Abracadabra: When is magic not that magical?

 

In researching the attitude of any ancient people to “magic” it is hard to escape the preconception caused by the modern usage of the term.  “Magical thinking” – as opposed to scientific thinking – is one that does not pay sufficiently close attention to the links between cause and effect; and posits that certain words, emotions or rituals (contrary to the evidence) have an impact that clear-minded thing would not impute to them, on the basis of ‘supernatural’ causes.  In other words, our sense of ‘magic’ is bound up with concepts of rationality; and the clear demarcation of different contemporary practices between the rational and irrational. In times past, there was less differentiation in the sense that even those most normalised ritual practice, is bound up with spiritual teleology; and where even the most esoteric practice would be conceptually anchored in the beliefs of the community. 

Does the fact that the Ziz (featuring G-d’s name and worn by the High Priest) was considered to have ‘powers’ make it ‘magic’?  Whilst the attribution of powers to headwear may be considered without rational basis today, it is institutional behaviour carried out regardless of its underlying motivation. If the link between magic and ritual is unclear, it may seem less clear between magic and science and technology.  Practices designed to engineer an outcome (e.g. curing malaria, ‘fevers and chills’) through the use of ‘tools’, especially when weakly connected to specific theological elements, skirt the boundary.    For example, the child’s linen T-Shirt discovered by Yigal Yadin in the Cave of Letters – which had pouches for shells, salt crystals and seed - may seem more magical as it has no “Jewish connection” as such, and is designed only to alter nature to bring about an effect.  However, the ‘magical’ (in the pejorative sense) nature of this can only be judged by the ‘known’ properties of the age, and not current standards.

It is no surprise then that Philo can claim both that Mosaic legislation is designed to remove the reciters of incantations from the polity; and yet be admiring of the Magi who have the ‘oriental wisdom’ to manipulate nature.  Or equally, how Josephus can forbid the Israelites from owning pharmakons (including poisons) and rail against the goetes (sorcerers/charlatans); and nonetheless support exorcisms.  One may be tempted to ask “What is their view on magic?” and expect a consistent answer on epistemological grounds.  However, magic may not necessarily be the optimal lens to ask these questions

One alternative lens could be to look at certain activities through the prism of ‘folk’ versus ‘elite’ practices; and the layers of influence between them.  The lack of extant writings on so-called magic practices (e.g. magical recipe books for the creation of incantations) may indicate that these matters were not of scholarly interest and not the subject for professional vocation.  This is not then to deny the presence of such conceptions amongst the populace; or its disapproval (within bounds) of the elite.  Certain practices (the cutting of roots and use of plants) may be considered to have its origin (as in Jubilees) in demonic forces, but the mere use of plants by the common man is not enough to qualify in this manner.

This dovetails into another approach to viewing these practices, which is through the prism of “deviance”.  In 4QSongs of the Sages the maskil recites sectarian hymns to ‘frighten’ the demons and spirits, and to protect the Sons of Light from deviancy from the rules of the community.  If, the signs of malignancy are breaking the rules; and its cure is engagement is participation (including in the rituals the maskil performs ex officio) then the ‘magic’ of the hymns is secondary to the deviance it prevents.  Similarly, any ‘magic’ that encourages healing without adverse theological harm, but doesn’t touch upon the norms of the community, would be free from censure.  The danger point is where ritual and beliefs co-incide in a way that is (at least) tangential or independent of the main communal  priorities; and that if (mis)used could cause deviance from those communal boundaries.

The presence of magic could then be explored through the sociological functions of the actions, rather than theoretical basis that underlie them     

Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: What difference does mysticism make anyway?

The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifices has been cited as a key document situating mysticism (or quasi-mystical practice) within the communities associated with the Qumran literature; and in doing so, attempting to establish an earlier date for this tradition compared to prior views, such as those espoused by Scholem.  There are thirteen liturgical compositions to be recited on successive sabbaths, whose communal chanting is considered by some to have a “numinous” quality that allow a communal alignment with the angelic realm.  It contains a continuous meditation on “seven” (e.g. seven blessings, seven rejoicing, seven places, seven wonderous words) as a key for using the propitious quality of the sabbath to seek union (yachad) with the angels.  This union, along with a vision of the “upper most heaven, all its beams and walls, all its form, the work of its structure” allows us to join with their knowledge, and praise of G-d.  Just as “the chariots of His inner shrine give praise together, and their cherubim and their ophanim bless wondrously” – so may the community achieve a liturgical communion with G-d. 

In many respects this work and the traditions surrounding it are – to quote Newsom “belong to the same complex stream of religious tradition” as the Mystic traditions that were to come later, albeit with discontinuities also.  For example, the common praise with the angels is reminiscent with the Kedusha where the angelic praise from Isaiah and Ezekiel are recited in communal prayer; albeit that the text describes the praise of the angels rather than quotes their words.  The descriptions of the celestial tablet and the chariots are themes further explored in the Merkava and Heikhalot mysticism, but where the latter support a rabbinic viewpoint whereas the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice are priestly in nature.  The recitation of the hymns may create a religious experience, but not one deliberately described as being an incubatory practice for an ecstatic or disassociative experience.

The continuities and discontinuities between the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice and later mystical practice are subject to a large degree of consensus, yet with very divergent conclusions regarding its place in the history of mysticism.  For Alexander, “the evidence that has accumulated for the existence of mysticism in the Qumran community is now substantial and compelling”.  Whereas, for Newsom “In the narrow sense there is no evidence of mystical praxis in the communities represented by the literature of the dead sea scrolls”.  There is less a disagreement around evidence, than in definition or threshold for counting something as mystic. 

What then is the dividing line between having common themes or precursors to mysticism and being itself being a mystical practice?  After all, common liturgy alone does not a mystic make:  mystic and non-mystic alike will recite the Kedusha in synagogue if they are a practicing Jew.  Nor do the specifics of any common theory do so, such as the desirability of union with angels to understand their knowledge (the purposes of G-d and ones part in them).  After all, Maimonides – the arch rationalist – argues that one should have union with the Active Intellect (the highest of all angels) to understand the actions of G-d and how the world is governed. 

Both Alexander and Newsom would agree (albeit expressed slightly differently) that mysticism require religious experience, a desire for union or communion with a transcendent presence and a Via Mystica  - a method or set of practices for achieving that state.  Both would agree that the practice of reciting these Sabbath songs creates a religious experience and aesthetic that helps the worshipper appreciate the heavenly cult.  Yet the lack of deliberate aforethought that the practice should induce an ecstatic state is the sticking point that means it doesn’t count as mysticism.  But as one may say in rabbinic parlance “mai nafka mina?” – does anything hinge on this?

Often ‘mysticism’ would be used to express an opposition or contrast to something else.  As Alexander points out “mysticism, for Scholem, emerged as a kind of protest against the rigidities imposed by halakhic Judaism”.  Or alternatively:

•  Mysticism is opposed to rationalism with regard to a source of knowledge
• The esoteric mysteries of a mystic; as opposed to the exoteric meaning accessible to all
• Individual disciplines and techniques; as opposed to communal ritual ones
• A movement from the physical to a spiritual realm; as opposed to a descent (or integration) of the spiritual to the physical world  

·        Etc

In the case of these texts, it is unclear what substantively is at stake, or what would be different (or falsifiable) were they to be mystic or not.  There is agreement that the texts are modelled on the priestly and temple tradition.  Knowledge is mediated via the “knowledge among the priests of the inner sanctum.  And from their mouths come teachings concerning all matters of holiness together with precepts”.  It is the case that the temple (with an architecture mirroring the celestial one) that is the locus of G-d within the physical realm; and that transformed man remains embodied.  It is clear that this practice is (regardless of its presumed aesthetic) is communal, exoteric and ritualised. 

Thus while the lack of it being an “ecstatic” practice seems a slender basis for Newsom to deny the term, it doesn’t seem much is gained by it either.  It doesn’t seem to provide a relevant contrast to other practices of the time that would move it from being in the same chain of traditions as later mysticism, to being one that independently deserves the title itself.