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PDF FormatWhen she arrives at the beit midrash, the rabbi questions her motives: “Perhaps you have set your eyes on one of the students?” The rabbi fears that the prostitute has been driven by her sexual appetite, but her note reveals that her heart is fixed on the student, and not her eyes. The rabbi turns to the student and commands him, “Arise! Take possession of what you have purchased.” Significantly, these words not only affirm the newly transformed relationship between the characters, but also change the symbolic meaning of the various material objects mentioned in the story. The four hundred gold coins given to the prostitute by the student, for example, (“despised money” according to Jewish law),7 undergo a conversion of their own, as her “fee” now becomes her dowry. Her bedclothes also become her wedding truss: “The beddings which she spread for you while prohibited to you, she will spread out for you with full permission.” Finally the sheets and blankets that once accommodated paying customers now become the foundation of a household governed according to the laws of Moses.
The distinctiveness of this story’s conception of repentance and the relationship between the baal tshuva’s past, present, and future becomes clear when we compare it to the following Christian story that originated among circles of Egyptian monks during the fourth or fifth century C.E.:
There was a certain harlot called Thaïs and she was so beautiful that many for her sake sold all that they had and reduced themselves to utter poverty; quarrels arose among her lovers, and often the doorstep of this girl’s house was soaked in the blood of young men. When Abba Paphnutius heard about it, he put on normal clothes and went to see her in a certain city in Egypt. He handed her a silver piece as the price for committing sin. She accepted the price and said, “Let us go inside.” When he went in, he sat down on the bed which was draped with precious covers and he invited her, saying, “If there is a more private chamber, let us go in there.” She said, “There is one, but if it is people you are afraid of, no one ever enters this room, except, of course, for God, for there is no place that is hidden from the eyes of divinity.” When the old man heard this, he said to her, “So you know there is a God?” She answered him, “I know about God and about the eternal kingdom and also about the future torments of sinners.” “But if you know this,” he said, “why are you causing the loss of so many souls so that you will be condemned to render an account not only of your own sins but of theirs as well?” When Thaïs heard this, she threw herself at the feet of Paphnutius and begged him with tears, “Give me a penance, Father, for I trust to find forgiveness by your prayers. I beg you to wait for just three hours, and after that, wherever you tell me to go, I will go, and whatever you tell me to do, I will do it.” So Paphnutius arranged a meeting place with her and she went out and collected together all the goods that she had received by her sins and piled them all together in the middle of the city, while all the people watched, saying, “Come here, all of you that have sinned with me, and see how I am burning whatever you gave me.”When it was all consumed, she went to the place that the Father had arranged with her. Then he sought out a monastery of virgins and took her into a small cell, sealing the door with lead and leaving only a small opening through which food could be passed to her and he ordered her to be given daily a little bread and a little water by the sisters of the monastery. When Thaïs realized that that the door was sealed with lead, she said to him, “Father, where do you want me to urinate?” and he replied, “in the cell, as you deserve.” Then she asked him how she should pray to God, and he said to her, “You are not worthy to name God, or to take his divine name upon your lips, or to lift up your hands to heaven, for your lips are full of sin and your hands are stained with iniquity; only stand facing toward the east and repeat often only this: “You who made me, have mercy upon me.”8
It is hard to ignore the resemblance between this early Christian legend and the Jewish midrash. Both describe a pious man leaving his home to meet a prostitute; in both cases, the meeting results in a dialogue regarding the tenets of faith and the moral order; and in each tale, at the behest of the pious man, the prostitute abandons her life of sin, discards her property, and enters the world of religion.
And yet, the similarities between the two stories only serve to emphasize their profoundly different approaches to repentance. The first and most remarkable difference is one of motive. The Christian saint is moved to visit the prostitute by his faith, his sense of morality, and his interest in preventing bloodshed among young men. The Jewish student, on the other hand, is motivated by simple lust. The Christian legend contrasts a perfect saint (the pious Father Paphnutius) with a perfect sinner (the prostitute), whereas in the midrash, neither of the heroes exemplifies perfection—they both sin, they both repent, and they both receive their just rewards.
The critical difference between the midrash and the Christian legend, however, is demonstrated by the type of conversion each of the two prostitutes undergoes. In the midrash, the female protagonist undertakes her actions independently—the student does not attempt to convince her, nor does she require his convincing. She is promised neither marriage nor redemption, but rather undertakes both of her own accord. In the Christian story, by contrast, the prostitute entrusts herself completely to the priest, pledging to follow his will to the letter. Other Christian stories repeat this motif: A sinning woman obeys her redeemer unquestioningly out of fear that, left to herself, she will be overwhelmed by her own appetites.9 Indeed, there is only one point at which the harlot Thaïs acts as an autonomous subject: She chooses to burn all her property in the town square.10 Yet here again, the apparent similarity between the two narratives belies a critical difference: While the Egyptian prostitute attempts to destroy the spoils of the world of sin completely, the prostitute of the Jewish story brings her belongings—the bedclothes and her remaining money—with her to the beit midrash.
Finally, the Jewish and Christian stories diverge dramatically in their descriptions of the way in which the penitent women are integrated into religious society. Thaïs is isolated from the virgins of the monastery as though her sin were a contagious disease. The Jewish convert, by contrast, is accepted as an equal member in the community. She is not asked to demonstrate remorse or acknowledge her guilt. The newborn Christian is sentenced to a life of mortification and suppressed desire, but the Jewish convert returns to the bedroom—this time with her new husband. To be fair, in the continuation of the Christian story, Thaïs is also rewarded with her own wedding bed. Yet this reward appears in a climactic, mystical vision as she lies dying, and the groom is God himself. Thaïs’ longed-for “conversion” is achieved only upon her death, which itself brings an end to her three-year trauma of physical and psychological torture in a sealed cell.11
Clearly, these narratives represent two entirely different concepts of sin and repentance. According to early Christian theology, no one is completely innocent; even babies are born tainted by original sin. More-over, memories of one’s sins forever haunt the regretful offender, and past transgressions sentence one to a life of obsessive self-oppression. Crucially, the believer is powerless to redeem himself—help can come only through an external savior. Finally, Thaïs’ imprisonment is a powerful symbolic expression of the penitent’s existential condition. The walls of her cell cut her off from the past and guard against the temptation to return to deviance. Moreover, they also separate her from the rest of society. At the end of the rehabilitation process, the immoral Thaïs does indeed become pure, but only after she has destroyed her previous self. Like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes, the birth of the Christian believer follows from the annihilation of the sinner. The new shoot flourishes only after the old tree is felled.
The midrash presents a very different picture of sin and repentance. Sin, according to Judaism, is a human error and is therefore within human power to rectify. Society’s acceptance of the baal tshuva depends upon those actions that he commits of his own free will. For example, if he has indeed regretted his transgressions, society does not treat him as a dangerous person to be avoided or a despicable creature to be shunned. Rather, it offers him an opportunity to find a new place within the community.
