Latest Essays

The Tikkunei Zohar, a kabbalistic work composed in 14^th-century Spain, offers seventy interpretations of the Torah’s first word, bereshit. This article traces how: The understanding of the Torah as multivocal culminated in its formulation, “the Torah has seventy faces,” in the 12^th-century Numbers Rabbah (Part 1). The Tikkunei Zohar saw this as a key theological principle and applied it programmatically (Part 2). R. Nathan Spira and Ramchal interpreted other words of Torah, and Rabbi Nachman of Breslov wrote his famous stories to prepare readers for the Torah’s seventy meanings (Part 3).

The command to go to war against Sihon, even though his territory lies east of the Jordan River (Deuteronomy 2:24–25), seemingly marks the beginning of the conquest of the promised land and reflects a tradition in which Moses, not Joshua, leads it. But instead, Moses asks to cross the land peacefully (vv. 26–29). The Midrash portrays this choice as disobedience that God ultimately validates. A literary critical approach highlights how Moses’s response is a redaction, an inner-biblical midrash, that reconciles different layers of the text.

“The hidden matters belong to YHWH our God,” declares Deuteronomy 29:28, “but with overt matters, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the provisions of this Torah.” This verse stands in isolation, prompting mystical speculation about the nature of the “hidden” and “overt” matters… until we realize that the passage has been redacted, and that the verse has been detached from its original context, which explained its meaning clearly.

Read in light of the Sumerian King List, Adam’s genealogy (Genesis 5) reveals a gender-neutral line, conceived without a female counterpart. Noah, like the Mesopotamian flood survivor Ziusudra, emerges as the first “son,” inaugurating a new line of gendered humanity.

The command to annihilate the native Canaanites—men, women, and children—calls into question the Bible’s moral authority. Although far from contemporary standards, when examined in its ancient context, it compels us to rethink the nature of morality.

YHWH is a God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin… yet “he surely does not erase punishment” (Exod. 34:6–7). To make sense of this seeming contradiction, the Talmud offers a midrashic reinterpretation, and in selichot the verse is truncated. But could this attribute—one of God’s Thirteen—have been misunderstood all along?

Hosea (ch. 11) reveals a poignant portrait of God as a tender parent, swaddling Israel’s feet, lifting him to His cheek, and feeding him, only to watch His beloved child walk away. Yet, in the end, hope prevails as the wayward child returns home. But the chapter’s meaning emerges only through historical linguistics and textual criticism: from obscure Hebrew forms to Septuagint variants.

In a striking departure from prevailing notions of kingship in both the ancient Near East and early Israel, Deuteronomy introduces the separation of powers among distinct branches of government and subjects all political actors—including the monarch—to the rule of Torah. In effect, Deuteronomy provides a blueprint for the modern concept of the rule of law. These principles rest on an even more revolutionary idea: the establishment of an independent judiciary.

After Saul’s failed reign, David might seem like Israel’s salvation. Yet the biblical narrative offers a subtle but pointed critique—signaling that David’s impending rule will be no better than Saul’s.

Slaughtering domesticated animals was always a sacrificial act, and even on the battlefield, King Saul builds an altar so the soldiers can slaughter their animals properly. To work around the limits of centralized worship, Deuteronomy introduces “profane” slaughter—but this did little to change Israelites’ enduring sense of meat as sacred. The rabbinic requirement of ritual shechitah even for wild animals makes all slaughter “quasi-sacrificial.”

The book of Kings recounts how all Ten Tribes were exiled by the Assyrians and replaced by foreigners, and Ezra–Nehemiah rejects them as non-Israelites. Yet other biblical and Second Temple texts, along with the archaeological record, show that northern Israelites continued to live in Samaria well into the Second Temple period. Far from vanishing, the northern tribes maintained a temple and priesthood that cooperated with their southern neighbors and played a role in shaping the Pentateuch.

Flowing through desert sands, the river Hapi—the ancient Egyptian name for the Nile and its god—mysteriously overflowed each year, bringing fertility and life to Egypt’s people. The dependability of the Nile made Egypt a source of food during regional famines, though Deuteronomy reassures that Israel has YHWH to rely on for its rain.

Deuteronomy describes itself as the words of Moses expounding upon revelation. At the same time, it commands that all Israelites—including the king—learn Moses’ words exactly and never add to or subtract from them, even though Deuteronomy itself reworks earlier texts such as the Covenant Collection in Exodus. Despite this attempt to establish final authority, Deuteronomy undergoes the same process it models: it is combined with other texts and reinterpreted by later works such as Ezra–Nehemiah.

Jerusalem’s destruction and the people’s suffering in the book of Lamentations is mostly seen as punishment for sin. But chapter two breaks the pattern: it accuses God not only of abandoning but of actively attacking His people with His own right hand. Perhaps counterintuitively, only by confronting YHWH in raw, honest terms—and with tears that flow like a stream—can the fire of God’s anger finally be cooled.

Was it based on an ancient tradition? Inspired by stylistic similarities? A strategy to give legitimacy to a text with controversial portrayals of God? Or does it reflect a broader cultural shift toward authorial attribution in the Second Temple period? And finally—how does this attribution change how we read the Book of Lamentations?  

Four times in the Bible, Argov clearly refers to a strip of land in the northern Transjordan. But the word Argov also appears a fifth time alongside “the lion” in the story of Pekah’s assassination of King Pekahiah—and there it is not a place. So, what does Argov really mean?

Balaam induced Moabite women to ensnare Israelite men into apostasy at Baal Peor. Philo, 1^st century C.E., portrays these women as calculating prostitutes. Later, the Sifrei, ca. 3^rd century, recasts the episode as a bawdy Roman farce—complete with marketplace, wine, and brothel-like seductions—portraying the Israelites less as tragic sinners and more as fools blinded by lust.

The generation that came out of Egypt? Their descendants? The audience of Deuteronomy’s authors? Or anyone who reads Deuteronomy, even today?

In Plato’s Laws, the Athenian stranger proposes founding a future state by dividing land into equal plots among citizens, organized into twelve districts each dedicated to a specific god. The Bible also prescribes a lottery system for allocating land—both among tribes and family units—but never explains how such a lottery could function fairly given the unequal sizes of tribes and families. Why?

The poems in the Torah are stylistically, theologically, and linguistically different from the prose narratives surrounding them. They include traces of earlier dialects of Hebrew, Ancient Near Eastern mythical motifs, and resemble an 8^th century B.C.E. poetic fragment from Kuntillet Ajrud—all of which suggest that they are ancient remnants of earlier Israelite literature.

The Israelite camp’s layout provides a double layer of protection for the Tabernacle and ensures an orderly march through the wilderness. But where does this organizational model come from? New evidence points not to Egypt—but to Persia.

Why does Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba question whether the word “good” appears in the first version of the Decalogue—when the Masoretic Text (MT) clearly omits it? Why do some midrashim speak of God dividing the nations among seventy angels—though Deuteronomy 32:8 says nothing of angels? These phrasings align with the Septuagint (LXX), as do the Haggadah’s emphasis on God’s sole role in the exodus, the wise son’s inclusive phrasing, and the image of God’s outstretched arm.

Cain receives an ʾot from YHWH to protect him after killing his brother. Moses encounters an ʾot at the burning bush. Shabbat is called an ʾot between God and Israel. Rahab demands an ʾot to save her family during Israel’s conquest. And Isaiah offers King Ahaz an ʾot to calm his fear of invasion. But what exactly is an אוֹת (ʾot)?

Greek, Roman, Christian, and Jewish authors described discovering enormous bones buried just beneath the earth’s surface and interpreted them through their own lenses: Greeks and Romans saw mythic heroes and monsters; Jewish writers identified them as biblical giants, especially Og, king of Bashan. These discoveries reinforced the enduring belief that ancient humans were far larger than those of today.

In the 8^th century B.C.E., Egypt’s Nubian (Cushite) rulers pledged support to Hezekiah’s rebellion against Assyria—but ultimately failed to deliver. Miriam’s complaint about Moses’ Cushite wife serves as a political allegory, cautioning against reliance on Egypt’s unreliable alliance.