from their belief that the secret of the messianic redemption was to be found in the mystery of gilgul. Ramban, an active disputant with Christians over matters of messianic belief, may have thought it indiscreet to treat the subject of reincarnation openly, given the sensitivity of the issue.24 No less plausible a reason for the secrecy shrouding discussions of reincarnation in early kabbalistic literature is the simple fact that so much earlier Jewish literature implicitly or explicitly denied it as heretical, figuring nowhere in biblical or rabbinic literature, and complicating if not contradicting classical Jewish eschatological beliefs such as resurrection.25 As reincarnation gradually came to be viewed as a punishment rather than as a soteriological mystery, however, exoteric treatment became increasingly possible.26 Gilgul had become the carrot and the stick of mystical literature.
Not all kabbalists shared a common understanding of the term ‘ibbur, nor did they agree on the conditions and extent of reincarnation in general. By the end of the thirteenth century, however, Spanish Kabbalists had taken the term ‘ibbur to denote the temporary introduction of a foreign soul into a living body some time after birth. Gilgul was then taken to refer specifically to reincarnation coincident with conception or birth. The difference in timing was fraught with psychospiritual ramifications. Foremost was the fact that one who returned to the world by means of gilgul did not recall any former identity; the conscious continuity between the embodiments of past and present lives was severed. Moreover, the identity between the soul and its new bodily home was complete; the new body was its own. One returning as an ‘ibbur, however, remembered the former life and regarded the new bodily home as temporary. Its customary resident, or “host,” was generally unaware of the presence, let alone personality, of the ‘ibburic guest.
The idea that two souls might even temporarily coexist in one body was consonant with early thirteenth-century assumptions that souls transmigrated in fragments, felicitously referred to by Joshua Trachtenberg as “the prevailing polypsychism of the Middle Ages.”27 According to such conceptions, the soul—itself a composite of the strata nefesh (vital soul), ruaḥ (anima, spirit), and neshamah (spiritus, rational soul), differently conceived depending upon one’s metaphysical affiliations—need not transmigrate as a collective, integrated whole.28 Thus, individuals might be born with “composite” souls, each stratum carrying an independent transmigratory history. The notion that multiple strata of souls might incarnate in a given body was not, however, invoked to explain bizarre personality disorders.29 The “normal” individual was a composite of these multiple strata, which collaborated in a manner that obscured their multiplicity in the consciousness of the subject. Paranormal diagnostic skills were required to expose these layers and to guide the individual on a path of rectification that took into account his innate complexity. “Schizoid manifestations of the soul,” as Gershom Scholem called the stranger disorders, were understood in terms of ‘ibbur—particularly when the ‘ibburic guest became known, through speech or other action, as a concomitant occupant of a person’s body. In early kabbalistic literature, it was assumed that an ‘ibbur would most commonly impregnate a host’s body when both the transmigrating soul and the soul of its temporary host stood to benefit from the association.
The Zohar, the greatest work of medieval Spanish Kabbalah, invokes this notion of ‘ibbur in linking Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron whose mysterious death during the consecration of the Tabernacle is described in Leviticus, chapter 10, to Phinehas, whose zealous actions are described in Numbers, chapter 25.30 According to the Zohar, the souls of Nadab and Abihu became impregnated in Phinehas when he faced the lewd exhibitionism of Zimri, the Israelite man, and Cozbi, the Midianite woman.31 The introduction of ‘ibbur in this context evinces the zoharic tendency to regard reincarnation as an opportunity to rectify sexual transgressions (including sins of omission, such as dying childless).32 Furthermore, unlike gilgul, which was thought to rectify sins, ‘ibbur was regarded by the Spanish kabbalists as a phenomenon that applied primarily to the righteous, in this world and the next. It is with R. Moses Cordovero (“Ramak,” 1522–70) that we first encounter the term evil ‘ibbur—a formulation that signals the consolidation of the kabbalistic conceptual framework underlying early modern dybbuk possession.33
Cultivating Connections with the Dead: Spanish Antecedents
Cordovero, Safed’s preeminent kabbalist until his death in 1570, distinguished gilgul and ‘ibbur clearly and succinctly in his “Shemu‘ah be-‘Inyan ha-Gilgul” (Tradition Regarding Reincarnation), preface 6: “For gilgul does not only refer to the [incarnation of the soul at the time of a] person’s birth, i. e., at the time of his formation, but also, after his maturity, he may draw a gilgul upon himself. The sages refer to this as ‘ibbur”34 The first kabbalist to discuss the possibility of a deleterious ‘ibbur, Cordovero raised the quotidian possibility of this threat in a fascinating passage in his commentary on the prayer book, Tefillah le-Moshe (Prayer of Moses).
According to tradition, the blessings recited upon arising include the following expressions of thanksgiving: “Blessed art Thou, Lord of the Universe, who has not made me a slave,” “Blessed art Thou, Lord of the Universe, who has not made me a woman,” and “Blessed art Thou, Lord of the Universe, who has not made me a Gentile.” This plain sense of this liturgy is to express thankfulness for one’s auspicious birth as a free Jewish male. According to Cordovero, however, these daily recitations express one’s grateful relief for not having been impregnated by the soul of a slave, a woman, or a Gentile while asleep.
We may also explain that, even during a person’s life, it is possible for one to become impregnated [le-hit‘abber] in a deleterious manner by the soul of a woman, a slave, or a Gentile. This, God forbid, can harm a person repeatedly. Upon considering these matters, one who is thoughtful will find that at times people change their behavior. At times, they act like women, at times like men. At times they will serve men like slaves, for the inner shows its effects on the outer. At times one will give one’s attention to foul matters, like the Gentiles. Thus, when one’s soul returns to him and he sees that all is well with him … it is upon him to bless his Rock for the good that He has granted him …. And this renewal takes place daily for a person, and he must therefore say these blessings daily. One fearful of the word of the Lord, in hearing this, must strengthen himself in his simplicity and not fail, nor heed false words, nor depend upon anything unworthy, God forbid. And one should intend in these three blessings to nullify any ‘ibbur of idolators, an ‘ibbur of a slave, and an ‘ibbur of a woman from himself. And he must purify himself through the secret of these three blessings from any grafting [harkavah] and evil ‘ibbur.35
Cordovero regards the possibility of ‘ibbur as ongoing, even routine. These are not evil souls of the more malicious variety, whom we will meet in later accounts of dybbuk possession. Rather, Cordovero seems to have identified the sudden onset of the servile personality traits of the inferior classes of beings—slaves, women, and Gentiles—as symptoms of a deleterious ‘ibbur. In this passage, Cordovero does not identify any particular behavior on the part of the “possessed” that has led to the impregnation; one’s actions are not said to attract an ‘ibbur directly, as would be the case in subsequent kabbalistic treatments of the subject.36 It is also worth noting that in this early discussion, Cordovero entertains the distinct possibility that a male will be impregnated by a woman—a scenario that will be noticeably absent in the later dybbuk accounts.37 Thus, in this kabbalistic rereading of the typical Jewish morning prayer routine, one must, upon arising, thank God for having reentered one’s body without unwelcome company. As the soul was thought to depart the body during the night—sleep being one-sixtieth of death38—its return to the body could naturally be expected to meet with the occasional complication.
Yet Cordovero’s reading of the morning blessings is not merely a novel construal of that for which
