Author: devora

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

Ve’Ata Kadosh: Hallel of the Hidden God*

On Purim, the Megilla is read both at night and in the morning. While there is unanimity among rabbinic authorities as to the requirement to recite the sheheĥeyanu blessing prior to the recitation of the Megilla on the night of Purim, there is some disagreement regarding the need to repeat  the berakha when rereading the Megilla on Purim morning. According to Maimonides (Hilkhot Megilla 1:3), sheheĥeyanu is not recited in the morning since it was already said the previous evening. Ri, on the other hand, maintains that since the primary reading is the daytime reading, there is indeed a requirement to repeat the berakha (Tosafot, Megilla 4a s.v. ĥayav).

On the surface, Ri’s opinion seems difficult to understand. True, the reading of the Megilla during the day was instituted by the prophets while the reading of the previous evening was established only later by Ĥazal. Yet the question remains: if the mitzva performance is identical, why the need for a second sheheĥeyanu?

In a well-known passage (Megilla 14a), the Gemara raises the question as to why there is no Hallel recited on Purim. One of the reasons provided by the Gemara is that the Megilla reading itself comprises Hallel. According to this opinion, two distinct mitzvot are simultaneously fulfilled through the reading of the Megilla: the mitzva of Megilla itself as well as the mitzva of Hallel. Based on this, we can explain the repetition of the sheheĥeyanu blessing. With the exception of Pesaĥ night, the obligation to recite Hallel is exclusively discharged during the day. As a result, the sheheĥeyanu recited in the evening is a prelude to the mitzva of reading the Megilla itself, while the second berakha during the day is made as a prelude to a different mitzva: the fulfillment of Hallel implicit in the morning Megilla recitation.

On might now ask why this “Hallel” of Purim morning requires a sheheĥeyanu at all, since at no other time during the year is sheheĥeyanu recited as a prelude to Hallel. The answer is that the Hallel of Purim is unique since it is the only time one can fulfill the mitzva of Hallel without  actually reciting the specific chapters in Psalms that comprise Hallel. We recite sheheĥeyanu in the morning not because of the mitzva of Hallel per se, but because of the unique form that Hallel assumes on Purim morning.

The supposition that the mitzva of Hallel is fulfilled through the reading of the Megilla itself begs for explanation. Every other fulfillment of Hallel, whether on Rosh Ĥodesh, Ĥanukka, or Yom Tov, is fulfilled simply through reading the chapters of Psalms which comprise Hallel. Why on Purim alone is the mitzva of Hallel fulfilled through reading the holiday narrative? Furthermore, at the Seder table on Pesaĥ night, after discussing the miracle of the Exodus from Egypt at great length we recite Hallel. Why don’t we similarly maintain that retelling the story of the Exodus at the Seder constitutes a fulfillment of Hallel?

To address this question, we must first explore the nature of Hallel itself in light of a Talmudic passage: “R. Yosi said, Let my lot be among those who recite Hallel every day. But did not the master say, whoever recites Hallel every day is a blasphemer? Regarding what [did R. Yosi make his statement]? Pesukei DeZimra” (Shabbat 118b).

The arrangement of those chapters of Psalms that we commonly refer to as Hallel is known in the Talmud as Hallel HaMitzri, the Egyptian Hallel. The theme of this Hallel is the miraculous. “When Israel left Egypt… the sea saw and fled, the Jordan flowed backwards, the mountains skipped like rams…He transformed the rock to a pond of water…” These are the occasions when the Creator breaches the processes of nature and temporarily suspends the laws of the physical world, the world of “day and night shall not cease” (Gen. 8:22). The appellation Hallel HaMitzri is used because the primary theme of this Hallel is the supernatural event that God performed on behalf of His people on the night of the Exodus. On that night, He intervened with nature – the rules of physics, of action and reaction, cause and effect, were suspended. On the night of Pesaĥ, we recount His wonders and miracles – God obstructed the processes of nature to liberate His people from slavery.

However, as the Gemara implies, there is another type of Hallel, the Hallel of Pesukei DeZimra. The theme of Pesukei DeZimra is not the miraculous but rather the mundane forces of nature: “He created heaven and earth, the sea and everything in it…He brings forth His snow like wool who can stand before His cold…the skies above praise Him…the sun and moon praise Him, the stars of light praise Him.” The chapters starting with Ashrei and concluding with Psalm 150 are a type of Hallel in which God reveals Himself through the powerful forces of nature. Is there truly any greater miracle than the sun rising in the morning?

If one recites Hallel HaMitzri every day, he is considered blasphemous because one should not require the daily invocation of supernatural miracles to appreciate His greatness. Recitation of Hallel HaMitzri daily would suggest that our praise of God is predicated exclusively on His performance of such wonders. When does God intervene in nature and perform such miracles? He does so when He has no choice, when He, so to speak, can no longer accomplish His objectives through natural means. If God had not miraculously intervened in Egypt when He did, the Jewish people would have assimilated entirely, and the chosen people would have disappeared.

Yet, as is evident from the following Midrash, such miraculous intervention is far from His preferred course of action (Shemot Rabba 15):

[The Exodus from Egypt] is analogous to a Kohen whose teruma falls into a graveyard. He says, “What can I do? To defile myself is impossible, and to abandon the teruma is impossible! It is better for me to defile myself once, return, and purify myself so that I not lose my teruma.” So were our forefathers the teruma of the Holy One, Blessed be He, as it says: “Israel is holy to the LORD, the first of His grain” ( Jer. 2:3). The Holy One, Blessed be He said, “How can I redeem them? To abandon them is impossible! It is preferable for Me to descend and save them,” as it says (Ex. 3:8): “And I will descend to save them from the hands of Egypt.”

Holiness in Judaism can be broadly defined as maintaining separation. When God intervenes supernaturally, His holiness is diminished because His separateness is diminished. Since the redemption from Egypt required God’s supernatural intervention, His involvement constituted a “descent,” as it were, in His holiness, in His separateness. For this reason, God labels the Exodus from Egypt as a descent.

God directs the complex cosmic drama; the light that speeds through the universe, the flying nebulae, all act in accord with His decree. The organic and biological world is a greater manifestation of His will than all the plagues visited upon Egypt! Is there anything extraordinary in God being able to overrun Egypt with frogs? His ability to drown the Egyptian army is trivial compared to His manifestation through nature.

Thus, R. Yosi says, “Let my lot be among those who recite Hallel [i.e., Pesukei DeZimra] every day.” When one truly appreciates that the most magnificent manifestation of God on earth is His revelation through nature, he recites Pesukei DeZimra, reflecting the profound sense of awe that is experienced upon witnessing natural phenomena.

When His nation passed through the Red Sea and exclaimed, “This is my God and I will glorify Him,” they were able to point to God leading them to freedom (Rashi, Ex. 15:2). Yet, had the Children of Israel been on a higher spiritual level, God would have taken them out of Egypt through natural means, without resorting to overt miracles. If the Jews had been on a more elevated spiritual plane, He would not have had to violate the natural process to save them. He did so in Egypt only because time was of the essence. Israel was on the brink of total assimilation. Had He not intervened through overt miracles, there would have been no nation left to save.

The miracle of Purim is fundamentally different from all other miracles that are commemorated in the Jewish calendar because it is not a revealed miracle. It is a “natural” miracle. There is no incident in the Megilla that one might consider as anything but a natural occurrence. As elaborated by Ĥazal (Megilla 15b), the natural miracle of Purim is the theme of Psalm 22, which begins:

For the leader; upon Ayelet HaShaĥar [literally, the morning star; interpreted as a reference to Esther]…My God, my God, why have You forsaken me…O my God, I call by day but You answer not, and at night and there is no surcease for me.

When Esther entered the inner chamber to approach the king and plead on behalf of her people, she was fully aware of the serious implication of her action, as evidenced by her message to Mordekhai (4:11): “There is only one law for any man or woman who comes before the king, into the inner courtyard, without being called: to be killed.”

Ĥazal say that upon first seeing the queen, King Ahasuerus withheld his scepter. His first inclination was to put her to death for brazenly entering the inner chamber uninvited. Esther had hoped that her hesitant approach to the king would herald a supernatural event that would lead to the salvation of the Jews, in the same way that God had performed open miracles on behalf of His people in the past. She was therefore bitterly disappointed when Ahasuerus did not immediately extend his scepter. At that point, Esther thought that all was lost, her efforts to save the Jewish people were in vain. In despair, she exclaimed: “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

When the capricious king changed his mind and held out his scepter, Esther knew that the deliverance of the Jews would take place. However, she also understood that this rescue was to be different from the other salvations in Jewish history. This time the Jews would be saved through natural means.

Psalm 22 therefore continues with this verse: ואַתָּה קָדוֹשׁ יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְָׂראֵל , You are the Holy One, enthroned on the praises of Israel. As explained earlier, holiness denotes separateness. When God redeems Israel through natural means, He is kadosh, hidden, separate from man, concealed behind a cloud. When King Ahasuerus finally extended his scepter, Esther realized that although God would answer her prayers, He would still remain kadosh, separate. He would provide salvation by performing a “natural” miracle. As a result of this belated realization, Esther exclaimed: You are the Holy One, enthroned on the praises of Israel. And when God orchestrates salvation from afar, maintaining the separateness of a kadosh, He acts in accordance with the praises that Jews recite daily: the praises of Pesukei DeZimra rather than those of Hallel HaMitzri.

In the Purim drama, God directed a sequence of events that when considered separately do not appear extraordinary. He set in motion a series of seemingly mundane and plausible incidents so the salvation had the appearance of emerging naturally.

Esther herself is called Ayelet HaShaĥar in the Gemara (Yoma 29a). Ayelet HaShaĥar refers to the rise of the morning star at the very beginning of dawn. The inception of dawn is very subtle. When one looks towards the east at the earliest moment of dawn, the slow brightening of the sky is not even perceptible. At the very moment that the Purim salvation was incubating, one could only see an evil, politically astute Haman getting drunk with a king whom he easily manipulated. The darkness, the despair of this long night seemed so overpowering that one might have mistakenly concluded that there was no guiding hand behind those events.

In appreciation of this aspect of Purim, after the Megilla readings of both evening and morning we recite the portion of U’Va LeTziyon starting with ואַתָּה קָדוֹשׁ יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְָׂראֵל. וקָרָא זֶה אֶל זֶה ואָמַר קָדוֹשׁ קָדוֹשׁ קָדוֹשׁ יְהָוה צְבָאוֹת מְלֹא כָל הָאֶָרץ כְּבוֹדוֹ , You are the Holy One, enthroned on the praises of Israel. And [the angels] call to one another, saying, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the whole world is filled with His glory.”

The appellation “LORD of hosts” connotes that He is the Master of the host of seemingly inconsequential events on earth. As the prayer continues: קַדִּישׁ בִּשְׁמֵי מְרוֹמָא עִלָּאָה בֵּית שְׁכִינְתֵּהּ , Holy in the highest heavens, home of His presence. Initially, it seems that He only controls the celestial sphere, that He is entirely removed from the events taking place on earth. Only after we step back and view these natural events in perspective can we appreciate their sequence and thus perceive His providence: קַדִּישׁ עַל אְַרעָא עוֹבַד גְּבוְּרתֵּהּ , holy on earth, the work of His strength.

Although we cannot see His guiding hand, what happens on earth is far from random; it is “the work of His strength.” After we gain this appreciation we affirm: קַדִּישׁ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא , holy for ever and all time.

Upon narrating the story of the Exodus on Pesaĥ, we do not recite the prayer of Ve’Ata Kadosh. As we spill the wine and enumerate the ten plagues, the revelation of God’s presence is evident. On Pesaĥ, we do not need to declare our faith that He is “holy on earth, the work of His strength,” since at the moment of the splitting of the sea we could see Him clearly. “By signs, and by wonders, and by war, and by a mighty hand… according to all that the LORD your God did for you in Egypt before your eyes” (Deut. 4:34).

In contrast, when we read the Megilla, we relive the black night when a drunken king and his evil advisor tried to seal the fate of the Jews. Yet, as it states in the Megilla, “On that night,” when the situation was dark and bleak, “the sleep of the king was disturbed” (Es. 6:1). The night did not give way to the morning light quickly, yet events were orchestrated in a way that very slowly led to salvation. This process happened naturally, culminating in, “Thus was Haman hung up, on the very post he had prepared for Mordekhai; and the king’s fury subsided” (Es. 7:10).

The Gemara (Megilla 19a) comments: “The Megilla is called a letter [iggeret] and it is called a book [sefer].” The word sefer in ancient Hebrew refers exclusively to words written on parchment. As such, it suggests a permanent record. For example, “Take these documents [sefarim] and place them in an earthenware vessel so they will endure for many years” (Jer. 32:14). “‘He shall write for himself a copy of this law in a book’ – in a book and not on paper” (Sifrei, Deut. 160). Ink on parchment is durable. An iggeret, on the other hand, is written on paper, the message is temporary. One reads a letter and soon discards it.

Megillat Esther is unique because it is designated as both an iggeret and a sefer. Superficially, the events that are recounted in the Megilla would not seem to have any lasting significance. The narrative at first seems to be a mildly interesting tale of political intrigue, an iggeret that one reads and soon discards, like a newspaper. On the other hand, the Megilla is also a sefer, a profound book that recounts a very significant and momentous event in Jewish history. As a sefer, millions of people read it on Purim and will continue to do so.

The sefer aspect of the Megilla narrative is reflected in halakha. Commenting on the phrase in the Megilla, “words of peace and truth” (Es. 9:30), the Gemara derives that the Megilla requires etched lines, “like the truth of Torah” (Megilla 16b). Rabbenu Tam (Tosafot, Gittin 6b) explains that the “truth of Torah” refers to Shema Yisrael. Indeed, this story is as basic and fundamental to our religion as the cardinal declaration of faith itself. Jews recited Shema Yisrael as they prepared to sacrifice their lives for the sanctification of God’s name, during moments in our history when the night of exile was at its darkest. Rabbi Akiva could perceive God’s presence as his body was being perforated with combs of iron and the word eĥad issued from his dying lips. By celebrating the holiday of Purim, we demonstrate our belief in Divine Providence during a dark, tragic night. The Gemara rereads the verse: “On that night,” when no one thought that God would intervene, when the situation seemed hopeless, “the sleep of the King of the Universe was disturbed” (Megilla 15b). The night imperceptibly gave way to dawn, to salvation. We proclaim Ve’Ata Kadosh despite the superficial perception of God’s absence: “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

A dispute is recorded in the Mishna and the subsequent Gemara regarding where in the Book of Esther the Megilla reading on Purim should commence (Megilla 19a). The halakha follows the opinion which maintains that we must read the Megilla in its entirety. But why do we even bother to read the beginning of the Megilla, with its depiction of a drunken king and his petulant wife? Why are we obligated to recite the dual blessing of al mikra Megilla and sheheĥeyanu before hearing such trivial details?

The answer is that in the Megilla narrative, no detail is trivial. If we did not know about Vashti’s fall, we would not understand the significance of the flow of these events. What did the conflict of Vashti and Ahasuerus have to do with them? Only later did they recognize that the process of salvation began the moment Ahasuerus became intoxicated at his royal feast. Were it not for Vashti’s fall from the king’s graces and Esther’s subsequent rise to the throne, Haman would have been triumphant. Megillat Esther is a sefer because every detail must be taken into account to appreciate how the saga reaches it denouement.

Purim (lots) is the name of the holiday, not the singular pur, because there have been many attempts to destroy us in exile. Yet, while God has saved us every time we faced annihilation in the diaspora, He also remained hidden, kadosh.

In Egypt, the miracles were so numerous that Israel did not have to act to defeat the Egyptians: “Stand fast and see the salvation of the LORD… The LORD shall do battle for you, and you shall remain silent” (Ex. 14:13-14). In contrast, the battle against Amalek was never fought through overt miracles. The battle had to be fought conventionally: “And Moses said unto Joshua: ‘Choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek’” (Ex. 17:9). Why this difference in the method of salvation?

Pharaoh’s persecution of the Israelites was due to simple economic considerations. The persecution was a means of maintaining a pool of cheap labor to serve his kingdom’s needs. In contrast, Amalek’s battle was not against Jews per se, it was against the God of Israel Himself. Amalek fights God through His people. Amalek’s antagonism towards the Jewish people is rooted in the fact that Mordekhai did not bow nor prostrate himself before Haman. And Haman knew that if Mordekhai did not bow, the simple shoemaker would not bow either. Mordekhai lived differently, he ate differently, his children were different. When Haman characterized the Jews to Ahasuerus, he himself emphasized this uniqueness: “There is one people…whose laws are different from those of all the other peoples” (Es. 3:8). Haman did not hate the Jews per se. Had they worshiped idols, he could have tolerated them. Haman hated the Jewish religion, the Jews’ uniqueness, their determination to cling to their faith and uphold the Torah. When the battle is against the Jews, as in Egypt, God Himself fights on their behalf. But when the battle is waged against God, the Jews must do the fighting, without any overt supernatural intervention. His people must take the initiative and lead the battle, while God remains kadosh, subtly controlling events.

The Gemara (Megilla 7a) recounts that when Esther requested that the Megilla be canonized, the Rabbis initially hesitated until they found a scriptural basis for canonization: כְּתֹב זֹאת זִכָּרוֹן בַּסֵּפֶר ושִׂים בְּאָזְנֵי יְהוֹשֻׁע כִּי מָחֹה אֶמְחֶה אֶת זֵכֶר עֲמָלֵק מִתַּחַת הַשָּׁמָיִם , Write this for a memorial in the book, and rehearse it in the ears of Joshua: for I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven (Ex. 17:14). The Book of Esther was canonized because the message of Purim must constantly be reinforced in our own battle with Amalek. There are moments in this struggle when we seem to face imminent defeat – when, like Esther, we ask God why He has forsaken us. Yet, towards the end of the night when it is darkest, at the moment of deepest despair, we await the rise of the morning star and proclaim: ואַתָּה קָדוֹשׁ יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְָׂראֵל.

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*This derasha by the Rav, originally presented in Yiddish in 1956, was translated by Dr. Arnold Lustiger.

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

The Truth, The Whole Truth, and Nothing But…

Context

The Torah issues two general directives concerning the avoidance of falsehood.

Here, in Parshat Mishpatim, the text states, “Distance yourself from a false matter [or: a false word].”

In Parshat Kedoshim in the book of Vayikra, on the other hand, the Torah simply proclaims, “And you shall not deal falsely with one another.”

Questions

Why, in Parshat Mishpatim, does the Torah use the unusually expansive phrase “distance yourself from” to express its concern over falsehood? This language is not used with regard to any other transgression in the Torah.

What is the distinction between the two differently worded prohibitions concerning the avoidance of falsehood? Why are both of these prohibitions necessary?

Approaches

According to rabbinic interpretation, the Torah’s issuance of two separate commandments concerning the avoidance of falsehood is a response to the subtleties of life. Different settings and circumstances demand different approaches to our relationship with the “truth.”

A
Based upon textual context, the Talmud indicates that the commandment in Parshat Mishpatim, “Distance yourself from a false matter,” focuses primarily on matters of jurisprudence. The two sentences that surround  this pronouncement in the text and, more importantly, the other half of the sentence itself, are all clearly directed towards those involved in courtroom proceedings.

From a halachic perspective, settlement and compromise are possible, even desirable, before the wheels of justice have turned. In the determination of the law, however, truth – and only truth – becomes our goal. So great, in fact, is the need for truth in judgment, say the rabbis, that any possibility of seeming or potential impropriety must be avoided at all costs. The Torah thus states, “Distance yourself from a false matter.” Avoid any act in the process of jurisprudence which might lead to or give the appearance of falsehood.

Reflecting their concern for truth in judgment, the Talmudic sages derive a long list of practical directives from this Torah passage, including the following examples:

1. A judge who has begun to doubt his conclusions should not continue to defend them simply because he is embarrassed to admit his error.
2. A judge and a witness who are convinced of an individual’s guilt should not conspire to convict that individual without due process.
3. A judge who suspects that witnesses in a specific case are lying but cannot prove his suspicions should recuse himself from the case.
4. A student who observes his teacher erring in judgment is obligated to speak up.
5. A court must ensure that the litigants appearing in a case before them are clothed in garments of equal value (so that the verdict will not be influenced by external appearances).
6. A court should not hear the testimony of a litigant outside the presence of his adversary.
7. A student who is instructed by his teacher to attend a courtroom proceeding – so that the judges will erroneously interpret the student’s mere presence as testimony on the teacher’s behalf – must refuse. The student  should decline even if he is convinced of the veracity of the teacher’s claim and even if he would not be required to say a word in support of that claim.

These and other rabbinic injunctions underscore halacha’s deep commitment to the integrity of the judicial process. The legal system is too precious to be endangered through artificial maneuvering, no matter what the reason or rationale. Under any and all circumstances, in and surrounding the courtroom, we must “distance [ourselves] from a false matter.”

B
In contrast to the expansive approach adopted by the halacha concerning the avoidance of falsehood in the sphere of jurisprudence, the Torah’s attitude to the same concern in other areas of life is apparently a bit more complex.

As Nehama Leibowitz notes, the operant text outside the courtroom is not “Distance yourself from a false matter” but the more limited prohibition, “You shall not deal falsely with one another.”

Certainly, truth-telling must be the order of the day in all spheres of human experience. The halachic system is, in fact, replete with specific laws mandating honesty in the marketplace and in other social settings. Often, even the appearance of impropriety is prohibited.

There are times, however, when other concerns override the need to “tell the whole truth.” In particular, when the forces of “truth” and “peace” collide, Jewish thought is willing, albeit reluctantly, to set truth aside. The rabbis note a few such cases:

1. When three angels appear before Avraham and Sara with the news of Yitzchak’s impending birth, Sara laughs and privately exclaims: “After I have waxed old, shall I have deep satisfaction? And my husband is old! ” God, however, repeats Sara’s words to Avraham in the following abbreviated fashion: “Why did Sara laugh, saying, ‘Shall I then in truth bear when I have become so old? ’”

God omits Sara’s derogatory reference to Avraham in order to preserve the peace between husband and wife.

2. After Yaakov’s death, Yosef ’s brothers fear that Yosef will now feel free to exact vengeance upon them for their past misdeeds. They therefore approach their brother and state: “Your father gave orders before his death, saying : ‘so shall you say to Yosef: Please forgive the iniquity of your brothers and their sin for they have done you evil.’ ”

There is, however, no independent textual corroboration that these orders were actually given by Yaakov. The rabbis therefore entertain the possibility that Yosef ’s brothers lied by putting words in their father’s mouth, in order to preserve peace within the family.

This episode teaches us, the rabbis continue, that one is allowed to misrepresent the facts in order to establish peace.

3. As noted earlier (see Shmot 5, Approaches D), a striking contrast is reflected in the personalities of the two brothers, Aharon and Moshe. While Moshe’s worldview is reflected in the maxim “Let the law cut through the mountain,” Aharon is described as a man who “loved peace, pursued peace and created peace between man and his friend.”

The rabbis explain that Aharon’s efforts to establish interpersonal harmony took concrete form. Whenever a dispute developed between two Israelites, Aharon sat with the protagonists individually and convinced each that he himself had witnessed the overwhelming regret of the other party involved in the quarrel. So convincing were Aharon’s fabrications that each of the adversaries invariably set his grievances aside and, as a result, the parties ultimately met in peaceful embrace.

Through his efforts Aharon became more beloved to the Israelites than even his brother, Moshe. Remarkably, this love is reflected in the deeper mourning exhibited by the nation upon the passing of Aharon than upon the passing of Moshe.

Clearly, the world outside the halls of justice is not painted in black and white, but in shades of gray. Conflicting needs and concerns must be factored into every human interaction, with an eye towards the true purpose and ultimate effect of each word and deed. While a step off the path of truth should never be taken lightly, there are times when that step must, nevertheless, be taken.

C
So powerful are the issues dividing the courtroom from the outside world that the point of intersection between these two realms becomes the focus of deep halachic controversy.

The Talmud records two diametrically opposed opinions concerning the issue of judicial compromise. Recognizing that compromise often results in a conclusion which is not factually “true,” the rabbis ask, is a court allowed to attempt settlement of a case or must justice take its course?

Rabbi Eliezer the son of Rabbi Yossi Hagalili states: “It is forbidden to compromise! One who compromises is a sinner! One who blesses a compromiser mocks [the Lord]!”

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korcha states: “It is a mitzva to compromise! [This is proven by the proclamation of the Prophet Zechariah:] ‘Execute the judgment of truth and peace in your gates.’

“[How can this be accomplished?] Is it not true that where there is judgment there is no peace [for one of the litigants is bound to be disappointed] and where there is peace there is no judgment? What, then, is judgment which contains peace? Compromise! ”

Powerful warring forces lie at the core of this debate. From Rabbi  Eliezer’s point of view, once the litigants approach the court there can be neither compromise nor settlement. The court’s only task is to arrive at the “truth.”

Rabbi Yehoshua, on the other hand, maintains that potential harmony between the litigants still remains our preferred objective. Judges, themselves, are certainly bound by the search for truth  in deciding a case. Before reaching their conclusion, however, they may still encourage a peaceful, albeit “untrue” resolution.

In his codification of the law, the Rambam records that it is a mitzva to encourage compromise upon the litigants’ initial approach to the court. Such compromise, he continues, is desirable up until the point that a verdict  has been announced. Once that verdict is proclaimed, however, settlement is no longer possible. The truth of “judgment” must then rule the day.

The halachic tension between “truth” and “peace” in everyday life is mirrored in a fascinating dispute between the House of Shammai, whose scholars were known for their strictness in the application of the law, and the House of Hillel, whose members had a reputation for kindness and sensitivity.

The Talmud asks:

Keitzad merakdin lifnei hakalla? (How should one dance before the bride? [meaning, “What praises should we sing as we dance before a bride?”])

The scholars of Beit Shammai say that [one should praise the bride honestly,] as she is.

The scholars of Beit Hillel, on the other hand, maintain [that one should universally exclaim:] Kalla na’a v’chasuda! (How beautiful and charming is the bride!)

As the Talmudic discussion continues, the sages of Beit Shammai express their discomfort over the possibility of lying in a case where it is clear to all that the bride is undeserving of such praise. “After all,” they argue, “does not the Torah state, ‘Distance yourself from a false matter’?”

Beit Hillel respond that we are under no obligation to underscore the negative, even through omission, if only harm will result. Unless we praise all brides uniformly, they maintain, deep embarrassment at a most sensitive moment is bound to occur.

Underlying this seemingly quaint argument courses the serious issue of truth-telling and its boundaries. Beit Shammai, true to their demanding nature, depart from the Talmudic sources cited above and apply the expansive phrase, “Distance yourself from a false matter,” beyond the courtroom. Even in the festive setting of a wedding feast, they believe, falsehood cannot be countenanced. Only the truth can be told.

Beit Hillel, on the other hand, ever sensitive, refuse to embarrass the  bride and groom, even if an outright fabrication must be proffered.

The halachic verdict concerning this dispute is reflected in a beautiful practice recorded in the Shulchan Aruch. No traditional wedding is complete without a dance set to the words Keitzad merakdin lifnei ha’kalla? “How should one dance before the bride?”

And, as the dance unfolds at each and every celebration, the response of Beit Hillel unfailingly rings through the air: Kalla na’a v’chasuda! “How beautiful and charming is the bride!” Several authorities, still uncomfortable with an outright lie, struggle to base this practice on a foundation of factual truth. Every bride, after all, they say, has something beautiful and charming about her.

Many other scholars, however, accept Beit Hillel’s, and consequently our, apparent willingness to “stretch the truth” at face value. Sometimes the truth need not be told. For the sake of harmony we choose to live in a world in which every bride is beautiful (even if she is not)!

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

How Many are the Ten Commandments*

If an election were held among the peoples of the world to determine which was the most popular document in the universe, there is no doubt that some of the votes would be cast in favor of the Ten Commandments. It is the recognized cornerstone of the world’s great religions. It is a code which is accepted even by many atheists. It is the model for many great literary works. It is preached, and preached about, more than any other comparable document. Yet, curiously, the Decalogue or Aseret HaDibrot crops up in a Jew’s talk only in those weeks when the sidrot of Yitro and Va’etĥanan are read, for then the Decalogue too is read. Otherwise, the Ten Commandments are a relatively insignificant part of the Jewish religious vocabulary. At a brit mila we mention Torah and good deeds – not the Ten Commandments. To the parents of a young boy starting on his school career, we express our wishes for a future of Torah – nothing is said of the Decalogue. And to the Bar Mitzva, unless his birthday be in the week of Parashat Yitro, we speak of tradition, and education, and home, and Torah – not of the Aseret HaDibrot. Now, why is that? Why does the traditional Jew, despite his observation of them, not have such an attraction to the Ten  Commandments which his fellow Jews have? Why does the Orthodox rabbi preach about the Ten Commandments so much less frequently than does the Conservative or Reform rabbi?

The answer is, that the Decalogue as such and as it is commonly understood, is too simple a formula. There is something mighty suspicious about ten easy rules to this complex business of life. The traditional Jew, perhaps because of his tradition, or because of his background in scholarship, or because of his grasp of reality, is keenly aware of the fallacies of over-simplification, of its tragically disappointing results and consequences. Life is a harsh, intricate, complicated affair, and ten rules alone and by themselves are hardly sufficient to solve all of its formidable problems.

Our Rabbis already recorded a protest against this misunderstanding of the Ten Commandments as the wherewithal of religion, as the ten solitary steps with which to solve all problems and cure all ailments. The Talmud tells us (Berakhot 12a) that in the Temple, during the Shaĥarit service, it was customary to recite the Decalogue before Shema. But then the Rabbis decided to abrogate this traditional recitation because of the heretics, who pointed to this recitation of the Decalogue as proof that it was the only important part of Torah. This decision against the saying of the Decalogue was accepted by the generations, and even until this very day the Ten Commandments are not part of our liturgy. And all because of the minim, the heretics who over-emphasized these ten mitzvot to the detriment of all others, those people who sought too easy a cure to too great a problem, those who believed to the point of heresy. The Ten Commandments, by themselves, the Rabbis meant to tell us, are by far insufficient.

And our age is distinguished by precisely this malady of oversimplification. Ours is an age where attempts are made to solve all knotty moral problems and ethical questions by a few easy steps, by a “rule of thumb.” For in what age, other than one which looks for simple and childish rules, could a book like How to Win Friends and Influence People – a book that presents several disgustingly easy rules on how to become a social success and develop a magnetic personality – gain its phenomenal popularity? In what other age could such a tzimes be made about a book like Peace of Mind which reduces all of Judaism to a few neat psychological principles? And all of our Western culture is colored by Christianity, a religion which won its millions of converts by boiling down Judaism to its easiest regulations, by accepting the Ten Commandments – and even those not completely – and rejecting most of the rest of the Torah. The sagest advice our contemporaries seek is that currently available in most of our popular digest magazines – “Ten Ways to a Happy Married Life,” “Three Ways to Beat Cancer,” “Five Ways to Win the Love of Your Children,” and other such nonsense.

No, my friends, despite our unbounded reverence for the Ten Commandments, we must not over-emphasize them out of all proportion. It is not consistent with the intricacy of life and the complexity of moral and religious experience. And it can lead to outright heresy. But lest you leave today with the impression that the Rabbi this morning preached a sermon against the Ten Commandments, let me assure you that I am in good company. The Rambam, Maimonides, has preceded me on this matter. Only he was even more emphatic about it. He incorporated his opinion in a strongly-worded legal response to someone who asked him whether it is proper to rise when the reader reads the Decalogue in the Torah. You know, of course, that in this synagogue and in most synagogues, the congregation rises when the Decalogue is read. However, Maimonides believed that this was against the spirit of Jewish law. Allow me to quote to you part of his response (Teshuva 46) in English translation:

It is proper to abolish this tradition [of rising for the Decalogue] wherever it has taken hold, and to teach the people to sit, as they usually do…in order that there should not result a degeneration of the pure faith…the heretical belief that one part of the Torah is superior to another, a belief which is wrong and evil and deplorable in the extreme.

Maimonides, then, was also perturbed by this reliance on succinct formulas which result in naturally ignoring the rest of the Torah. And if such a reliance on preference is expressed by rising during the reading of a specific portion of the Torah, then it should be stopped.

The consensus of Jewish thought, then, is that there is no sufficient concise formula or rule which can serve as a key to all life or religion. We may say, with George Bernard Shaw, that the only Golden Rule is – that there are no Golden Rules.

Yet I am certain that there are certain questions of which you are aware which remain unanswered. You may wonder: why, then, were the Ten Commandments given separately? You may rightfully ask me: why was the giving of the Decalogue accompanied by all that flourish, by the elaborate preparation, by the strange celestial phenomena, by the aura of holiness, and the fearful display of the elements, which reached its climax in “Anokhi?” Obviously, there is something to the Ten Commandments we have thus far failed to mention.

The answer to that question was already given by the great Jewish philosophers. Philo, followed by Saadia Gaon, Abarbanel, and other beacons of Jewish thinking, insists that the Ten Commandments were more than ten. They believe, very reasonably, that in this case, ten equals 613. And this, according to the laws of religious arithmetic, is a great truth. You see, what they wanted to tell us was that the Ten Commandments mean more than what they say; they are more than a list of ten mitzvot – rather, they contain, in essence, all 613. They include remazim, hints, of all the other commandments. The entire Torah, all its mitzvot, are latent, in capsule form, in the Decalogue. Thus, for instance, the prohibition of idolatry includes the kernels of all laws related to idol worship and ritual, and all laws which, according to these thinkers, were promulgated as safe-guards against idolatry, and it prohibits the worship of gold and pleasure and beauty. “Thou shalt not steal” includes the prohibition of robbing, usury, interest, graft, and influence-peddling. “Lo tinaf ” implies all injunctions against adultery, incest, immodesty, un-chastity, and all forms of moral corruption. With this in mind, we can equate the Decalogue with the whole Torah, and therefore understand its biblical eminence and the great holy events attending to its giving. Without this realization that the Ten Commandments contain the seeds of all 613 commandments, they are simply ten of the mitzvot of the Torah – not an easy formula to a get-pious-quick type of religion.

The Talmud (Shabbat 31a) tells an interesting story of a pagan who approached the great scholar Shammai and said to him: “Convert me to Judaism on the one condition that you teach me the entire Torah during the time that I can balance myself on one foot.” The pagan wanted an easy formula, a simple rule which will ease his way into heaven – something like the abracadabra he had pronounced before his idol in his idolatrous days. And Shammai reacted to this request by pushing him away with a measuring-rod, or a construction-worker’s yardstick, which was in his hand. With this, Shammai indicated that any simple rules, like the Ten Commandments as they read literally, are far insufficient. They are like the architect’s measuring instrument – they can indicate the limits of faith, but not the body; they can indicate size, but not depth. They can tell you where to build, but not what kind of material to build with; they can give you a very general idea of Judaism, but you cannot be a Jew with them alone, just as you cannot build with a yard-stick alone.

The pagan then approached the other great religious thinker of that age, Hillel. Hillel, too, did not believe in choosing one mitzva above another, in facile prescriptions, in golden rules. But he knew the mind of this pagan, he understood his background, his pagan theology of simplicity. And so Hillel showed his great pedagogic genius. He told him: I’ll give you a rule even easier than the Ten Commandments, even easier than “Love thy neighbor as thyself” – and that is, don’t hate your neighbor, do not do to him what you would not have done to yourself. The pagan was happy beyond description – here it was, an easy cook-book recipe for Judaism. But then Hillel added something – “ve’idakh peirusha, zil gemor,” “all the rest of Torah is commentary, go and learn it.” Without Torah, this principle cannot be understood. It is meaningless. “Zil gemor.” Go ahead, my friend, and study that Torah, if you wish to understand the rule. For the rule I told you includes all of the commandments, and all the commandments include it. Without all the commandments, you remain a pagan, a heathen.

In the same way, the Ten Commandments can become the guiding light of our lives only if “idakh peirusha,” if they are taken not as ten easy rules, but as ten classes of laws which include all of Torah, which is their essential and vital commentary. To the question “how many are the Ten Commandments?” we must answer “613.”

There are no easy roads to the good life. There are only many hard, tough, unpaved paths – but these paths are steady, sure, and certain, and they lead to greater, holier, and loftier glory.

---

• February 16, 1952

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Exodus, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Of Fire and Water

The words “fire” and “water,” as we shall be using them, describe two supplementary modes of God’s relationship with the world, and our human reactions to Him. These two times, and the powerful ideas and emotions they connote, come from the writings of the illustrious Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, der alter Rebbe, founder of the intellectual or Habad school of Hasidism, and whose 150th yahrzeit world Jewry celebrates this year.

Rabbi Shneur Zalman makes his point of departure an important verse in this morning’s sidra. We read (Exodus 13:9), “lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha ki beyad ĥazaka hotziakha Hashem miMitzrayim,” “in order that the Torah of the Lord be in thy mouth, for with a strong hand did the Lord take thee out of Egypt.” What, asks Rabbi Shneur Zalman, is the relationship between the two halves of this verse? Why should our study of Torah be the reaction to God’s taking us out of Egypt?

It is in response to this question that Rabbi Shneur Zalman develops the theme of the two kinds of love, that which is compared to fire and that likened to water.

There is one kind of love that we might term “normal.” Like the flow of water, it is regular and unceasing. Like water, it never falters or changes in intensity. The objects of this kind of love are equally and indiscriminately covered with the waters of affection, like pebbles in a brook. It is a love whose evenness and constancy are reassuring. This is the ahava that is compared to mayim, water.

But there is also a second kind of love, the ahava that is similar to eish, or fire. This fiery love lacks the consistency of the first kind. It is temperamental, flickering, shifty. Like a burning, uncertain flame, its intensity varies radically and erratically. It has the quality that mystics call “ratzo vashov,” that of alternation between love that one moment can be nothing but a dark ember, seemingly cold and lifeless, and in the next may burst out in uncontrolled passion and fiery yearning, breaking all bonds and threatening to engulf limitless horizons in its consuming fervor.

Now man’s religious feelings are a response to God’s feeling for man. The love that we feel for God is a reaction to the love God has for us – even as in our Shaĥarit and Ma’ariv services, we read first the Ahava Rabba (or Ahavat Olam), the declaration of divine love for us, and then we read the Shema, which is immediately followed by “ve’ahavta et Hashem Elohekha,” “thou shalt love thy God,” the love of man for God. God’s love for man evokes man’s love for God – there is a holy reciprocity between the Creator and His creatures.

When man considers God’s dealings with Israel, he finds they come in two categories. The fact that God gives us existence, that He gives us life and sustenance, that He provides for all our daily needs, both material and psychological – these are evident of God’s normal love for man. It is similar to a parent’s love for his children. It is the love that we have compared to water – regular and unerring, constant and consistent. From the moment of Creation, the world has not ceased to exist nor has it changed the rules whereby it flourishes. Here, indeed, is a token of God’s ahava similar to mayim. In response to this, the Jew must demonstrate his similar love for God. This love too must be constant and even, regular and ongoing. Like water, it must be pure and sparkling; it must flow evenly and regularly. We must be conscious of God in all our deeds and in every aspect of our lives. The performance of the mitzvot, which covers all of our lives, is an expression of our love for God, the love that is similar to water.

But there are times when God’s relations with the world are more than the normal, when they are extraordinary, far above the usual. There are times when but for God’s direct intervention and concern with man, the “normal” course of events would inexorably drive him to certain destruction. There are certain critical moments in history, such as Yetziat Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, when all natural laws and historical processes seem to be suspended, as the Eternal pierces the present and the Timeless parts the curtains of time and steps onto the stage of history.  It is in these unique moments when we suddenly become aware of the fact that God’s love for us is more than the love of mayim, it is the love of eish; that in addition to the constant and consistent love of God for man, that which gives man his very existence and breath and being, there is a special, fiery, passionate, ineffable kind of love that is sacred, unquenchable, and inextinguishable and in which God envelopes man and Israel.

When we consider the Almighty as the God of Creation, He who formed heaven and earth, who initiated the laws of nature, then we speak of God’s love for man as the love of water. But when we speak of “I am the Lord thy God who took thee out of the land of Egypt,” the Lord of history, He in whose hand is the destiny of man and the fate of nations, then we speak of the Almighty who loves with the love of fire. As Creator, God’s love is like water; as Redeemer His love is like fire.

And when the Jew comes to this new understanding, the appreciation of the ahava of eish that God has for him, then his only response is, in turn, a fiery and passionate reaching out for God. Then all of existence seems to be transformed to a new level of transcendence, when suddenly, climactically and dramatically, a new vision ennobles man’s soul, a new understanding grips his mind, and a powerful love elevates his heart to unprecedented heights. Then man, too, offers us a love of fire for his beloved Redeemer. At this moment the soul of the Jew strives to wrench loose from its bodily bearings, and like a leaping flame of fire which strains to tear itself away from the wick, as if reaching for some mysterious, invisible lover, man’s soul ecstatically grasps upward, yearning for the world of the infinite, for the delights of pure spirit. It is a kind of love which is ratzo vashov, alternating in intensity and depression – one moment the Jew’s spirit lies exhausted, when he fears that all his love for God and Torah is based upon a phantom, when he suspects that his religious loyalties are the result of some kind of psychological aberration, that they are mere fantasies – and the next moment, the fire of the spirit breaks into life again, as he conquers his fears, and a new sense of certainty surges up and strengthens him and he soars upward once again in the holy love of God. Then the Jew is no longer satisfied with his regular, normal, ordinary observance of the mitzvot. For this higher kind of love, the love of eish, fire, that which beckons man on to unscaled heights, can be expressed not through the usual modes of Jewish religious behavior, but only through the study of Torah! It is here, in the seemingly dry fields of the intellect, that Jewish religious experience reaches its most fervent climax. For Torah is the word of God. The study of this Torah is, therefore, the most direct attachment to God Himself available to us. Torah is the place for contact between natural man and supernatural God.

So that, according to Rabbi Shneur Zalman, as we have interpreted him, man’s normal religious behavior is a reaction to God’s gift of normal life and existence – in both cases, the love compared to water. But when man is the recipient of God’s special effort, of His special intervention in his destiny, as in the case of Yetziat Mitzrayim, then his response, too, must be on the level of the love of fire – and that is the study of Torah. That is why the Torah says in this morning’s sidra, “lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha, ki beyad ĥazaka hotziakha Hashem miMitzrayim,” “in order that the Torah of the Lord be in thy mouth, for with a strong hand did the Lord take thee out of Egypt” (Exodus 13:9). Man’s fiery love – the study of Torah – comes in return for God’s fiery love – the Exodus from Egypt.

Such considerations are relevant not only for those who are mystically inclined, who are endowed with vast inner regions of religious ecstasy and emotion. They are decidedly germane to our contemporary condition. Most of us in this synagogue today are, to a greater or lesser degree, observant Jews. We observe what we observe, we give charity and support Jewish institutions, we may even occasionally attend a lecture or shiur – even as we have last year and the year before that and the years before that. We may feel no special mystical stirrings deep within our hearts – but the very nature of our lives bespeaks a kind of love of God. It is the love compared to water: cool, even, unchanging, and with a decided purity of intentions. It is a kind of love that, like water, has found its level – the level we are at now is the one, most likely, that we have had for a long time before and expect to maintain for a long time in the future.

But the question is, is that enough for our times? The nature of our religious loyalties, after all, must be commensurate and equivalent with what we consider God’s relation to us. If we live in “normal” times, relatively speaking, then we could not demand more than a “normal” level of Jewish loyalty. But, my friends, we do not live in any so-called normal times. Our times are decidedly abnormal. Today God’s relationship with Israel is not like water but like fire, ratzo vashov, alternating from seemingly almost a complete divine indifference to our fate to a decisive intervention in our destiny; from the low point of terrible massacres to the high point of a regenerated and reconstituted Jewish nation.  A flame is flickering in the heart of the Almighty, and we dare not fail to respond to it properly. These are the most decisive days mankind has ever known – there may very well be no tomorrow for anyone. Jewishly speaking, we are today at the most fateful roads in our long story – on the one hand, assimilation can suddenly take over both here and in Israel and draw the curtain on the last act of Jewish history, or, on the other hand, a little initiative by us, a little fire, a little neshama, can tilt the scales in the other direction and we can create for ourselves a future of Torah, of Yiddishkeit, a future where the word of God will be found in the land once again and where man’s eyes and heart will not be blind to the vision of sanctity.

We cannot afford merely to be observant Jews as we were in the past. Not for us the love of water; from now on only the passionate love of fire. Water is water – it is there naturally and that is all there is to it. Fire is not just “there.” It requires a wick. It requires fuel. It requires someone to ignite it. And that is just what is demanded of us. Our prayer must no longer be cold and correct – it must be charged with life and warmth. Our philanthropy must have neshama in it, and not remain begrudging and measured. Our performance of mitzvot must contain an element of abandon, even ecstasy. But above all, we must rededicate ourselves to more extensive and deeper study of Torah. We must ignite our fellow men with the secret flame of God that burns in our heart. We must dedicate ourselves to the tasks of Judaism with new initiative, with greater depth and intensity. “Lema’an tiheyeh Torat Hashem befikha” – the Torah of the Lord must be in our mouth, it must enter into the very cavern of our bodies and grip our insides and transform our very being.

The times we live in are great and dangerous times. Both catastrophe and opportunity commingle on the horizon. Watery loyalties are no longer sufficient. The Orthodox Jew cannot afford to react with the same superficiality and placid serenity with which he conducted his religious life a generation or two ago. What is required of us is a new level of intensity, a new “leap of action,” a commitment of every fiber of our being to the great and holy enterprise of Jewish living, a new paean of praise to the Almighty in which there will participate every aspect of our being – intellectual, emotional, charitable, actional.

If once, as our Torah tells us this morning, we were commanded to study Torah because God took us out of Egypt, fire for fire, then today the order is reversed: We must first offer to God a fiery love and loyalty, expressed in terms of Torah, so that He, in turn, will bring us out of our present Egypt – the danger of world cataclysm, of Jewish ignorance, and human indifference.

Let us raise our torch of love to the Almighty, and may He respond with a combination of divine warmth and light which will illuminate our paths in the years that lie ahead.

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

Pharaoh’s Free Will

Context

At the core of Jewish theology lies a taut balance between three components which define the very parameters of our lives. While the details of this balance have been debated across the centuries, the majority approach can be summarized in the following three points.
1. Free will: The belief that man freely chooses his way and defines the quality of his life is central to Jewish thought. Without free will man cannot be an independent being, responsible before God for his actions.
2. Prescience: Almost all classical Jewish scholars maintain that God is aware of all future events, including man’s personal choices. God’s prior knowledge, however, does not affect man’s freely made choices.
3. Predestination: Judaism recognizes that elements of our lives are clearly predetermined. On an individual level, predetermined elements include our genetic makeup, when and where we are born, and to whom we are born. On a national level, our belief in Mashiach and a messianic era reflects our conviction that our history is moving towards a definite, predefined goal. In spite of these predetermined elements of life, however, the quality and details of both our personal and national journeys remain in our hands.

As long as the above components stay firmly within their boundaries, the philosophical balance between them remains understandable. Turmoil results, however, when the balance is upset.

Even before Moshe returns to Egypt, God predicts, “And I will harden [Pharaoh’s] heart and he will not let the people go.” On a number of occasions, as the Exodus narrative continues, the Torah states that God makes good on His promise and actually “hardens the heart” of the Egyptian king.

Questions

The Torah seems to indicate that God robs Pharaoh of his rightful free will. By “hardening Pharaoh’s heart” doesn’t God unfairly predetermine both Pharaoh’s choices and his (and his nation’s) resulting fate? Jewish tradition views tshuva (repentance or return) as an inalienable right granted by God to every individual. How can God deny that right to Pharaoh?

The textual record is inconsistent. After each of the first five plagues the Torah states that Pharaoh “hardens” his own heart, apparently of his own free will. Only in conjunction with the sixth through tenth plagues does God fulfill His prediction by “hardening the heart” of the Egyptian monarch.

What causes the change in Pharaoh’s mindset and in God’s response?

Approaches

The rabbis were well aware that the issues surrounding the apparent suspension of Pharaoh’s free will strike to the very core of Jewish belief.

Thus, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai is quoted in the Midrash Rabba as stating, “[The textual testimony concerning Pharaoh] provides an opening for heretics to say: ‘[Pharaoh] was not allowed to repent.’ ”

And, centuries later, both the Ramban and the Ibn Ezra wonder aloud, “If God hardened Pharaoh’s heart, then what was [Pharaoh’s] sin?”

Rising to the obvious challenges raised by these concerns, the authorities suggest a wide array of approaches.

A
At one end of the spectrum lie those, such as Shmuel David Luzzatto (Shadal), who find the problems so troubling that they feel compelled to claim that the questions are not questions at all:

Know that all acts can be ascribed to God, for all are caused by Him – some through absolute decree and others through man’s free choice which has been granted by Him…. It can therefore be said that [God], as the author of all acts, hardened Pharaoh’s heart.

Pharaoh’s choices are made totally of his own free will. These very choices, however, like all events in the world, ultimately trace back to God Who is the One Who grants Pharaoh and all mankind free will in the first place. The assertion that God “hardens Pharaoh’s heart” is simply the text’s way of indicating a fundamental connection between Pharaoh’s independent choices and the divine source of his free will.

This circular reasoning, however, raises an obvious question: How, then, can the Torah ever speak of actions independently performed by individuals? Why doesn’t the text attribute every decision made by each of its characters, as it does in the case of Pharaoh, to its ultimate source, God?

Luzzatto addresses this objection by maintaining that only actions that defy logic, such as Pharaoh’s obstinacy in the face of the plagues, are actually ascribed in the text to God.

B
Other scholars, unwilling to dismiss the overwhelming textual evidence that God actually “hardens Pharaoh’s heart,” attempt mightily to reconcile that fact with Judaism’s fundamental view on free will and repentance.

Two intriguing alternatives, for example, are offered by the Abravanel.

1. Different sins warrant different paths towards absolution.
Sincere contrition, prayer and remorse can effect full atonement for sins committed against God. Crimes against one’s fellow man, however, will not be forgiven as long as the ledgers remain open in the human sphere.

Atonement cannot, for example, be attained for the crime of thievery until the theft is returned or replaced and appropriate fines are paid. An individual guilty of murder must be punished in an earthly court before he can be cleared in the heavenly realm. Pharaoh and the Egyptians are guilty of horrendous crimes against the Israelites – crimes which, by definition, give rise to requisite physical punishment. By hardening Pharaoh’s heart, God ironically clears the way for the atonement of Pharaoh and his people. The punishment of the plagues is the first, necessary step along the Egyptians’ path of repentance.

2. The “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” was directly caused by the methodology of the plagues.

Had God afflicted the Egyptians with one unending plague, Pharaoh would have eventually relented. In order to demonstrate His own power to the world, however, God specifically visits a series of plagues upon Egypt. As each calamity ends, the Egyptian king rationalizes that the event had occurred of natural causes. Clearly, he reasons, had the plague been divinely ordained, it would not have been lifted until the Israelites were freed.

The “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” is not an independent phenomenon but an inevitable outgrowth of the manner in which God orchestrates the plagues.

C
A number of commentaries, including the Sforno, insist that God’s actions vis-à-vis Pharaoh do not impede but actually enhance the king’s free will. Had God not “hardened the king’s heart,” they claim, Pharaoh would have been “forced” to choose a path for all the wrong reasons:

Had it not been for the “hardening of his heart,” Pharaoh would have certainly released the Israelites; not, however, because of a sincere desire to repent and submit to divine will, but because he could no longer bear the suffering caused by the plagues…. God, therefore, “hardened Pharaoh’s heart” and fortified his ability to endure the plagues, so that the king would not release the Israelites simply because of fear of the impending calamities.

According to these commentaries, God certainly seeks the repentance of Pharaoh and the Egyptians, but only if that repentance is sincere. God launches the plagues, therefore, hoping that the Egyptians will be moved by His power and His merciful insistence upon freedom for all. True repentance, however, cannot take place under duress. God, therefore, hardens Pharaoh against the physical and mental effects of the calamities. By doing so, He affords the king and his subjects the opportunity to repent of their own free will, not because of the pain of the plagues, but because of their message.

D
The most revolutionary approach to the issues before us, however, actually emerges from an early source. In contrast to the positions cited above, the Midrash cites an opinion which accepts the suspension of Pharaoh’s free will and right to repentance. The Talmudic scholar Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish  (Reish Lakish) maintains that if an individual fails to return to God after repeated warnings, God then closes that individual’s heart to repentance in order to “exact punishment for his sin.”

God, continues Reish Lakish, gives Pharaoh five chances to repent: the first five plagues. On each of these occasions, however, the Egyptian monarch hardens his own heart, refusing to bend to God’s will. At that point God intervenes, suspends Pharaoh’s free will and closes the door to his spiritual return.

This opinion acquires greater poignancy when we recognize that its author, Reish Lakish, was himself no stranger to the path of repentance. Living in the wilderness where he made his livelihood as a bandit, Reish Lakish was swayed to turn his life around through a chance encounter with the man destined to become his scholarly colleague and brother-inlaw, Rabbi Yochanan.

Perhaps Reish Lakish felt himself nearing the point of no return before fate played a hand and pulled him back from the brink.

E
Numerous commentaries are unwilling to accept the Midrash at face value, refusing to believe that God would deny even Pharaoh the right to repentance. The Rambam, however, clearly codifies Reish Lakish’s position in his laws of repentance:

It is possible that a man may commit a sin so grave, or so many sins…that repentance is denied to him and he is not given the opportunity to turn away from his evil…

Therefore the Torah states “and I [God] will harden the heart of Pharaoh.” Because Pharaoh initially sinned of his own volition, divine judgment was rendered that he be denied the possibility of repentance so that he would pay for his crimes.

The Rambam’s assertion brings our discussion full circle. In contrast to the attempts to explain away the apparent suspension of Pharaoh’s free will, Maimonides himself is willing to accept what at first seemed unthinkable. The ability to repent, itself a gift from God, is not an inalienable right under all circumstances. This gift will be denied to the perpetrators of the most heinous crimes, to ensure that they receive the justice they deserve.

Points to Ponder

Even our most basic assumptions must sometimes be reexamined.

This study opened with the contention that the whole fabric of Jewish tradition begins to unravel if free will and repentance are denied to any individual. That assumption, in the main, certainly remains correct. There are, however, according to some authorities, exceptions to the rule. Some crimes are so unforgivable that God will suspend the perpetrator’s basic rights in order to ensure that justice prevails.

How, however, does this assertion fare in the moral realm? If God denies even the most evil their rights, can these individuals ever be held culpable for their crimes? We can, perhaps, better address this question by moving the issue into more familiar territory.

If, God forbid, Adolf Hitler stood before us today and proclaimed true remorse for his crimes, would God grant him absolution? Should the opportunity for repair be available to all or should certain individuals, through the nature of their crimes, lose that very opportunity? Which of these possible approaches captures the moral high ground? Here, it would seem that, according to the Rambam, Jewish and Catholic traditions part company. For while fundamental Christian theology preaches that repentance remains available to all under all circumstances, the Rambam maintains that repentance is a right which can be lost. Actions speak louder than words. No amount of remorse, contrition, confession or prayer can truly erase the crimes of a Pharaoh, a Hitler or a Stalin. The mobster who confesses to his priest after scores of murders cannot, according to the Rambam, wipe the slate clean.

There comes a point when even a merciful God is unwilling to forgive.

This realization causes the concept of tshuva to become substantially more fragile within our own lives. While, please God, none of us will even come close to the point where the right of repentance is totally denied to us, who knows whether such denial might be applied piecemeal? Perhaps a particular failure can become so habitual, so embedded in our lives, that the opportunity to turn away from that failure is lost.

Who knows where the tipping point might be? The gifts of free will and tshuva should never be taken for granted; we never know the exact moment when those gifts might be taken away.

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

How to Raise a Moses

The birth of Moses, which is described in this morning’s scriptural reading, is mentioned by the Rabbis in a most interesting and extraordinary Talmudic passage (Song of Songs Rabba 1:3). They aver that Rabbi Judah the Prince, known as Rebbe, was “yosheiv vedoresh,” preaching to his congregation. And as he was so doing, he was faced with a most distressing problem that has presented itself to generations of public speakers, and especially rabbis and preachers: “nitnanem hatzibbur,” “his audience began to fall asleep.” To this day, that is a major problem that is rather difficult to solve. Even the very best speaker always has one or two people in his audience who prefer a cozy nap to challenging oratory, and who find more consolation in dozing than in thinking. It is sometimes fascinating to watch heads nod and eyes grow heavy, even before the speaker has opened his mouth. When, however, the entire congregation starts to doze off, that is a bad situation. And so, moved by the speaker’s instincts, Rebbe “bikeish le’oreran,” “he tried to wake them up.”

How do you wake up a sleeping congregation? Some speakers merely raise their voices. Trusting in volume more than in quality, they shout their listeners out of sleep. Other, and more modern brands of rabbis, turn sensational, and they change themes to the Kinsey-review type of talk. Perhaps that will keep them awake. It is a kind of sensationalism that works at times. But a Rebbe – a saint and a scholar – does not rely on such techniques. He relies on other kinds of methods. And so, he said: “yalda isha beMitzrayim shishim ribo bekeres aĥat,” “one Jewish woman in Egypt gave birth to 600,000 children at one time.” A rather sensational remark. And it is meticulously recorded by our Rabbis that at least one of his listeners was jolted by this piece of intelligence, and his name was Yishmael ben Rabbi Yose, and he asked Rebbe what he meant by that, and how it was possible. And Rebbe replied, “zu Yokheved sheyalda et Moshe sheshakul keneged shishim ribo shel Yisrael,” the woman was Yocheved, mother of Moses, who bore Moses, who was as worthy and weighty as the 600,000 Jews he led out of Egypt to freedom and Revelation.

It is, indeed, a sensational remark. It is sensational that a woman can be blessed with a son who can lead and spark and inspire and teach a whole nation. It is sensational for parents to be the lucky parents of a Moses. Not everyone has that good fortune. And yet, all parents ask themselves and ask others, what do we have to do to deserve great children – not just well-adjusted children who will follow the lead of everyone else, not just children who will be colorlessly “normal,” who will never rise higher than the pitifully low average and remain happy in their ignorance and commonness – but children who will serve and inspire and lead and achieve for a whole people and a whole world? How can parents deserve that kind of child? How can they become parents of Moseses? That is the question. And the only way to answer that question is to learn something about Amram, the father of Moses, and Yocheved – she who, according to Rebbe, gave birth to 600,000 at one time. Three qualities will become clear to us, three qualities possessed by the parents of Moses that can be emulated by modern adults who wish to be proud forebears of great progeny.

The first prerequisite for seeing greatness in your child is to have some of it yourself. Superiority and greatness are not spontaneously generated. A child must be able to observe, subconsciously, the personalities and conduct of his parents. Only then can he build on that foundation. Before a child can flower into greatness, he must receive a seed of it from his parents.

Thus, Amram is described in our Rabbinic literature (Midrash Sekhel Tov, Exodus, ch. 2), as “gedol Yisrael ugedol ha’aretz,” “a great Jew and a great man.” He was a leader of his people, and though he never attained a tenth of his son’s greatness and renown, nevertheless, his own superiority was something which Moses was able to develop further. Yocheved is known as “isha tzadkanit,” a most pious and righteous woman (Sota 11b). Only when a mother is devout can her son become a true saint, a Moses.

Basically, therefore, it is important for parents to remember that the way to raise great children is not to forsake their own development. By concentrating solely on their children’s development and completely neglecting their own, parents give children the impression that study and achievement and religion and the like are only for children. Why, then, should they continue to practice it when they come of age? For a child to be studious, he must see his father and mother reading and studying. For a child to be generous, he must see generosity in his parents. For a child to be sincere and hard-working, he must notice at least a trace of it in his elders. Prerequisite number one, then, for great children, is un-petty and un-small parents – adults who themselves aspire to self-development.

The second quality goes a step further. Not only must a father and mother each be superior in his and her own right, but they must be magnanimous towards each other. In other words, there must be a good, peaceful, happy, and loving home. An exemplary Jewish home is a splendid way of assuring eminent children. Our Rabbis said (Shabbat 23b) that “haragil beneir havyen lei banim talmidei ĥakhamim,” “a woman who faithfully observes the requirement to light the Sabbath candles will have children who will be scholars.” Why? Because, as we know, the neirot Shabbat are the symbol of shalom bayit, of domestic happiness and conjugal bliss. Where there is a good home, there will be good children.

Listen to the Bible’s description of the origins of Moses: “vayelekh ish mibeit Levi vayikaĥ et bat Levi,” a man from the tribe of Levi married a woman from the same tribe (Exodus 2:1). That is all. No fanfare, no deification of the parents, no ascension to heaven, no beatification or official sainthood for his father or his mother. And, as the Zohar points out, not even their names are given in this simple account! It is all betzina, all in modesty and humbleness and quietness. That is the true mark of a good Jewish home – tzina. It is a quiet and peaceful, unnoisy, and gentle home. It is a home of shalom bayit that can produce a Moses. It is a home where parents are devoted to each other, where Shabbos is Shabbos, and where great difficulties are solved by recourse to God. The historian Josephus records in his Antiquities (Book ii, ch. ix: 3) a beautiful prayer that Amram prayed before Moses was born, asking God to protect the Jewish people, and the appearance of God in a dream to Amram, telling him that his son, soon to be born, will be the one who will deliver Israel from its foes, and “his memory shall be famous while the world lasts.” When parents are devoted to each other, and remember God, their child has the chance to be like Moses, the memory of whom lasts forever.

The third quality is one demonstrated by Amram in a remarkable and striking story recorded by our Sages (Mekhilta DeRashbi, 2:19a). Remember that Pharaoh had ordained that every Jewish boy be drowned in the Nile. It was clearly the plan of Egypt to execute genocide against Israel and destroy them forever. And the plan was put into effect, and Jewish babies were being killed by the thousands. Imagine the bitterness of Jewish parents, especially mothers, who had labored and travailed and then had their babes torn out of their embracing arms to be cast into the river before their very eyes. What unimaginable anguish they must have experienced as year after year their children were taken from them and killed! When Amram, who, as previously stated, was a leader of the Israelites, saw what was occurring, he divorced his wife, and counseled all Jews to do the same, crying out “lama anu meyagim et atzmeinu leĥinam,” “why do we labor for naught?” What use is there in bearing children if they are to be killed? Why go on with life when no life is promised to us? Let us put an end to this tragic farce! Let us not produce targets for their trigger-practice. Let us not give the Egyptians the opportunity to impose their sadism upon our tots. Let every Jewish man leave his wife, and let no more Jewish children be born. Let us not fight against fate.

And so, for a long while, according to tradition, Amram separated from Yocheved, and the great majority of all Israelites did the same. But then his daughter, Miriam, urged him to reconsider. She told him this was no solution, since by doing this he was merely saving the Egyptian hordes the task of making Israel extinct. She spoke to him of hope and courage and determination and sacrifice. And Amram listened to his daughter. He began to understand that it is truly possible that some day the dark and heavy clouds will part to allow a ray of sunshine to brighten their lives. He began to foresee the possibility that God would not remain silent, that help would yet come, and that despair would not solve anything. And so he instructed his people to return to their wives and their homes and fling a challenge to the teeth of Fate. And how beautifully do the Sages describe the remarriage of Amram and Yocheved: Amram built an “apiryon” or ĥuppa for her, and their children, Aaron and Miriam, danced before them. The very angels of heaven sang for them with the words “eim habanim semeiĥa halleluya,” “the mother of children is happy, praise the Lord” (Psalms 113:9). And out of that remarriage was born Moses, the very person who would force the black clouds apart and bring the rays of freedom into the empty lives of his downtrodden people. “Vehiskima da’ato leda’at haMakom,” say our Rabbis – Amram’s decision was in accordance with God’s will.

That is what parents must be if their children are to be Moseses. They must have faith even when in the hard grip of doom and gloom. They must show courage even when it seems utterly ridiculous to do so. They must be able to challenge destiny and dare fate and stand firm in the face of overwhelming odds and almost certain defeat. That trust in the future, in God’s justice, is what gives parents the right to have a child like Moses.

Amram and Yocheved were able to foresee ultimate help. Moses was then the man to prophesize geula even during the thick of galut. Amram and Yocheved looked into the waters of the Nile and saw that God would save the indestructible babies cast therein. Moses was able to see a “seneh bo’er ba’esh,” the burning bush (Exodus 3:2), in the desert, the bush which burns but is never destroyed.

That is a mark of greatness – the ability to hope and hold out for the sun to shine again. Only that can awaken a slumbering, moribund, coma-bound people. Let no one ever question where the next generation of Jews will come from. They will come from big cities and small towns, wherever there is a Jewish school and wherever there are parents who have in them a touch of Amram and Yocheved, parents of Moses.

If there be amongst us a man and woman who can continue his and her own development and growth as true and great Jews and Jewesses, and who can live, husband with wife, so that the Jewish verities and virtues and tzina and shalom bayit are truly implanted in their home – a home of domestic happiness and Jewishness, and maximal Jewish education – and if these people can doggedly maintain the firm faith that greater times are yet to come for our people and that we must build and plan and labor for those great times when Jews will be great and learned and proud and unashamed and full-blooded Jews, then such parents deserve Moseses. It is they who will give birth to millions at one time, to men and women who will rise to the leadership of Israel and serve their people and their God in truth and faith.

It was not so long ago that every Jewish mother harbored the secret wish that her child become the Mashiaĥ, the savior of Israel. And no, it was not naïve or primitive. It was Jewish through and through. The wife of R. Maimon in Spain wanted – and got – a Maimonides for a child. The mother of the Vilna Gaon prayed for one like him, and deserved him, and therefore bore him. Who would not have laughed at the mothers of the leaders of modern Israel had they heard them silently praying that their children be leaders of their people?

It is this that can wake up a people when “nitnamnem hatzibur,” when they begin to succumb to another sleep. It is this which can shake them out of the lethargy and drowsiness which come from despair. Yes, a woman can give birth to 600,000. A parent can develop a child who will reflect the worth and value and strength of an entire people. It can be done. But it requires these three: self-development of the parents, a good Jewish home of happiness and peace and Torah, and the faith and courage and strength to hope and hold out for better and greater eras to come.

There is nothing more sensational than the knowledge that it is within the power of each and every one of us to raise a Moses.

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

A Retrospective: Was All This Really Necessary?

Context

Jewish history effectively begins twice. An introductory, pre-national era is launched when Avraham journeys to Canaan at God’s command. This period, the patriarchal era, comes to an end with Yaakov’s death.

Our story then begins again with the birth of the Jewish nation – as we journey from the cauldron of slavery, through the wrenching Exodus, to the dramatic Revelation at Sinai.

Questions

Why does the Torah include the stories of the patriarchal era? Why not begin, as the first Rashi on Bereishit suggests,1 with the national period of Jewish history?

At first glance, this question is clearly rhetorical. We have, in our studies, only scratched the surface of the monumental lessons to be learned from the lives of the patriarchs, matriarchs and their families. The Torah would be incomplete without these lessons, which remain as relevant today as the day the events occurred.

And yet, one can’t help but wonder if there isn’t, perhaps, something more – lessons to be learned not only from the specific stories of the patriarchal era but from the very existence of this introductory period itself. One can’t help but wonder why God would choose to begin Jewish history twice.

Approaches

At least three foundations essential to our national character are laid during the patriarchal era. These underpinnings serve as the best arguments of all for the inclusion of this seminal period in the chronicle of Jewish history.

A
The patriarchal era establishes the significance of the yachid (the individual).

The patriarchal era is a time when there is literally no one else, when the sum total of Jewish experience is defined by the lives and dreams of individuals: Avraham, Sara, Yitzchak, Rivka, Yaakov, Rachel and Leah. Their stories are recorded to remind us, even after the dawn of the national era, of the continuing, inestimable importance of each individual.

We are meant to feel, in every era and in every generation, that the survival of our people depends upon each of us alone, as certainly as our existence depended upon Avraham in his day. Each of us has something unique to offer. The loss, God forbid, of one person’s contribution leaves our entire people irreparably diminished.

The tzibur (community) could not be allowed to overwhelm the individual or stifle individuality. Our nation’s birth, therefore, had to wait until personal value was fully established.

B
The patriarchal era establishes the importance of the Jewish family and home.

In a very real sense, this introductory period of Jewish history can be seen as a journey towards one specific moment, the moment when Yaakov lies on his deathbed surrounded by his children. Unlike Avraham and Yitzchak, each of whom had progeny who were lost to Jewish history, Yaakov now knows that all of his children intend to follow his ways. After three generations of struggle with outside influences and internal turmoil, the Hebrew family is finally whole. The patriarchal era can now safely end.

The journey of the patriarchal households to that moment teaches us that before we could become a nation we had to be a family. The primacy of the home, so clearly established in the patriarchal era, is underscored centuries later, during the events which mark our nation’s birth.

On the very eve of the Exodus, God commands the Hebrew slaves to mark the impending birth of their nation in a very strange way. In place of participating in constitutional conventions, mass rallies or declarations of independence, each Israelite is instructed to return to his home. There, together with his extended family unit, he is to mark the dawning of freedom through the consumption of the Pesach sacrifice, essentially a family meal.

By insisting upon a retreat to the home as a prelude to our nation’s birth, God delivers a simple yet powerful message: As you begin your journey, remember that your survival will depend upon the health of the family unit. If the family is strong, if the home fulfills its educational role, your people will be strong and your nation will endure.

This message is underscored again at Sinai as God opens his instructions to Moshe preparatory to revelation: “Thus shall you say to the House of Yaakov and speak to the People of Yisrael…” Do not assume that, since you are now the “People of Yisrael,” you can, therefore, set the “House of Yaakov” aside. The family unit remains of primary importance.

The Jewish home is and always has been the single most important educational unit in the perpetuation of our people. What our children learn at home, through example and word, shapes both their knowledge of and their attitude towards Jewish tradition and practice. The home’s centrality finds its roots in the earliest moments of our people’s story, in the journey of the patriarchal families, centuries before our nation is created.

C
The patriarchal era establishes a preexisting national legacy.

The value of our possessions, whether material or spiritual, increases exponentially when those possessions are perceived as a legacy from previous generations. A beautiful pearl necklace is infinitely more precious if it is an heirloom which belonged to a beloved mother or grandmother.

Because of the patriarchal era, our nation is born with a preexisting legacy. By the time the Exodus and Revelation launch the national era, we already possess a history. Our dreams reflect the dreams of our forefathers and our goals represent the fulfillment of their hopes. The Land of Israel is not an unknown destination, but a cherished land of which we have already heard countless tales, a land promised to our ancestors centuries before. The Torah and its commandments are not foreign concepts but the expected realization of covenants already contracted between God and those who preceded us.

The phenomenon of a pre-existing legacy lends a richness and depth to the moment of our nation’s birth that could not have been created in any other way. Even more, however, this phenomenon sets the initial paradigm for the ongoing process of mesora, the transmission of tradition from one generation to the next (see Toldot 1, Approaches E). From the very beginning, our mission is personal, a mission shaped not only by God’s will but also by the memories of people and ages gone by. Those warm memories, together with countless others created across the years, form the ever-growing human dimension of our heritage, a dimension essential to the mesora process, a dimension originating in the patriarchal era.

Points to Ponder

As our examination of the patriarchal era draws to a close, we gain a real appreciation of the formative nature of this pre-national period. The foundations that are built during the lives of the patriarchs and matriarchs remain essential to our survival. Sadly, these foundations face serious challenge in our day as the one institution most critical to the cultivation of individual development and to the transmission of personal mesora falls short in the fulfillment of its obligations.

One can argue that the single greatest failing of today’s diaspora Jewish community is not assimilation. Assimilation is, after all, a symptom, not a cause. The single greatest failing of our community is the abdication by the family unit of its educational responsibility.

Countless young Jews are now raised in homes devoid of concrete observance of Jewish law or custom. These youngsters never have the opportunity to experience the beauty and depth of their people’s tradition. Judaism becomes for them, at best, a curiosity, and, at worst, an unwanted burden to be discarded at the first possible opportunity.

Even many affiliated families relegate, in large measure, the training of their children to the synagogue, school and Jewish community center. In the Conservative and Reform communities, after-school programs are frequently a child’s main exposure to Jewish tradition. No matter how successful these programs may be, they can never be a substitute for home Within much of today’s Orthodox community, as well, compromise often marks the level of personal family practice. The expectation is that children will learn the beauty of Torah study, the power of prayer, the centrality of ethics, somewhere else. If children never see their parents study, however, they will grow up believing that Torah study is important for children but not for adults. If they sit next to parents who talk in synagogue, rather than pray, they will never learn that prayer has any real importance. If they observe their parents cheating on income taxes or engaging in questionable business practices, they will learn to cut corners in the ethical realm. If the everyday behavior modeled by their elders is self-centered and aggressive, they will never learn true regard for the sensibilities of others. And if Shabbat in their home is observed in rote, unthinking fashion, they will never see Shabbat as a day of beauty.

Finally, many of our children today are denied the lessons traditionally taught through exposure to the extended family. The work of the Nazis continues to yield bitter fruit as countless youngsters grow up never knowing their grandparents. Other young people, fortunate enough to have living relatives, nonetheless experience limited exposure to them, due to our mobile, geographically fragmented society. So many of the experiential elements of our heritage, from Shabbat and the holidays to ethical behavior, can only be properly taught through the example set within the home. The home, and only the home, provides the environment essential for each generation’s personal introduction into religious tradition and observance.

From time immemorial, we have survived and thrived because of the life examples set by parents, grandparents and extended family. Those individuals, from Avraham and Sara onward, beckon us to set examples of our own.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. 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

On Being Consistent to a Fault

The drama of Joseph and his brothers, which draws to a climax in this sidra, is a source of endless fascination. One significant aspect of this strange narrative is that Joseph’s actions toward his brothers are incomprehensible, both to the brothers who do not recognize him and to us who already know who he is. To the very end, both they – the brothers – and the readers are perplexed: they, by the Egyptian prince who seems irrationally bent upon tormenting them, and we by the anomalous and mysterious motives of Joseph in continuing to conceal his identity from them and carrying out this elaborate spiel. Then, suddenly, all becomes clear. Joseph’s revelation of his identity is also the revelation of a master plan, conceived by a mastermind, a marvelous and beautifully consistent course of action. The purpose of this program is to help the brothers achieve teshuva, repentance or rehabilitation, to regain their sense of dignity, and to purge themselves of their shame. For this is the grand goal of Joseph, to which all his actions are inclined and aimed.

Their sin was that of hatred for their half-brother Joseph, the son of Rachel, a hatred which resulted in endangering his life. Now, Judah was willing to endanger his own life for the remaining half-brother, Benjamin, the other son of Rachel. The brothers thus fulfilled the requirements of teshuva. How beautifully everything falls into place and pattern! How symmetrical, how apropos! And how aptly does all this mesh with Joseph’s earlier plan, which came to the fore in the two great dreams about their sheaves bowing to his sheaves and about the sun and the moon and the stars bowing to him, Joseph. No wonder that Pharaoh was so impressed by this young Hebrew lad. He is indeed wise beyond words, the tzofnat paneiaĥ, the one who has all the answers and solves all the problems. Moreover, Joseph’s plan for his brothers’ teshuva is right, it is moral. That is why the rabbis were moved to declare that the expression, “merciful and gracious,” refers to Joseph the Righteous.

And yet, the sages found cracks and chips in this picture of Joseph. Joseph was wise, and his heart was in the right place; but something was amiss. Perhaps one might say that he was just a bit too clever, the plan was too smooth, the operation too consistent.

For instance, when testing his brothers, he gave Benjamin a far greater portion. Did he not take too much of a chance in arousing those old and latent jealousies? Did he not realize that the brothers are, after all, but human? And then when he arrested Simon before their very eyes – was that not too cruel, though perhaps necessary? And when he demanded of them that they surrender Benjamin to him as a slave because of the “theft” of the cup, he caused them so much grief that they tore their garments as a sign of anguish. It is true that this act on his part was one aspect of a consistent plan; but it was pitiless and harsh. He might have yielded to human emotions, and he might have somehow softened the blow. In fact, the rabbis tell us that Joseph was repaid generations later for this act of agony that he caused his brothers: his descendant Joshua, who had otherwise experienced an unbroken string of successes in leading Israel in the conquest of Canaan, had one difficult setback in the war against the city of Ai, and so grief-stricken was Joshua that – he tore his clothes in anguish!

Finally, and most important, Joseph heard, no less than ten times, his brothers referring to their father Jacob as “your servant our father.” Ten times he permitted them to refer to his own father as his servant! It is true that this was part of his consistent fulfillment of the dream whereby the sun too, symbolizing Jacob, will bow down to Joseph. But the rabbis (Sota 13a) were terribly upset with Joseph for allowing this piece of disrespect ten times over again. In punishment, they declare, Joseph lost ten years of his own life which he would have been permitted to live out had he not countenanced this discourtesy to his own father.

In a word, Joseph was consistent to a fault. He hewed too closely to his original plan. When a plan is overly consistent, when it leaves no room for contingencies, it becomes a machine – the kind of machine that grinds up human hearts and emotions, that leads brothers to grief, that makes servants of parents, and that ultimately diminishes the life of the mastermind himself. It is here that Joseph erred. He was too consistent and not sufficiently compassionate, too calculating and not sufficiently kindly.

Does this mean that we must make a virtue of inconsistency, that it is good to be illogical and self-contradictory? Of course not! One ought always to have a framework, a philosophy, some solid criteria by which to judge men and events and oneself. But never should the framework be so massive that you have to cut down the picture of life to fit it into the frame. Never should consistency be so rigid that you become callous to the cause of compassion. Never should a theory thwart the truth. In the general organization of one’s weltanschauung, one ought always to strive for consistency, for otherwise life is haphazard and even hazardous. But, an overall consistent philosophy of life does not necessitate a stifling and petty consistency in every small segment of experience. For then, consistency becomes nothing more than the excuse for a closed mind.

What is it that is wrong with over-consistency?

First, it makes one inhuman. If I believe in the plan above all else, then I will follow it to the bitter end even if I must steamroller over people and feelings. This was the error of Joseph who had a marvelous and even generous plan, but followed it to its logical conclusion without adequate compassion.

Second, it is simply unscientific. It involves too much trust in reason, and therefore out of concern for a consistent, rational pattern I may fail to respect newly discovered facts and new situations. A theory that ignores facts, that twists logic instead of revising itself, that wards off unpleasant challenges by ignoring them – is simply wrong.

It is interesting that in the history of talmudic methodology the protest against extravagant dialectics, called pilpul, was largely a reaction against over-consistency. The protest against pilpul, from fifteenth-century Prague to sixteenth-century Poland to eighteenth-century Lithuania, was a reaction against consistency so strong and theory so powerful that they would not be altered by mere facts.

Indeed, there is a similar movement in contemporary American philosophy, which expresses itself in contempt for ‘‘ideology.” The word “ideology” is taken as a synonym for the enthronement of the theory beyond any revision because of encounter with new facts.

An example of this disdain for facts in favor of a consistent theory is the matter of dialogues between Jews and Christians. One would have thought that after the Six Day War and the shameful betrayal of the Jewish community by those who had expressed such desires for dialogues with us, we would be done with the whole business. Indeed, some honorable and honest proponents of dialogue issued retractions soon after the Six Day War and announced that they were finished with these attempts. Yet, too many Jews have preferred to go their old way and have refused to abandon the dialogue movement and all it implies. It is a pity that only a week or two ago an official of the Conservative movement authoritatively declared that his movement is in favor of more dialogue, not less. Apparently, a “line” once taken, must be continued to infinity even it if leads to no place. How wise Ralph Waldo Emerson was when he declared that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

Third, over-consistency is religiously sinful. It is a sign of a lack of humility before God. It assumes that humans have complete control over the future, that we can avoid surprise and novelty and contingency by exercising our own wisdom and shrewdness. It means that we have over-confidence in our own reason and ability, and therefore read God out of the world, that we substitute our plans for His, or, at best, we presume to know His plans to the last iota. Even religious folk, perhaps especially religious folk, ought never dare such presumptions. It is an act of arrogance against God: “There is no wisdom and no counsel and no understanding against the Lord” (Proverbs 21:30). The religious objection to over-consistency is in the form of a plea for humility, of an acknowledgment of our own limited visibility in the skies of history and our willingness to be guided by divine instructions.

But finally, perhaps the most serious objection to being consistent to a fault is that it is self-defeating and sometimes suicidal.

The best and most painful example of such over-consistency is the harsh and unwarranted criticism now being leveled against the forthcoming World Conference of Ashkenazi and Sephardi Synagogues in Jerusalem, which I hope to address later this week, and for which I leave tonight with rest of the Jewish Center delegation. This conference is to be the first international meeting of Orthodox synagogue leadership in our times, in order to consult with each other, to benefit from each other’s experiences and help the less developed Orthodox communities, as well as to demonstrate our interest in worldwide problems and perhaps provide for the first time an address for Orthodox Judaism in the world. That is what we have in mind. It is rather modest, perhaps too modest.

Yet we have sustained relentless criticism and a barrage of charges against us by the extreme right wing of Orthodoxy. I do not intend to analyze here all that is involved in the World Conference, nor will I go into all the details of the opposition. I do think that we ought to ponder what our critics say, and that it ought to be a concern of ours. In doing so, let it be said to their credit that they are consistent; and to their discredit and our dismay, that they are consistent to a fault – suicidally so!

The issue, to put it clearly, is: the reconstitution of the Sanhedrin. The late Rabbi Maimon, Israel’s first minister of religion, had long advocated the reconstitution of this supreme judicial body of Jewish law. Many other rabbis were opposed, fearing that this would be the opening for unwarranted reforms. In addition, they dislike the idea of Jewish legal decisions being proclaimed by a hierarchy, and preferred that such verdicts be issued by those recognized by the consensus of world Jewish opinion as qualified authorities. Furthermore, they had halakhic doubts as to whether a Sanhedrin could be legally reconvened in our day.

Now this is an issue about which men of good will can differ. Without any comments on the issue itself, let us for the sake of argument grant a point: it is wrong, for whatever reasons one may choose, to reconstitute the Sanhedrin today.

From this point on, however, reason is slowly abandoned, until nothing is left that makes much sense except in psychological terms of fear, retrenchment, and introversion.

After the movement for a Sanhedrin waned and was all but forgotten, the opposition to it kept on as a matter of general principle. When religious Zionists wanted to build a headquarters for the Chief Rabbinate in Israel, the “Heikhal helomo,” the same right wing groups suspected that it was a cloak for a Sanhedrin – and banned entrance to the building. To this day, the ban stands, though it is largely ignored. Are they consistent? Certainly!

Then, every time we spoke of Orthodox leadership of different countries and communities meeting together, immediately the threat was raised of a ban against the Sanhedrin directed against such a meeting. Consistent? By all means.

And now that we have scheduled this worldwide meeting of synagogues, mostly of laymen, not one of whom, laymen or rabbis, particularly intends to convoke a Sanhedrin sub rosa and become the first member, the same extreme group here and in Israel accuses us of doing just that, and in a series of newspaper ads declares that Orthodox Jews may not attend this conference. Consistent? No doubt; but consistent to a fault – an irrational, wrongheaded, misplaced, extravagant and dangerous consistency that is destructive of the interests of all Orthodox Jews – those on the right as well as those in the center and on the left.

We live in a time of disintegration: of the home and the family, of religions and nations, of man himself. Assimilation is eating away at the fringes of the Jewish communities of the entire world. This is a time to seek out unity, not to snuff it out before it begins; a time to consolidate, not condemn; a time to ban futile issues, not to issue futile bans; a time for realistic construction, not unrealistic consistency. As the Jewish Center delegation joins our fellow American Jews in meeting with fellow Orthodox Jews throughout the world, we do so in the knowledge and conviction that all of our intentions are for the sake of heaven. We are sad that others do not understand us and do not join us.

Our main prayer is that our modest goals be achieved and that they inspire us to yet greater goals; that those who are now suspicious be convinced of our integrity and join us, lending us their piety and their passion, their scholarship and their commitment, so that all together we may fulfill the great verse of the prophet Malachi, “Then will those who fear the Lord speak each man to his friend” (3:16). When will we prove the authenticity of our status as those who fear the Lord? When we will converse with each other, not condemn; when we will talk, not vituperate; in other words, when we will fear God and not the times in which we live; when we will revere heaven and not be frightened by lurking suspicions; and above all, when we will relate each of us to his fellow Jew as ish el rei’eihu, each man to his friend.

Excerpted from The Light That Unites by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

Making A Miracle Great

Nes gadol hayah sham, “A great miracle happened there.” These beloved words are symbolized by the four initials nun, gimmel, heh, shin, which appear on the dreidel, referring of course to the miracle of Chanukah.

Moses stands at the burning bush and observes a miracle. The bush is on fire and astonishingly the leaves and branches are not consumed. Moses witnesses his first miracle. In response he says, “I see a great sight” (Exodus 3:3).

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asks: “Why did Moses not call it a nes, a miracle? Why did he simply say, ‘I see something great’?”

Although Moses was aware that he was witnessing a miracle, that is not what intrigued him. Rather, what riveted Moses was the message that he heard. It was a great sight for one reason: because Moses responded to the call of God.

Simply seeing something supernatural did not impress Moses. The burning bush was “great” in his mind and heart because in that extraordinary interaction, Moses took on a new challenge and charted a new course in his life. The moment was transformative. Moses accepted a new mission.

Rabbi Soloveitchik taught, “It is not always necessary for an event to be miraculous in order to be great, and not every miraculous event is a great event.” An event is great only if the following things occur: it fosters change, it impacts the person, it ushers in a new era, and it produces great things. Whether or not the event was miraculous or natural is not critical.

No matter how miraculous an event is, it is very “small” if it is wasted.

This teaching speaks directly to the great miracle of Chanukah. These events were great because they produced a transformation of the Jewish people. The Jews proved that not only could they defeat a fierce enemy on the battlefield, but they could also purify the spiritual defilement of a whole population, a nation that overwhelmingly had sunk deeply into the impurity of the soul and contamination of the spirit.

The events witnessed during the days of Chanukah inspired change. Life did not remain the same as before. During the days of Chanukah, the Jews took advantage of the new opportunity that was offered to them: a spiritual revival and a rededication to religious values and to a committed life – truly a great thing.

The Jewish people engaged in a national rededication to the Torah and tradition. “Rededication” is the very meaning of the word Chanukah.

The Sages waited a full year before they declared Chanukah a holiday. Why did they not establish the holiday immediately after the great miracles of the disproportionate battle and the eight-day burning of the one flask of pure oil in the Menorah?

The Sages waited to see whether the change was lasting. Had the Jewish people truly transformed their lives? Only then, when the Sages saw the life-changing impact, did they consider this story to be great, worthy of celebration for all time.

The Jewish people, in the days of Chanukah, acted heroically, not only on the battlefield, but also in renewing and strengthening their allegiance to God and to the Torah.

As we celebrate these events each year, we should also aspire to emulate this remarkable kind of heroism in our own lives.

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The Hebrew word for miracle, nes, can also be translated as “banner.” A nes, a banner raised high, calls out with a message. A banner is in public view and is meant to have impact and impart an important directive.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik taught that when we speak of the nes gadol that occurred in the days of Chanukah, we mean that there was “a great banner,” a great message that was heeded by the Jewish people. There was a spiritual awakening, and the Jewish nation was elevated to new heights.

Excerpted from The Light That Unites: A Chanukah Companion – Blessings, Teachings, and Tales by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

A Kabbalistic Perspective on the Thirty-Six Candles of Chanukah

Did you know that the thirty-six candles we light correspond to the thirty-six hours that Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden?

So says Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov (1783–1841) in his classic work Bnei Yissaschar. Drawing on Kabbalistic sources, the Rebbe makes the equation between the total of the thirty-six candles that are lit on Chanukah and the thirty-six hours of pure divine light that Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden of Eden, at the very beginning of time.

Jewish tradition teaches us that Adam and Eve were created on the last day of creation, on a Friday. The world they lived in consisted not only of the physical light but also a spiritual light that graced the universe. God’s first words, “Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3), did not refer to the light of the sun or the moon. Rather, the first light created by God was a spiritual light that filled the world with truth and clarity. This unique light was with Adam and Eve for thirty-six hours while they were in the Garden of Eden. When the original man and woman deviated from the path of goodness, that unique light ended. It was left behind in Paradise when they were ordered to leave the Garden, after Shabbat.

The Rebbe of Dinov teaches that the lights we kindle in our homes on Chanukah are reminiscent of the first light that God gave man. From our own small candles, we envision a spark of the divine light. This is a spiritual light that is meant to reveal both holiness in the world and the inner goodness found in all of creation.

It is no coincidence then that both the light of Chanukah and the pure light that was created at the beginning of time share the same number. The lights of Chanukah remind us that the spiritual light that once adorned mankind can be lit up again. We actually pray for this light each day in our daily morning prayers: Ohr chadash al Tzion ta’ir, “May You shine a new light on Zion.”

When Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach shared this teaching from the Dinover Rebbe, he would add the following:

When we stand in front of the holy candles we are reminded that our world can be perfected. We are awakened to dream of a world reminiscent of the Garden of Eden: a place of peace and serenity, a place of kindness and of love.

Do you know what the saddest thing in the world is? When we stop longing for a perfect world.

Chanukah teaches us not be satisfied with a little bit of light, a little bit of good, a little bit of peace…but to passionately desire the most perfect light. We can never allow ourselves to lose sight of a great and lofty vision of what this world could look like. The light of Chanukah reveals to us a light of pure goodness that once filled this world…a light that will surely be revealed again.

In the glow of the menorah we see a glimmer of the original light of creation. This light radiates the signs of the final victory over evil.

We live in a world of hidden light, and it is up to us to repair the world, by righting injustice, by treating everyone and everything with loving compassion, by discerning the divine light at the core of every dark shell.

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In the introduction to his biblical commentary, the Ramban (Nachmanides, 1194–1270) states that everything is to be found within the Torah, either in open or hidden fashion. As an example, he points out that Rabbi Akiva learned thousands of ideas even from the tagin, the crowns that adorn the tops of the letters in a Torah scroll (Talmud, Menachot 29b).

Bearing this in mind, the Bnei Yissaschar indicates that in the phrase “And God saw the light, that it was good” (Genesis 1:4), one finds a hint to the mitzvah of lighting the Chanukah candles. Carefully look at the word tov, “good,” and take note specifically of the tagin, the crown of the letter tet. Usually, this letter, the first letter of the word tov, contains only three tagin, but here it contains four.

 

The reason for this, he explains, is that the letter tet  has the gematria or numerical equivalent of nine. And nine times four equals thirty-six – alluding to the thirty-six lights that are kindled during Chanukah. This allusion appears in the verse that says that “God saw the light, that it was good,” which indicates God’s approval of the establishment of the lights of Chanukah and His love of our performance of the mitzvah of lighting the menorah for all time.