Medieval Approaches to the Personage of Azazel

Aharei Mot opens with an enticing narrative surrounding the mysterious deaths of Aaron's sons. After some cautionary remarks from God regarding the desecration of the Holy of Holies by those without knowledge on how to properly enter, Scripture segues into laying out the entire somber service of the Day of Atonement. Soon God recounts the ever-intriguing commandment involving two goats, one designated as a sacrifice to God, and the other to an unknown entity, transliterated literally as Azazel. The goat designated for Azazel was divined utilizing an oft invoked biblical variant of cleromancy, colloquially known as the casting of lots. It is not before long that this 'scapegoat' (as he has come to be known by in contemporary parlance) is on his way to an unknown, and enigmatic, fate. 

Opinions from the medieval Jewish commentators vary greatly on who or what Azazel is. Several medieval commentaries shall be examined in the course of this analysis, but the four basic ones are those of French sage Rashi, his grandson the Rashbam, the Spanish poet-physician Ibn Ezra, and the also Spanish physician and mystic Nahmanides. Following the presentation of these opinions, another often overlooked medieval commentary, the Zohar, shall be examined in light of the Nahmanidean view. A comparison shall then be drawn between these medieval mystical views and those contained within pre-Exilic apocryphal works authored by sectarians in the Second Temple period. 

We shall begin with Rashi's understanding of the word Azazel. Quoting the Talmud (1), Rashi elucidates Azazel as the name of the mountain where the aforementioned goat was pushed off of to complete the atonement ritual. Linguistically, Azazel is described as a compound of two words. "Az", meaning strong, and "El", which in context can be liberally rendered as mighty. By explaining Azazel in this fashion, Rashi avoids all potential theological problems with these verses. His grandson, however, takes a much different approach.

As is generally known, the Rashbam's approach to a literal understanding of Scripture is just that, strictly literal. Even when the Rabbinic tradition as contained in the Talmud is shown to be in conflict with his understanding of the verses, he does not budge. To the Rashbam, a literal reading of Scripture was distinct from any Rabbinic interpretation. His approach to the scapegoat is no different, indeed, he explains the ritual in a completely novel fashion. The goat which was designated to Azazel is not killed as per the Rabbinic tradition, rather, he is set free into the wilderness to graze with other wild goats. (2) Astonishingly, he attempts to prove this understanding linguistically by suggesting the final letter in Azazel, a lamed, is superfluous! Thusly, the word Azazel somehow becomes an amalgamation of another Hebrew word for goats, "Izim" and the word "Arbel" (also with the superfluous lamed), to become a phrase loosely translated as "place of the goats". Needless to say, this convoluted explanation has astounded Jewish commentators for the centuries that followed, including the Ibn Ezra, whose own explanation is no less perplexing. 

The Ibn Ezra begins his lengthy comment on the scapegoat ritual by claiming that the practice of divining the chosen goat by lots is a received tradition from our forefathers.(3) What motivates him to do this is unknown, but perhaps it has something to do with the magical nature of the act, which he feels needs some justification. He then proceeds to segue from the aforementioned Talmudic explanation of Azazel as a rugged mountain into a full fledged recollection of the ritual, culminating in the climactic pushing of the goat off the cliff to its death. Following this, his commentary takes a surprising turn into the realm of the inexplicable. Ibn Ezra now refers to this ritual by the Hebrew word for secret, "sod", and clandestinely tells his reader that by understanding the true nature of the ritual, so too will you understand the esoteric meaning behind the name Azazel. He agrees to reveal only a small fragment of the arcane matter by way of a hint: "When you are thirty three years old, you shall know it." For a commentator as traditionally opposed to the approach of the Ibn Ezra as Nahmanides was, he wastes no time before expounding on his cryptic comment.

Citing traditional support in Pirkei d'Rabbi Eliezer (4), Nahmanides likens the personage of Azazel to a figure named Samael, an angelic accuser of sorts. He goes on to explain that in Egypt, the Israelites became accustomed to the worship of foreign gods, which included the worship of fallen angels. In desolate areas of the world, like deserts, the fallen angel Azazel has dominion. Although the Torah forbids the worship of deities other than the one God, He Himself commanded that we send this scapegoat to Azazel, in order to show the accusatory figure the strength of Israel's repentance from past sins. Furthermore, Nahmanides makes it clear that the scapegoat is not an offering to Azazel, and that Azazel is no less a servant of God than any other entity on Earth. Returning to the Ibn Ezra's hint, he explains it as referring to the thirty-third verse following the first mention of Azazel in Scripture. This verse, Leviticus 17:7, states: "They shall no longer slaughter their offerings to the sa'irim (demons)". Indeed, Nahmanides understands a ritual where Israel sends a goat to the lord of demons as a divine polemic against idolatry. Although outwardly paradoxical, the delivery of a goat carrying all of the sins of Israel to its death at the knees of the 'lord of the goat demons' sends a powerful message about the power of repentance in the face of evil. 

Nahmanides was not the only medieval mystical commentary to address the personage of Azazel. The Zohar, a medieval work of mystical exegesis, explains thusly, "With this gift of the goat to Azazel, he [Azazel] is then converted to be their [Israel's] guardian."(5) The Zohar seems to go even further than Nahmanides and likens the delivery of a goat to Azazel to giving a dog a bone to preoccupy him while his master is busy. Later on in the Zohar's commentary on Aharei Mot, the discussion turns to the origin of earthbound demons. The Zohar explains that Adam, the first man, copulated with female spirits that inexplicably roamed the Earth.(6) The offspring of these encounters were the first demons who blighted the Earth. Likewise, the Zohar writes that the serpent copulated with Eve to produce Cain. Fascinatingly, the Zohar explicitly names the demon responsible for this atrocity. It is none other than the angel Samael, the same figure that Nahmanides identities with Azazel! The Zohar continues, "After the demons were born to Adam, he had daughters from these spirits who were similar in beauty to those on high and those below. Therefore it is written, "The 'sons of Elohim' saw that the daughters of men were fair" (7) and strayed after them. 

Amazingly, a parallel narrative is recorded in the Book of Enoch. This pseudepigraphical 2nd-century BCE work, of which Aramaic fragments have been found in Qumran, is of uncertain authorship. (8) However, the parallels between it and the Zohar are so astonishing that it is very difficult to imagine that the Kabbalistic tradition was not at least partially influenced by it. In the Enoch narrative, the sons of Elohim are identified as angels, who in their lust for human flesh, copulate with the daughters of men. Among them, Azazel is identified by name, and is condemned by the archangels in heaven for teaching men the art of war and corrupting them. In retribution, God orders the angel Raphael to "bind Azazel by hand and foot and cast him into the darkness." Furthermore, "rugged and sharp rocks" (a possible parallel to Hazal's etymology of the word) are thrown on top of him, and he is condemned to an eternal life in the desert and all desolate, dark places.  

The varying views in Jewish tradition regarding this mysterious figure are both exhilarating and unnerving. Exhilarating in their endless diversity and enigmatic impact, and unnerving in their irrationality and archaic tinge. In the end, we may never know what Scripture actually meant to say. All we can know for certain is that if history has taught us anything, new generations can have meaningful insights on these ancient subjects too. Just as the Rashbam was not afraid or embarrassed to argue with his grandfather Rashi, so too our Torah scholars must not be afraid to break the mold and enlighten the current generation on even the most perplexing biblical narratives.

(1) תלמוד בבלי יומא סז
(2) רשב"ם ויקרא טז דיבור המתחיל וכפר בעדו
(3) אבן אזרא ויקרא טז דיבור המתחיל גורלות
(4) רמב"ן ויקרא טז דיבור המתחיל וגורל אחד לעזאזל
(5) ספר הזוהר אחרי מות כב
(6) ספר הזוהר אחרי מות נט
(7) ספר הזוהר אחרי מות ס
(8) ספר החנוך י:א-ז

The Religious Personality

What makes you religious? 

Are you religious when you believe in God? 

Does keeping Shabbat make you religious? 

Or is it refraining from eating lobster out of fear of cosmic retribution that makes you religious? 

I have come to the conclusion that no performable action, or even any singular theological belief, can make one religious. Religiosity is an emotional state which defines ones personality. Religiosity may lead to adopting an observant lifestyle, especially within a Jewish context, but it is not a prerequisite. Human beings are full of both internal and external contradictions. These contradictions are what define us. I am who I am today because of them.

Indeed, there is a growing consciousness among some in the Modern Orthodox community that embrace the disconnect between religiosity and observance as a positive thing. For these Orthoprax Jews, not being religious does not hinder them for being a part of the Orthodox community and from observing the minutiae of Halakhah. Of course, that is just an extreme case of what I am talking about. However, I am willing to wager that many of us know people who are only observant because of either how they were raised, or because they're just used to it by now. It's not genuine religiosity that motivates their actions, it's simply habitual. Unfortunately, this is a more widespread phenomenon than we would like to admit. But this is not what I wish to discuss now.

If one could brainstorm a personality that represents the antithesis of the religious personality, what would it be? The scientific personality, perhaps? The relationship between the religious and scientific personalities is exactly what I would like to analyze.

First, let us define our terminology. For my intents and purposes, I shall define a religious personality as one whom, in the face of the absence of empirical evidence for the existence of anything metaphysical or beyond our Universe, assumes as axiomatic that our existence is a grand mystery. The religious personality is never existentially satisfied by empirical knowledge, no matter how intriguing or correct our observations may be, because strictly empirical statements do not bring us any closer to understanding the why of our being. 

The scientific personality, on the other hand, is widely perceived as the exact opposite. For him, only empirical statements are meaningful. The philosophical embodiment of this approach to epistemology was championed by the grand British empiricist David Hume. However, as I shall endeavor to explain, I believe that the proper perspective is a bit more complicated. 

Before I continue, I invite you to join me in a thought experiment. First sit still and ponder your surroundings. Then, imagine your senses beginning to fail. First, your eyesight goes. Everything is black now. Then, your hearing goes, and now it's dark and silent. Next, you lose the ability to feel anything and everything at all. You have no way of knowing where you are in space, or anything about your surroundings. We presume to know so much about our own existence, but the denial of our senses takes everything away from us. Reality as we know it ceases to be meaningful in a context without sensory input. We are creatures of experience. 

This is the brilliant realization that the empiricists came to. This is why science is said to be methodologically empirical. Without question, solidly grounded empirical statements about the Universe constitute the most true knowledge a human being can ever have hope of learning. But philosophers have realized that our reliance on our experience for empirical science is also a double edged sword. 

Imagine now a gigantic concert hall with thousands of people in the arena watching the symphony play. Intuitively, we would all agree that something objective is going on in the concert hall on this evening, and that it generally relates to the playing of music. However, does this mean that my experience of this concert (which has objectively occurred, in some sense) will be equivalent to your experience of the very same concert? Indeed, we know that it won't be. The very same senses that let us garner experiential (read: empirical) knowledge of the world are the very same which communicate the sensory input subjectively interpreted by our minds. 

Philosophers of science are well aware of the subjectivity of human experience and therefore, when defining what constitutes science, factor this in. Therefore, philosophers of science, such as Karl Popper and others, understand that the central problem in defining science is determining what differentiates science from non-science. For Popper, this means the potential falsifiability of any given premise. For others, it means potential falsifiability and perhaps verifiability as well. Either way, my point is that even scientific statements, while striving to be absolutely empirical, are forced to take into account the subjectivity of the human experience. One could argue that uncertainty is the defining axiom of the human being. 

With all of this in mind, I believe we can now see the commonalities shared between the religious and scientific personalities. Both have faith in the objectivity of the Universe. The religious person is concerned with the metaphysical implications of existence (the whys) while the scientific person is concerned with the physical implications of existence (the hows). Both assume as axiomatic that the Truth is out there, but both also admit that the subjective human experience makes it impossible to know that Truth wholly. 

I believe this is exactly what Einstein meant when he wrote the following beautiful paragraph: 

"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery -- even if mixed with fear -- that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds: it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity. In this sense, and only this sense, I am a deeply religious man... I am satisfied with the mystery of life's eternity and with a knowledge, a sense, of the marvelous structure of existence -- as well as the humble attempt to understand even a tiny portion of the Reason that manifests itself in nature."

Now that's a statement of true genius.