Journal articles on the topic 'Talmudic references'

The notion that the mezuzah – the capsule containing a parchment strip on which is written Deut 6:4-9 and 11:13-21 and which is attached to the doorposts of a Jewish home – is protective has been explained in different ways. Two different developments have been suggested: either the mezuzah was originally an amulet, which the rabbis sought to theologize, or it was a religious object which fell victim to popular superstitious notions. In this paper, where the study is delimited to the Talmudic and some Geonic material, I intend to propose another explanation to the origin and development of the idea of its protectiveness. The origin of the mezuzah as an object is obscure. The oldest references we have to it, e.g. in the Mishnah and the Tosefta, presuppose that it is an object on par with other religious objects, and that the affixing of the mezuzah is a mitzvah. To conclude that traditions found in later texts, regarding it as an amulet, are pre-Rabbinic and preserved unaffected by the Rabbinic mediation, is problematic. Discerning a popular influence, that is, a popular strata in the Talmudin, the She’iltot, Sefer Halakhot Gedolot and the Hekhalot literature, opposed to the views of the Rabbinic elite, is also difficult.

The article explores a set of religious and mythical motifs found in a Jewish Babylonian Aramaic magic bowl from the Moussaieff collection (M 163), which includes references to the sun god Šamaš(-Mithra); Jesus, his heavenly Father, and the cross; binitarian Christology; the oppression of the Great Man of the End and Suffering Messiah; a cosmic bird referred to as White Rooster; and a semi-divine angelic figure called ḤRWM AḤRWM. These motifs are situated in the broader context of contemporaneous Jewish Babylonian traditions incorporated in the talmudic, mystical, and magical corpora, on the one hand, and the surrounding Christian, Syro-Mesopotamian, and Iranian cultures, on the other hand. The article contributes to the decentralization of Greco-Roman culture as the sole context for ancient Judaism as well as the decentralization of rabbinic expressions as representative of ancient Jewish culture at large. The cultural mapping of the religious and mythical motifs found in this magic bowl, both within and beyond the confines of Jewish Babylonia, exemplifies the complex and dynamic nature of the participation of Jewish Babylonian magic practitioners, not only in the larger fabric of contemporaneous talmudic, mystical, and magical currents in Jewish culture, but also in the broader framework of the Christian, Syro-Mesopotamian, and Iranian cultures that pervaded the Sasanian East.

I compare the status of a sacred language in two very different religious traditions. In Judaism, the Hebrew language is the language of liturgy, prayer, and the Written Law. The traditional way of reading Torah passages involved translating them into Aramaic, the everyday language of communication in the Middle East in the first half of the first millennium CE. Later, other Jewish languages, such as Yiddish, played a role similar to that of Aramaic in the Talmudic period, constituting a system referred to as the “Traditional Jewish Bilingualism”. Hebrew lexemes had denotations related to the realm of Biblical texts, while Aramaic/Yiddish lexemes had everyday references. Therefore, the act of translation connected the two realms or domains. The Lucumí (Santería) Afro-Cuban religion is a syncretic tradition combining Roman Catholicism with the Ifá tradition, which does not have a corpus of written sacred texts, however, it has its sacred language, the Lucumí (Anagó) language related to the Yoruba language of West Africa. While the Spanish-Lucumí bilingualism plays an important role in Santería rituals, the mechanisms of reference are very different from those of the Hebrew-Yiddish bilingualism in Judaism. In Santería, divinations about the meaning of Lucumí words play a role similar to the translations from Hebrew in Judaism. I further discuss the role of ritual dances in Santería for the transition from the sacred to the secular domain and a function of Hebrew epitaphs to connect the ideal world of Hebrew sacred texts to the everyday life of a Jewish community.

In writing this paper I am reminded of a conference that I once attended. On that panel, the Jewish scholar spoke first. “Let me tell you what the Talmud says,” he began, and he gave a wonderful talk full of references to the legal rulings and stories of the Jewish tradition. Then the Catholic priest spoke. “Let me tell you what the Magisterium says,” he began, and he gave a wonderful talk carefully attentive to the moral tradition of the Catholic Church. Finally, a Protestant spoke. “You have heard what the Talmud says and what the Magisterium says,” he began, “Now let me tell you what I think.” I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but now I find myself in a similar situation.

In four passages in the Qur’an (Q 2:63, 93; 4:154; 7:171), reference is made to God raising up (or shaking) a mountain. In each passage, the context is God’s covenant with Israel at Sinai, and the text appears to say that God lifted up Mt. Sinai over the people of Israel. A parallel to this motif appears in early rabbinic sources, including a tradition cited twice in the Babylonian Talmud (Shab 88a and AZ 2b), which suggests that God threatened to drop Mt. Sinai on Israel if they refused to accept the Torah. In both Talmud passages, the discussion that unfolds probes the topic of God’s unique choice of Israel to receive the Torah. In its own allusions to the Sinai event, the Qur’an seems to presume a background narrative similar to the tradition found in the Talmud, in that the Qur’an’s references to God raising up the mountain make best contextual sense as examples where God had to force Israel to accept their covenant. In the Qur’an, the raising or shaking of the mountain represents one in a series of illustrations showing how the people were unwilling to believe and ultimately broke their covenant. The threat of the mountain also serves as a reminder that people should be on guard, in constant awareness of their accountability to God (taqw?). Moreover, the rhetoric surrounding the uplifted mountain theme in the Qur’an emphasizes the universality of God’s command for all to believe, as if the Messenger of the Qur’an was refuting an interpretation of the Sinai event that construed it as proof of Israel’s election. For both the Talmud and the Qur’an, each text’s manner of handling the uplifted mountain motif reveals something about the community behind the text. The discussions we find in the Talmud about the uplifted mountain and Israel’s election reflect the theological explorations we would expect to see in a developed religious culture lived out by a religious minority in an established empire. The Qur'an's discourse, in contrast, seeks to destabilize Jewish and Christian concepts of election and deploys the uplifted mountain motif to emphasize everyone's need to show reverent awareness of God.

Abstract The term “savar” in the Babylonian Talmud indicates an opinion that is ultimately rejected. According to some Rishonim, however, in certain places this term introduces an opinion that is not rejected. This article examines these instances and concludes that indeed in these places the term “savar” is references an opinion that is not ultimately rejected. In most of these places, the reading in most of the textual witnesses was emended, and the word “savar” was erased, apparently in accordance with the other approach. In those places where the text was not emended, some of the commentators interpreted the passage not in accordance with its plain meaning, and, according to their interpretation, the opinion that was introduced by the “savar” was indeed rejected.

The Talmud tells us how once during a heated halachic discussion, when no agreement could be reached, Rabbi Eliezer, whose detailed, elegantly justified legal opinion was not shared by the majority, said that if he were right, a carob tree outside would move to prove it. When it did move, the other rabbis remained unimpressed. Eliezer claimed that if he were right, a nearby stream would flow backwards - and it did; he claimed that the schoolhouse walls would bend - and they did. But the rabbis were not impressed by these wonders either. Finally he said heaven itself would prove him right. Thereupon a Heavenly Voice confirmed Eliezer's position. Yet the rabbis disagreed even with this voice, saying: “We pay no attention to a Heavenly Voice, because Thou hast long since written in the Torah at Mount Sinai, after the majority must one incline”. And God laughed, saying “My sons have defeated Me, My sons have defeated Me.”

This article discusses rabbinic references to Miriam’s prophetic speaking and the question of her value as a female prophet. The focus is on specific passages in the Babylonian Talmud Sotah and Exodus Rabbah and their portrait of Miriam as a female prophet. Other rabbinic texts add some further aspects to this picture. In contrast to the biblical accounts in Exod 2 and 15, the rabbinic texts transfer Miriam’s prophecy to her childhood and focus on Moses alone. Furthermore, Miriam’s prophecy is restricted to family affairs and the birth of children, in particular Moses’s birth. She is elaborately depicted as a motherly and caring midwife. Rabbinic interpretations of Num 12 criticize her speech as improper for a woman. Thus, Miriam’s image as a female prophet in rabbinic texts remains ambivalent, estimating her role as a prophet and, at the same time, criticizing her as a woman and restricting her to the “female” sphere of family and care.

Rabbinic literature offers competing images of embryology and the relationship between mother and fetus. The Palestinian midrashic collection Leviticus Rabbah 14 marginalizes the active role of the mother and depicts the process of gestation as a dangerous time for the fetus. God is in charge of the care and birth of the child, and the father is the lone source of physical material. Passages in the third chapter of Bavli tractate Niddah, in contrast, reference the biological contributions of the mother and portray an idyllic image of the womb. This study explores how cultural differences, variances in representations of women, and sources of authoritative medical knowledge in Sasanian Persia and Roman Palestine contributed to the formation of these texts with markedly different understandings of the relationship between mother and fetus. I will argue that the study of the Sasanian Persian context is key to understanding the Bavli motifs, but that the Palestinian sources can best be understood with references not only to contemporaneous Greco-Roman sources, but also to ancient Iranian and Mesopotamian works, which have been generally overlooked by scholars.

Much scholarly attention has been devoted to the central covenant text in Nehemiah, namely, chapters 8–10, in terms of its sources, literary structure, and theology. An important aspect of the discussion is the consensual spirit with which the Nehemiah covenant was undertaken, even more so than the Sinai covenant, which is referenced in the Nehemiah material (Neh. 9:13). Rabbinic sources, from the Jerusalem Talmud through the various midrashic collections, also put a marked emphasis on the spirit of voluntarism and religious initiative that characterizes the post-exilic covenant experience. Thus the rabbinic sources anticipate certain conclusions of modern scholarship, at least on the ideational level. This paper suggests that the rabbis’ attraction to the theme of voluntary acceptance of the covenant stipulations on the part of the post-exilic community stems from the view of that theme as a conceptual forerunner for the popular acceptance of rabbinic authority.

One of the things I notice when my wife and I go out for a meal in a restaurant is how the staff make contact, welcome us and see us to our table. For me, the quality of the contact (by eye contact, a smile, and an open manner), the welcome (‘Kia ora’), and accompaniment to the table (which conveys a sense of being expected) are all crucial elements to setting the scene of what is to come. Similarly, in psychotherapy, practitioners meet, greet and seat their clients, and, as do restauranteurs, have different perspectives on how to do that. During the last decade, some psychotherapists have been thinking about their practice in terms of what Donna Orange, clinician and a professor at New York University, refers to as ‘clinical hospitality’ [1] . In promoting this concept as a way of thinking about psychotherapeutic practice, she draws on the work of three French philosophers: Emanuel Lévinas (1906–1995), Jacques Derrida (1930–2004) and Paul Ricœur (1915–2005), all of whom devoted themselves to the discourse of hospitality. From Lévinas [2], who drew on the story of Abraham’s hospitality towards three Bedouin (Genesis, chapter 18), we derive the ethical view that the ‘other’ as a guest has a claim on my protection as a host. This view is reflected in the duty of care towards their clients practiced by psychotherapists and those in the helping professions. Much of Derrida’s work examines the ambiguities of hospitality: that it is both unconditional in that, as hosts, we submit ourselves to the other; yet, at the same time, there are ‘laws’ of hospitality that subject both hosting and being a guest to certain social and cultural conventions [3]. Finally, from Ricœur, a philosopher who distinguished between a hermeneutics (or way in which something is interpreted or understood) of faith or trust and a hermeneutics of doubt or suspicion, we get the concept of ‘linguistic hospitality’ [4]: the recognition of genuine otherness, which cannot be translated so much as interpreted. In other words, at best, there is an understanding of our guest or client, with and in all our differences. In this sense, we may think of hospitality as orientated towards being contractual, open, accepting, non-judgmental, and empathic and, insofar as it enhances a person’s mana, it is therapeutic. This is akin to the concept of manaakitanga “where[by] hospitality extends beyond commercial transactions and focusses on reciprocity and care” [5], the implication of which is mana-enhancing psychotherapy [6]. It is in this context that Orange, who is a psychoanalyst and a philosopher, describes her work in terms that she ‘cares’ for her patients [7, 8]. From this perspective, psychotherapy is all about being hospitable: there is – or should be – an openness, welcome, care, and attention that makes our client/guest feel good and that sets the scene for the ensuing therapeutic relationship through which the client resolves their problems and, ultimately, feels better. Just as psychotherapy is learning from hospitality, it may be that insights from psychotherapy may be useful to people in hospitality, not only in being able to analyse transactions and interpersonal communication, but also in understanding personal history and dynamics, especially when the host is feeling less than open, welcoming or gracious. Shabad [9] emphasises the importance for the therapist to be open, precisely so that the client (or patient) has the opportunity for what he refers to as the ‘dignity’ to give of themselves: “When an individual has attained a sense of belonging because of being received himself/herself by significant persons, he/she is better able to mobilize the graciousness of welcoming the gifts of others” (p. 359). In other words, one cannot be a host and offer hospitality (social, cultural, linguistic, clinical or nurturant) without first having experienced, taken in and integrated, both developmentally and psychologically, appropriate and generous hospitality. Corresponding author Keith Tudor can be contacted at: keith.tudor@aut.ac.nz References (1) Orange, D. M. The Suffering Stranger: Hermeneutics for Everyday Clinical Practice; Routledge: New York, NY, 2011. (2) Levinas, E. Nine Talmudic Readings; Indiana University Press: Bloomington, IN, 1990. (3) Derrida, J. Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas, Trans. P.-A. Brault, M. Naas; Stanford University Press: Stanford, CA, 1999. (4) Ricœur, P. On Translation, Trans. E. Brennan; Routledge: Hove, England, 2006. (5) Wikitera, K.-A. Under the Stars of Matariki. Hospitality Insights 2021, 5 (1), 1–2. (6) Reidy, J. Ko wai au? Who am I? What are the Meanings of the Mātauranga Māori Concept of Mana and What Might this Concept Contribute to the Understanding and Practice of Psychodynamic Psychotherapy?; Master’s Thesis, Auckland University of Technology, New Zealand, 2014. https://openrepository.aut.ac.nz/handle/10292/7863 (accessed Dec 22, 2021). (7) Orange, D. Clinical Hospitality: Welcoming the Face of the Devastated Other. Ata: Journal of Psychotherapy Aotearoa New Zealand 2012, 16 (2), 165–178. https://doi.org/10.9791/ajpanz.2012.17 (8) Orange, D. M. Emotional Availability and Clinical Hospitality; Presentation at Association for Psychoanalytic Self Psychology, New York City, March 2014. (9) Shabad, P. The Vulnerability of Giving: Ethics and the Generosity of Receiving. Psychoanalytic Inquiry 2017, 37 (6), 359–374. https://doi.org/10.1080/07351690.2017.1334443

Marina Vidas: Un Deu Enemi. Jews and Judaism in French and English Medieval Illuminated Manuscripts in the Royal Library The article analyzes images of and texts about Jews and Judaism in five medieval illuminated manuscripts in the collection of the Royal Library, Copenhagen. I begin by examining the references to Jews in a bestiary (MS GKS 3466 8º) composed in the twelfth century by Philippe de Thaon for Queen Adeliza of England and copied a century later in Paris. Then I analyze depictions of Jews in a French early thirteenth-century personal devotional manuscript (MS GKS 1606 4º) as well as in a number of related de luxe Psalters and Bibles in foreign collections. Textual references to Judaism and Jews are examined in a compilation of saints’ lives (MS Thott 517 4º) as well as depictions of individuals of this faith in an Hours (MS Thott 547 4º), both made in fourteenth-century England for members of the Bohun family. Lastly, I analyze images illustrating legends derived from the Babylonian Talmud in a Bible historiale (MS Thott 6 2º), executed for Charles V of France (r. 1364–1380).I argue that images depicting Jews in narrative cycles had a number of meanings, some of which can be interpreted as anti-Jewish. I suggest that the images also played a role in shaping the piety of their audiences as well as the intended viewers’ understanding of their social identity. Indeed, depictions of Jews in the manuscripts seem mostly unrelated to the actually existing Jews. Members of the Hebrew faith were often represented in contexts in which their appearance, beliefs, and activities were distorted to emphasize the holiness, goodness, and perfection of Christ and the Virgin Mary. It is also suggested that their representations may have spurred a reflection on, and sometimes even a criticism of, Christian behavior and attitudes.

The Mishnah is preserved in a web of exegetical texts—the Tosefta, the alakhic midrashim, and the Talmuds—which have accompanied it iroughout its history of transmission. A common problem in mishnaic:xtual criticism, therefore, is to clarify the extent to which elements of the Mishnah's exegetical tradition have become part of the the text itself. It is for this reason that a question most appropriate to other literary texts is so difficult to answer for the Mishnah: at what point does the history of the text's creation end and the history of its transmission and interpretation begin? In a certain respect, of course, in the mishnaic case this question is conceptually flawed. By posing an absolute distinction between the redactionand transmission-history of the Mishnah, one reifies processes which, in fact, are most difficult to distinguish. Epstein in particular has shown that the text of the Mishnah, in the recension of Rabbi (Judah the Patriarch), remained relatively fluid for some centuries after its promulgation, ca. 200 C.E. Thus, the mishnaic text-types now available are in a very real sense no less the creations of the Mishnah's later students (the amoraim, or “explainers”) than they are the work of the Mishnah's authors.

В статье анализируются основные научные гипотезы о том, что собой представляли урим и туммим, каково было их назначение и способ использования. Для этого привлекаются различные источники, начиная с древнейших упоминаний в рукописях Кумрана, согласно которым урим и туммим ассоциировались с драгоценными камнями на наплечниках или нагруднике первосвященнического эфода. Данной точки зрения в той или иной степени придерживалось большинство последующих древних писателей (Иосиф Флавий, авторы соответствующих эпизодов из Вавилонского Талмуда, свт. Иоанн Златоуст, блж. Феодорит Кирский и др.). Однако, по мнению некоторых западных комментаторов, урим и туммим - это названия знаков или букв на нагруднике (блж. Августин и св. Беда Достопочтенный). Согласно третьему взгляду, уримом и туммимом была надпись с именем Яхве или две надписи с Божественными именами внутри нагрудника (Раши, Рамбан и др.). Начиная с XX столетия урим и туммим стали рассматривать в качестве жребия по аналогии с месопотамскими практиками, основываясь на эпизоде в 1 Цар. 14, 41-42 по версии Септуагинты. Автор статьи полемизирует с этим представлением, доказывая, что, во-первых, оригинальное чтение данного пассажа сохранилось в более короткой версии древнееврейского текста, во-вторых, что урим и туммим не могут быть жребием, а в-третьих, что в процессе получения ответа через урим и туммим главную роль играло пророческое вдохновение, ниспосылаемое Господом священнику. Само выражение «урим и туммим» могло передавать идею «совершенного света» и, предположительно, обозначать драгоценный камень, посредством которого подтверждалась истинность слов священника. The article analyzes the main scientific hypotheses about what Urim and Thummim were, what was their purpose and method of use. For this purpose, various sources are involved, starting with the oldest references in the manuscripts of Qumran, according to which Urim and Thummim were associated with precious stones on the shoulder pads or breastplate of the high priest’s ephod. This view in one way or another adhered to the majority of subsequent ancient writers (Josephus, the authors of the relevant episodes of the Babylonian Talmud, st. John Chrysostom, Theodore Kirsky, etc.). However, according to some Western commentators, Urim and Thummim are the names of the signs or letters on the breastplate (st. Augustine and St. Bede the Venerable). According to the third view, Urim and Thummim was an inscription with the name Yahweh or two inscriptions with Divine names inside the breastplate (Rashi, Ramban, etc.). The beginning of the twentieth century, the Urim and Thummim began to be regarded as a lot similar to Mesopotamian practices, based on the episode in 1 Sam. 14, 41-42 according to the Septuagint. The author argues with this idea, arguing that, firstly, the original reading of this passage is preserved in a shorter version of the Hebrew text, and secondly, that the Urim and Thummim can not be a lot, and thirdly, that in the process of receiving an answer through the Urim and Thummim played a major role prophetic inspiration sent down by the Lord to the priest. The very expression «Urim and Thummim» could convey the idea of «perfect light» and, presumably, denote a precious stone, by which confirmed the truth of the words of the priest.

Abstract Informed by the political power of the image of Cleopatra VII Philopator in late ancient southwest Asia and the eastern Mediterranean, this study investigates the Babylonian Talmud’s portrait of the Egyptian queen. I argue that depictions of the queen in classical rabbinic literature may not be as negative as previously thought and that the figure of Cleopatra acts as a potent character for the rabbis of the Babylonian Talmud to assert rabbinic authority because of the depth of her knowledge about the human body and her fight against Rome. The portrait of Cleopatra serves a variety of purposes, first to support certain rabbinic concepts, like resurrection and menstrual impurity, through references to Cleopatra’s knowledge of embryology and the human body, and second, to elevate and include the rabbis themselves in the famous struggle of Cleopatra versus Rome, East versus West, with the goal of further authorizing the rabbinic project itself.

This volume takes a very different approach to biblical narrative, law, and society. In many ways, it is a treatise on comparative mythology, on comparative legal practice and attitudes. The author, Daniel Friedmann, is very forthcoming, saying that he does not intend “to tackle the immensity of scholarly literature in the field.” Instead, his intent is to “infer from the biblical stories the legal and moral concepts they reflect and the system of laws underlying them, which seems not to conform with many of the laws of the Pentateuch” (vii). There are only a few references to modern scholarship (all in footnotes—no bibliography of works cited); most of Friedmann's discussion is bolstered by references to Rashi, Maimonides, the Talmud, and other rabbinical commentaries. There is no attempt to interact with modern critical approaches to biblical interpretation, and there is no regard for current discussions of “maximalist” or “minimalist” dating and editing of the text.

Apolipoprotein C3 (APOC3) plays an important role in regulating lipid levels. This study aimed to assess whether the polymorphism APOC3-rs2854116 is associated with lipid profiles in primary school children in Hanoi. A case-control study was designed including 161 cases with dyslipidemia and 406 controls without dyslipidemia. Genotype for APOC3-rs2854116 polymorphism was determined by the polymerase chain reaction and restriction fragment length polymorphism method (PCR-RFLP). The results showed that there were differences in the effect of APOC3-rs2854116 polymorphism to lipid profiles among children with dyslipidemia. In comparison with A/G and A/A carriers, the G/G carriers had the higher concentration of serum TC, TG, and LDL-C (P < 0.05). APOC3-rs2854116 polymorphism was related to hypercholesterolemia in children with the most appropriate genetic model being additive model. Increasing each of the G alleles increased the risk of hypercholesterolemia by 2.2 times (P = 0.005) after adjustment for age and sex. This relationship was almost unchanged after adjustment for obesity-related traits. The study suggested that the APOC3-rs2854116 polymorphism significantly associated with hypercholesterolemia in primary school children in Hanoi independent of obesity-related traits. Keywords APOC3, rs2854116, hypercholesterolemia, primary school children. References [1] A. Kawakami, M. Yoshida, Apolipoprotein CIII links dyslipidemia with atherosclerosis, Journal of atherosclerosis and thrombosis 16(1) (2009) 6-11. https://doi.org/10.5551/jat.e607.[2] D. Gaudet, D. Brisson, K. Tremblay, V.J. Alexander, W. Singleton, S.G. Hughes, J.L. Witztum, Targeting APOC3 in the familial Chylomicronemia syndrome, New England Journal of Medicine 371(23) (2014) 2200-2206. https://doi.org/10.1056/NEJMoa1400284.[3] P. 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