Author: devora

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

 

Fringe Element

Context

Parshat Shelach closes with a discussion of the mitzva of tzitzit, the commandment to place fringes on the corners of all four-cornered garments worn by men. While the majority of the tzitzit threads are to be white in color, each bundle of tzitzit is to contain at least one thread of techeilet, a shade of blue.

As mandated by the Torah, the mitzva of tzitzit is obligatory only if one happens to wear a four-cornered garment. The rabbis decree, however, that such a garment (a tallit katan, a small tallit) should be worn throughout the day in order to fulfill this mitzva continuously. The eventual institution of the tallit gadol, the large tallit, into Jewish practice, worn as a prayer shawl during the morning prayers and on other occasions, further reflects the significance of this mitzva.

The Talmud maintains that the mitzva of tzitzit is equivalent in importance to the sum of all other mitzvot combined.

Questions

What is the meaning of the mitzva of tzitzit and why do the rabbis attach such significance to its performance? What possible purpose could there be in placing fringes on our garments?

Is there any underlying philosophical significance to the white and blue threads of the tzitzit?

Why is this mitzva recorded in the text at this point, specifically in the aftermath of the tragic sin of the spies?

Approaches

A
Rabbinic discussion concerning this mitzva begins at the most basic level, as the rabbis debate the very meaning of the Hebrew term tzitzit.

Rashi offers two alternative interpretations, each of which he supports with textual evidence. The term tzitzit, he says, refers either to the fringes themselves or to their role as a visible symbol meant to “be seen” (based on the root l’hatzitz, to see).

A number of commentators, including the Rashbam, view Rashi’s two approaches not as alternatives but as complementary interpretations. The term tzitzit, they maintain, defines, at once, both the physical structure of the mitzva and its ultimate purpose.

This dual meaning of the term tzitzit, these scholars claim, is reflected in the strange textual flow surrounding the mitzva. The Torah first states: “and they shall make for themselves tzitzit on the corners of their garments,” and then continues, “and it shall be for you as tzitzit and you shall see it.” Why would the Torah find it necessary to state that the tzitzit will serve for the Israelites as tzitzit?

Applying Rashi’s two interpretations simultaneously, the Rashbam explains the flow of text as follows: “and they shall make for themselves tzitzit [fringes on the corners of their four-cornered garments]…and it shall be for you as tzitzit [visible symbols] and you shall see it and you will remember et kol mitzvot Hashem, all of the mitzvot of the Lord.”

The mitzva of tzitzit thus consists of more than making and wearing fringes on four-cornered garments. To properly fulfill this mitzva, the fringes must “be seen”; they must serve as a visible symbol, inspiring the wearer to remember the entirety of Jewish law.

A fundamental question, however, remains: the text does not clearly explain how the tzitzit are meant to work. In what way will “seeing” these fringes remind the observer of “all the mitzvot of the Lord”?

B
In one of the earliest references to the symbolism of the tzitzit, the Talmud begins to answer this question by comparing the fringes to a “seal of clay” placed upon a slave as permanent confirmation of his status.

Numerous later commentaries pick up on this theme, explaining that God commands Jewish males to wear tzitzit on their four-cornered garments as a lasting reminder of their subservience to divine will.

The Sforno thus maintains: “When you see [the tzitzit], which are as a seal placed by a master upon his servants, you will remember that you are servants to an exalted God Whose commandments you accepted through an oath and a promise. Through this you will refrain from ‘straying after your hearts.’ ”

The Ba’al Hachinuch similarly notes: “No tool in the world is more effective for the purpose of remembrance than the seal of the master fixed upon [his servants’] everyday garments…which are before [the servant’s] heart and eyes throughout the day.”

To these and other scholars, the mechanism by which the tzitzit remind their wearer of “all the mitzvot of the Lord” is straightforward and concrete. These fringes comprise the uniform of an eved Hashem, a servant of the Lord. The individual who wears this uniform throughout the day will be constantly reminded of his role in God’s service and of its incumbent responsibilities. He will thus be encouraged not to stray in the direction of sin.

Why, however, are tzitzit specifically chosen as a reminder of servitude to God? Is the selection of these fringes arbitrary, similar to a ribbon tied around an individual’s finger as a prod to memory? Or, does some physical aspect of the tzitzit recommend them for their divinely ordained purpose?

Once these questions are raised, a variety of approaches to the specific symbolism of the tzitzit are suggested by the sages, running the gamut from pshat to Midrash and from the simple to the complex.

C
An early Midrashic source quoted by Rashi, for example, views the symbolism of the tzitzit in mathematical terms. The numerical value of the word tzitzit is six hundred. By adding the eight strands and five knots found in each set of fringes to that base number, we arrive at a total of six hundred thirteen, the sum of the mitzvot contained in the Torah. In this way, the Midrash maintains, the tzitzit serve as a reminder of “all the mitzvot of the Lord.”

After attacking Rashi’s approach on a number of grounds, the Ramban argues that the symbolic message of the tzitzit is specifically contained in the thread(s) of techeilet, the blue strand(s) found in each set of fringes. The color techeilet, the Ramban states, alludes to the tachlit (purpose) of all creation. The goal of the mitzva of tzitzit is not simply to remind the observer of “all the mitzvot,” but to remind the observer of the divine attribute of kol (all), the totally inclusive nature of God.

The Ramban finds support for his approach in a well-known Talmudic observation concerning techeilet: “Why is techeilet different from all other colors? Because techeilet resembles the [color of the] sea, and the sea resembles the [color of the] heavens, and the heavens resemble the [color of God’s] throne of glory.”

Symbolism of a vastly different nature is attributed to the techeilet by Rabbi Elazar the son of Rabbi Shimon in another early Midrashic source. Noting that the root word kalla, to complete or finish, is contained in the term techeilet, this scholar argues that the blue thread of the tzitzit is designed to remind the observer of the “complete” destruction of the Egyptians through the plague of the firstborn and the closing waters of the Reed Sea. Rashi adds that the blue shade of techeilet specifically resembles the color of the heavens as they darken towards night, the appointed time of the plague of the firstborn.

Other commentaries discern practical, moral lessons reflected in the blue thread of the tzitzit. The Ba’al Akeida, for example, maintains that techeilet lies midpoint on the color spectrum between the extremes of black and white. Techeilet is, therefore, included in each set of tzitzit to reflect the desirability of a balanced life path that eschews extremes.

Entering the kabbalistic, mystical realm, the Zohar perceives in the blended colors of the tzitzit a reflection of the attributes of God. The white threads represent midat harachamim, the divine attribute of compassion. The strand(s) of techeilet, on the other hand, signify midat hadin, the divine attribute of strict justice (see Shmot: Va’eira 1, Approaches E for a discussion concerning the divine attributes).

Finally, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik suggests that the white threads of the tzitzit symbolically denote “clarity, rationality and that which is self-evident.” Techeilet, on the other hand, “focuses our thoughts on the grand mysteries of human experience which elude our precise understanding.”With inimitable eloquence, the Rav applies the symbolic balance created by the colors of the tzitzit to three distinct areas of human experience:

1. In the scientific realm.
In scientific inquiry, the physical sciences, i.e., physics, chemistry, biology, etc., lend themselves to mathematical precision….
It is when the focus of inquiry changes to man’s psyche and abstract verities that inexactitude and uncertainty intrude….
The universe will yield its secrets to the organized scientific pursuit. But the one thread of techeilet pertains to the spiritual realm,where man is humbled by the mystery of existence. Here he needs the guidance of revelation and the religious perceptions of the soul.

2. In our personal lives.
We have all had periods, even of an extended nature, which are rational, planned, and predictable, when we feel that we have a hold on events. At other times, however, mystery and puzzlement intervened, dislocating the pattern of our lives and frustrating all our planning….
Inexplicable events render us humbled. This is the tekhelet [techeilet] of human experience.

3. The enigma of Jewish history.
If Jewish history operated solely with white, we would not be fighting for Israel today. From the standpoint of reason and logistics, our efforts against imponderable odds are insane….
Only people sustained by tekhelet could be motivated to constitute a state after two thousand years of exile. Nations governed only by white mock us incredulously and derisively….
The garment of Jewish life will yet possess both blue and white, and our historical yearnings and sacrifices will be vindicated.

 

To the mind of the Rav, the tzitzit serve as a constant reminder of those elements of our existence that lie within man’s comprehension, as well as those that lie beyond.

Countless other approaches are suggested by the scholars as they struggle to unravel the mysteries behind the ever-present symbol of the tzitzit.

D
One final insight into the mitzva of tzitzit can be derived from an enigmatic linguistic connection between this mitzva and the tragic event with which the parsha opened.

As the curtain rose on Parshat Shelach, Moshe sent twelve spies latur et Eretz Canaan, “to explore the land of Canaan.” Now, at the end of the parsha, the Torah summarizes the purpose of the tzitzit by declaring: V’lo taturu acharei levavchem v’acharei eineichem asher atem zonim achareihem, “And you shall not explore after your heart and after your eyes after which you stray.” The Torah’s repeated use of the uncommon verb latur, to explore, seems to link the disparate themes found at the endpoints of the parsha. What, however, is the thrust of this association? What possible link can be suggested between the sin of the spies and the mitzva of tzitzit?

Perhaps the answer lies in Judaism’s overall attitude towards exploration of the physical world. For while the Torah here warns, “you shall not explore after your heart and after your eyes after which you stray,” investigation of our physical surroundings is not only generally permitted by most halachic authorities, but encouraged. No less a luminary than the Rambam maintains:

And what is the path that will lead to the fear and love [of God]? At the moment when an individual considers His wondrous and great creations and works and perceives within them His matchless and infinite wisdom, he immediately loves, praises, glorifies Him and is seized with an overwhelming desire to know His great name.

Such exploration becomes hazardous, however, when we forget the basic assumptions that are meant to guide our journey. Like the spies sent by Moshe on a legitimate mission to explore Canaan, we stumble off course in our own “explorations” when we lose sight of God’s presence in our lives and when we despair of our own self-worth.

The mitzva of tzitzit is necessary specifically because we do not close ourselves off from the outside world. As we traverse our own physical surroundings, the tzitzit serve as an ever-present reminder of our regal role as avdei Hashem, servants of the Lord.

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

Our sidra this morning introduces us, rather casually and incidentally, to one of the most important and highly celebrated virtues in the arsenal of religion – that of anivut. We read in today’s portion, “And the man Moses was the most humble (anav me’od), above all the men that were upon the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3). Whatever may be the particular translation of the Hebrew word anav, the idea that is usually imparted is that anivut is humility, a feeling by the individual that he lacks inner worth, an appreciation that he amounts to very little. Indeed, the author of Mesilat Yesharim, one of the most renowned works on Jewish ethics in all our literature, identifies the quality of anivut with shiflut – the feeling of inner lowliness and inferiority. According to this definition, then, the Torah wants to teach each of us to see ourselves in a broader perspective, to recognize that all achievements are very trivial, attainments mere boastfulness, prestige a silly exaggeration. If Moses was an anav, if he was humble and able to deprecate himself, how much more so we lesser mortals should be humble.

However, can this be the real definition of this widely heralded quality of anivut?

We know of Moses as the adon hanevi’im, the chief of all the prophets of all times, the man who spoke with God “face to face” (Exodus 33:11). Do the words, “And the man Moses was the most humble” mean that Moses himself did not realize this? Does the anivut of Moses imply that he had a blind spot, that he failed to recognize what any school child knows? Does a Caruso** have to consider himself nothing more than a choir boy, and an Einstein merely an advanced bookkeeper, in order to qualify for anivut? In order to be an anav, must one be either untruthful or genuinely inferior?

To a very great extent, modern psychology is concerned with the problem of inferiority. Deep down, people usually have a most unflattering appraisal of themselves. Many are the problems which bring them to psychologists and psychiatrists; yet all so often the underlying issue is the lack of self-worth. Are we, therefore, to accept the Jewish ethical prescription of anivut as an invitation to acquire an inferiority complex?

In addition, the definition of anivut as self-deprecation and humility does not fit into the context of today’s sidra. The identification by the Torah of Moses as an anav is given to us as part of the story in which we learn of Aaron and Miriam, the brother and sister of Moses, speaking ill of Moses behind his back. They criticize him harshly because of some domestic conduct in his personal life. They are wrong, and they are punished by the Almighty. But what has all this to do with the humility of Moses? The substance of their criticism, namely, the domestic relations of Moses, is as unrelated to Moses’ humility as it is to his artistic talents or his leadership ability.

Furthermore, the Talmud relates an exchange that is all but meaningless if we assume that anivut means humility. The Talmud (Sota 49a) tells us that when Rabbi Judah the Prince died the quality of anivut disappeared with him. When this was stated, the famous Rabbi Joseph disagreed. He said, “How can you say that when Rabbi Judah died anivut vanished? Do you not know that I am still here?” In other words – I am an anav!

Now, if anivut really means humility, does this make sense? Can one boast of his humility and still remain humble? Is it not of the essence of humility that one should consider that he possesses this virtue in himself?

It is for these reasons, and several more, that the famous head of the Yeshiva of Volozhin, popularly known as the Netziv, offers us another definition of anivut (in his HaAmek Davar) which, I believe, is the correct one. I would say that the definition the Netziv offers means, in English, not humility, but meekness. It refers not to self-deprecation but self-restraint. It involves not an untruthful lack of appreciation of one’s self and one’s attainments, but rather a lack of arrogance and a lack of insistence upon kavod, honor. To be an anav means to recognize your true worth, but not to impose the consequences upon your friends and neighbors. It means to appreciate your own talents, neither over-emphasizing nor under-selling them, but at the same time refraining from making others aware of your splendid virtues at all times. Anivut means not to demand that people bow and scrape before you because of your talents, abilities, and achievements. Anivut means to recognize your gifts as just that – gifts granted to you by a merciful God, and which possibly you did not deserve. Anivut means not to assume that because you have more competence or greater endowments than others that you thereby become more precious an individual and human being. Anivut means a soft answer to a harsh challenge, silence in the face of abuse, graciousness when receiving honor, dignity in response to humiliation, restraint in the presence of provocation, forbearance and a quiet calm when confronted with calumny and carping criticism.

With this new definition by the Netziv, the statement of Rabbi Joseph becomes comprehensible. When he was told that with the death of Rabbi Judah the Prince there was no more meekness left in the world, he replied with remarkable candor and truthfulness: You must be mistaken, because I, too, am meek. There is no boastfulness here – simply a fact of life. Some people are meek, some are not. If a man says, “I am humble,” then obviously he is not humble; but if a man says, “I am meek,” he may very well be just that. In fact, the Talmud tells us that Rabbi Joseph was at least the equal in scholarship of his colleague, Rabba, but that when the question arose who would head the great Academy in Babylon, Rabbi Joseph deferred to Rabba. And furthermore, all the years that Rabba was chief of the Academy, Rabbi Joseph conducted himself in utter simplicity, to the point where he did all his household duties himself and did not invite any artisan or laborer, physician or barber, to come to his house. He refused to allow himself the least convenience which might make it appear as if he were usurping the dignity of the office and the station occupied by his colleague Rabba. This is, indeed, the quality of meekness – of anivut.

And this meekness was the outstanding characteristic of Moses as revealed in the context of the story related in today’s sidra. Here were Aaron and Miriam, both by all means lesser individuals than Moses, who derived so much of their own greatness from their brother, and yet they were ungrateful and captious and meddled in Moses’ personal life. A normal human being, even a very ethical one, would have responded sharply and quickly. He would have confronted them with their libelous statement, or snapped some sharp rejoinder to them, or at the very least cast upon them a glance of annoyance and irritation. But, “The man Moses was the most meek, more so than any man on the face of the earth.” Although aware of his spiritual achievements, of his role as leader of his people, even of his historical significance for all generations, Moses entertained no feelings of hurt or sensitivity, of injured kavod. There was in his character no admixture of pride, of arrogance, of harshness, of hyper-sensitivity. He had an utter lack of gall and contentiousness. He was, indeed, an anav, more so than any other individual on the face of the earth. And he was able to write those very words without self-consciousness! Hence he did not react at all to the remarks of his brother and sister. Therefore, God said that if Moses is such an anav that he does not defend himself against this offense, I will act for him!

The quality of anivut, as it has been defined by the Netziv, is thus one of the loveliest characteristics to which we can aspire. One need not nourish feelings of inferiority in order to be an anav. Indeed, the greater one is and knows one’s self to be, the greater his capacity for anivut, for meekness. It is the person who pouts arrogantly and reacts sharply and pointedly when his ego is touched who usually reveals thereby feelings of inferiority and worthlessness, of deep shiflut. The individual who feels secure and who recognizes his achievements as real can afford to be meek, to be an anav.

For it is this combination of qualities – inner greatness and outer meekness – that we learn from none other than God Himself. The Talmud (Megilla 31a) put it this way: “Wherever your find mentioned the gedula, the greatness, of God, there also you will find mentioned His anivut.” Thus, for instance, where we are told that God is mighty and awesome, immortal and transcendent, there too we learn that God is close to the widow and the orphan, the stranger and the sick, all those in distress, those overlooked, ignored and alienated from the society of the complacent. God’s anivut certainly does not mean His humility or self-deprecation! It does mean His softness, gentleness, kindliness – His meekness.

Here, then, is a teaching of Judaism which we can ill afford to do without. When we deal with husband or wife, with neighbor or friend, with children or students, with subordinates or employees – we must remember that the harsh word reveals our lack of security, and the impatient rejoinder shows up our lack of self-appreciation and self-respect. It is only when we will have achieved real gedula, true inner worth and greatness, that we shall learn that remarkable, sterling quality of anivut.

Let us leave the synagogue this morning aware of that mutual, reciprocal relationship between greatness and meekness. If we have gedula let us proceed to prove it by developing anivut. And if we doubt whether we really possess gedula then let us begin to acquire it by emulating the greatest of all mortals, Moses, and the immortal Almighty Himself, and practice anivut in all our human relations. If this anivut does not succeed at once in making us truly great, it at least will offer us the dividends of a better character, a happier life, more relaxed social relations, and the first step on the ladder of Jewish nobility of character.

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

In Praise of Impracticality*

Our sidra opens with the words, “And the Lord spoke to Moses at Mount Sinai (behar Sinai), saying…” (Leviticus 25:1). What follows this introduction is a portion that deals with the laws of shemita, the sabbatical year, when the land must lie fallow and all debts be remitted.

The Rabbis were intrigued by one word in that opening verse: the word “behar,” “on the mountain.” Why this special reference to Mount Sinai at this time? The question as they phrased it has come over into Yiddish and Hebrew as an idiomatic way of saying, “What does one thing have to do with the other?” Thus (Torat Kohanim, as quoted by Rashi): “ma inyan shemita eitzel Har Sinai?” “What connection is there between the sabbatical laws and Mount Sinai?” Were not all the laws and commandments enunciated at Mount Sinai? Why then this special mention of shemita in association with Mount Sinai?

Rashi quotes the answer provided by the Rabbis. Permit me, however, to offer an alternative answer: Although Judaism is action-geared oriented to the improvement of humanity and society; although it has a high moral quotient; although it addresses itself to the very real problems of imperfect beings and suffering society; although, in contrast to certain other religions, it is more this-worldly – nevertheless, this concern with the real and the immediate and the empirical has a limit. Not everything in Judaism has to be as practical as an American businessman’s profit-and-loss sheet or as “relevant” as the social activists and the radicals would like it to be. Judaism may not be ancient history – but neither is it journalism.

And this we see from the piquant fact that the laws of shemita were given specifically at Mount Sinai. Laws known as mitzvot hateluyot ba’aretz, commandments whose fulfillment is dependent upon the Land of Israel, were given to the people of Israel before they ever arrived in Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel! Agricultural laws were now given, in all their details, to a nomadic tribe without farms, without roots in the soil. Consider what the laws of shemita sounded like to our grandparents as they surrounded Mount Sinai, that baredesert mountain. They must have appeared weird, irrelevant, out of place, impertinent.

And yet, what was true of shemita at Mount Sinai is true of all the commandments at all times. They may seem hopelessly impractical, untimely, and irrelevant to the cold-eyed and hard-headed person, and yet they are the Law of the Lord, obligatory upon Jews at all times and all places.

Indeed, there is hardly anything as irrelevant as the piddling relevancy of the coldly practical person. Show me the man who sees only what is before his eyes, and I will show you a man who cannot see beyond his nose!

What does this praise of the impractical teach us?

First, it tells us simply that there are things that are of value in and of themselves, not only because they are instrumental or lead to other things. Thus, some of the commandments may restrain one’s destructiveness. Others may lead one to improve society or one’s own soul or help the disadvantaged. But some are valuable simply because they were commanded by God. No other reason is necessary.

The same is true of knowledge. There are some kinds of knowledge which may lead to invention and enhance the health of an individual and his convenience. But science is more than technology. There is also such a thing as knowledge for its own sake, knowledge acquired in order to satisfy the natural intellectual curiosity of mankind.

A week ago, Apollo 16 returned from its trip to the moon. Except for those Americans who are so benumbed by the sensational that after the first time a thing is done it becomes a dreadful bore, the exploits of the astronauts kept the world enraptured. And yet consider what a monumental irrelevance the whole project is! The government spends millions of dollars, some of the brightest men in the world donate their talents, three men risk their lives – all in order to study the structure of remote rocks so that we might formulate a theory of when the moon was created and how old it is. “So what?” one might ask. And the answer is: “So everything!”

Yes, there may be legitimate questions about the priorities in our national budget. That is not now our concern. But without a doubt, knowledge, for its own sake, must not be deprecated. The real point, to a small-minded person, sometimes appears to be beside the point.

And the same is true in Judaism. There is the study of Torah for the sake of performance of the mitzvot, or the sake of cohesion of the community, or the sake of raising the level of Jewish observance. But the highest concept of Torah study remains Torah lishma, Torah for its own sake. Here too, there may be a question of priorities in determining the subject matter of Torah. But there is no denying the ultimate and high value of Torah lishma, of study for its own sake.

It was the Jerusalem Talmud (Ĥagiga 2:1) that attributed to the most notorious heretic in Jewish history the opposition to “other-worldly study of Torah.” Elisha ben Abuya, known as Aĥer (“the other one”), is said to have stormed into a classroom, rudely interrupted the teacher, and shouted at the students: “What are you doing here? Why are you wasting your time in such irrelevant material as Torah? You, you must be a builder; you must be a carpenter; you ought to become a fisherman, and you should be a tailor. Do something useful in your lives!” The great heretic was an eminently practical man…

Of course, I do not mean to be cute by espousing impracticality and advocating irrelevance. Total irrelevance is deadening to the spirit and results in what philosophers call solipsism, the divorce from the outside world and experience and the introversion into oneself – and impracticality can become nothing but a semantic excuse for inefficiency and incompetence. What I do mean is that relevance is a good, but not the only one or even the most important one. And while practicality is necessary for the execution of ideals, dreams and visions need not be pre-restrained in the Procrustean bed of a mercantile mentality.

The second point is that sometimes the apparently remote does contain highly significant and very real dimensions, but it is our narrow vision and restricted understanding that does not allow us to expose these obscure insights. Kashrut sometimes is ridiculed in this modern age because it appears superfluous when we consider the sanitary facilities we possess. And yet, those who understand kashrut realize that it has so little to do with sanitation and has so very much to say about reverence for life – and this, in a world in which life is losing its value, in which the approval of abortions is moving into the encouragement of euthanasia. Shatnez and kilayim, the prohibitions against mixing various garments or seeds or animals, has always been held up as a paradigm of non-rational commandments, and yet today we realize how much they have to say to us about ecology and the preservation of the separate species of the universe. The Sabbath laws are meant not only to give us a day of rest, because Sunday in modern America can accomplish that as well. It does tell us that we are not the by-products of a cosmic accident, that we owe our existence to God, and must therefore curb our insufferable pride and collective arrogance.

So, these and many other such illustrations remind us of the need to search beneath the surface of Judaism for teachings that are eminently pertinent.

Third, we must be future-oriented. We must have faith that what is genuinely irrelevant now may someday become most relevant and meaningful as a result of our ability to carry on heroically despite present irrelevance and impracticality. What today seems visionary may prove indispensable to tomorrow’s very real need.

The Rabbis were fond of saying, “The words of Torah and the Sages are ‘poor’ in one place (bimkom zeh) and ‘rich’ in another (bimkom aĥer)” (Yerushalmi Rosh HaShana 3:5). By this they meant to say that sometimes the text of Torah will seem utterly narrow and superficial, teaching very little indeed. It is only when we compare it with another text, in another context, that we can appreciate how genuinely deep and insightful it really is. I would like to paraphrase that passage, switching from “makom” to “zeman” – thus: It sometimes happens that the words of Torah in one epoch may seem to be thin and insignificant; it is only later, at another time, that the same words stand revealed as possessing unspeakable richness of insight and teaching.

Take the most striking example: the hope for Jerusalem, whose fifth anniversary of liberation we celebrate later this week.

If we have the privilege to commemorate the reunion of people and city, of Israel and Jerusalem, we must acknowledge our debt to a hundred generations of Jews and Jewesses who since the year 70 have been wild dreamers, impractical idealists, possessed of visions impossible of execution; Jews who turned to Jerusalem three times a day in prayer; who when they ate bread thanked God for bread and for Jerusalem; who mentioned Jerusalem when they fasted and when they feasted; who brought little packets of dust of Jerusalem during their lifetime in order to take it along with them in their coffins on their long journey to eternity; who arose at midnight for tikun ĥatzot, to lament over Jerusalem, and at every happy occasion promised to return there.

If we live in Jerusalem today, it is because of those unsophisticated visionaries who wanted at least to die in it.

If we can visit Jerusalem this year, it is thanks to those other-worldly dreamers who sang “leshana haba’a biYerushalayim” – at least let us be there next year.

If we can happily laugh – “az yimalei seĥok pinu,” “then our mouth will be full of laughter” (Psalms 126:2) – it is in large measure the work of those who did not realize how irrelevant they were, how impossible their dreams were, and who prayed to return there, thus daring and braving and risking the derisive laughter of legions of practical people who simply “knew” that we were finished, and that Jerusalem would never become a Jewish city again.

It is only because of generations of bridegrooms who concluded every wedding by stomping on a glass, its shattering fragments recalling the ĥurban habayit (the destruction of Jerusalem), and proclaiming, “If I forget you O Jerusalem, let my right hand fail” (Psalms 137:5), that today we can defy the whole world, East and West, and say: Never again shall you separate us from Jerusalem, not Capitalists and not Communists, not Muslims and not even Christians who have lately discovered that Jerusalem is important to them.

Jerusalem Day is a tribute to this special Jewish brand of impracticality and irrelevance.

So, “ma inyan shemita eitzel Har Sinai?” – What is the association or connection between the sabbatical laws and Mount Sinai? First, it is to tell us that not everything need be relevant; second, that not everything that appears irrelevant really is; and third, that what is irrelevant today may be the most important fact of life tomorrow. This lesson too is part of the heritage of Sinai. Indeed, without it all the rest is in jeopardy. With it, all the rest will prevail too, bimheira beyameinu, speedily in our day.

---

* May 6, 1972

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

God, Man, and State*

The conjunction of the two sidrot we read today, Tazria and Metzora, is remarkable. The first speaks of birth, the second of a kind of death (a leper is considered partially dead; see Nedarim 64b). Tazria describes the joyous acceptance into the fold of a new Jew by means of brit mila, circumcision, while Metzora tells of the expulsion of the leper from the community.

Yet, these two portions are read on the same Shabbat with no interruption between them. The tension between these two opposites, this dialectic between birth and death, between pleasure and plague, between rejoicing and rejecting, speaks to us about the human condition as such and the existence of the Jew specifically. Even more, this tension contains fundamental teachings of Judaism that are relevant to the problems of the State of Israel whose eighteenth birthday we shall be celebrating this Monday.

After delineating the laws of childbirth, the Torah in the first sidra gives us the laws of circumcision. The Midrash Tanhuma (Tazria 7) relates a fascinating conversation concerning this Jewish law. We are told that Turnus Rufus, a particularly vicious Roman commander during the Hadrianic persecutions in Palestine, spoke to Rabbi Akiva, the revered leader of our people. He asked Rabbi Akiva: “Which is more beautiful: the work of God or the work of man?” Rabbi Akiva answered: “The work of man.” Turnus Rufus was visibly disturbed by the answer. He continued: “Why do you circumcise your children?” Rabbi Akiva said: “My first reply serves as an answer to this question as well.” Whereupon Rabbi Akiva brought before the Roman commander stalks of wheat and loaves of good white bread. He said to the Roman: “Behold, these are the works of God, and these are the works of man. Are not the works of man more beautiful and useful?” Said the Roman to Rabbi Akiva: “But if God wants people to be circumcised why are they not born circumcised?” Rabbi Akiva replied: “God gave the mitzvot to Israel letzaref bahen, to temper or purify His people thereby.”

Here is the triumphant Roman commander, activist, arrogant, proud, and power-drunk. In an attitude of contempt, he faces the aged Jewish leader of this conquered people, a man who proclaims that the greatest principle of life is the study of Torah. What can these otherworldly mystics know about the world, about reality, about life? So he taunts the old rabbi: How come you circumcise your children? Do you not believe that man, as God’s creation, is already born perfect?

But the Roman pagan is amazed by the response: No! All of Judaism – its philosophy, its Torah, its mitzvot – is based upon the premise that God withheld perfection from His creation, that He only began the task and left it to man, His tzellem, His image, to complete. In Genesis 2:3, we are taught that God rested from creating the world “which God created to do” – and Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch interpreted that to mean that God created the world for man “to do.” Therefore, Rabbi Akiva shows Turnus Rufus the wheat stalks and the white breads to teach him that God has created wheat because He wants man to do something with it. It is God’s will that human beings make the created world more beautiful and more perfect. No wonder that in the Jewish view science and technology play such a positive role. No wonder that religious Jewry has contributed so mightily, throughout the ages and today as well, to the advancement of science and the control of nature.

Therefore, too, the mitzvot, and especially circumcision, were revealed to Israel to teach that people must act in order to perfect themselves and the world, and in the process, letzaref bahen, to purify themselves and fulfill all their sublime potentialities.

Indeed, Rabbi Akiva himself exemplified this great principle. He was, on the one hand, one of the saintliest spirits in all our history. The Talmud, in imaginative grasp of the truth, tells us that when Moses ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah and he saw the sacred soul of Rabbi Akiva, he protested to God that Akiva was more worthy to be the bearer of Torah than he, Moses, was. And yet, on the other hand, it was the same Rabbi Akiva who did not isolate himself in the academy, but became the sponsor of Bar Kokhba, the great Jewish general who led the revolution against Rome.

This, then, is what mila teaches us: “The work of flesh and blood is beautiful indeed.” The world is an uncompleted creation; man’s fate is to finish it. This is the principle of activism. The State of Israel was built by people who perceived this Jewish principle. They were the ones who refused to stand aside, outside of the stream of history, but who actively took upon themselves to rebuild Jewish statehood. Their activity was in full keeping with the Jewish tradition as taught by the law of mila. More than enough Jewish blood was spilled in the effort, and the sweat and tears invested shall never be forgotten.

Yet, this is only half the story. There is an opposite danger. If man is indeed a creator, then there is the peril that he will become intoxicated with power and self-delusions, that he will begin boasting and bragging and proclaiming bombastically, “My own power and my own strength have performed all this” (Deuteronomy 8:17). When he circumcises his child, he tends to forget that a healthy child is the gift of God. When he bakes his bread, he does not always realize that the wheat came from God’s earth. When he builds his state, he ignores the fact that without the divine promise to Abraham and divine guidance throughout the ages there would be no Jews to build the Jewish state. When he is self-completing, he tends to become, in his imagination, self-creating. He is self-finishing and thinks that he is therefore self-made; and God spare us from self-made men!

To help us avoid this dangerous delusion, we have the teachings of Metzora. Just as Tazria and mila warn us to avoid the passivism that issues from a misunderstanding of faith, so Metzora and the law of the banishing of the leper outside the camp teach us to avoid the fatal illusion that issues from faithlessness. Just as one sidra tells us to circumcise the flesh and assert our manhood, so the second tells us to circumcise the heart and serve our God.

The great medieval scholar Rabbi Elazar of Worms explains the law of Metzora and this banishment outside the camp by means of a comment on a famous verse in the Psalms (49:13), “Man abideth not in honor; he is like the beasts that perish.” Man, says Rabbi Elazar, is born naked and ignorant, without understanding and intelligence. But God puts him on his feet, grants him wisdom and insight, feeds him and clothes him and makes him great. But then man forgets and does not understand that all this glory came to him from his God. Therefore, he becomes like a beheima, a mere animal. An animal is not kept at home, but sent out to pasture; he is unfit to live in a truly human community. So a person who forgets God is a metzora, is morally sick, and must be sent outside the camp of his or her peers. The leper symbolizes the individual who acquired self-confidence at the cost of fidelity to God and therefore is reduced to the role of a beast.

Mankind, then, must be co-creator with God. Tazria teaches that we must imitate our Maker; Metzora reminds us not to impersonate our God, not to be imposters. One sidra stresses the virtue of human commission, the other – the virtue of human submission to God.

Indeed, in an insight brimming with tremendous significance, the eminent Italian-Jewish thinker Rabbi Moshe of Trani finds this second principle in the commandment of mila itself. Just as circumcision teaches that man must act, so its particular designation for the eighth day teaches that his actions must not lead to the mere amassing of power and self-importance. Rather, man must acknowledge and reach out to the Creator of all the world. The number seven, Rabbi Moshe teaches, is the symbol of nature. Seven is the number of days in the week, the unit of time which establishes the rhythm of our lives. The earth, itself agricultural, follows a seven year cycle in Judaism – that of the shemita. The number seven, therefore, stands for this world in its fullness. The number eight, however, is beyond seven – it teaches that you must transcend what seven symbolizes, you must go beyond nature and reach out for the supernatural, for God, He who creates nature. Were mila on the seventh day, then the duty of man would be to correct the imperfections of Nature, but forever to stay within it as nothing more than a clever animal. But mila was commanded for the eighth day, to teach that the purpose of all man’s activity, the purpose of his work on Nature, is to elevate himself beyond the perfection of body and mind, beyond the conquest of the world, beyond technology. When man controls his environment, he fulfills the number seven; when he controls his instincts, he reaches the number eight. His technology is symbolized by the number seven; his theology by eight. Mila on the eighth day teaches that man must not only complete himself but must grow beyond himself; he must yearn and aspire to something higher. It signifies not only mila but brit; not only a surgical cut, but the sign of the covenant, a contract with God sealed in blood. It means that if a human being will not strive to be more than human, he must become less than human, an animal: “He is like the beasts that perish” (Psalms 49:13). Then, man becomes a metzora, and like an animal, must be sent out “hutz lamahaneh,” outside the camp of human beings.

Indeed, this is the crucial problem concerning the character of the State of Israel: Is it to be the symbol of seven, or the symbol of eight? Will it be just a natural state, or something higher, something nobler? If Israel will be only natural, a state like all others, a small sliver of real estate on the shores of the Mediterranean, considered nothing more than the creation of the Hagana and Sabra ingenuity, then it has no special claim on Jewish communities throughout the world – no more than its population warrants. It has no right to messianic pretenses. Such a conception places it hutz lamahaneh, outside the purview of authentic Jewish history, an aberration. It is then in defiance of the covenant; it is the way of tuma, impurity. Only by fulfilling the symbol of eight, of loyalty to the covenant of God, of Torah, does it go the way of tahara, of purity and rebirth, of joyous fulfillment of the historic dreams and prayers and prophecies of our history.

This, then, is the real problem on this eve of the eighteenth birthday of the State of Israel: Will it be mila or brit? Surgery or covenant? Tazria or Metzora? Tahara or tuma? Striving to be more than a natural human political entity, or falling to a mere natural group which, under the impress of secular nationalism, often becomes beastly (“he is like the beasts that perish”)?

Such decisions are never made all at once. They involve long processes measured in historic time, certainly more than eighteen years. Many facts will determine the answer, and not the least of them will be the spiritual leadership in the state under the resolute stewardship of our distinguished and revered guest, His Eminence, Chief Rabbi Unterman, may he live and be well. Their enormously difficult task is to be both responsive to their fellow Israelis and responsible to our Heavenly Father. Like the kohanim in our sidra, they must confront all Jews, the perfectly pure and perilously impure. Sometimes it is their unhappy and tragic task to say to a man: “tamei,” “You are impure – you must go out!” Yet their greater and nobler task is to teach this same tamei to return, to bring Jews back into the historic community of Israel, to train all Jews in the way of the Torah’s tahara. It is by no means a simple duty; it is, in fact, unenviably difficult. Our hopes and good wishes and our prayers for divine guidance and blessings go to Chief Rabbi Unterman and his distinguished colleagues in this historic mission.

We have spoken of brit mila in relation to the State of Israel. The eighteenth birthday also has another significance – “ shemone esrei lehuppa” (Avot 5:22), the eighteenth year is traditionally the year of marriage. Let us conclude then by extending our wishes to Israel in a manner appropriate to both events. Let us all wish the State of Israel divine blessings – leTorah lehuppa ulema’asim tovim. May it be a future of Torah in which Israel will accept the divine word and turn to its Father in Heaven. May it be the time of huppa, the marriage of hearts between Israel and Jews throughout the world. And then, having returned to God and to Jews throughout the world, may Israel become the shining beacon of ma’asim tovim, of good deeds and noble living, throughout the world and for all mankind – leTorah lehuppa ulema’asim tovim, amen.

---

* April 23, 1966

Excerpted from Rabbi Elchanan Adler’s Yerach Tov: Birkat HaChodesh in Jewish Law & Liturgy

Chapter 2: The Mitzvah of Kiddush HaChodesh

(click here for Chapter 1: Announcing Rosh Chodesh)

Hashem spoke to Moshe and Aharon in the land of Egypt, saying: this month is for you the head of the months; it is the first for you of the months of the year. — Shemot 12:1

Hashem spoke to Moshe saying: speak to the Jews and tell them Hashem’s set times that you should call mikra’ei kodesh. These are My set times . . . These are  Hashem’s set times that you shall call at their proper times. — Vayikra 23:1–2,4

Kiddush HaChodesh was the first commandment received by the Jews as a nation. In Egypt, Hashem instructed Moshe that “this month (Nissan) is the first month.” According to Talmudic tradition, Hashem pointed at the new moon and told Moshe: “When you see thus, sanctify the new month.”

The formal act of Kiddush HaChodesh is performed by beit din, an authorized Jewish court of law; only it can sanctify the new month. The court must be composed of sages of the highest caliber, i.e., sages who possess an unbroken tradition and permission to judge from Moshe and his court. This, too, is derived from Hashem’s instruction to Moshe, which utilized the word, “lakhem, to you,” indicating that only people of Moshe’s stature could participate in Kiddush HaChodesh. The Talmud finds allusion to this in the Musaf prayer of Rosh Chodesh, where we recite, “who sanctified Israel and Rosh Chodesh.” The blessing, according to the Talmudic tradition, thanks Hashem for imbuing Israel (through its representative body, the beit din) with the sanctity that enables it to sanctify Rosh Chodesh. Indeed, because of Israel’s exalted status, the judges’ determination of the month’s beginning is absolute; if they find it necessary for any reason, they may deliberately declare that the halakhic month begins earlier or later than the astronomical month.

You – even unintentionally; you – even deliberately; [you – even under compulsion]; you – even if misled.

All holidays fall on distinct calendar dates; hence, the court’s decision of when to sanctify the month (rather than the astronomical cycle of the moon) determines when these holidays will fall.

Rambam expands both the importance and scope of court’s role. First, he elevates it to a mitzvat aseh, a positive commandment. Second, he expands the court’s responsibility, adding that it must send out, and inform, the people what day Rosh Chodesh will be so that they will know on what days the holidays will fall:

It is a Biblical positive commandment incumbent upon the court to calculate and know whether or not the moon will be visible, and to probe the witnesses until they sanctify the month, and send out and inform the rest of the nation on what day Rosh Chodesh is, so they should know when the holidays are, as it says, “that you shall call them [the holidays] sacred callings,” and it says, “you shall keep this law in its time.”

R. Soloveitchik argues that the positive commandment has two distinct components: first, it obligates the court to declare a certain day Rosh Chodesh, for the purpose of offering the korbanot of Rosh Chodesh; second, it obligates it to declare Rosh Chodesh for the purpose of determining the holidays’ dates. The second component, relating to holidays’ dates, is what obligates the court to inform the other Jews of Rosh Chodesh’s date. R. Soloveitchik further argued that these two obligations derive from separate verses. Finally, he suggests that these two components are hinted at in the ritual itself. The court declares, “mekudash mekudash, sanctified sanctified,” to sanctify the month; one “sanctified” refers to investing Rosh Chodesh with its own sanctity, and the second refers to sanctity qua determining the holidays’ dates.

Rambam here mentions the verse of “you shall call them,” rather than the verse of “this month is for you the head of the months.” However, Rambam elsewhere does mention “this month is for you,” and cites the Rabbinic tradition that Hashem showed Moshe exactly how the new moon must appear in order for the court to declare Rosh Chodesh.

R. Soloveitchik explains that Rambam’s organization supports the aforementioned analysis. When Rambam invokes the mitzvah to sanctify the new month, he derives it from “this month is for you,” and here, where he invokes
the mitzvah to facilitate observance of the holidays in their proper time (which includes the requirement of sending messengers to inform the rest of the nation when Rosh Chodesh is), he derives it from “these are Hashem’s holidays that you shall call at their proper time.”

R. Soloveitchik also infers from the words of Rashbam that the holidays are sanctified automatically when the court declares Rosh Chodesh. However, he notes that Rabbenu Chananel holds that the courts must sanctify separately the day of Rosh Chodesh and the holidays that occur during the upcoming month.

Excerpted from Rabbi Elchanan Adler’s Yerach Tov: Birkat HaChodesh in Jewish Law & Liturgy 

Background

On the Shabbat before Rosh Chodesh, it is customary to recite Birkat HaChodesh. Birkat HaChodesh, as practiced by Ashkenazic Jewry, is comprised of five elements: The paragraph of Yehi Ratzon, announcement of the molad, the paragraph Mi She’asah Nissim, announcement of the day of the week on which Rosh Chodesh will fall, and the paragraph of Yechadshehu.

This book will discuss the source of Birkat HaChodesh as a whole, and the reason that we recite it. In particular, we will discuss the relationship between Birkat HaChodesh and the ritual of Kiddush HaChodesh, the procedure for declaring and sanctifying each new month, that was practiced in the Temple era. After that, we will analyze the source of each element of Birkat HaChodesh, as well as how each element became integrated, in its present form, with the recitation of Birkat HaChodesh as a whole.

Announcing Rosh Chodesh

Early authorities do not discuss all five elements of Birkat HaChodesh. Rather, they focus on the announcement of the upcoming day on which Rosh Chodesh will fall. Indeed, the other elements were incidental to the custom of announcing the day of Rosh Chodesh. (For instance, the Yehi Ratzon prayer was not added until the eighteenth century!)

Most commentaries assert that the purpose of Birkat HaChodesh is to announce when the new month will begin, and discount any connection between Birkat HaChodesh and Kiddush HaChodesh. Ohr Zarua characterizes the difference between Birkat HaChodesh and Kiddush HaChodesh as follows:

This is not a Kiddush, a sanctification, but rather a mere announcement, as our Rabbis decreed to announce to the public using the language of a blessing in order for them to know when Rosh Chodesh will be and in order for them to be careful about observing its laws.

R. Eliezer of Metz notes that we have no chief judge, and therefore our Birkat HaChodesh cannot constitute a Kiddush HaChodesh:

This is not a Kiddush, since we have no chief judge in our midst, and this mitzvah is dependent on the chief judge’s presence; rather, the early authorities decreed that the public should be informed about Rosh Chodesh in order for them to be meticulous about it and about those laws dependent on it.

Shibbolei HaLeket discusses a custom of some communities, where the beadle would announce “Rosh Chodesh” during Ma’ariv leading into Rosh Chodesh, and the congregation would respond “for happiness and rejoicing.” He notes that since this practice was performed at night, while Kiddush HaChodesh can only be performed during daytime, it is clear that this announcement is merely to remind people to recite Ya’aleh Veyavo during the Amidah, rather than to sanctify the month in any way. He then addresses the custom of Birkat HaChodesh:

Similarly, the announcement of Rosh Chodesh on the Shabbat preceding Rosh Chodesh is not a remembrance of Kiddush HaChodesh, since we only perform Kiddush HaChodesh in its proper time [i.e. on Rosh Chodesh itself]; rather, it is to announce for the people in synagogue the day on which Rosh Chodesh will fall, so that everyone should know, since during the week people are sometimes preoccupied with work and do not come to synagogue.

The Machzor Vitri also articulates this point:

If Rosh Chodesh falls in the coming week, the chazanannounces and informs the congregation of its set time so that they should know when the holidays fall, and when to recite Musaf and Hallel, and to inform women when to abstain from work.

Nevertheless, some authorities seem to draw a parallel between Birkat HaChodesh and Kiddush HaChodesh. For example, Rokeach  writes, “Birkat HaChodesh is in exchange for Kiddush HaChodesh,” indicating a clear parallel between the two ceremonies. Similarly, Ra’avyah explicitly links the custom to recite Birkat HaChodesh with the ancient ceremony of Kiddush HaChodesh. In addition, according to Machzor Vitri, Birkat HaChodesh enables us to determine when the holidays fall, just like Kiddush HaChodesh. It might be suggested that those Rishonim who state that “this is not a Kiddush HaChodesh,” simply mean that Birkat HaChodesh is not a genuine Kiddush HaChodesh, but it is still a remembrance for Kiddush HaChodesh, and that it is still modeled after Kiddush HaChodesh.

Moreover, Magen Avraham writes that we customarily stand while reciting Birkat HaChodesh just as Kiddush HaChodesh took place while standing. Magen Avraham uses the word “dugmat, patterned after,” to describe the relationship between the two rituals. And, although Machatzit HaShekel avers that “patterned after” merely means that Birkat HaChodesh is a remembrance of Kiddush HaChodesh, this sentiment is still in itself exceedingly significant.

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

Context

Rooted at the base of Sinai, the Israelites grow restive as they wait for Moshe to descend from the mountain’s summit. Turning to Aharon, they demand, “Rise up, make for us gods who will go before us, for Moshe – this man who brought us out of the land of Egypt – we do not know what has become of him!”

Aharon responds by instructing the people to contribute gold, which he fashions into a molten calf. He then proclaims, “A festival for the Lord tomorrow!” [Note: Aharon’s role in this difficult episode will be examined in the next study.]

Rising early the next morning, people bring offerings and celebrate with food, drink and revelry.

Even before Moshe descends from the mountain, God informs him of the sin of the golden calf and threatens the nation with immediate extinction, only relenting after Moshe’s impassioned pleas.

The perpetrators of the sin are punished and the rest of the nation earns forgiveness through repentance. The sin of the golden calf remains, however, according to rabbinic thought, a seminal transgression that continues to affect the Jewish people in countless ways across the centuries.

Questions

No event within Jewish history is more puzzling or more frightening than the chet ha’egel.

How could the people who experienced the Exodus from Egypt, the parting of the Reed Sea, the defeat of Amalek, the gift of the manna and the powerful Revelation at Mount Sinai fail so completely in the very shadow of that mountain?

Forty days earlier, against the dramatic backdrop of God’s manifestation at Sinai, the Israelites heard the clear commandment against idol worship. How could they now, at the first sign of difficulty, create and deify a golden calf?

In a different vein, the rabbis maintain that the sin of the golden calf reverberates across the ages, affecting each era of Jewish history. And yet, the chet ha’egel seems irrelevant to our lives – an ancient event rooted in idolatrous practices distant from our experience. What possible eternal message might be contained in what the rabbis clearly perceive to be a formative, instructive tragedy?

Approaches

-A-

In spite of the apparent disconnect between the chet ha’egel and the backdrop against which it occurs, initial sources do view and identify this sin as an outright case of idol worship.

“By worshiping the calf, the Israelites clearly indicated their acceptance of idolatry,” the Talmud proclaims, mirroring a position which finds even earlier voice in a passage of Tehillim: “They exchanged their glory for the image of a bull that feeds on grass.” Similar opinions are found in the Midrash, as well.

Some Talmudic authorities mitigate the crime by focusing on the plural tense of the Israelites’ demand upon Aharon: “Rise up, make for us gods who will go before us…” With the sin of the golden calf, these rabbis explain, the Israelites do not attempt a total rejection of God. They instead endeavor to couple their worship of God with that of other idolatrous deities. Rashi reflects this Talmudic position in his commentary when he states, “They [the Israelites] desired many gods.”

Even this softening of the sin, however, does not address the fundamental question: how could the Israelites turn their backs so quickly on all that they had recently experienced and learned? Forty days earlier, amidst the thunder and lightning of Revelation, God’s declarations concerning His “oneness” were crystal clear:

I am the Lord your God…. You shall have no other gods in my presence. You shall not make for yourself a carved image or any likeness of that which is in the heavens above or on the earth below or in the water beneath the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor shall you worship them….

How could those words now be totally ignored?

A powerfully insightful approach to the behavior of the Israelites at the foot of Sinai can be gleaned from the writings of the Rambam. In his Guide to the Perplexed, this great scholar develops the principle that human behavior does not change abruptly and that a people cannot journey immediately from one extreme to the other: “It is not in man’s nature to be reared in slavery…and then ‘wash his hands’ and suddenly be able to fight the descendents of giants [the inhabitants of the land of Canaan].”

The Rambam goes on to explain that the full transformation of the Israelites eventually requires a forty-year period of wandering and “schooling” in the wilderness – a period during which they acquire the traits necessary for successful nationhood.

Abrupt events, no matter how miraculous and awe-inspiring, do not carry the power to make fundamental changes to human nature. True behavioral change is gradual. In spite of all they had seen and experienced, the Israelites standing at the foot of Sinai were unable to make the leap beyond their idolatrous origins. Battered by the fearful forces surrounding them, bewildered by Moshe’s apparent disappearance, they return to the comfort of the familiar – and create an idol of gold.

The actions of the Israelites at the foot of Sinai are understandable and instructive, Nehama Leibowitz maintains, as she poignantly outlines the lessons to be learned:

Therefore we should not be astonished – but should, rather, learn and take to heart [my italics] – that thousands of individuals from among those who stood at the base of the mountain and heard the voice of God speaking from the midst of the fire, forty days later created the golden calf.

A one-time proclamation will not change man…even a clear Divine Revelation will not turn him from idolatry to the worship of God.

Only prolonged exposure to a life of Torah and mitzvot…surrounding an individual on all sides – ordering his days, nights, weekdays and festivals; his life within the home and his existence outside; his dealings with his family and his interactions with others; his toil at home and his labor in the field; guiding him day by day, hour by hour – only such immersion will change a person and guard him from sliding back into the depths of darkness.”

-B-

In stark contrast to those who view the actions of the Israelites at Sinai as classically idolatrous, numerous scholars offer radically different approaches to the chet ha’egel.

Rabbi Yehuda Halevi, for example, maintains that the Israelites are actually motivated by a desire to worship God effectively. Reared among religions that make extensive use of physical images, the Israelites feel unable to approach their God in the absence of a tangible symbol towards which to focus their devotion. The people fully expect that Moshe, with his descent from Mount Sinai, will bring such a symbol: the Tablets of Testimony (inscribed with the Ten Declarations). When they conclude that Moshe has failed to return with the tablets, the Israelites turn to Aharon and demand a substitute.

Rabbi Yehuda goes on to explain that the nation’s transgression lies not in their fundamental intent or assumptions, but in their methods. Symbols are certainly critical to Judaism, as can be seen from the extensive use of symbolic ritual in the building and operation of the Mishkan (see Teruma 4). Only symbols that flow from God’s law, however, are acceptable. The Israelites have no right to devise and create their own mechanism through which to approach God. Their sin can be compared, says Rabbi Yehuda, to an individual who enters a doctor’s dispensary and prescribes drugs – thereby killing the patients who would have been saved had they been given the proper dosage by the doctor himself.

Numerous later authorities follow in the footsteps of Rabbi Yehuda Halevi’s interpretation, some with attribution and some without.In his work the Beis Halevi, Rabbi Yosef Dov Halevi Soloveitchik offers a slightly variant approach. The Israelites know that the ritual service will be performed by a specific individual, Aharon, and will be conducted in a specific location, the Mishkan. They therefore believe that they have the right to create their own “Tabernacle” as they see fit. They fail to realize, however, that each detail of the Sanctuary is purposeful, filled with divinely ordained mystery and meaning.

Other commentaries, including the Ramban, Ibn Ezra and Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, focus on the wording of the Israelites’ demand of Aharon: “Rise up, make for us gods who will go before us, for Moshe – this man who brought us out of the land of Egypt – we do not know what has become of him! ”

The Israelites, they say, are not attempting to replace God. They are, instead, attempting to replace Moshe. Deeply frightened by Moshe’s apparent disappearance (their fear exaggerated, the rabbis say, by an error they make in computing the days of Moshe’s absence), the people feel unable to approach God without the benefit of the only leader they have known. They therefore demand of Aharon that he create a new “leader.”

The sin of the Israelites, says Hirsch, lies in the “erroneous idea that man can make, may make, must make a ‘Moses’ for himself…” The grave error in their thinking is their belief that in order to bridge the unimaginable chasm between man and the Divine, an intermediary is required. This suggestion is diametrically opposed to the fundamental Jewish belief in man’s ability to forge his own direct and personal relationship with God.

[Note: As will be explained in the next study, Hirsch maintains that while the nation’s initial intent is not idolatrous, they quickly and inexorably do descend into actual idol worship.]

-C-

Finally, a puzzling passage rooted in the aftermath of the chet ha’egel may well provide the key towards a concrete understanding of the sin and its continuing relevance to our lives.

After punishing the perpetrators of the crime, God turns to Moshe and says:

Go, rise up from here, and the people whom you brought up from the land of Egypt – to the land which I promised to Avraham, Yitzchak and to Yaakov…. And I will send before you an angel, and I will drive out the Cana’ani, the Emori, the Chitti, the Perizi, the Chivi, and the Yevusi [the nations inhabiting the land of Canaan] – to a land flowing with milk and honey, for I will not go up among you, for you are a stiff-necked people, lest I destroy you on the way.

The Israelites’ reaction to this news is swift and emphatic:

“And the people heard this bad tiding and they fell into mourning…”

At first glance, this interchange is bewildering.

What exactly is the nature of God’s threat? He maintains that He will not “go up among the people.” And yet, what will be the practical impact of His absence? Everything seems, on a concrete level, to stay the same! God’s angel will go before the nation, the people will enter the land of Canaan, the current inhabitants of the land will be driven out…

What, then, exactly is the problem?

Furthermore, why does the nation respond so powerfully by descending into “mourning”? Given the possible eventualities that could have resulted from the sin of the golden calf, the news delivered by God to Moshe does not seem so devastating.

The answer to these questions lies in understanding that God, intent upon educating the people to the nature of their failing, responds to the nation’s sin “measure for measure.” In effect, He says to the people: Be careful what you ask for, because you might get it!

From the very beginning of Revelation, the Israelites consistently respond to God’s presence with a desperate desire for “distance.” Awed by the overwhelming scene accompanying the Ten Declarations, the people’s reaction is clear – retreat:

And the entire people saw the thunder and lightning and the sound of the shofar and the smoking mountain and they trembled and stood from afar. And they said to Moshe, “You speak with us and we will listen; and let not God speak with us, lest we die.”

As we have noted before (see Bereishit: Bereishit 3, Approaches D), this reaction stands in stark contrast to the nation’s response just a few weeks earlier after the destruction of the Egyptian army in the Reed Sea. There, on the banks of that sea, the revelation of God’s power is greeted with song and dancing, not with fear and retreat.23 Why do the people react so differently now?

The Israelites are responding to two very different messages from God.

The message at the Reed Sea is “God will take care of you.”

The message of Sinai is “God demands from you.”

Faced with demands upon their behavior from a thinking God, the people opt for personal comfort rather than self-confrontation. They desperately seek distance from God and from His demands by insisting that Moshe speak in their stead.
And when, forty days later, Moshe apparently fails to return from the summit of the mountain at the expected time – and the people face the fact that they will now be required to interact with God directly, without the benefit of Moshe as their intermediary – this desperate desire for distance from God becomes an overwhelming fear. The Israelites create a golden calf to take Moshe’s place, to stand between them and their Creator.

Now, in the devastating aftermath of that crime, God responds to the nation’s failing. He turns to the people and says, “I will send before you an angel…” If it’s distance you want, it’s distance you will get.

“For I will not go up among you, for you are a stiff-necked people, lest I destroy you on the way.” After all, you are right. If I remain close to you, you will be vulnerable. Therefore, I grant you your wish… You will achieve your national destiny but I will not be there with as you reach your goals.

The question, however, remains: why is God’s absence a problem if the nation’s concrete goals will all eventually be met?

To understand, we must take a step back to recognize that the parameters which define our relationship with God often mirror the universal rules which govern interpersonal relationships.

Inevitably, the closer we grow emotionally to those around us, the more vulnerable we become. The possibility of personal pain increases geometrically as we open our lives to others. Conversely, safety is found in emotional “distance.” An individual who goes through life avoiding close relationships effectively lives in “safety” – immune from potential heartache and pain.

And yet, such an individual never knows the deep beauty that is possible with closeness to another. Absent from his life are the wonders of true friendship and love. In his desire for “safety,” this individual misses out on the very phenomenon that makes life truly worthwhile, the splendor that results when one heart touches another.

Here, then, is the essence of God’s threat. I will be absent from your lives. You will be safe, as you avoid the vulnerability that would inevitably accompany My close connection with you, but you will also miss out on the potential grandeur that would have resulted.

In response, the nation mourns. For now they understand their fatal error. The distant relationship from God which they had so desperately craved might well be safe, but it is also empty; and that emptiness confronts them in the aftermath of the sin of the golden calf. Moshe is forced to plead with God that He return to the people – until God ultimately relents.

God’s actions following the chet ha’egel thus prove to be supremely educative, as He forces the nation to squarely face the failure that resulted from their deep-seated fear. Even more, God’s response crystallizes the eternal significance of this seminal sin.As He demanded of the Israelites at Sinai, God demands of us that we create a close relationship with Him in our lives – that we each risk our “safe” existence by drawing near to Him and to His Torah. Over and over
again, we pull away, afraid that too much closeness with the Divine will upset our comfortable lives, afraid that we will be challenged to examine our decisions and actions…

And, when we pull away, we once again create the golden calf.

Points to Ponder

What does it mean to draw close to God – near enough to the fire of Sinai to feel the heat?

While the answers are potentially manifold, one clear manifestation of the tug of Sinai and of our resistance to that pull was driven home to me many years ago.

I had served as rabbi in a Modern Orthodox congregation for a few years, when a congregant approached me with upsetting news: “Do you know, Rabbi, that many of our congregants rationalize and ‘eat out’ certain foods in non-kosher diners? In fact, things have gotten so bad that those of us who want to patronize only kosher establishments feel pressured to relent in order to maintain our friendships.”

Deeply disturbed, I dedicated my next Shabbat sermon to the topic of kashrut, outlining in clear, practical terms the halachic problems of eating even dairy foods in non-kosher restaurants.

I was totally unprepared for the resulting uproar. An avalanche of comments followed my presentation, including:

“Rabbi, don’t you have more important things to speak about?”

“What right does the Rabbi have to tell us where to eat?”

“The Rabbi is only upset that we didn’t invite him to the party at the Italian restaurant.”

And even, bewilderingly: “The Rabbi didn’t say that the food isn’t kosher. He only said that it is treif [the Yiddish term for non-kosher]. If he really meant that it isn’t kosher, he would have said it isn’t kosher.”

The next week, I delivered a second sermon in which I revisited the issue. After humorously reviewing the reactions to my first presentation, I made a simple point: “What you eat,” I said, “is your business. At the very
least, however, be both knowledgeable and honest. If you intend to eat at the diner tonight, then don’t rationalize; don’t call the food that you will eat kosher. Admit to yourself, ‘Tonight I am going to eat treif. ’ If, upon that admission, you still want to go to the diner, go right ahead.”

By all accounts, this second sermon had measurable impact.

More importantly, however, the experience underscored a fundamental truth about our relationship to Judaism.

Most of us choose to practice comfortable as opposed to confrontational Judaism (see Bereishit: Bereishit 3, Points to Ponder). We prefer “distance” from the demands of our tradition. Hiding behind rote ritual and habitual observance, we adhere to a religious structure that does not challenge our lives or test our commitments.

The members of my community reacted so strongly because I had touched a raw nerve. As long as I spoke about issues that demanded no change on their part, they did not object. As soon as I raised a concern, however, that directly challenged their ongoing behavior, a firestorm erupted.

My congregants and I relearned an important lesson on those Shabbatot. For Jewish belief to be a valuable component of our lives we must allow that belief to challenge and shape our existence. A dean of the American rabbinate, Rabbi Leo Jung, is quoted as having said, “The job of the rabbi is to comfort the afflicted – and to afflict the comfortable.” In truth, that is not only the job of the rabbi, but the job of Judaism itself.

As God taught the Israelites centuries ago at Sinai: comfortable Judaism eventually becomes, like every “distant” relationship, meaningless and empty. Only confrontational Judaism – only drawing near enough to God to risk change and growth – adds real meaning to our lives.