I love magic. I love teaching about magic, I love learning about magic, I even fantasise about doing magic – I’m still waiting for my Hogwarts letter. I devour fantasy novels. Give me the dragons, give me the fairies, give me the witches, give me the demons, give me the potions, the magic wands. I did my third-year rabbinic literature research project on magic in Jewish tradition, and I’ve gone on to teach multiple shiurim inspired by this project. Magic is inherently interesting to me. So, I was surprised when I was asked by a student, “Why are we even learning this?” My gut reaction was: of course we are, it’s cool! But why is it cool? Not everyone is as fascinated by rabbis harvesting cucumbers with magical spells as I am (but if you are, check out Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 68a). And it got me thinking: why is it actually important to bring magic into contemporary Jewish discourse, even for those of us who aren’t running to the fantasy section of the nearest bookshop?
It’s because the second you use the word “magic,” you’re getting political. The boundaries between what we call “magic,” “religion” and “science” are porous and fluid. The act being performed may be identical, but what we chose to call it reflects more on the person or society labelling it than it does on the act itself. Take, for example, going to your doctor and telling them you’re having trouble sleeping. They might suggest that you drink some camomile tea – that’s science. But what if you went to the local woods to seek out the wise woman who lives there in her hidden cottage and asked her for a remedy for the same problem, and she brewed you some camomile leaves – that’s magic. And what if you went to your rabbi, and you recited a brachah over your cup of camomile tea, adding a healing prayer for emphasis – well, that’s religion. Once you start seeing how porous those boundaries are, you begin to ask more questions. Why is the High Priest transferring the sins of the Israelite people onto a goat and sending it out into the wilderness considered religion? If you went to a hermit on a mountaintop and asked him to cleanse you of your sins and he did the same thing… Well, that’s not religion anymore, is it? That’s magic! Why is the potion that the Levite priests concocted to expose an adulterous woman considered religion? If you went to the local herb-worker and asked for the same… That would definitely be magic, right? The clearest example of this porousness is if we look at amulets from the rabbinic period. Most of us would say that an amulet constitutes magic – it’s a physical object worn or carried around in order to protect the bearer from evil. But many of these amulets contain biblical verses, multiple names of God and make requests of both God and angels to protect the bearer from harm – sounds pretty religious! And if we keep in mind that at the time amulets were considered effective at both preventing and curing illnesses – that’s the science of the age. So, on what basis are we making the distinction between “science,” “magic” and “religion”? And what are the implications of such distinctions?
Emile Durkheim suggests that the boundary between magic and religion is whether the act serves the individual (magic) or the community (religion). Edmund Leach argues that the boundary is about whether the practitioner is outside (magic) or inside (religion) the society’s power structure. Marcel Mauss believes that it is about whether the act is performed in private (magic) or in public (religion). What we call science has a great deal to do with the validation of knowledge by an educated elite, and the consensus of those with access to those circles about whether or not something is factual, which it may or may not be. For example, for ages medicine was based on the theory of the humours, which we now know to be fantastical.
In a patriarchal society, as Judaism has been for most of its history (and patriarchy hasn’t quite let go of us just yet), communal ritual is unlikely to serve the needs of people who aren’t men. So, when women find communal religious spaces lacking, and they create rituals for their individual needs, have they then started doing magic? In a patriarchal society, in which only men are sanctioned ritual practitioners, does that turn any ritual conducted by a woman into magic? And in a patriarchal society, particularly one that polices the ways that women show up in public space, does it not make sense that women will then perform religious acts in private, and if so, have they then started doing magic? And who has access to scientific education? Who can become part of the educated elite? Who has the resources and time to study? This is about women, but it’s also about anyone marginalised – it’s about class, geography, gender identity, sexual orientation and more.
This means that we have to be very careful when we throw around the word “magic.” Because often what it means is that we’re using the term to denigrate the practices, beliefs and wisdoms of marginalised groups. At minimum, the term “magic” allows us to be dismissive of those outside established power structures. Taken to its extreme, throwing around the term “magic” can have harrowing, violent consequences. In Parashat Mishpatim, we read the infamous law “mechashefah lo techayeh” (Exodus 22:17). Most of us know the King James translation: “ye shall not suffer a witch to live.” I could go on a tangent to describe in depth how James’s translation misses the mark (a mechashefah is not a generic witch, she’s likely someone who works with herbs; lo techayeh doesn’t unambiguously prescribe the death penalty, it could just be about not paying for the mechashefah’s services or giving her food to eat). Instead, suffice it to say that enough people have read Exodus 22:17 as King James did, including our rabbinic ancestors. There is only one record of the execution of witches in rabbinic tradition – Shimon ben Shetach hanged 80 witches in a single day. For most of our history, the Jewish community has not had the power or resources to implement further witch persecutions. But in the hands of those with the power and resources, Exodus 22:17 has had a bloody history indeed. In the witchhunts of early modern Europe, 40 000 – 60 000 people were killed, 85-90% women.
That’s why we need to be aware of the politics of calling something “magic.” We must understand why we’ve decided to use the word “magic,” instead of “religion” or “science.” If we’re saying “magic” because we’re into reading stories and watching films about witches and wizards, that’s pretty harmless. But if we’re saying “magic” as a way of discrediting or demonising a particular person or group, that’s dangerous. The next time we label something “magic,” let’s be critical about it and ask ourselves why we’ve shunted that person or practice into that category.
Yael Tischler, LBC rabbinical student
The views expressed in this D’var Torah do not necessarily reflect the position of Leo Baeck College.