Author: devora

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Genesis, co-published by OU Press, Maggid Books, and YU Press; edited by Stuart W. Halpern

The Lot of Lot

In this sidra, which records some of the greatest events in the history of mankind such as the Akeida, and through whose holy passages there move such spiritual giants as Abraham, Isaac, and Sara, we find one character more distinguished by the shadow in which he is hidden than by the light which is cast upon him. He flits through the previous two Torah portions in an incidental sort of way, a bit mysterious, never fully capturing our attention, seemingly a character accidentally and fortuitously rescued from total oblivion of history only because he had a great uncle. He is a man who intrudes upon sacred history, but never really becomes a part of it.

This man is Lot, the nephew of Abraham. And perhaps his very importance lies in the fact that he is not a major character, a chief actor in the historical drama, but rather a secondary, stagehand type. Why is that important? Because we can identify with him more easily than with Abraham. Most of us are not great, not giants, not Abrahams, but ordinary mortals with ordinary foibles and weaknesses, ordinary virtues and ordinary goals. Lot is the average man, and from him and his life, the average Jew can learn more in a negative way than perhaps even from Abraham in a positive way. In the life of this man we can see the pitfalls before all of us, the dangers in the life of every man, so that he can teach us how not to live and what not to do.

Lot cuts a tragic figure indeed. He was given a number of real advantages early in life. For one thing, he had a rich uncle – Abraham – who set him up in business. This same uncle provided him with a Jewish home, a decent life, and education. Lot proved loyal to Abraham even after he left him to settle in Sodom, the city of wealth and corruption. Even there he still keeps many of the things he learned from Abraham, such as hospitality. He leads an “underground” Jewish life. He is the nephew of Abraham inside, a judge of Sodom outside. He becomes a respected member of their society. He is one of their elders. He has seemingly made the best of both worlds – a Jew at home and adjusted to his society nonetheless. This is the balance struck by the average, wellmeaning, good-natured, but not overly idealistic man.

But listen to what happens at this point. The angels come to destroy Sodom because of its cruelty. And here three things happen which spell tragedy after tragedy for poor Lot. A merciful God spares him from death in the destruction of Sodom, but his life has been seriously impaired.

1. He finds, after a long stay in Sodom, that he has inverted values; he has lost his spiritual perspective. He still retains something of the teachings of Abraham, but not in the proper proportion. Thus, when the mob asks for the three strangers who are his guests to be victims of their degenerate passions, Lot offers to protect the strangers – a virtue of no mean order. But how? By committing a far more degenerate offense: he offers his daughters in their stead. He has values, but they are lopsided.
2. He finds himself alone in his own home. When the angels plead with him to leave, he turns to his sons in-law. The Torah calls them “ĥatanav, lok’ĥei venotav” – in other words, they are not really sons-in-law, they have no relation with him, they merely married his daughters. And what is their reaction? “Vayehi khimtzaĥek be’einei ĥatanav” – it was all a joke to them (Genesis 19:14). And his wife? She cannot resist a last look at the hotbed of corruption. It still lures her, and as she parts from her husband, she looks back and becomes calcified. Thus, Lot’s terrible loneliness: his own family no longer understands him or sympathizes with him. He is a stranger in his own home.
3. And his greatest tragedy: when he and his two daughters are left alone as survivors, they think that the whole world has been destroyed and they are the only survivors. They become enmeshed in a deadly gloom and think that the human race will die with them. And so, out of the depths of their despair, in order to realize their destiny as humans and practice their good intentions of settling God’s world, they commit the most serious of all immoralities – incest – while Lot is in a drunken stupor.

Quite a miserable end for a man who never had serious pretentions to great evil. Why is this? Why such terrible punishment? There is only one reason: because he left Abraham. All along, he was quite willing to follow his great uncle, willing to learn from him and lead his kind of life, but when it hit his pocketbook, when it came to money – “And there was strife between the herdsmen of Abram’s livestock and the herdsmen of Lot’s livestock” (Genesis 13:7) – then he leaves Abraham, and is willing to settle in Sodom, the byword of all that is evil. Now don’t think that Lot completely relished this idea; after all, he was a pupil of Abraham. But business required it, he told himself, financial necessity had forced him to leave both Abraham and his ways. And besides, corrupt though Sodom was, it was a beautiful city, as the Torah describes: “It was like the garden of God, like the land of Egypt, as you come to Zoar” (ibid., verse 10). Hence we read, “And Lot traveled from kedem, east” – upon which our rabbis, quoted by Rashi, comment in a play on words – “He caused himself to travel away from Kidmono shel olam, the Eternal One of the world.” Maybe Lot will carry over some small habits that he had learned in the house of Abraham. Maybe there will be some souvenirs or mementoes. But essentially he had torn himself away from Abraham, and along with that, from the God of Abraham.

And this is indeed the crucial event in the life of Lot, in the life of every average man: “And Lot traveled from kedem” – “from Kidmono shel olam.” His departure from Abraham and all that he stood for: this was the cause of his grief and the seedling of his tragedy. And if you analyze the whole episode of Lot carefully, you will see that he was rewarded measure for measure. The resulting tragedies follow the pattern of Lot’s sin.

1. Lot sinks to the most degenerate immorality because of inverted values. But did he not bring it upon himself? Was it not he himself who made the decision to leave Abraham because of “economic pressures”? Was it not he who first consciously inverted his own values?
2. He was lonely in his own home, and an alien to wife, children, and children-in-law. But he brought it on himself. By leaving Abraham, he isolated himself from Abraham’s God – and now found himself isolated by others.
3. He was led to his ultimate degradation, the depths of immorality and disruption of his family – the act of incest – because of the doom and pessimism which made him think that he and his daughters were the only survivors, that the world was destroyed. But did he not bring upon himself this feeling of no choice, of absolute necessity? Did he not begin this life of pessimism when he decided to settle in Sodom, to leave Abraham – because business required it, because otherwise he could never survive in the competitive market? He began by considering that there was only one way out – Sodom; and ended by having his daughters consider only one way out – his deepest and most lasting humiliation.

So then, in the one act of leaving Abraham, or as our rabbis said it, causing himself to travel away from God, Lot suffered a corresponding series of tragic consequences of inversion of values, loneliness, and a deadly and sickening pessimism. His is the story of a man who seems well established, successful, and at the peak of his career, but whose early, serious errors bring his life crashing into a conclusion of shame and disgrace.

It does not take too much to see why and how this story of Lot is a parable for Jews of all eras, especially for the “average Jew” of today. Just look at what has happened to so many of our fellow Jews:

1. We have suffered an inversion of values, just as Lot did. Thus, we place Ĥanukka, with all its colorfulness and festivity, on a much higher rung than the Sabbath. Many a person who would never dream of forgetting to celebrate Ĥanukka in the grand manner will not think twice of violating the sanctity of the Sabbath. Similarly, there are many other inversions of values. In many a home where kashrut has long been abandoned, the unveiling of a tombstone is regarded as one of the fundamentals of our faith. How horrified some people are when they hear their rabbi minimizing the importance of the unveiling. And how irritated they are when they hear that same rabbi emphasizing the significance of kashrut.
2. All modern man, and especially Jews, suffers from intense feelings of alienation, from both philosophical and emotional loneliness. We feel that we do not really belong in this world. We know that we are not completely accepted by our beloved country – not with the pact with Saudi Arabia, not with the constant emphasis of this being a Christian country, not with the plague of the Sunday Blue Laws which discriminate against Saturday Sabbath observance. Our relations with Israel are only philanthropic and sentimental, not sufficiently strong to diminish our sense of estrangement and loneliness. So much of what goes by the name of “American Judaism” has absolutely nothing to do with God, so that we are estranged from Him too. And in our loneliness, in our estrangement and solitude, we nervously look about for more and more entertainment, we obsessively seek our luxuries; even our laughter becomes anxious instead of relaxed. No wonder so many moderns find that they must, out of their solitude, turn to the couch of the psychiatrist to seek solace and a sense of being wanted.
3. Jews of certain kinds come to conclusions which are bleakly pessimistic. They become prophets of complete assimilation, prognosticators of doom. You recall the two prophets, one a professor and one a historian, who recently wrote in the B’nai Brith Monthly, that we Jews have no religious future in this country.

So that like Lot of old, the value-inversion, the loneliness, and the pessimism are our heritage.

And were we to trace these consequences to their original source, we would find this too identical with the source of Lot’s woes. The “original sin” of American Jewry is: “And Lot traveled from kedem.” We have used all kinds of excuses, especially that of financial necessity, as the reason and justification for leaving Kidmono shel olam, Almighty God. Like Lot, we do keep up certain practices that come from the house of Abraham in order to assuage our consciences: we hang Jewish paintings on the walls, we display a big Ĥanukka menora, our living rooms are amply stocked with Israeli ashtrays…but Judaism and Jewishness are otherwise not noticeable in our lives. Like Lot, we have begun to live an underground existence insofar as our Jewishness is concerned; for, like the nephew of Abraham, we have learned to adjust to every conceivable kind of Sodomite practice in the world around us. “He caused himself to travel away from Kidmono shel olam.”

By running out on the God of Abraham, we have brought on ourselves all these undesirable and unfortunate consequences.

But of course things need not necessarily be thus. We are not – yet – too far gone. There can still be a realignment in Jewish life in this country. But in order to accomplish that, the process has to be reversed: instead of going away from Abraham and all he stands for, we must go back. We must not leave kedem, but go back to kedem. “Return” is, indeed, the original meaning of teshuva. We must return to Kidmono shel olam. The only way to achieve the proper spiritual orientation and perspective, to keep our sense of values; the only way to achieve a sense of being wanted, warm, closest to God, a sense of rootedness; the only way to arrive at an optimistic, healthful, sanguine attitude to Jewish life, and life in general – is to return to Kidmono shel olam, to reverse the process of “And Lot traveled from kedem.”

And to facilitate that great return is one of the chief functions of our synagogue, and of any other genuine Orthodox synagogue. One of the three meanings of “kadima” is “back to kedem,” back to Kidmono shel olam, back to God.

If we are to escape the lot of Lot, we must heed the call of “kadima,” the return to God, to Torah, to tradition, to the origins of our life and the spiritual resources through which it can thrive and through which it will survive.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Making a World of a Difference 

Two legendary figures: Noach and Avraham. For generations, great minds have compared and contrasted their lives. Some have argued for Noach’s remarkable righteousness, as he rose above the mire of depravity and sinfulness that surrounded him. Others have minimized his spiritual accomplishments, which pale in comparison to Avraham’s. Rashi draws our attention to the fact that Noach is said to have walked “with God” (Genesis 6:9), while Avraham walked “before God” (Genesis 24:40 and see 17:1). He explains that Noach needed help to be righteous, while Avraham drew strength from within to follow his path of righteousness unassisted.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook perceived a more profound difference reflected by the Torah’s choice of words. Penetratingly, he said that walking “with God” is fulfilling God’s spiritual demands of the generation – no small feat – but no more. Noach did not take the initiative and elevate those around him; he boxed himself in, psychologically and physically on the ark, satisfied at having strenuously maintained the status quo. The opening verse emphasizes that Noach was “righteous in his generation” (Genesis 6:9), suggesting that he was resigned to the fact that little could be done to pull his contemporaries out of their quicksand of immorality. Avraham, on the other hand, although absolutely loyal to God’s word, struck out on his own. He risked acting independently and creatively to better the world around him, as when he appointed himself the defense for an urban confederacy of sinners.

The Sages say that Avraham observed the entire Torah even before it was revealed at Sinai. Rav Kook took this to mean that Avraham was determined to speed up the process of divine revelation, to hasten the existential perfection and rectification of the world that in the divine plan was meant to occur only later. He laid the groundwork for this by sharing divine wisdom with and raising up the spirit of his generation. Walking “before God” is to act independently while bearing God’s teachings and goals in mind, and, in a way, it is even to precede God.

Avraham’s expansive idealism enabled him to recognize the raw spiritual potential latent in himself and in his generation. He firmly believed that every individual could strengthen and stretch their spiritual muscles to meet Olympic benchmarks. Not only was he convinced that humanity could better itself, but he believed that humanity could be catapulted to awesome heights. Avraham entertained visions of grandeur about the world.
Not long ago, Rav Kook, himself an Avraham, followed in our forefather’s footsteps and walked “before God.” He discerned the amazing vitality and profound potential of the soul of the Jewish nation. After our tortuous and torturous exile, his lofty teachings, which radiate love for others, have been a boon to the rejuvenation of our national spirit.

Two great Avrahams, the first Jew in history and the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of pre-state Israel, had the firm conviction that every individual has the power to effect revolutionary change. We are all called to walk Avraham’s path. Judaism is a faith for those who seek to change the world. To be a Jew is to seek to make a difference, to change lives for the better, to heal the scars of our fractured world. We are not meant to ride the tide, alone, but to be a tide that raises all boats.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s Unlocking the Torah Text – Devarim, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Because We Want To…

Context
The Torah abruptly interrupts the Ki Tavo tochacha – the lengthy description of potential penalties for collective national failure – in order to address a critical issue: What sins will be grievous enough to bring about the terrible curses of the tochacha?

A three-sentence answer is proposed:

And all these curses will come upon you and pursue you and overtake you, until you are destroyed, because you have not listened to the voice of the Lord your God, to observe the commandments and His statutes that He has commanded you.

They [these punishments] will be a sign and a wonder in you and in your offspring, forever.

Because you did not serve the Lord your God b’simcha, with joy, and goodness of heart, mei’rov kol, through abundance of everything.

Questions
The Torah’s response to its own implicit query is problematic on a number of counts.

First of all, the text seems unclear, even contradictory. Will the nation be punished in the future for a failure to serve God entirely, as indicated by the first sentence of the passage, or for a failure to serve God b’simcha, with joy, as indicated in the last sentence? If the latter is true, doesn’t God’s justice seems unduly harsh, to say the least? Can it be that the harrowing penalties of the tochacha will befall a people who fulfill God’s will completely, yet fail to do so “with joy”?

Why does the Torah interrupt its examination of the possible causes of the tochacha with the interjection “They [these punishments] will be a sign and a wonder in you and in your offspring, forever”?

Finally, what is the meaning of the linkage drawn in the text between the nation’s sin and the passage’s closing phrase mei’rov kol, “through abundance of everything”?

Approaches
-A-
Before addressing the flow of this three-sentence passage as a whole, we turn to its most problematic components.

Confronting the phrase “Because you did not serve the Lord your God b’simcha, with joy, and goodness of heart,” numerous authorities raise the obvious question: Can it be that God would visit the severe punishments of the tochacha upon a people whose only sin is the absence of joy?

Unwilling to accept this possibility, authorities as disparate as Rabbi Menachem Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk (the first Kotzker Rebbe), the Chatam Sofer and Rabbi Baruch Halevi Epstein suggest a rereading of the text. This phrase, these scholars contend, should not be read “because you did not serve the Lord your God with joy” but, instead, “because with
joy [i.e., joyfully] you did not serve the Lord your God.” The nation will be punished not for the absence of joy in their fulfillment of God’s law but for the presence of joy in their defiance of that law.

Other scholars, in contrast, fully embrace the possibility that the nation could be severely punished for the absence of “joy” in their observance of God’s law. Rabbeinu Bachya ben Asher, for example, explains that “joy in the performance of a mitzva is a mitzva unto itself, meriting its own distinct reward.” An individual who fulfills God’s will grudgingly, therefore, transgresses a fundamental commandment and becomes liable for punishment.

Centuries later, Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin, the founder of the first great Lithuanian yeshiva, further expounds upon the essential nature of joy in the performance of mitzvot. Service performed grudgingly at another’s behest, this scholar argues, carries the character of “the service of slaves” executed to satisfy the whim of a hated taskmaster. An individual who
observes God’s will reluctantly, therefore, treats God as an “enemy” and will ultimately pay a heavy price.

Rabbi Shmuel Bornstein, the second Rebbe of the Sochatchover dynasty, argues that the presence of joy and personal gratification in any societal enterprise is critical to the success and continuity of the enterprise itself. Absent simcha, all communal endeavors run the risk of descending into dissension, rivalry and strife. Only a generation lacking joy in their service of God could have evidenced the baseless hatred that, according to Talmudic testimony, caused the destruction of the Second Temple. To this day, Rabbi Bornstein adds, the act of “gladdening” a bride and groom at their wedding remains a critical mitzva. All effort must be made to ensure that this couple’s initial step towards the creation of a Jewish home and the
perpetuation of the Jewish nation will be rooted in sustaining simcha.

-B-

Moving to the close of the passage, numerous scholars struggle with the Torah’s puzzling contention that the people will be punished for sinning mei’rov kol, “through abundance of everything.” What connection between abundance and sin, these authorities ask, does the Torah implicitly draw in this statement?

Following Rashi’s lead, some scholars reinterpret the words mei’rov kol to mean “while you yet possessed an abundance of everything.” The nation, these authorities contend, will be condemned for its lack of hakarat hatov (appreciation) for the gifts bestowed upon them by God during times of plenty. This sentiment is reflected in Rabbi Natan’s famous maxim in Pirkei Avot, “He who neglects the Torah in wealth shall, in the end, neglect it in poverty.”

A literal interpretation of the phrase mei’rov kol, however, projecting abundance not only as the backdrop for sin but as a catalyst for sin, can be defended on the basis of numerous warnings in the Torah. The powerful caution recorded in Parshat Ekev serves as a prime example:

Be careful lest you forget the Lord your God by not observing His commandments, His laws and His statutes, which I command you today. Lest you eat and be satisfied, and build good homes and settle down. And your cattle and your sheep will increase, and silver and gold will increase for you, and all that you have will increase. And your hearts will become haughty and you will forget the Lord your God Who took you out of the land of Egypt, from the house of slavery.

Material wealth, the Torah warns, can blind the people to the limitationsof their own power, causing them to forget their ultimate dependence upon God. The nation could easily be led to sin, “through abundance of everything.”

-C-

Adopting an alternate approach, the Meshech Chochma ingeniously interprets the entire sentence as a cohesive whole: “Because you did not serve the Lord your God with joy, and goodness of heart, through abundance of everything.”

The nation will fail to serve God, this scholar maintains, specifically because of the inappropriate “joy and goodness of heart” that they will experience in response to “an abundance of everything.” Quoting the prophet Hoshea, the Meshech Chochma explains that the Jew is enjoined from sharing in “the exultation of [other] nations.”

In contrast to those who celebrate physical abundance itself, the Jew is meant to celebrate what that abundance reflects: the clear favor that he has found in God’s eyes. By failing to identify the bounty they receive as a God-given gift, by celebrating abundance rather than its source, the nation will set the stage for their own tragic descent into sin.

-D-

The sixteenth-century scholar Rabbi Moshe Alshich addresses the apparent internal contradiction in the short three-sentence passage. Will the people be punished, asks the Alshich, for failing to observe God’s law entirely, as the first sentence of the passage suggests, or will they be punished for failing to observe God’s law with joy, as the last sentence suggests?

To resolve this contradiction the Alshich maintains that throughout the tochacha the Torah actually references two distinct populations. The first of these groups, those who “have not listened to the voice of the Lord” and have thus turned their backs on the commandments completely, will merit total destruction. The second group, however, those whose sin is limited to
a failure to serve God with simcha, will be punished less severely.

-E-

A final, global approach to the entire passage before us might be suggested. In three sentences, step by step, God conveys a unified, powerful message to the nation.

When you do something because you have to, and not because you want to, you will ultimately fail.

1. First God identifies the ultimate failure that will give rise to the horrors of the tochacha: “…because you have not listened to the voice of the Lord your God, to observe the commandments and His statutes that He has commanded you.” Your global failure to observe My law will condemn you to severe punishment.

2. In the final sentence of the passage, however, God backs up and notes the origins of that failure. “Because you did not serve the Lord your God b’simcha, with joy, and goodness of heart, mei’rov kol, through abundance of everything.” You will not abruptly abandon the observance of My law. Instead the roots of your failure will trace to an earlier time when you observed the law, but without passion or joy. Tragic consequences will result from this fatal flaw. Success in our shared enterprise can only be achieved if you invest yourselves in the process, if you derive personal significance, meaning and
gratification from our relationship. Your failure to find the simcha inherent in the observance of the divine law will inexorably lead to total abdication of that law.

3. In the midst of this discussion of cause and effect in the development of communal sin, the Torah outlines the true extent of the tragedy through a striking interjection: “They [these punishments] will be a sign and a wonder in you and in your offspring, forever.” The clearest arena of your failure will be the arena of intergenerational transmission. If your observance is absent passion, meaning and significance, you may yet go through the motions. Your children, however, will not. That which you perform grudgingly, they will abandon entirely. Consequently, these punishments will truly become “a sign and a wonder in you and in your offspring, forever.”

Points to Ponder

I believe that one of the greatest failings in today’s modern Orthodox community is the absence of simcha in the performance of mitzvot.

While we proclaim loyalty to the laws of the Torah, our actual ritual observance is often pro forma, habitual, even grudging, with little passion or meaning marking the proceedings.

The signs of this phenomenon in our communities are ubiquitous, and include:

• the half-empty sanctuaries on Shabbat morning until midpoint in the prayer services when the pews finally begin to fill
• the absence of positive Shabbat-related activities in many homes, e.g. zemirot (Shabbat songs), Torah discussion and study, special Sabbath dress and decorum, as the letter of the Sabbath law is observed while its spirit is ignored
• the emptiness of the prayer experience on Shabbat and throughout the week, at services marked by the participants’ lack of emotional involvement and by side conversations that often drown out the prayers themselves
• the advent of shortcuts to make religious life “easier” – professionally prepared Purim baskets, catered Shabbat meals, Pesach vacations – taking the place of the family-focused preparations and observances that traditionally involved the entire family in the celebration of these occasions

Sadly, the unintended intergenerational consequences of this phenomenon are evident, as well:

• the diminishing participation of community teenagers in any form of worship on Shabbat morning
• the graduates of Modern Orthodox high schools who abandon Shabbat and kashirut observance within a few years of their graduation
• the growing number of young men and women who become totally disenfranchised from Jewish observance shortly after arriving at the college campus
• the development of “half-Shabbat” – observing some Shabbat laws yet ignoring others, particularly the prohibition of texting friends on Shabbat
• The vexing problem of alcohol and drug abuse within the observant high school community as our children search for fulfillment elsewhere

The message of the tochacha is frighteningly clear. Absent passion in our religious observance, the transmission of any tradition to our children will become increasingly difficult. A religion that does not speak to their hearts may, tragically, be abandoned.

To address the problem, we cannot start with our children, but rather with ourselves. Only if we find simcha shel mitzva – the joy inherent in the performance of the mitzvot – in our own lives can we hope to foster such simcha in theirs. Only if we search for personal meaning in our observance of God’s law do we stand a chance of passing that observance on to the
next generation.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

The Pomegranate Jew and the Date Jew

“It will be because of your listening to these ordinances . . . He will love and bless you and cause you to increase; He will bless the fruit of your womb, the fruit of your land, your grain, wine, and oil . . . in the land that He swore to your forefathers to give to you” (Deuteronomy 7:12–13). The parashah opens with the theme of blessing, and later defines this blessed and bountiful land as bearing seven important species: “A land of wheat, barley, grape, fig, and pomegranate; a land of oil-olives and [date] honey” (Deuteronomy 8:8).

The Talmud records a debate about the hierarchy of the species listed. Rav Chisda and Rav Hamnuna were once eating together, when dates and pomegranates were brought to them. Rav Hamnuna picked up a date and recited the borei peri ha-etz blessing. Rav Chisda was surprised, because the general rule seems to be that the list of species in the verse above determines precedence. Since the pomegranate precedes the date (listed metonymically by its honey), Rav Hamnuna should have taken the pomegranate wedge. He defended himself with an astute observation. The verse repeats the word “land” twice. The pomegranate is fifth from the first occurrence of “land,” and the date is second from the second occurrence of “land.” Proximity to the “land” determines seniority and worthiness of blessing. Notably, the opinion of Rav Hamnuna is adopted as the Halachah.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook was intrigued by this double occurrence of the word “land” in the verse and its significance above in ordering the species. He explained that there are, in essence, two “lands.” The first is the land of innate sanctity which has its own special complement of mitzvot. This is the “land of wheat, barley, grape, fig, and pomegranate,” the five elements corresponding to the five books of the Torah. Individuals of highest spiritual stature love the land for this reason. The second is the land of refuge and prosperity, to which Jews can flee and live free. This corresponds to the “land of oil-olives and [date] honey.” Everyone can find the land beloved in this respect.

The date that Rav Hamnuna chose for the blessing belongs to the second aspect of the land, but it is “closer” to the land. The lesson here, in Rav Kook’s view, is that even when someone loves the land for its practical benefits – safety and prosperity – if they do so passionately, that is superior to loving the land for its sanctity in a dispassionate manner. Settling the land to build it up and defending its borders are precious endeavors. Only once our safety has been assured and our collective strength ensured can we fully actualize our spiritual vigor.

For this and other reasons, Rav Kook fully supported the halutzim in their holy work. Many rabbis did not see eye to eye with him on this, and challenged him about his position. On one occasion the following exchange took place, as recorded by the Israeli scholar Simcha Raz:

“Honorable rabbi, can it be that Eretz Yisrael will be built and established by young men and women who publicly violate the mitzvot of Hashem? Is this not a desecration of holiness, in the plainest sense of the word?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Rav Kook in a clear, fervent, and confident voice. “Just think about it: The holiest place in Eretz Yisrael is undoubtedly the beit ha-mikdash (Temple). And the holiest section of the beit ha-mikdash is the kodesh ha-kodashim (the Holy of Holies). Now, when the Temple stood in its place, no one was allowed to enter the kodesh ha-kodashim, except for the High Priest. And he was allowed to enter only once a year – on Yom Kippur – after painstaking preparations, wearing special white, priestly garments, to perform the sacred service of the day.”

“Nevertheless,” continued the rabbi, “when the Temple was being built, workers and artisans from the entire spectrum of Judaism undoubtedly entered the holy place. Even simple folk, who were not particularly known for their Torah erudition and piety, entered the site of the Temple. They even went all the way into the Holy of Holies whenever they wanted, wearing regular work clothes, until the Temple was completed.”

This was Rav Kook’s famous analogy. He equated the building of the Land of Israel by the pioneering generation with the construction of the Holy of Holies in the ancient Temple. He considered Zionism as a prelude to a religious revolution that was destined to unfold.

The roots of Zionism are rooted in the holiest ideals . . . it is not only a movement that has been constructed on the notion of a hated nation searching for refuge from her enemies. Rather, we are a holy nation, unique among the nations, a roaring lion that has been awakened from her long slumber, now returning to her inheritance.

Rav Kook demonstrated boundless love for every Jew. He believed that the more we aspire to perceive the righteousness and virtues of those dedicated to the revitalization of the Land, the more we will be the recipients of blessing. The “pomegranate Jew” and the “date Jew” alike deserve our esteem and veneration. In so doing, we reveal the true beauty of our people and of our Land.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Deuteronomy, co-published by YU Presss, OU Press, and Maggid Books; edited by Stuart W. Halpern

Being Commanded to Love*

The entire book of Deuteronomy, when compared to the first four books of the Torah, is found to have a unique character, a personality all its own. Whereas in the other books of the Pentateuch the laws of Judaism are expressed in more or less direct legal form, and where the accompanying narrative is factual in nature, this fifth Book of Moses is noted for its sweeping sentimentality, for its appeal to the heart and to the soul. The words lev (heart) and nefesh (soul) appear more often here than in all the other books combined. We are charged to uplift our hearts and souls, to give of ourselves emotionally, to experience Torah ecstatically, to feel it personally and intimately.

In fact, the one word most characteristic of the book of Deuteronomy is ahava (love). We are to do more than obey God and follow Him. We must also love Him, we must experience His presence with our deepest emotions. We read, “Listen O Israel, the Lord your God is One. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your might” (Deuteronomy 6:4-5). And we are later again told to love the Lord our God (11:1), and that He asks of us
to love Him (10:12).

But lest anyone here this morning believe that this is merely gaudy sentimentalism, a sort of fatherly advice, let that person be corrected quickly. The Halakha insists that love of God is a mitzva, a commandment. And as such it is a guiding principle of Jewish life. We are commanded to love God.

And yet, this very idea, the idea that we are commanded to love, is a most perplexing notion. Maimonides and other Jewish philosophers were puzzled by it. They ask a simple, but a pointed question: How can you possibly “command” someone to love? Love is an emotion, a deep emotion, and as such is above, independent of, and detached from volition or will. You can command me to do or give or act or walk, and I can obey, but you cannot possibly command me to love or hate and expect me to obey, no matter how much I want to. I either love or I do not love.  Many a parent has learned that lesson the hard way! How, therefore, do you account for terming the love of God a mitzva, a commandment?

Perhaps one of the most beautiful answers given to this question is the one offered by the author of Sefat Emet, the renowned Gerrer Rebbe. It is answer which bespeaks ahavat Yisrael, and which  gives us a key to understanding the entire book of Deuteronomy. The Gerrer Rebbe maintains that the question itself offers a clue to the answer. Since you cannot command love where it does not already exist, he says, and since the Torah does command such love, then the only logical conclusion is that there is ingrained in every Jewish heart a deep and abiding love for God and for Torah. There exists in every Jewish heart, as he calls it, a nekuda, a “dot” or spark of love for things Jewish. Sometimes that nekuda is too small to be of value, it is covered up with superficial rust, it is hidden by material desires and pursuits – but it’s there. And the commandment to love God is the command to each and every one of us to be conscious of it, to develop that nekuda, to nurture it and express it. But the initial spark, the nekuda, is already there. Every Jew has it, whether he knows it or not. It is just that sometimes we must get rid of the dross and the drapes to be able to see it and appreciate it.

The story is told of the famous sculptor, Michelangelo, who was at work on his great statue of Moses. As he was working, someone who was observing him was moved to remark, “How wonderful to watch a master at work. Here you take a mere slab of stone and make a Moses of it.” But the artist turned to him and said: “You’re mistaken. What happens is that I see Moses inside the stone, and I merely chip away the unnecessary parts of the stone so that you can see clearly what I saw in there before.” So it is with the nekuda of love for Torah – it already exists in every Jewish heart. But we must strive to chip away the hard rock that so frequently encases it. For the love of God, we must do it.

Our modern thinkers have come to adopt the same technique. Educators no longer browbeat a child into learning something for which he has almost no natural aptitude. Instead they look for his possibilities, for his capacities, for his nekuda, and work on that, try to develop it and give it direction and expression. They don’t beat it into the child; they pull it out of him. Psychology, too, under the influence of Freud and psychoanalysis, speaks of a nekuda, of a basic desire in every human being which reaches out in love. They call it the libido. That is the desire for love and affection which exists in every human being. In a child it is expressed as love for parents, then as love for playmates, and finally as love for a life-long mate. Judaism merely goes one step further and maintains that in addition to this libido, with its physical and sexual ramifications, there is also a spiritual libido – the nekuda of ahavat Hashem and ahavat Torah.

With this in mind we need never despair of the future of Torah Judaism either here or in Israel. Prophets of gloom have forecast the demise of Torah Judaism as much as two thousand years ago when the Pharisees were regarded as “done for.” Assimilation was then supposed to win the field. Now we are told that we are all done for, and that “Canaanism,” a primitive form of Near East jingoism that has caught the fancy of some unhappy young sabras, will replace Judaism and Torah altogether. Perhaps from a superficial analysis they are right. But so were the Sadducees right two thousand years ago, from a superficial analysis. The trouble is that they fail to reckon with the nekuda. It’s only a dot, that bit of love for Torah – but oh, can it grow! How often have we seen people seemingly infinitely far from Torah return with a love and emotion that were amazing to behold. Who knows when the nekuda will break out, when the spark will be fanned into great flames of ahavat Hashem and ahavat Torah. The nekuda is unpredictable – but it’s always there.

But, having gone this far and ascertained that in every Jewish heart there exists this nekuda of ahavat Hashem, let us proceed joyfully to the next happy thought. No matter how stern God is with us, no matter how strict and demanding He may seem at different times in history, He – so to speak – always has his nekuda – and that divine nekuda is ahavat Yisrael. God loves Israel, and shall someday prove it even more obviously, even as Israel loves God. For does not the Talmud (Berakhot 6a) relate that just as Jews put on the tefillin that contain verses professing our love for God, so does God, figuratively speaking, put on divine tefillin, in which is written, “Who is like your people Israel, a nation alone in the earth” (I Chronicles 17:21).

Yes, there is a nekuda in God too. And insofar as we develop the nekuda of love for Torah within us, does God develop the nekuda of love for Israel within Him. But whatever may be – the spark is there. And it is that which has insured our survival. Nowhere can we find this lofty idea more beautifully expressed than in the inspiring words of Isaiah (49:14), with which we begin next week’s haftara: “And Zion said, the Lord has forsaken me, and God has forgotten me.” Israel despairs of ever gaining God’s love – but Zion has forgotten about the nekuda. For it is an eternal “dot,” and it is the nekuda of God’s guardianship over and love for Israel. “No more than a mother can forget her child, the fruit of her womb, can God forget Israel; for even if these be forgotten, I will remember you” (v. 15).

For as long as Israel lives there will burn in every Jewish heart and soul the nekuda of love for God. And for as long as there exists for God the nekuda of love for Israel will Israel live.

And may that be forever.

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*August 21, 1954

Excerpted from In the Narrow Places: Daily Inspiration for the Three Weeks by Dr. Erica Brown, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Consolations

According to Jewish law, there are four blessings that are made only once a year. One of them is made on Tisha B’Av and appears in the middle of the Amida prayer of the afternoon service. It is there that we acknowledge something unique about this fast day, above and beyond all others. Every day, three times daily, we pray for the rebuilding of Jerusalem and the ingathering of exiles. Every fast day, we insert special additional pleadings to intensify our supplications. But only on
this one day a year do we add a prayer for consolation.

At times of distress, we search for comfort, solace and empathy. When we feel low, we want companionship. We may not know – indeed, we rarely do – why this great anguish has come upon us. We cannot understand it. Consolation, when sincere, can help fill in the gaps of
incomprehension. When we have warmth, comfort and company, our failure to figure out life’s great mysteries somehow matters less. A tale is told among Hasidim about a young man who had suffered many great personal losses, and traveled far to see his rebbe, seeking clarity and renewed faith at a time that sorely tried him. He arrived at the rebbe’s court and blurted out his catalogue of misfortunes. The rebbe sat in silence and listened. Even when this disciple had finished, the rebbe sat in a prolonged and pregnant silence. The young man trembled. Finally, the rebbe got up and stood right next to his disciple and said in a hushed tone, “I cannot explain why any of these terrible things have befallen you. But I can stand beside you in anger.” That is consolation.

The special prayer of consolation we recite is a lengthy paragraph. Pay attention to its metaphors and the intricacies of its language:

Console, O Lord our God, the mourners of Zion and the mourners of Jerusalem, and the city that is in sorrow, laid waste, scorned and desolate; that grieves for the loss of its children, that is laid
waste of its dwellings, robbed of its glory, desolate without inhabitants. She sits with her head covered like a barren childless woman. Legions have devoured her; idolaters have taken possession of her; they have put Your people Israel to the sword and deliberately killed the devoted followers of the Most High. Therefore Zion weeps bitterly, and Jerusalem raises her voice. My heart, my heart grieves for those they killed; I am in anguish, I am in anguish for those they killed. For You, O Lord, consumed it with fire, and with fire You will rebuild it in the future, as is said, “And I Myself will be a wall of fire around it, says the Lord, and I will be its glory within” [Zechariah 2:9].

Blessed are You, Lord, who consoles Zion and rebuilds Jerusalem.

This is a curious blessing. What kind of blessing offers a review of the tragic events that require consolation? Is it not odd that the prayer actually makes us feel worse before it makes us feel better? Jerusalem as a barren woman – as one who not only had children and lost them to exile, but as one who never had any children at all – bent over and disgraced, offers us the image of the woman alone in her suffering. She cries out, but no one is there to listen. Her insides bewail the losses all around her. Her enemies have triumphed and carried a nation away from its spiritual center. Is this review meant to offer us comfort or make us grieve harder?

The prayer is bookended with the image of God as consoler. God is introduced at the beginning of the blessing as the one who consoles mourners, as if He were going to the shiva house of the entire Jewish people. At its closing, God is described not as a comforter but as a protector, a fire-wall. This image comes from Zechariah 2:9, from a chapter of consolation spoken by the prophet who led the Israelites out of Babylon and back to Zion. Immediately preceding the verse chosen for our liturgy is a celebratory passage that stands in sharp contrast to Jerusalem as an abandoned city: “Jerusalem shall be peopled as a city without walls, so many shall be the people and cattle it contains” (Zechariah 2:8). The walls that contained the fires of devastation will be bursting with inhabitants. They will be knocked down to accommodate the flooding of people. The language is exhilarating:

“Shout for joy, Zion! For Lo, I come, and I will dwell in your midst,” declares the Lord. In that day, many nations will attach themselves to the Lord and become His people, and He will dwell in your midst. (Zechariah 2:14–15)

This is more than the consolation of comfort. It offers a picture of the future, and communicates hope and optimism. Zechariah’s image makes us want to join in the momentum of redemption. He extends the appeal of Zion far beyond the nation alone. Everyone will want to be there. God will be a magnet to newcomers and will dwell in Zion. God’s presence will be securely felt.

The contrast between our prayer and Zechariah’s hopefulness raises the question of how to define consolation. Consolation is not meant to be a distraction. It is not about looking elsewhere, in the future, to the side, somewhere other than despair. Zechariah’s visions are prophetic and futuristic. Consolation is about looking exceedingly closely at a past from which it is all too easy to turn away and deriving meaning and comfort from it. It is the confrontation of grief in company.

Think about a visit to a mourner, a house of shiva. Many mourners during the shiva period try to focus all conversation on the person lost. We are there to be together with the mourner as he looks back. The consolation is in the details, in the reflection and contemplation of a life and the often sad and heart-wrenching last months and days. One can only really get to the other side of tragedy by immersing oneself in it and then emerging. Doctors often recommend that mourners not take medications that numb anxiety or ease pain because it is well known that this failure to grieve intensely will only prolong an inability to move on.

Who truly provides consolation – those at a shiva who ignore the pain and speak of unrelated issues, or those who are not afraid to ask “When did your mother get sick?” “What did she have?” “How did you handle it?”? These questions do not minimize the pain; they invite the mourner into a dialogue about what really happened, into a human encounter more profound for its harsh honesty.

God consoles us in this prayer not by avoiding the pain but by mourning the loss with us. That is true empathy. We feel solace not when someone explains away the reason for our suffering or distracts us with images of a redeemed future, but when God stands beside us in our anger and disbelief.

Kavana for the Day
Who in your life needs consolation right now? Think of someone who, in the past year, lost a spouse, a parent, or a sibling. We know that the intensity of loss changes over time, but is never gone. Over the year, the mourner’s experience is softened and cushioned. Most mourners are comforted by their respective communities during the shiva period, the initial seven days. Yet many people feel that the hardest point is when they get up from the shiva – when no one is in the house and suddenly the aloneness of the situation seems unbearable. Since the process of consolation takes time, call or get together with someone who has suffered a recent loss and ask them how they’re doing. Don’t just make it a quick question, show concentrated interest: how has life changed for you? How often do you think of the person you lost? What has brought you solace in these months? Some mourners may choose to be more private, but others may wish to be asked. Some may feel that people only really “cared” during the week of shiva. Mourning takes time. Consolation requires patience and extended compassion.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

The Life-giving Torah

After wandering the desert for forty years, the Jewish people were finally on their final approach to the promised land. Having had more than enough time to prepare for their arrival, their enemies set a massive ambush of devastating potential in the crevices and caves along Wadi Arnon. Little did they know, however, that the ark preceded the people and miraculously leveled the terrain to make it more easily traversable. This time, it brought the two sides of the riverbed together and crushed all the would-be murderers lying in wait. The Jewish people would have remained blissfully unaware of the threat and its neutralization if not for two people afflicted with the special skin condition tzara’at residing temporarily outside the camp, who noticed blood trickling out of the rock. When they reported their discovery to the camp, the entire people burst into a song of thanksgiving.

Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook unpacked this account recorded in the Talmud as a figure of things to come. The ark which was imbued with the power to bring down mountains and clear a path for the nation of Israel represents the Torah’s power and vitality, which serve as a source of strength and guidance for all time. Since the birth of our people, numerous enemies have attempted to eradicate us physically and spiritually, to prevent us from achieving our lofty aspirations. Sometimes they conceal dangerous ideas like mines, waiting for centuries to be tripped and cause mayhem. By virtue of our allegiance to the Torah, the Talmud tells us, our ultimate safety and success as a people are assured.

The jubilant song that followed the dispatching of the ambushers begins, “Rise, well” (Numbers 21:17). The Torah as water, well, or fount is common imagery in the Torah, since the Jewish people drink of its endless wellspring of knowledge and wisdom. The Jewish people expressed their thanks to the Torah, the water that kept them alive. This may explain why Moshe did not lead them in song as he did at the sea some forty years earlier. The bond between the people and their Torah, the way of life that will guide them when they enter and settle their land, is unmediated.

One of the most puzzling aspects of this episode is the role of the two metzora’im. Traditionally, tzara’at appears on one’s body to signify some spiritual imperfection. So why were such individuals privy to this information? Rav Kook explained that the metzora’im at the edge of the camp represent Jews on the fringes who have experienced the world and understand the dangers that lurk therein. Jews in the midst of the camp, even the most sheltered ones, can see a frontal attack coming. It is hard to miss the open hatred, whether shouted at anti-Semitic rallies, displayed in Nazi tattoos, or acted upon through physical violence. Sometimes, though, our enemies come at us from the flanks or from the modern-day equivalent of caves – tunnels below the ground. The God-fearing Jew may not have the capacity to think like the insidious enemy and imagine these invisible threats. It is precisely those on the margins who can comprehend the peril, appreciate the salvation, and disclose God’s greatness to the entire people.

It is difficult not to read between the lines of this piece and see Rav Kook recording his own thoughts about momentous events unfolding before his very eyes. With the modern mass return to the land, Rav Kook believed that it was vital for the Torah to serve as the foundation of the emergent Israeli society. The Jew’s return home would renew ties to the land, and the whole body of agricultural Halachah, for example, would need careful application to present realities. In addition, Rav Kook felt that the ingathering of the Jewish people demanded unconditional appreciation of every single Jew and his or her contribution to the blossoming of the people in their land.

Rav Kook weaved together this vision of Torah, people, and land united in a beautiful response to the national anthem, “Ha-Tikvah” (The Hope), which he did not find satisfying. He titled this hymn “Ha-Emunah” (The Faith):

Notably, Rav Kook used two words from the ancient song in Parashat Chukat to end the song: “a gift from the desert” (Numbers 21:18). While this is traditionally taken as a reference to the  Torah given in the wilderness of Sinai, the words can also be understood to refer to the Land of Israel. Indeed, coming home to our land was the ultimate gift for a people on its feet all those years. The destiny begun in our land by Avraham eons ago, and which can again be met by so many of our people, is to be a holy people, following the holy Torah, living in our Holy Land. Rav Kook’s wonderful vision has fittingly inspired many generations of Religious Zionists, and should serve as inspiration to us all.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Second Chances

Generally speaking, when it comes to Halachah, or even the law more generally, second chances are not available. If one could not take the lulav on Sukkot, one cannot take it the week after and still fulfill the obligation. And yet, in Parashat Beha’alotecha, as a direct result of the people’s lament that they could not bring the korban pesach (paschal lamb) at the proper time, Pesach Sheni was born (Numbers 9:1-14).

According to Rabbi Akiva, those who petitioned for a second chance were Mishael and Eltzafan. How did he arrive at this identification? These are the only biblical personalities who we know would have been ritually impure at the time of the korban pesach from their handling of a corpse. Recall that Mishael and Eltzafan were the sons of Uzziel, “Aharon’s uncle” (dod Aharon), whom Moshe summoned to remove the bodies of Nadav and Avihu from the inside the sanctuary (Leviticus 10:4). Assuming the Mishkan was erected on the eighth of Nisan, they would not have been purified of corpse impurity by the fourteenth to bring the sacrifice, since the purification takes seven days.

There is perhaps a further basis for solidifying this identification. Why were Mishael and Eltzafan, of all their family members, told to remove the bodies of Aharon’s sons? The Netziv  suggested that their father Uzziel was particularly close to Aharon. The word used for “uncle” above, dod, can also indicate a close relationship. Aharon and Uzziel were very close, so that for Uzziel and his sons Mishael and Eltzafan the loss was felt acutely. The Netziv added that Aharon’s extended family was jealous of his position, such that other relatives would have relished Aharon being dealt a harsh blow. Uzziel’s family was happy for Aharon and his sons.

The Netziv also pointed out that Mishael, the older brother, was passed over for the position of nasi (chieftain) of Kehat in favor of his younger brother Eltzafan. Yet, nothing points to an expression of animosity towards his brother. This was a nuclear family that exhibited modesty and empathy, and so these two brothers specifically were fit for and chosen to tend to the bodies of their cousins.

The people who petitioned Moshe, said the Shinover Rebbe, Yechezkel Shraga Halberstam, had genuine humility. Moshe saw their broken heart and their genuine self-effacing character in the face of God’s command. On beholding their fallen countenances and hearing their impassioned plea, Moshe knew that God would appear to him in their merit. Moshe said, “You stand here (imdu) while I hear what the Lord commands lachem” (Numbers 9:8), and while the word lachem is usually understand to mean “for you,” the Shinover said it means “on your account,” in the merit of those seeking to fulfill God’s command. The imperative imdu, directly addressed to the people, reinforces this.

Anyone impure at the time of the bringing of the korban pesach would have been considered exempt. The Talmud records the concept of force majeure, that in a case of circumstances beyond one’s control God exempts a person from an obligation (annus Rachmana patreih). The petitioners were given a second chance because they were going the extra mile in asking for one.

All of this fits with what we know about Mishael and Eltzafan. They were impure at the time of the offering. They were exceedingly humble when it came to God’s assignment of greatness to others, and they only wanted to do what God required even when technically it was not required of them. One could even argue that Mishael and Eltzafan were doubly exempt, as the reason for their impurity was engaging in the sacred task of burying a person.

In Rabbi Akiva’s view, the two brothers exhibited a combination of sincerity, humility, and piety that resulted in a new Torah law being instituted for all generations. If we attempt to nurture the same character traits and genuinely desire to fulfill God’s mitzvot, we can hope that God will afford us second chances as well.

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

Standing for The Ten Commandments

On the first day of the holiday of Shavuot, we read the Torah portion about the Revelation at Sinai and the Ten Commandments (Shulḥan Arukh, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 494:1). Maimonides (Teshuvot, Blau ed., 263) was asked if it is an appropriate custom to specifically stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments. The questioner felt that such a custom should not be allowed, just as the Rabbis themselves (Berakhot 12a) dissolved the practice of reading the Ten Commandments along with the Shema because of heretics who claimed that the Ten Commandments were more important than the rest of the Torah. The questioner felt that anything that places extra emphasis on the Ten Commandments over the rest of the Torah would share the same potential for heresy.

In his response, Maimonides passionately agrees with the questioner and maintains that indeed one should not stand specifically for the reading of the Ten Commandments. Rather, one should sit, as one does during the rest of the Torah reading. Maimonides suspects that standing for the Ten Commandments will possibly lead to a laxity in faith, for one will begin to think that certain sections of the Torah are more important than others. Therefore, Maimonides concludes that this practice should be avoided.

However, despite Maimonides’ opinion, the current commonplace custom is to stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments (see Shaarei Ephraim 7:37; Iggerot Moshe, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 4:22). The question is, why indeed is this our custom? Why do we not follow Maimonides’ compelling argument? Furthermore, why is standing for the reading of
the Ten Commandments any different from the custom that the Rabbis dissolved of reading the Ten Commandments with the Shema?

We can understand our custom of standing for the reading of the Ten Commandments based on the following. The Ten Commandments, unlike other sections of the Torah, have two sets of cantillations, known as “ta’am taḥton” and “ta’am elyon.” The difference between them is as follows: the ta’am taḥton divides the Ten Commandments by verses, in the same manner as the rest of the Torah. The ta’am elyon, however, divides the Ten Commandments not into units of verses but by commandment. For example, the fourth commandment contains four verses according
to ta’am taḥton (Ex. 20:7-10), but when using the ta’am elyon, it is read as one long verse, being that these four verses comprise just one of the Ten Commandments. Likewise, the fifth through eighth commandments, according to ta’am taḥton, are contained in one verse (Ex. 20:12), but when using ta’am elyon are read as four separate verses, one verse for each individual commandment.

With this in mind, we can understand the custom of standing for the Ten Commandments. The regular weekly reading of the Torah was instituted in order to fulfill our communal obligation of Torah study. It was specifically designed to fulfill this obligation through the reading of the Written Torah. Consequently, we fulfill this obligation by reading the pesukim of the Torah. The Talmud states that we cannot divide a verse in a way that Moses did not divide it (Megillah 24a). Therefore, when fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, the Torah must be read in
the way that Moses divided it, to constitute reading pesukim.

When the Ten Commandments are read with the ta’am elyon, by contrast, our goal is not to fulfill our obligation of reading Torah. Rather we are reading the Ten Commandments as a  commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai, and therefore the reading is divided into commandments (as they were said at Sinai), not into verses.

In many congregations, on the weeks of Parashat Yitro and Va’etḥanan in which the Ten Commandments are read, they are read with the regular cantillation, ta’am taḥton (see Beiur Halakhah 494). This is because this reading is part of the regular weekly reading of the Torah in which we are fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, and therefore it must be read with the regular cantillation (ta’am taḥton).

However, on Shavuot, everyone has the custom to read the Ten Commandments with the ta’am elyon. This is because the reading of the Ten Commandments on Shavuot is not meant to fulfill our communal obligation of learning Torah; rather, the reading is a commemoration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and thus we divide the Ten Commandments into the unit of commandments, not into verses (see Magen Avraham 494 in the name of Ḥizkuni).

It follows that our current custom to stand during the recitation of the Ten Commandments applies when they are being read with the ta’am elyon. This cantillation demonstrates that our reading is a commemoration of what took place at Mount Sinai, and therefore we stand just as the Jewish nation stood around Mount Sinai when receiving the Torah (see Ex. 19:17; Deut. 4:11). Likewise, it would seem that Maimonides’ disapproval of standing for the Ten Commandments is when they are being read with the ta’am taḥton, which indicates that they are being read as verses of the Torah. One cannot stand for the Ten Commandments when they are read as a particular segment of the Torah, because this would indeed indicate that one ascribes more significance to them than to the rest of the Torah.

When reading the Ten Commandments with ta’am elyon, however, we do not have to be concerned about the appearance of giving primacy to the Ten Commandments. We are not standing due to the content of the Torah reading but rather as a commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai. The Ten Commandments are no more sacred than the parashah which speaks of Timnah, the concubine of Elifaz (Gen. 36:12), but the Ten Commandments are read not only as a text which is being studied, but as a text which is being promulgated and proclaimed by God Himself.

Judaism developed a very peculiar philosophy of memory, indeed, an ethics of memory. Memory and forgetfulness are subject to ethical determination. Memory is not just the capacity of man to know events which lie in the past. Memory is experiential in nature; one does not simply recollect the past or just remember bygones, but reexperiences that which has been, and quickens events that are seemingly dead.

Many mitzvot are based upon this idea. The Passover seder is, of course, the prime example: “In each generation a person is required to see himself as if he had gone out of Egypt” (Haggadah). Likewise, the reading of the Ten Commandments is not only a didactic performance of limmud, study, but a restaging, a dramatic reenacting of mattan Torah. That is why people rise when it is read.

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

The Jewish People’s Conversation at Sinai

Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:1,4) writes:

Israel entered the covenant with three acts: circumcision, immersion, and offering a sacrifice…. Similarly, for [all] future generations, when a gentile desires to enter into the covenant, take shelter under the wings of the Divine Presence, and accept the yoke of the Torah, he must undergo circumcision, immersion, and the offering of a sacrifice.

Maimonides’ description is based on the Gemara (Keritot 9a) which derives the laws of conversion from the experience of the Jewish people at Sinai. The Vilna Gaon (Beiur HaGra, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 490:9) explains that this is the basis for our custom to read Megillat Rut on Shavuot – just as Megillat Rut describes one conversion, Shavuot commemorates the conversion of the nation.

However, the idea that mattan Torah was the Jewish people’s conversion seems to stand in contradiction to a statement of Nahmanides in his commentary on the Torah (Lev. 24:10). Nahmanides writes that “from the time that Abraham entered the covenant, they [i.e., his descendants through Isaac and Jacob] were Israelites and were ‘not reckoned among the nations.’” According to Nahmanides, following Abraham’s circumcision he and his descendants already achieved Jewish status. If so, what was the need for the conversion at Sinai? Ritva (Ketubot 11a) addresses this issue and states that, “The seed of Abraham had already been commanded regarding circumcision and were entered into his [Abraham’s] covenant from their youth, and this [i.e., the conversion at Sinai] was only the completion of conversion [gemar gerut].” How are we to understand this?

We can explain as follows. The concept of conversion is equivalent to accepting the yoke of Torah and mitzvot. Abraham was given one commandment – circumcision – and therefore, in his time only partial conversion was possible. In Egypt, the Jewish people received additional mitzvot (see Hil. Melakhim 9:1) but since they did not receive all the mitzvot, full conversion was still impossible. At Sinai when the people received all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot, they required a new act to complete their conversion and be imbued with the full sanctity of the
Jewish people. Since the sanctity of the Jewish people derives from Torah and mitzvot, the addition of new mitzvot required a new conversion; the completion of kedushat Yisrael could take place only with the revelation of all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot. This is the meaning of the gemar gerut that took place at Sinai.

Although we have described the conversion at Sinai as the paradigm of future conversions, it seems that there is one significant difference between the conversion at Sinai and subsequent conversions. In characterizing the offering brought as part of the people’s conversion, Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:3) writes: “Sacrifiices [were offered then], as the verse (Ex. 24:5) states: ‘And he sent out the youth of the children of Israel and  they brought burnt offerings.’ They offered them as agents of the entire Jewish people [על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום].” The phrase על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום seems to indicate that these offerings were brought on behalf of the Jewish people as a nation, not as individuals, i.e., as korbenot tzibbur. If so, it follows that the conversion of the Jewish people was performed not as a group of individuals but as a single communal conversion. Likewise, the acceptance of the mitzvot (kabbalat mitzvot) was performed communally when the people said naaseh venishma – “we shall do and we shall heed” (Ex. 24:7) – “as one man, with one heart” (Rashi, Ex. 19:2). The conversion took effect on the nation as a whole at one time.

Based on this, we can resolve a question that arises from the Gemara (Shabbat 130a). Commenting on the verse “Moses heard the people weeping with their families” (Num. 11:10), the Gemara explains that Israel was weeping concerning family matters, for marriages within the family that became forbidden after they accepted the Torah. Yet there is a well-known rule that a convert to Judaism is akin to a newly born infant (Yevamot 22a) – meaning that the convert’s former family relationships are dissolved. If so, Maharal (Gur Aryeh, Gen. 46:10) notes that there should have been no prohibited marriages following mattan Torah, since all Israel underwent conversion at Sinai.

However, according to the above, we can explain that this rule did not apply to the conversion at Sinai because it was fundamentally distinct from the ordinary form of conversion. Ordinarily, conversion is an individual act, and in such cases the convert gains the status of a newborn. But the conversion at Sinai was not a separate conversion of each individual member of Israel, but a conversion of the entire nation in the aggregate.  Since the conversion at Sinai took effect on the whole nation as a single entity, their family relationships persisted.