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Paideia Academic Conference Hässelby Slott 23.05.2004 Stories Ruth Anna Putnam Jewish culture is text centered. One could have said, Jewish culture is God centered or,

Jewish culture is law centered. Each of these adjectives points to something very

important, but we are asked, in this conference, to focus on texts, on the roles – note the

plural – that texts play in our culture or so I have understood our task. I have chosen to

focus on one small subset of our vast and varied literature, namely what I shall call

stories, and on one role that some stories play.

Stories are narratives but not all narratives are stories in my limited sense. This is partly a

matter of length, but more importantly a matter of focus. Thus we speak of the Joseph

story but not of the Moses story. Although the telling of the Joseph story is interrupted by

the telling of the story of Judah and Tamar, even that interruption can be understood as

contributing to our understanding of the Joseph story. Thus there exists a continuous

series of verses in Genesis that together are about Joseph, verses that begin with Joseph

as an adolescent and end with his death. About this story one can then ask, what is its

point? That question may be answered by seeing the whole Joseph story as an episode in

a larger story – the story of the Israelites – or, perhaps I should say as a prologue, or part

of the prologue, to that story. But it can also be read as a self-contained story. So taken, it

seems to me to be a morality tale. Its actors, both major and minor, display various

virtues and vices, and the ages thereof. Because it is a relatively long story it extols more

than one virtue, warns against more than one vice.

In contrast, there is no Moses story, although there are various shorter stories about

Moses, for example, the story of his birth and rescue by pharaoh’s daughter.

Moreover, one could imagine writing a Moses novel based on the information provided

in the Bible, as Thomas Mann wrote a novel about Joseph and his brothers. But the last

four books of the Torah, although they tell of the birth of Moses early on and end by

telling of his death, are not “The Moses story”. If one wants to think of those four books

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as a story, one has to think of them as the story of the Israelites, the story of how a rabble

of liberated slaves became an irresistible fighting army, or, from a different perspective,

how the enslaved descendents of Jacob became a holy people. To be sure, Moses plays a

major role in this story, but it is not his story. But I digress, nothing I want to say hangs

on whether there is or is not a Moses story, or on whether or not one might read the

Chumash as a story.

Stories are aggadot, but not all stories are aggadot; some stories are found in the Bible

itself. Conversely, aggadah refers also to writings (should one say tellings?) that are not

stories. Therefor, I shall speak of stories.

Stories in my sense are self-contained, though their significance may well depend on the

wider context in which they appear. This dependence on context, as I hope to illustrate,

means that the same story may lend itself to different interpretations depending on what

is taken as its context. A story has a beginning, a middle and an end; a story is about

someone or some group of people. More importantly, a story makes a point.

According to its different interpretations, the same story may make different points.

Finally, as far as making its point is concerned, it does not matter whether a story is

literally true or made up in order to make a point.

When asked to explain how talking about stories related to the topic of this conference, I

wrote in what I can now regard only as a moment of hubris, “Stories turn a legal code

into living morality (culture).” A moment of hubris because, on the one hand, different

stories do different things, they do not all turn a legal code into living morality. On the

other hand, this is the more serious problem, my formulation suggests a dichotomy

between Halakhah – Jewish law – and morality. There are, of course, many interesting

questions to raise concerning relations between Halakhah and morality, as there are

concerning relations between any legal code and morality, or again concerning relations

between divine will and judgment on the one hand and morality on the other. There are

stories that are relevant to these questions, but I do not intend to raise any of these

questions here; thus, I should not have said what I said. And, indeed, the title of my paper

is simply “Stories”.

However, I do believe that stories play an indispensable role in teaching and learning

how to lead a moral life, which is not to deny the importance or rules. In any case,

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whatever some philosophers may say, we – in particular we Jews, but anyone living in

any kind of society – have laws, rules and commandments by which we are to live.

Laws, rules or commandments are more or less abstract; to apply them to concrete

situations requires interpretation. While there may be hermeneutic principles to which

one might appeal, those principles need themselves interpretation; thus the chain of rules

must come to a stop. Ultimately one must use, as philosophers as diverse as Kant and

Wittgenstein have pointed out, one’s own good sense. That good sense is honed by

stories. The great moral philosophers understood, I think, the importance of stories. Even

Kant, in the Groundwork for a Metaphysics of Morals, for all his emphasis on universal

moral laws, provided illustrations of his principles. We raise our children by giving them

some rules, by being exemplars, and by explaining in particular cases why the child (or

whoever the relevant actor may be) acted well or badly. Finally, in law we have both

statutes and case law. Thus stories, or story-like texts, seem to be important. What I want

to do then in this talk is two-fold: First, I want to show that our Sages appreciated the

importance of stories, that they recognized that stories enable us to “live by them”

(Leviticus 18:5) that is, by the laws and statutes that make up Halakhah. Secondly, I want

to offer some examples of stories that do just that.

An appreciation of stories is expressed, I think, in Song of Songs Rabbah, where we read,

“Do not let the parable appear of little worth to you. Through a parable a man can fathom

words of Torah.” The midrashist then illustrates his own saying by this parable,

“Consider the king who has lost a gold coin or a precious pearl in his house. May he not

find it by the light of a wick worth no more than in issar.” 1 The parable recognizes that

what makes us a distinct civilization, or culture, is the unique set of laws by which we try

to live. In that sense the Halakhah is our most precious, because our most defining,

cultural possession. But, as the parable points out, the Halakhah, or more precisely some

particular law (one gold coin; surely a king has more than one!) may become obscure or

“lost”, and something much more modest – a mere story – may be needed to bring it to

light.

“Consider a king…” Many parables concern a king, and generally the king stands for, is

likened to God. So, we read in Agnon’s Days of Awe, quoting from Pesikhta Rabbati,

1 Sefer Ha-Aggadah, page 3

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“Another interpretation: ‘Return, O Isreal, unto the Lord thy God.’ A king’s son was at a

distance of a hundred days’ journey from his father. Said his friends to him, ‘Return to

your father.’ He said to them, ‘I cannot.’ His father sent to him and said, ‘Go as far as

you are able, and I shall come the rest of the way to you.’ Thus, the Holy One, blessed be

He, said to Israel (Malaki 3:7): ‘Return unto Me, and I will return unto you’”

Notice, by the way, how this story illustrates the claim made earlier, “Through a parable a

man can fathom words of Torah.” For this parable enables persons overwhelmed by the

sense of their own inadequacy – the son cannot return because the distance is too great –

to understand that “return onto Me” does not require more of them than they are able to

do. Making the attempt will not be in vain because “I shall come the rest of the way to

you.”

In this parable it is clear that the king represents God. But, if so, what about the king who

lost a gold coin? Surely, He Holy One, blessed be He, does not ever fail to understand

His own Torah? Indeed in other stories comparing Gemara to gold or precious stones and

Aggadah to small change or to sundry notions, we hear about merchants rather than

kings. Thus, “Two men come into a city – one with gold bars and the other with small

change. The man with gold bars cannot use it to pay for his daily needs (and may starve

to death), while the man with small change can easily spend it and keep alive.”2 So why

does the Song of Songs Rabbah speak of a king? And, a very different question, what are

we to make of the suggestion that the merchant who has only gold bars will starve? I

shall return to the second question later.

For now let us consider the king who lost one gold coin; how can that king be likened to

the ruler of the universe? And if not, to whom is he likened? Let us try and indirect

approach. Ephraim E. Urbach wrote in his monumental The Halakha: Its Sources and

Development, “…it cannot be doubted that the laws and commandments as they are

formulated in the Torah presuppose – implicitly or explicitly – that not all the

information necessary for their observance has been stated and that they require

interpretation and supplementation.”3 If so, we may liken the lost gold coin not to the

Halakhah in its entirety but to and interpretation that is needed. Perhaps the emphasis

2 Sefer Ha-Aggadah, p. 5 3 E.E. Urbach, p. 3

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should be put not on the gold coin being lost but on the finding of the gold coin by means

of the light of a wick. We cannot say that the ruler of the universe does not know, or has

forgotten, a law; we can say that He chooses to reveal some laws later than others. Or we

might say that He has given us reason – the wick worth an issar – by which to interpret

and supplement the laws that He has given us explicitly. This last suggests an answer to

my question. We may understand the king to represent not God but the legal authority of

the time, “the priests, the Levites and the judge who will be in those days,” to whom one

is ordered to turn when the need for a judgment arises (Deuteronomy 17:9). As a king has

a treasure house full of gold coins, so the “priests, the Levites and the judge” have the

Halakhah. Yet at a particular moment they need an interpretation, which they will find by

means of a story.

Urbach points out that the process of interpretation and supplementation of Halakhah

begins in the Torah itself. He cites four cases, but I shall deal with just one of them,

namely the case of the daughters of Zelophehad. As you will recall the daughters of

Zelophehad appear before Moses, Eliezer the Priest, the princes and all the people; they

explain that their father died leaving no son, and they ask to be given property among

their tribe and clan. This story raises a number of questions. First, why are we given the

names of all the daughters and the genealogy of Zelophehad all the way back to Joseph?

It is as if the Torah itself by its manner of telling the story responds to part of the

daughters’ plea, namely, “Why should the name of our father be done away with from

among his family because he had no son?” (Numbers 27:4) A second and third question

arise. Why are we told this incident? And why exactly at his place? The incident is

recounted immediately after the census of all the men of a fighting age and, separately, of

all the Levites. After counting the former, Moses is commanded, “Unto these the land

shall be divided for and inheritance according to the number of names” (Numbers

26:53). There are some additional instructions, but nothing is said about inheritance from

one generation to another. However the use of the word “inheritance” (nahalot) indicates

that the land allocated will be passed on as an inheritance; it will not revert back to some

form of common or national ownership. In other words, the daughters of Zelophehad

want to be included in the division of the land as if they were sons of their father, who

died in the wilderness, as did all the fathers of that generation. The daughters would be

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left out of that division of the land because they are not men of fighting age, hence they

have not been counted. They object because they have no brothers; because they have no

brothers their fathers share will be so-to-speak dispersed among the members of their

tribe. Now from a 21st century feminist point of view one might say, “What difference

does it make that these women had no brothers? Should not all women be counted along

with the men?” But that question, or objection, is anachronistic, so I shall not pursue it.

After women have made their plea, Moses seeks God’s advice, and God says that the

daughters of Zelophehad are correct in their contention, that they are to be given “an

inheritance among their father’s brethren,” (Numbers 27:7) and then He continues, “And

thou shalt speak to the children of Israel saying, ‘If a man die and have no son, then ye

shall cause his inheritance to pass to his daughter. And if he has no daughter, then…’”

(Numbers 27:8-9). There follows a longish list of provisions. In other words, the

complaint of the daughters of Zelophehad prompts not only their inclusion in the division

of the land but a general provision that daughters shall inherit if there is no son. In fact, it

prompts the complete inheritance code (which leaves unsaid, but clearly understood, that

if there are sons, the sons inherit). Urbach points out that “speak to the children of Israel”

was taken by later commentators as indicating a shift from a judgment in the particular

case – “the daughters speak right” – to general legislation – “when a man dies…” The

story leads to the legislation, the wick worth mere pennies helps to find the gold coin.

But not all legislation is introduced by a story; why is this legislation so introduced? Or,

although legislation concerning how the Priest is to approach the Holy of Holies is

revealed after the death of Nadav and Abihu and may be taken to be God’s response to

this tragic event, why is it not mentioned by Urbach as an example of “interpretation and

supplementation”? I surmise that the answer to the latter question is that the legislation

concerning the priests is not prompted by an explicit inquiry by Moses.

I do not know why the legislation concerning inheritance is introduced by a story, but the

commentators answer a closely related question, namely, why is the story told here, that

is to say right after the conclusion of the census. They note that after the conclusion of the

census, we read the following verses. “These are they that were numbered by Moses and

Eleazar the priest…But among these there was not a man of them that were numbered by

Moses and Aaron the priest, who numbered the children of Israel in the wilderness of

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Sinai…there was not a man left of them, save Caleb the son of Jephune, and Joshua the

son on Nun.” (Numbers 26:63-65). The commentators pick up on the phrase “not a man.”

Thus Rashi writes, “But against the women there was not decreed the decree of the spies,

for they cherished the Land. The men said (Numbers 14:4): ‘Let us make a captain, and

let us return to Egypt,’ and the women said (Numbers 27:4): ‘Give unto us a possession.’

Therefore was the section of the daughters of Zelophehad adjoined here.”4 The midrash

uses the story of the daughters of Zelophehad not to speak of laws of inheritance but to

extol the virtues of the daughters of Israel. Once the story has been told, the laws of

inheritance follow as a matter of course.

Stories may motivate us to observe a particular mitzvah or set of mitzvoth. Thus: “Rabbi

Ze’ira said: This scroll (of Ruth) tells us nothing either of cleanliness or of uncleanliness,

either of prohibition or of permission. For what purpose then was it written? To teach

how great are the rewards of those who do deeds of kindness.” (Ruth Rabba 2:14)

In fact, I am inclined to say that by modeling a variety of acts of loving kindness, this

story teaches both how to love our neighbor and how to love the stranger in our midst.

Earlier I wondered what we could make of the merchant who has gold bars but starves to

death. How are we to understand that? It cannot mean that it is deadly to try to live by the

Halakhah. My puzzle is due to the fact that I took the parable out of its larger context.

Here it is in full, as given in Sefer Ha-Aggadah (page 5)

The verse usually read, “The rich man is wise in his own eyes; but the poor man that has

understanding searches him through” (Proverbs 28:11), R. Samuel son of R. Yose son of

R. Bun read differently, taking it to imply: The man wise in comprehension of Gemara

may in his own eyes appear to be rich; but he who understands Aggadah may, through

his small change, outdo him.” (R. Samuel’s reading of the verse can be illustrated by)

the parable of two men who come into a city – one with gold bars and the other with

small change. The man with gold bars cannot use them to pay for his daily needs (and

may starve to death), while the man with small change can easily spend it and keep

alive.”

4 Rashi on Numbers 26:64

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Possessing gold bars is here equated not to living by the Law but to understanding

Gemara, that is the arguments of our Sages about the Law. That presupposes the study of

Gemara. If so, our story may be understood to say that one cannot live by the study of

Gemara alone. Yet do we not recite every Shabbat morning that “the study of Torah is

equivalent to them all”5, where “all” refers to a long list of mitzvoth, many of which are,

incidentally, acts of loving kindness? Does that not suggest that the study of Gemara is

enough? Perhaps we are to understand that the study of Torah is more inclusive than the

study of Gemara, that it includes the study of Aggadot as well. No doubt this is so, but I

am not satisfied. We need another wick worth an issar, another story.

The story in question is found in the Babylonian Talmud, and I shall follow the analysis

offered by Jeffrey L. Rubinstein in his Talmudic Stories. It is also one of the stories

Moshe Halbertal taught us6 a few years ago; it is rather long, so I shall present only the

part that is relevant to our present concern. The Romans wanted to kill Rabbi Shimon bar

Yohai. So he and his son Eleazar hid in a cave for 13 years. They sat up to their necks in

sand and studied all day. They got dressed only to pray. When they were informed by

Elijah that the emperor had died and the decree was annulled – and now I quote, “They

went out and saw men plowing and sowing. They said, ‘They forsake eternal life and busy

themselves with temporal life!’ Everywhere they turned their eyes was immediately

burned. A heavenly voice went out and said to them, ‘Did you go out to destroy my

world? Return to your cave.’” After twelve months a heavenly voice tells them to leave

the cave. Apparently Rabbi Eleazar has learned nothing, he still smites those he considers

sinners, but Rabbi Shimon has learned; he heals those that Rabbi Eleazar smites. Now I

quote again, “They saw a certain old man who was holding two bunches of myrtle

running at twilight. They said to him, ‘Why do you need these?’ He said to them, ‘To

honor the Sabbath.’ (They said) ‘Would not one suffice for you?’ He said, ‘One for

Remember (the Sabbath)7 and one for Observe (the Sabbath)8.’ Rabbi Shimon said to his

son, ‘See how dear is a commandment to Israel.’ Their minds were set at rest.”9

5 Part of the Shabbat liturgy 6 At the opening conference of Paideia in 2001 7 Exodus 20:8 8 Deuteronomy 5:12 9 Rubinstein, pp 106-107

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I have told the middle of a longer story. We learn in the beginning how Rabbi Shimon

enrages the Romans, and we learn at the end of some of his activities after he returns to

the everyday world. But for my purposes, to understand the parable of the two merchants,

one with the gold bars, the other with the small change, we need only this central portion.

The merchant with the gold bars, we already know, does not represent a person who

observes the commandment joyously or even beyond what is strictly required, as does the

old men with the myrtles. Rather this merchant represents someone who observes

exclusively the command to study (or perhaps the command to pray), as did Rabbi

Shimon and Rabbi Eleazar while they were in the cave. Such a person would have to be

fed by a miracle, as were Rabbi Shimon and Rabbi Eleazar. But we are not supposed to

count on being saved by a miracle. In any case, Rabbi Shimon’s and Rabbi Eleazar’s total

devotion to study made them unfit to live in the world. They burned up the world in anger

because people in the world were providing for their bodily needs (they were plowing

and sowing) and not counting on a miracle! So, they were sent back to the cave. But their

second dwelling in the cave has a different meaning from the first. For thirteen years, the

cave was their refuge; for twelve months the cave is their prison – their place of

punishment. They themselves say at the end of twelve months, “The sentence of the

wicked in hell is twelve months,” acknowledging that they sinned. According to

Rubinstein even during the first thirteen years they were supposed to learn that the views

of Rabbi Shimon that provoked the anger of the Romans were too extreme. Rubinstein

writes, “The purpose of that sojourn (the first sojourn in the cave) was not only to

preserve their lives and study Torah, but to moderate their extreme views. The second

stint then serves not only to expiate their sin and preserve the lives of others, but to teach

them that complete disengagement from the world is not desired by God, despite the

possibility of incessant Torah study.”10

In terms of our parable, there is nothing wrong with gold bars or having gold bars,

nothing wrong with Torah study, what is wrong is having only gold bars, engaging only

in Torah study. This interpretation is confirmed by the saying of Rabban Gamliel son of

Judah HaNasi, who said, “An excellent thing is the study of Torah combined with some

10 Rubinstein, p. 115

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worldly occupation, for the labor demanded by them both makes sin to be forgotten. All

study of the Torah without work must in the end be futile and become the cause of sin.”11

With this in mind, let us go back to the Mishnah that says of Torah study that it is

equivalent to a carefully enumerated list of mitzvoth. Here is how it begins. “In the

fulfillment of the following mitzvoth, no fixed measure is imposed: leaving the corner of

the field for the poor, the gift of first fruits, the pilgrimage offering at the sanctuary on

the three festivals, deeds of loving kindness and the study of the Torah.” Notice that one

could not leave the corners of one’s field unless one had first plowed and sowed and later

was harvesting, that one could not have any first fruits to bring unless one was tending

one’s fruit trees, and so on. There is a second list of mitzvoth, concerning the fulfillment

of these it is said that one enjoys their fruits in this life while the principal remains for all

eternity. The list is again an interesting mix, “honoring one’s father and mother,

performing deeds of loving kindness, attending the house of study morning and evening,

hospitality to wayfarers, visiting the sick, dowering the bride, attending the dead to the

grave, devotion in prayer, and the making of peace between man and his fellow.” This is

the list that concludes with the words, “but the study of Torah is equivalent to them all.”

Equivalent in the fruits we enjoy in this life and the principal laid up for all eternity?

Equivalent in that no fixed measure is imposed? Yes and Yes. But can the study of Torah

be substituted for these other mitzvoth? No. And notice that in the second list as in the

first, there are mitzvoth that can be fulfilled only if one has worked to acquire the

necessities of life, namely, hospitality to the wayfarer and dowering the bride. Moreover,

visiting the sick and honoring one’s parents may also require some worldly goods. Yet

we are also commanded to study and to pray. While one may be tempted to sum up the

lesson of the story of Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai and his son as “everything in

moderation,” I think that this would be a mistake. The point of stories, as I see it, is not to

give us more principles but the help us live by the principles we already have.

Hanina Ben-Menachem in a recent paper (“Some introductory remarks on Genesis

Rabbah and the law”) refers to what I call stories as “hypothetical precedents” and

suggests that “At least three different relations can obtain between the said precedents

and rules: (1) the precedent may narrate the origin of the rule, or put forward a legal

11 Pirkei Avot 2:2

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foundation for it; (2) the precedent may illustrate the application of the rule, and thus

demarcate its limits; (3) the precedent may challenge the rule.” It seems to me that the

story of the daughters of Zelophehad provides an example of the first type of relationship.

The story of Rabbi Shimon ben Yochai and his son may be taken as an example of the

second type, not as challenging the often repeated injunction to study Torah but to

demarcate its limits.

What then might we take to be an example of the third type? It happens that Ben-

Menachem uses a rule and story that I have thought about in a different context. Here is

the rule as stated in Genesis Rabbah 94, “If a company of people are threatened by

heathens, ‘Surrender one of you and we will kill him, and if not we will kill all of you,’

they should all be killed and not surrender one soul of Israel. But if they specified one

particular person, as in the case of Sheba the son of Bichri, they should surrender him and

should not all be killed.” The first part of the rule is quite clear, but the second part is

quite problematic. Sheba ben Bichri was not demanded by heathens, he was demanded by

King David because he (Sheba) had rebelled against David. Moreover, the people in the

city did not hand him over alive; they beheaded him themselves, and then handed over

his head. The case, it seems to me, does not exemplify the rule it is adduced to illustrate.

Be that as it may, the case of interest to Ben-Menachem is the case of Ulla the son of

Kosher, who was indeed wanted by the Romans, i.e. by heathens. Ulla fled to Lydda and

sought refuge with Rabbi Joshua ben Levi. The latter persuaded Ulla to surrender to the

Romans that is to act in the spirit of the second part of the rule. I shall now quote the

midrash, “Elija used to speak with him (Rabbi Joshua), but when he acted thus, the

ceased to visit him. He fasted thirty days, after which he came to him, and asked him,

‘Why did you absent yourself?’ ‘Am I then the companion of informers?’ he retorted.

‘But is this not a mathnita12, “If a company of people…” etc’ ‘And is that a teaching for

the pious?’ he retorted. ‘This should have been done through others and not through

you.’

Ben-Menachem points out that the last sentence, “This should have been done through

others and not through you” is not found in the parallel passage in the Jerusalem Talmud,

12 a teaching from a Beraita (contemporary source to a Mishna)

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and appears to be a later addition. If one ignores this tradition, Ben-Menachem points out,

“Thus, the jurisprudential policy reflected in this Midrash seems to be a two-tiered

approach to the law – the rule should remain on the books, but de facto should not serve

as a basis for judicial decisions.” For Ben-Menachem the point of such internal

challenges of the law is to provoke “active engagement in critical evaluation of the law,

and as such has epistemic and educational value, in that it necessitates ongoing

participation in study of the law, and fosters sensitivity to alternative understandings.”

Since I am not a professor of law, I want to look at this story from a slightly different

perspective. I became familiar with the story of Ulla bar Kosher some years ago and in a

different context. In that context I asked myself why it is prohibited to hand one Jew out

of then to a murderous enemy in order to save the lives of the other nine. It seemed to me

then, and still seems to me now, that to do that would be to collaborate in the crime, to

undermine all possibilities of mutual trust, to destroy the community. The case of Sheba

ben Bichri makes sense on this interpretation. Since he had rebelled against the Jewish

King David (not against some heathen conqueror), he had already threatened the

community, had put himself outside the community. No Jewish community is obliged to

risk its survival for the sake of someone who himself attacks that very community.

With this understanding let us consider again the story of Ulla bar Kosher and Rabbi

Joshua ben Levi. The Rabbi persuades Ulla to give himself up and thus save the city. But

it is made clear in the rest of the story that the Rabbi did not act well. Why didn’t he? We

are not told whether the deed committed by Ulla was a capital crime only in the eyes of

the Roman authorities or also according to Jewish law. If his crime was a crime only by

Roman law, then his case was not like that of Sheba ben Bichri, he did not in any sense

attempt to destroy the Jewish community. The fact that he allowed himself to be

persuaded to give himself up to certain execution in order to save the city suggests to me

that he did not transgress any Jewish law. If so, one can well understand that Rabbi

Joshua’s conscience would be troubled.

If, on the other hand, Ulla bar Kosher committed a capital crime also in Jewish eyes, then

by that very act the threatened the Jewish community from within and brought the

external threat of the Romans upon it. In this case Rabbi Joshua’s appeal to the Mishna

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seems to be entirely legitimate. Yet the story seems to call into question any appeal to the

case of Sheba ben Bichri.

I want to conclude by returning to the first case, the case where Ulla bar Kosher is

innocent by Jewish law. Indeed, perhaps his only crime was being a Jew. For most of our

history from the time of the writing of Midrash Rabbah most Jews have lived in more or

less hostile surroundings. The central point to be made is, I believe, that Jews are not to

betray their fellow Jews to hostile non-Jewish authorities. However, the second part of

the rule – if he is asked for by name – allows us to think about a situation that has arisen

since there is again a State of Israel. I am thinking of the fact that from time to time a Jew

will commit a crime in some other country and then flee to Israel. I do not know what

current Israeli law has to say about such cases, but surely they deserve to be thought

upon.