Shai Secunda and Yaakov Elman, “Judaism,” in Yuhan Vevaina and Michael Stausberg, eds., The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to the Study of Zoroastrianism (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2015), 423-435

ChAPTEr 26 Judaism Yaakov Elman and Shai Secunda I n the field of comparative religion, the relationship between Zoroastrianism and Judaism has occupied a special pride of place. Largely for theological reasons, early modern Western scholars devoted much attention to Zoroastrianism. Due to a growing interest in the Orient and access to Zoroastrian primary sources in translation, 17th‐ and 18th‐century scholars attempted to locate Zoroastrianism within the sacred history of Christianity by employing various comparative approaches (Stausberg 1998a; Stroumsa 2002). Even when the initial theological impulse dissipated, the topic remained relevant as a model for studying interaction and influence between different religious communities. In recent years scholars have focused on Zoroastrian and Jewish interaction during late antiquity, when both religions passed through critical periods of spiritual ferment and intellectual development. This recent endeavor has provided new answers to old questions about why these two religions evolved in the ways that they did. Contact during later medieval and modern times was more limited and largely localized to Persian Jewry. Since the study of Zoroastrian–Jewish interaction in late antiquity is the site of the most recent and groundbreaking research, this chapter will focus on that period. Early Encounters: The Achaemenid Conquest of the Near East Israelites and adherents of Zoroastrianism in their ancient forms would have first encountered each other in the wake of Cyrus’ conquests of Judea and Mesopotamia – where the Israelites exiled from Judea had been living since the beginning of the 6th century BCE. The nature of Achaemenid religious practice and belief as well as that of their western Iranian subjects remains largely obscure, making it difficult to analyze the The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Zoroastrianism, First Edition. Edited by Michael Stausberg and Yuhan Sohrab‐Dinshaw Vevaina. © 2015 John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. Published 2015 by John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. 424 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA kind of religious encounters which occurred between Jews and Iranian peoples at this early date. But what we may surmise is that the so‐called Persian period of ancient Jewish history was an important time in the formation of Judaism. Under Persian rule, groups of Babylonian exiles returned to Jerusalem, the Second Temple was built, and bitter sectarian battles regarding central religious questions were fought and decided. Perhaps most significantly, as some scholars maintain, it was during this period that the Torah was established as the official code of religious law in Yehud – or Judah (Grabbe 1992: 94–98, 119–137). In other words, it is quite possible that early forms of Zoroastrianism did intersect with and influence these Jews in profound ways; however, the historical record provides us with no certain answers. The encounters between Achaemenid rulers and Judean leaders as described in the biblical books of Ezra and Nehemia do not tell us much about actual religious encounters. There is virtually no hint of the religious outlook of the Achaemenids in either Ezra or Nehemia, nor in the petitions to Bagoas, the Persian governor of Yehud, preserved in the Elephantine papyri – a cache of 5th‐century BCE Aramaic documents and letters from a Jewish military garrison in the upper Nile (Porton 1992). Some of the other biblical books dated to the Persian period (e.g., haggai, Zekharia, and the post‐exilic sections of Isaiah) reflect novel religious conceptions, yet there is as of yet little clear evidence of Zoroastrian influence on these works. Claims by some scholars that Israelite monotheism derived from Zoroastrianism (Lang 1983: 13–59; Choksy 2003a) are unconvincing. This does not mean that Jews were unaware of Iranian religion. Critical references to cultic fire‐rituals seem to merit mention in Isaiah 44:14–20 and 50:11, and a possible reference to the Zoroastrian barašnūm ceremony might be found in Isaiah 66:17 (Winston 1966: 187–188). Nevertheless, perhaps the only vestige of religious interaction during this period appears in Isaiah 40–48. There, the prophet addresses Cyrus as god’s “anointed one,” who will exact vengeance from the Babylonian conquerors of Judea. The prophet also launches into a lesson about the Jewish god’s cosmic powers. A couple of decades after the discovery of the Cyrus cylinder, Second Isaiah’s “Cyrus Oracle” was profitably compared with the text of the Cylinder (Kittel 1898). Over half a century later, Morton Smith (1963) suggested that both the Cylinder and Oracle were based on an attempt of Persian propagandists to convince Babylonian Marduk worshipers and Judeans of the divine sanction of Cyrus’ conquests. Smith further suggested a relationship between the language, style, and tone of this section of Isaiah and a number of strophes in the Gāthās, in particular Yasna 44. Smith’s parallels are too many to consider here, but one noteworthy verse that may have addressed Iranian dualism is Isaiah 45:7: “I form light and create darkness. I make weal and create woe – I Yahweh do all these things” (Smith 1963: 419–420, contra Weinfeld 1968: 120– 126). Given the provenance, dating, and nature of the Gāthās and Second Isaiah, an organic link between these two works is out of the question. Still, it may be possible to think of Isaiah 45 as a kind of early Jewish intersection with and reaction to Achaemenid Zoroastrianism concerning the powers of Yahweh versus Zoroastrian dualism. As we shall see, Jewish–Zoroastrian intersection regarding dualism continued into later periods as well. JUDAISM 425 Intersections with Zoroastrianism in Second Temple Times The so‐called Persian period in Jewish history concludes with Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Near East. Interestingly, many of the ancient Jewish tropes that bear the greatest correspondence to Zoroastrianism begin to appear only in writings composed during the hellenistic period. Parallels include religiously significant loanwords, borrowed motifs, and broader concepts as well. A few examples will have to suffice. Asmodaios, the name of the demon in the apocryphal Book of Tobit – a work originally composed in hebrew or Aramaic set in Iran and composed around 200 BCE – has been shown to bear a close, if complex, relationship to Zoroastrian demonology and to derive from an Iranian compound – perhaps Parthian *išm(ə)dēw (Sundermann 2008: 155–160). A common motif in Second Temple literature – the idea that treasures are stored up in heaven as reward for good deeds performed on earth – can be traced as far back as the Gāthās which describe the piling up of ritual offerings and poetic praises in the “house of Welcome / Song” (hintze 2008) – though again, as with Isaiah 45, we need not conceive of a direct relationship between the Avesta and Second Temple literature. Other notions of personal eschatology such as the personification of deeds that precede the deceased and the fate of the soul immediately after death seem to have developed in conversation with Zoroastrianism (Shaked 1998). The same claim might be made regarding a number of elements of universal eschatology, including the contours of Jewish messianism (hultgård 1979) and the belief in bodily resurrection (Shaked 1998). If we then return to our earlier question of why influence is only manifest from the hellenistic period onward, one possible answer is that in some instances, in order for one religion to so deeply affect another significant amount of time is necessary for ideas and practices to intermingle and fully “ripen.” It also is important to remember that Second Temple Judaism developed within the distinct cultural sphere of hellenistic Judaism. Some of the most striking and novel ideas of this time period bear the markings of Greek influence, and this is particularly the case regarding philosophical speculation about the nature of the soul and its eternality. James Barr (1985: 218–220) has suggested that the complex dynamics of hellenism played an intermediary role in the transmission of ancient Iranian ideas. After all, the Greeks expressed an abiding interest in all things Persian and some expressed profound respect for the Magi – which we find in late Second Temple writers like Philo and Flavius Josephus as well (Bohak 2008: 79–80, 84). There is evidence that hellenistic Jewish authors identified Ezekiel, and perhaps other Jewish prophets, with Zoroaster – ideas that were later repeated by 17th‐ and 18th‐century European scholars (Winston 1966: 183–185, 213–216). In short, there is some evidence that interaction between Jews and Iranians in Mesopotamia during the Achaemenid period, along with the intermingling of Judaism and “Persian‐inflected” Greek thought in Palestine during the hellenistic period engendered a Judaism that, as it entered late antiquity, was receptive to intercourse with Zoroastrianism precisely because it had already seen key elements of Iranian religion in centuries past. 426 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA Intersections during Late Antiquity: The Talmud and Zoroastrianism Arguably, the central canonical text in Judaism from the Middle Ages until today is actually not the hebrew Bible, but the Babylonian Talmud (Bavli), a monumental work more or less completed in Mesopotamia in the 6th century CE. Again, Jews had been living in Mesopotamia since the early 6th century BCE, yet aside from a few scattered references in the works of Flavius Josephus and in tannaitic (early rabbinic) literature, until the 3rd century CE we know very little about the Babylonian Jews. The curtain lifts in the form of rabbinic citations preserved in the Talmud, where intricate talmudic discussions reflect the existence, in early Sasanian times, of a robust community of scholars engaged in the study of the Bible and early rabbinic legal, theological, homiletical, and exegetical traditions (Gafni 2002: 225–228). The Jewish “scholastic” tradition did not emerge suddenly in Babylonia, or even with the publication of the first rabbinic compilation, the Mishnah (compiled and “published” orally in Palestine by the patriarch rabbi Judah the Prince at the beginning of the 3rd century CE). For one, the earliest major scholars cited in the Mishnah lived in the 1st century CE. More importantly, rabbinic law and its exegetical modes can be traced back at the very least to the fragments found near the Dead Sea, famously known as the Dead Sea Scrolls, which were composed by sectarians living in Qumran some time before the Common Era (Shemesh 2009). A number of scholars have noted similarities between Zoroastrianism, especially Iranian dualism, and some of the theological preoccupations of the scrolls. David Winston (1966: 200) has noted the use of the rare term el ha‐de‘ot (‘Lord Wisdom’) in one important Dead Sea text, the Community rule, and its similarity to the Zoroastrian deity, Ahura Mazdā. Shaked (1972) has drawn attention to the warring spirits of good and evil placed in man – a popular idea in Second Temple literature, which achieves a formulation in the Community rule that is reminiscent of a number of passages in the Avesta, particularly the description of the two spirits in Yasna 30. Likewise, he has written that the Community rule and other scrolls refer to an eschatological end not unlike a scheme found in late Pahlavi works like the Greater Bundahišn (GBd) that may reflect authentic Avestan material. Still, it remains to be seen whether parallels between the scrolls and Zoroastrian texts reflect actual contact or simply the embattled “Manichaean” mentality typical of sectarians (Elman 2010b). By the same token, though there are some interesting similarities to be found between Zoroastrian legal texts, such as the Vı̄dēvdād, and the legal portions of the Dead Sea Scrolls and early rabbinic literature, it is difficult to say whether these parallels betray Zoroastrian influence, internal Jewish development, or a combination of factors. Significantly, both the scrolls and early rabbinic works were produced in Palestine, making direct contact – at least during this period – unlikely. It is possible that Jewish travel between Mesopotamia and Palestine during Parthian times could have brought Zoroastrian concepts westward to Palestine, but, as before, we can only speculate. Thus, in light of the relatively small number of Iranian loanwords it is difficult to see within Palestinian sectarian and rabbinic texts a profound historical encounter between Zoroastrianism and Judaism, at least for the Parthian period. But the parallels between sectarian and rabbinic theology and halakhah (Jewish legal praxis), however they came to be, become a significant factor when Jews and Zoroastrians met in Sasanian Mesopotamia. JUDAISM 427 According to inscriptions commissioned by the powerful 3rd‐century CE Zoroastrian priest, Kerdı̄r, the Sasanian empire housed “orthodox” and “heterodox” Zoroastrians, Jews, Baptists (probably Mandaeans), Manichaeans, indigenous and Greek‐speaking Christian communities, hindus, and Buddhists. We know from the archaeological record and from references scattered across Middle Persian, Syriac, Arabic, and rabbinic literature that Sasanian Mesopotamia was on the whole religiously and ethnically mixed. True, there were areas of concentration, with Christians in the north, Mandaeans in the south, and Jewish majorities evidenced in certain Babylonian towns in the south. Zoroastrians seem to have been far more prevalent in the Iranian highlands than in Babylonia, where they formed a ruling minority. Nevertheless, there was definitely a discernible Persian presence in Jewish Mesopotamia, and some Persians even resided in overwhelmingly Jewish neighborhoods – like a certain Wahman ı̄ ristag (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 68a). Clay sealings and Syriac literary sources help identify a number of official Zoroastrian positions located throughout Babylonia, including “Jewish” areas like Babil (Bavel), hira (Nahar Panya), hōsrōi‐Šād‐Kawād / Wēh Kawād / Weh Ardaxšı̄r (Mahoza), Pērōz Šāpūr (Pum bedita), and Bei Lapat (Morony 2005: 282). Given Babylonia’s important status and the fact that the winter capital, Ctesiphon, was located on the east bank of the Tigris, Zoroastrian officials are actually to be expected in the vicinity. Evidence for Jewish settlement comes overwhelmingly from the Bavli (Oppenheimer 1983), yet further indications might also be sought from Aramaic incantation bowls written in Babylonian Jewish Aramaic of known provenance (Franco 1978–1979; Segal 2000: 45, 54–60). Jews and Zoroastrians interacted in Mesopotamia in a variety of ways, including everyday encounters in residential areas and public places such as marketplaces – including different levels of economic collaboration (Gafni 2002: 240–241). There also is some evidence of intermarriage, and conversion of non‐Jews, perhaps Zoroastrians, to Judaism. Some rabbinic figures are referred to explicitly as converts, while in other sources certain rabbis complain that their town saw no converts (Elman 2005b [2008]). Other more significant portals for exchange consisted of intellectual “venues” like the cross‐religious transmission of oral texts (Secunda 2005 [2009]) and possibly, the translation and distribution of written works. religious disputations constituted another important site (Secunda 2011, 2014: 37–63). These physical interactions would have allowed for exchanges that could have influenced the shape of the rabbis’ religious world, though this would require a means of communication, and more specifically, a common language. There were essentially two or perhaps three major languages in use in Sasanian Mesopotamia that were further subdivided into a variety of dialects. The Jewish community spoke an eastern dialect of Middle Aramaic now commonly referred to as Babylonian Jewish Aramaic (Breuer 2006). Babylonian Jewish Aramaic is essentially the language of the Bavli and many of the Aramaic incantation bowls (Juusola 1999). Presumably, Babylonian Jews would have, with moderate effort, been able to converse with non‐Jewish speakers of related Aramaic dialects, such as Mandaic used by Mandaeans and Syriac used by Eastern Christians. On the other hand, Middle Persian – the language spoken by the ruling Persians – might have represented a not insignificant linguistic hurdle for many Babylonian Jews. Aside from Pahlavi and Babylonian Jewish Aramaic simply constituting 428 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA different languages, we might also point out that Aramaic is a Semitic language, while Persian is a member of the Indo‐European family. Nevertheless, there are indications that some rabbis and Babylonian Jews were able to understand and even speak Persian, and among these were very influential authorities (Elman 2005a). In this context it is worth noting that despite the relatively low number of Persian loanwords in the Bavli (Shaked 1987b) there still is an interesting variety of Iranian elements that Babylonian Jewish Aramaic did absorb (Shaked 1987b; Ciancaglini 2008). These include not only the anticipated bureaucratic terms, or clothing and food items, but a number of prepositions, calques of Middle Persian legal and theological concepts (Elman 2004a: 43–52), syntactic structures, and the use of Middle Persian literary topoi and words that occasionally replace deeply entrenched Biblical and Middle hebrew terms like korban tamid (‘daily sacrifice’; MP pādrōz) and niddah (‘menstruation’; MP daštān). These and other phenomena demonstrate rabbinic familiarity and comfort with Middle Persian in spite of a thriving, Aramaic‐speaking population in Babylonia, and, significantly, the deep roots of (Imperial) Aramaic in the region. It is therefore hardly surprising that the Bavli contains the imprint of rabbinic reactions to some of the burning interdenominational debates that were taking place in Mesopotamia. Theodicy, the central theological issue of late antiquity, involved all religious groups. The issue of unde malum, ‘from whence evil’, in Augustine’s terms, animated nearly all theological thought in the empire, and stood at the heart of “Gnostic” religions (Christian “Gnostic” sects, Mandaism, etc.), dualistic religions such as Zoroastrianism and Manichaeism, and, in their own ways, hinduism and Buddhism. The result was a wide‐ranging discussion of the ways and means by which the righteous may suffer (Elman 1991, 1993a, 2004a). rava, a major Mahozan authority (d. 352/353 CE) took a large part in this debate, quoting, inter alia, a relatively ubiquitous Zoroastrian saying regarding the division between fate and works (PVd 5.38; DD 70 and the like): “Material things are through fate, spiritual through action. There are those who say that wife, offspring, authority and property and life are through fate, the others through action.” But he was not alone in this. In the generation before, rav Joseph of Pumbedita, despite his distance from the capital and presumably cosmopolitan life, took an active role in addressing this question, and developed his own unique doctrine of divine anger, influenced to a marked degree by Zoroastrian concepts (Elman 2006a). But even earlier authorities also addressed this issue. The sage, rav (d. 247), from the first generation of rabbis known as Amoraim, also mirrors part of that Zoroastrian theological saying as does his son‐in‐law (Elman 2004a). As noted above, Isaiah 45 may have represented an early site of Zoroastrian–Jewish intersection. Interestingly, even later in Jewish history the verse remained central in debates concerning dualism. Thus, according to Tertullian, Marcion – a 2nd‐century Christian dualist – used Isaiah 45:7 to prove that the god of the hebrew Bible was the demiurge – for it was he who created “darkness and woe.” It is possible that this claim led some, first evinced in the early 3rd‐century Palestinian rabbinic midrash (rabbinic exegetical work), Sifra, to alter the verse from “I form light and create darkness. I make weal and create woe” to “… I make weal and create everything” (Kister 2006: 549–552, our emphasis). Interestingly, later in Jewish history when the Talmud discusses this verse and its dualistic implications in the form of a blessing recited by Jews each morning JUDAISM 429 (Babylonian Talmud Berakhot 11a), it wonders why the reference to darkness was not altered in the same way that “woe” became “everything.” The response is that, in prayer, one must mention the “qualities of the day during the night and the qualities of the night during the day.” It is possible that this obligation derives from the importance of maintaining god’s connection to both light and darkness in spite of Sasanian Zoroastrianism which completely separates Ohrmazd from darkness (Y 44.5 which attributes the arrangement of light and darkness to Ahura Mazdā; Panaino 2007a). A type of anatomical dualism is the subject of a debate between a 5th‐century CE Babylonian rabbi, Amemar, and an unnamed “magus” who claims that the body can be divided into two regions. The territory or “district” above the waist is associated with Ohrmazd while from the waist down is Ahreman’s regime. Amemar responds that urination, which in the rabbinic conception simply consisted of drinking water (i.e., above the waist) and expelling it (below the waist), testifies to the unity of these allegedly separate districts (Bavli Sanhedrin 37a). There is a close parallel between this talmudic passage and the final question in the early 9th‐century debate between the Zoroastrian priest Ā durfarnbag and a Zoroastrian convert to Islam, Abāliš, recorded in a short Pahlavi treatise called Gizistag Abāliš (‘The Accursed Abāliš’). There, Ā durfarnbag justifies the importance of the Zoroastrian girdle (kustı̄g) by showing how the body is divided into two districts (kust). The presence of the bladder and excretory processes below the waist demonstrates that this is Ahrimen’s region, as does the very process of urination. The similarity between the two Aramaic and Pahlavi texts shows that, despite the intervening centuries, the basic contours of the debate about dualism between monotheists and Zoroastrians remained the same, even retaining similar vocabulary (“districts”) and emphasis (urination) (Secunda 2010). It should be pointed out that there are similarly striking examples of Babylonian rabbinic texts interacting with Zoroastrian religious works, such as a sequence of talmudic “tall tales” attributed to rabbah bar bar hanna that describe encounters with Iranian mythological creatures in virtually the same order as they appear at GBd 24, including: a frog, a giant “Kar[a]”‐Fish, and a Three‐Legged Ass, to name a few (Kiperwasser and Shapira 2008). Except for dualism, the rabbis would have made common cause with the Zoroastrian debaters. Like them, they valorized oral transmission and eschewed Gnostic views of the body and so (unlike the Aristotelian Jewish philosopher Maimonides eight centuries later) saw no scandal in the continued existence of the body after resurrection. Unlike the Christians, they agreed with Zoroastrians that the messiah had not yet come; of course, in this case, the Christians themselves had to look for a Second Coming in this unredeemed world. This comfort with Zoroastrianism would have extended to other matters as well. Again, they both agreed on matters of eschatology: on the existence of two future worlds, when humans would be judged both after death and at the end of the world, when death would be destroyed and the righteous dead resurrected. Even the relatively insular Pumbeditan Abaye held that the world would exist for three periods of 2,000 years each (Bavli Sanhedrin 97a), similar to the Zoroastrian belief in three periods of “mixture” of 3,000 years each. In certain respects, Jewish and Zoroastrian commonality extended to precisely those areas in which rabbinic Judaism differed from Christianity: its valorization of what we may call “nomism,” a legalistic approach to life and religious questions. The 430 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA fact that Zoroastrians were just as preoccupied with ritual laws as their rabbinic neighbors seems at the same time to have led to certain tensions in the empire. The Talmud preserves evidence of persecutions, another example of the so‐called “narcissism of small differences.” As the Talmud puts it, “[The magi] decreed against three things on account of three things. They decreed against meat because of the [ Jewish priestly] gifts, they decreed against the bathhouses because of the [requirements of ] ritual immersion. They dig up corpses because [ Jews were] rejoicing on the day(s) of their festivals” (Bavli Yevamot 63b). The logic of the list works according to the principle of talion or “measure‐for‐measure” divine punishment. But, as a matter of fact, all of these acts would have irked Zoroastrian ritual beliefs: Jewish slaughter forbids strangulation and instead draws blood which is then covered by earth – clearly different from the Zoroastrian technique of strangulation which avoids the spilling of blood on the ground. Jewish women immerse in a ritual bath without having first purified themselves with gōmēz – a Zoroastrian requirement that spares the water from having to come into direct contact with the impurity of a woman who recently menstruated. Finally, Jewish corpses, like Christian corpses, are buried in the ground, which from a Zoroastrian perspective would disturb Spəṇta Ā rmaiti (‘Life‐ giving humility’), the Aməṣ̌a Spəṇta associated with the earth. Other passages elaborate on the challenges posed by Zoroastrian priests who, following the dictates of the Vı̄dēvdād, went around exhuming corpses (herman 2010), while the celebration of the Jewish festival of hanukah was made difficult since Zoroastrian priests sometimes had the habit of confiscating fires maintained by non‐Zoroastrians (Kalmin 2006: 132–138). Nevertheless, Kerdı̄r’s 3rd‐century CE boast notwithstanding, the Jews were treated rather well in the Sasanian Empire – certainly when compared with Christians from the mid‐4th century and Jewish co‐religionists living in roman Palestine (Brody 1990). Apart from possible tensions regarding Jewish immersions, similarities between Jewish and Zoroastrian menstrual laws created a fascinating dynamic. For one, both religions forbade intercourse with menstruants. In the Jewish case, that meant all forms of intimacy were out of the question. Ideally, Zoroastrian law requires menstruants to remain sequestered in a daštānistān, or place of menstruation, though this may have been observed primarily in breach (Elman 2006b: 166–167). The proximity between the two systems seems to have caused discomfort among some rabbis. As a kind of counterattack, the 5th‐century CE rabbi, rav Ashi, endeavored to derive the Persian word for menstruation from the Bible (Secunda 2008: 29–32). Elsewhere, a talmudic storyteller imagined Šāpūr II’s (r. 309–379 CE) mother sending samples of vaginal discharges to the 4th‐century sage, rava for typical rabbinic analysis. There is evidence that the reluctance of later rabbis to engage in these examinations was influenced by Zoroastrian refusal to differentiate between genital discharges (Secunda 2009). It is also possible that the development in the Jewish law of seven “clean days” – that is, a required waiting period following the cessation of menstrual flow – took its cue from the Vı̄dēvdād’s single “clean day” and constituted a form of one‐upmanship (Elman 2004a: 34; Secunda 2008: 153–218). On the other hand, it is noteworthy that the rabbis made clear their opposition to completely isolating menstruants from their husbands, even recording a debate between a rabbi named rav Kahana and a “heretic” who espoused a JUDAISM 431 Zoroastrian view on the topic (Secunda 2009). Other important areas of Zoroastrian ritual almost certainly interacted with Judaism. These include the wāǰ (herman 2012) and various stances and articles employed during prayer (Elman 2004a: 34; herman forthcoming). Beyond these kinds of intersections, it is most significant that surviving Pahlavi literature shows that rabbinic Jews and Zoroastrian priests shared a common universe of discourse. It should be acknowledged from the outset that our sources are chronologically asymmetric. That is, the Bavli was more or less closed by the year 530 CE, before the coming of the Black Plague to the Middle East (Elman 2003a), while the Pahlavi compilations that demonstrate this common universe of discourse – the Hērbedestān, Nērangestān, Pahlavi Vı̄dēvdād, the recently “rediscovered” Zand ı̄ Fragard ı̄ Juddēwdād (ZFJ), Mādayān ı̄ Hazār Dādestān, the Pahlavi Rivāyat accompanying the Dādestān ı̄ Dēnı̄g, and Šāyest‐nē‐šāyest – were mostly edited somewhat later, sometimes much later in the early Islamic era (see Andrés-Toledo, “Primary Sources: Avestan and Pahlavi,” this volume). Still, cultural change is usually glacial, at least in terms of approach and outlook, and certainly in the area of law and ritual. Perhaps, more importantly, numerous striking similarities definitely exist, regardless of their cause. This begins in theology, as we saw above. When a dead person is judged, his or her sins and good deeds (MP wināh = hebr. averah; MP kirbag = hebr. mitzvah respectively) are weighed against each other, and the dead person’s destination is determined by the sum. It should occasion no surprise that both religions were occupied with weighing and defining levels and boundaries of sin. It should also occasion no surprise that the real ̌ 1, or some of the Jewish parallels in weighing and creation of subtle gradations, as in Snš Gaonic times (from the 7th to the 10th centuries CE) and Maimonides (1135–1204 CE), were medieval developments. Still, their roots are definitely to be located in late antiquity. The resemblance between rabbinic and Zoroastrian discourses goes much further, but to understand it, we must first examine one of the great theological principles shared by the two religions in regard to their vision of sacred scripture. Some thirty years ago, James Kugel (1981: 103–104) noted a fundamental principle of the rabbinic approach to scripture, which he named “omnisignificance,” that is, the idea that scripture, and in particular the Pentateuch, was formulated in an exceedingly exact manner and for very specific purposes, so that there was not an excess verse, phrase, or even letter that did not hold, at least theoretically, either moral, theological, or legalistic lessons for the attentive exegete – and the rabbis were certainly attentive. In a series of studies beginning in 1993, Elman (1993b, 2003b, 2004b) applied this insight and traced the history of the use of omnisignificant biblical interpretation in rabbinic thought throughout the centuries. Ten years later, he pointed out that the same approach to the Avesta could be discerned in Zoroastrian texts (Elman 2006b). Subsequent work by Vevaina and Secunda in their respective dissertations demonstrated this in great detail, both in legal (halakhic) and non‐legal (aggadic) texts (Vevaina 2007; Secunda 2008; see also Vevaina 2012). Vd 6.1–6.9 will serve as an example of the often‐overlooked Sasanian Zoroastrian “midrashic” (exegetical) approach. This section outlines the proper procedure regarding agricultural work on a field in which dogs or men have died. In Vd 6.1–2, Ohrmazd himself specifies that the field may not be plowed nor irrigated during the first season, and 432 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA doing either carries a penalty of a tanāpuhl (a degree of mortal sin) penalty. Verses 3–5 provide the Avesta’s usual harsh penalty for transgression of these prohibitions, that is, if one plows or irrigates, one is liable to 200 blows with a horsewhip or a bastinado for each. But then verse 6 adds another agricultural labor: digging out, along with the plowing. here, instead of a penalty clause, Ohrmazd proffers advice on how to proceed lawfully, that is, by searching the earth for any remains of the dead body. No answer is provided for the question of what penalty accrues to someone who digs out the earth without proper searching. Moreover, when the penalty clause does appear in verse 9, it provides the same 200 strokes as for plowing and irrigating. Why not more, if there is another action, that of digging? Why not a total of 600 strokes of the horsewhip or bastinado? Furthermore, what is the rule when one performs other agricultural work on that field in the specified time? The Zand (i.e., the Middle Persian translation cum commentary) on PVd 6.5 provides an answer: If it is dug and plowed, it is a tanāpuhl sin; when one lets the water run over it, it is a tanāpuhl sin; and if they do all three, it is two tanāpuhl sins. If a tree grows over it and it is dug and plowed, it should not be covered and one should not tread over it. If one covers or treads over it, no sin is committed. Note, only those actions for which Ohrmazd levies a tanāpuhl sin are considered liable to 200 strokes. If one digs, no additional penalty is levied, though one may presume that digging, unlike covering or treading, is sinful because it is mentioned along with plowing in Vd 6.6, while the digger incurs no additional penalty. But when one covers or treads on it, “no sin is committed” – because Ohrmazd does not mention these agricultural labors at all! It is clear that one incurs a sin only for a scriptural prohibition for which a penalty is specified, just as we find in rabbinic literature, where explicitly Biblical (de‐orataita) and derivatively rabbinic (derabbanan) principles are differentiated along similar lines. The similarities between Sasanian Zoroastrian and rabbinic approaches to scripture show up in related issues. Thus, in ZFJ (folio 587), the three schools of Mēdyōmāh, Abarg, and Pēšag‐Sar differ over whether the purification rite for a woman whose flow has ceased must be carried out exactly as prescribed in the Avesta, or whether a more pliant approach to scripture can form the basis of the ritual. The question of the status of the plain meaning of scripture (known in Jewish literature as peshat), as opposed to its “midrashic,” non‐plain sense, continues to agitate rabbinic thought to this day. This brings us to perhaps the most potentially fruitful area of research, which remains a desideratum: a detailed comparison of the rabbinic and Zoroastrian systems of purities. The two systems operate with similar basic concepts: human corpses (hebr. tum’at met), dead animals (hebr. tum’at nevelah, both nasā in MP parlance), and a menstruating woman (hebr. niddah, MP zan ı̄ daštān). Since the basic biological processes that both systems must deal with are identical, though their construction of impurity may be different, the resulting systems will be sufficiently close to warrant extended comparative work. This is particularly important because the Zoroastrian system, while described in the same allusive and elusive, elliptical language of the rabbinic texts, lacks JUDAISM 433 the medieval commentarial and comprehensive works available for rabbinic halakhah; nevertheless, a start has been made (Secunda 2008). Both systems struggled with the problem of defining the onset and limiting the extent to which impurity may be said to exist. Impurity held much weightier consequences for the Zoroastrians, since impurity was a weapon of the Evil One. Thus, Zoroastrian authorities rejected extensions of impurity in directions that rabbinic authorities allow. This may have been supported by Ohrmazd’s rejection of ascribing sinfulness to inadvertence, as when a bird deposits dead matter that had already been eaten or digested, vomited out, or defecated, and then deposited on a tree that was being used for firewood, for if these corpses, namely, dog‐borne, bird‐borne, wolf‐borne, wind‐borne, and fly‐borne, were to make a man guilty, right away my entire material existence … every soul would be shuddering (in anger and fear), every body would be forfeit, by the large amount of these corpses which lie dead upon this earth. (Vd 5.4) While many rules are common to both systems, the concept of retrospective impurity (hebr. tum’ah lemafre’a), that is the notion that the discovery of some impurity renders objects impure back in time, is rejected in regard to the impurity caused by dead matter, but not that caused by menstruation (PVd 16.2). On the other hand, other important rabbinic rules or concepts relating to ritual impurity do have parallels in Middle Persian sources. The list includes: 1) rabbinic aposhei tum’ah la mapshinan, or “we do not expand the range of impurity” (Bavli Bezah 7a; Šnš 2.72); 2) rabbinic sefeq tum’ah bi‐rshut ha‐yahid / rabbim, or the question of doubtful impurity in private versus public spaces (Pesahim 19b et al.; Šnš 2:74); 3) tum’ah be‐hibburin, impurity conveyed through touching one of three objects that are in contact with one another (PVd 5.27–28). The Babylonian Talmud has three extended discussions on this matter (Haggigah 24a; Nazir 42a; Avodah Zarah 37b), in particular in regard to the question of how far this principle extends. It is worth noting that here too the Palestinian Talmud, composed beyond the Sasanian Empire, does not take up the issue. On the Zoroastrian side, PVd 5.33 and Šnš 2.59 provide us with the terms hamreh and padreh, which Tavadia (1930) rendered as “directly infected” and “indirectly infected.” recent research has revealed the conceptual gap between the Pahlavi Vı̄dēvdād and ZFJ; where the Pahlavi Vı̄dēvdād conceives the transmission of pollution as a linear, two‐ dimensional process, ZFJ 667.14–15 considers that volume of the house in which a dog or man has died as polluted, and not just the walls. This may be related to the theological view regarding the irruption of the Evil One into Ohrmazd’s space (Choksy, personal communication). The question of whether the earth, or, for that matter, house walls which are in contact with the earth, can be polluted is also of importance, inasmuch as the rabbis denied that house walls can be polluted by a corpse or carcass inside the house, though the walls could be polluted by the various molds known in Leviticus 14 as tzara‘at. In this respect, Vered Noam’s recent observation is illuminating for our understanding of Zoroastrian concepts of pollution. She writes of the fundamental and ancient legal distinction between the natural world, which is not susceptible to defilement, and the creations of human civilization, which are subject to impurity (Noam 434 YAAKOV ELMAN AND SHAI SECUNDA 2009: 4 n. 11). Seen in this context, the differing views of the two religions on the pollution of water, earth, fire, and sky are eminently understandable, since pollution is a creation of Ahreman, and thus we see that Ohrmazd’s creation is susceptible to pollution. Thus, despite their similarities in many matters, the Zoroastrian view of nature differs radically from the Jewish one. Likewise, Israelite and Jewish values to some extent reflect Semitic values, as in Judaism’s valorization of the necessity for a central temple while Zoroastrianism attaches no such spiritual significance to the existence of such a temple (Elman 2010b). After the Conquest: Medieval Intersections between Jews and Zoroastrians With the Arab conquest of Mesopotamia in the 7th century, Zoroastrianism was soon displaced from its status as a “state” religion of the ruling classes. The rabbinic literature of the Gaonic period in Jewish history (7th to the 11th century) reflects this. Zoroastrianism comes up only infrequently in Gaonic legal responsa. In one responsum, Islamic wine is forbidden even though Muslims did not practice libations to the gods since “many Zoroastrians who lived at that time [i.e., 760 CE] and converted to Islam … their heart was not free of Zoroastrianism, that they make libations of wine” (Brody 1999: 180–181). Some of the Gaonic material demonstrates familiarity with Zoroastrian practices while other sources betray striking ignorance – perhaps evidence of Zoroastrianism’s declining place in the landscape of Jewish Babylonia in the early Middle Ages (Brody 1999: 182–186). Zoroastrianism still piqued the interest of some Gaonim, like the great 10th‐century theological and Bible scholar Sa‘adya Gaon who discussed “next‐of‐kin” marriages (Brody 1999: 179 fn. 2) and the Iranian dualism at the root of Isaiah 45.7 (Kister 2006: 550 fn. 2), but, for the most part, encounters between Jews and non‐Jews in post‐Sasanian Mesopotamia meant Islamic–Jewish interactions. Still, there were polemics. The apologetic Middle Persian work, Škand‐gumānı̄g Wizār, was composed during the 10th century and devoted two detailed chapters to Judaism (Thrope 2012). It is possible that the author of the work, Mardānfarrox ı ̄ Ohmazddād, had some access to the hebrew Bible and Jewish interpretive traditions (Shapira 2001). Even if the material stemmed from the Sasanian era, it is significant that Judaism remained a target of Zoroastrian polemics in Škand‐gumānı̄g Wizār and in the Dēnkard as well (Shaked 1990). Significantly, Mardānfarrox’s philosophical approach is reminiscent of some of Sa‘adya Gaon’s works, as Samuel Thrope’s recent (currently unpublished) research indicates. Indeed, Sa‘adya is the most well‐known critic of the Karaite, or anti‐rabbanite scriptural movement, that sprang up in 9th‐ century Iran. Steven Wasserstrom (1995: 148) has argued that one early critic of rabbanism, the 9th‐ century Khorasanian scholar hiwi Balki, brought Jews, Muslims, and Zoroastrians into interreligious debate. Towards the end of the Gaonic period, a large portion of the Jewish Diaspora emigrated from Iran and Iraq to North Africa, Western Europe, and beyond. At this point, Jewish intersections with Zoroastrianism, to the extent that they can be demonstrated, JUDAISM 435 remained largely the heritage of the distinct Persian Jewish community, which again was at some variance with the rabbinic communities that grew up across the Diaspora (see Choksy 2010 on this period). It still could be argued that by incorporating the Iranian epic tradition (Moreen 1996), Persian Jewry’s greatest cultural monument – Judeo‐Persian poetry – bears the indirect imprint of Zoroastrian tradition. Conclusion Jews and Zoroastrians first encountered each other in the 6th century BCE. Interaction during subsequent centuries set the stage for a deep and protracted engagement during late antiquity. The universe of discourse shared by Sasanian Jews and Zoroastrians, and the give and take of theological, ritual, and legal exchanges during the so‐called Talmudic Period impacted the contours and content of the Babylonian Talmud – the textual nerve center of Judaism from the Middle Ages until today. Despite great advances, research of Jewish–Zoroastrian interaction in late antique Mesopotamia remains a topic worthy of further exploration. The coming years promise exciting and significant findings. Further Reading In general the reader is referred to relevant entries in the Encyclopædia Iranica (www. iranicaonline.org) and Encyclopaedia Judaica and Choksy (2007a). For early intersections, readers should consult Winston (1966) and the relevant bibliographic essays in Grabbe (1992). For the hellenistic and roman periods, see Shaked (1984). For late antiquity, see Elman (2007) and Secunda (2014). For more recent times (not covered in this chapter), see Choksy (2013). The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Zoroastrianism Edited by Michael Stausberg and Yuhan Sohrab‐Dinshaw Vevaina with the assistance of Anna Tessmann