On Shabbat morning, 28 February 2026, Israel and the United States launched airstrikes on Iran. The U.S. termed the mission “Epic Fury”, while Israel chose a different name: “Sha’agat Ha-‘ari” – The Lion’s Roar. For students of rabbinic literature, this codename recalls a title shared by several books, notably three distinct collections of responsa. The most famous of these is Sha’agat Aryeh (Frankfurt an der Oder 1756), authored by Rabbi Aryeh Leib Ginzburg (ca. 1695-1785). When scholars mention “the Sha’agat Aryeh,” they are referring to this responsa collection or to the formidable man who wrote it.

The connection to our current moment might seem a stretch. While Operation Sha’agat Ha-‘ari is not identical to the book title Sha’agat Aryeh, the Hebrew letters are the same – the final heh of the book’s title has simply been moved to the front of the second word in the military codename. Interestingly, in the first edition, the title was printed as Sha’agat Arye’ (using a geresh or apostrophe rather than a final heh), bringing it even closer to the name of the military operation. Furthermore, in his preface, Rabbi Aryeh Leib noted: “That this humble work was completed in the month of Adar” – the same month in which Operation Sha’agat Ha-‘ari began. We share the hope that the Sha’agat Ha-‘ari mission, like the Sha’agat Aryeh itself, will be successfully “completed in the month of Adar.”

During my youth in Australia, a Bar Mitzvah boy proved his mettle by delivering a pilpul – a sophisticated, often dizzying Talmudic discourse, typically delivered in Yiddish and almost always from memory. A respectable pilpul would cite the Sha’agat Aryeh, either from his responsa or from his analytical commentaries on Talmudic tractates: Turei Aven (Metz 1781) and Gevurot Ari (Vilna 1862).

It has been many years since my Bar Mitzvah in Melbourne. I no longer remember the exact Yiddish words I recited by heart, but I have not forgotten that I cited and analysed the Sha’agat Aryeh’s understanding of the laws of Tefillin.

Sha’agat Aryeh belongs to a specific sub-genre of the responsa literature: it features no independent questioners. Instead, the author serves as his own interlocutor, posing and answering questions himself. In such cases, the question-and-answer format functions as a literary device for analytical inquiry, rather than as a record of actual correspondence. We might call these “literary responsa,” as distinct from “legal responsa.”

Rabbi Aryeh Leib Ginzburg spent most of his life teaching Talmud in Minsk and Volozhin. It was only in 1765, at the age of seventy, that he accepted a rabbinic post in Metz, France, where he served for twenty years until his death.

He lived in dire poverty, a reality etched into the style and structure of his book. His text is notoriously dense with abbreviations, a tactic designed to save paper.

A further testament to his grim financial situation is the curious mystery of the volume’s contents. The great Rabbi Akiva Eger (1761-1837) noted that his copy of Sha’agat Aryeh contained 103 responsa, yet most extant first-edition copies contain 108. In his introduction, Rabbi Aryeh Leib explained that he could not publish all his responsa due to the costs involved. It appears that he initially had funds for 103 responsa, but managed to procure additional funds mid-print, enabling five more to be added. Rabbi Akiva Eger’s copy had left the press before the addition. Indeed, copies that include the full complement of 108 responsa have Section 103 ending abruptly, with the bottom third of the page left blank (fol. 89v), and Section 104 beginning at the top of the following leaf (fol. 90r).

Rabbi Aryeh Leib Ginzburg chose to publish his Sha’agat Aryeh at the Frankfurt an der Oder printing press belonging to Johann David Grillo (1684-1766), a non-Jewish professor of theology and philology. Perhaps we owe a debt of gratitude to Professor Grillo, who was flexible enough to accommodate the mid-print changes and allowed five additional responsa to be bequeathed to posterity.

The Sha’agat Aryeh was a contrary figure – stubborn, uncompromising, and frequently at odds with those around him. He opposed Hasidism, rejected the pilpul method of Talmud study, and clashed with community leaders. In Metz, he attempted to abolish the recitation of the Aramaic poem Akdamut on Shavuot, arguing that it constituted an unacceptable interruption between the Torah blessings and the subsequent reading. Akdamut had been composed in the eleventh century, and the communal elders were not inclined to abandon a time-honoured custom. The Sha’agat Aryeh was not the first halakhic authority to raise this objection, but the Metz elders were so incensed by his attempt to change the local custom that they barred him from the synagogue, permitting him to enter only four times a year to deliver sermons.

The legend of the Sha’agat Aryeh’s passing is as dramatic as his life. His mastery of the Torah library was so total that he rarely needed to consult a physical book. One day, however, he reached for a volume and, as he pried it loose, the entire bookcase collapsed upon him.

His students found him an hour later, buried beneath an avalanche of books. Upon being rescued, he remarked that the authors he had criticised throughout his life had turned on him. As he lay pinned beneath the books, he asked forgiveness from each one. All forgave him, save one: Rabbi Mordechai Yoffe (ca.1530-1612), author of the Levush. This is alluded to in the prophetic verse: “The Lion has roared (Aryeh sha’ag), who will not fear?” (Amos 3:8) – the Hebrew word for “who”, mi (mem, yud), serving as an acronym for Mordechai Yoffe, who would not relent. It was in that moment of unrequited apology that the soul of the roaring lion of Metz departed.

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