Who knows ten? Critical claims and counting one's plagues

By Daniel Abraham and Shmuli Phillips

In just a few nights time, the readership of this group will find themselves sitting around their respective Seder tables, gently dabbing ten drops of wine from the glass in front of them to commemorate the ten plagues which God inflicted upon the ill-fated Egyptians. The notion of the plagues as a set of ten features prominently in the traditional liturgy and festive songs recited by celebrants throughout the generations. Those approaching from a scholarly perspective, however, are confronted by a competing claim: that the account of Exodus 7-12 is in fact a combination of several original versions of the plagues which emanated from different sources (known as “E”, “J” and “P”). Such claims sometimes also draw upon references to the plagues in the book of Psalms (78, 105) which present only some of the plagues and do so in a different order.

The main thrust of these critical claims is that each original source contained only a smaller number of plagues, and that they were later fused into a single narrative by some unknown redactor who produced the Torah as we have it today. This post will attempt to demonstrate that a close examination of the text shows these claims to be unfounded.

Though source critics themselves dispute as to how the text should be divided, we will focus primarily on the version advanced by Richard Elliot Friedman (The Bible with Sources Revealed, 2005), which assigns half of the plague of Blood to “E” and half to “P”. Frogs are also half “E” and half “P”. Lice and Boils are “P”. Wild beasts (or flies), Pestilence, Boils, Hail, and Locusts are “E”. Friedman’s primary support for this division is linguistic – for example the various usages of terms such as “kaved” and “chazak” – while a narrative mentioning Aaron performing the plague is assumed to relate to the “P” (or Priestly) source.

In opposition to such attempts to divide the Torah’s account of the plagues in Egypt, other scholars have presented powerful evidence from the text to support the literary unity of the plagues narrative. The analysis by these scholars reveals several underlying patterns and parallels that run through the entire passage. If the narrative of the plagues had been cobbled together from disparate original sources, as Friedman claims, it is scarcely believable that they would produce such clear and consistent patterns in their combined form.

Placing the plagues into groups of three, we see plagues 1-3 are performed by Aaron and implemented by means of a staff. Moses performs plagues 4-6 with no mention of either hands or staff. Plagues 7-9 are also initiated by Moses, this time through the agency of his hands. These three groups of plagues share other sets of features. Plagues 1-3 involve the water and the lower regions, plagues 4-6 affect higher life forms (humans, cattle, then both humans and cattle). Plagues 7-9 invoke the sky.

This is by no means the only manner in which the Torah groups plagues in threes. In plagues 1, 4, and 7, Pharaoh receives a prior warning on his morning visit to the Nile. In plagues 2, 5, and 8 Moses is commanded “Go to Pharaoh” and delivers only a general warning. For plagues 3, 6, and 9 no warning is given at all.

Beneath the level of triplets, another pattern emerges this time based on pairs. Plagues 1 and 2 involve the Nile, 3 and 4 feature insects, 5 and 6 inflict disease, 7 and 8 arrive from the sky, while 9 and 10 deal with darkness – the 10th plague actually arrives at midnight.

These elegant, complex patterns within the plagues indicate that the entire passage was composed by a single author, who paid careful attention to detail and to the gradual development of the nature and impact of the plagues. For those who instead attribute the ten-plague narrative to a hastily arranged work of disparate sources which was somehow synthesized serendipitously, these patterns represent a set of uncomfortable yet undeniable coincidences.

A further blow to source critics’ suggestion that divisions of the text reflect distinct original sources is their inability to agree on some of the most basic, foundational aspects of these alleged sources. To highlight some of the key examples, Friedman criticizes his colleague Joel Baden, writing:

“On the positive side, Baden defends the existence of the E source against those who have denied it. On the negative side, Baden reverses much of the source identification of J and E in the section treated here and in the entire plagues text that follows. The evidence of language collected in The Hidden Book in the Bible is contrary to Baden’s re-identification of E texts as J, but Baden does not cite or deal with this evidence. The E texts that he calls J are entirely lacking all fifty of the terms that are characteristic of the J source and its related texts."

[The Exodus, 2017]

Meanwhile, David Carr, who also advocates for dividing the plagues up according to multiple authorship, attacks the above approaches of Friedman and Baden arguing that:

“By the end of the 1990s, few specialists in Pentateuchal studies continued to affirm the existence of a separate, identifiable, “Elohist” document.” He adds, “in his The Hidden Book in the Bible…pp.353-58, Friedman presents a brief summary of the traditional case for dividing J and E without an engagement of the critiques of that hypothesis, particularly in Europe.”

[The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction, 2011]

A completely different theory was proposed by the biblical scholar S. R. Driver, who understood the plagues as having originated from three distinct sources: J, P and E.

As biblical scholar Gary Rendsburg aptly summises:

“if the source critics themselves cannot agree in the main, then perhaps an entirely new approach is worthy of consideration…To my mind, a far simpler and less complicated approach is to discard the entire source-critical method and to assume an intentional ordering of the plagues in the manner described above…Once more, it is better to posit a single, unified authorial voce than to reconstruct hypothetical source that in truth are only the constructs of scholars, unattested in the actual record.”

[How the Bible is Written, 2019]

Kenneth Kitchen concludes similarly:

“The account of the plagues in Exod. 7-12 is a well-formulated unity; and (as some traditional critics already admit) it cannot meaningfully be split up between imaginary sources such J, E, P (for which no physical MSS actually exist!), without making a nonsense of the account of the plagues that only works as a unity…This kind of formulation is created ab initio, from the start—not by fiddling with fragments as with a jigsaw puzzle.".”

[On the Reliability of the Old Testament, 2006]

We conclude by addressing another argument advanced by those who challenge the cohesiveness of the Torah’s account of the plagues, this time on the basis of external rather than internal evidence. Two chapters of Psalms (78 and 105) provide descriptions of the divine punishments inflicted upon Egypt, but neither enumerate all of the plagues described in Exodus – and those which are recorded are presented in a different order. This omission and ordering is viewed by some scholars (cited in Kugel, How to Read the Bible) as being indicative of contradictory traditions and sources. Psalm 78 orders the plagues as 1,4, 2, 8, 7, 5, 10 (omitting 3, 6, and 9) while Psalm 105 lists them as 9,1,2,4, 3, 7, 8, 10 (omitting 5, and 6).

While the agenda of these chapters of Psalms certainly warrants a proper explanation, the very suggestion that a work of poetic praise can pose a challenge to the descriptive prose of Exodus is tenuous from the outset. As Kitchen explains:

“This illustrates a basic literary phenomenon endemic to the ancient Near East, yet one constantly abused by biblicists. When prose and poetry accounts coexist, it is prose that is the primary source and poetry that is the secondary celebration.”

In the case of Psalm 105, the author’s stated agenda, which is repeated throughout the introductory section of the chapter, is to proclaim and publicise the mighty wonders of God. In this context one can understand why he opens his list of plagues with what appear to be the most stunning miracles – sudden darkness and water turning to blood – before concluding with the more superficially nature-driven events such as hailstorms, locusts and death of the firstborns. Pestilence and boils, which do not feature in Psalm 105, are the two least conspicuous and arguably least severe miracles (they are the only two that Pharaoh does not beg Moses to remove).

Regarding Psalms 78, the American professor of Hebrew studies Robert Alter is not convinced by the source-critics’ claims writing:

"There are only seven plagues mentioned in the psalm, and they are not entirely in the same order as the ones reported in Exodus, though, as in Exodus, turning the Nile into blood is at the beginning and the killing of the firstborn is at the end. The scholarly inference that these lines reflect a different "tradition" from the one registered in Exodus is by no means necessary. That is, a poetic recapitulation of the familiar Plague narrative from Exodus would not have been obliged to repeat all the material from Exodus, or to follow the identical order."

[The Hebrew Bible: A Translation with Commentary, 2018]

Much like the ten spilled wine drops on the Pesach Seder plate, the ten plagues may contain certain unique properties that may be taken to indicate independent existence. Yet one who observes them in their full context recognizes that they unmistakably originate from a single author.

First posted to Facebook 2 April 2021, here.

A half-baked proof for an elusive truth

One important lesson that I’ve learned from the last few years of vigorous Facebook discussion is that a weak argument can often end up inflicting significant damage on the position that it is trying to advance.

A few weeks ago I received my copy of Strauss, Spinoza & Sinai, a collection of essays which examines how modern Judaism grapples with and addresses questions of faith and doubt. While the philosopher, Leo Strauss, sought to rationally rescue Orthodox Judaism from those who considered its beliefs untenable, the nature of his arguments leaves religious thinkers questioning whether he has indeed strengthened their position.

In short, Strauss argued that neither Orthodoxy nor its opponents could claim to be able to refute the claims of the other concerning crucial principles such as the nature of God and revelation. Each camp can choose to believe its own claims but there is no way to objectively evaluate the validity of either side in this debate. Orthodox Judaism, he considers, cannot possess any knowledgeof its core principles – it can merely adhere to belief of unknowable claims.

As I slowly make my way slowly through this fascinating book, the essay by Rabbi Shalom Carmy has really got me thinking. Carmy writes of Strauss’s argument:

“it is not an argument for the truth or likelihood of belief in revelation…One does not worship God as a hypothesis that might improbably turn out to be true. And revealed religion requires much more than acts of worship. It demands thorough commitment and, when necessary, sacrifice and suffering. Real people do not live and die for a remote hypothesis.”

This response very much resonates with my reaction to those who argue for religious observance on the basis of practical probabilities such as Pascal’s Wager (that the potential consequence of being wrong regarding religion is far more severe for one who chooses to be non-religious).

My understanding of Judaism – which is heavily coloured by Rambam –centres around creating and nurturing a very real two-way relationship with God. On an individual level this consists of a genuine connection which a person’s mind and soul can make with God – a connection which is fortified through prayer and the performance of commandments. Performing an action because one feels that there is a decent chance that there is a God who has commanded it misses the whole point entirely from Rambam’s perspective.

This is because Judaism is not a set of magical boxes to be ticked or dangers to be avoided in one’s journey through life. Rather it is about fulfilling our covenant with God on a national scale – establishing the sort of just and altruistic society that this entails – while forging a very real relationship with God on an individual level. As Rambam emphasises in the third section of the Moreh (3:51), fulfilling the commandments – particularly prayer – without being mindful of this context is simply performing empty actions – it carries no significance at all.

Of what value therefore, is living a notionally religious lifestyle on the basis of a probability, wager or remote hypothesis that might prove to be accurate?

What I will acknowledge however, is that the existence of the Straussian argument – that Orthodox Judaism’s belief in revelation can never be rationally refuted – remains a useful practical safety net to fall back upon.

Our relationship with God is not static. It consists of waves of faith, commitment and enthusiasm which rise and fall through the year – and often even the day. (On a personal note, I know that the tired Shmuli Phillips who has dragged himself out for Shul on a cold morning is far more grumpy and skeptical about EVERTHING than the version of him swaying serenely at an uplifting Kabbalat Shabbat service.) If a Straussian safety net can temporarily assist a person to remain connected at such a low-point, it certainly serves an important role – providing a platform from which they can reforge their real relationship with God once their inspiration returns.

As several of the essays in this book explore, questions of philosophy and theology do not belong to the category of propositions which one can ever hope to objectively prove or disprove. Unlike mathematics with its neat solutions whose correctness can be determined, philosophical and theological arguments which appear persuasive to some will always fail to impress others.

Rabbi Carmy underscores the importance of traditional arguments such as the likelihood of such a finely-tuned world possessing a designer – and that such a designer might well be expected to have communicated his purpose in creating the world to the primary protagonists within this universe. Nevertheless, the merit of such arguments will always contain a subjective element: does one consider it to be the best possible explanation for a set of phenomena among competing explanations?

For many who contemplate existence – creation, humanity and history – the answer will be strongly in the affirmative. They will be sufficiently convinced to develop a relationship with this Creator and live their lives in accordance with his apparently revealed commands. For others who have not achieved this level of clarity, Pascal’s Wager and Strauss’s argument for Orthodoxy may remain an important launching pad for further meditation and exploration from within the world of religious observance.

First posted on Facebook 18 April 2022, here.

Pagans, Greeks and Rabbi Sacks' battle with New Atheism

One chapter of Judaism Reclaimed compares the theological debates between Judaism and its surrounding cultures in different eras, concluding with the arguments advanced by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks against the New Atheism of the twenty-first century. To mark the first anniversary of Rabbi Sacks' passing, the chapter has been adapted for this post (my personal tribute can be read here).

When Aristotle contemplated the multiple “forms” that make up the universe, he understood that there must be a single, simple source from which they all emanate. This source, however, he viewed as being a natural and constant First Cause, eternally bound to its role of producing the physical universe. The most important consequence of Aristotle’s view is that God does not exercise free choice, which is to say that according to the Aristotelian understanding, the world is governed by necessity.

Rambam’s rejection of Aristotle’s belief in an eternal universe thus becomes a matter of fundamental significance. Rambam teaches that the “Prime Mover” is not simply a more refined cog in the ever-turning wheel of nature but rather preceded and transcends the entire physical framework of space and time. This concept of a God who transcends and is not bound by nature is crucial to Jewish belief, as it means that God’s will lies above and beyond nature, rather than being a product of inevitable necessity as the Aristotelian model proposes. Only a transcendental God can freely the design the universe in a way that facilitates miracles and providential interaction with its creatures.

In contrast to Aristotle’s understanding that the world emanated from a single source, pagans looked at the multiplicity of concepts and forces which appear to be in conflict with one another in the natural world. They rationalized these in terms of there being a multiplicity of deities, each with limited powers and spheres of influence, who engage in battle with one another where their interests come into conflict or their limited spheres of influence overlap.

Rabbi S. R. Hirsch describes how Judaism firmly rejects this position, emphasizing that God is morally free—above, not part of, the natural world—and, by extension, that He has a free will which is unbound by any rules or constraints of physical necessity. Humanity, by receiving the Divine gift of “tzelem Elokim”, is also granted this ability to transcend and overcome natural forces—most significantly the forces of its own natural tendencies—through the moral freedom of human free will. According to R’ Hirsch, this fundamental principle was one of the key messages of the miraculous Exodus from Egypt (as we examine in other chapters).

What the pagan and Aristotelian conceptions have in common is their view of God(s) as being part of and therefore constrained by His physical creation. In absolute opposition to these positions, both Rambam and R’ Hirsch point out that Judaism interprets these differing features of the physical world as reflecting the absolute free will of a God who transcends His physical Creation. A God who acts as He sees fit and whose will and power is not bound by anyone or anything. Only such a free God can impart similar freedom to humanity, and enable it to transcend physical necessity by exercising its free choice.

The positions adopted by Rambam and R’ Hirsch to battle the determinist ideologies of their respective eras were occupied in our generation by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks in his efforts to counter the “new Atheism” of modern science and the determinist arguments it puts forward. This school of modern determinist thought, which can be traced back as far as Spinoza through to twentieth-century atheists such as Bertrand Russell, asserts that

[Man’s] origin, his growth, his hope and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling can preserve the body beyond the grave…

Humankind’s rich repertoire of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and hopes seems to arise from electrochemical brain processes, not from an immaterial soul.

As Rabbi Sacks summarizes their position: “We are, on this view, not distinctive at all. We are part of nature, nothing more.”

This scientific form of determinism differs from its predecessors only in detail, replacing irresistible deified natural forces with the assertion that humans are internally restrained by their own atomic and electrochemical processes. However, its underlying challenge to Judaism, and religion in general, is identical: if the universe is nothing more than a naturally evolved complex network of necessary and predetermined collisions of matter, with no genuine element of freedom to choose, then any system premised upon free human choice and responsibility is rendered invalid.

Rabbi Sacks argues, basing himself on a principle first introduced by Ludwig Wittgenstein, that the true meaning of anything necessarily lies outside of it; therefore, by extension, “the sense of the world must lie outside the world.” This true meaning, Rabbi Sacks continues, relies on the monotheistic conception of God, which understands that He transcends, entirely, all physical existence. In identifying the world’s “sense” and “meaning” with the transcendental God of monotheism and the human free will that He facilitates, Rabbi Sacks is following the well-trodden path of Rambam in his dispute with Aristotle and, more explicitly, the arguments of R’ Hirsch which strenuously oppose all forms of pagan and natural determinism.

A consequence of this proposition is that religion and science are two distinct and quite separate disciplines. If their nature and specific spheres of application are correctly understood, it is to be appreciated that science and religion can never clash or conflict with one another.

R’ Sacks described repeatedly how science examines the physical world on the basis of what is detectable to our five physical senses and develops theories as to how it works. Religion, by contrast, offers meaning as to why the universe exists and operates. This meaning, as stated above, derives from beyond the physical universe, in the metaphysical realm of God and our free-choosing human soul. That these metaphysical elements lie beyond the scope of scientific investigation merely confirms and reinforces their function in providing eternal religious meaning—a meaning which transcends the dynamic and ever-changing process of scientific discovery and theory.

First posted to Facebook 15 November 2020, here.

What is the "holiness" that the Torah demands of us?

The opening verses of yesterday’s Torah reading contain a commandment to “be holy” – a fundamental religious concept whose nature is extremely difficult to define. Holiness tends to conjure up images of detached and other-worldly men with white beards performing spiritual meditations and acts of intense piety. But how true is this of the Torah’s idea of holiness?

In his commentary to this passage, Rashi highlights a negative dimension of holiness: “in every place one finds a barrier against immorality one finds holiness”. Also noteworthy in this context is Rambam’s theory that Biblical Hebrew is referred to as Lashon Hakodesh (the holy language) specifically because it contains no explicit terms for sexual practices or organs.

A more positive depiction of holiness emerges from the writing of Ramban who instructs: “Sanctify yourself in what is permitted for you”. For Ramban holiness implies moderation – and requires a person to avoid excesses even when enjoying pleasures which are not subject to a prohibition.

Building upon these explanations, Rabbi S. R. Hirsch offers a profound analysis of what the concept of Kedusha - holiness truly represents within Judaism.

“Kedusha is attained through mastery over all of one’s powers and faculties and over all the temptation and inclinations associated with them – to be ready to do God’s Will.

Self-mastery is the highest art a man can practice. Self-mastery does not mean neglecting, stunting, killing or destroying of one’s powers or faculties. In and of themselves, the powers and faculties – from the most spiritual to the most sensual – that have been given to man are neither good nor bad…The Torah sets for each of them a positive purpose and negative limits. In the service of that purpose and within those limits, all is holy and good. But where a person strays from that purpose and exceeds those limits, coarseness and evil begin.”

Such holiness is not easily attained, however, and this is where some degree of abstention from physical pleasures may be in order.

“As in any other art, virtuosity in this, the highest moral art can be attained only through practice – training one’s moral willpower to master the inclinations of the heart. But this training is not to be undertaken in the realm of the expressly forbidden, where any slip would result in wrongdoing. Rather, moral resolve must be tested and strengthened in the realm of the permitted.”

To give one example, it would not be wise to test one’s resolve by arranging a delicious-smelling non-kosher feast for a time when one will be ravenous. A more advisable method to train oneself in self-control would be, for example, to leave the final mouthful over from one’s favourite food, or to forgo that final piece of pizza that one doesn’t really need – but would normally crave all the same! In this way, concludes R’ Hirsch, by learning to overcome inclinations that are permitted but related to the forbidden, “one gains the power of self-mastery and thus makes all his powers and faculties subservient to the fulfilment of God’s Will”.

What is striking is how, in the common perception, holiness is so strongly associated with self-deprivation and conspicuous acts of piety.

To what extent might such conceptions of holiness – particularly among Northern European communities – have been influenced by Christianity with its idealisation of renouncing all worldly pleasure for a reclusive monastic existence? Or is perhaps the Christian view itself – which is also found in Eastern religions – merely an embodiment of a natural human assumption that association with the spiritual realm involves the negation of physicality rather than its elevation and refinement?

While these two notions of holiness may at times appear to overlap and share some common elements, the fundamental distinction between them lies in their contrasting goals. The Christian version seeks to renounce worldly pleasures as an end in and of itself, believing that by being less physical, one automatically becomes more spiritual and therefore more connected to God. Judaism, by contrast, demands total mastery and control over all aspects of one’s personality. Temporary deprivation is not idealised but is at most a stepping stone – a means through which a person can be trained to achieve that mastery and self-control. Furthermore, as R’ Hirsch points out, the commandment of holiness is very clearly addressed to the entire nation rather than to an elite monastic class. A very real goal that every individual can pursue – and to some extent attain – which their lifetime.

First posted to Facebook 1 May 2022, here.

Does the Torah require a niddah to immerse in a mikveh?

By Daniel Abraham and Shmuli Phillips

This week’s parashah concludes a series of passages through Vayikra which focus on various forms of ritual impurity and their respective purification processes. One surprising feature which was brought to our attention this year concerns the purification processes for niddah and zavah (Vayikra chap. 15). The Torah simply states that women who have menstruated cause various objects with which they touch to become impure. No explicit mention, however, is made of what is traditionally considered to be a basic biblical requirement: that a woman immerse in a mikveh at the end of seven days in order to purify herself.

How does one approach such a phenomenon? Several scholarly articles (linked below) vividly demonstrate the extent to which this depends on one’s starting point and broader attitude towards the Torah.

Regular TheTorah.com contributors, Zev Farber and Isaac Sassoon, who promote a critical approach to interpreting the Torah’s text, seek to advance explanations based on the notion that the Torah evolved historically from multiple original sources. Their response to the Torah’s omission of an explicit command for a niddah to immerse in order to achieve purification is to suppose that this requirement is a later addition by the rabbis. According to Sassoon, there is a more lax attitude to niddah which can be detected in the “Priestly” layer of Tanakh – a layer which was superseded by a later rabbinic interpretation itself influenced by Zoroastrianism and its strict approach to menstruation. (The power and scope of rabbinic courts to amend and add to biblical law is a subject that is thoroughly examined in the upcoming sequel to Judaism Reclaimed).

While such interpretations may appear attractive to those who are convinced of the Torah’s gradual formation and multiple authorship, how seriously should it be taken by traditional students of the Torah?

A number of substantial arguments can be made in favour of the traditional position, some of which appear in the series of articles (linked below).

First, a number of powerful a fortiori arguments can be made to show the need for a niddah to wash despite the absence of a direct command. Such arguments emerge not just from comparisons with other, less severe forms of impurity, which all require washing – but even from within the laws of niddah. Most potently, the verse (15:22) requires that “anyone who touches any object upon which she will sit, shall immerse his garments and immerse himself in water...”. Does it not therefore go without saying that a niddah, who is the initial cause of this impurity, must also immerse in water to achieve purification? Furthermore, if a person touches the bed that a niddah lay upon, they are required to wash themselves for purification. Are we to imagine that a niddah who touches her own bed is exempt from this washing?

Given these strong indications from the text itself that a niddah requires washing as part of her process of purification, it is likely that this law was considered so obvious that it did not need an explicit mention. Alternatively, as Ramban appears to explain, the niddah’s need for purification is to be found regarding zava a few verses later, with the Torah waiting until it has concluded the laws of both categories of menstruating women before disclosing their requirement for purification.

In considering these possibilities, it is particularly significant to note that even the Karaites – who firmly rejected rabbinic oral tradition – accepted the niddah’s immersion as a basic biblical requirement.

Secondly, Yitzhaq Feder points out in his article on the subject (below) that the Torah's ritual laws can often be seen to have been built upon the practices of surrounding ancient cultures. Against this backdrop it is highly relevant that practically all of these ancient cultures had a requirement to wash after menstruation. Based on our current knowledge, none of these cultures allowed for menstrual impurity to be removed automatically.

Thirdly, the episode of David and Bathsheva (Shmuel 2:11) contains a clear early reference to the practice of women washing in order to purify from menstrual impurity: “and he saw a woman bathing… and she was purified from her uncleanliness”.

While it is clear that traditionalists such as ourselves are likely to be persuaded by these arguments, we are left to wonder about how scholars from thetorah.com balance such weighty considerations in their quest to furnish us with “Torah study informed and enriched by contemporary scholarship”. Our strong impression from many of the articles which they have published is that speculative interpretations which presume late and multiple authorship of the Torah are regularly preferred to seemingly simpler alternatives which seek answers in the context of surrounding verses, laws and the realities of ancient society.

First posted to Facebook 8 May 2022, here, with links to articles cited above.

Censuses, inconsistencies and traditional responses

Over the past couple of years, this forum has regularly featured posts which seek to highlight the speculative methodologies which can be found within some academic source-criticism of the Torah. In a recent comment thread Micha Berger suggested that we should place greater emphasis on showing the “beauty and internal integrity” of the traditional understanding of a Torah revealed in its entirely by God.

The parashah of Bemidbar provides a perfect opportunity to exhibit such an example – an apparent textual inconsistency and idiosyncrasy which contains an exquisite and profound principle. An early chapter of Judaism Reclaimed notes how, in the census of parashat Bemidbar, we find that Ephraim is listed before Menashe when the population of the tribes is enumerated. At the end of the 40 years in the wilderness however, when a new census is recorded in parashat Pinchas, Menashe is now listed ahead of Ephraim.

This is precisely the sort of inconsistency which typically serves as a foundation for biblical scholars to concoct theories of multiple authorship of the Torah – with diverging passages attributed to authors with different goals and priorities. It is instructive, therefore, to witness how the Netziv (Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin) addresses this phenomenon in his Ha’amek Davar commentary to the Torah.

The inconsistent presentation of the tribes in the book of Bemidbar, argues Netziv, can only be explained through a profound understanding of an earlier passage in the Torah – in which Ephraim and Menashe are presented to the elderly Ya’akov for a blessing:

“And Joseph took them both, Ephraim at his right, from Israel's left, and Manasseh at his left, from Israel's right, and he brought [them] near to him. But Israel stretched out his right hand and placed [it] on Ephraim's head, although he was the younger, and his left hand [he placed] on Manasseh's head. He guided his hands deliberately, for Manasseh was the firstborn” [Bereishit 48]

Netziv addresses the strange manner in which Ya’akov imparted his blessings to Ephraim and Menashe. While Menashe was the firstborn and therefore the expected recipient of the primary blessing (represented here by Ya’akov’s right hand), Ya’akov repeatedly rejected Yosef’s advice, and switched his hands so that Ephraim, standing on the left, would receive the primary blessing signified by the right hand. Why, asks Netziv, did Ya’akov not simply rearrange his grandsons so that Ephraim would stand on the right, rather than crossing his hands over? The text appears to attribute the change of hands to the fact that Menashe was older (“he [Ya’akov”] switched his hands, for Menashe was the firstborn”), but this is perplexing – the whole purpose of the exercise appears to be to elevate Ephraim above Menashe despite the firstborn status.

According to Netziv, the subtle symbolism adopted by Ya’akov while giving the blessings represents a profound division of roles and responsibilities between Ephraim and Menashe. Ephraim did indeed receive Ya’akov’s right hand upon his head, but this implied that he was being awarded seniority and leadership only for spiritual endeavours (represented by the head, home of the intellect). For matters pertaining to worldly pursuits however, Menashe would retain primacy and his firstborn status would be unaffected.

Indeed, according to the midrashic tradition, Menashe assisted Yosef in his governmental duties. Not only did Menashe act as an interpreter for Yosef (Bereishit Rabbah 91:8), but he was also the messenger when Yosef sent after his brothers to accuse Binyamin (falsely) of stealing Joseph’s favourite cup” (ibid 84:20). Ephraim, on the other hand, is depicted in the Midrash as a man who shared his grandfather Ya’akov’s temperament — quiet and studious. According to the Midrash Tanchuma (Vayechi 6), it was Ephraim who reported Ya’akov’s illness to Yosef because he regularly studied with Ya’akov.

This division of roles, which traces back to Ya’akov’s blessing, can be used to explain the strange inconsistency in order of the Tribes between Bemidbarand Pinchas. The census of parashat Bemidbar takes place with the Jews living in an intensely spiritual and miraculous environment, which featured the daily manna and Miriam’s well. A special cocoon in which they are supposed to absorb quickly the teachings of the Torah and learn how to become a nation of God. In such a spiritual mode of existence it was most relevant to list Ephraim, the ‘spiritual firstborn’, before Menashe. At the end of the book of Bemidbar by contrast, the Jewish people are preparing to leave this miraculous existence and re-enter the realm of standard physical existence – a project which would require skilful political leadership and practical application. The census which was taken in preparation for this entry in the Land of Israel therefore placed Menashe, the ‘natural firstborn’, before Ephraim.

Far from indicating different authors, this inconsistency discloses a dynamic which underpins the sons of Yosef and their roles from the book of Bereishit through until the nation’s entry in the land of Israel.

First posted to Facebook 29 May 2022, here.