Introduction
Ever since Leopold Zunz inaugurated the critical study of rabbinic literature in 1818, scholars of the school of midrash known as Tanhuma-Yelammedenu (TY) have given priority to analyzing questions of textual history, dating, aesthetics, form-critical issues, and the literary qualities of these texts.Footnote 1 This scholarship has focused on questions of form rather than content; for the most part, the distinctive ideas of these texts, their values and theologies, have yet to be explored. In an article devoted to form-literary issues in aggadah, Yonah Fraenkel argues that “indeed there were also changes in the [Tanhuma's] ideas, like their ethical and social values and their overall world view . . . these types of issues need further research.”Footnote 2 Unfortunately, very few scholars have responded to Fraenkel's call.Footnote 3 In fact, two excellent scholarly works on rabbinic thought have ignored the content of the TY altogether: neither David Kraemer's Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature nor Ishay Rosen-Zvi's recent work, Demonic Desires, engage TY texts.Footnote 4 While Kraemer and Rosen-Zvi extensively discuss sixth- and seventh-century Babylonian texts, such as the Babylonian Talmud, they do not do the same with sixth- and seventh-century Palestinian texts, such as many TY texts. These two important studies exemplify how, in a more general sense, late Palestinian midrashim have been conspicuously neglected by scholars of rabbinic literature working on content-based projects.
This paper attempts to redress this scholarly lacuna by uncovering a distinctive motif in the TY literature that has been unnoticed by prior scholarship: that of humans challenging God over morally problematic divine laws or behavior. In these midrashic confrontations, biblical heroes are often depicted as teaching or counseling God to adopt a more ethical approach to governing the world. In the more than fifty such instances in which TY authors use this motif of protest, the midrashic parallels from earlier texts generally do not contain such confrontations. In the cases where earlier texts do contain parallel confrontations, the Tanhuma invariably has dramatized the imagery or radicalized the language.Footnote 5 With this claim, this paper nuances David Kraemer's argument that the Babylonian Talmud (ca. sixth and seventh centuries) is more willing than earlier Palestinian midrashim to legitimate challenges to God.Footnote 6 It argues that the valorization of the protest motif occurs not only in late Babylonian texts (as Kraemer shows), but, even more prominently, within late Palestinian texts of TY.Footnote 7
Accordingly, after I introduce the TY genre of literature, I explore some of the examples of these confrontational midrashim, accounting for the motif's emergence and highlighting its implications for the history of theology.
Range of Corpus
The term “Tanhuma-Yelammedenu midrashim” should best be understood as a genre or group of rabbinic texts that share the same general form and characteristics, rather than as referring to a specific set of books.Footnote 8 Texts from this genre can be found in the following midrashic works: 1) Midrash Tanhuma, both the standard and Buber editions; 2) Exodus Rabbah II, chapters 15–52; 3) Numbers Rabbah II, chapters 15–23; 4) Deuteronomy Rabbah, both the standard and Lieberman editions; 5) Pesiqta Rabbati, chapters 1–14, 19, 25, 29, 31, 33, 38–45, 47, and supplements 1 and 2; and 6) hundreds of TY fragments found in the Cairo Genizah.Footnote 9 Indeed, the plethora of TY texts and manuscripts testifies to its popularity in late antique Palestine—and explains why so few midrash scholars have dared to produce a critical edition.Footnote 10
Dating and Compositional Strata
In the past, scholars have dated TY literature from as early as the fourth century c.e. to as late as the ninth century c.e.Footnote 11 Most contemporary scholars, however, rely on the recent findings of Marc Bregman, who argues for a more complex dating of the TY corpus. According to him, we can divide the TY midrashic material into several developmental strata:
1) The early stratum of TY, produced in Palestine around the fifth century c.e., contains a large amount of Galilean Aramaic as well as Greek and Latin loanwords, and is roughly contemporaneous with the Jerusalem Talmud and the classical midrashim (Leviticus Rabbah and Genesis Rabbah).
2) The middle stratum developed towards the end of Byzantine rule in Palestine (sixth and early seventh centuries) and represents the vast majority of the TY material we have today. Unlike the early stratum, it avoids Galilean Aramaic wherever possible, replacing it with Hebrew. TY works produced in this period include Exodus Rabbah II, Numbers Rabbah II, both versions of Deuteronomy Rabbah, and portions of Pesiqta Rabbati.
3) The late stratum includes minor accretions to the TY material added after the Islamic conquest (such as large sections from Sheiltot). In contrast to the earlier strata, it seeks to eliminate all Greek and Latin loanwords. TY texts of this period consist of the standard edition of Midrash Tanhuma (probably redacted in Babylonia), and the Buber edition of Midrash Tanhuma (probably redacted in Europe).Footnote 12
Forms and Characteristics
TY texts generally commence with a halakic proem that poses a simple question of Jewish law, often introduced with the phrase “let our master teach us [
].” (The designation of these works as “Yelammedenu” derives from the Hebrew word “teach us.” Since these teachings often cite Rabbi Tanhuma, a fourth-century sage, they are also designated as the “Tanhuma” midrashim.) A TY midrash will typically begin the answer with the statement “thus have our rabbis taught us [
]” or “thus have the sages taught us [
].” After the specific query has been solved by quoting a Tannaitic legal text, the midrash connects the legal issue to a nonlegal teaching and then links the entire discussion to a verse from the beginning of the weekly Torah portion. Usually, the legal proem is followed by one or more nonlegal proems, similar to those found in the earlier homiletical midrashim, such as Leviticus Rabbah and the Pesiqta of Rab Kahana. These non-legal proems begin by citing a remote passage from the Hagiographa and then creatively connecting it again to a local passage from the weekly Torah lection. Finally, the peroration usually contains a statement about the redemption and the coming of the Messiah.
One of the ways that the TY midrashim differ from the earlier homiletical Amoraic midrashim (ca. fifth century c.e.) is in their choice of language. Whereas earlier texts such as Leviticus Rabbah and the Pesiqta of Rab Kahana contain “a mix of Hebrew and Aramaic with a sprinkling of Greek terms,” TY texts tend to use Hebrew.Footnote 13 Furthermore, Zunz recognized already in 1832 that TY midrashim have the tendency to record teachings anonymously by dropping the name of the tradent, or sometimes even “forging the names of certain earlier sages.”Footnote 14 Marc Bregman has also shown that TY texts tend to add “honorific titles, such as ‘Ha-Levi’ and ‘Be-rabbi’ to the names of sages.”Footnote 15 These characteristics seemingly express a desire on the part of the TY authors to present their work as an earlier rabbinic commentary.
In recent years, scholars have noticed that the literary style of the TY represents a watershed moment in the history of rabbinic literature. Whereas early midrash tends to designate a biblical passage and then comment on it, later midrash, beginning with the TY, tends to integrate the passage and its interpretation into its own retelling of the biblical narrative. In these texts, there is little to no transition between the biblical passage and its interpretation, as the biblical passage is often embedded within the interpretation. At times, the biblical proof text is even omitted altogether. In other words, while early midrash presents itself as an explicit commentary on the Bible, late midrash is an attempt to re-narrate the Bible, blending together biblical verses and interpretation. The TY literature thus marks the beginning of the rabbinic “rewritten Bible” genre that reaches its apex with the writing of Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer (ca. eighth century).Footnote 16 In their retellings, the TY's authors tend to combine many prior exegetical comments found in the classical midrashim (like Genesis Rabbah or Leviticus Rabbah) and weave them into one long and continuous narrative. In addition, to achieve this quality of a “rewritten Bible,” TY midrashim generally do not present multiple interpretations of a biblical verse, as earlier midrashic texts do, but rather give only one interpretation—even though this reading draws, sometimes problematically, from the multiple interpretations of earlier rabbinic texts.Footnote 17
Comparative Method
While they usually do not mark their sources, TY texts often rely upon—or at least are aware of—earlier rabbinic traditions. Consequently, to appreciate fully the distinctiveness of the TY midrashim and the ways in which they were historically constructed, we need to identify their textual parallels in pre-TY texts. Relying on Bregman's findings, we can suppose that extant TY texts were redacted either at the end of the Byzantine period in Palestine (the middle stratum—sixth or early seventh centuries c.e.) or soon after the Islamic conquest (the late stratum—eighth or ninth centuries c.e.). They thus postdate the Tannaitic works, such as the Mishnah, Tosefta, Mekilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Sifre Numbers, and Sifre Deuteronomy (edited ca. third century c.e.), and also generally postdate the Amoraic texts, such as the Jerusalem Talmud, Genesis Rabbah, Leviticus Rabbah, and the Pesiqta of Rab Kahana (redacted ca. fifth century c.e.). Throughout this paper I will compare and contrast TY texts to these earlier parallels.
As this study will show, TY texts sometimes produce new exegetical teachings not recorded in any prior rabbinic work. In these instances, one can reasonably assume that the TY author was aware of the earlier traditions and decided to take a new path. This approach implies a conscious privileging of one scriptural reading over another. Alternatively, even if we reject that assumption and argue that the TY's author was unaware of the prior tradition, contrasting the exegeses provides a crucial way to highlight the distinctiveness of the TY.
Confrontations with God
As mentioned above, this article will focus on instances of biblical characters’ challenging God in TY midrashim. Of course, the phenomenon of protesting or challenging God is not an innovation of the TY's authors. The motif already appears in a variety of contexts throughout the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple literature: in the pentateuchal narratives (with Abraham and Moses), the prophetic writings (with Jeremiah and Habakkuk), the wisdom literature (with Job and various Psalms), and in apocalyptic texts (4 Ezra, 2 Baruch).Footnote 18 The phenomenon also appears in some pre-TY rabbinic works of the fifth century (attributed to third- and fourth-century Palestinian sages, such as R. Levi, Reish Lakish, R. Isaac, R. Berekiah, and R. Haninah).Footnote 19 The vast majority of these latter confrontations are exegetical, however; while the rabbis do not confront God directly, they do so indirectly by placing protests into the mouths of biblical characters. The sages rewrite biblical narratives where no such confrontations appear in order to produce full-blown dialogical encounters. To accomplish this, the sages do not merely imagine a confrontation, but they also anchor the new dialogical narrative in the words of Scripture.
While rabbinic confrontations appear sporadically in the Amoraic strata, they appear ubiquitously in the post-Amoraic writings of the TY. Indeed, the TY goes beyond its midrashic predecessors by not only intensifying the confrontational rhetoric but also by having God accede to the challenge—God declares that the dialogue has caused him to adopt a new position. This paper will present four paradigmatic cases of a biblical figure arguing with God and successfully swaying him to follow a different course of action.Footnote 20 In these midrashim, God's capitulation is transformative and substantial, reflecting an ongoing and fundamental change in God's attitude towards Jewish law and his governance of the world. Rather than a one-time concessional act of divine mercy, such as those we encounter in the Hebrew Bible,Footnote 21 these divine retractions found in TY literature become codified or systematized; they express an essential change in God's moral compass. The four examples I will discuss stand at the core of Jewish tradition and its relationship to divine justice, highlighting a distinctive rabbinic concern for ethics and divine responsibility.
Four Dialogical Confrontations in the Tanhuma-Yelammedenu
Transgenerational Punishment
Exodus 34:6–7 contains the oldest biblical formulation of the doctrine that children are punished for the sins of the parents:Footnote 22
6) The Lord passed before him (Moses) and proclaimed: The Lord! The Lord! A God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, 7) extending kindness to the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin; yet he does not remit all punishment, but visits the iniquity of parents upon children [
] and children's children, upon the third and fourth generations.Footnote 23
In these verses, God proclaims the attributes of kindness and mercy that characterize divine providence. And yet, while God graciously remits sin, God reserves the right to defer it to later generations. The doctrine of inherited guilt is also found in the context of the Decalogue (Exod 20:5), where God announces that, as an “impassioned God,” he will “visit the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and upon the fourth generations.”Footnote 24 Notwithstanding possible differences between these two presentations,Footnote 25 both Exodus passages affirm, in principle, the principle of inherited punishment.
In contradistinction to these two Exodus passages, the prophet Ezekiel forcefully rejects the doctrine of transgenerational punishment. Justifying its abrogation through a revelatory experience, he declares: “A child shall not share the burden of a parent's guilt, nor shall a parent share the burden of a child's guilt” (Ezek 18:20). According to Jon Levenson, by innovating this new theology, Ezekiel communicates to the Judeans “that the guilt of the ancestors which caused the destruction of the Juhadite kingdom and the ensuing exile does not condemn their current descendants to unending misery.”Footnote 26 And Ezekiel is not the only prophet to abrogate the older theology: Jeremiah does as well, although he argues that the abrogation will take place at some future time.Footnote 27
Ancient Jewish interpreters of the Bible thus faced two problems when surveying the aforementioned biblical material. First, the Pentateuch, in Exodus 20 and 34, endorses a theology that punishes an innocent person for the sins of another. How does this punitive doctrine comport with God's attributes of mercy and kindness? Second, the Bible contradicts itself: while the Exodus passages affirm transgenerational punishment, the prophetic texts (and perhaps other pentateuchal texts as wellFootnote 28) reject it.
Some early rabbinic texts ignore the ethical and textual problems and simply affirm the theology of transgenerational punishment.Footnote 29 Others, like the following Tannaitic text, derive formal and textual clues from Scripture to solve the dilemma:
Visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children [upon the third and upon the fourth generations] [Exod. 20:5]: During a time when there is no skipping [i.e., there is continuous evil behavior throughout the generations]. . . . What does this mean? An evil person [who is] the son of an evil person, [who himself is] the son of an evil person. (Mek. R. Ishmael, Bahodesh 7 [ed. Rabin/Horovitz])
The Mekilta of Rabbi Ishmael (ca. third century) posits that a child of the third generation would only be punished for the sins of a grandparent if there were a continuous line of evildoers from the grandparent to the grandchild. If the grandparent, parent, or child were righteous, then the child would not be punished for any of his or her ancestors’ sins.Footnote 30 By limiting the applicability of transgenerational punishment to those who continue in their parents’ evil ways, this Tannaitic text resolves the implicit moral problem: innocent children are not punished for the sins of their parents or grandparents.
In the subsequent Amoraic period (fourth- and fifth-century c.e. Palestine and Babylonia), most rabbinic texts affirm this Tannaitic “condition of continuity.”Footnote 31 There is one talmudic teaching, however, that diverges from this reading with a novel solution: “Moses said: Who visits the iniquity of parents upon children [Exod 34:7], and Ezekiel came and nullified it: The person who sins, only he shall die [Ezek 18:4].”Footnote 32 This talmudic view, attributed to R. Yosi b. Haninah (third century Palestine), maintains that Moses decreed the doctrine of inherited punishment and Ezekiel subsequently annulled it. The teaching openly acknowledges that the Pentateuch's theological dictum only applied for a limited period of time; in other words, a clause from the Decalogue no longer applies! In addition, the institution of inherited punishment is attributed not to God but to Moses, who now becomes the proclaimer of the thirteen divine attributes (Exod 34:6–7).Footnote 33
These aforementioned pre-TY texts solve the ethical problem posed by the doctrine of inherited punishment by either conditioning its application on the continuity of sin (Mek. R. Ishmael), or by attributing the annulled doctrine to Moses (b. Mak.). These approaches reject the idea that God could punish innocent children for the sins of others. In contrast, one TY text, found in Num. Rab. II (TY) 19:33, affirms the simple reading of Scripture, but then solves the ethical and textual problems with a dialogical confrontation between Moses and God:
This is one of three instances where Moses said something before God and he responded: You have taught me something [
]. . . . The second instance: When the Holy One, blessed be he, said to him: Visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children [Exod 20:6], Moses said: Master of the World, how many evil people give birth to righteous people? Shall they take [punishment] from the sins of the parents? Terah worshipped idols, and Abraham his son was righteous. And also Hezekiah was righteous, and his father Ahaz was a wicked man. And also Josiah was righteous, and his father Amon was a wicked man. Is it appropriate that righteous people should suffer for the sins of their parents [
]? God said to him: You have taught me something. By your life, I will nullify my decree and establish your word, as it says: Parents shall not be put to death for children, nor children be put to death for parents [Deut 24:16]. And by your life, I will write it in your name, as it says: In accordance with what is written in the Book of the Teaching of Moses [2 Kgs 14:6]. (Num. Rab. II [TY] 19:33, according to ms Paris 150)Footnote 34
In this TY teaching, Moses rhetorically challenges God, asking, “Shall they [the righteous people] take [punishment] from the sins of the parents?” After providing a few biblical cases where righteous children are born to wicked men, Moses asks again, “Is it appropriate that righteous people should suffer for the sins of their parents?” Upon hearing Moses's critique, God concedes the point and nullifies the theology of inherited punishment. God declares, strikingly: “You have taught me something [
]. By your life, I will nullify my decree and establish your word.”Footnote 35
This midrash depicts a dramatic confrontation between Moses and God that does not appear in Scripture. The new narrative solves the ethical problems with the early biblical doctrine by placing the different Torah passages in dialogue and decreeing that one has superseded the other. Ultimately, the ethical intuition of the human Moses emerges triumphant (albeit with God's consent). Although the TY's authors likely knew of the nonconfrontational midrashic solutions found in the Mekilta and in b. Makkot, they preferred to use a confrontational model.Footnote 36 By adopting the literary motif of a confrontation, the TY does not attempt to resolve the moral problem by hiding behind formal exegetical reinterpretations, as found in the earlier strata. Furthermore, this text is theologically striking for its image of God being taught (
) the moral principle of individual responsibility.
The Punishment of Excision (Karet)
In the priestly sections of the Bible, the narrator frequently declares that certain sins warrant the penalty of excision—karet (lit. “cutting off”).Footnote 37 Indeed, in one relatively late biblical source, every sin willfully committed against God incurs this penalty (Num 15:30–31).Footnote 38 The priestly authors, however, never precisely define what they mean by karet. Whereas some modern scholars regard it as a punishment administered by the courts, such as excommunication or the death penalty,Footnote 39 the ancient rabbis understood karet as a divinely administered punishment, coming in the form of premature death,Footnote 40 infertility,Footnote 41 destruction of one's offspring,Footnote 42 or perdition.Footnote 43 Other modern scholars favor the rabbinic view.Footnote 44 Regardless of whether one views karet as administered by God or by the courts, it stands as one of the harshest penalties in the biblical legal system.
Haim Cohen and Aharon Shemesh both argue that the ancient rabbis could not morally accept a religious reality in which every willful sin would incur the karet penalty.Footnote 45 Such a system would inflict a devastating religious and psychological wound on the entire Jewish community. The Tannaim thus constructed a legal loophole of allowing thirty-nine lashes to substitute for karet. In order to accomplish this legal revolution, the rabbis needed to establish two principles. First, theological sins would not only incur the karet penalty, but would also incur lashes. To achieve this new punitive principle, the rabbis exegetically broadened the application of lashes far beyond its local biblical context—where lashes are only administered in a monetary “dispute between men” (Deut 25:1)—to include any violation of a negative prohibition.Footnote 46
The second restructuring occurs when the Mishnah asserts that not only does one receive lashes for violating a negative prohibition, but that these lashes also exempt one from the harsher punishment of karet:
All who have incurred [the penalty of] extinction [karet] obtain remission [
] from their punishment of extinction upon being flogged. For it is said: [He may be given up to forty lashes, but not more, lest being flogged further, to excess,] your brother would be degraded before your eyes [
] [Deut 25:3]—which shows that whoever receives the flogging is [considered] “your brother” [
]. These are the words of R. Hananiah b. Gamliel. (m. Mak. 3:15)Footnote 47
To preserve human dignity, Deut 25:3 cautions that no more than forty lashes should be administered, lest the bodily disfigurement be too severe and “your brother . . . be degraded [
] before your eyes.” By swapping the letters 
and 
, however, R. Hananiah b. Gamliel rereads the word not as 
, “degraded,” but 
, “lashes.” He thus reinterprets 
not as a rationale for limiting the number of lashes, but as a new and separate teaching: “Whoever receives lashes [
] is [considered] your brother.”Footnote 48 In a sense, by receiving lashes, a person rejoins the Jewish fraternity. Since in numerous places Scripture describes those who have incurred karet as “being cut off from their people,”Footnote 49 R. Hananiah regards lashes as a method by which a person can return to the “brotherhood of Israel” and thus be exempt from karet.
Whereas this mishnah bases the doctrine that “lashes exempt one from karet” on formal, value-neutral hermeneutical principles, the Tanhuma explains the development in a different way. For the composers of the Tanhuma, this changed theory of punishment does not come from a mere play on words, but from a value-charged midrashic interaction where an impassioned Moses protests God's too-harsh penalty of karet. After citing the Mishnah's exegetical teaching, the Tanhuma adds:
They [Israel] came to the desert and found one gathering wood on the Sabbath, but Moses did not know by what death he should be killed.Footnote 50 However, they left him in custody [while waiting for a clarification from the mouth of the Lord] [Lev 24:12; also see Num 15:34]. The Holy One said: The person shall surely be put to death; stone him with stones outside the camp [Num 15:35]. Immediately, Moses our teacher rose in prayer and said: Master of the World, if an Israelite has sinned, should he in fact be stoned [
]? If so, then they [Israel] would be totally destroyed [
]. Make another enactment [
] for them. He [God] said to him: Let him be scourged with forty lashes, and he will have fulfilled his obligation [
].Footnote 51 (Tanhuma, Numbers 23, according to ms Cambridge 1212)Footnote 52
According to the Tanhuma, Moses challenges God's ruling that those committing certain grave sins, such as desecrating the Sabbath, should be stoned. While he approaches deferentially, praying and prefacing his remarks with the submissive invocation “Master of the World,” Moses actually comes in confrontation: “If an Israelite has sinned, should he in fact be stoned? If so, then [Israel] would be totally destroyed.” In this vignette, Moses boldly questions God and his decision to establish the penalty of stoning for Sabbath violation, since this would result in the death of countless Israelites. Seeing stoning as devastatingly harsh and concerned about the viability of the Jewish people, Moses pleads with God to “make another enactment [
] for them.” Partially conceding to the critique, God responds: “Let him [the sinner] be scourged with forty lashes, and he will have fulfilled his obligation.”Footnote 53
Whereas the Mishnah derives our principle of exemption through an objective and formal exegetical teaching, the Tanhuma recasts it as the result of Moses's critique of the values of the original divine justice system. In other words, the Mishnah sees the “principle of exemption” as deriving from the objective will of God (as revealed through exegesis) and as having been given simultaneously with the laws of karet; our Tanhuma text, on the other hand, sees God's revised and perfected penal system, with its alternative to the death penalty, as developing through human input and confrontation.
Genocidal War
The Pentateuch presents two different accounts of the Israelite conquest of the Amorite kingdom in Transjordan. In Num 21:21–35, the Israelites conquer the Amorite territory as an act of self-defense when Sihon, the Amorite king, refuses to let Israel pass through his land (v. 23). In Deut 2:24–37, however, the picture is more complex. As in the Numbers account, Sihon refuses to let Israel pass peacefully through his country (v. 26–30), but, unlike in the Numbers account, his refusal is orchestrated by God, who “stiffened his [Sihon's] will and hardened his heart in order to deliver him [Sihon] into your [Israel's] power” (v. 30). In addition, before Moses makes his request for peaceful passage (v. 26–29), God commands him: “Set out across the wadi Arnon! See, I give into your power Sihon the Amorite, king of Heshbon, and his land. Begin the occupation: engage him in battle” (v. 24).Footnote 54 In this passage, the occupation of Sihon's territory is described not as the result of a war of self-defense but as part of an offensive conquest of the land of Canaan. Finally, in contrast to the Numbers account, Deuteronomy applies the principle of herem (
), or annihilation of the entire population, to Sihon's kingdom: all their men, women, and children are killed, “leaving no survivor” (v. 34).
Critical Bible scholars solve these conflicting accounts by arguing that they reflect two different traditions on the status of Transjordan, an area that included Sihon's territory.Footnote 55 The older tradition, represented by Numbers, treats this area as outside of the promised land. As a result, Israel's conquering of Sihon's kingdom can only be justified as an act of self-defense, rather than as part of the rightful occupation of their given lands. By contrast, the later tradition (represented in part by Deuteronomy) views Transjordan as an integral part of the promised land.Footnote 56 Accordingly, like the other territories within the land of Canaan, this area falls under the divine command of occupation.Footnote 57 However, given that the Numbers narrative had already emerged as an established tradition, the Deuteronomic draftsmen attempted to retain it alongside the new tradition. Both traditions are thus reflected in Deuteronomy, albeit with some tension and inconsistency. On the one hand, echoing the older Numbers view, Moses sends “messengers .▒.▒. of peace” to request that Sihon allow Israel to pass (Deut 2:26). On the other hand, representing the newer view, God commands Moses to wage an offensive war to occupy Sihon's territory (Deut 2:24), to conquer this integral part of the promised land. It also seems that the Deuteronomic editor attempted to integrate the inconsistent accounts by claiming that the request for peaceful passage through Sihon's area merely served as a pretext for the ultimate war of conquest. Because God had already intended to harden Sihon's heart (Deut 2:30), Moses's request for a safe passageway would inevitably be futile, although it did provide Israel with justification for their military offensive. Finally, since the newer tradition sees Sihon's territory as part of the promised land, the Deuteronomic laws of herem, annihilation of the entire population,Footnote 58 apply here as well.Footnote 59
As the ancient sages of the Sifre (ca. third century) assumed single authorship of Deuteronomy,Footnote 60 they could not solve the textual gap as critical scholars do. Instead, they regarded the inconsistency between God's desire for war (Deut 2:24) and Moses's call for peace (Deut 2:26) as an intentional moral teaching:
Great is peace, for even in a time of war people need peace, as it is said: When you draw near a city to do battle against it, you will offer peace to it [Deut 20:10]. [See, I give into your power Sihon the Amorite, king of Heshbon, and his land. Begin the occupation: engage him in battle. . . .] So I sent messengers from the wilderness of Kedemoth to Sihon the king of Heshbon with words of peace [Deut 2:26]. (Sifre Num. 42)Footnote 61
Highlighting the importance of peace by noting that it appears in the context of war, this early midrash reads the Sihon narrative of Deut 2:24–35 as following the legal and ethical norms prescribed in Deut 20:10–18: war is only mandated when the enemy refuses a peaceful overture. The Sifre, then, harmonizes God's call for war (Deut 2:24) and Moses's call for peace (Deut 2:26) by implicitly claiming that God's call to war is predicated on the enemies’ refusal to accept a peace deal (Deut 2:30). Although not stated explicitly in Scripture, Moses's sending of peaceful messengers (Deut 2:26) fully complies with God's will. While God chooses to harden Sihon's heart (Deut 2:30), the formal call for peace is nevertheless required to preserve the principle of seeking peace before waging war (Deut 20:10–18).
Rather than using this earlier hermeneutic of harmonization, a TY midrash solves the textual inconsistency by again generating a confrontation between Moses and God:
Rabbi Levi said . . . in the days of Sihon and Og, God said: Go and fight with him and close up his water canal; but Moses did not do so [
], as it says, and I will send messengers [Deut 2:26]. God said: By your life, you have done appropriately[
], for I agree [
] with your actions. Therefore Moses warned the Israelites and said to them: When you come to a city to fight against it, you shall call forth peace [Deut 20:10]. (Tanhuma, Shoftim 19)
Instead of resolving the discrepancy between verses 24 and 26, the Tanhuma exploits it to claim that by sending messengers of peace, Moses defies God's wishes.Footnote 62 The inconsistency reflects two different points of view and an initial dispute between God and Moses: God commands war, yet Moses seeks peace. Significantly, the Tanhuma has God concede to Moses's approach and affirm a new policy of “negotiation first” for any future war. This new ethical approach to battle, codified in the biblical passage “when you approach a town to attack it, you shall offer it terms of peace” (Deut 20:10), reflects a divinely sanctioned Mosaic revision of God's earlier decree that mandated war without first seeking peace (Deut 2:24).
Although in this Tanhuma text, we are not told how—or even whether—Moses defends his act of defiance, another Tanhuma (Buber) text fills in this gap:
This is the law of the sacrifice for peace offerings [Lev 7:11]: This text is related to [Wisdom's] ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace [Prov 3:17]. Whatever is written in the Torah is written (as an expression of) [meaning, to establish] peace.
You find that the Holy One cancelled the decree [
] [of utter destruction] for the sake of peace. When? When the Holy One said to Moses, When you approach a town to attack it, you shall offer it terms of peace [Deut 20:10].Footnote 63
Now concerning the whole matter, the Holy One had said that he would destroy them, as stated, No, you shall utterly destroy them [Deut 20:17]. However, Moses did not do so. Rather he said: Am I to go and smite them now [
]? I do not knowFootnote 64 who has sinned and who has not sinned [
]. Instead, I will come to them in peace, as stated, Then I sent messengers from the desert of Kedemoth unto King Sihon of Heshbon with words of peace, saying. . . [Deut. 2:26]. When he [Moses] saw that he [Sihon] did not come in peace, he smote him, as stated, So they smote him, his children, and all his people [Num 21:35].
The Holy One said to him: I myself told you, No, you shall utterly destroy them [Deut 20:17]. Now you have come to them in peace. By your life, just as you have said, so will I do [
]. Thus it is stated: When you draw near to a city to fight against it, you shall offer terms of peace unto it [Deut 20:10]. Therefore, it is so stated: [Wisdom's] ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace [Prov 3:17]. (Tanhuma [Buber], Tsaw 5)
Moses here justifies his defiance by acknowledging the moral legitimacy of his own ethical sensibilities. He asks God, “Am I to go and smite them now? I do not know who has sinned and who has not sinned [
]! Instead, I will come to them in peace.” Rejecting God's command, Moses seeks peace with Sihon's kingdom because not all of its people are sinners. He wishes to avoid a war that would inevitably cause the death of the innocent along with the guilty. As in the previous TY text, God accedes to Moses's ethical sensibilities and ratifies this less militant approach into law (Deut 20:10). Indeed, as in the case of inherited punishment, one version of this midrash has God telling Moses “you have taught me something [
].”Footnote 65
To sum up: In contrast to the earlier Sifre teaching, which harmonizes the textual inconsistency between Deut 2:24 and 2:26 with a moral teaching, these TY texts resolve the problem by generating a Mosaic protest against God.Footnote 66 The textual gap is not smoothed over, but remains as a reflection of two opposing views. Moreover, these TY passages do not limit the implications of Moses's defiance to the case of Sihon: rather, they see it representing a transformative moment in God's attitude towards war and peace. Before Moses's confrontation, God prefers war to peace, but now—after Moses's defiant and successful critique—God prefers peace to war in conflicts between Israel and its enemies.
Inadvertent Killing and the Cities of Refuge
The laws of the cities of refuge for inadvertent killers are delineated in Num 35:9–34 and Deut 19:1–13. These places of asylum grant protection to one who has killed unwittingly, protecting such from the victim's next of kin, the “blood-avenger” (
), who could otherwise legally kill the inadvertent murderer with impunity. The cities of refuge thus significantly curtail the ability of the victim's family to avenge the death of their loved one, giving the unintentional killer an impenetrable safe space. Numbers 35 records this law:
9) The Lord spoke further to Moses: 10) Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you cross the Jordan into the land of Canaan, 11) you shall provide yourselves with places to serve as cities of refuge [
] to which a manslayer who has killed a person unintentionally may flee. 12) The cities shall serve you as a refuge from the avenger [
], so that the manslayer may not die unless he has stood trial before the assembly. (Num 35:9–12)
In this account (as well as in Deuteronomy), the right of the blood-avenger to retaliate against his or her relative's killer is presumed (v. 12), although this right is not stated explicitly as a scriptural law. In apparent response to this practice, God commands Moses to establish the cities of refuge to temper the unbridled power of the blood-avenger (v. 11).
This seeming temporal discrepancy between the presumed law of the blood-avenger and the innovation of the cities of refuge may have motivated the TY to construct the following backstory:
Israel declared before God [after being informed of the blood-avenger law]: Master of the Universe, is this an example of prolongation of days? A man kills another unwittingly and the avenger of blood pursues him to kill him, and both die before their time? God thereupon answered Moses: By your life, Israel speaks rightly [
]. Go and set aside for them cities of refuge, as it is said, Then Moses separated. (Deut. Rab. 2:18)
According to the midrash, the law sanctioning “blood-vengeance” predates the divine decision to establish the cities of refuge. Initially, the victim's next of kin had the unrestricted right to avenge their relative's killer. But this unmitigated power in the hands of the blood-avenger seemed unjust to Israel; it contradicts the biblical principle that long life awaits those who follow God's commandments. Why should both the victim and the inadvertent killer die before their times? Thus, Israel argued, God should create a legal mechanism to protect the life of the innocent inadvertent killer. Recognizing the justness of their complaint with the words “Israel speaks rightly [
],” God commands Moses to limit the rights of the blood-avenger with the cities of refuge. This divine decision curtails the capacity of the victim's next of kin to retaliate—and thus better preserves the sanctity of human life.Footnote 67 In this TY text, God only recognizes the need to amend morally a problematic law after a human protest. Not surprisingly, this reading has no parallels in pre-TY rabbinic literature; no other texts assume that the blood-avenger had ever been granted the unconditional right to kill the inadvertent killer. This TY text thus introduces two new ideas. First, it maintains that the laws surrounding unintentional killing evolved in two stages, with the law of the blood-avenger preceding the cities of refuge. Second, and more importantly for our purposes, it posits that a human ethical complaint propelled God to establish those cities of refuge.
Varieties of Divine Concession
The four cases presented above illustrate how TY authors reimagined the origins of foundational Jewish principles and beliefs. In the Bible God rejects inherited guilt (Ezekiel 18), requires Israel to seek peace before war (Deuteronomy 20), and institutes the cities of refuge (Numbers 35). Later, the Mishnah interprets the Bible to permit lashes to substitute for karet. Remarkably, however, instead of regarding these moral principles as emerging independently from God's insight, the authors of the TY midrashim imagine God as adopting these principles only after a human protest.
These TY narratives use different literary methods to illustrate the divine concession. The most subtle form—as seen in the case of lashes substituting for karet—has no explicit concessional language. When Moses demands that God “make another enactment for them,” God merely declares, “Let him be scourged with forty lashes,” without acknowledging the significance of this concession. The context, however, strongly suggests that God's amendment only emerges as a direct response to Moses's challenge; seemingly, without it, no legal loophole would have emerged. While many such implicit concessions appear in the TY,Footnote 68 the most striking example occurs when the Israelites complain to God that he unfairly punishes them for sins caused by the divinely created “evil inclination”; they then blame God for all human sin. In response, God appears to accept the critique and immediately thereafter promises to remove the “evil inclination.”Footnote 69 Not surprisingly, no such protest or concession appears in earlier texts.Footnote 70
Other TY expressions of God's acquiescence are more explicit, such as those that have God complimenting the protester with the phrase “you have spoken well [
]” before retracting. We encountered this form in the cities of refuge discussion, and it also appears in a TY elaboration of Numbers 16. In the biblical account of Korah's rebellion, God tells Moses and Aaron to “stand back from this community [
] that I may annihilate them in an instant!” (Num 16:21). Responding to God's destructive impulse, Moses and Aaron call out: “When one man sins, will You be wrathful with the whole community?” (Num 16:22). While Scripture does not have God formally conceding, it does, in the very next verse, have God telling Moses: “Speak to the community and say: Withdraw from the abodes of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram” (Num 16:23). Not surprisingly, instead of neutralizing God's troubling impulse, the TY dramatizes both the human critique and the divine concession:
They (Moses and Aaron) said to him: Sovereign of the Universe! In the case of a mortal king, if a province rebels against him and rises and curses the king or his deputies, even if only ten or twenty of them have done so, he sends his legions there and carries out a massacre [
], slaying the good with the bad, because he cannot tell which of them has rebelled and which has not, or who has honored the king and who has cursed him. You, however, know the thoughts of man and what the hearts and reins counsel. You discern the inclinations of your creatures and know which man has sinned and which has not [
], who has rebelled and who has not. You know the spirit of each and every one. Accordingly it says, The God of the spirits of all flesh, when one man sins, will you be wrathful with the whole community? [Num 16:22]. The Holy One, blessed be he, said to them: You have spoken well [
]! I shall make it known who has sinned and who has not sinned [
]. (Num. Rab. [TY] 18:11)
This TY passage heightens the confrontational rhetoric of Numbers 16 by having Moses and Aaron tell God that while human kings sometimes adopt a policy of communal punishment because they cannot detect the guilty party, an omniscient God has no justification for killing the many for the sins of the few.Footnote 71 Notably, the primary phrase that Moses uses to critique God—“you know which man has sinned and which has not [
]”—is virtually identical to the TY phrase used by Moses to protest God's handling of the Sihon war: “I do not know who has sinned and who has not sinned [
].” More importantly, in contrast to Scripture, this midrash has God formally conceding with the phrase: “You have spoken well [
].” By using this formulation, TY dramatically presents Moses and Aaron as God's moral teachers. Here, too, God only commits himself to the ethical principle of individual responsibility after a human protest. A third TY passage appropriates the formulation “you have spoken well” when retelling how Moses challenges God not to destroy Israel after the golden calf incident. The midrash states that “God could not respond [
]” to Moses's forceful arguments; to dramatize the concession, God then declares: “You have spoken well [
].”Footnote 72
Another explicit formulation of divine retraction can be found in a TY rereading of Genesis 30. The midrash has a pregnant Leah, wife of the patriarch Jacob, angrily “chiding” (
) God for failing to give more than one male child to her sister Rachel. Accepting the critique, God miraculously transforms Leah's fetus from a male to a female, declaring: “[Since] you [Leah] are merciful [to your sister], so I shall be merciful to her [
].”Footnote 73 In contrast to the classical theological maxim of imitatio dei, where humanity imitates God's ethical traits (“just as God is merciful, so shall you be merciful”Footnote 74), here, inversely, God learns to be merciful from a human being—imitatio hominis.Footnote 75 Remarkably, through her theological protest, Leah becomes an ethical role model for divine behavior.Footnote 76
The most dramatic TY expression of concession occurs when God uses the didactic language of “teaching” (
), such as in the examples of inherited punishment and the Sihon war presented above; in these instances, God tells Moses: “You have taught me something [
].” While the TY uses this expression in several places,Footnote 77 one in particular stands out. In a Tanhuma rewriting of Genesis 18, Abraham argues with God that his planned destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah will lead the nations of the world to say “that he kills all the generations with cruelty [
]. He destroyed the generation of Enosh [and] the generation of the flood [with cruelty],” and now God “does not abandon his trade [and continues to kill with cruelty].” In response, instead of berating Abraham, God tells him: “And if it should cross your mind that I [in fact] acted unfairly, [then, Abraham] teach me and I will do accordingly [
].” God, remarkably, announces his willingness to concede his moral errors should Abraham's “teachings” convince him.Footnote 78
Factors and Contexts
We now turn to the crucial question of explanation. Why is the Tanhuma material decidedly more confrontational than its rabbinic predecessors? Why did this motif of human protest followed by divine retraction reach its zenith in sixth- and early seventh-century Palestine? I would propose four possible contributing factors or contexts to explain the motif's emergence. First, TY authors might have naturally developed the confrontational idea from earlier midrashim, where it appeared in embryonic form. Thus, rather than attributing its appearance to external (non-Jewish) influences alone, we should look internally for earlier rabbinic models and paradigms as well. Indeed, in another study, I have shown how TY texts radicalize the confrontational topos already found in pre-TY texts.Footnote 79
Second, we could also attribute the intensification of this motif, at least to some extent, to what Jacob Elbaum calls the “radical innovation” of Tanhuma literature: Tanhuma midrash is less interested in terse exegetical comments and solutions and more interested in producing an elongated and continuous rewritten biblical narrative. This literary transformation would certainly account for the privileging of narrative solutions (confrontational ones included) over exegetical ones when resolving scriptural problems. This hypothesis, however, does not explain why so many narrative solutions are specifically confrontational and concessional. Could not the TY's authors have drawn from other types of narratives? Moreover, these protests and retractions are not religiously neutral; they are theologically daring and potentially subversive, contrasting with the many rabbinic texts that prohibit one from challenging or critiquing the divine. In some traditional texts, God can never be mistaken or change an opinion in areas of justice and morality.Footnote 80 While the evolution in literary style is significant, the TY's privileging of narrative cannot sufficiently explain the emergence of this theological motif.
Therefore, to develop this point further, it ought to be noted that TY texts do not merely privilege narrative over exegesis, but that they generate narratives of a dramatic and dialogical nature. There is a certain theatrical quality to the TY material, building suspense to produce a sensational and vivid retelling of the biblical story. Jacob Elbaum alludes to this characteristic when noting how TY passages add “new dramatic details” to the older narratives, and how they use “dramatic additions” or linking phrases such as “immediately” or “at that time” to create a continuous narrative. These literary tools keep the story line moving, vibrant, and exciting. We might posit then that the widespread use of human confrontations and divine concessions in TY literature is merely one instantiation of this general TY tendency. Conflict and change are integral components of drama as they elicit tension and intrigue, captivating and edifying the audience of readers. The theatrical quality of the TY also expresses itself through transforming earlier exegetical teachings or narrative story lines into first-person dialogues.Footnote 81 Indeed, the performative dimension of the TY can most starkly be seen in its framing: at the start of most sections, the audience poses a legal query to the spiritual leader with the phrase “let our master teach us [yelammedenu],” which leads the teacher cleverly to link the legal answer with the weekly Torah portion. The prose TY literature is not the only sixth- or seventh-century Jewish exegetical writing to evince a dramatic theatricality; as Laura Lieber has recently shown, Aramaic poetry of that period does so as well.Footnote 82
Another contextual parallel to this literary quality can be found in fourth- to sixth-century poetic hymns and homilies produced by Syriac Christians, such as Ephrem the Syrian (306–373), Narsai (fifth century), Jacob of Serugh (451–521), and Romanos the Melodist (sixth century), who, according to Sebastian Brock, place “dramatic dialogues” of “dispute” into the mouths of rivaling biblical figures (such as Isaac and Ishmael or Abraham and Sarah).Footnote 83 In many instances, one of the characters seeks to persuade the other to adopt a theological or ideological position that has been rejected at the outset.Footnote 84 Like our dramatic TY dialogues, these Syriac poems and homilies seek to edify their audience and readers and to communicate their fundamental religious values.Footnote 85
Fourth, and finally, the widespread appearance of confrontations and divine retractions in TY midrashim might be linked to the Greek cultural notion of parrhesia: literally translated as “frankness of speech,” it refers to a person's right to express his or her opinions. Arnaldo Momigliano explores this term's connotations in different periods.Footnote 86 In the fifth and fourth centuries b.c.e., it only carried a public and political sense: every Greek citizen in a democracy should have the freedom to express his opinions. By the turn of the first millennium, however, the term carried a personal and moral connotation, referring to the idea that a person should be frank and honest with a friend. Because an act of parrhesia expressed a relationship of privileged intimacy and true friendship, flatterers and sycophants were avoided, and those friends who embodied parrhesia were valued. In many Greek philosophical sources, parrhesia was used to refer to unequal relationships, such as between ruler and citizen. David Konstan notes that “Plutarch draws almost all of his examples [of parrhesia] from the sphere of kings and courtiers, and it is usually the inferior party whose frankness is at issue.”Footnote 87 In fact, late antique emperors sought advisors who would be prepared, when necessary, to offer honest and critical advice. And the person who assumed this role, the parrhesiastes, became an exalted and celebrated figure in the Greco-Roman world. Relevant to our purposes, Peter Brown highlights a critical transformation: in the first few centuries of the Common Era, the philosophers practiced the moral act of parrhesia. They candidly confronted the emperor, tamed his anger, and steered him in the right direction. By the fifth century, however, the Christian holy man emerged to replace the pagan philosopher in this role. It was now the bishops and monks who used their unique moral authority to confront the ruler, constrain him, and, as champions of the poor and downtrodden, courageously communicate their grievances to the emperor.Footnote 88 In addition, Momigliano claims that during this latter period, “Parrhesia becomes the right and privilege of the [Christian] believer .▒.▒. [and] faith and suffering give [one] a right to speak out—even to God!”Footnote 89 True Christians not only had the right to speak out against their human friends, but even chastise God, the Christian friend of humanity.Footnote 90
This Byzantine phenomenon may provide us with a cultural parallel to the confrontational and concessional theme that emerges in late rabbinic literature. Palestinian Jews in the sixth and early seventh centuries did not have religious leaders perform parrhesia. They had no political power, and no emperors of their own. I argue that through biblical interpretation, the TY's authors were able to produce Jewish holy men who became veritable figures of parrhesia. Moses and other biblical heroes were now anachronistically imagined to have assumed these roles. Furthermore, by generating these exegetical confrontations, the sages were able to produce for the community Jewish leaders who shared an intimate friendship with God. These Jewish leaders championed the underprivileged, confronting the King of kings with unusual courage. I speculate that the explosion of the confrontational motif in TY texts might be related to the emergence of the image of the Christian holy man who, just a century or so earlier, began boldly to challenge the emperor and, at times, even God. At this same time, Jews also produced religious figures of parrhesia—not in the world of history, but in the world of the exegetical imagination.
Theological Implications
The TY proclivity to generate human confrontations and divine concessions also has important theological implications. I note that this is not a systematic consistent theology à la Augustine or Origen, but rather an informal and fragmentary one, as is true of much rabbinic theology. In late rabbinic tradition, conceptions of God are not derived from logical principles; more often they are presented in narrative form and show the interpretive imagination of their authors. Indeed, this paper has demonstrated how the theological voice of the TY sages surfaces more through rewritten biblical narratives than through normative or propositional formulations.Footnote 91 Furthermore, while these unsystematic theologies are significant, they likely were not constructed for the purposes of theological education. Other textual, cultural, or literary dimensions and pressures might have fueled the production of these remarkable narratives, such as the wish to solve scriptural problems, the development of literary forms, or the desire for dramatic and entertaining narratives to excite the synagogue crowds.
Nonetheless, we should not sideline or discount the theological content embedded within these texts. The authors of these midrashim would not have sacrificed their foundational religious commitments—their conceptions of God—on the altar of literary form, rhetorical drama, or exegetical cohesiveness. As the character of God would have been treated with utmost seriousness, these depictions of the divine should not be regarded as mere literary conceits but also as reflecting a bold religious sensibility in pre-Islamic Byzantine Palestine.
So what are the theological implications of these TY texts? Besides privileging the motif of divine protest, these texts present a striking vision of God: a deity who welcomes confrontation and at times revises his past decisions. In these narratives, the TY's authors implicitly valorize the notion of confronting God. They never imagine God as castigating the character's irreverent act or as rejecting the details of the human critique. More importantly, the widespread motif of divine moral concessions in TY should move scholars to modify their assumption that the sages imagined God to be morally perfect. In the first half of the twentieth century, Arthur Marmorstein argued that the Tannaim adamantly defended the existence of an ethically infallible God to counter the Marcionite “heresy” that viewed the Hebrew Bible's God as ruthless and unjust.Footnote 92 Like Marmorstein, David Weiss Halivni asserts that the rabbis never consciously privileged their own sense of morality over a straightforward reading of a “difficult” biblical law, since this would imply that God's morality was in error—and the “Perfect Law Giver” could never err.Footnote 93 Despite challenging Halivni's sweeping claim by showing examples to the contrary—where Tannaim did rely on their moral intuitions to reinterpret problematic texts radically—Moshe Halbertal nevertheless, like Halivni, still maintains that the ancient rabbis conceived of God as a perfectly righteous being. For Halbertal, even those Tannaim who did grant immense interpretive weight to their own moral convictions (even to the point of countering the plain sense of Scripture) did so only because they confidently believed that their own ethical sensibilities mirrored those of God's.Footnote 94
As the TY texts presented in this paper have God acquiesce to a number of moral critiques, they present a different conception of God than do the rabbinic texts adduced by the Marmorstein, Halivni, and Halbertal. Constructing a God who is not morally perfect, these radical images sharply contrast with the unchanging and morally perfect God championed by much of Greek philosophy, early Christian thought, and medieval Jewish philosophy. In these TY texts, although God is concerned with and committed to justice and morality, he also recognizes his limitations and fallibility. Most radically, God is willing to change his methods of governing the world after receiving human input. Unlike the image of God presented throughout most of the Bible, the TY's God is not the unchanging and impassable ultimate moral sovereign. Rather than following God's own actions, the rules of ethical conduct now emerge through dialogues between God and various biblical heroes. In addition, while these texts imply a profound lesson about divine morality and change, they also point to a theology of human dignity and empowerment: God reaches the pinnacle of ethical action through his dialogues with humanity. Indeed, these TY texts grant significant religious value and dignity to human ethical intuitions and sensibilities.
In recent years, scholars of Jewish studies have demonstrated how aggadic literature tends to humanize God in ways that go well beyond the biblical narrative. Both David Stern and Arthur Green argue that the sages, generally speaking, sharpen and intensify the anthropomorphism and anthropopathism of the Hebrew Bible.Footnote 95 In the rabbinic imagination, God assumes human character traits never encountered in Scripture. More specifically, Michael Fishbane details how some sages imagine God as suffering with his people. Whereas the Hebrew Bible presents a God who saves and punishes, rabbinic texts boldly imagine God (as the Shekhinah) to be in exile with Israel, remaining in physical bondage until the redemptive moment.Footnote 96 As Jews experience suffering, so does the rabbinic God. In a similar fashion, Moshe Halbertal shows how in rabbinic literature, God often plays the weaker party in the human-divine analogy: God becomes the metaphorical wife, daughter, debtor, defendant, and even servant. Conversely, humans assume the more powerful role of husband, parent, creditor, judge, and master, inverting the standard biblical hierarchy.Footnote 97 Lastly, both Moshe Idel and Yehuda Liebes demonstrate the theurgic component in rabbinic thought: Jewish fulfillment of divine law automatically affects God.Footnote 98 Through the performance of mitzvot, righteous Jews can cause God's power to increase and his attribute of mercy to overcome his attribute of justice. According to these sages, human rituals mechanistically effect positive changes within God's nature.Footnote 99
The common thread that runs through these scholarly works is the appearance of a power or hierarchical inversion.Footnote 100 Generally speaking, in relation to biblical thought, rabbinic theology empowers humanity and disempowers God, to a certain extent. Fishbane's analysis of divine pathos, in which God is “enchained with Israel,” blatantly underscores God's vulnerability. On the flip side, Idel's and Liebes's work on rabbinic theurgy highlights a theology of human empowerment, as the extent of divine power depends upon human action. Halbertal's article on the shifting of relational analogies emphasizes both sides of the theological coin. As humans play the superior roles of judge, husband, and creditor, these texts accentuate human empowerment; conversely, as God assumes the inferior roles of wife, debtor, and defendant, these texts underscore divine disempowerment.
In conclusion, this article has sought, inter alia, to highlight another type of power or hierarchical inversion in rabbinic literature, one that emerges in the writings of the TY. Rather than the traditional narrative of God's educating humanity, these TY texts show human beings who, through confrontation, teach or persuade God to adopt different moral positions. As a result, these midrashim grant humanity significant persuasive and moral power in relation to God; at the same time, they further humanize God by depicting him as a character open to moral education and change. This paper thus challenges the suggestion made by leading midrashic scholars that while the TY corpus marks a revolutionary shift in literary form, it “lacks . . . profound . . . theological dimensions of thought.”Footnote 101 Contra this view, I have argued that the TY literature is highly significant both for the history of theology, in general, and for the history of Jewish thought, in particular.
