Hasidism

The series ends in 18th Century Eastern Europe, with the rise of Hasidism. Dr. Fishbane contends that Hasidism is a form of modern Kabbalah focused on spiritual psychology and the devotional connection between humans and God. The kabbalah of Hasidism made mysticism more accessible to a broader audience with an explicit focus on the inner spiritual life of an individual.  

Show Notes

Kabbalistic Leaders 

Transcript

Announcer: Welcome to Exploring Kabbalah—a JTS podcast with Dr. Eitan Fishbane, professor of Jewish Thought. Throughout this seven-part series, we’ll trace the evolution of Jewish mysticism—from Biblical and Rabbinic times, to the explosive creativity of the Medieval period, to the Hasidic movement in Eastern Europe. Join us for a tour through time and space in which Professor Fishbane provides insight into the thinkers, texts, and concepts that became central not only to the Jewish mystical tradition but to the fabric of Judaism itself. This is our seventh and final episode. We wrap up the series by exploring Hasidic mysticism in eighteenth-century Eastern Europe.

Dr. Eitan Fishbane: We continue our tour through the landscape of Jewish mysticism in the 18th century Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth with the rise and flourishing of a mystical revivalist movement among the Yiddish-speaking, and mostly Hebrew-writing spiritualists of the movement that would become known as Hasidism.

Though certainly there was much important kabbalistic creativity and practice between 16th Century Tzefat, where we ended our last episode, and 18th Century Poland, given the necessarily selective nature of our overview, our focus will be directed to that remarkable mystical phenomenon of Hasidism that started out as a spiritual revival in contrast to more staid forms of devotion and went on to conquer the hearts and minds of Eastern European Jews in the 19th century. While it started as a spiritual revival, Hasidism evolved into the establishment and a movement that existed in tension with the rising tides of the Enlightenment and modernity.

Hasidic thought and practice should not be construed as a phenomenon separate from Kabbalah; rather, I argue, it is a form of modern Kabbalah, albeit much more focused on spiritual psychology and the devotional connection between the human being and God. As opposed to the fierce secrecy and more abstract thinking of earlier kabbalists referenced in this podcast, the kabbalah of Hasidism made various terms and ideas more accessible to a broader audience and more focused on the inner spiritual life of the person.

First centering on the personality and teachings of Rabbi Yisrael ben Eliezer Ba’al Shem Tov (the Besht)—a healer, magician, mystic, and preacher in the Polish town of Mezhibozh in the mid-1700s (he died in 1760)—then expanding to an increasingly widening circle of mystical teachers, early hasidism included such luminaries as the Maggid Dov Baer of Mezritch; Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlav (the great-grandson of the Besht); Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi (the first Rebbe of Habad Lubavitch); and Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev; among a great many others.

Hasidic mystical thinkers developed an array of illuminating and inspiring spiritual ideas and practices that both built upon the core concepts of earlier kabbalah and charted new territory in imagining and guiding the spiritual life. Some of these insights, particularly a psychological approach to mysticism, still reverberate today among contemporary Jewish spiritual seekers.

Hasidic mysticism emphasized the radical immanentism of Divinity—the idea that the Presence of God is to be found in the here and now of Reality and in some cases that God is the Oneness of All Being. In early Hasidism, these theological ideas were most often expressed through the following three expressions:

Using these expressions, hasidic thinkers alternate between two ideas: that God fills all external reality as an energizing presence; and the more radical idea that all of being is a single organic whole, and that wholeness is God.

In addition to these bold ideas of God, the Hasidic masters also cultivated and preached about a higher spiritual awareness, often articulated in their teachings about prayer. The Baal Shem Tov and his disciples reflect on the difference between “small mind” or katnut and “Great Mind” or gadlut. In katnut we find a state of mental constriction in which the mystery of the divine presence is elusive. Gadlut occurs when the person in prayer may experience true transcendence, alignment with the sublime mystery of God. These terms—katnut and gadlut—are descended from intricate mythic ideas in earlier Lurianic Kabbalah where they expressed the inner workings of Divinity, but here hasidic mystics adapt these categories to apply to the inner life of the human being and their states of consciousness.

Within Hasidism, Katnut is the everyday state of mind in which the finite human being floats along upon the surface of perception, seeing things as simply ordinary, not feeling the connection to the transcendence of Divinity. By contrast, gadlut, Great or Expansive Mind, is the evanescent state of consciousness and feeling in which the person is able to achieve an exalted state of spiritual awareness — one they associated with devekut, a powerful connection to and unification with God.

 Another distinctive teaching of Hasidic mysticism is the practice of Avodah be-gashmiyut, worship through physicality, whether it be eating, bodily functions, business dealing, and so on. Avodah be-gashmiyut is about discovering God in ordinary material reality. This is also sometimes framed as uncovering the sparks of divinity within the shells of ordinary reality.

Next we turn to the concept of Hitlahavut, the flaming fiery passion of devotion in prayer and Torah study. The use of this concept and its implementation in ritual practice was central to the spiritual revivalist project of early Hasidism which emphasized joy, music, dance, and an intense meditative connection to God. In its earliest years, hitlahavut was one aspect of Hasidism that caused controversy especially from the yeshiva establishment of the time, led by the Vilna Gaon and his disciples who saw it as a departure from what they perceived to be proper decorum and seriousness in prayer and Torah study. That is not to say that the Hasidic approach was frivolous or lacking in seriousness. Instead it focused on passionate devotion and bold outward expression as a key to achieving closeness to God. Despite this early controversy and enduring division among segments of the Jewish community, Hasidism evolved from mystical revival to mass movement with expressions of hitlahavut at its center.

Part of this turn to spiritual revival in Hasidic mysticism stressed the significance of  the inner life of the person, often referred to as Penimiyut or inwardness. The Hasidic masters emphasize the cultivation of the inner spiritual life, rooted in the project of psychologization, the transformation of abstract ideas about God in the heavenly realms into the mystical psychology of each individual. Returning to the earlier concept of immanentism, this is yet another way of showing God’s manifestation in our world and in our innermost selves. This also involved the development of a mystical musar practice characterized by one prominent Hasidic preacher as the constant imperative to “work on oneself.”

To be a Hasid was and is to be a spiritual disciple of a specific spiritual master/teacher/guide within a shared community. One is a Hasid of a particular Rebbe, not simply a Hasid in the abstract. This is notably different from how the word hasid was used in earlier forms of Jewish pietism and spirituality, which simply referred to someone who was extremely pious. Hasidism understands this piety in relation to the figure of the of the Rebbe,  and the larger community of which he is the leader.  The rebbe was the center of communal life, with close disciples studying and learning with the rebbe, while members of the broader community would interact with the rebbe through public sermons or derashot. They would also come to the rebbe to request blessings related to the varied challenges and hopes in their lives.

There are three main genres of hasidic literature, the vast majority of which was written in Hebrew (as lashon ha-kodesh): 1) hanhagot, prescriptions for spiritual/moral/pietistic conduct; 2) the stories of the Hasidim, which preserve folktales about the rebbes and their communities; and 3) the aforementioned derashot —commentaries on the Torah and other sections of Tanakh and the holidays.  This reflected the often mystical teachings delivered in Yiddish to the disciples and frequently to larger audiences gathered around the seudah shelishit (shala-shudes) table of the Rebbe on late Shabbat afternoon. One such classic spiritual teaching in this genre is expressed by the famous preacher, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev:

In asking the question, why do we say “Yotzer Or uvorei hoshekh (who forms light and creates darkness),” a phrase found in the morning liturgy, in the present tense instead of the past tense, since supposedly God created these elements at the beginning of creation—Rabbi Levi Yitzchak answers, It is to teach us that God is always and forever creating the world anew each and every day, in each and every moment of time. God’s presence and life force is perennially flowing through us and being revealed to us.

In the thought of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak and other Hasidic masters, God is immanent in the world. Divinity fills all of reality and is not just something of the past, but a vital energy of the present, of the here and now.

Throughout this season, we have explored a range of ideas and practices that characterize the history of kabbalah and Jewish mysticism more broadly. These four themes cross the varied times and spaces that we encountered throughout this podcast.

First, mysticism in Judaism can be characterized as a mentality and state of awareness in which reality as it appears at first glance is not the ultimate truth; everything that we experience in the earthly realm (natural world, human self, Torah and Mitzvot) are all markers of deeper mysteries of the Divine. This is often described as the belief in an inner spiritual meaning that is encased in ordinary superficial perception.

Second, Jewish mysticism, like other religions, places great emphasis on the intuition and assertion that all of being is one interconnected whole. That oneness is God; God is the ALL of existence.

Third, Jewish mysticism articulates an intense yearning for the revelatory experience and develops varied contemplative and meditative techniques to achieve that state of consciousness

Fourth and finally, Jewish mystical thinkers emphasize the centrality of theurgy, the impact that human action and intention has upon the upper divine reality. This could be in drawing down the flow of energy from the upper to the lower realms or in their language reunifying seemingly fragmented dimensions of the inner Divine self. This action is pervasively referred to as Tikkun, repairing and impacting the nature of divinity.

While they placed an emphasis on secrecy and elitism, in terms of the evolution of Jewish thought, Kabbalah was fully integrated with central pillars of the life of mitzvot and Torah.

We have journeyed through a broad span of time and space (thousands of years and miles) in our exploration of Jewish mysticism, covering many of the highlights and conceptual pillars of the tradition. We have delved into the deeply important ways in which mystical thinking and practice has been a central pillar of Jewish civilization and creativity, and this tradition continues to be a source of inspiration for us today in the cultivation of the spiritual life. I hope through this podcast you have gotten a taste of the treasure of the Jewish mystical imagination that is an important legacy for us all.

Announcer: Thanks for listening to the Exploring Kabbalah podcast with Professor Eitan Fishbane, a JTS podcast. It was recorded and produced by Ellie Gettinger, JTS’s Director of Digital Learning. Editing assistance by Sarah Brown. I’m Rabbi Julia Andelman, JTS’s Director of Community Engagement. The music for this series is Yah Notein Binah, by sixteenth-century Kabbalist, Israel Najara from the album Seeds of Song produced by JTS. If you’ve enjoyed this series, please subscribe and leave a review wherever you listen to podcasts. For those who want to dig deeper, visit jtsa.edu/podcasts, where you’ll find sources, archival material, and more in the Exploring Kabbalah show notes, along with the complete library of JTS podcasts.

Are We Just Speaking, or Truly Communicating?

Emor By :  Loraine Enlow Doctoral candidate in Bible (JTS); Admissions Officer (Yale Institute of Sacred Music) Posted On May 17, 2024 / 5784 | Torah Commentary
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ויאמר י־הוה אל־משה אמר

Forty years ago, I first encountered Haydn’s famous oratorio, The Creation, while singing in a choir in elementary school. I was genuinely puzzled.  In one section, based on verses from Psalm 19 where the celestial bodies praise God as creator, the text reads like something generated by an unfortunate adventure with Google Translate: “To day that is coming speaks it the day; the night that is gone to following night.” Later that afternoon, I jumped in the car and burst out to my father (who generally supplied answers to my endless questions), “What is ‘to day that is coming speaks it the day’ supposed to mean?!” He replied calmly, “Mmm, Haydn, yes,” and recited a more familiar translation of the psalm’s opening verses by way of response. It quieted me at the time, but I’ll admit I’ve secretly never been satisfied, so when Midrash Vayikra Rabbah offered an insight connecting this verse to the opening of our parashah this week, I was intrigued.

Peppered throughout the books of Vayikra and Bamidbar is a phrase so common as to be ignored. In a section of the Torah offering few stories, this little phrase stitches the seams of disparate material together like decorative thread on a patchwork quilt. In this week’s portion it occurs so frequently, in fact, that it has one of the highest counts of any parashah for its appearance:

וידבר י־הוה אל משה לאמר דבר. . .ואמרת. . .

 “And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Speak…and say...’”.

It is this phrase that introduces most of the themes in the parashah: from priestly purity injunctions to observance of major festivals, and ultimately the avoidance of blasphemy—nearly a dozen times in all. It’s surprising, then, that the parashah would open with an anomaly in the expected formula, resulting in its name, Emor:

ויאמר י־הוה אל משה אמר אל הכהנים בני אהרן ואמרת אלהם

And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Say to the priests, the sons of Aaron ,and say to them’”

(Lev. 21:1)

In Hebrew, the established formula has been vayedaber . . . le’emor . . . daber . . . butthis verse uses emor three times: vayomer . . . emor . . . ve’amarta. Why is it different here?

Perhaps the breaking of the formula for our parashah’s irregular emor is about more than just words. Using its characteristic wordplay, the Midrash connects the parashah’s emor here to omer in Psalm 19:3 (spelled the same way, but as a poetic noun): “day to day utters speech (omer), and night to night reveals knowledge.”  It explains that the day and the night are negotiating the giving and borrowing of time from each other to create the cycles of the year between the equinoxes. Reading the next verse in the psalm, we see “there is no speech (omer) . . .” Or as the Midrash puts it, “they pay each other back harmoniously, without a contract.”

But this is a contradiction. How could day and night speak without speaking, and how is any of this related to the parashah? An answer might lie in the differences between ledaber and le’emor. Daber is generally translated as “speak” and emor as “say” or “tell”; in Hebrew their same spellings can function as nouns: “words” and “speech,” respectively. While daber is used for speaking aloud, emor might also take on the meaning of “communication.” And as any parent or teacher knows all too well, communication does not always require speaking, and speaking does not always result in communication. The day and night are communicating or telling (emor) without using speech (omer). Our parashah’s opening verse then, might be translated, “And God said to Moses, ‘Communicate . . . tell . . . ’” because the material to come requires more than mere words.

It is no wonder, then, that speech and its importance echo across the parashah. The seasons produced by heavenly wordless discourse in the Midrash are reflected in the annual cycle of Israel’s major feasts discussed in the middle. Interestingly, while we use a visual word in English (to observe a ritual or holy day), here it is a verbal one: cried out or proclaimed (mikra):

 וידבר י־הוה אל־משה לאמר דבר אל בני ישראל ואמרת אלהם מועדי י־הוה אשר תקראו אתם מקראי קדש אלה הם מועדי   

Everett Fox’s translation brings this out most clearly: YHWH spoke to Moshe, saying: Speak to the Children of Israel and say to them:  The appointed-times of YHWH, which you are to proclaim to them [as] proclamations of holiness—these are they, my appointed-times (Lev. 23:1–2).

The theme of the importance of speech and communication continues with the strict admonitions surrounding the speaking of the divine name at the parashah’s close. Both the proclaiming of festivals and the avoidance of blasphemy carry the thread of the opening emor throughout the fabric of the entire portion.

In Eichah Rabbah(1:41), the Midrash offers an opposing example of a vayomer . . . vayomer redundancy from Esther 7:4, where the text attributes “he said” to Ahashverosh twice in a row. Here, the Midrash tells us, it is because at his first vayomer, he didn’t know Esther was Jewish and spoke to her directly, but later he only spoke to her through a translator.  As in our verse, the Midrash interprets emor through the problem of words, meaning, and reception, but the second emor serves in this instance to distance the speaker instead of communicating effectively. It highlights difference, deliberately obfuscates, and creates barriers where there had previously been none.

In our world, there are protests and counter-protests; speaking, often at high volume, is part of it.  Sometimes not much actual communication is happening in these exchanges. I didn’t know it back in elementary school, but I’d stumbled onto an important truth in Haydn’s awkward libretto: every act of speech requires a kind of translation on the part of the recipient, and communication is not guaranteed. And after all, if even day and night can communicate wordlessly, is language sufficient?

From its first verse, Parashat Emor presents us with challenges to our voices. In our cultural and political moment, we are faced with vayomer . . . emor . . . ve’amarta choices every day. What are we truly saying when we speak? How might we move from just saying words to truly communicating?

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l). 

Loraine Enlow is a is a doctoral candidate in the Bible Department at JTS, and winner of the Fannie and Robert Gordis Prize in Bible. Her work focuses on Christian exegetical use of Jewish commentaries in the Middle Ages in England and France. Her new exhibit, The Burke’s Medieval Bibles: Influence, Innovation, & Impact, featuring materials from across Columbia University’s collection, is on display in the Burke Library at Union Theological Seminary through early fall 2024. In addition to her doctoral work, Loraine heads Admissions for graduate programs at Yale’s Institute of Sacred Music and is working toward JTS’s Judaica & Hebraica Librarianship Certification.

Praying for the Peace of Jerusalem

| Yom Hazikaron-Yom Ha'atzma'ut By :  Alan Cooper Elaine Ravich Professor of Jewish Studies Posted On May 13, 2024 / 5784 | Monday Webinar Timely Insight | Israel

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In Commemoration of Yom Hazikkaron (Israel’s Memorial Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror)

With Dr. Alan Cooper, Elaine Ravich Professor of Jewish Studies, JTS

ABOUT THE SERIES:

Timely Torah, Timeless Insights

Join JTS’s renowned faculty to learn about their current work and greatest passions. Drawing on their expertise, scholars will offer inspiring learning and expose us to new ideas and insights that help us connect the Jewish past with the Jewish future. 

The Kabbalah of Tzefat

By :  Eitan Fishbane Professor of Jewish Thought Posted On May 14, 2024 / 5784

After the Expulsion from Spain, a mystical revival flourished in Tzefat, building on the fellowship circles that defined groups like the Spanish Kabbalists of previous generations. These communities, which were built on the cultivation of spiritual friendships and master-disciple relationships, developed kabbalistic theology, poetry, ethics, autobiography, halakhah, and more. Elements from this period and place have become well known in contemporary Jewish practice, from the blessings of Kabbalat Shabbat to the notion of reclaiming the divine emanations that shattered with the creation of the world.

Show Notes

Kabbalistic Leaders:

Connections to Seeing the Unseeable: Kabbalistic Imagery from the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary

Transcript

Announcer: Welcome to Exploring Kabbalah—a JTS podcast with Dr. Eitan Fishbane, professor of Jewish Thought. Throughout this seven-part series, we’ll trace the evolution of Jewish mysticism—from Biblical and Rabbinic times, to the explosive creativity of the Medieval period, to the Hasidic movement in Eastern Europe. Join us for a tour through time and space in which Professor Fishbane provides insight into the thinkers, texts, and concepts that became central not only to the Jewish mystical tradition but to the fabric of Judaism itself. Episode six takes us to Tzefat, the center of Jewish mystical innovation after the expulsion from Spain.

Dr. Eitan Fishbane: Our journey so far has crossed continents and centuries. We pick up our story in the hilltop town of Tzefatin the northern Land of Israel where a mystical revival flourished in the 1500s among a remarkable collection of individuals (many descended from families who had been expelled from Spain in 1492 and then Portugal in 1496), involving extraordinary creativity composed of kabbalistic theology, poetry, ethics, autobiography, halakhah, and more.

Modeled after the fellowship circles of the Merkavah mystics and medieval Spanish kabbalists, the cultivation of spiritual friendships and  master-disciple relationships were deep and manifold in 16th Century Tzefat. Mystical practice was rarely a lonely endeavor. The kabbalah of Tzefatwas defined by these social circles, most notably in groups of mystics surrounding Joseph Karo, Moshe Cordovero, and Isaac Luria.

The circle of R. Joseph Karo and his disciples was these groups to thrive in 16th century Tzefat. Though Karo is best known for his work of Jewish law/halakha, the Shulhan Arukh, he also authored a profound mystical diary, Sefer Magid Meisharim, a personal record of his heavenly revelations and alternations between grandiose self-perceptions and anxieties over self-worth. This highly important kabbalistic text reflects mystical experience in its own right and is also part of a larger genre of mystical autobiography that developed in Tzefat. As demonstrated in our exploration of sages like Nachmanides, the Ramban, Karo is both a major rabbinic leader and legal authority who was also a prominent kabbalist.

In addition to his mystical diary, we learn about Karo’s dramatic mystical persona through his disciple, Shlomo Alkabetz. Alkabetz wrote the first account of a Tikkun Leil Shavuot, a ritual innovated by the 16th Century kabbalists. It was modeled on key texts from the Zohar regarding all-night study as a mystical practice but developed into an elaborate and specific ritual. Alkabetz witnessed Karo in an ecstatic state of communion with Divinity and possession by the heavenly voice of the Mishnah from the upper realm, an extension of the Shekhina, the same voice who speaks to him throughout Sefer Magid Meisharim. Another Tzefatinnovation that influenced contemporary holiday practice is the Tu B’shvat Seder. First appearing in the controversial work Sefer Hemdat Yamim in the late 17th Century, the ritual and its symbolism are rooted in the Kabbalah developed among the mystics of 16th century Tzefat.

Rabbi Moshe Cordovero followed in this line of prominent thinkers—a student of both Alkabetz and Karo. Cordovero was a hugely prolific and often scholastic kabbalist—one might say the Thomas Aquinas of kabbalistic thought and writing. He authored a massive 24 volume commentary on the Zohar titled Or Yakar; a major tome of kabbalistic metaphysics entitled Pardes Rimmonim (The Orchard of Pomegranates); and many other works.

In addition to his more dense work, Cordovero is particularly notable for his authorship of Sefer Tomer Devorah (The Palm Tree of Deborah), the slim classic of what would come to be known as kabbalistic musar or ethics—The Tomer Devorah discusses the ways in which the ten sefirot ought to be emulated by a person as qualities of ideal character in the individual’s quest to realize be-tzelem Elohim, the idea that they are created in the image of God. A significant passage in this remarkable text is Cordovero’s emphasis on the way in which the human being, like the living organism of the ten sefirot of the One Divinity, must be grounded in compassion, love, and calm.

Perhaps the best-known invention of 16th century Tzefat was the innovation of such famous and enduring rituals as the Kabbalat Shabbat prayer service on Friday evening. In one vivid text from the period, the devotee is instructed to stand facing the sun, place their hands over their heart/chest, and recite a selection of specific Psalms that eventually became the Kabbalat Shabbat service as we know it today.

To these Psalms were subsequently added the kabbalistically infused hymns. Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, a student of Karo and a teacher of Cordovero, composed Lekha Dodi. The hymn Yedid Nefesh, was written by another kabbalist, ethicist, and poet of this time and place, Rabbi Elazar Azikri. Among the treasures of the JTS  Library is manuscript of Yedid Nefesh  autographed by Azikri himself. Both poemsfocus on how the Shekhinah, the feminine dimension of Divinity, is revealed and greeted on Shabbat; a tradition in the Zohar as well. These poetic hymns have had an enormous influence on the history of Jewish prayer and they are among the most widely known Jewish prayers today.

We now turn to another mystical fellowship circle of 16th century Tzefat, that of Rabbi Isaac Luria, also known by his acronym, the ARI. A kabbalist whose thought and personality changed the course of Kabbalah for centuries to come. He wrote little himself, though among these few writings were his kabbalistic Sabbath table songs specific to the different Sabbath meals which are still chanted today.

Without his core disciples, most dominantly, by R. Hayyim Vital, there would not be a written record of Lurianic Kabbalah,. Among Vital’s most important collections of Lurianic teaching are his Sefer Eitz Hayyim (Book of the Tree of Life), which, among other things, articulates the ARI’s radically innovative mythology of cosmic origins; and Sefer Sha’ar ha-Gilgulim (The Gate of Reincarnations).

Corresponding in large part to these works and others, the major ideas developed in Lurianic Kabbalah are tzimtzum (withdrawal of divine infinity—the divine infinite light, called Or Ein Sof)in order to leave an empty space (the halal ha panui)—albeit one still laced with the film and traces of the sacred light of Infinity—within which the finite world might be created. As the Lurianic mythology goes, after initial attempts to infuse this Infinite Light into an unformed mass, Divine Infinity placed that original All-Pervasive Light into Vessels (keilim) that corresponded to the ten sefirot to give them shape in the gradual founding of the created world.

But that light proved too powerful for its containers, causing a cataclysmic shattering of the vessels (shevirat ha-keilim), and sending the broken shards of those vessels (the kelipot) down to now form the darkness of matter. Those broken vessel shards were believed to contain and cover traces of that infinite holy divine light that God infused into them—they being in fact luminous extensions of the Divine Self scattered into the world into which humanity would ultimately emerge.

In the wake of this shattering the vessels and the scattering of the light, Divinity sought to mend itself, and reconstituted Itself into a form that was called Adam Kadmon (literally “Primordial or Original Man,” though this was understood to be the Super-Human Divine Figure that would be the model for the subsequent creation of the human as Adam ha-Rishon, First man).

Adam originally emerged as a gargantuan body of light. When enormous and luminous Adam sinned, the light of Divinity once again fell into a state of cosmic rupture and disrepair, but that body of light also shattered into countless fragments of light that fell into the kelipot (and Adam was reduced to a normal human size), each radiant fragment of which was understood to be a root-spark for a soul lineage that was to come to be. From this mythic event arose one final core idea of Lurianic Kabbalah that I shall mention here: the doctrine of soul reincarnation (gilgul), an elaborate theory involving an individual, their metaphysical/heavenly origins and a process of rupture and repair (tikun) in the spiritual practice of that person.

Belief in reincarnation and rebirth is perhaps best known to many from the religious traditions of India, but such ideas are found in a variety of religious traditions, including quite prominently in kabbalistic Judaism. The deep presence of this phenomenon in Jewish sources is little known, and is sometimes surprising.

Getting back to the ARI and his fellowship circle, the disciples would come to Luria as a spiritual physician of the soul. They looked to him to diagnose the flaw or wound of their soul and its history (what sins it committed in a previous physical lifetime), and what specific mitzvot among other penitential practices needed to be enacted in order to bring about that personal tikun. For once all the souls, traveling through many physical generations, are properly repaired, the ultimate redemption and restoration of the cosmos—the universe first broken in that primordial catastrophe of shattered vessels—can be attained.  This ongoing work of tikun, repair is the ultimate goal of Lurianic Kabbalah.

In our next episode, we will pick up on the work of these two mystical circles as we move a century forward and travel westward to Poland. Cordavero’s emphasis on the psychologization of the divine metaphysical sefirot, which was central to his work Tomer Devorah. greatly influenced the rise of Hasidism in 18th century Poland and Russia as well as the Musar movement that developed in Poland in the 19th century. Hasidism deeply engaged and built on the Lurianic idea of the Immanence of God, present as sparks of light in the mundane world and the restoration of these sparks to achieve divine perfection.

Announcer: Thanks for listening to Exploring Kabbalah with Professor Eitan Fishbane, a JTS podcast. It was recorded and produced by Ellie Gettinger, with editing assistance from Sarah Brown. I’m Rabbi Julia Andelman, JTS’s Director of Community Engagement. The music for this series is Yah Notein Binah by sixteenth-century Kabbalist Israel Najara, from the album Seeds of Song, produced by JTS. If you enjoyed this episode, please subscribe and leave a review wherever you listen to podcasts. For those who want to dig deeper, visit jtsa.edu/podcasts, where you’ll find sources, archival material, and more in the Exploring Kabbalah show notes—along with the complete library of JTS podcasts.


Who among Us Is Holy? 

Kedoshim By :  Talia Kaplan (RS ’24), Assistant Rabbi , Congregation Beth Shalom (Overland Park, KS) Posted On May 10, 2024 / 5784 | Gender
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When God instructs Moses to tell the Israelites קדשים תהיו, “You shall be holy,” the injunction is to be delivered אֶל־כָּל־עֲדַ֧ת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל, “to the entire community of Israel” (Lev. 19:2). This week’s parashah opens with a message that seems easy to get behind. The question, though, of what it actually means to be holy, is answered by commentators in a way that paints a more complicated picture. Rashi explains that being holy entails refraining from forbidden sexual relations and transgressive thoughts, which are delineated both in this and the previous parashah.

Many of these—“Do not sleep with a menstruating woman,” “Do not degrade your daughter,” etc.—put the emphasis on the male, not surprising given how personhood and sexuality were understood at the time (Lev. 18:19, 19:29). But these human interactions involve multiple parties. How might this section of the Torah inform the ways we today think about embodied mitzvot and the holiness of the entire community of Israel? Is there a way to hold earlier understandings of the mitzvot, the challenges of reading ancient texts about sexual ethics in light of contemporary values, and the belief that the Torah speaks to all of us at all times? 

As a feminist, observant Jew, I believe there has to be. My academic work at JTS engages a disability justice approach to halakhah, using forbidden sexual relations—specifically the laws around menstruation—as a case study. [1] What might it mean to treat all of our bodies as holy? In reflecting on this question raised by the opening to Parashat Kedoshim, I suggest we turn to the resurgence of hilkhot niddah in liberal communities and the academic field of disability studies. 

Hilkhot niddah, like many areas of Jewish law about non-male bodies written by men, has its fair share of complications. Yet many observant Jews, including some liberal Jews, practice niddah. There are many reasons why, including a desire for halakhah to comprehensively inform our day-to-day lives. In her 2014 teshuvah, Rabbi Pamela Barmash spoke to such a phenomenon in the context of gender and obligation, writing, “Being permitted to perform a mitzvah is not the same as being required to perform a mitzvah, and women want to express their commitment to their lives as Jews by performing mitzvot on an equal basis with men.” Barmash’s assertion says as much about obligation more broadly as it does about women’s relationship to traditionally masculine mitzvot: for many of us, being fully, holistically obligated is a core part of our Judaism. So what happens when our foundational texts delineate the laws of niddah—or other embodied mitzvot—in a manner that does not completely align with our experiences of gender, sexuality, and/or physiology?

This dissonance offers the opportunity for a new approach. Enter the social model of disability, which understands disability as resulting from a gap between one’s embodied experience and their broader physical and social environment and attempts to close that gap through systemic change, which for halakhah would entail accounting for bodily diversity from the outset. The insights gained by individuals with marginalized bodily and sexual identities—who often navigate flawed medical systems, legislative attacks, and other societal challenges—can guide a response to the deep yearning for rituals and halakhah that resonate with our personal experiences of our bodies, especially when traditional texts seem at odds with these experiences. Integrating disability justice with halakhah provides a dual opportunity: it allows the insights of disability studies to enrich halakhic thinking and helps our communities better address diverse physical needs, affirming the holiness of the entire community of Israel.

One area of hilkhot niddah that could better account for different experiences is bedikot, the series of internal checks a menstruant[2] performs at the cessation of bleeding to exit the status of niddah.[3] People with pelvic health issues like endometriosis and vulvodynia may experience pain with insertion, as well as symptoms such as vulvar itching, incontinence, and discomfort when sitting or wearing tight pants. Hilkhot niddah have long taken into account the reality that some people might have difficulty with vaginal insertion, establishing cases in which someone would only have to do the first bedikah—hefsek tahara. Yet for those for whom even this one check is difficult, it is normative to seek out individualized guidance that might provide leniencies and heterim (permissions). Given that one in four people with vulvas are impacted by pelvic health issues at some point during their life, and the broader reasoning that we should proactively account for embodied difference, a contemporary approach to hilkhot niddah should see pelvic health issues as part of the normal range of menstrual experiences, not an anomaly to be dealt with if they come up.

A disability justice-informed approach to bodily diversity would see responding to one’s physical and emotional realities not as necessitating employing a leniency, but as part and parcel of what it means to seriously live a rigorous halakhic life. While not everyone perceives “leniency” to be a bad thing, it often has a negative connotation in halakhic communities, implying that someone is choosing to be “less observant.” Furthermore, in the disability community, people sometimes hesitate to use mobility aids or pursue institutional accommodations out of fear of “not being disabled enough,” and a similar line of thinking could lead people to be wary of relying on a halakhic leniency. We can affirm people by relating to halakhah in a way that does not set up a strict/lenient hierarchy but rather draws them closer to Jewish practice with, to the extent possible, halakhic language that speaks to their lived experiences.

For bedikot, expanding halakhic thinking with an eye toward disability justice might include accounting for the reality that not everyone is physically able to perform a hefsek tahara and elaborating on what this might mean for the transition to shivah neki’im—the seven “clean days” between menstruation and exiting niddah status through immersion. Alternatively, for the menstruant who observes a form of niddah that understands the entirety of niddah to be seven days and still wants to do some sort of check before going to the mikveh when night falls on/after the seventh day, it might entail discerning a rigorous way to check in with one’s body that does not cause physical or emotional distress. The halakhic approach to hefsek tahara that I wish to see is one that understands that not everyone might be able to do even a single bedikah, and that this is not necessarily a temporary situation. 

My proposal reflects a deeper, personal desire to navigate the tension between my own experience as a person sensitive to pain and a longstanding tradition. I know that, for me, taking both Judaism and my experience of my body seriously means engaging in a comprehensive religious practice, inclusive of niddah. This is not unique to people who have chronic health challenges. From pregnant people discussing how to think about fasting to trans folks writing teshuvot about whether to wear a chest binder when immersing in a mikveh, many of us are expressing a desire for halakhah to be informed by and speak to a diversity of lived experiences.[4] Halakhah’s ability to respond to the complicated reality of human existence is part of what maintains its holiness. The extent to which we respond to the diverse embodied needs in our communities is central to answering the call for each of us to be holy.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l). 


[1] The “Unwell” Woman: A Disability Justice Approach to Halakhah and Spiritual Care, submitted in partial fulfillment of the Jewish Gender and Women’s Studies MA and Certificate in Pastoral Care and Counseling at JTS.

[2]  When discussing biblical and rabbinic sources, I refer to “women” in an attempt to provide a translation or summation of the source that best reflects the texts’ understanding of gender and anatomy. When talking about contemporary best practices and scenarios, I use gender-inclusive language such as “menstruant.”

[3] How this period of time is counted largely depends on one’s communities (ethnically, denominationally, etc.).

[4] For example, see https://www.amitzvahtoeat.org/ and https://svara.org/trans-halakha-project/

Art as Witness: The Work and Remarkable Survival Story of Esther Lurie

| Yom Hashoah By :  Shay Pilnik Director, Emil A. and Jenny Fish Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies, Yeshiva University (JTS PhD ‘13) Posted On May 6, 2024 / 5784 | Monday Webinar Timely Insight

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With Dr. Shay Pilnik, Director, Emil A. and Jenny Fish Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies, Yeshiva University (JTS PhD ‘13)

In Commemoration of Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day)

The survival story of celebrated artist Esther Lurie (1913-1998), the only Israeli artist to win the prestigious Dizengoff Prize for Drawing twice in her career, was beyond remarkable. After she made aliyah and established herself as a prominent artist in young Tel Aviv, Lurie was caught up in the claws of the Hitlerite monster while visiting her sister. From that point on, she was driven by two motivations—to survive the Kovna Ghetto and several labor camps, and to bear witness to Nazi crimes through a series of brilliant, clandestine sketches and illustrations.

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Meditative Kabbalah

By :  Eitan Fishbane Professor of Jewish Thought Posted On May 7, 2024 / 5784

Kabbalah is not limited to the sefirot and the mystical knowledge of the Divine inner self. In this episode, we examine two other focuses of Kabbalah—Prophetic Kabbalah and the Kabbalah of Names. The Kabbalah of Names derives from a form in which different combinations of divine names can be employed to achieve an altered state of consciousness. This consciousness could be employed to find a prophetic mindset.  

SHOW NOTES

Scholem, Gershom. Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism.  

Kabbalistic Leaders 

Connections to Seeing the Unseeable: Kabbalistic Imagery from the Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary

Commentary on Sefer Yetsirah (Abulafia):  

This text is an excerpt of a commentary that Abraham Abulafia  composed to the Sefer Yetzirah, in which he expounded on the numerological significance of the Hebrew alphabet. This passage was preserved in a collection of Abulafia’s writing that was copied by an Ashkenazi scribe four centuries after his death.  

Transcript

Announcer: Welcome to Exploring Kabbalah—a JTS podcast with Dr. Eitan Fishbane, professor of Jewish Thought. Throughout this seven-part series, we’ll trace the evolution of Jewish mysticism—from Biblical and Rabbinic times, to the explosive creativity of the Medieval period, to the Hasidic movement in Eastern Europe. Join us for a tour through time and space in which Professor Fishbane provides insight into the thinkers, texts, and concepts that became central not only to the Jewish mystical tradition but to the fabric of Judaism itself. In this episode, our fifth of the series, we take a deep dive into Meditative Kabbalah.

The Kabbalah of 13th century Spain—from the fascinating figures and rich texts of Catalonian Kabbalah to the magisterial myth and lyrical theology of the Castilian Zohar—was filled not only with speculations on the nature of Divine Being, but also reflections, direct and indirect, about the nature of mystical experience. This facet of Catalonian and Castilian Kabbalah, often downplayed by earlier generations of academic scholars, has received a surge in attention and exposition by modern Kabbalah scholars since the 1980s.

Nevertheless, there is no denying the fact that alongside “theosophic” Kabbalah”—that is, kabbalistic thought that focused on the mystical knowledge of the hidden inner realms of Divine Being and the mythic dynamism of the sefirot—there also developed an equally fascinating stream of thought and writing that was far more explicitly concerned with the practices and experiences of mystical contemplation and meditation. This was described by the kabbalists themselves as the distinction between Kabbalat ha-sefirot (The Kabbalah of the sefirot) and Kabbalah Nevu’it (Prophetic Kabbalah), the latter also often referred to as Kabbalat ha-Sheimot (The Kabbalah of Names). The terms Prophetic Kabbalah and The Kabbalah of Names derive from a form of Kabbalah in which variations, combinations and permutations of the divine names were understood to be practical techniques whereby the devotee employing them might achieve a transformed state of consciousness, characterized as Nevu’it (Prophetic) in mind.

This didn’t necessarily imply the foretelling of events (as is often associated with prophecy), nor did it indicate a host of other characteristics associated with ancient prophecy (such as social critique and so on), but rather depicted a para-normal, heightened state of awareness that was understood to be a revelatory encounter with Divinity. One of the most prominent and prolific kabbalists of the “prophetic” school was one Rabbi Abraham Abulafia (not to be confused with Todros Abulafia who appeared in our last episode) who lived from 1240-1291—dwelling, traveling, and teaching in Spain, Land of Israel, Italy and elsewhere. Abulafia was a highly creative mystic whose confessional and prescriptive practice emphasized the meditation upon, visualization of, and recitation of the enunciated (vocalized) letters and vowels of the ineffable Divine Name. This included various practices of controlled breathing and head movements that bear striking comparison to the Yogic practices of Hindu religious tradition.

One of Abulafia’s disciples (or so it would seem), Rabbi Natan ben Sa’adya Harar, in an autobiographical work known as, Sha’arei Tzedek (the Gates of Righteousness) reflects on this approach. Rabbi Natan describes his lengthy spiritual quest for knowledge and meaning through varied ways of learning, teachers, and physical locations, until he received mentorship from a particularly revered kabbalist (seemingly none other than Abraham Abulafia himself), who gradually taught Natan the secrets of manipulating the sacred divine names through written permutation as techniques to achieve a revelatory state of consciousness. Rabbi Natan ben Sa’adya describes one of these experiences (which he boldly and somewhat irreverently undertakes against the warnings of his mentor) as an event in which the entire room in which he dwelled appeared to be filled and animated by an otherworldly light as a direct causal result of engaging in the powerful meditative practice of extensively writing out the permutations and variations of the names of God with a quill and parchment.

 Another kabbalist who wrote evocatively of the contemplative and experiential dimensions of Kabbalah—and in all probability had direct or indirect contact with Abulafia or his disciples—is especially worth mentioning here, the kabbalist Rabbi Isaac ben Samuel of Akko (late 13th and early 14th centuries). The formative years of Isaac of Akko were spent in the northern Land of Israel (in the port city of Akko!). In that relatively cosmopolitan city (the primary gateway for trade, pilgrimage, and the exchange of ideas of Christian Europeans traveling to the Levant), he was influenced by a number of kabbalistic and other spiritual forces, including Nahmanides and his disciples. One of Isaac’s most important works was actually part of that genre known as beurei sodot ha-Ramban (Clarifications or Meta-commentary on the Commentary on the Torah of the Ramban), which I mentioned in Episode 3. But he also seems to have been shaped by the presence of Islamic and Jewish Sufi mystics and philosophers who were present in Akko at that time, along with others.

After the catastrophic and violent fall of Christian Crusader rule in 1291, Isaac of Akko became a Jewish refugee who wandered from the Levant (the Mediterranean east) through the Jewish centers of Europe, focusing his time learning and adapting traditions in both Catalonia and Castile. While Rabbi Isaac reflected upon having heard mystical teachings from the prominent halakhist Rabbi Solomon Ibn Adret in Barcelona, a disciple of the Ramban himself. In his pursuit of mystical truth, Rabbi Isaac went on a quest to encounter the “newly discovered” manuscript of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai, the Zohar itself.

For our purposes, what is most remarkable about Isaac of Akko is the way which he merged elements of both The Kabbalah of the Sefirot and The Kabbalah of Names to develop a highly contemplative and meditative approach to the sefirot.  This approach centered on prayer, as well as  the uncovering of the divine meaning of sefirotic symbols. For Isaac, these meanings were embedded in the natural world as reflections of the mysteries of the universe. Infinity, itself, opened up to him through the liminality between sleep and waking consciousness. Isaac often reports, in a notable first-person voice no less, his experiences waking from sleep into moments of extraordinary revelation (in one potent case, he describes—not unlike the anecdote described by Natan ben Saadya Harar—waking several times during the night, floating in consciousness in that liminal space of mind between sleep and waking. He was first stirred by the sensory pleasure of a sweet otherworldly light filling his house. This light was mysteriously different from that of the sun, contrasted by his physical awakening at dawn to a climactic awareness of the metaphysical meaning of the Hebrew letter alef, a representation of the stunning and elusive power of Ein-Sof (Infinity) itself.

Other times, clearly in his journeys out of doors, he would pause at the edge of a beautiful garden to reflect on the petals of the wondrous flowers he beheld therein and to interpret these forms as symbolic allusions to the meta-physical realities of the inner-divine sefirot beyond the world. Or he would pause on his outdoor journeys to behold a mountain bathed in twilight blue, tekheilet, leading him to think about the mysteries of the Shekhinah—the lowest of the ten sefirot and the one closest to the human world—who is often referred to by kabbalistic thinkers as tekhelet, blue like the color of the Great Sea into which all the rivers of divine life flow and ultimately converge, in poetic homage to the famous verse from Kohelet (Ecclesiastes 1:7):  kol ha nahalim holkhim el ha yam ve ha-yam eineinu malei—“All the rivers run to the sea, and yet the sea is never full.”

Tekhelet, Isaac said in this passage, is also known as Takhlit, Perfection or Completion. This is yet another symbolic name used to refer to the Shekhinah as She gathers in all the energies of upper divine life and overflows like a well of living waters to nourish the worlds below Her. In its Hebrew form, the word Takhlit is only different from the word Tekhelet in its inclusion of the letter yod—תכלית—a playful interpretive correlation that Isaac all but explicitly states indicates the ten sefirot (represented numerologically by the Hebrew letter yod) that flow as the upper divine rivers reaching their completion and perfection in the blue Tekhelet that is Shekhinah, the tenth sefirah that is the Great Ocean of Existence, the convergence point of all the ten sefirot into Oneness, the streaming together of the purest and most ultimate Divine Unity. For the kabbalists, everything in this world is a symbolic allusion to the heavenly realm; the physical is a reflection of the metaphysical.

Throughout this series, we continue to see the ways in which kabbalists engage with ideas and innovate across time and space. In this episode, we explored the personal reflections of those mystics using meditation upon God’s names to create a “prophetic” state of mind. Next time, we will move eastward and jump two hundred years into the future to Tzfat where an extraordinary spiritual and mystical revival took place, one that is still even reflected in our Shabbat liturgy today.

Announcer: Thanks for listening to Exploring Kabbalah with Professor Eitan Fishbane, a JTS podcast. It was recorded and produced by Ellie Gettinger, with editing assistance from Sarah Brown. I’m Rabbi Julia Andelman, JTS’s Director of Community Engagement. The music for this series is Yah Notein Binah by sixteenth-century Kabbalist Israel Najara, from the album Seeds of Song, produced by JTS. If you enjoyed this episode, please subscribe and leave a review wherever you listen to podcasts. For those who want to dig deeper, visit jtsa.edu/podcasts, where you’ll find sources, archival material, and more in the Exploring Kabbalah show notes—along with the complete library of JTS podcasts.

What Do the Dead Know?

Aharei Mot By :  Jonathan Boyarin Mann Professor of Modern Jewish Studies, Cornell University and Adjunct Professor, JTS Posted On May 3, 2024 / 5784 | Torah Commentary
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This week’s Torah portion begins with the words “after the death,” referring to the death of Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu.  I appreciate the chance to contribute this week’s commentary, since I’m currently teaching a course titled “Death, Dying, and the Dead” at JTS. Much of the course is about Jewish death rituals, but I also aim to convince my students that Jewishness per se is inconceivable without some notion of the continuing presence of the dead in the world of the living. The tradition for the most part seems to take this continued presence for granted, though questions arose about exactly how it manifests.

A brief Hasidic tale reflects some skepticism about the extent to which the presence of the dead is like that of the living. I heard it from my friend Rabbi Shimon Schneebalg, a neighbor on the Lower East Side. It is said that the Rebbe of Lelev had the practice of giving his deceased father-in-law aliyos, that is, calling him to recite the blessings over the reading of a section of the Sabbath Torah portion. The son-in-law claimed that he was able to hear his father-in-law pronounce the blessings, and it was further said that the congregants reported hearing the son-in-law respond “omeyn.” When the Rebbe of Ger was told about this practice, his response was “Takke? Me zol im gebn hagbeh,” that is, they should see if his father-in-law can lift up the Torah scroll. So maybe it’s easier to talk to your own dead than to believe that others talk to theirs!

We should not, in any case, suppose that the idea of death as at least partial oblivion is entirely a modern aberration. As long ago as the Rabbinic period and doubtless long before, the question whether the dead had any consciousness, let alone agency, was being actively debated. The Babylonian Talmud (Berakhot 18), famously debates this issue. I quote from the ArtScroll elucidation: “R’ Chiya and R’ Yonasan were walking in a cemetery, and R’ Yonasan’s tsitsis were dragging over the graves. Whereupon R’ Chiya said to him: ‘Lift up your garment, lest the dead say: “Tomorrow they will be joining us and now they mock us!”’” (The mockery referred to here has to do with the mitzvahof tzitzit: by letting his fringes touch the ground, R’ Chiya suggests, R’ Yonasan would be in effect teasing the dead, reminding them that they are no longer able to place these fringes on their own bodies and indeed, can no longer fulfill any mitzvotthemselves.)  “. . . . R’ Yonasan said to him: But do [the dead] know so much about what is going on in this world? But it is written [in Kohelet] ‘For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing at all.’”

In the course of the ensuing discussion, one attempt to prove that the dead remain aware is brought as a baraita, that is, a statement attributed to the tannaim who are the authorities of the Mishnaic period. Remarkably, while most such statements quoted in the Babylonian Talmud tend to be short, declarative, and deal with halakhic issues, this one (beginning at Berakhot 17b) is an extended folktale.

It happened that there was a certain pious man who gave a dinar to a poor man on the eve of Rosh Hashanah in a year of famine, and his wife reproved him for it, so he went and spent the night in a cemetery. There he heard two spirits conversing with each other. Said one to the other: My friend, let us roam the world and hear from behind the [Divine] curtain what misfortune is to come to the world this year. Her friend replied: I cannot come with you, because I am buried in a matting of reeds [apparently, this spirit didn’t have the right “clothes” to venture beyond the cemetery]. But you go, and come back and relate to me whatever you hear.

Upon her return, the wandering “spirit” relates that she had heard the future foretold: “[T]he crops of anyone who plants this winter at the time of the first rain will be destroyed by hail. Hearing this the pious man went and planted at the time of the second rain. Everyone’s crops were destroyed except for his.”

The tale continues with the pious man spending a night at the cemetery the following year, and overhearing the same conversation between the two spirits, this time with an opposite future foretold: “I heard that the crops of anyone who plants this winter at the time of the second rain will be blasted by a dry wind. Hearing this he went and planted at the time of the first rain. Everyone’s crops were blasted but his.”

The pious man’s wife—cast, it should be acknowledged, as the villain of this story—wonders why the pious man has “guessed” right about the time of planting two years in a row, and the pious man tells her about the conversations he has overheard. “They say that it was not a few days later when a quarrel broke out between the pious man’s wife and the mother of that child whose spirit he had overheard in the cemetery. The wife said to the mother: Come, I will show you your daughter buried in a matting of reeds”—evidently, a putdown to a family that couldn’t afford better burial shrouds for their daughter. The third year, when the poor man goes to the cemetery, the spirit buried in reed matting refuses her friend’s proposition altogether: “My friend, leave me be! The words that we spoke between ourselves in years past have already been heard among the living.”

Thus the spirit declares that she doesn’t want to know what next year’s crops will be, for such foreknowledge has already been exploited by the living, and instead of gratitude her dead spirit has been insulted (“your daughter is buried in a matting of reeds”). The Talmud takes this as proof that, indeed, the dead do know what goes on in the world of the living.     

What’s most remarkable about this whole Talmudic passage is perhaps that R’ Yonasan never seems even to imagine that the quote from Kohelet might mean what it suggests to a modern reader: that the dead have no awareness whatsoever. For him, it could only suggest their complete divorce from the affairs of the living. The modern idea that “when you die that’s it,” that nothing remains of the person whatsoever, was likely inconceivable to him.

Is proof from a folktale enough to counter the declarations of Kohelet, traditionally regarded as written by none other than the wise King Solomon? We don’t really need to decide, and the question must remain open. But I’m inclined to think that the view of not only most scholars in our tradition, but most of our people throughout the centuries, has been that the dead remain somehow with us—and that without them, we the living wouldn’t begin to know how to be Jews.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).