The student was Barry Scott Wimpfheimer, then twenty-six, three years into the semicha program at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and holding a Wexner Graduate Fellowship. The journal was Beit Yitzchak, the Torah publication produced by RIETS, filled with pieces by the yeshiva’s rebbeim and its best students. Appearing in it marked a man as a serious learner. The editor rejected the submission and used the word kefirah. He could not say what in the article was heretical. He believed the roshei yeshiva would not accept it, and that was enough.
The article was an analysis of a passage in tractate Bava Qamma about liability for theft and damage. Wimpfheimer’s own description of the piece, given years later, is that it was not even critical. It dealt with the rishonim, the medieval commentators, the standard furniture of yeshiva study. Something about the way he handled them read as foreign.
The next editorial board asked to publish it. Wimpfheimer agreed on the condition that it appear as written. They agreed, then lost their nerve, and printed it in the spring of 2000 with the introduction removed. That volume, number 31, also carried an article by two other students, Eliyahu Stern and Meir Katz, which cited academic Talmud scholars. Roshei yeshiva denounced it from the front of the room. Rabbi Hershel Schachter said the authors had abandoned tradition and were spending the yeshiva’s money on the wrong kind of Torah. “It was a big chutzpah,” he told a student journalist a quarter century later, still unmoved. One maggid shiur compared the authors to Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron who brought a strange fire and were consumed by it.
Boxes of Beit Yitzchak were normally left on the bimah of the Glueck Beis Midrash for days, students dropping cash and taking a copy, a new box brought out when one emptied. Wimpfheimer remembers the box being out for a day. On the eve of the annual Seforim Sale, eleven boxes went missing from a freight elevator. The sales manager attributed this to facilities staff and an error. To this day the volume is hard to find in the yeshiva’s own collection. A student editor writing in 2024 had to climb to the sixth floor of Gottesman Library to read it.
Wimpfheimer’s summary of the affair is that the objection ran to reputation rather than content. Nobody read the pieces closely enough to object to a claim in them. The method carried a smell, and the smell was the argument.
A young man produces a reading of a sacred text. A community that has trained him to read decides his reading is out of bounds without being able to say why. Two questions come out of it, and he has spent twenty-five years on them. How much of a text belongs to the people who made it? How much belongs to the people who inherit it and cannot let it go?
He was born around 1972 in New York and raised in an Orthodox home he has called very proudly German-Jewish, with roots in the Washington Heights world of that community. The family sat on a line inside Orthodoxy that outsiders rarely see. Hats on Shabbat, gray ones, not black. He began formal Talmud in fifth grade. From third grade through seventh he memorized about a hundred mishnayot a year.
High school was the Marsha Stern Talmudical Academy, Yeshiva University’s boys’ school. He tested into the advanced Talmud track, which had a curious consequence. The strong students spent so many hours on Gemara that Bible dropped out of the day. He was good at this before he liked it.
What he did not like was the way the game scored. Traditional lomdus rewards a student for finding a contradiction and dissolving it with a distinction. A fourteenth-century authority gets harmonized with a nineteenth-century one, and nobody asks whether the later vocabulary could have meant anything to the earlier man. Ingenuity counted. Sequence did not. A brilliant resolution on Monday vanished when Tuesday brought a new sugya. Wimpfheimer wanted a subject that accumulated.
In 1990, at seventeen, he went to Yeshivat Sha’alvim in Israel and met a teacher named Shmuel Nacham, who showed him a Talmud with a history. Tannaitic material could be separated from amoraic. Babylonian traditions could be compared with Palestinian ones. Midrashic parallels could be laid alongside. Medieval commentators had lived in specific centuries in specific places and could be read accordingly. Nacham did not present this as a break with tradition, and at the time Wimpfheimer did not know how much it resembled what academic critics did.
He knew it worked. He has dated his real study of Talmud to that year, calling it “pretty much nonstop from age 17.” He was in love with the thing now, and the love was intellectual rather than devotional in flavor: the pleasure of a subject where knowledge stacked.
At Columbia College he majored in mathematics and history and finished in 1995. The pairing describes the scholar he became better than any later credential. He kept up six hours of Talmud a day while doing it. Then back to Sha’alvim for a year on a fellowship, then into the RIETS program in 1996.
He went to rabbinical school on a misapprehension. “I thought rabbis were scholars,” he told an interviewer, and that scholars of Talmud were what rabbis were. Internships taught him what a pulpit actually asks of a man. Hospital visits. Funerals. Marriages that need saving and cannot be saved. He is a warm, sociable person who sings and plays basketball, and none of that made him want the job. He took the ordination anyway, in June 2000, along with an M.A. in Talmudic Studies, and left.
Columbia gave him David Weiss Halivni (1927-2022).
Halivni was an Auschwitz survivor from Sighet, a childhood acquaintance of Elie Wiesel (1928-2016), identified as a prodigy before the war and tested as an adolescent with the nodl farher, the pin test, in which a pin is driven through a volume of Talmud and the boy names the word it lands on at every depth. He had spent his life on Meqorot u-Mesorot, a critical commentary running to most of the Talmud, whose governing insight was that the anonymous editorial voice of the Gemara, the stam, had reworked the attributed traditions it received, sometimes past the point of recovery.
Wimpfheimer had read Halivni in yeshiva the way boys read forbidden books, under the table. Now he was the man’s graduate student and his technical support. Halivni typed his own commentary but never mastered email attachments.
There is a scene from those years that says what it was like. Wimpfheimer had the Bar Ilan Responsa database burned onto his hard drive and could run word searches across the entire corpus. Students would sometimes ask a question a search could answer. Halivni answered faster than the computer, and he was right almost every time. Then a student would ask something a computer could not do at all: how often does a sixth-generation Babylonian amora reject the midrashic reading of a fourth-generation one? Halivni answered that at the same speed.
Wimpfheimer also studied with Shamma Friedman, Halivni’s younger rival, whose method accounts for every word of a passage through manuscripts and language strata while Halivni went after the spots that caught his critical eye, the logical hiccups he called maculations. The two men represent the two great schools of source criticism, and Wimpfheimer took from both without becoming a partisan of either.
His committee shows what else he was collecting. Halivni for source criticism. Jeffrey Rubenstein for the literary study of rabbinic stories. Elizabeth Castelli for critical theory. Alan Segal for ancient Judaism and Christianity in comparison. Michael Stanislawski for modern Jewish history. Around the coursework he added a summer at the CUNY Latin and Greek Institute in 2002, a year as a visiting student at Hebrew University, workshops in codicology and early Hebrew printing, and a summer at Cornell’s School of Criticism and Theory in 2003. A man who wanted only to be Halivni’s successor would not have gone to Ithaca to read theory.
The dissertation, “Legal Narratives in the Babylonian Talmud,” was accepted with distinction in October 2005 and won Columbia’s Baron Prize for the best Jewish studies dissertation over a five-year span.
Narrating the Law: A Poetics of Talmudic Legal Stories came out from Penn in 2011 and went after a division that organizes the entire field.
Rabbinic literature is sorted into halakhah and aggadah. Halakhah is the legal material, the part that generates obligations. Aggadah is everything else: stories, theology, folklore, medicine, gossip about rabbis. Traditional learning privileges the first and treats the second as a rest stop. Academic study inherited the sorting even while questioning the hierarchy.
Wimpfheimer went at the passages that will not sort. A story about a legal actor doing something legal is both at once. He argued that these stories are the places where law admits what a rule suppresses: the particular man, his status, who was in the room, what everyone wanted, and the several moral languages running at the same time. Law becomes one voice among politics, ethics, psychology, and status rather than a machine converting facts into outcomes.
Two thinkers stand behind the method. Mikhail Bakhtin (1895-1975) supplied the taste for texts that talk in many voices at once and resist a single authority. Robert Cover (1943-1986), the Yale legal scholar, supplied the claim in “Nomos and Narrative” that no legal rule means anything outside the stories that give it a world. Pierre Bourdieu (1930-2002) arrives in the chapter on Torah as cultural capital, where Wimpfheimer reads intra-rabbinic envy and status competition out of a passage in Bava Batra.
The chapter titles announce the program. Resisting code as the image of Jewish law. Deconstructing halakhah and aggadah. Rabbis and outsiders. Rabbis and students. Rabbis and rabbis. Then a theory of reading the long Bavli narratives, where he separates the storyteller’s centrifugal energy from the editor’s centripetal work of smoothing everything back toward a rule.
The claim about the Talmud carries a claim about law generally. A code is a distillation. The process that makes law, applies it, and is lived under it is thick with everything a code strains out. The Talmud sometimes knows this better than the codes built out of it.
Reviews came from the people whose opinion sets a field. Steven Fraade of Yale gave it a featured review in AJS Review and called it original and valuable, then raised two objections that have not gone away. First, Wimpfheimer treats the Mishnah as a flat statutory code so that the Talmud can be the interesting anti-code, when the Mishnah has legal stories of its own and has been shown to be narrativized. He gets his contrast by monologizing one text in the act of accusing everyone else of monologizing another. Second, and harder, the social reading covers about five hundred years of anonymous editors of different periods and habits, and Fraade wondered whether a single diagnosis of rabbinic anxiety, applied that widely, flattens into a lens that stops distinguishing anything. He closed the point with a joke about the rabbis going five centuries without a good night’s sleep.
The book placed him inside the cultural turn in rabbinics. The nineteenth and twentieth-century Wissenschaft tradition asked what the sources say and when they were written. Wimpfheimer’s cohort asked what the sources do as literature and as artifacts of a society. Daniel Boyarin (b. 1946) had made critical theory usable on rabbinic texts. Rubenstein had made the literary shape of the stories a serious object. Wimpfheimer brought legal theory into the room.
Northwestern hired him as a college fellow in 2006 after a year at Penn State and a spring at Harvard, made him assistant professor in 2007 with a courtesy appointment at the Pritzker School of Law, and promoted him to associate professor in 2013. He directed the Crown Family Center for Jewish and Israel Studies from 2012 to 2016 and later chaired the religious studies department. In 2011 he was offered fellowships at NYU’s Tikvah Center and at Michigan’s Frankel Institute and declined both, staying home at Northwestern’s Kaplan Institute. He had young work to finish and a center to build.
The teaching load tells you something. Introduction to Judaism. Rabbinic narrative. Kabbalah. Antisemitism. Hebrew Bible. Reading the Talmud. Talmudic Logic. He also built a Coursera course on the Talmud that has enrolled tens of thousands of students and whose organizing purpose is not to tell people what the Talmud says. It teaches them to recognize which method they are watching when someone reads a page.
He talks constantly to communities that would never hire each other’s rabbis. The Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance in 2007. Anshe Emet and Adas Israel, Conservative congregations. Valley Beth Shalom in Los Angeles. The Schechter Institute in Jerusalem. Chicago is also home to SVARA, the queer yeshiva founded by Rabbi Benay Lappe (b. 1960), whose students learn Talmud in the original with a crowbar in hand, and Wimpfheimer has sat down with them on camera to argue about his own book. A man raised in gray hats moves through all of it without visible strain.
The Talmud: A Biography appeared from Princeton in 2018 in the Lives of Great Religious Books series, alongside volumes on the Book of Job, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Book of Mormon.
He organized it around three Talmuds.
The essential Talmud is the historical object, produced by rabbis and editors in Sasanian Babylonia between roughly the third and eighth centuries. Here the reader differentiates: this saying is early, this frame is late, this conversation was manufactured to look like a conversation.
The enhanced Talmud is what a thousand years of readers made out of that book. Rashi (1040-1105), Maimonides (1135-1204), Rabad (c. 1125-1198), the Tosafists, the codifiers, the yeshiva students. Traditional study collapses chronology on purpose so that Rava and Rashi and a living rosh yeshiva can sit in one room. What the young Wimpfheimer took for a historical error the older one takes as a legitimate object of study.
The emblematic Talmud need not be read at all to do its work. It is the Talmud as a sign of Jewishness. Jews venerate it. Christian tribunals burned it in Paris in 1240. The Karaites rejected it, the maskilim used it as the thing they were leaving, Hasidim and Zionists and reformers pushed off it to establish themselves, and then came back to reclaim it once they had. Koreans buy digests of it by the hundred thousand. Larry Charles told an interviewer that writing Seinfeld resembled writing a dark Talmud, a lot of clever minds working one small ethical question from every angle. A television writer’s throwaway line and a papal burning are the same phenomenon at different temperatures.
The cover carries the argument. It reproduces a 2010 work by the American-Israeli artist Andi Arnovitz called If Only They Had Asked Us, a tapestry running red to blue, built from thousands of small scrolls, each one a strip cut from a printed page of Talmud. The artist’s position is that the law would look different if women had helped write it. A book about how the Talmud gets used is wearing a use of the Talmud on its jacket.
Wimpfheimer’s argument about the present is that the Talmud has entered a golden old age. More people study it now than at any point in history, most of them traditionally observant, and daf yomi has turned the text into a way of marking time for people who will never produce a novel reading of anything. He was reluctant about the phrase. Nobody knows whether an old age is the last one.
The book won the National Jewish Book Award in Education and Identity for 2018. Boyarin called it the best single-volume introduction to the experience of Talmud study. Moshe Halbertal praised its double vision, inside and outside at once.
Shai Secunda dissented in the Jewish Review of Books, and his objection is worth stating because it locates the limit of the method. The book is not a biography. A biography of the Talmud would cover Sasanian Babylonia in its own right, the manuscripts, the printers, the censors, the pilpul traditions, the Sephardi schools, the effect of the text on Jewish societies and languages across the world. Wimpfheimer gives readings of exemplary passages and an account of how meaning gets made around them. He is strongest where a reader meets a page. He is weakest where the book is an object with a supply chain. Secunda also caught a chronological error about the last generations of named amoraim.
The critique lands because it names the same limit twice. Both books read intensely and locally, then generalize. That is the trade the method makes.
Two other pieces of the record deserve mention.
In 2018 Wimpfheimer reviewed Aaron Hughes’s biography of Jacob Neusner (1932-2016) in Religious Studies Review and judged that Neusner deserves a biography but that this one sat too close to its subject, letting the man dictate the terms of his own story even where those terms strained belief. A scholar who has spent his career on the distance between what a text meant and what its readers made of it will notice when a biographer takes dictation.
And in 2023 he published “The Mishnah’s Reader” in the Jewish Quarterly Review, arguing that the Mishnah’s literary features, its couplets and symmetries, train a reader toward conceptual meaning. Four years earlier the same piece sat on his CV under a different title, “The Postmodern Mishnah: The Role of the Reader and the Instability of Meaning,” listed as under consideration. The published version drops the word postmodern and drops instability. Something happened in review, and the argument came out sounding less like theory and more like philology. In 2024 he contributed an essay to a festschrift on Raphael Nathan Natta Rabbinovicz (1835-1888), the great collator of Talmudic variants, called “Biography as Battleground,” which reads the fights over a scholar’s life story as fights over the legitimacy of a method.
Northwestern still lists him as associate professor. He has held that rank since 2013. Two books, a major prize, a directorship, a department chairmanship, co-editorship of Prooftexts since 2017, and no third book yet. Public sources do not explain the gap and it would be dishonest to invent one. The pattern is common enough in the humanities that it barely registers inside the profession and looks strange from outside it: the work that makes a scholar’s reputation with general readers and the work that moves him up a ladder are not the same work.
The problem Wimpfheimer works on is not a Jewish problem. Every tradition with a sacred text eventually produces someone who can read it two ways and has to decide what to do about that. Protestant Germany produced higher criticism and spent a century absorbing the damage. Quranic studies is having the argument now, with more at stake for the people having it. The Catholic Church made its peace with historical criticism of the Gospels slowly and at a cost. In each case the same three things are true. The text has a history its own readers cannot see from inside. The community’s use of the text is a real thing that criticism does not touch. And the people who can hold both at once are rare, distrusted from both directions, and useful.
What Wimpfheimer added is the refusal to rank them. The historical critic asks what a passage meant when it was made. The traditional learner asks what it means inside a conversation running a thousand years. The reception historian asks what it means to people who have never opened it. Three questions, three answers, all of them findable. The error is mixing them and then fighting about which answer is the true one. That is what the editor in 1999 could not articulate, and it is what Wimpfheimer has been articulating ever since.
The last scene belongs to Halivni.
Around 2019, after his teacher’s stroke, Wimpfheimer visited him at home. Halivni did not know who he was. He could not manage speech and may not have recognized his family. Wimpfheimer talked for both of them for a while, then mentioned his new book, and offered to share something he had noticed in the sugya on liability for fire damage, the passage that opens The Talmud: A Biography, the one about a dog who carries a burning cake onto a neighbor’s grain.
Halivni’s face changed. He stuttered, then produced the page citation. His eyes came on. He was following, and he had things to say, and he could not say them.
Wimpfheimer left knowing that the Talmud sat deeper in the man than his own name did, “as if the Talmud lived in his body.” He tried it again on a visit in November 2021. Nothing came back. Halivni died in Jerusalem on June 28, 2022.
A biography of a book is a strange genre and Wimpfheimer’s critics were right that he did not quite write one. What he has written instead, across two books and twenty-five years, is an account of what happens to people who give their lives to a text. It gets into them. It outlives the part of them that can talk about it. And when they are gone, what remains is the text, unchanged on the page, meaning something slightly different to everyone still holding it.
Notes
The Beit Yitzchak affair, including Rabbi Hershel Schachter’s rebuke, the Nadav and Avihu comparison, the box on the bimah gone in a day, the eleven boxes missing before the Seforim Sale, Aaron Koller on the absence of editorial instructions, and Wimpfheimer’s own account of the rejection and the removed introduction: Nadav Heller, “The Banned Book: Academic Talmud at YU,” The Commentator, March 2024.
Childhood, hundred mishnayot a year from third through seventh grade, Washington Heights, Shmuel Nacham at Sha’alvim, “I thought rabbis were scholars,” the Arnovitz cover, the Larry Charles line about Seinfeld, Korean interest, Moshe Simon-Shoshan’s assessment: Ilana Kurshan, “The Talmud, Personified,” Tablet, April 10, 2018. https://www.tabletmag.com/sections/community/articles/the-talmud-personified
“Pretty much nonstop from age 17,” the age-45 self-description in 2018, the Paris Disputation and Karaite material: Times of Israel, December 27, 2018. https://www.timesofisrael.com/new-talmud-biography-seeks-to-bring-the-foundational-text-to-life/
Halivni: the pin test, the Bar Ilan CD races, the technical support role, the maculations, the Friedman contrast, the two late visits and the fire sugya, “as if the Talmud lived in his body”: Wimpfheimer, “Remembering Halivni,” originally Columbia IIJS, reprinted August 4, 2022. https://utj.org/viewpoints/2022/08/professor-barry-wimpfheimer-remembers-rabbi-halivni/ — the stroke visit is dated “three years ago” from a 2022 piece, so I wrote “around 2019”; the second visit is “this past November,” so November 2021. Halivni’s death date from Wikipedia.
Fraade’s critique in full, including the Mishnah objection, the five-centuries-of-anxiety objection, and the sleep joke in footnote 5: AJS Review 37.1 (April 2013): 135-39, full text at https://www.academia.edu/3584793/
Secunda’s dissent: “(Almost) People,” Jewish Review of Books. https://jewishreviewofbooks.com/articles/7879/almost-people/
All dates, ranks, fellowships declined (Tikvah and Frankel, 2011-12), committee membership, the Latin and Greek Institute, the Lehmann codicology and early printing workshops, the Neusner review, and the article list: his CV. https://jewish-israel-studies-center.northwestern.edu/people/faculty/bsw-cv-september-3-2019.pdf
Current rank and the 2023 and 2024 articles: https://religious-studies.northwestern.edu/people/faculty/tenure-track-faculty/barry-wimpfheimer.html
Benay Lappe and SVARA: the Oral Talmud episode with Wimpfheimer is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otWjtc5znys
Matter Out of Place
The editor could not say what was wrong with the article.
In 1999 Barry Scott Wimpfheimer, a semicha student at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary, submitted a Hebrew piece on a passage in Bava Qamma to Beit Yitzchak, the Torah journal produced by his own yeshiva. The editor rejected it and called it kefirah. Asked for a reason, he had none to give. He believed the roshei yeshiva would object, and he was right to believe it. By Wimpfheimer’s own later account the article was not source-critical at all. It dealt with rishonim, the medieval commentators every student in the building read every day.
Something in the handling registered as foreign before anyone could name what it was. That sequence, the reaction arriving ahead of the reason, is the subject of Mary Douglas (1921-2007) in Purity and Danger, and it is the reason to read Wimpfheimer’s career through her.
Douglas’s opening move is that dirt is matter out of place. The definition sounds slight and carries a large claim. Nothing is dirty in isolation. Shoes are not dirty, and shoes on the dining table are. Food is not dirty, and food in the bedroom is. Dirt is the by-product of a system of classification, which means that wherever you find a strong reaction to dirt you have located a system that someone is defending. The reaction is evidence of the order, not evidence about the object.
Her second move follows from the first. If dirt is the residue of sorting, then the most dangerous objects in any scheme are the ones that half-fit. Not the outside, which is simply outside, but the thing with one foot in and one foot out. Douglas made her name arguing that the forbidden animals of Leviticus are forbidden on these grounds. Land animals are clean when they have a cloven hoof and chew the cud. The pig has the hoof and not the cud. The camel and the hare and the hyrax bring the cud and no split hoof. Water creatures should have fins and scales, and the swarming things that lack them are abominated. Her reading of holiness in the priestly texts is wholeness, completeness, conformity to the class you belong to. The system abominates the hybrid: the mixed thread, the mixed seed, the crossbred animal. And it abominates the specimen that presents part of the credential and not the rest.
This is what the editor was reacting to and could not articulate. Wimpfheimer’s article had the cloven hoof. It was in Hebrew, on a sugya, in the yeshiva’s own journal, about rishonim. It did not chew the cud. The mode of attention was wrong in a way that produced no citable violation, and pollution reactions do not require one. Douglas is firm on this point: pollution rules are unequivocal and automatic and take no interest in intention. A man who touches the corpse is unclean whether or not he meant to, whether or not he knew, whether or not he is a good man. The editor did not need a doctrine. He needed only the reflex that tells a trained member of a community that something has come in from the wrong direction.
Douglas lists the ways a culture can respond when an anomaly turns up. Reduce the ambiguity by settling on one reading. Control the anomalous thing physically. Make a rule of avoidance. Call it dangerous. Or take it up into ritual and let it enrich the scheme it violates.
The Beit Yitzchak affair produced all five within about a year, which is why it repays the attention.
The next editorial board asked Wimpfheimer for the rejected piece. He agreed on the condition that it run as written. They agreed, then printed it in the spring of 2000 with the introduction removed. That is the first response. The introduction was where a piece declares what kind of piece it is. Cut it and the article reads as a rishonim study. The ambiguity resolves by editorial subtraction.
The same volume carried an article by two other students, Eliyahu Stern and Meir Katz, which cited academic scholars by name. Boxes of Beit Yitzchak normally sat on the bimah of the Glueck Beis Midrash for days, students dropping cash and taking a copy, a fresh box brought out when one emptied. Wimpfheimer remembers this box lasting a day. On the eve of the annual Seforim Sale, eleven boxes went missing from a freight elevator, which the sales manager attributed to facilities staff. The volume is absent from the beit midrash collection. A student editor writing in 2024 climbed to the sixth floor of Gottesman Library to read a copy. That is the second response, and Douglas would predict that nobody involved needed to coordinate. Physical control of the polluting object is the least articulate and most available option, and it leaves no minutes.
The third response is the settlement that still holds. Academic Talmud is permitted at Yeshiva University, in the Talmud department, in Bernard Revel, in the library. The beit midrash is for consecrated study. A student told the 2024 interviewer that he leaves the beit midrash and goes to the library to study for the academic Talmud course. Douglas’s account of the avoidance rule is that it does not merely protect the person from the thing. It maintains the definitions the thing threatens. Every trip up the stairs to the library restates what the beit midrash is.
The fourth response was loud. The word kefirah. A maggid shiur comparing the authors to Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron who brought a strange fire and were consumed. Rabbi Hershel Schachter’s public rebuke, and his position twenty-five years later, unchanged: “It was a big chutzpah.” The comparison to Nadav and Avihu is the interesting one, because it is a danger label drawn from the community’s own canon, and the story it invokes concerns two insiders, credentialed priests in good standing, whose offering was structurally wrong. The fire was not forbidden. The fire was foreign. This is precisely the category Douglas is describing, and the yeshiva reached for it without needing an anthropologist.
The fifth response takes longer and is under way. Ari Bergmann, a student of David Weiss Halivni and a professor in Yeshiva College’s Talmud department, has argued in public that academic Talmud allows traditional learning to evolve, that the early fear of clash and devaluation was mistaken, that with the right religious grounding the methods carry the study forward. The anomaly gets taken up and made productive. Douglas’s fifth path is not tolerance. It is the discovery that the thing which breaks the categories can be used to say something the categories could not say alone.
The frame pays a second time on the object of Wimpfheimer’s scholarship, and this is where it stops being a clever fit and becomes an argument.
Rabbinic literature is sorted into halakhah and aggadah. Halakhah generates obligation. Aggadah is the remainder: stories, theology, folklore, medicine, reports of what a rabbi said to his wife. The sorting hardened in the gaonic period and organizes the field to this day, in the yeshiva and in the university both.
Narrating the Law takes as its subject the passages that will not sort. A story about a legal actor doing something legal is both categories at once. Steven Fraade, reviewing the book for AJS Review, wrote that such stories have baffled or annoyed commentators for centuries. Douglas explains the annoyance. These are the animals with the hoof and no cud. The tradition’s response to them has been the standard menu. Reduce the ambiguity, by reading the story as illustration of a rule and discarding what does not illustrate. Control it, by not teaching it. Avoid it, by consigning it to the aggadah shelf where nothing is binding and therefore nothing is at stake.
Wimpfheimer’s claim is Douglas’s first claim applied to a text. The legal story is not a defective specimen of either genre. It was manufactured as a problem by the act of sorting. Where there is dirt there is a system, and the system here is the halakhah and aggadah division, which he calls a pair of reading practices that has been passing itself off as a pair of corpora. Remove the division and the anomaly stops being anomalous and starts being the richest evidence in the archive, because it is the place where law admits the particular man, his rank, who was watching, and the several moral languages running at once.
He arrived at that argument by way of Bakhtin and Cover rather than Douglas, and the book does not cite her. The convergence is what makes it usable. A man trained to notice which readings a community treats as polluting wrote a book about which texts a tradition treats as polluting, and got there without the anthropology.
Now the third level, and the one that keeps the frame from flattening.
Douglas did fieldwork among the Lele of the Kasai, and the animal she returns to is the pangolin. The pangolin is an anomaly of the first order. It is covered in scales like a fish and lives on land. It climbs trees. It bears one offspring at a time, as humans do, rather than a litter. Faced with a hunter it does not flee. It curls up and waits.
By the logic of Leviticus the pangolin should be an abomination. Among the Lele it is the center of a cult. A body of initiates eats it ceremonially, and the eating is a source of fertility and of power over game. The same structural feature that would make an animal filth in one scheme makes it holy in another. Anomaly is not a property of the animal. It is a relation between the animal and a scheme, and schemes differ.
Wimpfheimer is the pangolin.
At RIETS in 1999 the combination was pollution. Ordained, fluent, formed inside the system, and reading in a manner that would not resolve into the system’s categories. Six years later at Columbia the identical combination was the credential. His committee was assembled out of five incompatible worlds: Halivni for source criticism, Jeffrey Rubenstein for rabbinic narrative, Elizabeth Castelli for critical theory, Alan Segal for Judaism and Christianity in comparison, Michael Stanislawski for modern Jewish history. The dissertation took the prize for the best Jewish studies dissertation at Columbia over five years. Moshe Simon-Shoshan of Bar Ilan described him to a journalist as one of the few who combine traditional erudition and philological rigor with a command of modern literary theory. Read that sentence as a specification and it describes an animal with scales that climbs trees. The rare hybrid is the prize.
Nothing about the man changed between the two verdicts. What changed was the scheme doing the classifying. Douglas’s argument is that this is always the case, and the case is easier to see when one person crosses between two systems inside a single decade.
It also explains a feature of Wimpfheimer’s public conduct that would otherwise look like restlessness. He speaks at the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance, at Conservative congregations in Chicago and Washington, at the Schechter Institute in Jerusalem, and on camera with SVARA, the queer yeshiva in his own city. A man who has been the polluting object in one room and the prize specimen in another has learned something about the arbitrariness of rooms.
The three registers of The Talmud: A Biography are a proposal to stop treating category-crossing as contamination.
The essential Talmud is the historical object. The enhanced Talmud is what a thousand years of readers built around it. The emblematic Talmud is the sign of Jewishness that does its work on people who never open it, venerated by Jews, burned in Paris in 1240, rejected by maskilim and Zionists and reclaimed by their grandchildren, sold in Korean digests, invoked by a Seinfeld writer describing his room. Three questions, three answers, all of them findable, and the error lies in mixing them and then fighting over which answer is the true one.
Douglas would call this the fifth response completed. The anomalous object gets taken up and made to enrich the scheme it broke. She would also, I think, say the harder thing. Her account of why anomalies get purged is not that people are stupid about categories. It is that a group under pressure, with a boundary it needs to hold, will police its margins hardest, and that the intensity of pollution rules tracks the felt precariousness of the group. The 1999 rejection was not an error of reasoning to be corrected by a better theory of reading. It was a boundary in good working order.
Which means Wimpfheimer’s settlement is available to individuals and not obviously available to communities. A man can hold three registers at once. A yeshiva that holds three registers at once has told its students that the way they are studying is one option among several, and it will lose some of them. The library and the beit midrash remain on separate floors for reasons that are not stupid.
One more thing.
Douglas’s reading of the Levitical dietary laws is the most cited chapter she ever wrote and she came to believe it was wrong. In work from the 1990s onward she abandoned the anomaly explanation of the forbidden animals and argued that the priestly writer’s rules protect creatures rather than abominate them, and that the earlier account had imported a contempt the text does not contain. Jacob Milgrom (1923-2010) and others had pushed her there. Her general theory of dirt survived. Her signature application of it did not.
There is a rhyme in that. Halivni revised the introduction to every volume of Meqorot u-Mesorot because each new analysis forced him to reconsider the ones behind it, and the footnotes carry the evidence of the revisions. Wimpfheimer submitted an article called “The Postmodern Mishnah: The Role of the Reader and the Instability of Meaning” and published it four years later as “The Mishnah’s Reader,” with the postmodernism and the instability gone from the title.
The pattern holds across the yeshiva and the academy and shows up in Douglas’s own career. A scheme takes in the thing that does not fit, and something has to give. Either the object is expelled or the scheme is rewritten. The interesting people are the ones who rewrite, and they pay for it in citations, in boxes that go missing, and in the slow work of doing over what they already thought they had finished.
Jurisdiction
Rabbi Hershel Schachter, asked in 2024 about an article published in his yeshiva’s Torah journal a quarter century earlier, did not argue that the article was wrong. He said it belonged somewhere else. If a man wants to write that way, “go write in a different journal.” You do not publish chemistry in Beit Yitzchak. It is a different discipline.
That is not a theological objection. It is a boundary claim, and it is the cleanest statement anyone has made of what the fight over academic Talmud has been about.
Andrew Abbott (b. 1948) published The System of Professions in 1988 to solve a problem that had defeated the sociology of professions for fifty years. Everyone had been studying professions one at a time, asking how each one professionalized. Abbott argued that the unit of analysis is wrong. Professions exist in an ecology. They compete for tasks, and the link between a profession and the work it controls is what he called jurisdiction. When one group’s claim expands, another’s contracts, and the interesting history is in the boundaries rather than in the institutions.
Barry Scott Wimpfheimer’s career is a jurisdictional biography. He holds semicha from the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and a doctorate from Columbia, which makes him certified by both claimants to a single contested task. The task is reading Talmud, and Abbott’s first instruction is that you cannot analyze a contest until you specify what is being contested.
Reading Talmud decomposes into at least five tasks, and the two professions want different ones.
Determining what a Jew must do. Producing new Torah, the hiddushim that earn a learner standing. Establishing what a passage meant to the men who wrote it. Training the next cohort of practitioners. And representing the tradition to everyone outside it.
Abbott’s model of professional work runs diagnosis, inference, treatment. A case arrives. The professional colligates it, which means translating the mess of the particular into the categories the profession maintains. He infers from category to remedy, using more inference where the link is less direct. Then he treats.
The posek does all three. A woman calls about a chicken. He classifies the question, reasons through sugya and codes and precedent, and rules. The ruling is treatment and it binds.
The academic Talmudist does the first two and stops. He diagnoses a passage, infers its history, and issues nothing. Abbott has a name for a profession that keeps cognitive control while conceding practical control, and calls it intellectual jurisdiction. He also observes that the arrangement is unstable in both directions. A group that never treats loses its claim to be doing serious work. A group that treats without cognitive command becomes technicians.
Wimpfheimer’s exit from the rabbinate is the moment he chose diagnosis over treatment. He entered the semicha program, he has said, believing rabbis were scholars and that scholarship was what rabbis did. The internships corrected him. The pulpit is a treatment profession. It is hospital rooms and funerals and marriages that will not be saved, and the Talmudic reasoning in it is instrumental. He took the ordination in June 2000 and went to Columbia, where the inference is the product.
Every profession maintains an academic wing whose function, Abbott insists, is not to teach practitioners how to work. Academic knowledge legitimates. It supplies abstractions that tie the daily task to whatever the surrounding culture treats as prestigious, and the prestige is what lets the profession defend its border.
The yeshiva has such a wing and it is Brisk. The conceptual method associated with Rabbi Chaim Soloveitchik (1853-1918) does not help a man pasken. It takes a legal dispute and resolves it into a formal distinction of categories, a two-way lomdishe chakirah, and its appeal is that it makes Talmud study resemble mathematics or jurisprudence, disciplines the surrounding world respects. Wimpfheimer’s adolescent complaint about lomdus was that it did not accumulate. A brilliant distinction on Monday vanished when Tuesday brought a new sugya. Abbott would say the complaint is accurate and beside the point. A legitimating abstraction is optimized for the demonstration of rigor rather than for the accumulation of findings, and judging it as a research program mistakes what it is for.
The relevant question in a jurisdictional contest is whether one side’s abstraction can absorb the other’s objects. Historical criticism can explain lomdus. It can say why a Tosafist and a Maimonidean differ, where each stood, what each inherited, and why the harmonization between them is a construction of the harmonizer. Lomdus cannot perform the reverse operation. It has no account of historical criticism except that the practitioner is doing something else.
That asymmetry is the whole of the danger, and the roshei yeshiva were not wrong to feel it. Abbott’s rule is that the profession with the more powerful abstraction can seize its neighbor’s tasks, and that neighbors know this before they can articulate it. Academic Talmud in principle can absorb the yeshiva’s work. The yeshiva cannot absorb academic Talmud. A settlement had to be found that would not test the proposition.
Abbott distinguishes the arenas in which claims get made, and the distinction is the most useful thing he offers here.
Jurisdiction is asserted in public, in law, and in the workplace, and the three seldom match. In the workplace, boundaries blur. Nurses do medicine. Paralegals do law. Everyone knows and nobody says. In public arenas, the same people defend lines they cross daily, because the public claim is what the profession’s standing rests on.
There is no legal arena in this contest. Neither claimant is licensed by any state. What substitutes is physical space, and the arena of public claim is the floor of the beit midrash.
This explains a pattern that otherwise looks like hypocrisy. Yeshiva University has employed academic Talmudists for decades. Bernard Revel exists. The Talmud department in Yeshiva College teaches the methods and the figures. Ari Bergmann, a student of David Weiss Halivni, holds a position there. None of that provoked anything like the reaction of 2000. A student told an interviewer in 2024 that he leaves the beit midrash and goes to the library to study for Bergmann’s class, and told it as a joke, which is how people describe settlements they find comfortable.
The walls of the Glueck Beis Midrash carry quotations from rishonim and from Charedi scholars. Students there do not consult manuscript variants or open Saul Lieberman (1898-1983). That is not ignorance. It is the public claim, restated hourly by everyone present.
The Beit Yitzchak affair was a boundary crossing into the arena of public claim, and it produced the response the model predicts.
The journal is not a research venue. It is a credentialing device, produced by RIETS Press, carrying pieces by the yeshiva’s own rebbeim and its strongest students, sold from a box on the bimah for cash. Publishing in it certifies a man as a certain kind of learner. Abbott treats control over credentialing as the core of a profession’s defense, because a credential is a statement about which knowledge counts as competence.
Wimpfheimer submitted a piece in 1999 and the editor rejected it as kefirah while unable to say what in it was heretical. Wimpfheimer’s own account is that the article was not source-critical and dealt with rishonim. The next board took it and printed it in the spring of 2000 with the introduction removed. The same volume carried an article by Eliyahu Stern and Meir Katz that cited academic scholars by name, and that one drew public denunciation from the front of the room.
Aaron Koller, now a professor at Yeshiva University, defended the volume in terms that Abbott would recognize immediately. These were Torah articles that happened to use tools available to academic study. The authors were not seeking tenure. The purpose was lehagdil torah. Where would such a piece go if not in Beit Yitzchak?
Read as a plea, that is a request for subordinate admission. It concedes that the yeshiva defines the goal and asks only that the technique be allowed to serve it. Abbott’s term for the arrangement is subordination, and the paradigm case is nursing under medicine, where the subordinate group’s knowledge is admitted as skilled technique while the right to define the problem stays upstairs. The request was refused in 2000. It has been largely granted since.
Bergmann’s public position twenty years later is that academic Talmud lets traditional learning evolve, that the early fear of a clash was mistaken, and that a man with the right religious grounding and the right ideas can use these methods to take Talmudic study to the next level. Wimpfheimer, from the other side, has observed that source-critical methods associated with Halivni and Shamma Friedman are filtering back into Modern Orthodox learning, and treats this as a good outcome.
Both descriptions are accurate. In Abbott’s vocabulary they describe subordination, and subordination is what a losing claimant’s victory looks like from inside.
The conditions in Bergmann’s formulation are the substance of it. The right religious background. The right underpinnings. Evolution of the yeshiva’s project rather than replacement of it. Admitted on those terms, the academic method enters as a set of instruments whose use is licensed by the goals of the institution that admits them, and the question of who decides what a passage means has been answered without being asked. A technique that can be used to strengthen the tradition is a technique that has agreed in advance not to be used the other way.
Nobody in this story is being duplicitous. Abbott’s point is that settlements get negotiated by people describing their own conduct in good faith, and that the description each side gives is shaped by where it stands. The yeshiva says it has absorbed a useful tool. The academy says its methods have penetrated the beit midrash. The tool and the penetration are the same event.
Wimpfheimer’s own jurisdictional moves are worth setting out, because he has made several and they have not all worked.
The first is Narrating the Law, which is a claim on legal theory. The book argues that Talmudic legal stories show law operating as one language among politics, ethics, status, and psychology, and it addresses that claim to people who study law rather than to people who study rabbis. Abbott would call this an attempt to expand jurisdiction by offering an abstraction to an adjacent profession. The result is a courtesy appointment at Northwestern’s Pritzker School of Law and citations from the law-and-humanities world. A courtesy appointment is the institutional form of advisory jurisdiction, which Abbott describes as the weakest of the real settlements: you are consulted, you are not in charge, and your presence certifies the other side’s generosity.
The second is client differentiation, and it has worked better. Abbott notes that professions split contested tasks by dividing the clientele, each taking the customers the other cannot serve or does not want. Wimpfheimer built a Coursera course that has enrolled tens of thousands of people, most of whom will never enter a beit midrash or a doctoral seminar. He wrote The Talmud: A Biography for Princeton’s general list, aimed at readers who have heard of the Talmud and know it has something to do with Jews. He lectures at the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance, at Conservative congregations, at the Schechter Institute, and with SVARA. None of those clients is contested. The yeshiva does not want them and cannot reach them.
The third is the three registers, and it is a treaty proposal. The essential Talmud belongs to historical inquiry. The enhanced Talmud belongs to the accumulated interpretive conversation. The emblematic Talmud belongs to everyone including people who never open it. Three tasks, three competent claimants, and the error lies in mixing them and then fighting about which answer is true.
Abbott would note that a treaty published by Princeton is a claim made in the public arena by one party, and that treaties made in public arenas bind nobody in the workplace. He would also note what the proposal concedes. Assigning the enhanced Talmud to the traditional reader as a legitimate object hands back the field’s most valuable territory, a thousand years of commentary, and asks only that the historical question be permitted alongside. That is division of labor negotiated from a position of weakness, offered by the party with the stronger abstraction and the smaller army.
One more thing the frame explains without requiring any speculation.
Northwestern lists Wimpfheimer as associate professor and has since 2013. Two books, a National Jewish Book Award, a directorship, a department chairmanship, and co-editorship of Prooftexts since 2017.
Abbott’s account of academic status is that a profession rewards contributions to its own cognitive core, because the core is what the jurisdictional claim rests on. Work directed at the public arena builds the profession’s standing with outsiders and earns little inside. A trade book for Princeton’s general series and a course with tens of thousands of enrollments are high-value in the arena where jurisdictions get won and low-value in the currency that moves a man up a ladder. Public sources say nothing about the reasons in this case and I will not invent any. The general pattern is not obscure, and academics complain about it constantly while continuing to enforce it.
Where the frame runs out.
Abbott built his model on professions with state licensure, paying clients, and courts to appeal to. None of that exists here. He is also thin on cases where the contested task is a claim about God. A dispute between accountants and lawyers over tax advice does not involve either side asserting that the other’s method endangers the soul, and the Nadav and Avihu comparison made from the front of a study hall in 2000 is doing something no ecological model captures.
What the model does capture is why the fight took the shape it took, why it was fought over a journal and a floor rather than over a proposition, why the eventual peace looks like acceptance from one side and conquest from the other, and why a man with two credentials found that the second one made the first one suspect in the building where he earned it.
Abbott’s last observation on settlements is that they are never final. Jurisdictions get vacated by external change, and someone always moves in. The Talmud now has more students than at any point in its history, most of them observant, many of them women, a growing number of them working in English on a page and in an app. Neither profession trained for that clientele, and neither is positioned to claim it.
The boxes on the bimah are gone. Nobody had to steal these.
Notes
The Abbott apparatus used. All from The System of Professions (Chicago, 1988): jurisdiction as the link between profession and task; the ecological premise that jurisdictions are zero-sum across a system; diagnosis, colligation, inference, treatment as the structure of professional work; academic knowledge as legitimation rather than instruction; abstraction as the weapon that lets one profession absorb another’s tasks; the three arenas of claim, with workplace boundaries blurring while public claims stay sharp; and the settlement types, of which I used full jurisdiction, subordination, division of labor, intellectual jurisdiction, advisory jurisdiction, and client differentiation. Nursing under medicine is his own paradigm case for subordination and I attributed it as such.
Three claims here I have not seen made elsewhere, which is where the value is if this is going to add to knowledge rather than restate it.
Brisker lomdus as the yeshiva’s academic wing in Abbott’s precise sense: a body of abstraction whose function is legitimation rather than practical instruction. That reframes Wimpfheimer’s adolescent complaint that lomdus does not accumulate. The complaint is accurate and mistakes the genre, since legitimating abstractions are not research programs.
The asymmetry of absorption. Historical criticism can explain lomdus; lomdus cannot explain historical criticism. Abbott’s rule says the side with the more powerful abstraction takes the other’s tasks, which makes the yeshiva’s reaction a correct threat assessment rather than obscurantism. That paragraph is what keeps the essay from being a story about brave scholars and frightened rabbis, and it is what makes it readable by someone inside the yeshiva world.
Subordination as the shape of the present peace. Koller’s 2000 defense and Bergmann’s 2020s position are the same request, refused then and granted now, and the conditions in Bergmann’s formulation are the substance of the grant. Wimpfheimer describes the same event as academic method penetrating Modern Orthodox learning.
The Closed List
Jonathan Z. Smith (1938-2017) built his theory of canon out of a question nobody thought was a question. Why do people make lists?
His answer in “Sacred Persistence,” the opening essay of Imagining Religion, runs in three steps. A list is an open enumeration. Add an item and it is still the same list. A catalogue is a list with a principle of order, so that the sequence carries information. A canon is a catalogue that has been closed. Nothing may be added, nothing removed, and the closure is arbitrary in the sense that no property of the contents required it. Somebody stopped.
Then comes the move that makes the theory useful. A closed list is a poor instrument for living, because life keeps producing situations the list did not anticipate. So closure calls into existence a specialist whose work is to make the limited list cover the unlimited world. Where you find a canon you will find an interpreter, and the interpreter’s rule is that he may extend the canon to anything at all provided he never admits to adding to it. Ingenuity under a prohibition. Smith took divination as the paradigm case, a diviner working a fixed set of objects that must be made to speak to any client who walks in, and he liked the analogy of cuisine, where a culture takes a limited set of edible things, cuts it down further by taboo for no nutritional reason, and then produces endless variety by cooking.
Barry Scott Wimpfheimer’s second book divides the Talmud into three registers, and the middle one is Smith’s essay restated from inside the material.
The enhanced Talmud, in Wimpfheimer’s scheme, is what a thousand years of readers built around the ancient book. Rashi, the Tosafists, Maimonides, Rabad, the codifiers, the responsa, the yeshiva. He describes the register accurately and does not give a full account of why it exists.
Smith supplies one. The Talmud closed. Once closed, every question a Jew could have about anything had to be reachable from a fixed set of pages, and the labor of reaching became the whole intellectual life of the community. The productivity of the tradition is a function of its prohibition. An open canon would have absorbed the new material as new material and produced far less writing. A closed canon converts every new problem into an interpretive problem, and interpretive problems generate text without limit.
The physical page teaches this before anyone says it. The Vilna layout puts the Talmud in a block at the center, Rashi in the inner column, Tosafot in the outer, and everything else pushed to the margins and the back. The design encodes closure plus commentary. It tells a boy at a glance which words cannot be touched and where his own work will have to go.
Smith’s cuisine analogy translates without strain into Brisker lomdus. Take a restricted set of ingredients, restrict them further by convention so that only certain authorities count as usable, then generate variety by method. The two-way conceptual distinction is a recipe. Wimpfheimer’s adolescent complaint that lomdus did not accumulate, that Monday’s brilliant resolution vanished when Tuesday brought a new sugya, is a complaint that cooking produces no permanent object. Smith would answer that permanence was never the point. The point was that dinner had to happen again tonight.
Daf yomi is the same structure in ritual form. Two thousand seven hundred and eleven folios, traversed in order at one page a day, beginning again on the last day. You do not choose your page. The canon chooses it, which is what a closed catalogue with a principle of order does to the people who hold it.
Smith’s theory also predicts something Wimpfheimer describes without explaining.
The emblematic Talmud is the register in which the book does its work on people who never open it. Jews venerate it as the sign of their intellectual seriousness. The Paris Disputation of 1240 tried it, convicted it, and burned it in the Place de Grève. Karaites rejected it, maskilim used it as the thing they were leaving, Hasidim and Zionists defined themselves against it and their grandchildren came back for it. Korean publishers sell digests by the hundred thousand. A Seinfeld writer described his room as a dark Talmud.
Smith’s model says the emblematic register is what a canon looks like from any position that lacks a hermeneut. The closed list is visible to everyone. The labor of extension is visible only to the trained. So an outsider sees the object and not the operation, and what he sees is a bounded, finished, portable thing, which is precisely what a symbol needs to be.
The stronger version of the claim is that the hostile users are hermeneuts too. Nicholas Donin, the convert who supplied the charges at Paris, worked the closed list the way a diviner works his objects, extending a fixed set of passages to cover a situation their authors never imagined, and insisting he added nothing. The Korean publisher does the same operation with a friendlier result. Smith’s structure does not care whether the interpreter loves the canon. It cares whether the list is closed and whether somebody needs it to speak.
That is a real addition to Wimpfheimer’s scheme. He treats the emblematic register as reputation, as what the Talmud has come to stand for. Smith lets you say it is exegesis performed by people the tradition does not recognize as exegetes.
Now the correction the frame licenses, which Wimpfheimer does not quite make.
The Talmud: A Biography is organized as a life. Gestation and birth. Election. A golden old age. The registers arrive in sequence, essential then enhanced then emblematic, and the sequence tempts a reader to hear stages. First the book was written. Then it was interpreted. Then it became a symbol.
Smith’s canon and hermeneut is not a developmental pair. It is a structure that obtains whenever a list has closed, and every position it defines is occupied at once. On any given morning, somewhere, a man is reconstructing what a passage meant in the sixth century, another is harmonizing Rashi with an Acharon in a manner no historian would license, and a third is holding a volume he cannot read because holding it is the point. The three registers are three relations available to any person at any moment, and one man moves among them inside an hour.
Wimpfheimer knows this. His argument that the mistake lies in confusing the registers rather than in choosing among them only makes sense if all three are live at once. The biographical conceit, which Shai Secunda attacked from a different direction, works against his own best claim. Smith’s frame gets you to the same complaint by a cleaner road.
Where does the historical critic sit in a theory of canon?
Smith gives an uncomfortable answer. Every activity he describes takes the closure for granted and works inside it. Source criticism does the opposite. It dates the parts, separates the tannaitic from the amoraic, identifies the anonymous editorial voice that assembled the whole and made it look like one conversation. That operation converts a closed catalogue back into a list with a history, which is the one thing the canonical situation forbids.
This is why the yeshiva’s objection was structural. A commentator who harmonizes two authorities across three centuries is doing canonical work, however wild his distinction. A scholar who explains why the harmonization was impossible is not doing canonical work at all. He is standing outside the prohibition and describing it, and no amount of piety in the describer changes the position he occupies.
Smith would add that scholars of religion do this for a living and should be honest that it is a distinct activity rather than a superior one. His view was that religion is the imagination of ingenuity under constraint, and that the scholar’s categories are tools of the study rather than the natives’ own. Wimpfheimer’s three registers is exactly such a tool. No Rishon, no rosh yeshiva, and no Korean reader has ever described himself as operating in the enhanced or emblematic mode. The scheme is a scholar’s redescription, useful to the extent that it lets you see the operation, and misleading if anyone mistakes it for what the participants think they are doing.
One place the frame breaks, and it is the interesting one.
Smith’s model has a canon on one side and interpreters on the other, and the line holds. In the Jewish case the line leaks. Rashi was a commentator on a closed list and is now unremovable from the page. Maimonides wrote a code to make the Talmud unnecessary and became a text the Talmud’s students must know. The Shulchan Aruch closed, then grew its own commentaries, then closed again with them inside. The hermeneut gets canonized, and the canon keeps swallowing its own interpreters at a rate of roughly one layer per few centuries.
Smith’s tidy pair cannot describe that motion. Wimpfheimer’s enhanced register can, because it is defined by the practice of collapsing chronology rather than by a fixed roster, and it holds Rava and Rashi and a living rosh yeshiva in one room without asking which of them is canon.
That is the trade between the two accounts. Smith gives you the engine and a prediction about who will hold the symbol. Wimpfheimer gives you a category elastic enough to survive the fact that in this tradition, a man who spends his life explaining the closed list has a decent chance of ending up printed on the page beside it.
Veblen’s Renegade
Thorstein Veblen (1857-1929) published “The Intellectual Pre-Eminence of Jews in Modern Europe” in the Political Science Quarterly in March 1919. He wrote it against Zionism, and the argument has been picked up since by people on both sides of a line Veblen was not standing on.
His claim was about position rather than about blood, and he was explicit on the point. Jews raised inside the Jewish scheme of knowledge, he wrote, produce nothing that impresses the wider world. Jews who leave that scheme and enter European intellectual life produce a share of first-rate work out of all proportion to their numbers. What makes the difference is the leaving.
The reasoning goes like this. Original work requires a skeptical frame of mind, and skepticism is hard to come by for a man secure inside a system of received conventions, because the conventions supply his answers before he has finished asking. The Jew who steps out of his own tradition loses that security. He does not gain the gentile’s security in exchange, since he is not fully admitted. He ends up in what Veblen called a no-man’s-land, equipped with the intellectual habits of a rigorous inherited discipline and no longer bound by any of its conclusions. He becomes a disturber of the intellectual peace, and pays for the position with his own peace of mind.
Then the political conclusion, which is why he wrote it. Give the Jews a state and a national scheme of their own and the pre-eminence ends. A settled people gets settled answers.
Barry Scott Wimpfheimer is a test of this, and the test comes out mixed.
Start with what Veblen gets right, because it is the part most people miss.
The standard modern story about a man who leaves a closed religious world for a university treats the closed world as a deficit to be overcome. Veblen says the opposite. The yeshiva is not the obstacle. The yeshiva is the equipment. His renegade is formidable because he arrives carrying a trained apparatus for close reading, sustained argument, and the holding of many texts in mind at once, and the training was free.
Wimpfheimer’s case supports this without qualification. He memorized about a hundred mishnayot a year from third grade through seventh. He was in the advanced Talmud track at Yeshiva University’s high school, where the strong students spent so much time on Gemara that Bible fell out of the schedule. He read Hebrew and Aramaic before he read a word of theory. When he got to Columbia’s School of Criticism and Theory at Cornell in the summer of 2003, he brought something to it that a man trained only in theory does not have. Moshe Simon-Shoshan’s description of him, that he is among the few who combine traditional erudition and philological rigor with a command of modern literary theory, is a description of Veblen’s mechanism working as advertised.
Veblen also gets the friction right. A man in that position disturbs people, and they respond. In 1999 an editor at his own yeshiva’s Torah journal rejected an article of his as heresy while unable to say what in it was heretical. Veblen would have expected exactly that, and would have said the incomprehension was the point. The community was not refuting a claim. It was registering that a member had stopped standing where members stand.
Now the three places the case runs against him.
He did not lose his footing. Veblen’s model requires apostasy. The renegade must be a renegade, cut loose from the scheme he was raised in, or the skepticism does not come. Wimpfheimer took rabbinic ordination in June 2000 and did not renounce it. He has spent twenty-five years arguing that the traditional reading is a legitimate object of study rather than a superseded error, and his central scholarly proposal, the three registers, is a defense of the traditional reader’s activity as one coherent activity among several. He is not a man who left. He is a man who acquired a second competence and kept the first.
That suggests the productive condition is bilingualism rather than exile, and the difference matters for the causal story. Veblen thought the range came from having nothing left to defend. Wimpfheimer’s range comes from having two vocabularies for the same page and being able to say what each one can and cannot see. Those are different mechanisms and they predict different lives. Veblen’s man burns his bridge. This one commutes.
He arrived somewhere. Veblen’s wanderer never gets a resting place, and in 1919 that was close to true, because the alternatives available to a European Jew who left his community were general gentile society or nothing. The American research university did not exist as Veblen’s essay assumes. It is a third scheme with its own conventions, its own credentials, its own orthodoxies, and its own secure places. Wimpfheimer holds tenure, has chaired a department, has directed a center, and co-edits a journal. Whatever else that is, it is not homelessness. Veblen’s model has no slot for the possibility that the no-man’s-land would get institutionalized, funded, and given a building.
And the prediction about Zionism failed. Veblen expected a Jewish state to end the pre-eminence by restoring a settled national scheme. What Israel produced in this field is the opposite. Shamma Friedman’s method, the Hebrew University, Bar Ilan, the Israeli academic establishment in rabbinics. The decisive turn in Wimpfheimer’s own life happened in Israel, at a yeshiva in Sha’alvim in 1990, where a teacher named Shmuel Nacham showed a seventeen-year-old a Talmud with historical layers. He went to the Jewish state and came back with the critical method. Veblen’s causal claim does not survive that.
Where Veblen still bites is on price, and the price is not the one he named.
He thought the cost was peace of mind, the wanderer’s permanent unsettlement. There is no evidence Wimpfheimer suffers from that. He sings, plays basketball, does yoga, and gives lectures in Orthodox, Conservative, and unaffiliated rooms without visible strain.
The cost that shows up in the record is legibility. A man with two competences is read by each side as a partial member of the other. In the beit midrash the method is the problem. In a field that rewards specialization, the man who has spent years teaching Kabbalah and antisemitism and Hebrew Bible and running a center and building a course for thirty thousand strangers has spent those years not producing the third monograph. He has been an associate professor since 2013. Public sources give no reason and I will not invent one. What the pattern shows is that dual competence buys range and does not buy either side’s full recognition, which is Veblen’s insight arriving in a form he did not anticipate.
Veblen wrote in a period comfortable with generalizations about peoples, and the piece has been quoted approvingly by philosemites who like the flattery and by antisemites who like the premise that a group can be characterized. Both readings ignore what the argument says. Veblen located the cause in a social position that anyone can occupy and that Jews occupied in unusual numbers in a particular century. Nothing in the mechanism is Jewish. It requires a rigorous inherited intellectual tradition, a departure from it, and a partial reception elsewhere, and it would predict the same effect for a Jesuit who leaves the order for the academy or a Deobandi graduate who takes a doctorate in Islamic studies at a Western university.
The evidence was also never good. Veblen selected famous names and reasoned backward, which is how most claims of this shape get made. There is no control group in the essay and no measurement of anything.
What survives is the hypothesis, and hypotheses are tested one life at a time. This life says the tradition is the equipment, which Veblen saw and almost nobody else does. It says the leaving is optional, which he did not consider. It says the third place exists now, which he could not have known. And it says the tax is paid in recognition rather than in serenity.
A man who can read a page two ways will always be told by somebody that he is doing it wrong. He will be told this by people who can read it only one way, and he will notice that the two groups telling him do not talk to each other and would not know what to say if they did.
A Decent Burial
Moritz Steinschneider (1816-1907) catalogued Hebrew manuscripts for half a century and produced bibliographies that scholars still use. Gershom Scholem (1897-1982) reported a remark of his, passed along by a student, to the effect that the task remaining to Jewish scholarship was to give the remains of Judaism a decent burial.
Scholem used the line as a weapon. In an essay published in Hebrew in 1944 he accused the whole nineteenth-century enterprise of Wissenschaft des Judentums of performing a liquidation while calling it a science. Leopold Zunz (1794-1886), Abraham Geiger (1810-1874), Heinrich Graetz (1817-1891) and their colleagues had produced real philology, and had produced it, Scholem said, in the service of an apologetic. They were building a Judaism respectable enough to earn emancipation from Germans, which meant a Judaism that was rational, ethical, and safely finished. So they suppressed what did not fit. Kabbalah went out. Messianism went out. Sabbatianism was an embarrassment to be handled quickly. The tradition got trimmed into a corpse worth mourning, and the mourning got called research.
His counter-practice was to go straight at the material they had buried. He spent his life on the mystics, the antinomians, the false messiah and his theologians, and he insisted that the vitality of the tradition sat in exactly the places Wissenschaft had swept. He also entertained, in a letter to Salman Schocken (1877-1959) in 1937, the possibility that philology done at sufficient depth might turn into something other than philology, that the wall of history might thin.
Baruch Kurzweil (1907-1972) turned the charge back on him. Kurzweil argued that Scholem’s own historicism dissolved what it touched, that treating Sabbatianism as a creative force inside Judaism was nihilism dressed as scholarship, and that no amount of academic Jewish studies could stand in for a living faith. The historian who explains a tradition has already stepped outside it, and the explanation is the exit.
This is the argument academic Talmud walks into, and Barry Scott Wimpfheimer has an answer to it. The answer is worth stating because it is not the answer his side usually gives.
The usual defense of academic Talmud is that truth is good and the method is honest. That does not touch Scholem or Kurzweil, neither of whom disputed the honesty of the method. Their charge was about consequence. A tradition studied historically becomes a tradition with a history, and a tradition with a history is one that can be located, dated, relativized, and set down.
Wimpfheimer’s answer is empirical. More Jews study Talmud today than at any point in the two millennia the thing has existed. Most of them are traditionally observant. The daf yomi cycle has turned the text into a way of marking time for people who will never produce a novel reading. Women study it in numbers no previous century imagined. He calls this the Talmud’s golden old age, and was reluctant about the phrase, since nobody knows whether an old age is the final one.
Set that against Steinschneider’s burial and the arithmetic is unkind to the mortician. Whatever nineteenth-century scholarship was doing, the patient did not die. Whatever twentieth-century source criticism did, the patient acquired readers. Kurzweil’s prediction that historical study would empty the tradition has now had a century, and the trend went the other way.
The empirical answer is too easy, though, and Scholem’s charge was subtler than the count of students.
His accusation was that Wissenschaft domesticated. It made a Judaism suitable for presentation to outsiders by removing whatever would have alarmed them. The right question to ask about Wimpfheimer is therefore not whether the Talmud has readers. It is whether a Princeton trade book, a course built for thirty thousand strangers, and a three-register scheme perform the same domestication for a general readership that Zunz performed for the Prussians.
The answer is that he does the opposite, and does it by Scholem’s own move.
The emblematic register is a category built for the material a respectable account would exclude. The Christian disputants who prosecuted the Talmud in Paris in 1240. The antisemites who read it as a manual of depravity. The Korean digests. A television writer describing his writers’ room. The queer yeshiva in Chicago whose students learn the text in the original with a crowbar in hand. None of that is the Talmud as a Wissenschaft scholar would define it, and Wimpfheimer has said that he used to dismiss such things as not really the Talmud on the grounds that the people involved did not know it the way he knew it. His book is the record of him deciding that the dismissal was a mistake.
That is Scholem’s operation performed on reception rather than on mysticism. Go to the disreputable margin, take seriously what the field’s respectability rules exclude, and discover that the excluded material carries the tradition’s actual power.
Then there is the title of a talk he gave at Brandeis on January 28, 2008: “Saving the Study of Bavli from Wissenschaft and Daf Yomi.”
Scholem attacked one wall. Wimpfheimer attacked both in six words.
The Wissenschaft complaint is Scholem’s, updated. Source criticism that stops at establishing which stratum is which has answered a question about manufacture and left the text unread. The daf yomi complaint is the harder one and it goes at the traditional side. A page a day, in order, on schedule, is a ritual of traversal, and traversal is not reading. The man who has completed the cycle has done something real and it is not the same thing as having understood a sugya.
Wimpfheimer has made the corresponding charge about the yeshiva in plain terms. Some contemporary yeshivot, he has said, have become less intellectually creative because the institutional goal shifted from producing new Torah to producing disciplined members of a community.
Scholem could have written that sentence about the nineteenth century and pointed it the other way. It is the same accusation, that an institution has substituted a social product for an intellectual one, aimed by an academic at the traditionalists rather than by a traditionalist at the academics. Whether it is fair is a question about kollelim rather than about method, and it is the sharpest public thing Wimpfheimer has said.
The strongest reply to Scholem available inside this story does not come from Wimpfheimer at all. It comes from his teacher.
David Weiss Halivni built a theology in which text criticism is a religious act. His account holds that the received text of the Torah was corrupted during the period of Israel’s neglect and restored by Ezra, that the marks of that corruption remain, and that the labor of the Oral Law is the labor of recovery. He called the flaws in a Talmudic passage maculations, and hunted them for sixty years across the volumes of Meqorot u-Mesorot, revising the introduction to each volume because every new analysis forced him to reconsider the ones behind it. He also wrote a post-Holocaust theology in dialogue with Peter Ochs, and he was proud of it, and he was an Auschwitz survivor who had watched what a text could do for a man with nothing else.
That is philology as repair. Scholem wondered in 1937 whether philology pushed far enough might become something else. Halivni is the case where it did, and he did it in the discipline Scholem was accusing.
Where does this leave the argument?
Kurzweil’s side keeps its best point, and the yeshiva’s reaction in 2000 was a version of it. The method does relocate authority. Once you can say what a passage meant in its own century, the question of what it obligates today has been made separable from the question of what it said, and separable is halfway to optional. Nobody has refuted this. The counting of students does not touch it, because a growing readership can coexist with a tradition whose binding force is thinning, and the two would look identical from outside for a long time.
Scholem’s side keeps its warning about respectability, and it points at Wimpfheimer’s own institutional life more than at his scholarship. A man who lectures at the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance, at Conservative congregations, at the Schechter Institute, and with SVARA, who serves on community boards and judges book awards, is producing something the Jewish public wants, and the thing a public wants is rarely the thing that alarms it. That pressure is real and it operates without anyone intending it.
What Wimpfheimer has that neither Scholem nor Kurzweil had is a hundred years of results. They argued about what historical study would do to a living tradition. He can point at what it did. The tradition absorbed the method, subordinated it, and grew. The burial did not take, and the men who dug the grave turned out to have been describing their own moment rather than the patient’s.
Two Currencies
Pierre Bourdieu spent the late 1960s and 1970s collecting data on French professors and published Homo Academicus in 1984. The book maps the university as a space with two poles, and the finding that made it useful is that the poles pay in currencies that do not exchange.
At one pole sits temporal academic power. Committee seats. Control of appointments. Deanships and directorships. Editorship of the journals through which a discipline reproduces. Doctoral students whose careers you launch and who owe you. This is power over the corps and it accrues slowly, through time spent in rooms.
At the other sits scientific consecration, which is the recognition of peers for work. It is measured in citations, in reviews by people who matter, in being the man whose argument a field has to answer.
Bourdieu added a third holding, intellectual renown, meaning recognition from outside the field. The trade book. The lecture circuit. The press.
The finding is that these three convert badly, and that two of them are negatively valued at the pole that governs promotion. Temporal power is built out of hours, and every hour in a committee is an hour not spent producing. External renown is read by peers as a sign that a man is addressing the wrong audience. Bourdieu’s professors did not choose one currency in a deliberate way. They followed a feel for the game, and the feel led them into portfolios they could not liquidate.
Barry Scott Wimpfheimer has been an associate professor at Northwestern since 2013. That fact wants an account and Bourdieu supplies one without requiring any guess about persons.
Set out the portfolio.
Temporal power. Director of the Crown Family Center for Jewish and Israel Studies from 2012 to 2016, which carried with it the directorship of the Jewish Studies program, the graduate cluster, and a seat on the Holocaust Education Foundation board. Chair of the Department of Religious Studies. Director of undergraduate studies twice. Chair of the search committee for the Israel Studies postdoc four years running and for the Israel Studies assistant professorship. Member of the college ad hoc tenure committee. Candidate for the college committee on tenure in 2017. Co-editor-in-chief of Prooftexts since 2017 after twelve years as associate editor. Seven doctoral students advised, including three outside his own department and two at other universities. Jury service for the American Academy of Religion book award for four years and for the National Jewish Book Award.
That is a heavy holding. Bourdieu’s point is that each line is time, and the time comes out of the same account that pays for books.
Intellectual renown. The Talmud: A Biography on Princeton’s general list, which won the National Jewish Book Award in Education and Identity in 2018. A Coursera course that has enrolled tens of thousands. Coverage in Tablet, the Times of Israel, the Chicago Tribune, the Jerusalem Post. A synagogue and community circuit running across Orthodox, Conservative, and unaffiliated rooms in Chicago, New York, Washington, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Jerusalem.
Also heavy.
Scientific consecration. Two monographs. A featured review of the first by Steven Fraade in AJS Review, which called it original and valuable and then raised two objections. A response to Boyarin in JQR in 2011. A chapter in the Boyarin festschrift, a chapter in an Oxford volume on crime in law and literature, an article in JQR in 2023, and a festschrift chapter in 2024.
Respectable, and thin across the middle years, which are the years the other two columns fill.
Bourdieu’s model explains the sequence and not only the totals.
In 2011 and 2012 Wimpfheimer held three fellowship offers at once. The Alice Kaplan Institute at Northwestern, the Tikvah Center for Law and Jewish Civilization at NYU Law, and the Frankel Institute for Advanced Judaic Studies at Michigan. He took the local one and declined the two that would have moved him. In the autumn of 2012 he became director of the center.
Those are the years immediately after tenure, which in Bourdieu’s terms is the window when the scientific clock is running fastest and the temporal clock has barely started. A year at the Frankel Institute buys research time and national visibility among peers. A directorship buys control of appointments, a budget, donor relations, and a graduate cluster. He took the second, and the book he produced during those years was the one for the general list.
None of this needs to have been a calculation. Bourdieu’s whole point about the feel for the game is that agents make the move the position makes available and describe it afterward as an opportunity that came along. A small field asks the person who can do the work to do it. Somebody has to run the center or the center closes.
Two qualifications the frame requires.
Bourdieu was describing a national system with centralized reproduction, concours, and a small number of consecrating bodies. American departments differ, and religious studies is a small field where one person may have to be the whole infrastructure. The negative valuation of administrative work is weaker in the United States than in the France Bourdieu measured, and the negative valuation of trade publishing varies by field.
And the model says nothing about the quality of anyone’s work. It describes the currencies a field pays in and the rate at which they exchange. A man may write the best book of his generation and hold whatever rank the local committee assigns.
Here is where the case corrects Bourdieu rather than illustrating him.
His scheme treats external renown as a devalued currency, the mark of the man who could not win his peers and went looking for an audience. That valuation assumes a field whose existence is guaranteed by the state and whose funding does not depend on public affection.
Jewish Studies is not that field. Northwestern’s center is called the Crown Family Center because a family paid for it. The chairs, the postdocs, the lecture series, the Israel Studies line, the Holocaust Education Foundation, all of it rests on donors who are moved by the sense that the work matters to a community. The Jewish Book Council award is not a peer honor in Bourdieu’s sense and it is a real signal to exactly the people who write the checks.
So the renown currency, which the model marks down, is the currency that keeps the local field solvent. A man who gives thirty thousand people a course on the Talmud and writes a book a donor’s cousin can finish on a plane is producing the conditions under which the department exists. He is doing it in a currency the tenure committee does not weigh, and the department that would not exist without work of that kind is staffed by people whose promotion turns on work of a different kind.
Bourdieu would have enjoyed the structure. A field that depends for its material existence on a form of capital it declines to recognize will produce people who hold a great deal of the wrong money.
The last thing the frame is good for is negative.
It removes the need to speculate. Nothing in the public record says why any promotion did or did not happen at Northwestern, and I have no view about it. What the record shows is a distribution: heavy in temporal power, heavy in renown, moderate in the currency that governs advancement, and a decade in which the first two grew while the third did not.
That distribution has a name in Bourdieu and it is not failure. It is a portfolio, assembled one reasonable decision at a time by a man doing what his position asked of him, denominated in the wrong currency for the one exchange that counts.