The first story is exactly one thousand years old, and it is told through the main text of the book, in a rhyming piyyut. On Friday, 19 Adar II 4786 (11 March 1026), Yoshiyahu, the only son of R’ Yeshua HeChaver b”r Natan, a dayan of the Jewish community of Gaza, died suddenly at the age of six. (”Chaver” is a rank in the Eretz-Yisrael academy, indicating that the author was either learned, in a position of local authority, or most likely both. After the loss of his son, R’ Yeshua poured his grief into a rather unusual outlet: a qedushta, the cycle of piyyutim a poet would write for the opening blessings of the Shabbos morning Amidah as a lead-in to the Kedushah.

He adhered to every convention of this fixed poetic form, using familiar structures and phraseology, but instead of covering topics that are typical of kedusha-themes (such as God’s glory, His miracles, angelic or human praise of Him, etc.), he wove his own personal tragedy into the communal, public prayer service. R’ Yehuah does not just name this son (Yoshiyahu), but he makes him the centerpiece of the length poem, lovingly describing the son in great detail, turning his personal loss into a communal one. To demonstrate his young son’s mature interest in wisdom and spiritual matters, the paytan retells (or perhaps recasts) a poignant question that the six-year-old Yoshiyahu asked his father a mere week prior about the afterlife–what happens after death, what of the end of the world, what of the resurrection. The father could not put the question to rest, and only afterward read it as a foreshadowing of the boy’s own death six days later:

תתמהּ כל שומעה ותבהילה, / כי בן שש שנים ישאל זאת השאלה

“Let all who hear be astonished and astounded, that a boy of six should ask such a question.”

Against this, the father uses the tools of piyyut to refer to biblical and midrashic heroes, bringing up other bereaved fathers of Tanach (Adam over Hevel, and Terach, Aharon, Eli after him) and conceding that he is no better than they were, that the decree is just, that the fault is his own sins. Shulamit Elizur, the undeniably greatest living expert on piyyut literature, states that there is nothing else quite like it in all of Hebrew liturgical poetry; this is not a communal lament over a massacre or an exile, but one man setting his own son’s death to the meter of the synagogue Kedushah. In truth, whether or not this piyyut was actually meant to be recited publicly with the entire congregation is not certain, but she makes her tentative case for the affirmative in a chapter of the introduction devoted to this question.

The piyyut itself tells this one story, but the introduction tells a second story, the bibliographical one of how the book came together over a period of about ninety years(!) and three generations of genizah and piyyut scholars. The qedushta survives in R’ Yeshua’s own hand, an autograph, which is itself remarkable for an eleventh-century figure we otherwise know nothing about. The manuscript was written as a small booklet, but was torn apart and its leaves scattered through the Cairo Geniza– and then in the 20th century, into various libraries of the world. It came back together one piece at a time, starting with Menachem Zulay who identified the first pieces in the 1930s. In 1973 Ezra Fleischer recovered the outer leaves of the pamphlet, and, as the introduction tells it, those leaves are what revealed that Yoshiyahu was six and not the adolescent earlier scholars had assumed. About twenty years ago Elizur herself (Fleischer’s most prominent student) identified a further leaf among the Geniza holdings in Geneva, and went on to reconstruct most of what was probably a twelve-page booklet. After she published the Geneva fragment, Dr. Peter Lehnardt suggested she print the whole qedushta with a proper study, and she set herself the goal of bringing it out for the thousandth anniversary of the child’s death, this past Adar 5786 (2026). The result is this 169-page volume, with a long introduction running through the manuscript history (this chapter is titled “Discovery after Discovery”), the structure and technique of the qedushta, its theology and its metaphors, the full annotated text, eight color facsimile pages of the surviving leaves laid out in order, and the indices you would hope for, including a table of the poet’s epithets and coinages.

If there is one story in the piyyut, and another story in the introduction, a third story is the one Elizur could not have planned a decade or more ago when she anticipated publishing the book in the year 2026: that the death of a Jewish boy in Gaza has a new, tragic kind of resonance. Elizur was working on this manuscript already when, on Shemini Atzeres 5784, the entire region became the site of the deadliest act of anti-Jewish violence since the Holocaust and sparked a two-year war in Gaza whose continued ramifications are still felt urgently today. By her own account in the preface, the ongoing violence of these past years meant that Elizur could not free herself from the ghost of the present, felt so painfully throughout the work. To the bereaved father of Gaza from a thousand years ago, she writes, were now joined thousands of bereaved parents. Her own family was among them: the book is dedicated to fallen soldiers of the war, among them her cousin, Dr. Eitan Naaman, a physician who rushed south to answer the call for the wounded and was killed in the fighting near Sderot on 9 October 2023. She opens the introduction with a midrashic epigram hinting to a double meaning of the word עַזָּה, at once “Gaza” — the boy’s city, and a thousand years later the soldiers’ battlefield — and “fierce,” “for the love is fierce (azzah) as death” (Song of Songs 8:6):

“’Al mut laben’ (Ps. 9:1) — [this speaks] of the death of the righteous, children of the living God, who give their souls over to death … and why? because ‘love is fierce as death’ (Song of Songs 8:6).” — Midrash Tehillim 9:17

This relatively short book carries all these weighty stories, but Elizur’s masterful editing and scholarship also ensures that the beauty of the piyyut takes center stage. May Hashem grant her many more years of continued scholarship, and bring comfort to her family among all the families of Israel and mourners of Yerushalayim.

כלל זה יהא [בידך] כי מתוך הילוך השמועה ופשוטה אני מפרשה, והקושיות סעד, כי אפילו כשיש בתלמוד ‘חייב’ במקום אחד ו’פטור’ במקום אחר אנו מתרצים יפה כ”ש קושיות אחרות

Let this be a rule in your hand: I expound a sugya from the flow of its discussion and its plain sense, and use its difficulties as a support; for even where the Talmud has “liable” in one place and “exempt” in another, we resolve it nicely, all the more so other difficulties.

For all the many resolutions he may have had for the Gemara, Rabbeinu Tam left no comprehensive volume of his responsa, and assembling one has been the work of decades. The new Teshuvos Rabbeinu Tam, edited by Avraham (Rami) Reiner and Yosef Mordechai Dubovick and published by Mekitze Nirdamim, is the result, a project begun over thirty years ago when Reiner’s teacher Prof. Israel Ta-Shma won a grant to recover the scattered responsa of Rabbeinu Tam together with his brother the Rashbam and his nephew the Ri HaZaken.

When it comes to Rabbeinu Tam, a collection of a few of his writings has always existed as the book Sefer HaYashar (published a few years ago in a fantastic edition from R. David Deblitzky), but much of his Torah remained scattered throughout citations in other works. Unlike the Geonim, who considered their teshuva-writing an essential piece of their leadership and whose written responsa were copied frequently for their own students and to disseminate them to the wider public, Rabbeinu Tam appears not to have kept copies of his halakhic letters. In one teshuva he begs off a follow-up because, in his own words, he has no teshuvos in his possession, and Reiner reads this as of a piece with the way Rabbeinu Tam saw the work: his rulings were the results of a one-time meeting of a Talmudic principle with the particulars of a single case, and not necessarily something to be archived. The teshuvos printed at the back of Sefer HaYashar, which his students assembled, are disordered and they were never close to the whole of what he ruled in writing and by mouth. Reiner and Dubovick have gathered 192 further responsa from outside that section, almost all of which survive for one reason: someone later quoted them. In fact, many of these so-called “responsa” are not freestanding letters at all; they are Rabbeinu Tam’s ruling as it survives lodged in a later halachic discussion or cited from an oral ruling handed down by a talmid.

In this volume, the teshuvos are sorted into Orach Chaim, Yoreh De’ah, Even HaEzer and Choshen Mishpat, followed by shorter runs of Rabbeinu Tam’s comments on pesukim, on sugyos, and a final group of teshuvos whose attribution is in doubt. It is the world of halakhic study that outlines the book, the order of the Tur and the Shulchan Aruch; this not only helps to make the book more usable for the student looking up a citation of Rabbeinu Tam in the course of normal yeshiva study, but it is also a nice reflection of where this material has sat for the last eight hundred years. Each teshuva comes with a short headnote setting out its substance, its provenance and what may be historically interesting about it, and beside it the editors mark where its subject is treated in the Tur/Shulchan Aruch, even in the many cases where the Beis Yosef never cites Rabbeinu Tam directly. The editors do much more than merely collect sources, however; extraordinary scholarship was needed to properly recover these teachings, trace their history, and in many cases interpret the precise details of a case and its rulings.

Because this is a collection from known citations, there are few pieces in this volume that are truly “new,” although the book still utilizes manuscript evidence heavily. While the material is mostly familiar to anyone with a sufficient grounding in halacha, having it all in one place brings out the forceful personality of this rabbinic giant. Rabbeinu Tam was willing to take stances that seem, on their face, to reject Talmudic statements or geonic precedents, sometimes on highly creative grounds. It is well known, for example, that he defends the custom of saying piyutim in davening (siman ו), and he does it by reaching past an apparent halachic objection to a tradition he had from his father, who had it from the geonim of Lotharingia, about the fire that played around R’ Elazar HaKalir as he composed (as Rabbeinu Tam held HaKalir to have been a tanna). Both the printed Sefer haYashar and this new volume shows dozens of such examples of Rabbeinu Tam’s boldness and ingenuity in challenging earlier rulings. Together with this self-confidence, though, Rabbeinu Tam was a gracious teacher and a humane leader, who took his students’ challenges seriously even when the challenge was to his own conduct, as when a talmid pressed him on a barrel of wine he had left before Shabbos with a stone set on its lid (siman כ). Another story shows, in Reiner’s tracing of it, how a ruling could shift as it passed from one source to the next: a woman in shul on Shabbos asks whether she may clean her garment after her baby has soiled it, and Rabbeinu Tam tells her, on the spot, that she may wipe the place clean. The earliest sources give no conditions, but by the time the ruling reaches the Tosafos and the Semag it has been fitted with a rationale that may narrow its applicability.

Another wonderful feature of this book is how it brings extra context to some of Rabbeinu Tam’s rulings and responsa that are known from Sefer haYashar. One teshuva (no 24) recorded there is his letter effectively annulling a decision by a Paris beit din (where his older brother Rashbam sat!) that forced a man to give his wife a divorce document; in Rabbeinu Tam’s later years, he at least partially retracted this position (or the logic it was based upon). This story and its importance for understanding Rabbeinu Tam in his context is discussed in Reiner’s biography (p. 269-277) and in our volume it is presented as Torah, not rabbinic politics.

Reiner’s introductory chapters reconstruct the man and his world, distilling much of the scholarship that he had published in 2021 in his masterful biography (רבנו תם: פרשנות, הלכה, פולמוס, Bar-Ilan). Much of that biographical information comes from these letters and responsa that are presented here within their halakhic (instead of historical) context. Rabbeinu Tam, we know, was the youngest of the four sons of Rashi’s daughter Yocheved and her husband R’ Meir ben Shmuel whom the sources call the “Avi HaRabbanim.” It seems like Rabbeinu Tam’s primary teacher, however, was not his father or oldest brother (the Ribam) but instead his brother the Rashbam, and the letters between the two in Sefer HaYashar catch a maturing of their relationship, where Rabbeinu Tam seems to have been writing at first as the talmid who “once reasoned thus before Rabbeinu Shmuel” but ending, two decades later, as the senior colleague who corrects his older brother. The Ri HaZaken (R. Isaac of Dampierre) was at once his nephew and, being barely ten years his junior, his closest disciple-colleague.

Some of the responsa are fascinating for these historical tidbits that they share. Rabbeinu Tam made his home not in a great Jewish center but in Ramerupt, a small Champagne village some twenty-five kilometers from Troyes, where (Reiner argues) the family held farmland as a link in the feudal chain under Henri, count of Champagne. Henri and his wife Marie actually corresponded with Rabbeinu Tam on questions of biblical interpretation and theology, pieces of which are printed in this volume. The responsa also bear hints to some of the well-known tragedies from the age of the early crusaders: on the second day of Shavuos 1147, Rabbeinu Tam’s house was broken into and he was dragged into a field to be beaten by evildoers who wished to take out “the great one of Israel” in the name of their savior, and he was saved thanks to a passing nobleman. When the Jews of Blois were burned in 1171, Rabbeinu Tam called for a fast in their memory, which was probably one of his last communal activities before passing away himself.

All of these fascinating historical asides may give the book some extra flavor, but its true contribution is to Rabbeinu Tam’s voice as a teacher of Torah. For all its critical apparatus and the austere Mekitze Nirdamim style binding, there is no question that this is the type of sefer that belongs in the beis medrash; the scholarly notes and contextualization only help reinforce this by showing how each teshuva was transmitted and is situated within rabbinic literature. With the Ri HaZaken’s responsa already in print published by Reiner and Pinchas Roth in 2020 and now Rabbeinu Tam’s, Reiner has given us two of the three sets of Tosafist responsa that his teacher Ta-Shma set out to recover three decades ago. Hashem should help him and his colleagues complete the trio with the teshuvos of the Rashbam so that the words of these great founders of a new wave of Torah study get the treatment they deserve.

Halakhic poetry has a long and well-respected history; holiday piyyutim detailing the laws of Pesach or Sukkot and the azharot often recited around Shavuos (those rhymed enumerations of the 613 mitzvos by Saadia Gaon, ibn Gabirol, ibn Ezra and others) are over a thousand years old, and even today the “Songs of Shas” composed by Mr. Yossie Gleiberman are popular among daf yomi learners. But a systematic, extensive rhyming adaptation of an existing halakhic code is much rarer. One of the greatest living experts on Jewish bibliography, Yaakov Shmuel Spiegel, writes that he is aware of no scholarly literature on this specific genre, because he is not sure the genre has more than one member (at least from the medieval period). Spiegel’s own newly published Minchas Kena’os of R’ Yonah b”r Shlomo ibn Bahlul is that one: a first edition from the single surviving manuscript (Bodleian Opp. Add. 4°19), expanded from earlier articles with excerpts from this remarkably unique sefer.

R’ Yonah ibn Bahlul is an obscure figure even by Rishonim-recovery standards. He lived in Molina de Aragón, a town in Castile about a hundred miles east of Madrid, and dated his book to 5018 (1257/8), a little over fifty years after the Rambam’s death in Cairo, and about twenty years after Ramban’s letter from Girona (in the neighboring Crown of Aragon) to the rabbis of northern France, the great mediating document of the first Maimonidean controversy. We know him only from this one work; his teacher (whom he names as “R’ Yehudah Zerubavel”) and students are not mentioned in any other surviving source. The book itself, though, is unusually vivid. Minchas Kena’os is a rhymed and biblically-laced digest of the Mishneh Torah, organized into forty sections (Hilchos Kil’ayim, Hilchos Milah, Hilchos Talmud Torah, and on through Hilchos Mikvah), explicitly aimed at “young people and travelers” who, R’ Yonah says, lack the time or learning to work through the full sweep of the Rambam’s code. He composed it, by his own account, so that “the reader may run through it,” and probably memorize it.

Besides being a delightful work in and of itself, R’ Yonah’s introductions to various halakhic sections provide plenty of interesting material on the religious landscape of 13th century Castile. His wonderfully descriptive complaints help paint a vivid picture of Jewish life in his hometown: people talk too much during chazaras hashatz; everyone has a siddur tucked beneath their garments (perhaps hiding it from Christians?) for the various prayer services; no proper mikveh exists for lack of a financial sponsor (as in the excerpt below).

To give some of the flavor of his flowing prose-poetry, here’s a sample from the rhymed introduction to Hilchos Mikvah, the fortieth and final section of the book:

אחר שהסכמתי שלא לדבר בשיעור המקוה, / היה לבי דוה, ויך לבי אלי לסרה,

בעליית המקוה כן זחלתי וארא, / שלא לחוס על כבוד הנשים הכשרות יפות העין,

מבקשות מים ואין, / סביבות היאור,

לקדש עצמם מדם המקור, / ומשתבשות מפני הסוטים,

מפני גוים מפני לסטים, / ומטבילות בצער וחרדה,

ודכה והבנה, / וככה אין לידה,

לעשות מקוה לעולמות, / אלא במיעוט המקומות,

עליהם נדיב לא חמל, / במקוה הדרום יורדות לטבול בנמל,

בלי הקפה מפני סביבותיהם, / שלא שיזזו בם רואיהם,

אוכלים וטפשים, / רכב אדם צמאי פרשים,

והאשה תצען, / ולא תוכל לטבול כהוגן,

מפני ההוגן, / ואיש המגן

In this passage, ibn Bahlul grieves for the dignity of the “virtuous women, fair of eye,” who “seek water and find none,” circling the riverbank to purify themselves “from the blood of the source.” For want of any proper mikvah (no benefactor had taken pity enough to build one), they go down to immerse in the river or at the harbor (”the southern mikvah... at the port”), with no screen to shield them from gentiles, bandits, and leering onlookers [“sotim”], until a modest woman “cannot immerse as she ought.”

Spiegel’s characteristically brilliant and comprehensive preface (at roughly forty pages) sets R’ Yonah’s sometimes damning view of his contemporaries alongside the voices of R’ Moshe of Coucy, R’ Yonah Gerondi, R’ Todros HaLevi Abulafia of Toledo, and Rav Sheshet HaNasi of Saragossa (in Provence). The rabbis of his town, R’ Yonah laments, had grown ignorant of basic Talmudic Hebrew and were incapable of teaching in the language of Chazal. Spiegel shows that R’ Yonah’s complaints on this front belong to a broader Iberian reform movement that looked to the newly arrived Mishneh Torah as a way to help whip Spanish Jewry into shape. In keeping with the Rambam’s own intent for his Mishneh Torah, R’ Yonah’s composition is aimed at the ‘simple’ Jew who would benefit from having the Rambam’s monumental code in a more enjoyable and memorable version to carry around in his head.

Another historical tidbit that Spiegel notes is that R’ Yonah refers to the Rambam as a “Nagid,” providing some evidence that the Rambam himself, like his son and grandson, served in a formal leadership position in his Egyptian exile. But it is unclear how much to make of this title; R’ Yonah also calls the Rambam a “navi,” a prophet. Perhaps a more important historical contribution is to our understanding of how the more peripheral rabbis of the time viewed the raging controversies surrounding the Rambam and his works. R’ Yonah lavishes praise on R’ Meir HaLevi Abulafia (the Ramah) of Toledo, himself one of the leading opponents of the Rambam’s philosophical positions, and Spiegel believes that R’ Yonah was drawing a distinction between the Rambam’s halakhic stature (which everyone, including the Ramah, acknowledged) and the philosophical disputes that R’ Yonah does not engage at all.

This volume is beautifully edited and an absolute pleasure to read; Spiegel’s learned footnotes are extremely helpful without being cumbersome. His footnotes include annotations on some rare or invented lexical usages, interesting halakhic positions, and the occasional digression into historical realia (such as an attempt to translate R’ Yonah’s volumetric measurements for a mikvah into contemporary units). The introduction lays out the manuscript history, the social and religious context, and a long analysis of R’ Yonah’s literary technique. There are useful indices, including a special one for “rare words and linguistic innovations by the author.” Admittedly, R’ Yonah’s rhymed Hebrew can be dense at times and perhaps not as readily understood as he would have liked it to be for a “popular” work. But whether one is interested in a halakhic poem, the historical information on medieval Spanish Jewry or the reception of Maimonidean halakha, R’ Yonah ibn Bahlul’s newly published work is worth picking up.

Just as studying Gemara today is inconceivable without Rashi, studying Halakha is impossible without the Rambam, and this goes doubly for any deeper study of the Gemara beyond simply translating the words. On every Talmud topic, a yeshiva student will quickly reach for the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, and perhaps less often Rambam’s commentary on the Mishnah. But his Sefer haMitzvos, an astoundingly brilliant and important work where Rambam divulges much more of his thought process and methodology, is too often tragically overlooked.[1]

By the Rambam’s own account, the work began almost as a private exercise: a list of the 613 commandments he drew up to make sure that nothing would be left out of the Mishneh Torah, which grew into a full treatise once he realized how much a simple list might provoke controversy. Rambam was bothered by the flawed counts popularized in the azharos, the Shavuos poems recited in shuls across al-Andalus and North Africa, and while the Rambam excused those as being written by “poets and not scholars” who simply do not know any better, he does aim his fire at the scholars whose lists the poets had versified, especially that of the Halakhot Gedolot.

Rambam’s result is far more than a “correct” list of the commandments. The work’s fourteen “roots” (shorashim; see below on this term), or rules for what may and may not be counted among the 613, serve as a masterclass in how the Rambam conceived of the entire edifice of halakha, and in particular of the relationship between the Written Torah and everything built upon it. Although halakhic discourse among rabbinic Jews had become almost exclusively a conversation with the Mishnah and Talmud since their codification, the Rambam set out to return to the text of the Torah itself and to isolate the actual units of God’s revelation at Sinai. As R. Yitzhak Leon ibn Zur states in the introduction to his commentary, the Megillat Esther, he spent years attempting to study Gemara and halakha, but felt that he was fumbling in darkness until he came across the Rambam’s shorashim (alongside the Ramban’s critiques of them).

Because of its original language, however, the book was never as popular as Rambam’s Mishnah Torah. In a letter, the Rambam himself regretted that he had written the book in Arabic “ve-nichamti harbeh,” since “everyone needs to read it,” and he even declared his intention to translate it into Hebrew himself, a promise he never managed to fulfill. The task fell instead to others: of the three medieval Hebrew translations, that of R. Avraham ibn Chasdai has been lost and the translation of R. Shlomo ibn Ayyub is hard to find, so it is the translation of Moshe ibn Tibbon that has become the most popularly printed version. While it is valuable in its own right, the translation is famously clunky and difficult for the modern reader of Hebrew as the product of a family tradition of hyper-literal, word-for-word translation.

About one hundred years ago, R. Chaim Heller published a critical edition of the ibn Tibbon translation which was corrected against the Arabic and ibn Ayyub, with a learned apparatus. According to yeshiva legend, this translation was received with great enthusiasm by the Chofetz Chaim, who insisted that the earlier printings without these corrections should be discarded. Fifty years ago, R. Yosef Kapach provided a modern translation of the Arabic entirely from scratch, but his work relied on the late Yemenite manuscripts he had access to from his family, chiefly a manuscript copied by his own ancestor in 1492 — and, for better or for worse (I am certainly in no position to judge), comes with a few of R. Kapach’s own “translational eccentricities.” Prof. Yehoshua Blau, in his review of Kapach’s edition of the Arabic text, took him to task for dismissing the important early manuscripts of the work.[2] It is thus incredibly exciting to now have a brilliant new Hebrew translation by R. Yitzhak Shilat, one of the greatest living translators of Judeo-Arabic and a Rosh Yeshiva who is as familiar with the ways of halakhic reasoning as much as he has been immersed in Rambam scholarship.

R. Shilat’s methodology sets his work apart by relying on five manuscripts, only one of them Yemenite and the rest Eastern (Egyptian and Syrian), rather than on R. Kapach’s Yemenite family tradition alone. As Shilat argues, these Eastern manuscripts emerge from the Rambam’s more localized orbit in Egypt and then Aleppo (where some of his original manuscripts eventually reached). Prof. Blau has argued that the most important early witness to the work is precisely a non-Yemenite, Eastern manuscript, the Bodleian’s MS Poc. 239, whose ownership inscriptions may connect it to the household of the Rambam’s great-great-grandson, R. Yehoshua haNagid. Working from these highly accurate texts, R. Shilat replaced much of the more cumbersome Tibbonite Hebrew while maintaining a high fidelity to its style. His own methodology is refreshingly transparent and well-grounded; although the footnotes are not extensive, he often demonstrates how he imagined the Rambam would have wanted each word and phrase to be translated by drawing upon parallel passages in Rambam’s Hebrew works where possible.

Perhaps the most famous question in translating Rambam’s Arabic (already a lengthy footnote in R. Chaim Heller’s edition) is how to render the word i’tiqâd, the same word that appears in the title of R. Saadia Gaon’s classic Kitâb al-Amânât wa’l-I’tiqâdât. For this Geonic work, R. Yehudah ibn Tibbon chose to translate the word as דעות/דעת, “knowledge” or propositions. For the very first commandment in Sefer haMitzvos, however, ibn Tibbon’s grandson Moshe wrote that “the first command concerns the belief in God, to believe that there is an Ultimate Cause, בהאמנת האלהות, והוא שנאמין שיש שם עלה וסבה”. In Rambam’s own Hebrew introduction to the relevant sections in Mishneh Torah, however, he does not use the word להאמין, to “believe,” but לדעת, to “know,” and this is R. Kapach’s preferred translation for both lexicographical and philosophical reasons. Rambam definitely understood that the first and most primary command is that a person must be convinced of God’s truth as a matter of demonstrable knowledge, not belief as a matter of blind faith. R. Shilat agrees with R. Kapach’s philosophical interpretation but nevertheless translates the word i’tiqâd as להאמין (to believe), and he justifies this by pointing to a Hebrew letter that the Rambam himself wrote to the sages of Montpellier, in which he uses the word להאמין to denote an absolute, logically verified truth. This sets the tone for the entire book: R. Shilat is looking to maintain the ibn Tibbon flavor and terminology as much as possible, but with the backing of a full and deep knowledge of the Rambam’s own words and worldview.

In theory, one may have preferred more of a deviation from the ibn Tibbon translation in places where the Rambam’s own Hebrew indicates that he would have been comfortable with a different word. Translation of i’tiqâd is one example (where Rambam used לדעת in Hebrew), but another important instance is the very word to describe the rules or “roots” of the commandments, aṣl. In his Mishnah commentary, the Rambam himself will use this same word to translate from the Mishnaic Hebrew terms “kelal” or “ikkar,” both of which seem like appropriate translations for his own fourteen rules or principles; kelal is Kapach’s preferred translation, while ibn Ayyub’s is ikkar. R. Shilat’s choice is to maintain the word shoresh to refer to a general rule is, on the one hand, less conventionally idiomatic in Hebrew (both medieval and modern), but it is in keeping with the seven centuries of Sefer ha-Mitzvos commentary thanks to ibn Tibbon.

There are still some very nuanced “chiddushim” in this otherwise conservative translation. R. Shilat, for example, makes it slightly clearer that the Rambam’s counting of many commands such as the status of tumah or taharah and many other such commands are entirely procedural or pertain to legal status but do not require any actions as such (a point that, for some reason, was often not appreciated by many of the classic commentators printed in the standard editions of Sefer haMitzvos). In the footnotes, R. Shilat especially remarks where the Rambam may have changed his mind in different editions, perhaps reconceptualizing topics while composing the Mishneh Torah. All of these (both early and late versions) are worth careful study; as a teacher of mine likes to say, “the younger version of the Rambam was also the Rambam.”

The Chasam Sofer famously expressed his dismay that this gem, the Sefer haMitzvos, was not always printed alongside the Mishneh Torah, as this work is such an essential companion piece for understanding the Rambam.[3] R. Shilat’s beautiful new edition likely replaces all of the earlier editions as the new standard, and makes a reliable version of this foundational text fully accessible to students eager to dive ever deeper into the mind of the Rambam.

[1] This is not the place to have an extended discussion on the Rambam’s Book of Commandments and the importance of its study. Because he was a previous SeforimChatter guest, it is worth mentioning that Marc Herman, whose amazing book “After Revelation: The Rabbinic Past in the Medieval Islamic World” (University of Pennsylvania Press) was published last summer, has been doing some great work towards returning the Sefer haMitzvos to the pride of place, building upon Albert Friedberg’s book and a dissertation by Ezra Blaustein.

[2] יהושע בלאו, “מהדורה חדשה של ספר המצוות”. לשוננו לז:ד (1973)

[3] Interestingly, this opinion was not shared by Moshe ibn Tibbon, who believed that the Rambam intentionally wrote it in Arabic precisely so that it would not be associated with Mishneh Torah!

Among all of the Rishonim, there is perhaps none as familiar to us as Rashi, “Rabban shel Yisrael,” (the teacher of all Israel). Since his lifetime, his works have been among the most (or possibly the topmost) copied and preserved of all the medieval commentators. Despite this popularity, there are a few works of Rashi that have been lost to us in the nearly thousand years that have passed, or are at least of questionable provenance.

One of the most prominent of these is the commentary of Rashi on the Talmud Bavli tractate of Maseches Nazir. Anyone who studies Nazir in yeshiva “knows” that the commentary printed on the inside column of the Vilna Shas, the position usually given to Rashi’s commentary, is not actually written by Rashi. This “knowledge” is nearly as old as the original Soncino and Bomberg printings of the Talmud which included Rashi on the side of the page, and so R. Joseph Karo refers to this commentary simply as the “Mefaresh,” the commentary. Yet, there have been many other rabbis, some who lived much earlier than the arrival of the printing press, who do quote from Rashi to Nazir, and many of these citations (but not all) appear to be similar to that of our mysterious Mefaresh.

It is thus incredibly exciting to now have a new volume from Machon Ofeq, which sets out to recover whatever fragments of an actual Rashi commentary to Nazir can still be found behind the Mefaresh. Doing so required extensive work of textual archaeology from manuscripts, Geniza fragments, leaves recovered from medieval European book bindings (the “European Genizah”), and citations from many unpublished works such as R. Shlomo Sirilio’s commentary to the Yerushalmi. The project required a combination of talmidei chachamim and first-rate scholars (R. Avigdor Arieli, Prof. Simcha Emanuel, and Dr. Ezra Shvat), headed by Ofeq’s R. Yehudah Shoshana, past SeforimChatter guest and son of Machon Ofeq founder R. Avraham Shoshana.

As is appropriate, the lengthy introduction includes a discussion of the printed Mefaresh itself and its history: who cited from it, who among them named this source as “Rashi” and who did not, and which commentators seemed to have been citing different but related sources. Of course, what we as students of Rashi and the Rishonim would really like to know is the extent this “Mefaresh” differed from a commentary that might have been produced by Rashi’s own hand, which seemed to have been available to some earlier commentators. The Mefaresh as we have it has certain undeniable differences in style from Rashi’s classical commentaries, but we know that the Rabban Shel Yisrael, the teacher of Israel, allowed his students to make copies and edit his own work. Given the evidence (which has not changed much in the century since Jacob Epstein wrote on the question),[1] R. Shoshana believes that the “Mefaresh” should indeed be considered a product of Rashi’s study-hall, even if not penned by the master teacher himself (it is, at most, one generation removed from Rashi, either before or after him).

This assessment is not at all straightforward. As is often the case, many versions of the Mefaresh and of possible Rashi’s commentaries appear to have been floating around in the middle ages. Even the editions of the Bomberg Shas where the Mefaresh first appeared in print used different manuscripts for their first (Venice 1522) and second (1529) printings. The editors chose to make extensive use of a manuscript from the British Library in London (Or. 3657) which they believe was written by R. Betzalel Ashkenazi (even though it is very different from his “Shittah Mekubetzes” to Nazir) which contains numerous citations from a “Rashi k”y [handwritten],” but these do not necessarily match with either the printed Mefaresh or other citations of Rashi from earlier commentators.

The editors were thus faced with a complicated puzzle, and – while they admit that this might not be very satisfying – they chose to present many of these puzzle pieces on the table unassembled, so to speak. The resulting volume is thus a patchwork of sorts, with three separate (incomplete) versions of “Rashi” and two appendices (which are also sets of Rashi fragments/citations), and even includes multiple different indices reflecting these different sources. Perhaps this is the more appropriate choice of presentation from the perspective of careful scholarship, but the editors acknowledge in their introduction that it makes the sefer difficult to use for studying. Such difficulty is encountered not only by someone who might want to use the volume to study alongside the Gemara (as the author of the commentary intended, whoever he/they may be), but even for comparing the text that is present in the different manuscripts that the editors compiled.

For example, one very important halakhic position that is cited by several sources as stemming from Rashi’s commentary to Nazir is the opinion that there is a biblical-level requirement to begin Shabbos by sanctifying it over a cup of wine, and that this wine for kiddush was not merely a rabbinic enactment. Such a view can be found in our printed version of the Mefaresh, stated in some of the works from around Rashi’s orbit, such as the Sefer haPardes (Hil. Shabbat 112), and cited in Rashi’s name by several later Rishonim. I wanted to know if this appears in any of the “Rashi” or “Mefaresh” manuscript fragments used for this volume, and so even though this citation does appear (on p. 227-228) as drawn from secondary sources, with a note explaining Rashi’s version of the Talmudic text, it took me a few minutes of flipping through the book to determine that none of the other available manuscripts corroborated this reading, or at least none that appear in this volume.

These complications notwithstanding, the main bulk of the sefer is made of the first, most usable and valuable section: a beautiful rendering of Rashi’s commentary extracted from the London manuscript, with extensive footnotes that are meant for the yeshiva student, often pointing to where a phrase or position of Rashi sheds light on some of the masechta’s classic lomdus discussions. Overall the volume represents a substantial step forward in the scholarship of Rashi’s talmudic commentaries, and its many unresolved questions and additional pieces just show how much more work there is still to be done in recovering Rashi’s works.

[1] The editors state that they do not want to cite all of the secondary literature discussing the possible identity of the author of the Mefaresh. This is understandable, but for a non-Rashi scholar like myself I wished that they would have pointed to one or two articles which collect the known material about the “unknown” Rashi-substitutes, such as R. Yehudah Kohen, Peirush Rashi u-Beit Midrashi le-Masechet Nedarim, Yerushateinu 4 (2000) p. 232-250, available here.

Thus, the main purpose of this book is not to break new ground in the sugyos under discussion, but to present in English an organized and accessible account of some of the fundamental concepts which are characteristic of the learning style in the yeshiva world today. To those familiar with this approach, a glance at the table of contents will immediately give a sense of what is to come. Chapters cover topics which form the bread and butter of “yeshivishe reid”: chatzi shiur (the prohibition to consume [e.g.] less of a prohibited substance than would incur the Torah’s penalty), rov (the principle that we follow the majority), chazakos (different forms of presumptions), migo (the concept that one’s claim is accepted in court because of another potential claim which would have been accepted), shomei’a k’oneh (the mechanism by which hearing a recitation is akin to reciting oneself), etc.

Rabbi Singer presents an organized account of each topic, beginning with the source of the law in question and proceeding with an inquiry into its underlying principles. He traces the ramifications of these principles through the works of early and later commentators (rishonim and acharonim), with a particular focus on treatments by the revered figures of the yeshiva world, such as R. Chaim Soloveitchik, R. Yosef Engel, R. Shimon Shkop, R. Chaim Ozer Grodzinski, and R. Elchanan Wasserman. Each chapter concludes with a helpful summary. Alongside the text are brief biographies of the figures mentioned, which are also included in their own section at the end of the book.

However, the book is not merely a restatement of material that already exists in rabbinic Hebrew. Rabbi Singer contributes his own knowledge and understanding, both in assembling a wide range of sources about each topic and in making his own inferences from these sources. Even one who is familiar with the classic sources on the subjects being discussed will find new material and new applications.

For example, regarding the principle that a positive mitzvah overrides a negative one, the Ramban’s explanation (Shemos 20:7) is well known: A positive mitzvah expresses love of G-d, which is greater than the fear expressed by negative mitzvos. However, Rabbi Singer also brings the less known view of the Maharsha (Yoma 86a): The reason a positive mitzvah overrides a negative one is because an active commandment is more significant than a passive one. Rabbi Singer rightly questions the Maharsha’s view: If active observance is more significant than passive observance, isn’t the active violation of a negative commandment to perform a positive one likewise a greater violation? (Interested readers will have to consult the book for Rabbi Singer’s solution.)

Of course, for a book of lomdus to be beneficial it is not necessary for the reader to agree with the author’s conclusions. Provoking disagreement can be at least as fruitful as eliciting concurrence. (I have heard in the name of R. Shlomo Zalman Auerbach that what made the Shev Shmaatsa a classic is that there is something in every chapter to argue with.) Kach hi darkah shel Torah – the development of Torah ideas takes place through a dialectical process of constructing and dismantling. The following observations are intended in that spirit.

In the chapter on rov, following the majority, the author quotes Rav Shimon Shkop’s Shaarei Yosher as arguing that this halacha should be seen as a chok—a divine decree that cannot be understood by rational means. This is a highly difficult position to accept, as following the majority would seem to be a paradigmatic rational law. However, a close reading of the Shaarei Yosher (3:1) reveals a more nuanced position: Rav Shimon Shkop observes that if a piece of meat is found in front of ten stores, nine of which are kosher, the majority cannot determine the factual question of which store the meat came from, because there is a majority against it coming from each individual store. Rather, Rav Shimon argues that the majority in such a case addresses only the halachic status of the meat, not the factual question of which store it came from. Regarding the determination of halachic status, Rav Shimon maintains that applying rov is a logical principle, not an irrational chok.

Moving to the Talmudic concept of intent (kavanah) for fulfilling a mitzvah, Rabbi Singer notes two ways to understand this requirement: Kavanah can be seen a part of the mitzvah performance itself, or kavanah may be an additional requirement apart from the mitzvah performance, which is necessary for the person to fulfill the mitzvah. In other words, is the kavanah to define the act as a mitzvah, or is it necessary for the person’s fulfillment of the mitzvah, not part of the act itself?

Rabbi Singer applies this conceptual distinction to the position of the Maggid Mishneh (Hilchos Shofar 2:4) who maintains that only mitzvos which involve no action, such as hearing the shofar, require kavanah. If kavanah would be a requirement of the mitzvah performance itself, he suggests, it would be necessary regardless of whether the mitzvah involves action, because without kavanah one is lacking in the performance of the mitzvah. Therefore, Rabbi Singer concludes, the Maggid Mishneh must hold that kavanah is not part of the mitzvah performance but a condition in a person’s fulfillment of the mitzvah.

However, it seems to me that the opposite is the case: We can explain the Maggid Mishneh’s view if we understand that kavanah is a requirement in creating a mitzvah act. When a mitzvah lacks an active performance, kavanah is necessary to transform the passive listening into a mitzvah act. But when the mitzvah already involves physical action (such as eating matzah), the action itself creates the mitzvah act, and kavanah is not needed. (See also R. Moshe Shmuel Shapiro, Kuntres Habeurim – Moed, p. 223.)

The same objection applies to the author’s explanation of the Chayei Adam. The Chayei Adam (68:9) maintains that explicit kavanah is not required when the context of one’s action indicates that it is being done as a mitzvah. For example, when one hears the shofar as part of the Rosh Hashanah service or eats matzah as part of the seder, it is not necessary to have explicit kavanah that this is being done for the mitzvah. According to the Chayei Adam, only if one performs a mitzvah out of context – e.g., if one happens to blow the shofar as an instrument or eat matzah as a cracker – would explicit kavanah to fulfill the mitzvah be required. Rabbi Singer again argues that this is plausible only if kavanah is a requirement distinct from the mitzvah act – because if kavanah is part of the mitzvah act, one’s mitzvah act is lacking. Yet it seems to me that this view can be understood just as well if kavanah is necessary to define the act as a mitzvah – the context proves the nature of the act. (See also Rav Asher Weiss, Minchas Asher – Pesachim, p. 396, who maintains that the Chayei Adam can only be understood if kavanah is to create a mitzvah act.)

One final observation regarding the proper reading of a source, which is always a prerequisite for lomdus: Rabbi Singer quotes the Pri Megadim (Eshel Avraham 60:3) as maintaining that the requirement of kavanah is midivrei kabbalah (a prophetic enactment). However, it seems clear that when the Pri Megadim refers to a divrei kabbalah requirement in this comment, he is not discussing kavanah but the mitzvah of Megillah reading. The Pri Megadim is not saying the rule of intent is a prophetic enactment, but rather that the mitzvah of reading the Megillah is a prophetic enactment, which gives it a stricter status than standard Rabbinic laws.

Writing about complex Talmudic topics in English is not easy. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile: Not only does it bring this material to a wider audience but, as Rabbi Singer noted on the SeforimChatter podcast, being forced to translate these concepts into plain English also prevents one from falling back on terminology that sometimes obscures more than it clarifies. Foundations and Concepts in Lomdus is a welcome and stimulating entry into a genre that we can hope will grow in popularity, with further contributions by Rabbi Singer and others inspired by his example.

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Delving further, one discovers that these mefarshim were only representative of the greater Geonic-Andalusian bet midrash, under whose aegis there operated an entire school of early scholars who devoted immense effort to this discipline. Many of their works, written in Arabic, have been lost to time. Yet, through surviving translations like Ibn Janach’s works, or the fragmentary remains of R. Saadia Gaon’s commentaries, we catch glimpses of the vast intellectual undertaking of these kadmonim.

Today, advances in comparative linguistics and archaeology have only deepened our understanding of the ancient world and its languages, making this study more relevant than ever. Yet, this undertaking appears to some tzaddikim as a har govo’ah—an imposing mountain (to paraphrase a famous Gemara).

Fortunately for these tzaddikim and other like-minded individuals, Mitchell First, who possesses the rare gift of distilling intricate topics into an accessible, engaging, and even humorous format, has dedicated extensive scholarly efforts in this field, and he has presented some of his recent studies on the parshiyos in the first two books of Tanach in this neat little volume.

Like his previous works, this volume covers a rather broad array of topics pertaining to the background and history of all things Hebrew, only this time they are arranged according to the weekly parshah. Some of the titles to these articles include: The root of the Word מבול, a Flood of Possibilities; What Color were those Lentils; John Lennon and the Root of ערב (Arov). In each article, First marshals all the tools of modern philology to shed light on the context and culture, and, most importantly, the etymology of the words of our holy Torah — always illuminating and often entertaining as well.

The following sampling, selected at random, from some of First’s latest offerings, should give the reader a sense of the depth and breadth of the insights contained in this volume:

- Long ago (at an event sponsored by an organization promoting Aliyah), 1 heard the following devar Torah. The land of Israel is called eretz hemdah in Birkat Ha-Mazon, based on the use of the phrase at Jeremiah 3.19, Zechariah 7:14 and Psalms 106:24. Let us assume that we would follow Midrash Ha-Gadol and Rambam and conclude that one has not violated lo tahmod unless one has come into possession of the object. This would imply that the desire alone to live in Israel does not make it eretz hemdah. One has to actually live there in order to bring this description to fruition!

- In the Jewish day schools that I went to in my youth, I was taught, starting at age four, that Hebrew had a twenty-two-letter alphabet. Throughout my life I have also been taught that we should try to look for connections between words that have the same three-letter root. Later in life, I heard from some knowledgeable friends that there were two different ayin letters in Arabic and that our Hebrew ayin was a merger of these two. It was only in my fifties that I came across the fundamental insight that I am sharing today: Hebrew has a “reduced alphabet” [...] What do I mean by a “reduced alphabet”? Based on the various Semitic languages, scholars try to determine what the original Semitic language was like. Early Arabic had 29 letters. The early Semitic language of Ugaritic had 27 letters. Based on this, scholars believe that the original Semitic language had either 27 or 29 letters. In our Hebrew alphabet, some of those letters have disappeared and in those cases two letters have coalesced into one. The letters that are coalesced ones are: ayin, het, shin, zayin, and tzade.

- In the context of our topic, I would like to mention an interesting phenomenon in some Haggadot. At the stage of the seder where we recite maror zeh (= this bitter thing) there are some Haggadot which have an illustration of a man pointing to his wife! (This is an allusion to Kohelet 7:26.) In some illustrations, the wife points back at him! For more on this subject, see the post at seforimblog.com of April 12, 2012, by Dan Rabinowitz: “Halakhah and Haggadah- Manuscript Illustrations and their Halakhic and Customary Significance.” (As pointed out there, that a practice is depicted in some Haggadah illustrations does not at all mean it was a widespread or accepted practice!)

It may be prudent to offer a gentle note of caution. The study of the Holy Tongue through the lens of peshat — the plain meaning of the text — can sometimes lead to interpretations that differ from traditional understandings. This can be unsettling for some readers, but it is by no means a modern phenomenon. Already in his introduction to Sefer Ha-Rikmah, R. Jonah Ibn Janach addressed similar concerns, defending his approach by pointing to the precedent set by the Geonic school, particularly R. Saadia Gaon and R. Shemuel b. Hofni.

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For the mature reader, it is important to distinguish between peshat and derash — the deeper, homiletic interpretations of Chazal. While Mitchell First’s analysis is consistently thought-provoking, he does not always explicitly indicate where his conclusions diverge from traditional rabbinic interpretations. Approaching his work with this awareness will only enhance the reader’s appreciation of both the brilliance of peshat and the enduring wisdom of Chazal.

All in all, I heartily recommend From Eden to Exodus for the intelligent student who is eager to unlock the linguistic treasures of the Torah and the Hebrew language. It is an easy read and will prove invaluable in enriching one’s appreciation of the Torah’s timeless wisdom.

Even when museums do acquire rare manuscripts, these precious objects often remain difficult to access - the majority of museum collections remain in storage due to lack of exhibition space, and even if the museum digitizes its books, many museums do not post the images online. A focus on objects rather than books means that only a very few most precious ones are put on display, and then only rarely. (Or they’re hard to find - a recent visit to the Israel Museum, home of some of the most remarkable manuscripts in the world, I almost missed the manuscript display, as it was hidden in a dark room behind another exhibition.)

There is another option, though, one made clear in The Nuremberg Mahzor: History Codicology Liturgy and Art, edited by Elisabeth Hollander. Private collectors David and Jemima Jeselsohn have consistently digitized the manuscripts that they’ve acquired, and made them available via the National Library of Israel’s online KTIV collection (the subject of the book, Dr. David and Jemima Jeselsohn Collection Ms. 9, is available digitally here) so everyone can experience and study them virtually. In some special cases, like with the Nuremberg Mahzor, they’ve gone a further step and asked important scholars in a broad array of fields to write articles on the manuscript, thus further sharing their precious objects with an interested public.

In a beautiful volume published by Magnes Press, the Jeselsohns generously share the manuscript and many different areas of scholarship around it: The volume begins with a study of the manuscript’s provenance - its movement across the centuries; the leaves that were removed and replaced, and its ultimate acquisition by the Jeselsohns. The volume includes segments on conservation and paleography, including a focus on materiality that isn’t often included in works of this kind.

The art historical and literary chapters in the book are excellent. Elisabeth Hollander gives an incredible overview of Ashkenazi piyyut due to the richness of the piyyutim in the mahzor - which contains the largest known collection of piyyutim in a single manuscript. Anna Nizza-Caplan’s chapter on the art in the manuscript highlights nuances a casual viewer may have missed (such as various background figures and designs - including in the gold leaf of the letters), while placing the manuscript within its context of medieval art. The chapter about the book’s conservation gives a rare peek behind the scenes into the care of a medieval manuscript (including a very cool box with a built-in cradle for safely interacting with the book!) Part of the story of the manuscripts includes a number of leaves that were cut out of it. The Jeselsohns were able to recover some, but not all of the leaves, and the detailed codicological review describes the few leaves that remain missing.

After I finished reading this monumental work, I felt like I “knew” this manuscript - after all, I’d spent hours with its facsimiles and scholarship. The book provides a wonderful use case of how one can center Jewish book collecting as “stewardship” rather than just ownership. I sincerely hope that the open, generous model set by the owners of the Nuremberg Mahzor will inspire many - both in the private and in the more public book world - to do the same.

Michelle Margolis is a co-Director of Footprints: Jewish Books Through Time and Place (footprints.ctl.columbia.edu) and the Librarian for Jewish Studies at Columbia University. She studies the history of the Jewish book in all of its formats, and serves on various advisory boards and working groups within Jewish Studies.

The second volume of Goldenshteyn’s memoir continues to captivate, brimming with the same dazzling color and detail that defined the first. The author’s fluid writing style, combined with his knack for capturing nuance and subtlety, makes this volume difficult to put down.

Picking up in 1873, the narrative follows Goldenshteyn as he secures his first position as a shochet in Slobodze, Ukraine. His time there is brief and marked by hardship before his journey leads him to Crimea. It is there that he raises his family and endures 34 years of trials and tribulations. This volume chronicles Goldenshteyn’s adult life through his emigration to Israel in 1913 and his harrowing experiences during the First World War. His memoir offers a vivid portrait of Jewish communal life, family relationships, religious beliefs, social hierarchies, and the complex interplay of politics and daily survival.

Goldenshteyn, self-assured and unwavering, appears to relish recounting his relentless battles against those he perceived as adversaries. And adversaries, in his telling, seemed to lurk behind every bush and around every corner. The entire narrative is structured around his struggles against the obstacles of life, often compounded by the supposed sinister dealings of communal leaders, with the ultimate chapter designated to demonstrate how, through it all, Goldenshteyn’s steadfast faith is rewarded with the manifestation of Hashem's justice against his enemies.

If Goldenshteyn's account stands as a testament to divine providence for those who act righteously, it also serves as a harsh indictment of the Jewish communal leadership in the towns where he lived. His portrayal of lay leaders as vain, petty, and self-serving raises the question: Could it really be so? Was every setback he faced truly the result of jealousy and vindictiveness?

Goldenshteyn himself leaves no room for doubt, firmly believing in the righteousness of his cause, and the justness of his actions. Still, it is a staggering number of greedy and manipulative villains that lie vanquished at the feet of our hero by the time his tale is done. In defense of Goldenshteyn, it must be noted that his self-assessment is corroborated by contemporary portrayals, including a newspaper article that was printed in his lifetime [reproduced in an appendix], and interviews the editor conducted with surviving members of the related families discussed in the memoir.

While Goldenshteyn’s narrative is undeniably compelling, it is regrettable that a writer of his observational skill and remarkable memory did not devote more attention to chronicling the customs, habits, and histories of the Jewish communities he encountered. This omission is particularly poignant regarding the Crimean Jewish communities, where he spent the majority of his adult life. Given the scarcity of historical literature on these communities, Goldenshteyn’s reflections would have been invaluable.

Goldenshteyn’s son, Refuel, partially addressed this gap with a dissertation he wrote on the subject, and relevant excerpts from it are cited by the editor. Still, one cannot help but lament the absence of Goldenshteyn’s personal and often witty reflections. His keen eye and engaging storytelling could have brought Crimean Jewry to life in a way no academic work could fully capture. This leaves the reader with a lingering sense of what might have been, had he turned his gaze from his adversaries to the vibrant cultural landscape around him.

Particularly worthy of celebration is the exceptional work of translator and presenter Michoel Rotenfeld. Once again, he has demonstrated meticulous dedication in tracking down every reference and verifying each detail. His comprehensive notes provide invaluable context, enhancing readers’ understanding of the narrative. Additionally, Rotenfeld’s inclusion of appendices featuring archival material from Goldenshteyn and his family, alongside contemporary portrayals, is especially commendable. His thoughtful treatment of the remainder of Goldenshteyn’s life and the accounts of his descendants adds a meaningful dimension to the memoir, connecting past and present in a poignant manner. This is yeoman’s work of the highest order and sets a gold standard for future presentations of memoir literature.

Purchase the second volume here and the first volume here.

Listen to the podcast episode here.

Errata:

p. 604:

“FIGURE 24. Left to right: Pinkhes-Dov Goldenshteyn’s second wife, Feyge…”

Should read “Right to left” as the description of Fayge that follows is clearly referring to the woman pictured on the right.

p. 628:

The item marked 14 in the illustration should properly be marked 12, as evident from the Key appended to the illustration.

p. 814:

The initials רדפ"ק should properly be opened as רב דפה קהילתנו.

p. 815 fn. 4:

“Isruel writes their surname of Goldenshteyn, which means “gold stone”, in Hebrew translation as Even-Zahav.”

It should be noted that Isruel only does this when referring to Refuel, but not when signing his own name at the end of the certification where he retains the original Goldenshteyn. It should be further noted that opening salutation does not address Refuel as a brother of Isruel and does not belie any prior association between the two. Apparently, the translation of Goldenshteyn to Even-Zahav was a small ruse designed to conceal that the certificant was a brother of the certifier, the knowledge of which might risk calling into question the veracity of the certification.

Long out of print and difficult to obtain, these works of great scholarship are now available in a beautifully produced format, making them a true treasure for readers and researchers alike.

Rabbi Dr. Isaac Halevi Herzog (1888–1959) was a towering figure in Jewish scholarship and leadership. Born in Lomza, Poland, he was the son of Miriam and Rabbi Joel Leib Herzog, who later served as a rabbi in Leeds and Paris. Demonstrating exceptional intellect from a young age, Rabbi Herzog became proficient in multiple languages, including ancient ones such as Sumerian and Akkadian, as well as classical Greek and Latin. His scholarly pursuits encompassed the Bible, Hebrew grammar, Talmud, and halachic literature.

In 1921, Rabbi Herzog was appointed as the first Chief Rabbi of Ireland, a position he held until 1936. During his tenure, he established the Mizrachi Federation of Great Britain and Ireland. In 1937, he became the Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Palestine, and later of Israel after its establishment in 1948, serving until his passing in 1959.

Rabbi Herzog's scholarly contributions are vast and varied. His doctoral dissertation on techelet (the ancient blue dye) is a seminal work in the field. With sustained renewed interest in the subject, scholars will be especially delighted to have this important work readily available to them. He also authored The Main Institutions of Jewish Law, a comprehensive analysis of Jewish legal principles. This work is noted both for its clarity and its depth, delighting talmidei chachamim and academic scholars alike. Additionally, his writings on the interplay between religion, democracy, and Jewish law in the State of Israel have been influential in shaping contemporary Jewish thought.

This comprehensive collection includes numerous works, some which have never before been available in English. Volume I features three major sections:

• Hebrew Porphyrology: Rabbi Herzog's doctoral dissertation on the subject of techelet, the ancient blue dye, which remains a seminal work in the field.

• Judaism: Law & Ethics: A series of essays addressing topics ranging from Jewish holidays to the interaction between Judaism and Hellenistic culture.

• The Main Institutions of Jewish Law: Rabbi Herzog's magnum opus that offers a detailed analysis of rabbinical law through the lens of modern jurisprudence.

Volume II introduces, for the first time in English, Rabbi Herzog's Constitution and Law in a Jewish State According to the Halakha, originally a three-volume Hebrew work. This monumental text explores vital questions surrounding the interplay of religion, democracy, and Jewish law in the State of Israel.

It should be noted that this collection, broad and comprehensive though it is, still does not encompass the complete literary and scholarly oeuvre of Rabbi Herzog. His multi-volume compendium of halachic responsa, for example, was not included in this collection, and the same goes for his Torat Ha-ohel on topics relating to Masechet Sanhedrin. This outstanding work of rabbinic scholarship, first published in 1948, earned its author wide acclaim from the generation’s greatest talmidei chachamim, including the Chazon Ish, whose warm letter of reception is included in later editions of the sefer. [Interested readers will certainly be impressed by the superlative praise heaped on the sefer and its author by the formidable (and highly critical) genius, Rabbi Chaim Zimmerman, in his review in Kerem, Vol. 1 No. 2 Av 5711.]

Understandably, these Hebrew Talmudic-heavy writings could not easily be rendered in English, and probably also lie beyond the scope of this excellent series, but that in no way mars the fact that The Collected Writings of Rabbi Herzog stand as a remarkable resource, enriching our understanding of Jewish thought and its relevance in both historical and contemporary contexts.

Kudos to the Library of the Jewish People, together with the editor of this beautiful set, Alexander Kaye, for adding another excellent feather in its well-feathered hat! Scholars, students, and interested readers alike will find these volumes to be an invaluable addition to their libraries.

Purchase the set here.

If one were to apply Eleanor Roosevelt's famous maxim to memoirs (“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people”), Mordecai's work might suggest itself to be the product of an average mind. In truth, however, this is more a diary than a memoir, and it is clear from its composition that it was only intended as such from its inception. Her narrative is largely preoccupied with the events of the war, which she recounts in meticulous detail, but if the devil is in the details, then this book is a devil’s paradise. While Mordecai refrains from delving deeply into her personal reflections, and shares little of her personal history with the reader, her observations paint a vivid picture of daily life for Southern civilians. The astute reader will discern an authentic perspective on the Jewish American experience in the antebellum South.​

Mordecai and her family identified strongly as patriotic Southerners while maintaining a cultural Jewish identity. Although she attended services and expressed pride in her heritage, she does not appear particularly observant. Her references to relatives who followed dietary laws in addition to being excellent southern gentlemen as being particularly praiseworthy of praise suggest a respectful acknowledgment of religious practice without personal adherence.

Her worldview was undeniably shaped by the prevailing attitudes of her time, and she held the deeply troubling, paternalistic views of African American slaves common among her contemporaries, referring to them invariably as indolent or uncouth. Yet, while she saw enslaved people as incapable of self-care without the supervision of their masters, she also exhibited kindness and compassion toward those within her household.​

For historians and general readers alike, Mordecai's diary serves as an excellent resource for understanding the everyday realities of the Civil War. Wherever possible, the dates and events she documents have been corroborated, highlighting the accuracy of her detailed account. The immersive quality of her writing ensures that readers will derive both enjoyment and insight from this invaluable volume.​

In sum, The Civil War Diary of Emma Mordecai is a significant contribution to American Jewish literature and Civil War historiography. It invites readers to reflect on the complex identities and experiences of Southern Jewry, making it a worthwhile addition to any collection of historical memoirs.

To submit a review or article please email info@seforimchatter.com

Eyal Meir Berkowitz's talent for explaining complex Mishnayot was recognized by rabbis and experts in the field. On December 7, 2023, Eyal fell in an IDF operation extracting the bodies of hostages abducted to Gaza. His family decided to cherish his memory by handing his work over to the National Library of Israel. Eyal Berkowitz studied for many years in the Bnei David Hesder Yeshiva in Eli. During his studies there, he joined a group studying the Mishnah. For many years, he wrote brief notes on almost every Mishnah passage. I am involved in researching diagrams drawn by Rishonim, and what resonated with me was that Eyal drew his own diagrams to illustrate the text. I was able to access Eyal's copy of Mishnayot which has been digitized by the NLI, and have analyzed some of the diagrams he drew, especially as compared with those of the Rambam in his Peirush HaMishnayot.

Eyal’s Mishnayot under the bibliographic record of הערות סביב ששה סדרי משנה בהוצאת "משנה סדורה" תשס"ז are available here^[i]

The following is a close look at the diagram presented in Eruvin 2:1, the famous Sugya of "פסי ביראות", a leniency which was instituted for עולי רגלים. We will study the diagram in the Peirush HaMishnayot of the Rambam and then look at the diagrams drawn by Eyal Berkowitz in his own Peirush HaMishnayot                                                                                                             

Our focus is on the first part of the Mishnah which describes two opinions on what is needed for this artificial fence around the well.

תלמוד בבלי מסכת עירובין פרק ב׳ משנה א׳

עוֹשִׂין פַּסִּין לַבֵּירָאוֹת אַרְבָּעָה דְיוּמְדִין, נִרְאִין כִּשְׁמֹנָה, דִּבְרֵי רַבִּי יְהוּדָה. רַבִּי מֵאִיר אוֹמֵר, שְׁמֹנָה, נִרְאִין כִּשְׁנֵים עָשָׂר, אַרְבָּעָה דְיוּמְדִין וְאַרְבָּעָה פְשׁוּטִין. גָּבְהָן עֲשָׂרָה טְפָחִים, וְרָחְבָּן שִׁשָּׁה, וְעָבְיָן כָּל שֶׁהוּא

One may arrange upright boards [פַּסִּין] around a well in Reshut HaRabim. It is sufficient if there are four double posts [דְיוּמְדִין] that look like eight single posts, i.e., four corner pieces, each comprised of two posts joined together at right angles; this is the opinion of Rav Yehuda. Rav Meir says: There must be eight posts that look like twelve.How so? There must be four double posts, one in each corner, with four plain posts, one between each pair of double posts. The height of the double posts must be at least ten Tefachim, their width must be six tefachim, and their thickness may be even a minimal amount.^[ii]

To review: The Chachamim said that if a well (which by nature is a Reshut HaYachid) is located in the Reshut HaRabim, a pseudo-fence could be set up, one which would make that area a Reshut HaYachid but still allow easy access. According to Rav Yehuda, this is done by setting up corner-posts at each of four corners. Each corner post would have two pieces of wood set at a right angle so that it would look as if there were four walls. Rav Meir says that it is not sufficient for there to be four corner-posts. There must also be four single pieces around each side. These form pseudo-walls which give the structure more of an appearance of a fenced in area. The height of the posts must be ten tefachim in order for them to constitute a separate Reshut. Their width must be six tefachim, which makes an Amah. Their thickness is not important.

In studying this Mishnah, one feels that a picture of the proposed “structure” would be helpful, keeping in mind that there are two cases here, one according to Rav Yehuda and one according to Rav Meier.

In setting up the scenario of “עוֹשִׂין פַּסִּין לַבֵּירָאוֹת”, the Rambam in his Peirush HaMishnayot includes the following picture. The source for the picture shown here is the highly regarded manuscript identified as Bodleian Library Ms. Pockocke 236 copied over by the scribe Solomon ben Samuel Halevi in 1233.^[iii]

The narrative part of the Rambam’s commentary (translated into Hebrew) which deals with the two opinions of the Halachic requirements for making this “imaginary” fence, is as follows:

עוֹשִׂין פַּסִּין לַבֵּירָאוֹת:
דיומדין מלה מורכבת מב' מלות דיו עמודין ודיו בלשון יוני שנים ע"כ פי' המלה שנים עמודין. וביראות קבוץ באר והוא באר מים הנובע. וזו היא צורתה

“The word “דיומדין” is a compound word consisting of two words “דיו עמודין” The word “דיו” in Greek means “two”, therefore the explanation of the word is “two posts”. And the word “ביראות” means “well spring” and it is a well of flowing water. And this is how it looks.”

The Rambam then illustrates the view of Rav Meir that not only do you need the double posts in each corner, you also need a single post (“פשׁוּט”) in the area between the double posts. The picture also informs us that each corner double post (“פס”) has to be six (“ששה”) Tefachim wide. You also see the well (“באר”) in the middle. The view of Rav Yehuda is included in this picture by just subtracting the single posts (“פְשׁוּטִין”). In explaining the scenario of the Mishnah, the Rambam uses words to explain the words “דיומדין” and “ביראות” and relies on his picture to do the rest. “וזו היא צורתה” and the picture that follows are an integral part of Rambam’s commentary.

Other Judeo Arabic manuscripts differed slightly but maintained the inclusion of the single posts (“פְשׁוּטִין”).^[iv]

Bodleian Library MS. Huntington 368 – 1200-1225

Sassoon 1126 -14^th century

The Rambam’s diagram successfully navigated the journey to print as evidenced by the Mishnayot printed by the Soncino family in Napoli 1492

Ms. Pockocke 236 – Fostat – 1233          

First Printed Mishnayot , Naples – 1492

During the next 220 years, although many printed versions of the Rambam’s Peirush HaMishnayot appeared, the diagram was not included. When one read the words of the Rambam וזו היא צורתה they were looking at a blank space

Bomberg, Venice 1522 – Back of Eiruvin^[v]

In 1715, in a Gemara printed in Amsterdam, the picture appeared but with much of the Rambam’s detail missing. Especially absent is Rav Meir’s Shita of the four single sided posts in the middle.

While we do not know for sure the source of the picture in the Amsterdam 1715 edition of the Talmud, the picture it included did follow the model of a number of Hebrew translated manuscripts of the Peirush HaMishnayot.^[vi]

Here is Hamburg Codex Hebrew 18 written in the year 1416.

The picture in the Amsterdam 1715 edition remained the standard picture and was included in Masechet Eruvin of the Vilna Shas (1881)

It appears that way in many modern editions, such as Wagschall (Moznaim) Mishnayot Zichron Chanoch, Jerusalem, 1999, and Mishnayot Vilna HaChadash Jerusalem 2009.

It is interesting to note that the picture in the Peirush of the Rambam in the Oz VeHadar Mishnayot, Jerusalem 2021, includes the single boards (“פְשׁוּטִין”, the view of Rav Meier)

but the picture in the Peirush HaMishnayot of the Rambam in the back of the Oz Vehadar Gemara, Jerusalem 2021, does not include the “פְשׁוּטִין”.

As you can see, Eyal Berkowitz drew two pictures pertaining to this Mishnah, one reflecting the view of Rav Yehuda, and one reflecting the view of Rav Meier.

The two opinions are concisely illustrated next to the appropriate words. This is but one example of how Eyal elucidated the text to arrive at a better understanding of the meaning.

תהא הנפש של איל מאיר בן שמעיה ברקוביץ׳ צרורה בצרור החיים

^[i] The bibliographic description continues as follows

פירוש והערות בגליונות ש"ס משנה כרך אחד.
המאייר, בוגר הישיבה הגבוהה "בני דוד" ביישוב עלי שבבנימין, שירת ביחידת מגלן ונפל בדרכו למשימת חילוץ גופות חטופים ברצועת עזה ביום כ"ד כסלו תשפ"ד, 7.12.23. הכרך נמסר לצילום בידי אשתו.

^[ii] Translation adapted from Rabbi Steinsaltz/Koren available on Sefaria

^[iii]

For background and analysis of the scribe of Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford Ms. Poc. 236”, please see the article by Dr Ezra Chwat entitled:

“Solomon b. Samuel Halevy, A Genizah Scribe in the Court of Maimonides”.

Dr Chwat concludes that “These elements combined, qualify Solomon’s copy as a prime text witness of Maimonides’ library.”

Note that we do not have the actual Ktav Yad of the Rambam on this Mishnah as the autograph copy available to us, NLI Ms. Heb. 4°5703, only begins with the 8^th Perek of Eruvin

It is available for viewing here

^[iv] An additional example of a Judeo Arabic manuscript which includes a complete rendition of the Rambam’s picture is Berlin Qu. 567a

^[v] Other editions of the Talmud which included the Peirush HaMishnayot of the Rambam but did not include this picture were: Giustiani Venice 1550, Basel 1580, Amsterdam Benveniste 1646, and Frankfurt an der Oder (Berman)1697

Editions of Mishnayot which included the Peirush of the Rambam but did not include the pictures were:

Giustiani Venice 1546

Sabionetta 1559

^[vi] Other Hebrew translations of Peirush HaMishnayot which have a picture which does not include the single sided posts in the middle (the opinion of Rav Meier) are:

Vatican ebr. 465 

Paris Ms. Hebrew 328 (written in 1399-1401)

There is one Hebrew translated manuscript which has a diagram similar to the one contained in Pockocke 236. It is a manuscript of the Meiri which includes the Peirush HaMishnayot of the Rambam, Parma 3552.

It is also possible that the editors of the Amsterdam 1715 edition generated the picture they did of their own accord, as they say clearly in the introduction that they included all pictures “לפי הבנת הפשט”

This scholarly work of history documents the rise and fall of a relatively-unknown Jewish community in the Medieval period — the Jews of Languedoc (in modern-day Southern France). That community, often associated and conflated with Provence (which was located to its immediate east), was already home to Jews for some time when the Muslim Almohads intensely persecuted Andalusian Jews from the Iberian Peninsula, and drove many of those Spanish Jews northwards to Languedoc around 1150s.

One of the important Spanish Jewish families who immigrated northward was the Ibn Tibbon family, led by Yehuda Ibn Tibbon (1120–1190). The Ibn Tibbon family introduced the long-standing Languedocian Jewish tradition of translation, as it was Yehuda and his son Shmuel Ibn Tibbon who rendered many Jewish works originally written in Judeo-Arabic into Hebrew, thus opening them up to a wider audience. These works include Rabbi Saadia Gaon's Emunot Ve'Deot, Bachya ibn Pakuda's Chovot HaLevavot, Yehuda HaLevi's Kuzari, Ibn Janach's works on Hebrew grammar and lexicon, and of course the works of Maimonides (especially his Guide for the Perplexed and commentary to the Mishnah). That tradition of translating the great sources into Hebrew also extended to works of science and philosophy of the Greco-Arabic stream, and led to a wide degree of acculturation in those fields on the part of the Jews in Languedoc.

Besides for the Ibn Tibbon family, other towering Torah scholars of Languedoc, Occitan, and Provence include such important figures as Zerachya HaLevi (Baal HaMaor), Manoach of Narbonne, Avraham of Posquières (Raabad), Eshtori HaParchi, Yaakov Anatoli, Avraham min HaHar (of Montpellier), Asher of Lunel, Moshe of Narbonne, Meir Meili, Kalonymus ben Kalonymus, Yedayah HaPenini, Levi ben Chaim, Ibn Kaspi, the Kimchi family, Gersonides, Dovid HaKochavi (Estelle), Nissim of Marseilles, and more.

Although Languedoc (and especially Montpellier) was an important flashpoint in the first Maimonidean controversy, by the second half of the 13^th century Languedoc had become a stronghold of Maimonideanism, with that philosophically-infused brand of Judaism dominating the community. One of the important characters discussed in this book is Rabbi Menachem ben Shlomo Meiri, who followed precisely that trend. Meiri lived in the Languedocian city of Perpignan, and penned one of the most comprehensive and in-depth commentaries of the Talmud to date. His steadfast devotion to Maimondeanism and proud follower of the Languedocian Halachic traditions make him an especially noteworthy figure in the history of the community. Besides his voluminous Talmudic commentary, Meiri also wrote Kiryat Sefer which defended various local Languedocian customs from claims by Spanish Jews that those traditions were Halachically illegitimate. In this book, the author attempts to piece together Meiri’s world view, especially how he viewed Christianity and other world religions from his so-called “moderate” Maimonidean perspective.

Several chapters of this book are devoted to telling the story of the controversy sparked by a rabbinic scholar named Abba Mari who attempted to curtail the study of philosophy in Jewish Languedoc. He worried that following the philosophical approach to Judaism could steer Jews away from tradition and led them to heresy. He was especially concerned with how Jewish philosophers were re-interpreting Biblical narratives as allegorical allusions to philosophical ideas, an approach which he felt could potentially upend the entirety of Jewish belief and practice.

Although Abba Mari himself personally subscribed to the Maimoinidean approach, he wanted to tone down the importance of philosophy and reserve its study to elite Jewish scholars who were already mature in their studies. He felt that the more overly-philosophical approach should not be openly preached in the synagogues and at family events, but should be an esoteric wisdom studied by only a few. In doing so, he appealed to rabbinic authorities outside of Languedoc to intervene. In particular, he turned to Rashba (Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Adret), a Catalonian scholar based in Barcelona who was widely recognized as the leader Jewish scholar of the time, to ban the study of philosophy for those younger than 25–30 years old.

This book details Abba Mari’s largely unsuccessful efforts and the blowback to his enlisting Rashba — who was actually Kabbalist, and thus suspect in the eyes of Maimonidean rationalists — for his cause. Other important characters in this tale include the Rosh (Rabbi Asher ben Yechiel), who was the exiled leading Ashkenazi authority that had spent some time in Languedoc before settling in the Castilian city of Toledo. Abba Mari compiled many letters and documents related to his crusade against the normalization of philosophy among Languedocian Jewry, many of which were published in the word Minchat Ken’aot.

The tragic end of the Languedocian community occurred in July 1306, when the French king Philip the Fair (1268–1314) expelled the Jews from his territories, thus sending the Jews of Narbonne, Beziers, Montpellier, Lunel and other Occitanian towns elsewhere. Jews were later readmitted and expelled again multiple times, but the Languedocian community was never the same and their unique brand of Judaism eventually fizzled out.

In conclusion, this book serves as a comprehensive exploration of the Languedocian Jewish community, unveiling its rich history through the lens of its key figures. The author's meticulous attention to detail is evident in the extensive endnotes provided after each chapter, ensuring transparency and scholarly rigor. Furthermore, the inclusion of maps enhances the reader's understanding of the geographical and cultural landscape in which this community thrived. Overall, this work not only sheds light on a lesser-known aspect of Jewish history but also invites readers to delve deeper into the complexities and legacy of the Languedocian Jewish community.

Purchase the book here.

I hold in my hands a magnificent and beautifully produced volume containing critical and elucidated editions of all the known writings of Rabbi Hasdai Crescas, a volume which is sure to help bring this very important Jewish sage to the attention of the public and to finally give him the kudos he so richly deserves.

R. Hasdai, perhaps better known to chovshei beis hamidrash as Rabbeinu Chisdai, Crescas (or “Krashkash”!), was a primary student of the Ran (Rabbenu Nissim of Gerona, author of important Talmudic commentaries), and the rebbi of R. Yoseph Albo, author of his own important work on Jewish belief, the Sefer ha-Ikkarim. The life of R. Hasdai (ca. 1340–1410) spanned a tumultuous period in Jewish history for the Jews of Spain, in which Jewish belief was constantly assailed from without by the heavy-handed Catholic Church, which wielded significant influence and power in Spain. Jewish belief was also undermined from within by an intellectual elite which, while claiming fealty to Maimonidean philosophy, had grown disenchanted with traditional Jewish values.

R. Hasdai, one of Spanish Jewry’s most important leaders during this period, played a significant role in responding to the intellectual challenges of his time, leaving his indelible mark on Jewish thought in the process.

He is perhaps best known for his philosophical work, Or Hashem (Light of the Lord), in which he critiques Aristotelian philosophy, particularly the ideas of Maimonides, and offers an original synthesis of Jewish tradition using various philosophical and scientific sources. This work, while notoriously a difficult read, combines sophisticated philosophical erudition with penetrating (and perhaps sometimes pilpulistic) analysis of rabbinic theological statements, to produce a strict-interpretationist hashkafah, one that was more rigorous than what he considered to be Maimonides’ loose-interpretationist and rationalistically flexible model.

As one example from many, reference can be made to R. Hasdai’s rejection of the Maimonidean doctrine of free-will, opting instead for complicated dichotomy whereby determinism reigns supreme in the realm of action, and choice is restricted primarily to matters of conscience and emotion. To R. Hasdai, this represents a more theologically sound position, and one that adheres to a stricter interpretation of rabbinic statements pertaining to God’s uncontested foreknowledge and control of earthly, even human, events (This discussion make up Part Five of Book Two, beginning on p. 918; compare also the translator’s introductory remarks, pp. 337-340).

Among later Spanish authors, we find some, such as R. Judah Lirma (active in Italy in the 16^th century) who, in his commentary to Avot (1:14), Lechem Yehuda, would take up R. Hasdai’s position, albeit with no reference being made in this work to Or Hashem. Despite the disparity in language—the latter work is written in a popular dialect which bears no resemblance to the heavy philosophical tone of Or Hashem—we may rightly assume that only after Rabbi Crescas had staked out this territory could later authors confidently identify with an opinion that Maimonides had so severely proscribed (see the latter’s Laws of Repentance, Chapter 5, and Introduction to Avot, Chapter 8).

Other of R. Hasdai’s polemical and exegetical works sought to combat the tenets of Catholicism which were being force-fed to the Jewish minority in the inquisitorial climate of Spain of the late Middle Ages, which would eventually escalate into widespread persecution, expulsion, and forced conversions. These works provided tactical support, as well as solace and relief for the beleaguered masses, while demonstrating R. Hasdai’s great courage and leadership abilities.

Students of rabbinic writings are well aware of the challenges of finding good editions of R. Hasdai’s works, and then of properly understanding them when they can be found. So much so, that the following paraphrase of Kohelet (7:24) suggests itself as wholly appropriate: That which is far off (רחק – רבי חסדאי קרשקש), and exceedingly deep, who can find it?

Thus, the Lifschitz Edition of the Collected Writings of Hasdai Crescas, curated under the pioneering initiative of the Library of the Jewish People and edited by Roslyn Weiss, is a magnificent addition to the scholarly world. This compact yet comprehensive volume, spanning nearly 1500 pages, presents Rabbi Crescas's seminal work, Or Hashem, alongside the entirety of his literary oeuvre, arranged in the order of their composition.

From the Epistle to the Jews of Avignon to Crescas's Refutation of Christian Principles and The Passover Sermon, culminating of course with R. Hasdai’s aforementioned magnum opus, this edition offers readers a chronological journey through the intellectual evolution of one of Judaism's most influential thinkers. By contextualizing these works within Rabbi Crescas's life and the historical backdrop of 13th and 14th-century Jewish thought, readers gain a deeper appreciation for the ideas presented.

The volume affords us meticulously prepared Hebrew texts—including, in the case of Or Hashem, the recently published critical edition by Rabbi Levin—while the English translation maintains a superb quality, ensuring accessibility without compromising the nuances of R. Hasdai's complex writing style. This attention to detail allows readers to engage with Rabbi Crescas's ideas with clarity and depth.

The introductions and notes add crucial background along with explanations for R. Hasdai’s sometimes obtuse language. Moreover, the volume opens with a timeline spanning from 1263 to 1492 CE, providing valuable context for understanding Rabbi Crescas's intellectual milieu, beginning with the famous Barcelona disputation of Nahmanides in 1263, which serves as a crucial backdrop for Rabbi Crescas's thought.

In summary, The Lifschitz Edition of the Collected Writings of Hasdai Crescas is a scholarly triumph, offering both seasoned scholars and curious readers alike an unparalleled opportunity to delve into the mind of one of Jewish philosophy's most profound thinkers. Readers who have longed to access the thought of this important personage can now do so easily and affordably. It is hoped that they take advantage of this wonderful contribution by the Library of the Jewish People, and help spread the luminous Light of the Lord, as brilliantly refracted by R. Hasdai, among all the Jewish people.

Purchase the new edition here.

Listen to an episode on Seforimchatter with R’ Daniel Levin discussing bis new edition of Ohr Hashem here.

To submit an essay for the substack please email seforimchatter@gmail.com.

Here is a suggested reading list of newer titles, pesach related books, and some older titles that make for a really good read. I tried   to highlight books that I enjoyed reading and that are highly readable.

1. Glikl: Memoirs 1691-1719. - The memoirs of a Jewish businesswoman from the late 17th-early 18th century are a must read and fascinating view into Jewish life of the time in Germany. This new translation with notes is the first time the full text has been published in English and it is a great book to read over pesach. Note: Perhaps skip chapter 1 to start as it’s Mussar she is relying to her family. Purchase: https://amzn.to/4aYpC8l

2. The Cairo Genizah and the Age of Discovery in Egypt: The History and Provenance of a Jewish Archive — Discusses the world of 19th century manuscript & artifact collectors and the origins of the Cairo Genizah discovery. Purchase: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1788319648/ref=cm_sw_r_as_gl_api_gl_i_W2TX75EVV4WJNVKRTW0D?linkCode=ml2&tag=seforimchat00-20

   SeforimChatter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

3. The Shochet: A Memoir of Jewish Life in Ukraine and Crimea: Part I. - Another memoir, this is an intimate look at life in Jewish Ukraine in the late 19th century. The author was a fabulous writer and the book is a pleasure to read. Also includes a lengthy introduction as well as copious notes by the editor. Purchase: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CGYXMB8R/ref=cm_sw_r_as_gl_api_gl_i_Z9W72JPZ7J0DA2BBMCVG?linkCode=ml2&tag=seforimchat00-20

4. First Impressions: Sefer Hasidim and Early Modern Hebrew Printing  — For those interested in the early era of print and book history. The book details early Hebrew printing, and how a “book” as we know it (namely, Sefer Chasidim) came to be in the form we have it today. I really enjoyed this one and highly recommend it. Purchase: https://amzn.to/441eh5e

5. The Sassoons: The Great Global Merchants and the Making of an Empire — This book details the rise and fall of a Jewish Iraqi family who move to India and establish a financial empire. Purchase: https://amzn.to/4aJvRxi

6. Diary of a Black Jewish Messiah: The Sixteenth-Century Journey of David Reubeni through Africa, the Middle East, and Europe. - A swashbuckling tale of fact — or fiction? — by David Reuveni, the purported brother of the king of some of the lost tribes, who appears in Europe in the mid 16yh century. Purchase: https://amzn.to/4cXVcVz

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7. For the Freedom of Zion: The Great Revolt of Jews against Romans, 66–74 CE — An in-depth look at the war against the Romans that resulted in the Churban Bais HaMikdash, this book is a highly recommended read. Purchase: https://amzn.to/3Jp16RW

8. Menasseh ben Israel: Rabbi of Amsterdam — A biography of a fascinating Rabbi who argued for the re-admittance of the Jews to England in the 17th century (amongst a fascinating life) this is a quick read about a tremendous figure who you may not have heard of. Purchase: https://amzn.to/3UkGUXD

9. A Vision of Yemen: The Travels of a European Orientalist and His Native Guide, A Translation of Hayyim Habshush's Travelogue. — Something a little different, this is a unique insiders view of 19th century Yemen and its Jewish community. Purchase:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1503607739/ref=cm_sw_r_as_gl_api_gl_i_4K2976ZXTBY2M6V66EBQ?linkCode=ml2&tag=seforimchat00-20

10. Journey to the Vanished City — This is a modern day Indiana Jones story of searching for the origins of an African tribe and their purported connection to the Ten Lost Tribes. I really enjoyed this one as well. Purchase: https://amzn.to/3xFF6zQ

11. Jewish Soldiers in the Civil War: The Union Army — For those interested in American history this book is a really great look at the Jewish soldiers who served in the Union army (the author is working on the sequel about Jewish soldiers in the Confederate army). Purchase: https://amzn.to/3Q2AOsw

12. The Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel: Exodus. — For those who enjoy Egyptology & archeology, this coffee table book expounds on these themes and they connect to the Torah. Purchase: https://amzn.to/4aUUC9e

13. Moda'ah L’Beis Yisrael on the Machine Matzah Controversy — This new edition contains all the original Tshuvos regarding the controversy + new, as well as a lengthy introduction to the topic by Rabbi Dr. Eliezer Brodt, and a lengthy article about Machine Matzah in Yerushalayim by R’ Yechiel Goldhaber. Purchase: https://www.ebay.com/itm/395333917008

14. Also, although not exactly Pesach reading material, my own newly edited edition of Toras Chaim on Maseches Avodas Zarah is available for purchase here: https://www.ebay.com/itm/375351866559.

    Includes a 15 page bio (with color scans of the originals), all the old Haskamos, the introduction of the Toras Chaim (d. 1632), and the introduction of his son & son-in-law. This all besides for the actual Sefer which has sources, notes, and many censored passages replaced for the 1st time since the 1734 edition.

For part II (paid) see here.

For part III (paid) see here.

For part IV (free) see here.

My thanks once again to Rabbi Moshe Maimon with his help in translating the autobiography.

Part V: CONTINUED

After graduating four classes of secular studies in the Talmud Torah I began to study in Gentile houses of higher study. There too I had the good fortune of coming into contact with noble people who did not distinguish between members of their own faith and people of different religious persuasion. From them I learned German, mathematics, geometry, geography, and physics.

I also studied the art of pedagogy from one of the clergyman whose job it was to teach educational methods at this college. His name was Johan Rudmass, may his name be remembered for good as he was a very pious individual. His manner of instruction came from the heart and it would instill the desire to learn and teach in all of his students. May the Almighty remember his goodness because it was he who taught me to the art of teaching successfully, and he made education for me into the highest form of of Godly worship there is.

Throughout all of this, I remained devoted to my Torah studies with my mentor Rabbi Trevis who persuaded the community heads to give us a yearly stipend for 5 years so that we could continue to study Torah.

Read more

CONTINUED

14. Haggada Shel Pesach Am Mordechai- Rav Mordechai Willig

15. Dr. Ari’s Haggadah

    

16. The Psychology and Personal Growth Haggadah

    

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17. Haggada Shel Pesach Mishnas Shem M’Shmuel

    

18. Haggada Shel Pesach Afikei Mayim

    

19. Haggadas HaMillim

    

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20. Haggada Shel Pesach Binyan Shalom

    

21. Haggada Shel Pesach Kibalti M’Rabosa

    

22. Haggada Shel Pesach Be’er Mayim Chaim

    

To be continued…

This year, I’ve continued the posting of the thread on X (although the situation there just doesn’t seem the same anymore) as well as posting to the SeforimChatter WhatsApp community chat. However, I thought there may be interest to post the list here on substack.

This list is meant to be just that: A list of the newly published Haggadah’s for informational purposes. I am not trying to recommend any particular one of these, I am merely showing a list of newly published Haggadah’s.

I hope to post a list of my personal Haggadah recommendations over the next few weeks, but for now, please let me know in the substack comments or via email if you like the concept of a post of new Seforim here on substack.

THE LIST:

1. Haggada Shel Pesach Mesikus Hatorah

2. Haggada Shel Pesach Yesamach Av

   

3. The Promise of Liberty: A Passover Haggadah

   

4. Great Jewish Haggadah

   

5. Kovetz Birchas Avraham: Inyanei Pesach & Haggada Shel Pesach

   

6. Haggada Shel Pesach Mishna Berurah (this was actually published last year but wasn’t available)

   

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7. Haggada Shel Pesach Nesaprah B’Tzion: Rav Benzion Mutzafi

   

8. Haggada Shel Pesach Shulchan Haseder

   

9. Haggada Shel Pesach Otzros HaChasidus: Oz V’Hodor

   

10. The Rav Moshe Sternbuch Haggadah: With Insights, Halachos, and Minhagim

    

11. Reb Reuven Feinstein on the Haggadah

    

12. Haggadah for Teens (and their grown-ups)

    

13. Haggada Shel Pesach: Seder Hacheirus

    

    To be continued…

Readers of this forum are undoubtedly familiar with the battle being waged over the long-lost mitzvah of Techeles, i.e., the substance used to dye the sky-blue string in the Tzitzis.  With the emergence some decades of the murex trunculus snail, and discovery (or rediscovery) of certain methods used in the extraction and production of its dye, the issue has been brought to the attention of the broader Jewish world. An entire literature has developed both in support of, and against, the identification of this particular murex creature as the Chilazon. An impressive array of sources has been marshalled on each side of the debate, each with well-known scholars and Rabbis in their corner. With an explicit Biblical command at stake, the issues implicated by the controversy cannot be overstated.^[1]

It was with some excitement, then, that I appeared to have stumbled upon an important source entirely overlooked by the combatants. In the introduction to the נהרדעא 2008 edition of the Talmud published by Moznaim/Vagshal, there is a special section devoted to Illustrations in the Talmud, and the history of how they became part of our printed Shas. (I became aware of this through the excellent series of articles published on Seforim Blog by Eli Genauer, dealing with the origins of various diagrams printed in the Talmud, Rashi and Tosfos.) In the opening paragraph, the publishers note how a good illustration can be crucial to properly understanding the text. To illustrate the point - illustrating the importance of illustrations, as it were - the publishers write that Rav Hai Gaon himself had drawn a picture of the Chilazon in his commentary to the Mishna in Kelim (12:1). See the attached photograph of the relevant paragraph.

My jaw dropped. Rav Hai Gaon had drawn a picture of the Chilazon? How could this picture not have been used as Exhibit A in the Techeles Wars? For as readers familiar with the literature well know, one of the chief issues in contention is the physical description of the Chilazon. Is it a fish? Is it a snail? Some kind of mollusk? Whatever Rav Hai Gaon had drawn, surely an illustration, from one of the greatest of the Gaonim, would make for an almost irrefutable proof.

I immediately headed to the standard “Yachin u’Boaz” edition of the Mishna on Taharos, where the commentary of R. Hai Gaon can be found printed in the back. The Mishna, of course, does indeed mention the Chilazon: שלשלת של סיטונות טמאה של בעלי בתים טהורה.  אמר רבי יוסי אימתיי בזמן שהוא מפתח אחד אבל אם היו שניים או שקשר חילזון בראשה טמאה.  “A chain used by wholesalers can become tameh, but one used by homeowners will remain tahor. R. Yose said, that is only where the homeowner’s chain has only one link; if it has two links, or it has a chilazon at the end, it can become tameh.” The word chilazon in question here is translated as a link at the end of the chain, either slug-shaped (Danby, Soncino) or snail-shaped (Blackman). (Blackman also suggests the alternate translation, in a footnote, “or screw.”) One can see why an illustration of this artifact would have been useful for identifying the chilazon. However, no illustration appears in R. Hai’s commentary there, nor is there any allusion to any.^[2]

I thus had to turn to the manuscripts. The commentary of R. Hai Gaon to Taharos was first published in Berlin in 1856, by R. Yehuda Rosenberg, in a two-volume set called קובץ מעשי ידי גאונים קדמונים. Another edition, updated with Genizah fragments, was later published in Berlin by the famed מקיצי נרדמים group in 1921.

In both of these editions, as in the standard editions, no reference is made to any illustration. Indeed, to make matters worse, it is evident that R. Hai Gaon actually did include illustrations in his commentary, many times, as can be seen by his frequent use of, after a description of something (as in, for example, 13:2) the words וזה צורתו (“it looks like this.”)

However, as noted by the editors in the 1921 edition, there are no surviving illustrations anywhere in the manuscript. (See the attached photos of the Shaarblatt front page, and commentary to Mishna 12:1 and Mishna 13:2 with the editor’s footnote 2.)

And moreover, even if there were illustrations at one point in time, there is no indication that R. Hai ever drew a picture specifically of the Chilazon.^[3]

I emailed Mois Navon of the P’til Tekhelet organization (mentioned earlier in footnote 1), asking if he knew anything about an illustration of the Chilazon from R. Hai Gaon. If anyone would know of such a dramatic piece of evidence, it would be Navon, an ordained Rabbi and one of the leaders of P’til Tekhelet (not to mention an inventor and computer engineer.) But he had never heard of any such illustration.

What about the Moznaim publishers themselves? Surely, they would know where they had found the illustration? Well…. they seemed to be difficult to reach. After numerous attempts to reach them by telephone, I finally got in touch with someone who identified himself as a son of the founder of the publishing house. He said I could email him the gist of my question, which he would then forward to the appropriate people. I did that, months ago, and heard back – nothing. I also faxed this query and emailed it to every possible contact I could find, and likewise heard back nothing.^[4]

As such, in the absence of any information to the contrary, I am forced to conclude the editors of Moznaim were in error. R. Hai Gaon never did illustrate the Chilazon. This is indeed something of a letdown, as this would-be piece of dispositive evidence proved to be illusory. On the plus side though, this enables both sides to continue the debate, as befits a true מחלקת לשם שמים, in a manner designed להגדיל תורה ולהאדירה.

* Mr. Farkas, an attorney, received his rabbinic ordination from Ner Israel Rabbinical College in 1999. He lives with his family in Cleveland, Ohio. 

^[1] Good English-language discussions of the topic, both for and against the murex trunculus identification, can be found in numerous popular Torah journals and websites. The P’til Tekhelet organization, which has done more than any other to promote and produce tzitzis with murex techeles, maintains a large library of educational resources on its website. This brief note makes no attempt to proselytize in any direction, and will remain scrupulously bipartisan.

^[2] Artscroll, cleverly, in both its older and new series of Mishna translation, only transliterates the word and does not translate it, even in the footnotes. It might be noted that even its older edition of Kelim only appeared in 2010, much later than the rest of its Mishna series, and well after the Techeles wars had begun.

^[3] The editor of the 1921 edition, R. Yaakov Nachum Epstein, argued that the work was not the product of R. Hai Gaon, but was actually a composite work of many Gaonim. However, it is still known in the standard editions as the commentary of R. Hai. 

^[4] I remind the reader this note was written in 2018; I have not made any further attempt to make contact.