Once, Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria and Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Tarfon reclined [for the seder] in Benei Brak. And they told of the exodus from Egypt all that night; until their students came in and said, “Teachers – the time for saying the Shema of the morning has come.” (Haggada)
The story of the five sages in Benei Brak who spent the night discussing the Exodus, and only stopped when their disciples came to tell them that it was morning, has long intrigued commentators and scholars. What were they talking about?
One suggestion, made by the late Cecil Roth among others, has attracted considerable interest, namely that they were discussing the Bar Kokhba rebellion against the Romans. Benei Brak was the home of Rabbi Akiva, who was known to be a supporter of Bar Kokhba, and who eventually went to a martyr’s death in the course of the revolt.
It is a fascinating suggestion, but there is no evidence for it. There is no intimation in the text that this was the subject of their conversation. Nor was it likely that the sages would have turned their attention from the religious duty of the night – telling the story of the going out from Egypt – to discuss contemporary politics.
The Bar Kokhba rebellion was a tragic error. It led to one of the greatest-ever devastations of Jewish life. The Roman historian Dio estimates that 580,000 Jews died in the fighting, “and countless numbers by starvation, fire, and the sword.” Some 985 towns were destroyed and the countryside was laid waste. Jerusalem was razed to the ground and rebuilt as Aelia Capitolina, a Roman city, which Jews were forbidden to enter. The many sages who opposed Rabbi Akiva were, on this occasion, right. Their views are recorded in the Talmud. Had this been the subject of their conversation, the passage would have given us some indication of the fact. My conclusion is that Roth was wrong.
There was a drama in Benei Brak that night, but it was a different kind of drama, with an altogether happier outcome. We can reconstruct, with some degree of certainty, what happened. But first we need to engage in a journey of discovery to understand the background of that evening and what was at stake.
The first thing to note is the halakhic significance of the episode. We have just said in the Haggada, “Even were we all wise, all intelligent, all aged and all knowledgeable in the Torah, still the command would be upon us to tell of the coming out of Egypt; and the more one tells of the coming out of Egypt, the more admirable it is.” Three points are being made here. (1) The duty of reciting the Haggada is not only to teach it to children; we must also teach it to ourselves. (2) We must recount it each year even though we already know the story. (3) The command has no fixed limit. Unlike, for example, the story of Purim, which we recount by reading the Megilla, in the case of Pesaḥ the duty of recounting the Exodus is not confined to reciting the text. The more deeply we enter into it, reflecting, expounding, adding new insights, the more we are worthy of praise.
How do we know these things, especially the last? In many cases the rabbis brought a proof from a biblical verse. But in some, they brought a proof from precedent, from the actions of the sages. The technical phrase for such a proof is ma’aseh rav, “the force of precedent is great.” A sage may, for example, advance a halakhic opinion speculatively (halakha velo lema’aseh). This is how the law appears to him. Nonetheless he may not always be willing to act – or instruct others to act – on the basis of this opinion until it has been tested against and approved by his contemporaries. When a sage acts in a certain way, this is a far stronger demonstration of the law. It shows that not merely does he believe the law to be thus; he is prepared to put it into practice. Thus, ma’aseh rav – “an act is a strong proof of the law” when it is an act performed by an acknowledged halakhic authority.
The opening word of the passage about the sages in Benei Brak, Ma’aseh, “Once,” is therefore no mere introduction. It is a statement that the event to be related has halakhic force. It tells us what the law is. The fact that five of the greatest sages of the Mishna stayed up all night telling the story of the Exodus is a proof of all three rules in the previous paragraph. We now know what is at stake in the episode. Whether or not this was their conscious intent, the sages of Benei Brak were establishing an important set of laws that apply to us, especially the duty to tell the story “at great length.”
Secondly, we note that there is no other version of this gathering in the rabbinic literature. There is, however, a parallel passage, full of interest and dating from approximately (possibly, as we shall see, exactly) the same time. It appears in an appendix to the Mishna, known as the Tosefta (Pesaḥim 10:12). Reading it, we see several significant differences between it and the account in the Haggada:
Once, Rabban Gamliel and the elders were reclining in the house of Boethus ben Zonin at Lod, and they were occupied in studying the laws of Pesaḥ all that night, until the cock crowed. They lifted the table, made themselves ready, and went to the house of study [to pray].
The differences are these: (1) This seder takes place in Lod, not Benei Brak. (2) Rabban Gamliel is present here, but not in Benei Brak. (3) None of the sages in Benei Brak are mentioned here. (4) The subject of their conversation was not “the coming out of Egypt” but “the laws of Pesaḥ.” Each of these details will turn out to be significant.
There is one further passage we must note. It will prove to be the key that unlocks the entire mystery. It has to do with seating plans, and belongs to hilkhot derekh eretz, the rules of etiquette:
The exilarch [lay head of Babylonian Jewry] said to Rav Sheshet: “Although you are venerable rabbis, yet the Persians are better versed than you in the etiquette of a meal. When there are two couches, the senior guest takes his place first and then the junior one above him. When there are three couches, the senior occupies the middle one, the next in rank takes the place above him, and the third one below him.”…Rav Sheshet said: “I know only a baraita [supplementary teaching] in which it is taught: What is the order of reclining? When there are two couches, the senior reclines first, and then the junior takes his place below him. When there are three, the senior takes his place first, the second next above him, and then the third below him.” (Berakhot 46b)
The subject at issue is the seating arrangement when there are several guests, and when all are reclined in the ancient manner on couches or chaises longues, with individual tables in front of each. That is a form of seating still known in the Orient, and we recall it on Pesaḥ when we recline to drink the wine and for other parts of the service. The question is: how are the guests arranged? The answer, common to both Persian and rabbinic practice, is that the senior person present sits in the center. This fact leads us to a crucial observation about the episode in Benei Brak.
The order of the names tells us the seating arrangement that night. It reveals the surprising fact that, though he was neither the eldest nor the most learned of those present, the senior guest that night, sitting in the center, was Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria. The next senior, sitting directly above him, was Rabbi Yehoshua. Below him was Rabbi Akiva. We can now date the episode precisely. It belongs to the period – a brief one – when Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria was nasi, religious head of the Jewish community. The placement of the sages is exactly what we would expect at that time and no other. Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria has the seat of honor by virtue of his official position. Next to him is Rabbi Yehoshua, his deputy. On his other side is Rabbi Akiva, the host. Benei Brak was Rabbi Akiva’s town, where he was the local chief rabbi (mara de’atra). Flanking them were Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Tarfon, two elder statesmen of the halakhic community (Rabbi Tarfon was Rabbi Akiva’s first teacher), neither of them, however, holding office within the community. Not only can we now date the episode, but we can set it in historical context.
For almost a century the Jewish community in Israel had been in a state of disarray. There were profound religious divisions. Josephus tells us that the nation was divided into three groups: the worldly and powerful Sadducees, the religious and popular Pharisees, and the sectarians known as the Essenes, among whom were the Qumran community known to us through the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Pharisees themselves were divided. Under Roman rule the Great Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish court, had been disbanded. This left the religious community without an ultimate authority. The sages, split between the disciples of Hillel and Shammai, taught in separate “schools.” Tradition records the sense of people at that time that “the Torah was becoming two Torahs.” The overwhelming impression conveyed by the documentary evidence of the time is that the Jewish community was hopelessly factionalized.
It could not have happened at a worse time. Relations with Rome, the ruling power, were bad. A series of inept governors had offended Jewish sensibilities. There were sporadic protests and revolts. These culminated in the fateful “Great Rebellion” of 66 ce. If it were to succeed, Jews would need to summon all their powers in an agreed and concerted effort. Rome was the world power of the day. Its armies were highly trained and disciplined. In retrospect the rebellion was fated to fail. Jews had immense fighting spirit. What they lacked in weapons they more than made up for in morale and determination. But what doomed the enterprise was internal disagreement. Josephus, an eyewitness of the key events, draws a vivid picture of life within the besieged capital of Jerusalem. At times Jews were more intent on fighting one another than the Romans outside the walls. Looking back on the tragedy the Talmud says, “Jerusalem was destroyed only because of sin’at ḥinam, the internal conflict between Jews” (Yoma 9b). It was an immense and epoch-making defeat. The Temple went up in flames, the second time it had been destroyed. The rebellion was suppressed, with those manning the last outpost – at Masada – committing suicide rather than being taken captive alive. Outwardly Jews had been defeated by the Romans. Inwardly they knew they had defeated themselves. A thousand years later, in a letter written to the sages of Marseilles, Maimonides put it simply. The Jews of the time had not learned the lessons of government and military command. They had not learned how to maintain unity.
It is against this background that a key figure emerges, Rabban Gamliel the second. Tradition tells us that Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai, in secret negotiations with the Roman general Vespasian, secured a concession. “Grant me,” he said, “Yavneh and its sages” (Gittin 56b). The town of Yavneh was the site of an important rabbinical academy. Yoḥanan ben Zakkai now turned it into a kind of surrogate capital in place of the ruined Jerusalem. But Jews needed more than a place. They needed a leader. What Yoḥanan did, in effect, was to restore and even strengthen the role of nasi. With the breakdown of political structures, the nasi could now emerge as more than a scholar and judge. He became the representative of the people in its relations with Rome. As Ḥatam Sofer noted in one of his responsa, the nasi became a kind of king in an age when Jews lacked any other recognized lay authority. Rabban Yoḥanan never held this title himself. The man who did so at Yavneh was Rabban Gamliel. His deputy was Rabbi Yehoshua.
The Talmud records three occasions on which they disagreed. Each became a cause célèbre. On one occasion Rabbi Yehoshua and Rabban Gamliel gave conflicting rulings on a firstborn animal whose lip became blemished (Bekhorot 36a). Not content to override his deputy, Rabban Gamliel made him stand in disgrace in the presence of the scholarly assembly. The other sages protested – not against Rabban Gamliel’s ruling but rather against the high-handed manner in which he enforced it.
A second occurred when Rabban Gamliel fixed the New Moon on the basis of eyewitness testimony that other sages regarded as suspect (Mishna Rosh HaShana 2:9). Rabbi Yehoshua took the side of the doubters. Rabban Gamliel then ordered him to appear before him on the day that, according to Rabbi Yehoshua’s calculation, was Yom Kippur, carrying his staff and money belt. This was a brutal humiliation. On this occasion, however, Rabbi Yehoshua’s colleagues advised him to submit to the nasi. The fixing of the calendar depended on the authority of the court, and if Rabbi Yehoshua called Rabban Gamliel’s ruling into question, the whole judicial system might collapse. Rabbi Yehoshua complied, but the episode added to the sense of unease.
Finally a question arose as to the halakhic status of the daily evening prayer. Was it obligatory or optional? Rabbi Yehoshua held that it was optional. Rabban Gamliel ruled that it was obligatory. Rabbi Yehoshua was prepared to withdraw his opinion, but once again Rabban Gamliel ordered him to remain standing while the house of study was in session, as a gesture of submission to the nasi. This last provocation proved too great. The assembled scholars voted to remove Rabban Gamliel from office. In his place they appointed Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria. Eventually Rabban Gamliel acknowledged his defeat, apologized to Rabbi Yehoshua, and was restored to office, though Rabbi Elazar remained, at least nominally, his junior partner. It was during this brief period of Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria’s leadership that the seder in Benei Brak took place. We now understand why he was seated at the center and why Rabban Gamliel was absent. It may even be that the seder of Rabban Gamliel, at the house of Boethus in Lod, took place at the same time. This would explain why none of the other leading sages was there. Rabban Gamliel was temporarily in disgrace. The other scholars had gone elsewhere, to the home of Rabbi Akiva, the supreme Torah sage of the time.
Inevitably, Rabban Gamliel earned the reputation of being a high-handed and excessively authoritarian leader. To a degree, though, this is unjust. His task, as nasi at Yavneh, was to reunite a religious leadership traumatized by the divisions of the past. “There can be only one leader in a generation,” said the sages, “not two” (Sanhedrin 8b). If the rabbis were to emerge as the guiding force of a Jewry devastated by defeat and the loss of the Temple, they had to speak with a single voice. The ruthlessness with which Rabban Gamliel suppressed dissent has less to do with his character than with the need of the hour. In the end, though, the rabbis decided as a collective body that this would not do. Rabbinic leadership must be based on collegiality and mutual respect, and a willingness to give an honorable audience to conflicting views. Until Rabban Gamliel was ready to accede to these principles, he was unfit to lead.
This is the background to the drama that was about to unfold in Benei Brak. The atmosphere was fraught. Seeking unity, the sages had found themselves having to take the unprecedented step of deposing their own head. Huge responsibility now lay on Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria and his colleagues to heal the wounds and restore amicable relations. Unfortunately, at this very moment, a major controversy was in the making – and it was almost certain to come to a head on the seder night itself.
Until when may one tell the story of the going out of Egypt? It depends on the answer to another question. Until when, in Temple times, could you eat the Paschal lamb? The Torah states, “And you shall tell your child on that day, ‘Because of this the Lord acted for me when I went out of Egypt’” (Ex. 13:8). The word “this” implies that one is pointing at something while telling the story. From this, the rabbis inferred that one may recount the story of the Exodus only “when matza and bitter herbs [and in Temple times, the Paschal lamb] are there [on the table] before you.” So the two times are linked. While the food is there, one may and should recount. Once it has been eaten, the time for telling the story is over. What is the final deadline?
On this the sages disagreed – precisely those sages present in Benei Brak. About the eating of the Paschal lamb, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria and Rabbi Eliezer ruled that it must be done by midnight. Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yehoshua held that it could be done until dawn (Berakhot 9a). Elsewhere (Mekhilta, Bo; Tosefta Pesaḥim 10:11) it is clear that what applies to eating applies to telling. Rabbi Eliezer, who holds that the eating must be done by midnight, also holds that one may discourse only until midnight. Other sages, who held that the eating could be done until dawn, also maintained that one may and should talk about Pesaḥ “all that night.”
This, then, was the situation in Benei Brak. The rabbis, needing above all a period of peace and unity, were about to collide. Four of the five sages present that night held opposing views on how long they could continue their discussion. Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria and Rabbi Eliezer held that it had to cease at midnight. Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yehoshua were of the view that they should carry on through the night until dawn. The question was bound to arise and generate disagreement. Moreover, it set the newly appointed nasi against both his deputy, Rabbi Yehoshua, and his host, Rabbi Akiva. It was just the kind of conflict they had hoped to avoid, but it was unavoidable. Or was it?
The Talmud records a fascinating confrontation some years before. Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai had, as we saw, transferred the center of Jewish power from the Temple in Jerusalem to the academy in Yavneh. To what extent could Yavneh become a second Jerusalem? The question arose the first year after the destruction of the Second Temple that Rosh HaShana fell on Shabbat. In the Temple the shofar was blown on Shabbat, but nowhere else. Could the shofar now be blown on Shabbat in Yavneh? Rabban Yoḥanan said yes. A more traditionalist group, known as the Benei Betera, said no. Yavneh was not Jerusalem; the academy was not the Temple. The following dialogue then ensued:
Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai said to them, “Let us blow.” They replied, “Let us discuss.” He said, “Let us blow first and then discuss.” [They agreed.] After the shofar had been blown, they said, “Now let us discuss.” He replied, “The shofar has already been heard at Yavneh, and after the act has already been done, there is nothing to discuss!” (Rosh HaShana 29b)
It was a brilliant coup. Rabban Yoḥanan won the argument by creating a fait accompli. That is precisely what now happened in Benei Brak. Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yehoshua engaged the others in conversation and debate so enthralling that they lost all sense of time.
Unlike Rabban Gamliel in Lod, who spent the evening discussing “the laws of Pesaḥ,” this was the one subject they were determined to avoid. Any discussion about law would have led them directly to the question of the time limit of the seder, and thus to potentially explosive disagreement. Instead they spoke about “the coming out from Egypt” – Aggada, not halakha; the narrative rather than the law. Their aim was to make Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria and Rabbi Eliezer forget the time. Not only would they thereby avoid any conflict, they would also establish the law itself, that “the more one tells…the more admirable it is” – without any limit on time. The fact that the five leading sages of the generation continued their discussions until dawn would create a binding precedent under the rule of ma’aseh rav, that “an act is proof of the law.”
It worked brilliantly. So engrossed were Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Eliezer that they failed to notice when their deadline of midnight passed. They were still talking when the disciples arrived to tell them, “Teachers – the time for saying the Shema of the morning has come.” Dawn was approaching. The evening had passed without the question of time limits arising, and Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yehoshua had succeeded in establishing the law according to their reading of it. Tradition is silent on what the other two sages said when they finally realized the fait accompli so skillfully achieved against them. My guess is that they acknowledged defeat graciously. It would not have taken them long to realize not only what had been done, but also why. Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yehoshua were not interested in personal victory. They cared about the integrity of the Jewish people and its spiritual leadership. They knew the rabbis could not afford yet another dispute of the kind that had split the schools of Hillel and Shammai and in their own time led to the removal of Rabban Gamliel from office. It was a victory not only for truth but also for peace, and it was a necessary one at that time and place.
Who knows whether that Pesaḥ, isolated from his colleagues, Rabban Gamliel himself might not have reconsidered his position and come to the decision that he must make amends with Rabbi Yehoshua and his other erstwhile colleagues? At any rate he did so soon afterward, and was restored to office. The fraught moment passed, and friendships were remade. The sages became the acknowledged leaders of the Jewish people, a role they held for many centuries thereafter. It might have been otherwise. That is the significance of the seder night in Benei Brak, and of the healing power of conversation about the going out from Egypt.