Aphrodite and the Rabbis

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Aphrodite and the Rabbis Page 6

by Burton L. Visotzky


  Ultimately, the Jews flourished under the Sasanian Empire, which persisted until the advent of Islam in the seventh century CE. This gave the Babylonian Jewish community about four hundred years to come thoroughly under the sway of the Talmudic rabbis. Later in this book, we will see that the already-existing bits of Hellenistic Judaism represented in the rich wall paintings at Dura complemented the Hellenism that the rabbis brought to Jewish Babylonia from Roman Palestine. Like the synagogue walls at Dura, the Babylonian Talmud is a rich amalgam of Eastern and Western cultures. Even the Jews living in Zoroastrian country could not help but be influenced by the magnetic pull of Hellenism to its west.

  The Jews in Late Antiquity interacted with virtually every other religious group in the communities that were spread throughout the Roman oikoumene. Across the Roman world, Judaism simultaneously stood somewhat apart and distinctive from its neighbors, no matter what its expression. There was a common core of Judaism, which made it familiar to all who practiced it, no matter what the local details of that practice may have been. While this tempts us to equate these common Jewish practices, such as lighting Sabbath lamps or observing food strictures, with the observances of the rabbis, we can discern distinct customs from one Jewish community to another. Many of those communities preexisted rabbinic Judaism, so it is clear that they were not following the dictates of a small group of men in the Galilee. Even so, the Jewish practices they shared, for all of their local differences, made Judaism somewhat “other” to the pagan non-Jews who embodied the broader Greco-Roman culture. Yet under the aegis of Hellenism, the Judaisms of Late Antiquity in all of their varieties were deeply part of the surrounding Roman culture.

  Chapter IV

  Esau, Edom, Rome: What Did the Rabbis Really Say about the Romans?

  For the Jews of the Roman Empire, the disastrous rebellion against Rome of 66–70 CE ended with the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. The Bar Kokhba debacle of 132–135 CE ended with a virtual exile of Jews northward to the Galilee. In between those devastations, rioting and police actions decimated the Jewish communities of North Africa in the period from 115 to 117 CE. These wars with Rome had a profound effect on the collective and individual Jewish psyche. Whether these wars represented a last-gasp effort to regain the quasi-independence the Jews had under the Hasmonean Maccabees, or whether they manifested a messianism gone awry, or even the flexing of Eastern provincial political muscle at times when the imperial center in Rome itself was thought to be weak, can never definitively be determined. The origins and causes of each outbreak remain multifaceted and obscure. Minimally, however, the three military engagements pushed the Jewish community to a more submissive stance in which “go along to get along” became the norm and Stoic passivism expressed the communal ethos. This engendered deeply complex attitudes about how the Jews saw Rome, as well as about the construction of their own Roman-Jewish identity.

  Jews who were Romans had at once a strong sense of their Judaism and pride in their Roman citizenship. They held this latter quality despite their minority status and the earlier rebelliousness of a militaristic subset of the community. In truth, during none of the three “wars” was the entirety of the Jewish community implicated. Each military disaster involved only a segment of the Jewish community, no matter how far-reaching the aftermath. So when the emperor Caracalla expanded citizenship to every potential taxpayer in 212 CE, Jews lined up to register themselves in the archives to become official citizens of the empire. When they did so, they took on Greek and Latin names: Reuven became Rufus, Joseph became Justus, Shimeon became Julianus, and Benjamin was now Alexander. At least this is the report of a fifth-century rabbinic commentary (Midrash Song of Songs 4:12), which says that the Jews of Egypt merited redemption for not changing their names—presumably unlike the Jews of the Roman Empire.

  To say the least, there is a great deal of ambivalence regarding Rome lurking between the lines of the ancient rabbis’ books. While the rabbis consistently kvetch about the empire, the Rome they speak of changed over time. In the earliest rabbinic literature, indeed up to about 350 CE, “Rome” meant pagan Rome. But the latest layers of rabbinic literature deal with Christian Rome. While the rabbis’ relationship to Christianity is certainly very important, it is a topic for another book.

  Here, I focus on the Roman Empire as the monumental representative of the Greco-Roman culture that ultimately gave rise to Judaism. The complex Jewish attitudes the rabbis express toward Rome find their origins in the Hebrew Bible. You might reasonably ask, “Where will we find the Roman Empire in the Bible?” The answer, surprisingly, lies in the book of Genesis. The trick is in knowing how to decode the text. The story begins with one of the most moving verses in the entire Bible. The matriarch Rebecca, after long being unable to conceive, finally becomes pregnant when her husband, Isaac, prays on her behalf. God responds to his prayer, and as with many modern pregnancies in which there has been an intervention, Rebecca finds herself pregnant with twins. It is a very difficult pregnancy; as the Bible puts it, “the children rumbled inside her” (Gen. 25:22). Rebecca, in despair, seeks an oracle and poignantly asks God, “Why me?” (Gen. 25:23). It’s the existential question everyone asks at one time or another in life. And it is especially apposite to a woman pregnant with twins.

  But these are not ordinary twins. Indeed, God tells Rebecca,

  Two nations in your belly; two nations from your womb shall part. One will be stronger than the other; the elder to the younger enslaved. (Gen. 25:23)

  Esau was born first; his younger brother followed, grabbing his heel, and so was called Jacob (which has the Hebrew word for “heel” as its root). Esau was, in modern parlance, macho, while Jacob was what we might call metrosexual. In the next ten verses, we learn that Esau hunted and Jacob stayed home. Dad loved Esau for the game he brings him, while Mom just loved her Jacob. When, one day, Esau was famished, young Jacob bought his birthright for a bowl of red (in Hebrew: adom) lentil porridge. Therefore, we are told, Esau was called Edom—a bad pun, to be sure, but the Bible and the rabbis love puns.

  In the Bible, this birth begins an epic rivalry laced with hatred and murderous intentions. Rebecca’s oracle is the original self-fulfilling prophecy. The last of the classical prophets, Malachi, says it this way: “‘Is Esau not Jacob’s brother?’ says the Lord. ‘Yet Jacob I love and Esau I hate’” (Malachi 1:2–3). Jacob, who becomes Israel, seems forever destined to conflict with Esau, aka Edom. Centuries later, in the earliest rabbinic commentaries, Esau or Edom symbolizes Rome. It is the Jews and Rome who now appear to some rabbis to be locked in a struggle for primacy.

  Rebecca’s prophecy was interpreted as anticipating Israel’s final triumph and Rome’s eventual enslavement. History just has to play itself out for the Jews to rise from beneath the imperial boot. As the fifth-century Rabbi Nahman commented on the creation of the sun and moon, “So long as the great luminary shines, the lesser luminary is eclipsed. Only when the great luminary sinks from view does the lesser luminary shine forth. When Esau’s sun sets, then shall Jacob shine forth” (Gen. Rabbah 6:3).

  But this black-and-white view is reductive and far too simple. After all, the Torah also reports that after Jacob flees Esau’s wrath, he ultimately returns home. On the very eve before he met Esau again after two long decades, Jacob wrestled through the night and was renamed Israel (Gen. 32). When Israel finally met his brother, the much stronger, much-cheated Esau “ran to greet him, he hugged him, fell on his neck and kissed him; so they wept” (Gen. 33:4). A happy reunion after all? Well, it depends on how you read it. In a Torah scroll, the Hebrew word for “kissed him” has dots over it. What do these mysterious dots mean? Some rabbis say it means that the kiss was venomous, like the kiss of the spider-woman. Others say Esau bit him. Yet others say, when Esau kisses you, count your teeth afterward, he’s such a no-goodnik. One lone rabbinic voice says, “The kiss was a sincere kiss of brotherly love” (Sifre Num. #69 an
d Gen. Rabbah 78:9).

  The reason for that final positive opinion lies in the recognition that Israel and Edom are nonetheless brothers, twins at that. When the rabbis chose a symbol for Rome it is true that they chose the one who was “set against them.” But we cannot ever forget that the classic rabbinic symbol picked to represent Rome is Jacob’s fraternal twin. It strikes me that in this choice of Esau as the symbol of Rome, the rabbis gave voice to the complexity of their relationship. Yes, Rome is rhetorically construed as the eternal enemy. Yes, Jews in the Land of Israel rebelled against Rome twice. Yes, Rome exercised a harsh hegemony against the Jews of Roman Palestine and elsewhere in the Empire.

  But . . . but, but. But Rome behaved that way toward all its colonies, especially the rebellious ones. But Rome worked with and benefited from the Jewish populations in the empire. But Rome afforded Jews special privileges in their food distribution to its citizenry, giving the Jews separate kosher items. But Rome gave the Jews exemptions from military and other forms of government service due to Sabbath laws. But Rome recognized the Jewish patriarch in Palestine and gave him certain powers. But Rome kept the peace so long as there were no rebellions. But Rome built roads and aqueducts, regulated markets, established courts.

  Once upon a time, the curiously named “Rabbi Judah son of Converts” said,

  “How admirable are the deeds of this nation. They have built markets, bridges, and bath-houses.” His colleague Rabbi Yosé was silent; but Rabbi Shimeon ben Yochai retorted, “Anything they have built has been for their own needs. They build markets so their whores have a place to ply their trade. Bath-houses to pamper themselves, and bridges to collect tolls and taxes.” (Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 33b)

  Elsewhere Rabbi Hanina sourly notes, “Pray for the peace of the Empire; for were it not for the fear they inspire, people would swallow one another alive” (Avot 3:2). It is well to consider the ambivalence of the literature. Some rabbis sing Rome’s praises. Some are scathing in their scorn. Still others are silent.

  In a narrative about the coming of the Messiah, the rabbis teach:

  Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi once asked the prophet Elijah, “When will the Messiah come?” He replied, “Go ask him. He sits among the paupers at the gates of Rome” . . .

  He went and greeted him, “Peace upon you, my master and my teacher.”

  He replied, “Peace unto you, son of Levi.”

  Rabbi Yehoshua asked, “When will you come?”

  To which the Messiah replied, “Today.”

  Rabbi Yehoshua commented to Elijah, “He lied to me, for he said he would come today, yet has not come!”

  Elijah explained, “He was quoting Psalm 95:7: ‘Today, if you would but obey God’s voice.’” (Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 98a)

  There sits the Messiah patiently at Rome’s gate, awaiting his triumph. The future king of Israel is ready, if only the Jews could just for once obey God. Here the rabbis blame their subjugation not on Rome but on themselves. God’s kingship is the ultimate dominion; yet Rome will rule so long as God’s sovereignty is not fully accepted. This is the notion the Bible itself adopts to explain exile. God has not been defeated. Rather, God uses the foreign conqueror as God’s scourge. For the rabbis, God and Rome work hand in hand in history. It is the divine destiny of the Jews ultimately to throw off the yoke of history and succeed someday in the messianic future to kingship over Rome. As Rome conquered Greece, so the rule of earthly kingdoms eventually will end and Israel will ascend. The irony is not lost on the rabbis. Rome’s culture will influence the Jews and shape them, much as Greece had done to Rome in its turn. But that is, of course, messianic speculation.

  There is no better embodiment of the Greco-Roman Empire than its founding conqueror, Alexander the Great. If the rabbis can imagine the Messiah at the gate of Rome wrapped in bandages, they mischievously imagine Alexander at another gate, fully bedecked in his armor, at the far end of his kingdom. Like everyone else in the empire, the rabbis told Alexander legends. I quote this one as it illustrates the rabbis’ ambivalence toward the empire that Alexander represents. The rabbis’ run-up to the Alexander tale is instructive as well, so allow me to spin this story at length. It starts with the same rabbi whose chat with the Messiah we just reported.

  When Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi went to Rome he saw pillars of marble wrapped in tapestries so that they would not crack in the cold nor break in the heat. Next to the pillar he saw a pauper wrapped in a thin reed mat. Of the pillars the rabbi recited the first half of Psalm 36:7, “Your beneficence is like the mighty mountains.” He commented, “When You bestow, You do so in abundance.”

  And of the poor man he recited the next part of the verse, “Your judgment is like the deepest depths.” He said, “When You smite someone, you are punctilious in Your retribution!”

  The tale is ambiguous. It would be too easy to blame Rome for showing more sympathy to the marble columns than it did to its own poor. Yet Rabbi Yehoshua chooses to frame this as a matter of God’s enigmatic justice. When God chooses to reward, there is the magnificence of Rome. When God punishes, human suffering abounds.

  The fifth-century Midrash continues in colloquial Aramaic:

  Alexander of Macedon went to the Far Kingdom beyond the Mountains of Darkness. There he found a city called Cartagena that was entirely of women. They came out before him and declared, “If you make war against us and conquer us, your reputation will be that you destroyed a town of ladies. And if we conquer you, the word will go out that you were beaten in war by women. Either way, you won’t be able to show your face among the other kings.”

  When he departed he inscribed on the city gate [pylae], “I, Alexander of Macedon, was a foolish king until I came to Cartagena and learned sound counsel from its women.”

  The storyteller is parodying Rome’s pretensions to conquest. Alexander gets his comeuppance from the wise women of Cartagena. Where, pray tell, is this fabulous far-off city? It well might be Carthage, in North Africa. Alexander, of course, never got there, but that need not have stopped the rabbis from imagining him there for the sake of their satire. It is even more likely that they liked the name of the city as an amalgam of two words, the first Aramaic: karta, or city. The second word is Greek: gynae. Females know from visits to their gynecologists that this word means “women.” So the town named Cartagena translates as “city of women.”

  The narrative continues with another Alexander legend, this one lampooning so-called Roman justice:

  Alexander went on to a city called Afriki. They came out before him bearing apples, pomegranates, and loaves of bread, all made of gold. Alexander asked, “Is this what you have to eat here?”

  They replied, “Do you have no food in your country that you came here?”

  Alexander demurred, “I did not come to see your wealth. I came to see your laws and justice.”

  As they were sitting there, two gentlemen came to find justice before the king. The first said, “I bought a derelict building from this man. When I knocked it down I found a treasure. I insisted he take it, as I paid for a building and not a treasure.”

  The second man replied, “Master, when I sold that derelict building, I sold it and its entire contents to him.”

  The king asked the first, “Do you have a son?” He said, “Yes.”

  Then he asked the other, “Do you have a daughter?” He said, “Yes.”

  The king said, “Let the boy marry the girl and together they can enjoy the treasure!”

  Alexander was astonished. The king asked him, “Why sir? Did I not judge well?” Alexander said, “Yes, you did.” So the king asked, “Had this happened in your country, how would you have judged?”

  Alexander answered, “I would cut off the head of this one and cut off the head of that one. Then, I’d keep the treasure for the royal household.”

  The king asked him, “Sir, does t
he sun shine on your country?” Alexander said, “Yes.” And so the king asked, “Sir, does rain fall in your country?” Alexander said, “Yes.” The king then asked, “Perhaps you have small grazing animals in your country?” Alexander said, “Yes, why?”

  The king said, “This man [viz, Alexander] should drop dead! It is through the merit of those poor animals that the sun shines and the rain falls upon you. Those small animals are your salvation, as it is written, ‘Man and beast do You deliver, O Lord’ (Psalm 36:7). You deliver the men for the sake of their beasts.” (Pesikta DeRav Kahana 9:1)

  It’s not very often that a verse of Psalms provides both the setup and the punch line for a joke; but the rabbis admittedly have an odd sense of humor. In the full narrative, they open with Psalm 36:7 about the pillars of Rome and contrast them with the poor. The bada-boom comes when we learn that it is because of the lowly sheep and goats—animals otherwise reviled for their omnivorous foraging—that Alexander’s kingdom thrives. If it depended upon the vaunted system of Greco-Roman justice, there would be neither a drop of rain nor a ray of sunshine. Alexander may think himself great, but he survives by dint of the little people.

  Alexander the Great mosaic—Naples Museum

  Note that the rabbis do not attack Rome directly. Rather, they humorously imagine Alexander as incredulous that people might be generous to one another or that a judge might be anything but rapacious. In truth, rabbinic law also makes it clear that folks are not always as munificent as the people of Afriki (that is, Tunisia). Rather, it is the local king who indicts Alexander for the cravenness of Roman justice, much as the women of Cartagena emasculate Alexander’s pretensions as a conqueror. The rabbis repeat these tales with relish, but they do not directly indict.

 

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