Sacred Trash (8 page)

To Schechter’s mind, something was wrong with this higher-critical picture, and Ben Sira might help clear things up, as it is the only quasi-biblical book for which we have a reliable date. The grandson’s testimony in the prologue to his Greek version of Ben Sira indicates that he made
his translation around 132
B.C.E
., which would mean that Ben Sira himself wrote his work some two generations earlier—between, say, 200 and 180
B.C.E
. If one had in hand a substantial sample of the original Hebrew of Ben Sira, whose date was more or less known, it could be compared with the Hebrew of these biblical books whose dates are a matter of considerable speculation, and scholars could, as Schechter put it, “test the mode of thinking as well as of the language and style of the period in question.” Then readers would know just how reliable these Protestant higher critics were.

Unfortunately, the last sighting of the Hebrew original of Ben Sira had been in the tenth century, when an important Jewish scholar wrote about it. The final Christian to mention it was Saint Jerome in the fourth century. By that time Ben Sira was known as Ecclesiasticus—a Latin term meaning “Book of the Church”—as its moral thrust and presentation of ideal religious figures had earned it a place of pride among the apocryphal writings. It was seen as being “inspired by God,” and many of the early Greek and Latin Church Fathers considered it authoritative. Later Catholic editions of the Bible grouped it with the standard set of Old Testament wisdom writings, and though Protestants never accepted it into the inner ring of sacred texts, the book was regularly printed as a supplement to many—though not to Presbyterian—Protestant Bibles. In short, the canonical or almost canonical Ecclesiasticus drew considerable Christian devotional and theological interest through the ages, and any major development relating to it would, the ever-canny and even competitive Schechter no doubt knew, cause a sensation. It might even pry a book like Ben Sira loose from Christian claims.

Schechter was suspicious not only of the Higher Criticism but of several other contemporary Christian approaches to theology and history as well. And for the two years prior to his identification of the Ben Sira scrap, he had been feverishly preparing a series of lectures intended to counter in respectable fashion these Christian critics and Jewish scholars of a Christianizing bent. (Speaking off the record, though, in a letter to
a friend, he referred to “their” theology as an “abomination” and accused these scholars of wanting to undo history and of not being “real … monotheists.”) It wasn’t that he disagreed with the scientific impulse underlying the work in question. On the contrary, he was all in favor of serious scholarly analysis of scripture—and had gone so far as to call the fundamental effort of the Higher Criticism “one of the finest intellectual feats of this century.” What he objected to was the “brutal vivisection” of Jewish history that all too often came with it.

This slashing into the living flesh of an entire people’s faith was part and parcel of the distinctly anti-Jewish bias that Schechter felt lay behind the Protestant critics’ line of inquiry, which perceived much of Jewish history as a continual falling off from the heights of early revelation and prophetic vision to a preoccupation with ceremony and legal sophistry. Second Temple Judaism was in this worldview reduced to a mechanical priestly cult, and post-Temple or rabbinic Judaism—which Schechter held in the highest esteem—was dismissed outright as a spiritually sterile legalism. The Law as given in the Torah, charged Julius Wellhausen, the highest of these higher critics, “thrusts itself in everywhere … blocks up the access to heaven, … and spoils morality.”

Wellhausen made the case against later Judaism in disconcertingly compelling fashion. “The warm pulse of life,” he wrote, “no longer throbbed in it to animate it.… The soul was fled; the shell remained.” But it wasn’t just a matter of spiritual fatigue. As this leading member of the school saw it, the problem of religious evolution also touched on fraudulence. “It is well known that there have never been more audacious inventors of history than the rabbins. But Chronicles affords evidence that this evil propensity goes back to a very early time, its root the dominating influence of the Law, being the root of Judaism itself.” In Wellhausen’s most important book, which was published in Germany while Schechter was taking courses at the University of Vienna in biblical grammar and other related subjects (he was just three years younger than Wellhausen), biases of this sort extended to the most fundamental
level of scriptural interpretation, including philology, where, for instance, Wellhausen derived the key Hebrew word “Torah” from the root suggesting the casting of lots or the pronouncement of oracles, rather than from the three-letter radical indicating “the thing taught or reported” or “come down by tradition.” “Wellhausen’s hypothesis,” Schechter noted, “is … strangely in harmony with [his] conception of the law, which thus would originate in a sort of priestly fetisch [
sic
].” For Schechter, however, the heart of Judaism was its unbroken (if often battered) line of transmission—precisely what had been reported or what had come down by tradition—without any loss of revelation’s power. The teaching of Judaism embodied “the effluence of God’s mercy and love,” and its yoke was joyfully taken on through history by “all sorts and conditions of men, scholars, poets, mystics, lawyers, casuists, schoolmen, tradesmen, workmen, women, [and] simpletons.”

Put in the plainest terms, for Schechter Higher Criticism was poorly or barely disguised “higher anti-Semitism”—“German dogs,” he called the beer-loving Wellhausen and his followers—and the Hebrew Ben Sira was the newest weapon with which he could combat them.

It had already been a long fight. The very first article Schechter published under his own name was a short 1881 piece treating the essential distortion of actual Jewish practice and tradition that anti-Semitic bias in scholarship brought about. Two years later he wrote to a younger colleague studying in Germany, “It is sad to see the ways in which
Wissenschaft des Judentums
[the science of Judaism] is neglected here [in England]. As in Germany with the Bible, here the entire literature of Judaism is taken care of only by Christians.… There is no spiritual life and I feel like death. My only comfort is the manuscripts in the British Museum.”

Over the course of the next seven or eight years, Schechter poured out a steady stream of articles on a wide range of Jewish subjects spanning the centuries, from the Hasidim to the presence of women and children in Jewish literature, from medieval figures such as Maimonides to modern
historians such as Leopold Zunz—one of the founding fathers of that “scientific,” which is to say also broadly humanistic, Jewish scholarship. Schechter summed up Zunz’s project in an 1888 essay: “To restore the missing links between the Bible and tradition, to prove the continuity and development of Jewish thought through history, to show their religious depth and their moral and ennobling influence, to teach us how our own age with all its altered notions might nevertheless be a stage in the continuous development of Jewish ideals and might make these older thoughts a part of its own progress—this was the great task to which Zunz devoted his whole life.” From that visionary if indirect statement of Schechter’s own mission—he was clearly aligning himself with the great leaders of the Jewish past—it isn’t far to Ben Sira’s heart and substance. For an authentic Hebrew Ben Sira would confirm the existence of a moral and spiritually vital Second Temple Judaism far removed in both time and practice from the “source” revelation and yet hardly desiccated by excessive legalism or the mechanical maintenance of priestly rites.

Because of its core ethical focus and concern with transmission, Ben Sira was beloved among the rabbis of the early talmudic period. In fact, they prized the collection of hymns and homiletical verse so (one might think of it as a kind of rabbinic self-help manual—an epigrammatic miscellany of manners, morals, and the ways of wisdom and the world) that they set it almost on par in importance with the Book of Proverbs. Some scholars feel that Ben Sira was banned from the Jewish biblical canon only because of its late date or the fact that its author was known so specifically, as a particular figure from their own not-too-distant past. Though it may once have been considered a member in good standing of Israel’s company of sacred writings, by the time the rabbis fixed the canon and decided what was in and what was out, Ben Sira found itself among the “outs,” and along with the other “external books”—as the apocryphal writings are known in Hebrew—its study was proscribed in Judaism. Eventually the Hebrew original vanished altogether, though passages from it continued to be quoted and have left their mark on some
of the prayers regularly recited by Jews today (even if most are unaware of it). Passages from the book are likewise found in the two Talmuds and other central rabbinic texts, where they are sometimes introduced with the formula “it is written”—a phrase usually reserved for quotations from scripture.

Scholarly interest apart, one is tempted to say that it was Schechter’s developed literary sensibility that pulled him almost uncontrollably toward this lost valley of Hebrew letters—a path leading from the later poetry of the Bible to the next conspicuous stage in the history of Hebrew verse, the hymns and prayers of the fifth through eighth centuries. “Ben Sira,” he remarked, “should rather be described as the first of the Paitanim [liturgical poets] than as one of the last of the canonical writers.” It is, though, by no means clear that he intended this as a compliment, as Schechter seems to have had decidedly mixed feelings about the value of that later hymnography. In addition, like most scholars, he noted the derivative and pastiche-like quality of the Ben Sira text, which a Cambridge friend and colleague called “a tissue of old classical phrases,” and which another scholar has described only a bit more generously as an attempt “to adapt the older Scriptures in order to popularize them and make them relevant to the new Hellenistic age in which [Ben Sira] lived.” Still other modern writers are more blunt in their assessment of Ben Sira’s limitations: “Polonius without Shakespeare,” says one, suggesting that Ben Sira’s wisdom is passed on without panache or anything in the way of a style that might make it memorable. Numerous commentators have found the work “tedious,” and one Jewish biblical scholar has said that the Hebrew of the section identified by Schechter is “composed in an idiom which is for the most part hideous.”

On the other hand, the American-Jewish classicist Moses Hadas called Ecclesiasticus “the most attractive book in the Apocrypha,” adding that “it can be read almost as an essay of Montaigne is read.” More than just an extender of scriptural tradition, Ben Sira’s author is, says one leading Israeli Semiticist, a self-conscious, skillful, and at times even virtuoso
artist whose work introduces to Hebrew notions that develop into pivotal concepts and terms in rabbinic literature (the immanence of God, for example, which later in the tradition becomes the Shekhina). The book is, he says, brimming with treasures (
genazim
).

Whatever reservations Schechter himself had about the epigonic nature of some of the writing, when Ben Sira the poet hit his stride, the results, he felt, rang a large literary gong: “The chapters containing the praise of wisdom and the praise of holy men,” he wrote, “are unsurpassed in beauty of diction and grandeur of thought.” He no doubt had in mind the book’s opening lines—

All wisdom comes from the Lord

and is with Him forever.

Who can number the sands of the sea,

and the drops of rain, and the days of eternity? …

Who can find out the height of heaven,

and the breadth of the earth, and the deep, and wisdom? …

and the passage midway through the book when Wisdom speaks in praise of herself:

I came forth from the mouth of the most High,

and covered the earth like a mist.

I dwelt in high places,

and my throne was in a pillar of cloud.

Alone have I compassed the circuit of heaven,

and walked in the bottom of the deep.

In the waves of the sea, and in all the earth,

and in every people and nation, I have gotten a possession.

Schechter was almost certainly thinking, too, of Ben Sira’s turn at this point from the universal toward the particular, as he asks:

Among all these I sought a resting place—

[but] in whose inheritance might I abide?

Then the Creator of all things

  gave me a commandment,

and He who made me

  assigned a place for my tent,

and said: Make your dwelling in Jacob,