That’s very scanty biographical information, is it not? In Rashi’s day, about a hundred Jewish families lived in the beautiful city of Troyes. They lived modestly and experienced no great upheavals. These occurred only in the thirteenth century. In 1288, to be exact.
It was the old story of ritual murder—stupid, ridiculous, but oh so deadly. It is mentioned in The Lamentation of Troyes by Yaakov ben Yehuda of Lorraine. Hate-filled fanatics put the corpse of a Christian child in the house of a Jewish notable, Isaac Chatelain. Arrested along with his whole family, interrogated, they all suffered the abuse and torture that was usual at the time. They all chose Kiddush ha-Shem, a martyr’s death, the supreme sacrifice in the sanctification of God’s name.
Dark times spawn legends of hope, dreams of a hero, which for Jews in those times meant not a soldier but a scholar, an interpreter of God’s word. Several legends surround Rashi’s birth. They say his parents owned a precious gem that was so luminous and sparkled so brilliantly that the Church dearly wished to acquire it for ritual use. They were offered astronomical sums and substantial benefits. Fearing both the possible temptation and the probable intimidation, they took the gem and threw it into the sea. Heaven rewarded them by giving them a son whose beneficial light was more exceptional and dazzling than that of the precious gem.
Another legend: one day Rashi’s mother, in the late stage of pregnancy, was walking down a narrow, dark alley when an elegant coach coming in the opposite direction almost ran her over. A miracle occurred: she pressed her belly against the wall and the wall curved inward. They say the trace of this mysterious occurrence can still be seen today: a rounded niche in the stones.
And still another legend: fearing that he would be unable to assemble a minyan, a quorum of ten men, for his son’s circumcision, Rabbi Yitzhak, the father of the future Rashi, had the surprise and joy of welcoming as his last visitor, a latecomer, the first circumcised Jew in history, the patriarch Abraham, or, according to another source, the prophet Elijah.
According to other legends, invented by hagiographers, he spoke every existing language, mastered all the sciences, religious and secular, and had journeyed to faraway lands. He was said to have visited the great poet and thinker Rabbi Yehuda ha-Levi in Spain and the Duke of Prague in his castle. He is purported to have hosted Godfrey of Bouillon, who came to consult him before leaving on the Crusade to liberate Jerusalem’s holy places.
In the Hasidic literature, he is called “the holy Rashi” for his immense oeuvre was said to be inspired from the Holy Spirit, the Shekhinah: otherwise, as a mere human, he would never have been able to accomplish so many things in so many areas.
One Hasidic text goes so far as to imagine that Rashi did not die a natural death: that he actually never died at all but went up to heaven alive, immortal like the prophet Elijah. Which would explain why no one knows where his grave is located.
Rabbi Yitzhak Eizik of Ziditchov’s commentary: When God, blessed be His Name, decided to put an end to Abraham’s trials on Mount Moriah and to spare the life of his son Isaac, Abraham initially refused to hear the angel who handed down the celestial command. He gave in only when God promised him that one of Isaac’s descendants would be Shlomo, son of Isaac of Troyes.
At that point Abraham had no choice.
Rashi was a precocious student, that is a fact.
We know Rashi studied—for how many years?—with his maternal uncle, Rabbi Shimon bar Yitzhak the Ancient, Rabbenu Gershom’s disciple. At eighteen or twenty, he went to Mainz in Germany to study at the yeshiva founded by the aforementioned Rabbenu Gershom, where under the latter’s authority, several great Sages assisted the students. In this way, the young Rashi had access to Talmudic manuscripts written by the ancients and by Rabbenu Gershom himself, a rare privilege. According to one legend, Rashi had the good fortune and pleasure of holding in his hands the Sefer Torah, the holy scrolls, that his Teacher used during the service.
A number of legal decisions are attributed, rightly or wrongly, to Rabbenu Gershom. Two are famous: on bigamy and on the repudiation of a wife against her will. A third forbids opening another person’s mail.
When Rashi arrived in his yeshiva, Rabbenu Gershom was no longer alive. Rashi studied with his successors Rabbi Yaakov ben Yakar, whom he admired and loved more than anyone in the world, David ha-Levi, and Yitzhak ben Yehuda. He was closest to the first, whom he loved for his great modesty and who first made him aware of some rare manuscripts of the Talmud and their Midrashic and other commentators without which it is impossible to study the Talmud in depth. “I owe him everything I know,” he wrote, “my understanding, my comprehension, and my heart.” Occasionally he accompanied him on his trips to nearby communities and beyond.
After Mainz he went to Worms where there was a large, thriving yeshiva supervised by Rabbi Yitzhak ha-Levi. He stayed there for several years. The reason is clear: at the time, the most renowned centers of higher Jewish learning were in the German Rhineland, though there were also a few in Italy. France became a center only after Rashi’s return. By then he was not even thirty years old. He married—but whom? We don’t know. We don’t even know his wife’s name. The couple had three daughters: Miriam, Yokheved, and Rachel. We’re equally unsure as to whether they had a fourth daughter; several sources hint that they did, adding that she may have died in infancy.
Did his wife and daughters help Rashi in his vineyards? No doubt they did … if he was a wine grower, which has never been fully confirmed. Did he have other sources of income? Nothing is less certain. One legend claims he lived from trade with the Gentiles. There is a letter of Rashi’s revealing that he didn’t have the means to support his family: he couldn’t afford to buy bread and clothes.
As for the daughters, they are believed to have been erudite. It seems that, sometimes, they were consulted regarding customs and practices in matters of food and family life.
Miriam’s husband, Rabbi Yehuda ben Nathan, was a great scholar. And so was Yokheved’s husband, Rabbi Meir ben Shmuel. Rachel must have been known for her beauty, for she was nicknamed “Belle-assez,” “rather beautiful.” Her husband, a certain Eliezer, divorced her. Why? We don’t know. If she remarried, we don’t know whom she married.
On the other hand, we know that Rashi, though married and perhaps already a father, returned to Worms and stayed there several years. Was it because he wasn’t ready to found his own yeshiva? As soon as he returned to Troyes, he did found one. His contemporaries are known for their learning: Rabbi Eliyahu ben Menahem the Elder of Mans and Rabbi Yosef bar Shmuel Tov-elem of Limoges.
Why does he hardly mention his wife and daughters? Who ran the household? Who kept house for him? Who accompanied him on trips? Could it be that, like other Talmud Sages, his disciples meant more to him than his close family members?
Rashi’s influence can be explained by his knowledge of a range of disciplines—the Bible and the Talmud, mathematics and wine growing, astronomy and zoology.
How did he earn his living? Solely from the produce of his vineyard—there again, if he had one? He did write a lot about wines. He had no salary (in those days, rabbis were not paid), and his students received free instruction. In addition, some of his students, who were more or less destitute, requested financial assistance from him for their everyday needs. His foreign students lived in his house. And ate at his table. When one of them married, Rashi organized the wedding in his house.
Here again, we have no idea how he managed to feed so many people, but apparently he did. More precisely: there is no evidence in any source of anyone complaining.
His students, all of them thirsting for knowledge, flocked to him from everywhere, from the provinces and beyond. There were some students who came from Germany and Eastern Europe.
Among his disciples, we find some of the greatest scholars, including his two sons-in-law who became illustrious French Tosafists, as the commentators of the generations after Rashi were known, from the word for “additional.” Indeed
, he brought them in as collaborators in his work, as consultants, copyists, or proofreaders of manuscripts. Rabbi Yehuda excelled in his way of commenting on the Talmud following Rashi’s original approach. After his father-in-law’s death, it is he who completed Rashi’s commentary of Tractate Makkot (punishments) of the Talmud. Yehuda’s son, Rabbi Shmuel (the Rashbam), became a Sage in turn. But the most famous and admired of Rashi’s grandsons was Rabbi Meir’s son, Yaakov (Jacob), better known as Rabbenu Tam. The same adjective is attributed to the patriarch Jacob in the Scriptures. Tam means “complete piety.” When he was born, Rashi was nearly sixty.
Rabbenu Tam had a dramatic and even tragic life, enduring periods of danger and suffering. At forty-seven, he was assaulted by hate-filled Crusaders and sustained five head wounds. “You are Israel’s greatest,” the aggressors yelled. “So we will take revenge on you for our crucified Lord. We will wound you the way you wounded our Lord!” He was already old when the Jewish community in Blois was accused of ritual murder; the rabbi ordered all the Jews of France to observe a day of fasting in solidarity for their endangered brothers and sisters; thirty-one of them lost their lives.
In general, Rashi’s disciples, and they were numerous and prolific, identified themselves by the teaching “received from his mouth.” If, with time, a true Teacher is defined by the quality of his disciples, Rashi is among the greatest.
Let us recall some of them: Rabbi Shmaya worked at putting his Teacher’s notes in order. From him we know that a Christian owed Rashi money and maintained that he had already reimbursed him. Rashi demanded that he make this statement under oath in church. Rabbi Yosef Kara, the author of important books on the Prophets. Rabbi Simhah ben Shmuel of Vitry, who was especially interested in the litanies and prayers written by Rashi. It is thought, without being confirmed, that several of these reflect Rashi’s grief and pain at the atrocities committed by the Crusaders. As for his two sons-in-law, cited above, they always refer to his interpretations.
How old was he when he took up his duties as Troyes’ official rabbi? By then he was already a respected member of the rabbinical court. No precise date was found in the historical records. The only thing we are certain of is that he was already well known and that his reputation had extended beyond this little city. Before his arrival, the notables went to see outside authorities to settle their differences. Once he became their rabbi, this custom ended. All the problems were brought to him. Questions were sent to him from faraway countries. And his decisions, made with humility but firmly, were never disputed. At the end of his life, often sick and bedridden, he dictated his answers to his correspondents. And he explained the reasons for his decisions.
In his superb book on Rashi, Avraham Grossman, one of his best biographers and a fine essayist, puts forward a captivating idea: Rashi’s success and popularity, in all the strata of the Jewish population for a thousand years, cannot be explained by his commentaries alone but are due to his personality as well.
He lists five character traits that have to be taken into account if we are to grasp the reason why his immense work had so much impact: humility and simplicity, the pursuit of the truth, respect for his fellow man, confidence in his own creative inspiration, and the feeling of accomplishing the mission of a community leader.
Was his humility unconscious? Opinion is divided. On the one hand, can authentic modesty not be authentic? On the other, if exaggerated, wouldn’t modesty get in the way of courageous research, deny the mind the right to take on an adventure whose goal is to break through the wall and create an opening to renewal?
In studying him tirelessly, we find no trace of arrogance or conceit in Rashi. Exaggerated susceptibility of any kind seems alien to him. Self-confidence, yes, so long as it is not boundless. He sometimes admits to making a mistake on a specific issue. Sometimes—and we’ll return to this below—he simply confesses to ignorance. No other Sage did this as frankly and as frequently. The expression is “eini yoden.”
Hence his courteous and respectful attitude in his relationships with others. With his enemies and opponents—for he did have some—he betrays no impatience, no irritation. He also becomes a kind of ideal address for his peers and disciples: their queries and problems come to him by the hundreds, from Italy, Germany, and France; they concern trade, marriage and the ritual. His answers form part of his work. Why does he forbid the sick from reciting daily prayers? Is it because, being ill, they are unable to concentrate on the very soul of prayer? Or is it so the sick won’t feel guilty that they aren’t well enough to recite the required prayer? He showed such an affectionate understanding for others that all assumptions are permitted.
But what about the Christians? What was Rashi’s attitude toward them? We will come to that later. For the moment, let us just mention that he viewed their business relationships with the Jews in a favorable light. Did he consider them inevitable? He also made a point of saying that, after all, they were not pagans.
One day he noticed that a Christian with whom he had business dealings didn’t really care about his own Christian faith; he was too casual about it. Rashi refused to see him again.
Having said this, it is surprising to note that Rashi didn’t take part in the virulent polemics with the Christians on what separates our religious traditions. He could not have been unaware of them. Word of these polemics reached the most remote corners of his region and far beyond. And Rashi, for one, surely understood their possible effects on the community: they often ended badly. Hence his hostility toward Christendom. For him, it symbolized Esau. What he thought of the Christians is what he says about Esau. He shows some understanding, though not completely wholehearted, for Isaac’s brother Ishmael, but none for Jacob’s brother. He goes very far in his choice of words in describing the latter’s secret thoughts and evil intentions. But of the two brothers, wasn’t Jacob the one who, with the help of his mother, Rebecca, deceived his blind father in order to receive the blessings intended for the eldest? No, says Rashi. The lies came from Esau who, being a hypocrite, did everything to please his father so he could be the first blessed.
Another example: the biblical text tells us that on that day Esau returned from the fields tired and famished. Why tired? We could suppose that he had just done some strenuous work. For Rashi the reason is completely different: he was tired of killing. Worse still: Rashi is convinced that Esau was guilty of the three worst transgressions: idolatry, adultery, and murder. In general, he uses Esau—or Edom—as a symbol of everything evil and wicked surrounding Israel.
Often, indeed very often, this animosity is not in the text itself, but in many Midrashic commentaries Rashi cites. But Rashi sets about making a personal choice to support his hypothesis. Since Israel has and will have an enemy, this enemy must be named; it is Christianity, which, in Esau, existed well before the common era.
Grossman stresses this point. According to him, Esau is not the only person Rashi presents in a negative light. He sees other protagonists as having negative traits as well: for him, Lot, Abraham’s nephew, did nothing commendable. If he lived in the sinful city of Sodom, it was because he felt comfortable among the impious.
Ishmael? Not attractive either. He kept company with brigands and imitated their habits. Idolatrous and violent, he was not really loved by his father.
How are we to explain these seemingly unjust allegories if not by the more or less hostile political, social, and religious environment of the period? Weren’t the people of Israel assailed, threatened, attacked, and tormented by both Christians and Muslims?
A general rule: whenever he can, Rashi chooses passages in the Midrash that can be interpreted as arguments against “the other nations.” Why? There again, let us draw on Grossman who attributes Rashi’s animosity to theological pressures to which were added the horrendous persecutions Christendom inflicted on the Jews in that part of Europe.
The forced “disputations” in the royal courts and cathedrals, the violent anti-Semitic propaganda that resulted
from these, the preparations for the first Crusade whose victims included Rashi’s disciples and friends, surely influenced his conception of the world. Was it his reaction to those events that were to leave traces of fire and blood in the Jewish memory forever after?
Did he ever forgive Esau whose descendents—in Rome, according to him—bore down on the Jews whose tragic destiny was supposed to be proof that God had changed his chosen people?
One should read Rashi’s commentary on the Song of Songs, a cry of distress and a song of love. It reflects the suffering of the Jews in exile. And so do some of the Psalms. For Rashi, King David predicts the martyrdom of the Righteous who sacrificed themselves in order to sanctify the Name of God.
But let us return to the Scriptures:
Rashi, as opposed to other great interpreters and sages, seems to favor the patriarchs exclusively: although the Talmud never hesitates to describe them as deeply human and mentions their failings and errors, Rashi depicts them as Righteous Men if not absolute saints. No misdemeanor, no blunder, never an ethical shortcoming when it comes to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God is proud of them for all eternity and so is he.
And yet.
Throughout his work, usually what counts most for Rashi is the concern for truth. Revealing the deep, hidden meaning of a biblical verse or a Talmudic statement, the very meaning that our distant precursors had bequeathed to their descendants—that’s the ultimate objective of his approach.
An approach that calls for a great deal of daring. Breaking down closed doors, disputing standard interpretations, going beyond the superficial, beyond what meets the eye, reaching higher and higher and delving deep down: courage is needed to aspire to this and consent to it. Rashi has courage, and he shares it with his pupils. In some instances he almost goes too far. Concerning the person of Flavius Josephus, for example.
Flavius Josephus is too demanding of the Jews besieged in Jerusalem. He asks them to resign themselves and accept defeat. He finishes his life as a patrician, near Rome. It is hardly surprising that the Jewish tradition kept its distance from the work of Flavius Josephus, Jewish historian. For centuries, the writer was treated as a marginal figure in the religious literature of the Jewish people. Too moderate, too conciliatory, too weak with regard to the besieging Romans: he was regarded with genuine antipathy. But apparently not by Rashi, who admires his work The War of the Jews for having served as the basis for the history book Yosiphon by Yosef ben Gurion ha-Cohen.