Shoshanat Yaaqov

I am proud to present a new compendium entitled "Shoshanat Yaaqov: A Guide to the Jewish Wedding and Laws of Family Purity in Light of the Fundamentals of Jewish Thought."

Shoshanat Yaaqov includes practical halachic guidelines on an introductory level, as well as a philosophical perspective on the meaning and significance of these laws.

As it has not yet fully been edited and is still a work in progress, I would very much appreciate your feedback and constructive criticism.

You can download Shoshanat Yaaqov here.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Marital Prohibitions

The arayot, or sexual prohibitions of the Torah, feature prominently in this week's double parasha. One of the most fascinating aspects of the Jewish 'take' on sexual restrictions is the way in which they are conceptualized by the early commentaries. It never occurred to our great Rabbis that we should be stricken with horror at the very prospect of incest or homosexuality. On the contrary, not only Ibn Ezra and Rambam, but even the Ramban asks why the Torah forbids these activities. The implicit premise of their analyses is that the Torah is a system of wisdom, not a set of taboos. It may be true that we have a natural aversion to certain forms of sexual expression, but this is of no significance to the Torah whatsoever.

The Rambam famously explains the incest restrictions from a practical standpoint. We grow up in close proximity to our relatives and spend a great deal of time with them throughout our lives. Were sexual relationships among siblings or between parents and children allowed, the constant availability of these individuals to us would encourage excessive involvement in sensual pleasure. The Ibn Ezra likewise adopts this explanation of the laws.

Nachmanides objects vigorously to the Rambam's analysis on several grounds. He points out that a man's wife lives with her husband and is regularly available to him as well, yet the Torah sets few limits on intimacy within the framework of marriage. Moreover, the Torah allows a man to take numerous wives, which would seem to defeat the whole purpose of minimizing access to sensual pleasure.

The Ramban therefore rejects the notion that the basis for the incest prohibition is related to diminishing the extent of a person's pursuit of instinctual gratification. Instead, he explains the incest restrictions from the perspective of Qabbalah. According to the Qabbalistic tradition, the children of certain marital unions are spiritually defective. These problematic relationships are the ones barred by the Torah.

The position of Maimonides, however, demands our consideration. How would he respond to the challenges levelled against him by Nachmanides?

I believe that the Rambam's understanding of the harmful nature of incest reveals his profound grasp of human psychology. When a person is growing up, it is important for him or her to experience home and family life as something safe and non-threatening. The household environment must be a forum for learning, exploration and development. If a child were to be viewed by his or her own relatives as a sexual object, or were to view his or her relatives as potential sexual partners, the whole structure and focus of family life would be undermined.

Modern literature on sexual abuse and incest fully supports this idea. Homes in which siblings and/or children and parents engage in physically intimate activities with one another are never healthy homes. Parents cease acting in the roles of teacher and mentor and are transformed into predators. Children are treated not as helpless creatures in need of nurturing and guidance but as tools for the personal gratification of more powerful adults. The results are profoundly disturbing; being raised in such a household never fails to scar an individual for life.

A family is supposed to serve as an educational resource and a wellspring of inspiration for its children, preparing them for a healthy existence in the "real world". An incestuous family dynamic moves in the opposite direction. Its energies are occupied with its own immediate satisfaction rather than any transcendent objective or ideal . Members of such a family become steeped in the selfish pursuit of instinctual pleasure - and the youngsters reared in this environment internalize these values, lacking the maturity to "rise above" them.

Anna Freud, in her book Psychoanalysis for Teachers and Parents, discusses this problem at length. She cites one instance in which, from earliest youth, a particular young boy's sexual interests were never allowed to be frustrated. He experienced unlimited gratification whenever he wanted it. The situation evolved over time to the point that, as a teenager and well into his adult years, the "child" maintained an exclusive sexual relationship with his mother.

Anna Freud observed that many people might expect this person to be very happy and productive - after all, he was provided with unlimited, unrestricted sensual pleasure throughout his formative years, and never had to experience the pain or frustration most people endure. However, the opposite turned out to be the case. The boy never developed emotional or intellectual maturity - he was totally stagnant as a human being. He was not capable of succeeding in school or contributing to society. His life was a tragic failure.

This is a perfect example of what the Rambam is saying about incest. Sexuality cannot be a part of the home environment of a youngster. If interactions with relatives cross the boundary of what is appropriate, a child will have great difficulty developing into a mature, sensitive and intellectually attuned human being in the future.

Thus, the Rambam was not simply suggesting that incestuous relationships would allow for too much sexual activity. It is not a matter of quantity alone, as Nachmanides rightly observed in his critique. What the Rambam really means is that incestuous behavior - precisely because it occurs within the confines of a family and cannot be regulated or controlled - stands in the way of the development of a child's personality, and derails the holy objective for which Jewish households are established.

The Importance of Review

Since Pesah, many of us have spent our Shabbat afternoons reflecting upon Pirke Avot, The Ethics of Our Fathers. One of the key themes of Pirke Avot is the incomparable value of Torah knowledge and the importance pursuing it wholeheartedly. Although we all attach great significance to Torah wisdom, few people take the time to seriously consider practical strategies for acquiring it effectively. We have a tendency to simply "dive" into the texts of the Torah or Talmud without too much forethought.

In order to enjoy the most enriching Torah Study experience possible, we must turn to the masters of our tradition for guidance as to the proper method of learning. An examination of the words of our Sages reveals that they placed an unusually strong emphasis on the importance of hazara, review. Remarkably, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 99a) asserts that "anyone who learns Torah but does not review is considered like one who sows seeds but does not harvest his crop."

Obviously, no farmer who has spent long hours tilling, sowing and fertilizing his field would pass up the opportunity to profit from his investment. Indeed, the reason for all of his toil is his desire to eventually benefit from the produce of his land. If a farmer neglects to reap what he has sown, all of his efforts are retroactively rendered meaningless. Intriguingly then, the metaphor that the Rabbis employ suggests that one who diligently engages in the study of Torah but fails to review his studies has literally labored in vain.

Certainly no one would question the practical, mnemonic value of review - without review, one is likely to forget at least some of what one has learned. When a student reviews material, he revisits information and ideas that he has explored in the past so as to improve his capacity to remember them in the future. This repetition does not contribute anything to what he knows; he is simply making use of a strategy that will help him hold onto the knowledge he has already acquired. Nevertheless, the Rabbis maintained that if a person does not review his Torah studies, his process of learning itself is somehow incomplete. In their view, hazara does not simply reinforce our memories - it adds a crucial element to our understanding of Torah.

By definition, though, review involves the rehashing of facts and concepts we have already learned. How can this possibly contribute something novel to our body of knowledge?

The answer to this difficulty lies in a clarification of the Torah’s concept of review. A person who wishes to expand his Torah knowledge must begin somewhere. He selects a specific set of laws or halachic topic to research and analyze, and progresses carefully from one aspect of this subject to the next. The only way to explore a Torah topic systematically is to consider its component parts in detail, one by one. By the time he has concluded his investigation, he may have accumulated a vast array of meaningful insights - each fascinating in its own right - that have offered him a glimpse of the inscrutable depth of the Torah’s wisdom.

However, the collection of novel points he has discovered, as beautiful as it might be, remains just that - a collection, loosely knit and lacking unity. Unless the student opts to revisit these insights and synthesize them into a meaningful whole, he will not have reaped the ultimate benefit of his Torah study - the chance to perceive the magnificent conceptual structure that underlies all of the smaller hidushim he has toiled to develop and perfect. It is this search for the "big picture", this process of reevaluating and integrating the results of one’s Torah learning in order to reveal abstract principles of ever more stunning elegance, that constitutes genuine review.

With this in mind, we can better understand the value that our Rabbis attached to the review of Torah learning. What Hazal advocated was not the mechanical repetition of memorized facts or ideas but a fundamental transformation of the way we understand and conceptualize the knowledge we have acquired.

After we have thoroughly acquainted ourselves with a topic of Torah study and have subjected its details to careful analysis, we are presented with the chance to take our comprehension of the wisdom of Torah to an even more profound level. It is now the time for us to review the insights we have gained with the hope of identifying a broader, more penetrating theoretical formulation that will further integrate and illuminate them. We mull over our previous discoveries not as an aid to memory, but as a stimulus to qualitatively deeper intellectual breakthroughs.

Now it is clear why a person who learns but does not review is compared to a farmer who works tirelessly to plant but never harvests his crop. Through his toil, the student has placed himself in a position where he can avail himself of the most precious of opportunities - the opportunity to unlock a whole new realm of Torah wisdom and knowledge of God.

If he fails to review his learning and thereby move beyond his current level of understanding, his comprehension of Torah will never reach its zenith. In effect, he will have abandoned the most delectable fruits of his labor, leaving new vistas of Torah knowledge unexplored.

On the other hand, one who performs hazara in this unique manner experiences the breathtaking beauty of the Creator’s wisdom with an added dimension of clarity. From this new vantage point, the student gains a deeper awareness of the infinity of God’s knowledge as it is revealed in His Torah. Having perceived the untold richness, complexity and sophistication of the Torah’s wisdom in such an exquisite way, he is sure to echo the words of King David, "for every pursuit I have seen an end, but Your commandment is exceedingly vast."

JIB Awards Nomination

It just came to my attention that this blog has been nominated for "Best Torah Blog" on the JIB Awards Site (Group C).

I am honored to have been nominated, especially in view of the fact that my communal obligations have prevented me from posting on a regular basis for the past couple of months.

Of course, I plan to resume my every-other-day posting schedule as soon as I possibly can.

Thank you to my readership for your kind support.

The Relationship Between Pesah and Matsah

The Paschal offering in Egypt marked the beginning of the final stage of the Jews' redemption from their oppression. It subsequently became the focal point of the observance of Passover which, despite its absence today due to our lack of a Temple, is still commemorated in several ways at the Seder.


Passover and the Problem of Timing

The Pesah Sacrifice stands out from among all other sacrifices in several respects. The first unusual characteristic of the Pesah that is noteworthy is its timing. Holiday sacrifices are typically offered on the Yom Tov when they are supposed to be eaten. Not so the Qorban Pesah, which is carried out the day before the holiday of Passover.

(Indeed, the Torah assigns the name "Pesah" to the 14 of Nissan, the day we refer to as "Erev Pesah", and calls the 7-day holiday "Hag Hamatsot" instead of "Pesah". That is to say, the 14 of Nissan is treated as if it were a holiday in its own right that revolves around the offering of the Paschal sacrifice. We are indebted to Rabbinic parlance for the change in terminology. )

Furthermore, the Temple obeyed a general rule that forbade sacrifices from being offered in the late afternoon. No sacrifice was allowed to be brought after the fixed Afternoon Offering (Tamid) was completed. The regular communal offering was supposed to be the final sacrifice each day. Remarkably, the Qorban Pesah is governed by the opposite rule - it must be offered after the Tamid sacrifice on the 14th of Nissan!

The problem of timing is compounded by the laws regulating the consumption of the sacrifice. Although the Qorban Pesah is offered in the Temple on the calendar date of 14 Nissan, one is not permitted to eat of its meat until the nighttime, i.e., until the 15th of Nissan! This is quite unusual. As a rule, offerings are to be consumed as soon as possible. Different sacrifices have different halachic deadlines that specify the amount of time within which they must be eaten. However, we almost never find a sacrifice that is offered on one day for the purpose of a meal on the next day.

One more striking feature of the Qorban Pesah deserves mention. In ancient times, prior to the construction of the First Temple, individual and local altars were still allowed to be used for sacrifice. Only communal offerings had to be brought to the national altar that was housed in the Tabernacle. The Paschal Sacrifice, however, despite the fact that it was a personal offering, could not be completed at a local altar - it had to be offered at the national sanctuary. Indeed, the Torah tells us in Parashat Re'eh:

You may not slaughter the Passover Offering in one of your gates which the Lord, your God, gives you. Rather, to the place which the Lord, your God, will choose to rest His name - there shall you sacrifice the Passover in the evening; when the sun goes down, it is the Holiday of your exit from Egypt.

Ironically, though, once the 15th of Nissan rolls around and the issue of eating the Paschal lamb comes up, communal seders are prohibited, and individualism is the rule:

In one house it shall be eaten - do not bring any of the meat outside of the house...

The Qorban Pesah is not the only mysterious element of Passover. The prohibition of hametz is also formulated in a way that seems counterintuitive. The Torah explicitly forbids the consumption of hametz during the seven days of Passover. The Torah also tells us that the Passover sacrifice may not be offered "on hametz". Our Rabbis teach us that this means that hametz must be removed from our domains beginning with midday of the 14 of Nissan, i.e., Erev Pesah.

An obvious technical question thus presents itself. Why does the Torah formulate this as two distinct prohibitions, one for half a day on the 14 of Nissan, and one for a full seven days during Passover proper? Why not simply command us to abstain from hametz from midday on the 14 through the end of the 21st?


Exodus - National and Individual

In order to better understand the significance of the 14th and 15th of Nissan, respectively, we must consider the dual function of the Exodus experience. One objective of the offering of the Qorban Pesah was the constitution of a new nation dedicated to the service of Hashem. This was accomplished through the communal participation in the sacrifice "the entire community of the congregation of Israel shall do it." The fourteenth of Nissan is a day on which every individual Jew demonstrates his identification with the Jewish people and its mission. This is reflected most clearly in the fact that the Qorban Pesah, although a personal offering, must be brought in a national setting.

As important as the events of the 14th of Nissan were for establishing the unity of the Jewish nation, they were only one step in the process of creating a holy community. Every household had to implement the concepts of Pesah in its own framework and apply them to its function. This process was initiated through the consumption of the Qorban Pesah in the home. Through carrying the sacrificial meat from the national sanctuary to one's private domain, an individual showed his intention to bring the message of the offering into his personal life.

Indeed, the seven day holiday of Passover can actually be construed as our "response" to the fundamental lesson of the Qorban Pesah. Through the Paschal Sacrifice, we demonstrate our rejection of the materialism of idolatry and our commitment to a spiritual, transcendent purpose in life. This shift in thought should yield a commensurate shift in behavior - an abandonment of leavened bread, the bread of luxury, and its replacement with matsah, the bread of servitude. Our recognition of the metaphysical basis of existence leads us to spurn the pursuit of wealth and pleasure and to dedicate ourselves to the service of a higher objective - knowledge and imitation of the ways of God.

There is a beautiful proof for this idea in a curious verse in Parashat Re'eh which presents the law of the Paschal Sacrifice:

You shall not eat any hametz on it; seven days you shall eat on it matzot, the bread of affliction.

There is an obvious difficulty with this verse. We understand that hametz may not be eaten "on" the Paschal Offering. We also know that hametz is prohibited during the seven days of Passover. But why does the Torah say we should eat matsot "on" the Qorban Pesah for seven days? After the first night, the Paschal Sacrifice is gone!

In light of what we have already explained, the verse makes perfect sense. The seven day holiday of Passover is in fact integrally linked to the Paschal Sacrifice - it represents our response to the spiritual challenge that the Qorban Pesah lays at our feet. Thus, we are actually eating matsot "on" - that is, in the wake of, or by dint of - the Passover Offering, for seven days.

We can now appreciate why the Passover sacrifice had to be brought after the Tamid offering, not before. Although it is offered during the daytime of the 14th of Nissan, its ultimate goal is only realized in the evening, where its consumption becomes a fundamental part of the observance of the Festival of Matsot. The fact that the sacrificial procedure is delayed until the conclusion of the daily order of offerings shows that it is in fact not related to that order of offerings - it is tied to the upcoming night's festivities. The national offering of the Paschal Sacrifices on the 14th of Nissan sets up the theological framework for the observance of Passover in each and every Jewish household on Pesah night.

The difficulty we raised with regard to the prohibition of hametz can now also be resolved. The Passover Offering cannot be completed unless its owners have already divested themselves of hametz in anticipation of the Festival. This is over and above the requirement to avoid hametz during the seven day "Hag Hamatsot" that begins in the evening. Our separation from hametz on the 14th of Nissan demonstrates that, even before we offer the Qorban Pesah, we are already prepared to bring it into our homes on the Seder Night. Thus, through abstaining from hametz on the 14th of Nissan, we underscore the connection between the offering of the Qorban Pesah in the Temple and its function as the "stimulus", as it were, for the Holiday of Passover proper.

We should not overlook the subtle and elegant manner in which the Torah formulated the holiday of Pesah. The central event on Passover is the Seder, which, in contradistinction to most of our holiday observances (Shofar, Lulav, etc.), takes place at night. Nighttime has a dual identity in Jewish Law. From the perspective of Shabbat and Holidays, the evening precedes the morning - "and it was evening and it was morning, one day" - so our holy days always begin the 'night before' their calendar date. From the perspective of the Laws of Sacrifices, however, the daytime is viewed, in the conventional sense, as preceding the nighttime. Offerings brought on a given day are eaten or burned during the night that follows.

The Seder Night, then, embodies both facets of nighttime. It is simultaneously the "end" of the 14th of Nissan - the date of the Paschal Sacrifice - and the beginning of the 15th of Nissan, the first day of the Passover Holiday. The Pesah Offering is consumed at the conclusion of the 14th of Nissan from the vantage point of the Temple's regulations, while serving as a key component of the meal that marks the beginning of the Festival on the 15th. Hence, it is through the night of the Seder that Biblical "Passover" and the "Festival of Matsot" are linked!

Finally, we may now be in a position to understand why the Rabbis chose to refer to the "Festival of Matsot" as "Pesah", despite the fact that this contravenes Biblical usage. Through adopting this terminology, the Sages emphasize that "Hag Hamatsot" ultimately derives from "Pesah". The Jews' ideological commitment, reflected in the Paschal Sacrifice, generates the impetus for the lifestyle change adopted on the Festival of Unleavened Bread. This lifestyle change, in turn, is a manifestation of the Jews' dedication to internalizing the ideas represented by the Pesah Offering. Thus, in a very real way, the "Festival of Matsot" embodies the message of Passover in its fullest form.

Pesah and Matsah and Maror - But Why?

One peculiar feature of the Haggada stands out year after year:

Rabban Gamliel used to say: Anyone who fails to mention three things on the night of Passover has not fulfilled his obligation. And what are they? The Paschal Sacrifice, Matsa and Maror.

The simplest interpretation of Rabban Gamliel's statement is that he is referring to the commandment to tell the story of the Exodus on the first night of Passover. Rabban Gamliel informs us that, unless the mitsvot of the Paschal offering, Matsa and Maror are discussed, one has not discharged one's obligation to speak about the Exodus. It is imperative that we identify the purpose of each one of these rituals on the Seder night.

This, however, poses an obvious problem. The mitsvot we are doing on the Seder night are not a part of the story! If Rabban Gamliel had insisted that anyone who forgets to mention the Ten Plagues has not done justice to the Exodus narrative, we would understand why. If he had ruled that anyone who fails to draw attention to the harshness of Pharaoh's oppression or the swiftness of the redemption had not captured the essence of the dramatic tale, we would accept it.

But explaining the commandments that we are about to perform on the night of Pesah - though important - is not a component of telling the story. Why should skipping that part of the Haggada invalidate our discussion of God's deliverance of His people from bondage?

Fascinatingly, this difficulty is not limited to the statement of Rabban Gamliel. There are several noteworthy instances in which the Haggada appears to value the discussion of the mitsvot of Passover more than the discussion of the Exodus itself. For example, consider the Haggada's instructions on how to respond to the query of the Wise Son:

You shall tell him the Laws of Passover, that we do not have dessert after the Paschal offering.

What happened to the story of the Exodus? Why are we entering into a conversation about the rules and regulations of Pesah, when it seems we should be focused on gaining insight into the most fundamental event in our nation's history?

(Another memorable example is the discussion of the Rabbis in Bene Brak, which revolves around a practical halachic issue only tangentially related to Pesah).

I believe that the answer to this basic problem is surprisingly simple. It is contained in the language of the Torah itself:

When your son asks you tomorrow, saying, 'What are the testimonies, the statutes and the ordinances that Hashem our God commanded you?' And you shall say to your son, 'We were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, and Hashem took us out of Egypt with a strong hand. And Hashem placed signs and wonders - great and terrible - in Egypt, against Pharaoh and his entire household before our eyes. And we He took out from there...And Hashem commanded us to do all of these statutes, to fear Hashem our God; for our benefit all of our days...

A close examination of the Bible reveals that the mitsvah to retell the story of the Exodus is always mentioned in conjunction with the performance of the commandments of the Torah. A parent is typically portrayed as justifying his commitment to the halachic system based upon the historical experience of oppression and redemption in Egypt.

This indicates that the function of discussing the Exodus on Passover is not to entertain the family with historical trivia or midrashic tales. The Seder is not meant to transport us into the ancient past so that we can reminisce about a bygone era. Rather, the objective of Passover night is to draw from history so as to shed light on the reasons for our current observance of Judaism.

This is precisely the message Rabban Gamliel is sending us. Our exploration of the Exodus must revolve around deepening our sense of commitment as Jews in the here-and-now. Otherwise, the dramatic narrative is reduced to an historical relic. The ultimate goal of Pesah is to revitalize our dedication to God each year through the performance of the mitsvot of the holiday. In order for this to happen, we must delve into the historical genesis of these commandments and reflect upon their relevance to the experience of our ancestors in Egypt.

The offering of the Paschal Lamb represented the Jews' rejection of the idolatrous worldview of the Egyptians, who worshipped the sheep as a god. The consumption of unleavened bread was a demonstration of our forefathers' rejection of the materialistic value system of Egypt. The Egyptian culture revolved around bread, the staple food of the wealthy man who lived luxuriously. Slaves, on the other hand, were sustained by unleavened products that were easier and less time-consuming to prepare. Through eating the "bread of affliction", our ancestors expressed their desire to live a life of service to God rather than a life of self-indulgence. Although free, they still saw themselves as dedicated to a purpose nobler than that of sensual gratification.

However, when all is said and done, this historical background must serve as a springboard for us to understand the significance of the mitsvot for our families today. What modern forms of idolatry must we liberate ourselves from in this day and age? What are the symptoms of our own attachment to the decadence of Western culture and its deification of pleasure, wealth and power? What steps can we take to root it out?

If we walk away from the Seder table with beautiful new explanations of the Haggada text but without a better sense of why the Paschal Lamb, Matsah and Maror are relevant to our lives, then we have not fulfilled the mitsvah of discussing the Exodus. The experience has entertained us but has not tranformed us.

This is why the more advanced a child is, the more we divert our attention from the story and spend time analyzing the Laws of Passover in depth. A wise youngster who is capable of appreciating the beauty of the mitsvot and their purpose will discover that the concepts, values and ideals expressed in the Exodus narrative manifest themselves in the mitsvot that we perform on Passover and all year round. The themes of the story are not vague philosophical notions about God or platitudes about freedom; rather, they are profound, highly practical ideas that are translated into rigorous halachic form and "lived" in realtime. A child who is the beneficiary of such a sophisticated Seder will have a qualitatively different experience of Pesah observance and of Jewish life in general.

The upshot of this analysis of the Haggada is that the ultimate aim of the Seder is the enrichment of our observance of Judaism. We cannot allow the annual retelling of our ancestors dramatic Exodus to be reduced to an historical study. Our goal should be to utilize the Haggada as a means of enhancing our family's appreciation of the eternal significance of the mitsvot of Pesah.

In an upcoming post, I hope to discuss additional aspects of Pesah observance and their deeper meaning.

Guide to the Laws of Passover

This is a duplicate of the latest post on my other blog, "Ask The Rabbi".

"My yearly guide to the Essential Laws of Passover is now available online in PDF format. You can download a copy by clicking here.

If you are interested in receiving a version of the guide that includes extensive Hebrew footnotes and sources, please email me and I will gladly forward you a copy."


P.S. Keep checking back here. B'ezrat Hashem, there will be a new Pesah-related post on Vesom Sechel by the end of today.

Trickle-Down Spirituality

One of the most perplexing problems we encounter when studying the Book of Exodus is the style of presentation of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Four parashot are dedicated to the construction of the Tabernacle - Terumah, Tetsaveh, Vayaqhel and Pequde. The first two deal with Hashem's instructions regarding the design of the Mishkan, its vessels and the Priestly vestments. The second pair discuss the fulfillment of these commandments by the Children of Israel.

Because of their common theme, we might expect these two "sets" of parashot to appear consecutively in the Torah. Instead, the thematic flow of the parashot is "interrupted" after Parashat Tetsaveh by the dramatic narratives in Parashat Ki Tissa. Why does the Torah structure its presentation of the Mishkan in such an unusual manner?

Our difficulty is complicated even further by the traditional view - accepted by Rashi and Seforno, among others - that the entire concept of the Mishkan was not actually introduced to Moshe until after the sin of the Golden Calf, i.e., after Parashat Ki Tissa. Logically, then, it would have made sense for the Torah to have placed all four of the relevant Parashot after Ki Tissa, rather than starting the discussion of the Mishkan with Terumah and Tetsaveh only to be sidetracked by the story of the Calf.

I believe that a "bird's eye" view of the structure of the past five Parashot, beginning with the end of Mishpatim, can offer us a compelling explanation for why the discussion of the Mishkan is divided up the way it is. Near the end of Parashat Mishpatim, a rather bizarre incident occurs that is only briefly described in the text:

"And Moses and Aaron went up; Nadav and Avihu, and seventy of the Elders of Israel. And they saw the God of Israel; and beneath His feet was like the work of sapphire stone and like the essence of the heavens in purity. Yet against the nobles of Israel He did not strike; and they beheld God, and ate and drank."

The Rambam, in the Moreh Nevuchim, explains the deeper significance of this vision:

But the Nobles of the Children of Israel were impetuous, and allowed their thoughts to go unrestrained: what they perceived was but imperfect. Therefore it is said of them, "And they saw the God of Israel, and there was under His feet.," etc., and not merely, "And they saw the God of Israel"; the purpose of the whole passage is to criticize their act of seeing and not to describe it. They are blamed for the nature of their perception, which was to a certain extent corporeal - a result which necessarily followed, from the fact that they ventured too far before being perfectly prepared. They deserved to perish, but at the intercession of Moses this fate was averted by God for the time. They were afterwards burnt at Taberah, except for Nadav and Avihu who were burnt in the Tabernacle of the Congregation, according to what is stated by authentic tradition.

In the Rambam's view, as a result of the revelation at Sinai, the elders overestimated their closeness to God and wound up reaching distorted conclusions about His nature. They attempted to translate Divinity into concrete terms, into a form they could relate to even in the midst of eating and drinking. The possibility that the Revelation might lead to this kind of mistake was anticipated by God from the outset. Immediately after the event, He told Moshe:

"...So shall you say to the Children of Israel - 'You have seen that I spoke to you from the fire. Do not make anything with Me; gods of silver and gods of gold you shall not make."

This concept was emphasized by Moshe when he recounted the experience at Sinai to the generation that was preparing to enter the land:

"You heard the sound of a voice, but you saw no picture - only a voice. Lest you become corrupt and make for yourselves a graven image..."

Returning to the vision of the Elders at the end of Parashat Mishpatim, we must ask ourselves a simple question: Is it mere coincidence that, a couple of Parashot later, we read:

"Get up and make us gods that will go before us...And they got up in the morning, and they sacrificed burnt offerings and peace offerings, and the people sat down to eat and drink, and they got up to engage in revelry."

The sin of the Golden Calf includes the same basic elements we observed in the vision of the elders. The Jews felt the need to create a tangible representation of God's presence, and they celebrated their newfound "intimacy" with God in a similar manner: through eating, drinking and partying.

Taking a step back and looking at the progression the Torah displays to us, we notice a fascinating pattern in the text. The spiritual high point of Revelation and the solemnization of the covenant is punctuated by the distorted vision of the Elders. Immediately after the transgression, Moshe is summoned to Mount Sinai as a sign of reconciliation and the Laws of the Mishkan are presented.

Moshe's period of separation on the Mountain - the high point of his prophetic experience - is similarly interrupted by the incident with the Golden Calf. The situation is resolved through the return of Moshe to Mount Sinai for a second stint of forty days and forty nights. After rapproachment is achieved, the Mishkan is finally constructed.

By tying both the vision of the Elders and the idolatrous worship of the nation to the Mishkan, the Torah intimates that there is a conceptual connection between the mistake of the leaders and the grave error of the people. The relatively minor metaphysical distortion in the Elder's conception of God predisposed them - and the people of Israel, who depended upon them for spiritual guidance - to fall into the disastrous trap of outright idol worship.

The desire to make God something tangible, present in a subtle form in the minds of the wise elders, developed into a full blown, irrepressible obsession among the people. The primitive impulse to "see God" derived from the Israelites' attachment to the realm of the physical in general; hence the association between idolatrous tendencies and "eating and drinking" - the indulgement in pleasures of the body - in both cases.

The Rambam hints to these issues himself in his subsequent remarks about the vision of the Elders:

If such was the case with them, how much more it is incumbent upon us who are inferior, and on those who are below us, to persevere in perfecting our knowledge of the elements, and in rightly understanding the preliminaries that purify the mind from the defilement of error...The Nobles of the Children of Israel, besides erring in their perception were, through this cause, also misled in their actions; for in consequence of their confused perception, they gave way to bodily cravings....

We can now appreciate that the monumental sin of the Golden Calf was, in reality, a direct result of the intellectual immodesty and spiritual imperfection of the Elders. In the end, the seemingly minor errors of the leaders exterted a major influence on the perspective of the Jews and brought them quite literally to the brink of destruction.

What is the connection between these sinful thoughts and actions and the eventual construction of the Tabernacle? The Mishkan, according to many commentators, is designed to atone for the sin of the Golden Calf. A simple consideration of its significance reveals how it accomplishes this objective. The Mishkan serves as a concrete reflection of God's presence among the Jewish people, while categorically forbidding any representation of Hashem Himself. It satisfies the human need for concreteness but disallows the attribution of physicality to the Creator proper. In this sense, it functions as a compromise between the emotional attraction to idolatry on the one hand and fidelity to the Jewish concept of God on the other.

By linking the respective mistakes of the Elders and the Nation to the Mishkan, the Torah shows us exactly how the institution of the Sanctuary helped to address the psychological need for a tangible representation of the Divine Presence. After the sin of the Elders, the Laws of the Mishkan were detailed. Just as their mistake existed only in the realm of the intellectual, so to did its "remedy", the Tabernacle, come into existence intellectually, in the form of commandments and instructions.

However, the sin of the Golden Calf took place in the realm of action - the Jews carried the philosophical error of the Elders to its ultimate conclusion, and physically engaged in idolatry. As such, it is followed up with the actual construction of the Mishkan; that is, the concrete implementation of its abstract laws and guidelines, the realization of its design in the material world.

Of course, the more general lesson here cannot be overlooked. Ideas and concepts are much more powerful than we tend to assume. An incorrect notion is not a harmless triviality; it can be a dangerous thing. The way we think about God, the world and ourselves can have the effect of tainting or even derailing our personal, communal and religious development. Wrongheaded teachers and leaders pose an especially serious threat, because the influence they exert on their followers is extraordinarily potent and can lead to destructive consequences of major proportions.

Sadly, we need not look too far to find contemporary examples of such phenomena in both Jewish and non-Jewish contexts.

Article on the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy

Back in September, I posted an extensive piece on the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy and their important role in our High Holiday liturgy. However, I have two good reasons for assuming that very few people read the original article, namely:

1) At that time, my blog was relatively new and the readership has grown a great deal since then, and

2) The article itself was lengthy, detailed and somewhat complex.

Because the September post deals with the structure of Parashat Ki Tissa - and, in my opinion, presents a helpful way of approaching many difficult aspects of that Parasha - I thought that this would be an ideal time to give it a special "plug".

Feedback on the original post will be much appreciated.

Of Children

"And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that

His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the Archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable."

From The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.

(This passage never fails to bring tears to my eyes, and to remind me of the sacred responsibility that is parenthood.)

The Mystery of The Red Heifer

This week, in addition to Parashat Ki Tissa, we also read "Parashat Parah", the section in the Book of Numbers that describes the ritual of the Red Heifer (Parah Adumah). This ritual involved the slaughter of a Red Heifer outside of the Temple, and the subsequent reduction of its flesh and entrails to ashes. The ashes of the heifer were then combined with several other ingredients, including cedar wood, a branch of hyssop and a scarlet string. A person who came into contact with a dead body - whether at a funeral or otherwise - had to be sprinkled with this formula on the third and seventh days of his impurity before immersing in a mikveh, or ritual bath. Only then could such an individual regain admission to the Tabernacle or Holy Temple.

Interestingly, the Torah opens its presentation of the Red Heifer with the phrase "zoht huqat Hatorah" ("this is the statute of the Torah"). The Rabbis explain that the Red Heifer is the quintessential "hoq", or mysterious commandment, whose rationale is hidden from us. Indeed, it embodies a classic paradox; although the ashes of the Heifer serve to purify a person who has contracted impurity from the dead, they render anyone else who handles them impure! So they have contradictory effects, purifying and defiling simultaneously. Because of this and other unusual features of the process, the Red Heifer ritual is perhaps the most enigmatic commandment in the entire Torah. In fact, the Rabbis tell us that King Solomon grasped the reason behind every one of the 613 mitsvot, except for the Parah Adumah.

There is one fundamental questions that we can ask about the Parasha of the Red Heifer: Why did the Torah see fit to establish this particular institution as the epitome of a "hoq"? Why did Hashem choose to make this commandment - a purification ritual - so very mysterious and counterintuitive?

In order to gain a deeper insight into the significance of the Red Heifer, let us consider the fascinating comments of Rashi, who draws from a Midrash cited by Rabbi Moshe Hadarshan. In essence, Rashi interprets the ritual of the Red Heifer as an atonement for the sin of the Golden Calf. Along these lines, he proceeds to identify several fascinating parallels between the Heifer and the Calf. For example, the Torah states:

"Take for yourselves a perfectly red cow, that has no blemish..."

Rashi comments:

"Take for yourselves", from your own (communal) funds. Just as you gave of your golden rings for the [Golden] Calf, so too shall you provide its atonement.

"A red cow", this is analogous to a maidservant's son who soiled the king's palace. They said, 'let his mother come and clean the dirt.' Similarly, let the [red] Cow come and atone for the Calf.

"Red." As the verse says, 'if you have become red like crimson,' because sin is called red.

"A perfectly red cow". To symbolize Israel, who were first perfect but then became defective. Let the cow come and atone for them.

Rashi then goes on to explain numerous other details of the Parah Adumah ritual in the same spirit (see his comments on Numbers 19:22 at length).

Overall, Rashi makes a convincing case for positing the existence of a symbolic relationship between the sin of the Golden Calf and the preparation of the Red Heifer. Be that as it may, there is a major problem with this equation. After all, the Red Heifer is not a sacrifice, and is not presented as a vehicle of atonement at all! The Red Heifer is never associated with any transgression - its ashes are used to purify individuals from contact with a corpse, not from the defilement of sin.

Moreover, people usually encounter the dead in the context of a mitsvah, such as while present at a funeral or burial service. Such attendance is meritorious and should not require them to seek expiation or forgiveness afterward. Yet, despite their innocence, these individuals - because of their contact with a corpse - must now be purified through the ashes of the Red Heifer. It seems clear that this process of removing defilement has nothing to do with the comission of any crime. Why, then, does Rashi accept the view that the ritual of the Parah Adumah is meant to atone for the sin of idolatry?

I believe that the link between the Golden Calf and the Red Heifer provides us with a profound insight into human psychology and religious impulses in general. It is part of human nature to have a fear of death, a sense of vulnerability in the face of one's own mortality. Indeed, this anxiety is the basic nucleus from which most religious doctrine and behavior emerge. It is the fear of death and its mystery that propelled primitive man toward two objectives: The creation of elaborate theologies and detailed descriptions of the afterlife that removed it from the frightening category of the "unknown", and the development of complex rituals to ward off the forces of death and destruction that threatened him.

We can see the influence of the fear of death in all religions, ancient and modern. In Egypt in particular, superstition and ritual were almost exclusively concerned with reflection on and preparation for the afterlife. Involvement with the spirits of the dead, construction of huge tombs in which provisions for eternal life would be stored, and sacred literature that expounded upon the experiences of the deceased were the lifeblood of Egyptian religion.

This focus upon death is by no means absent from more modern religions, however. The New Testament abounds with discussions of eternal life, and the quintessential Christian symbol is a man dying, bruised and bloodied, on a cross. The Quran is similarly very detailed in its description of the rewards and punishments that await people in the hereafter.

Not so the Holy Torah. In absolute contradistinction to all other faiths, the Torah does not speak a word about the Afterlife. It provides us with no simplistic solutions to the mysteries posed by life and death. As the Rambam comments in several places, the human mind cannot grasp the concept of purely spiritual existence, and therefore is incapable of imagining what life in the Next World might be like. Anything we say about it, as comforting as it may seem, is either metaphoric or simply incorrect. For this very reason - because life after death is and will always be a mystery that transcends and defies human comprehension - the Torah refuses to offer us platitudes that might sate our curiosity, and requires us instead to make an honest admission of our ignorance in these areas.

The Torah similarly rejects the notion that religious activity should serve as a panacea for our anxieties about the fragility of life. Service of God and preoccupation with death do not mix. Our Kohanim are generally not permitted contact with the dead, and, unlike Catholic Churches that are typically situated directly over the graves of saints, our synagogues are never built even in remote proximity to tombs. Our motivation to study Torah and observe mitsvot is tied to a love of God and His wisdom as we experience it in this world, and should have nothing whatsoever to do with concerns about our fate in the World to Come. Unlike idolatrous religions, our Torah derives its appeal from life, not death.

When a human being is confronted with death, when he comes into contact with a corpse, there is an inevitable psychological impact. His own vulnerability and mortality are thrown into sharp relief. One very natural response is to seek solace in religion, either in the form of simplistic answers and reassurances, or in the form of rituals that offer him a sense of protection and security.

The Torah denies him both of these, condemning them as a reflection of the same primitive impulses that lead most people to idolatry. He is therefore not permitted to offer a sacrifice or even to enter the Temple until he has observed a period of seven days' separation. And during this time he must submit to the bizarre ritual of the Red Heifer - the ultimate acknowledgment of our helplessness in the face of the inexplicable mysteries of death and the hereafter.

We can now understand the relationship that obtains between the Red Heifer and the Golden Calf. An encounter with death has a tendency to make a person susceptible to idolatry, to the search for comforting metaphysical platitudes or magical protective rituals. This feeling of vulnerability and the urgency associated with it were precisely what led the Jewish people to construct and worship the Golden Calf - it provided them with reassurance, however imaginary and meaningless, and assuaged their fears. This incident is the ultimate proof to the kinds of spiritual danger into which this emotional frailty can lead us.

From this perspective, we can also appreciate the famous paradox of the Parah Adumah - namely, the fact that it purifies the defiled while defiling the pure. For someone who has already opened up the Pandora's Box of dealing with the issues and anxieties related to death - he has attended a funeral, lost a relative, or otherwise been faced with loss of life - participation in the ritual of the Red Heifer is a vital therapeutic process. It helps restore a person's humility, honesty and rationality as he struggles with the powerful emotions that have welled up inside him.

By contrast, one who has not had occasion to come into contact with a corpse should not voluntarily divert his mental energy to these complex emotional and existential problems. Such preoccupation can generate confusion, depression and angst, resulting in a waste of valuable time and resources. It would be the equivalent of orchestrating a crisis in order to try and resolve it.

Thus, much like psychoanalytic therapy, the Red Heifer's ashes should be pursued by those who need them, but should be avoided by those who don't. A psychologically healthy person who undergoes psychoanalytic therapy can wind up causing damage to himself by uncovering aspects of his personality he is not prepared to handle. These discoveries may seriously upset his emotional balance and drain his mental energy. Similarly, a "healthy" person who gets involved with the ashes of the Parah Adumah runs the risk of creating problems for himself where none existed before, leaving him "defiled" rather than purified from his experience with them. Hence, they purify the impure, while contaminating those who were pure to begin with!

The Torah, which is a profound system of knowledge and wisdom, demands intellectual honesty and humility from mankind. It does not permit us to indulge in wanton fantasies of immortality and eternal life that are nothing more than the products of our own imaginations. It wishes for us to recognize the reality of our finiteness and to acknowledge that our time here is brief and fleeting. It insists that we accept the inscrutable mysteries of life and death as just that - inscrutable. And, above all, it encourages us to live life nobly and meaningfully in the here-and-now, rather than focusing on what awaits us afterwards.

Purim Festivities

My son Netanel (as a spider) and I (as a Sultan) enjoying some Purim fun!

What is Tanach?

I had originally planned to post a great deal of material on Purim. Unfortunately, the exigencies of practical life over the past two weeks prevented that from happening. Be that as it may, I'd like to offer a few basic thoughts about the nature of Tanach in lieu of a more extensive presentation on the themes of Purim in particular.

It is well known that "Tanach" is not a monolithic entity. Its contents varied over time and were reconsidered and adjusted at several points in Rabbinic history. The Talmud tells us, for example, that the Rabbis debated whether or not to keep the books of Ezekiel and Ecclesiastes in the canon. They also argued about the precise status of some of the canonical books, such as the Book of Esther.

Many find this phenomenon troubling. After all, if a text is holy and presumed to be divinely inspired, why should it be excluded from Tanach? And if the holiness of the work itself is what is being questioned, how can logical argumentation in the Talmud serve to establish it? Jewish law cannot "rule" on an empirical fact, such as whether divine guidance played a role in the composition of a particular book!

We can sharpen our question further by asking what difference it makes whether a book is included or excluded from the canon. For example, did the Rabbis who maintained that the Book of Esther was not part of Tanach believe that reading Esther was a waste of time? Did the Rabbis that advocated removing Ecclesiastes or Ezekiel from the canon hold that studying these books would not be meaningful, or that their content was inaccurate or false? It is hard to accept such a conclusion, especially since, in the case of the Book of Esther, even those who held it was not part of the canon still agreed that it was a mitsvah to read it on Purim.

Study of the nature of Tanach leads us to another interesting problem. The Mishna in Masechet Megillah discusses the guidelines that must be observed in the preparation of Torah Scrolls, Megillot and books of the Prophets and Writings (Nach). All of these texts must be written on kosher parchment with kosher ink, etc. The difficulty is as follows: We know that there is a mitsvah to write a Torah scroll. Similarly, Megillot must be written in order to be used for the mitsvah of reading the Megillah on Purim. Therefore, it makes sense that there are halachic principles that dictate the mechanics of composing these texts.

However, there is no mitsvah at all to read most of the books of Tanach, at least not publicly. Being that there is no commandment to read from these volumes, and therefore no mitsvah to write them, how can there be halachic guidelines as to their preparation?

Indeed, the Rabbis themselves seemed ambivalent about the value of Tanach. Several statements of Chazal declare that the entirety of the Bible was given at Sinai, implying that its importance is on par with that of the Torah itself. Other statements suggest that the Prophets and Writings will be eliminated in the Messianic era, and that only the Torah and the Book of Esther will remain (this view is in fact codified by Maimonides at the end of Hilchot Megillah). How can we reconcile these contradictory perspectives on the Bible?

In order to resolve these difficulties, we must address the most basic question of all: Why does Tanach exist in the first place? We can understand the need for Torat Moshe, which provides us with a theological framework and a system of commandments to abide by. But what purpose is served by additional holy books?

I would suggest that the ultimate goal of all Jewish learning is the proper comprehension of Torah, i.e., the Five Books of Moses. It is the Torah of Moshe that includes, explicitly or implicitly, all of the ideas that comprise God's prophetic message to the people of Israel. However, bringing out the latent content of the Torah is no simple matter. In fact, its true meaning can be obscured by a variety of factors, such as the intellectual ability of its students, the influence of current cultural trends, etc. It is precisely to form a "bridge" between the comprehension of a given generation of Jews and the ideational content of the Torah that the Nach comes into existence. The books of the Prophets and Writings revolve around themes that are present in the Torah in some form but were deemed by the Baalei Hamesorah to require a "fleshing out", a separate "academic course" dedicated to them in their own right.

Examples of this kind of phenomenon abound in secular culture. Despite the bold proclamation that "all men are created equal", our country tolerated slavery and discrimination against women for hundreds of years. Many tracts were written detailing the incongruence and hypocrisy inherent in this state of affairs, until it was finally comprehended by the common man and a shift in cultural attitudes ensued. Nowadays, most of those important texts have become obsolete historical relics. They are no longer studied in depth because their message has already been internalized by the average person, who perceives their truths naturally in the simple words "all men are created equal".

Similarly, the Torah teaches the ideal of a wise life of prudence and justice. This is implicit in the Torah's narratives and commandments, and, in the proper cultural context, this overarching principle would be obvious to its readers. Nevertheless, King Solomon saw fit to author two books - Ecclesiastes and Proverbs - in which he expounded upon these themes at length. He understood that a separate "curriculum" was necessary for these ideas alone, and that such a study had to be completed in order for the average person to grasp the true import of the Torah's lessons.

Thus, the concept of Tanach is not a differentiation between meaningful/inspired books and meaningless or secular ones. Rather, a book is "inducted" into Tanach when the Baale Mesora determine that, if the Torah is to be understood properly, this additional book must have a separate course of study dedicated to it as well.

In this sense, becoming a book of Tanach is more a function of the laws of Torah Study than of a particular book's intrinsic value. A divinely inspired book may not demand a separate activity of learning and analysis just by virtue of its holiness. In some cases, it may be excluded from Tanach because the Rabbis think it will interfere with the correct understanding of Torah in their generation. Similarly, a non-inspired book like Proverbs may still be seen as an indispensible "course" in the Talmud Torah curriculum, despite its lack of "holiness".


The fact that these texts demand a process of learning in their own right is reflected in the halachic principle that they must be committed to writing in the same fashion as a Torah Scroll. They become an additional component of the Written Torah; therefore, although there is no specific commandment to write them, when they are written it must be done in a manner that demonstrates their special status.

What, then, is the status of a holy book that is rejected from Tanach? I would argue that, rather than robbing it of importance or significance, this merely relegates its contents to the status of Oral Torah, of useful commentary that may shed light on the meaning of other books in the canon. The Book of Esther is an excellent example of this. It is dedicated to a theme that is repeated numerous times in Tanach - the struggle with Amaleq. If it had not been officially accepted as part of the canon, it would have remained a very important, divinely inspired addendum to the presentations of this theme elsewhere in the Bible. It would have been read and studied, not as a course in its own right, but as a source of clarification and elucidation of the concept of Amaleq that is mentioned in the Torah and in the Book of Samuel. And, of course, it would have remained the central focus of the Purim celebration!

This also clarifies how the Rabbis could debate the inclusion or exclusion of particular works from Tanach. They were not engaged in arguments about the value of those texts, or their status vis a vis divine inspiration. What concerned the Sages was whether those books were necessary "courses" in the Torah curriculum of their generation. In some cases, the analysis revolved around whether involvement in certain texts would prevent people from attaining true knowledge of the Torah and its commandments. Whatever the case might have been, the Rabbis never questioned the accuracy or validity of any of the holy books in their possession. The issues they grappled with were halachic, not theological or empirical.

This approach is supported by the Rambam who, in his Laws of Torah Study, emphasizes that the Prophets and Writings are considered parts of the Written Torah. It is noteworthy that he establishes this classification in the context of the laws of learning Torah - and, specifically, while dealing with the correct Torah study schedule. This suggests that the distinction between Written and Oral Torah has more to do with the proper allocation of study time than with the intrinsic importance of the subject matter assigned to each category. Only texts that generate their own, independent obligation of Torah study are granted membership in the canon of Tanach. Other books, however profound and beautiful, are to be utilized as interpretive tools in the process of exploration of Biblical literature.

This is why the Rabbis can simultaneously claim that the entire Tanach was given at Sinai, and then state that all of the Prophets and Writings, save Esther, will one day be obsolete. The thematic principles of Tanach are all rooted in the Torah itself, they derive from Sinai. However, our need for separate courses of study to elucidate and deepen our grasp of these principles - that is, the fact that we cannot access them directly through study and interpretation of the Five Books of Moses - is a function of our spiritual weakness at this point in history. In Messianic times, the level of Torah study will be such that no other "Books" will be necessary - we will have Torat Moshe alone, and all other writings will serve as commentary.

In summary, aside from the Torah, the composition of Tanach is not divinely established, and inclusion or exclusion from Tanach is not a reflection of the truth or importance of any particular book. The structure of Torah literature - what attains the status of Written Torah and what does not - is purely a function of the educational needs of each generation, as determined by the Masters of the Torah Tradition. This determination impacts the process, order and format of Torah study, but not necessarily its scope.

Hukkim and Mishpatim

A post in honor of David Guttmann, whose thoughtful question motivated me to finally commit these ideas to writing.

It is well known that the commandments of the Torah are traditionally divided into two categories, "Hukkim" and "Mishpatim". Mitsvot that regulate social behavior and whose benefit to society is obvious are termed "Mishpatim". Examples of this include laws against theft and murder. By contrast, "Hukkim" are mitsvot whose purpose is not so easy to divine, such as laws against wearing wool and linen together or eating non-kosher foods.

On the surface, it is difficult to understand why this method of classification is justified. Does it make sense to categorize commandments simply based on whether we can provide a logical explanation for them or not? Isn't there a more meaningful criterion to use for grouping the mitsvot?

The Rambam, at the end of Hilchot Meilah, presents a lengthy discussion of the distinction between hukkim and mishpatim:

It is proper for a person to contemplate the laws of the Holy Torah and to grasp their purpose according to his ability. And something for which he cannot find a reason and he does not know a cause - it should not be light in his eyes...And his thinking about it should not be like his thinking regarding mundane matters. Look at how strict the Torah was with meilah (misappropriating items that were designated for the Temple.) Sticks, stones, dirt and ashes, once they had the name of the Master of the World called upon them, with words alone they become consecrated - and anyone who treats them as mundane commits sacrilege and even if he sins inadvertently, he requires atonement. How much more so a commandment that the Holy One, Blessed is He formulated for us...

Behold, it says in the Torah, "And you shall keep all of My statutes (hukkim) and My ordinances (mishpatim) and do them" The Rabbis said that this verse commands "keeping" and "doing" for the hukkim and mishpatim. "Doing" is obvious - it means performing the hukkim. And "keeping" means being careful with them, and not imagining that they are less than the mishpatim. And mishpatim are the commandments whose reason is obvious and the benefit of their fulfillment in this world is known, such as the prohibitions of theft, murder, and the commandment to respect parents. And the hukkim are commandments whose reason is not obvious...

And the inclination of man resists them, and the nations of the world argue against them - like the prohibition of pork or meat and milk, the commandment of the decapitated calf, the red heifer and the scapegoat. King David was terribly distressed over the fact that the heretics and idolaters rejected the hukkim. And the more they chased after him with false arguments that they formulated according to the frailty of the human intellect, the more King David became attached to the Torah...

And all of the sacrifices are included among the hukkim. The Rabbis say that it is because of the sacrificial service that the world continues to exist. For by virtue of the performance of the hukkim and mishpatim, the righteous earn a portion in the World to Come. And the Torah gave precedence to the fulfillment of the hukkim, as it says, "And you shall keep My statutes and My ordinances which a man does, and lives by them."

In these halachot, the Rambam seems to raise more questions than he answers. First of all, why does he launch into an elaborate analysis of hukkim and mishpatim at the end of Hilchot Meilah? Throughout the Mishneh Torah, the Rambam expounds upon every one of the 613 commandments - hukkim and mishpatim - yet he reserves his primary treatment of the topic of hukkim for this unusual context.

Second, what is the Rambam's essential point about hukkim? He mentions that they are scorned by the nations of the world, while at the same time emphasizing their overall superiority to mishpatim. It seems as if the Rambam maintains that the very fact that the gentiles ridicule the hukkim is proof of their importance. Why should this be the case?

And finally, if the arguments of the nations of the world against the hukkim are false, why doesn't King David refute them rather than ignoring them?

I believe that the concept the Rambam is identifying here is of crucial significance for a proper understanding of the Torah in general. Human beings have an intuitive sense of good and bad and right and wrong when it comes to matters of material importance. There is no question in our minds that these issues are very real and very serious. For this reason, all societies have laws that regulate commerce, prohibit murder and theft, and generally protect the physical welfare of their members. These laws - mishpatim - have a purpose that is manifestly obvious to the nations of the world, precisely because the values that mishpatim promote - i.e., material values - are acknowledged as significant by all people, everywhere.

This is what makes the hukkim seem so mysterious. Any search for a mundane explanation of hukkim would necessarily be in vain. This is because hukkim are not designed to promote the material welfare of the Jews and cannot be fathomed in that context. On the contrary, hukkim serve to facilitate intellectual and moral growth alone. Whether it is through restricting our instinctual gratification or directing our minds to the perception of God's hand in nature, the hukkim serve to move us closer to the philosophical goal for which we were divinely chosen.

From the perspective of the committed Jew, the hukkim are the very lifeblood of a meaningful, grounded, spiritually attuned existence. Yet they are rooted in ideals and principles that seem otherworldly and even counterintuitive to an outsider. Precisely because the benefit of hukkim cannot be explained in terms that make sense to a materialistic person, they are scorned and derided by the nations of the world.

Two examples will illustrate my point more clearly. The notion of an FDA that prohibits the sale of unhealthy or tainted food is comprehensible to anyone, because unhealthy food can harm the body, and all human beings value the condition of their bodies. By contrast, only individuals who strive for a good that transcends the physical can possibly appreciate the ideas exemplified in kashrut, which places a limit on hedonistic indulgence in order to increase spiritual growth.

Similarly, any person can grasp the benefit to be had from an education that prepares one to enter the workforce and make a living. However, only individuals who attach value to the metaphysical objectives of the Torah can possibly appreciate the beauty of Shabbat, a day dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.

A pure pragmatist who thinks only in terms of physical pleasure, material gain and economic productivity will dismiss the hukkim as at best useless and at worst nonsensical. Within the framework of his value system, he simply cannot see the merit of rituals and restrictions that yield no concrete benefit whatsoever. This is why King David did not even try to defend the hukkim in the eyes of the world. He realized that the failure of his contemporaries to perceive the beauty of the hukkim was the result of the inherent poverty of their outlook on life. Their total commitment to materialistic priorities necessarily robbed the hukkim of any value in their eyes; they simply refused to attribute any substance to matters of the spirit.

Herein lies the connection between hukkim and meilah, or sacrifices in general. The concept of consecration is, by its very definition, a contradiction to materialistic sensibilities - it is an abstract, metaphysical phenomenon that nonetheless exerts a major influence on human behavior. The mere designation of an animal as a sacrifice suddenly removes a perfectly useful source of food or labor from the domain of human control, relegating it to Temple use. Thus, the very institution of sacrificial laws demands that we acknowledge the real existence of a realm of values and principles that transcends our personal and petty interests and even requires us to curb them - "once they have the name of the Master of the World called upon them...anyone who treats them as mundane commits sacrilege, etc."

We must recognize that there is a framework of tremendous significance and glorious beauty that lies totally outside of the world of the concrete and practical; namely, the framework of Divine Service. Once an item is consecrated and it enters that framework, it is placed outside of the reach of our pragmatic agendas, appetites and business plans. This makes the laws of sacrifices a perfect example of the ultimate objective of the hukkim - namely, to teach us that we must treat the spiritual with an even greater sense of reality and urgency than we typically associate with the physical.

Now we can fathom why the Rambam extols the hukkim above the mishpatim. Safeguarding the physical welfare of society is the most basic aim of any legal system; indeed, for most legal systems, it is the only aim. The Torah shares this objective and legislates mishpatim accordingly. However, with its introduction of the hukkim, the Torah demonstrates its uniqueness as a guide to human life. The hukkim do not enhance our mastery or our enjoyment of the physical world per se. If anything, they stand in the way of the endless pursuit of instinctual gratification and material wealth; indeed, their whole function is to contradict our natural inclination to measure goodness and substance in physical terms. They require us to pull our energies away from the concrete and channel them into the intellectual, metaphysical and transcendent.

This explains another unusual comment of the Rambam. In Pirkei Avot, we read:

Shimon the Righteous was one of the last of the Men of the Great Assembly. He used to say: On three things does the world stand: On Torah, on Divine Service, and on acts of lovingkindness.

The Rambam remarks:

He said that by virtue of knowledge (which is the Torah), and excellences of character (which are acts of lovingkindness), and fulfillment of the commandments (which are sacrifices), the design of the world and the harmony of its existence continues in the most perfect manner.

In light of our analysis here, we can understand why, for the Rambam, sacrifices are the ultimate example of "commandments" as distinct from "acts of lovingkindness." Acts of lovingkindness fall under the category of mishpatim - their benefit is understandable, even from a purely practical standpoint. After all, generosity of spirit and nobility of character foster peace, civility and harmony in society, and this is praiseworthy by any standard.

By contrast, hukkim ask us to break free from the narrow confines of the pragmatic and make the pursuit of knowledge, wisdom and sanctity our highest priority. This is best exemplified in the sacrifices. By definition, sacrifice involves the subordination of precious material resources to a metaphysical purpose that flies in the face of utilitarianism. As such, the sacrifices are the paradigm for all Divine Service. They differentiate the community of Israel, which strives to actualize its potential as a wise and understanding nation that sanctifies God's name from communities that measure their growth in terms of the Dow Jones industrial average and the Gross National Product.

A society that has mishpatim but lacks hukkim may develop wonderful methods for enhancing the "quality of life", all the while leaving its citizens in the dark when it comes to the purpose of life itself. This is a paradoxical situation that Einstein aptly described as a "perfection of means" coupled with a "confusion of ends."

Parashat Shekalim

This week, we append Parashat Shekalim to the regularly scheduled Torah reading. The Rabbis instituted the addition of Parashat Shekalim on or before the first day of the month of Adar in order to remind the Jews to bring their annual "half-shekel" contributions to the Temple before the month of Nissan rolled around. Why did the Rabbis choose to structure this "announcement" in the form of a Torah reading, rather than simply incorporating it into the Shabbat prayer service in some other way?

I believe that the fact that the Rabbis decreed that we must read the Parasha of Shekalim from a Sefer Torah shows that they wanted us to reflect upon the message of the "half-shekel" before fulfilling the mitsvah. By beginning the process of shekel collection with a public act of Torah study, the Jewish people are made aware of the importance of understanding the reason behind the commandment prior to performing it.

What is the core concept of the half-shekel that the Rabbis wished to emphasize? The notion that every Jew must "own" an equal share of the daily sacrifices in the Temple has profound theological implications. It derives from the uniquely Jewish view of atonement.

Within the framework of pagan religions, the appeasement of the gods is the key to securing divine favor. In that system, it matters little where the offerings are coming from. The idolatrous gods are imagined to be deeply concerned with receiving and enjoying generous tributes from human beings. In exchange for having their needs satisfied, the gods are willing to provide protection, grant blessings and answer prayers. This leaves open the possibility of vicarious or substitutionary atonement, in which a given individual can sacrifice his own wealth or life and thereby "entice" the gods to intercede on someone else's behalf.

By contrast, the Torah teaches that God gains nothing from our offerings. He is not interested in receiving any gifts from us; on the contrary, the activities we do to honor God are an expression of our own dedication and spiritual development, and it is this that makes us worthy in His eyes. Therefore, the mere fact that a sacrifice produces a savory aroma on the altar confers no benefit to me unless I participated in that sacrifice on some level - unless, in some sense, it is a function or a reflection of my own religious and moral commitments.

For this reason, the daily offerings in the Temple had to be purchased from the half-shekel contributions of the entire population. Only when the sacrifices actually come from the hearts and wallets of the Jewish people can they serve to secure atonement for the nation as a whole.

Doing Justice

Before moving on to study Parashat Mishpatim, let us conclude our analysis of the second of the two stories about Yitro that appear at the very beginning of last week's Parasha.

The Torah tells us that, the day after his epiphany about God's providence, Yitro found Moshe sitting and judging the Jewish people from morning till night. As the political leader of the nation and its prophet, Moshe handled every religious, administrative and judicial duty directly; he did not delegate. As a result, he was personally responsible for dealing with an enormous number of practical details and complications, ranging from the sublime to the trivial. (This was micromanagement at its worst - imagine if the Supreme Court were responsible for hearing every small claims or traffic court case in the country, and you'll get a sense of what it must have looked like!) The situation left Moshe overwhelmed, and proved a terribly frustrating experience for the Israelites who had to stand around all day long waiting for their cases to be heard. He was greatly disturbed by this and challenged Moshe:

What is this thing that you are doing to the people - why do you sit alone, while the entire nation stands before you from morning till evening?

Moshe acknowledged Yitro's question and responded:

Because the people come to me to seek God. When they have an issue, it comes to me, and I judge between a man and his fellow; and I make known to them the laws of God and His instructions.

Yitro is not satisfied with Moshe's answer, and persists:

You will be worn out - you and this nation that is with you - because the matter is too heavy for you, and you cannot do it alone. Listen to my voice, I shall advise you, and may God be with you - you should be the representative before God, and should bring the matters before God. And you shall inform them of the laws and instructions, and you shall make known to them the path that they should walk in and the actions that they shall do. And now, choose from among the people men of valor...

Yitro proceeds to suggest a structural reformation of the national leadership, in which responsibilities will be divided up among lower judges and only major questions will be addressed to Moshe. In this way, Moshe will avoid burnout, and the people will not become frustrated or resentful because of the need to wait for Moshe's response to every minor question.

Why is this story important to us? What does it teach us, and how does it connect to the passages that precede and follow it in the Torah?

One of the salient features of the narrative is the repeated use of the name "God", "Elokim", instead of Hashem, by both Moshe and Yitro. This key term links the current episode to the prior one (in reality, the Torah text presents them as one long narrative; they are not separated into different paragraphs). As you may remember, Yitro brought a sacrifice in the name of "Elokim" because his acknowledgment of God stemmed from his perception of the Divine justice that was meted out in Egypt.

Indeed, the theme of justice is the central motif of the reorganization of the judiciary as well. Moshe is involved in judging cases. Yitro notices that the manner in which Moshe is leading the people is unjust - it winds up being a disservice to Moshe and to his people. Based upon his own insight into the paths of justice, Yitro recommends a reformulation of the Israelite bureacracy that removes the "injustice" from its "justice system".

There is an even deeper layer of "justice" that is implicit in the story. Yitro is an outsider, he literally was "born yesterday", at least from the standpoint of membership in the Jewish community. Yet his critique and suggestions are taken seriously. In some circles, we might imagine Yitro's meddling being dismissed casually with statements like, "who do you think you are to be telling us how to run our nation? You arrived less than twenty-four hours ago and you already see fit to criticize how things are done around here?" Indeed, this is exactly the reaction Lot met with when he tried to intervene with the citizens of Sedom, the ultimate disciples of corruption.

Moshe's unhesitating acceptance of Yitro's words signifies justice in its own right - an attachment to the truth without bias or prejudice. The source of an insight is irrelevant to its validity, and whether it comes from within Jewish ranks or from the priest of Midian, it must be considered honestly and objectively before being evaluated.

The two stories about Yitro and their common emphasis on justice form the perfect introduction to the Revelation at Sinai. The creation of a covenant between Hashem and a particular nation can easily be interpreted as an expression of favoritism or as the establishment of an exclusive Jewish "club" with special rights to God's attention. This attitude, however, is gravely mistaken.

By placing the narrative of Yitro before the giving of the Ten Commandments, the Torah wishes to show us that it is, first and foremost, grounded in the principles of universal Divine justice. Any human being can arrive at true knowledge of God, attach him or herself to the Jewish people and partake of its unique ideas and way of life. Furthermore, Judaism reserves its praise for truth and truth alone; it leaves no room for prejudice or discrimination. Indeed, we see that even our greatest prophet responded humbly and graciously to the constructive criticism of a gentile priest.

Greater Than All The Gods

When Yitro (Jethro) hears of the unbelievable events that have recently transpired in Egypt, he immediately prepares himself to travel to the desert and reunite with his son-in-law Moshe. However, the actions he takes suggest that he is worried he may not be well received. First of all, he sends word to Moshe to inform him of his upcoming arrival, as if to "test the waters", as we read:

And Yitro said, "I, Yitro, your father-in-law, am coming to you - and your wife and her two sons with her.

Rashi highlights the insecurity that is implicit in these words:

If you will not come out for me, come for your wife; if not for your wife, at least come for your two children.

Why is Yitro apparently concerned that Moshe will not want to see him? After all, Moshe spent the better part of his life in his father-in-law's household, and the two men clearly had a positive relationship with one another. Indeed, when comissioned by Hashem to return to Egypt after his sojourn in Midian, Moshe first requests Yitro's permission to depart. Why does Yitro seem to believe that their close friendship has been compromised?

Examination of subsequent verses leads us straight to the answer. After receiving a detailed report of the Exodus and its attendant miracles, Yitro exclaims,

And Yitro rejoiced on all the good that Hashem had done for Israel; that He saved them from the hand of Egypt. And Yitro said, "Blessed is Hashem Who saved you from the hand of Egypt and from the hand of the Pharaoh; Who saved you from under the hand of Egypt.

Rashi notes that the Torah uses an unconventional term for "rejoiced", "vayihad." He cites a Midrash to elucidate this:

His flesh became covered in goosebumps because he was pained by the destruction of the Egyptians. Based upon this is the common saying, "One should not disparage a gentile in front of a convert, even after ten generations."

This observation of the Midrash provides us with an insight into Yitro's ambivalence about Moshe and the Exodus. On one hand, as a spiritual seeker, Yitro was impressed with the reports of Divine intervention in Egypt and wanted to fully comprehend their implications. The miracles attributed to the God of Israel put other deities to shame, and certainly warranted further investigation and study.

On the other hand, Yitro felt uncomfortable because he suddenly viewed himself as an "outsider" relative to Moshe. After all, these miracles had been performed on behalf of the Jewish people and their leader Moshe and had caused great suffering to Egypt, a gentile nation. Yitro, a non-Jew, identified with the Egyptians and wondered whether God's special concern for Israel excluded him by definition. Would Moshe want to have any further dealings with a person like Yitro? Was there any place for Yitro in a community that seemed favored by God only by virtue of its ancestral heritage - a heritage he did not share?

Despite his initial misgivings, Yitro had an intellectual breakthrough that changed everything for him:

Now I know that Hashem is greater than all other gods; for in this matter did they deal wickedly with them."

The commentaries explain that Yitro was deeply moved by the poetic justice of the miracles at the Sea. The very same instrument that the Egyptians attempted to use to annhilate Israel - the water into which they cast the Jewish babies - was the means God utilized to orchestrate their downfall. As the Midrash comments with a due measure of irony:

In the very pot they used to cook, they themselves were cooked.

What about this element of the miracle inspired Yitro to declare the superiority of Hashem to all other objects of worship? A consideration of the nature of pagan religion can shed light on this. Idolatrous gods were local gods who were believed to maintain highly exclusive relationships with the residents of "their" respective cities. Provided that a local god was worshipped with sufficient diligence, it could be expected to unquestioningly support its devotees in times of trouble, and to help them prevail over their enemies in war or conquest. In this sense, pagan gods were like cosmic politicians who championed the causes of special interest groups in exchange for "votes".

This is where Yitro perceived a stark contrast between the God of Israel and the gods of other nations. The God of Israel is a God of Justice who holds all of His creations to the same moral standard. The Egyptians suffered not because they were gentiles, and not even because they were enemies of the Jewish people, but because they were morally corrupt. The very mechanism of their destruction - the mighty waters of the Sea - sent a symbolic message to the Egyptians; namely, that their evil deeds, and not the arbitrary whims of a pagan deity, were responsible for the tragedies that befell them.

The lesson for us is clear: any group or nation that perpetrates injustice is equally culpable in the eyes of God, regardless of its religious, ethnic or racial background. Hashem's providence transcends nationalism, shows no favoritism and is untainted by partisanship. A relationship with Him must be earned and can neither be taken for granted nor can it be secured through bribery.

This universalistic dimension of Judaism was exactly what Yitro found so attractive. It meant that his concerns about being excluded or discriminated against were unfounded and that, despite his lack of Jewish blood, he could have a deep and satisfying connection to the God of Israel. Precisely because Hashem displays justice in His dealings with mankind as a whole, He makes Himself equally accessible to all human beings, not only to Jews. No individual or nation can claim exclusive rights to His providence.

Indeed, from earlier narratives in the Torah, we can see the important role that Yitro's love of justice played in his life. His passion for justice effectively laid the groundwork for the spiritual kinship he was able to form with Moshe in Midian.

When Moshe intervened to save one of his own brethren from an Egyptian oppressor, literally risking his own life to salvage another, the victim that he so boldly protected was tragically ungrateful. Instead of guarding the secret carefully and keeping the man who saved his life out of harm's way, the Hebrew slave put Moshe's life in jeopardy by spreading the news of what had happened. This was taken by Moshe as an indication that the Jews had become debased through their servitude and had lost their appreciation for the values of justice and charity. They would have seemingly been content betraying Moshe to the authorities in order to win favor with the Pharaoh; sadly, they had no regard for the moral significance of Moshe's heroic act.

By contrast, when Moshe saw the daughters of Yitro being harrassed by shepherds and courageously intervened to assist them, Yitro insisted, on principle, that his deed be recompensed. He enthusiastically invited Moshe for a meal in his home and eventually encouraged him to become a member of the family. Unlike the Jewish people in Egypt, Yitro not only acknowledged but deeply admired Moshe's pursuit of justice and forged a strong relationship with him on that basis.

The centrality of justice in Yitro's worldview explains another curious aspect of the first narrative about him. After expressing his newfound religious conviction in no uncertain terms, the Torah tells us:

And Yitro, the father-in-law of Moshe, took burnt offerings and peace offerings to God; and Aharon and all of the elders of Israel came to eat bread with the father-in-law of Moshe, before God.

This verse is remarkable because it breaks a Biblical "rule" that is identified by our Rabbis in the Midrash. Whenever sacrifices are discussed in the Torah, they are always dedicated to the four letter, proper name of Hashem, the Tetragrammaton (YKVK). We never find a sacrifice associated with the name "Elokim" ("God") in the Torah, except for the offerings of Yitro in this Parasha. Why does this story so obviously deviate from the pattern?

The four-letter name of Hashem refers to His unique, incomprehensible Being. When we offer sacrifices in the Temple, our primary objective is to emphasize the transcendence of God; therefore, sacrifices are generally linked to the Tetragrammaton.

The name "Elokim", on the other hand, connotes Hashem's role as the source of both natural and moral law. And, as we have seen, Yitro's understanding of Hashem was primarily rooted in his recognition and appreciation of the beauty of Divine justice. It was through the prism of the objective and universal moral order that Yitro discovered the One God of Israel. Therefore, it was fitting that Yitro's sacrifices be associated with the name "Elokim", which captured the aspect of God's Providence that was the main focus of his contemplation at that time.

In the next post, we will consider how Yitro's commitment to justice expresses itself in his critique of Moshe's leadership style. We will also gain a better sense of how these two stories are connected with one another and why they are presented in the Torah immediately prior to the Revelation at Sinai.

Genealogy and Chronology in Egypt

An excellent article by Harav Yaacov Meidan that discusses the population growth of the Jews in Egypt and the chronological difficulties it entails (link). I particularly enjoyed the piece because it dovetailed beautifully with a similar argument I advanced here.