Narrating Violence, Narrating Self: Exodus and Collective Identity in Early Rabbinic Literature

Abstract

Previous articleNext article FreeNarrating Violence, Narrating Self: Exodus and Collective Identity in Early Rabbinic LiteratureKimberly B. StrattonKimberly B. StrattonCarleton University Search for more articles by this author PDFPDF PLUSFull Text Add to favoritesDownload CitationTrack CitationsPermissionsReprints Share onFacebookTwitterLinked InRedditEmailQR Code SectionsMoreIn his seminal book, Zakhor, Yoseph Yerushalmi writes: “Only in Israel and nowhere else is the injunction to remember felt as a religious imperative to an entire people. Its reverberations are everywhere, but they reach a crescendo in the Deuteronomic history and in the prophets.”1 Following this statement he lists several examples where the Bible commands Israel to remember. Strikingly, the injunction to remember most often revolves around an incidence of violence and victimization in Israel’s past: “Remember what Amalek did to you” (Deut. 25:17); “O my people, remember now what Balak king of Moab plotted against you” (Mic. 6:5); and, with what Yerushalmi describes as “a hammering insistence,” “Remember that you were a slave in Egypt.”2 The common element of violence and subjugation in Yerushalmi’s list does not occur coincidentally. Memories of trauma and narratives of violence and suffering constitute integral components in the formulation of collective identities. A group’s sense of cohesion (“we-ness”) derives most often from contrast and, often, conflict with another group, defined by their alterity (“them-ness”).3 Feelings of solidarity and shared behavior thus emerge often from a crucible of conflict; they are constructed out of the mutual understanding and common bond shared by those who experience suffering.4The strong connection between memory, violence, and the consolidation of collective identity has been insightfully explored by theorists going all the way back to Sigmund Freud, who posits a primal act of murder as the origin of religion, and specifically ties the memory (and repression) of it to the exodus story and birth of biblical monotheism.5 More recently, the collection of essays titled Religion, Violence, Memory, and Place, edited by Oren Baruch Stier and J. Shawn Landres, explores the relationship between memory, memorializing, and the construction of identities. Specifically, the essays in this book examine how memorializing trauma and violence in the past can cement collective identity for survivors and their offspring: “Often, acts of memory such as building monuments and holding memorial ceremonies arise from national and transnational commitments to honor and enshrine the memories of those who have come before. Such acts, conventionally understood, link past and future through the present.”6 Thus, recapitulating past suffering through story and performance inscribes a particular identity onto subsequent generations, making it real for them by enabling them to experience vicariously the traumatic events that fundamentally shaped their forebears. The process of memorializing traumatic events can also enable a community to redefine and reshape the meaning of the experience by embedding it within a narrative of hope, redemption, and transformation, as happens frequently with the exodus narrative in rabbinic writings. Through this process, however, the traumatic event can become sacralized—that is, it becomes paradoxically valorized by the community:7 rather than moving past the traumatic event, the community enshrines it as central to their identity. Suffering violence and trauma, thus, tends to have a profound and long lasting impact not only on victims who experienced it, but on subsequent generations who share the memory through its ritualized commemoration and narration.It is through this enshrining of past pain and trauma in narrative and ritual practice that violence comes to function as a quintessential aspect of many groups’ self-understanding: we are the people who survived this traumatic event, we experienced this cataclysmic persecution and survived. Integral to the story of the violence, therefore, is a complementary narrative of survival, resistance, and endurance. Nonetheless, that sense of victorious solidarity cannot emerge, cannot exist without the defining moment of violence that generated it. It is perhaps for this reason that violence figures centrally in so many foundation narratives, either as a memory of past victory or of self-defining defeat—with victory often miraculously following defeat and being legitimized by it.8 Such stories, repeatedly told and embodied through commemorative acts and ritual performances, contribute to constituting each individual within the collective narrative. As Anthony Paul Kerby argues: “the self is given content, is delineated and embodied, primarily in narrative constructions or stories.”9 The very sense of who we are and our role in life is framed for us at birth by the stories that we inherit from our communities.Narratives of violence in particular enable groups to draw boundaries between us and them, to understand themselves as essentially different and unique in some concrete way despite often shared language, customs, and even, sometimes, religious beliefs. As Thomas Sizgorich (z”l, may his memory be a blessing) argues in his 2008 book, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity, “narratives which stress a ‘people’s’ history of victimization will help to produce identity groupings whose members must understand victimhood as one of the essential characteristics of all real members of the group, and indeed as a defining quality of the group itself.”10 Furthermore, Sizgorich points out that “rather than preventing the use of violence against members of other communities, some narratives of remembrance recalling dark moments of brutality and suffering visited upon the defenseless and innocent … seem to have made it easier for some who imagine their place in the world in accordance with such stories adopt aggressive and even murderous postures with members of other communities.”11The story of the exodus constitutes one such narrative and has played a principal role in the formulation of Israelite identity. Since biblical times the exodus, in particular, has encapsulated Jewish experience as one of suffering and redemption, providing both meaning and hope during all subsequent persecutions and subjugations.12 The difficulty with Yerushalmi’s conception of the role of memory, however, especially as it pertains to the exodus, is that memory is fluid and constructed; it does not merely “preserve the past” for successive generations, or bear events, such as reception of the covenant at Mount Sinai “along the conduits of memory to those who were not there that day,” as Yerushalmi states.13 Rather, memory (both individual and collective) is constantly reconfigured to serve the needs of the present moment.14 For this reason, memory becomes a site of contest and conflict, as competing notions about the past, especially national origins, have huge implications for formulating collective identities in the present.15 “Recollection of the past is an active, constructive process, not a simple matter of retrieving information.”16This article examines the dynamics of the exodus story in shaping collective identity in early rabbinic literature (ca. 200–550 CE), which was redacted in the centuries following the second Jewish revolt against Rome and contains literary responses to that violent episode and the ensuing exile. Many rabbinic texts utilize the powerful and compelling exodus narrative to respond to pressing social and political situations of their day. Depictions of national suffering and divine recompense, in particular, give meaning to the brutal subjugation of Judea by Rome and provide an opportunity to indulge in fantasies of divine retribution safely projected onto a hapless Pharaoh and the Egyptian army. Furthermore, the appropriation and repurposing of traditional stories about ancient hostilities serve to foster collective unity and solidarity in the present: exodus becomes meaningful for late antique Jews because of how it functions for the communities telling the story, not because of what it teaches about the biblical past. Rabbinic midrashim (expansions and interpretations) of Exodus operate as resistance literature; they undermine the authority and hegemony of Rome through a hidden discourse of its demise. These narratives of divinely mandated violence thus serve a dual purpose—providing meaning in the wake of disaster and hope for vindication in the face of bitter oppression—but also foster national cohesion and solidarity against dispersion and assimilation.17Origin of the Exodus TraditionIt is ironic that despite the central importance of exodus in the biblical narrative, material evidence indicates that the story of an enslaved people, fleeing Egypt through divine intervention and conquering the inhabited cities of Canaan to establish their own nation, has little to no support archaeologically.18 Rather, it appears that ancient Israelites were Canaanites, who adopted the worship of YHWH and developed a distinctive ideology and identity founded upon aniconic monotheism.19 Yet, the story of the exodus assumes primary importance for Jewish/Judean self-understanding, both within the biblical canon, and subsequently, in post-exilic, Hellenistic, and rabbinic writings. A pressing question arises: Why and how did a quasi-fictional story of national enslavement and liberation become so central to this ancient people’s self conception? It provided a foundation narrative, reinforced through ritual and performance, that explained their special relationship to YHWH and justified the singular devotion he demanded, distinguishing Jews from their neighbors forever after.References to the exodus story appear in every stratum of the Hebrew Bible (from the Pentateuch to Prophets and Psalms),20 yet there is some evidence that it did not always function as the cardinal national narrative. While it comprises the central foundational event in the Deuteronomic History, the author of Chronicles fails to mention it at all, and other national narratives, such as the David-Zion myth, competed in importance throughout the biblical era.21 It appears that exodus functioned as the foundation myth of the Northern kingdom long before it gained importance in Judah.22 During the Babylonian exile, with the rewriting/consolidating of Israelite history and tradition under the Deuteronomic and Priestly redactors, exodus became firmly entrenched in the collective psyche: it was identified as the origin of the nation, the source of divine law, and model of divine redemption.23In the post-exilic period, exodus continued to play an important role in the formulation of Judean self identity.24 For Jews in the Diaspora the exodus story figured prominently in defining their identity vis-à-vis their gentile neighbors; it explained their national origins and religious differences through a powerful narrative about fortitude and divine selection.25 Often it was enlisted to demonstrate Jewish virtue in ways commensurate with gentile values, thereby concretizing Jewish belonging rather than Jewish distinction.26During the Roman period, the exodus narrative and Passover carried special significance for national identity: the festival of Passover often provided a flash point for political insurrection during the period leading up to and culminating in the destruction of the temple.27 While Jewish pilgrimage festivals in general created opportunities for violent conflict among Jews as well as between Jews and Romans—as different groups contended over competing views of how Judaism ought to be28—the narrative of divine liberation from Egypt seems to have galvanized hope for a second redemption, this time from Rome. Sources indicate that joyous celebration, feasting, and praising God for liberation from Egypt characterized the holiday during the Second Temple period.29 Observance of this festival, thus, performed powerful memory work by inscribing the experience of the exodus in the body of participants through prayer, drink, and food, making the oppression and liberation tangible. This type of memorializing, however, as Sizgorich points out, can fuel further outbreaks of conflict and aggression, which appears to be the case according to Josephus. He links Passover, insurrection, and rebellion against Rome in the outbreak of the Jewish war (Ant. 14.21; J.W. 2.10; Ant. 17.213). Passover and the exodus story, thus, may have contributed to precipitating the devastating rebellion.30 If so, this demonstrates both the story’s power to make meaning out of oppression as well as to translate hope of divine intervention into armed rebellion, perpetuating cycles of violence as fuel for collective memory making.Exodus in Early Rabbinic LiteratureFollowing the failed revolts against Rome in 66–70 CE and 132–35 CE, that resulted in the military suppression of Judea, banning of Jewish religious practices, and exile of Jews from Judea (renamed now Syria Palestina),31 exodus was again enlisted to think about suffering and redemption—this time vis-à-vis Rome. Early rabbinic sages employ the exodus story to frame the catastrophic events, console the people, and sometimes to question God. The following baraita (tannaitic statement, dating to before 216 CE) reveals tension between anger at God for failing to save the people and a desire to continue believing in divine intervention:It was taught (‏תניא‎): Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosi said: one time I went to Alexandria in Egypt; I found one old man, and he said to me: come and I will show you what my fathers did to your fathers: some of them they drowned in the sea; some of them they killed with a sword; some of them they crushed in a building. And because of this Moses our rabbi was punished, as it is said “Since I came to Pharaoh to speak in your name, he has done evil to this people” (Exod. 5:23). The Holy One, blessed be he, said to him: “Alas for those who are lost but not forgotten!” Behold, how many times did I reveal myself to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shadai, and they did not criticize my integrity (‏ולא הרהרו על מℸותי‎), nor did they say to me “what is your name?”32This passage continues to recount the patriarchs’ unwavering faith despite often protracted delays in fulfilling God’s promises to them. God then castigates Moses for incredulity and impatience: “But you said to me ‘what is your name?’ at the very start and now you say to me ‘You have done nothing to rescue your people’ (Exod. 5:23). Now you will see what I will do to Pharaoh; the war against Pharaoh you will see, but you shall not see the war against the thirty-one kings” (b. Sanh. 111a). God punishes Moses for incredulity by preventing him from witnessing the conquest of Judea and fulfillment of the divine promises to the patriarchs.While the old man mentioned in this passage appears to recount events of the exodus (indicated by references to drowning and Moses), the other forms of aggression—killing with a sword and crushing in a building—deviate from the biblical story and likely recall more recent violence witnessed in the aftermath of revolts by Jews in Egypt, Cyrenaica, and Cyprus (115–17 CE) and in Judea (132–35 CE).33 Mireille Hadas-Lebel argues that the liturgical reading of Lamentations on the ninth of Av permits hatred of Rome to be projected onto biblical Babylon.34 I suggest that Egypt functions similarly here: ancient oppression by Egypt provides a model for thinking through and dealing with more recent atrocities under Roman rule.35 Conflict studies reveal that groups will often project hostility for one enemy onto another when expedient to do so, and this appears to be happening in rabbinic exegeses of Exodus.36The fact that it is a gentile, in particular, who draws attention to Israel’s subjugation hints at the shame experienced in the wake of revolts against Rome. Following the conquest of Jerusalem and destruction of the Temple, Titus celebrated a triumph that involved parading the sacred cultic utensils from the Temple through the streets of Rome (including the famous menorah and showbread table depicted on the celebratory arch of Titus) and publicly executing captured slaves as imperial propaganda in arenas throughout the Roman Mediterranean.37 Josephus, who claims to have been an eye witness to the events, vividly conveys the humiliation, degradation, and intimidation of these spectacles of power.38 The Babylonian Talmud also records Titus’s triumph in an anonymous aggadah (fictional narrative, folklore). According to the Bavli’s version of history, Titus defiled the temple by having sex with a harlot inside the Holy of Holies on a Torah scroll; then he took the sacred utensils from the Temple and shipped them to Rome to celebrate his triumph (‏להשתבח‎). God punished him by sending a gnat into his nose where it gnawed at his brain for seven years until he died.39 This story creatively reimagines God as the victor and Titus as his victim, even while it preserves a vague memory of the violence and shame experienced by Judeans. Interestingly, the story does not mention the Temple’s destruction as if this catastrophe exceeds the text’s ability or willingness to memorialize it.Moses’s accusation, in our text, that God has not redeemed his people but allowed them to suffer, could be interpreted as a critique of God’s failure to intervene in the Roman era, when occupation and violent suppression continued generation after generation with no liberation despite repeated messianic/nationalistic uprisings. In other words, Moses’s critique of God resonates as loudly in the second or third century as in the biblical period.40 God’s rebuke that Moses lacks faith, rebuts this critique, but harshly. God acknowledges that divine intervention often dawdles, but he also declares that he will make war on Pharaoh. Given that the exodus story ends happily for the Israelites, we are directed to accept on faith that God will eventually redeem Judea from Roman bondage, even if salvation seems to be a long time coming.The tension between the beginning of the passage and its end points to the conflicting emotions reflected in rabbinic exegeses of Exodus at this time. On the one hand, certain passages such as this one reveal disillusionment, despair, and lack of faith. Other texts search for meaning in national suffering or present God’s plan as inscrutable. The idea that suffering garners spiritual merit, for example, can be seen in the following passage. The ministering angels inquire why God gave the Torah to humankind: “What is mortal man that you remember him and the son of man that you care for him” (Ps. 8:4)? God commands Moses to answer the question and Moses responds with another question: “The Torah which you gave me, what is written in it? ‘I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt (Exod. 20:2).’ He [Moses] said to them [the angels], ‘Did you go down to Egypt; were you enslaved to Pharaoh? Why do you think the Torah should be yours?’” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 88b). This passage offers other explanations for giving the Torah to Israel, but significantly presents suffering and enslavement in Egypt first as the experiences that merit receipt of God’s most important gift. Since possession of Torah also distinguishes Israel from other nations, Israel’s core identity and origin emerge, according to this text, from the crucible of pain and oppression experienced in Egypt.Alan Avery-Peck directs our attention to another passage that links suffering with the exodus and reception of the Torah, but in this one suffering is not given meaning as much as God’s will exceeds the limits of human comprehension.41 God grants Moses a glimpse of Rabbi Akiba, in the future, expounding on the Torah to his disciples; Moses feels overwhelmed by the sophistication of Akiba’s argumentation and asks God to see the reward for his mastery. God shows Akiba’s flesh being weighed-out in the meat market (‏ששוקלין בשרו במקולין‎), following his execution by the Romans.42 “He [Moses] said to him, ‘Master of the World: this Torah [merits] this reward?’ He [God] said to him, ‘Silence! That is how I conceived my plan (‏כך עלה במחשבה לפני‎)” (Babylonian Talmud, Menahot 29b). Avery-Peck identifies in this story a rabbinic response to God’s failure to intervene in the Roman war and deliver Israel with miracles as he did in the exodus. The text proposes that God’s will may include apparently unfair suffering and that he is inscrutable; God will not reveal himself. Avery-Peck concludes that “the stage of human events thus has no humanly discernible meaning, and cannot be used as a path to comprehend God or God’s will.”43 In this context acceptance of suffering as part of the divine plan provides a meaningful solution to the spiritual crisis prompted by destruction, exile, and occupation. It also inscribes inexplicable suffering as part of the nation’s identity and fosters collective unity and cohesion in the face of colonization and exile. I will explore more thoroughly in the following section how stories of conflict and violence reinforce social boundaries and strengthen collective identity.Another approach claims that God participates in and shares Israel’s affliction. The Babylonian Talmud records a baraita attributed to Rabbi Simon ben Yohai that asserts that the Shekhinah accompanied Israel into exile, first in Egypt, then in Babylonia, and finally, she will be with Israel in the future redemption as well (‏ואף כשהן עתיℸין ליℷאל שכינה עמהן‎) (Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 29a). By describing the Shekhinah’s descent with Israel into bondage, this passage makes suffering more tolerable: it is shared, and therefore not a sign of abandonment or punishment by God.A slightly different version of this text occurs in the Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishamel’s midrash on Exodus 12:41, which describes how, after 430 years to the day, all the hosts of Israel left Egypt; the text explains the term “all the hosts” (‏כל צבאות‎) to mean the ministering angels: “And so you find that every time Israel is enslaved, the Shekhinah, as it were, is enslaved with them. … And it also says: ‘In all their affliction He was afflicted’ (Isa. 63:10).”44 This passage continues along the same idea, quoting various lines from scripture as textual support to demonstrate that each time Israel went into exile the Shekhinah accompanied them, suffering with them:As if it were possible, Israel said to God: you have redeemed yourself. Likewise you find that in every place where Israel was exiled, the Shekhinah, as it were, went into exile with them. When they were exiled in Egypt, the Shekhinah went into exile with them, as it is said: “I exiled45 myself to the house of your fathers when they were in Egypt” (1 Sam. 2.27). When they were exiled to Babylon, Shekhinah went into exile with them, as it is said: “For your sake I sent myself46 to Babylon” (Isa. 43:14). When they were exiled to Elam, the Shekhinah went into exile with them, as it is said: “I will set my throne in Elam” (Jer. 49:38). When they were exiled to Edom, the Shekhinah went into exile with them, as it is said: “Who is this that comes from Edom,” etc. (Isa. 63:1). And when they return in the future, the Shekhinah, as it were, will return with them, as it is said: “And the Lord your God will return [with]47 your captivity” (Deut. 30:1). (Mekhilta, Pisha 14, 98–107)This longer and more developed version significantly lists the final exile before the future messianic liberation as Edom.48 Edom/Essau have long been recognized as code for Rome in rabbinic writings (e.g., b. Gittin 57b).49 Here we see that Exodus provides not only the opportunity to explore suffering and divine participation in it, but serves as a model for all exiles and redemptions, including most importantly, the one sages experienced themselves—Roman occupation and colonization of Judea. The fact that God’s spiritual presence is said to participate in Israel’s suffering mitigates the feeling of abandonment and helplessness many people must have felt. It provides spiritual meaning and divine proximity, presenting the current situation as a kind of askesis, making the pain not only meaningful, but necessary for spiritual perfection. Implicit in this midrash is an expectation that vindication will come eventually, but the focus shifts from needing or even desiring liberation to appreciating the present moment as divinely sanctioned and shared.50 A different version of this text (attributed to Rabbi Simeon ben Yohai as in the Babylonian Talmud) appears in the Jerusalem Talmud where the places of exile are Egypt, Babylonia, Media, Greece, and Rome (‏רומי‎). In that version, the quotation comes to demonstrate that God is in Edom/Rome and that repentance will bring redemption whenever Israel is able/willing to do it (y. Taanit 1.1).51 Significantly, this passage may refer to the capture of sacred implements from the Jerusalem Temple and their display in the Temple of Peace in Rome, which was built by Vespasian to commemorate Rome’s victory over Judea.52Scholars generally agree that rabbis rejected military-nationalistic aspirations following the Bar Kokhba revolt, which had proved to be not only catastrophic for the nation but for the rabbinic movement itself.53 Rabbis employed different strategies to ameliorate the new situation and to promulgate a new attitude of accommodation and acceptance during the difficult aftermath. One approach deferred redemption to a vague future messianic age, olam haba (‏עולם הבא‎), effectively thwarting activist ambitions to bring about political liberation by indefinitely postponing it. Early rabbinic literature, for example, contains numerous references that identify exodus with this vague future redemption, demonstrating the story’s power to offer hope despite prolonged suffering, occupation, and exile:They recall the exodus from Egypt [in the Shema] at night. Said Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah: Behold I am about seventy years old, and I have never been worthy [to understand] why you tell of the exodus from Egypt at night until ben Zoma explained it: As it says “In order that you may remember the day you came out of Egypt all the days of your life (‏כל ימי חייך‎)” (Deut. 16:3). “Days of your life,” [would indicate] the days. “All the days of your life” [indicates] the nights [also]. But sages say: “days of your life” [refers to] this world: “all the days of your life” includes the days of the Messiah (‏להביא לימות המשיח‎).”54In this mishnah, anonymous sages link recounting the exodus from Egypt during the recital of the Shema with messianic salvation.55 Significantly, the verb most often translated as “include,” ‏הביא‎, also suggests “bring about.” Not only does recounting the exodus during the Shema remind those praying of God’s former intervention and provide a paradigm for future interventions, sustaining hope and faith, but it may even help bring about the redemption anticipated with the Messianic age. Here memory, memorializing, and collective salvation appear inextricably interconnected. The future life and liberty of the community depends, very literally, on memorializing past indignation and oppression.The Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael also records this mishnah but follows it up with a declaration by ben Zoma that in the future, Israel shall no longer remember the exodus from Egypt, as it is said: “‘Behold the days are coming’ says the LORD, ‘when they will no longer say: as the LORD lives, who brought up the children of Israel from the land of Egypt, but as the LORD lives, who brought up [the sons of] Israel from the North country’ [quoting Jer. 16:14–15].” Rabbi Natan responds to ben Zoma by quoting a different line from Jeremiah: “‘the one who raised up (‏העלה‎) and the one who brought (‏הביא‎) … (Jer. 23:7–8)’ teaches that they will remember the exodus from Egypt [even] in the future to come” (Mekhilta, Pisha 16:102–4). This statement directly challenges ben Zoma’s rejection of exodus as paradigmatic and emphasizes its ongoing relevance for the nation and for messianic redemption.Interestingly, the Tosefta (Berakhot 1.10) and Babylonian Talmud (Berakhot 12b) record a different version of the debate:Ben Zoma said to them, the sages: [can you really say] “they recall the exodus from Egypt during the days of the Messiah?” Has it not already been said: “‘Surely the days are coming’ says the LORD, ‘when they will no longer say: as the LORD lives, who brought up the children of Israel from the land of Egypt, but as the LORD lives, who brought up and led the seed of the house of Israel from the North country [and from all the nations into which I had banished them]’” (Jer. 23:7–8)? They [the sages] replied to him: this does not uproot the exodus from Egypt, but rather shows that exodus will be added to the [other] kingdoms. [Redemption from the other] kingdoms is principle; exodus is additional. Similarly [it says]: “your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel shall be your name” (Gen. 35:10). This does not uproot the name Jacob from him; rather Jacob is added to Israel. Israel is the principle [name]; Jacob is additional.56In this exchange, ben Zoma raises the challenge that in the Messianic age, exodus will no longer be considered primary for defining the relationship between God and his people but will be replaced by the memory of subsequent redemptions.57 The sages respond by affirming the principle role of Exodus as the first and paradigmatic intervention. In the face of textual proof from Jeremiah, however, they admit that it will become less important as other more recent redemptions take its place in the memory of the nation. This version of the debate, which lacks Rabbi Natan’s direct rebuttal, reaffirms exodus’s cardinal role in defining Israel’s self-understandi