A Biblical “Game of Thrones”

I only watched one or two episodes of Game of Thrones; it was a little bloody for me. But the Hebrew Bible has its own “Game of Thrones,” the story of King David. King David is such a surprising hero, given the number of things he does that are morally questionable to say the least. He is both hero and anti-hero. David is beloved by God, according to one biblical author, but the bible is certainly ambivalent about him. The word “Satan” is used in the Hebrew Bible to describe David as an adversary. He is depicted as feigning madness in an attempt to avoid the wrath of the king of the Philistines. And he carries off the wife of a man named Nabal after shaking him down for flocks and herds under threat of violence. His relationship with King Saul’s son Jonathan is touching, a friendship so warm that it is hard not to see it as a love affair, a love that “passes the love of women,” as the Bible characterises the love between David and Jonathan. But he is also an insatiable collector of other men’s wives. The salacious, bloodthirsty and shocking incidents related in Samuel must have shaken the later biblical authors, because many of those incidents are left out when his story is retold in Chronicles. David’s sons were dangerous and rebellious; one of them raped his own half-sister, and others went to war against David to claim the throne. When David was old, he left a hit list of enemies, ordering his son and heir Solomon to kill them after he died; not exactly a forgiving man.

In the books of 1 and 2 Samuel and 1 Kings, the character of David appropriately takes centre stage. But behind and around him stand a host of figures with supporting roles in the narrative.

Among the most interesting of them is Joab ben Zeruiah, one of the three sons of David’s sister, a violent and unpredictable man (well, predictably violent, but apparently unpredictable to those unfortunate enough to trust him) who fights  alongside David in the battle against Saul, and later is his field commander. For a character who is not part of the chain of tradition of our people, and who represents none of the values that ultimately develop in the Jewish understanding of the Hebrew Bible as it traces the creation and development of the Jewish people, we learn a lot about him.

In the period when the forces of King Saul were skirmishing with those of David, Joab’s brother attempts to attack Abner, who is fighting on the side of Saul. Abner tries to discourage him, knowing that killing him will provoke a vendetta with Joab, but he can’t avoid the fight, and quickly and efficiently kills Joab’s brother. Later, Abner makes peace with David, who sends him away in peace. Joab learns of this, and sends messengers to bring Abner back. It appears that he does this falsely, in the name of David, otherwise Abner would never have put himself at risk; he certainly knew what kind of man Joab was, and had predicted this possibility when Joab’s brother confronted him. Nonetheless, Joab manages to fool Abner and, drawing him aside as if for a friendly chat, kills him.

Joab is a great fighter and a violent man, whose impulses are held in check only (and not always) by his loyalty to David. When David’s son Absalom rebels against David, David asks his commanders to “deal gently with my boy Absalom for my sake.” Absalom’s rebellion fails and he is caught when his hair is entangled in a tree. Joab strikes him down and has him finished off.

While David is bewailing Absolom, his army begins to steal away, worried that David’s strength and morale are waning. (2 Samuel 19:6) Joab berates David directly, in a fierce, remarkable display, reminding him that if Absalom had been left alive, David and his supporters would be dead, and that if David went on in this manner and continued to appear weak and unmanned by grief, he would soon have no allies and no army. At this, David gets up and stands silently by the gate, diminished, but still worthy of the loyalty of his troops, and the crisis ends. Neither of these men can succeed without the other.

David then (2 Samuel 19:11) replaces Joab with Joab’s own cousin Amasa. But Joab is soon back in charge, and his official position as David’s main commander is affirmed. His treachery is as undiminished as his power; almost predictably, knowing Joab as we now do, he murders Amasa while pretending to draw him close for a kiss of friendship.

Shortly before David’s death, (1 Kings 2:4) he speaks to Solomon, giving him his “hit list” of revenge. In the end, Joab may be kin and the commander of the army, but David is King, and he tells Solomon to have Joab killed because of the murders we have seen him commit, as well as the one he does not mention, the killing of Absalom.

We are told (1Samuel 18:14) of David, “And David succeeded in all his ways, and the LORD was with him.” God grants David a dynasty that will last forever, even if David and his successors violate the law, which they do, repeatedly (they are chastised, but never disinherited.) Joab, however, is neither a prophet nor a king, and thus he is an instrument of history, not a creator of it; there is no divine prophecy attached to him. He is not a protagonist in any story but his own. It is, however, through the portrayal of characters like Joab that the vividness of the story is able to show the reader “man’s creaturely condition,” and thus is one of the reasons that these stories have survived the generations. The picture we are given of Joab includes his actions, his emotional state, his words both reported and in direct speech, his gestures, and even his costume (described by David as covered from waste to feet in the blood of those who trusted him). Time and again, he has the last word until, in the end, Solomon does.

The David story, which functions in the Hebrew Bible almost as a standalone tale, is shocking; full of treachery, very bloody and sexy. As I read it, I find myself saying, “this is in the Bible?!” It reads very much like Game of Thrones, a struggle over a throne that one can’t help but wonder why anyone wants it. It is, I think, this vividness of character and incident that makes the Hebrew Bible, as complicated and varied as it is, ultimately a remarkable literary source. Even if it weren’t “the Bible,” it would be a compelling and powerful read. A best-seller!

Rabbi Gershon Silins

In the 1980’s I worked at a law firm in New York City as a “word processor.” Computerised typing was new, and there were a lot of systems that were increasingly being used in business; I worked on one called the Wang word processor. We saved our documents to what was then state of the art, the 9- inch floppy disk. A few years ago, I realised that, unless a paper copy had been printed, every document I created in those years is lost; there may be a few machines left that can read those floppy disks, but for the most part, all the work I did then (and every other word processed document from that era) has completely disappeared. No one will miss the contracts and agreements I worked on then. But what about more important things?

For Jews, the central text is the Torah. One of the ways it has been preserved over the millennia is that it is produced by the oldest possible technology. As Rabbi Michal Shekel tells us in My Jewish Learning, a Torah scroll must be hand-written.

This is done by a sofer, a specially trained individual who is devout and knowledgeable in the laws governing the proper writing and assembling of a scroll. The word sofer is from the Hebrew root “to count.” According to the Talmud (Kiddushin 30a), these scholars would count each letter of the Torah,making certain that nothing was omitted.

The materials used for creating these sacred items are restricted as well. Parchment used for the writing must be made from the skin of a kosher animal. The scribe mixes a special ink for the writing and prepares the actual writing utensil, a quill, usually from a turkey feather. He uses a reed instrument to scratch lines into the parchment in preparation for the writing. Once all the writing has been completed, the pieces of parchment are sewn together with thread made of animal veins. The finished scroll is attached to wooden rollers. No instrument containing iron or steel may be used in the creation of a Torah scroll, because these metals are used to create instruments of war.

There is a special type of lettering that is used to write the Torah. While the writing looks like a form of Hebrew block letters, certain letters are embellished with crowns, called tagin. Greater variations in lettering existed a few hundred years ago. Torah scrolls written by Hasidic groups had swirls in certain letters, with each letter said to convey a mystical meaning. Today, there is greater standardisation among Torah scrolls.

The scribe prepares the parchment by scratching 43 horizontal lines on it and two vertical ones at each end. This allows for a standard 42 lines of writing. Each sheet of parchment contains three to eight columns of writing. Some letters are stretched within a column to justify the left margin.

There are some places in the Torah where certain letters are larger or smaller than standard, or where the text is written in a different type of column. Each deviation from the norm carries a special meaning. For example, the “Song of the Sea” (Exodus 15:1-19), which describes the parting of the Sea of Reeds, consists of three interlocking columns. The two outer columns symbolise the sea parted on either side, with the middle column representing the children of Israel marching on dry ground. Visually, this sets the section apart from the surrounding columns.

Such changes were instituted by the Masoretes — scribes of the 7th-9th centuries who standardised the biblical text — to highlight the importance of certain passages. All of the writing and layout must be done exactly to specification in order for the scroll to be kosher.

The scribe cannot write a Torah scroll from memory and must refer to a written book called a Tikkun. Whenever he writes the name of God, the scribe focuses on the task by declaring out loud his intention to honour God by writing the holy name.

One other ritual item written by a scribe is the Megillah (Book of Esther), which is read on Purim. However, in addition to ritual items, scribes also write legal documents such as a get (bill of divorce) or ketubah (marriage contract). The writing of all these items requires strict adherence to traditionally established form. The only place where the scribe has artistic license is in doing calligraphy for and decorating the ketubah. In this instance, creativity fulfils the precept of hiddur mitzvah, enhancing the joyous commandment by beautifying the item associated with fulfilling it.

The Talmud (Gittin 45b) states that scrolls written by certain groups of people, such as women or minors, cannot be used. The argument is based on an interpretation of Deuteronomy 6:8-9, where instructions are given regarding God’s teachings that you shall bind them on your hand and write them. The traditional understanding of this passage is that only those obligated to bind the teachings on their hand — that is, to wear tefillin — may write a Torah. In other words, being a sofer is restricted to adult Jewish males.

Later commentators relate the obligation to study Torah with the writing of one. This raises the question: since women are not traditionally obligated to study, does this fully prohibit them from writing a Torah, or merely exempt them from it? Today, there is recognition that women do study Torah and so there are those who argue that this permits women to write a Torah scroll. In addition, supporters of this position argue that numerous commentators in the past never put women on the list of those prohibited from fulfilling this sacred task. Still, the majority of scribes today are Orthodox men, though there are a few female and liberal scribes.

The Bible mentions “families of scribes” (I Chronicles 2:5), which were probably schools or guilds where an individual learned through apprenticeship.

Modern scribes also learn through individual apprenticeship and receive certification through a professional organisation. Interestingly, this is mirrored today in a nascent informal movement of traditionalist women learning this sacred craft secretly and teaching it to each other. This widening of the circle of scribes indicates its central importance for modern Judaism.

I have an electronic tablet version of the Torah text, and there are many technological aids to help us study and print the Torah. But, although changes have occurred in the writing of our central text, the creation of a Torah scroll relies on simple materials and human skill and devotion. It is through these resources that we are linked to our oldest traditions. And although small errors may have crept into the preserved text of the Torah (and the Hebrew Bible in general,) the degree of accuracy with which it has been transmitted is remarkable.

For me, this symbolises the right way to see the Torah, by preserving it to provide a firm foundation for our study of it and our other sacred texts. But at the same time, I believe we are obligated to study it critically. We inherit and value its wisdom, but we apply our modern sensibility to our tradition as well. The Torah thus becomes, in Jaroslav Pelikan’s words, not the dead tradition of living people, but a living tradition left by those who came before us.

Rabbi Gershon Silins

Thoughts for the Week

By Cantor Gershon Silins

Do Jews believe in an afterlife? The Hebrew Bible has very few references to it. It does make reference to a place called “Sheol” to which the dead go, but it doesn’t seem to represent anything like heaven or hell, and it appears to be more of a metaphor than an actual place or expectation. The concept of resurrection appears, but again rather ambiguously, and only in

later biblical books. For example, in Daniel 12:2 we read: “Many of those that sleep in the dust of the earth will awake, some to eternal life, others to reproaches, to everlasting abhorrence.”

The book of Daniel is very late; it dates to the 2nd Century BCE, and over the following centuries, a Jewish concept of some kind of afterlife began to develop. In mystical traditions, we find ideas about the immortality of the soul, and reincarnation in a kind of transmigration of souls.

The principal concept that ties Jewish beliefs with some kind of life after death is the notion of the World to Come, olam haba, which we can find in early rabbinic sources as some kind of reward for individual Jews (and sometimes righteous gentiles), but it is never described in any detail. Indeed, it is so vague that it might not specifically refer to life after death somewhere other than this world. It could refer to legacy we leave behind. On this reading, the “world to come” would be this world, after we are no longer alive in it.

Judaism also has ideas that seem to relate to heaven and hell: the Garden of Eden (Gan Eden) and Gehenna (Gehinnom). They seem to be associated with the immortality of the soul and the World to Come, but it is impossible to interpret them in any consistent way. The earliest reference to the Garden of Eden and Gehinnom as a pair seems to be the rabbinic statement of the 1st Century sage Yochanan ben Zakkai: “There are two paths before me, one leading to Gan Eden and the other to Gehinnom” (Berachot 28b). Our sages would have understood both of these as referring to actual places in the world, not some kind of heaven existing outside this world. And in fact, Gehinnom is an actual small valley in Jerusalem, where some of the kings of Judah were said to have sacrificed their children by fire. You can find it on a map and actually go there.

None of these ideas fit consistently with one another. For example, if the sources that refer to the World to Come are referring to the Garden of Eden, then what is the world of the resurrected? And if judgment immediately follows death, then what need is there for the judgment that would follow resurrection?

Though some Jewish scholars have tried to clarify these ideas, it is impossible to reconcile all the Jewish texts and sources that discuss the afterlife.

I think that our sages don’t present a consistent vision of a world that we might inhabit after we die because Judaism tends to focus on “this world” issues rather than on “next world”

ones. In fact, I’m rather comforted by our failure to provide a heaven or hell with a lot of detail. I think life is better when we are mindful of it, rather than focusing on possible rewards or punishments. And (as Maimonides noted) a blissful afterlife would not make up for the suffering that preceded it. We ought to do good because it is good, not because of a possible reward for it after death. And we ought to work for the common good in the world for the sake of a better life for everyone; if we focus too much on the next world, we are likely to be less committed to fixing the problems of this one.

Of course, Jews aren’t the only people who try to be good for its own sake or fix the world for the sake of others. But our tradition does not allow us to avoid our responsibilities in this world. It does enjoin us to work for a better future in a world that we will never see. We find this concept in the often quoted passage in Pirkei Avot 2:16: “He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say: It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it; If you have studied much Torah, you shall be given much reward. Faithful is your employer to pay you the reward of your labour; And know that the reward to the righteous is in the age to come.”