Studies in Judaism
First Series
by
Solomon Schechter, M.A., Litt.D.
Philadelphia
The Jewish Publication Society of America
1911
CONTENTS
Preface
Introduction
I. The Chassidim
II. Nachman Krochmal and the “Perplexities Of The Time”
III. Rabbi Elijah Wilna, Gaon
IV. Nachmanides
V. A Jewish Boswell
VI. The Dogmas Of Judaism
VII. The History of Jewish Tradition
VIII. The Doctrine of Divine Retribution in Rabbinical Literature
IX. The Law And Recent Criticism
X. The Hebrew Collection of the British Museum
XI. Titles of Jewish Books
XII. The Child in Jewish Literature
XIII. Woman in Temple and Synagogue
XIV. The Earliest Jewish Community in Europe
Index
Footnotes
[Cover Art]
[Transcriber’s Note: The above cover image was produced by the submitter
at Distributed Proofreaders, and is being placed into the public domain.]
TO
THE EVER‐CHERISHED MEMORY
OF
THE LATE DR. P. F. FRANKL, RABBI IN BERLIN
THESE STUDIES ARE REVERENTLY
DEDICATED
PREFACE
These studies appeared originally in their first form in _The Jewish
Quarterly_ and _The Jewish Chronicle_. To the Editors of these periodicals
my best thanks are due for their readiness in placing the articles at my
disposal for the purposes of the present volume. The Introductory Essay is
new. I desire to express my sincere gratitude to Mr. J. G. Frazer, Fellow
of Trinity College, Cambridge, and Dr. J. Sutherland Black, of London, for
their great kindness in revising the proofs, and for many a valuable
suggestion. To Mr. Claude G. Montefiore I am indebted for the English
version of the Essay on “Chassidim”—my first literary effort in this
country, written at his own suggestion.
In the transliteration of Hebrew names, I have given the familiar English
forms of the authorised version. As regards post‐Biblical names, I have
with few exceptions followed Zedner’s _Catalogue of the Hebrew Books in
the Library of the British Museum_. A Hebrew word will be found here and
there in the text; I have purposely avoided bewildering devices for
representing the actual sound of the word, contenting myself with the
ordinary Roman alphabet, in spite of its shortcomings.
The authorities used for the various Essays will be found indicated in the
Notes at the end of the volume, where the reader will also find short
biographical and bibliographical notices, together with brief explanations
of technical terms for which no exact equivalent exists in English. The
index will, it is hoped, facilitate reference.
_S. S._
CAMBRIDGE, _February 1896_.
INTRODUCTION
The essays published in this volume under the title of _Studies in
Judaism_ have been written on various occasions and at long intervals.
There is thus no necessary connection between them. If some sort of unity
may be detected in the book, it can only be between the first three
essays—on the Chassidim, Krochmal, and the Gaon—in which there is a
certain unity of purpose. The purpose in view was, as may easily be
gathered from the essays themselves, to bring under the notice of the
English public a type of men produced by the Synagogue of the Eastern
Jews. That Synagogue is widely different from ours. Its places of worship
have no claims to “beauty of holiness,” being in their outward appearance
rather bare and bald, if not repulsive; whilst those who frequent them are
a noisy, excitable people, who actually dance on the “Season of Rejoicing”
and cry bitterly on the “Days of Mourning.” But among all these
vagaries—or perhaps because of them—this Synagogue has had its moments of
grace, when enthusiasm wedded to inspiration gave birth to such beautiful
souls as Baalshem, such fine sceptics as Krochmal, and such saintly
scholars as Elijah Wilna. The Synagogue of the West is certainly of a more
presentable character, and free from excesses; though it is not devoid of
an enthusiasm of its own which finds its outlet in an ardent and self‐
sacrificing philanthropic activity. But owing to its practical tendency
there is too little room in it for that play of intellectual forces which
finds its extravagant expression in the saint on the one hand, and the
learned heretic on the other.
Eight of these essays are more or less of a theological nature. But in
reading the proofs I have been struck by the fact that there is assumed in
them a certain conception of the Synagogue which, familiar though it be to
the Jewish student, may appear obscure and even strange to the general
English reader. For brevity’s sake I will call it the High Synagogue,
though it does not correspond in all details to what one is accustomed to
understand under the term of High Church. The High Synagogue has a history
which is not altogether without its points of interest.
Some years ago when the waves of the Higher Criticism of the Old Testament
reached the shores of this country, and such questions as the
heterogeneous composition of the Pentateuch, the comparatively late date
of the Levitical Legislation, and the post‐exilic origin of certain
Prophecies as well as of the Psalms began to be freely discussed by the
press and even in the pulpit, the invidious remark was often made: What
will now become of Judaism when its last stronghold, the Law, is being
shaken to its very foundations?
Such a remark shows a very superficial acquaintance with the nature of an
old historical religion like Judaism, and the richness of the resources it
has to fall back upon in cases of emergency.
As a fact, the emergency did not quite surprise Judaism. The alarm signal
was given some 150 years ago by an Italian Rabbi, Abiad Sar Shalom
Bazilai, in his pamphlet _The Faith of the Sages_. The pamphlet is, as the
title indicates, of a polemical character, reviewing the work of the
Jewish rationalistic schools; and after warming up in his attacks against
their heterodox views, Bazilai exclaims: “Nature and simple meaning, they
are our misfortune.” By “nature and simple meaning” Bazilai, who wrote in
Hebrew, understood what we would call Natural Science and Philology. With
the right instinct of faith, Bazilai hit on the real sore points. For
though he mostly argues against the philosophical systems of Aristotle and
his commentators, he felt that it is not speculation that will ever
seriously endanger religion. There is hardly any metaphysical system, old
or new, which has not in course of time been adapted by able dialecticians
to the creed which they happened to hold. In our own time we have seen the
glorious, though not entirely novel spectacle, of Agnosticism itself
becoming the rightful handmaid of Queen Theology. The real danger lies in
“nature” (or Natural Science) with its stern demand of law and regularity
in all phenomena, and in the “simple meaning” (or Philology) with its
inconsiderate insistence on truth. Of the two, the “simple meaning” is the
more objectionable. Not only is it very often at variance with Tradition,
which has its own code of interpretation, but it is constantly increasing
the difficulties raised by science. For if words could only have more than
one meaning, there would be no objection to reading the first words of
Genesis, “In _a_ beginning God _evolved_.” The difficulties of science
would then be disposed of easily enough. Maimonides, who was as bold an
interpreter as he was a deep metaphysician, hinted plainly enough that
were he as convinced of the eternity of matter as he was satisfied of the
impossibility of any corporeal quality in the deity, he would feel as
little compunction in explaining (figuratively) the contents of the first
chapter of Genesis as he did in allegorising the anthropomorphic passages
of the Bible. Thus in the end all the difficulties resolve themselves into
the one great difficulty of the “simple meaning.” The best way to meet
this difficulty was found to be to shift the centre of gravity in Judaism
and to place it in the secondary meaning, thus making religion independent
of philology and all its dangerous consequences.
This shifting work was chiefly done, perhaps not quite consciously, by the
historical school which followed upon that of Mendelssohn and his first
successors. The historical school, which is still in the ascendant,
comprises many of the best Jewish writers who either by their learning or
by their ecclesiastical profession as Rabbis and preachers in great
communities have acquired some important position among their brethren.
The men who have inaugurated this movement were Krochmal (1785‐1841),
Rapoport (1790‐1867), and Zunz (1794‐1886).
It is not a mere coincidence that the first representatives of the
historical school were also the first Jewish scholars who proved
themselves more or less ready to join the modern school of Bible
Criticism, and even to contribute their share to it. The first two,
Krochmal and Rapoport, early in the second quarter of this century
accepted and defended the modern view about a second Isaiah, the post‐
exilic origin of many Psalms, and the late date of Ecclesiastes; whilst
Zunz, who began (in 1832) with denying the authenticity of Ezekiel,
concluded his literary career (1873) with a study on the Bible
(_Gesammelte __ Schriften_, i. pp. 217‐290), in which he expressed his
view “that the Book of Leviticus dates from a later period than the Book
of Deuteronomy, later even than Ezekiel, having been composed during the
age of the Second Temple, when there already existed a well‐established
priesthood which superintended the sacrificial worship.” But when
Revelation or the Written Word is reduced to the level of history, there
is no difficulty in elevating history in its aspect of Tradition to the
rank of Scripture, for both have then the same human or divine origin
(according to the student’s predilection for the one or the other
adjective), and emanate from the same authority. Tradition becomes thus
the means whereby the modern divine seeks to compensate himself for the
loss of the Bible, and the theological balance is to the satisfaction of
all parties happily readjusted.
Jewish Tradition, or, as it is commonly called, the Oral Law, or, as we
may term it (in consideration of its claims to represent an interpretation
of the Bible), the Secondary Meaning of the Scriptures, is mainly embodied
in the works of the Rabbis and their subsequent followers during the
Middle Ages. Hence the zeal and energy with which the historical school
applied itself to the Jewish post‐biblical literature, not only
elucidating its texts by means of new critical editions, dictionaries, and
commentaries, but also trying to trace its origins and to pursue its
history through its gradual development. To the work of Krochmal in this
direction a special essay is devoted in this volume. The labours of
Rapoport are more of a biographical and bibliographical nature, being
occupied mostly with the minor details in the lives and writings of
various famous Jewish Rabbis in the Middle Ages; thus they offer but
little opportunity for general theological comment. Of more importance in
this respect are the hints thrown out in his various works by Zunz, who
was just as emphatic in asserting the claims of Tradition as he was
advanced in his views on Bible criticism. Zunz’s greatest work is _Die
Gottesdienstlichen Vorträge_—an awkward title, which in fact means “The
History of the Interpretation of the Scriptures as forming a part of the
divine service.” Now if a work displaying such wide learning and critical
acumen, and written in such an impartial spirit can be said to have a
bias, it was towards bridging over the seemingly wide gap between the
Written Word (the Scriptures) and the Spoken Word (the Oral Law or
Tradition), which was the more deeply felt, as most of Zunz’s older
contemporaries were men, grown up in the habits of thought of the
eighteenth century—a century distinguished both for its ignorance of, and
its power of ignoring, the teachings of history. Indeed it would seem that
ages employed in making history have no time for studying it.
Zunz accomplished the task he set himself, by showing, as already
indicated, the late date of certain portions of the Bible, which by
setting the early history of Israel in an ideal light betray the
moralising tendency of their authors, and are, in fact, little more than a
traditional interpretation of older portions of Scripture, adapted to the
religious needs of the time. Placing thus the origin of Tradition in the
Bible itself, it was a comparatively easy matter for Zunz to prove its
further continuity. Prophecy and Interpretation are with him the natural
expressions of the religious life of the nation; and though by the loss of
Israel’s political independence the voice of the prophets gradually died
away, the voice of God was still heard. Israel continues to consult God
through the medium of the Scriptures, and He answers His people by the
mouth of the Scribes, the Sages, the Interpreters of the Law; whilst the
liturgy of the Synagogue, springing up at the time when Psalms were still
being composed, expands in its later stages through the work of the Poets
of the Synagogue into such a rich luxuriance “that it forms in itself a
treasure of history, poetry, philosophy; and prophecy and psalms are again
revived in the hymnology of the Middle Ages.” This is in brief the lesson
to be learned from Zunz’s _Gottesdienstliche Vorträge_ as far as it deals
with the significance of Tradition; and it is in the introduction to this
work that Zunz expresses himself to the following effect: Indispensable is
the free Spoken Word. Mankind has acquired all its ideal treasures only by
Word of Mouth; an education continuing through all stages of life. In
Israel, too, the Word of Instruction transmitted from mouth to mouth was
never silenced.
The historical school has never, to my knowledge, offered to the world a
theological programme of its own. By the nature of its task, its labours
are mostly conducted in the field of philology and archæology, and it pays
but little attention to purely dogmatic questions. On the whole, its
attitude towards religion may be defined as an enlightened Scepticism
combined with a staunch conservatism which is not even wholly devoid of a
certain mystical touch. As far as we may gather from vague remarks and
hints thrown out now and then, its theological position may perhaps be
thus defined:—It is not the mere revealed Bible that is of first
importance to the Jew, but the Bible as it repeats itself in history, in
other words, as it is interpreted by Tradition. The Talmud, that wonderful
mine of religious ideas from which it would be just as easy to draw up a
manual for the most orthodox as to extract a vade‐mecum for the most
sceptical, lends some countenance to this view by certain controversial
passages—not to be taken seriously—in which “the words of the scribes” are
placed almost above the words of the Torah. Since then the interpretation
of Scripture or the Secondary Meaning is mainly a product of changing
historical influences, it follows that the centre of authority is actually
removed from the Bible and placed in some _living body_, which, by reason
of its being in touch with the ideal aspirations and the religious needs
of the age, is best able to determine the nature of the Secondary Meaning.
This living body, however, is not represented by any section of the
nation, or any corporate priesthood, or Rabbihood, but by the collective
conscience of Catholic Israel as embodied in the Universal Synagogue. The
Synagogue “with its long, continuous cry after God for more than twenty‐
three centuries,” with its unremittent activity in teaching and developing
the word of God, with its uninterrupted succession of prophets, Psalmists,
Scribes, Assideans, Rabbis, Patriarchs, Interpreters, Elucidators,
Eminences, and Teachers, with its glorious record of Saints, martyrs,
sages, philosophers, scholars, and mystics; this Synagogue, the only true
witness to the past, and forming in all ages the sublimest expression of
Israel’s religious life, must also retain its authority as the sole true
guide for the present and the future. And being in communion with this
Synagogue, we may also look hopefully for a safe and rational solution of
our present theological troubles. For was it not the Synagogue which even
in antiquity determined the fate of Scripture? On the one hand, for
example, books like Ezekiel, the Song of Songs, and Ecclesiastes, were
only declared to be Holy Writ in virtue of the interpretation put upon
them by the Rabbis: and, on the other hand, it was the veto of the Rabbis
which excluded from the canon the works that now pass under the name of
Apocrypha. We may, therefore, safely trust that the Synagogue will again
assert its divine right in passing judgment upon the Bible when it feels
called upon to exercise that holy office. It is “God who has chosen the
Torah, and Moses His servant, and Israel His people.” But indeed God’s
choice invariably coincides with the wishes of Israel; He “performeth all
things” upon which the councils of Israel, meeting under promise of the
Divine presence and communion, have previously agreed. As the Talmud
somewhere expresses itself with regard to the Book of Esther, “They have
confirmed above what Israel has accepted below.”
Another consequence of this conception of Tradition is that it is neither
Scripture nor primitive Judaism, but general custom which forms the real
rule of practice. Holy Writ as well as history, Zunz tells us, teaches
that the law of Moses was never fully and absolutely put in practice.
Liberty was always given to the great teachers of every generation to make
modifications and innovations in harmony with the spirit of existing
institutions. Hence a return to Mosaism would be illegal, pernicious, and
indeed impossible. The norm as well as the sanction of Judaism is the
practice actually in vogue. Its consecration is the consecration of
general use,—or, in other words, of Catholic Israel. It was probably with
a view to this communion that the later mystics introduced a short prayer
to be said before the performance of any religious ceremony, in which,
among other things, the speaker professes his readiness to act “in the
name of all Israel.”
It would be out of place in an introductory essay to pursue any further
this interesting subject with its far‐reaching consequences upon Jewish
life and Jewish thought. But the foregoing remarks may suffice to show
that Judaism did not remain quite inactive at the approach of the great
religious crisis which our generation has witnessed. Like so many other
religious communities, it reviewed its forces, entrenched itself on the
field of history, and what it lost of its old devotion to the Bible, it
has sought to make up by a renewed reverence for institutions.
In this connection, a mere mention may suffice of the ultra‐Orthodox
party, led by the late Dr. S. R. Hirsch of Frankfort (1808‐1889) whose
defiance of reason and criticism even a Ward might have envied, and whose
saintliness and sublimity even a Keble might have admired. And, to take an
example from the opposite school, we must at least record the name of that
devout Jew, Osias Schorr (1816‐1895), in whom we have profound learning
combined with an uncompromising disposition of mind productive of a
typical champion of Radicalism in things religious. These men are,
however, representative of two extremes, and their followers constitute
mere minorities; the majority is with the historical school.
How long the position of this school will prove tenable is another
question. Being brought up in the old Low Synagogue, where, with all
attachment to tradition, the Bible was looked upon as the crown and the
climax of Judaism, the old Adam still asserts itself in me, and in
unguarded moments makes me rebel against this new rival of revelation in
the shape of history. At times this now fashionable exaltation of
Tradition at the expense of Scripture even impresses me as a sort of
religious bimetallism in which bold speculators in theology try to keep up
the market value of an inferior currency by denouncing loudly the bright
shining gold which, they would have us believe, is less fitted to
circulate in the vulgar use of daily life than the small cash of
historical interpretation. Nor can I quite reconcile myself to this
alliance of religion with history, which seems to me both unworthy and
unnatural. The Jew, some writer aptly remarked, was the first and the
fiercest Nonconformist of the East, and so Judaism was always a protesting
religion. To break the idols, whether of the past or of the present, has
always been a sacred mission of Judaism, and has indeed been esteemed by
it as a necessary preliminary to the advent of the kingdom of God on
earth. One of its daily prayers was and still is: “We therefore hope in
Thee, O Lord our God, that we may speedily behold the glory of Thy might,
when ... the idols will be cut off, when the world will be perfected under
the kingdom of the Almighty.” It bowed before truth, but it had never made
a covenant with facts only because they were facts. History had to be re‐
made and to sanctify itself before it found its way into its sacred
annals. Nor did Judaism make a virtue of swallowing down institutions.
Such institutions as crept into it in course of time had, when the
Synagogue was conscious of their claims to form part of religion, to
submit to the laborious process of a thorough adaptation to prophetic
notions before they were formally sanctioned. But when this process was
deemed impossible or impracticable, Judaism boldly denounced the past in
such fierce language as the prophets used and as still finds its echo in
such passages of the liturgy as “First our ancestors were worshippers of
idols and now God has brought us near to His service”; or “But of a truth,
we and our ancestors have sinned.”
However, it would be unfair to argue any further against a theological
system which, as already said, was never avowed distinctly by the
historical school—a school, moreover, with which speculation is a matter
of minor importance. The main strength of this school lies in its
scientific work, for which Judaism will always be under a sense of deep
gratitude. And living as we do in an age in which history reigns supreme
in all departments of human thought, we may hope that even its theology,
as far as it goes, will “do” for us, though I neither hope nor believe
that it will do for those who come after us. I may, however, humbly
confess that the sixth essay in this volume was written in a spirit of
rebellion against this all‐absorbing Catholic Israel, with its decently
veiled scepticism on the one hand, and its unfortunate tendency with many
people to degenerate into a soulless conformity on the other hand. There
is, I am afraid, not much to be said in favour of this essay. It is
deficient both in matter and in style. It proved to be a futile attempt to
bring within the compass of an essay what a whole book could hardly do
justice to. The Hebrew documents bearing upon the question of dogma which
I have collected from various manuscripts and rare printed books, would
alone make a fair‐sized volume. I only venture to offer it to the public
in the absence of anything better; since, so far as I know, no other
attempt has ever been made to treat the subject even in its meagrest
outlines. I even venture to hope that, with all its shortcomings, it will
contribute something towards destroying the illusion, in which so many
theologians indulge, that Judaism is a religion without dogmas. To declare
that a religion has no dogmas is tantamount to saying that it was wise
enough not to commit itself to any vital principles. But prudence, useful
as it may be in worldly affairs, is quite unworthy of a great spiritual
power.
Jewish mysticism in the Middle Ages and in modern times is represented in
this volume by two essays (“The Chassidim” and “Nachmanides”). But in
order to avoid mistakes which might be implied by my silence, I think it
desirable to state that there are also to be found many mystical elements
in the old Rabbinic literature. Mysticism, not as a theosophic system or
as an occult science, but as a manifestation of the spiritual and as an
expression of man’s agonies in his struggle after communion with God, as
well as of his ineffable joy when he receives the assurance that he has
found it, is not, as some maintain, foreign to the spirit of old Rabbinic
Judaism. There was no need for the mediæval Rabbi to borrow the elements
of such a mysticism from non‐Jewish sources. The perusal of the old
Homilies on the Song of Songs, and on the Lessons from the Prophets, or
even a fair acquaintance with the Jewish liturgy would, in itself, suffice
to refute such baseless assertions. Those who are at all familiar with old
Rabbinic literature hardly need to be told that “the sea of the Talmud”
has also its gulf stream of mysticism which, taking its origin in the
moralising portions of the Bible, runs through the wide ocean of Jewish
thought, constantly commingling with the icy waters of legalism, and
unceasingly washing the desolate shores of an apparently meaningless
ceremonialism, communicating to it life, warmth, and spirituality. To draw
attention to this fact a humble attempt has been made in the ninth essay,
“The Law and Recent Criticism,” a subject which I have essayed to expound
in a series of essays on “Some Aspects of Rabbinic Theology,” now
appearing in _The Jewish Quarterly Review_.
The last five essays touch rather on certain social and familiar aspects
of Judaism, and need no further comment. They are mere _causeries_ and
hardly deserve the name of studies. Perhaps it may be useful for those who
judge of the heaviness of a work by its bulk to know that there is also a
lighter side of Rabbinic literature.
But I shall be better pleased if the more serious side of this
volume—Jewish mysticism and Rabbinic theology—should attract the attention
of students, and so draw some fellow‐workers into a field which is utterly
neglected. Notwithstanding the numerous Manuals and Introductions which
all more or less touch on the subject of Rabbinic theology, there is,
after nearly 250 years, not a single work among them which, either in
knowledge of facts or in their interpretation, is a single step in advance
of the Cambridge Platonist, John Smith, in his _Select Discourses_. But
those who try so hard to determine the miraculous distance of Christianity
by the eclipses in Rabbinism, should, if they wish to be just or prove
themselves worthy scholars, also endeavour to make themselves acquainted
with the numberless bright stars that move in the wide universe of Jewish
thought. We are often told that no creed or theological system which has
come down to us from antiquity can afford to be judged by any other
standard than by its spiritual and poetic _possibilities_: this indulgence
Judaism is as justly entitled to claim as any other religion. The great
and saintly Franz Delitzsch who, born with an intellect of admirable
temper, was also endowed by Heaven with a soul—and a beautiful soul it
was—was one of the few theologians who, partly at least, admitted this
claim, and sought earnestly and diligently after these spiritual and
poetic possibilities, and was amply rewarded for his labours.
I. THE CHASSIDIM(1)
Throughout the whole of that interesting field of Theological Literature
which deals with the genesis and course of religious movements, there is
probably none whose history, even whose name, is so little known to
English students, as that of the Chassidim. And yet it would be difficult
to point, in comparatively recent times, to a Dissenting movement more
strikingly complete in its development, more suggestive of analogy, more
full of interest in its original purpose, more pregnant of warning in its
decay.
The Hebrew word “Chassidim”(2) merely means “the Pious,” and appears to
have been complacently adopted by the early apostles of the sect. But the
thing—Chassidism—was, in its inception at all events, a revolt among the
Jews of Eastern Europe against the excessive casuistry of the contemporary
Rabbis. It was in fact one more manifestation of the yearning of the human
heart towards the Divine idea, and of its ceaseless craving for direct
communion with God. It was the protest of an emotional but uneducated
people against a one‐sided expression of Judaism, presented to them in
cold and over‐subtle disquisitions which not only did they not understand,
but which shut out the play of the feelings and the affections, so that
religion was made almost impossible to them.
Some account of the sect is the more necessary because, although the
Chassidim have not been wholly ignored by historians or novelists, the
references to them have generally, for perfectly intelligible reasons,
been either biassed or inaccurate. The historians who have treated of them
have been almost exclusively men saturated with Western culture and
rationalism. To them the rude and uncouth manifestations of an
undisciplined religious spirit could not be other than repellent; to them
Chassidism was a movement to be dismissed as unæsthetic and irrational.
To the purposes of fiction the romantic side of Chassidism lends itself
readily, but the novelists who have used this material have confined
themselves to its externals. Indeed, to have done more would have involved
a tedious and unremunerative study of difficult Hebrew texts, an
undertaking not to be expected from the most conscientious writers of this
class. Thus Franzos in his references to the Jews of Barnow describes
faithfully the outer signs of the man, his long coat and tangled curls,
but the inner life, the world in which the Chassid moved and had his
being, was unknown to him and is therefore unrecorded.
As to my treatment of the subject, I confess that there was a time when I
loved the Chassidim as there was a time when I hated them. And even now I
am not able to suppress these feelings. I have rather tried to guide my
feelings in such a way as to love in Chassidism what is ideal and noble,
and to hate in it what turned out bad and pernicious for Judaism. How far
I have been successful is another question. At least I have endeavoured to
write this paper in such a spirit. But of one thing I must warn the
reader—the desire to give some clear notion of the leading ideas of
Chassidism has compelled me to quote some passages in which the Chassidim
have spoken in very offensive terms of their opponents. In justice to
these I must remark that unfortunately religious struggles are usually
conducted on the most irreligious principles. Thus the Chassidim imputed
to their antagonists, the contemporary Rabbis, many vices from which they
were free. Certainly, there was, as one can read in every history of
Jewish religion, something wrong in the state of Judaism. But I know
people who maintain that there is something very wrong in the present
state of Judaism, and who despair of a regeneration. But surely this is a
silly exaggeration. The Chassidim also exaggerated. It would be better to
take but little notice of their accusations and dwell more on that which
was spoken in a kind and loving spirit.
As to the literature of the subject, I can only say here that I have made
use of every book I could consult, both in English and in foreign
libraries. But I cannot pledge myself to be what early Jewish writers
called “a donkey which carries books.” I exercise my own choice and my own
judgment on many points.
As an active force for good, Chassidism was short‐lived. For, as I propose
to show, there lurked among its central tenets the germs of the degeneracy
which so speedily came upon it. But its early purposes were high, its
doctrines fairly pure, its aspirations ideal and sublime.
The founder of the sect was one Israel Baalshem,(3) and the story of his
parentage, birth, and childhood, and the current anecdotes of his
subsequent career play a considerable part in Chassidic literature. But
the authentic materials for his biography are everywhere interwoven with
much that is pure legend and with much more that is miraculous. This was,
perhaps, inevitable, and is certainly not an unfamiliar feature in the
personal histories of religious reformers as presented by their followers
and devotees.
The sayings and doings of Baalshem are an essential—perhaps the most
essential—portion of any account of the sect. For Baalshem is the centre
of the Chassidic world, and Chassidism is so intimately bound up with the
personality of its founder that any separation between them is well nigh
impossible. To the Chassidim Baalshem is not a man who established a
theory or set forth a system; he himself was the incarnation of a theory
and his whole life the revelation of a system.
Even those portions of his history which are plainly legendary have their
uses in indicating the ideals and in illustrating the aspirations of the
early Chassidim; while their circulation and the ready credence they
received are valuable evidence of the real power and influence of
Baalshem’s personality.
In the tale as told by the sect little is omitted of those biographical
accessories which are proper to an Avatar. There is all the conventional
heralding of a pre‐ordained advent; all the usual signs and portents of a
new dispensation may be recognised in the almost preternatural virtues of
Baalshem’s parents, in the miraculous annunciation and exceptional
circumstances of his nativity, and in the early indication of a strong and
fearless individuality. Everywhere it seems to be suggested that Baalshem
from his infancy was conscious of a lofty mission. It is already in tender
years that he is made to give evidence of an indifference to conventional
restraints and accepted ideals.
Rabbi Eliezer and his wife, the parents of Baalshem, dwelt, as the story
goes, in Moldavia. They are described as a pious and God‐fearing couple,
who, when they had already reached old age, were still childless. They are
accredited with a spotless rectitude, which was unimpaired by a long
series of strange vicissitudes and misfortunes.
Ultimately, an angel of God appeared to Eliezer and announced that, as he
had successfully withstood all the temptations and sufferings by which he
had been tried, God was about to reward him with a son, who was destined
to enlighten the eyes of all Israel. Therefore his name should be Israel,
for in him the words of Scripture were to be fulfilled, “Thou art my
servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” In due course the promise
was fulfilled, and to the aged couple a son was born, who was named Israel
according to the angel’s word. The date of Baalshem’s birth is about 1700;
his birthplace, in Bukowina, in a hitherto unidentified village which the
authorities call Ukop, then still belonging to Roumania. The child’s
mother died soon after he was weaned, and his father did not long survive
her. But before Eliezer died he took his child in his arms, and blessing
him, bade him fear naught, for God would always be with him.
As Eliezer had been greatly honoured in the community in which he lived,
his orphan son was carefully tended and educated. He was early supplied
with an instructor in the Holy Law. But though he learned with rare
facility, he rejected the customary methods of instruction. One day, while
still quite young, his teacher missed him, and on seeking found him
sitting alone in the forest that skirted his native village, in happy and
fearless solitude. He repeated this escapade so often that it was thought
best to leave him to follow his own bent. A little later we find him
engaged as assistant to a schoolmaster. His duty was not to teach, but to
take the children from their homes to the synagogue and thence on to the
school. It was his wont while accompanying the children to the synagogue
to teach them solemn hymns which he sang with them. In the synagogue he
encouraged them to sing the responses, so that the voices of the children
penetrated through the heavens and moved the Divine father to compassion.
Satan, fearing lest his power on earth should thereby be diminished,
assumed the shape of a werewolf, and, appearing before the procession of
children on their way to the synagogue, put them to flight. In consequence
of this alarming incident the children’s services were suspended. But
Israel, recollecting his father’s counsel to fear naught, besought the
parents to be allowed to lead the children once more in the old way. His
request was granted, and when the werewolf appeared a second time Israel
attacked him with a club and routed him.
In his fourteenth year Israel became a beadle at the Beth Hammidrash.(4)
Here he assiduously but secretly pursued the study of the Law. Yet, being
anxious that none should know his design, he read and worked only at
night, when the schoolroom was empty and the usual scholars had retired.
During the daytime he slept, so that he was popularly believed to be both
ignorant and lazy. Despite these precautions, however, his true character
was revealed to one person. A certain holy man, the father of a young
student at the college, had discovered some old manuscripts which
contained the deepest secrets. Before his death he bade his son repair to
Ukop, Israel’s birthplace, telling him that he would find one Israel, son
of Eliezer, to whom the precious documents were to be entrusted. They
possessed, so the old man declared, a certain mystic and heavenly affinity
with Israel’s soul. The student carried out his father’s instructions, and
at last discovered the object of his search in the beadle of the Beth
Hammidrash. Israel admitted him to his friendship and confidence on the
condition of secrecy as to his real character. The student, however, paid
dearly for this acquaintance with Israel. Contrary to Baalshem’s advice,
he entered upon a dangerous incantation in the course of which he made a
mistake so serious that it cost him his life.
Upon the death of his friend, Baalshem left his native village and settled
as a teacher in a small town near Brody. Here, although his true mission
and character were still unknown, he became much respected for his rigid
probity, and was frequently chosen as umpire in disputes among Jews. On
one of these occasions he arbitrated with so much learning and
impartiality that not only did he satisfy both parties, but one of them, a
learned man of Brody, named Abraham, offered him his own daughter in
marriage. Israel, to whom it had been revealed that Abraham’s daughter was
his predestined wife, immediately accepted the offer and the act of
betrothal was drawn up. But wishing his true character to remain unknown
he stipulated that Abraham, although a “Talmid Chacham” (student)(5)
himself and therefore presumably desirous that his daughter should marry a
scholar, should omit from the betrothal‐deed all the titles of honour
usually appended to the name of a learned bridegroom. While returning to
Brody, Abraham died, and Gershon his son, a scholar still greater and more
celebrated than his father, was surprised and shocked to find a deed of
betrothal among his father’s papers, from which it appeared that his
sister was to wed a man with apparently no claim to scholarship or
learning. He protested to his sister, but she declined to entertain any
objections to a marriage which her father had arranged. When the time for
the wedding was at hand, Israel gave up his post as teacher, and repaired
to Brody. Disguised as a peasant he presented himself before his future
brother‐in‐law, who was then fulfilling some high judicial function.
Gershon taking him for a beggar offered him alms, but Israel, refusing the
money, asked for a private interview, stating that he had an important
secret to reveal. He then, to Gershon’s surprise and disgust, explained
who he was and that he had come to claim his bride. As the girl was
determined to obey her father’s will the affair was settled and the day
fixed. On the morning of the wedding Israel revealed to his bride his real
character and mission, at the same time enjoining secrecy. Evil fortunes
would befall them, he said, but a better time would eventually follow.
After the wedding, Gershon, having in vain attempted to instruct his
seemingly ignorant brother‐in‐law, decided to rid himself of his presence.
He gave his sister the choice of being separated from her husband, or of
leaving the town in his company. She chose the latter, and thereupon the
two left Brody and began a life of hardship and suffering. Israel chose
for his new home a spot on one of the spurs of the Carpathian Mountains.
No Jews lived there, and Israel and his wife were thus separated from the
society of their fellows in a life of complete and unchanging solitude.
Israel dug lime in the ravines among the mountains, and his wife conveyed
it for sale to the nearest town. Their life at this period seems to have
been one of great privation, but the harder Israel’s outward lot, the more
he increased in spiritual greatness. In his solitude he gave himself up
entirely to devotion and religious contemplation. His habit was to climb
to the summit of the mountains and wander about rapt in spiritual
ecstasies. He fasted, prayed, made continual ablutions, and observed all
the customary outward and inward exercises of piety and devotion.
After seven years, Gershon, who was well aware of the bitter poverty which
his sister endured, relented and brought her and her husband back to
Brody. At first he employed Baalshem as his coachman, but as he proved
wholly unfit for this work Gershon rented a small inn in a remote village,
and there established his sister and her husband. The business of the inn
was managed by the wife, while Baalshem passed most of his time in a hut
in a neighbouring forest. Here he once more gave himself up to meditation
and preparation for his future work, and here, a little later, when nearly
forty‐two years of age, to a few chosen spirits, afterwards his most
fervent disciples, he first revealed his true character and mission.
From this point unfortunately the materials for a continuous biography are
wanting; we next hear of Baalshem discharging the functions of an ordinary
Rabbi at Miedziboz in Podolia, but for the remainder of his personal
history we have to be content with detached anecdotes and fragmentary
passages in his life, the sum total of which goes to show that he resided
in Podolia and Wallachia, teaching his doctrines to his disciples and
“working Wonders.” He does not seem to have figured as a public preacher,
nor has he left behind him any written work. He appears rather to have
used the method, familiar to students of Greek philosophy, of teaching by
conversations with his friends and disciples. These conversations, and the
parables with which they were largely interspersed, were remembered and
stored up by his hearers. By his neighbours the country folk, Baalshem was
regarded simply as “a man of God.” He was allowed to pursue his course
undisturbed by persecution of the serious character which his more
aggressive successors provoked. Such of the Rabbis as were aware of his
existence despised him and his ways, but the Rabbinical world was at that
time too much occupied in the controversy between Eybeschütz and Emden to
concern itself with the vagaries of an obscure and apparently “unlearned”
eccentric. Baalshem also took part in the disputes which were held in
Lemberg, the capital of Galicia (1757?), between the Rabbis and the
Frankists,(6) who denounced the Talmud to the Polish Government and wanted
to have all the Rabbinical books destroyed. Baalshem suffered from this
excitement in a most terrible way. The abrogation of the Oral Law meant
for him the ruin of Judaism.
Baalshem, in forming the little band of devoted followers who were
destined to spread a knowledge of his creed, travelled considerably about
Wallachia. He at one time decided to make a pilgrimage to Palestine, but
when he reached Constantinople he felt himself inspired to return and
continue his work at home. He died at Miedziboz on the eve of Pentecost,
1761.
After his death his disciples, of whom one Beer of Mizriez was the most
prominent, undertook the proselytising mission for which Baalshem had
prepared them, but from which he himself appears to have abstained. They
preached and taught in all the provinces of Russia where Jews may reside,
and in Roumania, and Galicia. The number of the sect at the present day is
probably about half a million.
Returning now to Baalshem the founder, it may be noted that his appearance
as a teacher and reformer was accompanied and justified by a customary and
adequate number of miracles. To one disciple he revealed secrets which
could have become known to him only by divine revelation; to another he
appeared with a nimbus round his head. On the evidence of the Chassidim we
learn that Baalshem performed all the recognised signs and marvels which
have ever been the customary minor characteristics of men of similar type
in similar environment. When Baalshem desired to cross a stream, he spread
forth his mantle upon the waters, and standing thereupon passed safely to
the other side. Ghosts evacuated haunted houses at the mere mention of his
name. Was he alone in the forest on a wintry night, he had but to touch a
tree with his finger tips and flames burst forth. When his spirit wandered
through the angelic spheres, as was frequently the case, he obtained
access to Paradise for millions of pining souls who had vainly waited
without through long thousands of mournful years. These and other miracles
need not be examined. Here, as in the case of other such blissful seasons
of grace, they were the ephemeral though important accessories in
establishing the inspired character of his utterances and the authority of
his injunctions. It is not as a worker of miracles, but as a religious
teacher and reformer, that Baalshem is interesting.
Properly to understand the nature and special direction of his teaching,
it is necessary in some measure to realise the character of the field in
which he worked; to consider, in other words, the moral and religious
condition of the Jews in those districts where Chassidism first took root.
In a Hebrew Hymn, written about 1000 A.C., and still recited in the
synagogue on the Day of Atonement, the poet expresses the strange and
bitter fortunes of his race in touching words of mingled sorrow and
exultation.
Destroyed lies Zion and profaned,
Of splendour and renown bereft,
Her ancient glories wholly waned,
One deathless treasure only left;
Still ours, O Lord,
Thy Holy Word.