The Greek Muse and the End of Biblical Prophecy

While the ancient Greek poets called upon the Muse for inspiration, the Jewish sages heard God's word in their sacred texts

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‘Wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus, sing, O Goddess,’ calls the Homeric poet at the opening of the Iliad, invoking the muse to speak through his voice. The innovations that will unfold in his poetry—such as Agamemnon dying at a feast rather than in a bath—are not his own but those of the goddess. The poet simply pulls one thread from the vast tapestry of the war.

There is a remarkable instance of a story within a story, or rather a poem within a poem, in the eighth book of the Odyssey (also by Homer). Odysseus is among the Phaeacians, a nation of legendary heroes seemingly without flaw, when he hears the poet Demodocus sing of the Trojan War. Demodocus recounts events he could not have witnessed, as he was not present at Troy. Odysseus struggles to conceal the tears streaming down his face and later approaches Demodocus to bless him. The blind, aged Demodocus has once again demonstrated his prowess, thanks to divine inspiration.

The first Greek poet recognized as a historical figure is not Homer, whose very existence was questioned even in ancient times, but Hesiod, the author of Works and Days and Theogony. In Works and Days we find a striking autobiographical moment, when Hesiod tells his listeners how he won a poetry competition with his marvelous, impromptu compositions (Works and Days 654-59). Some critics speculated that he won this competition against Homer—though not the same critics who denied Homer’s historical existence of course. This autobiographical moment reveals something crucial about the structure of Greek mythology: we received it primarily as literature—whether in poetry, philosophical dialogues, or plays. This flexibility, the absence of a single authoritative source for Greek mythology, of Ancient Greek scriptures so to speak, allowed each creator to attempt to surpass previous versions known to his audience and so to constantly change and dramatize the traditional stories.

This concept of the muse, who provides divine inspiration and thus sanctifies the tremendous mythological flexibility of the Greeks, differs profoundly from the Jewish concept developed by the ancient Jewish Sages. According to the Talmud, during Matan Torah (Hebrew: מתן תורה, literally: “the giving of the Torah”), all the descendants of Jacob, from his 12 children, became one nation and were present at the foot of Mount Sinai when God recited the Ten Commandments. Not only the Israelites who wandered the desert for 40 years, but also all future generations of Israel, including present-day Jews, heard the Torah spoken by God. But, as each individual heard something slightly different, he or she understood God's words in their unique way. Thus, all interpretations of God’s word—past and present—are correct in essence, though partial. Some understood more, guided by their mystical or rational tendencies in different directions, but all heard the truth, and potentially, all interpretations are valid.

While the Greek muse can inspire a poet to sing about anything, in Judaism, innovations must be grounded in a sacred text. The Jewish halachic tradition—which establishes Jewish law—is primarily interpretive, returning repeatedly to the same sacred text: the Hebrew Bible.

Early audiences of Euripides’ Medea in classical Athens were not shocked by the tragic fate that befell Medea’s children because they knew from previous versions of the myth that her children would indeed die in the end. Euripides’ innovation was that it was Medea, their mother, who murdered them. The Jewish midrash, however, does not permit such flexibility. The stories of the Bible, the particular ways in which events transpired, are sacred and immutable. Interpretation of these stories, the visible and hidden messages within them, and the lessons to be drawn—these can be renewed, sometimes radically. Yet, Abraham will always free Isaac, and no believing Jew in ancient times will claim that the world was created in ten days instead of six. Some might argue, as in the famous midrash, that God created many dozens of worlds before this one, destroying them all until He found this world to be good in His eyes. But when it was created, God did so in the specific number of days recorded in the Bible.

Moses passing down the Torah, an illustration from the Regensburg Pentateuch (Circa 1300)

One explanation offered by the ancient Sages for the vast variety of their interpretations is the principle of the "end of prophecy." Unlike in the Biblical period, when God directly communicated with His creatures, God no longer speaks to humans. During the Biblical era, divine revelation—and often divine intervention—accompanied every significant event. But from the destruction of the Second Temple to the present day, God has hidden His face. Now, divine revelation must be sought within the text.

The Sages of the Talmud did acknowledge certain cases of prophecy through the Bat-Kol—the voice of God (Hebrew: בת קול, literally "daughter of voice"). But in a fascinating way, there are several stories in the Talmud in which Sages reject and even silence this voice in order to assert their authority in determining the boundaries of Halacha (Jewish Law), rather than deferring to a divine voice from heaven. Thus, the end of prophecy is not solely seen as a loss; to some extent, the Rabbis rejoice in God's silence because it allows their own voices to be more powerfully heard.

In the hierarchy of ideal types—the figures on whom Jewish tradition is centered—the Sage has triumphed over the prophet who directly speaks with God. As the Talmud states, "A Sage is greater than a Prophet."

Over the centuries, several important Jewish thinkers have attempted to restore the lost divine voice, seeking to reclaim prophecy for themselves and their people. Some of these figures have secured significant places in Jewish tradition, while others have not. Yet the mainstream—if such a stream exists (and I believe it does, albeit loosely and in a decentralized way)—always flows back to the text. Within the text lie God's explicit words, which, ironically, still require further deciphering.

What I find especially fascinating about this radical and influential idea is that it is largly absent from the Hebrew Bible. In the Bible, we can rarely (if ever) find instances where God's words are unclear to their recipients. The divine message is always clear and has only one meaning. While some may struggle with God’s commands or reject His words, they always understand them.

Jonah the prophet refused the divine mission not because he did not understand it, but for his own reasons (which are not detailed in the text). Pieter Lastman - Jonah and the Whale

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing Heav’nly Muse.
—The opening lines of Paradise Lost by the English poet John Milton

After Homer’s example, the Muse became a literary convention, an invocation that every author of epic poetry was expected to use—sometimes called "a plea for inspiration." This is how John Milton (1608–1674) calls upon the Muse in his poem, even though, as a 17th-century Christian, he no longer believes in her. Yet, despite his disbelief, it is the Muse who enables him "to justify the ways of God to men," which is Milton's supreme goal in composing his great poem.

In the Israel of 2024, on the other hand, the yeshiva institution still exists. In dozens of yeshivot throughout the country, devout Jews continue to study the various interpretations of the Torah created and recorded by the early Talmudic sages. With the editing of the Mishnah and the Talmud, once formulas were established for the Oral Torah—which is the name given to the discussions and innovations of the Talmudic sages—the focus shifted from debate and Torah interpretation to the study and frequent memorization of the ancient discussions of the sages. Is this what the sages themselves intended? I’m not convinced.