Aphrodite and the Rabbis

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Aphrodite and the Rabbis Page 8

by Burton L. Visotzky


  In 132–135 CE, the Jews again rebelled against Rome, and they recall the depredations of the brutal quashing of the uprising with even more surprising ambiguity. Hadrian, who ruled from 117 to 138 CE, was among the most urbane of Roman emperors. Hipster that he was, Hadrian sported a beard, took a gay lover, and was fluent in Greek. The rabbis recall Hadrian with a certain degree of bemusement. Hadrian visited Roman Palestine in the years before the rebellion. In fact, in 1975, a tourist visiting Israel who was searching for ancient coins accidentally unearthed a bronze statue of him in the Beit Shean valley, in the Roman city of Scythopolis. Readers will not be surprised to learn that in addition to the nice statue of Hadrian, archeologists discovered a synagogue in the town, complete with its requisite menorah depiction and the word shalom.

  This did not stop the messianic pretender Bar Kokhba from rebelling. Hadrian’s perceived softness may have fed the revolutionaries’ resolve to strike against him. In a Midrash on the Song of Songs (2:1:16), a fifth-century rabbi looks back and says simply of Hadrian: “He killed 4,000,000 Jews.” By the Middle Ages the number has swollen to imagine Hadrian putting 80,000,000 Jews to death. I do not deny that the death of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of Jews was tragic. Yet I must point out how obviously, even ridiculously, these numbers have been inflated. Hadrian is recalled as having banned many Jewish practices, including Torah study, which was the background to the Rabbi Aqiba martyrdom story I recounted earlier.

  Hadrian’s having a bronze statue does not reflect much about the attitudes of the Jews toward him. After all, he did build the pagan city of Aelia Capitolina upon the ruins of Jerusalem. Although there is every reason to expect unremitting hatred in rabbinic recounts of Hadrian, where he is standardly referred to as “Hadrian, may his bones be ground to dust,” we actually find a much more ambiguous record.

  In the fifth-century Midrash on Genesis, the rabbis can imagine:

  Hadrian, may his bones be ground to dust, asked Rabbi Yehoshua son of Hanania (an elder contemporary of the emperor), “How did the Blessed Holy One create His world?”

  The rabbi replied that God had taken six packets of fire and patted them together with six packets of snow: one for each of the four cardinal directions, one for above and one more for below.

  Hadrian replied, “Is that really possible?”

  The rabbi brought him into a small room and asked him to stretch out his arms east, west, north, and south. He said, “That’s how God did it.”

  I don’t suppose this conversation really took place, despite Hadrian’s advent in Roman Palestine at the time this story is set. I am not convinced, either, by the rabbi’s pseudo-science. What does impress me, though, is the utterly innocuous nature of the conversation. Instead of being depicted as a murderous tyrant, Hadrian is painted as curious enough about creation to ask a rabbi. The Hadrian depicted in the story is polite, even deferential, to the Creator.

  Another Hadrian story tells how he is sympathetic, even kind, to an elderly Jew.

  Hadrian, may his bones be ground to dust, was strolling on the pathways of Tiberius when he saw an old man digging and hoeing. Hadrian said to him, “Grandpa, grandpa! Had you worked early you wouldn’t need to be working so late!”

  The old man replied, “I worked early and I work late [in my life]. I do what pleases my Master in Heaven.”

  Hadrian said, “By your life, old man, how old are you today?”

  He said, “I am one hundred years old.”

  Hadrian replied, “You are one hundred and still digging and hoeing?! Do you think you will be able to eat the fruits of your labor?”

  The old man said, “If I merit, I shall eat. And if not, just as my ancestors labored for me, so I labor for my offspring.”

  Hadrian said, “By your life, if you merit eating the fruits of the tree you are planting, let me know.”

  After much time, the tree bore figs. The old man said, “The time has come to tell the Emperor.”

  What did he do? He filled a wheelbarrow [Greek: kartella] with figs and went to the gate of the palace. The guards asked, “What is your business?”

  He said, “To appear before the Emperor.”

  When he entered Hadrian asked, “What is your business?”

  He replied, “I am the old man who was digging and hoeing. You said if I merited to eat the fruit of those trees I should let you know. Now I have done so, and these are those figs.”

  Hadrian declared, “I command [Greek: keleunin] to bring forth a golden divan [Greek: sellion] to seat him. I further command that you empty the wheelbarrow of figs and replace it with dinars.”

  His courtiers asked him, “Would you give such honor to this old Jew?”

  Hadrian replied, “His Creator honors him; shall I not also do so?” (Lev. Rabbah 25:5)

  This story is a favorite folktale that revolves around the touching line the old man utters, “Just as my ancestors labored for me, so I labor for my offspring.” Its sentiment of planting for those who come after is so lovely that it was used by a national Jewish charity for its fund-raising campaign. Indeed, in many versions of the story, it is a mere passerby who asks the old man the question that invites his memorable response. The story uses a well-known Greco-Roman rhetorical form, a chreia in Greek (more on that later).

  Hadrian equestrian statue—Capitoline Museums, Rome

  In our otherwise Aramaic version of the tale, when Hadrian says, “I command,” he does so in Greek, transliterated into Hebrew letters. When the old man is seated on a divan, again we have a Greek term, which is why I used the loanword “divan” for my translation. When Hadrian’s courtiers mildly object to his showing honor to a Jew, Hadrian rebukes them, complimenting God along with the elderly Jew. This is hardly the portrait of a bloodthirsty tyrant. The rabbis’ ambivalence about Hadrian is readily apparent. Rome may have brutally put down a rebellion against it; but the empire, embodied in the emperor, apparently has its good points, too.

  When Hadrian visited Roman Palestine in 130 CE, he met with his provincial governor, Tinius Rufus. Rufus was known to the Jews of the Land of Israel. It was he who was charged with brutally putting down the Bar Kokhba rebellion in the years 132–135. So it is curious to find that rabbinic literature records imaginary conversations between Rufus and the legendary Rabbi Aqiba, who may have supported the rebellion. Among these pieces of rabbinic performance is one about the mythical Sabbath River, Sambatyon:

  The evil Tyrannis Rufus asked Rabbi Aqiba, “What is today [the Sabbath] of all days?”

  He replied, “What are you among all men?”

  Rufus asked, “What did I say to you and what did you say to me!?”

  Aqiba explained, “You asked how the Sabbath is distinguished from the other days; while I asked how Rufus is distinguished among all men.”

  Rufus replied, “The Emperor has honored me!”

  Aqiba noted, “So, too, the Blessed Holy One has honored the Sabbath.”

  Rufus asked, “How can you prove this to me?”

  Aqiba said, “The River Sambatyon proves it, as it flows all week long, but rests on Shabbat.”

  Rufus said, “Are you kidding me?!”

  Rabbi Aqiba said, “Well then, let the necromancer prove it. He can bring up the dead all week long, but not on Shabbat.”

  Rufus went and checked by raising his father from the dead. He rose all week long, but not on Shabbat. Rufus asked him, “Dad, since you died, you’ve converted to Judaism?! Why won’t you rise on Saturday?”

  His father told him, “Whoever may not observe the Sabbath among the living surely embraces it here . . . for all week long we are tortured, but on Shabbat we are allowed respite.” (Gen. Rabba 11:5)

  This is a lovely rabbinic parody. Even the most credulous believer in the veracity of rabbinic accounts would probably draw the line at ghost stories
. And watch how the rabbis tweak Rufus by punning on his “first name” and calling him tyrannis (tyrant) instead of Tinius. Rufus and Rabbi Aqiba have an exchange in which they first speak past one another (an intriguing metaphor for rabbis and Roman culture), but eventually Rufus is set straight that Aqiba is answering his question about Shabbat. When Rufus presses Aqiba for proof, he resorts to natural science: the River Sambatyon. The Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder reported on such a “Sabbath” river in his Natural History (xxxi:24). When that’s not sufficient proof, Aqiba appeals to supernatural science, as it were, and raises Rufus’s father from hell. We are not meant to overlook the insult delivered with the assumption that Rufus’s father is being tortured in Hades, even if Rufus is oblivious. But the joke is still on him, as his father welcomes in the Sabbath with relief and delight—just like the Jews do. This hearkens back to the report about Nero’s converting. Rabbinic storytellers like the idea of pagans becoming Jewish as a sign of ultimate victory.

  All that said, I once again must attend to tone. While other rabbinic texts make Rufus out to be Aqiba’s tormentor, here he is presented as simply outwitted in dialogue. The tale does not disguise the pleasure with which the fifth-century editor of Genesis Rabbah includes a tale about Shabbat that mocks Rufus and his family. But aside from a snarky narrative, it is not really very damning of the Roman governor who so brutally put down a Jewish rebellion.

  The emperors who visited Roman Palestine often come in for this kind of mocking. Diocletian was emperor from 284 to 305. Early in his reign, in ca. 286 CE, Diocletian visited the city of Tiberias, in Roman Palestine. The Jerusalem Talmud (Terumot 8:10, 46b) reports that the disciples of Rabbi Judah II suggested that before he was emperor, he was a swineherd. This is a clever shot at the emperor, as his plebeian origins were impugned by association with the emphatically not-kosher and, let’s face it, filthy pig. In a fifth-century commentary on Leviticus, the rabbis say of Rome:

  Why is it likened to a pig? To tell you that just like the pig, when it wallows in filth, puts forth its feet [thus showing its split hooves] as though to claim it is a pure and kosher animal; so too this evil empire is arrogantly violent and steals, yet tries to appear as though they have justice by holding a tribunal [Greek: bema]. (Lev. Rabbah 13:5)

  The sting of the story comes when the word they use is the same Greek term the Romans use for their tribunals (bema). The messages the rabbis deliver on Rome are decidedly mixed.

  But then, there was the emperor Antoninus. He seemingly could do no wrong. There is neither ambiguity nor ambivalence; the Rabbis ♥ Antoninus. The trouble is, we cannot be sure exactly who this Emperor Antoninus actually was. There were seven emperors of the so-called Antonine imperial line, of whom five were called “the good emperors.” Of those, we can eliminate Nerva and Trajan as far too early.

  We can also drop Hadrian (may his bones be ground to dust) from the list of possibilities. We are left with two really viable candidates: they are Antoninus Pius, who ruled from 138 to 161 CE, and Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who ruled from 161 to 180. I prefer Marcus Aurelius, not only because he was a Stoic philosopher who left twelve books of Meditations in Greek, but also because his years in office line up better with his rabbinic buddy, Rabbi Judah, Patriarch of the Jews of Palestine. Judah, who is affectionately called Rebbi by his colleagues, published his Mishnah around 200 CE. So he would have been a much younger contemporary of Marcus Aurelius. Despite the lack of historical accuracy, rabbinic literature is replete with tales of the great “bromance” between Antoninus and Rebbi.

  The Babylonian Talmud looks back upon the two of them with great nostalgia and with none of the venom it usually reserves for Rome. It imagines Antoninus seeking political advice from Rabbi Judah:

  Antoninus asked Rebbi, “I want to have my son Severus rule as Emperor after me and I want to declare the city of Tiberias an imperial colony [colonia]. If I ask for one they will grant me that, but if I ask for two they will not.”

  Rebbi brought a fellow and had a second man ride on his shoulders. He gave a dove to the one on top and told the one below, “Tell your fellow to release the dove.”

  Antoninus inferred from this that he should appoint Severus; and once he was emperor then he could make Tiberias an imperial colony. (Babylonian Talmud Avodah Zarah 10a)

  We can only admire Rebbi’s cagey advice. Without committing himself verbally, he acts out in mum-show what Antoninus needs to do to have his way. What is curious about the tale is that Marcus Aurelius had no son named Severus. In fact, none of the emperors mentioned just above had such a son. But Septimius Severus reigned as emperor from 193 to 211, so he would be an excellent candidate to be the son of Rebbi’s “best friend forever.” The years don’t all quite match up, but the choice of Severus offers historical plausibility for the story. Rebbi has yet more advice.

  Antoninus complained that the grandees of Rome were opposing him. Rebbi took him to a garden where he plucked a radish. Day after day he did this. Antoninus inferred that he should kill off his enemies one by one, rather than attack them all at once. (ibid.)

  The Talmud then goes even further in its flight of the imagination about their relationship:

  Every day Antoninus would wait upon Rebbi; serving him food and drink. When Rebbi wanted to go to bed, Antoninus would bend down and say, “Climb upon me up to your bed.”

  Rebbi protested, “It is not appropriate to treat the emperor so disrespectfully.”

  Antoninus replied: “Would that I could be the mat beneath your seat in the World to Come!” (Babylonian Talmud Avodah Zarah 10b)

  In Roman Palestine the rabbis never went quite this far. Instead, they imagine the emperor engaging Rebbi in more appropriate philosophical discourse. So, for example,

  Antoninus asked our holy Rabbi, “At the time when a person dies and the body has decayed, will the Blessed Holy One resurrect that person for judgment?”

  He replied, “While you are asking me about the body, which is impure, ask me also about the soul, which is pure.” (Mekilta D’Rabbi Ishmael Shirta 2)

  That’s a nice conversation for a Stoic philosopher king to have with our holy rabbi. In fact, the rabbinic analogy to body and soul is a famous tale about how a blind and a lame watchman collaborate. This story of cooperation between blind and lame is also found in the classical Greek Anthology, a tenth-century collection of ancient Hellenistic literature. The story also is found in the earliest rabbinic commentary on Exodus, compiled in Roman Palestine during the generation immediately following that of Rebbi and Antoninus.

  Note that Rebbi is called here “our holy Rabbi.” The Palestinian Talmud tells a tale about Antoninus and Rebbi that explains why, while at the same time elevating Antoninus to almost otherworldly stature.

  There are indications that Antoninus converted to Judaism; and there are indications that Antoninus did not convert:

  They saw him on Yom Kippur with a broken shoe [observing the rabbinic prohibition against leather footwear on the holiday].

  But even the “Heaven-fearers” do this. . . .

  When Antoninus heard the verse “No uncircumcised person may eat of [the Paschal lamb]” (Ex. 12:48), he went and was circumcised. He went to Rebbi and said to him, “Rebbi, look at my circumcision!”

  Rebbi demurred, saying, “I have never looked at my own circumcision, now I should look at yours?!”

  Why was he called “our holy Rabbi?” Because he never looked at his circumcision in his life. . . .

  Rabbi Abbahu quoted Rabbi Lazar, “If the [God-fearers] are counted as righteous converts in the Messianic Future, Antoninus will be at the head of the line!” (Jerusalem Talmud Megillah 1:11 72b)

  I have to wonder whether Rebbi really got his nickname by never looking down! And while I am snickering about that story, I should add that it is highly doubtful that an emperor called Antoninus converted to Judaism. It is not e
ven likely that there was a Roman emperor who could qualify as a “Heaven-fearer.” To refresh our memory, there was an inscription at Aphrodisias in Asia Minor that listed the names of “God fearers.” It is likely that they were donors to the synagogue of some sort and that the two terms are synonymous. Maybe they were also sympathetic to Judaism—fellow-travelers, if you will. It is said that Nero’s wife Agrippina also was keen on Jewish customs; but we cannot really know. Still, how likely is this designation for a Roman emperor? We offer one more Talmudic text that might put this discussion in perspective.

  Just a couple of folios after the story we just saw from the Jerusalem Talmud, we read:

  Antoninus made a Menorah for the synagogue. Rebbi heard about it and said, “Blessed is God who put it in his heart to make a Menorah for the synagogue.” (Jerusalem Talmud Megillah 3:2 74a)

  This report, I think, should not be discounted. The quintessential symbol of Judaism in the Roman world, menorahs were truly ubiquitous in synagogues. Synagogues from east to west had actual menorahs, bas reliefs, and frescoes of menorahs. We have even seen that a certain Socrates “made” a menorah. It could be that he, too, was a Gentile who made a dedicatory offering. Or, he could have been a Jew with a particularly Gentile-sounding name. Either way, when we combine the Talmudic report about Antoninus with the donor listings at Aphrodisias, we understand why some thought that the emperor was a “God-fearer.” This no doubt gave rise to later confusion, because in rabbinic literature the term refers to semi-converts, or those who take up Jewish religious practices.

 

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