Originally published in Modern Judaism 5.1 (Feb. 1985): 95-104.
A major theme in Scholem’s writings on Hasidism is the relationship between Hasidic thought and Kabbalah. All the early Hasidic works use Kabbalistic terms and vocabulary, the Hasidic masters undoubtedly believing in the Kabbalah as revealed truth. Yet Hasidism is not simply a later development of Kabbalism in the way, for instance, the Lurianic Kabbalah is a development of the Zoharic. Hasidism has all the indications of being a new mystical movement, using the Kabbalah as the basis of its thinking but differing from it in important, though hard to detect, ways.
Scholem sees the originality of Hasidic teaching in its application of the Kabbalistic mysteries to the inner life of man, to his psychological processes in the concrete world of the here and now. In Hasidism there is far less concern with the operations of the Sefirotic realms on high than with their effect on the spiritual life of man on earth. The doctrine of the Lurianic Kabbalah that there are ‘holy sparks’ everywhere clamoring to be rescued from the kelipot, the husks or shells representing the demonic side of existence, is understood in Hasidism to imply the need for man to be constantly engaged in the physical world in a spirit of consecration. The Hasid is expected to occupy himself in worldly matters as a means to the true end of human activity, the reclaiming of the ‘holy sparks’ and their elevation to the sphere of holiness. This is the reason for the strong opposition in Hasidism to asceticism (although Hasidic masters like Elimelech of Lizensk, still under the influence of the Lurianic Kabbalah, were ascetics). The typical Hasidic idea of avodah begashmiyut, ‘the worship of God through engagement in the physical,’ means precisely this. That when eating and drinking, when performing the conjugal act and engaging in business, the Hasid should perform yihudim, ‘unifications’, i.e., the various combinations of the divine names which provide the essential vitality without which there could be no created, finite universe.
In Hasidic legend, (2) when the Magid of Meseritch, who had heard of the fame of the Baal Shem Tov, visits the master, he is disappointed by what appears to be pointless conversation about horses, unaware that in what seems to be mere frivolous conduct the Baal Shem Tov is really carrying out yihudim. It is only when the Baal Shem Tov demonstrates this by making the angels referred to in a difficult Kabbalistic text actually appear that the Magid is mollified to become an ardent follower of the Hasidic way. Scholem does not refer to this, but it might be noted that the Hasidic fondness for tobacco, especially by the Zadikim, is based on the same idea. There are extremely subtle ‘sparks’, so refined that they can only find residence in an ethereal substance like the smoke which ascends when the Zadik smokes his pipe.
Let us begin our review of the various elements in Scholem’s study of Hasidism with a brief consideration of his polemical exchange with Martin Buber on this subject. Where Scholem takes issue with Buber’s reconstruction of Hasidism is over the understanding of the Hasidic idea of meeting God in the concrete circumstances of this world. For Buber, the Hasidim are giving expression to the idea he has so successfully expounded, the I-Thou relationship. When man enjoys worldly things as gifts from God, when he acknowledges his Creator who has brought these things into being, his ‘I’ meets the divine ‘Thou’. It is well-known that Buber moved in his thought from an original mystical approach to his existentialist attitude, diametrically opposed to the mystical loss of selfhood. For the mystic the ‘I’ is dissolved in the ‘Thou’ or, at least, that is the ultimate aim of the mystic, whereas for Buber, in his later thought, the I must retain its full identity for the life of dialogue to be possible.
Buber uses very skillfully the Hasidic tales and legends, in which the Zadikim enjoy the world while having God in mind, to further his own philosophy. In the process he is really giving a new interpretation of the stories (as Scholem admits, in a most persuasive style) until it is realized, as Scholem is at pains to point out, that the stories are based on Hasidic doctrine, on the Torah of the Zadikim; a doctrine essentially different from Buber’s I-Thou. The doctrine is mystical, not existentialist. It is all very well for Buber to claim the right to be selective in his use of Hasidic material. Nor does Scholem necessarily deny the value of Buber’s thought in its own right. What Buber is not entitled to do is to read his ideas into the Hasidic tales since the tales are based on the doctrine and were told to illustrate that doctrine.
The kind of selectivity Buber indulges in, as Scholem remarks, is rather like an attempted reconstruction of Sufism from the fine sayings of the Sufis or, better, the drawing out of Catholic theological doctrines from the tales of the Christian saints. Sufism and Catholicism both have a Gnosis of which the tales of the saints are the expression. By the same token, the Kabbalistic Gnosis, in which Buber in his later period had no interest, is at the heart of Hasidic doctrine, albeit extended in line with the fresh Hasidic emphases. Scholem is surely correct in calling attention to the inescapable fact that Hasidism constantly stresses bitul ha-yesh, ‘self-annihilation’ (there could hardly be a more emphatic rejection of Buber’s I-Thou) and ultimate loss of the world. Engagement in worldly things in the here and now is basic to Hasidism but only as the unavoidable means for meeting the divine sparks which reside there waiting to be reclaimed by holy living. The end of the meeting is, as it were, its total transcendence.
Take the legend, quoted frequently in Hasidic writings, of Enoch the cobbler who performed unifications when he stitched the upper part to the lower part of the shoes he made or repaired. (3) In Buber’s understanding of this legend, Enoch’s unifications were not achieved through his dwelling on the upper worlds while repairing his shoes. The very act of shoe-repairing, carried out by Enoch with a sense of vocation and not simply in order to earn a living, was itself the unification because in it Enoch, as Buber would say, had an I-Thou relationship with his shoes and his customers through which he met the divine Thou in dialogue. The Hasidim, on the other hand, while agreeing that Enoch pursued a worthy occupation (not alone because the world needs cobblers but because there are ‘holy sparks’ waiting to be rescued in the shoes and in the leather), had as their ultimate aim the mystical one of penetrating to the divine essence. They sought the state of oblivion so far as the world is concerned. At the stage when this mystical state is attained there is only the divine Thou, no shoes, no leather, no customers and no Enoch!
Or take Zangwill’s essay ‘The Master of the Name’ in his Dreamers of the Ghetto. (4) Zangwill, before Buher but as a literary man rather than a philosopher or scholar (it is in the area of scholarship that Scholem finds fault with Buber), tells the tale of a youthful disciple for whom the Baal Shem Tov acts as coachman. The Baal Shem Tov, to the consternation of his companion, stops the wagon he is driving in order to admire a pretty girl who is passing. He explains that, after all, it is God who has created beauty so that one who admires the beauty of women, provided there are no lustful thoughts, is really admiring the Source of all beauty. Buber would presumably agree. The I of the coachman meets the Thou of the girl or rather the Thou of the girl’s beauty and this, in itself, is to have an encounter with the eternal Thou behind all created things. In actual Hasidic life, and according to the Hasidic doctrine, the saint who is suddenly presented with a vision of feminine pulchritude would immediately avert his gaze. But he would ask himself why God had brought it about that he inadvertently sees the girl and he would conclude that it is a reminder to him to elevate the pure thought of beauty to the Sefirah Tiferet. As soon as he possibly can, the saint is obliged to avoid all reflection on the beauty of the girl, directing his mind in wonder to contemplate on the divine vitality and splendour of which all beauty on earth is no more than an extremely pale manifestation.
This is the basis of the early Hasidic idea of elevating ‘strange thoughts’ (later abandoned as spiritually dangerous except for very few Zadikim like Yitzhak Eizik of Komarno). As Mordecai Wilensky has shown in his anthology of Mitnagedic polemics, (5) the Mitnagedim were shocked at the practice of the Hasidim when their prayers were invaded by ‘strange thoughts’ of women or pride or idolatry. (This latter probably means that the Hasid suddenly found the notion entering his head that there might be some truth in Christianity). The Hasidim did not seek to push the ‘strange thoughts’ out of their consciousness but, rather, began to reflect on the divine source of each, the thought being seen as sent by God for that express purpose. The elevation of the ‘strange thoughts’ was effected by the removal of the ‘strangeness’ from the thoughts by attaching them in the mind to the pure worlds on high where there is nothing material and no estrangement from God. Buber, if one understands his philosophy correctly, would not see the thoughts as ‘strange’ at all since it is through them that man’s I can meet the Thou behind them. Scholem and his pupils, notably J.G. Weiss and Rivkah Schatz, have shown how all this is repeated again and again in the Hasidic Torah, without an understanding of which it is quite impossible to grasp the meaning of Hasidism, as Buber seeks to do.
Related, though independent of his critique of Buber, is Scholem’s attention to the theme of devekut in Hasidism. In his famous essay on devekut, (6) Scholem describes how this ideal of constantly being with God in the mind is developed in Hasidism. Worldly things are no longer seen as hindrances but as essential means for the attainment of this state. For mediaeval thinkers like Nahmanides devekut, attachment to God, can be achieved in spite of worldly concerns. The Hasidim taught that it should be achieved through worldly concerns. Moreover, for Nahmanides and Maimonides devekut is a rare state of mind, fully possible only for the very few, extraordinary holy men. Hasidism made devekut an ideal for all, though there is an ebb and flow in the life of devekut. In later Hasidic thought, too, the ordinary Hasid can only approximate the ideal and even then only through attachment to the Zaddik whose mind is on God. This kind of attachment is totally different from Buber’s I-Thou relationship. Scholem stops short of describing it as being absorbed in God or of total loss of selfhood in God but it comes very close to the unio mystica.
Precisely because of his recognition of devekut as the Hasidic aim par excellence, one to which all else is subordinate, Scholem is closer to another contention of Buber against that of Tishby and Dinur. (7) This concerns the role of Messianism in Hasidism. Scholem holds that Buber has gone too far in speaking of the liquidation of the Messianic doctrine in Hasidism but, he maintains, Dinur and Tishby go too far in the opposite direction when they detect Messianic fervour in the forefront of the Hasidic emphases. Scholem prefers to speak of the neutralization of the Messianic element in Hasidism. The Hasidim were completely Orthodox in upholding this basic principle of the Jewish faith and like other Jews hoped for the coming of the Messiah. The hope featured with the greatest prominence in their prayers, which were, after all, the standard Jewish prayers. Nevertheless, Scholem argues, their belief in the coming of the Messiah did not provide for the Hasidim their chief motivation in their religious life.
Without, perhaps, realising it on the conscious level, the Hasidim so reinterpreted the Lurianic doctrine of the ‘holy sparks’ in the light of their devekut ideal that the tikkun (perfection) referred to repeatedly in the Lurianic scheme was no longer that of the world as a whole, at least not primarily, but of the individual soul. For Luria each individual has his own ‘spark’ of Adam’s soul and consequently his own soul-root. In addition there are the ‘sparks’ scattered in creation. Thus each individual has his own task to perform but the ‘sparks’ of divinity he reclaims in creation are not directly connected with the ‘sparks’ in the individual soul. The reclaiming of the ‘holy sparks’ in creation is a group process, a task for all to engage in and eschatalogical in nature. When all the ‘holy sparks’ have been reclaimed, the tikkun will have been completed and the Messianic age will dawn. Hasidism introduced the novel idea that the ‘sparks’ of divinity in creation also belong in some way to the other ‘sparks’ in the individual’s soul-root, with the consequence that each individual is required to reclaim in particular those ‘sparks’ in creation which call, as it were, for him and no other to rescue. Furthermore. the main aim of the rescue is for the individual soul to become attached to the ‘holy sparks’ in creation he has reclaimed. Thus the ultimate aim of the rescue of the ‘sparks’ is personal devekut, with the general tikkun of the world taking second place, though not, of course, denied.
The divergence between Scholem’s views and those of Dinur and Tishby would not appear to be particularly strong. For one thing, Scholem admits that he is speaking only of the early Hasidim until around the end of the 18th century. After that time, in the circle of the Seer of Lublin, mighty efforts were made to bring the Messiah, to hasten his coming by the performance of yihudim. Again, as we have seen, Scholem does not deny that the Hasidim did hope fervently for the coming of the Messiah. What is really at issue, then, is the matter of emphasis, and here Scholem seems to be correct. Apart from Scholem’s analysis of Hasidic reinterpretation of the ‘holy sparks’ doctrine, where devekut is the aim of the religious life, it is hard to see why this aim has to wait on the Messiah for its realization. Devekut is both possible and desirable, the Hasidim taught, in the unredeemed world, even though, the Hasidim would have maintained that it will be more capable of realization in the Messianic age and will then be of a far more permanent nature.
Scholem might also have elaborated on the idea that Messianism as a group phenomenon is, in a way, opposed to an interpretation of the religious life in terms of self-perfection and individual spiritual advancement. It is revealing to see how Maimonides, (8) for instance, because of the powerful individualistic thrust of his thought, is hard put to explain why the coming of the Messiah should be necessary at all: why, in other words, a state of national restoration in this world should be required since the ultimate aim of the religious life is for the soul to enjoy God for ever in the World to Come, which, for Maimonides, is the blissful state of the soul after the death of the body. If, in Keats’s expressive phrase, this world is a ‘vale of soul-making’ what need is there for a relocation of the vale? Messianism is a matter of time and for the future whereas devekut belongs to eternity and the attempt to achieve it belongs to the present.
Scholem takes issue with Tishby who maintains that the vision of the Baal Shem Tov, in which he saw (in his ascent of soul) the Messiah, demonstrates the high degree of the Messianic idea in early Hasidic thought. (9) The vision is recorded in the famous letter by the Baal Shem Tov to his brother-in-law, Gershom of Kutov. The Messiah assures the Baal Shem Tov that when his teachings will have spread abroad the Messianic age will dawn. On the contrary, Scholem retorts, the record of the vision shows the opposite to be true, the Baal Shem Tov expressing his alarm at how long it will take before the Messiah will come. In the relevant text of the letter published in 1781, at the end of the book Ben Porat Yosef by Jacob Joseph of Polnoye, the Messiah’s reply to the Baal Shem Tov’s question: ‘When will the Master come?’ reads (in Scholem’s translation): ‘By this you shall know it: when your doctrine will be widely known and revealed throughout the world and what I taught you will be divulged outwards from your own resources. And they too will be able to perform acts of meditative unification and ascents like you. And then all the “husks” will perish and the time of salvation will have come. And I was bewildered because of this answer and I was greatly aggrieved by the enormous length of time until this would be possible’. Scholem suggests this can only mean that Messianism as a driving power and immediate hope can no longer be reckoned with. The coming of the Messiah is relegated to a distant future.
Incidentally, Scholem and Tishby, as well as other scholars, all accept the letter printed by Jacob Joseph as completely authentic. Some years ago I wrote to Scholem expressing my doubts but he would have nothing to do with such a suggestion, roundly declaring that there is not the slightest doubt that the Letter was written by the Baal Shem Tov himself, even if the claim is rejected that there is still in existence the original Letter in the Baal Shem Tov’s own handwriting! Bowing to Scholem’s great expertise, I translated the Letter as an authentic missive of the Baal Shem Tov in my Jewish Mystical Testimonies. Now I am not so sure. Is it not curious that just at a time when the Hasidic movement was under fierce attack, the Letter should suddenly appear with a message from none other than the Messiah to guarantee the success of the movement? The Letter is presented by R. Jacob Joseph’s son-in-law, the editor of Ben Porat Yosef, at the end of the book, ‘for the purpose of bringing merit to the public’. Why did R. Jacob Joseph have to wait for his son-in-law to publish the Letter in such a casual way? When I took this up with Scholem he replied that R. Jacob Joseph was a very old man at the time, but does this not make it even more suspect? If R. Jacob Joseph really had in his possession a letter of the Baal Shem Tov, how can it be explained that in his Toledot Yaakov Yosef, where he quotes every stray saying of the master, there is not even a hint of the existence of this Letter and not a single reference to its contents? Not that this affects Scholem’s argument or, for that matter, Tishby’s. There is no doubt that the Letter did appear in the Ben Porat Yosef in 1781 so that, whoever compiled it, it is an authentic document of Hasidism and was universally accepted as authentic by the later masters, including the grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, Ephraim of Sudlikov. (10)
Scholem’s main scholarly interest so far as Hasidism is concerned was with the movement’s earlier manifestations. It would seem that he believed the later writings of the Hasidic masters were basically unoriginal repetitions of the themes treated extensively by the early masters, apart from the fact that having paved the way with his customary, painstaking thoroughness he left the study of other varieties of Hasidic thought to his disciples, among whom every serious student must be counted. Of the systematization of Hasidic thought in the Habad movement Scholem has virtually nothing to say, beyond noting the personal testimony of Dov Baer of Lubavitch (and then not in the context of Hasidism but of personal mystical experience) (11) and the acosmism of Aaron of Starosselje, the disciple of R. Shneur Zalman of Liady. (12) He also calls attention to the neglected but highly interesting acosmic novel by Fischel Schneursohn. (13) In this connection he appears to have held that early Hasidism was not, in fact, acosmic; devekut involving no loss of selfhood, although it is still far removed from Buber’s I-Thou relationship. I have tried to argue (14) that Habad acosmism or panenthism is only an elaboration in more systematic form of ideas already found in the earliest stages of the movement. Scholem himself admits that the early masters were panentheists, (15) believing that all is in God. What the Habad thinkers tried to do was to explore in a more radical way the implication of the theory that all is in God though it is true that it is not until Habad thought that a distinction is drawn between our point of view, where there is a finite universe with real creatures in it, and God’s point of view, where there is neither a world nor creatures. Whether such a distinction is logically meaningful is a matter for discussion by linguistic analysts.
Scholem’s discussion of how Hasidism uses the Lurianic Kabbalah for its own purposes is very profound and convincing. It was left to others to show that in some varieties of early Hasidism the whole of the Kabbalistic scheme is virtually ignored entirely, though none of the Hasidic masters ever doubted that Luria was inspired. In a remarkable passage (16) from the writings of Menachem Mendel of Premislani (b. 1728) the term nistar, the traditional name for the Kabbalah, meaning a ‘secret’, is said to refer to personal religious experience. Scholem has argued that Hasidism is not, as Buber would have it, a purely emotional response. Hasidism, like the Kabbalah, has its gnosis. This is undoubtedly true of many early Zadikim but, in the passage by Menachem Mendel of Premislani and in the work by Meshullam Phoebus of Zbarazh in which it is quoted, the gnosis of the Kabbalah, that which is in the sacred books, belongs to revealed knowledgeï¿½nigleh. The books are available for all to study. If a man is incapable of reading the books, for such a man, Menachem Mendel ironically remarks, Gemara and Tosafists are a mystery as well as the books of the Kabbalah. Nistar, the secret, is not hidden knowledge, not a gnosis, in Scholem’s words, but is the intimate, personal experience of the Hasid who meets his God. It is called nistar since that is the nature of every personal experience. It is a secret for the one who has it and cannot be communicated to others.
Scholem has noted (17) how the ideal of devekut had its effect on Hasidic attitudes to the traditional high value of Torah study. It is not only that prayer, the activity in which devekut can especially be attained, now occupies a higher rung in the ladder of Jewish piety than Torah study, a radical reversal of the traditional view, but the study of the Torah has itself undergone a complete transformation. Torah study, at least in early Hasidism, involves attachment to the spiritual light inherent in the letters of the Torah and is a devotional rather than an intellectual exercise. Torah lishmah, ‘Torah for its own sake’, means, in Hasidism, ‘for the sake of God’ whereas, as R. Hayvim of Volozhyn is at pains to point out, (18) for the Mitnagedim it means for the sake of the Torah and this obviously was the traditional understanding of the matter. Scholem is right in saying that there is a real contradiction between the two concepts. It is hardly possible to know and fully grasp, say, the complicated Talmudic debates if the student has his mind not on the subject matter itself but uses this only as an opportunity for a more intense communication with the divine.
It was for this reason that the early Hasidim came down so heavily on the study of the Torah she-lo lishmah, with ulterior motives. Where the aim, as for the Mitnagedim, is to study the Torah in the traditional sense, it is quite possible to engage in such study even though the motive may leave much to be desired. The study of the Torah she-lo lishmah is still study of the Torah only it is with the wrong motivation. When, for example, a scholar studies the Torah in order to win for himself a reputation as a learned man, his motive is far from the ideal but he has, after all, studied the Torah and has carried out this religious obligation. It is the motive that is faulty not the deed itself. But if, as the Hasidim understand the matter, the very meaning of Torah study is an exercise in devekut, of attachment to God, then where there is an ulterior motive there is no devekut and the study is not study at all from the Hasidic point of view. Paradoxically, the Mitnagedic argument was that the Hasidim did not study the Torah precisely because of their understanding of the obligation in terms of devekut. The scholar who studied she-lo lishmah at least mastered his subject and had actually studied. The Hasidim who studied lishmah, in their sense of devekut, could never master the subject and all they were left with was the lishmah without the study.
Scholem steadfastly refused to recognise any influence on Hasidism from without. He briskly dismisses (19) Torsten Ysander’s attempt to find parallels to Hasidism in the Russian Church and is even more scathing (20) of Yaffa Eliach’s suggestion that Hasidic customs as well as the substance of Hasidic teaching came originally from the Russian sect of the Khlysti, a contention which, as Scholem says, is a deplorable example of scholarly irresponsibility, leaving the reader wondering about the state of Jewish studies. He could see no evidence at all for such hypotheses. His strict canons of historical investigation made him eschew what he considered to be mere guesswork. I once asked him how he understood the remarkable parallels which clearly exist between Hasidism and other 18th-century revivalist movements and he replied: who can explain the mysterious workings of the Zeitgeist? In other words, the parallels are certainly there but there is not the slightest case for any direct influence. Scholem preferred to study Hasidism as a development within Judaism, though, from within, he did acknowledge, and was one of the first scholars to do so, the strong influence of Sabbatianism on Hasidic thought and practices.
Scholem had little to say on some aspects of Hasidic life. He was heard to remark that a study of Hasidic liturgical innovations is likely to prove fruitful but he himself never explored this field. He is similarly unforthcoming on such matters as Hasidic discipleship; dynasties of Hasidic masters; the kvittel and the pidyon nefesh; shirayim; the way the Hasidic Torah was composed and transmitted; the Hasidic garb; the Hasidic dance and the role of melody in Hasidic life. Scholem barely touched on the topics treated by Wertheim in his Halakhot vehalikhot behasidut. (22) Scholem did so much so well but no man can do everything, not even a Scholem.
LEO BAECK COLLEGE
- ‘Martin Buber’s Interpretation of Hasidism’ in Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism And Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York, 1971), pp. 228-250, especially p. 232. On the issue between Scholem and Buber in this matter see Rivkah Schatz-Uffenheimer, ‘Man’s Relation to God and the World in Buber’s Rendering of the Hasidic Teaching’ in The Philosophy of Martin Buber edited by Paul Arthur Schilpp and Maurice Friedman (La Salle, 1967), pp. 403-434 and Buber’s rejoinder on pp. 731-711.
- Keter Shem Tov (Jerusalem, 1968), pp. 107-8.
- See G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (London, 1955), pp. 365-6, note 101 for the source of this legend. It is not clear why Scholem calls the legend ‘scurrilous’.
- Israel Zangwill, Dreamers of the Ghetto (Philadelphia, 1943), pp. 221-285.
- Mordecai Wilensky, Hasidim umitnagedim (Jerusalem, 1970).
- ‘Devekut, Or Communion With God’, in The Messianic Idea, pp. 203-227.
- See Scholem, ‘The Neutralization of the Messianic Element in Early Hasidism’, in The Messianic Idea, pp. 176-202.
- See the concluding passage of Maimonides’ Yad (Melakhim 12: 4-5).
- The Letter of the Baal Shem Tov was published some twenty years after his death at the end of R. Jacob Joseph’s Ben Porat Yosef (Koretz, 1781). For this Letter see M.S. Bauminger in Sefer Margaliot (Memorial Volume for Reuben Margaliot) (Jerusalem, 1973), pp. 153-174 and A. Rubinstein’s critique in the same volume, pp. 175-188. Cf. my translation of the Letter with notes in Louis Jacobs (ed.), Jewish Mystical Testimonies (New York, 1977), pp. 148-155.
- Moses Hayyim Ephraim of Sudlikov, Degel Mahanei Efraim (Jerusalem, 1962), Beshalah, beg., p. 101.
- In the chapter on Abulafia in Major Trends, p. 121.
- Major Trends, p. 123.
- Major Trends, p. 123.
- See the chapter on Habad in my Seeker of Unity (New York, 1966), pp. 64-76, and Rachel Elior, Torat ha’elohut hador sheni shel hasidut habad (Jerusalem, 1982).
- The Messianic Idea, pp. 223-227.
- sher Divrei Emet by Meshullam Phoebus Heller of Zbarazh (Munkacs, 1905), Kunteros 1, No. 22.
- The Messianic Idea, p. 215.
- R. Hayim’s Nefesh hahayim is devoted to this theme. See Norman Lamm, Torah Lishmah (Jerusalem, 1972).
- Mayor Trends, p. 340 and p. 423 note 27.
- The Messianic Idea, p. 362 note 37.
- See, e.g., The Messianic Idea, pp. 196-202.
- Aaron Wertheim, Halakhot vehalikhot bahasidut (Jerusalem, 1960).