The End of an Era: Mattityahu Tsevat and Eric Werner.

Prosopography is one of my favorite words. Wikipedia defines it as, "an investigation of the common characteristics of a historical group, whose individual biographies may be largely untraceable, by means of a collective study of their lives, in multiple career-line analysis." This is perhaps its broadest meaning. A narrower one is, "Who in the past knew whom."

It can often take an unusual turn. For example, Gershom Scholem and Abraham Joshua Heschel did not care for one another personally. Yet each in his own way was very close to Henry Corbin, one of the outstanding scholars in the past century of mysticism in Islam.

This past Saturday, Matitiahu Tsevat, professor emeritus of Bible in Cincinnati, passed away. I came to know him slightly when I worked at the Klau Library in Cincinnati for six months in 1973, but became better acquainted with him after I came to New York. The last time we saw one another was in June of 1993, at the Shabbat morning at services held at the College, where he was honored with an aliyah in honor of a "special birthday," (i.e., his 80th). At the festive kiddush that followed, he and I talked of Dr. Werner. And before we parted, he made me promise that I would visit him when I was next in Cincinnati. Sadly, the next occasion was perhaps five years later and my colleagues told me of his failing health and that he was not receiving visitors. Now, with his passing at 96, I feel that an era has truly ended.

One of the closest personal friendships I have enjoyed at the College-Institute was with the eminent musicologist, Eric R. Werner (1901-1988), and it was Dr. Werner who told me of his personal relationship with Professor Tsevat, and after Dr. Werner's death, Dr. Tsevat filled in gaps.

Dr. Werner and Dr. Tsevat met in Breslau in the 1920s. Dr. Tsevat was a student at the Gymnasium where Dr. Werner's father was a professor of classics. (Dr. Tsevat's name originally was Pinczower before he hebraized it.) Werner's father and Tsevat's fathers were fraternity brothers at university and often spent time in the company of one another. Werner was at that time a junior faculty member at the Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau.

The young Pinczower was recognized early for his academic brilliance, and although there was a difference of a dozen years between Eric Werner and Mathias Pinczower, the two became close friends. Indeed, Eric told me that Matt tutored him in Hebrew (admitting that it was never one of his strong suits), and he in return tutored Matt in music theory. At that festive kiddish in 1993, Dr. Tsevat smiled broadly, as he recalled the many hours they studied together the polyphonies and counterpoint in Palestrina.)

Each had told me how Dr. Werner had approached Dr. Nelson Glueck, president of Hebrew Union College, and made the strong case for admitting the young Matt Tsevat to the Graduate Program (from which he earned his PhD. in 1953), as well as bring him on the faculty. Dr. Tsevat told me he never had such a "melitz yosher" as he did in Dr. Werner.

Their close personal friendship was further cemented when Dr. Tsevat asked Dr. Werner to serve as sandak at the berit milah of his son, Daniel. In the spring of 1987 Dr. Werner and I were having lunch together at Swenson's (now Dojo, across the street from the College, on West Fourth Street). Dr. Werner told that he had served as sandak at Daniel Tsevat's berit, to which I said, "Nebech" (not to be confused with the Yiddish word, often spelled the same way in English. In Yiddish it can also be a phatic expression of sadness.

His hair-trigger temper instantly exploded. "Why, what do you mean 'Nebech'?" I told him how Daniel Tsevat, 33 years old, had died suddenly in April, 1985 of an allergic reaction to sulfite in wine he had drunk, and he was mentioned by name in an article in the New York Times during the summer of 1985 about the FDA's investigating sulfite in foods. Without a further word, Dr. Werner sprang to his feet and ran out of the restaurant. I was close at his heels, except the manager grabbed me, afraid we were skipping out on the meal.

I came to the fourth floor in time to hear his voice raging over Helen Farber's as he pushed his way past her into Paul Steinberg's office. (He was perhaps the only person ever to do so successfully!) With tears in his eyes, Dr. Werner repeatedly pounded on Dr. Steinberg's desk, saying, "Why did no one tell me of Daniel's death?" Dr. Steinberg, who knew Dr. Werner well, silently went to a file and brought out a photocopy of the NY Times Article. Then he and I walked with Dr. Werner to the lounge area of that floor. Dr. Werner sat there silently as he read the article, and from the length of time it took, it was clear that he had read it several times. With tears in his eyes, he faced us and said, "I was not there for my dearest friend at his time of loss... What shall I do ... and after such a long time?" He arose, resumed his gruff character, and said that he was going home to contemplate how best to contact the Tsevat family.

About a year later, Dr. Tsevat was in New York and visited the College. By this time, Dr. Werner's health was failing and he no longer came down to the College. I asked Dr. Tsevat if he knew that Dr. Werner was not well, and he replied that he suspected for they had not been in touch for several months. I offered him my office and the telephone so that he might call his old friend. Afterward, Dr. Tsevat thanked me warmly, adding that he was taking a taxi immediately to Washington Heights to visit Eric and Elisabeth Werner.

How many persons today are so fortunate as to have personal friendships that last more than sixty years? Dr. Werner and Dr. Tsevat were two such fortunate individuals. Intellectually and personally they also represent for me the finest and most endearing qualities and values of that final generation of German Jewry born before World War I. Now they are gone. The final door on that era has truly closed.

How fortunate I was to have known them.

Remembering Alfred Gottschalk

The late Alfred Gottschalk was a commanding and dominating presence throughout my career at the College-Institute. He clearly relished such occasions as Opening Ceremonies, Founders' Day, Graduation, and Ordination-Investiture. But it was on Founders' Day here at the New York School that he waxed truly eloquent about Rabbi Stephen S. Wise and the Jewish Institute of Religion, where Dr. Gottschalk attended classes while still a student at Boys' High School in Brooklyn. With Founders' Day approaching, and the six month anniversary of his death, I find myself thinking about Fred and our personal interactions over the decades.

One incident stands out above all that I would like to share with you, dear Readers, an incident where I saw him at a moment of deep sorrow, but a moment that encapsulated who he was and how he came to be.

During the summer, almost six years ago, Ardon Bar-Hama, a specialist in digital photography, was working at the Klau Library, New York, digitizing manuscripts sent from the Klau Library, Cincinnati. One afternoon Fred came to my office with several worn and tattered prayer books. "Can you arrange to have these rebound?" he asked. I examined each and saw that these Roedelheim prayer books from the mid-nineteenth century, were beyond rebinding, for the paper was brittle and the bindings were shot. There was no way they could survive the process.

I explained to him what the problem was and suggested that mylar encapsulation was one possibility, but that it was costly. I jokingly asked if he did not have newer prayer books to pray from.

Fred carefully opened the books and showed me inscriptions on the fly-leaves written in Hebrew, German in Hebrew characters, and German. Among these inscriptions were recorded the dates of birth and death of several generations of the Gerson family.

I knew that Gerson was his mother's maiden name and understood how precious these data were to him. These prayer books had belonged to his grandfather, his great-grandfather, and his great-great grandfather.

The only thing I could suggest was that he tie them with string or a ribbon and place them on a shelf to pass on to the next generation at the appropriate occasion/

He then extracted from one of the volumes a single piece of paper that measured perhaps four by six inches. It was thicker than paper but lighter than what we call "paper-board." This piece of paper was indeed so worn and fragile that it was translucent. Near the upper edge of one corner I saw the words, "Feld-Karte ___, 191-."

It was a "post card" provided to German soldiers during World War I upon which to send messages home. One could not read the writing on it that was in pencil, for the writing was so faded.

"But what can I do with this?" Fred asked. He explained it was the last message his grandfather has received from one of his sons who died in action during the War.

In a moment I can only call "inspired," I brought the slip of paper over to Mr. Bar Hama and asked if his camera could recover any writing on this piece of paper. It took only a matter of seconds, and handwriting in the "chicken scratch" cursive used in Germany before World War I flashed on the screen. Mr. Bar-Hama slipped a blank CD into his computer and copied the text. In less than twenty seconds from start to finish, Fred had the CD in his hand. He looked at me in utter amazement. "Who know such things existed?!" he said.

A day or two later I saw Dr. Gottschalk sitting on the Conference Level, drinking a cup of coffee. He waved me over, so I drew myself a cup from the urn and sat down. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked if he had had the opportunity to read his uncle's message.

For a moment he looked as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus, as his eyes became rimmed in red. Pausing to blow his nose, he regained his composure. His normally robust voice, however, became a mere whisper. He said that the message was dated only a few days before his uncle had died and the message was two lines written twice.

"I am so cold and hungry. Please food. I am so cold and hungry. Please food."

Gustav Gerson, Alfred Gottschalk's grandfather, had three children: twin sons, Alfred and Berthold (born October 9, 1895) and one daughter. Alfred Gerson died on October 21, 1915 and Berthold Gerson on October 26, 1915.

After a few sips of coffee in silence, Fred went on. It was by the merits of these uncles that his mother and he escaped from Nazi Germany. His father had succeeded in leaving in 1938, but his mother was unable to obtain the necessary permits to emigrate.

Gustav Gerson went to town's chief of police, who was an old acquaintance, but also a card-carrying Nazi. Gerson pleaded with the police chief, that his two sons had died fighting for the Fatherland. All he was asking was that his daughter and grandson be allowed to leave. With the prospect of having two fewer Jews on his hands, the police chief agreed and issued the exit papers.

The memory of those uncles, both of whom had died fourteen years before Fred was born and for one of whom he was named, was especially precious to Fred Gottschalk, for he was ever mindful of them, their sacrifice, and how their role in his survival.

I enjoyed a warm relationship with Dr. Gottschalk, especially after he settled in New York in 1996, but it became especially close after that conversation over cups on coffee on that morning in August in 2004. I can only conclude by saying how honored I was that he chose to share this story with me. And I hope that you come away with a deeper understanding and appreciation of him.

This Book is OVERDUE!

No, I'm not sending out a mass scolding ... I'm reading a wonderful new book with that title by Marilyn Johnson.  While the real subtitle is "How librarians and cybrarians can save us all" it just as well could have been "All Librarians Great and Small."  Instead of showcasing the triumphs and tragedies of a country veteranarian, Johnson highlights the triumphs and tragedies of contemporary libraries.

With a trunk full of old newspapers and Web 2.0 tools, Johnson roams the country and cyberspace in search of the new frontiers of library science, old treasures with fresh polish, and of course charmingly quirky characters.  She finds them all.  This highly readable collection of essays is both fun and inspiring.

BANNED BOOKS WEEK 2009

UNCOMFORTABLE YET ACCESSIBLE ?

Banned Books Week has come and is almost gone, but it presents an opportunity to discuss an issue that constantly engages us as Jewish and academic librarians: should we practice a limited form of self-censorship when it comes to publications that make us or our readers uncomfortable? Why should we buy and make accessible books that defame, deny, question and offend what we hold to be true and enduring?

Are there shared and value-driven guidelines that enable us to allow certain books an honorable re-entry into the Jewish cultural matrix?
Jewish books and books written by Jewish authors have been subjected to censorship by Christianity and Islam throughout their shared history, mostly on religious grounds. Books were burned, lines and paragraphs were erased, and public debates (also known as disputations) were initiated by the Church to denounce Biblical and Talmudic texts as heretical and blasphemous, and therefore unworthy of print. The result, more often than not, was not only “edited” editions of the Talmud, but also strong affirmations of Jewish beliefs by authors who responded by publishing and distributing their own arguments, or “apologetics”.



A lesser publicized practice however, is that of Jewish self-censorship. Rabbinic restrictions of reading are documented from the times of the “External Books” (ספרים חיצונים). These books, such as the Apocrypha, the Wisdom of Ben Sira, and the Aramaic translation of Job, and "books of the Minim" (probably referring to the books of the early Christians) were considered objectionable (Tosef., Shab. 13 (14):5).




In 1554, a rabbinic ordinance was adopted by a synod in Ferrara, Italy, establishing a system of internal control over the printing of Hebrew books. Fourteen rabbis representing the Italian Jews resolved that no Hebrew book be printed without the authorization of three recognized rabbis and the lay leaders of the nearest large community. The action in Ferrara was repeated in Padua in 1585; similar steps were taken by the Council of the Four Lands in Poland and the Jewish community of Frankfurt in 1603 and by the Sephardi community in Amsterdam in 1639.




In the past 400 years there have been a number of reasons for censorship within the Jewish community. Classic examples of a distinct prohibition were salacious and trivial publications such as Immanuel of Rome's erotic מחברות , books that contained what were considered incorrect halakhic decisions and explications; books written or published by apostates such as Uriel Acosta and Baruch Spinoza; commentaries written by rabbis suspected of following false Messiahs; books printed on the Sabbath; and prayer books in which changes opposed by the rabbis were made by the editor or publisher were banned.

The banning of books was used as a weapon in ideological struggles in the Jewish community as well. There were objections to the study of philosophy for fear of misleading the masses and to the study of Kabbalah; books were banned in the fight against the Shabbateans, the Frankists, Ḥasidism, Haskalah, and the Reform movement. There were political considerations against political and cultural emancipation – the fear that assimilation and apostasy would come in their wake; Zionism, viewed by some rabbis as a dangerous ideology because of its secular aspects, resulted in efforts to control its publications.

In the past sixty years Jewish libraries were faced with decisions about including in their collections books written by Holocaust deniers, proponents of conspiracy theories such as The Protocols of the Elders of Zion and The International Jew, and vocal anti-Zionists. Publications considered “heretical” by mainstream Jewish denominations such as books questioning the origins of Judaism and the scientific explications of Genesis have been added to the mix more recently.

The books displayed in our new exhibit come from our collection. They represent censored Jewish books that made Jewish readers uncomfortable throughout history – would YOU banish them from our library?

(with thanks to: www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org and www.wikipedia.com)

HUC mourns the loss of Rabbi Alfred Gottschalk z"l

Eulogy for Rabbi Alfred Gottschalk by Rabbi David Ellenson

In the Mishneh Torah, Maimonides writes of the respect that marks the relationship and the feelings that bind the student to his rabbi, and he instructs the student on the actions he must take and the emotions he will suffer upon the death of his rav. In Hilchot Talmud Torah, he states, ““V’ein l’kha kavod gadol michvoid harav v’lo mora mei-mora harav – Amru hachamim mora harav k’mora shamyim – There is no greater honor you possess and can display than the honor you possess and display for your rabbi, and there is no reverence that you can possess and display than the reverence you possess and display towards your rabbi. As our Sages have said, ‘The respect and awe you display towards your rabbi is identical to that which you must display towards Heaven.” No wonder that Maimonides therefore observes, “U’khe’she-yamut rabo, kore’a kol b’gadav ‘ad she-hu m’ga’leh et libo … – And when his rabbi dies, the student tears his clothes until he reveals his heart, and the tear remains forever.”

For me, and for thousands of others, no rabbi commanded greater respect and awe than mori v’rabi, my teacher and my Rabbi, moreinu v’rabeinu – our Teacher and our Rabbi -- Alfred Gottschalk, and his death leaves us bereft and forlorn. His life was a remarkable one, and his accomplishments legendary.

As has been said, this man – chased cruelly as a child from Nazi Germany – took refuge with his mother on these shores and through the inspiration and guidance of his congregational rabbi and Rabbi Stephen S. Wise came to enroll in the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. Upon his ordination by Rabbi Nelson Glueck in Cincinnati in 1957, Dr. Gottschalk was assigned by Dr. Glueck to move to Los Angeles where he became the Dean of the still-fledgling Los Angeles campus of HUC-JIR. Charged by Dr. Glueck to make this campus grow, the Los Angeles school flourished and ultimately moved from its small campus in the hills of Los Angeles on Appian Way to the campus of the University of Southern California. There Dr. Gottschalk received his doctorate in Religion for a work on Ahad Haam, the great cultural Zionist. This man was to remain a focal point of intellectual interest and spiritual guidance for him all his life, and he managed to continue his researches in this area even as he maintained an active administrative and public career as the architect of HUC and as a leader of the Jewish people.

Under his guidance, HUC-LA forged an unparalleled relationship with USC and provided Judaic Studies for the students of that secular university and today more than 650 students every year study in the courses provided by the faculty of the College-Institute. In addition, a course of rabbinical study was initiated there while he was Dean, and the Rhea Hirsch School of Education and the School of Jewish Communal Service were created to provide educational and communal leadership for both the Reform Movement and in accord with his vision of commitment to Klal Yisrael for the larger Jewish world.

These accomplishments led to his appointment as President of HUC-JIR upon the passing of his mentor Rabbi Nelson Glueck, and it was here in Cincinnati, where he moved after his years as Dean of the Los Angeles school, that the greatest deeds of his life unfolded. As President of HUC-JIR, Rabbi Gottschalk, over not inconsiderable protest, ordained the first woman – Sally Priesand – as rabbi among the Jewish people and it was here during his Administration that the Graduate School, in which he took such pride, thrived as a center of advanced academic study for Jewish and Christian students alike. Dr. Gottschalk was a builder, and the scope of his vision, caused him to work with men such as his colleague Rabbi Paul Steinberg and Board Chair Jules Bachman to move the New York campus from its building on West 68th Street in Manhattan to our current quarters on West 4th Street adjacent to NYU. And his breadth of concern and commitment caused him to turn his gaze to his beloved Jerusalem, where, building upon the work of his teacher and predecessor Nelson Glueck and with the partnership of Chairmen of the Board such as Richard Scheuer and Stanley Gold, Dr. Gottschalk dramatically expanded the buildings and programs of our Israel campus. It was he who ordained the first Israeli Reform Rabbi on Israeli soil in 1980, and in 1991, 19 years after he had ordained Rabbi Priesand here on this bimah in the spot where I stand at this moment, that Dr. Gottschalk ordained the first woman as a rabbi on Israeli soil as well.

These facts about his Presidency at HUC, a presidency that lasted a quarter century, do not even begin to describe the influence he exerted and the devotion he commanded from the more than 1000 men and women he ordained as rabbi while looking at each of us with his piercing blue eyes and asking us at the moment of ordination whether we were prepared to serve God and the Jewish people, and the thousands of others he taught and guided through the programs provided by this school on its four campuses during those years. His reach and influence were legion, and he was the friend and confidant of countless political and religious leaders of all faiths and persuasions both here in Cincinnati and throughout the world. As a member of the United States Holocaust Commission and as President of the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York City, a post he assumed while serving as Chancellor of the College-Institute after his retirement as President of HUC-JIR, he affected the lives of thousands of individuals.

I could go on in this vein for hours, and I could still never exhaust the public record and accomplishments that were those of my teacher, our teacher. His is a life that will be worthy of articles, dissertations, and books. However, in reflecting upon Dr. Gottschalk and his life on this occasion, I would attempt to speak for a few moments about the man and what those qualities were that marked his career of public leadership. As I walked into his office last week in New York, and gazed upon the numerous pictures that were on his walls, I could not help but observe that among the pictures that hung there – pictures of Dr. Gottschalk with Cardinals and Popes, pictures of him with Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton – that the most prominent pictures of public figures that adorned his study were those of the founders and Prime Ministers of the State of Israel, as well as pictures of those men whom he most admired, Ahad Haam and Martin Buber. These pictures bespeak his values and his deepest commitments – commitments to humanity, the Jewish people, the State of Israel, the life of the mind and the depth of the human spirit.

What events prompted these commitments, the fierce devotion he possessed to these values – commitments and devotions that led him to be our leader, our teacher, our mentor, our guide? In my mind, there are two stories I would now relate that provide a key to our understanding and appreciation, our own devotion and attachment to this man. Both tales relate to his childhood in Nazi Germany.

One is a story I heard him relate twenty years ago in Augsburg, Germany. The occasion was a conference convened on German soil by our revered teacher Jacob Petuchowski and several German Protestant and Catholic theologians on the theme of “Versohnung – Atonement and Reconciliation.” The papers delivered at that conference by more than a dozen scholars were learned and erudite, as befits such occasions. However, it was the culminating speech that Dr. Gottschalk delivered at the end of the conference that remains blazed in my mind forever. It revealed a side of him, a burning essence to his being that I had never before observed. After a speaker just a moment before had taken the opportunity to offer a savage and uncalled for critique of the State of Israel, Dr. Gottschalk arose. Speaking in German, he began by saying that he felt that he perhaps he needed to apologize to the audience. After all, he was a Professor of Bible and Jewish Intellectual History, the President of the oldest and most venerable rabbinical seminary in North America. He said that his German should be sophisticated and fluent. And yet, he spoke a German, he said, that was more appropriate to a child, a German that you would have heard from a nine year old boy. He then paused, and dramatically declared that he would not apologize, and he told all of us in the audience, in a voice deep with emotion, a voice marked by the pent up sadness, humiliation, and fury of fifty years, of the day when he, as a nine year old boy, was sitting in his elementary school classroom and a Nazi policeman entered the room and declared, “All Jewish children – raus!” And he then repeated that word three times, each time in ascending volume – “RAUS!!”, “Raus!!!,” “RAUS!!!!” The room became silent, for Dr. Gottschalk had stated these words in a way that I can only describe as a primal scream. Hearing my teacher filled with such emotion and pain left me feeling shaken to the very core of my being. At the same time, it filled me with respect and understanding, and I knew that so much of his life’s work on behalf of the Jewish people and humanity was motivated and had its source in this incident. This speech and the unbridled pain he displayed frightened me. It also evoked love and admiration.

The other story I would relate is one that I know is familiar to many, because he told it to each of us whom he ordained as rabbi each year as a class on the day before our ordination. It has been reported in newspapers often these past two days, but it bears repetition at this moment because this story provides the primary trope for understanding the shape and direction of his life. In November of 1938, immediately after Krystallnacht, the night of broken glass, Nazi hoodlums looted and destroyed Jewish buildings, stores, and synagogues for two nights and days throughout Germany. Dr. Gottschalk was then a young boy nine years of age. He told us how these Nazi thugs destroyed and ripped apart the precious scrolls of Torah that rested in the ark of his local synagogue and tossed them into the river. And he told us how in the morning, on the night after this obscene destruction, he along with his grandfather fished the wet and torn parchments of these holy scrolls from the river and how he was told by his grandfather that it was his obligation to preserve and protect those pieces of parchments and sew them back together. Indeed, this story provides the metaphor for comprehending his life. It was the narrative that would provide the framework for his being, for his would ever after be a career of repair and preservation for the Jewish people and humanity.

We have all been blessed to have had known Alfred Gottschalk. It is an honor bestowed upon us that we have the privilege to remember him here and to say farewell to his physical presence.

In II Samuel, Chapter 1, we read that when David learned of the death of Saul and Jonathan, he said, “Your glory, O Israel, lies dead on your heights. How the mighty have fallen. They were swifter than eagles, stronger than lions.” And when, two chapters later, David learned of the death of Abner, he proclaimed to his soldiers and all of Israel, “You well know that a prince, a great man in Israel, has died this day.”

All of us know that Alfred Gottschalk was “swifter than an eagle, stronger than a lion” in life. He was a prince in Israel. Our hearts are torn, and they will remain so. We will not see his like again anytime soon. And yet we give thanks even at this moment of pain for the legacy that is his and for the privilege we had to know him.

Tzaddikim b’mitatam hayyim heim – the righteous even in death live on in their words and deeds. Y’hi zichro baruch – may the memory of my teacher Rabbi Alfred Gottschalk continue to shine out beyond the grave and bless us all.

The Art of Inventory

Typically, when my boss asks me to inventory a section of the library, I carefully wait until I'm out of sight before I sigh and roll eyes. But when she asked me to work on the art shelves; to pick up each and every book to compare it to the shelf list card, I did a happy dance instead.

What a treat! I joyfully reacquainted myself with many old friends: Agam, Raphael Soyer, Marc Chagall, Judy Chicago, and Arthur Szyk. I also found some new treasures.

I fell in love with the work of Miriam Schapiro and Linda Spaner Dayan Frimer. They both use the vivid saturated colors that I love. Schapiro has been very active in the feminist art movement. Her works incorporate techniques of quilting, weaving, collage, and humor. She explores the themes of life as a woman, an artist, and a Jew.

Similarly, many of Frimer's painting have a collage feel. In her book In honour of our Grandmothers, she compares her immigrant grandmother's experience of building a new life as a displayed person with that of a Native Canadian who had been expelled from her home.

Another great 'find' for me was Samuel Bak. He paints richly detailed surrealistic landscapes.

The library has a new page on our website on our art collection.
Check out our page and browse the stacks. Just wait a couple of weeks before you look for Schapiro or Frimer - I'm hoarding them!

Blessing of the Sun

Birkat ha-hammah (Blessing of the Sun)

On the morning of April 8 (Nisan 14) Jews will gather around the world to observe something which happens only once every twenty eight years. Just as it is customary to mark the new moon with blessings, so it has been customary to mark the return of the sun to the place in its cycle Jewish tradition says it occupied during the week of creation. According to the rabbis of the Talmud (Berakhot 59b), every twenty eight years this happens “on the evening of Tuesday, going into Wednesday”. Tractate Berakhot instructs that the blessing appropriate to be recited on the anniversary of this event is: Barukh oseh Vereshit, or in English: Blessed is the One who (continually) creates.

Since Talmudical times this simple blessing has grown into a more complex liturgical order. The earliest printed order of blessing for Birkat ha-hammah of which I am aware comes to us from the Sephardic world. It was published in Leghorn (Livorno), Italy, in a prayerbook entitled, “Tefilah zakah”, compiled by Rabbi Abraham Isaac Castello (Castilho), in 1789. That order was reprinted in 1841 as a separate booklet entitled, “Boker Yizrakh” by R. David Meldola of the Sephardic community in London.

All of this is of special interest to the Library of the Hebrew Union College because among the manuscripts (ms.) held in our rare book collections, we are privileged to possess an attractive hand colored illustrated pamphlet that offers an order of blessing for “Birkat ha-hammah” as it was, according to the ms., observed in the time of R. Hayyim Yosef David Azulai (1724-1806) in the city of Leghorn, Italy (Ms. 795). As Azulai’s name is followed by the acronym z.ts.ve-k.l. (May the memory of the righteous and the holy be for a blessing), we may infer that the unnamed scribe wrote his manuscript only after Azulai’s death in 1806. The text of the ms. is written in two different Hebrew hands. The first part which begins with the information just noted not surprisingly offers essentially the same ritual as that published in the Castello prayer book of 1789. The second adds the text of the Birkat ha-levanah (Blessing of the (new) moon). The manuscript also includes material related to the Akedah (attempted sacrifice of Isaac), and to Hanukkah.

The staff of the Hebrew Union College Library is proud to present photos of the manuscript.

Daniel J. Rettberg, Ph.D.
Rare Book and Manuscript Bibliographer
Klau Library

For more information on the customs of Birkat ha-hammah and on the history of its liturgy and its publication, please note:

• Bleich, J. David; overviews by Rabbi Nosson Scherman. Bircas hachammah: Blessing of the Sun – Renewal of Creation … Brooklyn, New York: Mesorah Publications, 1980.


• Sefer Tefilah zakah … lishboah be-hodshe ha-shanah ve-shalosh regalim … ule-minhage k.k. Livorno … Poh Livorno … shenat 549 [1788 or 1789], Leaves 217b-218a.