Do not turn to idols or make molten gods for yourselves. I am YHWH your God. Rabbi Benamozegh offers a thorough exploration of the term “idols” (אלילים) in the Torah. He engages with various interpretations, delving into the linguistic roots and theological implications. Rabbi Benamozegh first examines Rabbi Naftali Wessely’s explanation of the word “idols” (האלילים). Rabbi Wessely suggests that the term is derived from a reduplication of אַל (‘al’, meaning ‘not’) which is interpreted as אַלַילים (‘alilim’), connoting the ultimate non-existence, making this a fitting term for idols. Within Rabbi Wessely’s explanation, Rabbi Benamozegh further explores the possibility that the term אלילים originates from יללה (‘yellah’, meaning ‘wailing’ or ‘crying’), similar to the word אללי (‘alelai’). This interpretation aligns with the term עצבים (‘aṣavim’, also meaning ‘idols’), rooted in עצב (‘aṣav’, meaning ‘sorrow’ or ‘distress’), paralleling the Greek term ‘eidolon’, which signifies sorrow and worry. This linguistic connection underlines the emotional and spiritual anguish associated with idol worship. Although, in contrast, Rabbi Benamozegh notes the term תרפים (‘terafim’), which connotes ‘healing’, presenting a different aspect of the idolatry discourse. Rabbi Benamozegh also discusses the term אליל (‘elil’) as a compound of אַל (‘al’, meaning ‘not’) and אֵל (‘el’, meaning ‘god’), similar to לא אל (‘lo el’, meaning ‘not god’). He cites Debarim 32:21 to reinforce this point: “They provoked Me with an ungod (בלא אל), they vexed Me with their empty things. And I, I will provoke them with an unpeople (בלא עם) with a base nation I will vex them.” These verses metaphorically relate idolatry to something unGodly, or ‘not God’.

Moreover, Rabbi Benamozegh critically engages with 18th century Czech Rabbi Shelomo Yehuda Rapoport, who discusses אלל (‘alal’, meaning withered or insubstantial pieces of meat) mentioned in the Mishna. He celebrates that his interpretation aligns with that of Rabbi Rapoport, linking the idols to the ‘yelala’ mentioned above. However, he respectfully disagrees with Rabbi Rapoport’s second interpretation, that links the reduplicated אל אל to ideas of shame.

Finally, Rabbi Benamozegh touches upon a possibly overlooked aspect of idol names, suggesting that atheism and idol worship are fundamentally similar in nature and purpose. He refers to just such a position identified by 18th century Scottish Enlightenment philosopher David Hume in his Natural History of Religion. He posits that אֵל אַל (‘el al’) is named to reflect the idol worshipper’s state as one without a true god, highlighting a profound spiritual void.

You shall not take vengeance and you shall not harbour a grudge against the members of your people. And you shall love your fellow man as yourself. I am YHWH. Rabbi Benamozegh elucidates the profound ethical teachings embedded within this famous verse. He emphasises that the term “fellow man” (לרעך) extends beyond the members of one’s community, embracing all human beings. This interpretation is grounded in the absence of a specific reference to “the members of your people” (לבני עמך) after it, which was there in the previous line. This signifies a universal application of the commandment to love your fellow human, irrespective of their background or conviction. Rabbi Benamozegh underscores the significance of this commandment by linking it to the treatment of the sojourner (גר) within a community. He draws attention to a later related verse, “the sojourner who resides with you shall be to you as one of your natives; you shall love him as yourself, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt” (Vayiqra 19:34). This verse serves as a reminder of the Israelites’ own experience as sojourners in Egypt, fostering empathy and compassion towards others residing among them. The reference to Egypt is crucial, as it highlights a parallel between the Israelites’ experience there and the status of the sojourner who, while not obliged to follow all the laws of the Israelite community, is still deserving of love. Rabbi Benamozegh goes on to refute a potential misunderstanding that the term ‘sojourner’ (גר) refers solely to converts who have embraced all commandments. He clarifies that the ‘sojourner’ mentioned is not necessarily close to the Israelite community but is recognised and respected due to their shared residence. In the words of Rabbi Benamozegh, “just as the Israelites did not keep the Egyptian Torah, so this sojourner does not need to keep the Torah of Israel...” He goes on to state that the command to love the ‘sojourner’ as oneself (in 19:34) is linked to the expectation that they adhere to the seven Noaḥide laws, the set of universal moral laws. Finally, Rabbi Benamozegh draws a beautiful parallel between ethical and ritualistic commandments in the Torah. He admires the immediate juxtaposition of “and you shall love your fellow as yourself”, a weighty ethical command, with “you shall not let your cattle mate with a different kind” and “do not sow your field with two kinds of seed”, which are seemingly lighter ritualistic laws. This juxtaposition, in his view, illustrates that all commandments, whether ethical or ritualistic, hold equal importance and are interconnected within the Divine wisdom, which transcends human understanding. This equal valuation of commandments is a testament to God’s wisdom, which perceives the interconnectedness of all aspects of reality.

Do not eat over the blood. Do not divine and do not perform augury. Rabbi Benamozegh interprets this verse in the context of ancient idolatrous practices. He notes that it refers to a custom among idol worshippers who would gather on mountains, create a pit, slaughter an animal, and pour its blood into the pit. They believed that by doing this, they could summon the dead and request favours or guidance from them. He notes that this ritual is referenced in the popular works of 18th century natural historian, Noel-Antoine Pluche. Rabbi Benamozegh further explains that the phrase “do not eat over the blood” is translated in the Septuagint as “do not eat over the mountains”. This supports the idea that the verse is specifically addressing the practice of conducting rituals on mountains, a common venue for such blood-based idolatrous rites. Rabbi Benamozegh cites further evidence of this interpretation from the prophet Yeḥezkel, who also alludes to these mountain-based idolatrous practices in Yeḥezkel 18:6 and 18:15, when stating that a righteous person “did not eat upon the mountains”. Rabbi Benamozegh notes that Ḥazal were aware of the link between the ritual performed on the mountains and the summoning of one’s ancestors, as they link the term ‘mountains’ with Israel’s ancestors. In Sanhedrin 81a, Rab Aha presents a homiletic interpretation of the abovementioned verse from Yeḥezkel (18:6), rendering “he did not eat upon the mountains” as ‘he did not eat due to the merit of his fathers’. In other words, Rab Aha states that this verse in Yeḥezkel is not meant to be simply taken as face value, because merely avoiding eating on a mountain is not enough to qualify someone as righteous. Instead, the expression of not eating upon the mountains is explained as an allusion to the fact that the individual did not rely on the merit of his forefathers for his righteousness. Eating on the mountains is here a metaphor for deriving sustenance or virtue from the deeds of one’s ancestors. The righteous person stands on his own merit and righteousness. This Talmudic derasha shifts the focus from the full-fledged idolatrous practices in which the ancestors are summoned to an appeal towards ancestral merit.

The commentary also touches on related practices that were forbidden by Ḥazal, such as slaughtering animals in vessels or pits, which were reminiscent of idolatrous rituals. This was likely informed by their knowledge of idolatrous practices, as described in various sources like the Talmud (Ḥullin 2:45) and Rambam in Hilkhot Sheḥita. Furthermore, Rabbi Benamozegh brings in a comparison from Greek mythology, specifically referencing Homer’s account of Ulysses. In Homer’s story, Ulysses performs a similar ritual to communicate with the spirit of Tiresias during his journey back to Ithaca. This ritual involves slaughtering an animal and using its blood to summon the spirits, with Ulysses standing on his sword, ready to ward off the unwanted spirits until Tiresias’ spirit arrives. This is an example of the idolatrous practices described earlier. Lastly, Rabbi Benamozegh references a 2nd century book by the Roman satirist, Lucian. In this book, he describes a descent to the underworld, killing of sheep and using their blood in a ritual involving a pit, with a magician invoking demons. This historical reference further illustrates the widespread nature of these idolatrous practices across different cultures and eras.

Rabbi Benamozegh then addresses two words in the second half of our verse: “divination” (seeking knowledge of the future or the unknown by supernatural means) and “augury” (similar to seeking omens). He explains that Ḥazal identified specific types of diviners who use weasels and birds (Sanhedrin 66a). He suggests that divination in ancient times was known as ‘auspicio et augurio’, which is Latin for ‘by auspice and augury’. The etymology of these words equates to ‘by the divination of birds and other omens’, and it reflects a deep-rooted ancient belief that the will of the gods and the future could be understood through careful observation and interpretation of various signs in the natural world. Rabbi Benamozegh explains that both of these Latin words hint at the use of birds, as Ḥazal correctly identified. This point is supported by a reference to the 16th century surgeon Ludovic Nunez, who considers ‘auspice’ as being the observation of birds, their flight patterns, and vocalisations. Rabbi Benamozegh also adds 7th century theologian Isidore of Seville’s definition of ‘augurio’ as relating to what birds carry. Rabbi Benamozegh proposes that the Latin phrase ’avium garria’ (meaning ‘the chirping of birds’), might have originated from this practice. Rabbi Benamozegh also delves into the cultural significance of bird divination in Egypt, a region known for its proficiency in this art. He notes that the Arabic term for seeking omens is the word ‘tair’, which translates to ‘bird’. Finally, Rabbi Benamozegh references the Zohar’s examples of Jewish involvement in bird divination, even though the Zohar agrees with the Talmud’s interpretation that it is forbidden as a consequence of this verse.

No gash for the dead shall you make in your flesh, and no tattoo shall you make on yourselves. I am YHWH. Rabbi Benamozegh provides a comprehensive understanding of the cultural and historical context of engraving the skin and tattooing, linking these practices to various customs across different civilisations. He begins by noting that our verse’s prohibition of both gashing/cutting the flesh and tattooing/engraving the flesh likely indicates a shared underlying reason. He cites an example from the Eskimos in the Americas where tattooing is a form of signalling that they are in a state of mourning, citing an article in the Revue Britannique. Rabbi Benamozegh expands the discussion by noting that tattooing has been used for multiple purposes across cultures: for beauty, health, religious devotion, desire, hatred, joy, and mourning. He states that this popularity across all eras is also referenced in an article from a popular Italian magazine of his time*, II Politecnico*. He explains the term ‘tatuaggio’ in his native Italian, derived from ‘tattoo’ in Polynesian, meaning ‘strike after strike’. He observes that this is similar to the Hebrew term קעקע, implying ‘removal after removal’. This description conveys the idea of a permanent mark made by cutting or piercing the skin, possibly with added colour. He states that this is also the opinion of Ḥazal (Makkot 3:6). Rabbi Benamozegh continues by discussing how different nations used tattoos as identity markers. He gives examples of the ancient Thracians (South-East Europe) and Parthians (Greater Persia) who tattooed hieroglyphic-like images on their bodies, and the Romans who marked their soldiers physically for identification. Lastly, Rabbi Benamozegh touches upon the religious and idolatrous aspects of tattooing in ancient civilisations, where people marked their flesh using iron and fire with symbols dedicated to idols, as a sign of devotion and protection. This practice, he implies, contrasts with the monotheistic principles of the Torah, which may be the underlying reason for the prohibition in this verse.

Do not turn to the ghosts, and of the familiar spirits do not inquire to be defiled through them. I am YHWH. Rabbi Benamozegh presents us with his approach to necromancy and wizardry. He starts by powerfully stating that this verse serves as “a piercing and descending force into the abyss” to uproot those who argue that practices like necromancy and wizardry are mere vanities that lack any real substance or benefit. They believe, he states, that the Torah’s prohibition of these practices is based solely on the fact that they are not real. Rabbi Benamozegh, in a characteristically Kabbalistic take, challenges this interpretation by pointing out that the verse explicitly links the prohibition to the impurity inherent in these practices. This assertion is crucial because it shifts the focus from the supposed lack of substance in necromancy and wizardry to the moral and spiritual contamination they entail. According to Rabbi Benamozegh, the Torah’s forbiddance of these practices is not because they are unsubstantial but because they are impure. He cites the Kabbalah, which also views these practices as spiritually harmful. Rabbi Benamozegh underscores the severity of this issue by questioning how opponents of this view would respond to such a clear and emphatic statement from the Torah. He implies that the opponents, who dismiss necromancy and wizardry as harmless vanities, are confronted with a direct contradiction from the Torah itself, which categorically states the impurity and therefore the forbidden nature of these practices.

Before a gray head you shall rise, and you shall defer to an elder and revere your God. I am YHWH. Rabbi Benamozegh emphasises that the term “elder” (זקן) is symbolic of wisdom rather than just age. This interpretation, provided by Ḥazal, also aligns with the customs of ancient societies, where wisdom was highly esteemed and often associated with age. Rabbi Benamozegh illustrates this point by referencing a dialogue between the wise men of Egypt and the Greek philosopher, Solon. The Egyptians said, “Solon, Solon, you Greeks are youths, there is not an old man among you, because you do not have wisdom that has whitened your hair with many days”. This interaction, depicted in Plato’s Timaeus, underscores the association of wisdom with age in ancient cultures. Despite this focus on wisdom, Rabbi Benamozegh notes that the elderly, regardless of their wisdom, were respected in these societies. This emphasises the agreement of the Torah with contemporaneous ancient practises. He cites the city of Lacedaemon in ancient Greece as a notable example. There, the elderly were honoured in public spaces like theatres or circuses, with everyone standing in their presence. However, this honour was conditional on their societal contribution, as illustrated by a story shared by the ancient Greek philosopher Plutarch, about an elderly bachelor who did not receive the same respect since he had not contributed to the next generation.

Rabbi Benamozegh states that this concept is prevalent in our own tradition, as the word זקן is often synonymous with a wise man, irrespective of his physical age. This wisdom is derived from the ancient traditions of Israel, making even the young, if knowledgeable, ‘elderly’ in terms of wisdom. Rabbi Benamozegh brings in supporting example from Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, who stated that the term זקן refers to the Midianite kings (Bemidbar 22:4). Rabbi Benamozegh argues that this connecting of ‘elders’ to ‘kings’ was not based on their age but on their greatness, leadership, and righteousness. He complements this point by noting that the Talmud (Gittin 62a) refers to our wise Rabbis as ‘kings’. He notes that this usage extended to the Romans, as their legislative body was termed ‘senatus’, deriving from ‘senex’ meaning ‘old’. indicating a respect for wisdom and experience in governance.

Like the native among you shall be the sojourner who sojourns with you, and you shall love him like yourself, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt. I am YHWH your God. Rabbi Benamozegh offers an insightful interpretation of the term “native” (אזרח) as mentioned in this verse. He follows Ḥazal’s lead, in that the term is understood to refer to the original Israelites, the inhabitants of the land of Israel, as opposed to converts. Rabbi Benamozegh points out that there has been an alternate interpretation of this term, proposed by the 19th century Italian scholar, Rabbi Yiṣḥaq Reggio. Rabbi Reggio believed that אזרח (“native”) referred to a type of convert, particularly the Canaanite residents who converted. However, Rabbi Benamozegh argues against this view, suggesting that it’s a recurring misconception that has been slightly modified and popularised by others. He states that the earliest proponent of this alternate view came from Christian philosophy, which postulated that two types of ‘converts’ left Egypt with the Israelites. The first group comprised original Egyptians, while the second included the tax lords and landowners who had enslaved other Egyptians. These groups, according to that interpretation, accompanied the Israelites during the Exodus. Rabbi Benamozegh critiques this interpretation, asserting that Moshe, in the context of אזרח was not referring to these converts who journeyed with them through the desert. Instead, Moshe’s use of the term was prophetic, envisioning the time when the Israelites would settle in Canaan. In this future context, “native” referred to the Israelites who would be born in the Promised Land, while “sojourner” (גר) would refer to those from other nations who embraced the Covenant of Israel.