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Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi (1924-2014) died on July 3rd this past week. The world has lost of one its greatest and most imaginative modern Rebbes of modern times. In the early sixties, he and Shlomo Carlbach were among the earliest followers of Rabbi Schneersohn and their success set the standard for generations of Chabad shiluchim (emissaries). My experience with Reb Zalman goes back almost four decades to when I was about nineteen years old. Reb Zalman often used to travel to the Bay Area where he would do a variety of workshops. In the summer of 1973, I vividly remember him wearing a rainbow colored Tallit on Shabbat. When I asked him about the significance of his tallit, I remember him explaining to me how each color corresponded to a color of the Kabbalistic Tree of Life. I knew right away that Reb Zalman thought outside the box! Reb Zalman gave me a glimpse of what life might look like outside of Lubavitch. After returning from vacation, I asked my teachers about him. Chabadniks often describe him as brilliant but somewhat wayward, a maverick of sorts. According to one narrative, young Zalman Schachter asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe if he could succeed him as the next Rebbe of Lubavitch. The Rebbe smiled and politely declined his offer, and said, “I hope that the Moshiach (Messiah) will replace me.” Over the decades, Reb Zalman outgrew Lubavitch, and he subsequently became his own kind of Rebbe. As a modern Jewish visionary, he was one of the early exponents of interfaith dialogue that went far beyond the stodgy world of Jewish-Christian dialogue. Reb Zalman created bridges of mutual understanding with the Buddhist, Sufi, Hindu, and other religious traditions. He incorporated many of their techniques (e.g., Dervish-dancing) and meditation into Judaism. He was also the first American Rabbi to be invited by the Dali Lama, who wanted to understand the mystery and lessons of Jewish survival for his own Tibetan community. Reb Zalman was a pioneer and a visionary who sought to create a new kind of Jewish spirituality that would attract many young Jews who became disillusioned by the vapid and rote forms of Judaism that remain endemic of modern Jewish life. He often had workshops designed to teach rabbis about the importance of silence—not an easy task indeed! In my lifetime, I have known some outstanding spiritual teachers. I will remember Reb Zalman and R. Akiba Greenberg as two great giants of spirit who left a lasting influence on me. They were both in many ways, kindred spirits who also personally knew each other. In retrospect, I would have to say that Reb Zalman had a much greater impact on me than Rabbi Schneersohn. Reb Zalman’s smile was contagious; he was always approachable. Reb Zalman always took a sincere and personal concern all of his students and followers spirituality. He often recommended interesting meditative exercises to open my spirit to new possibilities. At times, he could be at times painfully honest—but always in a gentle sort of way. Often times, he offered advice to me that I did not solicit. Every year, I would always call him and see how he was doing and his memory was always sharp even to the end. A few months ago, he gave me a lovely recommendation on the cover of my new book, A Shepherd’s Song: The Shepherd Metaphor in Psalm 23 and in Jewish Thought. As we grew older, Reb Zalman always used to say that we must go “from aging to saging,” a theme that later became of his most important books. For baby-boomers, this is wonder advice for all of us to remember. Another one of the most important lessons he bequeathed unto a new generation of Jewish spiritual teachers is the importance of learning how to find their own spiritual voice. He also understood the power of the synagogue as a spiritual crucible for renewal and new possibilities. His love for Jews of all backgrounds made him one of our most endeared rabbinical figures of modern times. A great man has passed away and all who knew him will miss him. ‘A Shepherd’s Song’ analyzes Psalm 23′s metaphor
Posted on 01 May 2014. A Shepherd’s Song: Psalm 23 and the Shepherd Metaphor in Jewish Thought by Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel, Kodesh Press, New York, NY; ISBN 978-0-61599-132-0 ©2014, $22.95, p. 360, plus Notes and Index By Fred Reiss, Ed.D. Fred Reiss, Ed.D Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel WINCHESTER, California — Psalm 23 is arguably the most well known of the one hundred fifty psalms. Its opening line, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” presents a powerful image of the most awesome entity in the universe providing you a comfortable place to rest, all you can eat and drink, and even protection from your enemies. How bad is that? To get these, all you have to be is ……… a sheep. Being a sheep is by and large not a good thing. The word sheep generally describes those who blindly follow others regardless of consequences. It also conjures up phrases like, “a sheep being led to the slaughter.” Likewise, I cannot possibly imagine today’s Jewish mother kevelling as she tells others that her son is becoming a shepherd. Indeed, a shepherd has been a pejorative term going back almost two thousand years. In a Midrash to the Book of Psalms, the third century Rabbi Yosi bar Hanina noted that there is no occupation more degrading than that of a shepherd who walks around like a beggar holding a staff and bag in hand. Yet, Jacob applied this epithet to God (Gen. 48:15) and King David said, “The Lord is my shepherd” (Ps. 23:1). We now have a conundrum. How can it be that such negative images combine to offer a commanding and enduring picture? Michael Samuel, Rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California, tackles Psalm 23’s influential metaphor of shepherd and sheep in his latest book A Shepherd’s Song. Samuel recognizes these inherent problems in the shepherd/sheep metaphor and asks, for example, how Jews can still recognize a personal relationship with God in light of the Holocaust. Additionally, he notes that our age of science and technology gives the illusion that we are self-sufficient; thereby reducing our “spiritual sensitivity,” which further separates the sheep from the shepherd. A Shepherd’s Song invites the reader to look deeply into the message of Psalm 23, particularly as it applies to the shepherd, which Samuel calls a “root metaphor,” a symbol of the “community’s beliefs, values and behavior.” By this he means that the answer that Judaism gives to the shepherd metaphor carves out one facet of how the religion acknowledges important universal events, such as birth, life, marriage, and death, as well as engages collective mysteries: Is God personal or aloof? Who gets to heaven? How does the individual affect the collective? Samuel tells us that “metaphors of God function as the template for all human behavior.” Judaism’s answers to universal questions would be much different if the psalmist could have legitimately written, “The Force is with me, I shall not want,” or “To Whom It May Concern, I have all that I need.” We are treated to the general topic of metaphors as seen through the eyes of Greek philosophers, Talmudic rabbi, Jewish scholars of the Middle Ages, and modern sources. As for the Hebrew Bible, metaphor becomes a synonym for anthropomorphism, the attribution of human forms to God, such as: “the hand of God” (Job 19:21), “you may see My back, but not My face” (Ex. 23:33), and “the sound of God walking in the garden, (Gen. 3:8),” etc. The rabbis understood that the Bible is written “in the language of the people,” nonetheless, they often employed these figurative descriptions without emphasizing that God has no image and therefore cannot have physical features. Samuel relates the disapprobation that Maimonides held with regard to any terms that give visualizations of God and the strong condemnation he held for past and contemporary rabbis for the continued use of terms he felt were the equivalent of idolatry. Maimonides concluded, as did Philo of Alexandria a thousand years earlier, that one cannot say what God is, only what God is not. So how is it that we can say, “The Lord is my shepherd”? Being caught up in the technological breakthroughs of the modern era, these philosophical debates over anthropomorphisms and biblical metaphors seem to have little meaning for modern synagogue worshipers, and perhaps even the rabbis who lead them. With a loss of metaphor, there is a loss of a personal relationship with God, and a concomitant failure to communicate with God through prayer. There are deep metaphysical messages about life in Psalm 23, according to Samuel, which he connects to such things as leadership and personal presence. He draws on examples from the Hebrew Bible, particularly notable personages in the Book of Genesis who exhibit both good and bad shepherd-like traits, such as Adam, who is given dominion over the animals; Cain, who abandons his brotherly responsibility; and Joseph when “he literally shepherds to safety his brothers and the people whose welfare God entrusted to him;” along with others, including Moses and King David. Samuel takes special note of the prophet Ezekiel, who attacks the numerous pre-Babylonian Exile kings of Judea for failing to act as proper shepherds towards their people as a reason for Judea’s defeat. A later prophet, Isaiah II, refers to the Persian king Cyrus, the monarch who allowed the Jews to return to their homeland and rebuild the Temple, as “My shepherd” and “His anointed one.” Pointing out that while referring to a non-Jew as a messiah-like figure seems shocking to the Jewish mindset, Samuel stresses that this assertion places at the forefront the idea that God will choose whomever he wants to fulfill His plan for His flock. The thorny question of whether or not Psalm 23 can have any meaning in a post-Holocaust world is also tackled in A Shepherd’s Song. Samuel answers that it is historically false to believe that all Holocaust-era rabbis “always acted in the best interests of their flocks,” and he further observes that the Holocaust has given us “a grim reminder that there is no redemption without human actors.” His discussion on the Holocaust ends with a number of moving Holocaust-era stories that portray some or all of his proposed seven qualities of “good shepherding.” Among these are: encouragement, commitment to remain with the community, assistance, and self-sacrifice. Samuel provides a line-by-line rabbinic, pastoral, and interpretive exegesis of and commentary on Psalm 23, giving us multiple perspectives of this ancient poem: imagery of a shepherd (verses 1-2), a wanderer (verses 3-4), and a host (verses 5-end). The concluding chapters of A Shepherd’s Song focus on ways to increase one’s spirituality through the psalms, especially Psalm 23. Samuel’s preferred method is known as lectio divina, which is regularly setting aside time for the purpose of reading the Hebrew Bible as contemplation and meditation, rather than, say, as a history book or a book of stories, in order to draw closer to God. In the two appendices, which Samuel titles Excursus 1 and 2, he presents Psalm 23 through the eyes of the great sixteenth century Safed mystic, Isaac Luria, who made Psalm 23 part of the Sabbath meal liturgy, and more extensively through the hapless biblical character Job. With today’s wireless technology: anklets, collars, ID tags, cameras, and the ubiquitous GPS systems, it is not hard to accept that the job of shepherd may become less valuable and consequently marginalized in places where it now thrives. However, A Shepherd’s Song does a remarkable job clearly and definitively establishing that the messages contained in Psalm 23’s metaphor, which include proper stewardship, alert attendance, caring companionship, guided nurturing, and unconditional love, are as valuable to society today as when the poet uttered the words that became Psalm 23 more than twenty-five hundred years ago. * Dr. Fred Reiss is a retired publicand Hebrew school teacher and administrator. He is the author of The Standard Guide to the Jewish and Civil Calendars;Ancient Secrets of Creation: Sepher Yetzira, the Book that Started Kabbalah, Revealed; and a fiction book, Reclaiming the Messiah. The author can be reachedvia fred.reiss@sdjewishworld.com. You can order the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Shepherds-Song-Shepherd-Metaphor-Thought/dp/0615991327/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1395697932&sr=8-1-fkmr1&keywords=Jewish+thought+A+Shepherd%27s+Song+Psalm+23 This past week, I watched the new movie Noah with considerable interest. The newest book of my Genesis commentary deals largely with the story of Noah and the moral questions raised by the Noah narrative. Naturally, whether a person writes a script or a commentary on a biblical story, Aronofsky’s film is an excellent midrashic exposition of an old familiar biblical story. The meaning of “midrash” is interpretation. Whenever we interpret a biblical narrative or law, our interpretations say more about us—the readers—than it does about the text itself. This point certainly applies to the new Noah movie that features the actor Russell Crow as Noah. The movie seemed to borrow ideas from the Book of Enoch, which speaks about the fallen angels who came down to earth. However, contrary to Aronofsky’s portrayal that the fallen angels wanted to help humankind, God had warned the angels to keep their distance because they would lose their spiritual innocence and become more corrupt than the mortals these angels criticized. In effect, these supernatural beings caused the rapid deterioration of early man. Like Monday morning quarterbacking, it is easy to criticize a team for failing to make the correct play of a contested football game. Hindsight is typically 20/20. According to the Book of Enoch, the Watchers found the earth girls, well—seductive. They fathered children who were the Greek equivalent of the demigods, whom Zeus and the deities of Olympus decided to wipe out through a flood! Although the Watchers wanted to improve the earth, they only made it worse. [1] This is one example of how Aronofsky veered from the ancient Judaic literature that was written about the Flood almost 2000 years ago. Much of Aronfsky’s narrative depicted the sons of Noah as not having wives when the flood occurs. However, the biblical narrator flatly says that Noah’s sons were married before the Flood had occurred. By denying this detail, Aronfsky completely rewrites the story of Noah in a manner that is radically different and disingenuous. The movie Noah in some ways reminded me a little of Braveheart, Prophecy, Transformers, Psycho, and the “Binding of Isaac.” One more detail, Aronofsky and Russell Crowe like showing the audience that Noah really knows how to fight! Aronofsky also portrays Noah as wearing black leather pants and jackets; not only is such an image of Noah inconsistent with the idea that he was a vegetarian, leather pants were not invented until the 8th century B.C.E., by the Persians. Aronofsky probably did not want to show a bunch of men fighting in togas or flowing robes. We can certainly forgive him for that minor inaccuracy. Darren Aronofsky’s Noah is a postmodern reformatting of the biblical narrative we all grew to know as children. Yet, despite some of these criticisms, there is much to admire about the film. The dramatic portrayal of Cain and Abel and its cascading images throughout recorded history was visually effective. The biblical writer of Noah probably would have shared Aronofsky’s disdain for urbanization and man’s lust for power. Some critics think Aronofsky attributes the flood to man giving up his vegetarian diet. Yet, even the rabbis suggest that the Seven Noahide Laws included a precept not to act cruelly toward animals—which was most likely a reaction to the antediluvian behavior of that generation. The psychological transformation of Aronofsky’s Noah is remarkable. According to the biblical story, God became fed up with humankind and its penchant for violence. This thought is not expressly evident in the movie for God never really “speaks” to Noah, but communicates to him through dream imagery and visions.[2] Aronofsky portrays Noah as a man who hated humanity because of their wickedness. This would explain why he refuses to aid Ham’s girlfriend because of his contempt for humanity. Yet, he is prepared to sacrifice his daughter-in-law, and her two baby girls who miraculously are born forty days after the flood subsides! (Now that’s a real miracle!) After the flood, Noah comes to a strange realization that God does not want the world to have human beings because of their violent ways. Yes, Aronofsky’s Noah sounds more like the Christian theologian Augustine who believed that man is incurably evil and is incapable of redeeming himself. Interestingly enough, Aronofsky demonstrates why Noah did not ask God to save humankind. The reason is simple: he despises what human beings have become! This interpretation is certainly consistent with the rabbinical view that criticizes Noah for his lack of human concern for his fellow beings. When Noah came out of the ark, he opened his eyes and saw the whole world completely destroyed. He began crying for the world and said: “Master of the Universe! You are called Compassionate, but You have shown compassion for Your Creation?” The Holy Blessed One be He replied, “Foolish shepherd! . . . I lingered with you and spoke to you at length so that you would ask for mercy for the world! But, as soon as you heard that you would be safe in the ark, the evil of the world did not touch your heart. You built the ark and saved yourself. Now that the world has been destroyed, you dare open your mouth to utter questions and pleas?! [3] This part of the film seemed as though Aronofsky had recreated the Binding of Isaac and it is only the humanity of his wife who shows him the error of his ways. Despite himself, Noah eventually comes to see that God desires that we as humans redeem and save the world around us. Does this have ecological relevance for today? Of course it does. Christian evangelicals ought to embrace this aspect of the Noah story. Regardless whatever one may feel about Aronofsky’s Noah, the writer succeeded in portraying Noah as an ecological hero, for indeed, he is—he single-handedly saves the world and himself as well. If God could choose an imperfect person like Noah to make a difference in bettering and improving the world, then there may be hope for the rest of us who are reading his story. Noah is an entertaining film; despite my reservations on some of the details of the film, I will give it 4 stars! ====== Notes: [1] In Book 1 of Metamorphoses, the Roman poet Ovid (43 B.C.E. – 17. C.E.) weaves an elaborate chain of tales pertaining to the creaturely and cosmic transformations. Like the thematic layout of Genesis, Ovid first begins his work narrating about the creation of the world, Ovid then transitions to how the council of gods decided to bring a great flood to destroy all life. There is a clear etiological purpose of both the biblical and the Metamorphoses narratives in defining how the present world has become what it is. In addition, both books contain numerous moral parables about the human condition. Ovid’s retelling of the Flood story differs in one very important respect from the Mesopotamian narratives. Like the Noah narrative, Ovid attributes the flood not to the gods’ caprice or insomnia, but to human corruption and evil. [2] Parenthetically I must add that Maimonides probably would have enjoyed this part of the film for he always maintained that God speaks to human beings through dream or visionary imagery. [3] Zohar Hadash Noah, 29a * RabbiMichael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista. He may be contacted via michael.samuel@sdjewishworld.com San Diego Jewish World seeks sponsorships to be placed, as this notice is, just below articles that appear on our site. To inquire, call editor Donald H. Harrison at (619) 265-0808 or contact him viadonald.harrison@sdjewishworld.com The language of empathy is hardwired into the consciousness of many higher mammals. Human beings share the capacity to experience empathy for others. Of course, human beings are different in one basic respect from the animal kingdom. Whereas empathy is something that is instinctual in the animal kingdom, human beings possess the unique ability to reprogram their psyche and deny their basic empathic feelings.
The hardened heart is a familiar metaphor in the Bible. Pharaoh, as we know, suffered from a hardened heart. The metaphor of the hardened heart describes how Pharaoh denied his humanity. The heart in the Bible represents the core of our personhood—the wellspring of our humanity. It takes an act of will to deny its tender feelings. Conversely, it takes an act of will to allow the feelings that make us human, come alive. Remarkably, the face of human suffering does have the ability to make even hard-hearted people to open their hearts. When we think about the challenges that face Israelis and Palestinians, the status quo is determined to maintain the current state of conflict. Indeed, nothing can be more threatening than someone who is willing to step outside of his or her platonic caves and behold a different reality—a world suffused with light and endless new possibilities. A brave Palestinian professor named Professor Mohammed S. Dajani did something that most of us probably never thought was possible: He took about thirty students on a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp. The West-bank professor upset the Al-Quds University administration; they denounced Dajani as a traitor and collaborator—accusations that usually inspire death threats and imprisonment. Like the man of Plato’s cave, he went beyond the cave’s walls and discovered an alternative world. Just as the man was later threatened by other cave-dwellers, so too Dajani now must face the wrath of his own people, whom he has dedicated himself to helping. The German Research Foundation promoted and underwrote this educational project; it was part of a joint program on conflict resolution entitled, “Hearts of Flesh—Not Stone.” The Israeli students from Ben-Gurion University visited the Dheishe Refugee Camp in Bethlehem as part of the same project. The term Hearts of Flesh—not Stone is a powerful name, obviously inspired by the famous biblical passage in the Book of Ezekiel:
“The trip went well as planned,” Prof Dajani told the Jersulaem Post when he returned home. “It helped to explore what lessons would be learnt, and to instill commitment to alleviate human misery by not being a bystander.”
In his Torahmusings, R. Gill Student cites an endorsement of R. Steinsaltz’s translation from R. Tzvi Hersh Weinreb. His comments are especially important for anyone interested in the science of translation as it pertains to the translation of the Talmud:
Very few publishers have revolutionized the study of the Talmud like R. Adin Steinsaltz and ArtScroll Publishers. In this article, we shall examine some of the fascinating aspects of their newly digitized editions of the Babylonian Talmud. In many ways, R. Adin Steinsaltz deserves credit for starting the Talmudic revolution; he began making a Hebrew translation of the Talmud in 1965 and completed the project in 2010. This is no small feat. One could arguably say that R. Steinsaltz is like a modern day Rashi—a comparison that makes much of the Haredi world (who also happen to be the producers of the ArtScroll Talmud) bristle with disdain. Random House published a number of volumes between 1989 and 1999, but the project met with little success. The new Koren Edition of the Steinsaltz Talmud made several improvements in the design of the Talmudic text and added color pictures to illustrate the various creatures the Talmudists commented upon in their legal discussions. Steinsaltz did something very bold: he altered the text in order to make it a little less cumbersome for a growing and interested Israeli populace. ArtScroll considered Steinsaltz’s innovation heretical. Many Haredi friends of mine used to say, “Who does Steinsaltz think he is to change the Vilna Talmud?”[2] The fact that Steinsaltz is a Chabadnik may account for part of the animus the Litvisher yeshivas feel toward him. In addition, Steinsaltz added partial punctuation for the Tosfot, which made it imminently more readable. Talmudic purists generally look upon these types of innovations as crutches. Less than a decade ago, Steinsaltz gave in and finally made a Vilna version of his Talmud—one that would appeal to other young yeshiva students of the Haredi yeshivas. It is a pity that the ArtScroll Talmud project has never given any credit to Rabbi Steinsaltz; in many ways, he is the godfather of their magnificent translation. Currently, ArtScroll is rapidly translating the Jerusalem Talmud.[3] There is also an excellent translation of the Jerusalem Talmud written in Hebrew by the Israeli scholar Rabbi Bar Lev (1943–). Aside from being a Talmudic scholar, he also received his doctorate in educational psychology from the University of Arizona in 1976 and has written several books on Jewish mysticism. Unlike Steinsaltz, he frequently adds philosophical and psychological perspectives to his expositions. Unlike the Steinsaltz and ArtScroll Talmud translations, his work is free (!). His approach is similar to Steinsaltz and there is no doubt that this excellent work will someday be translated into English. As a student, I can recall the days when the yeshiva administration discouraged the study of the Steinsaltz edition because it was too modern looking of a text. Years later, I discovered that all the yeshiva teachers all had their own Steinsaltz volumes proudly displayed in their dining and living rooms. Steinsaltz’s volumes help Israelis and Haredi scholars alike to learn Talmudic Aramaic. His comparison to Greek and Latin cognate terms makes his study a wonderful resource to have—and now, the English speaking public will find these features very useful and effective. Steinsaltz’s summaries on the bottom of the Hebrew or English page, along with the biographical sections of the rabbis, or his expositions about rabbinical life in the days of Late Antiquity—make the modern study of Talmud crisp and easy to follow. The ArtScroll Digital Library has been described as “a revolutionary new way to study the Talmud! Ground breaking technology enhances the bestselling Schottenstein Talmud – and will allow you to study the Talmud in ways never before possible.” This statement is quite accurate. The Schottenstein Edition of the Babylonian Talmud by ArtScroll (hence referred to as the “ArtScroll Talmud”) is much more of a Lithuanian rabbinical product—one which captures the rich intellectual environment of a forgotten era. Anyone who wants to delve into intricate halachic details of a Talmudic text will never tired studying the ArtScroll Talmud, which replicates most of the great debates of the Rishonim (medieval) and Achronim (modern rabbinical) scholars. Unlike the Steinsaltz edition, the ArtScroll edition is not terribly interested in the historicity on how the Talmud originated. Unlike R. Steinsaltz’s herculean stamina in producing his translation and commentary, ArtScroll uses a committee of several rabbinical scholars. In this sense, R. Steinsaltz is more like Rashi and Maimonides—both of whom did not employ a committee in producing their works. ArtScroll preserves the Vilna Talmudic text’s classical style. However, it is important to note that they too—like Steinsaltz—added a Modern Hebrew translation on the opposite side of the page (in the Hebrew editions). They did the same with their English translation as well. Each Hebrew page is contrasting a page of English translation—one Hebrew folio takes approximately six to eight pages of English to translate. This layout can be a tad bit tedious—certainly much more tedious than the Steinsaltz edition, or for that matter—the Vilna edition itself. The ArtScroll Talmudic notes are superlative; as an avid student of the Talmud, I thoroughly enjoy the scholarship the ArtScroll writers demonstrate. Since their work is annotated with countless cross-references of the Talmud and the legal codes, one would have to sometimes open several volumes to flow the train of Talmudic thought. In my opinion, the newly digitized version of the ArtScroll Talmud’s best feature is its ability to hypertext a Talmudic text to other discussion found elsewhere in the Talmud. Moreover, when you read a specific section of the Talmud, the text immediately is highlighted in yellow—both in the text and in the ArtScroll notes. Note that the ArtScroll Talmud has the strange habit of transliterating in Ashkenazic Hebrew rather than Sefardic Hebrew. (Incidentally, this was one of the principle reasons why I sold my English ArtScroll Talmud for the Modern Hebrew translation. One suspects that the Brooklyn-based company has always felt somewhat ambivalent about the Modern State of Israel, but that’s for another discussion.). Unlike the ArtScroll Talmud, R. Steinsaltz is far from finishing his English translation. That being said, Koren is rapidly keeping up with the Daf-Yomi (a lectionary for the daily study of the Talmud). In addition, the ArtScroll lets you know which Talmudic tractate is being studied so that one may study with the international Jewish communities whom have made the Talmud an important part of their daily lives. The new Digital Steinsaltz Talmud is printed in a PDF format, and it assumes that the purchasers of these books will not illicitly use a pirated copy. On the heading of each folio is a warning to that effect. Personally speaking, I have always found it odd that yeshiva students would literally “steal” an electronic rabbinical text in order to study Torah. Such behavior is strangely reminiscent of Alice and Wonderland. However, there is must be a kosher way to go down the “Rabbi hole.” As a PDF, the text files are easily downloadable for and PC or Android device. The Digital ArtScroll Talmud is produced in an Apple and Android version. Sorry, this product is not available for Windows. Since I wanted this product so much, I went to the Sprint store to purchase a cheap Samsung Tablet for $50 and I have downloaded the volumes from the Android shop. The ArtScroll is considerably much longer of a process to download. Within a week, I hope to have all the volumes. The cost for the whole set is $599, which is literally $2500 than the printed edition. Both Koren and ArtScroll allow you to purchase a tractate one volume at a time for about $10.00—a splendid price for people who are on a tight budget. Here is what I like best about both editions of the Talmud: I can carry the entire Talmud in my little cell-phone or tablet! Given the affordability of the products reviewed, I strongly encourage you to purchase both editions so you can see the contrast in how modern rabbinical minds approach Judaism’s most controversial and beloved work. Notes: [1] http://torahmusings.com/2012/06/koren-steinsaltz-talmud/ [2] The Vilna Edition of the Talmud, printed in Vilna (now Vilnius), Lithuania, is by far the most common printed edition of the Talmud still in use today as the basic text for Torah study in yeshivas and by all scholars of Judaism. [3] The Jerusalem Talmud was compiled in the Academy of R. Yoḥanan in the Land of Israel, ca. 220–375 C.E. Like its counterpart, the Babylonian Talmud, it is a comprehensive commentary on the Mishnah that is also rich in Aggadah (rabbinical lore), non-legal material. There are several Latin and Greek expressions littered throughout its folios, as well including Mishnaic Hebrew and a Jewish dialect of Aramaic. The Dreidel as a Spiritual Metaphor I often get asked the questions, “What is the symbolism of the dreidel? What exactly is its origin?” The dreidel is a four cornered top that was popular in the medieval era and originally used for gambling. Jewish folklore purports that when the Syrians prohibited the study of Torah, the Jews insurrectionists would take a top to gamble with, so that the soldiers would let them play their game in peace. The name, “dreidel,” is a Yiddish word that derives from the German verb, “drehen,” (“to turn”). Historically, the origin of the dreidel is not quite so apocryphal. During the medieval era, gambling dice often had four letters inscribed, N,G, H, and S, representing “nichts,” (nothing), “ganz” (i.e., winner takes “all”), and “shtell arein” (“put in”). Jews subsequently transformed the dice into a top and added four Hebrew letters, נ (N), ג (G), ה (H), and שׁ (S)—signifying, נֵס גָדוֹל הָיָה שָם “nes gadol hayah sham” (“A great miracle happened there”). The symbolism gets more interesting when we take into consideration the numerological patterns the Kabbalists cleverly add when redesigning the dreidel during the medieval era. The value of the four letters equals 358, the same numerology (gematria) as Moshiach (Messiah)! This could suggest several things: (1) The wandering of the Jews (drehen) is not purposeless, though it may seem that way at times. Israel’s wandering serves to bring the world that much closer to its final redemptive stage of human history—the Messianic era. (2) As the dreidel spins, it represents the pulsating movement of the Divine; we who observe it, cannot see how its final stage will unfold until it actually occurs. Such a concept has its antecedents in the Talmud’s famous statement, “Three come unawares: Messiah, a found article and a scorpion” (T.B. Sanhedrin 97a). I have always liked this passage, for in its simplicity, the Sages teach us that it is not for mortal men–or women–regardless how pious or learned they happen to be, to engage in the mindless pursuit of messianic prognostications. The Messiah will appear when we least expect him to arrive. (3) Our fortunes in life are much like the chaotic turnings of the dreidel; those of us who lost our fortunes with the crash of the Stock Market crash, know the wisdom of this teaching only all too well … In short, although our existence is unpredictable, faith is the compass that provides us with the wisdom and radar to navigate through even the most difficult of times, like today. Share |
AuthorMichael Leo Samuel is the rabbi at Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California. Archives
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