Tag Archives: Ramban

Do Men Have More Mitzvot than Women?

This week’s parasha, Tazria, begins by describing the rituals that a mother must perform upon giving birth to a new child. If the child is male, the mother is considered “impure” for seven days following her delivery, and then spends an additional 33 days in purification. For a female child, the durations are doubled, with the mother “impure” for 14 days, and purifying for another 66 days. Why is the duration of purification for a female doubly longer than a male?

‘Garden of Eden’, by Thomas Cole

The apocryphal Book of Jubilees (3:8) suggests an interesting idea: Adam was made on the Sixth Day of Creation but, apparently, Eve wasn’t made until a whole week after. This is why a mother of a male child is impure for a week, but a mother of a female child for two weeks! Jubilees also holds that Adam was only brought into Eden forty days after being created, while Eve was brought in after eighty days. This is why a mother of a male child needs a total of forty days to purify, and a mother of a female child needs eighty days. Of course, Rabbinic tradition rejects the Book of Jubilees, and it is accepted that Adam and Eve were both created on the Sixth Day, and were in Eden from the beginning.

Commenting on this week’s parasha, the Zohar (III, 43b) states that it takes a soul 33 days to settle in the body. This is primarily referring to the new soul that enters a newborn baby, as it takes time for the ethereal soul to get used to its descent into a physical world. The Zohar doesn’t add too much more on this, but we might assume that, based on the words of the Torah, it takes a male soul 33 days to settle, and a female soul 66 days to settle. At the same time, the Zohar may be referring to the soul of the mother, too, as she is the one that spends 33 or 66 days in purification. As we’ve explained in the past, the severing of the mother’s direct connection to her child distresses her soul for 33 or 66 days following childbirth.

Whatever the case, the implication is that a female soul is somehow greater than a male soul. It has more spiritual power, taking longer to settle. The notion that female souls are greater is found throughout Jewish texts, especially mystical ones. Sefer HaBahir, one of the most ancient Kabbalistic texts, states that the female soul is the most beautiful of all, and an aspect of the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence (chs. 173-175). It explicitly makes clear that life on Earth would be impossible without the life-giving mother, who in this regard is much closer to God.

On that note, it has been said that God created the world sequentially from simple to complex, starting with the basic elements: light, air, water, earth; progressing to plants, then simple animals, then mammals, then man, and finally woman. The woman is the last of God’s creation, and therefore the most intricate and the most refined. It may be because of this that the Arizal taught that while male souls typically reincarnate to rectify themselves, female souls rarely if ever reincarnate at all (Sha’ar HaGilgulim, ch. 9).

It is important to mention here that we are speaking of female souls, not necessary to all women. The Arizal (as well as the Zohar cited above) speak of the possibility of female souls in male bodies, or male souls in female bodies. And it should also be mentioned that this does not necessarily affect the body’s sexuality. A “female” soul in a male body can still very much be a heterosexual male, and vice versa. (For more on this, see Rav Yitzchak Ginsburgh’s lecture here on the female soul of the forefather Isaac, as well as the prophets Samuel, Jonah, and Habakkuk.)

There are a number of consequences to the greater souls of females. For one, it gives them binah yeterah, an “extra understanding” sometimes referred to as “women’s intuition” (Niddah 45b). This is one reason why the women of the Exodus generation, for example, did not participate in the sin of the Golden Calf, nor the sin of the Spies. In fact, the Kli Yakar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, 1550-1619, on Numbers 13:2) states that, had Moses sent female spies, there would have been no problem at all!

On the other hand, a more elevated soul and an extra depth of understanding means a greater sensitivity to the world, which makes women generally less prone to violence and drug abuse, but significantly more prone to depression and anxiety. The greater female soul has the amazing potential to bring life, yet simultaneously (to balance the equation) the potential for severe destruction, “more bitter than death”, to borrow from King Solomon in Kohelet 7:26. This is symbolically reflected in the menstrual cycle, where a lack of conception of life necessarily results in the shedding of blood, a “minor death” that is then rectified in the living waters of the mikveh.

Finally, a greater soul means that women require slightly less mitzvot than men. After all, the “mitzvot were given only in order that human beings might be purified by them… their purpose is to refine…” (Beresheet Rabbah 44:1) A more refined female soul does not need the same mitzvot that a male soul does. Unfortunately, this has sometimes been a point of contention in modern times. Yet, upon closer examination, we see that the differences in mitzvot between men and women are actually minimal and, contrary to the general belief, there is a perfect balance between those mitzvot done exclusively by men and those done exclusively by women.

“Time-Bound” Mitzvot?

The general rule is that, at least in principle, women are exempt from any mitzvah that can only be done at a particular time. This includes mitzvot like prayer, tefillin, and tzitzit. However, in practical terms we see that this “rule” isn’t really a thing, and there are many time-bound mitzvot that women are obligated in. For example, women are obligated in eating matzah on Pesach, and fasting on Yom Kippur, even though they are time-bound mitzvot.

The Mishnah (Berakhot 3:3) states that women are exempt from reciting Shema, yet it is quite normal for women today to say Shema twice daily just as men do. The same Mishnah exempts women from tefillin, but the Talmud (Eruvin 96a) states that a certain woman named Michal (presumably the daughter of King Saul and wife of King David) did wear tefillin and no one made a big deal out of it. Elsewhere, the Talmud (Kiddushin 34a) states that women are exempt from tefillin for the same reason that they are exempt from Torah study. Today, of course, it has become normal for women to study Torah, too. In fact, women always studied at least some Torah throughout history, and the Shulchan Arukh requires women to recite the blessing on Torah study just as men do, implying that they are obligated in Torah study as well (Orach Chaim 47:14).

Interestingly, there was one opinion in ancient times that while women are exempt from sitting in a sukkah, shaking the lulav, and donning tefillin, they are not exempt from tzitzit (Tosefta Kiddushin 1:8). This may be why the Rambam (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1135-1204) codifies as law that while women are not obligated to wear tzitzit, they may do so if they wish (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Tzitzit 3:9). In the same place, the Rambam actually permits women to do any other mitzvot that they are not obligated in if they want to, but without reciting a blessing.

Another such mitzvah is hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, which women were traditionally exempt from. By the time of the Shulkhan Aruch, though, we see it state that it is proper for women to hear the shofar, and even for a man who has already fulfilled the mitzvah to blow the shofar again for a woman who hasn’t yet fulfilled the mitzvah (Orach Chaim 589:6). In a bit of irony, today it is normal to see traditional Jewish women hear the shofar and shake the lulav, but not wear tzitzit or tefillin, even though our ancient sources suggest that it once may have been the opposite!

The Connection Between Tefillin and Mezuza

There is an intriguing connection between tefillin and mezuza, a mitzvah which women are obligated in (Berakhot 3:3). Both involve parchments in boxes, and the Torah twice commands the mitzvah of tefillin and mezuza together (as we read in the first two paragraphs of Shema). It was believed then, as it is now, that mezuza and tefillin both confer spiritual protection on their users. Some hold that the letter shin customarily written on the mezuza box, and the letters shin, dalet, and yud written on the mezuza scroll stand for shomer delatot Israel, God “guards the doors of Israel”. Similarly, the head-tefillin box has a shin written on it, too, and offers spiritual protection for its wearer. (The Lubavitcher Rebbe famously launched his “tefillin campaign” shortly before the Six-Day War in an effort to strengthen Israel.)

We know that in ancient times men wore their tefillin all day long, and not just for morning prayers as we do today. The reason was that men needed that spiritual protection throughout the day as they were going about their business. In light of this, it has been said that women, who were generally at home, did not need to wear tefillin since they were protected by the mezuzas of the house!

Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan teaches something similar in his book, Tefillin. He points out that the tefillin boxes are called batim, literally “houses”. The tefillin is like a mini-house for a man. They are a man’s spiritual home. The woman, meanwhile, is naturally more concerned with the physical home. We might add that tefillin was once a “piece” of the home that a man could take with him wherever he went, to extend that protection in his journeys.

Male vs. Female Mitzvot

In Temple times, women were also exempt from making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem three times a year during the holidays, but were required to appear every seven years during Hak’hel. A woman would bring a sacrifice just as a man would, but the Sages state she would not do semicha, where the person bringing the sacrifice lays their hands, or leans, on the animal.

So far, all that’s been discussed is positive commandments, of which there are a total of 248. When it comes to the 365 negative commandments, the Sages state that women are obligated in all but two: shaving, and for daughters of priests to be near dead bodies. (For a deeper look as to the connection between not shaving and the dead, see ‘Shaving and the Mystical Power of Beards’ in Garments of Light.)

In his Sefer HaMitzvot, the Rambam lists the mitzvot that women are obligated in, even though they are time-bound mitzvot: Kiddush on Shabbat, fasting on Yom Kippur, and eating matzah (along with the Rabbinic mitzvot of drinking four cups of wine and singing Hallel on Pesach), observing the holidays, Hak’hel, korban Pesach, Chanukah candles, and hearing the Purim Megillah. The Rambam also lists the 14 mitzvot that women today (or at least, in his day) are exempt from: Shema, head tefillin and arm tefillin (which are technically counted as two separate mitzvahs), tzitzit, Sefirat haOmer, sukkah, lulav, shofar, studying Torah, writing a Torah scroll, reciting the priestly blessing, having children, brit milah, and the mitzvah of a man gladdening his wife following their wedding and staying with her for an entire year uninterrupted.

As we have already seen, reciting Shema, sitting in a sukkah, shaking lulav, hearing the shofar, and studying Torah have all become women’s mitzvot, too. Writing a Torah scroll is not something any average Jew does today, whether man or woman, and reciting the priestly blessing is only relevant to a minority of kohanim. The others that the Rambam lists are actually subject to rabbinic debate. Some say women are obligated in having children, and even though the Torah phrases the mitzvah of marriage as being incumbent specifically upon men, women are obligated in marriage, too. This was, for example, the opinion of the Ran (Rabbi Nissim of Gerona, 1320-1376, on Kiddushin 16b). Besides, it is impossible for a man to marry or have children without a woman, so the mitzvah can only be fulfilled with them together as a couple. Sefirat HaOmer is debatable, too, with some saying women are obligated, including the Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270, on Kiddushin 34a).

With regards to brit milah, a woman obviously cannot have this mitzvah done. There is no need to because women are considered already “circumcised”, at least in a spiritual sense, straight from birth! (Avodah Zarah 27a) Now, the mitzvah is really incumbent upon a father to have his son circumcised, though a mother can certainly step in if necessary, just as we saw with Moses and Tzipporah (Exodus 4:25-26).

At the end, we are essentially left with just two mitzvot that today are considered strictly for men: tefillin and tzitzit. On the other hand, there are two mitzvot which are today associated most with Jewish women: lighting Shabbat candles, and immersion in a mikveh. If we look a little closer, we’ll find that the two “male” mitzvot and the two “female” mitzvot are intricately related.

Embracing God

The major purpose of wearing tefillin is, as the Torah clearly states, to serve as a sign (ot in Hebrew) of our Covenant with God, and as a symbol of our devotion to Him. Shabbat is similarly described as an ot, a sign between Hashem and us. In this way, tefillin and Shabbat are highly related. The Sages explain that this is why wearing tefillin on Shabbat is unnecessary: Shabbat already serves as the ot of the day, so there is no need for another ot. Tefillin is strictly a weekday sign.

Interestingly, Shabbat is always described in feminine terms: it is a “queen” and a “bride”. While the six days of the week have masculine energy, the Sabbath is entirely feminine energy. The Kabbalists relate them to the seven lower Sefirot, the first six being the masculine ones (called dchura, or duchra, “male” in Aramaic), and the seventh, Malkhut, being the feminine, nukva. It is therefore fitting that it is specifically women that light Shabbat candles to usher in the spirit of the day. The Shabbat candles themselves serve as a physical sign of the spiritual Sabbath. In this way, they perfectly parallel tefillin. Men tie two tefillin boxes during the six “masculine” days of the week as a sign, and then women light two candles as the same sign for the seventh “feminine” day of the week. Together, the couple maintains that symbolic and spiritual relationship with Hashem, each on the days that are more spiritually fitting for their souls.

The same is true for the parallel mitzvot of tzitzit and mikveh. When men wrap themselves in a tallit, the idea is to feel the “embrace” of God, so to speak. We affirm this very notion when putting the tallit on, as it is customary to say the verse: “How precious is Your lovingkindness, God! And people take refuge in the shadow of Your wings.” (Psalms 36:8) The tallit is compared to God’s “wings”, and we take shelter in His loving embrace.

The mikveh is the same, a mitzvah in which a woman can completely immerse in, and be “bathed” in Godliness. In several places in the Tanakh, God is actually called “Mikveh Israel”, as the Prophet said: “Hashem is Mikveh Israel; all that forsake You shall be ashamed; they that depart from You shall be written in the earth, because they have forsaken God, the fountain of living waters.” (Jeremiah 17:13) God Himself is the fountain of living waters, mekor mayim chayim, in an explicit Scriptural reference to the living waters of the mikveh. In this way, women “embrace” God in the waters of the mikveh, similar to the way (and in a much more powerful way) that men “embrace” God wrapped in a tallit.

To conclude, while there are certainly numerous details of halacha that pertain specifically to men or women alone, when it comes to God’s mitzvot in particular there is a wonderful balance in what is commanded to women and men. Ultimately, the Sages teach that any person is only half of a human being (Yevamot 63a), for it is only when man and woman unite that their soul is complete, and only as one can they properly fulfill all the mitzvot, and merit to have the greatest Godly presence in their lives.

How Did Moses Smite the Egyptian?

This week we begin reading the second book of the Torah, Shemot, which begins with the Israelite exodus from Egypt. We read:

Now it came to pass in those days that Moses grew up and went out to his brothers and looked at their burdens, and he saw an Egyptian man striking a Hebrew man of his brothers. He turned this way and that way, and he saw that there was no man; so he struck the Egyptian and hid him in the sand. He went out on the second day, and behold, two Hebrew men were quarreling, and he said to the wicked one: “Why are you going to strike your friend?” And he replied: “Who made you a man, a prince, and a judge over us? Do you plan to slay me as you have slain the Egyptian?” Moses became frightened and said, “Indeed, the matter has become known!” Pharaoh heard of this incident, and he sought to slay Moses; so Moses fled from before Pharaoh… (Exodus 2:11-15)

There are many questions to be asked here. Why did Moses decide it was time to go “out to his brothers”? Why was the Egyptian man striking the Hebrew? What does it mean that Moses “turned this way and that way”? How did he kill him, and why was Moses so afraid? After all, he was a member of the royal family, and surely had more authority than an Egyptian taskmaster. On that note, why did Pharaoh want to kill Moses? Where was the fair trial? Even if Moses was to be convicted of a crime, to suggest the death penalty for a member of the royal family seems unlikely—why not imprison him instead? A trip through the classic Torah commentators sheds some light.

The first seal of the United States of America, in 1776, depicted Moses leading the Israelites to freedom.

Moses: The Man Who Could Be Pharaoh

Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo ben Itzchak, 1040-1105) begins by asking why the Torah repeats that “Moses grew up” (igdal) when it had said the same thing in the previous passage? He answers that the first time refers to the fact that he physically grew up, whereas here it refers to the fact that he became great and was appointed as the Pharaoh’s chief of staff, or his viceroy, much like Joseph decades earlier. This might explain why only now Moses went “out to his brothers”. As prime minister, he probably had to oversee the work that was being done.

Ibn Ezra (Rabbi Abraham ben Meir ibn Ezra, 1089-1167) comments here that when the Torah says Moses went out to his “brothers”, it doesn’t mean the Hebrews, but the Egyptians! After all, at this point Moses still believed the Egyptians were his brothers, and he went out to see how his fellows were doing. He then saw the Hebrew and suddenly recognized who he really was.

The Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270) holds an opposite view, commenting that Moses did go out to see his Hebrew brothers, since he was now all “grown up” and it was revealed to him who he actually was. The Malbim (Rabbi Meir Leibush Wisser, 1809-1879) says that Moses knew who he was all along, throughout his life, and despite being a great man in Pharaoh’s palace, nonetheless regularly went out to his brethren to care for them. Perhaps he knew that he must become a powerful man in Egypt so that he could one day use his influence to free his people from bondage.

Whatever the case, everyone agrees that Moses was of the highest rank in Egypt. And this might explain why Pharaoh sought to kill him. If Moses was indeed so great, he would have had many supporters of his own who would have surely come to his defence. We’ve written before how according to some opinions Moses was a top general in the Egyptian military. He undoubtedly had many devoted soldiers who would have been all too happy to see him installed as the new pharaoh. Throughout history, to the present day, it is very common to see powerful generals staging a coup against an unpopular leader. One can sense a power struggle brewing, with a large portion of the army standing behind Moses. Pharaoh probably felt threatened by Moses, and sought a reason to get rid of him. The fact that he killed an Egyptian official may have been exactly what Pharaoh was looking for.

The Power Hidden Within Moses

What exactly had the Egyptian official done to cause Moses to kill him? Rashi cites a Midrash that the Egyptian had forced an Israelite out of his home, then raped his wife (who was Shlomit bat Divri, mentioned in Leviticus 24:10-11). When her husband returned and protested, the Egyptian started beating him senselessly. Moses came at this moment, and looked “this way and that way”— he looked inside the house to see the distraught woman, and outside at her husband being beaten—and there was “no man”, no one doing anything about it. He immediately sprang into action.

‘Death of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram’ by Gustave Doré

How did he kill him? Rashi extracts the answer from a later verse. When Moses returned the next day, he sees two Israelites bickering. Rashi says they are Datan and Aviram, who in the future would lead a rebellion against Moses, alongside the wicked Korach. Moses reproves them—does Israel not have enough enemies that they must fight with each other, too? Indeed, this has been the number one issue plaguing the Jewish people through the ages, and the real source for all of our problems both internal and external. Datan replies: “Do you plan to kill me like you killed the Egyptian?” In Hebrew, the phrasing is hala’argeni ata omer, which literally means “are you speaking to slay me?” From this, Rashi learns that Moses slayed the Egyptian by speaking, having pronounced God’s Ineffable Name.

This, of course, brings up a whole new problem: how did Moses know God’s Ineffable Name, let alone how to use it so kabbalistically? He was raised among Egyptians, and only just came out to meet his brethren for the first time! Besides, we only read later (in Exodus 6:2-3) that God reveals His Great Name to Moses, and tells Moses that He had never revealed the secrets of this Name to anyone before in history. There is no way anyone could have taught it to Moses.

I believe there is one answer, and that it simultaneously answers another question: why does the Torah say Moses was so afraid? Why did he flee? After all, he was the prime minister, and a great general, and could have the Egyptian slain at will. Besides, the Egyptian had committed rape, and even in non-Jewish law this is a capital offence, as Chizkuni (Rabbi Hezekiah ben Manoach, c. 1250-1310) comments on Exodus 2:12. Moses had no one to fear, and as we’ve seen, certainly had many supporters. He could have very probably overthrown the Pharaoh, too, if he so wished. Therefore, it is unlikely that Moses feared Pharaoh. Rather, one is led to believe that Moses had frightened himself.

The Torah tells us that Moses was born entirely good (Exodus 2:2). Rashi cites the Talmud in saying that when he emerged, the entire room filled with light. In fact, according to one opinion, Moses’ birth name, as called by his mother, was Tuviah, literally “God’s goodness” (see, for example, Yalkut Shimoni, Shemot 166 or Vayikra 428, as well as Sotah 12a). Moses was born with divine power concealed within him. At that moment when he encountered the evil Egyptian, that latent power suddenly came out of him. God’s Ineffable Name shot forth from his mouth—to his own great surprise—and the Egyptian dropped dead. I believe this is why Moses was so afraid. He had no clue where it had come from, and ultimately ran away to discover himself.

Years later, when Moses finally encounters God, and God reveals His Name, everything comes full circle. Moses finally understands where that power had come from, and Who had given it to him. (Fittingly, Moshe’s name [משה] backwards makes Hashem [השם]—the Name was hidden inside him all along!) He understands why all of these events had to happen; all part of God’s plan to prepare him for his final mission. This is very much like Joseph, who experienced tremendous distress before understanding that it was all part of a divine plan. As we read in last week’s parasha, he tells his brothers: “Don’t be afraid, for am I instead of God? Indeed, you intended evil against me, [but] God designed it for good…” (Genesis 50:19-20)

Rectifying the Cosmos

The Arizal (Rabbi Itzhak Luria, 1534-1572) revealed a powerful secret about the past lives of Moses and the Egyptian that he killed: Moses was a reincarnation of Abel, while the Egyptian was a reincarnation of Cain. Just as Cain had once killed Abel, and hid him in the earth, so too did Moses (Abel) now kill the Egyptian (Cain) and hid him in the earth, measure for measure (see Sha’ar HaPesukim on Beresheet, as well as Sha’ar HaGilgulim, ch. 32 and 36).

Long before the Arizal, Rabbeinu Behaye (1255-1340) said something similar: “Moses was destined from the Six Days of Creation to do this thing, to kill the Egyptian, for the power of the Egyptian was the power of Cain, who comes from the side of impurity…” Moses was born with a divine glow, representing all the holiness and purity in Creation, while the Egyptian represented the side of darkness and the impure. Moses’ actions were part of a much larger spiritual rectification for the universe.

All of the above reminds us how there truly is a great cosmic plan in this universe. Everything happens for a reason, and all things are intertwined. Sometimes, the reason is revealed in the future; sometimes, it is because of events from the distant past; sometimes it remains a mystery. Moses begged God to reveal it all to him, but God replied that it was impossible for a man to grasp it all and remain alive (Exodus 33:20). One must patiently await the World of Truth in the afterlife, and in the meantime, make the most of this life.

Is Kabbalah Kosher?

In this week’s parasha, Nitzavim, we read that “The hidden things are for Hashem, our God, and the revealed things are for us and our children forever, to fulfil the words of this Law.” (Deuteronomy 29:28) The verse is a significant one for a number of reasons, one of which is that it is used as Scriptural proof for the Jewish mystical tradition, commonly referred to as “Kabbalah”, those esoteric secrets—“hidden things”—of the Torah. The Torah cautions that these secrets are best to be kept for God, while the revealed parts of the Law are for us and our children.

And yet, Jewish mysticism has been a very popular area of study for millennia. We know of the existence of multiple “mystery schools” in the Second Temple era. Some of the earliest mystical texts were composed in this time period, and have been found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. In the centuries following the destruction of the Second Temple, a number of new mystical texts appeared, known as the Heikhalot, Heavenly “Palaces”.

The main protagonists of the Heikhalot are Rabbi Akiva and his contemporary, Rabbi Ishmael. We know from the Talmud that these two were great mystics. The Talmud (Chagigah 14b) famously records how Rabbi Akiva led three other rabbis to the Heavenly realms of Pardes. This is traditionally taken to mean that they plunged into the depths of Jewish esotericism, where “Pardes” is an acronym for pshat, remez, drash, sod, the four main levels of Torah study: the simple, surface meaning; the sub-textual allusions; the allegorical, metaphorical, and extra-Scriptural narratives; and the mystical secrets of Kabbalah.

‘Elijah Taken Up to Heaven’

The three rabbis that went along with Rabbi Akiva didn’t fare so well: Ben Azzai died, Ben Zoma apparently lost his mind, and Elisha ben Avuya became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva “exited in peace”. There were many other mystics in their day. The Talmud (Sukkah 28a) states that although Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai (whose students were the teachers of Rabbi Akiva) was the least knowledgeable of Hillel’s eighty disciples, even he was an expert in Ma’aseh Merkavah, “the Work of the Chariot”. Ma’aseh Merkavah refers to the opening account of the Book of Ezekiel, where the prophet describes God’s “Divine Chariot”. Similar holy visions were beheld by the other prophets, including Isaiah and Daniel, while Elijah was taken up to Heaven in such a fiery chariot (II Kings 2:11). Thus, Ma’aseh Merkavah is believed to be concerned with attaining prophecy, or with spiritual ascent to the Heavens. This is precisely how one might elevate to Pardes.

The other major area of mysticism in Second Temple and early Talmudic times was known as Ma’aseh Beresheet, “the Work of Creation” (Chagigah 11b). This refers to the opening account of Genesis, and the secrets of God’s formation of this universe. The study of Ma’aseh Beresheet would presumably allow one to attain certain divine creative powers. This is what the sages Rav Chanina and Rav Oshaia delved into every Friday afternoon, and were able to produce a lamb out of thin air—then barbecue it for lunch! (Sanhedrin 65b)

Such great power exists within the study of Maaseh Merkavah and Maaseh Beresheet that the Sages caution these subjects must not be taught publicly, and not to all those who wish to learn them: “Maaseh Beresheet must not be expounded upon before two, and Maaseh Merkavah even before one, unless he is a sage and understands of his own knowledge.” (Chagigah 2:1) Even to the understanding scholar, the Sages permit only the “chapter headings” to be revealed. The master points the student in the right direction, and nothing more. In this way, only the truly deserving wise one will come to understand the mysteries. Perhaps this is why the study was eventually called Kabbalah, from the root meaning “to receive”, for one could only receive it through divine inspiration from Above, and after having received the chapter headings from a master.

Rabbi Eliyahu Kramer, the Vilna Gaon

Interestingly, the term Kabbalah in the Talmud refers not to mysticism but to the Tanakh, specifically to the books of Nevi’im and Ketuvim which follow the Five Books of Moses. This actually makes a lot of sense, since most of Kabbalah is built upon verses and passages in the Prophets and Writings. One who studies Kabbalistic texts will quickly recognize how most of the passages open with Scriptural verses, with concepts supported by Scriptural verses, especially from the Books of Psalms, Proverbs, Job, Shir haShirim, and of course, Ezekiel and Isaiah. Other texts of Tanakh are frequently cited, too. In fact, it is said that the Vilna Gaon (Rabbi Eliyahu Kramer, 1720-1797), among the greatest of Kabbalists, studied nothing but Tanakh after a certain age, since he could derive everything directly from Scripture.

This may be one reason, among others, why study of Nevi’im and Ketuvim is so rare in the Orthodox yeshiva world today. Since Kabbalah is often seen as taboo, especially for young minds, it may be best to avoid study of Scriptural passages that may bring up uncomfortable or mystical questions. Indeed, it is the story of the Four Who Entered Pardes that is most commonly used as proof that the young, the uninitiated, or those that have not mastered every facet of Torah must not delve into Kabbalah. The Rambam (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1135-1204) codifies this as law.

The Sages of the early generations commanded that these matters should not be explained except to a single individual [at a time]. He should be a wise man, who can reach understanding with his own knowledge. In such an instance, he is given fundamental points, and an outline of the concepts is made known to him. He [is expected to continue to contemplate] until he reaches understanding with his powers of knowledge and knows the ultimate meaning and depth of the concept. (Yesodei HaTorah 2:12)

The Rambam is an interesting case, for he was no Kabbalist by any means. A strictly rationalist thinker, he rejected any notion of evil spirits and demons, thought superstitions to be silly at best, and made sure to expunge all sorts of mysticism-based rituals from his code of law. For the Rambam, Maaseh Merkavah simply refers to the various spiritual entities that God created, mainly the ten types of angels (Yesodei HaTorah, ch. 2). What the prophets saw were just “visions and parables”, not actual concrete things. Maaseh Beresheet, meanwhile, is essentially science and physics—the study of the elements and their properties, the various “spheres” of astronomy, the nature of the luminaries, stars and planets—these are the things he calls “Maaseh Beresheet” (Yesodei HaTorah, ch. 3-4). The Rambam believes this is what is meant by “Pardes” (4:3). For him, Kabbalah is not an exercise in amulets or magic, exorcism or demonology, astrology or fortune-telling—all of which he expressly rejects as irrational, unreal, and absurd.

Ironically, it was the Rambam’s own son, Rabbeinu Avraham (1186-1237), who became a great mystic and played a huge role in the development of modern Kabbalah.

The New Kabbalah

A 17th-century illustration of a Sufi meditating

Rabbeinu Avraham wrote a monumental 2500-page philosophical work called Kitab Kifayah al-Abidin (“A Guide for the Servants of God”). Scholars note how Rabbeinu Avraham integrated a great amount of material from Muslim Sufi mystics. Incredibly, Rabbeinu Avraham himself writes in his book that the ancient mystical tradition of the Hebrew Prophets was forgotten among Jews, “because of their iniquities”, and has been carried forward by the Sufis! He argues that the Sufis “imitate the Prophets [of Israel] and walk in their footsteps.”

The fusion of Jewish and Sufi mysticism continued strongly in Egypt for several generations. Rabbi Gavin Michal beautifully traces how these traditions made their way to Tzfat: Rabbeinu Avraham’s great-great-grandson, Rabbeinu David, the last official nagid of the illustrious Jewish community in Egypt, packed his bags and resettled in Aleppo, Syria in the early 1400s. He brought with him his massive Sufi-inspired Jewish mystical library. This library was a key source of literature for the early Tzfat Kabbalists, who lived a short trip away from Aleppo. Amazingly, historical sources suggest that one of these early Kabbalists was a Sufi convert to Judaism.

Hamsas: not a Jewish thing

It therefore isn’t surprising that Arab and Muslim mystical beliefs strongly influenced Jewish mysticism. In his Kabbalah, Gershom Scholem points out numerous examples of this. While most of these concepts are valuable, some are most unfortunate: Arab demonology and superstition, too, neatly made its way into Kabbalistic literature. This is most evident in the plethora of Arabic hamsas and “evil eye” amulets that have sadly infiltrated so many Jewish homes. (We have also written in the past how Muslim ritual inspired the “mystical” custom of upsherin.)

At the same time that this was happening in the Middle East, a parallel Jewish mystical movement was rapidly developing on the other side of the Mediterranean, in Spain. Their Kabbalah, too, was not immune to the beliefs and practices of the neighbouring Christians.

Rise of the Zohar

In the 11th and 12th centuries, mysticism was slowly spreading in the Sephardic Jewish communities of Spain. It wasn’t until the late 13th century that Kabbalah received an immense boost with the publication of Sefer HaZohar, aka. “The Midrash of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai”. The publication was spearheaded by Rabbi Moshe ben Shem Tov de Leon (1240-1305), a great Kabbalist in his own right. He claimed that this book was the unadulterated teachings of the Talmudic sage Shimon bar Yochai, or Rashbi, a disciple of Rabbi Akiva.

While the Zohar was undoubtedly full of profound wisdom and authentic mysticism, it immediately aroused a great deal of suspicion. After all, no one had ever seen, or even heard of, such a text before. One scholar who took up the mission of discovering the Zohar’s real roots was Rabbi Itzchak d’min Acco (“Isaac of Acre”, c. 13th-14th century). Rabbi Itzchak was possibly a student of the Ramban (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270), who had made aliyah after his famous Disputation and settled in Acre, where Rabbi Itzchak was apparently born. Rabbi Itzchak studied among those pre-Tzfat era Kabbalists in Israel. The Crusades made life difficult, and Rabbi Itzchak fled to Spain in 1305.

There, he met Rabbi Moshe de Leon, and questioned him about the Zohar, pointing out that the Kabbalists of the Holy Land knew nothing of such a work. Rabbi Moshe swore that he possessed an original manuscript from Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, back in his hometown of Avila. He promised to fetch the text and show it to Rabbi Itzchak, but suddenly died. Perhaps this untimely death is itself proof enough that Rabbi Moshe de Leon swore falsely!

For Rabbi Itzchak, it was not enough, and he decided to continue his search in Avila. There, he met a rabbi who knew Moshe de Leon’s family, and the rabbi told him that de Leon’s wife admitted he had composed the Zohar by himself, attributing it to Rashbi so that it would be accepted as authentic (and sell more copies). Many later Kabbalists reject this narrative, and believe it is a legend meant to discredit the Zohar. The story appeared in the first edition of Sefer Yuchasin (by Rabbi Avraham Zacuto, 1452-1515), and was censored out of all subsequent editions for over 300 years.

Over those centuries, the Zohar became the primary Kabbalistic text, so much so that it essentially became synonymous with Kabbalah. More ancient and once prominent texts like Sefer Yetzirah and Sefer HaBahir fell far behind. The Zohar inspired a massive new wave of mysticism that made a permanent impact on Judaism. It was the Tzfat Kabbalists of the 16th and 17th centuries in particular that neatly analyzed, categorized, and made sense of the Zohar, producing a whole new worldview and publishing a vast array of novel mystical literature that took the Jewish world by storm.

While halacha was once clearly separated from mysticism, the distinction started to get blurry. We sometimes forget that the Shulkhan Aruch, still the most famous of Jewish law codes, was composed by Rabbi Yosef Karo, a noted Tzfat Kabbalist. As such, he couldn’t possibly omit Kabbalah entirely from his laws, and mystical rituals and beliefs seep in on multiple occasions. The trend would continue, and reach even greater heights under the later Hasidim.

By this point, the authorship of the Zohar was seldom disputed. Still, the belief that it was written by Rashbi himself is false. After all, the Zohar clearly states that Rashbi charged his disciple Rabbi Abba with composing his teachings (see Zohar III, 287b). The Italian Kabbalist Rabbi Mordechai Galante (d. 1560) held that the Zohar was compiled sometime in the Geonic period (c. 589-1038 CE) from these ancient manuscripts of Rabbi Abba. The fore-mentioned Sefer Yuchasin holds that the Zohar may have originated with Rashbi, but was reworked and expanded by future generations of Kabbalists. No one knows exactly where it came from.

Some said it was the Ramban who discovered the Zohar when he arrived in Israel, then shipped it back to Spain (to save it from the Crusader wars or to reveal it to the Sephardi Kabbalists). The ship capsized or went off course, and the text ended up in the hands of Moshe de Leon! Others still believed that the Zohar was discovered by an Arab king, or by Spanish conquistadors, and sent over to the Sephardi Kabbalists for translation.

The Problem with Kabbalah

Gershom Scholem notes a number of issues within the Zohar that make it impossible to have been composed by Rashbi, Rabbi Abba, or anyone else from that time period. In fact, it appears that the person who put together the Zohar was not even a very good Talmudist. For example, the Talmud (Shabbat 33b) says that Pinchas ben Yair was Rashbi’s son-in-law, whereas the Zohar inaccurately says he was his father-in-law. Similarly, the Zohar is pretty confused about its Talmudic history, and in listing Rashbi’s ten main disciples, mixes together Amoraim and Tannaim from different centuries. Scholem also points out that the Zohar improperly uses the Aramaic language, while clearly incorporating many words with Spanish origin (such as esnoga, “synagogue” or gardin, “guardian”).

Rabbi Leon Yehudah Aryeh da Modena

These issues were already noted by earlier Jewish scholars. Rabbi Eliyahu del Medigo (c. 1458-1493), another great Italian sage, was part of a Kabbalistic circle before growing distant from the mystics. He noted how the Zohar has names of rabbis that lived long after Rashbi. A fellow Italian, Rabbi Leon da Modena (1571-1648) wrote an entire treatise, Ari Nohem, debunking the Zohar. He concludes that it must be only a few centuries old, and its Chokhmat haKabbalah is neither Chokhmah (wisdom) nor is it authentic Kabbalah! Rabbi Yakov Emden (1697-1776) was most vocal in his attack on the Zohar, and stated it was a complete forgery. The Yemenite sage Rabbi Yichya Kapach (1850-1931) believed the same thing.

Others have staunchly defended the Zohar, of course. Those Spanish-looking words may be there because they come from earlier Latin words, which would have been familiar to Rashbi. The names of sages from different time periods may be mixed together in one passage, but we often find the same thing in the Talmud. Truly, one who studies the Zohar will find it hard to believe that it could have all been composed by one Kabbalist, whether Moshe de Leon or someone else. In fact, the Zohar isn’t a monolithic text at all, and is composed of various distinct parts (Raya Mehemna, Midrash haNe’elam, etc.) It probably was pieced together from earlier genuine manuscripts, and was probably edited by a circle of Sephardi Kabbalists in the 13th century, who firmly believed the teachings dated back to Rashbi in some way.

It should be mentioned that Rabbi Itzchak d’min Acco’s account does not end with Moshe de Leon’s family. He continued his search, and met at least two other rabbis that swore on the Zohar’s authenticity. Even Gershom Scholem held that Moshe de Leon was an honest scholar, and certainly no faker who was out to dupe others or make money. (Scholem nonetheless believed that de Leon and his circle were the Zohar’s originators.)

Rav Dessler

Today, the Zohar has seemingly become accepted by all Orthodox communities, and some claim that denying the authenticity of the Zohar is heresy. This is not true. Rav Eliyahu Dessler (1892-1953) held that there is nothing wrong with believing the Zohar was composed by someone in the 13th century. Meanwhile, Rav Ovadia Yosef (1920-2013) said that the Yemenite communities that do not accept the Zohar should not be considered heretics. After all, these communities existed long before the Zohar’s publication, and were never exposed to it. He even conceded that some of their arguments may have substance. (See Ma’ayan Omer, Perek 7, Siman 93.)

Illustrations of Sefirot in von Rosenroth’s ‘Kabbala Denudata’

One of their arguments is that the Zohar was influenced by Christian belief. Gersom Scholem illustrates multiple instances of this in his Kabbalah, especially when it comes to Christian demonology. Aside from that, some of the Zohar’s teachings may be seen as inadvertently supporting Christian theology. In fact, Christian scholars (like Picco della Mirandola, Johann Reuchlin, Christian Knorr von Rosenroth, and even Newton and Leibnitz) actually took up the study of the Zohar themselves, and believed that this text would result in Jews finally converting to Christianity willingly. History shows that while some Jews may have done so, many more Jews instead started to believe in Christian ideas like man becoming god (or god becoming man), and that a messiah can die without completing his task, to return in a future “second coming”. This was a huge issue in the heresy of Shabbatai Tzvi (1626-1676), and continues to be a significant problem with certain Hasidim today.

One specific example of how Christianity may have influenced post-Zoharic Kabbalah is particularly relevant now, on the cusp of Rosh Hashanah. It is customary to recite Tefillat HaParnasah, a prayer for sustenance, at the end of each prayer service during the High Holidays. In many Sephardic machzorim, a supposed “name of God” is invoked—though not recited aloud—during this prayer (it is also found in the parnasah insert during the Amidah of many Sephardic weekday siddurim). That “name” is Dikarnosa (דיקרנוסא), which apparently comes from Malachi 3:10, though it is difficult to see how other than the appearance of the word די in the verse. Others link it to a fusion of Malachi 3:10 and the word nasah in Psalms 4:7, נסה עלינו אור פניך ה׳.

In reality, Dikarnosa means absolutely nothing in Hebrew or Aramaic. However, it has a clear Spanish (or Latin) root: dei (“god”) and karne (“meat” or “flesh”). Some believe karnosa is a combination of karne and sanguis, “blood”. Whatever the case, the meaning is pretty clear: either the name is invoking a “god of meat” or speaking of a “god of flesh and blood”. Dikarnosa may be the name of an old pagan Spanish deity of abundance (hence the association with parnasah) or, according to one Catholic priest, potentially rooted in an old appellation for Jesus who, according to Christianity, is God literally incarnated in “flesh and blood”.

While Dikarnosa is not explicitly mentioned in the Zohar, it emerged in post-Zoharic Kabbalah circles, and was already firmly accepted in the times of the Arizal. His primary disciple, Rabbi Chaim Vital (1543-1620), wrote about it in Pri Etz Chaim (Sha’ar HaAmidah, ch. 19). It isn’t surprising then that the Dor De’a of Yemen claimed that modern Kabbalah is contaminated with paganism.

Such are the possible dangers of studying the Zohar, and the Kabbalah that emerged from it. Some become imprisoned in demonic fears, others become extremists, or adopt all sorts of bizarre rituals, while others still are drawn to real heresy. This is one reason why the Noda b’Yehudah (Rabbi Yechezkel Landau, 1713-1793) went so far as to ban (unsuccessfully) the study of Zohar and Kabbalah. There are so many mystical texts out there that it isn’t clear which are genuine and which are not, which have been influenced by Christianity or Shabbateanism (or other heretical movements) and which have not. It is easy to be led astray.

That brings us back to the story of the Four Who Entered Pardes. We learn from that story that maybe one in four who delve into Kabbalah will emerge unscathed. The remaining three are in danger of being lead to heresy, mental issues or extreme asceticism, or worse, an untimely death.

In Search of Authentic Kabbalah

Having said all that, we mustn’t forget that there absolutely is an authentic Jewish mysticism out there. As already stated, the Tanakh itself is full of genuine mysticism, as is the Talmud. The schools of Ma’aseh Merkavah and Ma’aseh Beresheet are real, and existed. There were mystical texts that predated the Zohar, as did the central concept of Ten Sefirot. There is no doubt that much of this authentic mysticism made its way into the Zohar and subsequent works, which is why it became so popular, spread so quickly, and was accepted by so many.

Certainly, there are countless kernels of truth within the Zohar, which were further refined and polished by later Kabbalists like the Ramak and the Arizal. It is a repository of tremendous wisdom (and we have, of course, cited it frequently in this forum). It played a key role in preserving Judaism in the face of attractive Christian and Muslim mysticism in the first half of the last millennium, and in the face of enticing secular “Enlightenment” in the second half. (Rabbi Pinchas of Koretz, 1728-1790, famously said that “the Zohar has kept me Jewish.”)

Today, Kabbalah has become inseparable from Judaism, and has engrained itself into every aspect of our faith—without most Jews even being aware of it. Simple things like doing netilat yadayim in the morning to rid of an impure spirit (something completely omitted in the law code of the rational Rambam), staying up all night on Shavuot, or just commemorating Hoshana Rabba are all based on mystical teachings. Any discussion of reincarnation, cosmogony, eschatology, or even a classic Torah-versus-science debate is impossible without Kabbalah. There is little doubt that the mystical tradition has immensely enriched Judaism.

But what do we make of those foreign influences? Some have argued that foreign influence is actually a good thing. After all, the Rambam himself had stated that we should “accept the truth from whomever speaks it”. There is an old mystical idea that the Torah, too, is in exile among the nations, and we must rediscover these true concepts from the nations, refine them, and restore them to their holy source. When looking from this perspective, we recognize that even the Talmud had adopted (or rediscovered) countless ideas from neighbouring Greeks, Romans, and Persians. And ancient Kabbalah, too, long before the Zohar, drew from other mystical traditions.

Like the critics of today, Rabbi Leon da Modena recognized way back in the 16th century that Kabbalah was essentially Greek Neoplatonism in Jewish clothing. Meanwhile, in his Jews, God, and History, historian Max I. Dimont argues that from the very beginning, Kabbalah “fed on noncanonized prophecy, Zoroastrian resurrection mythology, Greek science, numerology, gnostic heresies.” He concludes that “This was the material Jewish saints and scholars worked on for centuries, distilling it, shaping it, blowing life into it.” There is still much work left to be done in distilling, shaping, and refining Kabbalah. There are some ideas that are best to be buried and forgotten, and some truly profound ideas that should be disseminated further.

Dimont goes on to credit the Zohar and subsequent Kabbalistic texts with having “a large share in the sudden efflorescence of science…” and “laying the intellectual foundations for the seventeenth-century rebirth of philosophy and the establishment of scientific methodology…” A multitude of scholars share his conclusions. At the end of the day, Kabbalah has had a tremendous (mostly positive) impact not only on Judaism, but on the whole world.

What can we conclude from all of this? At the very least, that Kabbalah should be studied carefully, with a grain of salt and an open mind. It is very important to temper the study of Zohar and other Kabbalistic texts with more rationalist sources like the Rambam. We shouldn’t confuse Kabbalah with halacha. We should keep in mind the many authoritative voices in Jewish history that cautioned against, if not outright rejected, the Zohar, and we should never forget those Four Who Entered Pardes.

Those who choose to enter, beware.