Vayikra, sacrifice, or sacrilege? Rambam's korban controversy

The chapter of Judaism Reclaimed which relates to parashat Vayikra focuses on Rambam’s radical approach to the institution of sacrifices. Rambam understands that korbanot were legislated as a practical means of aiding the Jews’ transition from the heavily pagan mindset that they had absorbed in Egypt toward the monotheistic concepts of a single, all-powerful Deity. God knew that it was far beyond the capabilities of His nascent nation to relate to Him without resorting to the sacrificial rites which were then inseparable from religious practice. Rambam suggests that this would be like asking people in his time to imagine a religion without prayer or synagogue, being based just on an intellectual attachment to God.

God therefore incorporated sacrificial offerings within Judaism, carefully denuding them of the bloodthirsty and immoral associations that were prevalent in ancient pagan worship (more on that in next week’s post). The aim was to diminish, gradually, the significance of sacrifice within the nation’s religious worship as the Jews became capable of a more sophisticated conception of and connection to God.

Ramban (Nachmanides) launches a stinging attack against the “empty and damaging” approach of Rambam which includes powerful questions such as the fact that sacrifices can be seen to predate the phenomenon of idolatry in the Torah, rather than being a reaction to it, and the Torah’s description of sacrifices producing “a pleasing aroma” for God (implying a positive purpose rather than a necessary concession). Further question emerge from within Rambam’s own works: On the one hand he states unequivocally that that the entire purpose of the Torah’s commanding of korbanot is in order to withdraw the Jewish People from harmful forms of worship, rather than for any inherent purpose or benefit that the korbanot might positively confer. Yet a few chapters later Rambam describes how various categories of sacrifices can provide atonement –an apparent positive function of the korbanot. Furthermore, in Hilchot Melachim, Rambam emphasises that animal sacrifices will be restored in the utopian, non-idolatrous Messianic era – a question left open by earlier authorities.

Judaism Reclaimed draws upon an array of earlier sources including Abarbanel and Ritva to compile a defence and develop a more profound understanding of Rambam’s position. Most interesting are the concluding comments of Ritva (Rabbi YomTov of Sevilla) who, despite being a student of Nachmanides, is critical of his teacher for being unable to detach himself from his mystical worldview in order to appreciate the wisdom inherent in Rambam’s approach. Ritva’s words echo a major theme of Judaism Reclaimed, a book which strives to understand various commentaries within the context of their broader worldview before comparing and contrasting their conclusions.

First posted to Facebook 26 March 2020, here.

Holy nation and biblical interpretation

The episode of Korach’s insurrection against Moshe and his authority provides a platform for Rabbi S. R. Hirsch to analyse the concept of the Israelites as a “holy nation” – a point emphasised by Korach:

"the entire congregation are all holy and have God in their midst, and why have you elevated yourself over the community of God?"

Rav Hirsch suggests that it was an unwillingness to submit to the authority of Moshe and his hierarchical structure that lay at the heart of Korach’s rebellion. Korach’s error was to confuse destiny with reality. The Jewish people had certainly been spoken of as “anshei kodesh” – a holy nation, but this meant only that they had been set aside for a holy purpose, to aspire and raise themselves towards holiness by dedicating themselves to God and His Torah. In this light it is important that the Torah writes “anshei kodesh tiheyun li” and kedoshim tiheyu – you shall be holy rather than are (kedoshim atem). Judaism represents a mission and instruction to use the tools which we have been granted to become holy rather than being a statement of fact that we are automatically and inherently superior.

As well as the implications of this teaching for the question of how the Torah views the differential between Jews and non-Jews (a topic I plan to return to next week), the claim that the entire nation is equally qualified as holy represented a serious threat. Midrashim hint to this by depicting Korach as challenging Moshe on details of commandments such as tsitsit and mezuzah:

Korach sprang forth and said to Moshe: ‘if a garment is entirely colored with sky-blue tekhelet dye, is it or is it not exempt from the obligation of tzitzit?’ Said Moshe: ‘it is nevertheless obligated in tzitzit!’ Korach then retorted: ‘if a garment that is colored entirely with sky-blue tekhelet dye cannot exempt itself, shall four small threads then exempt it?!’

As I point out in Judaism Reclaimed, the sort of details chosen by the Midrash are those which do not appear in the simple peshat reading of the passage. Moshe has already been promised at Sinai that “they will believe you forever” so it is unlikely that Korach is challenging the authenticity of the basic laws taught by Moshe.

Rather they belong to the second, interpretative layer based on logic of the interpreter and hermeneutic tools. The sort of details that, as Rambam teaches in his introduction to the Mishneh, were delegated to the sages of each generation to legislate through the Sanhedrin. What Korach is challenging according to this approach is the fundamental question of authority over the oral tradition and legal interpretation of the Torah – a claim which was repeated in different form by the Sadducees centuries later. Asked what would become of the Torah if the Sanhedrin and its sages are destroyed, the Sadducee responds: “‘it is rolled up and lying in the corner: whoever wishes to study. Let him go and study!’” [Kiddushin 66a]

What the author of the midrash may be conveying is that, if Korach were to have his way and the entire congregation viewed as equally holy, this would mean that they are all uniformly entitled to interpret the written Torah to produce laws as they see fit. In this view, Korach’s assertions drew an emphatic response from God: a miraculous phenomenon to demonstrate unambiguously that his claims were unfounded and that, in the words of Moshe “the one chosen by God - "he is the holy one".

First posted on Facebook 26 June 2022, here.

Ketubot: virginity claims and Talmudic wisdom

This coming weekend, Daf Yomi enthusiasts will perhaps breathe a sigh of relief as they conclude the notoriously difficult tractate of Yevamot. The new terrain that they will exchange it for, however, presents the modern Talmudic student with a very different challenge.

What are we to make of sets of laws so firmly entrenched in societies so different to those in which we live? Of husbands taking their brides to court over claims that they were not virgins at the time of their wedding? Of different claims, counterclaims and virginity tests that a Beit Din may have to rule between?

As well as reflecting social attitudes and practices which are difficult to relate to in the twenty-first century, few of the laws that we analyse in this chapter are even remotely applicable in Jewish law today. Notwithstanding this, it is not only Daf-Yomists who will be wrestling with Ketubot in the coming months. The tractate lies right at the heart of pretty much any Yeshiva curriculum, with its intricate web of virginity claims and financial counter-claims being pored over and vigorously debated by all serious budding rabbinic scholars.

My upcoming book, tentatively titled Talmud Reclaimed, therefore uses this opening chapter of Ketubot as a classic case study with which to probe the nature, function and purpose of modern-day Talmud study.

First, I attempt to distinguish the core, immutable elements of Talmudic law which are understood to have been transmitted from Sinai from those aspects which would have been legislated and formulated by later sages and Courts. This latter category, according to Rambam, represents a secondary category of law, and is open to being amended by a legitimately formed Sanhedrin.

The reason why we still study the laws of Ketubot in their current form, therefore, is that no Court or set of sages since Ravina and Rav Ashi has been widely accepted as qualified to alter their teachings since the Talmudic era concluded. Nevertheless, it is valuable to be able to identify which teachings belong to each category: which Talmudic laws are understood to have been transmitted part of God’s instruction to Moshe in the desert and which are likely only still being studied because of the freezing of our oral tradition due to continued exile.

Secondly, I examine the profound wisdom which is woven into the Talmud’s treatment of these remote (and to some even offensive) legal debates. Key Talmudic axioms which affect all areas of Jewish law and important elements of Jewish legal philosophy are subtly threaded through the Talmudic tapestry of this treasured tractate.

It is primarily for this purpose, rather than its strange story line and depiction of women, that Yeshiva students will continue to regard Ketubot as a serious source of Talmudic wisdom.

First posted to Facebook 6 July 2022, here.

Sanhedrin, death penalty and criminal law

Yesterday’s Torah reading included an instruction that “The congregation shall protect the murderer from the hand of the blood avenger”. This phrase – vehitzilu ha’eidah – has become strongly associated with the requirement in capital cases for procedural rules to be tipped in favour of the defendant (see Sanhedrin chap. 4).

The most astonishing statement on the subject comes from Rabbi Akiva, who is not satisfied merely with tipping the scales in favour of the defendant but goes so far as to say that “Had we been on the Sanhedrin, no-one would have been killed”.

We are left asking ourselves how such a criminal justice system could operate. Is Rabbi Akiva suggesting that murderers and dangerous criminals should roam free? After all, there is little evidence of custodial or other sentences being used by a Sanhedrin.

Judaism Reclaimed approaches this question based on an essay by Rabbeinu Nissim in Derashot HaRan, which explains that the Jewish criminal system overseen by the Sanhedrin was intended to function alongside a regular government that maintained law and order (this has been discussed in a previous post here).

I was recently revisiting the question of whether Rabbi Akiva’s apparent opposition to the death penalty should be viewed as a mainstream Jewish position, as an exceptional protest against the majority opinions or perhaps as a localised reaction to specific phenomena. It may be necessary to read Rabbi Akiva’s statement in the context of the political and religious dynamics which prevailed in the Tannaic era, as well as other Talmudic teachings.

In particular, Jewish tradition teaches that the Sanhedrin voluntarily moved out of their Temple chambers in order to avoid having to hand down capital sentences. But why would the Sanhedrin have moved out of its Temple chambers so as to avoid punishing murderers? Is this not a dereliction of their duty?

There are insufficient historical sources of earlier Second Temple period to make a definitive assessment, but from accounts of death penalties carried out by Shimon ben Shetach and Yehudah ben Tabbai over a century earlier, it doesn’t seem like earlier courts shared Rabbi Akiva’s reticence for the death penalty.

I recently found a fascinating suggestion made by Rabbi David Zvi Hoffman – somewhat based on Josephus’s account of the political dynamics of the period. According to Rabbi Hoffmann, this course of action was taken by the Court in response to Roman attempts to control and subvert it so that Rome could secure conviction of its own enemies:

Often the most zealous patriots had to be sentenced as robbers and murderers, and the members of the Synedrium then only served as puppets for the Roman power. Thus, as a rule, the Pharisees were then opposed to a death sentence.

It was not only the Romans who pressed the Sanhedrin to hand down convictions. Writing in his Antiquities[20:9], Josephus informs us that the Sadducees, who rejected the rabbinic tradition of the Pharisees, were therefore “very rigid in judging offenders” and therefore displayed a greater enthusiasm than other Jewish sects when it came to convicting those accused of crimes. This was significant because – according to Rabbi Hoffmann – the Romans were promoting Sadducees into the court during this period -- perhaps for the specific purpose of more easily securing convictions for their opponents. The murderous nature of the years leading up to the destruction of the Mikdash, coupled with Roman interference in the running of the court, certainly provides a plausible reason why the Sanhedrin should have felt the need to exile itself, even though that meant having to surrender its authority to hand down capital cases.

These reasons – together with the Sadducees’ apparent enthusiasm for securing convictions in capital cases – may also explain why Rabbi Akiva and his colleagues sought to place such insurmountable legal obstacles before zealous prosecutors. A Mishnah in Sanhedrin provides an eyewitness account by Rabbi Elazar bar Tzadok of an execution which took place in the closing years of the Mikdash era, the details of which did not conform with the law as understood by the rabbinic tradition. When the question was raised as to how the Sanhedrin permitted such an execution to take place, the Talmud answers that it was conducted by a court of Sadducees.

There appears to be considerable evidence, therefore, that the approach to the death penalty exhibited by the Tannaitic sages in Rabbi Akiva’s Mishnah represents a reaction to the exigencies of their troubled era. This still leaves us with a question: what attitude to prosecution of criminal and capital cases might the Sanhedrin have exhibited in less fraught times? Would they have delegated the maintaining of law and order mostly to non-Sanhedrin governmental courts, as the Derashot HaRan suggests, or would they have retained a role in convicting criminals?

Returning to analyse Rabbi Akiva’s statement, the Gemara understands that this avoidance of the death penalty would have been achieved by setting the standards of required evidence so high that it would have been practically impossible for witnesses to answer questions. What emerges from this passage (as well as elsewhere in the Gemara) is that the Sanhedrin enjoyed a great deal of discretion in terms of how it interrogates witnesses and assesses the level of evidence which must be met to secure a conviction.

The Chazon Ish explicitly includes evidential evaluation among the category of legal details which the Torah delegated to the Sanhedrin of each generation to determine based on its own understanding and in accordance with the social and political realities of the nation at that time. Importantly, this means that different courts can resolve this question differently at various points in Jewish history and set the evidential requirements in recognition of the particular needs of their own generation. We should not imagine, therefore, that the hyper-restrictive statements concerning the death penalty which the Mishnah expresses in the first chapter of Makkot necessarily reflect how the court should function under normal circumstances.

First posted on Facebook 31 July 2022, here.

Tu be'Av: sex and marriage in Jewish thought

According to the Mishna, Tu Be'Av was a joyous holiday in the days of the Mikdash, on which the unmarried girls of Jerusalem dressed in white garments, and went out to dance in the vineyards. The Talmud records that “whoever did not have a wife would go there” to find himself a bride. In modern times the day has evolved into a romantic Jewish holiday that is sometimes compared to Valentine's Day.

This most unusual date in the Jewish calendar brings into focus Judaism’s attitude to marriage and sexual relationships. Judaism Reclaimed draws upon and develops the understanding that the Torah does not typically seek to deny its adherents involvement in the physical world. Rather it attempts to channel such activity so as to elevate people intellectually, morally and spiritually.

A notable example of this is food. The Torah does not seek to outlaw gastronomical pleasures. Rather it operates to curb excesses; prohibiting certain combinations of foods and legislating ritual slaughter and a ban on eating from live animals in order to prevent avoidable suffering. Keeping a kosher kitchen often requires one to master and apply intricate halachic details such as those involving different forms of combinations and nullifications of meat and milk. Avot teaches further regarding mealtimes that “where three people ate together at the same table but no Torah is spoken between them, it is as if they partook of an idolatrous sacrifice”. The process of eating – which seemingly relates to the more animalistic side of human conduct – is thus morally, intellectually and spiritually elevated through halachic guidance.

Similarly, with regard to sexual activity, the Torah does not seek to restrict all involvement in the physical world. Rather, it seeks to channel such activity in a manner that minimises its ability to influence the mind towards viewing sex from a purely self-centred perspective. This is why Jewish law promotes sexual intercourse only within the strict confines of marriage – a meaningful relationship based on mutual love and respect. In the context of a relationship of this nature, which is predicated on giving rather than taking, an activity which could otherwise embody the most extreme form of self-gratification and even exploitation now becomes an opportunity to superimpose a higher set of values upon the person’s inherently selfish focus.

The notion that sexuality can be profoundly transformed and elevated when placed in the context of marriage is developed by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who writes:

“If you should inquire as to the essence and meaning of the institution of marriage, I would say that through marriage the miraculous transition from the I-it contact to the I-you relationship occurs. Marriage personalizes sexuality as the joint experience of the I and the you.”

This theme is further explored by Rabbi Shagar in his essay “Love, Romance and Covenant”, where he concludes that “The chaos of sexuality, which first appears as the antithesis of marriage, as something to be suppressed by marriage, is ultimately synthesised with it, raising it up so that the relationship becomes an intimate partnership of body and soul”.

The Mishnah in Ta’anit which details the Tu Be’Av customs can be seen to contain strong indications of the role of marriage in transforming and elevating sexuality.

There were no days of joy in Israel greater than the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in borrowed white garments in order not to shame anyone who had none...The daughters of Jerusalem came out and dance in the vineyards. What would they say? Young man, lift up your eyes and see what you choose for yourself. Do not set your eyes on beauty but set your eyes on the family. “Grace is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that fears the Lord, she shall be praised”

Having associated the vineyard dancing of young maidens with the holiness and purity of Yom Kippur, the Mishnah describes how the focus of matchmaking is not the vanity of lustful beauty but rather on fear of Heaven and the sacred task of raising a family based on Jewish values and teachings.

A somewhat different Valentine’s Day.

First posted to Facebook 11 August 2022, here.

The Ten Commandments -- according to Moshe?

The unique dynamics of the book of Devarim are examined in several chapters of Judaism Reclaimed. It emerges already from Talmudic sources that Devarim was arranged and structured by Moshe, rather than being dictated word-for-word by God as was the case for the rest of the Torah. As the Vilna Gaon summarises it: the first four books were God speaking via the throat of Moshe, whereas Devarim was a prophecy recorded subsequently, when Moshe was no longer 'under the influence' of the prophecy which he had experienced earlier.

Building from these sources which indicate that Devarim was composed on the basis of a different type of prophecy from that of the rest of the Torah, we show how this appears to form the basis of Ibn Ezra’s fascinating explanation for the discrepancies between the Torah’s two accounts of the Ten Commandments – in Yitro and Va’etchanan.

The version which appears in Yitro is understood to constitute a word-for-word account of the Ten Commandments as revealed by God. This reflects the more direct divine influence over the content of the first four books of the Torah. When it comes to the repetition of these commandments in Va’etchanan however, writes Ibn Ezra, they are presented and structured by Moshe, even containing elements of his own commentary. This distinction may be alluded to in the Torah’s respective descriptions of its accounts: while Devarim declares “these words God spoke”, the original Yitro text introduces the commandments with “God spoke all these words…”.

To provide one example of how Ibn Ezra applies this principle, the initial version of the Commandments mentions first that one should not covet his neighbour’s “house” and only then his neighbour’s “wife”. This, Ibn Ezra explains, is the proper sequence in terms of the progression of a person’s correct order of life priorities: first to establish a house and then to marry. Moshe however switches the order for didactic reasons, on the basis that the temptation and coveting of a neighbour’s wife naturally begins earlier in a person’s life than jealousy of his house.

But why might God have chosen to communicate the book of Devarim in a different way to the first five books?

Judaism Reclaimed addresses this question through an unusual combination of rabbinic thinkers: Rabbi S. R. Hirsch and the Lubavitcher Rebbe. What emerges is that the 40-year sojourn in the desert represented a spiritual cocoon within which the nation of newly-released slaves was provided with a crash course of intense exposure to direct divine providence, constant miracles and the Torah’s revelation. This miraculous existence was not, however, the Torah’s ultimate goal.

The nation needed to witness God’s presence. But the ideal was to take that intense spiritual existence and be able to apply it to the mundane realities of everyday life in the Land of Israel. The compromises and trade-offs that are required in nation-building. This needed flexibility and “less intense light” of the oral tradition over God’s direct word.

This shift in the mode of relationship between God and the Jews was to be mirrored in a shift in the style and dynamics of the Torah: the rules which govern this relationship. Thus, with the Jews on the threshold of entering the Land, the direct “face-to-face” style of prophecy which had formed the basis for the first four books was supplemented with the final book in which Moshe not only recorded what God had dictated, but was also involved in structuring and explaining its content. This introduction of human involvement in its final book served as an interface to ease the transition and underscore the legitimacy of the greater focus on the Oral tradition which was to take on increased significance for the Jews upon entry to the Land of Israel.

Upon entering the Land of Israel, the Jewish people would no longer relate to God in this direct manner, rather they would be required to fulfil the purpose of creation by “building a home for God in the physical world” — relating to Him through His natural order.

This ultimately represents the Torah’s function. It is not simply a set of detached ideals revealed to perfect “ministering angels” – rather it guides those attempting to build a holy nation and society – battling to realise the Torah’s goal of a holy, refined godly nation with a Torah that could speak to, inspire and refine ALL people wherever they are in that process of human

First posted on Facebook 14 August 2022, here.

Does Judaism encourage difficult questions?

In the upcoming year I will be doing a little teaching in the nearby Amudim program in Jerusalem. Classes will be focused on “Fifty Big Questions” of Judaism. Yet, as I explore in the introduction to Judaism Reclaimed, Jewish tradition contains conflicting voices as to whether such difficult questions should be voiced in the first place.

The conflicting approaches to the legitimacy and importance of addressing key theological and philosophical questions are neatly encapsulated in a debate between Rambam and Ra’avad regarding the nature of God’s knowledge. In the fifth chapter of Hilchot Teshuvah, Rambam grapples with the thorny theological conundrum of how to reconcile God’s absolute and unchanging knowledge with human free will. He probes the extent of God’s knowledge and the limited ability of the human mind to comprehend it before eventually concluding that we must acknowledge that our minds are not equipped fully to fathom the nature of God’s mind.

Commenting on Rambam’s analysis, Ra’avad rejects Rambam’s methodology in its entirety: he states that, since we cannot reach a decisive conclusion, “it would have been preferable to leave it as a matter of simple faith” rather than to open people’s minds to such troubling questions.

Rambam however finds value in pushing the limits of human understanding to comprehend to the greatest possible extent, defining and explaining exactly what can and cannot be understood by the human mind. Even when dealing with concepts which lie beyond the grasp of the human intellect, Rambam still seeks to describe them to the greatest possible extent, and to explain why they cannot be understood. Rambam’s persistence in seeking to probe and understand the inexplicable is consistent with his key understanding that connection to God (and with it providence and the World to Come) is achieved by attaining the greatest possible comprehension of divine matters, including clearly defined parameters of what lies beyond the scope of human understanding. Increasing one’s ability to grasp such matters is a lifelong effort and journey.

In a similar vein, Rav Bachye ibn Pekuda (in the third chapter of Sha’ar Yichud of his Chovot Halevovot) strongly urges that a person who is intellectually capable should probe theological questions such as the existence and nature of God, and the authenticity of the Torah.

It is evident therefore that two legitimate schools of thought subsist within Jewish tradition regarding the correct approach to difficult theological matters.

Nevertheless, in a modern era of widespread, uncontrollable and often anonymised discussion of Torah fundamentals through blogs, internet forums and other social media, the option of secluding oneself from troubling questions and viewpoints has become increasingly challenging. In this atmosphere of open debate and inquiry, refusal to engage with such issues is liable to be interpreted by the perplexed of today’s online generation as a sign of weakness — or worse, as a concession that one has nothing to say and that those who propound views that are hostile to the received Jewish tradition are therefore right.

As Rabbeinu Yonah comments in his explanation of the Mishnaic statement: “know what to respond to the heretic”:

“If his [the heretic’s] false claims are not responded to, many will learn from them and will drink evil waters after perceiving that (his claims) were victorious”.

The need to face and openly address difficult questions in the modern era was recognised by Rav Shimon Schwab. Writing in America – even before the advent of the internet and social media – he considered that:

“the temptations of heresy and agnosticism are not lurking mainly inside the colleges. Every library, every bookstore (including Hebrew bookstores!) contains as much Apikorsus as the lecture halls of a university. There are newspapers and magazines…obtainable everywhere which are filled with anti-religious, anti-Torah dynamite. The forbidden fruits sprout everywhere…[T]he bright-eyed student is confronted with overt and covert Kefirah wherever he turns. To ignore this shocking state of affairs does not minimize the acute danger. On the other hand the Torah im Derech Eretz education may forge the intellectual armour to beat the rebellious ideas into submission.”

Recognising and seeking to address such questions is certainly not an easy option and can take people well out of their comfort zone. The introduction to Judaism Reclaimed (linked above) explores how such a journey can best be undertaken within the parameters of Jewish tradition. As Rav Soloveitchik attests, the intellectual search for meaning and understanding can be lonely and troubling, but also exhilarating and ultimately extremely rewarding. Most importantly it offers the intellectual traveller the prospect of a more meaningful and fulfilling connection to Judaism and a more genuine connection to God and His Torah.

In a footnote near the opening of Halakhic Man the Rav writes:

“The pangs of searching and groping, the tortures of spiritual crises and exhausting treks of the soul purify and sanctify man, cleanse his thoughts and purge them of the husks of superficiality and the dross of vulgarity. Out of these torments there emerges a new understanding of the world, a powerful spiritual enthusiasm that shakes the very foundations of man’s existence. He arises from the agonies, purged and refined, possessed of a new heart and spirit. “It is a time of agony unto Jacob, but out of it he shall be saved” (Yirmiyah 30:7) – i.e. from out of the very midst of the agony itself he will attain eternal salvation and redemption. The spiritual stature and countenance of the man of God are chiselled and formed by the pangs of redemption themselves.”

I very much hope that my classes, like my book and online discussions, are able to encourage people to engage positively and openly with Judaism, and enjoy a more mature and meaningful connection to the Torah – within the parameters of Jewish tradition.

First posted on Facebook 24 August 2022, here.

The Sanhedrin: a priestly prerogative or a free-standing judiciary?

The political system of ancient Israel is often lauded for its separation of powers, with a monarchy, priesthood and judiciary each functioning within distinct parameters of responsibility and power. What do we make then of the verse that we will read shortly on Simchat Torah – in connection to the priestly prerogative of the Levites: “They shall rule upon Your laws to Jacob, and [upon] Your Torah to Israel”?

These kohanim, we have already been told, sit in judgment as part of the supreme judicial Court at the Temple: “And you shall come to the Levitic kohanim and to the judge who will be in those days, and you shall inquire, and they will tell you the words of judgment” (Deuteronomy 17:9).

The book of Leviticus adds – as part of its prohibition on kohanim performing their priestly activities while under the influence of alcohol – the requirement that they “instruct the children of Israel regarding all the statutes which the Lord has spoken to them through Moses” (Leviticus 10:11). The prophet Ezekiel (44:24) takes this theme further: “They shall stand in judgment; they shall adjudicate … according to My laws…”.

Based upon these sources, interpreting and ruling upon matters of Torah and judging the people is clearly a function of the priesthood—but this is precisely the sort of role that, the Mishnah and Talmudic sources suggest, was fulfilled by the Sanhedrin as judicial institution that was independent of formal priestly involvement.

Historically, what evidence is there of a connection between the Sanhedrin and Kehunah?

It is hard to reach any definitive conclusion concerning the first Temple period. Aside from Ezekiel's instructions to the kohanim to perform judicial functions, we find that Jehoshaphat established in Jerusalem “judges of the Levites and the priests and of the chiefs of the fathers' [houses] of Israel, for the judgment of the Lord and for quarrels”. This seems to reflect the Torah’s view that the priests did play an important role in the judiciary.

During the early years of the second Temple, when Israel was controlled by Persia and Greece, historical sources suggest that political and religious power of the Jewish settlement – including the judiciary – was controlled by a priestly “gerousia” body. Josephus, himself a kohen, presents the court system as a primarily priestly institution. The rabbinic tradition meanwhile describes great scholars called “Eshkolot” who presided over the system of Torah teaching from the time of Moshe until Yose ben Yo’ezer , a rabbi of the early Maccabean period – but the identity and tribe(s) of these scholars are not clear. What may be significant, however, is that the judicial body charged with interpreting the Torah and overseeing its application underwent a change at the time of Yose ben Yo’ezer.

A Mishnah in Avot (1:4) describes Yose as a student of Antigonus of Socho. It was in Yose’s generation that, according to rabbinic tradition, the religious battle between Pharisees and Sadducees arose and intensified. The Hellenist-influenced Sadducees, who rejected the oral tradition, dominated the priestly and aristocratic classes. Yose, praised in Chagigah (2:7) as “a pious one of the priests” stood firm against the Sadducee challenge but he and his supporters remained in a minority among the priests. It would seem likely that this led the Pharisees, who controlled the Court, to detach the Sanhedrin entirely from the priesthood and establish it as a distinct judicial body.

Thus students of the Mishnah and the oral tradition learn of a judicial institution which is fully independent of and even suspicious of the priesthood. The first chapter of Yoma, teaches that Court representatives would instruct a Kohen Gadol on how to perform the Yom Kippur ceremony before requiring him to swear to conduct it in the manner of the Pharisees rather than the Sadducees. We also find a pointed comment (Horayot 3:8) that a mamzer scholar is more worthy than an ignorant high priest!

Several further Mishnayot describe how various rituals were designed by the Court to demonstrate an open rejection of Sadducee teachings. Thus the harvesting of the Omer on Shabbat was accompanied by pomp and publicity (Menachot 10:3) and the Red Heifer ceremony was carried out in a legally non-preferable manner in order to publicly reject the Sadducee position (Para 3:7). Given the existential threat that the Sadducees were believed to have posed to the transmitted oral tradition, it is not surprising that the Sanhedrin was removed from the Sadducee-dominated priestly grasp.

The Sadducees neither recognised nor wished to participate in a Court which was not based upon the Kehunah – a matter which they understood to be required by the Written Torah. Meanwhile, Josephus ignored the shift in judicial dynamics, perhaps regarding the Pharisees’ move as a temporary suspension of the priestly prerogative rather than a permanent change.

Perhaps the most powerful sources which indicate a strong priestly involvement in the Sanhedrin during the late Second Temple period are found in the New Testament, with the Gospels providing accounts of the trial of Jesus at the Sanhedrin – a trial which was apparently presided over by the High Priest. While some historians consider such sources as being in direct contradiction to the rabbinic tradition, Dr Hugo Mantel (Studies in the History of the Sanhedrin) collects an impressive array of scholarly opinions which reject this claim.

Among the arguments that he advances, Mantel demonstrates that none of the charges that Jesus was recorded as having faced were capital offences that would have been tried by the Sanhedrin, and that there exists no record of the Sanhedrin charging or sentencing to death any member of the numerous branches of Judaism that the Pharisees regarded as heretical. The New Testament sources point instead to Jesus’s crime and trial as having been primarily a political offence for a crime of rebellion against Rome. This would explain why the trial is described as taking place in the High Priest’s residence (rather than in the standard Sanhedrin chambers), and with numerous Sadducees participating in the judgment. Seeing Jesus’s trial in the context of a political rather than religious offence would also make it easier to understand why the Court handed him over to non-Jews for execution in a manner which is biblically prohibited for a Sanhedrin to perform (Deuteronomy 21:23). Both Mantel and Josephus are in agreement that the Court that tried Jesus was not therefore the Great Sanhedrin of the Pharisees, but rather a separate political body which was appointed by and under the auspices of the Roman rulers.

For their part, the sages could not ignore the overwhelming biblical association between the priesthood and the judiciary. However, they understood that such an association was an ideal to which the Court should aspire rather than a mandatory requirement: “It is a mitzvah for there to be priests and Levites in the Supreme Sanhedrin, as Deuteronomy 17:9 states…[but] if appropriate ones are not found, it is permissible for all the judges to be Israelites” (Rambam, Hilchot Sanhedrin 2:2 based on Sifre). The non-priestly judiciary which Moshe established in the desert, and Ezra’s Great Assembly, would seem to support this more flexible interpretation.

The aristocratic Sadducee movement, with its strong Temple focus and lack of a flexible oral tradition, was unable to adapt to the new post-destruction reality, and ceased to exist altogether at that point of Jewish history. Looking to the future, when the opportunity arises for a new Sanhedrin to be formed, we will be left to determine the extent to which it should be a priestly body – as the biblical texts appear to advise – or whether we will preserve the sages’ shift towards a fully independent Court.

First posted on Facebook 26 September 2021, here.