What if man was one of us? The most perplexing verse in the Torah

Parashat Bereishit contains one of the most perplexing verses in the entire Torah, the difficulty of which is compounded by the fact that two of our earliest sources read it in entirely different ways.

In the aftermath of Adam and Eve’s sin in Gan Eden, God declares:

הֵ֤ן הָֽאָדָם֙ הָיָה֙ כְּאַחַ֣ד מִמֶּ֔נּוּ לָדַ֖עַת ט֣וֹב וָרָ֑ע וְעַתָּ֣ה | פֶּן־יִשְׁלַ֣ח יָד֗וֹ וְלָקַח֙ גַּ֚ם מֵעֵ֣ץ הַֽחַיִּ֔ים וְאָכַ֖ל וָחַ֥י לְעֹלָֽם

"Behold man has become like one of us, having the ability of knowing good and evil, and now, lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever".

Or does He?

The above translation is favoured by Rashi and Ibn Ezra, and is consistent with the cantillation which is traditionally accorded to Ezra. Remarkably, however, Targum Onkelos – an Aramaic translation of the Torah from the Tannaitic era which the Talmud understands to trace back to Sinai – reads these words very differently:

הָא אָדָם הֲוָה יְחִידַי בְּעַלְמָא מִנֵּהּ לְמִידַע טַב וּבִישׁ

“Behold man has become unique in the world, by himself can know good and evil…”

Onkelos’s rendering of this verse is consistent with Rambam’s understanding of his agenda – not simply translating the Torah but also carefully ensuring that it cannot be mistakenly interpreted in a manner that he deems heretical. Rather than reading the verse as God describing Himself as a plurality which might include humanity, a meaning that introduces all sorts of theological complications, Onkelos places the sentence’s pause on the word “ke’achad”. Humanity is therefore described as unique among creatures in its ability to determine right and wrong.

Unsurprisingly, Onkelos’s reading of this verse is adopted by Rambam in Hilchot Teshuva (5:1), and cited as part of his discussion regarding human free will:

“Free will is granted to all men. If one desires to turn himself to the path of good and be righteous, the choice is his. Should he desire to turn to the path of evil and be wicked, the choice is his.

This is [the intent of] the Torah's statement: " Behold man has become unique in the world, by himself can know good and evil," i.e., the human species became singular in the world with no other species resembling it in the following quality: that man can, on his own initiative, with his knowledge and thought, know good and evil, and do what he desires. There is no one who can prevent him from doing good or bad. Accordingly, [there was a need to drive him from the Garden of Eden,] "lest he stretch out his hand [and take from the tree of life]."

Yet even once this verse is interpreted within the context of free will, its purpose and intent remain very unclear. Rambam proceeds to argue that free will is a fundamental pillar upon which the Torah relies. If people were compelled to act a certain way, he explains, there would be no place for God revealing a set of rules which would be the basis for reward and punishment.

But surely all that is required to justify commands, reward and punishment is that people are not compelled and can freely to choose whether to follow God’s word? Is it really necessary to bring in this verse to imply that humans also possess their autonomous moral compass to evaluate right and wrong? Would Rambam not expect a person to obey God’s law even in a situation in which he or she does not understand them to be morally correct?

One discussion that this verse might shed light on is the status of those who have not been exposed to the Torah or even the seven Noachide laws which are sometimes suggested to represent a basic universal moral code. There is no explicit mention of God revealing any set of laws to humanity prior to the Sinai revelation. Nevertheless, it is apparent that God expects certain minimal standards of moral conduct and punishes those such as the generation of the flood and citizens of Sodom for their corruption, cruelty and immorality. Indeed, Rambam in Hilchot Melachim (8:10) seems to consider Noachide laws to be binding upon all non-Jews. Perhaps the justification for this arises from Onkelos and Rambam’s interpretation of this verse to imply that humanity possesses its own moral compass and is therefore responsible for its own actions even without any form of divine command?

Many further perplexing questions remain. How, for example, do Onkelos and Rambam explain the cryptic continuation of the verse – that humanity’s newfound moral compass poses a danger “lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever”? And is this interpretation to be reconciled with Rambam’s interpretation of the Eden episode found in an early chapter of Moreh Nevuchim, in which “tov vera” represent the negative result of Adam and Eve’s sin – the corruption of their previous praised ability to perceive absolute truths (emet vasheker)?

One possible explanation is that, according to Rambam, humanity’s moral compass in its post-sin state could now also go very badly wrong due to it having internalised harmful imaginative and emotive elements. It is noteworthy that Rambam also follows Onkelos in rendering the Serpent’s promise to Eve as being that:

“on the day that you eat thereof, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like political leaders (ravravei), knowing tov vera."

In this new post-sin scenario, in which the human mind could concoct and persuade itself of the merits of destructive political philosophies such as communism or fascism, a safety valve of mortality had to be placed within its societies. No dictator could be allowed to enslave a society perpetually. God was now therefore concerned “lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever”.

First posted on Facebook 19 October 2022, here.

Locating the Flood: Is there a licence to reread early biblical narratives?

By Daniel Abraham and Shmuli Phillips

In a chapter which explores some of the complex challenges posed by science to understanding the Torah, Judaism Reclaimed notes the approach taken by Rambam to similar difficulties in his day. Faced with what were considered in medieval times to be decisive arguments against the doctrine of ex-nihilo creation, Rambam – echoing Rabbi Yehuda Halevi in the Kuzari – works with a principle that the Torah cannot be interpreted in a way which contradicts matters which are clearly proven. It is notable, however, that Rambam set the bar for reinterpreting the Torah based on scientific knowledge particularly high, and did not ultimately endorse a re-evaluation of the Torah’s opening passages on the basis of Aristotelian science.

When we examine the Torah’s accounts of early humanity – and particularly its accounts of the flood – in the modern era, we are assailed by an array of basic challenges to its literal reading. Scientific theories and accepted wisdom based on geology, paleontology, zoology among other disciplines combine to present a formidable barrier to the Torah’s narrative. Had Rambam and Rabbi Yehuda Halevi been living in the 21stcentury, we might ask ourselves, at what point might they have considered this body of evidence sufficiently persuasive to justify reinterpreting the opening parshiyot of the Torah? Furthermore, are there any existing indications within our tradition which might support such an attempt?

With regard to the creation narrative, our tradition explicitly regards it as esoteric and containing profound secrets which go far beyond its simple meaning. These traditional teachings could be taken to support a radical – possibly even allegorical – rereading in view of modern scientific knowledge. Turning our attention to the flood, however, our tradition does not appear to regard the passage as being esoteric or bearing a hidden meaning. What can be found though are scattered teachings which seem to limit its scope from a worldwide deluge to something significantly more local – a position advanced by Rabbi Dovid Tzvi Hoffman in his Torah commentary.

One of the first midrashim that grabs our attention is from Midrash Tehillim. When God was deciding which mountain to give the Torah on, Mount Tabor speaks up and says “The Torah should be given on me because the water of the flood did not descend on me.” (Midrash Tehillim 68:9). Elsewhere in Bereishit Rabbah 33 we read about the flood not raining upon the entire land of Israel. Zevachim 113a says this as well – a particularly significant source because it is located in a legal rather than an aggadic passage.

Ramban also adds that it’s possible that the rains did not fall upon the oceans as the Torah specifies “The rain was upon the land”. Other opinions go further and state the flood did not affect all parts of the earth. Meam Lo’ez writes how the great ocean, “was not affected by the flood, which only destroyed inhabited areas. The Torah therefore says, “there was rain on the earth” (ha’aretz) (7:12), and not, “there was rain on the world” (ha’olam). [The “earth” primarily denotes inhabited areas.] In his book The Challenge of Creation, Rabbi Natan Slifkin also notes, “Rav Saadia Gaon’s view [was] that the Deluge only covered inhabited parts of the world.” Rabbi Yonatan Eybeshutz goes into more detail, explaining that the flood was not necessary in uninhabited areas. He also writes that if the Americas had no population at the time of the flood, then no flood would have occurred on the continent (Tiferet Yonatan to Bereishit 8:22). So although the Torah states that all the mountains on earth were covered with the flood, there are opinions that this was not a literal depiction.

When we turn our attention to early humans and civilisations, further indications can be found of human (or proto-human) civilization beyond the primary biblical narrative. After slaying his brother Hevel, Kayin is condemned by God to wander to distant lands whereupon he is worried that “I will be a wanderer and an exile in the land, and it will be that whoever finds me will kill me” (4:14). If the entire human population is represented by those named in the Torah, this concern is not easy to understand. Furthermore, having gone into exile far away from Eden, Kayin proceeds to build a city – for whom might one ask?

Other categories of ancient human mentioned in chapter 6 of Bereishit appear to include the Nephilim (“mighty men of old”) and perhaps also the benei Elohim who corrupt early humanity and are noted as a cause for its descent into the depravity that prompted the flood.

Further sources indicate that groups of these Nephilim survived the flood. Some identify Og as one of the Nephilim who was allowed to be saved by ark during the flood. Other midrashim say that Sichon was another of the Nephilim who survived as well. From the text of the Torah we see that both Sichon and Og had sons, and that the Israelites slew both of these giants and their children with them. Perhaps most significantly, in Bemidbar 13:33 Rav S. R. Hirsch writes about the “Anakim” observed by the spies: “Thus there were still remnants of the antedeluvian Nephilim living in Eretz Yisrael. This fact fits well with the opinion (Zevachim 113a) that Eretz Yisrael was spared from the flood.” The implication being that there were people who survived the flood in Eretz Yisrael. The Zohar also makes reference to descendants of Kayin surviving the flood in a distant land.

If it is true then that human society existed well beyond the Torah’s limited descriptions and that the flood only covered a local area of Mesopotamia, why would it have presented its early narratives in such a misleading manner?

The answer to this requires us to recognize that the Torah is not primarily a historical work but rather a religious text which seeks to provide a foundation and insight into the nature of humanity and our relationship with God. As Rabbi Sacks put it, this does not mean that the Torah conveys untruths, but rather that it presents actual historical events through the prism of its theological teachings (https://www.rabbisacks.org/.../individual-and.../...).

God’s relationship with humanity begins with Adam and Eve – the first creatures whose minds are sufficiently sophisticated to rationalize and think abstractly. As Rambam writes near the start of Moreh Nevuchim, the whole notion of commandments, reward and punishment only makes sense when one is instructing someone who can understand right and wrong and possesses the free will to apply it. Interestingly, the first humans who are believed to have been sufficiently mentally developed to create a system of writing – putting ideas and concepts into symbols – lived 6,000 years ago in Mesopotamia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_writing).

This was the society and “world” that the Torah was interested in; it therefore only obliquely references the existence of other groups of humans. Similarly, as far as the area of the planet that was of relevance to the Torah’s project at that time, the flood effectively encompassed the “entire world” and the ark contained “all animals”. As another chapter of Judaism Reclaimed demonstrates, while other ancient Near Eastern cultures proceeded to relate this flood through the eyes of their polytheistic prejudices, the Torah retold it instead with its own theological underpinning: monotheism, morality and justice.

Whatever extent one finds such an approach compelling or even desirable, we believe that it can legitimately claim solid basis within traditional sources, and is the leading candidate for those seeking to reconcile the Torah’s account with what science tells us today about ancient history.

First posted on Facebook, 30 October 2022, here.

How should we approach these "long boring parshiyot"?

One significant benefit of the Jewish leap year is that it divides up the difficult parshiyot of Vayakhel and Pekudei with their long, detailed and repetitive recounting of the process of constructing the Mishkan. The question many are left with is what possible reason the Torah might have had (aside for training us in patience!) for dedicating so many lengthy passages to the commanding and construction of the Mishkan. From what I have seen, there are three primary approaches to this question: the historical approach, the theological approach and the warm-and-fuzzy approach.

The historical approach

This first way of addressing the question of lengthy repetitions bases itself on a brief suggestion by the Ralbag, which has recently been developed and popularized by Orthodox Bible scholar Joshua Berman. Ralbag proposes that, viewed from the correct perspective, such textual phenomena should not be viewed as anything remarkable at all. This is because we must analyse the Torah in the context of the stylistic flourishes of ancient literature – with an overriding awareness that the Torah was written in the Ancient Near East. Rabbi Dr Berman then supplies examples from Ancient Near Eastern history in which lengthy descriptions are repeated in a way which appears odd to the modern reader.

By so extending the principle of “dibra Torah belashon benei adam” – that the Torah was presented in a form which would make it easiest for its first readers to relate to it – Ralbag (and Berman) seek to deny that there is any question to be answered here at all.

Having established the existence of such a principle, Berman further draws upon it to address other challenges from academic bible critics, to establish the antiquity of parts of the Torah such as the Song of the Sea as well as claims that certain passages of the Torah originated from multiple authors and sources.

The theological approach

A second approach to the lengthy enumeration of all of the Mishkan’s details seeks to identify theological reasons which underpin this phenomenon. Towards the end of the first section of the Kuzari, Rabbi Yehudah Halevi places great emphasis on the need for the Torah’s commandments to be observed in a way which accords precisely with the way in which they were revealed. This requirement, he continues, is particularly acute with regard to ritual commandments such as korbanot and Mishkan construction. There is a very thin line between correct forms of divine worship and human attempts to rationalize and construct our own illegitimate way of worshipping God.

It was such an illegitimate rationalisation, argues the Kuzari, which led the Israelites to serve the golden calf in place of Moshe as some imagined form of intermediary. If the Mishkan construction can be viewed as part of the process of repairing the raw and unrestrained spiritual urges which led to the sin of the golden calf, the careful and deliberate adherence to precise details of this commandment lies at the very heart of its purpose. Thus, explains Rabbi Y. D. Soloveitchik in his Beit Halevi, each aspect of Mishkan construction which was faithfully enacted by the Israelites necessitated its own individual mention that it had been built “as God commanded Moshe” – a phrase which appears an impressive total of 18 times in the portion of Pekudei.

This approach can be viewed from the mystical perspective in terms of each commandment and detail of the Mishkan being capable of fulfilling its spiritual function. But it can also be understood from Rambam’s more practical and rational approach to the commandments. As told by Rambam, the purpose of korbanot and the Mishkan was to withdraw the Israelites from the sort of pagan worship and mindset which they had absorbed in Egypt in order to replace it with a monotheistic worldview. Talmud Reclaimed explains how for this to succeed, a very delicate balance had to be maintained in order to create a system of worship which was, on the one hand, sufficiently similar to existing religious rites, while also distancing them from problematic and idolatrous doctrines. This balance required a painstaking loyalty to the precise details of the divine command in these areas – and therefore this obedience was enumerated at great length in the Torah.

The warm-and-fuzzy approach

Championed by Ramban in his commentary to yesterday’s reading, this approach sees the lengthy repetition as an indication of great importance. Just as, the midrash teaches, the Torah’s copious recounting of Eliezer’s trip to Aram was seen to indicate God’s great love even for the chatter of the servants of the Avot, so too Vayakhel and Pekudei are confirmation of God’s great love for the Israelites and the abode they built for Him in their midst. This theme was further developed by the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, who contrasted the relatively few verses which the Torah dedicated to the world’s creation with the verbosity which embodied the construction of His abode among Israel.

On a personal note, I was grateful for the long and repetitive themes of yesterday’s reading, which allowed me to meditate on and lay the groundwork for the post that you have just read!

First posted on Facebook 10 March 2024, here.

The marah mitzvot: when can midrashim be treated as historical fact?

In recent years, the question of how to approach midrashic and aggadic teachings has often prompted heated debate in online Torah groups. Many contributors have grown up regarding Rashi as the primary commentary to the Chumash and are therefore strongly inclined to integrate such teachings into their understanding of the plain meaning of the text. Other peshat-enthusiasts will militantly push back against any midrashic interpretation – even when it presents itself as a historical tradition or legitimate attempt to understand an idiosyncrasy in the biblical text. 

Both Judaism Reclaimed and Talmud Reclaimed dedicate whole chapters to identifying different genres of midrash, and exploring how each has been treated by a range of traditional commentators. While instinctively my sympathies lie with the approach taken by the Rambam and Radak, which typically emphasises peshat without aggadic embellishment, I sometimes feel that enthusiasts take this too far – as an example from yesterday’s Torah reading will show. 

In a cryptic episode which follows the splitting of the sea, the parched Israelites discover water at Marah, but it turns out to be unpalatable. God instructs Moshe to cast wood into the water thereby making it drinkable, following which “He gave them a statute and an ordinance [chok umishpat]”. These terms are identical to those used elsewhere in the Torah to refer to the commandment, but there is no indication in the verses as to the nature or identity of the laws being conveyed.

An aggadic teaching, cited by Rashi, attempts to furnish the missing information:

“In Marah, He gave them some sections of the Torah so that they would busy themselves with them, namely the Sabbath, the red heifer, and laws of jurisprudence. — [from Mechilta and Sanh. 56b]” 

Writing in the third section (3:32) of Moreh Nevuchim, Rambam embraces this as a “true tradition”. Are we to suppose that Rambam possessed specific knowledge as to the historical accuracy of this teaching or does it perhaps represent a certain style of aggadah which calls out for a more literal rendering? 

There are definitely a number of textual indicators which support the historicity of this aggadah. First, in the subsequent passage concerning mannah, reference is made to a recently commanded law concerning Shabbat – despite there being no explicit mention of this anywhere in the text: 

“So he said to them, That is what God [previously] spoke, Tomorrow is a rest day, a holy Sabbath to the Lord.” [16:23] “See that the Lord has given you the Sabbath.” [16:29] 

An argument can also made from within the biblical text itself that some civil law and jurisprudence was already taught to the nation before being recorded in parashat Mishpatim. This might explain why Yitro observed the nation queuing from morning to evening for Moshe to settle disputes that had arisen between different people. Furthermore, as Rav Hirsch points out, the civil case law contained in Mishpatim are not basic rules and definitions. Rather it presents more complex scenarios which presuppose prior knowledge of primary legal principles such as duty of care, ownership and contracts. 

The most powerful indicator cited by Rambam, however, seems to be a passage in Yirmiyah (7:22-23): 

“For neither did I speak with your forefathers nor did I command them on the day I brought them out of the land of Egypt, concerning a burnt offering or a sacrifice. But this thing did I command them, saying: Obey Me so that I am your God and you are My people, and you walk in all the ways that I command you.” 

As explained by Rambam, these initial pre-Sinaitic teachings referred to by Yirmiyah contain God’s “primary intention” as taught at Marah; Shabbat which symbolically establishes the truth of God as Creator and civil laws which prohibit wrongdoing among the people. These are contrasted with sacrifices which were only taught later (seemingly as a secondary intention) in order to distance the Israelites from pagan belief and practice (for more on this read here).

It should be noted that the Marah midrash is certainly not the only occasion on which Rambam treats aggadic material as literal and historical. When it comes to the events surrounding Avraham’s early years and what qualified him to be addressed by God in such glowing terms at the start of Lech Lecha, Rambam relates in great detail – both in Mishneh Torah and Moreh Nevuchim – a summary of midrashim which describe his theological journey and battle with Nimrod. Perhaps on that occasion too, the midrash can be seen to be filling in a clear gap left unexplained by the biblical text. 

In fact, as Judaism Reclaimed explores, the real question may be why a matter of such fundamental importance is not including in the Torah’s account to begin with and left for the midrashim to supplement!

For more details visit www.TalmudReclaimed.com

First posted on Facebook 28 January 2024, here.

Could the Sages completely change the meaning of a Biblical verse?

One of the primary questions dealt with in Talmud Reclaimed is the extent to which the sages and Sanhedrin were empowered by the Torah to legislate and amend aspects of biblical law. Yesterday’s Torah reading contained a fascinating case study which suggests that the sages were delegated so much legislative power that they could even, on occasion, alter the meaning of seemingly explicit verses. 

The passage in question concerns details of which burials of family members a kohen (priest) may attend in spite of the overarching prohibition against his becoming ritually impure. Initially, it would seem, the Torah viewed the wife’s burial as being the primary responsibility of her father and family in which she was raised. As social realities and values changed, the sages via the Sanhedrin were pressed to apply Torah law to the new circumstances (see R’ Amnon Bazaq Nitzchuni Banai, Hebrew, for more details).

The verses read:

“Let none [of you] defile himself for a dead person among his people except for “she’ero” who is close to him: his mother, his father, his son, his daughter, his brother…[But] a husband shall not defile himself [for a wife] among his people, “lehechalo.”

In his commentary to this passage, Ibn Ezra notes that the basic meaning of the word she’ero is an umbrella term which covers all close relatives for whom a kohen may become involved in their burial, even though he will become impure by doing so. Meanwhile, the final clause appears explicitly to exclude a wife from this list of close relatives.

However, continues Ibn Ezra, the sages have transmitted to us that a kohen must bury his wife despite the fact that he will contract ritual impurity by doing so. In order to do this, he continues, they reread she’ero to mean “wife” [i.e. his specific close relative] – who is now included in the list of exceptional relatives whom a kohen is obliged to bury. Most significantly, in the final clause, the sages “annulled the original meaning” of the verse in order to interpret it to be teaching that the only sort of wife for whose burial a kohen should not make himself ritually impure is one whom he was forbidden to marry in the first place.

Ibn Ezra indicates that this technique of altering the meaning of a verse, which he understands to have been the case with she’ero, is one that the sages employed on numerous occasions – further potential examples of this phenomena are analysed elsewhere in Talmud Reclaimed.

Rambam by contrast, while accepting the ability of the sages to amend Torah law, does not seem to embrace the suggestion that they could so radically alter the meaning of a verse. Rather, writing in Hilchot Avel (2:7, see Radvaz) he appears to follow the Talmud’s explanation that the sages (via the Sanhedrin) legally categorised a wife as a form of met mitzvah – abandoned corpse – that even a kohen would be permitted to bury. The husband as the sole inheritor was then required to take responsibility for burying her. Rather than changing the meaning of the verse, Rambam preferred to stretch the limits of existing legal exceptions to work around the Torah’s initial position which prohibited the kohen from burying his wife. 

Whether this shift involved the Sanhedrin assigning a new meaning to the verse as Ibn Ezra argues, or significantly extending the scope of met mitzva as Rambam rules, do we have a way of knowing when this change might have taken place? 

Unfortunately we have received few if any of the court records from early generations of the Sanhedrin. However a verse from Yechezkel, read in yesterday’s Haftarah seems to provide some insight here. 

Reviewing a number of the priestly laws, Yechezkel paraphrases our parsha’s verse stating: 

“To no human corpse shall they come to defile themselves, except to father and to mother and to son and to daughter, to brother and to a sister who has had no husband, shall they defile themselves.” (44:25)

No mention at all is made of a husband’s obligation – or even permission – to bury his wife. This implies that the change would have taken place during the Second Mikdash period. 

More about Talmud Reclaimed: An ancient text in the modern era can be found at www.TalmudReclaimed.com.

First posted on Facebook 19 May 2024.

600.000 fighting men? Making sense of a biblical census

Now that the Diaspora has finally caught up with our Torah reading, the Jewish world prepares collectively to conclude its reading of the book of Numbers. But do any of us really understand the significance or symbolism that these repeated censuses and tribal accountings represent? Are we to battle for a literal rendering of these numbers despite apparent challenges from archaeology and even counter-indications from within the text itself? Does it cross a red line to suggest that these numbers represent deep symbolic notions which have been lost in the mists of time and are therefore absent from the entire rabbinic tradition? 

This is a subject which can cause significant discomfort – some wise people with whom I consulted for this post were happy to share their thoughts but were nevertheless anxious not to named as having engaged with this topic! 

i) The argument for a literal reading: 

To me, a literal rendering of any biblical text is usually a rebuttable presumption. It is the default position to adopted in the absence of a sufficiently strong counter-indication. For some scholars, the sheer practicalities involved in feeding and caring for a nomadic community numbering several million over a 40 year period is itself testimony to the impossibility of taking the numbers of the book of Numbers at face value. Furthermore, as is often pointed out, no archaeological trace of such an enormous traveling band has ever been unearthed in the Sinai sands. 

But are such arguments sufficiently persuasive to demand a reinterpretation of the Torah? First of all, the Torah’s own account of the Jews’ journey claims that food was miraculously provided by mannah, and minimal waste produced. One can choose not to believe the Torah’s narrative, but it is jarring to read those who argue that it could not have occurred on account of practicalities and a lack of detected archaeological footprint – something which is thoroughly consistent with the Torah’s own depiction of events. 

Furthermore, recent discoveries from the Ancient Near East have led experts to fundamentally question the way in which archaeology approaches and estimates nomadic populations. This article from Professor Erez ben Yosef describes the implications of a chance discovery of extensive copper mines in the desert regions which belonged to Edomite tribes in biblical times. The size and complexity of the mines is demonstrates a large, well-organised kingdom able to martial a massive skilled labour force, and able to administer an enormous collection of surplus food to feed the workers as well as distribution networks. And yet the tent-dwelling nomadic Edomites, are (other than these mines) so invisible archaeologically that as recently as in 2002 Israel Finkelstein and Neil Asher Silber argued that there was ‘no state in Edom before the late eighth century BCE’. 

On this basis it appears plausible that a very large and sophisticated nomadic population – such as the Israelites in the desert – left no remains, therefore making Biblical maximalism more plausible. Not just the Edomites but also the enormous Hittite civilisation was initially dismissed as a myth until archaeology discovered evidence of this ancient empire. These examples indicate that we should be cautious when making strong claims on the basis of lack of archaeological evidence from this period – particularly when dealing with nomadic tent-dwelling populations.  

ii) biblical indications of smaller population size 

Surprisingly for many, the strongest arguments in favour of a reduced estimate of the Israelite desert population may come from within the biblical text itself. God expressly labels the Israelites “the smallest of all nations” (Devarim 7:7) and it is on account of their tiny numbers that God promises that the conquest of Canaan will only be gradual (Shemot 23:7). Read from the perspective of a more modest population estimate, it easier to understand how 70 palms could feed the entire nation (Shemot 15:27) as well as the surprisingly small army sizes in the battle with Midian and those led by Joshua. It also makes it easier to understand how the sacrificial needs of a nation numbering several million could be met solely by Aharon and his sons. Finally, if 600,000 is taken literally, the number of firstborns listed near the start of Bemidbar would imply that each family consisted of over 80 members. 

iii) Numbers in the Torah as symbols 

Any attempt to interpret the 600,000 number census symbolically, however, must account not only for the overall population figure, but also for the repeated tribal counts in which the 12 tribes are shown to total 600,000. While the 600,000 population size perhaps be seen as symbolic – perhaps related to significant numbers in the ancient world – or even related to the 600 chariots of Pharoah, what can be said about the population sizes of the individual tribes in the censuses? 

As far as I am aware, no comprehensive theory has yet surfaced which purports to explain the symbolic significance of the tribal totals. Nevertheless, certain numerical anomalies in these figures can certainly encourage those who pursue such a theory. The numbers 8, 9 and 1 do not appear at all in the hundreds – in either census; almost all are 4 or 5. Astoundingly, the total of the tribe of Ephraim in the first census (40,500) precisely matches that of Gad in the second, while the total of Naftali in the first (53,400) precisely matches Asher in the second. Are these phenomena too unlikely to be a coincidence? (For those who understand Hebrew, I am attaching a link to a fascinating video in the comments which identifies and explores further numerical idiosyncrasies in the tribal counts). 

The proposition that the Torah’s numbers for those leaving Egypt and entering the Land of Israel are primarily intended symbolically can draw support from an earlier national total. First of all, the number 70 which the Torah gives for members of Ya’akov’s family who initially went down to Egypt appears deeply symbolic. Notwithstanding the fact that all 70 are listed by name, rabbinic and modern commentators assume that that figure is symbolic, and that the actual number was significantly larger – only two women make the list and few of its younger members feature. Of the 69 named family members, it is striking that descendants of Leah number 32, exactly double the total of her maidservant Zilpah; Rachel’s descendants make up 14, twice the number of those from her maidservant Bilhah. 

In later books of Tanach, army sizes also appear to symbolise status rather representing literal numbers of soldiers. The size of Rechavam’s army is stated to be 180,000 and Aviya’s 400,00 – that of Asa by contrast is 580,000 – the exact total of the other two combined. Meanwhile the righteous Jehoshaphat’s army is stated to be 1,160,000 – precisely double that of Asa. There are also midrashic interpretations of army sizes of Avraham’s troops who battled Sodom and Joshua’s troops battling Ai which see them as representing righteousness rather than a number of soldiers. This phenomenon sits comfortably alongside other seemingly symbolic uses of numbers in Tanach, with generations typically represented by the prevalent numbers 40 and 80. 

Rabbi Dr Joshua Berman, who discusses much of this in his Ani Ma’amin, notes further that symbolic censuses and genealogies was typical practice in the ancient near east: 

“anthropologists have long known that genealogies in pre-modern cultures are not merely records of birth order. They are dynamic records of status and hierarchy within a tribe” which can change “depending on the merits and demerits of that individual’s descendants”. 

While such an interpretation is largely absent from rabbinic tradition, it can be detected in the Netziv’s explanation of why the order of Menashe and Ephraim is altered as between the two censuses of the book of Bemidbar as we discussed here. 

At the moment, we don’t have a full answer for the numerical symbolism but that does not mean we should dismiss it as impossible. For many though it may not be sufficiently persuasive to justify departing from a literal rendering of the censuses – particularly as we find the 600,000 number appearing elsewhere in the Torah when Moshe complains of the number of mouths to feed (Bemidbar 11:21) and in the accounting for donations to the Mishkan (Shemot 38:26). Can these be viewed symbolically too?

iv) Census as plots and planning 

One alternative suggestion for a symbolic interpretation, which adheres more closely to the Torah’s presentation of the census in Parashat Pinchas, may also be worthy of serious consideration. The census in yesterday’s parashah is followed by the phrase: “Thus shall you divide the land…”. The Levites are explicitly not counted among their brethren since “they do not receive a portion and inheritance among you”. And it is in the immediate aftermath of the census that the daughters of Tzelafchad are concerned that their family will not receive a plot in the land. Clearly therefore, the function of the census is linked directly to apportioning the Land of Israel. The earlier census, which took place in the previous generation saw Shimon receive a far larger portion – this was adjusted for size and merit after the tribe’s leading role in the idolatrous immorality at Shittim.  

Does such a perspective help us reassess the implications of the 600,000 and individual tribal totals? The 600,000 can perhaps be seen as the number of total plots to be apportioned within the land. This is why the number remains constant between several different desert censuses (even though the Levites were initially included, as noted by Ramban at the start of Ki Tisa). If this is correct, the constantly repeated “pekudeihem” would therefore refer to an entitlement and status rather than a literal count of individuals. 

One thing remains clear. Whichever approach is adopted, extensive work lies ahead to unearth the true function of numbers in the book of Numbers.

First posted on Facebook 9 July 2023, here.