a cursory perusal of collections of pyyut commentary, such as the Arugat ha-Bosem, bears out the centrality of Torah and Torah study in the Ashkenazic religious system of values. 85 Ba’ale ha-Tosafot al ha-Torah, I, ed. M. Gellis, Jerusalem 1982 ad Gen. 1, 1 and Deut. 33, 4. 86 Perush ha-Hizquni al ha-Torah, ed. M.M. Aaron, Jerusalem 1992 ad Deut. 33, 5. See also his comments to Gen. 7, 4; Ex. 15, 27; 16, 4; 25, 20; Num. 21, 34 and Deut. 5, 3. The fullest discussion of the work is Y. Priel, Darko ha-Parshanit shel R. Hizqiyah b. Manoah (Hizquni) bePerusho la-Torah, PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University 2010.‬ Priel discusses Hizquni’s dates on page 231. 87 Hayyim Paltiel of Falaise, Perushe ha-Torah le-R. Hayyim Paltiel, ed. Y.S. Lange, Jerusalem 1981 ad Num. 1, 1. See also his comments to Gen. 17, 11; 28, 20; 39, 34; Ex. 3, 14; Lev. 23, 10; and Deut. 33, 4. The author is best known for his involvement in editing and transmitting the costumal that served as the basis for the better known fourteenth century collection by R. Avraham Klausner. See S. Emanuel, Shivre Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Magnes 2006, 219–227. Perushe ha-Torah le-R. Hayyim Paltiel is a report of his comments on the Pentateuch. 88 See I. Marcus, Rituals of Childhood: Jewish Acculturation in Medieval Europe, New Haven: Yale University Press 1996.

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read in the synagogue.89 Bible instruction was accompanied by exposure to rabbinic interpretations, increasingly through the medium of Rashi’s Bible commentary. In this way, the child was instilled with the basic elements of rabbinic tradition, alongside the most cherished values of the Ashkenazic community.90 It was assumed that every Jew was obligated to dedicate specific hours to Torah study. Ongoing, individual involvement in the study of Torah was a sublime value and its pursuit was a communal concern, an aspiration that is borne out by the ordinances of Speyer, Worms and Mainz (Taqqanot ShuM; 1220): ‘Every man shall set aside a definite time for study; if he is unable to study Talmud, he shall read Scripture, the weekly portion, or the Midrash, according to his ability. It is the same whether a man does more or less, provided that he is not prevented by an emergency.’91 There were, of course, those who did not study at all, and the fact that this rule was enacted implies as much.92 Nevertheless, rabbis and communities definitely strove mightily to instill in their members that a person’s individual’s daily schedule must include Torah Study.93 Ri was asked whether one had to recite the blessing for Torah study, if one had taken time out to go about one’s business, after leaving the synagogue in the morning. Normally, the rule is that if one interrupted one’s involvement in the performance of a mitzvah (hefseq), the blessing is repeated. Ri, however, ruled that in this case one does need not repeat the blessing, since: ‘people are consistent in their Torah study. They rush home from their affairs for the sake of study, and their minds are always on learning. This is not called an interruption.’94 89

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91 92 93 94

The relevant sources are noted and collated in E. Kanarfogel, ‘On the Role of Bible Study in Medieval Ashkenaz,’ in Frank Talmage Memorial Volume, I, ed. B. Walfish, Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1993,151–166. See J. Penkower, ‘Tahalikh ha-Kanonizatziyah shel Perush Rashi la-Torah,’ in Limmud vaDa’at be-Mahashavah Yehudit, H. Kreisel (ed.), Beersheba: Ben-Gurion University Press 2006, 123–130. L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964, 248 (with a slightly emended translation). See above, 17 n. 71. This is also implied by Tosafot, B. Sanhedrin 7a s.v. ela; Sefer Ravyah Teshuvot, no. 1155 and Or Zaru’a, I no. 44. For Christian parallels, see J. Van Engen, ‘The Christian Middle Ages as an Historiographical Problem,’ ahr 91 (1986): 549–552. Teshuvot u-Pesaqim Ri ha-Zaqen, no. 152. The full text appears – with slight variations – in Tosafot R. Judah Sir Leon, Berakhot 11b s.v. mi-she-qara. The printed Tosafot (ad loc.) lacks this critical sentence.

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Up to the middle of the twelfth century, Torah study was not confined to the elucidation of Talmudic texts and the rendering of legal decisions. The Ashkenazic library was large and varied, as was the curriculum of its scholars. It included Bible, Talmud, and many different collections of Midrash. Alongside these were mystical tracts of the Hekhalot variety, apocalyptic works, Shabbetai Donnolo’s semi-philosophical essay Hakmoni, and others.95 These works, whose major thrust was more in the direction of spiritual growth than legal expertise, were both highly valued and seriously studied. This picture changed significantly with the coming of the Tosafists. They placed an almost exclusive emphasis upon Talmud study.96 A clear indication of this shift is found in a well-known comment of R. Tam. The Talmud had declared: ‘One should divide one’s years into three parts: one third of them to Scripture, one third to Mishnah, and one third to Talmud.’97 The upshot is clearly that equal time be devoted to each discipline.98 R. Tam turned this idea on its head and declared that ‘we fulfill our obligation through Talmud study,’ on the grounds that it contains all three components.99 R. Tam’s position became a standard element in subsequent discussion of this issue, but it did not lead to total Talmudocentricity. Talmud study now enjoyed an even more central position in the curriculum, especially among the scholarly élite, yet other disciplines continued to be cultivated: Bible, Midrash, Piyyut and its commentary, and esoteric studies. The fact that several of these were noted by the ShUM ordinances, underscores both the ideal of universal Torah study and the broad definition thereof.100 95

Y. Ta Shma, ‘Sifriyatam shel Hakhme Ashkenaz bene ha-me’ot ha-11 ha-12,’ Qiryat Sefer 60 (1985): 298–309. 96 See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Three Themes in Sefer Hassidim,’ ajs Review 1 (1976): 339–354 and M. Breuer, ‘Min’u B’neikhem min ha-Higayon,’ Mikhtam le-David, ed. Ramat Gan 1978, 242–261. 97 B. Qiddushin 30a and B. Avodah Zarah 19b. 98 That is how both Rashi and Rambam understood the passage. Cf. Rashi, Avodah Zarah 19b s.v. be-yomei and Rambam, Hil. Talmud Torah 1, 11. See also Sefer Ravan, Qiddushin s.v. vekhol ha-melamed and Shibbole ha-Leqet, Inyan Tefillah, par. 5. 99 Tosafot Qiddushin 30a s.v. la zerikha. 100 Talmudocentricity was somewhat more characteristic of France than of Germany. However, even in France, not everyone devoted himself solely to Talmud. See Kanarfogel, Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture of Medieval Ashkenaz, passim. As a result, Ta Shma’s findings may need to be modified. Y. Ta Shma, ‘The Library of the French Sages,’ in Rashi, 1040–1990: Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna, 535–540 (Paris: Cerf 1993). Regarding study among the adult population, see M. Breuer, Oholei Torah: Ha-Yeshiva Tavnita ve-Toldoteha, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2003, 83–115.

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Prayer Rabbinic Judaism maintains a delicate balance between spirituality and law, between prayer and study.101 Medieval Franco-German Judaism is often described as having emphasized the latter over the former. It is true that in the wake of R. Tam’s teaching, the idea that intensive, practically exclusive, emphasis upon the study of the Talmud represented the highest form of spiritual activity and attainment gained traction as the religious ideal.102 In Pre-Crusade Ashkenaz, however, prayer stood alongside Torah study at the apex of Ashkenazic religious life, and even vied with the former for superiority.103 This last point is conveyed by verses from two eleventh century liturgical poems. The first is found in R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golah’s above-noted penitential poem, ‘Zekhor Berit Avot.’104 He bewails the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, crying that ‘the holy city and its districts are reviled and despoiled; and all of her precious things are sunken and hidden, and nothing remains but this Torah, alone’ [Italics added].105 While asserting the centrality of Torah, the 101 See I. Twersky, ‘Religion and Law,’ in Religion in a Religious Age, ed. S.D. Goitein, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1974, 69–82 (esp. 69–70). 102 Talmudocentric spirituality has a long history. See N. Lamm, Torah li-Shmah in the Works of Rabbi Hayyim of Volozhin and His Contemporaries, New York: Yeshiva University Press 1989 and J. Woolf, ‘Maimonides Revised: The Case of the Sefer Miswot Gadol,’ htr 90 (1997): 175–205. For the Talmudic era, see Y. Elman, ‘Torah ve-Avodah: Prayer and Torah Study as Competing values in the time of Hazal,’ in Jewish Spirituality and Divine Law, ed. A. Mintz and L. Schiffman, Jersey City: Ktav 2005, 61–124. 103 The primacy of prayer is often associated with German Pietism. However, many intellectual and spiritual traits that have previously been seen as largely Pietist in origin now appear to represent various forms of more broadly typical Ashkenazic spirituality. Moshe Idel’s recent discovery that mystical tracts that had been previously attributed to R. Eleazar Roqeah were actually authored by a non-pietist French scholar clinches this point. See J. Dan, ‘Ashkenazi Hassidim, 1941–1991: Was There Really a Hasidic Movement in Medieval Germany?’ in Gershom Scholem’s “Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism” 50 Years After, ed. P. Schäfer and J. Dan, Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck 1993, 87–101; H. Soloveitchik, ‘Piety, Pietism and German Pietism; “Sefer Hassidim I” and the Influence of “Hasidei Ashkenaz,’ jqr 92 (2002): 455–493; Y. Ta Shma, HaTefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumahh, 46–47; M. Idel, ‘Some Forlorn Writings of a Forgotten Ashkenazi Prophet: R. Nehemiah ben Shlomo ha-Navi,’ jqr 95 (2005): 183–196; idem, ‘Beyn Ashkenaz le-Kastilya ba-Me’ah ha-13,’ Tarbitz 77 (2008): 475–554 and idem, ‘Al ha-Perushim shel R. Nehemiah b. Shlomo ha-Navi la-Shem 42 Otiyot ve-Sefer ha-Hokhma ha-Meyuhas le-R. Eleazar mi-Worms,’ Qabbalah 14(2006): 157–261. (My thanks go to Professor Daniel Abrams for his assistance in developing this last point.) 104 Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah: Selihot u-Pizmonim, ed. A.M. Haberman, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 2004, 30–33. 105 Ibid. 30 s.v. ha-ir ha-qodesh.

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author also implies that, the worship of God (in the Temple, at least) is at least as valuable as study, and now lacking. However, in the absence of the former, the Jew must find make do only with the latter. The role of Torah study as a facilitator of prayer is also implied in a piyyut for the festival of Shavuot, Aqdamut by R. Meir b. Isaac, the precentor of Worms, (d. 1096): ‘He wanted and wished and desired that they toil at the hard work (viz. Torah study)/ In order (be-khen) that He might accept their prayers, and that their petitions be effective.’106 Prayer itself was understood to be a direct encounter between man and God.107 Its centrality was expressed via the increased attention being paid to the explication and interpretation of the liturgy, in order to ensure maximum involvement and comprehension by the worshipper.108 Great care and attention were paid to the order of the liturgy and the postures of prayer.109 Much time and effort were given to the composition and explication of liturgical poetry (piyyut), which enhanced and expanded the prayer experience. The authors of these piyyutim, which number in the thousands, were held in high esteem.110 Liturgical creativity was considered to be so essential an undertaking that it was assumed as a matter of course that Talmudic scholars must themselves compose piyyutim, and commentaries on those piyyutim.111 106 Whether this verse implies that prayer is of equal importance to Torah study or is superior thereto depends upon whether the word be-khen means ‘in order’ or ‘therefore.’ See H. Yeivin, ‘Tzurot Lashon Hakhamim be-Kitve Yad shel Piyyutim,’ Mesorot 9–11 (1997): 77–89; M. Kister, ‘Review of: Y. Yahalom and M. Sokoloff, Sirat Bene Ma’arava: Hebetim be-Olama shel Shirah Alumah,’ Tarbitz 76 (2007): 105–184; J. Hoffman, ‘Aqdamut: History, Folklore, and Meaning,’ jqr 99 (2009): 161–183 and the hitherto unknown passage by R. Eliezer Qalir in A. Shmidman, Birkhot ha-Mazon ha-Mefuyatot min ha-Genizah ha-Qahirit: Mavo u-Mahadurah Mada’it, PhD Dissertation, Bar-Ilan University 2009, 520. (My thanks to Dr. Mataniah Ben Gedaliah for bringing this verse to my attention, and to Dr. Avi Shmidman for the references to Yeivin and Kister.) 107 Belief in angelic intercession was common, though this does not alter the basic characterization. See S. Emanuel, ‘Al Amirat ha-Piyyut Makhnise Rahamim,’ HaMa’ayan 38 (1998): 5–11 and D. Malkiel, ‘Between Worldliness and Traditionalism: Eighteenth-century Jews Debate Intercessory Prayer,’ jsij 2 (2003): 173–179. 108 E.g. Rashi’s commentary on the prayers in Sefer ha-Pardes, 298–326. 109 E. Zimmer, ‘Tiqqune ha-Guf be-She’at ha-Tefillah,’ Sidra 5 (1989): 89–130. 110 Thus, the liturgical rulings of the above-mentioned R. Meir b. Isaac, the Hazzan of Worms, were considered definitive by Rashi. See Y. Ta Shma, Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit haQedumah: Peraqim be-Ofya u-ve-Toldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2003 34–35. 111 See E. Fleischer, Shirat ha-Qodesh ha-Ivrit be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem: Magnes 2007. Recently, the systematic study of Ashkenazic liturgical poetry and its commentaries has come alive. Stunning examples of the promise inherent in both undertakings are S. Einbinder,

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Only those whose piety and scholarship was beyond question were allowed to serve as precentor (hazzan) in the Synagogue, a position which often included composing liturgical poetry.112 One receives the clear impression that attendance in the synagogue, and the maintenance of a quorum (minyan), were very important to them.113 Worship was very much a communal obligation and activity, even when a minyan was unavailable.114 An indication of this is provided by a responsum of Ri.115 Ri was asked about one who took a vow, on public approbation (al da’at rabbim), forbidding his fellow from entering his home; and the synagogue is in his house.116 Can he annul his vow to go to pray in the synagogue, even though there is no minyan in the city, even with the one who was foresworn? He replied: ‘It appears to me that this is a matter of a mitzvah (dvar mitzvah). Certainly, this is true when there, periodically, is a minyan; but even when there is never a minyan, it is a mitzvah to include him in

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114 115 116

A Beautiful Death: Jewish Poetry and Martyrdom in Medieval France, Princeton: Princeton University Press 2002 and E. Hollender, Piyyut Commentary in Ashkenaz, Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyer 2008. See Y. Blidstein, ‘Shaliach Tzibbur: Tivo, Tafqido, Toldotav,’ in Me-Qumran ad Qahir, ed. Y.  Tabory, Jerusalem 1999, 39–74 and E. Kanarfogel, ‘The Appointment of Hazzanim in Medieval Ashkenaz: Communal Policy and Individual Religious Prerogatives,’ Spiritual Authority: Struggles Over Cultural Power in Jewish Thought, ed. B. Huss and H. Kreisel, BenGurion University Press and Mossad Bialik, 5–31. Katz assumed that daily attendance in the synagogue was the norm in medieval FrancoGermany. However, the sources that are presently in our possession make it difficult to know exactly how common such behavior really was, especially in smaller communities. See J. Katz, ‘Alterations in the Time of the Evening Service (“Ma`ariv”): An Example of the Interrelationship Between Religious Customs and Their Social Background,’ in Divine Law in Human Hands: Case Studies in Halakhic Flexibility, Jerusalem: Magnes 1998, 88–100. Even though there is a personal obligation to pray three times a day (e.g. SMaG pos. 19). Hagahot ha-Maimuni’ot, Hil Tefillah, 8 no. 1. Since communities often prayed in private homes, synagogues easily became prey to intra-communal strife. One of the first ordinances attributed to R. Gershom states: ‘If one lends a synagogue to a community, and has an argument and quarrel with one of them, he cannot prohibit him from the use thereof, unless he prohibits them all therefrom.’ Cf. L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964, 120. A vow ‘on public approbation’ (al da’at rabbim) is one of extreme severity, and is extremely difficult to annul (B. Gittin 36a and sa, yd sec. 228 p. 21). The idea of communal control of buildings used as synagogues is discussed, extensively, in Ashkenazic commentaries to B. Megillah 26a-b.

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worship. Let them go to the House of God as a group.117 Since they set there a place for their prayers they will better be able to position themselves for prayer and to direct their prayers to their Heavenly Father. In this way, they [fulfill the requirement to] all the more pray in a set place,118 since they pray in a place that they set aside exclusively to pray. As a result, he can annul his vow in order to go to the synagogue to pray  with his fellow. For a person’s prayer is heard in the synagogue. Isaac b. Samuel. Emphasis added-JRW

Note that group prayer was an independent value for Ri (‘in order to go to the synagogue to pray with his fellow’), ‘even when there is never a minyan.’ As Ri would have it, prayer in a Synagogue with others was, per se, superior to private prayer at home, ‘for a person’s prayer is heard in the synagogue.’ Nevertheless, prayer with a minyan was an even more valuable obligation, and medieval Ashkenazim went to extraordinary lengths to ensure its existence. This point finds expression in the unusual and controversial practice of counting a minor as the tenth ‘man’ in a prayer quorum (minyan) so long as he held an open Pentateuch in his hands. The hallmark of communal prayer was the recitation of special prayers of special sanctity (devarim she-be-qedushah), which required the presence of a minyan of ten males over the age of thirteen.119 The small size of contemporary French and German communities threatened the ongoing recitation of these portions of the liturgy and endangered the ongoing performance of communal prayer. In order to prevent this, early medieval Ashkenazim developed this daring, if legally dubious, stratagem.120 Mahzor Vitry reports: Regarding those people who are accustomed to complete a minyan with a minor, and put a sefer in his hand: My master (i.e. Rashi) does not agree. 117 Cf. Ps. 55, 15. 118 B. Berakhot 6b: R. Helbo, in the name of R. Huna, says: Whoever has a fixed place for his prayer has the God of Abraham as his helper. And ibid. 7b: R. Johanan further said in the name of R. Simeon b. Yohai: If a man has a fixed place for his prayer, his enemies succumb to him. 119 B. Megillah 23b. 120 See Y. Ta Shma, ‘Be-Ko’ah Ha-Shem: Le-Toldotav shel Minhag Nishkah,’ Sefer Bar-Ilan 26–27 (1995): 389–400. Rashi, vide infra, refers to the practice as both long established and widespread. This would push its origins back to the early eleventh century, at least. See Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 552. See below, 116–118.

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One must be strict, and not be lenient, lest it emerge that Sacred Name be pronounced in vain, without a minyan.121 In light of the Talmud’s categorical ruling that males only reach adulthood at age thirteen, Rashi’s opposition is totally understandable.122 Legally, the practice was indefensible, but it persisted, because of the critical importance attributed to maintaining a prayer quorum.123 A more widespread, and even more probative, expression of the legal superiority attributed to communal prayer is found in the debate concerning the proper time for reciting the evening service (Arvit).124 The evening service consists of two, distinct, components: 1) The recitation of the central declaration of Judaism, the Shema (with its attendant blessings) and 2) the recitation of the statutory prayer (Amidah or Shemonah Esreh).125 The status of the latter was left somewhat ambiguous by the rabbis, both as  to the obligation to recite it, and the time frame within which it should be offered.126 There was, however, no such ambiguity regarding the recitation of the evening Shema. According to the Bible (Deut. 6, 7), one is obligated to recite its three passages ‘when you lie down, and when you rise up.’ Tannaitic tradition offered several possibilities as to when one ‘lies down.’ The upshot of  the discussion, though, was that this is no earlier that nightfall (‘tzeit ha-kokhavim’).127 121 MV(G), 137 and MV(H), sec. 81. Cf. Resp. Maharam (Prague), no. 173. 122 See Y.D. Gilat, ‘Ben Shalosh Esreh le-Mitzvot,’ in Peraqim be-Hishtalshelut ha-Halakhah, Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press 1992, 106–103. 123 MV(H), sec. 82. See also Teshuvot Rashi, no. 345; Siddur Troyes, ‘Introduction,’ s.v. zot Torat; and Shibbole ha-Leqet, Inyan Tefillah, no. 9; and Or Zaru’a, I, par. 196 s.v. ve-zeh ha-lashon. It is plausible that the debate surrounding the inclusion of individuals who stood outside of the prayer room, even outside of the building, in the quorum should be understood against this background. See B. Pesahim 88b and the commentaries, ad loc. 124 For most of the following, see J. Katz, ‘Alterations in the Time of the Evening Service (“Ma’ariv”),’ 88–127. 125 MT Hil. Qeri’at Shema 1, 1–2 and Hil. Tefillah 1, 6 and commentaries, ad loc. See also Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, 16–36 and 85; and L. Hoffman, The Canonization of the Synagogue Service, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press 1979, 24–65. 126 Katz, ibid. 88–95. 127 B. Berakhot 2a. This was the overwhelming consensus among the Baylonian Geonim and most of the major medieval authorities, including most Ashkenazim. See Otzar haGeonim, Berakhot, Teshuvot, 1–2 and Perushim, 1–2; Sefer Rav Amram Gaon, ed. D. Gold­ schmidt, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1941, 28; MT Hil. Qeri’at Shema 1, 10 and sa, oh, 235, 1.

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The problem was that the established practice in Franco-Germany was to recite the evening prayer, preceded by the Shema, long before nightfall.128 This presented contemporary scholars with a serious quandary. On the one hand, if they maintained the Talmudic ruling, they would effectively be saying that Ashkenazic Jews were derelict in their religious duties. What is more, they were derelict in the declaration of God’s Oneness, which was the battle cry of their struggle with Christianity! Such an implication was impossible for Ashkenazic rabbis to accept. The only alternative was to resolve the apparent contradiction between sacred text and sacred life. Rashi allowed for reciting the evening prayer before sundown, suggesting that the recitation of the Shema that precedes it is a type of spiritual preparation for prayer. The obligation to recite Shema before retiring, he asserted, is achieved by the traditional recitation of the first passage, thereof, before sleep.129 The implication is that ‘the Qeri’at Shema that is recited at bedtime is the essential one, and it is after nightfall.’130 This conclusion was summarily rejected by the Tosafists.131 Led by R. Tam and Ri,132 they piled up passages refuting Rashi. They suggested alternate interpretations to these, with an eye to validating the established custom. They then conclude triumphantly that ‘Qeri’at Shema that is recited in the synagogue is the ‘real one’ (‘iqqar).133 The uncompromising passion of the Tosafist argument requires explanation. Why did they strive so mightily to sustain an apparently untenable position, especially when perfectly reasonable resolutions lay at hand?134 It seems 128 Just how long before nightfall is made clear by a tradition recorded by R. Israel Isserlein (d. 1460; Wiener-Neustadt): ‘And I heard in the academy, from one of the outstanding scholars, who had heard by tradition, that in the days of the early ones (qadmonim) in Krems, on the eve of the Sabbath, they would offer the evening prayer and recite the Shema so early in the day that, after the Sabbath meal, the rabbi (who was one of the outstanding scholars among the early ones), would go for a stroll along the Danube, accompanied by the élite of the town. And they would return to their homes before nightfall’ (Terumat ha-Deshen, no. 1). Based upon the description, which includes an ‘outstanding’ rabbi, the terminus a quo for the story is the late thirteenth century. In other words, the practice held fast throughout our period – and beyond. Cf. Germania Judaica, ii, Tubingen: Mohr Sieback 1968, 453–455. 129 Rashi, Berakhot 2a s.v. ad sof. 130 Tosafot Berakhot 2a s.v. Me-Eymatai. 131 See, however, Or Zaru’a I, 1. 132 R. Tam dismissed Rashi’s interpretation as a ‘shoddy error’ (shibush). Sefer ha-Yashar leRabbenu Tam (Heleq ha-Hiddushim), ed. S. Schlesinger, Jerusalem 1959, no. 422. 133 Tosafot, ibid. Cf. Tosafot Rabbenu Peretz (ed. M. Hershler, Jerusalem 1984), ad loc. 134 The Italian Tosafist, R. Isaiah di Trani (d. c. 1260), ignored the attempts of both Rashi and the Tosafists to grant legitimation to the synagogue recitation of Arvit. He thought it best

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clear that it testifies to the great importance in which they held the recitation of public prayer, and the degree to which medieval Ashkenazic rabbis were willing to stretch their legal traditions in order to preserve, protect and sustain it.135 Another indication of the centrality of communal prayer is found in the serious efforts that were made to insure that as many members as possible participated. For example, R. Isaac b. Moshe of Vienna (c. 1180–c. 1250) was asked whether a layman could acquire the honor of removing and returning the Torah Scroll from the Ark in return for a charitable donation, in a place where this dignity had previously been the sole prerogative of the precentor. R. Isaac’s reply is instructive. He argues that the precentor has no presumptive right to this or any other synagogue honor.136 On the contrary, he observes, ‘it happens all of the time that Reuben leads the morning prayers, Simon reads the Torah and Levi recites the additional service (Mussaf) … in such a case, it is relevant to say (Prov. 14, 28): ‘The King’s Glory is found in a multitude of the People.’137 Conceptually, when the qehillah gathered in prayer it melded into a powerful whole. The individual was expected to align himself, and merge, with it. Thus, if one arrived at the synagogue late, he was instructed to immediately join the community, and skip the intermediary prayers that he, as an to simply wait until nightfall and recite both Qeri’at Shema and the evening prayer. Pisqe ha-RiD le-Rabbenu Yeshaya di Trani ha-Zaqen le-Massekhtot Berakhot ve-Shabbat, ed. A. Wertheimer and A. Liss, Jerusalem 1964, 2. 135 While the practice of reciting Arvit before nightfall continued to reign, the passion for it appears to have dissipated. Thus, its defense in the writings of the fourteenth century authority, Alexander Süsslin Ha-Kohen, and the fifteenth century scholars, R. Israel Isserlein and R. Joseph Colon, appear phlegmatic. See Sefer ha-Agudah al Massekhet Berakhot ve-Seder Zera’im, ed. E. Brizel, Jerusalem 1969, 13; Terumat ha-Deshen, no. 1 and Resp. Mahariq, shoresh 173. 136 Or Zarua, no. 115 and, (with slight changes) and Teshuvot Maharam (Lemberg), no. 113. 137 Cf. Rashi, ad loc. s.v. be-rov. R. Isaac’s proof of this contention is derived from the Temple regulation that encourages maximum participation by the priests in the offering of communal sacrifices. The idea is that the more priests who participate, the greater the honor that is shown to God. Cf. B. Zebahim 14b and Rashi, Yoma 14b s.v. mi shohet. The analogy between the role of priests in the Temple and worshippers in the Synagogue is another expression of the Temple/Synagogue nexus discussed in the next chapter. The verse is more commonly understood to mean that the larger a congregation that gathers to perform a mitzvah, the greater is the glory that accrues to God. Cf. Rosh, Berakhot 8, 3. R. Meir of Rothenberg, on the other hand, was less charitable when it came to distributing purchased honors. See Teshuvot Maharam (Cremona), no. 209; Mordekhai, Baba Bathra no. 533; and Teshuvot ha-Maimuniot, Sefer Shoftim no. 7.

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individual, was required to recite.138 If an individual was unable to pray with the community – due to illness, for instance – he was to coordinate his prayers with those of the qahal, so that he could take advantage of the special ‘hour of grace’ that the Talmud declared devolved upon the world when the community gathers in worship.139 The very appearance of non-participation was to be avoided. Mahzor Vitry asserts: ‘One who enters the synagogue and finds the congregation standing, should stand as well. If they are seated, he should also sit, lest he appear to be separating himself from the community.’140 This message is powerfully conveyed by R. Jacob b. Samson, in his comment on Hillel’s dictum, ‘Do not separate from the community’:141 Rather participate with them in the governmental yoke, in fasts and in prayer. For that is the message that Mordekhai sent to Esther (Es. 4, 13): ‘Do not imagine [that, unlike the other Jews, you can escape to the king’s palace,’ i.e.], that you not separate yourself from the community. And we have learned in the first chapter of Ta’anit (11a): If a person separates 138 MV(G), sec. 40. Cf. Sefer Kol Bo, sec. 11 s.v. Seder Tefillat. 139 Mordekhai based upon B. Berakhot 8a. Again, what is important here is not the fact that the idea is Talmudic, but that the author found it meaningful in issuing his ruling. 140 Secs. 35 and 47. Thus, even if the prayer posture required by one’s individual devotions differ from those of the community at that moment, one should act as if he were part of the latter.  The author here is citing Seder Rav Amram Gaon, ed. Goldschmidt, no. 93. However, the text there actually reads: ‘lest he appear to not be a part of the entire community.’ This text, which was interpolated into Seder Rav Amram Gaon, is based on a responsum of R. Natronai Gaon (fl. c. 850). According to Brody, it likely reads ‘lest he not stick out from the rest of the congregation.’ See Otzar ha-Geonim, Berakhot, no. 124 (50), L. Ginzberg, Geonica, ii, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary 1909, 120 and R. Brody, Teshuvot Rav Natronai bar Hilai Gaon, i, Jerusalem: Ofeq 1994, no. 29 (134–135). It may be that the Ashkenazic editors of Seder Rav Amram Gaon sharpened the formulation in line with the contemporary concern with communal solidarity. Concerning the Franco-German provenance of the extant text of Seder Rav Amram, see Y. Ta Shma, ‘Introduction,’ Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumahh, 20–22. See also R. Brody, ‘Le-Hiddat Arikhato shel Seder Rav Amram Gaon,’ in Knesset Ezra, ed. Sh. Elitzur et al., Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 1995, 25–26. 141 MV(H), sec. 426 ad M. Avot 2, 4. Similar sentiments were expressed by R. Simcha of Speyer: “I see that the measure of Justice is that all Jews are mutually responsible, to accept the yoke of their exile and (as a result) deserve to participate with them in their consolation and redemption (cited in Sefer Or Zaru’a, iii, no.460 with parallels in Resp. Maharam (Prague), no. 932 and Teshuvot Maimuni’ot, Hil. ShuTafin V, no. 1). See also, Sefer ha-Oreh, I, no. 71, Hil. Ta’anit s.v. Amar Rav and Ha-Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, Hil. Teshuva sec. 28.

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­ imself from the community, the two angels that accompany him, as it is h written (Ps. 91, 11): ‘For He will give His angels charge over you, [to watch over you in all your ways],142 place their hands on his head and say: ‘May this person who left the community not behold its consolation (nehamat ha-tzibbur). They further explained: ‘But as for me, let my prayer be made to You, O Lord, in an acceptable time?’ When is an acceptable time? When the congregation is praying, as it is written (Job 36, 5): ‘Behold, God does not despise the mighty.’143 Not separating oneself from the community, or even appearing to do so, transcended considerations of individual identification with the group. Communal worship, per se, was of a totally different order. The Talmud had already distinguished between ‘private prayer’ (tefillat yahid) and ‘communal prayer’ (tefillat ha-tzibbur), viewing each as qualitatively distinct entities.144 In the morning and the afternoon, the central prayer of the liturgy, the Amidah, was recited twice, first individually and then out loud by the prayer leader.145 The reason for repeating the Amidah was a matter of some dispute in the Talmud, and later among the various commentators.146 All agreed, however, that ­during the repetition, the congregation melded into an undifferentiated whole.147 In addition, communal prayer was deemed to be the equivalent of 142 Cf. T. Shabbat 17, 2. 143 The passage is an inexact pastiche of statements from B. Berakhot 8a. 144 Cf. G. Blidstein, ‘Personal and Public Prayer,’ Tradition 10 (1969): 22–28; and idem, Ha-Tefillah be-Mishnato ha-Hilkhatit shel ha-Rambam, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1994, 153–187. 145 The Amidah is not repeated in the evening service, due to its lesser standing. Cf. ET, iv, s.v. Hazarat ha-Shatz, 425 and Y. Ta Shma, ‘Tefillat Arvit: ReShuT o Hovah?’ Y. Tabory, Me-Qumran ad Qahir, Jerusalem: Orhot 1999, 131–144. 146 B. Rosh HaShanah 34b–35a. 147 There are different opinions as to the degree to which this occurs. See Blidstein, Ha-Tefillah, 166–169.  John Bossy (‘The Mass as a Social Institution 1200–1700,’ Past and Present 100 (1983): 29–61) has shown that the Catholic mass served a similar function, as a vehicle for the creation of a sense of social cohesion among the participants. He maintains that through the sharing of the sanctified host, the participant ‘sees experiences of communitas, a state of pre-political, undifferentiated human affinity, which dissolved tensions and bound people together despite the differences between them in the non-ritual space and time.’ The similarities between Bossy’s analysis and mine should soften some of Miri Rubin’s criticism of Bossy’s thesis. Cf. M. Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1991, 1–5.

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the communal sacrifices that were offered in the Temple in Jerusalem. These were undertaken on behalf of the Jewish People, as a collective.148 Owing to its unique quality, special efforts were made to ensure that none would be excluded from communal prayer.149 When it came to fast days, wherein communal unity was at a premium, scholars invoked the Talmudic passage (B. Keritot 6b) that ‘a fast in which the sinners of Israel do not participate, is no fast; for, behold the odor of galbanum is unpleasant and yet it was included among the spices for the incense.’150 R. Meir of Rothenberg (c. 1215– 1293), at the end of our period, ordained that on the Eve of Yom Kippur ‘we suspend the ban preventing prayer with any individual who violated a communal decree, even if he did not request it’ [Emphasis added- jrw].151 A practice known as ‘Dividing the Shema’ (Porsin al Shema) adds another dimension to this idea. The Mishnah (Megillah 4, 3) declares that ‘One does not divide the Shema … with less than ten [adult males present].152 Rashi explains the phrase, as follows: ‘If a quorum comes to the synagogue after the community recited Shema, one person stands and recites Qaddish, Barekhu, and the first blessing of Shema.’153 In other words, if ten latecomers arrive after the call to prayer (Barekhu) and the recitation of the Shema, they may stop the service and ‘catch up’ with an abbreviated form of the liturgy, thereby joining the congregation for the morning Amidah. That, however, is not the way Rashi’s view was reported elsewhere. Rashi’s disciples are quoted to the effect that if even one person was late, then the congregation would stop to again recite Qaddish, Barekhu, and the first ­blessing 148 B. Berakhot 26b and MT Hil. Tefillah 1, 5–8. See G. Blidstein, ‘Shaliah Tzibbur,’ passim and idem, ‘Sheliach Tzibbur: Historical and Phenomenological Observations,’ Tradition 12 (1971): 69–77. 149 This was true even if a minyan was unavailable. See Hagahot ha-Maimuni’ot, Hil Tefillah, 8 no. 1. 150 Cf. Siddur Rashi, nos. 202 and 433 and Yalqut Shimoni, Amos, no. 548. This theme received special emphasis in the writings of R. Judah He-Hasid (Sefer Gematria’ot, I, ed. J. Stell, Jerusalem 2005, 22–23) and R. Eleazar of Worms (Sodei Razei, I, ed. A. Eisenbach, Jerusalem 2004, 1–2). See J.I. Lifshitz, The Political Theory of the Maharam of Rothenburg, PhD dissertation, Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University 2006, 189–190. 151 Mordekhai, Yoma, no. 725. 152 I have translated the text in line with Rashi’s interpretation, with which most medieval writers agree.  The exact meaning of the phrase, however, has generated much discussion both among halakhists and historians. See, inter alia, E. Fleischer, ‘Le-Libbun Inyan ha-Pores al Shma,’ Tarbitz 41 (1972): 133–144; A.M. Haberman, ‘ “Korkhin al Shma” u-“Porsin al Shma,” in Ktav, Lashon ve-Sefer, Jerusalem 1973, 222–226; Lieberman, Tosefta ki-PeShuTa: Moed, 1206–1208 and 1274 n. 21; and A. Strikowsky, ‘He’arot al ha-Pores al Shma,’ Sinai 72 (1973): 394–396. 153 Rashi, Megillah 23b s.v. en porsin.

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of Shema and all would then continue together.154 This position was criticized by the Tosafists, who demanded that at least five latecomers make up this ersatz quorum.155 The essential point is the same: Communal prayer was qualitatively superior to individual devotions.156 By paying close attention to one genre of prayer, it will be possible to see that Tefillat ha-Tzibbur possessed a special experiential texture. Two prophetic verses, both of which record the songs sung by the angel, have long exerted an extraordinary pull upon both mystics and worshippers.157 The first is from Isaiah (6, 1–3): ‘And one called unto another, and said: Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory.’ The second is from the theophany of Ezekiel (1–3). Better known as the ‘Deeds of the Chariot’ (Ma’aseh Merkavah), this passage was the foundational text for all subsequent Jewish metaphysical and mystical speculation. ‘And the wind lifted me up, and I heard behind me the voice of a great rushing: ‘Blessed be the glory of the Lord from His place (3, 12).’ 158 These passages presented the worshipper with both a terrifying reality and an irresistible opportunity. As Ruth Langer has noted, because these words ‘originated on high, they could undoubtedly be acceptable praise of God, with a powerful efficacy that might even exceed that of any other human utterance.’159 On the other hand, their celestial ­origin and their central place in esoteric lore discouraged their inclusion in regular worship. By the Middle Ages, this discrepancy had been resolved. A liturgical framework containing these verses known as the Qedushah had been created. In medieval Franco-Germany, three different versions of the Qedushah were recited during the morning service. One was integrated into the first blessing 154 There are no significant variants in the manuscript tradition of Rashi’s commentary on Megillah. See A. Ahrend (ed.), Perush Rashi le-Megillah, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 2008, 226. 155 Tosafot Megillah 23b s.v. ve-En Porsin. 156 Medieval Ashkenazic authorities tried to set limits to these efforts, as waiting too long to accommodate latecomers was both a burden upon the community (tirha de-tzibbura) and could potentially lead to praying after the appointed hour. Cf. MS Ox-Bod. 365, 17a. On the other hand, the fact that communities did wait for others indicates the perceived importance of communal prayer. See also, R. Langer, To Worship God Properly: Tensions between Liturgical Custom and Halakhah in Judaism, Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press 1998, 189–191. 157 These verses also had a profound impact upon Christian mysticism and liturgy. See J. Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite (Missarum Sollemnia), ii, trans. F. Brunner, Four Courts Press 1986, 128ff and B. Spinks, The Sanctus in the Eucharistic Prayer, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. 158 I have followed Rashi’s interpretation. Regarding the use of Ezek. 1–3, see J. Dan, ‘Ma’aseh Merkavah be-Sifrut Hazal,’ Mehqare Yerushalayim be-Mahshevet Yisraelm, 2 (1983): 307–316. 159 Langer, To Worship God Properly, 188.

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preceding the recitation of the Shema (Qedushah de Yotzer), and another was placed into the closing prayer (Qedushah de-Sidra). The most important Qedushah was the one recited during the repetition of the Amidah. This was the Qedushah, par excellence. As opposed to the Qedushah de Yotzer and the Qedushah de Sidra, it was unanimously held that the recitation of this latter Qedushah to require the presence of a minyan.160 This was not only due to its inherent sanctity but because it was an integral part of the devotion of Tefillat ha-Tzibbur. As a result, the presence of a quorum was part of its very raison d’être. By reciting the Qedushah, the community believed that it was raised to the level of the angels. Participants who recited ‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’ were taught that they thereby joined the heavenly chorus. It is for that reason, and in stark contrast with the established norm not to look up during prayer, worshippers raised their eyes heavenward in order, as it were to attain, what Peter Schaefer has described as a sublime moment of ‘unio liturgica.’161 This implicit message was rendered explicit in the poetic elaborations that were added to the Qedushah on special occasions. These piyyutim, known as Qedushtot, are replete with passages that not only describe how Israel joins the angelic hosts in praise of God, but that God actually preferred Israel’s words of praises over those of the seraphim.162 Among the many other poems that 160 Authorities were divided as to the need for a quorum regarding the other forms of Qedushah. See Rosh, Berakhot. 3:18 and Tur, oh sec. 59 with the commentaries ad loc. Langer (ibid, 188–244) highlights the role of mystical considerations in this halakhic dispute. 161 Sefer Ravyah, no. 92 based on Hekhalot Rabbah. The passage, as translated by Schaefer, reads: ‘Raise your eyes to heaven opposite your house of prayer when you speak the ‘Holy, [holy, holy]’ before me. For I have no joy in my world, which I created, except at the hour in which your eyes are raised to my eyes, and my eyes to your eyes, [namely] in the hour in which you speak before me the ‘Holy, [holy, holy].’ P. Schaefer, ‘The Aim and Purpose of Early Jewish Mysticism,’ in Hekhalot Studien, Tübingen 1981, 287–288. For ‘unio liturgica,’ see P. Schaefer, The Hidden and Manifest God, Albany: suny Press 1994, 165. See also M. Bar-Ilan, ‘Qave Yesod le-Hithavutah shel ha-Qedushah ve-Gibushah,’ Da’at 25 (1990): 5–20; and Y. Ta Shma, ‘Meqomah shel ha-Qedushah ba-Tefillah,’ Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit haQedumah, 110–114. Regarding the positioning of the eyes during prayer, see Y. Zimmer, ‘Tiqqune ha-Guf be-She’at ha-Tefillah,’ in Olam ke-Minhago Noheg: Peraqim be-Toldot ha-Minhagim, Hilkhotehem ve-Gilgulehem, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1996, 72–78. 162 Qedushtot were first authored in late ancient Palestine, and the tradition carried over first to Southern Italy and then to Franco-Germany. See Fleischer, Shirat ha-Qodesh, 138–181. Qedushtot were heavily commented upon in Ashkenazic piyyut commentary, again underscoring their importance. Cf. Hollender, Piyyut Commentary, 22–25.

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convey a similar message, this point finds pointed expression in the qedushta for the morning service on Yom Kippur, which was composed by R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos (late 10th/early 11th cent.):163 Your mighty praise is proclaimed by celestial beings and flashing lightning, troops of lofty stature and soft-spoken hosts; Your holiness is ever in their mouth. Yet you desired praise from emotional throngs, who utter supplication and Hopefully wait for Thy graciousness; and this is Thy glory. Your mighty praise is proclaimed by rarified princes and swiftly moving angels, glorious cherubs and flaming legions; Your holiness is ever in their mouth. Yet you desired praise from those who live but a few days and forget the prosperity, who are sated with travail and whose souls are aggrieved; this is Your Glory.164 R. Meshullam drives home God’s absolute preference for the adorations of Israel is driven home: Praise God for His might! Over Israel is His majesty. Upon Israel is His Devotion Upon Israel is His blessing Upon Israel is His Pride Upon Israel is His promise Upon Israel is His Splendor With Israel did He confer -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Over Israel is His Sanctity Over Israel is His Loftiness Over Israel is His Shekhinah Over Israel is His Majesty.165 These far-reaching declarations did not refer solely to a rarified Israel. The congregation assembled in the synagogue, whatever its size, was an extension, an embodiment of the entire people. This is expressed in the opening strophe of 163 Mahzor le-Yamim Nora’im, ii: Yom Kippur, ed. D. Goldschmidt, Jerusalem: Qoren 1970, 138. For the attribution to R. Meshulam b. Qalonymos, see Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, I, no. 8175; Goldschmidt, xxxvi–xxxvii; and Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 76–78. The fact that his poem was not only included in the Ashkenazic liturgy, but was also imitated and expanded, underscores the importance that this idea had for medieval Ashkenazim. For other piyyutim with the same message, see Davidson, ibid, nos. 8177– 8180 and MS Cod. Hebr. 152, ed. A.N.Z. Roth, Jerusalem 1980, 111b–112a. 164 High Holyday Prayerbook, translated and annotated P. Birnbaum, New York: Hebrew Publishing Company 1951, 653–655 (with slight changes in accordance with Goldschmidt’s commentary). 165 Birnbaum, 655 (with changes based upon Goldschmidt, 139).

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the second piyyut. The text reads, ‘Upon Israel is His Devotion.’ This line invoked a verse in Psalms (89, 6): ‘So shall the heavens praise Your wonders, O Lord, Your faithfulness also in the assembly of the holy ones.’166 Prima facie, the ‘assembly of the holy ones’ (qahal qedoshim) refers to the angels.167 Rashi’s interpretation could be seen as more ambiguous: ‘The truth of Your words is attested to by the assembly of the holy ones.’ However, as used here by R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos, there is little doubt that the verse is taken to refer to Israel and was so understood by those who recited it. R. Meshullam also emphasizes that Israel’s superiority is proven by God’s Presence in the Synagogue, much as it did in the Holy Temple (‘Over Israel is His Shekhinah’).168 While the perception of the Synagogue as Temple was central to this idea, God’s Presence was not solely a function of the synagogue per se, but of the presence of a minyan. In commenting on this line, R. Ephraim of Bonn (1132- c. 1197) refers to the verse (Ex. 29, 45): ‘And I will dwell among the children of Israel, and will be their God.’169 The verse actually refers to the dedication of the Tabernacle in the desert. However, the Ashkenazic commentators highlighted the idea that the Tabernacle was simply a means for the desired end of God causing his Presence to dwell among his chosen people.170 R. Samuel b. Meir (Rashbam; c. 1080–85–c. 1174) notes that the entire reason for taking the Israelites out of Egypt was ‘for Me to dwell among them.’171 In the context of this piyyut, the indwelling of the Shekhinah ‘over Israel’ is a function of its chosenness. The actual location was of secondary importance.172 This conclusion is further borne out be if we note the manner in which a relevant Talmudic passage is understood. B. Berakhot (6a) reads: It has been taught: Abba Benjamin says: A man’s prayer is heard only in the Synagogue. For it is said: ‘To hearken to the song and to the prayer.’ Prayer 166 See MS Cod. Hebr. 152, fol. 151a. 167 This is stated explicitly by Ibn Ezra and RaDaQ, ad loc. In fact, non-Ashkenazic writers use the phrase ‘Qahal Qadosh’ to refer exclusively to angels. Cf. Arugat ha-Bosem (iii, 509).  The interaction of the angels and of Israel when praising God is a central motif of the Qedushah and its supplementary piyyutim. See E. Fleischer, Shirat ha-Qodesh ha-Ivrit beYeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem: Keter 2008, 138–181. 168 Cf. Hizquni, Gen. 18, 17 s.v.en. 169 MS Cod. Hebr. 152, fol. 151b s.v. al. Regarding the attribution to R. Ephraim of Bonn, see Hollender, Piyyut Commentary, 47. 170 Cf. Hizquni, ad loc. 171 Rashbam ad Ex. 29, 46. See M. Lockshin, Rashbam’s Commentary on Exodus: An Annotated Translation, Atlanta: Scholars Press 1997, 380–381, especially n. 25. 172 Cf., however, Arukh ha-Shalem, s.v. azkir who cites P. Berakhot 4, 8 (8b).

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is to be recited where there is song. Rabin b. R. Adda says in the name of R. Isaac: How do you know that the Holy One, blessed be He, is to be found in the Synagogue? For it is said: God stands in the congregation of God. And how do you know that if ten people pray together the Divine presence is with them? For it is said: ‘God stands in the congregation of God’. The straightforward meaning of Abba Binyamin’s statement is that the Synagogue is the venue for God’s Presence because of its status as a place of prayer. However, Ashkenazic interpreters not so subtly shifted the emphasis from the synagogue to the presence of the community at prayer. Thus, Rashi remarks that the phrase ‘prayer is to be recited where there is song’ means ‘in the synagogue, where the community recites songs and praises in pleasant voice (qol arev).’173 In other words, the Divine Presence is predicated upon the acts of worship that are performed in the synagogue. In addition, they cited a different passage, which is not found in our texts of the Talmud:174 ‘R. Yohanan said: A man’s prayer is heard only with the community.’175 This passage drives home the idea that the Shekhinah in-dwells not so much in a building as in the midst of the community. As we shall soon see, this belief figured in other contexts.176 Communal Solidarity Communal solidarity was both a practical necessity and a religious imperative. Practically, it was a matter of life and death. As we have already noted, a Jew’s legal standing was based upon his membership in a Qehillah, and communal payment of taxes to the local rulers was a sine qua non of continued protection and residence. Failure to bear one’s share endangered the political and economic viability of the whole. As a result, separating oneself from the community threatened the Qehillah both physically and spiritually. It was this message that R. Jacob sought to drive home in when he exhorted his brethren to first ‘participate with them in the governmental yoke,’ and only then in fasts and in 173 Rashi, ad loc. s.v. be-maqom rinah and Ziyyun le-Nefesh Haya, ad loc. 174 R. Akiva Eger (Gilyon HaShas, ad loc.) assumes that they were citing a variant reading of the passage from Berakhot. This seems somewhat unlikely, since Abba Binyamin’s statement is also noted by the same writers who quote this additional passage. 175 MV(H), no. 40; Tosafot Avodah Zarah 4b s.v. kevan; Sefer Ravan, no. 132 s.v. amar Rav; Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, no. 326; SmaG, pos. 19 s.v. katav ba-Halakhot and Rosh, Berakhot 1, 7. 176 As Yitzhak Lifshitz puts it, the community was the necessary condition for realizing a degree of Divine immanence that was otherwise impossible. Cf. J.I. Lifshitz, Political Theory of the Maharam of Rothenburg, 168.

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prayer.’177 One must carry one’s weight in the community. One who does not do so will not, by implication, witness Israel’s ultimate vindication. Individual attempts to bypass communal organization, and to strike separate deals with the Christian authorities, plagued Ashkenazic communities throughout the Middle Ages and beyond.178 Individuals who did so were deemed to be traitors (moser) and informers, and every means available to the community was used to punish them.179 In the present context, it is important to highlight the axiological points that R. Jacob was raising in order to reinforce the deeply religious value of communal participation. Active involvement in mutual aid and charity (Tzedaqah) were an expression of belonging to a sacred community. The weekly blessing of the qahal qadosh highlighted the obligation of its members to provide ‘bread for the wayfarer and alms for the poor.’ Many types of support were cultivated. Jewish poor and unemployed were to be given priority when one searched for workers.180 Alms were collected on a regular basis, in addition to special collections on Purim and in advance of Passover.181 Those who refused to pay their fair share were condemned as ‘abandoners of the community’ (poresh min ha-­ tzibbur), precisely as defined by R. Jacob. B. Samson.182 177 The problem was endemic. See Teshuvot u-Pesaqim Ri ha-Zaqen, ed. M.Y. Blau, New York 1991, nos. 125 (=Teshuvot Maharam (Prague), nos. 369 and 661. Cf. Mordekhai, Baba Bathra no. 476) and 150; (Teshuvot Maharam (Lemberg), no. 918 (= Teshuvot ha-Maimuni’ot, Hil. Shekhenim 6 no. 29); Teshuvot Maharam (Cremona), no. 222 (=Teshuvot Maharam (Berlin), no. 125  =  Teshuvot ha-Rashba, I, Jerusalem: Makhon Yerushalayim 1997, no. 841); and Nimmuqe R. Menahem mi-Merseburg, s.v. Din ha-Poresh min ha-Tzibbur. 178 See Digest of the Responsa Literature of Germany, France and Italy, Jerusalem: Institute for Research in Jewish Law 1997, 170–177. 179 In rare cases, they were even executed – with the full support of the government. Usually, the prescribed punishment was excommunication. Cf. Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 67–100. 180 This was the regnant understanding of the Mishnah’s exhortation (M. Avot 1, 5) that ‘the poor should be members of your house.’ See E. Horowitz, “Ve-hayu Anniyim (Hagunim) bene Beytkha’: Tzedaqah Anniyim u-Piqu’ah beyn Yeme ha-Beynayim le-Reshit ha-Et haHadashah,’ in Dat ve-Kalkalah: Yahase Gomlin, ed. M. Ben-Sasson, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1995, 218–219 and E. Shoham-Steiner, “Poverty and Disability: A Medieval Jewish Perspective,’ in The Sign Language of Poverty, Gerhard Jaritz ed., Vienna: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 2007, 75–94. 181 Cf. MV(H), sec. 240 and 527, and Or Zaru’a, ii, nos. 367 and 372. 182 Enforcing donations to charity was not always easy. See the responsum of R. Simchah of Speyer in MS Oxford-Bodley 659, no. 502 (fol. 159b), in S. Emanuel, ‘Teshuvot Hakhme Ashkenaz be-Hilkhot Tzedaqah,’ Ha-Ma’ayan, 41(2001): 16(1). Until now, scholarly treatments of charity in Medieval Franco-Germany have been limited. Recently, the situation has become much improved. In addition to the relevant sections in I. Abrahams, Jewish Life in

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More broadly, it was axiomatic among medieval Ashkenazim that their behavior must conform – and generally did conform – to high moral standards.183 In order to emphasize this point, they frequently invoked the verse (Zeph. 3, 13): ‘The remnant of Israel shall do no iniquity, nor speak lies, neither shall a deceitful tongue be found in their mouth.’ Thus, in a piyyut in honor of a bridegroom, R. Simon b. Isaac extols the community gathered together:184 By leave of the remnant of the Holy People here assembled, Full of mitzvot as a pomegranate, their business dealings are honest.185 The do and they compel others,186 with the fear of God, to be faithful And they are careful to fulfill every mitzvah that comes their way. They are called the ‘children of the Living God,’ and were chosen As His portion. My Translation-jrw

Obviously, this ideal was often observed in the breach.187 Nevertheless, the  ­presumption of communal piety is instructive. Over and over, Talmudic the Middle Ages, New York: Atheneum 1981 [reprint of the 1896 edition], and Y. Bergman, Ha-Tzedaqah be-Yisrael: Toldoteha u-Mosdoteha, Jerusalem: Tarshish 1944, see J. Galinsky, ‘Custom, Ordinance or Commandment? The Evolution of the Medieval Monetary-tithe in Ashkenaz,’ jjs 62 (2011): 203–232; E. Zimmer, ‘Minhag “Matnat Yad” ve-”Hazkarat Neshamot,”’ in Lo Yasur Shevet Me-Yehudah…Mehqarim Mugashim le-Professor Shimon Schwarzfuchs, ed. Y. Harel et al., Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 2011, 71–87. 183 Cf. J. Katz, Exclusiveness and Tolerance, New York: Schocken 1969, 48–66. 184 Piyyute R. Simon b. Yitzhaq, ed. A.M. Haberman, Berlin-Jerusalem 1938, 187 l. 70–74. The entire poem is an ode to the ideals of the Ashkenazic community. 185 MS Kaufmann 399A, fols. 356–358,which appears to date from the end of our period, expands significantly on each of the qualities of the community, especially its probity and truthfullness. 186 This prefigures the statement attributed to R. Samuel he-Hassid: ‘All of the words which the Lord has spoken, we will do (na’aseh) [Ex. 24, 3].’ [Instead of] na’aseh (= we will do), read ne’asseh (= we will compel), i.e. [concerning all the words which the Lord has spoken], we will compel those Jews who refuse to obey.’ (Cited in H. Soloveitchik, ‘Three Themes in the “Sefer Hasidim”,’ AJSR, I(1976), 327.) 187 Goldin, ibid. 81–85; A. Grossman, ‘Abaryanim ve-Alamim ba-Hevrah ha-Yehudit be-Ashkenaz ha-Qedumah ve-Hashpa’atam al Sidre ha-Din,’ Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri 8 (1981): 135–152 and D. Malkiel, Reconstructing Ashkenaz: The Human Face of Franco-German Jewry, 1000–1250, Stanford: Stanford University Press 2009, 148–199. See the recent, cautionary remarks in H. Soloveitchik, Collected Essays, I, Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization 2013, 283–293.

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c­ ommentators and legal decisors, assert that there can be no presumption of deceit or malfeasance, because ‘the remnant of Israel shall do no iniquity.’188 In addition, the community elaborated institutions whose entire purpose was to ensure the rights of the individual and the prevention of injustice. The most notable of these was the right of an injured party to halt or even prevent the conduct of communal worship until he was satisfied that he would receive a hearing (Ikkuv ha-Tefillah).189 This custom, which is attested to as early as the first half of the eleventh century,190 allowed any individual to prevent the entire community from discharging its religious obligations on an ongoing basis until his demands for justice were addressed.191 In light of the considerable importance that contemporary Ashkenazim attributed to communal worship, this allowance is amazing. The fact that it was enforced teaches us much about communal self-image, its inherent sense of moral rectitude, and its deep deference 188 Zeph. 3, 13. The Talmud (B. Pesahim 91a, B. Qiddushin 45b and B. Baba Metzia 106b) cites this verse as the basis for its assumption of Jewish honesty. Ashkenazic writers, on the other hand, invoke it more frequently and beyond the instances to which the Talmud refers. See Rashi, Baba Metzia 48b s.v. be-oseh and 49a s.v. mi-shum; Sefer Ravan, Responsa, s.v. lo shani; Mordekhai, Baba Qamma, no. 179 and Baba Metzia, no. 312. 189 The procedure was also known as ‘the abrogation (or suspension) of the daily sacrifice’ (bittul ha-Tamid), which also echoes the identity between prayer and the sacrificial system. Cf. Or Zaru’a, ii, no. 45 and Resp. Maharam (Prague), 880 and 702. The central discussions are A. Grossman, ‘Reshiyotav ve-Yesodotav shel Minhag Ikkuv ha-Tefillah,’ Milet 1 (1983): 199–219; idem, ‘Ha-Temurot be-Zekhuyot ha-Perat ba-Hevrah ha-Yehudit be-Europa ba-Me’ot ha-11/12,’ in Torah li-Shmah: Mehqarim be-Mada’e ha-Yahadut le-Khevod Professor Shamma Friedman, ed. D. Golinken et al., Jerusalem and Ramat Gan: Schechter Institute and Bar Ilan University Press 2008, 479–493; M. Ben-Sasson, ‘Ha-Tze’aqah el ha-Tzibbur be-Vet ha-Knesset be-Artzot ha-Islam be-Reshit Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ in Knesset Ezra, ed. Sh. Elitzur et al., Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 1995, 327–355; and R. Bonfil, ‘Zekhut ha-Ze’aqah: He’arah al Mossad Ikkuv ha-Tefillah be-Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ in Rishonim ve-Aharonim: Mehqarim be-Toldot Yisrael Mugashim le-Avraham Grossman, ed. Y. Hacker et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2010, 145–156. 190 Y. Baer (‘Ha-Yesodot ve-ha-Hathalot,’ 20) argued, based upon a passage in the Yerushalmi (P. Pe’ah 1, 1 fol. 15d), that this custom could be traced back to third century Israel. Grossman (Reshiyotav ve-Yesodotav,’ 201–203) refuted that reading of the Yerushalmi while Ben-Sasson (‘Ha-Tze’aqah el ha-Tzibbur be-Vet ha-Knesset,’ 328–330) and Bonfil (‘Zekhut ha-Ze’aqah,’ 147–150) demonstrated that a similar practice can be found among Jewish communities outside of Ashkenaz. 191 Sometimes, the amounts of money involved in these claims were inconsequential. See R. Judah b. Meir ha-Kohen’s responsum (Teshuvot Maharam (Prague), no. 891). Nevertheless, not only was the practice not questioned, efforts to regulate its use met with serious opposition (Grossman, ‘Ikkuv Tefillah,’ 206).

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for tradition. Unaddressed injustice and communal prayer were mutually contradictory.192 A deeper appreciation of the communal self-image can be gleaned by revisiting a famous responsum that was addressed to the Jewish community of Troyes in the mid-eleventh century by R. Judah b. Meir ha-Kohen (c. 980 – c. 1050) and R. Eliezer b. Yitzhak of Mainz (c. 990–c. 1060).193 The question concerned the right of a majority of householders to impose its will upon a minority. Their decision was unqualifiedly affirmative, and represents one of the central formulations of the principle of majority rule in medieval Europe: Reuben194 came to the synagogue and cried out: ‘Oh Holy Congregation’ (ay qahal ha-qadosh), there is a non-Jewess who lives in the house of Simon. Last night she came into my house, and she cursed me and demeaned me. Furthermore, you all know very well that she does this type of thing habitually to all of you. And the entire congregation responded, saying: It is as you say. This non-Jewess has consistently done evil to us. One said: ‘She hit me with a staff.’ Another said: ‘She called my wife a whore!’ Yet a third exclaimed: ‘She called me a cuckold.’ ‘Therefore,’ Reuben replied, ‘since this is the case, since she consistently acts this way, I request that she be barred from deriving benefit from any Jew for a half years’ time, perhaps she will learn her lesson. And if you so decree, I will formulate the decree.’ Whereupon, he formulated the decree, in accordance with the words of the Qahal. Responsa are essentially legal documents, with the result that copyists tend to edit out of the text any details that do not bear directly upon the legal issue under consideration. The vivid richness of detail in this passage testifies to the fact that the text has been hardly touched.195 Hence, it provides a rare record of contemporary self-expression and self-perception in ‘real time.’ 192 R. Meir of Rothenberg required the community to explicitly include sinners and excommunicates in the Yom Kippur prayers. Cf. Sefer Kol Bo, sec. 68 and Sefer Tashbetz, sec. 131. In this light, Grossman’s amazement that mundane issues would be allowed to intrude upon the synagogue seems less problematic (Grossman, ‘Ha-Temurot be-Zekhuyot ha-Perat,’ 478). 193 Sefer Kol Bo, no. 142 (end-with minor corrections based on textual parallels). The most recent and definitive treatments of this text are Grossman, ‘Yahasam shel Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim le-Shilton ha-Qahal,’ 175–199 and Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 87–106. 194 The names Reuben, Simon (and the other sons of Jacob) are frequently used in responsa as pseudonyms for the actual actors, similar to John Doe and Richard Roe. 195 There are indications of some ‘light’ editing. Thus, the reply preserves certain facts that do not appear in the question, though the respondents could only have known of them from the original letter.

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The first thing that impresses the reader in this text is the sense of solemn empowerment displayed by its members. This self-defined ‘qahal qadosh’ was undertaking legislative activity, viewing itself as fully competent to issue and to enforce its decrees.196 Perhaps this would not be so striking were it not for the fact that the Troyes Jewish community was extremely small.197 One gets the impression that the total number of households in Troyes was not much more than ten – including that of the recalcitrant, Simon. Nor was Troyes unique in this regard; Jewish communities in medieval France and Germany generally tended to be extremely small.198 There is something anomalous about this disparate invocation of sacred status and authority by such a small group of community members.199 Yet, precisely this disparity runs through all Ashkenazic discussions of communal authority. Miniscule groups of Jews have are led by the ‘heads of the community’ (rashe qahal) and the ‘the great ones of the community’ (gedole haqahal).200 Such rhetoric this reveals something about the way medieval Ashkenazic Jews perceived themselves. These Jews, like their brethren throughout the Diaspora, aspired to run their affairs in accordance with Jewish Law and tradition. Obtaining recognition of 196 The Troyes community had sought to impose its will on its neighbors somewhat earlier. See the responsum of R. Joseph Bonfils, discussed in Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 54–65 and Kaplan, ‘Rov u-Mi’ut,’ 213–214. On neither occasion were they successful. 197 See S.W. Baron, ‘Rashi and the Jewish Community of Troyes,’ in Rashi Anniversary Volume, ed. H.L. Ginsberg, New York 1941, 45–67 and S. Schwarzfuchs, ‘La commaunité juive de Troyes au XIe siècle,’ in Rashi:1040–1990: Hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna, Paris: Cerf 1993, 525–534 (esp. 530–532). 198 Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 29–30. See also S. Baron, The Jewish Community, iii, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America 1942, 106–107; Grossman (Hakhme Ashkenaz, 1–13 and idem, Hakhme Zarefat, 31–32) and Chazan, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom: 1000–1500, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2006, 1–9. See also D. Herlihy, ‘Demography,’ in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, iv, J. Strayer (ed.), New York: Scribner 1989, 136–148. 199 Teshuvot Ge’onim Qadmonim, nos. 125 and 129. Soloveitchik (ShuT ke-Maqor, 29–30) notes the need for caution before extrapolating from high-sounding terminology to demographic conclusions. 200 The challenge that inhered in the translation of Talmudic concepts of rabbinic legal authority to a European reality was not merely a question of literary appropriateness. It was a matter of substance. In the absence of full rabbinic ordination (semikhah), large swaths of Jewish law that were critical for the orderly conduct of communal and religious life were prima facie inapplicable. See J. Katz, ‘Rabbinical Authority and Authorization in the Middle Ages,’ Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, I, ed. I. Twersky, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1979, 41–56 and Lifshitz, The Political Theory of the Maharam of Rothenburg, 171–173.

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this right was a conditio sine qua non of their residence, and one for which they, presumably, paid heavily.201 Acquiring governmental recognition of their right to communal autonomy was only part of the challenge. Realizing this aspiration presented other obstacles. It was obvious to the founders of these nascent communities that they would base themselves upon institutions, terms and concepts provided by Talmudic and post-Talmudic literature. That would not only provide them with legal guidance and structure. It would also bestow a crucial measure of continuity and legitimacy upon these socio-governmental entities. A deeper contemporary need was also at work here. As Aron Gurevitch noted, ‘the analogy between microcosm and macrocosm lies at the very root of medieval symbolism’ and, one might add, self-definition. In the case of Christendom, each community was part of the larger entity known as Christendom.202 For Jews too, as we have already noted, each Qehillah was experienced by its members as an organic part of the entire Jewish People (Klal Yisrael).203 In addition, contemporary Christians looked to religious and historical archetypes as objects of veneration, imitation and validation. Identification with the great figures, institutions and events of the past anchored them in their past and validated their present. Kings were spiritual descendants of King David, and – if possible – physical descendants of Charlemagne.204 Churches and Cathedrals were embodiments of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.205

201 For Jews, the most important component of the various charters that were issued for the establishment of their communities, was that which asserted: ‘their Archsynagogue shall judge in any dispute that should occur among them and against them, just like the city tribune among the town people’ (Deinde sicut tribunus urbis inter cives, ita archisynagogus suus omnem iudicet querimoniam, que contigerit inter eos vel adversus eos).’ ‘[Charter of] Rudiger Houzman Bishop of Speyer,’ in The Jews in the Legal Sources of the Early Middle Ages, A. Linder (ed.), Jerusalem and Detroit: Israel Academy of Arts and Sciences and Wayne State University Press 1997, 400–402 and nos. 593–610. 202 A. Gurevitch, Categories of Medieval Culture, Boston 1985, 58. 203 See Blidstein, ‘Individual and Community in the Middle Ages,’ 327–369. 204 P. Buc, ‘Ritual and Interpretation: The Early Medieval Case,’ Early Medieval Europe, 9(2000), 183–210. One is reminded of the utter seriousness with which Clovis, king of the Franks, received his appointment as an honorary consul of Rome from the Byzantine Emperor. See M. McCormick, ‘Clovis at Tours, Byzantine Public Ritual and the Origins of Medieval Ruler Symbolis,’ Das Reich u. die Barbaren, E.K. Chrysos and A. Schwarcz eds, 115–180 (ViennaCologne 1989). See, more generally, G. Spiegel, “Memory and History: Liturgical Time and Historical Time,” History and Theory 41 (2002): 149–162. 205 J. Smith, ‘Constructing a Small Place,’ in Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land, ed. B. Kedar and R.J.Z. Werblowsky, Jerusalem and London: Israel Academy of Arts and Sciences 1998, 18–24.

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Medieval Jews similarly assimilated their present into ancient paradigms which vivified, explicated and validated it. What was true of their historical experience was also true of their religious legal traditions. It was axiomatic for them that Jewish Law and Lore should not only be observed, but that it was observable under all circumstances. Any action that they would undertake had to be based upon the recognized sources of rabbinic tradition, either directly or through interpretation. The reinforcing of a Jewish sense of continuity was of especially significant in light of incessant, Christian claims that Judaism had been superseded.206 Jewish writers and polemicists constantly reiterated the eternal and immutable bond between God and the Jews. The belief that their present institutions and behavior continued and embodied those of the past reinforced this vital conviction, even for so small a community as that of Troyes. The continuation of this responsum bridges the incongruity between ideals and reality. The Jews of Troyes had asked the sages of Mainz whether a majority may impose its will on a minority, whether the silence of a community member indicated his consent to the community’s dictates,207 and whether a large community may impose its will upon small communities that are dependent upon it. The rabbis opened their reply by affirming the basic right of a community to enforce its will: All Jews208 are obligated to compel and to force one another to set him upon the truth, upon the law and upon God’s statutes and His teachings. And we find this [borne out] in the Torah, in the Prophets and in the Hagiographa. It is written in the Torah (Deut. 17, 9): ‘And you shall come to the priests the Levites, and to the judge that shall be in those days etc.’ And it is written (ibid. 16, 8): Judges and officers shall you appoint thee in all your gates…[and they shall judge the people with honest judgment].’ This teaches that the officers receive the reward due the judges, and the 206 There is an enormous literature on this point. See, inter alia, M. Signer, ‘God’s Love for Israel: Apologetic and Hermeneutical Strategies in Twelfth Century Biblical Eexegesis,’ in Jews and Christians in Twelfth Century Europe, ed. M Signer. and J. Ven Engen, Notre Dame: Univ. of Notre Dame 2003, 123–149 and A. Grossman, ‘Pulmos Dati u-Megamah Hinukhit be-Ferush Rashi,’ in Pirqe Nehamah: Sefer Zikkaron le-Nehamah Leibowitz, ed. M. Arend et al., Jerusalem 2001,187–205. 207 The question was really whether there is a presumption of consent on the part of the less prominent members of the community to the actions of the popolo grasso. 208 Lit. ‘All Israel’ (kol Yisrael).

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reward of each is equal.209 In the Prophets, as it is written (Jud. 2, 18): ‘And the Lord was with the judge.’ In the Hagiographa, as it is written (Neh. 13, 25): ‘And I contended with them, and cursed them.’210 This answer is, at first blush, a non sequitur. The Jews of Troyes had asked about the powers of a community, and the rabbis replied with a string of citations dealing with the dignitas, prerogatives and authority of duly established rabbinical courts. Yet, from the mid-tenth century onward, halakhic discussions of the parameters of communal authority simply assumed that the Qehillah derived its powers from that of a Bet Din and, in some sense, embodied that institution.211 This development is both unexpected and difficult to understand.212 Courts are generally either subsidiary elements of a communal structure, or alternatively, represent parallel jurisdictions. Why then would one base the legitimacy of a community’s authority on a basis so limited as that of a court?213 This question is especially striking in light of the fact that the Talmud had

209 I have corrected the text according to the first edition (Italy c.1490). The later versions read ‘like the judges.’ This appears to be an original interpretation by the authors. A similar idea, though, appears in Pesiqta Rabbati, ed. M. Ish-Shalom, Vienna 1880, pisqa 33 s.v. anokhi anokhi. The text was definitely current in medieval Ashkenaz, as it is cited in the thirteenth century Ashkenazic compilation, Yalqut Shimoni (ii Shmuel, no. 147 s.v. va-yehi). 210 According to the Talmud (B. Mo’ed Qatan 16a), God personally curses those who defy the courts. Cf. Yalqut Shimoni, Shoftim, no. 54 s.v. oru. 211 Among the most prominent expressions of this equation are Teshuvot Ge’onim Qadmonim, no. 125; Teshuvot Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah, no. 67; and Teshuvot Maharam b. Barukh (Lemberg), no. 423. (See Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, passim).  R. Bonfil has noted that the community/court equation is found throughout the northwestern Mediterranean littoral. See R. Bonfil, ‘Giustizia, giudici e tribunali nelle communitate ebraiche dell’occidente cristiano,’ La giustizia nell’Alto Medioevo (secoli ix–xi): Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di studi sull’Alto Medioevo xliv (1996): 931–973 and idem, ‘Zekhut ha-Ze’aqah,’ 145–156. The same conclusion is suggested by K. Stow in ‘By Land and or By Sea: The Passage of the Kalonymides to the Rhineland in the Tenth Century,’ Communication in the Jewish Diaspora, 70–71. 212 Grossman, ‘Shilton ha-Qahal,’ 177–179 and Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 71–72, 84–85 and 102–105. 213 This is especially true, since not every Jew equally was qualified to serve on a court. See below and Grossman, ‘Shilton ha-Qahal,’ 178 n. 8; Kaplan, ‘Rov u-Mi’ut,’ 213–214 and M. Elon (ed.), The Principles of Jewish Law, Jerusalem: Keter 1975, 54–55 and 579–583.

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provided a perfectly sound, alternative, constitutional basis for communal rule.214 All are required to contribute to the repair of the town walls, including orphans, but not the Rabbis, because the Rabbis do not require protection. The townspeople are at liberty to use the soup kitchen like the Charity fund and vice versa, and to apply them to whatever purpose they choose.215 The townspeople are also at liberty to fix weights and measures, prices, and wages, and to impose their will upon those who infringe upon their rules.216 If the people of a town desire to close alley-ways which afford a through way to another town, the inhabitants of the other town can prevent them.217 The rabbis of France and Germany were well aware of these passages and they cited them as secondary proofs of the concept of communal rule.218 However, these did not provide the basic element in their discussions. That role was filled by a very different source (B. Yevamot 89b), which figures prominently in our responsum: R. Isaac stated: Whence is it deduced that hefqer by a Beth din is legal hefqer? It is said (Ez. 10, 8): ‘Whoever did not come within three days, in accordance with the demand of the princes and the elders, all his property should be forfeit, and he himself will be separated from the congregation of the captivity.’ R. Eleazar stated [that the deduction is made] from here (Josh. 19, 51): ‘These are the inheritances, which Eleazar the priest and Joshua the son of Nun, and the heads of the fathers’ houses of the tribes of the children of Israel, distributed as an inheritance. Now, what relation is 214 While not every member of the community sat on a court, the source of communal authority was always derived from the concept of the Bet Din. See Teshuvot Hakhme Zarefat ve-Lothair, nos. 27, 87 and 88. 215 B. Baba Bathra 8a and 12a. 216 Ibid. 8b. 217 Ibid. 12a. 218 Goldin (Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 146–148) notes that R. Tam’s call for unanimity in communal decisions is predicated upon the corporate model embodied in the passages from Baba Bathra. Not surprisingly, that view did not carry the day (cf. Sefer Ravyah, no. 1025 and ShuT R. Haim Or Zaru’a, no. 222).

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there between Tribal Heads and Fathers? Rather, this teaches you that just as fathers may distribute as an inheritance to their children whatever they wish, so may the heads distribute as an inheritance to the people whatever they wish. The principle enunciated here is that a rabbinical court declares personal property as ownerless (hefqer), and assigns it as it sees fit, both for purposes of adjudication and to punish malefactors.219 Yet, prima facie, it has nothing to do with communal authority. This conundrum led both Grossman and Soloveitchik to the conclusion that there was a deeply rooted tradition among FrancoGerman Jews that it was the court that projected its authority upon the community and determined its parameters of action.220 This was a very problematic assertion. Courts, almost by definition, are  manned by learned individuals. Indeed, many of the more important ­communities in France and Germany were headed by men of scholarly attainment, even great scholarly attainment.221 Nevertheless, many members of the smaller communities did not fill even the minimal requirements to serve as judges.222 An early responsum, attributed to R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos, reflects this awareness: ‘Three who make up a Bet Din, [if] two say one way and one says another way; if they are equal in wisdom, one leaves the words of the single person, and act in accordance with the opinion of the two. If, [however], the one is greater than the [other] two, one follows he who offers the most 219 B. Mo’ed Qatan 16a. See, more generally, ET, X, 95–110 and M. Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles, I, 240–275 and ii, 699–707. 220 In Babylonia, on the other hand, the administrative situation was the exact opposite. Thus, an unattributed Geonic source asserts: ‘In Iraq, no one recognizes this [i.e. right to hold up the prayer service (Ikkuv Tefillah)], for the community is not charged with overseeing Law and Justice; rather this [concern devolves] upon the Bet Din, and the community must obey that which the court commands; such as laying a warning, anathema or excommunication upon a respondent. Similarly, anywhere a judge is in charge of Law and Justice, the claimant should only turn to him, not to the community,’ (Teshuvot haGe’onim, ed. S. Assaf, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1942, 108). 221 In addition, see M. Ben-Gedaliah, The Rabbinic Sages of Speyer after the First Crusade: Their Lives, Leadership and Works at the end of the 11th century and the beginning of the 12th century, PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University 2007. 222 Lack of qualified judges was already a problem in Talmudic times. See S. Albeck, Batte ha-Din be-Yeme ha-Talmud, Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press 1980 and S. Assaf, Batte ha-Din ve-Sidrehem Ahare Hatimat ha-Talmud, Jerusalem 1924.

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reasonable opinion.’223 Now, Talmudic tradition is very clear that legal decisions were to be based upon a majority of the judges.224 The fact that the respondent considered forgoing that Biblical rule ‘if the one is greater than the [other] two,’ says quite a lot. If such was the case with actual judges, how much more so did this apply to communities, especially in the hinterland. Nevertheless, despite this disconnect the leading halakhic authorities did not deviate from the identification of the community with the court. Thus, R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golah observed:225 An objection that we apply hefqer bet din hefqer only to a distinguished court such as that of Shammai or Hillel, but not today, is not a valid objection, as the rabbis taught (B. Rosh Hashanah 25a-b): “Scripture states ‘and the Lord sent Jerubaal, Bedan, Jephtah, and Samuel…226 [to teach] that even if the most insignificant person is chosen as a leader of the community, he should be considered the equal of the mightiest.” Therefore, all the communal decrees and acts are valid… That which eleventh century German rabbis took for granted (or with which they made their peace), the Tosafists in the twelfth century did not. How was it possible, they asked, for unqualified individuals to embody a court? They resolved this problem by invoking a Talmudic ruling that if the litigants  agreed, they could even accept the jurisdiction of ‘three cowherds’ (sheloshah ro’e baqar).227 By extension, presumptive consent of the members of the community validated their actions, irrespective of their scholarly attainments.228 From the point of view of the halakhist, this satisfied the 223 Teshuvot Ge’onim Qadmonim, no. 144 (checked against Y.N. Epstein, ‘Teshuvot ha-Ge’onim,’ Mehqarim be-Sifrut ha-Talmud u-ve-Leshonot Shemi’ot, I, ed. E.Z. Melamed, Jerusalem: Magnes 1984, 216). For the attribution see Grossman, ‘Shilton ha-Qahal,’ 178 n. 8 and idem, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 60–61 n. 112. The variant reading of the responsum (MS OxfordBodeliana 678, fol. 349b) softens, but does not change this conclusion. 224 M. Sanhedrin 1, 6; B. Baba Metzia 59b; B. Hullin 11a; and Sefer ha-Mitzvot le-ha-Rambam, Pos. 175. 225 Teshuvot Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah, ed. Eidelberg, no. 67. See Grossman, ‘Shilton ha-Qahal,’ 179 and Soloveitchik, ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 46–53. 226 I Sam. 12, 11. 227 B. Sanhedrin 23a. 228 The opinion is identified with R. Tam. Cf. Sefer ha-Yashar, Heleq Hiddushim, ed. S. Schlesinger, Jerusalem 1959, no. 668. The text itself implies that many if not most communities were populated by people who were more learned than cowherds. As a result, their actions as a court were more valuable.

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formal requirements of the basis of communal authority. However, the fundamental conviction that the latter rested upon its embodying a rabbinical court did not waver. Thus, as far as the Jews of Troyes were concerned, they comprised a qehillah qedoshah. Their leaders were rashe ha-qahal or gedole ha-qahal. They were ­collectively a Beit Din. True, as the twelfth and thirteenth centuries progressed, a number of communities developed into centers of scholarship, and hosted active rabbinical courts. The important point is that the fact that even miniscule, not particularly learned, communities described themselves in such grandiloquent terms was not just a function of their need to anchor their activity in traditional legal categories. It expressed a deep-seated self-image and profound religious experience of embodying a court, with its attendant religious charisma and authority.229 When Reuben cried out ‘Oh Holy Congregation,’ he was seeking redress. He wanted the Jews of Troyes to ban the employment of the wayward gentile maid, and punish those who refused to obey with excommunication. In doing so, he invoked two of the central prerogatives of the Qehillah: the authority to legislate and the power to enforce communal legislation (and a fortiori the Laws of the Torah). The need for original communal legislation is self-evident. Changing circumstances and local needs demanded that the community legislate. That activity generated a rich literature of legislation and ordinances to regulate daily life.230 In the same manner, it also needed to enforce the Laws of the Torah, the payment of taxes – both to the government and the community – and these self-same communal enactments.231 Classically, both of these activities were deemed to be prerogatives of a court.232

229 See R. Reiner, “Batte Din be-Zarefat ba-Me’ah ha-12: Beyn Rikkuz le-Bizur,” in Al Pi ha-Be’er: Mehqarim mugashim le-Ya’aqov Blidstein, ed. U. Ehrlich et al., Beersheba: Ben Gurion University Press 2008, 565–591. 230 The best known expressions of this legislative legacy are super-communal and multicommunal ordinances. Among these is the prohibition against polygamy, edicts respecting the privacy of the mails, and so on. The texts were collected by L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964. In addition, see I. Schepansky, Ha-Taqqanot be-Yisrael: Taqqanot ha-Qehillot, iv, Jerusalem and New York: Mossad HaRav Kook and Yeshiva University 1993. 231 Grossman, ‘Ha-Qehillah ha-Yehudit be-Ashkenaz ba-me’ot ha-10 ve-ha-11,’ in Qahal Yisrael, 57–74; and A. Grabois, ‘Hanhagat ha-Parnassim be-Qehillot Zarefat ha-Zefonit ba-Me’ot ha-11 ve-ha-12,’ ibid.,75–84. 232 Cf. MT, Hil. Mamrim 2.

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The trouble was that, at least technically, large swaths of Jewish Civil and Criminal Law had fallen into desuetude when the Byzantines abolished the Patriarchate in the Land of Israel in 425 ce. Already in Talmudic and Geonic times, various mechanisms were developed in order to allow for the proper exercise of rabbinic and judicial authority.233 These were carried over into Ashkenaz, where the challenge was actually greater. After all, the rabbis of Babylonia had had the benefit of centuries of continuous activity and the backing of the non-Jewish government to back up their actions.234 In contrast, by all accounts the communities of Franco-Germany were of comparatively recent vintage, and the circumstances they faced were more varied. A broader mandate was necessary to meet these challenges. That mandate was provided by a Talmudic passage that declared: ‘R. Eliezer b. Jacob said: I have it on tradition that the Bet Din may impose flagellation and impose punishment, even where not [warranted] by the Torah; not with the intention of disregarding the Torah, but in order to safeguard it.’235 Ashkenazic halakhists seized upon the license provided by this statement and developed a wide range of fines, penalties and various forms of corporal punishment,236 which were to be employed whenever ‘the hour required it.’237

233 The question of rabbinic authority after the abolition of the patriarchate and the simultaneous disappearance of the traditional mode of rabbinic ordination (semikhah) haunts Jewish Law to this day. See, S. Assaf, Batte ha-Din ve-Sidrehen Ahar Hatimat ha-Talmud, Jerusalem 1924; idem, Ha-Onshin Ahare Hatimat ha-Talmud, Jerusalem 1922; J. Katz, ‘Rabbinical Authority and Authorization,’ 41–56; and idem, ‘The Dispute Between Jacob Berab and Levi ben Habib over Renewing Ordination,’ Binah 1 (1989): 119–141. 234 This was true both of Sassanid Persia (up till 644 ce) and of the Ummayid and Abassid Caliphates. See I. Gafni, Yehude Bavel be-Tequfat ha-Talmud: Hayye Hevrah va-Ru’ah, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1991, 92–103 and M. Ben-Sasson, ‘Ha-Hanhagah ha-Atzmit shel ha-Yehudim be-Artzot ha-Islam ba-Me’ot ha-7 ad ha-12,’ in Qahal Yisrael, 11–56. 235 B. Yevamot 90a and B. Sanhedrin 46a. See Y. Blidstein, Samkhut u-Meri be-Hilkhat ha-Rambam: Perush Nirhav le-Hilkhot Mamrim 1–4, Tel Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 2002, 118– 120. The topic has been thoroughly reviewed in A. Kirschenbaum, Bet Din Makin ve-Onshin: Ha-Anishah ha-Pelilit be-Am Yisrael: Torata ve-Toldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2013. 236 Assaf, Onashim, passim; Baron, The Jewish Community, I, 208–246; idem, Social and Religious History, V, 58–81; and Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 67–80. Stow (Alienated Minority, 183–191), highlights the uniquely broad range of authority that the Ashkenazic community adopted and notes possible feudal models for that arrogation. 237 Resp. Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah, no. 9. The literature is replete with references to this rule. See, for example, the responsa of R. Joseph Bonfils in Resp. Maharam (Lemberg), no. 423 and Resp. Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, no. 1; Resp. Maharam (Prague), no. 81; Rosh, Sanhedrin, 9, 5; and Or Zaru’a, Pisqe Sanhedrin no. 35.

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Excommunication (herem or nidui),238 which was originally a judicial penalty, was the heaviest weapon in the communal arsenal, serving as both a punishment and a deterrent.239 Communal legislation, as a matter of course, bore with it the threat of herem upon those who violated it.240 Throughout the period under consideration, the most important communal and super-communal enact­ ments were back by the threat of Herem, or some variation thereof (Shamta, Allah, or Qelalah).241 The awesome power of Herem was due to several factors. Simha Goldin has argued that the extraordinary power of Herem was a result of the awesome curses and imprecations that were rained down upon the head of its object.242 Such curses were indeed terrifying. For example:243

238 Arukh ha-Shalem, iii, s.v. h’ r’m’ (3) and V, s.v. Niddah. The Arukh defines herem to mean ‘set aside’ or separated. When defining shamta, he lists herem as its synonym (ibid., viii, s.v. s’ m’ t’). 239 Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 67–73. There are a number of technical distinctions between the various types of excommunication (e.g. Herem, Nidui and Shamta). In addition, there was a significant range of penalties and restrictions that could be included in each ban (et, 17, 325–378).  While the early history of Herem has been examined by Professor Gideon Libson, the charting and analysis of its subsequent development remains a pressing scholarly desideratum. In the late Middle Ages, communities and rabbis hurled anathemas and bans with ever increasing frequency, leading to the increased worthlessness of such actions. See R. Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities in Renaissance Italy, trans. J. Chipman, London: Littman Library 1993, 65–82 and Y. Yuval, Hakhamim be-Doram, 11–20 and 463 s.v. herem. An indication that this decline was already apparent around 1200 is found in shp, nos. 1291 and 1386. 240 One of the fullest descriptions of the ceremony of excommunication suggestively highlights not one who violated a commandment of the Torah or one who refused to obey a court’s ruling, but: ‘One who Violates a Herem’ (Sefer Kol Bo, no. 139). In other words, it is concerned with the violation of an edict that was backed by herem, not the imposition of a ban as punishment. 241 Cf. et, xvii, 343–378; G. Libson, ‘“Ha-Gezerta” be-Tequfat ha-Ge’onim u-ve-Reshit Yeme haBeynayim,’ Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri 2 (1975): 79–154; and idem, ‘Herem Stam be-Tequfat ha-Ge’onim u-ve-Reshit Yeme ha-Beynayim, ibid., 22 (2001–2004): 107–232. 242 Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad, 70–72. 243 These citations are from the full version of the ceremony of excommunication that is found in Sefer Kol Bo sec.  139 (cf. Sefer Orhot Hayyim, Hil. Shevu’ot u-Nedarim, no. 17). Similar texts are found in MS JTS 9669; MS- JTS 3199; MS Jerusalem-Michael Krupp 8/1414; MS London – Hirschler – Dzialowski (bookdealers) 17; MS Columbia University X 893 M 6845; MS St. Petersburg – Russian National Library Evr. I 248; MS Paris – Bibliothèque Nationale heb. 407/4; and MS Berne – Burgerbibliothek Ms. 200/8.

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By decree of the angels (irin), and by leave of the holy ones, we excommunicate and forswear; anathemize and ban, curse and imprecate… Accursed be he by the mouth of God, the Great, the Mighty, and the Awesome…Lord, God of all spirits of flesh, destroy him and annihilate him. Oaths were treated with the utmost seriousness in the middle ages.244 In Halakhah, an oath (shevu’ah) is taken by pronouncing the Name of God, which then instills the oath with its binding force.245 The power and awe that the Divine Name evoked was considerable and both mystical and magical powers were attributed to it. These powers included foreswearing angels and compelling them to do one’s will (hashba’at malakhim).246 Medieval Ashkenazim were not only sensitive to the Omnipresence of God, they lived in a spiritual universe that was heavily populated with all types of other supernatural forces. Angels and demons were permanent parts of the religious landscape and spiritual awareness. Their presence was invoked and their powers were enlisted.247 In this, as in so many other ways, élite and popular religion did not significantly diverge. Incorporating these types of curses, and enlisting angels – destructive and otherwise – was sure to strike a responsive – and terrified – chord among the Jewish public. In my opinion, the imprecations that animated Herem were not the only source of its power. On its own, excommunication possessed sufficient weight 244 False or unfulfilled oaths are deemed to be Desecration of God’s Name (Hillul Ha-Shem) and violations of the third commandment. See shp, nos. 1386 ff. and MT Hil. Shevu’ot 12, 1–3. The centrality of the pre-modern concern with non-judicial oaths and vows is borne out by the massive amount of halakhic discussion it generated. It is surprising that so little scholarly attention has been devoted to the subject. See, in the interim, S. Morell, ‘The Samson Nazirite Vow in the Sixteenth Century,’ ajs Review 14 (1989): 223–262. 245 B. Shevu’ot 35a-36a and MT Hil. Shevu’ot 2, 2–3. As a result, despite the fact that rabbinic tradition allows for the anullment of both oaths and vows, medieval Ashkenazim (to a greater extent than Sephardim) were extremely reluctant to do, since such an action was seen as an ex post facto taking of God’s Name in vain. Cf. Rashi, Gittin 35a s.v. ke-mi shenishba; Tosafot Ad loc. s.v. lo hayu and Mordekhai, Shavuot no. 758 s.v. al ha-nishba. By relative contrast, see MT Hil. Shevu’ot 12, 12. 246 See J. Dan, ‘Sippurim Demonologi’im me-R. Yehudah he-Hassid,’ Tarbiz 30 (1961): 273–289. 247 The literature is replete with references to such beliefs. See, inter alia, MV(H) sec. 509; Siddur Rashi secs. 455 and 521; Sefer Ravyah ii, 541; Or Zaru’a I, 8; and the extracts from the possible Avot commentary of R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos cited by Grossman (Hakhme Ashkenaz, 67). The writings of the pietists are especially rife with angels and demons – though as we have seen, they reflect wider usage. See Kanarfogel, Peering through the Lattices, 236 s.v. demons.

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to instill fear into the stoutest heart. It invoked and embodied the entire Torah. ‘Anyone who violated a Herem was deemed to have violated the entire Torah.’248 According to Sefer Hassidim, one who died excommunicate was to be buried far away from the graves of worthy Jews and was doomed to eternal Hellfire.249 Equally terrifying, the imposition of a ban separated the individual both from the qehillah and ‘from all the members of the Exile.’ Excommunication transformed its object into a non-person. He could not be called to the Torah or to discharge any ritual actions on behalf of the community. Even when present in the synagogue, the the excommunicate was not counted in the minyan. If he slaughtered an animal, its meat was deemed nonkosher. If he touched wine or baked bread, it was forbidden to others, as if they were the ‘bread of gentiles and the wine of [idolatrous] libation.’250 He was shunned socially. No one was allowed to come with four square cubits of him. Since his legal status was conditional upon his membership in the qehillah, unless he actually converted to Christianity, he was consigned to both legal and social limbo.251 Herem was living death.252 Viewed more broadly, the act of excommunication contained even deeper levels of significance. To return to the manner in which the Jews of Troyes declared their boycott of the wayward Christian maid, and excommunicated her supporter Simon, we find:253 248 Midrash Tanhuma (Warsaw), Parshat Va-Yeshev no. 5. The passage is cited at the beginning of Sefer Kol Bo, no. 139 as well as Tosafot ha-Shalem ad Gen. 23, 5 .s.v. davar aher; Perush Ba’al ha-Turim al ha-Torah ad Deut. 7, 27 s.v. herem; and shb, no. 106. R. Judah He-Hassid (shp, no. 144) groups those who violate a Herem together with robbers, bandits, murderers, hardcore criminals and ‘those who separate themselves from the community (sic!).’ 249 shp, nos. 268 and 1386. 250 Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government, 154, based upon B. Hullin 13a. 251 Technically, all Jews were required to honor a herem, even one decreed by a different community. This was in line with the Talmud’s decision (B. Mo’ed Qatan 16a) that ‘one who is excommunicated in his own city, is likewise excommunicated in another city.’ See Resp. Rashi, no. 70; Sefer Ravyah, iii, Mo’ed Qatan no. 840; Rosh, Mo’ed Qatan 3, 6 and 8; Resp. Rosh, 38, 4; and Hagahot Mordekhai, Mo’ed Qatan, no. 935. This rule was often observed in the breach. See Teshuvot Maharam (Lemberg), no. 423 (R. Joseph Bonfils), and the ordinances issued by R. Tam and his brother R. Samuel b. Meir (Finkelstein, Jewish SelfGovernment, 150–160). 252 Rashi interpreted the Bible’s use of the word, when referring to punishments, to denote actual execution or destruction (Ex. 22, 19 s.v. yeheram; Lev. 27, 29 s.v. kol; Num. 29, 23 s.v. va-yahram; josh. 7, 15 s.v. oto; and Amos 4, 3 s.v. ve-hishlakhtana.). Appropriately, the rabbis demanded that the excommunicate comport himself as if he were a mourner, in this case, for himself. Cf. Sefer Ravyah, Mo’ed Qatan, no. 840. 253 Sefer Kol Bo, no. 142.

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Since she habitually acts this way, please decree that she derive no benefit from any Jew for a half a year, [and] perhaps she will learn her lesson. And if you command me, I will formulate the decree. And they so commanded him, and he decreed in accordance with the words of the community; with the exception of a certain Simon, who did not agree thereto. And he said: I will never obey your decree, for it is not [a valid] decree, because my enemy enacted it. And the entire community said: ‘He only issued the decree on our say so; and we did not do so for his sake alone, but for the sake of all of the members of our community.’ And the aforementioned Simon declared: ‘We will not honor your decree, because among those who agreed to it are some who love our antagonist254 and hate us.’ And the entire community replied: ‘Heaven forbid! Far be it from us to issue a decree for the love of any man. For just as we love you, so we love all of Israel, and ‘the remnant of Israel can do no wrong.’ And we then warned them for several days not to blatantly reject [our authority]. However, they did not listen. And, once our community saw that this was the case, we separated ourselves from them. Emphases added – jrw

This description is marked by the repeated emphasis that the decree was undertaken by ‘the entire community’ (kol ha-qahal). This is interesting, because the text plainly states that it was Reuben who actually formulated the decree on behalf of the entire community (‘And if you command me, I will formulate the decree. And they so commanded him, and he decreed in accordance with the words of the community’). The language here is reminiscent of our discussion of public worship, where the individual congregants merge into one unit, which is then led by a representative of the community (Shaliach Tzibbur). Here, too, Reuben acted as the representative of the community as a whole (with the obvious exception of Simon).255 However, here the members of the Troyes community were not functioning as a tzibbur at prayer but as a qehillah taking administrative action. Furthermore, the two actions that it undertook – legislation and the imposition of a Herem – were classically considered to be the almost exclusive prerogatives of a Bet Din.256 Thus, even without the formal trappings, the community simultaneously embodied a court.257 254 Lit. the one in litigation with us (ba’al dinenu). 255 Cf. shp, no. 119. 256 This is the clear conclusion that emerges from the Talmudic and post-Talmudic discussions. See the summaries by Maimonides in MT, Hil. Talmud Torah 6, 11 – 17, 13 and MT, Hil. Mamrim 2, 2–9. 257 As Soloveitchik (ShuT ke-Maqor Histori, 106) has noted, only in that light can the objections of Simon be understood. The latter had rejected the decree of the qahal, because it acted on behalf of his enemy. Normally, such a claim would carry little or no weight.

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So, it was not simply the members of the Troyes community in solemn assembly who cast Simon out. It was the Qehillah of Troyes, as an integrated whole, that did so.258 The Qehillah transcended the failings of its individual members, and embodied the values and virtues of the Torah (‘For just as we love you, so we love all of Israel, and ‘the remnant of Israel can do no wrong’). Simon was separated from an organic entity, from which he could no longer derive either material or spiritual sustenance.259 As Kenneth Stow observed, ‘the Knesset Yisrael, accordingly, was a more transcendental than a physical entity.’ 260 This implication is expressed in the manner in which the decree of Herem was proclaimed.261 The excommunication ceremony was held in the synagogue. The presence of a prayer quorum (minyan) was typically required. The Torah Scroll was taken out of the Holy Ark and held by the one charged with pronouncing ban and the curses that accompanied it. On some occasions, the shofar was also sounded.262 Thus, the community viewed itself a unified whole, from which this specific member was now excluded.263 As Yitzhak Lifshitz has However, Halakhah (M. Sanhedrin 3, 5) explicitly disqualifies a person from serving on a court if he hates one of the litigants. Simon, knowing this, took aim at the ‘Achilles heel’ of communal authority. So sensitive was his claim that the others responded emphatically: ‘Heaven forbid! Far be it from us to issue a decree for the love of any man. For just as we love you, so we love all of Israel, and ‘the remnant of Israel can do no wrong.’ 258 Rashi (Baba Bathra 8a s.v. Knesset Yisrael) explicitly connects the semi-mystical concept of Knesset Yisrael with a particular community and the obligations of its members. 259 It was Yitzhaq Baer (‘Yesodot,’ 11–12) who first postulated that medieval Ashkenazim saw themselves as belonging to an organic whole which was part of the larger unity of the Jewish People. Despite the fact that Baer’s position was rooted in his own historiosophy, most scholars have agreed with him on this point. One exception is Kenneth Stow. Thus, the fact that Baer’s historiosophy posited an organic view of Jewish nationhood should not impugn his findings in this specific context. See B. Gampel, ‘Introduction,’ to Y. Baer, A History of the Jews in Christian Spain, I, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1994, xvff. and I. Yuval, ‘Yitzhak Baer and the Search for Authentic Judaism,’ in The Jewish Past Revisited: Reflections on Modern Jewish Historians, ed. D. Myers and D. Ruderman, New Haven: Yale University Press 1998, 77–87. 260 Stow, Alienated Minority, 179. 261 Sefer Kol Bo, sec. 139. 262 According to Jacob of Venice, R. Yehiel of Paris excommunicated Nicholas Donin to the sound of the shofar, in 1225. See ‘Iggeret R. Ya’aqov mi-Venezia,’ Ginze Nistarot (Kabak), ii, 29 and Viqqu’ah Rabbenu Yehiel mi-Paris, ed. R. Margaliot, Jerusalem 1975, 13. 263 This is inherent in the fact that the excommunicant is ‘separated from the entire congregation of the exile’ (Ez. 10, 8). Cf. B. Mo’ed Qatan 16a. Sefer ha-Oreh [2], Part 2: Din Abaryan s.v. abaryan she-avar (= Sefer Kol Bo sec. 130) rules explicitly that the excommunicant is non-existant as far as inclusion in a minyan was concerned.

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observed, ‘when the community is defined as a holy congregation justified by a higher theological vision, the survival of the community takes precedence over the survival of its individual members, and the community is favored over the individual.’264 In short, Herem was not merely the Qehillah’s ultimate weapon. It was an effective expression of its essential identity. Non-legal literature reinforces and widens our appreciation of this key element of Ashkenazic communal self-definition. In our discussion of communal worship, we encountered the verse (Ps. 82, 1): ‘The Lord stands in the congregation of God; in the midst of the judges does He judge.’ Rabbinic tradition invoked this verse in several, distinct connections. In line with the simple meaning of the verse, edah was taken to refer to a court whose just deliberations are blessed with God’s presence.265 Thus, the Tosefta states:266 The judges should know whom they are judging, and before whom they are judging … as it is written (Deut. 19, 17): ‘then both men, between who is the dispute, shall stand before God,’ and it also says: ‘The Lord stands in the congregation of God; in the midst of the judges He judges.’267 In his Bible commentary, Rashi indicates that the idea that God’s Presence in-dwells among judges had special significance among medieval Ashkenazim. The Book of Genesis (18, 1) states: ‘God appeared to [Abraham] in the Plains of Mamre, while he was sitting at the entrance of the tent at the heat of the day.’ Rashi, commenting upon the words ‘he was sitting’ (yoshev), says: It is written yashav [without a vav]. [This indicates that] he wanted to rise [when] G-d said to him, “Sit, and I will stand, and you will thereby teach your descendants that I am destined to stand in the assembly of judges while they remain seated,” as it is said: “God stands in the assembly of judges.”268 As we have noted previously, Rashi’s Bible commentary was composed with three, major goals in mind: a) attaining the ‘plain meaning of Scripture’ (peshuto shel miqra) b) supplying information to supplement that in the Bible c) imbuing the reader with the deepest ideals of the Ashkenazic community. Rashi’s remark here fills neither of the first two aims. The verse poses no real textual 264 J.I. Lifshitz, ‘The Political Theology of Maharam of Rothenberg,’ Hebraic Political Studies 1 (2006): 384. 265 M. Sanhedrin 1, 6. Similarly, Rashi in his commentary to Psalms writes: ‘The Lord stands in the congregation of God-to see if they judge in accordance with the truth. And you, O judges, how long will you judge unjustly?’. 266 T. Sanhedrin 1, 9. Cf. B. Sanhedrin 6b. 267 Cf. B. Berakhot 6a, B. Sanhedrin 7a, and Tanhuma, Parshat Mishpatim no. 6 s.v. (6) she’ilta. 268 Rashi, ad loc s.v. yoshev. Cf. MV(H), sec. 22 s.v.ha-gadol.

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difficulty, and his comment supplies no necessary information for understanding the narrative.269 It would, therefore, appear to be educational in intent. The overwhelming majority of midrashic sources explained that God’s standing, as it were, while Abraham sat, was ‘a good omen for him, that when Israel sits in synagogues and Houses of Study, the Shekhinah stands over them, as it is written: ‘God stands in the congregation of God.’270 Rashi employs the same verse from Psalms, but relates it specifically to the presence of the Shekhinah among future Jewish judges. Rashi may have several different aims in mind. He may have sought to instill in judges the importance of rendering competent, just rulings. In other words, God is present at every trial is to ensure that judges rule justly.271 Alternatively, Rashi may have wished to enhance the prestige and the authority of local rabbinical courts,272 since in France, established Rabbinical Courts were much less common than they were in Germany.273 In addition, resort to non-Jewish courts was a regular phenomenon.274 By emphasizing the sublime status of sitting on a court, Rashi responded to both sides of the problem. 269 Thus, neither Rashbam nor R. Joseph Bekhor Shor found any need to comment. Admittedly, Rashi is trying to account for the orthography of the word ‘yoshev,’ but this is hardly a unique instance. On the contrary, it was understood that such forms are to be interpreted homiletically. Cf. Tosafot, Pesahim 3b s.v. rokhevet and Tosafot Rashba, ed. E.D. Rabinowitz Te’omim, Jerusalem 1955, ad loc. 270 Bereshit Rabbah, parshah 48(7), s.v. ve-hu; Yalqut Shimoni, Torah, no. 82; Midrash Shohar Tov, Psalm 22; and Pesiqta Rabbati, Parshat ha-Hodesh, 48b. Despite its close affinity to the Ashkenazic world view, the late eleventh century Byzantine compilation, Midrash Leqah Tov (Parshat va-Yera, ad loc) has the same reading. The Theodor-Albeck edition of Bereshit Rabbah (parsha 48(1), s.v. ve-hu yoshev), omits the reference to synagogues and houses of study: ‘You are a sign for your children. Just as you are sitting and the Shekhinahh is standing, so too your children will sit and the Shekhinahh will be standing.’ 271 Rashi ad Ps. 82, 1. 272 Teshuvot Hakhme Zarefat ve-Lothair, no. 24. Cf. Teshuvot Rashi, no. 247 and Soloveitchik, ibid., 107–126. The Leipzig manuscript of Rashi’s Bible commentary (Leipzig, Universi­ tätsbibliothek, BH 1, ad Gen. 18, 1) reads ‘in the future I will stand during the consultations of the judges (atzat ha-Dayyanim), while they sit.’ If this is not a copyist’s error, could it hint at the community qua court (as in, senatus consultus)? On R. Tam’s judicial activity, see S. Albeck, ‘Yahaso shel Rabbenu Tam le-Va’ayot Zemano,’ Zion 19 (1954): 104–141 and R. Reiner, ‘Rabbinical Courts in France in the Twelfth Century: Centralisation and Dispersion,’ jjs 60 (2009): 298–318. 273 Rami Reiner (ibid.) argues that by the mid-twelfth century the situation in France had improved and a regular system of rabbinical courts did exist. 274 In 1150, Rashbam and R. Tam convened a synod whose main decision was to forbid recourse to Gentile courts under pain of excommunication. The synod was attended by

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I believe that Rashi is here conveying an even more profound message. He was not indulging in homiletic hyperbole when he asserted that God was ‘destined to stand in the assembly of judges, while they remain seated,’ but meant it quite literally. A parallel discussion bears this out. The Bible states that when a court is convened, ‘the two men, who are litigating, shall stand before the Lord, before the priests and the judges that shall be in those days.’275 Commenting on the words ‘before the Lord,’ Rashi says that ‘it should seem to them as if they are standing before the Lord, as it says: “in the midst of the judges, will He judge”’ (Ps. 82: 1). Despite his use of the words ‘as if,’ I believe that Rashi is expressing a common belief that the Shekhinah actually hovered over the heads of rabbinical court judges. He assumed that the requirement that both litigants and witnesses stand in the presence of the court,276 was not merely an expression of respect for the judges, but an acknowledgement of the Divine Presence in the contemporary court room.277 Rashi’s grandson, Rashbam, makes this point representatives of Jewish communities from throughout Ashkenaz. The text mentions representatives from Troyes, Dijon, Auxerre, Sens, Orléans, Paris, Châlons-sur-Saone, Melun, Étampes, Normandy, Anjou, Poitiers, the Rhineland, and Lotharingia. Such a wide response testifies both to the stature of R. Tam and Rashbam and, logically, the ubiquitous nature of the problem. See L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages, New York: Feldheim 1964, 155–160 and E. Kanarfogel, ‘Religious Leadership during the Tosafist Period: Between the Academy and the Rabbinic Court,’ in Jewish Religious Leadership: Image and Reality, I, ed. J. Wertheimer, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary 2004, 298. 275 Deut. 19, 17. 276 Concerning the question of who must stand in the presence of the judges and when, see B. Shavuot 30a-b (with commentaries, ad loc.) and MT Hil. Sanhedrin 21, 3. Toward the end of our period, the consensus developed not to require litigants or witnesses to stand. See SMaG, Asin no. 106 and Mordekhai, Shavuot, no. 761. One wonders, if so, to what degree this means that the previous religious sensitivity had weakened. 277 Rashi makes the point when commenting on the Bible’s qualifier ‘before the priests and the judges that shall be in those days.’ He explains the phrase by adducing the rabbinic adage ‘Jepthah, in his generation, is the equal of Samuel, in his generation’ (B. Rosh Hashanah 25b), which is itself based upon a different verse containing the same phrase (Deut. 17, 9). The upshot is that every generation’s judges are to be accorded the same deference and authority. This nuance was noted by the the thirteenth century commentator, R. Hayyim Paltiel. Cf. Perushe ha-Torah le-R. Hayyim Paltiel, ed. Y.S. Lange, Jerusalem 1981, 593. Rashi’s comment should also be understood against the background of the ongoing debate as to the overall authority of contemporary courts (mumhim vs. hedyotot). See Sefer Mordekhai ha-Shalem, Shavuot, ed. Y. Horowitz, Jerusalem 2009, no. 761 (201– 203) and the sources cited in the notes.

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quite plainly when he commented that the Torah’s requirement that the litigants ‘stand before the Lord,’ refers to standing before the judges.278 R. Eleazar of Worms observes, en passant, that the litigants stand before the judges ‘for the Shekhinah is there.’279 In the next chapter, we will see that Ashkenazic Jews believed that God’s Presence was materially present in the Synagogue.280 Here, Rashi has included regular court sessions as situations wherein the Shekhinah was believed to dwell.281 Mahzor Vitry, which emanated from Rashi’s circle, expands the idea  even further to include anywhere ten Jews gather in His Name.282 The upshot is that since the Shekhinah is present whenever a court convenes, and the qehillah was an extension of a Bet Din, then God’s Presence is present in the community, per se,283 whenever it occupied itself in Study, Prayer, and Judgment or Communal administration.284 278 Tosafot, Ketubot 21a s.v. hanah le-edut; Tosafot, Baba Qamma 90b s.v. kegon and Or Zaru’a, iv: Pisqe Sanhedrin, no. 87. Rashbam’s comment was made in the context of a complicated question concerning the ability of a witness to subsequently join the judicial panel. It is interesting to note that a number of medieval commentators cite this interpretation as if it were Talmudic. It does not, however, appear in any of the extant manuscripts. Cf. Rashba, Shavuot 30a s.v. u-le-inyan. 279 Roqeah ha-Shalem, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, sec. 200. 280 This point will be discussed more fully in the next chapter. 281 In his remarks on the liturgy, Rashi expands the point to include anywhere Jews either study or sit in judgment. In Mahzor Vitry, the reference is to little children who study. Cf. MV(H), sec.  22. MV(G) no. 29, and Siddur Rashi, no. 31. In Sefer ha-Pardes, 299, the text reads: ‘when they study or judge.’ The source is Midrash Tanhuma (Buber), Parshat VaYera, no. 4. 282 Sec. 426, commenting on M. Avot 3, 6. Cf. M. Avot 3, 6 and Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, 15 v. 1. In Avot de-Rabbi Nathan (Version B), ch. 18 s.v. talmide hakhamim, the verse is invoked for any group of ten. Rashi also singles out children studying Torah. 283 Formally, this connection is based upon the fact that the word ‘edah’ (or, congregation) is found in a verse referring to a court. The rabbis identified the former with a quorum of ten (minyan). See B. Berakhot 21b, B. Megillah 23b and B. Sanhedrin 2a. The result was a melding of the two ideas, as evidenced, for example, by the seamless manner in which the Talmud (B. Berakhot 6a) passes from a discussion of God’s Presence at prayer, and among the judges. 284 As a resident of Troyes, Rashi was definitely aware of the often shaky nature of communal authority in his qehillah or others. He himself had gone so far as to assert that one who took an oath not to obey a communal decree had sworn in vain, as he had ‘sworn to revoke a commandment [of the Torah].’ In other words, as far as Rashi was concerned, obeying a community decree was a Biblical obligation, on the order of hearing the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah and observing the Sabbath. Regarding Rashi’s attitude to communal government, see Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 146–151.

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chapter 2  John Bossey has observed that the medieval European outlook on life was also integrated and holistic (J. Bossey, ‘Holiness and Society,’ Past and Present 75 (May 1977): 119– 137). Life’s rhythms were set by the seasons and by the liturgical calendar. If their place of residence was associated with the life or relics of a saint, they defined the areas in which they lived as ‘sacred communities.’ In addition, they were taught to believe that they were also part of the metaphysical, meta-geographic entity known as Christendom. This reality defined the character of the space within which they lived. As Peter Comestor, for example, wrote: ‘Christ’s body is indeed the universal church, that is, the head and the members are Christ and the believers’ (corpus enim Christi universa est ecclesia, sciliciet caput cum membris, id est Christus et fideles; cited in Rubin, Corpus Christi, 38–39).  Kenneth Stow has argued that the concept of ‘qahal qadosh’ represents a Jewish response to the ubiquitous idea that the Christian community is part of the ‘corpus Christi’ or ‘corpus mysticum’ (Stow, ‘Holy Body, Holy Society,’ 151–171 and idem, Alienated Minority, 182–186). He maintains that Rhenish and French Jews were fully aware of the Christian view of both themselves and of their faith, with claims of Christian supersession and its inevitable consequence, Divine rejection of the Jews and their interpretation of the Law. Christian writers and preachers consistently characterized the Jewish Community as a foreign growth on the body politic of Christendom. They excoriated it as a malignant ‘corpus separatum’ that festered within the larger ‘corpus mysticum ecclesiae.’  Stow suggests that by way of response, the Jews turned the Christian argument on its head. Rather than being the accursed of God, they emphasized that it was actually their community that was holy. They, of course, were comfortable with the idea that they constituted a ‘corpus separatum.’ However, rather than constituting a malignancy, they aggressively maintained that it was eternally and inherently ‘qadosh’ and as Rashi declares, ‘that which is holy cannot be accursed’ (Rashi, Num. 5, 18 s.v. ha-me’arerim).  There are serious weaknesses in such an approach. The Ashkenazic community’s selfimage as a ‘qahal qadosh’ was based upon a strong, internal tradition that the Jews of Franco-Germany brought with them from the ancient centers in the Land of Israel and Babylonia, as mediated through Southern Italy. True, it is likely that Jews were aware of the Christian concept of the ‘corpus mysticum’ and that it posed a serious challenge for them. I think, however, it is inaccurate to reduce the self-definition of the Jewish community in medieval Western Europe to a reaction to the Christian challenge.  It is more reasonable to see the interaction as more nuanced. Jews developed their ideas based upon indigenous traditions. Their encounter with the Christianity, especially in light of their inferior and defensive position, highlighted and strengthened relevant elements within that tradition. Thus, concepts such as ‘Sacred Community’ or Knesset Yisrael were adumbrated as a result of the communal ‘other’ that faced them.

chapter 3

The Synagogue And all of the work was completed in the month of Elul, in the year 4864. On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, one of the elders came and said to the community: “Come, let us carry the Ark up to the house, which we have firmly established upon its foundation.” And the elders of the community, the Priests and the Levites, carried the Scrolls of the Torah, with great joy, to the Ark in the synagogue, and they have remained there to this day. On the following day, on Rosh Hashanah, we began to pray therein, and we have prayed there to this day.1 Thus the Crusade chronicle attributed to R. Solomon b. Samson, describes the dedication of the newly rebuilt synagogue in Speyer in September 1104, some eight and one half years after Crusaders attacked the community in May 1096. Historians have long emphasized the central role played by the synagogue in the medieval Ashkenazic community. It was the pivot around which medieval Jewish life turned. It was the place where Divine worship was conducted. Communal, educational and social life was organized within its precincts.2 It was therefore most appropriate for the chronicle’s author to signal the recovery of Mainz Jewry from the trauma of the First Crusade through a description of its synagogue’s rededication. Closer examination of that description reveals that it is replete with Biblical imagery that invokes the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.3 Was this merely standard religious rhetoric? Or did the author

1 A.M. Haberman, Sefer Gezerot Ashkenaz ve-Zarefat, Jerusalem 1971, 60; A. Neubauer and M.  Stern, Hebraische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während der Kreuzzüge, Berlin: Leonhard Simion 1892, and Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während des Ersten Kreuzzugs, ed. E. Haverkamp, Hannover: Hahn 2005. 2 See S. Goldin, ‘The Synagogue in the Medieval Jewish Community as an Integral Institution,’ Journal of Ritual Studies 9 (1995): 15–39; idem, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad: Hiddat Hisardutan shel ha-Qevutzot ha-Yehudi’ot be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Tel-Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 1997, 102–115. 3 The passage directly echoes the Biblical description of David’s bringing of the Ark of the Covenant to Jerusalem (ii Sam. 6). Prominent references are also found to Gen. 35, 3; Isa. 2, 3; and Ezek. 2, 68. See I. Yuval, ‘Heilige Städte, heilige Gemeinden – Mainz als des Jerusalem Deutschlands,’ in Jüdische Gemeinden und Organisationsformen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, hrsg. R. Jütte u. A. Kustermann, Wien: Böhlau 1996, 91–101.

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wish to convey a deeper message, implying that more than a synagogue was being sanctified? The conceptual link between the Temple and the Synagogue in Jewish literature is clearly attested to in Talmudic times; it is a leitmotif of all postTalmudic discussions concerning the synagogue.4 Nevertheless, there are significant differences of emphasis and nuance among the post-Talmudic traditions as to how this identification of Temple and Synagogue was to be understood. These differences are of no small import. The degree to which one understands the idea of Synagogue as standing in loco Templi has serious halakhic, behavioral, spiritual and experiential implications. Thus, consideration of the context in which this passage was used should open the way to understanding how the synagogue was perceived, defined and experienced in medieval Franco-Germany.5

Miqdash Me’at

The conceptual ties between the Holy Temple and the synagogue start with a passage in Ezekiel: ‘Thus says the Lord God: Although I have removed them far off among the nations, and although I have scattered them among the countries, yet have I been to them as a lesser sanctuary in the countries where they have come’ [Emphasis added-jrw].6 The plain meaning of the verse is that God Himself will be the ‘lesser sanctuary’ for His far-flung, exiled people. Indeed, this is how the thirteenth century Provençal exegete, R. David Qimhi (1160–1235),

4 There is some difference of opinion as to the history of this equation. See Z. Safrai, ‘From Synagogue to “Lesser Temple,” Proceedings of the World Congress of Jewish Studies, B2/10 (1990): 23–28; idem, ‘The Communal Functions of the Synagogue in the Land of Israel in the Rabbinic Period,’ in Ancient Synagogues; Historical Analysis and Archaeological Discovery, I, ed. D. Urman and P. Flesher, 181–204 (Leiden: Brill 1995); L.I. Levine, ‘Mi-Merkaz Qehillati leMiqdash Me’at: Ha-Rihut ve-ha-Penim shel Bet ha-Knesset ha-Atiq,’ Cathedra 60 (1991): 36–84; and idem, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years, New Haven: Yale University Press 2000. See also, Y. Tabory, Reshimat Ma’amarim Odot Batte Knesset, Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan Talmud Department, 14–21 and 56–68. 5 Yisrael Ta Shma first highlighted the novelty and the difficulties that inhered to the Ashkenazic approach, though his discussion is extremely limited. See Y. Ta-Shema, ‘“Miqdash Me’at”: Ha-Semel ve-ha-Mamashut,’ in Knesset Ezra: Mehqarim ha-Mugashim le-Khvod Professor Ezra Fleisher, ed. S. Elitzur et al., Jerusalem: Makhon Ben Zvi 1995, 351–364. 6 Ezek. 11, 20.

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understood it:7 ‘Nevertheless, I have not abandoned them. Rather, ‘I have been to them as a lesser sanctuary in the countries where they are come.’ In other words, though they are far from the Lord’s Temple, which is the ‘Greater sanctuary,’ there in this distant country, I will be ‘for them as a lesser Sanctuary.’8 However, that is not how the rabbis interpreted this verse. The Aramaic translation (Targum) to Ezekiel, for example, fundamentally recasts the verse’s meaning:9 Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I have removed them far off among the nations, and I have scattered them among the countries, I have given them Synagogues, second only to My Temple, and they are but few in the countries to which they have been exiled. Emphasis added-jrw

The Targum interprets the ‘lesser sanctuary’ as referring to synagogues. God bestowed these upon the Jewish people as – albeit temporary – substitutes for the Holy Temple. The Talmud continued this line of interpretation:10 ‘I have been to them as a lesser sanctuary.’ R. Isaac said: ‘These are the Synagogues and the Houses of Study in Babylonia.’ R. Eleazar said: ‘This is the house of our Master in Babylonia.’ Rava expounded, ‘What does the verse (Ps. 90, 1) ‘You have been our dwellingplace,’ mean? These are Synagogues and Houses of Study.’ R. Isaac and R. Eleazar expanded the Targum’s definition of the ‘lesser sanctuary’ to include the House of Study (Bet Midrash).11 Thus, both institutions 7 RaDaQ, ad loc. Radaq was a representative of the Andalusian tradition of Biblical exegesis that focused more upon the literal meaning of Scripture. See Y. Berger, ‘“Peshat” and the Authority of “Hazal” in the Commentaries of Radak,’ ajs Review 31 (2007): 41–59. Subsequently, Radaq accounts for the rabbinic exegesis: ‘That is to say, I am with them in the synagogues wherein they gather to pray to Me. I hear their voice and save them from their enemies, so that they not destroy them utterly.’ Regard Qimhi, see F. Talmage, David Kimhi: The Man and the Commentaries, Cambridge (Ma.): Harvard University Press 1975. 8 Qimhi’s Provençal colleague, R. Menachem b. Simon, adopts the same approach, ad loc. in the Keter edition of Ezekiel (ed. J. Penkower, Ramat Gan 2000). 9 Ad loc. Cf. Yalqut Shimoni, Tehillim no. 659 s.v. saviv (end). Of all the major midrashic collections, only the early medieval (10th century) collection Shir ha-Shirim Zuta interprets the words ‘lesser sanctuary’ as referring to something other than synagogues – in this case, to charity. Midrash Shir ha-Shirim Zuta, ed. S. Buber, Berlin 1925, parsha 1 no. 15 s.v. hinakh yaffa. 10 B. Megillah 29a. There are significant variants among the various manuscripts preserving this tradition. See Diqduqe Sofrim, Megillah, 148–149. 11 The point is implicit in R. Eleazar’s identification of the ‘lesser sanctuary’ with the home of the Second Century sage Rav, where the latter instructed his disciples (see Rashi, ad loc.). Scholars are divided over the question as to when formal institutionalized instruction began in the

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are, at least prima facie, of equal significance and sanctity.12 Thus, R. Levi b. Hiyya declared that ‘one who leaves the synagogue and enters the House of Study, or leaves the House of Study to enter the synagogue, is deemed worthy of greeting the Divine Presence, as it is written (Ps. 84, 8): ‘They go from strength to strength, every one of them appears before God in Zion.’13 Torah study in medieval Ashkenaz was most frequently conducted either in the synagogue or in the master’s home. Hence, the synagogue alone could claim the status of ‘miqdash me’at.’ Rashi’s interpretation of the verse from Ezekiel reflects this state of affairs. For him, the synagogue alone is the ‘lesser sanctuary,’ ‘for it is they who rest second [only] to the Holy Temple.’14 The twelfth century French exegete, R. Joseph Qara (fl. c. 1125), also followed Rashi: ‘These are the synagogues in the exile, which are equal to the Holy Temple.’15 His interpretation is actually even more significant, as he was a leading member of the so-called ‘Pashtanic School’ of Biblical interpretation, which sought to understand the text solely on its own, literalist terms.16 Nevertheless, Qara not only adopted the Targum’s interpretation, which ­violates the plain meaning of the text, he actually upgraded the status of the Land of Israel and Babylonia. See I. Gafni, Yehude Bavel be-Tequfat ha-Talmud, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1991, 177–238; J. Rubenstein, ‘The Rise of the Babylonian Rabbinic Academy: A Reexamination of the Talmudic Evidence,’ jsij I (2002): 55–68 and idem, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 2003, 23ff; and Ch. Shapiro, Bet ha-Midrash be-shelhe Yeme Bayit Sheni u-ve-Tequfat ha-Mishnah, PhD dissertation, Jerusalem: Hebrew University 2001. (My thanks go to Professor Rubenstein for his help with this point.) 12 See Diqduqe Sofrim, ad loc. 149 no. 4. The question of the relative importance of the Synagogue vis-à-vis the House of Study also relates to the question of the permissibility of changing one to the other. B. Berakhot 8a; B. Megillah 27a and et, iii, 210. 13 B. Mo’ed Qatan 29a. The parallel passage in B. Berakhot 64a speaks solely of ‘one who leaves the synagogue and enters the House of Study.’ On the other hand, our passage in Megillah reports: Said Abbaye, ‘At first, I would study at home and pray in the synagogue. Once I understood that, which David said (Ps. 26, 8), “O Lord, I love to live in Your House,” I have been studying in the synagogue.’ 14 Cf. Ta Shma, ‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 200. Professor Jordan Penkower informs me that there is no way of judging whether Rashi changed the Targum’s formulation or if he merely had a different reading thereof. As late as the thirteenth century, Ashkenazic writers would refer exclusively to the synagogue as a ‘lesser sanctuary.’ See, for example, M.S. Bodley Mich. 569 (Neubauer 1098), 104b par. 7. 15 Concerning him, see Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 254–346, esp. 316–324. 16 See M. Lockshin, Rabbi Samuel ben Meir’s Commentary on Genesis: An Annotated Translation, Lewiston: E. Mellen Press 1989; and E. Touitou, Ha-Peshatot ha-Mithadshim be-khol Yom: Iyyunim be-Ferusho shel Rashbam la-Torah, Ramat-Gan: Bar Ilan University Press 2003, 110–125.

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synagogue from Rashi’s ‘second only’ to the Holy Temple to being the latter’s ‘equal.’ His interpretation is an eloquent confirmation of the deep-seated centrality that the identification of the synagogue with the ‘miqdash me’at’ possessed in medieval Ashkenaz.17 Beyond the realm of Biblical exegesis, R. Abraham b. Azriel of Bohemia (13th cent.) in his commentary on piyyut, Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, writes:18 ‘The synagogue is described as a ‘lesser sanctuary,’ as it says in Ezekiel, ‘yet have I been to them as a lesser sanctuary in the countries where they have come.’ It says, moreover, in the last chapter of Megillah: R. Samuel b. Isaac said: These refer to the Synagogues and the Houses of Study.19 The meaning is that even though the synagogue is a lesser sanctuary, it is the glory of Holiness (hadrat qodesh). Moreover, the Targum of ‘yet have I been to them as a lesser sanctuary’ is ‘I have given them Synagogues, second only to My Temple, and they are but few in the countries to which they have been exiled.’ R. Abraham emphasizes here that the Targum does not view the word ‘lesser’ as modifying ‘sanctuary,’ but as alluding to the start of a new phrase (‘and they are but few’). As a result, he also maintains that the ‘sanctuary’ is identical with ‘synagogues,’ and both are of apparently equal sanctity.20 17

One member of Qara’s circle, R. Eliezer of Beaugency, did interpret the verse literally: ‘That I am always their lesser sanctuary, wherever they are’ (Keter, 55). See S.A. Posnanski, ‘Perush al Yehezkel u-Tre Asar,’ Mavo al Hakhme Zarefat Mefarshe ha-Miqra, Warsaw 1913. A century later, the Italian scholar R. Isaiah di Trani (RiD) backtracked a bit and, in the spirit of RaDaQ, explained that ‘I will be to them as a lesser sanctuary’ – that I will dwell in their synagogues and not abandon them.’ RiD lived in the interface between Franco-Germany and Spanish-Provençal cultures. Hence, it is difficult to determine if his comment signifies a shift within the Ashkenazic world in which he was trained or the impact of Sephardic exegetical and philosophical literature. See I. Ta Shma, ‘Sefer “Nimmuqe Humash” le-R. Yeshaya di Trani,’ ks 64 (1972/73): 751–753. 18 Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, ed. E.E. Urbach, ii, Jerusalem: Meqize Nirdamim 1947, 135. The author is commenting on the piyyut ‘Ha’azinu abirim bene elim,’ which is recited on the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Cf. I. Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, ii, New York 1970, no. 5(28). Regarding the author, see E.E. Urbach, Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, iv: Introduction, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1963, 112–127. 19 The attribution to R. Samuel b. Isaac (and not R. Isaac) is also found in the Munich manuscript of the Talmud, which is of Ashkenazic provenance and almost contemporary with the author. Cf. Diqduqe Sofrim, Megillah, 149 n. 1. 20 Cf. et, iii, s.v. Bet ha-Knesset, 194–198. Ta Shma (‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 204–206) noted that many Qaraites aggressively opposed and actively polemicized against this equation between Temple and Synagogue. See Y. Gartner, Gilgule Minhag be-Olam ha-Halakhah,

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The idea that Temple and synagogue possess more or less equal sanctity finds further expression in the almost unanimous opinion of medieval Ashkenazic legal authorities that the Biblical commandment to be and act in awe of the Holy Temple (Mora Miqdash) devolved upon the synagogue as well. This is the explicit opinion of R. Eliezer of Metz (c. 1115–c. 1198) in his code Sefer Yere’im,21 and of both R. Moses of Coucy (fl. c. 1240) in Sefer Mitzvot Gadol22 and R. Isaac of Corbeil (d. 1280) in Sefer Mitzvot Qatan in the thirteenth century.23 The Synagogue/Temple equation was not restricted to the literary realm. It found expression in the synagogue’s furnishings, the etiquette that obtained therein, and the manner in which the liturgy was performed. The synagogue



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Jerusalem 1995 and Y. Erder, Avele Tziyyon ha-Qara’ im u-Megillot Qumran, Tel Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 2004.  Again, it is important to reiterate that all post – Talmudic traditions accepted the existence of a nexus between Temple and Synagogue. Ashkenaz was unique in the literal, concrete way that it interpreted that nexus. Moreover, I contend that this specific ideal spread into the Spanish orbit from Franco-Germany, much as Ta Shma suggested (regarding other points) in Ha-Nigleh she-ba-Nistar: Le-Heqer Sheqi’e ha-Halakhah be-Sefer haZohar,2 Tel-Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 2001, 1–5. Sefer Yere’im HaShalem, no. 104. See Urbach, Ba’ale HaTosafot, 154–164. Sefer Yere’im does not list the building of the Temple as one of the six hundred thirteen commandments. Professor David Berger once suggested to me that this may reflect the Ashkenazic belief that the Third Temple will descend from heaven (cf. Rashi, Sukkah 41a s.v. i nami and Ex. 15, 17 s.v. miqdash). In this work, the only systematic code to emerge from French Tosafist circles, the author locates the laws of decorum in the synagogue within the rubric of ‘Fear of the Holy Temple’ (Mora Miqdash; Asin 164). The implication is that despite some minor differences in the details affecting each institution, they are conceptually identical. Maimonides, on the other hand, discusses the laws regarding the synagogue in the laws of Prayer (Hilkhot Tefillah), and not in the Laws Regarding the Temple (Hilkhot Bet ha-Behirah). This is significant in that it deviates sharply from R. Moses of Coucy’s slavish dependence upon the Mishneh Torah of Maimonides in the organization and formulation of his work. See G.  Blidstein, Ha-Tefillah be-Mishnato ha-Hilkhatit shel ha-Rambam, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1994, 193–205; Urbach, Ba’ale HaTosafot, 465–479 and Jeffrey R. Woolf, ‘Maimonides Revised: The Case of the Sefer Miswot Gadol,’ Harvard Theological Review 90 (1997): 175–204. Another Spanish authority, Nahmanides, set the synagogue’s legal status even lower. He viewed it simply as an accessory to prayer. Cf. Hiddushe ha-Ramban, Megillah 25b s.v.veyesh le-yashev. R. Jacob Hazan of London (fl. Late 13th cent.) in his Sefer Etz Hayyim – itself heavily based on the Sefer Mitzvot Gadol – understood the Maimonidean position to be that Mora Miqdash is not directly related directly to the synagogue. See R. Ya’akov Hazzan of Londres, Etz Hayyim: Halakhot, Pesaqim u’Minhagim, I, ed. Israel Brodie, Jerusalem 1962, 58–59. No. 6. See Urbach, Ba’ale Ha-Tosafot, 572–575.

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was an area infused with Temple associations which implicitly and emotionally reinforced the fundamental identity between the two.24 The Ark that held the Torah scrolls was seen to embody the Ark of the Covenant. The Table, upon which the Torah was read, was explicitly equated with the Temple Altar.25 This message was accentuated by two synagogue lights. All Ashkenazic synagogues contained a light that burned perpetually in the sanctuary. Contemporary sources interpreted it as fulfilling the Biblical requirement that the fire on the Temple altar burn eternally.26 In addition, the synagogue was usually adorned with two candelabra. One represented the seven branched Menorah in the Temple and was treated with the same deference as the original.27 The other was the special menorah used for lighting the Hanukkah light.28 Rabbinic tradition had dictated that the Hanukkah candles be lit in one’s home, preferably outside the door or in a window facing the street. This was to achieve the maximum amount of acclaim for the miracle of the cruse of oil (pirsume nissa).29 By the middle of the twelfth century, the custom developed to light a Hanukkah menorah in the Synagogue as well.

24

In late ancient synagogues, this point was accentuated by the ubiquitous centrality of Temple imagery in their physical design and in their wall decorations. Unfortunately, with the exception of the Altneuschul in Prague, no contemporary medieval Ashkenazic synagogues have survived. Hence, we do not know if the same educational/artistic technique was true of them, as well. I am grateful to Dr. Sarit Shalev Eyni for her assistance with this point. 25 This was especially highlighted on Hoshanah Rabbah, when the podium was circled seven times with Palm Branches and Citron – as in the Temple. Cf. Sefer ha-Oreh, I, sec. 98; mv secs. 366, 381, 389 and 426; Sefer Ravan, Hil. Sukkah; Sefer ha-Manhig, Hil. Aravah ve-Haqafat ha-Mizbe’ah, 402–403; Sefer ha-Roqe’ah no. 221; and Sefer Or Zaru’a, ii no. 315. 26 Cf. Lev. 6, 5–6. 27 Ta Shma, ‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 200–205. See also E. Reiner, ‘Destruction, Temple and Holy Place: On the Medieval Perception of Time and Place,’ in Streams into the Sea: Studies in Jewish Culture and Its Context, ed. R. Livneh-Freudenthal and E. Reiner, 140–143 (Tel Aviv: Alma College 2001), and the fuller version that appeared in Cathedra 97 (2001): 47–64. Sometimes, the desire to faithfully duplicate the Menorah ran into halakhic difficulties. The Talmud states explicitly that the Temple Candelabrum may not be reproduced precisely (B. Avodah Zarah 43a). Nevertheless, halakhists were consistently called upon to rule on the feasibility of exactly such candelabra. Cf. ShuT Mahariq, shoresh 75 and B.  Yaniv, ‘Hashpa’at ha-Halakhah al Itzuv Menorot ha-Hanukkah,’ Minhage Yisrael, V, 121–153. 28 See Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, V, 38–39 and 125–126. 29 B. Shabbat 21a–22a.

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This practice was problematic. The Talmud had plainly stated that the o­ bligation to light candles was limited to one’s residence. Even if one were to argue that lighting candles in the synagogue was an expression of the desire to publicize the miracle, it was plainly of secondary legal significance; and reciting a blessing upon lighting it would be highly questionable since it involved unnecessary use of God’s Name.30 Nevertheless, that is precisely what was done in Ashkenazic synagogues. One of the first to describe this custom was the late twelfth century Provençal scholar R. Avraham b. Nathan of Lunel (1155–1215). He wandered throughout France and Spain and recorded the wide variety of religious practices that he observed. He recorded that the Hanukkah lights were lit in Franco-German synagogues ‘because the miracle took place in the Holy Temple. One acts similarly in the Miqdash Me’at in the exile, in order to publicize the miracle, since everyone gathers there.’31 In other words, since the miracle of the cruse of oil occurred in the Holy Temple, it is only natural that it be recreated in the Miqdash Me’at.32 This point was underscored by the fact that, by the thirteenth century, it was the common practice in France to position the Hanukkah candelabrum in the Synagogue in precisely the same place that the Golden Menorah was placed in the Temple.33 The Synagogue/Temple equation was also responsible for distinctive rules that regulated access to the Ashkenazic synagogue. The Bible and Rabbinic Literature contain a highly detailed and intricate regimen that barred anyone who was in various states of ritual impurity (Tum’ah) from entering different portions of the Temple precincts.34 As far as the synagogue was concerned, the situation was not unitary. The Babylonian 30 31

As a result, some scholars refused to recite the blessing. Cf. Shibbole ha-Leqet, no. 185. Sefer ha-Manhig, 531. His younger contemporary, R. Barukh, treats the synagogue lighting as commonplace (Sefer ha-Terumah, Hil. Shabbat no. 229). Ha-Yarhi was not enthusiastic about this practice. 32 See Sefer Orhot Hayyim, Hil. Bet haKnesset, 4–5 and Sefer Kol Bo (no. 17). While the author, R. Aaron ha-Kohen of Lunel, lived in late thirteenth century Provençe, his remarks are equally applicable to Ashkenaz. 33 Hagahot Rabbenu Peretz, Sefer Mitzvot Qatan no. 280 par. 2 and Terumat ha-Deshen no. 104. The identification of the two vessels, and the feeling that the Hanukkah miracle was not only being commemorated, but even recreated, helps to explain the allowance for the recitating the blessing. 34 Cf. et, xx, s.v. Tum’at Miqdash ve-Qodoshav, 387–438. According to Sefer Hassidim, madmen were excluded from the synagogue, in part because of its Temple-like status. Cf. shp no. 458 and E. Shoham-Steiner, ‘The Humble Sage and the Wandering Madman: Madness and Madmen in an Exemplum from “Sefer Hassidim”,’ jqr 96 (2006): 47–48.

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tradition, followed in medieval Andalusia, was adamant that these laws related only to the Temple.35 In Franco-Germany, however, there was a strong inclination to restrict the ritually impure from access to the Synagogue. The best known and most prominent expression of this belief is found in the belief that menstruants and parturients should not enter the synagogue until after they had completed the required procedure of ritual purification, culminating in immersion in a miqveh.36

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Ta Shma, ‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 207–210 and Y. Dinari, ‘Hillul ha-Qodesh al-Yede Niddah veTaqqanat Ezra,’ Te’udah 3 (1983): 17–37.  The avoidance of the synagogue by both menstruants and parturients is reminiscent of the Christian practice wherein women did not enter the church prior to a ritual that became known as ‘churching,’ which usually occurred some thirty days after giving birth. The origins and development of this ritual, and its possibly Jewish roots, have been subject to intense scholarly scrutiny in recent years.  In a famous letter to Augustine of Canturbury, Pope Gregory the Great expressed marked discomfort with the application of Mosaic purity legislation to the church. Still, as Rob Meens has shown, Gregory acknowledged that impurity was a valid, religious category. Later churchmen, such as Theodore of Tarsus (602–690), actively barred menstruants from entering the church. (See Ch. Wood, ‘The Doctors’ Dilemma: Sin, Salvation and the Menstrual Cycle in Medieval Thought,’ Speculum 56 (1981): 710–727; J. Delaney et al., The Curse: A Cultural History of Menstruation, Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press 1988, 37–45; P.W. Finsterwalder, Die Canones Theodori Cantuariensis und ihre Überlieferungs­ formen, 308; J. McNeill and H. Gamer (eds), Medieval Handbooks of Penance: A Translation of the Principal “Libri Poenitentiales” and Selections from Related Documents, New York: Columbia University Press 1990, 179–216; R. Meens, ‘Questioning Ritual Purity: The Influence of Gregory the Great’s Answer’s About Childbirth, Menstruation and Sexuality,’ in St. Augustine and the Conversion of England, ed. R. Gameson, 174–186, London: Sutton 1999; and M.  Rieder, On the Purification of Women: Churching in Northern France 1100–1500, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2006, 4–11 and 237–251.)  Ultimately, the question of ‘Churching,’ grew out of Western Christianity’s attempt to cope with the impact of Germanic folklore, alongside its ongoing struggle with its Jewish heritage. As Mary Douglas noted, it took the Church until the Modern era to recast churching as a ceremony of thanksgiving. Cf. M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London and New York, 1984, 62. Even though both Christians and Jews posited a contradiction between blood impurity and sacred space, the Jewish perception grew organically out of Jewish tradition, while the Christian response was in contrast to its own ideals. In addition to Ta Shma and Dinari, see E. Baumgarten, ‘“Ve-Yafeh Hen Osot”: Mabat Hadash al Minhag Nashim she-lo Le-hikanes le-Vet ha-Knesset be-Yeme Niddutan be-Ashkenaz b­ e-Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ in Sefer ha-Zikkaron le-Yisrael M. Ta Shma, ed. A. Reiner et al., Alon Shvut: Tevunot 2002, 85–104; S.J.D. Cohen, ‘Menstruants and the Sacred in Judaism and

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The earliest known discussion of this custom is attributed to Rashi.37 Sefer Ha-Pardes, a work that emanates from his school, reports: And there are women who avoid entering the synagogue while they are menstruating, and they also avoid touching a Torah Scroll; and this is a superfluous stringency, which they need not observe. For why should they act this way? If it is because they think that the sanctity of the synagogue is the same as that of the Holy Temple, then even after immersion why may she enter?…38 And if it [sc. the synagogue] is not the same as the Holy Temple, let them enter! What is more, we are all impure and nevertheless enter it. From this we may derive that the synagogue is not the same as the Holy Temple and the menstruant may enter it. However, the synagogue is still perceived as a place of purity for them, and therefore they act in a proper and praiseworthy manner.39 Rashi’s report regarding the behavior of ‘some women’ is confirmed by R. Eleazar b. Judah of Worms in the Sefer Roqe’ah:40

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38 39 40

Christianity,’ in Women’s History and Ancient History, ed. S. Pomeroy, Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina 1991, 273–298; idem, ‘Purity and Piety: The Separation of Menstruants from the Sancta,’ in Daughters of the King: Women and the Synagogue, ed. S. Grossman and  R. Haut, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1992, 103–115; M.A. Friedman, ‘Harhaqat ha-Niddah va-ha-Minut etzel ha-Ge’onim, ha-Rambam, u-veno R. Avraham al-pi Genizat Qahir,’ Maimonidean Studies I (1990): 1–22; E. Marienberg, Niddah: Lorsque les Juifs Conceptualisent la Menstruation, Paris: Les Belles Lettres 2003; idem, ‘Menstruation in Sacred Spaces: Medieval and Early-Modern Jewish Women in the Synagogue,’ Nordisk Judaistik 25 (2004): 7–16; H. Soloveitchik, ‘Review of Yitzhaq (Eric) Zimmer, “Olam keMinhago Noheg,” ajs Review 23 (1998): 223–234; J. Woolf, ‘Medieval Models of Purity and Sanctity: Ashkenazic Women in the Synagogue,’ in Purity and Holiness: The Heritage of Leviticus, ed. M. Poorthuis and J. Schwartz, Leiden: Brill 2000, 263–280; idem, ‘Bet Ha-Knesset be-Ashkenaz: Beyn Dimui le-Halakhah,’ Knishta 2 (2003): 9–30; and E. Zimmer, ‘Yeme ha-Tohar shel ha-Yoledet,’ Olam ke-Minhago Noheg, 220–239 and idem, ‘Shiv’at Yeme Niddah,’ ibid. 240–239. See P. Roth, Sefer ha-Pardes: Le-darkhei Hivatzruto shel Yalqut Hilkhati Be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, ma thesis, Hebrew University 2008, 97. My thanks to Dr. Roth for providing me with a copy of his thesis. She is enjoined to bring appropriate expiatory sacrifices. See Lev. 15, 25–33. Sefer Ha-Pardes, ed. H. Ehrenreich, Budapest 1924, 3 (with parallels). Roqe’ah Ha-Shalem, Jerusalem n.d, 205–206.

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I found written in the work, Ma’aseh Ha-Ge’onim:41 Said R. Hiyya in the name of R. Hanina b. Dosa etc. A woman who is careful about her status as a niddah may not cook for her husband, nor bake, nor sift flour, nor lay out the bedding, nor pour water from any vessel to an earthenware vessel, for she is impure and renders others impure. Moreover, she is forbidden to enter the synagogue until she immerses herself in water.42 Emphasis added-jrw

It is clear from this source that menstruants refrained from entering the synagogue because they were ritually impure. Furthermore, while Rashi thought the practice as a questionable, unnecessary, stricture, its inclusion in Ma’aseh HaGe’onim, which reflects Pre-Crusade Ashkenazic usage, shows that it was viewed as a normative practice.43 The question then arises why Rashi (apparently) worked so hard to first discredit a practice that was rooted in the world in which he was raised and to which he himself was deeply committed, only to later rehabilitate it.44 This enigma is heightened by the fact that Ma’aseh Ha-Ge’onim is citing here a sectarian composition known as the Baraita de-Niddah (6/7th cent; Palestine).45 The work presents itself as a collection of extra-Talmudic dicta on the status of menstruants, and is cited by leading Ashkenazic authorities such as R. Eliezer b. Nathan (Raban; c. 1090–c. 1170),46 R. Eliezer b. Joel Ha-Levi (Ravyah; 1140–1225),47 R. Isaac ’Or Zaru’a,48 and R. Isaac Dueren (Second half of the 13th cent.).49 It presents a detailed regimen of restrictions on the n­ iddah, 41

The passage does not appear in the edition of Ma’aseh HaGe’onim that was published by A. Epstein (Berlin, 1910). Concerning the relationship of Ma’aseh HaGe’onim with other writings of the Makhirites, see Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim,2 Jerusalem: Magnes 1989, 374–386 and Mataniah ben Gedalia, The Rabbinic Sages of Speyer after the First Crusade: Their Lives, Leadership and Works at the end of the 11th century and the beginning of the 12th century, PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University 2007. 42 The passage is discussed more fully below, Ch. iv. 43 Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 376. 44 Cf. H. Soloveitchik, ‘Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?’ ajs Review 3 (1978): 167–171. 45 The full text was published by H. Horowitz in Sefer Tosefta Atiqata, V, Frankfurt am Main 1890. A critical edition of the text, with notes, has been recently published by E. Marienberg, La Baraita de-Niddah: Un texte juif pseudo-talmudique sur les lois religieuses relatives à la menstruation, Brepols, Turnhout 2012. Regarding this passage, see pp. 164, 172 and 182. 46 Sefer Ravan, ed. Sh. Albeck, Warsaw 1905, Massekhet Niddah, 319. 47 Sefer Ravyah I, ed. v. Aptowitzer, Brooklyn 1983, 45. 48 Sefer Or Zaru’a, I, Zhitomir 1892, no. 360. 49 Sefer Sha’are Dura, Jerusalem n.d, Hilkhot Niddah, no. 18. Cf. Dinari, ‘Hillul,’ 33.

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restrictions which fly in the face of accepted rabbinic tradition.50 Yet, here the text declares (and R. Eleazar of Worms agrees): ‘And she shall not enter the Temple’51 – to enter Houses of Studies and Synagogues.’52 How did patently non-normative teachings penetrate the mainstream of Franco-German legal tradition? What message does this convey as to the Ashkenazic attitude to the synagogue? The answer to the first question is rooted in a basic fact of Franco-German Jewish piety. This community maintained a fierce loyalty to and veneration for its received sacred literature and religious lore. This corpus receptus possessed both religious charisma and self-evident legal authority.53 Baraita de-Niddah was an ancient, purportedly Talmudic composition, whose acceptance can be traced back to Southern Italy, the cradle of Ashkenazic culture. Its citation in Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim suggests that, despite its problematic elements, it passed quietly into the Ashkenazic canon.54 This does not mean to imply that the accepted practice was predicated solely upon the dictates of Baraita de-Niddah. Avoidance of sacra by menstruants was a common religious practice and is found among medieval Christians and Muslims as well as among Jews.55 Furthermore, as will be shown in a later chapter, ritual purity and impurity played an important role in Jewish daily 50

51 52 53

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Aptowitzer found points of similarity between Qaraite Halakhah and Baraita de-Niddah. Cf. V. Aptowitzer, Mehqarim be-Sifrut HaGe’onim, Jerusalem 1951, 166–168. Lieberman, however, proved that despite the similarities between Baraita de-Niddah and Qaraite Halakhah, the work is not Qaraite in origin (S. Lieberman, Sheqi’in, Jerusalem 1970, 22–24 and Friedman, ‘Harhaqat Ha-Niddah,’ 3). See also, D. Sperber, Massekhet Derekh Eretz Zuta, Jerusalem 1994, 136. Lev. 12, 4. Tosefta Atiqata, ed. H.M. Horowitz, Frankfurt a. Main 1890, 30 and 33. While the immediate context refers to parturients, the rule was equally applied to menstruants. Y. Ta Shema, ‘Sifriyatam shel Hakhme Ashkenaz bene ha-Me’ah ha-11 ha-12,’ Knesset Mehqarim, I, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 2004, 21–42 and idem, ‘The Library of the French Sages,’ in Rashi, 1040–1990: hommage à Ephraïm E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna, Paris: Cerf 1993, 535–540. Ta-Shema (‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 359–363) notes that Baraita de-Niddah’s influence was largely confined to the Franco-German orbit (or to those circles in Spanish Jewry who were under its direct influence, e.g., Nahmanides). This resolves Dinari’s (‘Hillul,’ 30–33) surprise at the strong position held by Baraita de-Niddah among the German Pietists. Cf. Rob Meens, ‘“A Relic of Superstition”: Bodily Impurity and the Church from Gregory the Great to the Twelfth Century Decretists’, in Purity and Holiness: The Heritage of Leviticus, ed. M. Poorthuis and J. Schwartz, 281–293 (Leiden 2000); M. Holmes-Katz, Body of Text: The Emergence of the Sunni Law of Ritual Purity, Albany: suny 2002; D. Hayes, Body and Sacred Place in Medieval Europe, 1100–1389, New York: Routledge 2003, 6–7; and

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life in medieval Franco-Germany. It makes sense to assume that while Baraita de-Niddah was enlisted by halakhists in order to understand and evaluate that practice, it may not have generated it.56 Finally, in light of the equation of the synagogue with the Temple, such a development might have been inevitable.57 To return to the passage from Sefer ha-Pardes, it is important to recall that established custom was a key element in medieval Ashkenazic Halakhah. The scholarly consensus maintains that until the last quarter of the eleventh century, the Babylonian Talmud and tradition were not perceived by FrancoGerman scholars as the sole arbiters of Halakhic truth. While they were certainly the first among equals,58 other sources also played a serious role in halakhic decision-making.59 Received custom was one of these. However, in the last quarter of the eleventh century this changed. The Babylonian Talmud and the Geonic tradition then became the exclusive touchstone of Halakhic

56

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Baumgarten, ‘“Ve-Yafeh Hen Osot”,’ ibid. (My thanks go to Professor Zeev Maghen for clarifying the situation in medieval Islam for me). This is not to reject the possibility that emanates from the same Palestinian sectarian milieu which might have given birth to many problematic Ashkenazic practices vis-à-vis menstruants and parturients, such as avoidance of marital relations for the latter until 40 or 80 days had passed. Cf. Dinari, ‘Hillul,’ 14–15 and J. Woolf, ‘The Authority of Custom (Minhag) in the Responsa of R. Joseph Colon, Dine Yisrael xix (1997–1998): 69–71. In light of the testimony of Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim, I am inclined to think that Baumgarten’s (‘Ve-Yafeh Hen Osot,’ 85–98) claim that the avoidance of the synagogue by menstruants and parturients dates from the late eleventh century is a bit too late. See, in the meantime, J. Baskin, ‘Women and Ritual Immersion in Medieval Ashkenaz: The Sexual Politics of Piety’, in Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages through the Early Modern Period, ed. L. Fine, Princeton: Princeton University Press 2001, 130–142; B. Har-Shefi, Nashim be-Qiyyum Mitzvot ba-Shanim 1050–1350: Beyn Halakhah le-Minhag, PhD dissertation, Bar Ilan University 2003, 187–199. See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 157–158 and 412–416; idem, Hakhme Zarefat, 429–441; and J. Woolf, ‘Issur “Pat Akum” Beyn Keseh le-Asor: le-Hithavuto u-le-Mashma’uto shel Minhag,’ in Sefer Ha-Yovel le-Yitzhaq Zimmer, ed. G. Bacon et al., Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan Univ. 2008, 83–99. The exact identity of these other elements is a matter of scholarly debate. See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 73–74; H. Soloveitchik, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom in Medieval Ashkenaz (Part ii),’ jqr 94 (2004): 278–286; Y. Ta Shma, ‘Hitabdut ve-Retzah haZulat al Qiddush Ha-Shem: Le-She’elat Meqomah shel ha-Aggadah ba-Massoret ha-Pesiqah ha-Ashkenazit,’ in Yehudim Mul ha-Tzlav: Gezerot TaTNU be-Historia u-va-Historiography, ed. Y.T. Assis et al., Jerusalem; Magnes 2000, 150–156; idem, ‘Tzaddiqim Eynam Metam’im: Al Halakhah va-Aggadah,’ jsij 1 (2002): 45–53; and idem, ‘Teshuvat Ri ha-Zaqen be-Din Moser: le-Toqfa shel ha-Aggadah ba-Halakhah ha-Ashkenazit,’ Zion 68 (2003): 167–174.

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truth within the Ashkenazic orbit, and all decisions, customs and opinions had to pass muster with it.60 In this light, we can understand the relationship between the passages in Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim and Sefer ha-Pardes. The testimony of the Makhirites, which blankly bans menstruants and parturients from the synagogue, reflects the original state of affairs wherein custom were accepted on their face value.61 Rashi’s remarks in Sefer Ha-Pardes, on the other hand, reflect the now absolute authority of Babylonian tradition that tradition rejected that practice. In the coda to the text in Ha-Pardes, Rashi attempted to resolve the contradiction between custom and Law. On the one hand, Rashi summarily rejects the claim that menstruants are barred from the synagogue: ‘And if it [sc. the synagogue] is not the same as the Holy Temple, let them enter! What is more, we are all impure and nevertheless enter it. From this we may derive that the synagogue is not the same as the Holy Temple and the menstruant may enter it.’ He goes even further and summarily protests the application of Templebased laws of purity to the contemporary synagogue generally.62 Now, however, Rashi validated the regnant avoidance as a supererogatory act of piety. In this way, he preserved both the rule of Law and the religious integrity of custom. Pinhas Roth has suggested another path to understanding the passage in Sefer ha-Pardes. He maintains that the text shows signs of having been edited, and suggests that the closing sentence was authored by someone other than Rashi.63 If this is the case, then Rashi was unalterably opposed to women’s avoidance of the synagogue.64 Later, a copyist muted Rashi’s criticism in order to sustain the regnant practice, adding: ‘However, the synagogue is still 60

See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 412–415. Prof. Haym Soloveitchik has argued forcefully against this scholarly consensus, maintaining that the Talmud was always the sole arbiter of Ashkenazic Halakhah, and that other sources were adduced only where no clear Talmudic opinion existed. He admits, though, that custom had a uniquely powerful standing in contemporary Ashkenaz. See H. Soloveitchik, Collected Essays, ii, Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization 2014, 29–69. 61 This accounts for its apodictic citation by R. Eleazar Roqe’ah. See also, Roth, Sefer haPardes, 97–99. 62 Ta-Shema (‘Miqdash Me’at,’ 359–360) offers an alternate interpretation of Rashi’s ruling. He adds (352–353) that accepting the applicability of purity and impurity rules would have effectively neutralized the synagogue since all are presently in a state of ritual impurity. 63 Roth, Sefer ha-Pardes, 95ff. 64 Roth maintains (98) that this lines up with what he claims to be Rashi’s opposition to ‘unwarranted strictures.’ Possible confirmation of Roth’s contention is found in R. Jacob of

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­ erceived as a place of purity for them, and therefore they act in a proper and p praiseworthy manner.’65 If Roth is correct, then one is left to conclude that the custom of women avoiding the synagogue was so deeply rooted in contemporary society Ashkenazic circles that the editor/copyist of Sefer ha-Pardes felt duty bound to buck Rashi’s authority and defend it.66 Later Ashkenazic authorities followed the lead of the received text of Sefer ha-Pardes. A half century or so later, Ravyah wrote: ‘And women are accustomed to distinguish themselves and separate themselves during their menses in that they do not enter the synagogue, and even when they pray they do not stand before their friends, and so I saw it written in the words of the Ge’onim relating to the statement of the baraita, which is not found in our Tosefta, and it is a commendable practice (minhag kasher).’67 Nevertheless, popular perception continued to be that menstruants and parturients avoided the synagogue because the latter stood in loco Templi.68 Thus, the late thirteenth century compilation Pa’ane’ah Raza by R. Isaac b. Judah Ha-Levi nonchalantly paraphrases Baraita de-Niddah: ‘And she shall not enter the Miqdash,’ this refers to the synagogue. That is why they wait a month, or more, to go to the synagogue.’69 The assumption that ritual purity and entry to the synagogue went together was not restricted to women. It also applied to men, albeit in a more limited fashion. London’s Etz Hayyim. He paraphrases the passage in the Pardes but omits the coda. See R. Jacob of London, Etz Hayyim, ii, 309. 65 99. 66 For another example of the same phenomenon, albeit with a different twist, see below. 67 According to Roth (ibid.), Sefer ha-Pardes was redacted in Italy, sometime in the late twelfth century. If so, one may conclude that the specific custom of avoiding the synagogue by menstruants obtained in Italy and Germany, but not in France. On the other hand, while perhaps weaker, there are definite indications that French ritual tradition was also sensitive to issues of ritual purity, both in and out of the synagogue. See below, 145–153. 68 According to R. Israel Isserlein (d. 1467), there were extant versions of the Or Zaru’a (sec.  360), which stated expressly that menstruants were absolutely prohibited from entering the synagogue (Terumat ha-Deshen, Pesaqim u-Ketavim, no. 132). The perseverance of such a reading of the Or Zaru’a indicates that this understanding of the custom survived into the late Middle Ages. 69 Isaac b. Judah Ha-Levi, Sefer Pa’ane’ah Raza, Jerusalem 1984, 360. Concerning the collection and its author, see A. Zion, Pa’ane’ah Raza le-R. Yitzhaq b. Yehudah ha-Levi, PhD dissertation, Yeshiva University 1975; and Y. Nevo, ‘Ha-Perush “Pa’ane’ah Raza” le-Hamishah Humshe Torah,’ Sinai 98 (1986): 177–184.

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One instance is that of lepers. Jewish Law counted a Biblical condition, known as Tzara’at, as one of the major categories of ritual impurity (Av Tum’ah).70 The leper was driven from the community and barred from the Temple until he had undergone a long and elaborate process of purification. Twelfth century Europe witnessed an upsurge of cases of Hansen’s disease, which was commonly taken to be the same as Biblical Tzara’at.71 Its spread caused panic throughout Europe, with dire consequences for those afflicted. Jews were not immune to the disease, and Jewish lepers were a source of concern to the communities of medieval Franco-Germany.72 Three key sources address the halakhic status of contemporary lepers. Ravyah declared that all of the laws related to the metzora had fallen into desuetude. By implication, contemporary lepers could not be deemed to impart ritual defilement. His rationale for saying so is instructive: ‘I have not troubled to explain the laws of the metzora, since priests neither examine him nor do they possess the expertise to do so.’73 Ravyah did not reject the identity of contemporary leprosy with Tzara’at. He simply stated that in the absence of properly trained priests, whose job it was to determine the halakhic status of the metzora, the laws were suspended.74 Others may not have viewed the matter as being purely theoretical. In Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, R. Moses of Coucy cites the Mishnah that ‘one sets up a partition ten hand-breadths high for a leper who enters the synagogue.’75 By setting the 70

Lev. 13–14 and M. Nega’im, passim. See the studies by E. Shoham-Steiner: ‘An Ultimate Pariah? Jewish Social Attitudes toward Jewish Lepers in Medieval Western Europe,’ Social Research 70 (2003): 237–268; idem, On the Margins of a Minority: Leprosy, Madness, and Disability among the Jews of Medieval Europe, trans. H. Watzman, Wayne State University Press, 2014, passim and idem, ‘“For a Prayer in that Place Would be Most Welcome”: Jews, Holy Shrines, and Miracles – A New Approach,’ Viator 37 (2006): 369–395. 71 See S. Brody, The Disease of the Soul: Leprosy in Medieval Literature, Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1974 and P. Richards, The Medieval Leper, New York: Barnes & Noble 1977. In reality, Tzara’at is not identical with the medical condition known as Hansen’s disease. See D. Kaplan, ‘Biblical Leprosy: An Anachronism Whose Time Has Come,’ Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology 28 (1993): 507–510. 72 Jews were accused of spreading Leprosy in Christian Europe. See M. Barber, ‘Lepers, Jews and Moslems: The Plot to Overthrow Christendom in 1321,’ History 66 (1981): 1–17. See also, R.I. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Authority and Deviance in Western Europe: 950–1250, Oxford: Blackwell 2007, 42–56. 73 Sefer Ravyah, iii, Massekhet Mo’ed Qatan, no. 840 (end). 74 He does add, though, that one must keep away from them ‘because of danger.’ See Shoham-Steiner, ‘Ultimate Pariah,’ 246. Theoretically, the status of metzora was legally meaningful, as there were other implications to Tzara’at that were not cult-related. 75 SMaG, Asin no. 231, citing M. Nega’im 13, 12.

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leper apart by means of a token partition, he is ritually isolated from the rest of the synagogue. In its absence, the leper would be barred from the synagogue due to his ritual impurity.76 However, given the fact that the SMaG was written to serve both as a code and a textbook, it is hard to say whether this Mishnah was actually enforced.77 Whatever the case, one may conclude that R. Moses viewed the presence of lepers in the synagogue as being ritually problematic. A third source leads to a similar conclusion. In the middle of the thirteenth century, R. Meir of Rothenberg was asked whether a prayer leader whose arms had ‘fallen off’ could continue to lead the community in prayer. R. Meir emphatically replied in the affirmative. He observed that his personal suffering would make his prayer more effective, since ‘the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O G-d, You will not despise.’78 Ephraim Shoham-Steiner has suggested that this cantor had lost his arms due to Hansen’s disease.79 R. Meir, in line with Ravyah ruling, allowed him to continue in his role. But what was the motivation that lay behind the original question? The questioners could have been terrified of contagion or revolted by the sight of the armless precentor. On the other hand, they may also have been concerned with the cantor’s ritually problematic status. In any event, one area of ritual purity that did affect both public and private worship was that incurred when men experienced any kind of seminal emission (ba’al qeri). According to a rabbinic enactment, a ba’al qeri may neither study Torah nor pray before immersing himself in a miqveh or, at least, having nine qabin of water poured over him.80 Already in Talmudic times, there were wide-ranging differences of opinion as to the parameters of this rule. The overwhelming tendency among Franco-German authorities was to view them as independent

76

Otherwise, one wonders what use a thirty-three inch high partition would serve to prevent either infection or from distracting other worshippers. See Shoham-Steiner, ‘Ultimate Pariah,’ 251–256. Other legal questions that arise both from R. Moses’ question and his solution were also discussed in Terumat ha-Deshen, Pesaqim u-Khetavim, no. 95. 77 See J. Galinsky, R. Moses of Coucy as Pietist, Preacher, and Polemicist: His Intellectual Accomplishments and Communal Activity (Hebrew), ma thesis, Yeshiva University 1993 and J. Woolf, ‘Maimonides Revised: The Case of the Sefer Mitzvot Gadol,’ htr 90 (1997): 175–203. 78 Ps. 51, 19. The responsum is found in ms London, Beit Din, no. 14, no. 1066 (fol. 156 l. 1–8). 79 E. Shoham-Steiner, ‘Poverty and Disability: A Medieval Jewish Perspective,’ The Sign Language of Poverty, Gerhard Jaritz (ed.), Vienna: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 2007, 80 n. 9. 80 B. Berakhot 20b–22b. See also et, iv, 130–148 s.v. ba’al qeri.

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requirements. Thus, in line with the Talmud’s majority opinion, it was almost universally accepted that immersion was not required before study.81 The situation regarding prayer was more nuanced. The general sense was  that the original edict had never been totally abrogated.82 Thus, while Ashkenazic men did not universally immerse themselves before prayer or before entering the synagogue, there was a strong sense that doing so was a religious desideratum. Thus, Ravyah remarks, ‘I have heard that some are lenient regarding the rule of ba’ale qeri and that some are strict. Anyone who is strict, however, will be rewarded with long life, and from this we may conclude regarding the other matters.’83 Ravyah’s sentiments in Germany were echoed around the same time by R. Jacob of Mervège (c. 1200) in France.84 In his responsa, which are presented as angelic replies to his halakhic queries, R. Jacob gives special attention to the subject of ba’al qeri.85 He makes it absolutely clear that the requirement of immersion before prayer is still binding because ritual impurity renders one unable to pray.86 Nevertheless, he acknowledges that ‘we heard from behind the curtain

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See, however, below 131–139 Regarding the topic, generally, see R. Zak, Hishtalshelut haHiyyuv ha-Hal be-Hutz la-Aretz be-Hafrashat Reshit ha-Gez ve-ha-Zero’a ha-Leha’yayim v­ e-ha-Qevah, ma thesis, Bar Ilan University 2004. 82 Cf. Tosafot Berakhot 22b s.v. ve-let hilkhata. 83 Sefer Ravyah, I, 45. Regarding the meaning of the last few words, see Dinari, ibid 23–24. Similar sentiments were expressed, a half century earlier, by Ravyah’s grandfather, Raban (Sefer Ravan, no. 328). 84 While the work is Provençal in origin, R. Jacob’s responsa reflect with Northern French religious sensitivities. See Y. Ta Shma, ‘She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim: Ha-Qovetz ve-Tosfotav,’ Tarbiz 57 (1988): 51–66.  Dinari (ibid, 30) maintained that Ashkenazic men originally did not observe this rule and only later came to adopt it more widely. He bases this conclusion, in part, upon the writings of German Pietists. However, in light of the fact that the latter tended to preserve (and adumbrate) classic Ashkenazic usage, references to immersion for qeri testify to established, rather than innovative, practice. This is not to deny, as both Dinari and Zimmer maintain, that concern with ritual purity received a boost through the efforts and influence of German Pietists. However, that influence built upon an established Ashkenazic tendency to view such matters as religiously significant and legally binding. 85 He asked his angelic interlocutor about this on three separate occasions. She’elot uTeshuvot min ha-Shamayim, ed. R. Margaliot, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1957, no. 5 (49–52). 86 He goes so far as to assert (50) that the original enactment (ascribed by the Rabbis to Ezra) was introduced under Divine Inspiration (Ru’ah ha-Qodesh). He implies that ­anyone who fails to observe it will pay with his life (52). By contrast, the connection between

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that it is impossible to purify all of Israel, nevertheless if they consistently purify prayer leaders (shelihé tzibbur), they will hasten the coming of the redeemer.’87 It is important to note that R. Jacob explicitly resorts to the Temple/ Synagogue equation in order to underscore the importance of immersion before leading services. He goes one step further and invokes the implied equation between the Temple Service (Avodah) and Prayer, asking: ‘Is it conceivable that one who is impure should offer a sacrifice?!’88 In other words, since the Synagogue is the Temple, then the synagogue service is perforce the equivalent of the sacrificial service. By extension, the one who leads the prayer service is a priest offering a sacrifice in the Temple; he must be ritually pure in order to do so (on penalty of a Divinely caused death!)!89 While Ashkenazic tradition validated and valued the need for ritual immersion as part of the larger perception of the synagogue as Temple, its observance was far from consistent or universal. However, there were occasions when Ashkenazic men overwhelmingly purified themselves from qeri – again as a direct result of their view of the synagogue as Temple. It was common practice for men to immerse themselves in a miqveh on the eve of holidays.90 Sefer Hassidim remarks – in an en passant statement that appears to describe common practice – that ‘on the festivals, … [since] one is required to purify oneself for the Pilgrimage Festivals, the priests would purify themselves and recite their blessing, in a state of purity.’91 The requirement to immerse oneself before a holiday is found in a Talmudic statement that is directly alluded to in the text:92 R. Isaac said: A person is obligated to purify himself for a Festival, as It is written (Lev. 11, 8): ‘and their carcasses you shall not touch; they are unclean ritual purity and prayer was categorically denied by many authorities, most notably Maimonides (Hil. Tefillah 4, 4). 87 She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, 50. The phrase could also be translated more softly as ‘if they purify Shalihe Tzibbur, they will in any event hasten the coming of the redeemer.’ This sentiment is echoed in shb no. 248. 88 Ibid. 89 The relationship between the sacrificial order in the Holy Temple and the prayer service in the synagogue is discussed below. 90 Ironically, as a student of mine observed, Sefer Hassidim could be also understood to ­provide indirect evidence that regular immersion of ba’ale qeri was not a general practice. I, however, do not read the text that way. 91 shp, no. 1213; Cf. Marcus, Piety and Society: The Jewish Pietists of Medieval Germany, Leiden: Brill 1981, 131. 92 B. Rosh Hashanah 16b; Cf. Sifra, parsha 2, 9.

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for you.’ Might one, therefore, conclude that all Jews are prohibited against touching a dead carcass, for that reason it is written (Lev. 21, 1): Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron [and say to them: None shall defile himself to the dead among his people]. The sons of Aaron are prohibited. The sons of Israel are not prohibited… If so, why Is it written: ‘and you shall not touch their carcasses’ – on a Festival. R. Isaac’s statement requires people who go up to Jerusalem for one of the three pilgrimage festivals – Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot – to purify themselves in anticipation of their entry into the Temple precincts and the subsequent consumption of sacrificial offerings.93 This requirement should, willy nilly, have become obsolete after the Temple was destroyed. Ashkenazic authorities did not think of this rule as being irrelevant. They consistently cited it when they discussed preparations for these holidays.94 And, in addition to the Pilgrimage festivals, it was common practice to immerse in a miqveh before both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As the thirteenth century work, Shibbole ha-Leqet, notes: ‘One learns from here that a man must purify himself before each festival, a fortiori before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which are days of judgment wherein a person must purify and sanctify himself and to make his verdict and his righteousness as clear as day.’95 Self-purification makes sense as a penitential act, so ritual immersion before the New Year and the Day of Atonement seems natural.96 But what 93

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Most commentators understood the passage as relating exclusively to the sacrificial service in the Temple. Thus, Maimonides writes (Hil. Tum’at Okhlin 16, 10): All Israel is admonished to be pure on every pilgrimage festival, so that they will be prepared to enter the Temple and eat of the sacrifices. It is concerning this that the Torah states, “and their carcasses you shall not touch’ … (Emphasis added. cf. Commentary to the Mishna, Sheqalim 8, 1). Cf. Otzar ha-Ge’onim ad Rosh Hashanah 16b; R. Sherira Ga’on’s responsum in Teshuvot Ge’one Mizrah u-Ma’arav, no. 44 (quoted in Sefer ha-Eshkol, ed. Albeck, fol. 2b); Qiryat Sefer, Hil. Tum’at Okhlin 16, 10; Resp. Rashba, I, no. 147 and S. Pick, ‘Hayyav Adam le-Taher Atzmo ba-Regel,’ Or ha-Mizrah 50 (2005): 78–96. R. Nathan b. Yehiel, on the other hand, sandwiches this passage between two others (B. Hagigah 26a and M. Miqva’ot 6, 11) where the verb taher means ‘cleanse’ rather than ‘purify.’ Cf. Arukh ha-Shalem, iv, s.v. taher (1), 16. Cf. Rashi, Yevamot 29b s.v. ve-lo metamet. R. Isaac b. Judah (Resp. Rashi, no. 38) explained the practice of reading Parshat Parah before Rosh Hodesh Nisan as due to the fact that ‘Israel has to purify itself for the festival.’ Cf. Rashi, Megillah 29a s.v. u-ba-revi’i; mv(h), sec. 240 (= Siddur Rashi, no. 365) and Sefer Kol Bo, 46. See also Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 320 n. 121. Sefer Shibbole ha-Leqet, Din Tevilat Erev Rosh Hashanah, ed. S. Buber, Jerusalem 1992, 266. Cf. Sefer Ravan, Hil. Rosh Hashanah and Sefer Ravyah, ii, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, no. 529. See below, 162ff.

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s­ ignificance could one attribute to the same act before Pesah, Shavu’ot and Sukkot? These are not primarily days of judgment.97 Why was ritual immersion assumed to apply equally to them?98 Our passage from Sefer Hassidim may contain the answer. The author explains that the priests immerse themselves on the eve of holidays, enabling them to offer their blessing, ‘since that is when we recite: ‘And raise up for us the blessing of your festivals’ (ve-Hasi’enu) and they say (Eccles. 7, 14): ‘On the day of goodness, be joyful.’ Ve-Hasi’enu is the concluding paragraph of the central passage that is inserted into the central prayer, the Amidah, on festivals. The liturgical commentaries that were written in medieval Franco-Germany help us to understand the way that Ve-Hasi’enu was understood, enabling us to decipher the connection between it and ritual immersion on the eve of the Festivals.99 The text of the prayer, as it was recited in medieval Ashkenaz, reads: ‘Ve-Hasi’enu, O Lord our God, the blessing of your appointed times, for life, for joy, and for peace, as You desired and said You would bless us.’100 Two main interpretations are offered for the word Ve-Hasi’enu, which is derived from the verb to carry or bear (n’s’a’).101 According to the first, the word invokes the Torah’s command regarding sacrificial animals that ‘you should take it and come to the place that God will choose.’102 The opening phrase would then mean: ‘Carry us to the Temple, where we will observe the blessing of Your appointed times.’ A second explanation interprets the word as meaning ‘to remember’ or ‘to remind.’ The sentence would then be asking God to ‘Remember us for the blessing of Your appointed times.’103 97

While there is an element of Divine Justice in all Biblical Festivals, it is not the central motif thereof. Cf. M. Rosh Hashanah I, 2. 98 Later Ashkenazic practice only preserved purification before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Cf. sa, oh sec. 581 par. 4; sec. 606 par. 4; and sec. 664 par. 1 with commentaries, ad. loc. 99 See Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 507–538 and Ta Shma, Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit haQedumahh: Peraqim be-Ofya u-ve-Toldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2003, 38–42. 100 mv(h), sec. 322 (cf. no. 101). The text remained essentially unchanged throughout our period. Cf. B. Narkis and A. Amar, ‘General and Artistic Description of the Nuremberg Mahzor,’ Catalog of Sotheby’s Tel-Aviv (30 October 2002), 26–33. 101 Cf. MV(H), sec. 328; Sefer ha-Manhig, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, no. 2 (end); and Siddur Rabbenu Shlomo, 202. 102 Deut. 12, 26. Cf. Sifre, Devarim, pisqa 77 (26), B. Temurah 17b and Rashi, ibid. 18a s.v. tissa. In mv, the first two interpretations are attributed to a R. Moses b. Yeshaya, who is otherwise unknown. See Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 349–350. 103 R. Eleazar Roqeah suggested a third interpretation, according to which Ve-Hasi’enu means ‘Lend us’. See Perush Seder ha-Tefillah la-Roqe’ah, 434.

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According to both interpretations, the overall import ‘the blessing of Your appointed times’ refers to the offerings that pilgrims are required to bring with them to Jerusalem on the pilgrimage festivals: ‘Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the Lord, your God which He has given you.’104 In other words, the individual is praying for the opportunity to ascend to Jerusalem and fulfill his pilgrimage obligations. Simply stated, according to both interpretations, Ve-Hasi’enu is a petition for the restoration of the Temple and the sacrificial order.105 There may be more to this. From the mid-eleventh century on, Ashkenazic authorities were sharply divided over the question whether Ve-Hasi’enu should be recited on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.106 Raban records that107 ‘R. Isaac b. Judah was accustomed to recite Ve-Hasi’enu on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, on the authority of his master, R. Eleazar.108 R. Meshullam, as well, asked the Head of the Jerusalem academy, and They replied that one recites it … In Worms, however, the Ga’on, R. Isaac ha-Levi, ordained that it not be said, because ‘the blessing of Your appointed times’ only refers to the three pilgrimage festivals … ’109 The point at bar between these scholars was whether the High Holy Days, were festivals, aside from being days of repentance and judgment. Of relevance to the present discussion, though, are the two arguments made against reciting the prayer. The first, which was offered by R. Isaac ha-Levi (c.1000–c.1080), was ‘that one wants to say the words “‘the blessing of Your appointed times,’ and ‘the blessing of Your appointed times’ was only written with reference to the three pilgrimage 104 Deut. 16, 17. 105 This is precisely the point made in the paragraph preceding this one in the liturgy. Cf. mv(h), ibid. Cf. See Sefer Abudarham, Seder Arvit shel Pesah, 213. 106 The controversy harks back to Talmudic times. Cf. E. Fleischer, ‘Amidot Shalosh haRegalim ve-ha-Yamim ha-Nora’im be-Tefillot shel Bene Eretz Yisrael,’ in Tefillah u-Minhage Tefillah Eretz-Yisraeli’im be-Tequfat ha-Genizah, Jerusalem: Magnes 1988, 93–155. 107 Sefer Ravan, Hil. Eruvin, s.v. ve-Rabbenu. See also mv(h), sec. 321–322; Siddur Rashi, no. 177; Sefer ha-Pardes, 216; Sefer ha-Manhig, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, 307; Sefer Ravyah, ii, no. 537; Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, no. 204; Sefer Shibbole ha-Leqet, Seder Rosh Hashanah, no. 286; Mordekhai, Rosh Hashanah, no.722; Rosh, Rosh Hashanah 4, 14; Sefer Toldot Adam ve-Hava, Netiv 6:1 (fol. 48a); and Agur ha-Shalem, Hil. Rosh Hashanah, no. 891. 108 The reference is to R. Eliezer the Great (mid. 11th cent.), a leading disciple of R. Gershom, Me’or ha-Golah. See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 211–232. 109 Some sources (MV(H), sec. 321; Sefer ha-Pardes, 216 and Roqeah, ibid.) record that R. Isaac actually abolished the recitation of Ve-Hasi’enu on the High Holy Days. See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 283–284. R. Isaac b. Judah’s defense of the practice was consistent with his conservative stance toward to the authority of custom (Grossman, ibid, 310–312).

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festivals, as it is written (Deut. 16, 16): ‘Three times a year shall all your males appear before the Lord, your God, in the place which He shall choose; on the holiday of Matzot, and on the holiday of Shavu’ot, and on the holiday of Sukkot; and they shall not appear before the Lord empty-handed,’ after which it is written (ibid. 17): ‘Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the Lord, your God which He has given you.’” The second argument was that ‘one does not offer the Hagigah sacrifice on Rosh Hashanah, only on the three pilgrimage festivals … and the ‘the blessing of the Lord, your God’ refers to the Hagigah.’110 Both arguments share two underlying assumptions: (1) Ve-Hasi’enu is intimately associated with and expressive of themes that apply exclusively to the three pilgrimage festivals. (2) The major emphasis of Ve-Hasi’enu is the desire to undertake the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and to offer its attendant sacrifices.111 Sefer Hassidim had connected the performance of the Priestly Blessing with the recitation of Ve-Hasi’enu. Yet, if the desire to go on pilgrimage was nothing but a distant, wistful sentiment, or even a vivid one, it is difficult to understand how the recitation of the latter ‘explains’ the fact that priests and others were particular about purifying themselves before the onset of the three pilgrimage festivals.112 However, if the obligation to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem was viewed tangibly and imminently, and if the synagogue was reckoned as being an extension of the Holy Temple, it could well follow that attendance in the synagogue on Pesach, Shavu’ot and Sukkot constituted a virtual fulfillment of the act of pilgrimage. In that case, the passage from Sefer Hassidim makes perfect sense. Priests assumed that the recitation of their blessing required ritual purification – something they did not do on a regular basis – with the result that the daily fulfillment of this mitzvah fell by the wayside. The common practice was for 110 In Siddur Rabbenu Shlomo (228) and mv(h) (sec. 328) the comment is attributed to the Provençal scholar and mystic, R. Jacob the Nazir, who was a student of R. Moses b. Shemaiah. See Urbach, Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, iv, 117 n. 19. 111 Those who maintained that Ve-Hasi’enu be recited on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur did not disagree with these conclusions. They simply argued that the latter also fell within the broader category of God’s ‘appointed times’ (Mo’ade Ha-Shem). See the observations of R. Abraham b. Nathan of Lunel, the author of Sefer ha-Manhig, to mv(h), sec. 321 and Sefer Ravyah, ii, no. 537. 112 It is tempting to suggest that the increase in pilgrimages to the Land of Israel, by both Jews and Christians, played a role here. See J. LeGoff, The Birth of Europe, London: Blackwell 2007, 66–67; E. Reiner, Aliyah ve-Aliyah le-Regel le-Eretz Yisrael: 1099–1517, PhD dissertation, Hebrew University 1988; and D. Webb, Medieval European Pilgrimage, c700–c1500, Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan 2002.

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men to purify themselves for the festivals, whose pilgrimage character is embodied in and expressed by Ve-Hasi’enu. Kohanim immersed themselves along with the others, thereby become ritually fit and, subsequently offered their blessing.

A Place for the In-Dwelling of the Shekhinah

The Bible is clear as to the reason for erecting a central Sanctuary: ‘And they shall make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.’113 God’s Presence (Shekhinah) in the central sanctuary was an essential part of its raison d’être, perhaps the essential part.114 Consistent with the Ashkenazic identification of Synagogue and Temple, Rashi assumed that in the exile, ‘He would spread His Shekhinah in their synagogues and houses of study.’115 This conviction echoes throughout the period. Toward the end of the thirteenth century, R. Meir of Rothenberg wrote in a piyyut: ‘At the door of the Miqdash Me’at, I sought the Lord/And behold! God’s Glory, with His Hosts of angels, stood before me.’116 The belief that God’s Presence in-dwelled in the Synagogue was expressed in synagogue ritual and in the manner wherein that ritual was both understood and experienced.117 113 Ex. 25, 8. 114 Cf. Rashi, Gen. 22, 14 s.v. HaShem. 115 Rashi, Cant. 6, 2 s.v. lir’ot. See also Rashi, Ps. 55, 15 s.v. be-vet. On several occasions, Rashi emphasizes that ritual impurity does not prevent the in-dwelling of the Shekhinah. See, for example, his comments on Gen. 31, 3 s.v. shuv; Lev. 16, 16 s.v. ha-shokhen; and Num. 35, 34 s.v. ki. On the other hand, Rashi’s comment has an openly ideological and polemical slant. See S. Kamin, ‘Perush Rashi al Shir ha-Shirim ve-ha-Viqquah ha-Yehudi Notzri,’ Shenato la-Miqra 7/8 (1983/84): 218–248 and I. Marcus, ‘Rashi’s Historiosophy in the Introductions to his Bible Commentaries,’ rej 157 (1998): 47–55. 116 Qovetz Shire ha-Maharam me-Rothenberg, ed. S.M.M. Schneerson, Jerusalem 1993, 19. R. Meir’s reference to the Divine Glory (kavod) reflects the influence of German Pietism. The latter believed that manifestations of God were effected by a creation known as the ‘Created Divine Glory’ (Kavod Nivra), in order to resolve the tension between Biblical and Rabbinic Anthropomorphisms and their belief in a pristinely spiritual, ultimately unknowable, God (El ha-Mistater; Deus Absconditus). See Y. Dan, Torat Ha-Sod shel Hassidut Ashkenaz, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1968, 104–168 and idem, R. Yehudah he-Hassid, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2005, 103–115. 117 Obviously, God was believed to be Omnipresent. Nevertheless, by virtue of its status as the central sacred place, God’s Presence was more intensely felt in the Temple and, by extension, in the synagogue. See, for example, B. Berakhot 6a: And how do you know that

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In medieval Franco-Germany, the Ark was consistently located high above the floor of the synagogue and was reached by a series of very steep stairs.118 The doors to the ark were frequently framed by two columns of wood or stone. Over the door hang an eternal light or Ner Tamid. Above the ark – and unique to medieval Franco-German synagogues – was a valance or a triangular headpiece known as the kapporet. All of these elements point to the perception of the presence of the Shekhinah in the Miqdash Me’at.119 The Ner Tamid was understood, inter alia, to represent the Divine Presence that is present in the synagogue.120 By placing the ark high above the heads of the worshippers, the architects underscored its role as the location of the Shekhinah. The pillars that frame the ark invoked the columns that guarded the front of Solomon’s Temple.121 Most striking of all is the extra element above the ark, the kapporet. According to the Bible (Ex. 25, 21–22), God commanded Moses: ‘And you shall put the ark-cover (kapporet) above upon the ark; and in the ark you shalt put the testimony that I will give you. And there I will meet with you, and I will commune with you from above the kapporet, from between the two cherubs that are on you of the ark of testimony; [in this way] I will give you instruction for the children of Israel.’ This added element which, in the Middle Ages, was only found in Ashkenazic synagogues, clinched the total identification of Synagogue with Temple – and both as the literal site of God’s Presence.122 The conviction that God’s presence was palpably experienced in the Synagogue influenced both prayer and the choreography of prayer.123 if ten people pray together the Divine presence is with them? For it is written: ‘God stands in the midst of God’s congregation.’ 118 This is still visible today in the Altneuschul in Prague, which was built in the first years of the thirteenth century. A similar stairwell is visible in the remains of the medieval synagogue in the old Jewish quarter in Vienna, which was constructed at approximately the same time. 119 The flame was multivalent, as it also invoked the eternal flame that burned on the altar. 120 Sefer Kol Bo, sec. 17. 121 I Kings 7, 15–21. 122 See Ma’aseh Roqem: Tashmishe Qedushah me-Teqstil be-vet ha-Knesset ha-Ashkenazi, haSepharadi ve-ha-Italqi, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 2009, 159–204. 123 Regarding the later period, see E. Wolfson, ‘Sacred Space and Mental Iconography: Imago Templi and Contemplation in Rhineland Jewish Pietism,’ in Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine, ed. R. Chazan et al., 593–600 (Winona Lake (in): Eisenbrauns 1999). (My thanks go to Professor Daniel Abrams for his help with this point, and to Rabbi Chaim Moshe Bergstein for his suggestion as to its formulation.)

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A Postures of Prayer The Talmud, like the prophets before them, inveighed heavily against rote worship.124 The antidote to rote prayer, averred the rabbis, was the cultivation of the proper state of mind on the part of the worshipper (‘intent’ or kavvanah). In order to achieve proper ‘intent,’ the worshipper was charged to cultivate the keen awareness that he is standing in the Presence of God Himself.125 The Psalmist’s declaration, ‘I have set God always before me,’126 provided the rabbis with a natural vehicle for expressing this emphasis: ‘R. Hanah b. Bizna, who said in the name of R. Simon the Pious: He who prays should regard himself as if the Shekhinah were before him, as it is written, ‘I have set God always before me.’127 The Talmud required that the worshipper’s physical stance should reflect and cultivate his God awareness:128 ‘R. Alexandri said in the name of R. Joshua b. Levi: One who prays should take three steps backwards, and then offer his farewell bow … It was said in the name of Shemaiah that he first bows to the right and then to the left, as it is written (Deut. 33, 2): ‘At His right is a fiery Law.’129 The Talmud interprets this passage to mean that upon completion of one’s prayers, one should take three steps backward, bow to the left and then bow to the right. One bows to the left first, as Rashi notes, ‘as that is the right of the Holy One, blessed be He, for one who prays should see himself as if the Shekhinah is in front of his face, as it is written: ‘I have set God always before me.’130 In other words, the choreography of prayer assumes that God’s presence is literally before him. This in turn requires him to leave God’s presence by walking backwards, as one would when leaving the presence of a king.131 124 B. Berakhot 29b and Rashi, s.v. ke-massui. 125 See I. Twersky, ‘Ve-Yir’eh Atzmo ke-Ilu hu Omed Lifne ha-Shekhinah: Kavvanat ha-Lev beTefillah be-Mishnato shel ha-Rambam,’ Knesset Ezra, 47–67. 126 Ps. 16, 5. 127 B. Sanhedrin 22a. Cf. B. Berakhot 30b–34b. The discussion of kavvanah, its importance and the best ways of developing it is the major leitmotif of the literally thousands of discussions of prayer in Jewish literature. For a bibliography up to 1993, see J. Tabory, ‘Jewish Prayer and the Yearly Cycle: A List of Articles,’ ks, Supplement, 64 (1992/3): 1–7. See also, G. Blidstein, Ha-Tefillah be-Mishnato ha-Hilkhatit shel ha-Rambam, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik and Ben Gurion University Press 1994; and R. Langer, To Worship God Properly: Tensions Between Liturgical Custom and Halakhah in Judaism, Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press 1998. 128 See Y. Zimmer, ‘Tiqqune ha-Guf be-She’at ha-Tefillah,’ in Olam ke-Minhago Noheg: Peraqim be-Toldot ha-Minhagim, Hilkhotehem ve-Gilgulehem, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1996, 72–113 and U. Ehrlich, “Kol Atzmotai Tomarna”: Ha-Safah ha-lo Milulit shel ha-Tefillah, Jerusalem: Magnes 1999. 129 B. Yoma 53b. 130 Rashi, ad loc. s.v. le-semol. See also, MV(H) sec. 20 and Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, Asin 19. 131 This is spelled out explicitly in the rest of this passage. Cf. mt, Hil. Tefillah 5, 11.

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A similar conclusion arises from the rules for the proper positioning of the eyes during prayer.132 Ashkenazic tradition almost universally endorsed the ruling that one who prays should ‘lower his eyes and let his heart soar upward.’133 Most authorities cite this rule without comment.134 Some, though, explicitly state that one must keep one’s focus down so as not to look at the Shekhinah.135 Thus, the late thirteenth century customal Sefer Minhag Tov observed that ‘since [the Shekhinah is in front of the prayer leader], our ancestors were accustomed not to raise their eyes when the Hazzan says ‘Barkhu,’136 in order to recall (Ex. 3, 6): ‘for he was afraid to look at God.’137 This verse, which refers to Moses’ reaction when God revealed himself at the Burning Bush, makes the desired point. B Prostration The Mishnah records that upon entry to the Temple Mount, one would prostrate oneself.138 The eighth century Palestinian compilation Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, which reflects much earlier traditions, adds that ‘on the New Moon and on Sabbaths, Israel will sit [in the Temple compound] and see the gates open on their own, they will know that the Holy One, blessed be He’s Shekhinah is there, as it is written (Ezek.44, 2): ‘for the Lord, God of Israel, has entered in,’ 132 Zimmer, ‘Tiqqune ha-Guf,’ 72–78 and Ehrlich, Kol Atzmotai, 97–105. 133 B. Yebamot 105b. This was apparently Rashi’s position. Cf. Rashi, Rosh Hashanah 26b s.v. kama de-kayif and s.v. kama de-pashet. Ehrlich suggests (104) that the Talmudic suggestion that one pray in a room with windows could serve as a litmus test for the issue of eye placement during prayer (B. Berakhot 34b). Rashi (s.v. halonot) says that windows ‘cause him to direct his eyes, so that he looks heavenward and submits [to God].’ Medieval synagogues often had roof level windows, but a formal requirement that they be installed is only mentioned by Ravyah (no. 97) and Rosh (Berakhot 5, 24). The latter interpreted the need for windows as allowing prayer to be directed towards the site of the Temple in Jerusalem. 134 As we have seen (above, 53-56), the major exception was the Qedushah, which is recited as part of the reader’s repetition of the Amida. In this prayer, which is arranged around the recitation of Isa. 6, 3 and Ezek. 3, 12, the congregation expresses its desire to join the celestial chorus in praising God. In imitation of the angels, then, they raised their eyes heavenward. 135 Maimonides explains the Talmud’s ruling as aimed at cultivating humility, as one stands like a slave before one’s master (mt Hil. Tefillah 5, 4). 136 Barkhu is the call to prayer, recited both morning and evening. 137 Sefer Minhag Tov, ed. M.Z. Weiss, Ha-Zofeh le-Hokhmat Yisrael, 13 (1929), no. 10. 138 M. Sheqalim 6, 1. Cf. M. Middot 2, 3; T. Sheqalim (Lieberman), 2, 17 and Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-Peshuta, Sheqalim, 295–296. See G. Blidstein, ‘Prostration and Mosaics in Talmudic Law,’ Bulletin of the Institute of Jewish Studies 2 (1974): 19–39.

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they will immediately bow and prostrate themselves before God. Just as it was in the past, so it will be in the future.’139 As Zimmer notes, full prostration – including kneeling – in the synagogue was not practiced in Talmudic Palestine, perhaps because its ubiquity among Christians.140 Nevertheless, there is clear evidence that the situation in Germany was different. To begin with, we have the following testimony of the early twelfth century scholar, R. Hizqiyah b. Nathan, regarding acceptable synagogue comportment in Germany:141 When the Torah Scroll is returned to its place [in the ark], and when one bows down to it, the verse “Exalt the Lord, our God” (Ps. 99, 5) is recited. In the blessings on the Torah, as well, one bows down in honor of the Torah.142 When we return it, [one recites], “Let them praise” (Ps. 148, 13), in order to teach us that one does not bow because of the Torah’s divinity. One bows to the Holy One, blessed be He, whose Shekhinah hovers over it [i.e. the Torah Scroll].143 Emphasis added, jrw

Sefer Hassidim preserves two other reports concerning bowing in the synagogue:144 It is an extremely meritorious act (mitzvah gedolah) to close the doors of the synagogue145… There was once a man who paid the sexton so that he 139 Ed. M. Higger, New York: Horev 1944–1948, Ch. 50. 140 Zimmer, Tiqqune ha-Guf, 90. This conclusion has been seconded by U. Ehrlich, “Kol Atzmotai Tomarna,” 31–63. The situation in Babylonia was different (Zimmer, 91). 141 Quoted in Roqe’ah Ha-Shalem, 108. Cf. Sefer Ravan, no. 76. R. Hizqiyah was the older brother of R. Eliezer b. Nathan (Raban). 142 See E. Wolfson, ‘The Mystical Significance of Torah Study in German Pietism,’ jqr, 84 (1993), 43–77. He (50) translates the phrase as ‘bow down to the glory of the Torah.’ 143 Among some pietists, God’s presence was believed to actually inhere to the Torah Scroll. For some, it was perceived as a Divine metastasis. See Wolfson, ibid. and M. Idel, ‘Tefisat ha-Torah be-Sifrut ha-Hekhalot ve-Gilguleha ba-Qabbalah,’ Jerusalem Studies in Jewish Thought I (1981): 23–49. One pietist source reports that ‘our teacher, Eleazar [Roqe’ah] wrote in the name of our teacher, R. Judah he-Hassid: When the cantor begins to say ‘Magnified and Sanctified’ (Yitgadal ve-Yitqadash), he should concentrate intensely, and direct his eyes to the Holy Ark.’ Siddur R. Shlomo b. Shimshon mi-Germaiza, ed. M. Hershler, Jerusalem 1971, 76. 144 shp 466–467. 145 I.e. to be the last to leave.

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might close the synagogue door. He would recite supplications before the Holy One, Blessed be He. He would recite Aleynu le-Shabe’ah standing, and would then bow and prostrate in the appropriate place.146 The requirement to dally in the synagogue is based upon the Talmud. ‘Abba Benjamin says, When two people enter a Synagogue to pray, and one of them finishes his prayer first and does not wait for the other but leaves, his prayer is torn up before his face.’147 The need to wait was due either to the danger of forcing someone to travel alone from the synagogue, or because the one praying would feel pressured to finish more quickly and thus affect the quality his prayers.148 In some cases, though, being the last to leave was viewed as a value in and of itself. Thus, it is reported that Ri ‘would draw out his prayers until the rest of the congregation left. And if, in the meantime, someone else would come to the synagogue, he would study until they finished their prayer.’149 Like R. Isaac, the individual here in Sefer Hassidim recited extra supplications in order to draw out his prayers to allow the others to leave, concluding with Aleynu.150 The last thing he did before leaving the synagogue and locking the door was to bow and prostrate,151 apparently as a matter of course. Another passage from Sefer Hassidim implies that he was not unique in this regard.152 146 Regarding Alenu, see M. Bar-Ilan, ‘Meqorah shel Tefillat “Alenu le-Shabe’ah,’ Da’at 43 (1999): 5–24; and Y. Ta Shma, ‘Meqorah u-Meqomah shel Tefillat Alenu le-Shabe’ah be-Siddur haTefillah: Seder ha-Ma’amadot u-She’elat Siyyum ha-Tefillah,’ in Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumah, 139–156. 147 B. Berakhot 5b. 148 Cf. Tosafot, ad loc. 6a s.v. ha-mitpallel. The first opinion was held by R. Tam and Maimonides (Hil. Tefillah 9, 11). The second was maintained by Rashi (s.v. ha-mitpallel), Sefer Ravan (no. 125) and shp 466. 149 Tosafot, ibid. 150 Cf. mv(h), sec. 99 and Roqe’ah ha-Shalem no. 324. Adding extra, non-obligatory, passages to the daily prayers was standard in the Ashkenazic rite. See Ta Shma, Tefillat Alenu leShabe’ah, 147–151. 151 The central passage in Alenu reads ‘And we bend the knee, and bow and offer thanks before the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.’ I have yet to find any explicit reference to one actually bowing at that juncture, though it might as easily been taken as a given. Prostration was standard when Alenu was recited on the High Holy Days. See, S. Abramson, ‘Iyyunim be-Tefillat ha-Yamim ha-Nora’im,’ Turei Yeshurun, 10/41 (1975): 33–36. (My thanks to Professor Joseph Tabory for referring me to Prof. Abramson’s remarks.) 152 shp, no. 492 (136).

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One who sweeps the synagogue, and takes out the dust, is not required to bow, for it is written (Ps. 96, 9): ‘Prostrate yourselves to the Lord in the beauty of holiness.’ If, however, they had already taken it out, let him bow. Moreover, one who is occupied in a mitzvah is exempt from [another] mitzvah. And, if he is walking behind a synagogue, he is obligated to bow at the gate step, and it is written (Ezek. 46, 3): Likewise the people of the land shall bow at the door of that gate before the Lord, on the Sabbath and on the New Moon. The paragraph contains two related instructions: (1) One who cleans the synagogue is exempt from bowing, either because bowing is inappropriate when disposing of dust or, because cleaning the synagogue is a mitzvah, and when one is performing one mitzvah, one is exempt from any other mitzvah, in this instance, bowing (oseq ba-mitzvah, pattur me-ha-mitzvah).153 (2) Even one who is walking behind a synagogue must enter its outer gate and bow. Common to both were the assumptions that anyone entering or leaving the synagogue precincts was expected to bow, and that bowing is a recognized religious duty.154 The reason for doing so is coded into the end of the paragraph via the verse from Ezekiel. One notes that this is the very same verse that appears in above-cited passage from Pirqe de Rabbi Eliezer! In other words, the text assumes the identity of Temple and Synagogue, and that the same proof text mandates bowing in both. In both locations, bowing was motivated by the awareness of God’s Presence in each location. Was this practice a pietist idiosyncrasy, or does it reflect a broader Ashkenazic perception and practice? The text itself argues for the latter. The author, presumably R. Judah the Pious (d. 1217), was not directly addressing the obligation to bow. He takes that for granted. His direct concern was to fine-tune synagogue comportment, i.e. when does one not need to bow. What is more, two non-Pietist sources confirm the ubiquity of synagogue bowing.155 153 B. Berakhot 11a. The idea that sweeping the synagogue is a worthy action goes back to, at least, the eleventh century. See shp, no. 991. 154 There was a longstanding Ashkenazic tradition that upon arriving at the synagogue one recites Ps. 5, 8. (‘But as for me, in the abundance of Your loving kindness will I come into Thy house; I will bow down toward Your Holy Sanctuary, out of fear of You’), and other verses. I have not found explicit mention of the worshipper bowing when reciting them. See L. Yagod, ‘Amirat “Ma Tovu,”’ in Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, vii, 54–56. It may, however, have been taken for granted. In fact, it is common practice among Sephardic Jews in Israel to leave the synagogue by walking out backwards and bowing slightly from the waist toward the Ark. 155 In the Crusade Chronicles, women describe themselves as bowing toward the Torah Scroll. See Haberman, Gezerot Ashkenaz ve-Zarefat, 35 and 103.

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The first is found in a piyyut for the festival of Shavuot by the eleventh c­entury poet R. Benjamin b. Zarah.156 Contrasting the angelic choir with that of Israel on earth, the poet writes that ‘Jacob’s seed on every entry [i.e. into the synagogue] and gathering bends the knee and falls upon its face and bears praise.’157 The second testimony is found in the above-mentioned customal, Sefer Minhag Tov, which dates from the second half of the thirteenth century.158 Though apparently composed in southern Italy, the author was a student of the French Tosafist, R. Judah Sire Leon (1166–1224). At the very beginning of the work, the author states that ‘one should go to the synagogue and bow before his Creator, his King,’ noting that in the early twelfth century R. Elijah of Paris had instituted a similar practice.159 This act of obeisance was an acknowledgement of the veritable presence of ‘his Creator, his King’ in the synagogue. Bowing before God upon entering the synagogue was apparently a common element of Ashkenazic worship in both France and Germany.160 C The Priestly Blessing The priestly blessing (Birkat Kohanim) was a Temple-based ritual that was carried over to the synagogue. The blessing is comprised of three verses in the Book of Numbers: ‘And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Speak to Aaron and to his sons, saying: Thus shall you bless the children of Israel; say to them: May the Lord bless you, and keep you; May the Lord cause His face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace. So shall they put My name upon the children of Israel, and I will bless them.’161 Rabbinic tradition was divided as to whom the word ‘them’ refers. According to one interpretation, it refers to the priests, while the other viewed it as relating 156 M.S. Staatbibliotek Munchen no. 88, fol. 106a. The text was published in A. Haberman, Ateret Renanim: Piyyutim ve-Shirim le-Shabbatot u-le-Mo’adim, Jerusalem: Reuven Mass 1967, 176–177. 157 Cf. B. Berakhot 34b. 158 Sefer Minhag Tov, no. 1. 159 Cited by Zimmer, Tiqqune ha-Guf, 93. 160 Zimmer notes (93–97) that French tradition also displayed a clear penchant for bowing, kneeling and prostrating during prayer, especially during the Days of Awe, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  The practice of bowing upon leaving the synagogue, in a manner reminiscent of Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, was still practiced by Maharil at the turn of the 15th century. In light of Maharil’s well known goal of preserving received Ashkenazic traditions, this would not appear to be his personal innovation. 161 Num. 6, 24–27.

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to Israel.162 Rashi struck a middle position, ‘And I will bless them, i.e. Israel, and concur with the priests.’163 In other words, the priests are a vehicle through which God blesses Israel.164 Since the Shekhinah was believed to in-dwell in its plenitude in the Holy Temple, the assumption was that God acts immediately upon the words of the priests and channels His blessing to the people.165 Thus, the Talmud declares that in the Temple, people should not look at the priests’ upraised hands as they recited the blessing for fear they would go blind since ‘the Shekhinah ­hovers over their fingers.’166 Bestowal of the priestly blessing was not restricted to the Temple, and there were differences of opinion as to its effectiveness. For example, in the course of discussing various factors that disqualify priests from blessing the people, the Mishnah notes that if the priest’s hands are discolored or deformed, he may be barred from participating in the public blessing.167 According to the Yerushalmi, the reason for the prohibition is the concern that since people tend to stare, a worshipper might be distracted by the sight of the priest’s deformed hands.168 162 Cf. B. Sotah 38b; B. Hullin 49a; Sifré, Bamidbar pisqa 43 s.v. va-ani avarkhem; and Bamidbar Rabbah, parshah 11(8) s.v. ve-samu. 163 Cf. Rashi, Sotah 38b s.v. va-avarkha; MV(H) secs.  125 and 130; shb no. 404; Roqe’ah haShalem, sec. 322; Ravyah no. 1155; and Or Zaru’a, ii, no. 412. 164 Rashi, Num. 6, 27 s.v. va-ani. As indicated by Rashi’s comment, the two interpretations were not mutually exclusive. See also, Yere’im ha-Shalem, no. 269. In fact, though, Rashi sharpened the direct involvement of God in the blessing. While most rabbinic sources refer to God confirming the priestly blessing, Rashi has God blessing the people directly. By excluding the priests as mediators, Rashi also scores an anti-Christological point. The same nuance is found in Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, Asin no. 20: ‘The essence of the blessing does not depend upon the priests, but upon the Holy One, blessed be He.’ One wonders if Jews were aware that the Priestly blessing was an integral part of the Catholic Mass. 165 The Talmud listed differences between the way the blessing was offered in the Temple and elsewhere. These are summarized in mt Hil. Tefillah 14. One key difference is that in the Temple – at least until the death of Simon the Just (d. circa 200 b.c.e.) – the priests employed the Tetragrammaton when they recited the blessing. Outside the Temple precincts, they resorted to alternative designations (kinuyim). According to the Tosefta (T. Sotah 13, 8 (ed. Lieberman, 233–234), B. Yoma 39b s.v. mi-levarekh), after the death of Simon the Just, the priests stopped employing the Tetragrammaton in the Temple as well. Rashi, (cited in Shittah Mequbetzet, Menahot 109b) explained that this was due to the inability of the priests to recite God’s ineffable Name in an appropriate state of purity and sanctity. See Lieberman, Tosefta Ki-Peshuta, Sotah. 115–116. 166 B. Hagigah 16a and Rashi, s.v. u-mevarkhin. 167 M. Megillah 4, 7. 168 P. Megillah 4, 8 (fol. 75c) and P. Ta’anit 4, 1 (fol. 67b).

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Rashi, however, commented that a deformed priest may not offer the blessing ‘since the people look at him, and we have said in tractate Hagigah: ‘Whoever looks at the priests while they are lifting up their hands [in blessing], his eyes will dim, as the Shekhinah is hovering over his hands.’ Since Rashi made no distinction between the Temple and the synagogue, one must conclude that he maintained that the Divine Presence was tangibly at hand in the latter location. That is precisely the way that he was understood by the Tosafists,169 who took Rashi severely to task for his interpretation. They pointed out that the concern for the drastic results of gazing upon the Shekhinah only obtained in the Temple. They asserted that staring at the priests was discouraged solely in order to prevent distraction.170 Rashi’s interpretation demands an explanation. He was well aware of the fact that there were substantive differences between Temple times and the contemporary era.171 Moreover, despite the uneven distribution of the Yerushalmi, he was perfectly capable of arriving independently at the idea of distraction, as it was at least as logical as his own explanation.172 It seems reasonable, then, to conclude that Rashi’s remark reflects a powerful perception as to what actually transpired in the Synagogue when the Priests blessed the people. Nor was he alone in that perception. A generation after Rashi, R. Eliezer b. Nathan, who devoted his entire oeuvre to the defense of established Rhineland tradition, writes that ‘a priest who has deformities may not raise his hands. Rabbi Judah says: [This even includes] one whose hands are stained … because the people look at him, and we maintain that he who gazes at the priests when they raise their hands, his eyes will go dim, since the Shekhinah hovers over their fingers.’173 By citing and conflating 169 Cf. Tosafot, Hagigah 16a s.v. ba-Kohanim; Sefer Ravyah, ii, no. 588; Tosafot RiD, ad loc.; Or Zaru’a, ii, no. 411; Rosh, Megillah 3, 19 and Rashba, Megillah 24b s.v. mipne. 170 The same point is raised independently by R. Nathan b. Yehiel. See Arukh ha-Shalem, iii, s.v. halon (406). Rosh emphasizes that the concern is distraction ‘and nothing else.’ Rashba refused to even mention Rashi’s interpretation, merely noting that ‘Rashi interpreted in another fashion.’ One copyist actually recast Rashi’s comment making it relate only to the Temple. See A. Ahrend (ed.), Perush Rashi le-Megillah, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 2008, 226 n. 5. 171 He based his ruling that a priest who had been converted to Christianity and subsequently returned to Judaism may offer the priestly blessing in the synagogue upon just this distinction. See Teshuvot Rashi, no. 170 (and parallels listed there; especially Mordekhai, Megillah no. 818). 172 Rashi’s awareness of the Jerusalem Talmud was extremely limited. See Y. Zussman’s discussion in Tarbitz 65 (1996): 37–63. 173 Sefer Ravan, Megillah s.v. tanu rabbanan. The thirteenth century Italian commentator, R. Judah b. Benjamin HaRofeh, adopted a more nuanced approach to this passage. He

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these two passages without qualification, he signals that he accepted their straightforward meaning. Like Rashi he believed that the Shekhinah was present in its plenitude in the Synagogue on those occasions. The same point is made in a somewhat different context by the late twelfth scholar, R. Eliezar of Toul (d. before 1234). Commenting on the midrashic statement that the Shekhinah peers out at the people174 through the outstretched fingers of the priests, he adds that ‘this implies that when the kohanim bless Israel, they should form a window with their fingers’ [viz. to allow the Shekhinah, as it were, to look through].’175 invoked the passage from Hagigah, but asserts that the prohibition against looking at the priests carried over to the synagogue lest one come to do so in the Temple (sic!). He thus, implies that while the Shekhinah does hover over the hands of the priests, its Presence is less intensive when invoked by a Divine Name other than the Tetragrammaton. His implicit point remains that the Temple and the synagogue lie on a continuum. Otherwise, there would be no reason to fear that one might confuse the two. Cf. Perush Rivavan al Massekhet Megillah, ed. M.Y. Blau, New York 1967, 299. 174 Pesiqta de-Rav Kahane, ed. B. Mandelbaum, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary 1987, pisqa 5 (8) s.v. davar aher domeh (2). The passage is paralleled in BaMidbar Rabbah 11, 2; Tanhuma (Buber), Naso 8, 15; and Pesiqta Rabbati 15 (72a). 175 Cited in Arugat ha-Bosem, I, 252. Concerning him, see Gross, Gallia Judaica, 211 and Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 335–336.  Another indication of the intensity with which the Piestly Blessing in the Synagogue was identified with that of the Jerusalem Temple is found in a responsum of Ravyah (Teshuvot u-Be’urei Sugyot, no 1155): It states in the Sifré (Naso no. 39) … that in the Temple one blesses [using] the Tetragrammaton (be-Shem ha-Meforash), and elsewhere one uses a cognomen (kinui) … And there are preceptors who invoke the Shem ha-Meforash silently, when the priests employ its cognomen. They assert that it is only prohibited to pronounce it (i.e. the Shem ha-Meforash) aloud, outside of the Temple precincts … ’ This passage has no parallel anywhere else in Ashkenazic literature, and it is difficult to even know where these precentors lived. Ephraim Kanarfogel, in private correspondence, argues that they could not have been acolytes of German Tosafists, based this on the comment of the twelfth century German Tosafist (Tosafot Sotah 38a s.v. harei), who explicitly rejected using the Shem ha-Meforash in the Priestly Blessing, outside of the Temple (cf. Urbach, Ba’alei ha-Tosafot, 637–639). On the other hand, it is immaterial whether the practice of these prayer leaders reflected normative rabbinic thinking or not. It is significant that though they were aware of the rabbinic restriction placed on invoking the Tetragrammaton, these precentors thought it appropriate to recite it – albeit sotto voce – in the synagogue and to  justify it textually. My thanks go to Professor Kanarfogel for his comments. See E. Kanarfogel, Peering Through the Lattices: Mystical, Magical and Pietist Dimensions in the Tosafist Period, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2000, 50 n. 45. On the place of the Tetragrammaton in Ashkenazic mystical prayer, see J. Dan, Toldot Torat ha-Sod ha-Ivrit, v–vi: Yeme ha-Beynaym, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2011, 293–327 and 559–594.

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Still, even those who rejected Rashi’s explanation that one should not gaze at the priest because ‘the Shekhinah is hovering over his hands’ affirmed the Ashkenazic custom of the priests to spread their fingers apart.176 In doing so, they invoked a Midrash wherein the Israelites express dismay that the priests were chosen to bless the people, instead of God, directly.177 God’s recorded reply was ‘Even though I told the priests to bless you, I will be standing with them and blessing you. Therefore the priests spread out their hands, to show that the Holy One, Blessed be He is standing behind us. That is why it states: ‘He looks in through the windows’ – from between the shoulders of the priests; ‘He peers through lattices’ – from between the priests’ fingers’(emphasis added, jrw).’178 While some Ashkenazic authorities still expressed discomfort with the practice,179 it persisted nonetheless. No doubt, this was a result of the depth of conviction regarding the palapable sense of the Divine Presence during the priestly blessing. R. Asher b. Yehiel (Rosh; c. 1250–1327), reflecting that Ashkenazic consensus throughout our period, concludes: ‘The practice of separating their figures is based upon the Midrash: ‘He peers through lattices,’ that the Shekhinah is above their heads and peers through their fingers.’ The awareness of God’s Presence in the synagogue was intensively, tangibly felt.180 D Formulas of Consolation An established German practice, preserved in the fifteenth century work Sefer Maharil, also assumed the immanent presence of the Shekhinah in the synagogue: R. Jacob Segal181 reported that the Jews of Austria do not accompany a mourner to his home on the Sabbath of the seven days [of mourning]. 176 The practice was exclusively Ashkenazic in origin. Only later did it spread to Provence, Spain and the Oriental Jewish communities (Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, vi, 28 n. 17). 177 It is not clear whether most Ashkenazic authorities based themselves upon Bamidbar Rabbah or upon the Tanhuma. 178 Cant. 2, 9. 179 Cf. mv(h) no. 130; Yere’im ha-Shalem, no. 269; Roqe’ah Ha-Shalem, no. 323; Sefer Ravyah, no. 1150; Sefer Or Zaru’a, ii, no. 411; Hagahot ha-Maimuniyot, Hil. Tefillah 4; Shibbole haLeqet ha-Shalem, no. 23; and Mordekhai, Megillah, no. 816. 180 Rosh, Megillah 3 par. 21. Later artistic representations of the priestly blessing consistently portray worshippers turning away from the Kohanim with a mix of awe and terror. See Sperber, ibid. 303–305. 181 R. Jacob Ha-Levi Moelin (Maharil; d. 1427). Segal is an acronym for the words segan leviya, i.e. a Levite.

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The custom of the Rhinelanders is praiseworthy, as they do so, based upon Maharam [of Rothenberg’s opinion], that this is an act of consolation. However, even the Austrians sit with him in the courtyard of the synagogue, as the Rhinelanders also do. He said that he heard from his teacher, Maharash,182 that when he would take leave of the mourner, he would say: ‘May He, who has caused His Name to in-dwell in this house, console you.’ He [i.e. Maharil], thereupon, asked him: ‘How is the expression, ‘caused His name to in-dwell (shiken), relevant to our synagogues? After all, the Midrash that instructs us to say this refers to the Holy Temple, where there were two entries, one for bridegrooms and one for mourners.’ He replied: ‘The synagogue is a Miqdash Me’at.’183 R. Shalom of Neustadt’s reply assumes that the Divine Presence in a fourteenth century synagogue is sufficiently intense as to justify using words that were exclusively associated with the Holy Temple.184 E Counting a Minor in a Minyan Talmudic tradition attributed great importance to communal prayer, especially when performed in the synagogue.185 This idea is expressed in a passage that is based upon the verse (Ps.82, 1): ‘God stands in the midst of the congregation of God.’ Rabin b. R. Adda says in the name of R. Isaac: How does one know that the Holy One, blessed be He, is found in the Synagogue? For it is said: ‘God stands in the midst of the congregation of God.’ And how do you know that if ten people pray together that the Divine presence is with them? For it is said: ‘God stands in the congregation of God.’186 As we have already seen, Ashkenazic Jews were wont to resort to the dubious legal stratagem of reciting prayers that required the presence of a minyan, 182 R. Shalom of Wiener-Neustadt (c. 1350–c. 1413). See S. Spitzer, Halakhot u-Minḥagei Rabbenu Shalom mi-Neustadt, Jerusalem 1977, 10–24. 183 See Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, Ch. 17. The passage is cited in Sefer Ravyah iii, no. 841. He implies that contemporary practice reflects that described in Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, though he dos not mention this specific formula. 184 The exchange between R. Shalom and Maharil occurred around the last quarter of the fourteenth century. It would appear that it was only then that the custom came under criticism as being inappropriate. Concerning the divisions between Rhenish and Austrian practice, see Zimmer, Olam ke-Minhago Noheg, Part ii and the review by H. Soloveitchik in ajs Review 23 (1998): 223–234. 185 Cf. mt, Hil. Tefillah 8, 1–4 and above, 43–57. 186 B. Berakhot 6a.

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by counting a minor as an adult if he held an open codex of the Pentateuch. This was a highly problematic practice, since the Talmud categorically ruled that males only reach adulthood at age thirteen. Indeed, it taxes the imagination to understand the possible logic behind the practice, not to mention the relatively mild reaction thereto by Rashi and the Tosafists.187 In a study of this custom, Ta Shma noted that the practice of counting a minor holding a Pentateuch codex was of hoary antiquity and was already practiced in the Rhineland in the eleventh century.188 As an ‘established custom,’ it could not to be lightly dismissed. Caught between reverence for tradition and the unequivocal upshot of the Talmud’s ruling, Rashi offered a possible rationale for this particular behavior.189 Basing himself upon a passage from Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, Rashi writes:190 One intercalates the year with three [judges]. R. Eliezer says: ‘With Ten, as it is written (Ps. 82, 1): God stands in the congregation of God; in the midst of the judges, He judges. If there are less than ten, since they are few, they bring a Torah Scroll before them. The form a semicircle… They stand, stretch out their hands to their Heavenly Father. The head of the academy (Rosh ha-Yeshiva) pronounces God’s Name, and they hear a Heavenly Voice (Bat Qol) that says the following: ‘And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying.’ If, due to the generation’s iniquity, they hear nothing, it is as if He cannot cause His Glory and His Divine Presence (Shekhinah) to in-dwell among them. And happy are those who stood in that place at that hour, as it is written (Ps. 144, 14): ‘Happy is the people who thus fare; Happy is the people whose G-d is the Lord.’191 187 Effectively, the custom engendered taking God’s Name in vain, which is a violation of the third commandment (Ex. 20, 6). See et, i, 429 s.v. Azkarot. 188 Y. Ta Shma, ‘Be-Ko’ah Ha-Shem: Le-Toldotav shel Minhag Nishkah,’ Sefer Bar-Ilan: Mugash le-khvod Professor Y.D. Gilat, 26–27 (1995), 389–400. See also Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 298–320 (esp. 310–311) and idem, Hakhme Zarefat, 128. R. Nathan b. Yehiel of Rome, reports that the custom was also widely practiced in eleventh century Italy, though he himself rejected it. Cf. Sefer Ravyah, no. 128 and Sefer Shibbole ha-Leqet, Inyan Tefillah, sec. 9. 189 ‘Be-Ko’ah Ha-Shem,’ 390–391. 190 Ch. viii. Ta Shma (390) was unsure whether Rashi himself formulated this explanation. If so, it would be consistent with Rashi’s policy of substantiating problematic, received customs. Whatever the case, it is important that the report emanates from Rashi’s circle and reflects the atmosphere of pre-Tosafist Ashkenaz. 191 Or, ‘if they become less than ten.’ See the comment of R. David Luria, ad loc. The text adds that the presence of the quorum or the Torah Scroll caused a Heavenly Voice to be heard.

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Prima facie, this passage is only tangentially related to the question of including a minor in a minyan. What both scenarios have in common is the central role played by a Torah Scroll – or, in this case, a Biblical codex – in resolving the problem posed by the absence of a quorum.192 That resolution rested upon the commonly held mystical belief that the Torah is composed of Names of God.193 According to the Midrash, God’s presence is mandatory at the act of intercalation of the calendar. In the case of communal prayer, God’s Presence is invoked because specific prayers involve the pronunciation of God’s Holy Name. In both cases, a quorum is necessary. Normally, this could be attained through the presence of ten adult males. However, since the Torah Scroll was itself the embodiment of God’s Names, if a minyan were lacking, the deficiency could be rectified by having a minor hold a Torah Scroll or a Biblical codex,194 because it effected a ‘real In-Dwelling.’

Experiences of the Divine Presence

Perception of the Divine in the Central and High Medieval Europe was a palpable, sensate experience. In the Christian world, this was not only true of those who experienced the filial portion of the godhead, but of those who encountered the Father as well.195 In addition, long before its elevation to the 192 See Y. Ta Shma, ‘Ha-Qeri’ah ba-Humashim Shelanu – Shte Gishot ba-Halakhah ve-Toldotehen,’ in Minhag Ashkenaz ha-Qadmon, 171–181. 193 Ta Shma, ‘Be-Ko’ah Ha-Shem,’ 396–399. The idea that the Torah is made up of Divine Names is most often identified with Nahmanides (c. 1195–c. 1270), who mentions it in the introduction to his commentary on the Pentateuch. It is, however, more ancient in origin and widespread in provenance. It was especially influential in the mystical traditions known to medieval Ashkenazim. See G. Scholem, ‘The Meaning of the Torah in Jewish Mysticism,’ in On the Kabbalah and its Symbolism, New York: Schocken 1965, 32–86 and M. Idel, ‘Torah: Between Presence and Representation of the Divine in Jewish Mysticism,’ in Representation in Religion: Studies in Honor of Moshe Barasch, ed. J. Assmann and A. Baumgarten, Leiden: Brill 2001, 197–235. 194 Biblical codices were, at the time, deemed to possess a special sanctity. Ta Shma noted (390 and 398) that the child’s participation per se is not critical here, so long as someone holds the Torah. He attributes the specific requirement for a child to an interpretation of P. Berakhot 7, 2. 195 This experience of Divine immanence was powerfully expressed in contemporary cross veneration, the classic expression of which is the eleventh century English composition, the ‘Dream of the Rood.’ See M. Swanton, The Dream of the Rood, New York: Manchester University Press 1970, 42–56; R. Woolf, “Doctrinal Influences on The Dream of the Rood,” Classical and Medieval Literary Criticism, 14, New York: Gale 1995, 137–153 and A. Mahler,

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status of dogma, the ever deepening belief in transubstantiation led to the widespread practice of gazing at the consecrated host during the mass in order to ‘see’ the ‘real presence’ in the wafer.196 In addition, a recurrent theme in Christian spiritual literature in the period is that of the tangible appearance of God during worship. Thus, in one of his letters Abelard prayed that God reveal Himself in His fullness to Heloise and her nuns.197 Our discussion strongly suggests that Ashkenazic Jews experienced God’s Presence in a similarly tangible way. It is true that medieval Ashkenazic Jews have long been accused of holding anthropomorphic beliefs, based upon a literal understanding of Biblical verses and various passages in Rabbinic Literature.198 However, recent scholarship has established that the picture is far more diverse than had been previously thought. Some understood all anthropomorphic references literally, while averring that God’s form is substantially different than His creations. Others thought that God might choose to appear to man in various forms but that He has no essential shape.199 One remarkable opinion – based upon a Stoic model! – maintained that God is manifest in a sublime type of ether.200 On the other hand, German Pietists waged a long and ultimately successful war against any

196 197 198

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‘Lignum Domini and the Opening Vision of the Dream of the Rood: A Viable Hypothesis?’ Speculum 53 (1978): 441–459. The relationship between experiencing the Divine and Artistic Representation is examined by K. Kogman-Appel, ‘The Tree of Death and the Tree of Life: The Hanging of Haman in Medieval Jewish Manuscript Painting,’ Between the Picture and the Word: Manuscript Studies from the Index of Christian Art, ed. C. Hourihane, Princeton: Princeton University in Association with Penn State Press 2005, 187–207. See M. Rubin, Corpus Christi: The Eucharist in Late Medieval Culture, Cambridge 1991; and G.J.C. Snoek, Medieval Piety from Relics to the Eucharist, Leiden: E.J. Brill 1995. The Letters of Abelard and Heloise, trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff, New York: Knopf 1926, 176. The most (in)famous of these was the thirteenth century scholar R. Moses b. Hasdai Taqu (i.e. of Dachau). See Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 420–427; Y. Dan, ‘Introduction,’ ms Paris H711: Ktav Tamim, R. Moshe Taqu, Jerusalem: Dinur Center 1984 and the bibliography found in E. Kanarfogel, ‘Varieties of Belief in Medieval Ashkenaz: The Case of Anthropomorphism,’ in Rabbinic Culture and Its Critics: Jewish Authority, Dissent and Heresy in Medieval and Early Modern Times, ed. D. Frank and M. Goldish, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2008, 148–149, n. 44–49. Y. Lorberboim reviews the entire issue in Tzelem Elohim: Halakhah va-Aggadah, Tel Aviv: Schocken 2004. See also, D. Berger, ‘Judaism and General Culture in Medieval and Early Modern Times,’ in Judaism’s Encounter with Other Cultures; Rejection or Integration? ed. J. Schacter, Northvale, nj: Jason Aronson 1997, 57–141. This was, apparently, Taqu’s position. See Berger, ‘Judaism and General Culture,’ 93 and Kanarfogel, ‘Varieties of Belief,’ 122–124. See G. Freudenthal, ‘“Ha-Avir Barukh Hu, u-Varukh Shmo” Be-Sefer ha-Maskil le-R. Simhah mi-Troyes,’ Da’at 32–33 (1994): 187–234.

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and all types of anthropomorphist descriptions of theories of God.201 They explained the corporeal depictions of God in Sacred Literature as a referring a specially created being or angel, known as the ‘Glory’ (kavod).202 However, irrespective of the theological niceties between these positions, all of them shared a common concreteness. German Pietists built upon and expanded this traditional Ashkenazic perception. Actual visualization of the Divine was a central element of pietist religiosity.203 The cultivation of proper ‘intention’ was intimately tied up with the desire to visualize the Shekhinah. R. Eleazar of Worms comments that ‘since it is written ‘for I fill both heaven and earth’ (Jer. 23, 24), why does one need to pray in a Synagogue or in the Temple? Yet there is a place in which the Holy One, blessed be He, shows the created glory to the prophet according to the need of the hour.’204 For R. Eleazar, while one’s prayers must be ultimately directed to the transcendent, inconceivable God (Deus Absconditus), the experience of worship is centered upon an immediate, visualized presence in the synagogue.205 The Kavod that manifests itself there is identical with the Shekhinah that filled the Holy Temple,206 from which the Synagogue derives its religious reality.207

A Place of Avodah

Following the destruction of the Temple in 70 c.e., the rabbis emphasized the role of prayer as a substitute for the now inoperative sacrificial service. The 201 202 203 204

Y. Dan, Torah Ha-Sod, 84–104. Idem, The Unique Cherub Circle, Tubingen: Mohr-Siebeck 1999. Wolfson, ‘Sacred Space,’ 613ff and idem, Through a Speculum, 192. The passage is found in R. Eleazar of Worms, Hilkhot ha-Kavod, ms Oxford-Bodleian no. 2575 fol. 3a. The work was published in full with a German translation in H. Liss, El’azar Ben Yehuda von Worms, Hilkhot ha-Kavod: die Lehrsatze von der Herrlichkeit Gottes, Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997. 205 Cf. Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, Shoresh Zekhirat HaShem, ve-ha-Tefillah, 9: ‘and when he says ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord,’ let him not think of the visible Kavod that appears to the hearts of the prophets, and indicates the Throne, but rather to the Lord, He is God.’ R. Eleazar repeats this in ‘Sha’are ha-Sod ha-Yihud ve-ha-Emunah,’ ed. Y. Dan, Temirin, I, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1972, 153. 206 Cf. Wolfson, Through a Speculum, 188–127; and D. Abrams, ‘Tefisat ha-Kavod ve-Kavvanat haTefillah be-Kitve R. Eleazar me-Vorms ve-Hedeha be-Ketavim Aherim,’ Da’at 34 (1995): 61–82. 207 While all of the above ostensibly refers to communal prayer, it was taken for granted that people prayed in a synagogue. See, for example, Rashi, B. Megillah 23b s.v. en and Goldin, Ha-Yihud ve-ha-Yahad: Hiddat Hisardutan shel ha-Qevutzot ha-Yehudi’ot be-Yeme ha-­ Beynayim, Tel-Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 1997, 102–115.

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formal prayers, they declared, were ordained in lieu of the sacrificial order.208 The formal term for the sacrificial service (Avodah) was henceforth applied to the worship of God in the synagogue. This shift in emphasis is understandable. The Temple had stood at the center of Jewish religious and national consciousness for centuries. Its destruction was seen as more than Divine punishment; it was viewed as rejection of Israel by God, from whom Jews now felt cut off. Such sentiments threatened to undermine national morale and probably engendered widespread despair and apostasy.209 In addition, the absence of the expiatory function of the sacrificial service rendered Judaism vulnerable to Christian arguments that the only path for forgiveness now lay through the belief in Jesus.210 In response to these challenges, the synagogue and its activities began to be seen as being of equivalent worth to the Temple, with the worship carried on there as the equivalent to the Avodah. Over time, an entire complex of rituals and trappings were transferred from the Temple to the synagogue in one form or another. We have already encountered two examples: the performance of the Priestly Blessing and the ‘eternal light’ which burned near the ark containing the Torah Scrolls. Rabbinic sources had explained a primary function of this light as fulfilling the Torah’s dictate that ‘fire shall be kept burning upon the altar continually; it shall not go out.’211 Once again, though, the question arises: To what extent was this to be taken literally? Was the service that took place in the synagogue actual Avodah? Or was it an ersatz affair, a pale reflection of the required worship until the Temple was rebuilt? There is no single answer to this question. It had different forms in different times and places and lay somewhere on a spectrum between the two antipodes. 208 Cf. B. Berakhot 26b. Regarding the issue generally, see S. Reif, Judaism and Hebrew Prayer: New Perspectives on Jewish Liturgical History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1993 and R. Langer, To Worship God Properly: Tensions Between Liturgical Custom and Halakhah in Judaism, Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press 1998, 1–13. 209 Some years ago, Professor Lawrence Schiffman commented to me that the destruction of the Temple had a catastrophic effect on the Jewish population in the western part of the Roman Empire. Recent research has confirmed that the Jewish population in the Roman Empire experienced a drastic decline in the years after the fall of Jerusalem. See A. Edrei and D. Mendels, ‘A Split Jewish Diaspora: Its Dramatic Consequences,’ Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 16 (2007): 91–137. 210 Cf. Galatians 5, 1-3 and Ephesians 1. See also Matthew 24, 1–2; Mark, 13, 1–2; Luke 21, 5–6; and Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho, Chs. 47, 49; and Augustine, City of God, Bk. xviii Ch. 35. 211 Lev. 6, 6. Cf. Ta Shma, ‘Miqdash Me’at,’ passim.

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However, it is possible to take the pulse of a given tradition on this question. One can ask just how literally Ashkenazim understood the equation of prayer = sacrifices = Avodah. In addition, were there other practices that were traditionally identified with the Temple in Jerusalem, over and above those required by Talmudic tradition, that were practiced in the synagogue? Finally, were these practiced in a way that put added or unusual emphasis upon the synagogue’s function in loco Templi? I believe that Franco-German Jews took the Prayer/Sacrifices equation very seriously. Certainly, that is the impression one gets from the commentary on Avot in Mahzor Vitry. Commenting on the Mishnah’s assertion that the world stands on Torah, on Avodah and on Acts of Loving Kindness,212 the author writes: On Avodah. [i.e.] The Temple Service. They said, so long as the Holy Temple stood, the world was blessed for its inhabitants, and the rains fell at their appointed time, as it is written (Deut. 11, 13–14): ‘And it shall come to pass, if you will heed My commandments, which I command you today, to love the Lord your God, and to serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul, that I will give the rain of your land in its season.’213 To what does this refer, to the Avodah in the Holy Temple … 214 At present, however, when the Avodah no longer exists, the world is sustained by Torah, Acts of Loving Kindness and Prayer. Or prayer is considered as Avodah, as the Sifre … expounds: ‘And to worship Him (le-avdo) with all your heart and with all of your soul.’ Is there Avodah of the Heart? Rather, this refers to Prayer.’215 And so it states (Dan. 6, 17): ‘Your God, whom you continually serve, He will deliver you.’ Is there Avodah in Babylonia?! Rather, this refers to Prayer.216 From this you learn the greatness of Prayer. In fact, it seems to me that it is greater than the sacrifices, for it is considered 212 M. Avot 1, 2. 213 Avot de-Rabbi Natan, Nusah I, iv s.v. al ha-Avodah; Cf. Nusah ii, ix s.v. Shimon ha-Tzaddiq. 214 The author omits the conclusion of this passage from Avot de-Rabbi Natan, which states: ‘You learn from this that no Avodah is as beloved to the Holy One, blessed be He, than the Avodah in the Holy Temple.’ Such a statement would have contradicted his essential point. 215 Sifre, Devarim, pisqa 41 s.v. u-le-avdo. Cf. B. Ta’anit 2a, P. Berakhot 4, 1 (fol. 7a) and parallels. 216 Cf. Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, Ch. 23 v. 25 s.v. ve-avad’tem (Epstein-Melamed, 220 l.1-4). Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai was practically unknown in medieval FrancoGermany. See the introduction to Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai, ed. J.N. Epstein and

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like incense, as it is written (Ps. 141, 2): ‘Let my prayer be set forth as incense before You.’ We say, moreover: ‘Rabban Simeon b. Gamliel says: From the day the Temple was destroyed, there is no day without a curse, the dew has not descended for a blessing.’217 And the Talmud states: ‘How, in that case, can the world endure? [It is] through the doxology recited after the Scriptural reading, and the response: ‘May His great Name be blessed’ that is recited after studying Aggadah.’218 The upshot of this carefully crafted pastiche of various passages from rabbinic literature is that prayer has precisely the same value as animal sacrifice. In fact, as the equivalent of the offering of incense, it might be superior to blood sacrifices. Incense was offered on the golden altar that stood in the outer hall of the actual sanctuary in Jerusalem. This offering was not only performed closer to the ‘Holy of Holies’ (Qodesh ha-Qodoshim), but was also more rarified in character. The author’s identification of prayer with the offering of incense intensifies the Temple/Synagogue equation and locates prayer as among the most exalted forms of Avodah. True, there can be little doubt that the forceful equation of prayer with the various aspects of the Avodah in the Holy Temple was at least partially intended to respond to arguments posed by Christian polemicists. Christians had consistently maintained that forgiveness was denied to the Jew after the cessation of the Temple Service.219 The assertion that prayer was the exact equivalent of the Avodah was intended to blunt this claim, at least as far as the Jew was concerned. However, medieval Jewish literature is multi-textured. Just because a certain passage serves a polemical function does not exhaust its significance nor does it serve as its sole function or origin. The assumption that Divine Service in the synagogue is conceptually identical with that in the Holy Temple so thoroughly pervades the literature of classical Ashkenaz that one cannot avoid the conclusion that it expressed a central element of its worldview.220 E.Z. Melamed, Jerusalem: Magnes Press 1955 and Midrash Ha-Gadol, ed. M. Margaliot, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1967, 546 l. 12–18. 217 M. Sotah 9, 12. Cf. T. Sotah 15, 2. 218 B. Sotah 49a. 219 Cf. The Jewish-Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages: A Critical Edition of the Nizzahon Vetus, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1979, 207–209. 220 Of course, post-Destruction Jews were painfully aware of the fact that the synagogue was ‘second’ to the Holy Temple and fervently prayed for its descent from heaven (cf. Rashi, Sukkah 30a s.v. i nami). See S. Shalev-Eyni, ‘Jerusalem and the Temple in Hebrew

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Once again, the priestly blessing (Birkat Kohanim) provides an insight into this sensitivity. According to the Mishnah, the priests are obligated to bless the people every day in order to fulfill the commandment that ‘they impart My Name upon the children of Israel, and I will bless them.’221 Now, while this ritual was performed in the Temple, it was not strictly speaking classified as Avodah.222 It could be performed outside of the Temple precincts, even if the priests were in a state of ritual impurity. In fact, it is this circumstance which made it possible to integrate Birkat Kohanim into synagogue worship. In Ashkenaz, though, Birkat Kohanim was viewed as more than another component of the liturgy. It was defined as a type of Avodah, and its introductory blessing was even adjusted to the formula used exclusively in the Temple.223 Its Avodah character also determined when and how it was observed.224 In this connection, we must return to a passage from Sefer Hassidim:225 The priests are accustomed to ascend the platform (i.e. to bless the people) On the festivals, since, one is required to purify himself for the Pilgrimage Festivals, the priests would purify themselves and recite the blessing while in a state of purity. Moreover, in the days of the Sages they would recite the blessing every day. Today, however, that they are not careful, their practice is to recite the blessing on the holiday, since that is when we recite: ‘And raise up for us the blessing of your festivals’ and they say (Eccles. 7, 14): ‘On the day of goodness, be joyful.’ Illuminated Manuscripts: Jewish Thought and Christian Influence,’ L’interculturalità dell’ebraismo, ed. M. Perani, Ravenna: Longo Editore 2004, 173–191. 221 Num. 6, 27. and M. Ta’anit 4, 1. 222 M. Tamid 5, 1. 223 Cf. Rashi, B. Ta’anit 26b s.v. kol and Rashi, B. Eruvin 104a, s.v. ve-hiqriv. Rashi’s commentary to Ta’anit was not written by him, but it is definitely Ashkenazic in origin. See Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 216 n. 275.  The seventeenth blessing of the standard liturgy (Amida) is known as the blessing of ‘Avodah.’ It asks God to graciously accept one’s worship and includes a request for the restoration of the sacrificial order. It concludes: ‘He who returns His Shekhinah to Zion.’ Rabbinic tradition maintained that an earlier version was actually recited in the Temple, after the daily offerings. That version concluded with the words: ‘who Alone we Worship (na’avod).’ To this day, Ashkenazic Jews in the Diaspora substitute the latter for the former on those occasions when the priestly blessing is recited. Cf. B. Berakhot 11b and Rashi, s.v. va-Avodah; B. Yoma 68b and Rashi s.v. ve-al ha-Avodah; mv(h) sec. 89, 347 and 351; and Perush Siddur ha-Tefillah la-Roqe’ah, 349–350. 224 See E. Zimmer, ‘Mo’ade Nesi’at Kapayim,’ in Olam ke-Minhago Noheg, 132–151. 225 shp no. 1213.

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According to Sefer Hassidim, priests only recited Birkat Kohanim on holy days, i.e. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Pesach and Shavu’ot. This practice was predicated upon the assumption that in order to recite Birkat Kohanim, the priests had to immerse themselves in a miqveh. Since, as was note above, people assumed that they were obligated to immerse themselves in a miqveh in preparation for the festival and were, in any event, ritually pure; the priests were willy nilly able to bless the people in the synagogue. However, during the rest of the year, priests consciously abrogated the fulfillment of a Biblical commandment because of an a priori assumption that had no basis in rabbinic tradition. Zimmer has suggested that the predication of Birkat Kohanim on priestly purity is a pietist innovation.226 Such an interpretation would explain the ease with which R. Judah describes it. Requiring purity could be seen as typical pietist supererogatory behavior. However, there are good reasons for not restricting this practice to German Pietist circles.227 To begin with, the manner in which this paragraph is phrased argues against it being a Pietist invention. When the author of Sefer Hassidim describes a pietist innovation, he typically frames it either as a command or as a description of the action of a Hasid or of his Master. This paragraph, as others we have seen, is cast more as a report of a common practice, which the author is now explaining.228 Furthermore, this practice is documented throughout FrancoGermany, beyond the boundaries of pietist influence.229 It is more reasonable to view this practice as another expression of the pervasive Ashkenazic equation of the synagogue with the Holy Temple, another form of Avodah that is now performed in the Miqdash Me’at, one whose performance must presumably be undertaken in a state of ritual purity.230 Priests did 226 ‘Mo’ade Nesi’at Kapayim,’ 136–138. 227 Haym Soloveitchik already noted the difficulty involved in viewing this as an extension of pietist concern with laws of purity. In his review of Zimmer’s book (ajs Review 23 (1998): 226), he observed: ‘Nevertheless, I fail to see what evidence there is that Haside Ashkenaz were instrumental in the desuetude of the daily priestly blessings (nesi’at kappayyim). If they demanded tevilat ba’ale qeryyin for prayer and, a fortiori, by Zimmer’s conjecture, for nesi’at kappayyim, they obviously met that requirement regularly, for they certainly prayed daily. Why then should they not have had priestly blessings daily?’ 228 Cf. S. Kogut, ‘The Language of “Sefer Hassidim”: Its Linguistic Background and Methods of Research,’ Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, ii, ed. I. Twersky, 95–108 (Cambridge (ma): Harvard University 1984). 229 Cf. H. Soloveitchik, ‘Piety, Pietism and German Pietism: “Sefer Hassidim I” and the Influence of “Haside Ashkenaz”,’ jqr 92 (2002): 455–493. 230 Maimonides (Hil. Tefillah, 14–15) implicitly rejected the idea that the priestly blessing is a full form of Avodah. It is more an act of prayer that is also carried out in the Temple. That

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not immerse themselves in a miqveh on a regular basis. As a result, they did not bless the people. However, since it was common practice for Jews to immerse themselves in a miqveh on the eve of holydays, the priests among them became ritually pure and hence fit to pronounce their blessing. Furthermore, since immersion was aimed at removing the impurity incurred by a seminal discharge, the custom developed for priests to separate from their wives between the time that they immersed and the recitation of the blessing.231 This radical restriction of the performance of a positive mitzvah nevertheless earned the agreement of no less a personage than R. Meir of Rothenberg: ‘Regarding the priest whom you require to immerse … this is a worthy custom (minhag kasher), since my teachers have written that this is required even for prayer, all the more so does that apply for Nesi’at Kapayim. Indeed, it appears to me that everyone conducts himself thus’ [Emphasis added- jrw].232 The equation of synagogue worship and Avodah also determined the way in which the priests prepared for this ritual. The Talmud required priests to wash their hands before pronouncing the blessing.233 As opposed to the blessing in the Temple, however, this hand l­ aving was performed by the priests themselves and did not prevent them from offering their blessing. In fact, according to Maimonides, if the priest had ritually washed his hands upon arising, and was sure that he had not subsequently is why he included it within the framework of the laws of prayer, which are more properly known as ‘Laws of Prayer and the Priestly Blessing’ (Hil. Tefillah u-Nesi’at Kapayim). In fact, in his description of the daily service in the Temple (Hil. Temidim u-Mussafim 6, 5), Maimonides actually emphasizes that Birkat Kohanim is not classified as a form of Avodah. 231 This would effectively eliminate marital relations for the kohen, during both days of the Festivals. See D. Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, iv, 39–41. 232 Resp. Maharam (Berlin), no. 109. Zimmer (136) notes that the effective abolition of the Priestly Blessing did not occur without criticism. Nevertheless, the assumption that priests must immerse in preparation for reciting their blessing – and that they indeed did so – is documented long after the end of our period. At the turn of the fifteenth century, when Maharil was asked why Kohanim do not bless the people every day, he replied that ‘it is the custom of the Kohanim to immerse beforehand … and in the winter it is difficult for them to immerse every day. Therefore, the custom developed specifically on festivals.’ (Cf. Sefer ha-Agur, ed. Hershler, Nesi’at Kapayim, no. 176). See now, See E. Marienberg, ‘Nashim, Gevarim u-Mayim Qarim: Ha-Vikkuah ak Himum Me Ha-Miqva’ot Mi-Yeme haBenayim ve-ad Yameynu,’jsij, 12 (2013): 1–37. 233 B. Sotah 39a: ‘R. Joshua b. Levi also said: Any kohen who has not washed his hands may not raise them up to pronounce the blessing, as it is said (Ps. 134, 2): ‘Lift up your hands in holiness and bless the Lord.’

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touched anything that imparted impurity, he did not need to wash again.234 Ashkenazic tradition viewed the matter very differently. Rashi maintained that, irrespective of his earlier washing, a priest must wash his hands once again in anticipation of ascending the platform to bless the people.235 In addition, whereas the Talmud assumed that outside of the Temple the priests would wash their own hands, a popular custom, attested to by in early thirteenth century French source, brought synagogue practice into line with Temple procedure: ‘Since the [Priestly] blessing was equated with [Levitical] service, and [the participation of the] Levites is critical for the performance …  it seems logical that the Levites should serve the priests at the time of their blessing, by washing their hands.’236 This point is well taken – on one condition. It only makes sense if one assumes that the activity undertaken by the priests is classified as a form of Avodah, and that the rules governing the latter in the Temple must also be enforced in the synagogue.237

In Loco Templi

The transformation of the synagogue into a miqdash me’at, standing in loco Templi, was not restricted to the transfer of ritual. Late Roman and Byzantine era synagogues were architecturally modeled on the Temple.238 Like the 234 mt, Hil. Tefillah 15, 5 and Kesef Mishneh, ad loc. (citing R. Abraham Maimuni). 235 Rashi, Sotah 39a s.v. she-lo. Tosafot (s.v. kol kohen) was of the same opinion, vigorously rejecting a report that Rashi maintained a position similar to that adopted by Maimonides. Cf. Bet Yosef, Tur, oh sec. 128 s.v. ve-yitol yadav. Tradition dictated that the priests hands be washed up to the wrist, as was required for Temple Avodah. Cf. B. Sotah ibid.; Rashi, Hullin 106b s.v. ad ha-pereq and mt, ibid. 236 The passage is from ms Mantua 36, 22, and is also cited by Y. Ta Shma, Ha-Nigleh she-baNistar: Le-Heqer Sheqi-e ha-Halakhah be-Sefer ha-Zohar, Tel-Aviv: Ha-Qibbutz ha-Me’uhad 2001, 27. The apparent author of the manuscript, R. Avigdor Katz [Zarefati] (fl. c. 1230), repeats the comment in Perushim u-Pesaqim al ha-Torah le-R. Avigdor ha-Zarefati, ed. A. Hershkowitz, Jerusalem 1996, 451. Since the text reflects Jewish life in the early Thirteenth century, it is safe to assume that this particular custom existed, at the latest, by c. 1150. Concerning the author, see S. Emanuel, Shivre Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Magnes 2006, 175–181. 237 Later halakhists assumed that the custom of having the Levites wash the hands of the priests was based upon an explicit statement to that effect in the Zohar (Zohar, Bamidbar 146a–b. Cf. Bet Yosef, oh 128 s.v. ve-khol). However, as Ta Shma notes (ibid.), the halakhic material in the Zohar frequently reflects medieval Ashkenazic practice. 238 Reiner, ‘Destruction, Temple and Holy Place,’ 140–141. The synagogue at Dura Europos comes to mind in this connection. See J. Gutmann, “The Synagogue of Dura-Europos:

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Temple, they had a ‘court of Israelites’ (Ezrat Yisrael) and a ‘woman’s court’ (Ezrat Nashim). From the Byzantine period on, the front section of the synagogue was separated from the rest and marked off in a way designed to symbolize the ‘Holy area’ and the ‘Holy of Holies’ as distinct entities. Thus, ‘imitation of the Temple in the synagogue was not only a strategy for commemoration; it was a framework for the renewal of religious life in a world without the Temple…. The Temple indeed lay in ruins, but it had a substitute; the substitute was indeed puny, seemingly temporary, as is any substitute.’239 The concrete way in which Post-Destruction synagogues mimicked the Temple raises the question of the precise relationship between the two. Did the synagogue merely remind worshipper of the Bet ha-Miqdash, or was he made to feel as if he was actually in the Temple, in some meaningful way? Based upon both the architecture and wall paintings that adorned ancient synagogues, it seems more logical to conclude that the latter was the case.240 Overall, one theme united them. The front of the synagogue, especially the area surrounding the Holy Ark, was exclusively devoted to Temple imagery, symbols and scenes. In a number of cases, as in Dura Europos, the worshipper was made to feel as if he were actually situated in the Temple during the performance of the Divine Service. Such an experience not only underscored the Temple/Synagogue equation, it transported the individual to a realm of awareness wherein the Temple was not destroyed (or would be imminently restored). A Critical Analysis,” in Evolution of the Synagogue; Problems and Progress, ed. H.C. Kee and L.H. Cohick, Harrisburg: Trinity Press 1999, 73–88. 239 Ibid. 144. Reiner contrasts this with the Qaraites, represented by Daniel al-Qumisi, who continued to organize their spiritual – and physical – lives around the actual Temple remains and the mourning thereupon (139–141). See also Y. Gartner, Gilgule Minhag beOlan ha-Halakhah, Jerusalem 1995 and Y. Erder, ‘The Mourners of Zion: The Karaites in Jerusalem in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries,’ in Karaite Judaism; a Guide to Its History and Literary Sources, ed. M. Polliack, Leiden: Brill 2003, 213–235.  Steven Fine has suggested a different line of analysis. S. Fine, Synagogue and Sanctity: The Late Antique Palestinian Synagogue as a “Holy Place,” PhD dissertation, Hebrew University 1993. See also, idem, ‘From Meeting House to Sacred Realm: Holiness and the Ancient Synagogue,’ in Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World, ed. S. Fine, New York: Oxford University Press and Yeshiva University Museum 1996, 21–47 and idem, ‘Spirituality and the Art of the Ancient Synagogue,’ in Jewish Spirituality and Divine Law, ed. A. Mintz and L. Schiffman, Jersey City: Ktav 2005,189–212. I have found Reiner’s analysis more persuasive and have adopted it here. 240 References on the history of the synagogue and synagogue art are provided by Professor Joseph Tabory’s invaluable bibliography at: http://www.daat.ac.il/daat/bibliogr/tavori-2 .htm.

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The identification between the synagogue and the Temple, which dominated medieval Ashkenaz, continued this earlier pattern. The synagogue was invested with the latter’s sanctity and graced by the Divine Presence. Like its ancient predecessors, it provided contemporary Jews with a liminal experience which transcended both geography and chronology. A glance at Medieval Christian experience will help explain this point. Historians have noted that medieval people lived with a strong sense of organic, historical continuity. Their world was organized around specific archetypes informed events and institutions. These derived their very existence and meaning from these archetypes.241 One example of this phenomenon which is the manner in which contemporary Christians related to the physical Church edifice. Jonathan Z. Smith has shown that medieval churches were invariably modeled upon the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem – the complex of sites that comprehended Jesus’ passion, burial and resurrection. By building churches along the lines of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, every local church or cathedral invoked and embodied the central belief and mystery of Christianity. Smith goes one step further. He argues that each medieval church building was actually an extension of the Holy Sepulcher. In other words, when a local worshipper entered the church he found himself, in a very real sense, within the precincts of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The former was, to use contemporary parlance, a ‘portal’ to the latter. At the same time, the physical building into which the worshipper entered was infused with sanctity and standing solely by virtue of its relationship to the ‘archetypal’ Church, the Holy Sepulcher. Smith called this process, whereby local institutions merge and meld with their archetypes, ‘miniaturization.’242 Smith’s idea of ‘miniaturization,’ opens the door to a deeper understanding of the synagogue’s significance for medieval Ashkenazic Jews. 241 See Gurevich, Categories of Medieval Culture, 41–92; Y.H. Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, Seattle and London: University of Washington Press 1982, 27–52; J. Le Goff, Medieval Civilization, 400–1500, Oxford: Blackwell 1988, 131–195; and G. Spiegel, “Memory and History: Liturgical Time and Historical Time,” History and Theory 41 (2002): 149–162. 242 See Jonathan Z. Smith, ‘Constructing a Small Place,’ in Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land – Proceedings of the International Conference in Memory of Joshua Prawer, ed. B.Z. Kedar and R.J.Z. Werblowsky, Jerusalem and London 1998, 18–31 and idem, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1987, 74–95. At the same time, Temple imagery presented certain difficulties for medieval Catholic thinkers. See H. Turner, From Temple to Meeting House: The Phenomenology and Theology of Places of Worship, The Hague: Mouton 1979, 129–139.

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We have seen how the equation of the Synagogue with the Temple in Jerusalem was expressed in multiple ways. Its furnishings and layout, its code of comportment and ritual choreography, its liturgy and popular custom all embodied the Central Sanctuary.243 This identification was not a dry legal construct, nor were these manifestations simply its logical consequences. Religious form and ceremony are potent vehicles for the expression of ineffable, though concrete, religious reality. This was especially true in the medieval world, which attributed far more significance to symbolic action and forms than ours. As the late Jacques Le Goff once famously noted, it was very much ‘une civilisation du geste.’244 Ashkenazic Jews were enveloped by awareness of the Temple by their physical surroundings and their ritual actions. Seen in this light, the synagogue’s status as a miqdash me’at provided the Jew with a double-faceted religious awareness. On the one hand, it gave Jews the distinct feeling that the Temple actually dwelled among them and that God Himself indwelled there. At the same time, as with contemporary churches and cathedrals, it was a portal into the virtual precincts of the Temple, which according to Rashi, was already fully built in Heaven, awaiting its fiery descent to Earth.245 243 This point is related to the literature on the dichotomy between ‘space’ and ‘place,’ which I have used in to a large degree here. Among the studies that I have found to be particularly helpful and stimulating, are P. Sheldrake, ‘Human Identity and the Particularity of Place,’ Spiritus 1 (2001): 43–64; idem, Spaces for the Sacred: Place, Memory, and Identity, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 2001; Y. Tuan, ‘Place: An Experiential Perspective,’ Geographical Review 65 (1975): 151–161; and T. Young, ‘Place Matters,’ Annals of the Association of American Geographers 91 (2001): 681–682. 244 See J. Burrows, Gestures and Looks in Medieval Narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2008, 11. 245 This last assertion was certainly true of German Pietists. When they engaged in mystical prayer, they consciously set out to imagine the image of the Temple. They experienced it as the place where God and Man met. Assuming that Pietist teachings frequently adumbrated and sharpened motifs that were typical of Ashkenazic religiosity generally, one may assume that entering into the terrestrial/ celestial precincts of the Holy Temple was a component part of the Ashkenazic Jew’s experience of the synagogue. Cf. E. Wolfson, ‘Sacred Space and Mental Iconography: Imago Templi and Contemplation in Rhineland Jewish Pietism,’ in Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine, ed. R. Chazan, W. Hallo and L.H. Schiffman, Winona Lake (in): Eisenbrauns 1999, 597.

chapter 4

Purity and Impurity Purity and Impurity are central religious categories in Judaism. They delineate space, objects and people.1 They divide the sacred and from the profane, the permitted from the forbidden, the moral from the immoral, the attractive from the repulsive, and the Jew from the gentile.2 A heightened concern with purity, together with the avoidance of impurity, lies at the center of Jewish religious, spiritual and communal life from Biblical times until the late Talmudic period.3 We have already seen the powerful concern with ritual purity that characterized Ashkenazic synagogue life. In this chapter, we will show how care for purity and the avoidance of impurity extended to other areas of religious practice and awareness.

Torah Study and Worship

Jewish tradition, first Biblical and then Rabbinic, posited several types of ritual impurity, of different levels of gravity. The most severe source of pollution, literally the ‘grandfather’ of all pollutions (Avi Avot ha-Tum’ah), was that imparted by direct or indirect contact with a dead human body (Tum’at Met).4 Of the 1 See et, xix, 1–71; and xx, 456–495. Cf. J.Z. Smith, Map is Not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions, Leiden: Brill 1978, 289–310 and idem, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual, Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1987, 1–23. 2 See M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London 1966; R. Fardon, Mary Douglas: An Intellectual Biography, London 1999, 75–101; J. Klawans, ‘Notions of Gentile Impurity in Ancient Judaism,’ ajs Review 20 (1995): 285–312; idem, ‘Idolatry, Incest, and Impurity: Moral Defilement in Ancient Judaism,’ Journal for the Study of Judaism 29 (1998): 391–415; idem, ‘Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, New York: Oxford University Press 2000; idem, Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism, New York: Oxford University Press 2006; C. Hayes, Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2002, 1–3. 3 To various degrees, this was true of all Jewish sects in the Second Temple era. See V. Noam, ‘The Dual Strategy of Rabbinic Purity Legislation,’ Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period 39 (2008): 471–512 and idem, Me-Qumran la-Mahapekhah ha-Tanna’it, Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi 2010. 4 Cf. Ex. 19, 14–22 and et, xx, 463–487. The designation ‘Avi Avot ha-Tum’ah,’ does not appear  in either Tannaitic or Amoraic literature. It first appears in Rashi’s Talmudic

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other sources of pollution, the most ubiquitous and significant are those brought about by a genital discharge (tum’ah ha-yotzet mi-gufo).5 In Temple times, one who was rendered impure via tum’ah ha-yotzet mi-gufo was barred from the entire Temple Mount.6 Subsections of this group, e.g. menstrual and gonorrheal discharges (niddah and zavah), also generated a prohibition against marital relations prior to purification by immersion in a miqveh, the violation of which bore the dire punishment of excision (karet).7 Over time, Talmudic and post-Talmudic authorities significantly extended the parameters of these forms of impurity. A menstruant, whose Biblical impurity had been set at seven days, was now additionally classified as a zavah and was required to wait seven ‘clean’ days, after her last blood discharge, before

­commentaries (Rashi, Shabbat 66a s.v. ve-en tameh; Rashi, Pesahim 14b s.v. be-halal herev. Cf. Tosafot Baba Bathra 20a s.v. be-havit), and then in the twelfth century midrashic anthology, Midrash Aggadah, ed. S. Buber, ad Num. 19 pars. 16 and 21. Rabbi Daniel Wolf, of Yeshivat Har Etzion, observed to me that he is convinced that the phrase was Rashi’s invention. If so, its presence in Midrash Aggadah, which is of Ashkenazic provenance, testifies to the speed with which it became part of the halakhic vocabulary. Cf., e.g., Cf. mt, Hil. Tum’at Met 5, 9.  Ashkenazic discussion of death pollution is somewhat anemic. Prima facie, this is due to the simple fact that, in the absence of the ashes of the Red Heifer, purification from death pollution was impossible. I address this question in a forthcoming study. 5 Cf. Lev. 15 and Deut. 23, 11–12. According to the Bible, almost all discharges of blood or of semen render the individual impure. The exception is post-partum bleeding which, as far as the Bible was concerned, did not render the woman impure, after the parturient impurity of one week (for a male-child) or two weeks (for a female child). Later developments included these blood discharges as well. See et, iv: 130–148 (Ba’al Qeri); ix: 621–654 (Zav and Zava); and xxii: 297–362 (Yoledet). By contrast, Islamic tradition views all bodily emissions as defiling. Cf. M. Holmes, Body of Text: The Emergence of the Sunni Law of Ritual Purity, Albany: suny Press 2002, 1–13. 6 Cf. B. Pesahim 68a. One who has contracted the most severe form of impurity, contact with a corpse (tame met), is only restricted from entering the actual Temple precincts. One who emits semen, whether man or woman after relations (Ba’al Qeri and Poletet Shikhvat Zera), on the other hand, was allowed entry to the Temple Mount after immersion in a miqveh. This is the most reasonable explanation for the large number of Second Temple era ritual baths that have been uncovered around the site of the Temple Mount. See, per contra, E. Regev, ‘The Ritual Baths near the Temple Mount and Extra-purification Before Entering the Temple Courts,’ Israel Exploration Journal 55 (2005): 194–204. 7 Lev. 20, 18 and M. Keritot 1, 1. There are varying opinions as to the nature of karet. See E.E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams, Jerusalem: Magnes 1989, Index s.v. karet.

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immersing in a miqveh.8 Parturients, whose blood discharges were officially non-defiling, were now considered to be tameh.9 The pollution engendered by seminal fluid (ba’al qeri) was also expanded. According to an edict that the rabbis attributed to Ezra the Scribe, anyone who experienced a seminal emmission was forbidden to either pray or study 8 A zavah is a woman who has a non-menstrual genital discharge. Cf. Lev. 15, 25–33 and mt, Hilkhot Issure Bi’ah, ix: 1–5. 9 See Lev. 12, 4 and commentaries ad loc. According to Maimonides (ibid, 2–4), the complicated calculations which Rabbinic tradition required, in order to distinguish between ‘normal’ menstrual flow and ‘abnormal’ bleeding, invited a process of ‘leveling’ which, while a stringency, also made the rules much easier to apply. See Y. Ta-Shema, ‘Minhage Harhaqot Niddah beAshkenaz ha-Qedumah: Ha-Hayyim ve-ha-Sifrut,’ Sidra 9 (1993): 163–170. A similar process marked the evaluation of hymeneal bleeding. See M. Gruzman, ‘Le-Hishtalsheluto shel Dam Betulim: Mi-Tahor le-Tameh,’ Sidra 5 (1989): 47–62. For a concise summary of this subject, see T. Meacham, ‘An Abbreviated History of the Development of the Jewish Menstrual Laws,’ Women and Water; Menstruation in Jewish Life and Law, ed. R. Wasserfall, Hanover (nh): University Press of New England and Brandeis University Press 1999, 23–39.  This process of expansion was particularly marked in Franco-Germany, and warrants a cautionary remark. In recent years, the laws of women’s ritual purity have come under intensive scholarly scrutiny. As a result, many intriguing – and some highly speculative – conclusions have been proposed as to the broader significance of these laws for an evaluation of the status, perception and self-perception of medieval Jewish women. Unfortunately, such studies have not paused to consider the question in the context of the history of Halakhah, per se. Such an examination would reveal that from the second half of the eleventh century Ashkenazic ritual law was characterized by an ongoing sense of technical incompetence in the evaluation of halakhic realia. As the centuries passed, halakhists increasingly complained that they lacked the expertise to properly evaluate questions of ritual law, declaring ‘We are not proficient’ (En Anu Beqi’in). This situation led to the de facto abolition of broad swaths of halakhic practice and to the adoption of often unparalleled stringencies in such varied areas as the dietary laws (terefot), determining the onset of nightfall (tzeit ha-kokhavim), setting the definition of wine, and writing certain types of religious documents, among others (Rashi, Hullin 52a s.v. be-tre and 62b s.v. hazyuha; Tosafot, Pesahim 2a s.v. ve-ha; Tosafot, Baba Bathra, 160b s.v. tiqnu; Tosafot, Avodah Zarah 29b s.v. I; Tosafot, Hullin 48a s.v. Rav Nehemiah; and Rosh, Niddah 10, 3). A balanced understanding of the laws relating to menstrual impurity must first take the broader context of Jewish legal development into consideration before arriving at specifically gender-based conclusions.  This growing sense of legal inadequacy has yet to be fully evaluated. See H.Z. Zimmels, ‘The Significance of the Statement “We are not Acquainted any more” As Echoed in Rabbinic Literature,’ in The Leo Jung Jubilee Volume, ed. M.M. Kasher et al., 223–235 , (New York 1962 ); M.  Rafeld, ‘“Hilkhata ke-Bathrai” etzel Hakhme Ashkenaz u-Polin ba-Me’ot ha-15-16: Meqorot u-Sefihin,’ Sidra 8 (1992): 119–140; and J. Woolf, ‘Between Diffidence and Initiative: Ashkenazic Legal Decising in the Late Middle Ages (1350–1500),’ JJS 52 (2001): 85–97.

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Torah.10 In the Land of Israel, where large areas of purity legislation continued to be observed after the Temple’s destruction, immersion for qeri before prayer was the norm into the early Middle Ages.11 In Babylonia, by contrast, an early consensus emerged that immersion before prayer and study were effectively discontinued.12 Toward the tenth century, the situation changed and the prohibition was reinstated, perhaps as a result of the impact of the heavy emphasis that Muslims placed on ritual ablutions before prayer.13 There was a significant amount of variation as to the way in which these laws were observed. The general trend in Spain and North Africa was not to require full immersion except as a supererogatory action, though some form of bathing was widely practiced.14 In Provence, on the other hand, immersion before prayer was viewed as obligatory, though the requirement could be fulfilled by showering.15 It is commonly assumed that Ashkenazic tradition did not require immersion for a ba’al qeri for prayer. In his letter to R. Pinhas ha-Dayyan of Alexandria, 10

Cf. B. Berakhot 22b and B. Baba Qamma 82b. This also applies to a woman who had sexual relations (poletet shikhvat zera). 11 Cf. B. Berakhot 22a; Y. Berakhot 3, 4 and Pesiqta Rabbati, 45 s.v. Ashre nesui pesha (citing T. Yoma 4, 5). Pesiqta Rabbati dates from the middle of the ninth century, proving that the practice was still common at that time. 12 The issue was examined by my student, Dr. Roye Zak, in his master’s thesis, Hishtalshelut ha-Hiyyuv ha-hal be-Hutz la-Aretz be-Hafrashat Reshit ha-Gez ve-ha-Zaro’a, ha-Leha’yayim ve-ha-Qeva, Talmud Department, Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan 2004. Ashkenazic authorities were far less enthusiastic about this allowance than were their Geonic and Spanish counterparts. 13 Cf. Sefer ha-Hilluqim she-beyn Anshe Mizrah u-v’ne Eretz Yisrael, ed. M. Margaliot, Jerusalem 1938, 109–110. This work is a collection of legal points upon which Palestinian and Babylonian practice differed. See also, N. Wieder, Hashpa’ot Islami’ot al ha-Pulhan ha-Yehudi, Oxford 1947. 14 mt Hil. Tefillah 4, 5–6. See also Resp. R. Natronai b. Hilai, I, 114–115 and Maimonides’ letter cited below. 15 Cf. Sefer ha-Eshkol, ed. S. Albeck, Jerusalem 1984, 3–4; Sefer ha-Manhig, I, ed. Y. Raphael, Jerusalem 1978, 112–114 and et, iv, 130. Pouring 9 kabin of water upon oneself, in lieu of immersion in a miqveh, is discussed in B. Berakhot 22a.  R. Abraham Maimuni expanded the ablutions to be performed before prayer, based on the idea that immersion for qeri was a desirable act of piety. See Wieder, Hashpa’ot Islami’ot, passim; G. Cohen, ‘The Soteriology of R. Abraham Maimuni,’ paajr 35 (1967): 75–98; 36 (1968): 33–56; P. Fenton, ‘A Mystical Treatise on Prayer and the Spiritual Quest from the Pietist Circle,’ Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 16 (1993): 137–175; M.A. Friedman, ‘Mahloqet le-Shem Shamayim: Iyyunim be-Pulmos ha-Tefillah shel R. Avraham b. ha-Rambam u-v’ne Doro,’ Te’udah 10 (1996): 245–298; and idem, ‘Abraham Maimuni’s Prayer Reforms Continuation or Revision of his Father’s Teachings?’ in Traditions of Maimonideanism, ed. C. Fraenkel, Leiden: Brill 2009, 139–154.

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Maimonides (1138–1204) declared that bathing before prayer ‘is the exclusive custom of Babylonia and North Africa (Maghreb). However, the people of the cities of Rome, France and Provence do not practice this custom … [thus], all Jews who live among the Ishmaelites have the custom to bathe, while all Jews who live among the Christians do not.’16 Maimonides’ assertion is, prima facie, confirmed by explicit rulings of Rashi, R. Tam, Ri, R. Samson of Sens (RaSh; d. after 1211), R. Judah Sire Leon, R. Isaac Or Zaru’a and R. Asher b. Yehiel; all of whom permitted both prayer and study without immersion or bathing.17 However, a closer examination of the sources reveals a much more nuanced situation. There are clear indications that throughout our era, there were people who were careful to purify themselves before studying Torah. Rashi already alludes to such behavior,18 and in the early thirteenth century R. Isaac Or Zaru’a observed that ritual showering was required for a ba’al qeri, at least ab initio, for Torah study.19 This practice is still mentioned in the fourteenth century digest of Tosafist legal rulings Pisqe Tosafot, which reports that ‘there are those who are strict (yesh mahmirin) and immerse themselves before Torah study.’20 Thus, despite the demurrals of leading rabbis, purification before study was not totally abolished, even in scholarly circles.21 One may assume that those who continued to perform these ablutions viewed it as a fulfillment of the original enactment.22 Similarly, and in contrast to Rambam’s testimony and the official positions of halakhists, immersion (or bathing) by ba’ale qeri before prayer was frequently observed in both France and Germany.23 The sources convey this message in 16 17

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Iggerot ha-Rambam, ii, ed. Y. Shilat, Maaleh Adumim 1988, 437. In Hil. Tefillah 4, 5–6, Maimonides refers to only to ‘Babylonia and Spain.’ Rashi, B. Shabbat 10b s.v. hava naqet; MV(H), sec. 474; Sefer Ha-Yashar, Heleq ha-Hiddushim, no. 361; Tosafot, Baba Qamma 82b s.v. ata; Or Zaru’a, I, no. 94 (end); and Mordekhai, Berakhot 3, 72 and Rosh, Yoma 8, 24. See the summation in Tur, Orah Hayyim no. 88. Rashi, Gen. 49, 1 s.v. reshit oni. Or Zaru’a, Hil. Ba’al Qeri, no. 117. Shabbat, no. 462. Cf. E.E. Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot,5 Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1985, 734. The collection has been variously attributed to R. Asher b. Yehiel (Rosh), to his son R. Jacob, and to an unknown contemporary of the latter. Rosh, based on the explicit statement in B. Berakhot 22a, rules emphatically that the requirement of immersion before study was abolished. See Tosafot ha-Rosh al Massekhet Shabbat, ed. I. Lange, Jerusalem 1978, 392. The abrogation of this immersion is based upon the Talmudic observation that it reflects the ‘common practice’ (nahug alma). Rashi and other Ashkenazic authorities viewed this ‘practice’ as being less authoritative than other Talmudic rulings. In the case of other leniencies noted in this passage, Rashi openly advocated their continued observance. R. Ya’aqov of Mervège assumed that a ba’al qeri should not be allowed to lead the prayers in the synagogue (She’elot u-Teshuvot min ha-Shamayim, no. 5).

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different ways. Sometimes, purification before prayer is simply assumed – as in the many cases where the writer begins his discussion with the technicalities of purification from qeri, without even engaging the question of its necessity or propriety.24 More pointedly, though, one can gauge the degree to which popular practice was to self-purify from discussions by halakhists who actually rejected the necessity for immersion for a ba’al qeri. Thus, toward the end of the twelfth century Ravyah observed:25 Regarding a Ba’al Qeri, … the matter is much debated by Tanna’im and Amora’im. … Nowadays, we rely upon that which was reported in the name of R. Nahman b. Isaac that ‘it has become the custom to follow these three elders: R. Ila’i in the matter of the first shearing, R. Josiah in the matter of mixed kinds, and R. Judah b. Bathyra in the matter of words of Torah, as it has been taught: R. Judah b. Bathyra says: Words of Torah are not susceptible to impurity’26 … It makes no difference whether one studies Scripture, Law, Midrash or Aggadah … and the same is true concerning the recitation of the Shema, the recitation of formal prayer (Amidah) or the call to public prayer (Barkhu), even so far as assisting the community to fulfill its obligations,27 for in all this we follow R. Judah b. Bathyra, as well. Ravyah then performs an about face. In a manner that is reminiscent of his discussion of the practice of menstruants not to enter the synagogue,28 and after noting that purification before prayer is not mandatory, he cites the opinions of the North African authorities, R. Isaac Alfasi (1013–1103) and R. Hananel (d. 1056), who did advocate purification and concludes: ‘I have written everything, and he who is strict in this matter will have a long life. For in the Talmud of the Land of Israel,29 I found that … if one has water available, even R. Judah agrees that he should stop [praying, until he has immersed].’30 Ravyah’s discussion is remarkable. On the one hand, he rejects the idea that pre-prayer ablutions by a ba’al qeri are legally mandated. On the other hand, he praises those who do so, promising them a long life and citing a passage from 24 See below. 25 Berakhot, no. 68. 26 B. Berakhot 22a. 27 I.e. to lead the communal services. 28 Above, 95, There, he first deemed the custom unnecessary and then endorsed it as a worthy practice. 29 P. Berakhot 3, 5 (fol. 6c). 30 Ravyah concludes: ‘I am, albeit, unsure whether this refers to R. Judah b. Ila’i or to R. Judah b. Bathyra.’ His willingness to support the practice is the main point, though.

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the Jerusalem Talmud that supports their conduct. However one understands the tension in his words, one must conclude that in Ravyah’s time, these ablutions were an established and meaningful form of personal piety. He bridged the gap between Law and Lore by first declaring its non-normative character and then cogently endorsing it as a worthy, supererogatory practice.31 The ubiquity and importance that was attached to pre-devotional purification found dramatic expression when scholars were asked whether a ba’al qeri may immerse himself on the Day of Atonement.32 The Torah states that Jews are bidden to ‘afflict your souls’33 on Yom Kippur. According to the Mishnah, affliction is defined by abstaining from five activities: eating and drinking, bathing, anointing oneself with oil, wearing leather shoes and marital relations.34 A Baraita cited in tractate Yoma (88a) states that despite the fact that bathing is prohibited on Yom Kippur, an immersion by which one fulfills a religious obligation is allowed, on the grounds that only bathing for comfort or pleasure is forbidden.35 By extension, if immersion for a Ba’al Qeri were deemed mandatory for prayer, that immersion – which would normally be forbidden – would be allowed on Yom Kippur.36 The pros and cons of the question are laid out in a responsum of R. Meir of Rothenberg:37 Nowadays, it is forbidden to immerse oneself on Yom Kippur for purposes of prayer, because of that which the baraita states that all those who are required to immerse themselves, do so in the usual way, both on 31

It is possible that the positive positions of RiF and R. Hananel influenced Ravyah’s thinking. However, since their works only started penetrating Ashkenaz from the early twelfth century, I doubt whether they had anything to do with the genesis of the custom. See I. Ta Shma, ‘Qelitatam shel Sifre ha-RiF, ha-RaH, ve-‘Halakhot Gedolot’ be-Zarefat u-ve-­ Ashkenaz ba-me’ot ha-11 ve-ha-12,’ ks 55 (1980): 191–201. 32 The key opinions are summarized in Tur, Orah Hayyim sec.  613 and Bet Yosef, ibid. s.v. u-le’inyyan tevilat. The lenient opinion is associated with R. Isaac of Dampierre. 33 Cf. Lev. 16, 31; 23, 27 and 32; and Num. 29, 7. 34 M. Yoma 8, 1. 35 Cf. et, xviii, 414 s.v. tevilah. The allowance is based upon the principle that the fulfillment of a religious obligation renders any physical pleasure that it incurs irrelevant (mitzvot lav le-hanot nitnu). See B. Eruvin 31a; B. Sukkah 31b and Hiddushe haRitva, ad loc., s.v. ve-haamar Rava. 36 Cf. Tur, oh sec. 413. Ashkenazim generally maintained that while the obligation to abstain from food and drink were Biblical in origin, the other prohibitions were added by the rabbis. This, however, does not affect the present point. 37 Resp. Maharam (Prague), no. 221. Cf. Hagahot Maimuniyot, Hil. Tefillah 3, par. 7.

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Shabbat38 or on Yom Kippur, reflects the position that a ‘timely immersion’ (tevilah be-zemana) is a religious duty … However, there are those who say that such a person is allowed to immerse himself. Even though R. Judah b. Bathyra exempts them,39 here they wish to be strict with themselves, and blessings will descend upon the head of one who offers his prayers in a state of cleanliness (neqiyut). Furthermore, when R. Hananel ruled in accordance with R. Judah he only referred to the study of Torah … not to prayer. Therefore, on Yom Kippur, one immerses in order to pray and that is the practice in Narbonne.40 However, our master (i.e. R. Tam) says that this is wrong, that R. Hananel was referring to the rest of the year, not to Yom Kippur. Opposition to immersion on Yom Kippur is associated with R. Tam.41 However, R. Tam was fighting against a long standing Ashkenazic custom. Mahzor Vitry reports that one who saw qeri on Yom Kippur must not only immerse but must also pronounce a blessing upon doing so.42 This latter addition is very significant. The blessing upon immersion is ‘who has sanctified us through His commandments and commanded us concerning immersion.’ The fact that such a blessing was uttered states explicitly that those who did so considered this immersion to be absolutely mandatory. Otherwise reciting it would constitute taking God’s Name in vain, a sin that no God-fearing Jew would do willingly.43 Ravyah also takes it for granted that such an immersion is obligatory and that, a fortiori, it is permissible on the Day of Atonement.44 38

Our text omits the word ‘Shabbat.’ The same is true for the parallel text in T. Yoma, 4, 5. Cf. Tosefta ki-PeShuTa, iv, 821–822. 39 Cf. B. Berakhot 22a. 40 The practice in Narbonne is confirmed by Sefer ha-Eshkol (ed. Albeck), Hilkhot Ba’al Qeri, 2a. The reference to Narbonne raises the question as to the identity of those to whom R. Tam was referring. Since he does not refer to them as new comers, one is inclined to suspect that they were native French Jews. 41 Cf. Rosh, Yoma 8, 24. 42 MV(H), sec. 376. See also Siddur Rashi, ed. S. Buber, Berlin 1912, no. 188 (87). Siddur Rashi is identical with Mahzor Vitry, sans its liturgical texts. See Y. Ta-Shema, ‘Al Kama Inyyane Mahzor Vitry,’ in Knesset Mehqarim, I: Ashkenaz, Jerusalem 2004, 62–76. 43 Tosafot reports that R. Isaac categorically rejected the recitation of this blessing, even if the immersion took place before Yom Kippur. See Tosafot, Berakhot 22b s.v. ve-let and Or Zaru’a, I, sec. 117(end). 44 See Sefer Ravyah pars. 63, 68, 151, and 531. He does not offer his opinion regarding the recitation of a blessing on that occasion. Based upon a theoretical discussion surrounding B. Yoma 88a, the same position may be seen to have been supported by R. Moses of Coucy. Cf. Tosafot Yeshanim, Yoma 88a s.v. hakhi garsinan.

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In sum, it was common practice prior to the twelfth century for ba’ale qeri in France and Germany to immerse/wash before prayer, and a blessing was often recited upon immersion in the miqveh.45 In France, R. Tam vociferously opposed this custom, and was followed in this by his students. Eventually, they succeeded in suppressing it. In Germany, the practice held on until the middle of the thirteenth century, when R. Isaac of Vienna and his student, R. Meir of Rothenberg effectively uprooted it. Nevertheless, individuals continued to go to miqveh on the eve of festivals, reciting a blessing before doing so on Yom Kippur eve.46 Niddah Ritual purity also played a significant role in domestic life. The best-known, though by no means the only, example of this is the menstruant (niddah).47 The Bible refers to the niddah in two different connections. One verse in the Book of Leviticus (15, 19–24) establishes that menstruation renders a woman ritually impure. As with anyone who has a sexual discharge of fluid, much of what she touches is also rendered impure.48 A second verse (Lev. 18, 19) prohibits sexual relations with a menstruating woman prior to her immersion in a miqveh. Conceptually, these two verses were often understood to refer to separate and distinct aspects and implications of the niddah status. Ritual impurity per se affected her relationship with sacra. As with other cases of impurity, a men45 46

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It is not clear whether a blessing was pronounced if the ba’al qeri was content with a shower of nine qabin. Rosh’s disciple R. David Abudarham (fl. mid-14th cent.) reported that his teacher was still complaining about this practice later in life (Sefer Abudarham, Hilkhot Yom Kippur, s.v. ve-nahagu litbol. Cf. Rosh, Yoma 8, 24). R. Asher attributes the practice of reciting a blessing over the immersion on the Eve of Yom Kippur to R. Sa’adiah Gaon. Though writing at the end of our period, he is the first Ashkenazic authority to make this connection. It seems unlikely that earlier writers knew of it, especially since their general awareness of R. Saadiah’s halakhic positions was limited. [This impression was confirmed to me by Professor Simcha Emanuel. My thanks go to my student, Rabbi Alexander Tsykin, for pointing out this passage.] See Meacham, ‘An Abbreviated History of the Development of the Jewish Menstrual Laws,’ passim and Y. Zimmer, ‘Shiv’at Yeme Niddah,’ in Olam ke-Minhago Noheg: Peraqim be-Toldot ha-Minhagim, Hilkhotehem ve-Gilgulehem, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1996, 220–239. An irregular, non-sexual emission (zivah) is more serious, (ibid. 25–30), but the broader implications are the same. An accessible overview of the topic is found in mt Hil. Issure Bi’ah 4–6 and Hil. Metam’e Mishkav u-Moshav, 1–5.

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struant was not allowed to enter the Temple precincts or to eat sacrificial meat. If she were the unmarried daughter or wife of a priest, being a niddah prevented her from eating special gifts that priests received, such as the heave offering (Terumah). In addition, since impurity imparted by a bodily emission defiled food and drink, she was also barred from preparing Terumah for others. Non-priestly women were unable to set aside various priestly gifts from various types of produce, which prevented other members of their families from partaking of the remainder. Theoretically, therefore, if a woman had no contact with sacra, her ritual impurity was of no consequence. However, from Second Temple times onward, it was deemed a significant form of piety for non-priests to conduct their alimentary lives as if they were priests, eating in a state of ritual purity (Hullin be-Taharah).49 In the Land of Israel, that regimen continued through the end of the fourth century, with the result that the impurity of a niddah remained a practical concern. Thereafter, as had already long been the case in the Diaspora, the only legal significance that attached to niddah was the prohibition against sexual relations. Whatever behavioral changes the state of niddah engendered were designed to prevent physical expressions of affection that might lead to actual intercourse (harhaqot).50 The conceptual distinction between these two facets of menstrual impurity was explicitly maintained by the Babylonian Ge’onim and was continued by authorities in North Africa, Spain and Provence.51 Thus, Rav Sherira Gaon (c.906-1006) remarked:52

49 See et, xii, 509–532 and the references in Lieberman, Tosefta ki-Peshutah, I, 209–33. 50 A full study of the development of these restrictions remains a scholarly desideratum. A useful, and insightful, first attempt was undertaken by Shlomit Ben-Shaya, in her ma thesis in the Talmud Department at Bar Ilan University. S. Ben-Shaya, Safeguards during the Niddah Days, ma thesis, Bar Ilan University 2005. See also, U. Lifshitz, Philosophical Aspects of the ‘Laws of distancing’ regarding Niddah: Their Reasons and Development from the Tannaitic Period until the 13th Century, ma Thesis, Bar Ilan University 2006. 51 Y. Dinari, ‘Minhage Tum’at ha-Niddah – Meqoram ve-Hishtalshelutam,’ Tarbiz 49 (1980): 302–308 and 320–324 and S. Emanuel, ‘Shiva Neqi’im: Pereq be-Toldot ha-Halakhah,’ Tarbiz 76 (2007): 233–254. Maimonides classifies the two aspects of Niddah in two different frameworks. The prohibition against sexual relations is addressed, along with other prohibited liaisons, in Hil. Issure Bi’ah (4–11). He discusses the other implications in ‘The Book of Purity’ (Sefer Taharah, Hil. Metamei Mishkav u’Moshav, 1–5). 52 Otzar ha-Geonim, Ketubot, Teshuvot nos. 458–459 (182–183). The responsa were first published in Teshuvot Ge’one Mizrah u-Ma’arav, no. 44.

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You asked regarding the Sages’ assertion that: ‘All of the tasks that a wife performs for her husband, a niddah [may] perform for her husband, except for serving a cup [of Wine], making the bed and washing his face, hands and feet,’53 since in our location we are strict with ourselves, such that no one touches the place where a niddah sleeps or sits, unless he washes his clothing and purifies his body. The entire time that she is a niddah, she neither bakes nor cooks for us. This was the case until recently that students have risen up and sought to change our practice in this. They have asserted that one need not avoid a niddah’s bed or seat, since we have no purification from the other forms of impurity, such as that of a dead body (tum’at met) … Furthermore, those three things that our Sages forbade were not prohibited because of impurity. Rather, these are things that lead to sin (hergel averah), and [are imposed] as a preventative measure, but they are not due to impurity. You should know that the words of these students are well-based, though they are unaware of their full implication. Emphasis added- jrw

The same view was maintained by leading Ashkenazic authorities such as Rashi, R. Tam and Raban.54 As the latter noted, ‘Tum’ah and Taharah have no practical contemporary relevance.’55 Nevertheless, extraordinary restrictions were often practiced by Ashkenazic women during their menses. R. Isaac of Vienna observed:56 In Pisqe Niddah they wrote: ‘We are strict with ourselves and do not eat from her plate, or of her left-over food,’ but he gives no reason. But I heard it’s because of danger. And my teacher, Avi Ezri (i.e. Ravyah), told me that he saw how R. Eliezer of Metz,57 would drink from the same cup as his wife, when she was a niddah, but he would not let her pass it to him. 53 B. Ketubot 61a (and parallels), and Rashi, Ketubot 5b s.v. mezigat. Cf. mt Hil. Issure Bi’ah 11, 19 and sa yd sec. 195 par. 10. 54 See Emanuel, ‘Shiva Neqi’im,’ 234–238. 55 Sefer Ravan, no. 319 s.v. ha-idna. See also, Rosh, Yoma 8, 24. 56 Sefer Or Zaru’a, I, no. 360. Cf. Dinari, ‘Minhage Tum’at ha-Niddah,’ 303–305. 57 C. 1115–1198. R. Eliezer was a disciple of the first generation of Tosafists, Rashbam and R. Tam, and the teacher of both Ravyah and R. Eleazar of Worms. See Urbach, Ba’ale haTosafot, 154–164.

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It is further written in Pisqe Niddah: ‘Nowadays, utensils that a niddah touches are pure, as far as her husband is concerned, because nowadays people contract Tum’ah through graves and by being in the same room as a dead body (ohel ha-met). And, one can never become purified from death impurity until they sprinkle upon us pure water to purify us.58 In the same way, utensils that a niddah touches may be touched and used [by others]. However, we are strict with ourselves, and we do not sit where she has sat, nor touch her clothes, nor accept anything from her hand, except through an intermediary. We try to be as strict as possible and to keep our distance from her. Furthermore, we give her eating pots, plates, spoons, keys, sheets and bedding to use during her time of impurity. When the time for her purification arises, she launders those clothes … This, moreover, is an appropriate practice for Jews to follow, out of concern for illicit intimacy (hergel averah). However, there is no purity based prohibition involved. Now, there are women who avoid entering the synagogue, or touching a Torah Scroll. This, however, is a mere stricture (humra be-alma), though their actions are commendable. And my teacher, Avi Ezri (i.e. Ravyah), said that there are women who do not pray behind a niddah, and he said that he had found that explicitly in Baraita de Niddah. He told me that he saw many strictures there. In sum, the more one is strict [in the matter of] niddah, the better, and he will be blessed. Emphases added- jrw

Despite his assertion to the contrary, most of the stringencies mentioned here have little to do with avoiding sexual intimacy. Overall, they fall into two categories: defilement of Ritual Objects or Prayer and the rendering of food and clothing ritually impure. We have already seen that avoidance of synagogue by menstruants was rooted in its status as an ersatz Temple. The other customs that Ravyah notes are of a different order.59 The idea that a niddah may not touch a Torah Scroll or that other women may neither pray behind her nor respond ‘Amen’ to her prayers is without any foundation in 58 59

Cf. Ezek. 36, 15 and Rashi ad loc. For a fuller discussion, see Y. Dinari, ‘Hillul ha-Qodesh al-yede Niddah ve-Taqqanat Ezra,’ Te’udah 3 (1983): 17–37; S.J.D. Cohen, ‘Menstruants and the Sacred in Judaism and Christianity,’ in Women’s History and Ancient History, ed. S. Pomeroy, Chapel Hill: Univ. of North Carolina 1991, 273–298; E. Marienberg, Niddah: Lorsque les Juifs conceptualisent la menstruation, Paris: Les Belles Lettres 2003; and idem, ‘Menstruation in Sacred Spaces: Medieval and Early-Modern Jewish Women in the Synagogue,’ Nordisk Judaistik 25 (2004): 7–16.

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normative rabbinic law and lore.60 In addition, preventing a niddah from preparing food had no obvious contemporary religious significance. Whence did these extraordinary rules derive? Following R. Isaac of Vienna’s lead, Dinari argues that the avoidance of the niddah and the continued imposition of many practices that were associated purely with impurity were the result of a sense of danger that the niddah evoked. Since the path-breaking research of Mary Douglas, scholars have been aware that fear of menstrual blood was a persistent taboo in many different societies. Medieval Europe was no exception and concern with the pollution imparted by menstruation, parturition and sexual activity in general increased significantly from the mid-twelfth century onward.61 Bitha Har-Shefi approached the subject from a different angle, arguing that these customs were originated by women, as an expression of what the late Jacob Katz was wont to refer to as their ‘ritual instinct.’62 By this he meant that ‘a religion’s values and ideals demand a certain course of action, even if it is not explicitly mandated, or even if it is expressly prohibited.’63 Elisheva Baumgarten has maintained that the etiology of these modes of conduct should be located in the context of medieval spirituality and gender definition, on both sides of the Jewish-Christian divide. Put differently, these added pieties are either muted gender-based assertions of identity and/or are an expression of the influence of the broader medieval worldview on Jewish women. In short, both Baumgarten and Har Shefi maintain that by adopting greater rigors in uniquely female realms, Ashkenazic women were expressing 60 61

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Actually, a Torah scroll ‘defiles the hands.’ Cf. B. Megillah 8b and mt Hil. She’ar Avot haTum’ah 9, 5. D. Elliott, Fallen Bodies: Pollution, Sexuality and Demonology in the Middle Ages, Philadelphia: Univ. of Pennsylvania 1999. While Elliot’s characterization of the overall trends in Christian Europe appears to be sound, her treatment of Jewish sources is seriously flawed. That, in turn, adversely affects other parts of her analysis. See the important observations of M. Keufler in Journal of the History of Sexuality 9 (2000): 185–190; K. Park in Church History 69 (2000): 860–866; and J. Brown in ahr 105 (2000): 1788–1789. B. Har Shefi, Nashim be-Qiyyum Mitzvot ba-Shanim 1050 – 1350: Beyn Halakhah le-Minhag, PhD dissertation, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan 2003, 192–194. Katz developed this idea in his pioneering study, The “Shabbes Goy” – A Study in Halakhic Flexibility, Philadelphia and New York: Jewish Publication Society of America 1989, 231 and 236–237. D. Malkiel, ‘The Underclass in the First Crusade: A Historiographical Trend,’ Journal of Medieval History 28 (2002): 181.

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something of a proto-feminist protest.64 Still, it is important to again keep in mind that the gap between ‘High Culture’ and ‘Popular Culture’ was much less pronounced in Jewish society than it was in Christendom.65 Broad Jewish literacy had the effect of tying popular observance more closely élite rabbinic culture. For their part, as we have repeatedly shown, rabbis viewed popular custom as being self-evidently valid, even where it appeared to deviate from the literary sources of Jewish Law.66 Halakhists were frequently prepared to provide such practice with an acceptable legal basis.67 Hence, one should exercise caution before imposing an anti-clerical twist upon expressions of women’s spirituality.68 Dinari’s explanation based upon the fear of menstrual blood is also certainly correct.69 Yet, as with the other explanations, it 64

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Carolyn Walker Bynum made exactly that assertion regarding female Christian piety. C.W. Bynum, Jesus as Mother: Studies in the Spirituality of the High Middle Ages, Berkeley: University of California Press 1984; idem, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women, Berkeley: Univ. of California Press 1987; idem, Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion, New York: Zone Books 1991. See B.Z. Kedar, ‘Introduction,’ Ha-Tarbut ha-Amamit: Qovetz Mehqarim, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1996 and A. Gurevitch, Medieval Popular Culture: Problems of Belief and Perception, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1990, 153–174. The antinomies noted by Natalie Zemon Davis regarding the later Middle Ages were not true of medieval Ashkenazic Jews. See N.Z. Davis, ‘Some Tasks and Themes in the Study of Popular Religion,’ in The Pursuit of Holiness in Late Medieval and Renaissance Religion, ed. C. Trinkaus and H.O. Oberman, Leiden: Brill 1974, 307–338. Cf. I. Ta Shema, ‘Ashkenazi Jewry in the Eleventh Century: Life and Literature,’ in Ashkenaz: The German Jewish Heritage, ed. G. Hirschler, New York: Yeshiva University Museum 1988, 23–56. This was especially true if the practice in question prohibited that which Halakhah actually allowed. Cf. Woolf, ‘The Authority of Custom (Minhag) in the Responsa of R. Joseph Colon,’ 144–147. This could be achieved either casuistically or by endorsing the specific practice as a supererogatory action. In this passage, R. Isaac Or Zaru’a actually does both. He integrates the stringencies under the heading of ‘prevention of sexual impropriety’ and states that ‘We try to be as strict as possible and to keep our distance from her.’ Similar caution should be exercised when drawing parallels between Christian and Jewish society. It is certainly true that there were many points of common experience and need that typified both communities. Since medieval Jews knew far more about the lives and beliefs of their non-Jewish neighbors than had hitherto been assumed, it is also reasonable that ideas and aspirations, rarified entities in any case, passed from side to side without notice. By the same token, similar circumstances can also breed similar results, without one side directly influencing the other. In the later Middle Ages, many of these abstentions were habitually explained as aimed at preventing ‘affection’ (hibbah). How exactly that worked is seldom clear. See, sa yd sec. 195.

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fails to engage the question of how these avoidances were understood by those who observed them. A more straightforward understanding of these practices would be that they were viewed as natural extensions of the laws of purity.70 In fact, R. Isaac’s emphatic protest that they were not due to ritual pollution implies that this is precisely the way in which they were taken.71 In other words, Tum’ah and Taharah may have been ever present categories of religious life and perception.72 Niddah was but one important and obvious expression of a broader sensitivity that characterized Jewish life in medieval FrancoGermany. The extraordinary practices that were recorded and discussed by Ravyah should be evaluated against this wider context. This will become even clearer in light of other concrete examples where ritual purity affected daily life.73 A Hallah The Bible mandates that priests receive a wide range of foodstuffs as gifts, most of which had to be eaten in a state of ritual purity. One of these was the dough offering, known as hallah.74 Hallah is defined as a type of heave-offering (Terumah) whose consumption required ritual purity. In marked contrast to the overwhelming majority of priestly gifts, which were not obligatory outside 70

71 72 73

74

If these modes of behavior were seen solely as dangerous, they should have been referred to as such more frequently. After all, rabbinic tradition prohibited many different things because they were deemed to be ‘dangerous.’ Cf. B. Berakhot 8b; B. Shabbat 81b and 129b; B. Yoma 11a; B. Yevamot 14a; B. Baba Qamma 115b; B. Sanhedrin 101a; and B. Hullin 10a. Cf. Dinari, ‘Minhage Niddah,’ 316. See C.E. Fonrobert, ‘Purity Studies in Judaism: An Emerging Subfield?’ ajs Review 31 (2007): 161–165. In recent years, two doctoral dissertations have been devoted to different aspects of this subject in the Second Temple and Talmudic eras. See Y. Adler, Archaeological Evidence for the Observance of Ritual Purity in Eretz-Israel from the Hasmonean Period until the End of the Talmudic Era (164 bce – 400 ce), PhD Dissertation, Bar Ilan University 2011; and Y. Furstenberg, Eating in a State of Purity during the Tannaitic Period: Tractate Teharot and its Historical and Cultural Contexts, PhD dissertation, Hebrew University 2010. Num. 15, 17–21, and M. Hallah, 1–4. Priests were eligible for other gifts outside of the Land of Israel. They received the money for redeeming the first born (pidyon ha-ben), the first shearing of sheep (reshit ha-gez) and certain sections of every slaughtered animal (hazero’a, ha- lehayayim, ve-ha-qeva). Based upon B. Berakhot 22b (= B. Hullin 136b), these were not always given in the Diaspora. Even when they were, their consumption never required ritual purity. As a result, they are of no relevance to the present discussion. See Zak, Hishtalshelut ha-Hiyyuv, passim.

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of the land of Israel, the rabbis extended the obligation of hallah to the Diaspora ‘so that the institution of hallah is not forgotten.’75 Until the end of the eleventh century, observance of hallah was usually divided into two parts. First, a minimum amount of dough was set aside and burned. This was a reminder that the Biblically mandated hallah had to be separated, given to the priest, and consumed in a state of strict purity – technically impossible outside of the Land of Israel.76 Then, an additional portion of the dough was set aside to be given to a kohen, on the condition that he was free of any impurity that was generated by a bodily flow (tum’ah ha-yotzet me-gufo).77 Together, these memorialized the original, pure hallah and the practice of giving the hallah to the priest. In the latter case, maximum effort was made to preserve the connection between ritual purity and hallah. Ashkenazic sources describe three different customs regarding hallah. Some, most notably Rashi, followed the above mentioned practice of setting aside two hallah offerings.78 More frequently, Jews would set aside only one hallah offering. They would either give this to a pre-adolescent priest, or to an adult who had immersed himself in a miqveh.79 This practice of separating only one hallah and giving it to a ritually pure kohen was common in both the Rhineland and Northern France.80 A third option is reported in the eleventh century compendium Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim: ‘R. Samuel ha-Levi testified that his grandfather, R. Judah, would not give it to a kohen, at all. Instead, he only would set aside the hallah to be burned, and burn it, because he feared it would not be treated with the proper sanctity.’81 Only toward the end of the thirteenth cen-

75 B. Bekhorot 27a. Cf. et, xv, 325–339. 76 R. Isaac Ibn Ghayyat, Sha’are Simchah, ii, ed. Y. Bamberger, Jerusalem 1998, fol. 46a. This was the procedure for all forms of Terumah that became defiled. Cf. M. Terumot 5, 2 and B. Shabbat 25a. See A. Grossman, ‘Ziqatah shel Yahadut Ashkenaz ha-Qedumah el Eretz Yisrael,’ Shalem 3 (1981): 81–92. Grossman (83–84) notes that in Spain – at least until the twelfth century – only one portion of dough was set aside and then given to a minor priest. 77 Alternatively, the dough might be given to a pre-adolescent priest. 78 ms Vat-Ebr. No. 487 fol. 292a and ms JTS-Rabb. 1972, 157a. Cf. Sefer ha-Oreh, ii, no. 38; MV(H), sec. 264 Sefer – ha-Pardes, 48 and Grossman, ‘Ziqatah,’ 88. 79 Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Makhiri, as quoted in ms Paris 326 fol. 84b, cited by Grossman (85–86). 80 Rashi reports that in Northern France the double hallah was only set aside on the Eve of Passover, when matzot were baked. Grossman (88) surmises that during rest of the year – including in France – a single portion was taken and given to a minor priest, or an adult who had immersed himself. Cf. Sefer ha-Oreh, ed. Buber, 190. 81 Ibid. The last phrase has been corrected, based upon ms Parma 1033. Grossman (86) identifies R. Samuel as R. Samuel b. David ha-Levi, of Mainz.

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tury, Rosh reports (with some surprise) that German Jews no longer set aside two portions of dough, but rather sufficed with one, which they burned.82 Beyond the technicalities of separating hallah and giving it to a ritually pure priest, questions relating to hallah were a matter of daily concern. Some raised the question whether a menstruant could perform the ritual of separating the dough?83 Others questioned whether priests and laity might eat at the same table, for fear that the latter might inadvertently consume the former’s hallah?84 The regnant practice regarding hallah guaranteed that concern with Tum’ah and Taharah would be a permanent pact of daily life. B Hullin be-Taharah The tradition of eating non-sacred food (hullin) in a state of ritual purity continued to be observed in the Land of Israel, even after the destruction of the Temple in 70 c.e. This was made possible thanks to the foresight of an anonymous priest who rescued the ashes of the last Red Heifer, which allowed individuals to shed the impurity that was imparted by contact with a dead body.85 From Second Temple days onward, such scrupulous behavior was widely admired and praised. This regimen was extremely rigorous and taxing. Those who followed it had to take extreme care with their own behavior lest they become defiled. The way they prepared food, their contact with others – including the members of their own families – were affected. Thus, while eating Hullin be-Taharah might have 82 Rosh, Halakhot Qetanot, Hilkhot Hallah 14, s.v. nimtza. By the early sixteenth century, R. Moses Isserles (sa, yd sec. 322 par. 5), was able to assert: ‘The common practice in all of these lands is that we set apart a minimal amount for hallah, and burn it.’ 83 Cf. Sefer ha-Oreh, ii, no. 38; Siddur Rashi, no. 373; Sefer Ravan, She’elot u-Teshuvot, no. 54 and no. 319; Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, nos. 277 and 359; Sefer Ravyah, I, nos. 68 and 164; Sefer Or Zaru’a, I, nos. 79, 113, 225, 254, and SMaG, Asin 141. 84 Cf. Tosafot Hullin 104a s.v. ve-didan. 85 The major source is found in P. Berakhot 10a. The printed text reads: ‘R. Haggai and R. Jeremiah went over to a store (le-be hanuta).’ R. Solomon Sirilio, however, reports that the correct text is ‘underwent the waters of the Red Heifer’ (le-me hatata). This reading is confirmed by ms Vatican 135 fol. 77. It also appeared in the text of the Yerushalmi used by R. Eleazar Roqe’ah. See Roqe’ah Ha-Shalem, sec. 366 (beginning).  The practice of maintaining oneself in a full state of ritual purity is indicated by B. Hagigah 25a (=B. Niddah 6a), albeit a half century earlier. See Rashi and Tosafot RiD, ad loc. We have already seen that eating in a state of ritual purity was a hallmark of the Qehalla Qadisha de-Yerushalayim. See S. Safrai, ‘Bet She’arim be-Sifrut ha-Talmudit,’ Sefer Eretz Yisrael 5 (1959): 206–208 and D. Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, ii, Jerusalem 1991, n. 23 (136–138). The relevant sources have been ably collected and analyzed by E. Brodt, ‘Eymatai Pasqah Taharat ha-Parah ha-Adumah?,’ Liqqute Eliezer, Jerusalem 2010, 26–45.

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been an admirable goal, it was not always possible. A famous indication of this difficulty is found in an exchange that occurred around the turn of the third century c.e., between R. Hiyya and his nephew, Rav: ‘R. Hiyya the Great charged Rav. ‘If you can eat Hullin be-Taharah the entire year, eat. If not, eat [in that manner] seven days of the year.’86 Outside of the Land of Israel, eating Hullin be-Taharah was theoretically impossible. Rashi remarked that the relevant Talmudic discussions had no practical implications because ‘nowadays there is no purity.’87 Hence, it comes as something of a surprise to discover that most versions of Mahzor Vitry quote the conversation between Rav and Rav Hiyya verbatim. Since Mahzor Vitry was intended to serve as a practical guide to Jewish observance,88 one receives the distinct impression that R. Hiyya’s instruction was viewed as normative.89 Why this might be the case is hinted at by a later gloss to this citation: ‘this refers to the seven days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. For when you deduct the two days of Rosh Hashanah and one day of Yom Kippur, seven days remain.’90 In other words, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (Asseret Yeme Teshuvah), a person should be careful to eat food in a state of ritual ­purity.91 In a world without the ashes of the Red Heifer, however, just 86 Cf. Yerushalmi ke-PeShuTo, New York and Jerusalem 1995, 34; Sperber, ibid. and J. Woolf, ‘Issur ‘Pat Akum’ Beyn Keseh le-Asor: Le-Hithavuto u-le-Mashma’uto shel Minhag,’ in Professor Eric Zimmer Jubilee Volume, ed. G. Bacon and A. Gaimani, 93–96 (Ramat Gan 2005). On the other hand, the concession also expresses the ongoing significance attributed to this regimen. 87 Rashi ad Shabbat 13a s.v. she-tishan. Earlier, he (ibid. s.v. she’lo) noted that in Talmudic times, ‘they all used to eat their Hullin in a state of purity.’ See, also, his comment to B. Hullin 35a s.v. Perushin. (Rabbi Chaim Ilson called this source to my attention.) The same point is made by the twelfth century German scholar, R. Samuel b. Natronai, who assumed that ‘nowadays we don’t eat our Hullin be-Taharah.’ Cf. Sefer Mordekhai Ha-Shalem: Pesahim, ed. Y. Horowitz, Jerusalem: Makhon Yerushalayim 2008, no. 611 (119). 88 Y. Ta Shma, ‘Mahzor Vitry,’ Ha-Tefillah ha-Ashkenazit ha-Qedumahh: Peraqim be-Ofya u-veToldoteha, Jerusalem: Magnes 2003, 15–25. 89 Ed. Horowitz, sec. 337 (p. 373). The passage does not appear in Siddur Rashi (ed. S. Buber, Berlin 1912), which reflects the earliest version of the text. However, in light of the fact that many other passages in this unit are from the eleventh century, I see no reason not to assume that it reflects early practice, despite being an interpolation. See S. Abramson, R.Nissim Gaon: Hamishah Sefarim, Jerusalem 1965, 182–184 and Ta-Shema, ibid. 15–25. 90 The interpretation originated with R. Nissim b. Ya’aqov of Qairawan. See Abramson, ibid. 91 Cf. Sefer Hassidim, ed. Wistinetzky-Freimann, no. 1069 and Or Zaru’a, ii, Hil. Rosh Hashanah par. 257. Our text does not cite R. Nissim by name, in contrast to the version in the Or Zaru’a which does.

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how was this supposed to be done? Why, moreover, was Rosh Hashanah excluded?92 An answer is found in a passage from Sefer Hassidim.93 After citing the passage from the Yerushalmi, followed by R. Nissim’s explanation, R. Judah He-Hasid adds: ‘A person is obligated to purify himself before a festival…so that he will be able to offer sacrifices and eat them, at a time when the Temple is standing.94 However, R. Hiyya commanded Rav to eat in the present era,95 even though we are rendered impure due to contact with the dead (tame met) and we do not have the ashes of the [Red] Heifer. [Nevertheless,] he commanded him to eat food in a state of purity seven days a year’. Emphasis added-jrw

The independent testimonies of Mahzor Vitry and Sefer Hassidim suggest that there was an established custom to eat in a state of ritual purity during the ‘Ten Days of Penitence,’ even in the absence of the ashes of the Red Heifer. R. Judah he-Hasid acknowledged as much when he asserted that one should eat in a state of purity ‘even though we are rendered impure due to contact with the dead (tameh met) and we do not have the ashes of the [Red] Heifer.’ Put differently, one should make a concerted effort to approximate ritual purity and practice as much as possible.96 There was, moreover, a way to prepare the food in such a way as to achieve the desired effect. In his commentary to the Yerushalmi, the fifteenth century



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93 94 95 96

 Or Zaru’a cites this understanding of the Yerushalmi in the name of R. Nissim’s larger work, known as Sefer Megillat Setarim. In his introduction to the extant version of that work, the late Shraga Abramson noted that this particular interpretation has not survived in the existing manuscripts. Abramson, ibid. 545 s.v. le-amud 197. This passage played a central role in the long standing debate regarding the legitimacy of fasting on Rosh Hashanah. Cf. Sefer Ha-Manhig, ii, 302–303; Or Zaru’a, ibid; and Y.D. Gilat, ‘Ta’anit be-Shabbat,’ Tarbiz 52 (1983): 1–15. Ibid. On the broader implications of this passage, see above, Chapter 3. I.e. after the destruction of the Temple. A similar sentiment was expressed by R. Jacob of Mervège (ShuT min ha-Shamayim, no. 5). Discussing whether a ba’al qeri might lead the services, his celestial respondent observed that ‘as it is impossible to purify the entire community,’ requiring immersion of the prayer leader was the least one could require.

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commentator R. Solomon Sirilio notes that for food to be rendered impure, it must first come in contact with certain liquids, which serve as conductors for Tum’ah.97 In their absence, the individual’s impurity would not then be transferred to the food. In short, so long as the food he was eating was dry or raw, an individual would de facto be able to eat in a state of purity. R. Solomon Sirilio’s observation is echoed in a passage from Sefer Hassidim:98 There was a Hasid who was wont to buy vegetables and legumes which he would chop from the garden by himself. He would not entrust the preparation of the food to a gentile, to a serving-girl or to someone who was lazy, because they would not prepare his food in purity. This pietist adopted the very procedure suggested by R. Solomon Sirilio, and which was necessary for Mahzor Vitry’s injunction to be observed. Was his conduct was typical? One is tempted to dismiss this report as the type of supererogatory behavior that is often associated with German Pietism. Still, we have already noted that many passages from Sefer Hassidim reflect typical modes of general Ashkenazic religiosity. Since Mahzor Vitry is a pre-pietist source, it is not unlikely that this Hasid’s uniqueness lay in his attempt to maintain a regimen of purity throughout the year. Other, less spiritually hardy individuals might have simply restricted this observance to the Ten Days of Penitence. A passing remark in the twelfth century biographical encyclopedia, Sefer Yihuse Tanna’im ve-Amora’im by R. Judah b. Qalonymos of Speyer (d. c. 1196) also implies that there were people for whom eating be-Taharah was a practical concern.99 Rabbinic law required that glass vessels, which are purchased from a nonJew for use with food, must be immersed in a miqveh before being used.100 R.  Judah weighs the possibility that the required ritual immersion was not 97

Cf. B. Baba Metzia 22b and B. Hullin 36a. The liquids are wine, honey, oil, milk, dew, blood and water. 98 Par. 1074. The exact same procedure was reportedly followed by mystics in sixteenth century Safed, who also sought to eat Hullin be-Taharah (Sperber, ibid). 99 Erkhe Tanna’im va-Amora’im, ed. M. J. Blau, Brooklyn 1994, I, 147. Regarding the author and his work, see Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 363–378. 100 The prohibition is bound up with the famous ‘18 decrees’ made by the School of Shammai on the eve of the great rebellion against Rome. Cf. Tosafot Shabbat 1, 15ff; B. Shabbat 13bff; and P. Shabbat 3a-c, and Y. Ben-Shalom, Bet Shammai u-Ma’avaq ha-Qanna’im neged Romi, Jerusalem 1995. The halakhic details are discussed in et, xviii, 507–544.

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merely a legal formality, but an actual act of purification.101 In that context, we find the following passage:102 Toward the end of tractate Avodah Zarah,103 [it says] ‘R. Ashi said: Utensils of glass, since they can be repaired when broken, are like utensils of metal.’ Therefore,104 they require immersion when one purchases them from a gentile. In light of our conclusion that glass vessels cannot be purified in a miqveh, [it follows] that those who eat Hullin be-Taharah may not purchase glassware from a gentile … since their earthenware vessels cannot be purified in a miqveh, the same is true of their glass vessels. R. Judah’s comment (‘those who eat Hullin be-Taharah’), strongly suggests that there were those in his time who still attempted to eat in a state of ritual purity.105 This conclusion helps to explain a difficult passage in Rashi’s Bible commentary. The Book of Genesis (18: 1–8) records that Abraham saw three men coming toward him while he was sitting at the entrance to his tent. He invited them to enjoy his hospitality and offered them ‘a morsel of bread,’ which he asked Sarah to quickly prepare. When it came to serve the guests, however, the Bible reports: ‘And Abraham ran to the herd, and fetched a calf that was tender and good…and he took curd, and milk, and the calf which he had dressed, and set it before them….’106 What happened to the bread? According to Rashi,107 ‘he did not bring the bread, because Sarah began to menstruate,108 for on that day Sarah‘ menstrual cycle returned and the dough became ritually unclean.’ Rashi’s comment is 101 The impurity of the non-Jew and that of items pertaining to Christianity is examined in the next chapter. 102 Ed. Blau, I, 147. 103 Fol. 75b. 104 From here on, R. Judah is speaking. 105 Echoes of this practice are still evident in seventeenth century Poland. See Magen Avraham, sa oh sec. 280 s.v. katav ha-ga’on.  Such a regimen possessed significant practical implications. No matter how scrupulous one was in its performance, preparing food in a state of purity was a labor intensive and, one must assume, anxiety provoking goal. See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?’ ajs Review iii (1978): 172 n.54. 106 Ibid. 8. 107 Ad loc. 108 Cf. v. 11: ‘Abraham and Sarah were old, well on in years. Sarah no longer menstruated’ (lit. ‘no longer had the way of women’).

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based upon a Talmudic statement attributed to the second century scholar, R. Meir.109 According to him, ‘our father Abraham ate Hullin be-Taharah.’ This bit of Midrashic anachronism was totally appropriate for R. Meir, who was the founding father of the Qehalla Qadisha de Yerushalayim, which prided itself on eating all of its meals in a state of Levitical purity.110 Rashi’s resort thereto is more difficult to understand. His comment does not reflect the plain meaning of the verse, which was his primary charge. In addition, rabbinic tradition provided him with a perfectly reasonable, alternative explanation. In fact, it was precisely this interpretation that was adopted by those Ashkenazic exegetes who were at all bothered by this question,111 among them Rashi’s grandson, Rashbam:112 Following the plain meaning of Scripture, it was not necessary for the text to state explicitly that he brought the bread113 to the table. The text needs to enumerate only those things that he brought in addition to that which he promised. That he brought bread to the table is self-understood. That he brought curds, milk and meat – not the usual fare for guests – has to be stated explicitly. Rashi opted for the less relevant and the less comfortable explanation.114 It seems obvious that this is yet another example of Rashi’s use of his Bible 109 Cf. Baba Metzi’a 87a: ‘Ephraim Maksha’ah, a disciple of R. Meir, said in his teacher’s name: Our Patriarch Abraham ate Hullin be-Taharah, and that day our mother Sarah had her menstrual period.’ See also Bereshit Rabbah, ed. Theodor-Albeck, parsha 48 s.v. (8) vayiqah hem’a and parsha 60 s.v. va-yevi’ah. My thanks go to Rabbi Chaim Ilson for bringing this second source to my attention. 110 See above, 29–30. 111 Most Franco-German commentators were more concerned with Abraham’s prima facie violation of the Torah’s prohibition against mixing milk and meat which was, in turn, predicated upon the Talmud’s declaration (Yoma 28b and elsewhere) that the Patriarch observed the entire Torah, including later rabbinic enactments. See Tosafot ha-Shalem, ii, ed. Y. Gellis, Jerusalem 1983, 120–123; Perush R. Yosef Bekhor Shor al ha-Torah, ed. Y. Nevo, Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook 1993, ad loc. (31); and Hizquni: Perush al ha-Torah, ed. C. Chavel, Jerusalem: Mossad Ha-Rav Kook 1981, ad loc. 112 Ad loc. s.v. va-yiqah. The translation is from M. Lockshin, Rabbi Samuel ben Meir’s Commentary on Genesis: An Annotated Translation, Lewiston: E. Mellen Press 1989, 63. 113 Lockshin (ibid.) adds: ‘that he had promised in vs. 5.’ 114 One could offer that Rashi’s preference for this ‘ritualistic’ interpretation was due to a desire to underscore Abraham’s dedication to Levitical purity practice, especially in the face of the Christian tendency to see the Patriarch as a proto-Christian. However, it still would only be useful if it was also meaningful to his Jewish readers.

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­commentary to serve an educational purpose and inculcate the values and ideals of Ashkenaz among his readers. If he commented in this way, it must have been because some form of eating Hullin be-Taharah possessed religious significance in his day. C Pat Akum Over time, Ashkenazic Jews developed an additional way of realizing R. Hiyya’s injunction to eat Hullin be-Taharah by avoiding bread baked by gentiles (Pat Akum) between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.115 The rabbinic prohibition against eating gentile bread dates back to Second Temple times.116 It was originally aimed at restricting social commerce between Jews and Gentiles. As David Strauss has noted, the central ‘significance of bread in daily life made it the target of rabbinic prohibition.’ However, ‘the very fact that bread was a daily requirement made the prohibition difficult, if not impossible, to abide by.’117 The result was that the history of the ban on nonJewish bread is checkered. The Talmud preserves contrasting traditions testifying both to the continued observance but also to its consistent weakening and even abolition.118 Ultimately, two approaches emerged. In the Land of Israel, the prohibition remained in force.119 Babylonian scholars, on the other hand, developed strategies for circumventing it.120 Chief among these was the allowance that if a Jew 115 See Woolf, ‘Issur “Pat Akum,”’ 83–99. 116 See M. az 2, 6; B. Shabbat 17a-b; and P. Shabbat 1, 4. The prohibition was apparently included among the above-noted ‘18 decrees.’ See Ben-Shalom, Bet Shammai, 252–271. See Z.A. Steinfeld, ‘Gazru ‘al Pitan mishum Shamnam, ve-al Shamnan mi-shum Yeynam,’ Sinai 87 (1980): 273–281; idem, ‘Le-Issur Pat shel Goyyim,’ Proceedings of the World Congress of Jewish Studies 9 (1986): 31–35; and idem, ‘Le-Mashma’o shel ha-Issur al Bishule Goyyim,’ Sidra 5 (1989): 131–148. 117 D. Strauss, Pat ‘Akum in Medieval France and Germany, ma Thesis, Bernard Revel Graduate School, Yeshiva University 1979, 2. Strauss’ excellent monograph reached me only after I had substantially completed the research for this section. It will be cited as required. (My thanks to Rabbi Strauss for providing me with a copy of his work and to Professor Eric Zimmer for calling it to my attention.) 118 Cf. B. Avodah Zarah 35b and 37a. 119 P. Shevi’it 8, 4 (fol.38a). There were some rabbis who sought to relax the parameters of the prohibition by allowing the consumption of commercially baked products (palter). Even then, however, this was only in dire circumstances (hayye nefesh). 120 The Babylonian traditions do not present a unified picture. Strauss (2–3) calls attention to B. Avodah Zarah 35b: ‘Aibu used to eat gentile bread at the boundaries of the fields, but Rava – and according to another version, R. Nahman b. Isaac – said to the people, ‘Don’t speak with Aibu because he eats the bread of Gentiles.’

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participated in any stage whatsoever of the baking; even in so trivial a capacity as throwing a coal or a piece of wood in the oven, the bread was to be permitted.121 By the time of the Muslim conquest, the Sefer ha-Hilluqim she-beyn Anshe Mizrah u-v’ne Eretz Yisrael characterized the situation, as follows:122 The Easterners123 prohibit bread baked by a gentile. However, they eat non-Jewish bread on condition that a Jew tossed a stick into the oven. The people of the Land of Israel, however, forbid it by means of the wood, because the wood neither prohibits nor permits. When did they allow it? Wherever there was nothing to eat, and a person went a day or two in which he ate nothing, they permitted it to save his life, but only an amount sufficient to maintain his life. Moreover, he is only allowed to eat from the bread of a professional baker, into whose shop meat has never been brought … The earliest Ashkenazic reference to the question of consuming bread baked by gentiles is contained in a responsum by R. Gershom Me’or haGolah.124 While part of the text is somewhat garbled,125 the conclusion is unmistakable: ‘If a Jew assisted [in the cooking], even in the house of the gentile, all other cooked foods are allowed; except for bread, which is forbidden under all circumstances.’ Despite this clear prohibition, as the result of a 121 B. Avodah Zarah 38b: ‘Ravina said: The law with reference to bread is, if a heathen kindled the fire and an Israelite baked it or vice versa, or if a heathen both kindled the fire and baked the bread but an Israelite came and raked the fire, it is all right.’  From a formal, legal point of view the difference between the two communities lay in the question whether the prohibition against gentile bread was an independent enactment that contained a global ban, or a subset of the prohibition of food prepared by gentiles, where Jewish participation in the food’s preparation had always served to allow its consumption. Cf. ‘Bishule Goyyim,’ et, iv, 657–675; Z.A. Steinfeld, ‘Le-Heter Pat shel Goyyim,’ Bar-Ilan Annual 26–27 (1998): 321–341 and idem, ‘Bishul al-yede Yisrael ve-Goy, v-al Minhag le-hashlikh qisam la-Tanur,’ Sidra 14 (1998): 101–130. 122 Sefer ha-Hilluqim, no. 30 (147–148). 123 I.e. the Jews of Babylonia. 124 The text was published in Sefer ha-Oreh, no. 111. Cf. Teshuvot Rabbenu Gershom Me’or h­ a-Golah, ed. S. Eidelberg, New York 1952, no. 20. Abbreviated versions are preserved in Sefer ha-Pardes, ed. H. Ehrenreich, Warsaw 1870 no. 232 and R. Aaron of Lunel, Sefer Orhot Hayyim, ii, ed. M. Schlesinger, Berlin 1902, no. 63; and Sefer Kol Bo, vi, ed. D. Avraham, Jerusalem 1996, no. 100 (52–56). 125 Strauss, 10.

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combination of internal and external developments, the prohibition became progressively weakened.126 By the final quarter of the eleventh century, the injunctive prohibition had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared. Bread baked by gentiles was universally allowed, provided that a Jew was formally involved in the baking process.127 At this point, an interesting development occurred. Within a generation, Rhenish Jews began to abstain from bread baked by gentiles during the ‘Ten Days of Penitence’ (Asseret Yeme Teshuvah). They appear to have done so out of a mixture of loyalty to their received custom, and an understandable impulse to adopt supererogatory behavior during the ‘Days of Judgment.’ What is even more striking, however, is the manner in which they appear to have understood this custom. According to Ravyah, it was predicated upon the very same passage from the Yerushalmi that was discussed above:128 Yerushalmi: the first chapter of Shabbat. R. Hiyya Rabba ordered Rav: ‘If you can eat Hullin be-Taharah the entire year, eat. If not, eat [in that manner] seven days of the year.’ And R. Eliezer b. Joel, the Avi Ezri wrote: ‘I have it, as a matter of tradition (qibalti), that these seven days are those between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. For this reason, the practice in Ashkenaz is that even those who are not scrupulous about [not eating] gentile bread during the year, are careful about it during the ten days of Penitence.’ Prima facie, those who accepted this custom did so not only out of supererogatory piety, but because they viewed gentile bread as positively tameh. One could of course object that the conjunction between this custom and this specific text is nothing more than a rhetorical flourish. The evidence, however, leads in the opposite direction. 126 Over the course of the century, maintaining an oven was arrogated as a regalian right. Effectively, this prevented Jews from baking their own bread. See E. Zimmer, ‘Minhage Affi’ah be-Qehillot Ashkenaz be-Yeme ha-Beynayim,’ Zion 65 (2000): 141–162. 127 Cf. Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim, ed. A. Epstein, Berlin 1910, no. 89. French Rabbis, led by Rashi, were even more lenient, and allowed the consumption of Pat Akum, even without Jewish participation in the baking process. Cf. Sefer Or Zaru’a, iv, 189; Siddur Rashi no. 377; Tosafot RaSh mi-Sens, Avodah Zarah 35b s.v. pat and Tosafot ibid. s.v. mi-khlal. 128 Rosh, Rosh Hashanah, iv(end). Sefer Ravyah, ii, no. 519 (208) is missing the coda regarding non-Jewish bread. However, the testimony of Sefer ha-Tashbetz, taken together with the objections of R. Samuel of Bamberg (v. infra), confirm Rosh’s attribution to Ravyah,

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Sefer ha-Tashbetz, by R. Samson b. Tzadoq (fl. c. 1275), records that Ravyah’s statement elicited criticism from R. Samuel of Bamberg:129 Yerushalmi. We have learned there that one who can eat Hullin be-Taharah the entire year, should eat. If not, let him eat [in that manner] during the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (beyn Keseh le-Asor). Our master, Avi Ezri,130 proved from here that one should not eat gentile bread between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. R. Samuel of Bamberg, however, said that [the comparison to] Hullin be-Taharah is inexact, as it is not a matter of something prohibited.131 Gentile bread, however, is [abstained from] due to a prohibition. If he observes that prohibition during these ten days, he should not eat it all year long, either. R. Samuel of Bamberg was a younger contemporary of Ravyah, with whom he frequently corresponded on halakhic matters, but as a deferential ‘junior colleague.’132 For that reason, his criticism of Ravyah’s conjunction of avoidance of gentile bread with eating in a state of ritual purity is all the more noteworthy. That critique focuses in on two prima facie self-evident assumptions. First, there is no conceptual or legal connection between eating Hullin beTaharah, which was always deemed to be supererogatory conduct, and the consumption of gentile bread, which is a straightforward issue of ritual law. Second, and this follows from the first point, ritual law requires consistency. If gentile bread is forbidden, it should be forbidden all year long and not only during the High Holy Days.133 Ravyah’s position, on the other hand, reflects a different set of assumptions. He accepts the premise that the period of repentance bordered by the New Year and the Day of Atonement warrants an added degree of scrupulousness of religious observance. More significantly, he posits that the ritual purity of a foodstuff constitutes a religiously meaningful, legal category in twelfth century Germany. It is in this context, specifically, that he deemed bread baked by gentiles to be ipso facto ritually impure. 129 R. Samuel’s father was R. Barukh b. Samuel of Mainz . See Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 425–432 and Kanarfogel, Intellectual History, 548 s.v. Barukh b. Samuel of Mayence. 130 The reference is to Ravyah, after his halakhic work, Even ha-Ezer. See Urbach, Ba’ale haTosafot, 386–387. 131 In other words, there is no law that prohibits the consumption of ritually impure food. 132 Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 429. 133 R. Samuel’s zero-sum argument is intriguing in light of the fact that German Pietists actually preached the type of stringency exemplified by Ravyah’s ruling. The former’s connections with German Pietism are well known. See Kanarfogel, Peering Through the Lattices, 102–105.

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Ravyah’s comment cannot be dismissed as a mere homiletical flourish on his part. On another occasion, totally unrelated to issues of repentance and piety, he issued a practical halakhic ruling, based upon the assumption that Gentile bread is ritually impure.134 The specific case involves the question of priority or preference, in the recitation of blessings. Briefly stated, the rabbis maintained that there was a hierarchy among foodstuffs, and that certain foods should be given priority over others regarding blessings and consumption.135 Ravyah adduces a passage from the Yerushalmi which discussed whether ritually pure bread had priority over bread that had become defiled.136 Ravyah then states explicitly that Gentile bread is impure and therefore of lower priority in the recitation of blessings. In other words, the real impurity of the bread had practical halakhic ramifications. It was this position, and not merely considerations of piety, led him to conflate the original passage from the Yerushalmi with the abstention from gentile bread during the Ten Days of Penitence.

The Rhetoric and Experience of Purity

Cultural values are expressed and instilled, preserved and reinforced through an interlocking system of language, gestures, symbolic actions and rituals.137 Since Rabbinic Jewish culture so heavily emphasized sacred text and text study, language played a particularly powerful role in conveying and reinforcing ideals and values. Jewish literature is fundamentally allusive and quintessentially intertextual. Authors choose specific words and phrases with the full awareness that they thereby allude to passages in Biblical and Rabbinic literature with which the reader/hearer can be assumed to be familiar. The author’s intent in doing so varied. He might simply be creating a bon mot, or he might be invoking the background text in order to invest his phrase with deeper significance and greater power.138 134 Cf. Sefer Ravyah, I, no. 111 (91–92). The ruling is paralleled by an unpublished responsum of Ravyah’s that is found in ms Bodley 638, no. 955. The texts are analyzed in Woolf, ‘Issur “Pat Akum,”’92–97. 135 Cf. et, iv, 338–344 (s.v. qadima). 136 P. Ber. 6, 1(10b). 137 In addition to its obviously Geertzian perspective, for much of the following I am indebted to J. Bruner, Acts of Meaning, Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1990; J. Burrow, J., Gestures and Looks in Medieval Narrative, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2008; and M. Rosman, ‘A Prolegomenon to the Study of Jewish Cultural History,’ jsij 1 (2002): 109–127. 138 Rashi, for example, seamlessly coded in cross references to other Talmudic passages in his commentaries. See, for example, Rashi ad Qiddushin 7sb s.v. aval and B. Baba Metzi’a 2a-b.

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Along these lines, Moshe Rosman has noted that medieval and early modern authors were wont to privilege those terms, concepts or references to classical literature that were religiously or legally meaningful for themselves and their audiences.139 Those meanings may not have been identical to their original denotations. However, they were perceived and experienced as authoritative expressions of the sacred tradition that served as the point of departure for Jewish life, self-image and worldview.140 Did scholars of later eras understand these in quite the same way as did their forbears, or did they unknowingly transform them in light of contemporary needs and experience?141 The answer is not always easy to determine, and some cases are more promising than others. For example, if a group consistently employs language that is prima facie at odds with what one might normally expect, it is likely that such usage has deeper significance. Pre-Crusade Ashkenaz’s resort to the terminology of purity and impurity is a case in point. Jewish Law employs specific pairs of words to define its conclusions in different areas. Obligations – monetary, ritual or penal – are described in terms of ‘obliged/exempt’ (hayyav/patur). Rulings in areas of ritual are deemed ‘illicit/ licit’ (assur/mutar). The ritual fitness of an object is described as fit/unfit (kasher/passul). In ritual purity, we find the dyad, ‘impure/pure’ (tameh/tahor). These technical terms are, generally, unique to each topic. In Ashkenaz, at least until the middle of the twelfth century, the dyad tameh/ tahor frequently appears in cases where assur/mutar would have been more appropriate.142 The most common and expected context is in the laws of 139 Rosman, ‘Prolegomenon,’ 111–112. 140 Rosman notes (ibid.): ‘The advantage to this approach is that it begins where the people under study assumed they were beginning: with received tradition. It privileges, as they did, the legacy of the past. The researcher sees, however, that tradition was in dialectic with the conditions of the present; neither automatically dominant nor dominated but always a factor with which to contend; sometimes victorious, but sometimes altered or even subtly rejected. This kind of cultural history examines how traditional categories for ordering experience and investing life with meaning were transformed in reaction with other elements.’ 141 Traditional societies almost never knowingly do violence to the interpretation of their sacred traditions. If they reinterpret them, they do so out of a profound conviction as to the eternal relevance of those writings. See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Religious Law and Change: The Tosafist Example,’ ajs Review 12 (1987): 205–206. 142 This point was already noticed by Victor Aptowitzer. See V. Aptowitzer, ‘Divre ha-Ge’onim she-Nityahasu be-Ta’ut le-Hakhme Eretz Yisrael,’ Mehqarim be-Sifrut ha-Ge’onim, Jerusalem 1941, 62. Michael Rosenberg has recently argued that use of tameh/tahor for assur/muttar is typically Palestinian halakhic usage. Babylonian halakhic writers did distinguish between the two dyads. See, M. Rosenberg, ‘I am Impure’/‘I am Forbidden:’ Purity and Prohibition as Distinct Formal Categories in the Laws of Niddah, PhD dissertation, New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America 2011.

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­ enstrual or parturient purity. Overwhelmingly, when determining whether a m woman had the status of a niddah, rabbis rules either tameh or tahor. This was the case even when the question was restricted to whether she could have marital relations, an answer that should more properly have been expressed through the use of assur/mutar. One could argue that this is not really exceptional. We have already seen that despite the conceptual difference between menstrual impurity per se and the prohibition of sexual contact, the two were not always distinguished. Furthermore, the impurity of the niddah did have practical implications for Ashkenazic religious life. Finally, since both elements of niddah were relieved by immersion in a miqveh, it is understandable that tameh/tahor might be used across the board. More difficult are the many cases where only assur/mutar was appropriate, yet contemporary rabbis nevertheless employed tameh/tahor. For example, when a pot has absorbed a non-kosher substance, it must first be purged of the absorbed food as part of a process that the Talmud calls hagalah, which means to expel.143 Pre-Tosafist writers, however, consistently referred to this process as ‘Taharat Kelim,’ ‘purification of vessels.’ In other words, they employ the word tahor interchangeably with mutar to refer to something that is permitted.144 This usage is not only found in Rhenish sources; it is also documented in Southern Italy, the Italian cradle of Ashkenazic Jewry. Thus, in 1054, the author of Megillat Ahima’atz described how his ancestor, R. Shefatiah, was provided with kosher food by Emperor Basil I (c. 811–886), he states: ‘Golden plates, before him were arranged, to eat in purity (be-Tahara), according to the command of the Torah.’145 The sentence actually means that R. Shefatiah was given plates upon which no non-kosher food had been served. Eating permissible, i.e. Kosher, food is described as eating in purity. Eleventh century Ashkenazic legal writing was marked by a serious lack of terminological precision.146 Rashi’s Talmud commentary corrected this situation by introducing a much needed element of precision into Ashkenazic legal writing. Yet examples of this specific combination may be found throughout 143 The term is derived from the root g’a’l’. See T. Avodah Zarah 8, 2 and Tosefta ke-PeShuTa. Zera’im, I, 448 (ad T. Terumot 9, 5); Arukh ha-Shalem, ii, 332 s.v. ga’al; and Rashi ad Lev. 26, 11 s.v. ve-lo tig’al. 144 Aptowitzer, ibid. 145 Megillat Ahima’atz, ed. B. Klar, Jerusalem 1970, 18 l. 15 and R. Bonfil, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle: The Family Chronicle of Ahima’az ben Paltiel, Leiden and Boston: Brill 2009, 264–265. 146 Cf. H. Soloveitchik, “Yeynam”: Sahar be-Yeynam shel Goyim ‘al Gilgulah shel Halakhah be‘Olam ha-Ma’aseh, Tel Aviv: Alma and Am Oved 2003, 62–63.

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our period, including in works that emerged from Rashi’s school.147 As late as the first half of the thirteenth century, R. Isaiah di Trani (d. c. 1260) not only employed this terminology, but actually refers to a ruling on the laws of purging vessels for Passover that was based on the principles of ritual purification.148 This mode of expression is also found in Rashi’s Bible commentary. The Book of Numbers (31: 21–24) sets forth the procedures for purifying the vessels that were taken by the Israelites in their war of retaliation against the Midianites: ‘However, as regards the gold, and the silver, the brass, the iron, the tin, and the lead, everything that may pass through fire, you shall pass through the fire, and it shall be clean; nevertheless it shall be purified with the water of sprinkling; and all that cannot bear fire you shall pass through water.’ Commenting on the first verse, Rashi writes:149 Even though Moses warned you only about the laws of Tum’ah, you must further be instructed in the laws concerning purging (gi’ul). “However” is an exclusive expression, that is to say, you are excluded from using vessels even after their purification from corpse contamination, until they have been purified (she-yitaharu) from the prohibition [caused by] absorbing carrion.’ He then comments on the phrase ‘nevertheless it shall be purified with the water of sprinkling’ (me niddah):150 The simple meaning of this ‘sprinkling’ is to purify it from death impurity. He (i.e. Eleazar) told them: The vessels require purging (gi’ul) to purify them from prohibited [food absorbed in them], and sprinkling to purify them from defilement. Emphasis added-jrw

Rashi was blessed with a keen lexical sense and a genius for precise formulation and interpretation. Nevertheless, despite his use of the more correct word ‘purging’ (gi’ul) for the removal of forbidden food residue from the walls of cooking vessels, he still referred to it as ‘purification’! This use of pure/impure to denote things that may or may not be consumed harks back to the Bible.151 There, the terms largely refer to people, objects and 147 E.g. Sefer ha-Oreh, I, sec. 80. 148 Ibid: ‘It makes no sense at all to derive a law regarding a prohibition from the laws of purity.’ 149 S.v. akh. 150 Verse 23 s.v. akh be-mei. 151 I am grateful to Prof. Baruch J. Schwartz for his help with the issues of Biblical terminology. See J. Milgrom, “Two Biblical Priestly Terms: Sheqetz sheqetz and Tame tame”, Ma’arav 8

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areas that can be defiled by actual sources of ritual pollution, such as corpses, carrion, semen, menstrual flow, semen, gonorrhea, leprosy, and childbirth discharge.152 Nevertheless, the opposition pure/impure is also used to classify permitted and forbidden foods. Animals are referred to as ‘pure’ and ‘impure’ in the list of forbidden species in Leviticus 11.153 In addition, the Torah admonishes not to ‘pollute your souls with the crawling things that swarm on the earth,’ even though no ritual impurity is actually imparted.154 Rabbinic literature introduced a significant change.155 The rabbis continued to employ the Biblical pairing, tameh/tahor, when referring to forbidden species of animals, even though the Oral Law does not attribute actual impurity to them.156 At the same time, they introduced the new pairing, assur/mutar, to refer to prohibited/permitted actions and things. This significantly limited the role of tameh/tahor in rabbinic discussions of ritual propriety.157 The fact that Ashkenazic writers continued to employ tameh/tahor as synonymous with assur/mutar is significant. Words have meaning, especially in pre-modern Europe. Scholars who knew that they could use the word assur instead of tameh yet refrained from doing so were expressing ideas that inhered to their usage. And those words possessed religious valence, even in so banal an area as the kashrut of pots and pans. Tum’ah was also used in relation to sin and immorality. Jonathan Klawans has argued that the Biblical presents not one, but two sources of impurity. The better known is physical impurity. These types of Tum’ah are physical in nature and carry no inherently moral value judgment. In addition, Klawans maintains that in the Bible immoral conduct also physically defiles.158 Sexual offenses defile the individual, who then ‘pollutes’ the land of Canaan, leading it to ‘spew (1993): 107–116 and the studies contained in M.J.H.M. Poorthuis and J. Schwartz (eds.), Purity and Holiness: The Heritage of Leviticus, Leiden: Brill 2000. 152 When intercourse with a Niddah is described as defiling, this too is abstract or figurative, because after all, licit intercourse, with one’s own lawfully wedded wife, by mutual consent, is also defiling!. 153 Cf. Gen. 7, 2; and Deut. 14, 11. 154 Verse 46. 155 Cf. Avoda Zara 75b and Tosafot Hullin 8a s.v. she-libna. See the important discussion in M. Kohen, ‘Munahe Tum’ah ve-Taharah be-Leshon ha-Miqra ve-Yahasam le-Mussage Issur ve-Heter shel Lashon Hakhamim,’ Bet Miqra 138 (1993): 289–306. 156 See, e.g., M. Hullin 8, 4. 157 See below for discussion of the use of tameh/tahor as moral and experiential categories. 158 J. Klawans, ‘Idolatry, Incest, and Impurity: Moral Defilement in Ancient Judaism,’ Journal for the Study of Judaism 29 (1998): 391–415 and, in expanded form, idem, ‘Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism, New York: Oxford University 2000.

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out’ its inhabitants.159 The same is true of bloodshed, which requires formal expiation either by punishing the culprit or through the ritual of the ‘Beheaded Heifer’ (Eglah Arufah).160 The collective iniquities of the Israelites defile the nation, the land and the Holy Temple.161 The Temple Service on the Day of Atonement not only atones, it also purifies. As the Bible states: ‘And he shall make atonement for the Sacred Precincts, because of the pollution of the children of Israel, which resulted from their transgressions, even all of their sins; and so shall he do for the Tabernacle, that dwells with them in the midst of their pollution.’162 Finally, personal iniquity was also seen to be defiling, requiring both forgiveness and purification. Thus, Ezekiel promised that ‘I will sprinkle you with pure water, and you shall be purified; from all your pollutions, and from all your idols, will I purify you.’163 According to Klawans, while these themes continued to find expression in rabbinic literature, the rabbis were careful to distinguish between actual impurity (which required formal purification), and moral impurity, which did not.164 Even if we concede his point, the rabbis did continue to discuss sin and forgiveness in terms of ‘impurity’ and ‘purification.’165 Typical in this regard is a memorable statement attributed to R. Aqiva. Speaking of the expiatory effects of the Day of Atonement he declared: ‘Happy are you, O Israel. Before whom do you purify yourselves, and who purifies you? Your Heavenly Father. For it is written: “I will sprinkle you with pure water, and you shall be purified;” and it is also written: “God is the miqveh of Israel.”166 Just as a miqveh purifies the impure, so the Holy One, blessed be He, purifies Israel.”167 159 Cf. Lev. 18, 24–30. 160 Num. 35, 33–34. 161 See, for example, Jer. 2, 7: And I brought you into a land of fruitful fields, to eat the fruit thereof and the good thereof; but when you entered, you defiled My land, and made My heritage an abomination. 162 Lev. 16, 16. 163 Ezek. 25, 36. Note, however, that Rashi (ad loc.) does not understand the verse in this fashion. 164 Klawans, Impurity and Sin, 92–117. He maintains that the Biblical view that immorality generates actual Tum’ah was continued and developed in the literature of Qumran. 165 Klawans’ position has encountered some criticism. See H. Birnbaum, Observance of the Laws of Bodily Purity in Jewish Society in the Land of Israel during the Second Temple Period, PhD Dissertation, Hebrew University 2006. 166 Jer. 14, 8. 167 M. Yoma 8, 9. In Midrash Tehillim (Buber), Ps. 4 s.v. (9) rigzu, the statement is attributed to R. Aqiva’s student, R. Eleazer b. Jacob. See also Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana pisqa 24 – Shuva s.v. (2) nora’ot.

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References to sin as defiling and forgiveness as purification are particularly ubiquitous in medieval Franco-Germany.168 Sin, Forgiveness, and Penitence were a central concern, even a pre-occupation of medieval Ashkenazic religiosity. Emblematic of this is the fact that while Ashkenazic writers cultivated almost all of the many genres of liturgical poetry (piyyut) that made up the traditional canon, they specifically cultivated and excelled at two in particular: Elegies (Qinot) and Penitentials (Selihot).169 The latter were especially popular among French and German Jews, as evidenced by the massive number of such poems that they composed, many of which were integrated into the liturgy,170 and the extensive efforts they made to interpret and elucidate them.171 Since it is fair to assume that such a creative outpouring responded to the needs and sensitivities of their audiences, their examination should give us an insight as to how medieval Ashkenazim related to sin and forgiveness. Prominent Sephardic thinkers and halakhists regarded the idea of purification from sin as a metaphor.172 Maimonides, for example, observed that one who confesses his sin without truly repenting ‘may be compared to one who immerses himself while holding a defiling rodent (sheretz) in his hands, so that the immersion is of no avail until he throws away the defiling thing.’173 Referring to the same Talmudic passage, R. Yonah Gerondi comments: ‘Similarly, the forsaking of the sinful thought constitutes casting away the defiling rodent, and 168 These, in turn, are not restricted to commentaries on those specific Biblical and Talmudic passages that figure in Klawans’ analysis. Cf. Klawans, ibid. 118–119. 169 E. Fleisher, Shirat ha-Qodesh ha-Ivrit be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, Jerusalem: Keter 2008, 468–471. 170 This is immediately apparent from the various editions of the High Holy Day Liturgy that were prepared by Goldschmidt. Cf. Seder ha-Selihot ke-Minhag Polin ve-Rov ha-Qehillot be-Eretz Yisrael, ed. D. Goldschmidt, Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook 1965; Mahzor leYamim Nora’im, ed. D. Goldschmidt, Jerusalem: Koren 1970 and Leqet Piyyute Selihot me’et Payytane Ashkenaz ve-Zarefat, ed. D. Goldschmidt and A. Fraenkel, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1993. The catholicity of this practice strengthens the conclusion that it expresses typical Franco-German religiosity. 171 Cf. E. Hollender, Clavis Commentariorum of Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in Manuscript, Leiden: Brill 2005 and idem, Piyyut Commentary in Ashkenaz, Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyer 2008. See also, E. Kanarfogel, The Intellectual History and Rabbinic Culture of Medieval Ashkenaz, Detroit: Wayne State University Press 2013, 375–443. 172 Cf. J. Elbaum, Teshuvat ha-Lev ve-Qabbalat Yissurim: Iyyunim be-Shittot ha-Teshuvah shel Hakhme Ashkenaz u-Polin 1348–1648, Jerusalem: Magnes 1993, 225–226. 173 mt Hil. Teshuvah 2, 3. The metaphoric note is more pronounced in Rambam’s source (B. Ta’anit 16a).

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his regret over having sinned, together with confession and prayer, are in place of immersion.’174 By contrast, Ashkenazic Jews viewed the equation of sin with impurity as being a significant, formative element therein. There are literally hundreds, even thousands, of places in medieval Ashkenazic piyyutim in which sin is explicitly equated with Tum’ah.175 Coming from the other direction, Divine forgiveness is consistently described as an act of purification. Some, like R. Abraham b. Azriel, apparently related to this identity spiritually. Referring to the verse from Ezekiel, he notes that ‘since we cannot be purified… let the channel of Your waters pour forth in a torrent for the purification of our immersion, as You have said: “I will sprinkle you with pure water, and you shall be purified.”176 On the other hand, Rashi took the verse and its effect quite literally. ‘I will forgive you, and I will carry away your Tum’ah through sprinkling the ashes of the Red Heifer (me Hatat), which remove death impurity.’177 The idea that sin defiled physically, and required a physical purification is expressed in a responsum of R. Isaac b. Moses Or Zaru’a.178 R. Isaac was asked 174 R. Yonah Gerondi, Sha’are Teshuvah, trans. S. Silverstein, New York: Feldheim 1967, sha’ar 1 par. 11 (17). I have adjusted Silverstein’s translation slightly to bring it more closely in line with the original. 175 This emerged from a review of Sefer Arugat ha-Bosem, the various Goldschmidt editions of the liturgy and collections of contemporary Selihot. See, for example, Piyyute R. Simon b. Yitzhaq, ed. A.M. Haberman, Berlin-Jerusalem 1938, 136–179 and Piyyute Rabbi Ephraim b. Ya’aqov mi-Bonna, ed. A.M. Haberman, Jerusalem 1980, nos. 1, 18, 20. Almost all of Rashi’s Selihot include the sin/pollution equation as a central motif. The fact that Rashi’s poetic efforts are considered to be fairly pedestrian only underscores the commonplace nature of these sentiments. See Piyyute Rashi, ed. A. Haberman, Tel Aviv 1941, nos. 1, 3, and 5; Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat ha-Rishonim, Jerusalem: Magnes 1996, 248–250 and H. Soloveitchik, ‘Three Themes in Sefer Hassidim,’ ajs Review I (1976): 345 n. 112. 176 Cf. Arugat ha-Bosem, ibid., 444–445, on Lekha Ha-Shem ha-Tzeddaqah by R. Shlomo haBavli (Piyyute Shlomo ha-Bavli, ed. E. Fleischer, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences 1973, 328 and Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, iii, New York 1970, no. 782). In another seliha, ha-Bavli pleads: ‘Cast away the rodent, so that the immersion may be effective/Burn out evil and remove the impure one’ (Piyyute Shlomo ha-Bavli, 279; Davidson, I, 3218). Cf. Arugat ha-Bosem, ii, 106.  R. Ephraim of Bonn uses the identical imagery in his plea that God purify the Evil impulse of its inherent pollution, in terms derived from the ritual of the Red Heifer. See his seliha, Ahavti ki Yishma, R. Ephraim b. Jacob, Sefer Zekhirah: Selihot ve-Qinot, ed. A. Haberman, Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1970, 48 l. 21–24. The idea is based upon B. Sukkah 52a. 177 Rashi ad loc. 178 Sefer Or Zaru’a, I, no. 112. See S. Emanuel, Shivre Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’ale haTosafot, Jerusalem: Magnes 2006, 160.

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whether one who had taken a life could lead the prayer service. His answer was negative, so long as the culprit had not repented. However, if he has repented he is immediately considered to be totally righteous (tzaddiq gamur), even if he has not yet been tried. He does, however, need to immerse himself in order to be purified of the sin that has defiled him. For sin defiles … And so I have received from my master, R. Simha zt’l, that all who repent require immersion. So it is written in the third chapter of Avot de-R. Natan179: ‘There was once a woman who was taken captive etc. and after they redeemed her they immersed her. For all of those days during which she was held among the gentiles, she ate of their food and now they immersed her so she might be purified. Even though the disgusting victuals of the gentiles (gi’ule goyyim) do not impart Tum’ah to the body, they nevertheless immersed her in order to purify her of her sin. Still, even though I have explained that all who repent require immersion, nevertheless that immersion does not stand in the way of repentance. … It is, rather, that one should cause oneself discomfort, and afflict one’s body in order to achieve atonement for what he has done. For R. Isaac, as for R. Simha of Speyer (fl. c. 1200), any sin sufficiently pollutes the individual as to require actual immersion in a miqveh – and this applies to any and all sins.180 His ruling that penance should include ritual immersion is widely cited by contemporary and later Ashkenazic halakhists through the end

179 The text should read ‘eighth chapter.’ See Avot de-Rabbi Natan, ed. and introduction S. Schechter, with Aqdamut Milin, M. Kister, New York: Jewish Theological Seminary 1997, 19a. 180 The conflation of taking a life with consuming non-kosher food would suggest as much. Earlier, R. Isaac cited Midrash Tehillim (Ps. 51, par. 2) to make the point that adultery is defiling and requires purification. Interestingly, the text itself could easily have been understood metaphorically, as Rashi actually did (ad v. 9). R. Isaac, though, appears to take it quite literally. A variant version of R. Simcha’s teaching makes the point a bit differently: ‘In order that she may be purified of the sin, for the disgusting victuals of the gentiles are no more defiling than other transgressions, rather it is so she may repent in purity’ [emphasis added- jrw] (cited by Emanuel, Shivre Luhot, 160). The variant is found in ms Vat.-Ebr. 183 fol. 85a, in Arugat ha-Bosem, ii, 110 and in a responsum of R. Samuel b. Abraham of Worms that was published by E. Kupfer, Teshuvot u-Pesaqim, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1973, 290. For this reason, in addition, R. Simcha cannot be referring solely to penitents who had converted to Christianity.

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of the thirteenth century and beyond.181 That alone implies that it was actually practiced. At the very least, there are two definite instances where penitential purification was considered de rigueur. The first was the custom to immerse oneself in a miqveh on Yom Kippur Eve. The second, which will occupy us in the next chapter, was performed by returnees to Judaism.182 Immersion prior to Yom Kippur is attested to as early as the eleventh century. Since Ashkenazic Jews were deeply conscious of the ‘awesome power of the day’s sanctity/ for it is awe-inspiring and terrifying,’183 most sources understood the practice as fulfilling a general requirement to purify oneself before the holiest day of the year.184 Ravyah makes this last point explicitly by tying the immersion to the midrashic idea that on Yom Kippur Jews transcend their physical natures and become like the heavenly angels.185 The intensity with which Ashkenazim felt that obligation to purify themselves was expressed by the irrepressible, though legally questionable, custom of reciting a blessing 181 E.g. R. Menahem Recanati (Pisqe Recanati, no. 67); R. Hayyim Or Zaru’a (Pisqe R. Hayyim Or Zaru’a, ed. Y.S. Lange, Jerusalem 1993, 153); R. Abraham b. Azriel (Arugat ha-Bosem, ii, 110); and Shibbole ha-Leqet (Buber), no. 283. The latter source actually attributes the ruling to a certain ‘R. Isaac.’ This is most likely a copyist’s error. For later references to this practice, see Elbaum, Teshuvat ha-Lev, passim. 182 See the discussion in the next chapter, 202–206. 183 The line is from the piyyut, U-Netaneh Toqef, which was a highpoint of the High Holy Day liturgy. Concerning its origins and provenance, see I. Marcus, ‘A Pious Community and Doubt: Qiddush ha-Shem in Ashkenaz and the story of Rabbi Amnon of Mainz,’ in Studien zur jüdischen Geschichte und Soziologie, 1992, 97–113; A. Frankel, ‘Demuto ha-Historit shel R. Amnon mi-Magentza ve-Gilgulav shel ha-Piyyut ‘U-Netaneh Toqef’ be-Italya, be-Ashkenaz u-ve-Zarefat,’ Zion 67 (2002): 125 – 138; and R. Kushelevsky, Sigufim u-Pituyim: Ha-Sippur ha-Ivri be-Ashkenaz, Jerusalem: Magnes 2010, 225–251. 184 E.g. Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, Hil. Yom Kippurim, no. 214 and Shibbole ha-Leqet, no. 283. Both explicitly state that the purpose of the immersion is because ‘one is obligated to purify oneself,’ which evokes the pre-holy day immersions that we referred to in our discussion of the synagogue. It seems that R. Meir of Rothenberg rejected R. Simcha’s entire assumption and interpreted the pre-Yom Kippur ablutions as restricted to the removal of qeri. Cf. Sefer Maharil, Hil. Erev Yom Kippur, no. 4.  Notably, the idea of immersion as purification from sin is not referred to either in Sefer Hassidim or in the Roqe’ah (Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, no. 2 s.v. Teshuvah ha-Ba’ah). On the contrary, R. Eleazar refers to immersing oneself in the ‘Miqveh of Israel’ i.e. God. A close reading of the passage about Yom Kippur Eve in the Roqe’ah also indicates that R. Eleazar distinguished between this immersion and formal acts of penance. See also, D. Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, ii, 125–128 and ibid, iv, 298–299. 185 Sefer Ravyah, ii, no. 528. Ravyah cites Midrash Tanhuma as his source. The passage, however, does not appear in our editions. Cf. B. Pesahim 56a.

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prior to that immersion.186 Nevertheless, the explicit connection between immersion and purification from sin per se was (at best) implicit in these discussions. R. Simha’s ruling expanded the role of immersion in the general process of repentance and sharpened the way in which this pre-Yom Kippur immersion was understood. In short, R. Simha’s words gave expression and clarity to a long-established custom that flowed from the religious intuition of Franco-German Jewry, which had long equated sin and iniquity with pollution.187 This leads directly to the question whether impurity, including moral impurity, was understood as an abstract concept or experienced as a concrete reality. Mary Douglas’ identification of impurity with danger and death and purity with safety and life would lead one in that direction,188 a possibility that is strengthened by the awareness that medieval people related to religious concepts in a very tangible and concrete fashion.189 We have already seen that this was the case of with perception of the God’s Presence, the Shekhinah. In light of the graphic terms in which it is cast, it is reasonable to assume that the individual’s experience of Tum’ah was no less immediate and sensate.190 In medieval Franco-Germany, tameh denoted something negative. Both Rashi and R. Joseph Bekhor Shor both write that it refers to something ‘disgusting’ or ‘revolting.’191 Sin is also described as ‘filth,’192 ‘pollution,’ and ‘putre­ faction.’193 One hears echoes of that revulsion in the use of tameh for non-kosher foods and vessils. In short, both physical and moral forms of impurity are characterized in the same pungent terms. The essential physicality of ritual pollution, and its conflation with moral failings, came together in contemporary discussions of Leprosy. 186 That custom, and the controversy, long preceded R. Simcha and lived on into the fourteenth century. See Sefer ha-Minhagim le-R. Avraham Klausner, ed. Y. Diskin, Jerusalem: Makhon Yerushalayim 1978, no. 33. See above, 134–139. 187 Ravyah (ibid.) appears to demur on this point, and his remarks require further study. 188 See A.K. Reinhart, ‘Impurity/No Danger,’ History of Religions 30 (1990): 1–24. 189 J. LeGoff, The Medieval Imagination, New York: Columbia University Press 1988. 190 Cf. A. Cuffel, Gendering Disgust in Medieval Religious Polemic, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press 2007. Cuffel’s study is impressive in the breadth of sources it employs. While there is much room to debate much of her analysis; her conclusion as to the intensively physical way in which medievals perceived abstract ideas is persuasive. 191 Cf. Rashi ad Ezek. 4, 13 s.v. tameh and ad Ezra 9, 11; and J. Bekhor Shor ad Lev. 11, 8 and 34. 192 Av le-Rahem by R. Shlomo ha-Bavli (Piyyute Shlomo ha-Bavli, ed. E. Fleischer, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences 1973, 251–254), and Arugat ha-Bosem, ibid. 414. 193 Piyyute Rashi, no. 5 (18, l. 10).

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In a pioneering study, Ephraim Shoham-Steiner has provided a detailed and nuanced analysis of the attitudes towards and the status of the unfortunate Jew who developed leprosy in medieval Franco-Germany.194 Medieval rabbis assumed that the disease that they encountered, today known as Hansen’s disease, was identical with Biblical tzara’at.195 Hence, they assumed that the leper was tameh and that, technically, the restrictions upon his movements that Jewish Law required applied to him.196 Like their Christian neighbors, Ashkenazic rabbis and laymen were very aware that leprosy was a highly contagious condition that inspired fear and dread in those who came in contact with it. Commenting on the Torah’s requirement that a leper live outside the camp, Bekhor Shor observed: ‘This is so that he should not approach other people because of the disease, and also because of the tum’ah.’ In the common perception, impurity, illness and danger were tangibly embodied in the leper.197 The rabbis had taught that Leprosy was a punishment for sin.198 Building on that legacy, Ashkenazic writers attributed leprosy to a wide series of iniquities ranging from rank sexual misconduct, especially having relations with a menstruant, gossip and slander.199 In sum, the Leprosy concretely combined both moral and physical tum’ah. Owing to the fact that he was both a source of contagion and of pollution, the revulsion the leper engendered was reinforced by the concrete revulsion that was associated with both types of Tum’ah. In sum, Tum’ah was a ubiquitous factor in the religious lives of the medieval Franco-German Jew. It informed his domestic life. It determined the individual’s connection with the synagogue. It affected his spiritual state. It separated him from his wife, his household, his community, and God. All of these were, 194 ‘An Ultimate Pariah: Jewish Social Attitudes toward Jewish Lepers in Medieval Western Europe,’ Social Research (2003): 1–19 and idem, On the Margins of a Minority: Leprosy, Madness, and Disability among the Jews of Medieval Europe, trans. H. Watzman, Wayne State University Press, 2014, 21–72. On the contemporary Christian attitude toward the disease, see Douglas, Purity and Danger, 61ff; R. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society, Oxford and Cambridge 1987, 42–56; and S. Brody, The Disease of the Soul: Leprosy in Medieval Literature, London and Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1974. 195 Shoham-Steiner, On the Margins of a Minority, 32–43. 196 Ravyah (Sefer Ravyah iii, sec. 840) refused to do so for purely technical reasons. 197 Bekhor Shor ad Lev. 13, 45 (199). Shoham-Steiner (31) thinks that Bekhor Shor was unsure as to the exact relationship between leprosy as disease and leprosy as impurity. It is safe to assume that the average person did not make such fine distinctions. The leper was impure and dangerously contagious. 198 Shoham-Steiner, On the Margins of a Minority, ibid. This had clear Biblical precedents as well (e.g., Moses, Na’aman, Miriam, and Hezekiah). 199 Shoham-Steiner, On the Margins of a Minority, 46ff.

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naturally, associated with purity. It followed naturally that Taharah was a positive force, attracting the individual either consciously or unconsciously toward these things that he most valued. Attainment of purity restored women to their husbands, ensured the proper maintenance of the home and allowed participation by both sexes in the synagogue service. Purity was the hallmark, and the ideal of the Jewish home, wherein the norms of purity were practiced.200 In the moral and spiritual realm, purification was an integral part of the process of repentance, both physical and spiritual. The restoration of purity restored Man to God, the source of all purity. In the next chapter, we will see that this conclusion is no homiletical flourish. In the Spring of 1096, it became a matter of life and death – in this world and the next. 200 See the comments in the Nuremberg Mahzor (ms Schocken Institute 24100), fol. 227b, explicating the piyyut, MeReshut Shokhen Ad, by R. Simon b. Yitzhaq (Piyyute R. Simon b. Yitzhaq, ed. A.M. Haberman, Berlin-Jerusalem 1938, 187).

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Martyrdom O Merciful Father, who dwells on high; May He, in His great mercy, remember with compassion the pious, upright and blameless, the sacred communities, who laid down their lives for the sanctification of His Name. Beloved and pleasant in their lives, in death they were not parted. They were swifter than eagles and stronger than lions in carrying out the will of their Maker, and the wish of their steadfast God. May our Lord remember them for good, together with the other righteous of the world and may He avenge the spilled blood of His servants. Composed around 1100, the elegaic prayer known as Av ha-Rahamim commemorates the thousands of Rhenish Jews who died as martyrs in the spring and summer of 1096.1 It echoes the powerful emotions that their deaths evoked among the survivors and their descendants – as well they might. For the patterns of martyrdom that the Jews of Mainz and Worms, Speyer and Köln adopted were unprecedented in the annals of Jewish history. Where Talmudic tradition only countenanced passive martyrdom, Ashkenazic Jews took their own lives and those of their loved ones – including their minor children – to avoid being baptized and forced to live as Christians. The horrific picture is summed up in the Hebrew chronicle attributed to R. Solomon b. Samson:2 Refusing to deny their faith and replace the fear of our King with an abominable stock, bastard son of a menstruating and adulterous mother, they extended their necks for slaughter and sacrificed their pure souls to 1 S. Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, trans. Y. Levin and C.M. Copeland, Tournhout: Brepols 2008, 121–129. Eastern European Ashkenazim recite it every Sabbath morning, while German Jews limit its recitation to the Sabbath before Shavuot and the Sabbath preceding Tisha B’Av. The former date is due to its proximity to the actual anniversary of the massacres. For the connection with Tisha B’Av, see J. Woolf, ‘Avelut Yeshanah ha-Ma’atiqah Miqtzat Hilkhot Avel,’ in D. Sperber, Minhage Yisrael, iv, Jerusalem: Mossad ha-Rav Kook 1995, 330–331. 2 Sefer Gezerot Ashkenaz ve-Zarefat, ed. A.M. Haberman, Jerusalem 1971, 31. The translation is based upon S. Eidelberg, The Jews and the Crusaders: The Hebrew Chronicles of the First and Second Crusades, Madison: University of Wisconsin 1977, 32–33. Regarding the authorship of the chronicle, see A. Sapir-Abulafia, The Interrelationship between the Hebrew Chronicles on the First Crusade,’ Journal of Semitic Studies 27 (1982): 221–239.

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their Heavenly Father. The saintly and pious women acted in a similar manner, extending their necks to one another in willing sacrifice, as witness to the Oneness of God’s Name – and each man did likewise to his son and brother, brother to sister, mother to son and daughter, neighbor to neighbor and friend, bridegroom to bride, fiancé to his betrothed; each first sacrificed the other and then, in turn, yielded to be sacrificed, until the streams of blood touched and mingled, and the blood of husbands joined that of their wives, the blood of fathers with that of their sons, the blood of brothers with that of their sisters, the blood of teachers with that of their disciples, the blood of bridegrooms with that of their brides, the blood of the Hazzanim with that of their scribes, the blood of babes and sucklings with that of their mothers – all were killed and slaughtered in witness to the Oneness of God’s Venerated and Awesome Name. As indicated in the Av ha-Rahamim prayer, these deeds of religious valor were linked in Ashkenazic literature with the self-awareness of the martyrs as belonging to Qehillot Qedoshot, to sacred communities.3 Their behavior was seen as embodying the highest ideals of those communities. By extension, I would like to suggest that the patterns of Jewish martyrdom in 1096 and beyond were a natural outgrowth of the values and perceptions upon which Ashkenazic religiousity was based. They provided the religious, halakhic and conceptual bases that gave form and meaning to the unparalleled and impossible challenges that confronted them.4

Catastrophe in the Rhineland

In the spring and summer of 1096, waves of warriors cum pilgrims set off on an eastward trek from Western Europe to the Holy Land. They were inspired by the call of Pope Urban ii the previous November to redeem the Church of the Holy Sepulcher from the Muslims to liberate Christians from Muslim persecution and to redeem the Holy Land from Infidel rule.5 The response to that call 3 See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Religious Law and Change: The Tosafist Example,’ ajs Review 12 (1987): 205–221; idem, Ha-Yayin be-Yeme Ha-Beynayim (Yeyn Nesekh): Pereq be-Toldot ha-Halakhah be-Ashkenaz, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2008, 358–369; and idem, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom in Medieval Ashkenaz,’ Collected Essays, ii, 228–287. 4 See S. Goldin, ‘The Socialisation for “Kiddush ha-Shem” Among Medieval Jews,’ jmh 23 (1997): 118–119. 5 Crusade literature is enormous and growing. Basic studies of the First Crusade remain S. Runciman, The First Crusade, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1992 and J. RileySmith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, London 1986.

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was overwhelming, both in its scope and its enthusiasm. While the pope himself apparently only envisioned the raising of a formal feudal army to achieve his goals, he received much more. Throughout Europe, but especially in France and the German Empire, large numbers of lesser nobles and clergy, peasants and townspeople, men, women, and children took the cross and, in varying forms of organization, sallied forth to the Holy Land.6 The formal crusader army, commanded by Baldwin I and Godfrey of Bouillon, departed Europe from Southern France in August 1096 and, by most accounts, did not molest whatever Jewish communities they might have encountered.7 Other crusading armies, especially that led by Count Emicho of Flonheim, made their way eastward via the Rhine Valley.8 There, they encountered the original Qehillot Qedoshot of Speyer, Mainz, and Worms: the heartland of Ashkenazic Jewry – as well as tributary communities such as Trier, Xanten, Regensburg, and Köln. As the chronicler recounts:9 Now it came to pass that as they passed through the towns where the Jews dwelled, they said to one another: “Behold. We are travelling a long way to seek out the house of idolatry,10 and to avenge ourselves upon the 6 Runciman, First Crusade, 23–33; Riley-Smith, First Crusade, 15–30 and Y. Friedman, ‘Dealing with the Religious Past: Concepts of War and Peace during the Crusades,’ http://www. history.ac.uk/cihec/sites/history.ac.uk.CIHEC/files/Friedman.pdf. In recent years, a growing number of scholars have noted the chiliastic/millennial elements in crusader ideology. See B. McGinn, “Iter Sancti Sepulchri: The Piety of the First Crusaders,” in Essays in Medieval Civilization, ed. B. Lackner and K. Philip, Austin: University of Texas Press 1978, 33–71; J. Riley-Smith, “Crusading as an Act of Love,” History 65 (1980): 177–192; S. Schein, ‘Die Kreuzzüge als Volkstmülich messianische Bewegungen,’ Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 57 (1991): 119–138; M. Bull, Knightly Piety Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and Gascony, c. 970–c. 1130, New York: Oxford University Press 1993 and R. Landes, ‘The Massacres of 1010: On the Origins of Popular Anti-Jewish Violence in Western Europe,’ in From Witness to Witchcraft: Jews and Judaism in Medieval Christian Thought, ed. J. Cohen, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag 1996, 79–112. 7 R. Chazan, European Jewry in the First Crusade, Berkeley: Univ. of California 1987, 52–53 and S. Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, ch. 1. The fate of the Jews of Jerusalem was another matter. See B.Z. Kedar, ‘The Jerusalem Massacre of July 1099 in the Western Historiography of the Crusades,’ Crusades 3 (2004): 15–75. My thanks to Professor Yvonne Friedman for referring me to Kedar’s study. 8 Chazan, European Jewry, 50–60. 9 Haberman, 24 and Eidelberg, 22 (with minor changes). 10 I.e. the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Distorting the names of Christian sacra was a standard trope of medieval religious polemic. See A. Sapir-Abulafia, ‘Invectives against Christianity in the Hebrew Chronicles of the First Crusade,’ in Crusade and Settlement:

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Ishmaelites. Yet, here are the Jews whose forefathers murdered and crucified him for no reason. Let us first avenge ourselves upon them, and exterminate them as a nation, so that the name of Israel be no longer remembered. Or, let them adopt our faith and acknowledge the “offspring of promiscuity.”’11 Faced with the choice between apostasy and death, Jewish reactions were varied.12 Many fled. Some donned armor and fought against the crusader hordes. Large numbers were baptized, willingly or unwillingly.13 The majority, however, chose martyrdom. Some did so passively, stretching forth their necks before the broad-swords of their enemy. Others actively martyred themselves – committing suicide and, horribile dictu, slaughtering their wives and children in order to save them from baptism and lives immersed in what they saw as idolatry. Papers Read at the First Conference of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East, and Presented to R.C. Sail, P. Debary ed., Cardiff: Univ. College Cardiff 1985, 66–72 and D. Berger, ‘On the Image and Destiny of Gentiles in Ashkenazic Polemical Literature,’ Persecution, Polemic and Dialogue: Essays in Jewish-Christian Relations, Boston: Academic Studies Press 2010, 109–138. 11 This a fortiori argument is also recorded in Christian sources. See Guibert de Nogent, Histoire de sa Vie, ed. G. Bourgin, Paris 1907, 118. As to the question of the actual intent of the crusaders, with special emphasis on the chronicle of Albert of Aachen, see M. Minty, ‘Responses to medieval Ashkenazi martyrdom (Kiddush ha-Shem) in late medieval German Christian sources,’ Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 4 (1995): 13–38 and D. Malkiel, ‘Destruction or Conversion: Intention and Reaction, Crusaders and Jews, in 1096,’ Jewish History 15 (2001): 257–280. 12 Historians are divided as to the extent to which conversion to Christianity was a real option for Jews. For example, the alliance between crusaders and burghers, that the chronicles report, is often explained as a result of commercial competition between Jews and Christians. This would not have been mitigated by the Jews’ conversion, and predisposed the Christians for murder. There is no doubt that such competition, and the emnities it fostered, played a significant role here. However, it would be a mistake to emphasize it at the expense of purely religious sentiment. Medieval Christians and Jews alike viewed life through the prism of religious belief. Thus, even if the burghers of Mainz or Speyer were motivated by greed or envy, they also assumed that by attacking the Jew, or forcing him to covert, they were either avenging or vindicating their savior. 13 See Chazan, European Jewry, 85–136; E. Carlebach, Divided Souls: Converts from Judaism in Germany: 1500–1750, New Haven: Yale University 2001, 15ff and J. Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God: Jewish Martyrs and Jewish Memories of the First Crusade, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press 2004.

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The events of that bloody spring and summer dealt German Jewry a staggering blow.14 True, within a decade, most of the affected communities were again flourishing. The myriad dead were mourned and memorialized. By order of Emperor Henry iv, those who had been converted by force were allowed to return to their families and ancestral faith.15 Nevertheless, both spiritually and psychologically, the Jews of Germany were permanently scarred and forever haunted by the memories of these attacks, especially as the threat from an ever more militant Christendom was periodically renewed. A tectonic shift can be sensed in their personal sense of awareness. The events of 1096 were henceforth referred to blankly as ‘the evil decree’ (ha-gezerah).16 The ongoing sense of vulnerability prompted the surviving scholars of Mainz and Worms, Speyer and Köln to devote special attention to the preservation and defense of their legal and customal traditions.17 Joseph Dan has even argued that the rent in Ashkenazic consciousness was so deep that life itself appeared to some to be an existential challenge, amounting to a daily form of Qiddush Ha-Shem, of martyrdom.18 14

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The long term impact of that blow is a matter of some debate. See S. Schwarzfuchs, ‘Meqomam shel Massa’e ha-Tzelav be-Divre Yeme Yirael,’ in Tarbut ve-Hevrah be-Toldot Yisrael be-Yeme ha-Beynayim, ed. R. Bonfil et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1989, 251–267 and Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God, 33–43. See A. Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz ha-Rishonim,2 Jerusalem: Magnes 1989, 435–440 and S. Schwarzfuchs, ‘Meqomam shel Massa’e ha-Tzelav,’ 251–267. Y. Hacker, ‘Le-Gezerat TaTNU,’ Zion 31 (1966): 225–231. The phenomenon is reminiscent of the way that Holocaust survivors, and their children, refer to World War ii as ‘the war,’ as if it had occurred yesterday or as if, in the interim, there had not been innumerable subsequent wars, a number of which also threatened Jewish survival. Thus, the Makhirites, at the turn of the twelfth century, created Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Makhiri and, half a generation later, R. Eleazar b. Nathan of Mainz devoted much of his major work, Even ha-Ezer, to a defense of traditional Rhenish customs. See E.E. Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 5th ed., Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik 1985, 173–184 and M. Ben-Gedalia, Ha-Reqa le-Khetivat Sefer Even ha-Ezer, m.a. Thesis, Touro College-Israel 2002. This pattern repeated itself in the wake of the next massive dislocation to hit Germany’s Jews, the persecutions that accompanied the Black Death of 1349. See S. Cohn, ‘The Black Death and the Burning of the Jews,’ Past and Present 196 (2007): 3–36 and J. Woolf, ‘Between Diffidence and Initiative: Ashkenazic Legal Decising in the Late Middle Ages (1350–1500),’ Journal for Jewish Studies 52 (2001): 85–97. See Y. Dan, ‘Be’ayat Qiddush Ha-Shem be-Torata ha-Iyyunit shel Tenu’at Hassidut Ashkenaz,’ in Milhemet Qodesh u-Martyrologiyah be-Toldot Yisrael u-ve-Toldot ha-Amim, Jerusalem: Israel Historical Society 1967, 121–129 and I. Marcus, “‘Me-‘Deus Vult’ ve-ad ‘Ratzon ha-Bore: Ideyologi’ot Dati’ot Qitzoni’ot u-Metzi’ut Historit be-Shenat TaTNU ve-etzel Hasside Ashkenaz,” in Yehudim Mul ha-Tzelav, 92–100.

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Above everything, however, loomed many unanswered questions.19 How does one come to terms with the horrifying – yet glorious – acts of self-immolation and martyrdom that characterized these events? What, if any, justification was there for them? How did the survivors mend the gaping emotional wounds that the crusaders had inflicted? How did those who escaped unscathed view their martyred brethren? What of those who had been baptized, whether out of duress or despair? How were they viewed and how were they received back in the fold, if indeed they were so received? Finally, how did they integrate such a kaleidoscope of emotions and experiences into their value system and world outlook? As we have done throughout this study, answers to these questions are best answered by casting a wide net across the multifaceted literature that the First Crusade engendered. The events of 1096 are referred to, described and responded to in piyyutim, commentaries on the Bible and Rabbinic Literature, legal discussions, memorbücher, prayer books and customals. Of special importance, though, are the three Hebrew ‘Crusader Chronicles,’ which describe the events in great, dramatic detail.20 The chronicles have both fascinated and frustrated scholars.21 A seemingly endless debate whirls around questions such as their authorship, provenance, 19

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As Haym Soloveitchik has aptly noted: ‘The Jewish response to the First Crusade is much like that of the Crusade itself: The magnitude of the events dwarfs their known causes.’ Soloveitchik, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom,’ 269. The chronicles were first published in A. Neubauer and M. Stern, Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während der Kreuzzüge, Berlin: L. Simion 1892 (N-S). They were later reprinted, with additional sources, in A.M. Haberman, Sefer Gezerot Zarefat ve-Ashkenaz, Jerusalem 1970. A critical edition, with an annotated German translation, was completed by Eva Haverkamp, Hebräische Berichte über die Judenverfolgungen während des Ersten Kreuzzugs, Hannover: Hahn 2005. English translations are available in Eidelberg, S., The Jews and the Crusaders: The Hebrew Chronicles of the First and Second Crusades, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press 1977 and Chazan, European Jewry in the First Crusade, 223–297. For the sake of convenience, references here will be to the Haberman edition and to the translations by Eidelberg and Chazan. Citations were cross checked with the Haverkamp edition. There is a long standing debate among Jewish historians around the question of the degree to which Jewish writers cultivated historical writing in the pre-modern era. See, inter alia, A. Momigliano, ‘Time in Ancient Historiography,’ History and Theory 6 (1966): 1–23; Y.H. Yerushalmi, ‘Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory, Seattle and London: University of Washington Press 1982, 35–52; R. Bonfil, ‘How Golden was the Age of the Renaissance in Jewish historiography?’ in Essays in Jewish Historiography: In Memoriam Arnaldo Dante Momigliano, ed. A. Rapoport-Albert, Middletown, ct: Wesleyan Univ. 1988, 78–102; and the essays in the special issue of the Jewish Quarterly Review 97 (2007) that were devoted to Yerushalmi’s book.

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historical veracity, and implicit agenda.22 For almost two hundred years, the dominant approach has been to see these as accurate descriptions of the events.23 More recently, through the application of the tools of literary criticism and anthropology, some scholars have argued that these accounts are carefully crafted literary works. On this view, the chroniclers were interested in praising the martyrs in order to inspire others to follow their example. By comparing the Hebrew works to those of Christian contemporaries, they have shown that these are also polemical works, in which Jews respond to Christian claims and argue against the religious triumphalism that the Crusades engendered in Christian society. The agenda-driven, essentially rhetorical, character of the chronicles seriously vitiates their value as historical rapportage.24 As regards this question, I am in fundamental agreement with the median position enunciated by Haym Soloveitchik, who views ‘the accounts in the Crusade chronicle as being selective and hortatory but fairly accurate as far as they go.’ That does not contradict the belief that the speeches presented there, or the imagery that adorns the narrative, were not invented by the authors. Speaking of the long orations that the chroniclers place in the mouths of their actors, Soloveitchik adds: ‘They appear to me more like the speeches found in

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The various approaches are reviewed in J. Cohen, ‘The Hebrew Crusade Chronicles in  their Christian Cultural Context,’ in Juden und Christen zur Zeit der Kreuzzüge, ed. A. Haverkamp, Sigmaringen: Thorbecke 1999, 17–34 and idem, ‘Beyn Historiya le-Historiografiya: Al Heqer ha-Gezerot u-Qevi’at Mashma’utan,’ Yehudim mul ha-Tzelav, 16–31. The most prominent, contemporary advocate of this position is Robert Chazan. See R. Chazan, ‘The Facticity of Medieval Narrative: A Case Study of the Hebrew First Crusade Narratives,’ ajs Review 16 (1991): 31–56; idem, ‘The Timebound and the Timeless: Medieval Jewish Narration of Events,’ History and Memory 6 (1994): 5–34 and idem, European Jewry in the First Crusade, 40–49. The process of reexamination was started by Ivan Marcus. See I. Marcus, ‘From Politics to Martyrdom: Shifting Paradigms in the Hebrew Narratives of the 1096 Crusade Riots,’ Prooftexts 2 (1982): 40–52; idem, ‘The Representation of Reality in the Narratives of 1096,’ Jewish History 13 (1999): 37–48. His position has been basically adopted by Jeremy Cohen. See J. Cohen,‘“Gezerot TaTNU”- Ha-Me’ora’ot ve-ha-Alilot; Sippure Qiddush Ha-Shem be-Heqsheram ha-Tarbuti-ha-Hevrati,’ Zion 58 (1993): 169–208; idem, Sanctifying the Name of God, 30–54; and A. Gross, ‘Al Ma’ase Qiddush Ha-Shem be-Magentza beShenat TaTNU,’ in Yehudim mul ha-Tzelav, 171–192. As for agendas, Isaiah Sonne once suggested that one of the chronicles was composed by a former apostate in order to defend the latters’ integrity, even while living as Christians. See I. Sonne, ‘Nouvel examen des trois rélations hebraïques sur les persécutions de 1096,’ Revue des Etudes Juives 96 (1933): 137–152.

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Thucydides, correct in their overall thrust but reflecting what the writer imagines the participants would or ought to have said.’25 In the present context, Soloveitchik’s last point is most pertinent. There can be little or no doubt as to the basic outline of the events of 1096, as these are corroborated by independent testimonies, both Christian and Jewish.26 Crusaders and burghers made common cause against the Jews. Perhaps thousands of Jews were martyred, either passively or actively, rather than be baptized. Others, less than the Christians desired and more than the Jews were willing to admit, converted either willingly or under duress. Hence, even if the chronicles are only minimally reliable, they cannot have been spun out of whole cloth, or they would have possessed no credibility for their audience. At the same time, it is self-evident that the chronicles were written in an idiom that their authors assumed would speak to their intended audiences. After all, even they admit that their reports were meant to fill a didactic and liturgical function.27 To achieve this pedagogic goal, the authors wrote in a highly allusive, intertextual style that enlisted and evoked well-known themes, figures and motifs from Biblical and Rabbinic literature.28 Yet for precisely this reason, it is insufficient 25 26

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Soloveitchik, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom,’ 269–270. I have slightly expanded Professor Soloveitchik’s point. Grossman emphasized that many of these reports were authored by the leading scholars of post-Crusade Ashkenaz, men of impeccable integrity, such as R. Menachem b. Makhir, R. David b. Meshullam and R. Judah b. Qalonymos, and R. Eliezer b. Nathan. Cf. A. Grossman, ‘Beyn 1012 le-1096: Ha-Reqa ha-Tarbuti ve-ha-Hevrati le-Qiddush Ha-Shem be-TaTNU,’ in Yehudim Mul ha-Tzelav, 58 and idem, ‘The Cultural and Social Background of Jewish Martyrdom in Germany in 1096,’ Juden und Christen zur Zeit der Kreuzzüge, ed. A. Haverkamp, Sigmaringen: Thorbecke 1999, 73–86. Even Chazan, the leading advocate of the facticity of these texts, acknowledges that they are framed within symbols that carried contemporary valence. See R. Chazan, ‘The Facticity of Medieval Narrative: A Case Study of the Hebrew First Crusade Narratives,’ ajs Review 16 (1991): 31–56. This is the position adopted by Goldin, as well (‘The Socialisation for Kiddush Ha-Shem,’ 120). See G. Spiegel, ‘Forging the Past: The Language of Historical Truth in the Middle Ages,’ The History Teacher 17 (l984): 267–288 and idem, ‘History, Historicism and the Social Logic of the Text in the Middle Ages,’ Speculum 65 (1990): 59–86. Excellent examples are provided by Cohen (Sanctifying the Name of God) in his discussion of the two episodes which will concern us further on, that of Master Isaac the Parnas (91–105) and Mistress Rachel of Mainz, 106–129. One of the points of contention concerning the historicity of the chronicles centers upon the degree to which the authors actually invented names and actions in order to reflect earlier archetypes. Thus, in the case of Mistress Rachel, Cohen (106–107) assumes that both her name and parentage were invented, and advances a detailed analysis of why the author specifically chose to give her

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to view the chronicles as solely or even quintessentially twelfth century creations. Since crusade-era literature was written with a clearly didactic purpose, its authors must have written in an idiom that would resonate with their audience. Therefore, it is only logical to assume that the literary images, religious values and spiritual emotions they employed and evoked were precisely those that were typical, rather than revolutionary.29 The pace of religious and cultural change was extremely slow in the medieval world.30 It is in that light that the presence of twelfth century motifs and echoes in the chronicles should be understood. They should be evaluated in order to first determine whether they are adaptations – be they conscious or unconscious – of religious categories that carried over from the pre-crusade era. In other words, an appreciation of the changes introduced by the chroniclers and payyetanim in post-1096 Ashkenaz depends upon a careful, judicious comparison of that which they inherited and how they then modified that inheritance. Identifying those themes will contribute to unravelling the question as to what predisposed the Jews of the Rhineland and their descendants to such radical and horrific forms of active martyrdom, which deviate from Talmudic



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this name. Chazan, on the other hand, and Grossman (though, less emphatically) are willing to entertain the possibility that this was indeed her name. Cf. R. Chazan, God, Humanity, and History: The Hebrew First Crusade Narratives, Berkeley: University of California Press 2000, 166 ff. and Grossman, Pious and Rebellious, 199–201.  The fact is that the two approaches do not necessarily conflict. It may well be that the tragic heroine’s name really was Rachel. At the same time, as Robert Bonfil and others have shown, midrashic thinking was still very much alive in late eleventh century Ashkenaz. And even later, as born out by Piyyutim and the writings of German Pietists, its literary output remained pervasively commentatorial and associative. Thus, it is not surprising to find that chroniclers wove midrashic elaborations of the names and deeds they recorded, in order to achieve their didactic aim. See R. Bonfil, ‘Can Medieval Storytelling Help Understanding Midrash? The Story of Paltiel: a Preliminary Study on History and Midrash,’ The Midrashic Imagination: Jewish Exegesis, Thought, and History, ed. M. Fishbane, Albany: State University of New York Press 1993, 228–254; idem, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle: The Family Chronicle of Ahima’az ben Paltiel, Leiden and Boston: Brill 2009, 52–86 and H. Soloveitchik, ‘Three Themes in the Sefer Hassidim,’ ajs Review I (1976): 322–323; idem, ‘The Midrash, “Sefer Hassidim” and the Changing Face of God,’ in Creation and Re-Creation in Jewish Thought, ed. R. Elior and P. Schäfer, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2005, 165–177 and idem, ‘Sefer Hassidim, Olam ha-Midrash ve-ha-Humanism shel ha-Me’ah ha-12,’ Tarbitz 71 (2002): 531–536. Contra Cohen, ibid. 55. It is not coincidental that that the idea of longue durée historiography was initiated by medievalists. See P. Burke, The French Historical Revolution: The Annales School 1929–89, Stanford: Stanford University Press 1990.

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norms. The first major round of anti-Jewish violence in medieval Europe (1010–1012) does not seem to have produced general acts of martyrdom. On the  contrary, that episode is remembered more for the prominent Jews who apostatized – among them the son of none other than R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golah.31 Grossman surmises that over the course of the eleventh century the Jewish response to Christianity was transformed, ultimately producing the modes of behavior that marked the First Crusade.32 Grossman identified seven factors that prompted this shift to militant martyrdom: (1) The conflict between Church and Synagogue intensified greatly during this era, in part as a result of effective Christianization of Western Europe; (2) The central role of Aggadic and Midrashic literature in forming the Ashkenazic spiritual outlook; (3) The formative influence of the tenth century, pseudo-epigraphic version of Josephus, Sefer Yossipon; (4) The central role of piyyut in fashioning and expressing their spiritual outlook; (5) The deep and abiding influence of the Palestinian tradition of Halakhah on Franco-German Jews;33 (6) A powerful wave of messianic expectation that 31

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Concerning the events themselves, see R. Chazan, ‘1007–1012: Initial Crisis for Northern European Jewry,’ PAAJR 38/39 (1970/71): 101–117; K. Stow, The “1007 anonymous” and Papal Sovereignty: Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages,’ Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College 1984. Regarding the apostasy of the son of R. Gershom, see Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 112–113. There are also indications that the son of the famous scholar and payyetan, R. Solomon bar Isaac b. Abun, was also baptized (Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 89–90). Grossman, ‘Beyn 1012–1096,’ 56–57. Scholars have long maintained that many of the points wherein Ashkenazic halakhic tradition deviates from that of Spain and the Near East can be traced to differences between the traditions of the Land of Israel and Babylonia, in the Talmudic and Geonic eras. In recent years, the most outspoken advocates for this approach have been Robert Bonfil and the late Israel Ta Shma. See R. Bonfil, “Beyn Eretz-Yisrael le-Veyn Bavel: Qavim le-Heqer Toldot ha-Tarbut shel ha-Yehudim be-Italia ha-Deromit u-ve-Eropa ha-Notzrit be-Yeme haBeynayim ha-Muqdamim,’ Shalem 5 (1987): 19–26; idem, ‘Mythos, Rhetoriqa, Historia? Iyyun be-Megillat Ahima’az,’ in Culture and Society in Medieval Jewry: Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, ed. M. Ben-Sasson et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1989, 99–135; idem, ‘Cultural and Religious Traditions in Ninth-century French Jewry,’ Binah, 3 (1994): 1–17; I. Ta Shma, Minhag Ashkenaz ha-Qadmon: Heqer ve-Iyyun, Jerusalem: Magnes 1999, 98–103; idem, ‘Rashi et la Culture Juive en France du Nord au Môyen Age,’ in Rashi, 1040–1990: Hommage a Ephraim E. Urbach, ed. G. Sed-Rajna, 315–329 (Paris: Cerf 1993); idem, ‘Hit’abdut ve-Retzah ha-Zulat al Qiddush Ha-Shem: Le-She’elat Meqomah shel ha-Aggadah be-Massoret ha-Pesiqah ha-Ashkenazit,’ in Yehudim Mul ha-Tzelav, 150–156. Grossman, himself, has moved from a more limited view of the role of this putative Palestinian tradition, to a more expansive one. See A. Grossman, ‘Ziqatah shel Yahadut

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seized the community toward the end of the eleventh century; and (7) the strengthening of Jewish communal structure and awareness in contemporary Ashkenaz.34 Haym Soloveitchik offered a more concise explanation: (1) the conviction that martyrs were guaranteed eternal bliss (2) a feeling of revulsion toward the barbarians among whom they lived and (3) revulsion and abhorrence toward Christianity.35 Interestingly, almost none of these relate to martyrdom per se. I would go further and suggest that their martyrdom was a natural outgrowth of the basic values and perceptions of the medieval Ashkenazic worldview. Since medieval religious life was essentially mimetic in nature, the martyrs were more likely to have been guided by their religious intuition than by judicial fiat.36 Ashkenaz ha-Qedumahh el Eretz Yisrael,’ Shalem 3 (1981): 57–92; idem, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 424–435; and idem, ‘Shoroshav shel Qiddush Ha-Shem be-Ashkenaz ha-Qedumah,’ in Qedushat ha-Hayyim ve-Heruf ha-Nefesh, ed. I. Gafni and A. Ravitzky, Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 1993, 99–130. 34 Grossman’s leading critic on these points has been Haym Soloveitchik. Soloveitchik summarily rejects the possibility that there was a separate Palestinian halakhic tradition concerning martyrdom, which allowed for, much less mandated, suicide and (a fortiori) homicide. He notes that the tradents of the discussion of martyrdom in the Babylonian Talmud were all Palestinian (B. Sanhedrin 74a-b and B. Avodah Zarah 54a)! Similarly, while he acknowledges the creative and use of Aggadah by twelfth century scholars in order to justify the deeds of the martyrs post factum, he dismisses the idea that this practice reflects standard usage among pre-crusade (or post-crusade) halakhists. Finally, he dismisses the possible influence of Sefer Yossipon upon Rhenish Jews. As a result, he sees no reason that Second Temple episodes such as Masada could have had an impact upon Jewish behavior in 1096. See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Religious Law and Change: The Tosafist Example,’ ajs Review 12 (1987): 205–221; idem, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom,’ passim; idem, Ha-Yayin be-Yeme Ha-Beynayim, 321–343 and idem, Collected Essays, ii, Cambridge: Littman Library 2015, chs. 1–8. 35 Soloveitchik, Collected Essays, I, 105–106. 36 Goldin, ‘Socialization for “Kiddush ha-Shem,”’ 117–138 and idem, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, passim. This, of course, depends upon whether legal rulings actually guided the conduct of the martyrs. It is not necessary to here invoke the idea of ‘ritual instinct’ as developed by the late Jacob Katz (at least, not in its full sense). It is sufficient to assume that under extraordinary pressure, individuals will act in accordance with their deepest and most basic ideas and ideals. See J. Katz, The Shabbes Goy: A Study in Halakhic Flexibility, trans. Y. Lerner, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1989 and the critique in J. Harris (ed.), The Pride of Jacob: Essays on Jacob Katz and His Work, Cambridge: Harvard University Center for Jewish Studies 2002, 85–100.  For use of the word ‘mimetic’ see H. Soloveitchik, ‘Rupture and Reconstruction: The Transformation of Contemporary Orthodoxy,’ Tradition 28 (1994): 64–66.

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In the following pages, we will revisit the chronicles in light of the central categories of Ashkenazic religiosity that have already been presented. This examination will demonstrate that many of these values and ideals figure prominently both in the narrative and in the rhetoric that embraces it.37

Qedoshim in a Qehillah Qedoshah

In both chronicles and elegies, the authors consistently describe their fellows in terms that we have already encountered. They were part of ‘Sacred Communities’ (Qehillot Qedoshot, Qehillot Qodesh).38 These communities were virtual Jerusalems, wherein the synagogue stood in place of the Holy Temple.39 All of the Jews who resided in the affected communities are ‘holy ones,’ even before they are attacked or had decided how to respond to the crusader challenge.40 The members of the communities are presented as constituting and acting as part of an integrated whole.41 The martyrs are described as ‘holy ones,’ who are part of ‘sacred communities.’42 The identification between the two becomes a central leitmotif of Ashkenazic literature.43 37

Cf. Marcus, ‘From Politics to Martyrdom,’ 40–52 and A. Mintz, Hurban: Responses to Catastrophes in Hebrew Literature, New York: Columbia Univ. 1984, 87–105. I do not deny that twelfth century chroniclers and payyetanim introduced new motifs into their writings. I maintain, however, that these largely adumbrated the preexistent value structure. 38 E.g. Haberman, 25, 63, 80, and 94. Cf. Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God, 62–63. The first expression of this sentiment dates to the earliest documented persecutions, in the last years of the tenth century. Cf. Haberman, 12–13 and 20. Regarding these incidents, see R. Chazan, ‘The persecution of 992,’ rej 129 (1970): 217–221; idem, ‘1007–1012: Initial Crisis for Northern European Jewry,’ 101–117; K. Stow, The “1007 Anonymous” and Papal Sovereignty: Jewish Perceptions of the Papacy and Papal Policy in the High Middle Ages, Cincinnati: huc-jir 1984; and R. Landes, ‘The Massacres of 1010,’ 79–112. 39 Cf. Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God, 61–62 and Y. Yuval, ‘Heilige Städte, heilige Gemeinden – Mainz als des Jerusalem Deutschlands,’ Jüdische Gemeinden und Organisationsformen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, hrsg. R. Jütte u. A. Kustermann. Wien: Böhlau 1996, 91–101. 40 Haberman, 63, 99, 97, 101 etc. 41 Over and over, the authors refer to the Jews blankly as ‘the community’ or ‘all of the community.’ Cf. Haberman, 29, 34, 36, and 72 etc. 42 For post-Crusade persecutions see, inter alia, Haberman, 80, 97, 119, 125, 138 and 142. 43 It has special resonance in Ashkenazic belles lettres. See R. Kushelevsky, ‘R. Amnon miMagenza: Qehillat Qodesh,’ in Sigufim u-Pituyyim, 100–118 and I. Marcus, ‘A Pious Community and Doubt: Qiddush ha-Shem in Ashkenaz and the story of Rabbi Amnon of

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Now, scholars working in different disciplines have pointed out that just as the crusader chronicles were being written, Christian thinkers were developing a similar conception of Christendom as an integrated, corporate sacred community.44 They concluded from this that the heavy emphasis on the sanctity of the martyrs and their communities was part of a ‘counter-narrative,’ wherein Jews co-opted and adapted Christian concepts and turned them around – aiming them at their adversaries.45 However, we have seen that the self-perception of the Jews of Northern France and Germany as being part of integrated ‘Sacred Communities’ long preceded the First Crusade, as did the idea that each community was an organic extension of the greater Jewish body politic (Knesset Yisrael).46 What we have here, then, is the sharpening of an indigenous Jewish idea in the face of an external challenge. The present task, though, is the search for thematic continuity in Jewish crusade era literature, to which we now turn. Sacrifices The equation of the Synagogue with the Temple in Jerusalem and of the deep seated desire to view synagogue service as the equivalent of the sacrificial order finds powerful resonance in Ashkenazic martyrology. It was Shalom Spiegel who called attention to the fact that the motif of sacrifice pervades crusade literature in his path breaking study, The Last Trial.47 He highlighted the central role of the Biblical story of the ‘Binding of Isaac’

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Mainz,’ Studien zur jüdischen Geschichte und Soziologie (1992): 97–113. While the Talmud discusses many non-drastic ways in which the individual can sanctify God’s Name, postCrusade halakhic literature focuses almost exclusively on martyrdom. See, e.g., Sefer Mitzvot Qatan nos. 3 and 44. A. Haverkamp, ‘Heilige Städte” im Hohen Mittelalter,’ Mentalitäten im Mittelalter: Methodische u. inhaltliche Probleme, ed. F. Graus, Sigmaringen: Thorbecke 1987, 119–156; and Kushelevsky, Sigufim u-Pituyim, 100–118, especially 117–118. In addition to the above, see J. Cohen, ‘A 1096 complex? Constructing the First Crusade in Jewish Historical Memory: Medieval and Modern,’ in Jews and Christians in TwelfthCentury Europe, ed. M. Signer and J. Van Engen, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press 2001, 9–26. This is aside from the fact that, if anything, the notion of ecclesia omnium fideles was likely derived from the rabbinic ideal of Knesset Yisrael. S. Spiegel, The Last Trial: On the Legends and Lore of the Command to Abraham to Offer Isaac as a Sacrifice, The Aqedah, translated with an introduction by J. Goldin, New York: Pantheon Books 1967.

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(Aqedat Yitzhak; Gen. 22, 1–19) in the deeds and awareness of the martyrs. Alan Mintz expanded this tableau by noting that almost universally the chronicles describe active martyrdom as reenactments of the sacrificial order in the Temple.48 The martyrs are described as a ‘pleasing portion’ that is offered to God, a Biblical code that refers to animal sacrifices.49 Sometimes, the value of these sacrifices is attributed to the atonement they provide for the sins of their generation, much as sacrifices that were offered in the Holy Temple provided atonement both for individuals and for the entire nation.50 In addition, many of those who actively martyred themselves are described as consciously and carefully modeling their behavior on the laws guiding the sacrificial service in the Temple.51 The following is a sampling of this type of conduct: When they saw the battle raging to and fro, the decree of the King of kings, then they accepted divine judgment and expressed faith in their Creator and “offered up true sacrifices” (Deut. 33, 19).52 The women took the lad and slaughtered him – he was small and excee­ dingly comely. The mother spread her sleeve to receive the blood; she received the blood in her sleeves instead of in the [Temple] vessel for blood.53 48 Mintz, Hurban, 90–102. 49 R. Solomon b. Samson declared ‘this was the generation that was chosen to be His portion (manah).’ Eidelberg, 22 [=Haberman, 25]. The same sentiment was echoed by R. Eliezer b. Nathan (Haberman, 73). 50 E.g. Haberman, 36, 43, 56, 73. This is especially common in liturgical elegies. Cf. ibid. 71,  73, and 108. Resort to the theme increased significantly from the twelfth century, onward. 51 This was noted by Baer, though he was skeptical about the accuracy of such descriptions. (‘Introduction,’ Sefer Gezerot Zarefat ve-Ashkenaz, 4). I believe that his skepticism was unwarranted. 52 Haberman, 96 and Chazan, European Jewry, 230. 53 Haberman, 34 and Chazan, 259 (with a slight emendation). The sacrifice of animals in the Temple consisted of five major steps: slaughter (shehitah), receiving (or collecting) the blood into a sacred vessel (qabbalah), conveying the blood to the altar (holakhah), and sprinkling the blood on the altar (zeriqah). Slaughtering may be done by a non-Kohen, while all of the other stages are only valid if done by a priest. Cf. mt Hil. Ma’aseh ha-Qorbanot, 5. While those who slaughtered others appear to have been aware of the halakhic norms, in this case it appears to be invoked by the author, Solomon b. Samson. Is it possibly because non-priests could not perform this function, as opposed to slaughtering?.

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She still had two daughters, Bella and Matrona, comely and beautiful young women, the daughters of R. Judah her husband. The girls took the knife and sharpened it, so that it would not be defective.54 Emphases added-jrw

The best known, and likely the most horrifying, expression of this mode is the story of Master Isaac the Parnas.55 The story exists in two versions. As recounted by R. Eliezer b. Nathan: Two pious men were spared on that day because the enemy had defiled them against their will.56 The name of one was Master Uri, and the name of the second was Master Isaac – the latter being accompanied by his two daughters. They, too, greatly sanctified the Name and now accepted upon themselves a death so awesome that it is not recorded in all Biblical admonitions.57 For on the eve of Pentecost, Isaac, son of David, the Parnas, slaughtered his two daughters and set his house afire. Thereupon, he and Master Uri went to the synagogue before the Holy Ark, and they both died there before the Lord, wholeheartedly yielding to the consuming flames. And it is of them and their like that it is written: ‘He who offers the sacrifice of thanksgiving honors Me (Ps. 50, 23).’ The equation of Temple and synagogue is made even more forcefully and explicitly in the parallel version of this story in the Chronicle of Solomon b. Samson:58 For these do I weep and my eyes run with water, for the burning of the sanctuary of our God, and for the death by fire of Isaac, son of David, the Parnas, who was consumed by flames in his home … He went to his father’s house … he came to his mother and related his intentions to her. He exclaimed to her: “Mother, I have decided to bring a sin-offering to God of Heaven. Perhaps I will thereby achieve 54

55 56 57 58

Ibid. Halakhah demands that slaughtering knives be exceptionally sharp, and the blade without knicks, in order that the cut be smooth and quick. Cf. B. Hullin 17b and mt Hil. Shehitah 1, 16. See D. Malkiel, ‘Infanticide in Passover Iconography,’ Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 56 (1993): 93–94. Cf. Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God, 91–105. I.e., they had been baptized forcibly. Cf. Lev. 26, 14–56 and Deut. 28, 15–69. Eidelberg, 39–41 [=Haberman, Gezerot, 36–38]. I have corrected Eidelberg’s translation.

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atonement.”59 The mother, upon hearing the words of her Godfearing son, adjured him not to do this thing … Isaac, her saintly son, did not give heed to his mother’s pleas. He locked all the doors, with himself, his children, and his mother inside … Master Isaac the saint then took his two children-his son and his daughter-and led them through the courtyard at midnight into the synagogue before the Holy Ark, and there he slaughtered them, in sanctification of the Great Name, to the Sublime and Lofty God, Who has commanded us not to forsake pure fear of Him for any other belief, and to adhere to His Holy Torah with all our heart and soul. He sprinkled some of their blood on the pillars of the Holy Ark so as to evoke their memory before the One-and-Only Everlasting King. And he said: “May this blood expiate all my transgressions! (Ps. 50, 23)” In this version of the story, Master Isaac undertook several actions which mimicked the sacrificial service in the Temple. He ritually slaughtered his daughters. He sprinkled their blood upon the lintels of the Holy Ark, and he set his own house ablaze – much as one would offer a sacrifice on an altar.60 This was done at his home, ostensibly to prevent the capture and forced baptism of the girls by the rioting Crusaders and local burghers. Thereupon they proceeded to the synagogue, where they offered their own sacrifice. In other words, the reader is left with the feeling that the appropriate place for this mode of sacrifice is the synagogue which functions as a Temple substitute. In the second, more elaborate version of the story the Temple/Synagogue imagery is much more tangible. Isaac announces his intention to bring a sinoffering in expiation of his involuntary baptism.61 That sacrifice, horribile dictu, consisted of his two minor children and was carried out in the synagogue. The description of the deed is heavily laden with Temple imagery, especially as regards the sprinkling of his children’s blood upon the curtain of the Holy Ark. There can be no question that the description was meant to invoke the most awesome, sublime moment of the Temple Service on the Day of Atonement, when the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies and sprinkled the blood of

59 60 61

Recall, he had been forcibly baptized. Cf. Leviticus 1, 1 ff. The ‘sin-offering’ (hatat) was offered when a person inadvertently (or under duress) violated one of the thirty-six prohibitions which carry the punishment of karet, or excision. Committing idolatry is a premier example of these. Cf. Leviticus 4, 27–35 and M. Keritot 1, 1.

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two sin-offerings upon the Ark of the Covenant and upon the curtain that divided the Sanctuary.62 Isaac’s story resonates on different levels. It conveys the idea that the sacrifice of Isaac’s children expiated his own sin of apostasy. It sends the message that his children were transformed into the holiest of sacrifices (qodashe qodoshim), whose burning bodies were swept heavenward in the flames of the burning synagogue. In our discussion of the perception of the synagogue, encountered the allpervasive identification of the synagogue with the Holy Temple and the equation of synagogue worship with Temple Service. Undoubtedly, these created the necessary context for the actions that are described in the chronicles. One question does remain. Was the average Ashkenazic Jewish male sufficiently aware of the details of the Temple Service to actively imitate them and to subsequently appreciate their literary invocation in the crusader chronicles and elegies? If we were solely concerned with Jewish literacy from the twelfth century onward, we could confidently assert that Jews were intimately aware of the details of the sacrificial system simply from studying Rashi’s Bible commentary, whether privately or in communal settings. However, in 1096, Rashi’s commentary was still a work in progress.63 Yet even in the absence of Rashi’s commentary, Jews had ample opportunity to become versed in the broad details of the Temple service. To begin with, again, Pre-Tosafist Jewish elementary education commenced with, and was based upon, close study of the Five Books of Moses.64 Ashkenazic scholars in pre-Crusade Europe were intensely involved in the explication and exposition of the Biblical text.65 The Talmudic requirement that everyone review the weekly Bible portion was taken very seriously.66 Sources reflecting the late eleventh century Jewish life describe the study of the weekly portion as part of the established rhythm of the Sabbath.67 Bible study, perforce, included the detailed descriptions of the Temple Service in the books of Exodus, Leviticus and Numbers. Nor was knowledge of the sacrificial order contingent upon the formal act of reading. Manuscripts may not have been as 62 63

Cf. Lev. 4, 27–53 and M. Yoma 5, 3–5. Even if it had begun to spread in its earlier versions, one doubts that it influenced either the martyrs or the chroniclers. Once completed, though, Rashi’s commentary did spread very quickly. It already reached as far as Spain by the early twelfth century. 64 Cf. E. Kanarfogel, ‘On the Role of Bible Study in Medieval Ashkenaz,’ in Frank Talmage Memorial Volume, I, ed. B. Walfish, Haifa: Haifa University Press 1993, 152 and the sources cited there in note 9. 65 Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 64–66. 66 B. Berakhot 8a. The obligation included the Aramaic paraphrase (Targum), as well. 67 Sefer ha-Oreh Cf. mv, 228 s.v. hamesh shanim la-miqra and Roqea’hha-Shalem, 11.

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scarce as has long been thought, but they were still very expensive.68 Most people could not afford to purchase their own copies of basic texts, such as Bibles and Prayer books.69 As a result, a significant amount of Bible study was done orally.70 In addition to the relevant portions of the Pentateuch, fully one sixth of the Talmud deals with the intricacies of the Temple Service. In addition, extensive portions of tractates in other ‘orders’ are devoted to Temple related topics (e.g. the Passover sacrifice, the Yom Kippur Avodah etc.). Almost all of the former and all of the latter were closely studied and explicated in the eleventh century academies in the Rhineland.71 They continued to be the focus of intense study by the Tosafists, down to the end of our period.72 This material was meant only for the scholarly élite. That, at least, is implied by statements of German Pietists, as early as the first half of the twelfth century. Thus, R. Samuel he-Hasid (12th cent.) instructs: ‘If you see a precept that is being neglected, for example, if you see people in your city studying Seder Mo’ed, Seder Nashim and Seder Neziqin,73 you should study Seder Qodashim …. For these neglected tractates and laws, which people do not usually study, have the status of a met mitzvah.’74

68 69

70 71

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73 74

Cf. S. Emanuel, Shivre Luhot: Sefarim Avudim shel Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, Jerusalem: Magnes 2006, 18. The most recent discussion, along with the relevant bibliography, is found in E. Kanarfogel, ‘Devarim she-bi-Khtav I Ata Rashai le-Omran Al Peh: Amirat ha-Pesuqim she-ba-Tefillah u-Middat ha-Oryanut be-Ashkenaz u-ve-Sefarad be-Yeme ha-Baynayim,’ in Rishonim veAharonim: Mehqarim be-Toldot Yisrael Mugashim le-Avraham Grossman, ed. Y. Haker et al., Jerusalem: Merkaz Shazar 2010, 187–211. See the discussion of general literacy, above 17–21. See I. Ta-Shma, Sifrut ha-Parshanit la-Talmud, I, Jerusalem: Magnes 2004, 35–40. On the relationship between these earlier commentaries, and that of Rashi, see Grossman, Hakhme Zarefat, 216–218. Haym Soloveitchik notes that the study of these sections of the Talmud is unique to Ashkenaz. See H. Soloveitchik, ‘Minhag Ashkenaz ha-Qadmon: A Reassessment,’ Collected Essays, ii, 33–34. The subsequent study of Seder Qodoshim in Ashkenaz (and elsewhere), is reviewed in E. Kanarfogel, ‘What Do They Study in Your Yeshivah? The Scope of Talmudic Commentary in Europe during the High Middle Ages,’ in Printing the Talmud; From Bomberg to Schottenstein, ed. S. Mintz and G. Goldstein, New York: Yeshiva University Museum 2005, 43–52. These are the three, more ‘practical,’ orders of the Talmud, though they all contain significant amounts of other material. shp no. 1. This opening section of the Parma manuscript of Sefer Hassidim is commonly attributed to R. Samuel ha-Hasid, the father R. Judah he-Hasid (Urbach, Ba’ale ha-Tosafot, 194). A met mitzva (lit. ‘a dead person who is a mitzva’) is a deceased individual who has no one to see to his final rites and rest.

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Lest one think that R. Samuel’s cri-de-Coeur was directed solely at a pietist élite, it was echoed a century later by the French Tosafist, R. Moses of Coucy: ‘And there are those from among the common folk who say: ‘Of what use to us are the commandments contained in Seder Qodashim, a fortiori those commandments contained in Seder Zera’im75 or Seder Toharot,76 those matters which do not pertain to the present age.’ Let no one speak in this way, for it is a religious duty for one to know the foundations of the commandments, given by the Lord of All, even if they are not presently needed’ [Emphasis added-jrw].77 The ‘common folk’ (hamon ha-am) was also called upon to study Seder Qodoshim. What unites these two assertions, divided by geography and chronology, is the conviction that the study of the Temple Service is not just in the bailiwick of the scholarly few. Its basics were part of the curriculum of every educated Jew.78 What were R. Samuel and R. Moses looking to achieve? Were they trying to expand the traditional Ashkenazic program of study? Or were they seeking to restore a status quo ante? I am inclined toward the latter possibility. The history of Talmud study is consistently marked by a trend towards the practical and away from the ostensibly theoretical.79 If so, these scholars were adopting a restorative – not an innovative – posture. In any event, the average person did not have to devote study time to Seder Qodashim in order to become intimately familiar with the sacrificial order. Every day, in order to fulfill his minimum requirement of Torah study, Jews recited passages from the Bible, the Mishnah and the Talmud. In Ashkenaz, these passages were almost exclusively drawn from texts that described the daily routine in the Temple, including all of the various types

75

This order discusses agricultural laws (e. g. heave offerings, tithes etc.), and applies to the Land of Israel. 76 This order concentrates upon the laws of ritual purity. 77 Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, ii, Introduction. On the broader importance of this passage, see J. Woolf, ‘Maimonides Revised: The Case of the “Sefer Miswot Gadol”,’ htr 90 (1997): 183– 184 and, more generally, I. Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides (Mishneh Torah), New Haven: Yale University Press 1980, 208–214. 78 I do not agree with the connection that Kanarfogel (‘What Do They Study?’ 47 n. 19) makes between R. Moses and the German Pietists. In addition to the traditional Ashkenazic affinity for Seder Qodashim, I believe that R. Moses was far more influenced by Maimonides’ advocacy of a broad Talmudic curriculum than by German Pietist writings. See Woolf, ‘Maimonides Revised,’ 182–185 and my review of Kanarfogel’s book, Peering Through the Lattices, in ajs Review 27 (2003): 332–333. 79 Twersky, Introduction to the Code of Maimonides, 195–200.

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of offerings that were brought there.80 On Sabbaths and Holy Days, the liturgy added sources that described the sacrifices that were due to be offered on those days. On Yom Kippur, the central moment of the service was the recitation of the Avodah, with its detailed description of the Temple service. As evidenced by the large number of commentaries that were written for this text, it was studied by many and no doubt that information was passed on to others.81 As we have already seen, the Ashkenazic synagogue was viewed and experienced as an ersatz Temple. The worship that was performed there was often slavishly modeled upon and technically defined as the equivalent of the Temple service. From the earliest days, Ashkenazic piyyutim consistently and emphatically beseeched God to consider the prayers of the worshipper as temporary substitutes for the offerings that, by rights, should be offered in the Holy Temple. Following a Talmudic motif, it was believed that the recitation of the sacrificial service was as pleasing to God – as if the worshipper had actually made the offering he was bidden.82 Whether their knowledge was derived from their prayers, their studies, or impressions derived from their worship, the religious world of medieval Franco-Germany was infused with a vivid sense of the reality of the sacrificial service. Such an all pervasive ambience of worship and service as sacrifice would naturally have suggested itself as a model for sacrificial martyrdom and for elaboration by those who wished to more deeply instill it as a model for future action. 80

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Cf. MV(G), I, 6–8. The ubiquity of this practice is borne out by the Goldsmith’s cross-references in the notes to these three pages. See also MV(H), sec. 89 s.v. ve-arva; Sefer Ravan, Heleq ha-ShuT, no. 120; Roqe’ah ha-Shalem, sec.  53; and Shibbole ha-Leqet, sec.  5. Some restricted the recitation of the sacrificial order to the Sabbath morning prayers. See Or Zaru’a, ii no. 42. Hollander (Clavis Commentariorum of Hebrew Liturgical Poetry, 344–346 and 523) lists no less than fifty three Ashkenazic manuscripts containing commentaries on the two most commonly recited version of the Seder Avodah: Ametz Koach and Ata Konanta, both of them by the eleventh century scholar, R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos (Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 76–78; Davidson, Thesaurus, I, no. 5703 and 8816). The latter should not be confused with an Avodah of the same name by the Palestinian payyetan Yose b. Yose (4th/5th cent.; Davidson, Thesaurus, I, no. 8815). MV(H), sec. 1 s.v. Tanya hi; and Perush le-Seder Tefillah La-Roqeah, 35 (based on bt Yoma 86b). Shibbole ha-Leqet (sec. 5; Mirsky, 133), states that if one recited the passages describing the morning sacrifices before daybreak, when the offerings themselves were performed, one has not fulfilled his obligation. The fact that reciting these passages was regarded as an obligation, and that it had to occur precisely when the sacrifices were offered, underscores the above point.

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Accessing Heaven

Chroniclers frequently expressed the belief that salvation and eternal bliss would be the immediate reward of the martyrs. Once again, a few representative examples will suffice to convey the basic conviction: “Let us be of good courage and bear the yoke of the Holy Faith, for the enemy can only slay us by the word for now, and death by the sword is the lightest of the four deaths [imposed by the Torah].83 We shall then earn eternal life, and our souls will abide in the Garden of Eden in the  presence of the great, luminous speculum forever.’ All of them declared willingly and wholeheartedly, “After all is said and done, there is no questioning the ways of the Holy One, blessed be He and blessed be His  Name, Who has given us His Torah and has commanded us to allow  ourselves to be killed and slain in testimony to the Oneness of His  Holy Name … .Such a one is destined for the World-to-Come, where  he will sit in the realm of the saints – Rabbi Akiba and his ­companions, pillars of the universe, who were killed in testimony to His Name. Moreover, for such a person a world of darkness is exchanged for a world of light, a world of sorrow for one of joy, a transitory world for an eternal world.84 When the saintly one saw them (i.e. the Crusaders), he trusted in his Creator and called to them saying: ‘Lo you are the children of lust. You believe in one who was born of lust. But I believe in the God who lives forever, who dwells in the highest heaven. In him have I trusted to this day to the point of death. If you kill me, my soul will repose in paradise, in the light of life. But ‘you will descend to the nethermost pit,’ (Ps. 55, 24) ‘to everlasting abhorrence,’ (Dan. 12, 3) to hell, where you will be judged along with your deity, who was a child of lust and was crucified.”’85

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Jewish law prescribes four methods of capital punishment: Stoning, Burning, Decapitation by sword, and strangulation. According to one opinion (B. Sanhedrin 49b), death by the sword is the less severe form of execution. Interestingly, the regnant opinion among Ashkenazic (and non-Ashkenazic) authorities was that strangulation was the less severe mode of death. Cf. Rashi, ibid. s.v. arba and Hagahot ha-Maimuniot, Hil. Sanhedrin 14 no. 1. Chazan, 254–255 and Haberman 31. Cohen (Sanctifying the Name of God, 25 ff.) notes that the same belief existed among crusaders. Chazan, 242–243 and Haberman, 104.

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Let us offer ourselves up as a sacrifice to the Lord, ‘like a whole burnt offering’ (I Sam. 7, 9) to the Most High offered on the altar of the Lord. We shall exist in a world that is entirely daylight, in paradise, in the shining light. We shall see him eye to eye, in his glory and in his majesty. Each one shall receive a golden crown on his head, in which are set precious stones and pearls. We shall be seated there among ‘the pillars of the universe’ and shall eat as part of the society of the saintly in paradise. We shall be part of the company of R. Akiba and his associates. We shall be seated on a golden throne under the Tree of Life. Each of us shall point to him by finger and say: ‘This is our God; we trusted in him and he delivered us. This is the Lord, in whom we trusted; let us rejoice and exult in his deliverance’ (Ps. 25, 9).86 These speeches contain several of the motifs that run through much of crusade literature: deriving inspiration from giants of the Bible and Rabbinic literature, the determination to affirm the Oneness of God against Trinitarian Christianity, a sense of personal and collective mission, and the bliss to which the martyrs may look forward in Paradise. Further consideration of the speech, though, reveals an important insight into Jewish sacred geography and sense of place: Heaven was very near, very accessible and very desirable. The chronicler conveyed this message to his readers in a number of ways. The martyr is guaranteed entry to ‘the Garden of Eden in the presence of the great, luminous speculum,’ i.e. to the Presence of God Himself.87 He would keep extremely distinguished company in the celestial realms, such as ‘Rabbi Akiba and his companions, pillars of the universe,’ individuals who were the exemplars of willingness to die for the sanctification of God’s Name (‘who were killed in testimony to His Name’).88 This sense of the immediate proximity of the World to Come tallies with the sense of sacred space that we saw in our discussions of the community. A sense of God’s Presence, of His In-dwelling (Shekhinah) was a hallmark of the synagogue in particular and of communal space in general. God was believed to be

86

Chazan, 281 and Haberman, 48–49. See Cohen’s important discussion of this passage in Sanctifying the Name of God, 73–90. 87 The expression was characteristic of the esoteric lore cultivated in medieval Ashkenaz, especially among German Pietists. See E. Wolfson, Through a Speculum that Shines: Vision and Imagination in Medieval Jewish Mysticism, Princeton: Princeton University Press 1994. 88 Cohen, Sanctifying the Name of God, 19–20.

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even more palpably present at critical moments in the worship service, such as when the Torah was removed from and returned to the Holy Ark or when the priests blessed the people on Holy Days. Public prayer marked a melding of the community, in which the recitation of the liturgy of sanctification (Qedushahh) rendered the Jew the equal of, and perhaps superior to the heavenly angels. All of this together gave the contemporary Ashkenazic Jew an overwhelming sense of Heaven’s proximity. However, no less important is the immediacy of R. Akiva’s persona and that of the other ancient martyrs. For contemporary Ashkenazim, Biblical and Talmudic era heroes were eminently accessible. Their figures carried profound valence. The promise of being with them in the Afterlife was not an abstract notion, but a tangible, attractive reality. Spending eternity in the company of the righteous and the martyred both validated and facilitated their impossible decision.89 In this sense, Jewish perceptions paralleled those of the crusaders. Contemporary Christians were inspired to take up the Cross by the very real sense that they were following Jesus into battle.90 Christian martyrology sought to instill in its adherents the belief that past martyrs and saints would support them in their sacrifice and greet them at the gates of heaven. Heaven itself was  described – and evidently anticipated – in a concrete fashion. Here, too, the way the Jewish chronicler describes the Afterlife dovetails with contemporary Christian perceptions. Nevertheless, from an experiential point of view, the images and emotions that moved the Jewish martyr were uniquely indigenous.

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The type of self-identification finds powerful expression in the role of the ‘Sacrifice of Isaac’ (Aqedat Yitzhaq) in the chronicles and subsequent Ashkenazic literature. It is my belief that, here too, post-Crusade authors expanded upon deeply held sentiments that were rooted in tenth and eleventh century Franco-German thought patterns. However, such a discussion will have to wait for a different occasion. In the interim, see Mintz, Hurban, 92–96; G. Cohen, ‘Hannah and her Seven Sons in Hebrew Literature,’ in Studies in the Variety of Rabbinic Cultures, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1991, 39–60; I. Marcus, ‘From Politics to Martyrdom: Shifting Paradigms in the Hebrew Narratives of the 1096 Crusade Riots,’ Prooftexts 2 (1982): 40–52; and J. Woolf, ‘Akedat Yitzchak: On the Perception of Historical Experience in Judaism,’ available at: http://www.biu.ac.il/JH/ Parasha/eng/vayera/evayera2.html. See R. Southern, The Making of the Middle Ages, London: Hutchinson 1967 and RileySmith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, passim. Jeremy Cohen (Sanctifying the Name of God, 63–64) notes that the emphasis upon the Aqedah also served as a contretemps to Christian attempts to co-opt it as a prefiguration of the crucifixion.

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Fleeing Impurity

Scholars have long noted the intensely pejorative language that the chroniclers used vis-à-vis Jesus, Christianity, and Christians.91 Jesus is describes as the ‘child of a menstruant’ or ‘the child of licentiousness’ (ben ha-niddah, ben hazimah).92 Christianity is routinely referred to as idolatry (Avodah Zarah) and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher as ‘the house of idolatry’ (bet ha-terafut).93 Baptismal waters were ‘waters of stench’ (me tzahanah).94 R. Avraham b. Azriel describes the choice of Israel by God ‘As a man who girds himself with a sash, so You have attached them to Yourself from the filth.’95 Among the adjectives that both chroniclers and payyetanim cast at Christianity, special notice should be taken of the assertion that it is ‘ritually impure’ (tameh). Actually, considering the many devastating descriptive terms hurled at Christians, tameh appears almost banal. Nevertheless, such terminology is ubiquitous. Christians are ‘uncircumcised and impure’ (arelim u-tame’im).96 Baptismal water was ‘putrid and impure’ (seruhim u-tame’im), ritually defiling all who were touched by them.97 Over all of this hovered the awareness that Christianity was based upon the adoration of a dead man, whose body imparted the most severe form of Tum’ah, that of a corpse (tum’at met).98 This usage is not just another type of invective, but speaks to a deeper level of Ashkenazic religious – and ethno-national – awareness.99 The imputation of ritual pollution to Christianity has a long pedigree. 91

See Sapir-Abulafia, ‘Invectives against Christianity,’ 66–72. Subsequent Jewish polemical literature was often even more intense. See D. Berger, The Jewish Christian Debate in the High Middle Ages; A Critical Edition of Niẓẓaḥon Vetus, New Jersey: Jason Aronson 1996. 92 Haberman, Gezerot, 24, 31, 101, 104 etc. Sapir-Abulafia, ‘Invectives against Christianity,’ 68–72. 93 Based upon Gen. 31, 19. See Haberman, Gezerot, 24, 26, 27, 38, 44, 77 etc. 94 Haberman, Gezerot, 38, 46 etc. I suspect that the characterization of baptismal water as ‘putrid’ or ‘stench’ was a reaction to the odor of the Oil of Chrism, which was applied to the head of the convert. Cf. J.D.C. Fisher, Christian Initiation: Baptism in the Medieval West: A Study in the Disintegration of the Primitive Rite of Initiation, London 1965, 53–87. 95 Arugat ha-Bosem, iii, 12. 96 Haberman, Gezerot, 35, 45, 55 and 103. 97 Haberman, 42, 45, 54, 85, 104, 118, and 154. 98 Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah: Selihot u-Pizmonim, ed. A.M. Haberman, Jerusalem: Mossad Ha-Rav Kook 2004, 12 l. 17 (=Haberman, Gezerot, 16 l. 17). The descriptions of Jesus’ body as a putrid corpse would naturally have evoked its impure status. 99 Cf. A.D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations, Oxford: Blackwell 1986 and idem, The Nation in History: Historiographical Debates about Ethnicity and Nationalism, Hanover (nh): University Press of New England 2000, 52–78.

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While the Bible did not declare idols or their appurtenances to be impure; rabbinic tradition certainly did. The rabbis decreed that idols, their ritual accessories, offerings made to them and non-Jews generally imparted impurity of various degrees of severity.100 Originally, these forms of pollution were intended both to distance Jews from pagan worship and to create barriers against social intercourse and intermarriage.101 Since they were pegged to a religious lifestyle wherein ritual purity was observed, once the latter declined, so did the former. At first glance, Franco-German halakhists were no different in this regard than were their Spanish or Levantine colleagues. Despite the fact that Ashkenazic authorities consistently maintained that Christianity was Avodah Zarah, their discussions of the core Talmudic passages on the issue of its ritual impurity and its possible practical implications are singularly theoretical, even anemic.102 On the declarative level, however, the situation is markedly different. The idea that Christianity is a source of ritual pollution is a constant of Medieval Ashkenazic literature, going back to its roots in tenth century Southern Italy. It is featured in the compositions of the tenth century Italian payyetan, Solomon ha-Bavli, and resonates through the eleventh century.103 This idea was a natural expression of the conviction that contemporary Christianity was a continuation of ancient pagan idolatry.104 This motif is also found, in a more limited fashion, in legal works. An opening passage in the twelfth century collection, Liqqute Pardes, reads:105 100 M. Shabbat 9, 1; B. Shabbat 82a-83b; B. Avodah Zarah 47b and mt Hil. She’ar Avot haTum’ah 6, 1–7. Cf. et, xix, 491–494. 101 Cf. C. Hayes, ‘Intermarriage and Impurity in Ancient Jewish Sources,’ htr 92 (1999): 3–36 and idem, Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2002. 102 Cf. Rashi and Tosafot ad B. Shabbat 82a-83b and B. Avodah Zarah 47b. See also, Sefer Ravyah, Teshuvot u-Ve’ure Sugyot, no. 1068. One does not find the type of extensive disquisitions that one would have expected were this an issue of serious practical import. Thus, I have yet to encounter any source that requires hand washing after handling Christian ritual objects – even prior to prayer, reciting blessings or Torah study. 103 See Piyyute Shlomo ha-Bavli, ed. E. Fleischer, Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences 1973, 310 (ani Yom Ira), 341 (Ta’arog Elekha). He was followed by R. Gershom Me’or ha-GolaZh, R. Simon b. Isaac and, naturally, poets who wrote after 1096. Piyyute R. Simon b. Yitzhaq, ed. A.M. Haberman, Berlin-Jerusalem 1938, 139 l.13, 170 l. 21; and Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golahh: Selihot u-Pizmonim, 12 l. 17. 104 A. Grossman, ‘Perush Rashi le-Tehillim ve-ha-Pulmos ha-Yehudi ha-Notzri,’ in Sefer ha-Yovel le-Moshe Arend, ed. D. Rappel, 59–74 (Jerusalem 1996); idem, ‘Pulmos Dati u-Megamah Hinukhit be-Ferush Rashi la-Torah,’ Pirqe Nehamah: Sefer Zikkaron le-Nehama Leibowitz, ed. M. Arend et al., Jerusalem: World Zionist Organization 2001, 187–205. 105 2a.

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We have found in the Torah that the daughters of Israel must rigorously observe its statutes and commandments, as we find in Parshat Qedoshim Tihyu: ‘If a man has intercourse with a woman who is menstruating, he has committed a sexual offense with her. He has her womb, and she has revealed the source of her blood; both of them shall be cut off from among their people’106 … And it says nearby: ‘You shall therefore keep all of My statutes, and all of My ordinances, and do them, so that the land, to which I bring you to dwell therein, does not vomit you out.’107 Just as one vomits out something disgusting in his stomach, so the land vomits out a person who acts lewdly. Furthermore, there is a command not to behave like the gentiles, as it is written: ‘You shall not follow in the Statutes of the Nations.’108 Not only that, but He is disgusted by them, as it is written: ‘for they did all these things, and therefore I abhorred them.’109 Israel, however, who are pure and holy to their God, He set apart from the pollutions of the gentiles, as it is written: ‘For I, the Lord, am holy, and have set you apart from the nations, that you should be Mine’. Emphasis added-jrw

This passage is a motivational proem to the rigorous observance of the laws of menstrual purity. As such, it has no formal legal implications. However, it is significant in the way in which it colors that observance. No distinction is made between moral and ritual impurity. Both are profoundly revolting, both to God and man. The revulsion that God, the Land of Israel and the Jew experience, in the presence of pollution, is physical. It is the exact equivalent of a feeling of over-powering nausea. In this passage, the author has added the unifying idea that all this revulsion, all of this nausea, and all of this ritual and moral pollution are derived from – and are identical with – the abominations of the gentiles. In other words, the non-Jewish world is a world of sensate Tum’ah. By way of contrast, however, he declares that ‘Israel, however, who are pure and holy to their God, He set apart from the pollutions of the gentiles, as it is written: ‘For I, the Lord, am holy, and have set you apart from the nations, that you should be Mine.’ The domain of the Jew is that of purity and sanctity. According to the author, it is precisely this contrast that must be inculcated into the

106 107 108 109

Lev. 20, 18. V. 22. V. 23. The text actually reads ‘The statutes of the nation.’ Ibid.

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hearts of observant Jewesses in order to inspire scrupulous observance of the laws of marital purity.110 The idea that contact with the non-Jewish world pollutes found expression, ironically, in a mistaken ritual practice. Rabbinic tradition maintained that eating or cooking utensils that were acquired from a non-Jew must be immersed in a miqveh prior to using them.111 This requirement was restricted to metal or glass utensils.112 Other materials, as long as they were either new or had been previously purged, did not require immersion. Nevertheless, according to Sefer ha-Oreh, all vessels of Gentile provenance required immersion:113 New glass vessels require immersion, as they are like metal ware. In the same way, any new, non-earthenware vessel (kle shetef) that one has purchased from a non-Jew, he immerses it in ‘living waters.’114 This is in line with what we learn in Avodah Zarah115: R. Nahman said in the name of Rabbah bar Abuha: ‘Even new vessels require immersion in living waters, since we derive it from the episode of Midian. That immersion is not for purposes of purification,116 since used vessels, after they have been purged are pure of prohibited residue. They are like new vessels. Nevertheless, they require immersion, as learn from the verse: ‘whatever was used over fire 110 Obviously, this point did not originate with the author of this passage. It is based upon Biblical and Rabbinic usage. However, as so often noted here, there is any number of different lines of interpretation that the author could have adopted. It is significant that he specifically opted for this one, convinced that it would resonate with his intended audience. Cf. Sefer Ravan, nos. 318 and 335 and Roqe’ah no. 317. 111 See Mishnah, Avodah Zarah 5, 12; T. Avodah Zarah (Zuckermandel), 8, 2 and B. Avodah Zarah 75b-76b. This requirement is independent of the need to render the utensil ritually fit, if it had already been used for non-kosher food. See T. Grossmark, ‘“And He Decreed that Glassware is Susceptible to Becoming Unclean”: The Application of the Laws of Ritual Purity to Glassware Reconsidered,’ Jewish Studies Quarterly 17 (2010): 191–212. 112 See Avodah Zarah, ibid. and Shulhan Arukh, Yoreh De’ah 120 par. 1. Regarding the legal distinctions between metal, glass and other materials, see et, 18, 507–8. 113 Sefer ha-Oreh, ii, no. 20 s.v. u-khlei zekhukhit (= MV(H), Hilkhot Pesah sec.  6 s.v. u-khle zekhukhit). 114 Miqva’ot cannot be filled with water that is drawn by man (mayim she’uvim), and were fillied with rain water or from natural springs. These latter are called ‘living waters.’ This requirement, that vessels be immersed in ‘living waters,’ is set forth in B. Avodah Zarah 75b. 115 Ibid. 116 The author means purified of non-kosher residue that might have accrued in the walls of the vessel or utensil. This is another example of the interchangeability of the dyads pure/ impure and permitted/prohibited that we discussed in the previous chapter.

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must be brought over fire and purified, and [then] purified with the sprinkling of water. However, that which was not used over fire need only be immersed in water.’117 This refers to the purging [of the vessels]. It also says, ‘and purified.’ From this we derive that it requires immersion. Thus, contrary to the explicit statement of the Talmud, the accepted practice in eleventh century Ashkenaz maintained that all kle shetef, all non-earthenware vessels, had to be immersed in a miqveh.118 This was required because the vessels were deemed to require ritual purification – independent of any concern that their use might involve the consumption of non-kosher remains, simply because they came from a non-Jewish source. On the one hand, this custom most likely developed because eleventh century Rhenish scholars did not possess tractate Avodah Zarah, wherein all of these rules are detailed.119 At the turn of the twelfth century, as familiarity with tractate Avodah Zarah increased, it became clear that the requirement to immerse vessels that were neither metal nor glass was unfounded. Thus, Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim reports: ‘The teacher, however, told us that one does not need to immerse any vessel that one purchases from a non-Jew, except for a metal utensil such as a knife, a spit, a cauldron; vessels of silver and of gold, and all types of metal.’120 From that time onward, the practice disappeared.121 Nevertheless, it remains significant that throughout the eleventh century, the 117 Num. 31, 23. I have adjusted the translation to the perceptions of the text and the requirements of the discussion. 118 For the definition of kle shetef, see et, 20, 314. See also Rashi ad Hullin 25a s.v. ve-lo. 119 See H. Soloveitchik, “Can Halakhic Texts Talk History?’ Collected Essays, I, 178–179. 120 Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Geonim, ed. A. Epstein, Berlin 1909, 7–8. The text begins: ‘My distinguished brother found in the ‘She’arim’ that that one might think that non-Jewish vessels that have absorbed food (gi’ule goyyim) do not require immersion.’ The teacher’s response, however, which is formulated as an allowance, seems more likely to refer to the established practice to immerse all vessels.  I do not know why the author does not mention glass vessels, since these were certainly available, as borne out by the multiple references to it in contemporary Jewish and general sources. See J.R. Vàvra, Five Thousand Years of Glass Making: The History of Glass, Prague 1954. 121 Cf. Rosh, Avodah Zarah 5, 35 and Mordekhai, Avodah Zarah no. 859. Authorities were divided over the question whether food that was prepared in a vessel that had not been immersed could be eaten. This dispute, which goes back to the Talmud, was purely legal in nature and parameter. However, one cannot help but wonder whether those who abstained from such food did so without a sense of revulsion at eating from impurely prepared foodstuffs. See the summary in Rosh, ibid. Shibbole ha-Leqet reports that there was a custom to immerse Jewish owned utensils, after these had been purged for Passover. See Sefer Shibbole ha-Leqet ha-Shalem, ed. S. Buber, Jerusalem 1969: Seder Pesah, no. 207.

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accepted practice was to immerse all cooking utensils of non-Jewish origin. Legally justified or not, it expressed and/or reinforced the sense that the nonJewish world was a source of impurity.122 The most prominent, practical expression of the inherent pollution of the Christian world is the ubiquitous requirement that Jews who had converted to Christianity undergo some type of ritual purification before they could be allowed to reenter the Jewish community.123 While the sources suggest that this requirement originated as a popular initiative, it attained widespread acceptance and, subsequently, normative status.124 A number of medieval halakhists approached this supererogatory ritual immersion as either a form of penance or an ersatz type of conversion. As we have already seen, the idea that sin and guilt defile is a common concept in both Biblical and Rabbinic literature.125 Ritual immersion was a frequent element of the process of repentance in general. As apostasy was the greatest of all sins, a fortiori, its atonement demanded it. The idea that this immersion was an ersatz type of conversion is much thornier. From the start of the Christian era, Rabbinic Judaism had struggled with the question of whether it was possible to leave it, either forcibly or by consent.126 The final upshot of the discussion was that no such total separation was legally possible. And while some scholars advocated the partial disenfranchisement of apostates, no form of reconversion was either required or recommended.127 122 This dilution of the established practice is an interesting contre-temps to the scholarly claim that part of the didactic mission of crusade era Jewish literature was the intensification of the sense of defilement embodied by Christianity. 123 The subject has attracted significant attention, of late. See E. Fram, ‘Perception and Reception of Repentant Apostates in Medieval Ashkenaz and Pre-Modern Poland,’ ajs Review 21 (1996): 299–339; and E. Kanarfogel, ‘Returning to the Jewish Community in Medieval Ashkenaz: History and Halakhah,’ in Turim: Studies in Jewish History and Literature Presented to Dr. Bernard Lander, I, ed. M. Shmidman, New York: Touro College 2007, 69–98. 124 Cf. sa, yd sec. 268 par. 12. 125 See Klawans, Impurity and Sin, passim. 126 See J. Katz, ‘Af al Pi she-Hata Yisrael Hu,’ Halakhah ve-Qabbalah, Jerusalem: Magnes 203– 217. Due to the essentially syncretistic nature of ancient pagan religion, the question of apostasy in the current sense of the word did not really arise. 127 Cf. Katz, ‘Af al Pi,’ 258–260. One ge’onic responsum, which has been attributed to either R. Amram or R. Natronai, reads: ‘It seems to us that such a one must be flogged, for he has violated any number of positive and negative commandments, [including those punishable by] karet and the death penalty. [However,] He does not require immersion, for he is not a convert, who requires immersion.’ Cf. Otzar ha-Ge’onim, vii, 112 no. 259. See also, G. Blidstein, ‘Who Is Not a Jew? The Medieval Discussion,’ Israel Law Review 11 (1976): 374–378.

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A significant number of Jews were baptized during the First Crusade.128 In the case of Regensburg, the entire community submitted to baptism. According to the chronicler, though, ‘they also returned immediately to the Lord after the enemies of the Lord passed through and greatly repented. For what they had done they had done under great duress.’129 Many if not most converts, from 1096 until the end of our period, wished to return to Judaism. This created a challenge of unprecedented proportions for Jewish legists.130 Rashi, faced with the prospect that despairing converts might abandon all hope of returning to the Jewish fold, issued an across the boards ruling that there was no possibility of losing one’s status as a Jew either during one’s apostasy and, a fortiori, after the penitent’s return.131 While it was slightly modified over time, this remained the benchmark of the Ashkenazic legal tradition, one which later spread to the Sephardic and Oriental orbit.132 This upshot of his 128 Chazan, European Jewry, 101 ff. I agree with Fram (‘Repentant Apostates,’ 303) that prior to 1096 the problem of apostasy was relatively marginal among Franco-German Jews. This is also the conclusion reached by C. Levin, Jewish Conversion to Christianity in Medieval Northern Europe: Encountered and Imagined, 1100–1300, PhD dissertation, New York University 2006, 12–14. 129 Solomon b. Samson reports: The community in Regensburg was forcibly converted in its entirety, for they saw that they could not be saved. Indeed those who were in the city, when the crusaders and the common folk gathered against them, pressed them against their will and brought them into a certain river. They made the evil sign in the water, the cross, and baptized them all simultaneously in that river… (Chazan, European Jewry, 293 and Haberman, Gezerot, 56). 130 Testimony to this ‘reverse traffic,’ is found in B.Z. Dinur, Yisrael ba-Golahh, ii/1, Tel Aviv: Dvir 1965, 43(6) and 71(4). Goldin (Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, 94–95) surmises that most Jews who converted under pressure eventually returned.  Returnees to Judaism came in different varieties. Some had been truly coerced to convert and availed themselves of the first opportunity to return. Others converted more or less sincerely, but later came to regret their actions. Others still, tried to have it both ways by playing Christian or Jew, as it pleased or suited them. See A. Haverkamp, “Baptized Jews in German Lands During the Twelfth Century,” in Jews and Christians in Twelfth Century Europe, ed. M. Signer and J. Van Engen, Notre Dame: Notre Dame Univ. Press, 2001, 255–277 and Levin, Jewish Conversion to Christianity, 105–111. 131 Cf. Teshuvot Rashi, nos. 168–175 and Fram, ‘Repentant Apostates,’ 301–303. 132 The modification to Rashi’s ruling involved the laws of levirate marriage (Yibum), described in Deut. 25, 5–10. The Law required that if a man died childless, his widow should either marry his brother, or have the brother dissolve the state of quasi-marriage between them, through a ceremony known as Halitzah. The problem was that if the brother had converted to Christianity it was highly unlikely that he would either wish, or be permitted, to participate in this ritual (i.e. it would constitute an act of ‘judaizing’), with the result that the widow would remain unmarriageable. Disenfranchising the apostate brother was one

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categorical ruling rendered superfluous any formal requirement for (re)conversion to Judaism totally.133 At the same time, by the eleventh century, the pre-Gregorian position that forced baptism was invalid had become so restricted as to be essentially meaningless.134 This set the status of the apostates who sought to return to the Jewish fold at the center of the struggle between the Church and the Synagogue.135 Ecclesiastical efforts to prevent neophytes from relapsing made it significantly harder for them to return. Simultaneously, the extended time that these would-be returnees could be forced to live as Christians led their brethren to suspect that they had become, if only temporarily, willing converts to the enemy faith.136 Even when these returned to the Jewish community, many of whose members had suffered severe loss and trauma as a result of their not submitting to baptism, they were

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way to release the poor widow from her plight, and was likely a key consideration for those who advocated such a position. In other words, if the brother were no longer deemed to be Jewish, the problem disappeared. Rashi’s ruling rendered this solution impracticable. Instead, based on certain considerations of marital law, the widow was freed of the apostate brother, but only if he was already a Christian when she married her first husband. See Katz, ‘Af al Pi,’ 261–267 and idem, ‘Yibum va-Halitzah be-Tequfah haBatar Talmudit, Halakhah ve-Qabbalah, Jerusalem: Magnes 1984, 127–174. On the use of Rashi’s principle outside of Ashkenaz, see H.J. Zimmels, Die Marranen in der Rabbinischen Literatur, Berlin: Mass 1932; S. Assaf, ‘Anuse Sefarad u-Portugal be-Sifrut ha-Teshuvot,’ Be-Ohole Ya’aqov, Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook 1965, 145–180; E. Shohatman, ‘Ma’amadam ha-Hilkhati shel ha-Anusim le-Or Sifrut ha-Teshuvot, Shanah be-Shanah, 1993, 368–385; and H. Regev, ‘Ma’amadam she Qiddushe Mumar be-Gezerot TaTNU u-ve-Gerush Sefarad,’ Geranot 1 (2001): 97–108. Both rabbis and laymen generally encouraged apostates to return to the fold. This policy dates back to the early eleventh century, when R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golahh ruled that repentant apostate was to have all synagogue prerogatives that he had enjoyed prior to his sojourn as a Christian. This included the dignities of a priest to be called first to the Torah and to recite the priestly blessing – with the exception of one who had taken holy orders while a Christian. See Teshuvot Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah, no. 4–5; Teshuvot Rashi, no. 170; and Tosafot, Menahot 109a s.v. lo and Fram, ‘Repentant Apostates,’ 301–304. Cf. S. Grayzel, The Church and the Jews in the Thirteenth Century, I, 101–103 and 296; Fram, ‘Repentant Apostates,’ 304–305 and Goldin, The Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, 87. See A. Grossman, ‘Cultural and Social Background of Jewish Martyrdom,’ 73–86. A similar phenomenon occurred regarding Hispano-Jewish conversi, first after the riots of 1391 and then after the expulsions of 1492–1499 (Assaf, ‘Anuse,’ passim). The longer the conversi remained in Iberia, the more likely were halakhists to take a firmer stand against their easy return to Judaism.

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met with anger, resentment and suspicion.137 Thus, despite Rashi’s ruling, it is really not surprising that popular sentiment came to demand some type of (re)conversion by penitent apostates. And, from the early twelfth century onward, there are persistent reports of returnees immersing themselves as part of their reintegration into the Jewish community. Halakhists expressed varying opinions on this ceremony. Some totally rejected the need or the desirability for such an act, while others endorsed it. A middle path was cut by those who maintained that while immersion for purposes of conversion was actually unnecessary per se, it should be carried out as a supererogatory act, in the spirit of the Talmudic precedent known as ‘acceptance of fellowship’ (Qabbalat Haverut).138 There is elegance in this interpretation, as it validates the regnant custom while signaling that it was not, sensu strictu, obligatory. Nevertheless, there were serious weaknesses in each of these positions. Those who rejected the institution found themselves at loggerheads with what was clearly a widespread practice. Those who endorsed it were at odds with Rashi’s unilateral – and universally accepted – ruling. Even those who positioned the requirement for immersion within the context of Qabbalat Haverut were not free from criticism. From the start, Haverut was primarily a certification of an individual’s reliability in ritual matters.139 As such, the candidate was only obligated to commit himself to relevant standards of conduct before a panel of three.140 There was no requirement to immerse oneself in a miqveh.141 137 Already in the early eleventh century, R. Gershom issued a ban against anyone who insulted returnees to Judaism. See Grossman, Hakhme Ashkenaz, 141–143, along with the question posed to Rashi concerning the status of repentant apostates (Resp. Rashi, no. 168 and Tosafot Menahot 109a s.v. ve-lo yeshamshu). Goldin (Ways of Jewish Martyrdom, 90) discerns a serious hardening, over time, of the attitudes of both halakhists and the Jewish populace vis-à-vis apostates. 138 The Haver was a person who committed himself to a supererogatory life of rigorous purity, along the lines of the Qehillah Qedosha de-Yerushalayim that was discussed in a previous chapter. Acceptance into this fellowship required a period of probation and a formal acceptance by a committee/court of three. See et, xii, 509–519. 139 From the Middle Ages to the Modern era, Haverut is most often invoked by halakhists in the context of personal reliability in the ritual slaughter of animals and other matters pertaining to the Dietary Laws. Cf. ShuT ha-Rashba ha-Meyuhasot la-Ramban, no. 161 and Hazon Ish, Yoreh De’ah no. 42 par. 4. 140 Cf. M. Demai 2, 3; T. Demai ibid.; B. Bekhorot 30b and mt Hil. Metam’e Mishkav u-Moshav 10, 2. 141 Cf. Bedeq ha-Bayit ad Tur, Yoreh De’ah sec. 268 s.v. ve-khen katav ha-RaSh. The connection between acceptance of Haverut and immersion in a miqveh was an Ashkenazic innovation.

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These considerations should remind us that the analysis of both the origin and meaning of popular religious customs should not be restricted to formal, legal categories. The power and authority of popularly sanctioned practice was greater in Ashkenaz than in any other medieval Jewish community. Its authority was based, among other things, upon a profound conviction that vox populi, vox Dei.142 Halakhists, to the degree that it was responsibly possible, sought to integrate accepted practice within the concepts and canons of formal halakhic thought. However, such attempts were not always totally successful. If one wishes to appreciate the significance of novel or problematic rituals for those who observed them, it is preferable to turn to the raw data that the legists evaluated.143 It seems most likely that the formal ceremony of reintegration into the Jewish community was born of popular sensitivity or need and only afterwards was it regularized by the scholarly élite. It will therefore be instructive if we set aside official discussions of its significance and take a closer look at the manner in which the procedure was actually carried out. In that way, we will discover that it contained nuances that halakhists, consciously or not, failed to highlight. While immersion connoted both conversion and penitence, it primarily signified purification, for that was its raison d’être. From the point of view of the Jewish community, and in light of the popular identification of Christianity with idolatry, it is eminently reasonable that a returning apostate would feel the need to cleanse himself before returning to the community in which considerations of ritual purity played an important part. Hence, immersion in a miqveh need not be viewed solely as a punitive gesture. On the contrary, it is logical to assume that penitents were positively inclined to participate in such a ceremony. Raised in a value system wherein impurity was a real, even physical reality, they too must have craved a way to wash away the stain of the ‘putrid baptismal waters.’ Hence, in addition to validating their reentry into the community, immersion was also a cathartic experience wherein the returnees physically cleansed and purified themselves of their time spent ‘immersed’ in the realm of impurity.144 142 See J. Woolf, ‘The Authority of Custom (Minhag) in the Responsa of R. Joseph Colon, Dine Yisrael xix (1997–1998): 44–47. 143 Cf. J. Bruner, Acts of Meaning, Cambridge 1990, 116–117 and Rosman, ‘Prolegomenon,’ 109–110. 144 In the sixteenth century, former conversos were prominent supporters of R. Jacob Berab’s attempt to revive the traditional rabbinic ordination (semikhah) in Safed. That ordination would empower rabbinical courts to administer the type of corporal punishment (malqot) that would expiate the sin of idolatry (i.e. their time as Christians). See J. Katz, ‘The Dispute between Jacob Berab and Levi ben Habib over Renewing Ordination,’ Binah 1 (1989): 119–141.

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Two key sources that describe these ceremonies of re-entry confirm our contention that they were essentially rituals of purification. The first is a late thirteenth century source, attributed to Ravyah (in the late twelfth century), which required that in addition to immersing himself, the returnee must also ‘pass a razor over his flesh.’145 In other words, the penitent was required to remove all of his (or her) body hair. The second source is found in the Practica Inquisitionis Heretice Pravitatis of the Dominican inquisitor, Bernard Gui (1261–1331).146 Though written in early fourteenth century Provence, the elaborate nature of the description strongly implies that this was a long-established procedure:147 “The rite or mode of the Jews in rejudaizing baptized converts who return to the vomit of Judaism is as follows: He who is to be rejudaized is summoned and asked by one of the Jews present whether he wishes to submit to what is called tymla (=tevilah) in Hebrew, which in Latin means whether he wishes to take a bath or washing in running water, in order to become a Jew. He replies that he does. Then the Jew who presided says to him in Hebrew Baal tussuna (=Ba’al- Teshuvah) which means in Latin, ‘you are reverting from the state of sin.’ After this he is stripped of his garments and is sometimes bathed in warm water. The Jews then rub him energetically with sand over his entire body, but especially on his forehead, chest and arms, that is, on the places which, during baptism, received the holy chrism. Then they cut the nails of his hands and feet until they bleed. They shave his head, and afterwards put him in the waters of a flowing stream, and plunge his head in the water three times. After this immersion they recite the following prayer: ‘Blessed be God, the Lord eternal, who has commanded us to sanctify ourselves in this water or bath which is called tymla (sic!) in Hebrew.’ This done, he emerges from the water, dons a new shirt and breeches, and all the attending Jews kiss him and give him a name, which is usually the name he had before baptism. He who is thus rejudaized is required to confess 145 Abraham b. Ephraim, Qitzur Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, ed. Y. Horowitz, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 2005, 194 (citing ‘some say’). On the attribution to Ravyah, see Kanarfogel, ‘Returning to the Jewish Community,’ n. 34. 146 See Y.H. Yerushalmi, ‘The Inquisition and the Jews of France in the time of Bernhard Gui [1306–1322],’ Harvard Theological Review 63 (1970): 317–376 and the more recent, and fuller, discussion in K. Utterback, ‘“Conversi” Revert: Voluntary and Forced Return to Judaism in the Early Fourteenth Century,’ Church History 64 (1995): 16–28. 147 Yerushalmi, ‘ The Inquisition and the Jews of France,’ 363–364.

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his belief in the Law of Moses, to promise to keep and observe it, and to live henceforth according to it. Similarly, that he renounces baptism and the Christian faith, and that henceforth he will neither keep nor serve it. And he promises to observe the Law and repudiates baptism and the Christian faith. Afterwards they give him a certificate or testimonial letter to all other Jews so that they may receive him, trust him, and assist him. From then on he lives and acts as a Jew and attends the School, or Synagogue, of the Jews.”148 If we ignore Gui’s rhetorical flourishes – e.g., ‘the vomit of Judaism’ – his description is remarkably accurate halakhically. When a person immerses in a miqveh, nothing may come between his body and the purifying waters (hatzitzah). To prevent this, the individual prepares himself by bathing in warm water, carefully cleaning every orifice and combing the hair to remove knots and other obstructions (hafifah).149 Thus, with one exception, Gui’s account tallies with the briefer references which we have from Franco-Germany. That difference, though, is not insignificant. At his trial for 1320 trial before the Inquisition, the relapsed convert Barukh asserted that rejudaization required the penitent to shave his/her head and to pare his/her nails: ‘the nails of the hands and feet are cut, and the hair of the head is shaved, and then the entire body is washed in running water in the way that a foreign woman was purified according to the Law when she was to be married to a Jew, for they think baptism pollutes those who receive it.’150 [Emphasis added-jrw] Barukh is here referring to the Biblical case of the ‘Beautiful Captive’ (Yefat To’ar), described in Deuteronomy 21.151 A soldier who desires to marry a pagan captive must, first, ‘bring her home to your house. She shall shave her head,

148 See S. Grayzel, ‘Confessions of a Medieval Jewish Convert,’ Historia Judaica xvii (1955): 89–120 and B. Albert, Mishpato shel Barukh: Ha-Protokol ha-Rishon shel Shefitat Anus befene ha-Inqvizitziya 1320, Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press 1974. 149 et, xvi, 440–476, s.v. hafifah and ibid. xvii, 1–79, s.v. hatzitzah. 150 “Dixit tamen, quod baptizati, qui ad iudaismum revertuntur, sic revertuntur, iuxta doctrinam Calmutz (sic) quod secantur eis ungues manuum et pedum et raduntur pueri (sic) capitis et deinde totum corpus abluitur in aqua currenti, sicut secundum Legem purificabatur mulier alienigena, quando debebat duci a iudeo in uxorem; quia ipsi reputant quod baptismus polluit illos qui recipiunt ipsum.” (Confessio Baruc, T. 156; cited by Yerushalmi, 367 n. 123). 151 V. 10–14.

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and do her nails.152 She shall remove the raiment of her captivity, and shall remain in your house, and bewail her father and her mother a full month.’ Despite differences of opinion in the Talmud concerning the interpretation and application of the Biblical commands, the procedure was understood in the context of converting pagan captive.153 One might be tempted to conclude that Jews adapted the model of the Yefat To’ar for returning Jews, because they understood there to be a need for a type of reconversion. However, this does not jibe with the fact that shaving the head and neglecting the nails was, by all accounts, intended to discourage the captor from marrying the captive woman. It was not an act of purification.154 This contradicts Barukh’s explicit statement that this was a ceremony of purification (‘for they think baptism pollutes those who receive it’). There is therefore no doubt that the ceremony of rejudaization was one of purification, and this is confirmed by the remark attributed to Ravyah. Shaving all of one’s body hair is, however, an integral part of the purification ceremony of the ‘absolute leper’ (metzora muhlat, Lev. 14, 8–9), whose impurity is among the severest in Halakhah.155 The disease drives him from the community.156 As the Bible states (Lev. 13, 45–46), ‘And the leper upon whom is the mark, his clothes shall be torn, and the hair of his head shall go wild, and he shall cover his upper lip, and shall cry: ‘Impure, Impure.’ All the days wherein the mark is upon him, shall he be impure; he is impure; he shall dwell alone; his dwelling shall be outside of the camp.’ The leper is an obvious metaphor for an apostate, and the traditional procedure for his purification is a reasonable model for the creation of a ritual for his 152 I have given the Hebrew ‘ve-asta’ a neutral translation for reasons that will soon become apparent. 153 Cf. et, xxv, 36–55 s.v. Yefat To’ar. 154 Rashi, ad loc. In fact, the normative view was that the captive woman was supposed to grow her nails, not pare them. Cf. B. Yebamot 48a; mt Hil. Melakhim 8, 5. A minority of Biblical commentators maintained that the woman must pare her nails, but these carried no legal weight. Cf. Ibn Ezra, Ramban and Hizquni, ad loc. 155 Shaving is also required of Nazirites, both if they have become impure or upon the completion of their vows. In that case, however, they only remove their forelocks. Cf. Num. 6, 9 and 18 and M. Nazir 6, 6–7. 156 M. Megillah 1, 7. It is reasonable to assume that the increased awareness of, and hostility to, lepers in twelfth and thirteenth century Europe contributed to this perception. Cf. R. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Power and Deviance in Western Europe, 950–1250, Oxford: Blackwell 1987; and E. Shoham-Steiner, ‘An Ultimate Pariah? Jewish Social Attitudes Toward Jewish Lepers in Medieval Western Europe,’ Social Research 70(2003): 237–268.

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‘purification’ and reintegration into the Jewish community. The apostate’s body bore the ‘mark’ of the ‘putrid waters’ of baptism – much like the leper’s sores. He lived outside of the community, immersed in the world of impurity.157 From a polemical point of view, this was a way of inverting the increasingly common Christian attribution of physical and spiritual pollution to the Jew.158 Thus, the rituals of reentry to the Jewish community were primarily acts of ritual purification from the pollution imparted by baptism and subsequent immersion in the geographic and religious space of Christendom. As R. Simhah of Speyer had noted, ‘penitents need to immerse themselves because of the pollution imparted by idolatry.’159 The reentry ceremony of the penitent apostate, then, uses classic Jewish ritual to reflect deeply held attitudes toward the Christian world. We have already seen that in the inner world of medieval Ashkenazim, the sinful and the prohibited were deemed to be ‘impure,’ a designation that carried with it both emotional and practical consequences. The impure, as Rashi had noted, was identical with the disgusting. Spiritual hygiene was experienced as a physical state. In addition, we noted that the dyad tameh/tahor was widely employed by Ashkenazic writers. In the same manner, a ‘rhetoric of impurity’ characterized Jewish references and attitudes to Christians and Christianity. From the eleventh century onward, Jewish literature – especially polemical literature – is marked by an ever increasing resort to terms that mix impurity, disgust and harsh satire in its references to the Church, its representatives and appurtenances.160 This projection of 157 R. Simhah of Speyer, who was a contemporary of Ravyah, describes a woman who had lived as a Christian as having been ‘subsumed’ or ‘submerged’ in the pollution of idolatry (nitma’a). Teshuvot u-Pesaqim, ed. E. Kupfer, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1973, 290. 158 Shoham-Steiner, ‘An Ultimate Pariah,’ 237–239; and R. Bonfil, “The Devil and the Jews in Christian Consciousness of the Middle Ages,” in Antisemitism through the Ages, ed. S. Almog, trans. N.H. Reisner, Oxford: Pergamon Press 1988, 91–98. 159 Teshuvot u-Pesaqim, 291. How this was conflated with the law of the Captive Woman remains moot, even though the connection would explain why the penitent ‘dons a new shirt and breeches,’ just as the Captive Woman removes ‘the raiment of her captivity.’ On the other hand, one wonders whether the donning on new clothes was meant to invoke the words of the prophet Zechariah (3, 3–4): “Now Joshua was clothed with filthy garments, and stood before the angel. And he answered and spoke unto those that stood before him, saying: ‘Take the filthy garments from off him.’ And he said to him: ‘Behold, I cause your iniquity to pass from you, and I will clothe you with robes.’” According to Rashi (ad loc.), the filthy clothes represent sin, and the new clothes stand for repentence and merit. 160 The two most important works of Northern European polemic, Nizzahon Vetus and Sefer Yosef ha-Meqaneh are rife with this type of language. See Joseph Officiel, Sefer Yosef haMeqaneh, ed. J. Rosenthal, Jerusalem: Meqitze Nirdamim 1970, and The Jewish-Christian

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impurity upon Christianity and the Christian world sharply delineated the boundaries of Jewish sacred, livable space in two, complementary ways. It underscored and reinforced the alien, dangerous and repugnant nature of the parallel community.161 At the same time, the defiling darkness of Christendom could only but highlight the sanctity, purity and attraction of the expanse of the Qehillah Qedoshah, in better times, and of the eternal, light drenched glory of the next world when the enemy breached the physical confines of the former. With all due trepidation, I suggest that ‘impurity’ and all that we have seen it to connote, played a critical role in the acts of suicide, homicide, uxoricide and prolicide that marked the first crusade and most anti-Jewish persecutions throughout the central and high Middle Ages. Of all of these, the killing of children has been held up as the most horrific of all the deeds of medieval Ashkenazic martyrs. In a recent study, Haym Soloveitchik has aptly noted that, all things considered, the murder of children in the crusades is not all that surprising. He specifically notes the parent’s conviction that he thereby ensures his child to a place in the world to come,162 Jewish revulsion at what they deemed to be the moral depravity of Christian society and, above all, a deep and abiding abhorrence of Christianity. Much of the intuitive rejection of conversion in Ashkenazic communities came from the revulsion of Christianity instilled from childhood.163 Other major elements of the fabric of communal life then fashioned the manner in which their martyrdom was realized. Debate in the High Middle Ages: A Critical Edition of the Nizzahon Vetus, edited, translation and commentary D. Berger, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society 1979. See also Sapir Abulafia, ‘Invectives against Christianity,’ 66–72. 161 Commentaries to piyyutim and elegies are particularly rife with extremely pungent descriptions of the repulsive power of Christianity and its symbols. See, for example, Raban’s comments on ‘Ha’azinu abirim bene elim,’ (I. Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, ii, no. 5(28), found in ms Montefiore Library 261, fol. 84a). 162 Soloveitchik, ‘Halakhah, Hermeneutics, and Martyrdom,’ 257: ‘Convinced of the palpable reality of the afterlife, feeling its almost graspable closeness (and the chronicles breathe this assurance), husbands killed wives and parents dispatched their children with a swift stroke of the knife, certain that they were bestowing upon them gift of eternal bliss. If the afterlife is a fact, martyrdom is a bargain.’ 163 Ibid. 258: ‘For a tiny minority to survive it must heighten every difference with the surrounding society and infuse it with loathing. Trinity was polytheism and the statues and figurines of Jesus in churches and homes were idolatry incarnate. Every aspect of the Christian religion was subject to ridicule and disgust and the most difficult emotion to overcome is neither hatred nor contempt but disgust. Without this primal, visceral reaction, the pressures to convert might become too strong. Much of the intuitive rejection of conversion in Ashkenazi communities came from the revulsion of Christianity instilled from childhood.’

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The Qehillah limned the spiritual and psychological existence of the medieval Ashkenazic Jew. It spread a sacred canopy over Jewish existence. Within that canopy, the Jew was part both of an integrated community and of the larger Jewish People. He worshipped in a synagogue, which was a portal to the Temple in Jerusalem. Within that virtual Temple, his worship vividly invoked the sacrificial service for whose restoration he prayed. God’s Presence indwelled within the synagogue and hovered over the community. At the same time, life in a sacred community was a bastion against the abhorrent impurity of the Christian street. When forced to choose between Apostasy or Death, the choices that Franco-German Jews made were molded by the values with which they were instilled, whether in flight from impurity or in taking the small step to the World to Come. In time, Ashkenazic Jews came to view their tradition of martyrdom as the premiere expression of their communal uniqueness.164 Their martyrdom grew out of their pre-existing world-view and the components of that world-view were harnessed to deepen their glorious tradition of martyrdom for the sanctification of the Name of Heaven. 164 Some historians tended to see things that way, as well. See G. Cohen, ‘ Messianic postures of Ashkenazim and Sephardim (prior to Sabbethai Zevi),’ Studies of the Leo Baeck Institute, New York 1967, 115–156; and the demurrals by E. Carlebach, Between History and Hope: Jewish Messianism in Ashkenaz and Sepharad, Lectures of the Victor J. Selmanowitz Chair of Jewish History, Touro College 1998 and D. Berger, ‘Sephardic and Ashkenazic Messianism in the Middle Ages: An Examination of the Historiographical Controversy,’ Cultures in Collision and Conversation: Essays in the Intellectual History of the Jews, Boston: Academic Studies Press 2011, 289–311.

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Index Apostates Halakhic approaches 199–201 Reconversion 201–207 Ashkenazic Jewry (France, Rhenish) In comparison with Provence/Spain 2, 12 n. 45, 88, 115 n. 176, 134–135, 140–142, 146, 179 n. 33 Baraita de-Niddah 91–93, 95, 142 Bible Ashkenazic commentaries on 40, 175, 186 Rashi’s commentary on 7–8, 30, 39, 73 n. 252, 76–78, 104, 151–153, 160 Study of 17–18, 41–42, 187–188 Christian-Jewish Relations Ashkenazic Jewish view of Christianity 180, 193–208 Christian view of Jews 16–17, 22–24, 96 n. 72 Mutual Influence, similarities —and differences 1, 28, 32 n. 48, 34–35, 41 n. 93, 53 n. 157, 63–64, 79 n. 284, 89 n. 35, 92, 103 n. 112, 108, 118–119, 129, 143, 144 n. 64; n. 68, 168, 179, 191–192 Polemics 7–8, 29 n. 30, 31 n. 42, 64, 121, 123, 152 n. 114, 172 n. 10, 176, 191, 182, 193 n. 91, 206 Custom As part of religious authority 93–95 Before blessing 126–127 Consolation of the bereaved 116 Counting a minor in a minyan 116–118 Customs regarding hallah 146–147 Extraordinary restrictions on a niddah 143–145 Halakhic accommodation/rejection of local custom 48, 137–139, 174 Hullin be-Taharah 149, 155 Immersing gentile vessels 196–198 Immersing on Yom Kippur eve 166–167 Interrupting service to seek justice 60 Lighting a menorah in synagogue 87–88 Lowering eyes during prayer 107 Menstruants not entering synagogue 90

Palestinian source 31 n. 45 R. Isaac b. Judah on 102 n. 109 Spreading priests’ fingers during blessing 115 God As purifier 162, 164 n. 176, 166 n. 184 As source of sanctity 30 As source of sustenance 36–37 Communal prayer as glory to, 49 n. 137, 51, 53–57, 189 Covenant between God and the Jews 29–30, 64 Dying in His name 170–171, 173–183, 190–192 Experience of His Presence 118–120, 167–169 Halakhah as the word of 7, 9 Oaths in His name 72 Prayer as connecting factor 44, 46 Presence at a minyan w/a minor 116–118 Presence at Priestly Blessing 112, 115 Presence in the community 76–79 Presence in the synagogue 82–84, 104–111, 130, 208 Torah as connecting factor 40 Worship of Him 120–122, 124 Ha’Arukh On staring at priests during their blessing 113 n. 170 On the concept of community 29–30 On the concept of herem 71 n. 238 On the concept of purity 100 n. 93 Halakhah Categories (dyads) 158–162 School of Babylonia 27, 30 n. 38, 67 n. 220, 70, 80 n. 284, 83, 88–89, 93–94, 108 n. 140, 134–135, 140–141, 153–154, 158 n. 142, 179 n. 33, 180 n. 34 School of Land of Israel/Palestine 30 n. 35, 31 n. 45, 54 n. 162, 91, 93 n. 56, 107–108, 134 n. 13, 158 n. 142, 179, 180 n. 34, 189 n. 81 Hallah 145–147

Index Labor (as a religious value) 32–38 Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim On eating bread made by Gentiles 155 On giving priests the hallah portion 146 On immersion of Gentile-made tools 197 On menstruants entering the ­synagogue 91–92, 93 n. 57, 94 Maharil On bowing when leaving a synagogue  111 n. 160 On the presence of God in the synagogue 115–116 On the Priestly blessing 126 n. 232 Mahzor Vitry On ba’al qeri and Yom Kippur 138 On conduct in the synagogue 50 On Divine Presence in a minyan 79 On Hullin be-taharah 148–150 On including a minor in a minyan 46–47 On teaching Tractate Avot 20 n. 82 On the connection between prayer and sacrifices 122 On Torah study and making a living 38 The Yequm Purqan prayer 264 Midrash Effect on Ashkenazic thinking 177 n. 28, 179 Knesset Israel 28 n. 27 On God’s Presence in a minyan 118 On gradations of impurity 131 n. 4 On mikdash me’at 83 n. 9 On sacred community 30, 32, 77, 79 On sin as defiling 165 n. 180 On the Priestly blessing 114–115 On transcendence on Yom Kippur 166 Rashi’s attitude towards 9, 39 n. 82 The study of 17, 41–42 Pat Akum 153–157 Pietism and Pietists Extent indicative of population 17 n. 65, 43 n. 103, 72 n. 247, 98 n. 84, 110, 125, 130 n. 245, 150, 156 n. 133, 187–188 Community in Jerusalem 29–30 On Baraita de-Niddah 92 n. 54 On God’s form 104 n. 116, 119–120

243 On God’s presence in the Torah scroll 108 n. 143 Use of Midrashic thinking 178 n. 28 Piyyut As formative of Ashenazic Jewish outlook 179, 189, 207 n. 161 Commentaries on 6 n. 24 On communal piety 59 On labor and Torah study 33 On Miqdash Me’at 85, 104, 111 On sin as defiling 164, 167, 169 On the Crusades 175, 178 n. 28 On Yom Kippur 166 On the holiness of community 27 On Torah study 40, 42, 44 Qedushtot 54–56 Prayer (Non-priestly) Blessings 41, 52–53, 58, 88, 99, 101, 103–104, 108, 138–139, 157, 166–167 Bowing/Prostration 107–111 Priestly blessing 103, 111–115, 121, 124–126, 200 n. 133 Qinot 163–164 Selihot 163–164 Shema 47–49, 52–54, 136 Ve-hasi’enu 101–104 Purity As moral category 161–162, 166–167, 169, 195 Ba’al qeri 97–99, 132 n. 5–6, 133–139, 149 n. 96, Feeling of pollution 167, 193–195, 198, 206 Hag’alah 159 Hullin be-Taharah 30, 140, 147–153, 155–156 Leprosy Miqveh and ritual immersion 21 n. 88, 89–91, 97–101, 104, 125–126, 132–134–139, 146, 150–151, 159, 162–167, 173, 196–198, 201–204, 206 Niddah (menstruation) 21 n. 86, 89–95, 132–133, 136, 139–145, 147, 151, 152 n. 109, 159–161, 170, 193, 195 Reconversion 201–207 Tum’ah ha-yotzet mi-gufo 132 Qehillah Authority 62, 65, 67, 69–70, 74–75, 77, 78 n. 277, 79 n. 284, 92, 202

244 Qehillah (cont.) Hefqer 66–68 Herem/nidui 71–76 Qehillah Qedoshah 26–27, 29 n. 32, 171–172, 181, 207 Rashe/Gedole Qahal 62, 69 Semikhah 62 n. 200, 70 n. 233, 202 n. 144, Taqqanot SHuM 41 R. David Qimhi On God as Miqdash Me’at 82–83 On the meaning of Qahal 28 R. Gershom Me’or ha-Golah On community synagogues 45 n. 116 On Pat Akum 154 On prayer and worship 43–44 On Rabbis making a living 33 n. 55 On returning apostates 200 n. 133, 201 n. 137 On the community’s authority 65 n. 211, 68, 70 On the ritual pollution of Christianity 194 n. 103 On the supremacy of Torah study 39, 43–44 R. Haim Paltiel On the authority of the community 78 n. 277 On the importance of Torah study 40 R. Isaac Or Zaru’a Barring menstruants from synagogue 95 n. 68 Citing Baraita de-Niddah 91 On Niddah restrictions 144 n. 67 On sin as defiling 164–166 On the holiness of places of study 27 Permitting prayer and study when impure 135 Requiring showering for same 135 R. Jacob b. Samson On not separating from the community 50–51 On the value of labor 35 R. Joseph Bekhor Shor On labor as a religious value 35 On revulsion from impurity 167–168 R. Joseph Qara On synagogues and the Temple 84–85

Index R. Meir of Rothenberg On a leper Shali’ah Tzibbut 97 On allowing sinners to pray ­communally 52, 61 n. 192 On consolation in the synagogue 116 On immersion on the Day of Atonement 137–138 On immersion prior to Yom Kippur 166 On priestly immersion before holidays 126 On purchased synagogue honors 49 n. 137 On the immersion of a ba’al qeri 139 On the synagogue as Miqdash Me’at 104 R. Meshullam b. Qalonymos Commentary on Avot 72 n. 247 Commentary on Seder Avodah  189 n. 81 On courts 67 Qedushtot 55–56 R. Moses of Coucy On immersion prior to Yom Kippur 138 n. 44 On lepers in the synagogue 97 On the equivalence of Temple and synagogue 86 On the importance of studying Temple laws 188 Replacing the Targum with Rashi 18–19 Rabbeinu Tam On adjusting Halakhah 10–11, 21, On communal prayer 109 n. 148 On community 68, 73 n. 251 On Gentile courts 77 n. 274 On immersion before prayer and study 135 On immersion on Yom Kippur 138–139 On purity and impurity 141–142 On the primacy of Shema in Synagogue 48 On the primacy of the Talmud 42–43 On the value of labor 37–38 On unanimity in communal ­decisions 66 n. 218 Rashbam On the Divine Presence among Jews 56 On the story of God visiting Abraham 77 n. 269 Prohibiting appeal to Gentile courts 77 n. 274

245

Index On the Divine Presence in a court 78–79 On the story of Avraham and the angels 152 Rashi Approach to commentary 7–9, 17, 157 n. 138, 159–160, 187 n. 81 On community 28 n. 25, 29 n. 30, 30–32, 56, 75 n. 258, 79 n. 284, 120 n. 207 On labor as a religious value 33, 35–38 On Torah study 39–40, 42 n. 98 On liturgy 44 n. 110 On a minyan with one minor 46–47, 117 On reciting Shema before nightfall 48 On communal prayer 49, 52, 57, 109 n. 148 On halachic punishment 73 n. 252, 190 n. 83 On the Divine Presence in courts 76–79 On Miqdash Me’at 83 n. 11, 84–85 On the Temple 86 n. 21, 130 On menstruants in synagogue 90–91, 94–95, On the Divine Presence in the synagogue 104, 106–107 On the Priestly blessing 112–115, 124 n. 223, 127 On Medieval halachic change 133 n. 9 On immersion before prayer or study 135 On hallah 146 On eating Hullin be-Taharah 147 n. 85, 148, 151–152 On Pat Akum 155 n. 127 On returning converts 199–201 On reconversion 205 n. 154 On purity and impurity 131 n. 4, 141, 148, 164, 165 n. 80, 167, 194, 206 Availability of his commentary 19, 41, 186 Ravyah On ba’al qeri 98, 136–138 On Baraita de-Niddah 91 On communal rule 66 n. 218 On consolation formulas 116 n. 183 On Hullin Be-Taharah 155–157 On Immersion on Yom Kippur 166 On laws of leprosy 96–97, 168 n. 196 On menstruants in prayer 95

On niddah 141–142, 145 On Qedushah 54 On reconversion 203, 205 On the need for windows in ­synagogues 107 n. 133 On the Priestly Blessing 114 n. 175 Sefer ha-Oreh Containing R. Gershom’s response 154 On excommunicates 75 n. 263 On Gentile-made vessels 196–197 On hallah portions 146 n. 80 Sefer Ha-Pardes On menstruants in the synagogue 90, 93–95 On the authority of courts 79 n. 281 Sefer Hassidim On bowing in the synagogue 108–109 On eating in a state of purity 150 On excluding madmen from synagogue 88 n. 34 On excommunicates 73 On Priestly immersion before festivals 99, 101, 124–125, 149 On Ve-hasi’enu 103 Sefer Ma’aseh ha-Ge’onim On hallah 146 On menstruants 91–94 On purifying Gentile vessels 197 Sefer Roqe’ah Day of Atonement 166 On Divine presence in court 79 n. 279 On immersion as purification from sin 166 n. 184 On menstruants 90–91, 94 On proper conduct in the synagogue 108–109 On purification before the On the Divine Presence in synagogue 120 On the meaning of Ve-hasi’enu 101 n. 103 On Torah study 18 n. 71 Synagogue Dura Europos 127 n. 238, 128 Kapporet 105 Minyan 45–47, 52 n. 149, 54, 56, 73, 75, 79 n. 283, 116–118 Shali’ah Tzibbur 74, 99 n. 87 Torah Scroll 26, 49, 75, 87, 90, 108, 117–118, 121, 142–143

246 Targum 18–19, 83–85 Tabernacle 30 n. 41, 56, 162 Temple Parallels to the synagogue Altar 87, 105 n. 119, 121, 123, 185, 191 Ark of the Covenant 86, 187 Menorah 87–88 Miqdash Me’at 82–105, 116, 125, 127, 130 Mora Miqdash 86 Ner Tamid 105

Index Sacrifice (and its multiple meanings) 49 n. 137, 52, 60 n. 189, 97, 99, 103, 122–123, 149, 170–171, 182–192 Torah study on 187 Torah Portions 18, 40–41, 186–187 Women Gender 133 n. 9, 143–145