Rashi’s commentaries on the ancient texts are numerous, varied, infinitely original, and sometimes personal; they are found in various contemporaneous and later manuscripts; they include the Torah, the Prophets, the Writings (Proverbs, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, Psalms, book of Job—except for the very last chapters, which he did not finish), and, naturally, almost all of the Talmud. One of the most ancient manuscripts, if not the most ancient, is of the Pentateuch, the first of its kind, written by Makir, a renowned thirteenthcentury scribe who scrupulously copied the texts written by Rashi himself and corrected by Rabbi Shmaya. Rashi often relies on his precursors; for the Torah, the Aramaic translation by the convert Onkelos, for the Prophets, that of Yonatan ben Uziel; but above all he relies on the Midrash texts, not in order to contradict them, but in order to deepen them by adding his own knowledge. Nevertheless, in some rare instances he makes a point of disagreeing with his own Teachers. But even then he does so with a student’s respect for those whose teaching is a legacy. Just to illustrate Rashi’s fondness for simplicity, remember the tragedy that befell Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu who lost their lives because they introduced “an alien fire,” says Rashi. “They were drunk.”
Let us note that Rashi’s commentary on the Bible was the first Hebrew book to be printed: around 1470. It is hardly surprising that it rapidly crossed frontiers and the seas and made its way to the furthermost reaches of Jewish community life in the Diaspora. No other work was so widely circulated. The same is true of his writings on the Babylonian Talmud. Maimonides’ commentaries on the Talmud were criticized, often unjustly and sometimes too harshly, but Rashi’s were not. His acceptance by nearly all the Jewish thinkers and their disciples remains just about unique. Christian scholars benefited from his commentaries each in his own way—among them the illustrious Nicholas of Lyra, in the thirteenth century, who translated his work into Latin. He cited Rashi so frequently that a certain Jean Mercier, at the Collège Royal of Paris, nicknamed him Simius Solomnis, Solomon’s (Shlomo’s) ape.
Through Nicholas of Lyra, Rashi had a powerful influence on Martin Luther, whose German translation of the Bible owes much to him.
In subsequent pages, we will speak about his inexhaustible curiosity, his inventive genius, his touching humility in the presence of texts and their interpreters: he, the most illustrious of scholars, who mastered both sacred texts and secular ones (he had a knowledge of the sciences, and of French, Greek, and Arabic), was never embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t grasp the true meaning of a text, that a literal or hermeneutic translation escaped him or just seemed obscure. And in that case, it had to be elucidated at all costs. What is unclear initially will become clear the second time around. What is hidden will be revealed. For him, everything must remain open, comprehensible. A decision maker, he adapts the Law to present needs.
According to some, he was also a mystic (a staunch believer in miracles—and not just the biblical ones of the past—he believed that at the advent of the Messianic era, the Third Temple would descend from heaven). But he was in many ways a scientific rationalist, making accessible and familiar things that are not. Nothing is meant to remain complicated forever. The Torah is not up in the heavens, unchanging, among the angels and seraphs, but here down below. It is up to men to interpret it and reinterpret it anew each day.
A linguist and grammarian, if he finds the Aramaic or Hebrew insufficient, Rashi resorts to German and particularly to French or “Belaaz” in gloss, or the tongue of the Gentiles; and Rashi uses the latter abundantly: we find more than a thousand French words in his works. Scholars still study him today for the light he sheds on the French language in the early Middle Ages: some terms aren’t found anywhere else.
In general, intent on finding the right word and the suitable literary style to explain a biblical or Talmudic expression or law, when he is free to choose among different approaches, he opts for the simplest, most reasonable, most accessible one.
In delving into Rashi’s commentaries on the Babylonian Talmud one sometimes comes across contradictions. Tosafists and researchers have stated it unambiguously: there is no doubt that Rashi changed his mind on some particular points. For what reason? Was this due to the erroneous judgments of copyists, or Rashi’s own intellectual honesty? After all, over the years, going from one discovery to next, one can admit to having made a mistake. Ultimately, as in all real spiritual and scholarly quests, all assumptions of sudden reversals are permissible.
Let us listen to his grandson, the Rashbam:
“Rabbi Shlomo, my grandfather, the Light of the Exile, who interpreted the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings, made every effort to elucidate the natural meaning of the text, and I, Shmuel ben Meir, often discussed his commentaries with him or in his presence. And he admitted to me that, if he had the time, he would revise his work taking into account explanations that are revealed day after day.”
Let us repeat it:
In his writings, he never hesitates to admit that he doesn’t know the answer to a question, or the solution to a difficulty. For example: in the book of Genesis (28:5), the text says Isaac sent Jacob “to Padan-aram unto Laban, son of Bethuel the Syrian, the brother of Rebecca, Jacob’s and Esau’s mother.” The sentence is long and unwieldy, and full of superfluous details: at this point in the narrative is there anyone who doesn’t know who Rebecca is? Rashi’s commentary: “I admit that I don’t know what this verse wants to tell us.” The author of Sifrei Hakhamim responded with blunt words: “There are some among us who are surprised that Rashi feels compelled to tell us he doesn’t know; if he doesn’t know, let him be silent.” But Rashi believes in being frank and truthful. If he doesn’t know, he feels he should tell us.
Is it due to the breadth of his knowledge? To the luminous quality of his style, clear and captivating, always tight, precise, sober, attracting the reader’s allegiance? His desire to have a dialogue with students? Sometimes students have the joyful feeling that they are learning not from Rashi but by his side.
Except for a few tractates (On Fasting, Vows, Asceticism), his commentary covers the entire Talmudic world. Admittedly, certain questions continue to preoccupy the experts: who authored the commentary on those passages he himself did not complete? Did he himself, orally, and then they were transcribed by his heirs and disciples? That seems a fair presumption.
On page 29 of the Venice edition of Tractate Baba Batra (literally, “the Third Gate,” it covers property laws) we read: “Here Rashi died blessed in memory…. From now on it is the commentary of (his grandson) Rabbi Shmuel ben Meir.”
But on page 19 of Tractate Makkot, on criminal punishments (also printed in Venice), we find this note: “The purified soul of our Teacher left his pure body here. And he stopped commenting. From this point on, it is the language of his disciple Rabbi Yehuda ben Nathan.”
A contradiction? Was Rashi writing and working on two tractates at the same time?
Opinions differ. But all are unanimous about one thing: pamphlets circulated before, in the Orient and in Europe, and were passed on by known and anonymous travelers, but Rashi’s greatness remains unique; the companion of aging teachers and the friend of young beginners, his authority has remained indisputable and his help indispensable throughout an entire millennium.
2
Biblical Commentaries
In order to better understand Rashi’s genius as an exegete, we propose to study some of his commentaries on the first book of the Bible, the book of Genesis. To look at these commentaries is to get a glimpse of the rabbinic mind, a way of reading and of writing that dominated Jewish creativity for hundred of years. Each word of the Bible is scrutinized, each phrase subject to possible interpretations, and the result is both deeply faithful to sacred text and also the product of wild inventiveness that is both playful and serious, the work of human imagination and yet simultaneously a work of sacred interpretation.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth …
W
hat does Rashi say about this first verse of Genesis?
“Amar Rabbi Yitzhak: Rabbi Yitzhak says: the Torah should have started with ‘This month shall be unto you the first of the months’ … since that is the first mitzvah, the first commandment given to Israel. Why did it start with Bereshit or ‘In the beginning’? Because of verse 6, Psalm in: ‘He hath showed his people the power of his work, that he may give them the heritage of the heathen.’ If the nations of the world say to Israel, ‘You are thieves, brigands, because you conquered the land of the Seven Peoples,’ they will answer: ‘the whole earth belongs to the Holy One, Blessed be He. It is He who created it, who offered it to whomsoever He wanted. When He wanted, He gave it to them (first), and then in accordance with His will, He took it away from them and gave it to us.’”
Actually you would think that Rashi’s question could easily be answered using the chronological argument. After all (and Nachmanides will make this point later), creation preceded the Laws, did it not? Isn’t it therefore logical that it should be recounted first?
Rashi himself remains attached to this first verse that “requires further elaboration.” True, citing a Midrash, he states his conviction that the world was created for the Torah, and also for Israel. But this does not satisfy him in explaining why creation is placed at the beginning of the book. So he will provide his own hypothesis, which consists of combining the first three verses into a single one that reads as follows: “When God created the heaven and the earth, and the earth was without form and darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters, God said, let there be light and there was light.”
His combined verses offer a brilliant interpretation, but Rashi persists and wonders about the meaning of certain words. For example: how is one to understand that the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters? Here is how: “The Throne of Glory stood suspended in the air thanks to the word of the Holy One, Blessed be He, like a dove that hovers over its pigeon house (couvetière in Belaaz).”
And God saw that the light was good and divided the light from the darkness. Rashi tells us why: so that the impious can’t use it, and to safeguard it for the Righteous until the end of time.
As the creation nears completion, we have the verse, “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness …” (Genesis 1:26). The use of the plural “our” elicits two commentaries from Rashi:
The verse teaches us that the Holy One, Blessed be He, is humble. God consulted with the angels so they would not become jealous of man.
God consulted them even though they did not help him in the creation. But couldn’t the heathens use this for their own ends? Possibly. But more important is the lesson that is learned from it: the need for modesty on the part of the great; they should always consult with humbler men.
For another glimpse of how Rashi sees God’s role in the creation of man, we look to the next chapter, in which the creation is told in a different narrative. “And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18).
Rashi[’s question: Why is it bad for there to be only one human being? His answer]: So that it won’t be said that two powers reign in the world. Up high, one with no female companion, and below, one with no female companion.
“I will make him a fitting helper for him” (literally, a “helper facing” or “opposed to him”).
Rashi’s question: How is she both a help and in opposition? Rashi’s answer: If he is deserving, the other will help him; if he is not, the other will fight against him.
Playing on the words ish—“man”—and ishah—“woman”—which is valid only in Hebrew, Rashi demonstrates that the holy tongue was used at the time of the creation of the world.
“And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept.”
Here Rashi puts forward a touching explanation for why he put Adam to sleep: God is about to operate on Adam’s ribs and make his future companion out of one of them; if Adam suspects this, it might disgust him forever.
A surprising idea:
And (seeing woman for the first time) “Adam said, this is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.”
This means that Adam had already mated with beasts and animals, but was satisfied only when uniting with his spouse. Another odd comment in the story of the Garden of Eden:
“Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field … and he said unto the woman …” What is the serpent doing in the Garden of Eden? And what aroused his interest? He saw man and woman united sexually, says the commentator, and this excited him.
The serpent persuaded Eve to taste the forbidden fruit in spite of the danger that she could die. Then she gave it to Adam so he would share it with her.
Rashi: she was afraid that she would die and that Adam would survive her and marry another woman.
Once God has confronted them about the eating of the fruit, the man defends himself with the following verse:
“And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.”
Rashi: here Adam shows his lack of gratitude to God for giving him the woman.
The serpent, too, is dealt with.
“And the Lord God said unto the serpent … upon thy belly shalt thou go.”
Rashi, true to his undeviating attachment to the literal text, deduces from this that originally the serpent had legs but then he lost them.
“So he drove out the man; and he placed … a flaming sword (lame in Belaaz), which turned every way” at the entrance of the Garden of Eden.
There is a Midrash on this verse, says Rashi, but my aim is to remain with the straightforward meaning.
Life outside the Garden also offers much for Rashi to explore. God accepts Abel’s offering but not Cain’s. And the latter kills. “And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said … am I my brother’s keeper?” God reprimands him: “What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood (in plural) cryeth unto me from the ground.” Rashi explains the plural: “The blood of thy brother, and also of his descendants.”
In other words: he who kills, kills more than the victim.
• • •
Ten generations after the creation, in the time of Noah, “And God saw that the wickedness of man was great…. And it repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart.”
Rashi’s commentary: “It grieved him to have lost what he had created. Just like the king who became sad because of his son. And this is how I answered the question a heathen asked Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korkha: “Don’t you believe that God can foresee the future?” “Yes,” the Sage replied. “But,” said the heathen, “it is written that it grieved him at his heart!” “Have you ever had a son?” the Sage asked him. “Yes,” said the heathen. “And what did you do when he was born?” “I rejoiced, and I was eager for others to rejoice.” “But didn’t you know that he would die one day?” “All in good time.”
“These are the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations.” Rashi asks, why the qualifying phrase “in his generations”? He answers: some of our Teachers interpret this as praise: if he had lived in a generation of Righteous Men, he would have been much more righteous. But some teachers see a criticism contained in that verse: by the standard of his generation (of sinners) he was righteous, but in Abraham’s generation, he wouldn’t have been seen as worth anything.
• • •
“The earth also was corrupt before God, and the country was filled with violence.”
Rashi: the reference is to sexuality and violent theft. Wherever we encounter prostitution, it announces the end. Confusion dominates the world and kills both the good and the wicked.
Another ten generations pass, and we pick up our story with Abraham and Sarah.
“Now Sarai Abram’s wife bore him no children: and she had an handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name was Hagar”
(Genesis 16:1).
Rashi: she was a daughter of the Pharaoh. Having seen the miracles accomplished for Sarah, the Pharaoh said: better that my daughter be a servant in that man’s house than a mistress in another man’s house.
And Sarai, after waiting ten years, gave Hagar as a concubine to her husband, Abram. “And he went in unto Hagar, and she conceived.”
Rashi: on the very first night. But … she will have a miscarriage. And conceive again.
Hagar became arrogant. Sarai, offended, angry at her husband, said to him, “The Lord judge between me and thee.”
Her position, according to Rashi, is the following: When you prayed to God for a child, you thought only of yourself; it was you who wanted a child. You should have prayed for both of us. And then you see my humiliation and you say nothing!
The story of Abraham and Sarah’s desire for children is interrupted by the story of Sodom, the sinful city par excellence, which fell so low in its decline that God decided to “go down … and see.”
Rashi: as with the story of the Tower of Babel, how is it conceivable that God above doesn’t see what is happening below? This verse is here to teach us the law: that in cases involving capital punishment, it is the judges’ responsibility not to judge from afar: they should look into everything before reaching a verdict. And here, despite Abraham’s defense of the city, the verdict is that it will be destroyed.