Hukat (Haftarot)

“Jephthah the Gileadite was a Mighty Man of Valor”

Last week’s haftarah contains a verse in which Samuel lists various figures sent by God to “deliver Israel from all their oppressors”: Yerubaal, Bedan, Jephthah and Samuel (1 Sam 12:11). As we already noted last week, the verse is filled with difficulties: Yeruba’al is an uncommon variant on Gideon, an undisputed hero and model of personal humility; the identification of Bedan is problematical, the name appearing nowhere else: speculations as to his identity include Samson, Barak, and/or Deborah. But the question that puzzles us here is why Jephthah (Yiftah) was included in Samuel’s “short list” of great judges. This problem will lie in the background of our discussion of this week’s haftarah.

The story of Yiftah appears in Judges 11-12:7; our haftarah contains the first 33 verses of the former chapter only—itself an interesting choice, as we shall note later. Chapter 11 is divided into three scenes. Verses 1-11 describe Yiftah’s choice as leader: as Gilead’s illegitimate son by a “harlot woman,” his brothers had disowned him and even sent him away due to the taint of bastardy attached to him. In exile in another place (named, perhaps ironically, “the land of Tov”), he gathered around himself a group of bandits, “good-for-nothings,” and made a name for himself as a fighter. In time, the king of Ammon began to threaten Israel, specifically the settlers in the mountain country of Gilead, and his kinsmen suddenly remembered Yiftah, who had a reputation as a more capable military leader than anyone else around. Yiftah calls them to task for their hypocrisy: “you hated me and banished me; why do you come to me now when you’re in trouble?” (v. 7). They don’t really answer him, but seem to shamefacedly admit the truth of the accusation by their silence: yes, they do need him, and willingly agree to Yiftah’s condition that they make him their leader thereafter.

This little vignette is very true to human nature, pointing out in sharp relief the foolishness and hypocrisy of a pride based upon circumstances of birth. Yiftah is clearly a superior and talented individual, but under ordinary conditions, his brothers were able to reject him because he was not born to a respectable, sanctioned marital union, but was rather a living reminder of their father’s peccadillo. As soon as troubles began, and they needed his talents (was there already such a thing as a jaded, effete aristocracy in those long ago days, in the rough and tumble surroundings of the Bashan and Gilead steppe country?), they felt no shame in calling on him for assistance.

The second scene depicts Jephthah’s confrontation with the Ammonites: first in a lengthy conversation, in a last minute attempt to dissuade them from waging war (vv. 12-28); thereafter, on the battlefield (vv. 29-33). The conversation is interesting, and is strikingly reminiscent of the situation in which the modern State of Israel finds itself today with its neighbors, in part even regarding the identical territories. Ammon claims that Israel took these lands away from them at the time of the Exodus; Yiftah replies that they did no such thing. Rather, Israel approached the territories of Edom and Moab peaceably, asking leave to pass through and to purchase water and other supplies for money. This plea was rejected; thereafter, when they confronted Sihon and Og, the kings of the Amorites and of Heshbon, the latter initiated hostilities, and were soundly defeated. (All of these incidents are described in our Torah portion, in Numbers 21; hence, the choice of this passage, in which these events are recapped, as this week’s haftarah). Yiftah concludes by stating that “the Lord our God has caused us to inherit these lands”—i.e., by providing us with military victory; sarcastically suggesting to them that “Let Kemosh your god give you to inherit what he will” (23).

The implication is clear: there is something disingenuous in an aggressor invoking principles of rightful ownership after he has lost a war, having brought the problem on himself by his own hostile behavior. A colorful contemporary Hebrew expression refers to such a person as a Kozak nigzal (“a robbed Cossack”)—i.e., a person known for living by brigrandry and violence, who plays the (putative) victim when it suits him.

Yiftah’s Daughter

The final and best-known scene from this chapter occurs when Yiftah returns home. Just before the battle, Jephthah had made a vow in which he promised that, if he returns home victorious, “the first thing that comes out of my gate of to greet me… I shall give as an offering to the Lord,” doubtless imagining some domestic animal (vv. 30-31; Yairah Amit notes that there is something superfluous in this oath, as by that point he must have already felt assured of victory, as we are told in the immediately preceding verse that “the spirit of the Lord had come upon him”). When he comes home, he is greeted by his only child, a nubile daughter, who greets him “with drums and dance.” He immediately realizes his fatal foolishness: “I have opened my mouth to the Lord” (patziti pi, a phrase implying careless, ill-considered speech). What is interesting here is: first, that even a vow that unintentionally results in human sacrifice is seen as irreversible; and, second, the daughter’s total, passive acquiescence. All she asks is a respite of two months to “descend upon the mountains” (this must refer to the slopes beneath the steppe-lands where they lived) during which she will “bewail her virginity” with her girl-friends (v. 37). Later, we are told, the daughters of Israel commemorated her by keening for Yiftah’s daughter four days every year.

The difficulty with this story is, quite simply, how Yiftah could perform such a cruel and inhuman act? Was there truly no recourse of any sort by which to nullify a vow with such harsh consequences? The Midrash suggests that the halakhic institution of hatarat nedarim did in fact exist as an option, but the pride and stubbornness of both Pinhas and Jephthah, the sacred and secular leaders of the people, respectively, prevented its being carried out. On another level, this suggests the enormous awe and even dread in which an oath or vow taken in the name of God was held in that age. Perhaps this is analogous to the numinous power associated with the ark of the covenant, a major leit-motif in Judges and 1 Samuel (see my discussion in HY II: Shemini). If so, the story of Bat Yiftah may be viewed as a kind of female counterpart to the Binding of Isaac. The elements of humble submission to God, of pious acquiescence to the inexplicable Divine will, are much the same—although here the fateful event was precipitated by a foolishly worded oath, rather than by the inexplicable Divine fiat. And perhaps that makes all the difference: rather than a “Knight of Faith,” like Abraham, Yiftah comes across as a reckless fool.

But there are possible alternative lines of interpretation. The text does not explicitly state that she was sacrificed: it pointedly avoids saying “he offered her up as a burnt- offering,” saying only that she returned after two months and “he carried out his vow on her” (v. 39). Some commentators—Radak and the Metzudot—suggest that she became a kind of nun, and remained a life long virgin. The emphasis on her virginity in both vv. 37 and 39 is interesting. The point seems to be that she died (whether immediately or many years later) without realizing her destiny as a woman, as a wife and mother, and this was the essence of her tragedy (“to bewail her virginity”). This is diametrically opposed to the later celebration of virginity in Christianity.

A secondary problem: why does our haftarah omit this interesting story? It concludes with v. 33, describing Yiftah’s victory in battle—but not without mentioning his vow, leaving it as a kind of “teaser.” In general, the selection and editing of the haftarot involve many interesting problems. By whom were they formulated, and when? The Babylonian Talmud discusses the choice of haftarot for the various festivals (Megillah 30b), but there is no specific discussion there of the week-in-week-out haftarot for the regular Torah portions. There are several similar places, in which a narrative is truncated in what seems to be the middle (cf. the haftarah for Tazria). Is this a kind of self censorship of things that were considered unseemly? On the other hand, there are quite a few places where we find stray, disconnected verses added at the end of certain haftarot, at least in certain rites. Why? There are many unclear facets to the haftarah cycle; during the course of my studies of them this year, it has become increasingly clear to me that a full and thorough study of these questions is a desideratum.