Every once in a while, a sefer comes across my desk that stops me in my tracks – not due to gold leaf or fancy provenance, but because of the sheer gravitas it carries. This week, I had the privilege of acquiring a rare and remarkable work: a set of an English translation of the complete Sephardic siddur and machzor, printed in London in the waning years of the 18th century. But this isn’t just another translation – it is the translation, crafted by none other than David Levi, one of the most important figures in the history of Anglo-Jewry.
Levi was not a rabbi, not a dayan, and certainly not a man of means. Born in 1742 to poor Ashkenazic immigrants in London’s East End, he started his working life as a cobbler and hatter. But inside this tradesman beat the heart of a scholar and defender of our mesorah. With virtually no formal yeshiva education, Levi taught himself Hebrew, Tanach, Talmudic concepts, and – most astonishingly – Christian theological arguments. He became not only a translator of tefillah but a polemicist of extraordinary depth, standing virtually alone in his time to explain and defend Judaism to both Jew and gentile.
Levi’s magnum opus – his six-volume Form of Prayers (1789–1793) – is the crown jewel of his prolific output. It covers the entire cycle of Jewish prayer in English, including the liturgy according to both Ashkenazic and Sephardic minhagim. The volume I acquired is the rare Sephardic edition, which Levi undertook after members of the Portuguese congregation in London voiced their dissatisfaction with the earlier, error-riddled 1771 version by Alexander Alexander (yes, that was his real name). Levi himself didn’t mince words, writing that the previous translation “tended rather to bring disgrace on the service, than to recommend, and explain it.” One wonders if modern-day translation committees would have the same candor!
What makes Levi’s work so enduring is not only his grasp of the Hebrew but his sensitivity to the te’amim – the flavor and nuance – of the prayers. This wasn’t a robotic translation. It was a labor of love and faith. Dr. David Ruderman aptly observed that Levi recognized the need to interpret as much as translate. His Haggadah, for instance, doesn’t just say “We were slaves” – it tells you why that matters, and why the Exodus remains central to our identity in a world increasingly seduced by deist and rationalist philosophies.
Levi didn’t stop at siddurim. He published a Hebrew grammar and dictionary (1785–87), a Pentateuch translation for synagogue use, and even wrote spirited responses to Christian theologians. His most famous rebuttal was to Joseph Priestley, who had the audacity to suggest Jews ought to convert enmass. Levi’s response? A three-volume dissertation on the Prophecies of the Old Testament, which became so well respected that Christian scholars were still reprinting it two decades after his passing.
Even during his lifetime, Levi’s genius was not lost on his peers. Henry Lemoine, a Protestant friend, described him as “the Pride of Israel’s Busy Tribe” in an 1801 obituary. Later, Rabbi Simeon Singer, author of the famed Singer’s Siddur, compared Levi’s translation to “a monument of honest labor,” in contrast to Alexander’s “melancholy performance.” (For the record, even Alexander’s own son used Levi’s translation when he reissued the work!)
In America, it was Isaac Leeser – the first to publish a complete American Jewish liturgy – who acknowledged Levi’s dominance. Despite wishing to produce his own version, Leeser was compelled to retain Levi’s translation in many sections because, frankly, it had become the standard among English-speaking Jews – particularly among women who relied on it to daven with understanding.
And if all that weren’t enough, Levi also composed liturgical poetry for community celebrations. When King George III survived an assassination attempt in 1795, it was David Levi who composed the Hebrew ode for the synagogue’s thanksgiving service.
For a man who began life stitching soles in a London alleyway, Levi left a legacy that still echoes in the walls of synagogues on both sides of the Atlantic. His work is a window into a chapter of Jewish resilience and brilliance, written by a man who understood that the beauty of our prayers must be not only preserved – but understood, defended, and cherished.
