FIVE

Magic, Idolatry, and Illicit Religious Practice

The Rabbis see themselves as the divinely ordained arbiters of licit and illicit practice, believing that God gave them the authority to decide what is right and wrong. Therefore, they understand themselves to be solely responsible for policing the boundaries between “proper” religious practice and “improper” deviant behavior. Of course, from a scholarly, second-order perspective, what is “proper” and “improper” often look very similar, and usually differ based on the perspective of the one making the claim. Heresy, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

Put into the broader context of the academic study of religion, improper thought or action—what I refer to throughout this chapter as “illicit religious practice”—is often a symbolic inversion, that is, a mirror image, of what a given community considers to be proper thought or action—what I call “licit religious practice.” There are recent studies of the concept of “heresy” (e.g., Berzon 2016), but for present purposes I focus on the fact that rabbinic discourse about illicit practice follows a broader trend in the study of religion, wherein illicit practice is viewed as an inversion (or, from an internal polemical perspective, a perversion) of licit religious practice.

Before turning to a discussion of relevant rabbinic beverage texts, we should take a moment to reflect on a classic work on symbolic inversion by the scholar of religion Bruce Lincoln. In his discussion of symbolic inversion in religious discourse, Lincoln cites what might seem like an odd data set: professional wrestling. In seeking to show why Sgt. Slaughter and Brutus Beefcake (both of whom, I must admit, I followed in my childhood) are worthy of consideration by “serious” scholar, he asserts:

It is easy to describe professional wrestling as if it were a joke or a parody. Such descriptions, however, are not only condescending, but also superficial. To be sure, it is not a subtle sport, or a mode of discourse suited to refined bourgeois tastes. Its gestures are spectacular, its contents exaggerated, and its characters larger than life. This notwithstanding, the ritual and dramatic structure of professional wrestling is anything but simple, and its efficacy is anything but negligible: These need to be studied in further detail. (Lincoln 2014 [1989], 155)

This same statement applies to the subject of this book: beverages are serious business, even if—and perhaps especially because—many view them as frivolous diversions. As Bruce Lincoln contends, “serious” theory can often be informed and developed through discussion of seemingly “frivolous” topics.

In this chapter, we encounter several rabbinic texts in which the theme of illicit religious practice is explored in a discussion of beverages. Such practices are often seen as symbolic inversions of what the Rabbis believe to be licit practices regarding both drinking and that which is drinkable.

THEIR WINE: LIBATION AS SYMBOLIC INVERSION

The rabbinic paragon of illicit religious practice is idolatry, which they refer to as ‘avodah zarah, literally, “foreign worship.” Fundamentally, the Rabbis understand idolatry as a practice that symbolically inverts licit religious practice, because, at its very core, idolatry presumes the authority and reverence of a deity or deities besides the singular God of the Rabbis. Further, beverage-related practices are actually an excellent window into rabbinic views of idolatry for two reasons: (1) the Rabbis understood idolatry in general as requiring action, not just belief, and unambiguously cultic action at that (see Schwartz 2001, esp. 165–66); and (2) one of the most—if not the most—common cultic actions they describe is idolatrous libation to a pagan deity (e.g., m. Avodah Zarah 5:1–11).

As we learned in chapter 3, the Rabbis imagine non-Jews to be “compulsive libationers” (Stern 2013). This is in direct opposition to the Rabbis, seen as exhibiting self-control and offering proper benedictions over wine. However, once again note that the Rabbis—who are terrified of pagans pouring wine that a Jew might drink as a libation to an idolatrous deity—neither prohibit drinking wine nor drinking wine with non-Jews. While they heavily regulate these, they do not ban them outright.

This constant concern regarding “compulsive libationers,” but not total taboo of either the general product or general population of pagans, often allows wine and wine-related practices to serve as a symbolic inversion of licit rabbinic practice. Prior to drinking their wine, rabbinic Jews offer a blessing to the “Creator of the fruit of the vine” (m. Berakhot 6:1; see also chapter 7). Idolaters, on the other hand, are driven to libate to their (from a rabbinic perspective, false) deity/deities, taking their obsession to comical extremes (see m. Avodah Zarah 5:4–5, discussed in chapter 3). How They—meaning the social and religious Other—act in regard to Their wine is indicative of Their general actions: illicit, the polar opposite of Us, that is, the rabbinic Jews.

An interesting example of how the Rabbis walk the fine line between allowing wine, but avoiding Their wine (and, by association, Them) is encountered in the form of “cooked wine” (Hebrew yayin mevushal). According to the Rabbis, cooking wine renders it unfit for pagan ritual use, since “cooked wine is not subject to the libation [prohibition]” (b. Avodah Zarah 30a). However, this only covers wine that was not originally “libated wine” (Hebrew yayn nesekh). In the case of the latter:

Rabbi Ila said: We learned in a baraita’: Cooked wine of idol worshippers that was initially [raw] wine is prohibited. (b. Avodah Zarah 29b)

Rabbi Ila’s statement is worth unpacking. First, he cites a baraita’, a rabbinic tradition reputed to be of tannaitic origin that is cited in an amoraic text. Therefore, he asserts that his statement is based on an earlier precedent (which may or may not be true). Second, he points out that any wine in its raw (i.e., uncooked) state that is in possession of idolaters (Hebrew ‘ovdey kokhavim; literally, “worshippers of the stars”) is prohibited. Cooking is deemed an act of fixing the status of wine. If the wine was in the status of “libated wine” wine prior to being cooked, then cooking does not transform its status. Cooking hits the pause button; it does not rewind. “Libated wine” is “libated wine,” whether cooked or uncooked. However, if wine is not “libated wine” and then is cooked, its status is fixed as non-libated wine. It remains in its initial (permitted) state no matter what occurs subsequently. So even if a bunch of “compulsive libationers” were left alone with a jug of such wine, its status remains immutable. Why? Because the idolater would not libate cooked wine. Therefore, there is no need to fret.

Significantly, the Rabbis make the assertion that cooked wine is not suitable for pagan libation despite the fact that no external evidence supports this claim. This absence of external evidence from pagan sources is thrown into further relief when we consider that the Rabbis discuss the status of cooked wine in other contexts, as well. For example, cooked wine fulfills the ritual wine-drinking obligation for Passover (y. Pesahim 10:1, 37c; discussed further in chapter 6) and, in the process, gives its drinker a wicked hangover. It would seem, rather, that the Rabbis are finding a way to accommodate a social and economic reality wherein they are surrounded by non-Jews (on this accommodation in general, see Lapin 2012; Schwartz 2001; and for modern implications of this ruling, see Horowitz 2016, 130, 144–45, 153–58). Rather than withdraw completely from society—as done by some ancient Jewish groups, like the community that authored the Dead Sea Scrolls—they chose to remain in a world full of gods. In order to navigate this cultural landscape, they imagined non-Jewish actions as symbolic inversions of their own practices: whereas Jews licitly bless their wine, pagans illicitly libate their wine. However, so long as a Jew observes a non-Jew’s entire interaction with wine, then this eternal vigilance allows for Jews and non-Jews to share a table, and even a nice glass of wine. And if the wine is boiled (as seems to be the meaning of “cooked” here), then the laws are relaxed a bit more, since the Rabbis understand such wine to be invalid for pagan libation. The fact that this loophole is almost certainly a creation of the Rabbis and does not represent actual non-Jewish religious opinion need not deter us. On the contrary, this very fact highlights the discursive function of the loophole: it reminds us that the symbolic inversion of Their wine practices are all about Us. These discussions are prescriptive, not descriptive; they portray the world the Rabbis wished to live in, not necessarily the one in which they actually lived.

DRINKING FROM A STATUE AND KISSING AN IDOL

Idol worship is the inversion of proper rabbinic ritual, which entails worship of the one true God. As noted above, idol worship requires an unambiguous cultic action (see Schwartz 2001, esp. 165–66, 170). Hence, one engages in idolatry:

. . . whether he worships [an idol in the manner it is normally worshipped]; or sacrifices; or burns incense; or pours a libation; or bows; or accepts it as a god, saying: “You are my god.” (m. Sanhedrin 7:6)

These acts are unambiguous. For instance, it does not get any clearer than a person declaring: “You, O idol, are my god!” I think we can all agree that that person is an idolater. m. Sanhedrin 7:6 continues on to detail other actions vis-à-vis the idol that are not quite unambiguous worship, such as hugging or kissing an idol, and that thus have negative consequences (i.e., flogging), but not the full consequence for idolatry (i.e., being stoned to death; see m. Sanhedrin 7:4 for more on stoning). For the latter, one must actually worship an idol in the manner that an idol is worshipped. Only then, by this unambiguous act, is that person an idolater deserving of being stoned.

Careful readers of this book might suspect where we are headed: we know about unambiguous cultic action, but what about ambiguous cultic action? Indeed, this is the very question that the Rabbis ask. To do so, they focus on two actions prohibited in m. Sanhedrin 7:6: bowing and kissing.

Already in the Hebrew Bible, bowing to an idol is a clear no-no. The Second Commandment (or, in many Christian traditions of counting, the First Commandment) declares: “You shall not bow down to Them,” that is, to other gods (Exodus 20:5; Deuteronomy 5:9). But what about if it only looks as though I am bowing down to them? This question does not escape rabbinic attention:

A spring that flows out of a temple of idolatry—one should not bend down in front of it and drink, because it will appear as if one bows to an idol.

But one may turn his back and drink.

And in a place where one is not seen, it is permissible [to drink]. (t. Avodah Zarah 6:5)

Imagine you are a good rabbinic Jew living in an ancient Roman city. On your daily comings-and-goings, often you encounter pagan temples. Some of these temples have water flowing from them. And sometimes you are thirsty. So what do you do?

The answer is not a clear prohibition, but rather: it depends. Let us work through the variables. First of all, intentionally bowing to an idol is clearly forbidden. Second, in general, drinking water from such a source is clearly not forbidden. What is forbidden, then, is appearing to bow to an idol. Therefore, if you were to lean over to drink directly from the water source, it might appear as if you were bowing to an idol, which would be forbidden. But, if you were to turn your back to the idol and then lean over to drink, then it would appear that you were drinking, not bowing. And if your act of drinking is not visible to others, then you need not turn your back to the idol. The problem is one of perception. Once it is clear that your action is not an unambiguous cultic act, then it is not deemed idolatrous. Hence, you can drink.

The question of perception arises again with the age-old question: is a kiss just a kiss? Or does it mean something more? To answer this dilemma in regard to idolatry, we turn to the next tosefta:

Sculptures of faces that spout water in the cities—one may not place his mouth on the mouth of a sculpture and drink, because it will appear as if one kisses an idol.

But one may collect [water] in his hand and drink.

Furthermore, they said: one may not place his mouth on the mouth of a pipe and drink, because of mortal danger. (t. Avodah Zarah 6:6)

Anyone who has taken a stroll through modern Rome knows that sculptures of faces are a common sight. And, like the famous fountain at the entrance of the Orange Garden on the Aventine Hill (see fig. 2), some of these faces do indeed spout water out of their mouths. This fact is perhaps why the text specifies “in the cities,” as cities are more likely than towns or villages to feature such expensive sculpture. Also, anyone who has taken a stroll through modern Rome knows that walking around in the hot Mediterranean sun makes you thirsty.

Figure 2. Fountain at the entrance to Orange Garden, Aventine Hill, Rome. Photo: Catherine E. Bonesho and Taylor Beck.

Once again, the problem of perception arises. The issue is not in regard to drinking the water in and of itself. (This would not be the case if the sculpture spouts wine out of its mouth; that would definitely be forbidden.) Rather, the issue is that if you put your mouth up to the sculpture in order to drink, you would appear to be kissing the sculpture. And, as we have learned, kissing idols is forbidden. But if you were simply to cup your hands and collect water from the face-fountain, and then drink from your hands, your actions would be unambiguously nonidolatrous. You would be drinking, not kissing.

Furthermore, the text continues, you should not place your mouth up to any pipe and drink, because doing so puts your life at risk. Of course, actual idolatry also puts your life at risk, due to the mandatory stoning to death, but the text thus far has focused not on the dangers of actual idolatry, but on the dangers of perceived idolatry. Here, then, we turn from fear of the appearance of an idolatrous act, to actual mortal danger (the same phrase appears in other Toseftan texts in regard to the threat to an infant’s life due to a potential lack of breast milk (see t. Ketubbot 5:5; t. Niddah 2:5; chapter 6); and in regard to “the ways of the Amorites,” discussed below). But what precisely is this mortal danger? According to b. Avodah Zarah 12b: “What is the danger? A leech.” In this case, perception is not the issue, but rather the fear is of swallowing a leech, which is apparently a critical concern. (FYI: if you have swallowed a leech, please immediately seek medical attention; and if leech ingestion occurs on the Sabbath, please turn to chapter 6 for the remedy for this condition.)

Do not drink from any pipe, lest you swallow a leech and put your life at risk. And do not actually bow to or kiss an idol, lest we need to stone you to death. But if you are thirsty and encounter a spring flowing from an idolatrous temple or from the mouth of an idol, then just make sure that it is abundantly clear that you are neither bowing, nor kissing.

DRINKING IN YOUR EX-WIFE’S TAVERN: MAGIC AS ILLICIT RELIGIOUS PRACTICE

If idolatry is the polar opposite of rabbinic Judaism, there is another illicit religious practice to which the Rabbis devote significant attention: magic. And, as the Rabbis themselves often do, it is best to explore the contours of this by examining a rabbinic text in which it figures.

On several occasions, rabbinic men are depicted as drinking with women who attempt to practice magic on them. In one instance, discussed in chapter 4, the witch ends up being tricked by the Rabbi; as a result, he transforms her into a donkey and then rides her in the marketplace, which becomes especially embarrassing when her girlfriend breaks the spell, so that now the Rabbi is seen riding the woman like a donkey in public (b. Sanhedrin 67b). Since the Rabbis presume the majority of women to be witches, they regarded encounters with women potentially fraught with moral, theological, and especially sexual danger.

Consider the following narrative:

And thus it was said: Ten, eight, six, [and] four are not subject to pairs [the consuming of food or drink in pairs makes one susceptible to evil forces]. They said that only regarding demons, but regarding witchcraft we also fear many.

As [once happened in] the case of a certain man who divorced his wife. She went and married a man who owned a tavern. Every day, [her ex-husband] would go and drink wine. She practiced witchcraft against him, but she was unable to affect him because he guarded himself against pairs. One day he drank a lot [of wine] and did not know how much he drank. Until sixteen [cups] he was sober and protected himself. From then on, he was not sober and he did not protect himself. She put him out a pair [of wine cups]. When he went [out of the bar], he met a certain Arab. [The drunk ex-husband] said to him: “Dead man walking here!” He went [and] grabbed a date palm tree. The date palm tree dried up and [the drunk ex-husband] burst. (b. Pesahim 110b)

I leave aside the wisdom of drinking in a tavern owned by your ex-wife’s new husband (especially when your marriage, as this text seems to imply, did not end on the friendliest of terms). Based upon his obviously bad choice in selecting a watering hole, however, this seems to be a pretty cocky ex-husband. Every day, he walks into his ex-wife’s new husband’s tavern and orders an odd number of cups of wine. This matters, because only if you drink an even number of cups of wine can magic affect you.

Throughout this narrative, it is important to notice what the Rabbis do not do. They do not reject the efficacy of magic. In fact, the Rabbis fully believe in magic. It is effective, but illicit, much as robbing a bank is an effective, but illegal, way to get rich quick. Of course, not all “magic” is bad. The Rabbis differentiate between the “magic” of illusion, as when a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, and the “magic” of using an incantation to gather a patch of cucumbers (see m. Sanhedrin 7:11), with only the latter act being illicit. And, for the same reason that Harry Potter and his classmates study “Defense against the Dark Arts” as a mandatory component of the curriculum at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Rabbis are allowed to learn magic in order to teach it and defend against it (see b. Sanhedrin 68a). For the Rabbis, “magic” is very real, and hence very dangerous.

It is the very reality of magic that leads to its potency as a symbol of ritual inversion. In the rabbinic imagination, the main practitioners of “religion” are men, while the main practitioners of “magic” are women. “Magic” uses ritual words and actions in order to illicitly compel divine action (known as theurgy), whereas “religion” uses ritual words and actions in order to licitly entreat divine action. “Magic” is therefore serious business. It must be confronted and negotiated, whether in the domain of an ex-wife’s tavern or in another ritual context (as Cohn 2008 argues, e.g., in regard to the magical amulet origins of tefillin).

With this important observation in mind, we see how rabbinic themes of gender and sexuality and magic as illicit religious practice interact throughout this narrative. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, the ex-husband is pretty cocky to walk into the one operated by his ex-wife every day and drink there. His hubris exposes him to dire peril when, one day, he loses track of how many cups of wine he has drunk. Given that this occurred only after he imbibed sixteen cups—while remaining sober!—should serve as a cautionary tale about binge drinking. After all, to be drunk is to exist in a state in which one lacks the masculine virtue of self-control; therefore, drunkards are neither manly nor, as we discover, are they able to keep count and thus to ward off women’s magic. The masculine rabbinic male is able to ward off feminine magic, but in this case, the ex-husband’s actions render him effeminate.

Too drunk to notice, the ex-husband ends up drinking an even number of cups of wine. His ex-wife, the bartender, plays the common role of the tricky, magical woman: she exacts her revenge by serving him an even number of glasses of wine (suggesting that she kept count even though he could not) and then attacks him with a magical incantation. His lack of self-control leaves him susceptible to this attack, implying that a real man would never be bested by a woman. A real man, after all, would literally mind his p’s and q’s—as in pints and quarts—and thus be impervious to a woman’s magic.

Drunk, emasculated, and under a spell, the doomed man stumbles out of his ex-wife’s current husband’s tavern and encounters an Arab. The identity of this stranger as an Arab is perhaps incidental to the story and might just suggest that the ex-husband encounters a random person wandering on the street. However, I think that this is another clue about magic, since other rabbinic texts describe Arabs as practitioners of magic. For example, in one text, a “certain Arab” performs a magic trick with a camel, which the text concludes was an illusion and not real magic. Since it was more Houdini than Harry Potter, it is not an actual concern for the Rabbis (see b. Sanhedrin 67b). Regardless, the literary purpose of the “certain Arab” is to cause the drunk, emasculated, and dangerously enchanted husband to realize that he is a “dead man walking.” He then explodes.

This explosive conclusion is of less interest for our present purposes than all of the background knowledge that it took to get us there. In explaining the many presumptions that shape this narrative, we not only returned to our discussion of gender asymmetry in regard to rabbinic conceptions of women and magic, but also explored how the Rabbis defined “magic” as a symbolic inversion of their “religion.” Furthermore, claims of “magic” serve to delegitimize one’s authority, particularly that of women. Magic is illicit religious practice, but it nonetheless exists. Rabbis need to know about magic to combat it. Knowing how many drinks to consume, for example, can save you from a nasty physical and spiritual hangover.

WHEN EVENS GET ODD: THE DANGER OF DRINKING PAIRS

As we have just learned, drinking an even number of drinks makes one susceptible to attacks by evil forces. Though the passage we read focuses on “magic,” the broader section within which it is contained concerns itself primarily with demons and evil spirits (see especially b. Pesahim 109b–112a). Much as “magic” is an illicit but effective practice, demons and other pernicious spirits are viewed as very real threats, especially in the Babylonian Talmud. However, they can be controlled by various licit practices. For example, reciting a rabbinic prayer prior to entering a privy can neutralize latrine spirits (see y. Berakhot 9:6, 14b; b. Berakhot 60b; Septimus 2015, 45–88). And the material evidence of Aramaic bowls, many of which contain spells of noticeably Jewish and even occasionally rabbinic influence, points to a wider impact of ritual practice to ward off demons and other harmful spirits (see Mokhtarian 2015, 124–43).

To better understand how rabbinic practices protect a drinker from demons and evil spirits, we examine several selections from the broader passage (Aramaic sugya’). As is usually advisable, we begin at the beginning:

“And they should not give him fewer than four [cups of wine]” [m. Pesahim 10:1].

How could our Rabbis enact something whereby one comes into danger?! For it was taught in a baraita’: A person should not eat pairs, nor drink pairs, nor wipe [after defecation in] pairs, nor have sex [in] pairs.

Rav Nahman said: The biblical verse states: “[It was] a night of guarding [for the Lord to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is the Lord’s, for guarding all of the children of Israel throughout their generations”] [Exodus 12:42]. [This means that it is] a night that is guarded from then on against harmful spirits.

Rava said: The cup of blessing [i.e., the third cup consumed for the recitation of the Grace after Meals] combines [with the first two cups consumed prior to the Passover meal] for good, but does not combine for evil.

Ravina said: [Though] our Rabbis enacted [the requirement that we drink] four cups [of wine at the Seder as symbolic of] the conduct of freedom, each one is a mitzvah by itself. (b. Pesahim 109b–110a)

Our sugya’ begins by commenting on m. Pesahim 10:1, which mandates the consumption of four cups of wine as a central component of the rabbinic Passover meal ritual, the Seder. But four is an even number! The anonymous voice of the Talmud immediately asks a vital question: “How could our Rabbis enact something whereby one comes into danger?!” The specific danger is spelled out in the baraita’: pairs of various actions, including drinking, are prohibited. The reason for this prohibition is presumed knowledge: namely, that doing these actions in pairs leaves one susceptible to evil forces (demons, spirits, and magic). So how could “our Rabbis”—a common phrase that denotes that these are our guys who should be looking out for us—require ritual action that places our lives in peril?

Three different interpretative justifications are offered. First, Rav Nahman cites Exodus 12:42. As is often the case in rabbinic literature, the biblical verse is cited only partially. The presumption is that that the audience has memorized the Hebrew Bible. Seeing the small section quoted in this text cues the reader to remember the verse both in its entirety and in its original context. The biblical context of this verse is the first night of Passover, during which the Lord guards over the children of Israel. Remember that the impetus for this sugya’ was to understand why the Rabbis ordained that one should drink four cups of wine at the Passover Seder, so a Passover context makes sense. Rav Nahman argues that this biblical verse proves that God guards the children of Israel against harmful spirits on the night of Passover. On this night, at least, drinking in pairs does not endanger one’s life.

Rava offers a second interpretative justification: the four cups of wine at the Passover Seder only count as three cups. How does this rabbinic math work? As we shall learn in chapter 6, two cups of wine are consumed prior to the Passover meal, and two are imbibed afterward. The third cup, commonly referred to as the “cup of blessing” (Hebrew kos shel berakhah; see b. Berakhot 51a–52a), is part of the Grace after Meals liturgy. Rava argues that the cup of blessing combines with the first two cups. For the purposes of arithmetic, therefore, the third cup is not counted. Drinking four cups on Passover is good, but drinking pairs is bad. Rava’s creative accounting turns four cups into three, and, in doing so, fulfills rabbinic requirements while keeping harmful spirits at bay.

The third interpretive justification offered by Ravina can also be understood in terms of arithmetic. Though the rabbinic enactment requires drinking four cups of wine at the Passover Seder, each cup is a divine commandment (Hebrew mitzvah) in and of itself. Therefore, the harmful spirits lying in wait cannot add four cups together (1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 4) to achieve a sum of pairs and then attack. Each cup is separate. They are four single drinks, which are all odd numbers and hence prevent such attacks.

This sugya’ goes on to describe various other strategies for avoiding drinking pairs. For example, one strategy involves getting up and walking around or going to the privy between drinks (see b. Pesahim 110a). Each drink therefore constitutes a separate act of drinking and does not combine into pairs. Another strategy involves developing procedures for keeping track of how many drinks one consumes. Rava counts ceiling beams to keep track of his beverage consumption, but I prefer the mental image conjured by Abaye’s technique:

When Abaye would drink one cup, his mother would place two cups in his two hands. (b. Pesahim 110a)

Abaye’s mother thus ensured that her little boy always had an odd number of drinks (for more on Abaye’s mother, see chapter 9).

But what if, despite all of these strategies and techniques, one accidentally drinks pairs? Thankfully, there is a cure.

Rav Pappa said: Yosef the Demon told me: . . .

And if one forgot and happened [to drink pairs] and went out, what is his remedy? Let him hold the thumb of his right hand in his left hand and the thumb of his left [hand] in his right hand, and he should say thus: “You and I add up to three.” And if he hears [a voice] that says: You and I add up to four,” he should say to it: “You and I add up to five.” And if he hears [a voice] that says: You and I add up to six,” he should say to it: “You and I add up to seven.”

There was a case [where this exchange occurred] until one hundred and one. And [then finally] the demon burst. (b. Pesahim 110a)

We begin with Rav Pappa, the wealthy brewer and rabbinic authority, relating knowledge learned from Yosef (= Joseph) the Demon. Yosef the Demon clearly loves to teach Rabbis, because earlier on this same page of the Talmud, Rav Yosef reports that he too learned about demons and pairs from Yosef the Demon. Demons might be harmful spirits, but it is allowable to learn from them how to fight them. (The same goes for a sorceress, since later on this same Talmud page, Ameimar learns how to fend off their attacks by talking to “the chief of the sorceresses.”) Once again, notice that neither the knowledge of demons/spirits/magic, nor even necessarily the practices themselves, is illicit. What matters is the practitioner—that it is a rabbinic Jew, not a demon/spirit/sorcerer. While I omit the content of the beginning of Yosef the Demon’s lesson, it pertains to what demons can and cannot do to those who drink pairs. Rather than get distracted by these details, I want to focus on the remedy. Though, before proceeding, I should note that one could read the second part (beginning with “And if one forgot . . .”) as a separate tradition, edited together by the Talmud, and not necessarily a continuation of Yosef the Demon’s lesson. While I am inclined to read them as a single unit, I have placed them on separate lines in my translation, to allow flexibility in how one reads this text.

Regardless of where this knowledge is acquired from, we now know what to do if—despite the best efforts of your mother—you walk out of a tavern having accidentally drunk pairs: hold each thumb in the opposite hand at the same time and declare that “You and I add up to three.” The “You” in this formula is the second person plural (Aramaic ’atun), which might better be translated as “y’all.” So the two thumbs (= y’all) plus the person to whom they are attached (“I”; Aramaic ’ana’) add up to three. Three is an odd number; it is safe. This same thumb-holding technique appears on b. Berakhot 55b as a means of warding off the Evil Eye (though a different formula is recited, one that invokes another Yosef: the biblical figure of Joseph, quoting Genesis 49:22).

But holding your thumbs and reciting this formula might not be enough. What if the thumb-holder hears a voice (presumably of a harmful spirit lying in wait to attack) that undermines this remedy by reciting its own formula: “You and I add up to four.” Now, the y’all (“You”) refers to the two thumbs plus the thumb-holder, and the “I” is the evil spirit, which add up to four: (2 +1) + 1 = 4. While three is an odd number, which prevents any demon/spirit/magic attack, four is an even number—which means that the person is back in mortal danger. The remedy is to once again recite the formula to arrive at an odd number: “You and I add up to five.” The precise arithmetic of this is less important than the fact that either the person or the harmful spirit can add one to the formula in order to make an even number odd, or vice versa. Though this scenario could repeat itself infinitely, a case example is introduced wherein a person and a demon went back and forth until they reached 101—an odd number—at which point the demon burst. Why this demon exploded is unclear. Oddly, we have ample evidence for spontaneous combustion in this regard: for example, twice on b. Pesahim 110b (the drunk husband, discussed above, and in another story about a wine barrel in the Land of Israel) and once on b. Pesahim 111b (where a demon explodes while chasing after a rabbinical student who was about to relieve himself by a caper bush).

Discussion of drinking pairs continues with more fascinating scenarios and case studies than we can discuss in detail here. For example, do two cups of wine and one cup of beer combine to make three beverages? Answer: no, the two cups of wine count as a pair of beverages (but two cups of beer and one cup of wine do combine to make three; see b. Pesahim 110b). Related to this topic, the general concern for lurking evil spirits arises. For example, on b. Pesahim 112a–b, they discuss evil spirits that hover over water at certain times (e.g., Wednesday and Friday evenings) and, in general, at night, and then describe both the physical and verbal practices used to fend off these evil spirits. (In a variant passage on b. Avodah Zarah 12b, we learn the name of the specific demon that concerns us here: Shavrirei.) Discussion of water spirits is not uncommon, particularly in the Babylonian Talmud (e.g., b. Hullin 105b). What we see in all of these contexts is that the Rabbis presume that demons, spirits, and sorcerers (the latter of whom are usually gendered as female) are clear and present dangers. They do not discount their existence. Instead, they create practices to contain and neutralize these threats. Such practices, if performed by a non-rabbinic Jew or non-Jew might have been labeled illicit religious practice. But since they are performed by and on behalf of rabbinic Jews, they are licit.

THE FRAUDULENT BUTCHER

Among the numerous actions that comprise licit religious practice are many associated with food and drink. For example, pork is not kosher, but goat meat is. And further, goat is kosher only provided that it is slaughtered and prepared according to rabbinic procedure. If the goat’s blood is not properly drained or the goat meat is served with cheese (made from the milk of a goat or any other kosher animal), for instance, it is not deemed kosher. Taken together, these food practices help to create and maintain a distinct rabbinic identity (in general, see Rosenblum 2010).

Given the stakes of kosher food for rabbinic identity, regular business fraud is elevated to catastrophic status when one’s business is the kosher business. In modern times, such scandals are big news. For example, two kosher scandals from the 1980s are still discussed today: one involving vinegar and another involving duck (see Horowitz 2016, 109–10; Lee 2008, 89–106). In ancient times, such scandals were also big news. In one account, a drunk fraudulent butcher meets with good, old-fashioned, an-eye-for-an-eye biblical justice:

Once upon a time, there was a certain butcher in Sepphoris who would [fraudulently] feed Jews nevelah and terefah [two categories of nonkosher meat]. One time, on the eve of Yom Kippur before nightfall, he drank a lot of wine and became intoxicated. He climbed on the roof, fell off, and died. Dogs began licking his blood.

[People] came and asked Rabbi Haninah: Is it permissible to remove him from before them?

He said to them: It is written: “And holy men you shall be unto Me; you shall not eat flesh torn by beasts (Hebrew terefah) in the field; you shall cast it to the dogs” [Exodus 22:30]. This person robbed the dogs and fed Jews nevelah and terefah. Leave them; they are eating that which is theirs. (y. Avodah Zarah 2:3, 41a; cf. Leviticus Rabbah 5:6)

Like many shocking stories, this one begins “once upon a time” (Hebrew ma‘aseh; on this term, see Simon-Shoshan 2012, 45–49). This tale features a “certain” butcher—a way of referring to a generic person in a rabbinic story, as was also the case above in regard to a “certain” ex-husband drinking in his ex-wife’s new husband’s tavern (and the “certain Arab” he met before spontaneously combusting). The key fact is that this particular butcher sells Jews non-kosher meat, passing it off as kosher.

The terms used for non-kosher food are important to briefly explain, as knowledge of their meaning is necessary to understand the rest of this story. In the Hebrew Bible, nevelah refers to carrion (i.e., an animal that dies a natural death), and terefah (literally, “torn”) refers to an animal killed by another animal. Neither category of animal is slaughtered by human agency. The Rabbis alter the meaning of these terms. For them, nevelah refers to an improperly slaughtered animal, and terefah refers to a properly slaughtered animal that subsequently is rendered invalid for some reason (see m. Hullin 2:4; Rosenblum 2010, 68–69nn121–22). In modern terms, terefah has taken on an even more expansive meaning, as referring to all non-kosher food, especially pork, often considered the ultimate in treyf (Yiddish for “non-kosher food”). In rabbinic literature, these represent two major non-kosher categories and are often deployed to discuss non-kosher food in general.

With this information in mind, we are ready to work our way through this tale. We learn of a fraudulent butcher who runs a meat shop in Sepphoris (a city known to have a large Jewish population in antiquity), at which Jews buy “kosher” meat. We are already prepared for this butcher to be less than pious, which is why we are not surprised to learn about his pre–Yom Kippur actions. Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement, a solemn day of prayer, introspection, and fasting. It is the day on which all souls are judged. In the words of the medieval rabbinic liturgical poem Unetaneh Toqef (“We Give Power”; made further popular by inspiring Leonard Cohen’s 1974 song, “Who by Fire”), it is the day on which God decides: “who shall live and who shall die.” Getting drunk right before Yom Kippur is exactly what you do not want to do. And then he does what you also do not want to do when drunk: he climbs on top of a roof, falls off it, and dies. Adding insult to injury, dogs lick his blood.

Having witnessed dogs licking up the dead butcher’s blood, people come and ask Rabbi Haninah a legal question: on Yom Kippur, is it permissible to remove the corpse from before the dogs (“them”)? As a holiday, certain Sabbath laws apply on Yom Kippur, which might prevent the moving of a body. Concern for the integrity of a human body intersects with concerns about allowable actions on a holiday. Furthermore, rabbinic themes overlap here, given this text’s interest in the normative law (Hebrew halakhah) of Yom Kippur.

It is unclear at which point the butcher’s fraud is discovered. Perhaps it had just been exposed, leading to his pre–Yom Kippur drinking? Perhaps it became known posthumously? Either way, knowledge of his fraudulent practice underlies Rabbi Haninah’s answer. Rabbi Haninah begins by citing Exodus 22:30, a biblical verse in which terefah meat is explicitly banned; it should be cast to dogs. When the butcher sold such meat to Jews, he was not only engaging in business fraud and causing unsuspecting Jews to violate biblical food laws, he was stealing meat that is supposed to be thrown to the dogs. Therefore it is an act of poetic justice when dogs lick his blood, since they are recovering from his own flesh what was rightfully theirs.

As readers of this text, we are supposed to view this conclusion as justice served. Even more than simply rebalancing the scales of justice, this text serves as a clear threat to anyone who wishes to defraud Jews and lead them to transgress unknowingly. Many rabbinic practices require the help of others. For example, if I cannot make my own wine, I need to be able to trust your assurances that you have adhered to rabbinic law in order to guarantee that I am not drinking “libated wine.” (Similar concerns in regard to the modern, industrial food system led to the rise of kosher certification agencies; in general, see Horowitz 2016.) Cheating the individual Jew is tantamount to cheating the entire rabbinic system, which is tantamount to cheating God.

MAKING RAIN AND DRINKING WINE

Those who have even merely dipped their toe into the sea of Talmud are probably familiar with the story of Honi the Circle-Maker (m. Ta‘anit 3:8; b. Ta‘anit 23a; Belser 2015, 149–83). In this story, a community suffering from a drought turns to a charismatic rainmaker (in the literal sense of the word). Honi earns his nickname by drawing a circle. He then stands within that circle and requests rain from God. Honi’s methods prove effective and rain (at first a little, and then a lot) falls. Such charismatic figures are fraught with tension because they walk the line between appropriate and inappropriate action (and sometimes cross it). A rabbinic figure, Shimon ben Shetah, declares: “If you were not Honi, I would decree a ban against you!” (b. Ta‘anit 23a). As was the case with “magic” and those who practice it, rainmaking and rainmakers are practices/practitioners that, from the rabbinic perspective, may be effective, but are not necessarily licit. The Rabbis have an entire process of licit means of petitioning for rain (discussed throughout the tractate Ta‘anit), but rainmaking and rainmakers push the boundaries of licit practice. The case of Honi is fascinating because his story is well known, and the Rabbis devote significant attention to grappling with him and even wrapping him in the garb of a rabbinic figure in order to bring him into the fold (see Belser 2015, 161–63).

With this background in mind, we turn our attention to another charismatic rainmaker, Ilfa:

Rabbi decreed a fast, but no rain fell.

Ilfa (and some say it was Rabbi Ilfai) came down to lead prayer. He said: “He causes the wind to blow,” and the wind blew. He said: “He causes the rain to fall,” and the rain fell.

[Rabbi] said to him: What do you do?

[Ilfa] said to him: I live in a poor/distant district, where there is no wine for qiddush and havdalah. I take the trouble to obtain wine for qiddush and havdalah and cause [the Jews living in the district] to fulfill their obligation. (b. Ta‘anit 24a)

The opening line—“Rabbi decreed a fast, but no rain fell”—contains a lot of assumed, and important, information. First of all, it presumes that the reader knows the identity of “Rabbi.” As you can imagine, whoever merits “Rabbi” as their sole title is an important figure in rabbinic literature. “Rabbi” is Rabbi Yehudah ha-Nasi (= Rabbi Judah the Patriarch), who served as the patriarch, that is, the official representative of the Jewish community to the Roman government. Rabbi solidified his name by, according to tradition, editing the Mishnah in the beginning of the third century C.E. So when Rabbi issues a decree, it commands legal, ritual, and cultural respect. Secondly, the purpose of decreeing a fast is to resolve a communal crisis in the form of drought (hence the title of this tractate: Ta‘anit, which means “Fast” in Hebrew). Prior to fasting, a series of prayers and other actions occur, leaving fasting as an option of last resort. Thirdly, despite Rabbi’s authority and standing, his decree is ineffective. No rain falls. That is, until Ilfa steps up to the plate.

Ilfa comes before his community, in the position where prayer leaders stand. He then utters two prayers. These prayers are also assumed knowledge, since “He causes the wind to blow and He causes the rain to fall” is the precise formula inserted into rabbinic liturgy during the rainy season in order to beseech God for sufficient rainfall. (Today, this formula is inserted into one of the main daily prayers, the ‘Amidah, between the end of Sukkot and the beginning of Passover.) Here, a small detail is actually quite important. Notice that the text records two traditions of the rainmaker’s name. The best-known is Ilfa. But there are those who believe he is actually Rabbi Ilfai. The slight difference in vocalization of the proper name is less important (Ilfai replaces a final yud with an aleph, a common-enough variant). What is really interesting is that some believe he held the title of Rabbi. “The similarity between this story and other narratives in the Yerushalmi [e.g., y. Ta‘anit 1:4, 64b] and Bavli, which certainly involve non-Rabbis, makes it likely that this account also features a non-rabbi” (Kalmin 1999, 76). This point is also driven home by Ilfa’s earlier appearance in this same tractate. On b. Ta‘anit 21a, Ilfa and Rabbi Yohanan are study partners, but Rabbi Yohanan overhears angels prophesying his future academic prowess, so he dedicates himself to study and becomes head of his study academy; Ilfa does not hear the angels, so he does not devote himself to his studies. Note that in this text, Rabbi Yohanan is a Rabbi, but Ilfa is not.

So if Ilfa is not a Rabbi, then why call him a Rabbi? The answer to this question is found in Ilfa’s answer to Rabbi’s question. Rabbi’s simple question (“What do you do?”) suggests an incredulous tone: after all, if someone of Rabbi’s stature could not bring about rain by getting the entire community to fast, then how could Ilfa—who is not even a Rabbi, let alone the “Rabbi” par excellence—cause God to make wind and rain?! Even more shocking is that Ilfa brings this about by simply uttering the basic prayer for rain! Why is his prayer efficacious when Rabbi’s fast was not?

Ilfa replies to Rabbi’s incredulous question by giving a concrete example: he gained “verbal potency through virtuous action” (Belser 2015, 80). What were his virtuous actions? Ilfa lived in a district that, depending on the manuscript variant you are reading, was either “poor” or “distant” (the two words differ only by a single letter—daled and resh, respectively—which look very similar to one another; see Mokhtarian 2015, 185n80, who suggests that “distant” is probably the preferred term). Whether Ilfa’s district was impoverished or isolated, it lacked access to wine over which to recite blessings at the beginning (qiddush) or end (havdalah) of the Sabbath (on these rituals, see chapter 6). Ilfa makes a significant effort to locate wine. Indeed, the verb that I render “I take the trouble” (Aramaic taraḥna’) is the same verb used in b. Pesahim 107a, which describes two brothers who “took the trouble” (Aramaic teraḥna’) to obtain wine for a guest who, in contrast to locale custom, refuses to recite havdalah over beer (for discussion, see chapter 6). This linguistic connection suggests that the one who “takes the trouble” makes a significant effort on behalf of someone else in order to locate a beverage (particularly wine) required for their fulfillment of Sabbath ritual. In doing so, Ilfa’s prayer brings about the profound effect that Rabbi’s fast could not.

Commenting on the Ilfa narrative and a similar one that follows in b. Ta‘anit 24a (in the other tale, an unnamed figure tells Rav—an important rabbinic figure whose name is the Aramaic form of Rabbi—that his meritorious act is teaching rich and poor students alike), Belser concludes: “In both tales, the rabbis stand by as witnesses to watch their own inability to bring rain reflected in the effective piety of their more plebian contemporaries. Simple but significant good deeds are the currency that invests their word and prayer with the power to bring rain” (Belser 2015, 81). Ilfa is no Rabbi, let alone the Rabbi. However, he is a pious man. By a simple act—making an effort to locate wine for the Sabbath—“Ilfa’s prayers turn into natural miracles” (Mokhtarian 2015, 55). Taking the trouble to obtain wine for Sabbath ritual on behalf of a poor/distant community has the potential to turn the layman into the superman.

Note that Ilfa merits special supplicatory powers by taking the trouble to help others fulfill rabbinic ritual. The Sabbath rituals of qiddush and havdalah are rabbinic creations. Furthermore, when Ilfa stands before the community to lead prayer, the liturgical formula that he recites is another rabbinic creation. Is it any surprise why according to some traditions he merits the title “Rabbi”? Despite being a non-rabbinic character, Ilfa’s actions are decidedly rabbinic. Therefore, when he bests Rabbi, he is besting him at his own game.

HOW TO OFFER A RABBINIC TOAST

A fascinating final case study of the theme of symbolic inversion and illicit religious practice is the curious rabbinic category of “the ways of the Amorites” (Hebrew darkhei ha-’emori). Noted briefly in the Mishnah (see m. Shabbat 6:10; m. Hullin 4:7), a long series of such practices appears in t. Shabbat 6–7. To offer a few of the myriad examples found in t. Shabbat 6–7:

(6:1) What practices constitute “the ways of the Amorites”? . . .

(6:2) He who strikes the hip, claps hands, and dances before a flame, behold, these are the ways of the Amorites . . . .

(6:7) He who says: “Eat this date [or] this lettuce, that you should remember me by it”; . . . “Sit on a broom, so that you should dream”; “Do not sit on a broom, so that you should not dream”; behold, these are the ways of the Amorites . . . .

(6:11) He who pours out water into public streets, and says, “Here it is!” behold, these are the ways of the Amorites. If he did so [to warn] those who pass by on the street, behold, this is permitted. . . .

(6:14) She who shouts at an oven, so that the bread should not fall; and she who puts charms into the handle of a pot, so that it should not boil over, behold, these are the ways of the Amorites. But she may put chips of mulberry [wood] or glass into a pot, so that it should boil more quickly; but the sages say: She should not do so with glass [chips], because of mortal danger. . . .

(7:5) He who says, “Healing!” [when someone sneezes], behold, these are the ways of the Amorites. Rabbi Elazar bey Rabbi Zadoq says: one does not say “Healing!” because it interrupts Torah study. The members of the household of Rabban Gamaliel would not say “Healing!” because of the ways of the Amorites.

A variety of practices, from dancing to saying “Gesundheit!” when someone sneezes, constitute “the ways of the Amorites.” This text “offers a kaleidoscope of practices that lack a clear common denominator or an obvious organizing principle” (Berkowitz 2014, 96). A few points deserve mentioning. First, the verbs that appear throughout it are a mixture of masculine and feminine—meaning that they refer to both male and female agents. “The practices mentioned here are surprisingly gender-balanced, in contrast to much of the material on magic and superstition (including rabbinic) that associates them with women” (Berkowitz 2014 97n57). We should not, however, push this observation too far. For example, one of the female-gendered verbs refers to a woman putting charms into a pot handle in order to assure that its contents do not boil over (t. Shabbat 6:14). This serves to reinforce an association between women and magic, although male verbs refer to other magical practices.

Second, what precisely constitutes “the ways of the Amorites” is debated. To return to the previous example, while putting “charms” (Hebrew qesamin) into a pot handle is deemed one of “the ways of the Amorites,” putting in “chips” (Hebrew qesamim) of mulberry wood or glass is not, although the sages sensibly nix glass chips as dangerous to throw into a boiling pot (see pp. 136–37 above on the rabbinic phrase “because of mortal danger”). Here, the text puns: “charms” and “chips” are actually the same Hebrew word, with meaning determined by context (the slight morphological difference, qesamin/qesamim, is a common variant ending in rabbinic Hebrew; in the present case, it helps to highlight the pun, though it is not consistent across manuscript traditions). The use of magical charms could have been banned on the grounds of magic. But this particular practice falls under a roughly comparable, but distinct category. And defining what exactly is included in and excluded from that category remains a subject of debate.

Third, in a related point, even some of these practices that are prohibited may not actually be forbidden on the grounds of being “the ways of the Amorites.” Thus I must not respond “Healing!” when I hear someone sneeze, innocuous though that seems, because this is the kind of exclamation Amorites would make. According to another tradition, however, one should not say “Healing!” for another reason: “[saying] ‘healing’ for the sneezers necessarily interrupts the lecture of the teacher, thus causing a waste of time during the study of the Torah” (Veltri 2015, 141). To sneeze is human; to exclaim “Healing!” is Amorite.

So what exactly is meant by “the ways of the Amorites”? Scholars are not completely certain. First, we do not know why the Amorites are singled out, when they are but one of many peoples that inhabited the land of Canaan mentioned in the Hebrew Bible (see Berkowitz 2014, 98). If there is some particular significance to Amorites, then it eludes us. Second, are these actual ancient practices? Biblical or contemporaneous to the Rabbis? Common among non-Jews, Jews, or some combination thereof? (In general, see Berkowitz 2014, 98–99.) Third, is there something distinctive about “the ways of the Amorites” as compared to magic or other categories? Why are these particular practices singled out as belonging to this category and not to others?

I ask the question again: what, then, are the “the ways of the Amorites”? Beth Berkowitz offers the most compelling explanation:

The question remaining is the criterion for locating certain practices under this rubric and not under a different one. I would propose that one reason rabbinic legislators categorized these practices in this particular way rather than as idolatry or divination or anything else is, quite simply, that it is difficult for rabbinic legislators to put their finger on exactly what is wrong with the practices described here: They admit that there is no full-proof [sic] biblical support for their condemnation. What is clear is that the authors did not approve of these practices and wanted to outlaw them. Perhaps they considered them foreign, or magical, or overly self-oriented, or insufficiently respectful of rabbinic authority, or threatening for other reasons. . . . “The ways of the Amorites” is a catch-all for practices that some rabbis do not like but for which they have no clear justification to prohibit. (Berkowitz 2014, 99–100)

“The ways of the Amorites” are practices of which some Rabbis disapprove, but for which they have no clear basis in which to ground a prohibition. Given that these practices “fall through the cracks of clearer categories of prohibition as defined by the Torah” (Berkowitz 2014, 99), “the ways of the Amorites” serves as a generic forbidden category that can be invoked for assorted practices that, though not explicitly illicit, are condemned.

All of that was necessary background in order to understand how to offer a rabbinic toast. Prior to drinking a glass of wine, one is required to recite a rabbinic blessing:

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine. (See m. Berakhot 6:1, discussed in chapter 7)

But is it acceptable to utter other words while raising a glass of wine? To find out, we may consult the Bavli’s analysis of “the ways of the Amorites” traditions (in general, see b. Shabbat 67a–b). Amid this conversation, we learn:

[If one makes the following toast:] “Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis!” this is not [prohibited] because of the ways of the Amorites.

Once upon a time, Rabbi Aqiva made a drinking party for his son, and over each and every cup that he brought out he said: “Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis! Life and wine to the mouth of the Rabbis and the mouth of their students!” (b. Shabbat 67b)

“Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis!” seems like an excellent toast to recite while raising a glass. Why would anyone raise concern over it? Perhaps, as I noted above, because the rabbinic wine blessing functions as words spoken over the cup, so another formula struck some as potentially problematic. Remember that “the ways of the Amorites” is a catch-all for that which might fall between the cracks: that which is not explicitly prohibited, but maybe should be. Therefore, it would seem that at least some express concern over even this lovely toast.

The text states unambiguously, however, that “Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis!” is not subject to “the ways of the Amorites” prohibition. In fact, no less of an authority than Rabbi Aqiva uses this very formulation extensively. It is worth taking a moment to unpack this particular tradition. First, it is introduced by “Once upon a time . . .” (Hebrew ma‘aseh) the common rabbinic phrase for introducing a tale about “an event that happened in the past which has halakhic implications” (Simon-Shoshan 2012, 45–49, quoted here at 49). We are primed then both for a story and a legal lesson. Second, Rabbi Aqiva is throwing “a drinking party (Hebrew mishteh) for his son.” Although mishteh is often rendered as “wedding feast,” we should not lose sight of the term’s literal meaning: this celebration is centered, linguistically and otherwise, around drinking (for further discussion, see chapter 7). Third, this entire passage is an edited version of an earlier tradition that appeared in t. Shabbat 7:7–9:

(7:7) He who says: “Drink and leave over!” behold, these are the ways of the Amorites. “Drink and leave over!” these are not the ways of the Amorites.

(7:8) “Drink and leave over! Wine to your lives!” these are not the ways of the Amorites.

(7:9) Once upon a time, Rabbi Aqiva made a drinking party for his son, [and] over each and every jug that he opened he said: “To the life of the Rabbis! And to the life of their students!”

Note how the Bavli’s version streamlines things. First, it omits the contradicting statements in t. Shabbat 7:7: that “Drink and leave over!” either is or is not one of the ways of the Amorites. Second, it seems to embrace the tradition in t. Shabbat 7:8 that “Wine to your lives!” is not prohibited. In fact, it amplifies the wording to the even more unambiguous toast of “Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis!” Third, it takes the amplified wording and applies that to the Rabbi Aqiva tradition.

“The ways of the Amorites” functions as a mechanism for prohibiting practices of which (at least some) Rabbis disapprove, but there is no clear basis for prohibiting. Given its status as a catch-all category, part of the conversation necessarily includes debate about what exactly constitutes “the ways of the Amorites.” The subject of how to offer a rabbinic toast exemplifies this phenomenon, as we learn that—despite the fact that such words are additional to the rabbinic wine blessing—it is allowable for a Rabbi to raise their glass with the toast “Wine and life to the mouth of the Rabbis!” After all, it was good enough for Rabbi Aqiva!

CONCLUSION

Gazing into a mirror, one sees oneself, but in reverse. When the Rabbis gaze at illicit religious practices—such as magic, idolatry, and “the ways of the Amorites”—they see a similar image: their own practices, only in reverse. This symbolic inversion often involves the Rabbis, or their mirror images, holding a drink in their hands. As we have seen throughout this chapter, from kissing an idol to raising a glass for a toast, beverages serve a key role in negotiating the various implications for Rabbis looking out into a world that often is their mirror image. Along the way, we encounter fascinating tales of spontaneous human combustion, dogs licking the blood of fraudulent butchers, and rainmakers transforming before our eyes from troublemakers into pious rabbinic figures.