Author: devora

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.

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

Context

When Moshe ascends Mount Sinai to receive the first set of Tablets of Testimony, he leaves his brother Aharon, together with Chur, in charge of the people. Nearly forty full days later, the Israelites grow restless over Moshe’s prolonged absence and confront Aharon with the 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!”

In response, Aharon directs the people to “Remove the rings of gold that are in the ears of your wives, sons and daughters, and bring them to me.”

Aharon then takes the gold which he receives, fashions it with an engraving tool into a molten calf and proclaims: “A festival for the Lord tomorrow!”

When Moshe descends the mountain, he confronts Aharon and exclaims: “What has this people done to you that you brought upon it such a grievous sin?”

Aharon responds by pleading with his brother: “Let not my master be angry, you know that this people is disposed towards evil.”

Aharon then recounts the nation’s demand and closes with the statement: “And I said to them, ‘Who has gold?’ They removed it and gave it to me, I threw it into the fire, and this calf emerged .”

Questions

Aharon’s behavior seems unconscionable!

Why does Moshe’s brother apparently fail so miserably in his leadership role at the foot of Sinai?

Why does Aharon accede to the nation’s demand without argument and create the golden calf ? Should he not have attempted to dissuade the people from their ill-advised, destructive path?

When confronted by Moshe, how can Aharon defend his actions with the strange claim: “I threw it [the gold] into the fire, and this calf emerged”? The text clearly states that Aharon deliberately “fashioned” the gold which he received into a molten calf.

In the aftermath of the chet ha’egel, the active perpetrators are executed and the entire nation is threatened with serious punishment. Aharon seems to escape, however, with only a reprimand. Even more, he continues to serve for forty years as High Priest and as partner with Moshe in the leadership of the people. How is this equitable?

Approaches

At face value, the textual evidence against Aharon seems overwhelming. At the same time, however, it is inconceivable that Aharon could be guilty of, at worst, involvement in the serious crime of idolatry and, at best, a misguided attempt to create an intermediary between God and the people – and escape unscathed. In the face of this overwhelming puzzle, a wide range of opinion emerges among the commentaries concerning the intentions and actions of this biblical hero at this critical moment of his career.

-A-

Rashi, for example, who elsewhere defends biblical figures in the face of apparent wrongdoing (see Toldot 4, Approaches B), strenuously works to defend Aharon in this difficult circumstance, as well. He quotes a series of Midrashic traditions, each of which offers a different rationale for Aharon’s behavior.

First, mirroring the position found in the Midrash Tanchuma, Rashi claims that Aharon is simply stalling for time. Fully confident that Moshe will shortly return, Aharon deliberately reacts to the people’s demands by directing them to contribute “the rings of gold that are in the ears of your wives, sons and daughters.” Aharon calculates that the women and children’s reluctance to part with their cherished jewelry will delay the process long enough for Moshe to descend the mountain (the Midrash actually goes a step further by suggesting that Aharon knows that the women, more righteous than the men, will be unwilling to participate in the chet ha’egel ). Aharon underestimates, however, the zealous desire of the perpetrators. When the women refuse to participate, the men immediately contribute their own jewelry towards the project.

Rashi cites a second Midrashic tradition which even maintains that Aharon never actually fashions the golden calf, at all. As soon as Aharon throws the gold into the fire, sorcerers from among the “mixed multitude” who fled Egypt with the Israelites magically cause the golden calf to form. Aharon is thus able to later claim, “I threw it into the fire, and this calf emerged.”

Further in the narrative, Rashi notes a series of Midrashic observations on the phrase “And Aharon saw and he built an altar before it [the golden calf].” What is it, the Midrash Rabba asks, that “Aharon saw”?

1. Aharon “saw” the fate of Chur. This tradition is based on Chur’s mysterious disappearance. When Moshe ascends Mount Sinai to receive the first set of tablets he appoints Aharon and Chur to lead the nation in his absence. Chur, however, suddenly and completely vanishes from the scene and is not mentioned again. The Midrash explains that Chur actively objects to the creation of the golden calf and is killed by the people. After witnessing Chur’s fate, Aharon decides to deal with the nation’s demands differently. [The Midrash actually goes a step further and suggests that Aharon is not motivated by concern for his own safety but by fear for the nation. He believes that upon killing both a prophet (Chur) and a priest (Aharon), the people will become totally irredeemable.]
2. Aharon saw the possibility of assuming responsibility. It is preferable, Aharon reasons, that I build the altar rather than the people. I will then be responsible for the crime rather than they.
3. Aharon saw an additional possibility for delay. Aharon realizes that if he allows the nation to build the altar as a group they will do so quickly. He therefore determines to build it himself, continuing to delay the process in the hope that Moshe will return.

Finally, on the basis of pshat, Rashi defends Aharon through a careful reading of Aharon’s proclamation after he builds the altar: “A festival for the Lord tomorrow!” Firstly, Aharon further delays the nation’s celebration until the next day. Secondly, Aharon uses the term A-do-nai (Lord), the title reserved for the God of Israel. Aharon’s heart, claims Rashi, is directed at all times towards heaven. He is certain that Moshe will return and that the morrow’s celebration will truly be “for the Lord.”

-B-

So difficult are the issues surrounding Aharon’s role in the chet ha’egel that many of those commentaries who normally eschew Midrashic interpretation, in favor of a rational approach to the text, in this case adopt elements of the Midrash in their interpretations.

Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, for example, accepts as a given the Midrashic view that Aharon’s main goal is delay. Rooting his position in the text, however, Hirsch notes that the very wording of Aharon’s request for gold indicates an expectation of reluctance on the part of the people. In addition, the Torah’s step-by-step description of the creation of the golden calf mirrors Aharon’s slow, methodical response to the people’s demands.

Other pashtanim (commentaries who adhere to the pshat of the text), such as the Rashbam, are conspicuously silent on the issue of Aharon’s role in the chet ha’egel, offering no explanation or excuse for Aharon’s actions.

-C-

Some commentaries are able to mitigate Aharon’s behavior through their acceptance of a less onerous approach to the entire episode of the golden calf. As we have noted (see Ki Tissa 2, Approaches B), the Ramban and Ibn Ezra maintain that the Israelites’ intent was not fundamentally idolatrous. Frightened by Moshe’s apparent disappearance, the people demand the appointment (or the creation) of a new leader to take his place. Aharon feels that this request, while misguided, is not totally evil. He therefore determines to “play along” until Moshe returns.

Chizkuni, while adopting the same approach to the sin, offers a fasci-nating alternative insight into Aharon’s reasoning: Aharon rationalizes, The people are asking for a new leader. If I appoint another individual to leadership, when Moshe returns and that individual refuses to relinquish his power, deep division will result within the nation. If, on the other hand, I refuse completely, the people will appoint their own leader and even greater strife will ensue. Finally, if I accept the leadership myself, friction will develop between me and my brother. I will, therefore, occupy the people with various activities, none of which will have any real impact, until Moshe returns.

Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch is among those commentaries who paint a picture of developing disaster, as things proceed “from bad to worse.” Aharon recognizes that the nation’s original request is not idolatrous. He also realizes, however, that a thin line separates the people’s initial intent from true idolatrous practice. If he resists and is killed for his efforts, he rationalizes, the people will, “over his dead body…give themselves up to their folly with still greater unrestrained license.”Aharon, therefore, both delays the process and attempts to limit the severity of the crime. On the next day, however, “Aharon sees” that the nation “has already passed across the narrow bridge from the notion of a divine intermediary to that of a real god.” In spite of Aharon’s attempts to forestall complete tragedy, the nation falls into idolatry.

-D-

Finally, no analysis of Aharon’s actions in conjunction with the sin of the golden calf would be complete without acknowledging the context to this situation, shaped by Aharon’s personality. As we have previously explained (see Shmot 5, Approaches D; Mishpatim 4, Approaches B3; Tetzave 2, Approaches E2), Aharon is a behavioral “photographic negative” of his brother. Whereas Moshe is direct and blunt almost to the point of being undiplomatic, Aharon is a soft compromiser who desires nothing more than harmony within the nation. How telling that the failures of each of these brothers take place at the extremes of their personalities. Moshe will lose his leadership at Mei Meriva, where, moved to anger by the people’s demand for water, he will strike a rock rather than fulfill God’s command by speaking to it. Aharon’s low point of leadership occurs here, at the foot of Sinai, as the great compromiser compromises once too often . We cannot excuse Aharon’s behavior, but, given his personality, we can understand.

-E-

When all is said and done, the issue of Aharon’s involvement in the chet ha’egel is one of those cases where the questions are better than the answers. In such circumstances we are challenged to continue the search for understanding – even as we acknowledge that we may never know the “real truth” until God sees fit to reveal it.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith, c0-published by OU Press and YU Press

REMEMBER TO FORGET*

Memory and forgetfulness are subjects for study by psychologists, neurologists, and cyberneticians. It is for them to learn and explain the “how” of these processes, the mechanisms, the dynamics.

But these themes are also the substance of spiritual life. Many commandments of the Torah refer to remembering and forgetting. We are commanded to remember, amongst other things: the Sabbath; the day we left the Land of Egypt; what the Lord did to Miriam—and, thus, the teaching that no one is infallible; how we angered the Lord in the desert—and, therefore, to be aware of our own penchant for ingratitude.

Similarly, there are commandments concerning forgetfulness. Most prominent is the commandment of shikhhah—that if one has harvested his field and forgotten a corner, he should not return to it but must leave that forgotten corner for the poor (Deut. 25:19). Even more paradoxical is a commandment to forget (although it is not worded explicitly in that manner). We must forget grudges, insults, hurt. Lo tikkom ve-lo tittor—you shall not take revenge, you shall not bear a grudge (Lev. 19:18). Forgetfulness is even considered a blessing.

Our Rabbis teach us: gezerah al ha-met sheyishtakkah min ha-lev, “it is ordained that the dead be forgotten from the heart” (Bereshit Rabbah 84:19). R. Bahya ben Asher pointed out that this is a great blessing, for if man were always to remember the dead, he soon would be laden with such grief that he could not survive emotionally or spiritually (commentary to Gen. 37:35).

But most often, and most usually, forgetfulness is regarded as an evil, as a sin. Thus, the Rabbis taught, Ha-shokheah davar ehad mi-mishnato ma‘aleh alav ha-katuv ke-illu mithayyev be-nafsho, “If one forgets a single item from his studies, Scripture considers it as if he were guilty with his life” (Avot 3:10).

And, of course, the source of all these commandments is the one which gives the Shabbat before Purim its special distinction and its very name: Shabbat Zakhor. Zakhor et asher asah lekha Amalek . . . lo tishkah (Deut. 25:17–19)— remember what Amalek, that barbaric and savage tribe, did to you . . . you shall not forget.

But this commandment not to forget is problematic. After all, everyone forgets. Forgetting is natural, it is part of both our psychological and our physiological selves; it is not a volitional or deliberate act. How, then, can the Torah consider it a sin if we forget? Permit me to recommend to you an answer suggested by R. Yitzhak Meir, the Gerer Rebbe, known to posterity by the name of his great halakhic work, Hiddushei ha-Rim. Forgetfulness, he says, often depends upon man. For we are not speaking here of simple recollection of facts, but the kind of forgetfulness that implies the emptying out of the mind, the catharsis of the heart of its most basic spiritual principles, of the very props of its identity. And this kind of shikhhah is contingent upon ga’avah; it is a forgetfulness which has its roots in man’s arrogance.

When a man’s mind is preoccupied with himself, he has little place for what is really important—and he forgets it. Hence we read (Deut. 8:14): Ve-ram le-vavekha ve-shakhahta et Hashem Elokekha ha-motzi’akha me-Eretz Mitzrayim mi-beit avadim, “And thy heart shall be lifted up, and thou wilt forget the Lord thy God who taketh thee out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of slaves.”

Similarly, we are commanded to remember and not to forget Amalek. Now, the numerical value of the Hebrew word Amalek is 240—the very same numerical value as the word ram, the heart being lifted, raised, exalted, supercilious! When man is filled with conceit, he falters and forgets.

Too much ego results in too little memory. An absent mind is the result of a swelled head. A high demeanor results in a low recall. If ram, you will forget Amalek. It is the arithmetic of mind and character.

Indeed, this is a human, if not a specifically Jewish, weakness. Rav Kook has taught us in effect that the root of all evils is that we forget who we are, our higher selves. We turn cynical and act as if man is only an amalgam of base drives, of ego-satisfactions, of sexual and material grasping. We forget that, in addition, man is capable of noble action, of sublime sentiment, of self-sacrifice. When we forget that, we are in desperate trouble. (See Orot ha-Kodesh III:97.)

Most Jews who assimilate today, so unlike those of the early and middle parts of this century, do not do so primarily because of self-hatred, but because of a massive act of ethnic forgetfulness. And such national absent-mindedness, such forgetting of our higher identity, is often the result of ve-ram levavekha.

Our memory is weakened by excessive affluence and too much self-confidence. We American Jews act as if our liberties and successes are self-evidently our right. We act as if our good fortune is deserved. And so ve-ram levavekha leads to ve-shakhahta. And what do we most often forget? Amalek!

I read recently that a Swedish gentile woman, who has several times been proposed for the Nobel Peace Prize because of the hundreds of Jews she saved during the Nazi period, said in an interview that only once in her life did she
entertain hatred for a fleeting moment. It occurred during a visit she paid to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum, in Jerusalem. She overheard an American Jew say to the guide: “I don’t understand why they didn’t fight? Why weren’t
they real men?” She was seized with anger, and said to him: “You look fat and prosperous! Have you ever been hungry a day in your life? Do you have any idea what it is like to be starved almost to insanity, surrounded by powerful enemies, aware that no one in the world cares for you—and you have the unmitigated nerve to ask that question?”

I confess that in reading the interview, I shared her hatred—but only for a fleeting moment. One cannot hate fools. One can only have contempt for them.

Certainly, we are subject to that weakness of forgetting time and again. Only a year ago Israelis—and Jews throughout the world—were afflicted by overconfidence, and the Yom Kippur War was the result. I should hope that we Jews are bright enough to have learned from this experience.

Most important, one of the things we must never dare to forget is the contemporary Amalek, the Holocaust. The news that the younger generation of Germans does not want to be reminded of it, that they feel they did not participate in it, comes as no surprise to me. But Jews must never fall into the trap of ve-ram levavekha and so forget Amalek. Remember and do not forget! The Holocaust must constantly be part of our education, commemoration, and motivation for further study and spiritual development.

Conversely, too, if we remember Amalek, that will lead to a realistic assessment of ourselves, and we shall be able to avoid the pitfall of a “lifted heart.”

The United States and all the Western world are today in the doldrums. We are all of us in a pessimistic mood about the economy, something which affects each and every one of us. If the Lord helps, and we all escape economic disaster—if it will be, as we say in Yiddish, afgekumen mit a shrek, “escaped with a scare”—then perhaps we will have learned to rid ourselves of the cultural and psychological and moral signs of decadence in our culture, all these corruptions the result of ve-ram levavekha, overconfidence inspired by affluence.

So the Hiddushei ha-Rim has given us an unforgettable Devar Torah about forgetfulness and arrogance.

It is a lesson worthy of our deep thought and meditation. Remember it, do not forget.

---

*1974

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot‘ co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Context

As the Israelites stand rooted at Sinai, yet another major foundation of their eternal heritage is divinely laid. God turns to Moshe and commands, “And they shall make for Me a holy place, and I will dwell among them.”

The construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that will accompany the Israelites during their desert travels, is thus launched. This sanctuary serves as the precursor to the Beit Hamikdash, the Holy Temple, eventually erected in Jerusalem.

One can scarcely imagine Judaism without the concept of the Beit Hamikdash. No single symbol has been more fundamental to the Jewish people than the Temple, representing their eternal connection to God.

Just as the Mishkan serves as the focal point of the Israelite encampment during its desert wanderings, so too, the first and second Batei Mikdash each become the central feature of the corresponding Jewish commonwealth in the Land of Israel. Twice destroyed, the Temple lives on in the hearts and minds of Jews throughout the world who pray daily for its rebuilding.

Questions

Why does God command that the Mishkan be built in the first place?

Judaism introduces to the world the concept of a unified, omnipresent God Who can be related to and worshiped at any time and in any place. If God is omnipresent, why then does He require a “central address”? Are we not limiting a limitless God by creating a Temple for His worship? To quote the objections of the Abravanel: “Why would God command the creation of the  Sanctuary, as if He were defined in corporeal terms and bounded by specific location? This is the opposite of the truth!”

Approaches

A multitude of approaches, some of them revolutionary, are suggested by the classical scholars as they struggle to unravel the mysteries surrounding one of Judaism’s most enduring and central symbols. Their suggestions can be divided into two contrasting global positions.

-A-

One position is that the creation of the Mishkan is a divinely ordained response to the sin of the egel hazahav (the golden calf). This astounding possibility is first suggested in the Midrash and later adopted by numerous authorities, including Rashi.

The Torah, however, introduces the Mishkan a full two and a half parshiot before the narrative of the golden calf. The Midrashic approach to the sanctuary, therefore, requires the reordering of the text through the application of the principle Ein mukdam u’me’uchar ba’Torah – the Torah text does not necessarily follow chronological order (see Yitro 1, Approaches A). The Midrash thus suggests that, textual flow of the Torah notwithstanding, God did not command the construction of the Mishkan until after the sin of the golden calf.

Why do the rabbis struggle so mightily to place the origin of the Mishkan after the sin of the golden calf ? Because, it would seem, this chronological reordering allows for new light to be thrown on the complex symbolism of the Temple.

Through the eyes of the Midrashic scholars, the Mishkan is not an integral part of God’s original plan for His newly formed nation, but rather a response to their weakness and failing. God has no need for the sanctuary and, in fact, does not initially include it as a component in His relationship with the Israelites. Once the people demonstrate their inability to relate to Him directly, however, God decrees the creation of the Mishkan as an act of remediation.

Some within the Midrash view the creation of the Sanctuary as a healing gesture on the part of God towards the nation. The people find themselves, as a result of the chet ha’egel (sin of the [golden] calf), hopelessly distanced from their Creator. God, therefore, reaches across the chasm to show them a way back.

Other Midrashic sources consider the Sanctuary public testimony to the world of the enduring connection between God and His people, a connection that survives the tragedy of the golden calf.

Most foundational, however, is the approach, based on the Midrashic chronology, which interprets the creation of the Mishkan as a divinely designed response, calculated to counteract the root causes of the chet ha’egel. At the core of this seminal sin lies the nation’s inability to worship God directly without the benefit of intervening tangible symbols. This inability drives the Israelites, upon Moshe’s perceived disappearance, to create the golden calf as a proposed intermediary between themselves and God. Recognizing the people’s need for physical symbols, God, therefore, decrees the creation of the Mishkan and all of its associated rituals and utensils. The fundamental concept of the Beit Hamikdash thus originally emerges as a concession to the Israelites’ limitations.

-B-

At this point, we must digress for a moment to consider an overarching issue raised by this Midrashic approach to the Mishkan.

How are we to understand the concept of trial and error in association with God’s will and actions? Mortal man is often forced to resort to “Plan B” when “Plan A” fails. An infallible God, however, should not encounter such difficulty. God knows in advance that the Israelites will sin through the golden calf. Why not, then, short-circuit the process and provide the nation with the symbolism it needs by issuing the commandments concerning the Sanctuary from the outset?

As we have noted before (see Bereishit, Noach 1, Approaches A), trial and error does not exist on God’s part but on man’s. God creates a world based upon free will, and the existence of free will is predicated on the possibility of human failure. In this case, God knows from the very beginning the Israelites will sin, but He does not interfere. Instead, He retreats to allow them room to succeed or fail on their own.

God, in addition, wants the people to learn from their own failure. Had God initially commanded the erection of the sanctuary, the Midrash contends, the Israelites would never have discovered the nature of their own limitations. Like a child, the infant nation must be allowed to stumble and fall, if only to learn to rise again.

-C-

One other troubling issue, however, must be raised concerning the Midrashic approach to the Mishkan.

If, as we have suggested, the sin of the golden calf was caused by the nation’s inability to relate to God without the benefit of a physical intermediary, isn’t the proposed “cure” a perpetuation of the problem? God simply seems to substitute the symbolism of the Sanctuary for the symbolism of the golden calf. In what way is this beneficial? Shouldn’t God, instead, train the nation towards the fact that such symbols are unnecessary – that man is capable of establishing a direct relationship with the divine?

On a basic level, we might simply answer that, in contrast to the golden calf, the Sanctuary and its rituals are divinely ordained. Through difficult experience at Sinai, the nation is taught that symbolic worship is allowed in Judaism when, and only when, the symbols involved flow from God’s command.

In a deeper sense, however, the Sanctuary is not a replacement for the golden calf at all but a true antidote for its root causes. Through the creation of the golden calf, the Israelites attempt to establish distance between themselves and their Creator. Frightened by the perceived loss of Moshe and firmly convinced of their inability to relate to the divine directly without a go-between, the nation erects the golden calf to act as an intermediary between themselves and God (see Ki Tissa 2, Approaches B). In contrast, as will become clear in the next two studies (see Teruma 2, 3), the Mishkan represents man’s ability to draw close to God. Properly understood, each and every detail of the Sanctuary and its associated rituals and utensils carries the message of God’s accessibility to man. In a brilliant stroke, God not only responds to the chet ha’egel but prominently weaves the corrective to that failing into the very fabric of Jewish tradition.

-D-

In spite of the attractiveness of the Midrashic approach as a rationale for the creation of the Sanctuary, numerous other scholars, such as the Ramban, demur.

Unwilling to accept the notion that the central concept of the Beit Hamikdash could possibly have emerged after the fact, as a concession to the weakness of the Israelites, these authorities maintain that God intended all along to create a central location for his worship.

In the words of Nehama Leibowitz, these scholars

reject the idea that the Sanctuary was in any way an afterthought, a cure for their [the Israelites’] sickness, atonement for sin, or compromise between the idea of spirituality and the reality of man’s material conceptions, demanding a form of worship limited to a definite space-time dimension. On the contrary, the institution of the Sanctuary was there from the beginning, a deliberate act of divine grace and thoughtfulness designed to strengthen the immanence of His presence [my italics].

The Ramban and his colleagues maintain that the Mishkan and, therefore, the entire concept of a Beit Hamikdash are much too significant not to have been part of God’s initial plan for His people. Far from being the source of the Mishkan, the sin of the golden calf actually threatens its creation. Only God’s forgiveness for that sin reinstates His full relationship with the Israelites and enables the Sanctuary to be built.

-E-

Another benefit, of course, accrues to this approach.

The chronology of events at Mount Sinai unfolds exactly as recorded in the text. The commandments concerning the erection of the Mishkan are divinely transmitted to Moshe prior to the chet ha’egel. After that tragic event, God conveys His willingness to forgive and to reestablish His relationship with the nation. Moshe consequently perceives, of his own accord,that the previously given directives associated with the Sanctuary still apply. He therefore proceeds to share them with the nation.

The Ramban, among others, thus remains consistent in his general reluctance to uproot the sequence of events as they are recorded in the text. “Why,” he asks, in an attack on Rashi concerning this issue, “should we overturn the words of the living God?” Unless the text itself indicates otherwise, maintains the Ramban, events in the Torah actually unfold in the order in which they are recorded.

-F-

Those scholars who view the Mishkan as part of God’s original blueprint for His chosen people also maintain that the Sanctuary is in no way meant to be perceived as an intermediary between the Israelites and their God. Man’s ability to relate to his Creator directly is, after all, a hallmark of Jewish faith. The Mishkan, its symbols and its rituals are, instead, tools, carefully devised to assist the Israelites in the enterprise of seeking the divine.

Various theories are offered by the commentaries as to exactly how the Sanctuary achieves this goal.

Some, such as the Ba’al Hachinuch, author of the Sefer Hachinuch, suggest that the Mishkan provides the Israelites with the setting in which they can regularly perform personally beneficial acts of prayer and sacrifice. Such repeated action, says the Ba’al Hachinuch, makes a positive impact upon each supplicant, serving to purify his thoughts and refine his character.

Others focus on the minute details of the rituals and utensils associated with the Sanctuary. Each of the many details recorded in the Torah, they suggest, carries its own specific lessons concerning the relationship between God and man.

As will become even clearer over the next studies, neither the Mishkan nor the Beit Hamikdash, no matter their origin, is “God’s home.” Each of these central institutions is, instead, divinely designed to teach how we can successfully “bring God home to us.”

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

The Top Ten?

Context

Finally God commences the process of Revelation with the transmission of the Ten Declarations to the Israelites: “I am the Lord your God…; You shall have no other gods before Me…; Do not take the name of the Lord your God in vain…; Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy…; Honor your father and your mother…; Do not murder; Do not commit adultery; Do not steal; Do not bear false witness against your friend; Do not covet….”

While the Ten Declarations are clearly singled out as the dramatic opening communication of Revelation, the rabbis in the Talmud debate as to how they were actually communicated. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi and Rabbi Yishmael maintain that the first two declarations (“I am the Lord…” and “You shall have no other gods before Me…”) were spoken by God directly to the nation, while the eight other principles were transmitted through Moshe. Their colleagues disagree, arguing that all ten principles were communicated directly by God to the people.

Questions

Whatever position we accept concerning their transmission, the very existence of these Ten Declarations as a unit creates a serious philosophical problem.

In total, God transmits to the Israelites six hundred thirteen commandments over the course of Moshe’s career. While some of these commandments might seem to us more important than others, in reality we have no way of judging the significance of specific mitzvot. Obedience to God demands that we treat all of the commandments with equal seriousness.

Why, then, does God single out ten mitzvot from among the six hundred thirteen for specific emphasis? Does He not, by doing so, create a hierarchical structure within the commandments as a whole? Why, in addition, does the Torah refer to these ten commandments in this context as dibrot (declarations)? Why not use the usual terms mitzvot (commandments), chukim (edicts), or mishpatim (statutes)?

The danger created by the singling out of these ten principles actually becomes evident later in Jewish history. While the Mishna states that the Ten Declarations were recited as part of the daily service in the Temple, the Talmud testifies that their recitation was later abrogated by the rabbis because of the attacks of heretics who claimed that only these ten principles, and not six hundred thirteen, were actually commanded by God.

Once again, therefore, we are forced to ask: why does God single out these principles for emphasis if all the Torah’s laws are divinely ordained?

Approaches

The amount of literature written concerning the Ten Declarations is vast, and a full analysis is certainly well beyond the scope of our study. We will, instead, choose a few general thoughts from among the myriad of ideas suggested by the rabbis as to why these ten principles are singled out for emphasis.

-A-

While the Ten Declarations are mitzvot themselves, they can also be seen as chapter headings for the other six hundred three commandments. Numerous scholars maintain that, properly categorized, all six hundred thirteen commandments of the Torah can be subsumed under the rubric of the Ten Declarations.

This idea may well be reflected in the well-known debate between Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva concerning the manner in which the six hundred thirteen mitzvot of the Torah were transmitted. Rabbi Yishmael maintains that the general principles of the law were transmitted at Sinai while the specifics were only given later to Moshe in the Sanctuary. Rabbi Akiva disagrees, arguing that both generalities and particulars were transmitted to Moshe at Sinai.

Both of these scholars, however, agree that the mitzvot were conveyed with distinctions between general principle and specific detail. The Ten Declarations can therefore be understood as an introductory overview to Jewish law which is then followed by detailed analysis.

With deliberate planning, God unveils the Torah step by step, so as to highlight both purpose and procedure. From this point on, His chosen nation will be challenged to blend detailed observance with overarching vision, to make lofty ideals concrete through painstaking ritual practice.

Before revealing the myriad details that will comprise the obligations upon the Israelites, therefore, God grants His people a glimpse of the law’s ultimate objectives. The purpose of the six hundred thirteen mitzvot will be to create a society that truly lives by the fundamental principles outlined in the Ten Declarations. With the vision of these principles before them always, the Israelites will never lose sight of the goals towards which their religious practice must lead.

At the same time, however, God embeds the entirety of the law within the Ten Declarations. The only way to really live by these overarching principles is to bring them to life through concrete, detailed daily observance.

The Midrash goes a step further by suggesting that the inclusion of all six hundred thirteen mitzvot in the Ten Declarations is symbolically referenced in the text itself.

The number of letters in the passage containing these principles equals six hundred thirteen plus seven – representing, says the Midrash, the total number of commandments plus the seven days of creation. Through the text of the Ten Declarations, God hints to the fact that the purpose of creation is now revealed in the unfolding commandments of the Torah.

-B-

The structure of the Ten Declarations carries significant lessons as well. According to most authorities, these laws were transmitted by God in two columns of five principles each, as follows:
1. I am the Lord your God…                                              6. Do not murder
2. You shall have no other gods before Me…                   7. Do not commit adultery
3. Do not take the name of the Lord your God in vain…   8. Do not steal
4. Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy…               9. Do not bear false witness against your friend
5. Honor your father and your mother…                           10. Do not covet…

Careful study of these columns reveals striking patterns:

1. The principles found in the first column are mitzvot bein adam la’Makom (laws between man and God), while the declarations in the second column are mitzvot bein adam l’chaveiro (laws between man and his fellow man).

This distinction between laws governing our relationship with God and laws governing our relationship with man establishes, from the moment of Revelation, the majestic scope of Jewish law. Halacha governs every aspect of human activity and shapes each of the manifold relationships that we establish throughout our lives. The complete Jew is one who, in the words of King Shlomo, finds “favor and good understanding in the eyes of God and of man.”

One principle, however, seems out of place. Why is “Honor your father and your mother” included in the series of laws governing our relationship with God? Shouldn’t this principle be categorized among the edicts shaping our behavior towards those around us?

By including “Honor your father and mother” in the first set of declarations, the Torah underscores the unique nature of the parent-child bond within the panoply of human relationships. In many ways, our parents are God’s representatives within our world. They partner with God in our physical creation and they are the bearers of the divinely inspired traditions, values and practices that are meant to shape our lives.When we honor our father and mother, we honor the God with Whom they partner and Whose traditions they bear.

2. The first five commandments are specific to the Israelites while the second set is universal in scope.

As His chosen nation is forged at Sinai, God underscores a familiar defining balance first struck centuries earlier. At the dawn of Jewish history, the patriarch Avraham turned to his neighbors and declared: Ger v’toshav anochi imachem, “I am a stranger and a citizen together with you.” With these words the first patriarch delineated the tension essential to his descendents’ self-definition across the ages – a tension which, as we have seen, is reiterated over and over again as Jewish history unfolds (see Bereishit: Chayei Sara 1, Approaches E, F; Bo 3, Approaches H).

The Jew is, at once, “apart from” and “a part of” the society around him.

Echoing across the generations from the dawn of the patriarchal era to the dawn of the national era, this pivotal balance is reflected in the very structure of the Ten Declarations. God’s chosen people will only fulfill their ongoing role as a “light unto the nations” through constant, careful calibration between the exclusive and universal components of their own identity. Throughout their history, they will be challenged to map out a path allowing them to maintain their individuality even as they contribute to the world.

Once again, however, the commandment of “Honor your father and your mother” seems to be in the wrong column. Isn’t respecting one’s parents a universal obligation?

By placing this mitzva among the obligations specific to the Israelites, God underscores the overwhelming importance of the parent-child relationship within Jewish experience. This bond is the singular foundation upon which Jewish continuity rests. Central to the revolution wrought by the patriarchs and matriarchs was the determination that the home, rather than outside society, would raise their progeny. From that time on, the family has been the single most important educational unit in the survival of the Jewish people and the perpetuation of their heritage (see Bereishit: Vayechi 4, Approaches B).

As the Jewish nation is forged through God’s Revelation, the centrality of the home is underscored once again.

3. The Declarations are deliberately arranged into parallel columns of five so as to create pairs, each pair consisting of one mitzva from column A and one from column B. The mitzvot of each pair are thematically connected, each mitzva informing and elaborating upon its mate.

The Midrash offers this analysis:

“I am the Lord your God…” is paired with “Do not murder.” Each man, created in the image of God, is of inestimable value. If one individual murders another, he diminishes God’s presence in the world.

“You shall have no other gods before me…” is paired with “Do not commit adultery.” An individual guilty of idolatry betrays his relationship with God.

“Do not take the name of the Lord your God in vain…” is paired with “Do not steal.” Theft is the first step on a path that inevitably leads to denial and false vows.

“Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy…” is paired with “Do not bear false witness against your friend.” By desecrating the Shabbat, an individual renders false testimony. His actions implicitly declare that God neither created the world nor rested on the seventh day.

“Honor your father and your mother…” is paired with “Do not covet…” A child reared in an environment of jealousy and bitterness will eventually denigrate his own parents and covet the parents of others.

Other suggestions concerning the significance of the paired declarations are offered by scholars across the generations.

-C-

In summary: the Ten Declarations are, in fact, ten mitzvot out of six hundred thirteen.

In their dramatic context at the moment of Revelation, however, these commandments are invested with heightened significance. They are transformed into “Declarations,” introducing the Israelites to the detailed laws that will follow and establishing fundamental principles that will course through those laws.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman 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

What Makes a Jewish Song Jewish?¹

In discussing the theme of this sermon, “What Makes a Jewish Song Jewish?,” I speak as a rabbi, not as a musician or connoisseur of the arts. I believe that in addition to the artistic qualities of a song, or any work of art, there are also certain ethical or moral or religious matters which contribute to its greatness and Jewishness. This week, Shabbat Shira – the Sabbath on which the Song of Moses is read – is an opportune time to delve into those other-than-technical matters which make songs like Az Yashir great and Jewish.

There are three prerequisites for, or pragmatic tests of, a great Jewish song. The first two of these are universal; that is, they are the marks of greatness which distinguish any truly superior song or chant. The third is the particularly Jewish aspect. And it is the three of these, taken together, which make for a song such as Az Yashir, which is both great from a universal point of view, and invaluably holy from a Jewish point of view.

The first requirement is that it have meaning for all times. It must be as appropriate for any future generation as it is for the one in which it was written. It must outgrow local character and provincial significance and overflow into the stream of time, the stream of eternity. For a truly great song to be immortal, it must be eternal. The phrase “az yashir,” “Then they sang” (Exodus 15:1) is interpreted by the Midrash Tanĥuma (Beshalaĥ 13) as meaning that they sang so that future generations would sing – “le’atid” – a song for all time to come. It is a song which will be as valid for this century as it was for 3,000 years before this century. Do we not repeat the Az Yashir daily? Do we not read it from the Torah twice every year? You see, this song was not restricted to particular events and was not circumscribed by definite personalities – in essence it transcends all these. For, as the song of liberation, sung after the Exodus from Egypt, it is the hymn of freedom for all time, the eternal anthem of the Jew which commemorates and references the beginning of his history. And even more than historical or political motifs were here detected by the Jewish mystics. They saw in it, too, a song of the liberation of the soul from the Egyptian qualities of man which drag it down. Every man must leave his own Egypt and must sing of this Exodus proudly and sweetly. If a man be dragged down to misery because he is by nature vindictive, then vindictiveness is his Egypt in which his soul is in exile. If he can overpower that banal quality, then he has personally experienced the Exodus from Egypt, and though he lives in the year 5712, he must sing an Az Yashir, the song of liberation from an Egypt all his own. So then, Az Yashir from the historical point of view and from the personal aspect, is a song with as much meaning for our day and every day as it was when it was first composed. Its overtones have not been silenced, and it is, in this way, indicative of the first important quality of a great song – value for all time, the power to survive the vicissitudes of ages in which values and ideas change ever so severely.

The second important characteristic of a great Jewish song is that, more than being repeated by future generations, it must also be able to inspire them. It is sometimes possible to read an ancient text and find meaning in it, without necessarily being inspired by it. A great song, however, is more than a curiosity lifted out of the musical notes of an age gone by. Th e musical overtones of a great song must not only be heard by some future generation, it must drive it and fire it and detonate it. It must contain the power to awaken men from their spiritual slumber. “Song” in a Jewish sense is more than a melodious combination of sounds. It is a song that can stir a person to create a response. It is that song which can, even centuries later, cause people to change themselves. It must be eternal and effective. Furthermore, a great song can inspire only by getting those who hear it to finish it. Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” has challenged men for many years – challenged them to finish it and complete it and perfect it. In a similar vein, every great song is an unfinished song. The listener must finish it by a soul-stirring response. After listening passively, he must digest actively and create a noble reaction of his soul. Emotionally and intellectually, he must complete a great song by changing himself. A great song, any great work of art, is great because it elicits a reaction – and that is the secret of its powers of inspiration. Th e crescendo or climax is internal.

Our Rabbis (Sanhedrin 91b) saw the kernel of this idea, this second standard for a great Jewish song, in the first two words of Moses’ lofty song by the Sea. “Amar Rabbi Meir, minayin leteĥiyat hameitim min haTorah? Shene’emar ‘az yashir.’ ‘Shar’ lo ne’emar, ela ‘yashir.’” Idiomatic or poetic Hebrew, in its biblical construction, writes “az yashir,” “then [Moses and Israel] will sing,” not, as it should be, “az shar,” “they did sing.” From this unusual grammatical construction, Rabbi Meir deduces a principle of faith – the Resurrection of the Dead. Since Moses will sing in the future, that must mean he will first be resurrected. Of course, what Rabbi Meir meant was more than proof of resurrection from the Song of Moses. He meant, too, proof of the quality of the song from the fact of resurrection. Where⋅from does Az Yashir derive its sublime and ethereal powers? From teĥiyat hameitim, from the resurrection of the dead – because it has the power to breathe the breath of life into dead souls. A great song must be able to penetrate the heart of man, get within the dead tinder wood and driftwood piled up about his heart and set them afire. Th e dead souls and slumbering spirits must be resurrected, revivified. Only that song is worthy of Moses and Israel, who can, millennia later, kindle the flame of faith in men and women to the point where they rise unanimously and proclaim for a lifetime “mi khamokha baEilim Hashem, mi kamokha ne’edar bakodesh,” “who is like You among the mighty, Hashem, who is like You, glorious in Holiness” (Exodus 15:11).Only such a song is deserving of the epithet “great” – that which can galvanize an apathetic people to resurrect its homeland and proclaim “tevi’eimo vetita’emo behar naĥalatkha,” that the time has come when Jews, slumbering in resignation, will arise to rebuild the Promised Land. The song of the Exodus of Egypt has been re-sung, finished, in our own day, by those who participated in the exodus of Europe. Certainly, a great song must be able to effect teĥiyat hameitim – the resurrection of the indolent, slothful, languid souls. Our Rabbis (Sanhedrin 92b) even say that the dead who were resurrected in Ezekiel’s Vision of the Dry Bones (ch. 37) also “amru shira,” sang a song in that same vision. For their resurrection was proof of the quality of the Song of Hope of all Jews for all time.

Take, for instance, a modern song which has gained prominence among Jews in recent years. It is a song of the ghetto, the Song of Hope of those doomed to crematoria and gas chambers – “Ani Ma’amin” – I believe, in perfect faith, in the coming of the Messiah, in the imminent redemption of Israel. Do you remember how that song gained its fame? It was reported in the press during the war – emaciated Jews, while being led to a crematorium in a cattle truck, were singing a haunting melody, whose words, strangely, expressed an irrational hope in the Messiah, in a better life and a fresh hope. Was that a new song? Indeed not. The melody, perhaps, was new. The words are ancient. They were written eight centuries ago by Moses Maimonides, who himself had to travel over the entire Near and Middle East as an exile from his home. So, on this count, then, “Ani Ma’amin” is a great song. For, more than lasting into the future, it quickened the spirits of men. And even more than becoming an instrument which infused life into desperate, dying souls, it gave them the courage to defy death to its teeth.

But there is yet a third requirement for a Jewish song, and this is the critically Jewish element; it is this which makes a Jewish song Jewish. And that is, that this song, which has meaning for the future, and which can inspire men in the future, must be able to inspire them toward specific goals. Specifically, it must be able to shock them into an awareness of God, it must be able to electrify them into the sort of introspection which leads to great religious achievement. In a word, it must lead to teshuva, repentance. If a song has moved people to repent and towards a new understanding and new practice of Jewishness, then it has proved its basic Jewishness. After all, what is Az Yashir if not a tribute to the omnipotence of the Almighty God, and hence an imperative to do immediate penance?

The Hasidim used to picture the spiritual world as a great divine palace someplace in heaven and in this symbolic structure all concepts were represented as different rooms or gates. By placing one room or gate next to another, the Hasidim were able to present their view of the relation of different ideas. And these Hasidim, who, as you no doubt know, were great believers in singing and happiness and sanguineness, assigned the Sha’ar HaNegina, the Gate of Song, right next to one of the most important gates in the entire palace, the Sha’ar HaTeshuva (quoted in the name of Rabbi Israel of Modzitz). Now, what did they mean by that? They meant, simply, that the function of song is that it must open for you the Gates of Penitence. No song is a divine song unless its vibrations can cause a little explosion in the inner chambers of teshuva. From the Gate of True Song, you must be able to walk right in through the Gates of Penitence.

The shofar is the oldest and most venerated of Jewish musical instruments. It is as ancient as the Jewish people. Yet it has survived the test of time, and is sounded faithfully every year. It thus fulfills the first requirement. It inspires people – let each of you testify to that yourself. That meets the second test. And it fulfills the third requirement by urging people on to teshuva. Listen to Maimonides as he describes the meaning of the song of the shofar (Hilkhot Teshuva 3:4): “uru yesheinim mishinatkhem,” “Wake up, ye who sleep, from your sleep; and arise, ye who slumber, from your slumber. Search your ways, return in penitence and remember your Creator. Ye who forget the truth in the vanities of time, and waste their years in nonsense which is of no avail, look deep into your souls and do good henceforth.” So, then, the song of the shofar is a great Jewish song.

And according to these three standards, my friends, if we will but forget the technical element of music and permit ourselves the privilege of subtraction, then even a word can qualify as a great Jewish song. Even a hand placed encouragingly on the shoulder of a faltering friend can be a great Jewish song. An exemplary life can be a great Jewish song. Anything beautiful, in short, that can fulfill these three requirements, is a great Jewish song.

A rebuke, for instance, can qualify. The Torah records as a special commandment, “hokhei’aĥ tokhiaĥ et amitekha,” “thou shalt rebuke thy fellow” (Leviticus 19:17). Th at is, if your friend errs and veers from the right path, you must reproach him. Now, reproach can be administered in many ways – some very crude and vulgar. But that great ethical thinker, Rabbenu Yonah, gives us the prescription for the correct type of rebuke (Commentary on Avot 4:12). “Don’t tell the wrongdoer,” says Rabbenu Yonah, “‘now look, you are a horrible sinner and will pay for your sins,’” but rather say, “‘now I think that you are a wonderful fellow, you are a pious man but you don’t know it. Of course you have weaknesses, but a man of your stature will certainly overcome them.’” Here is a rebuke which is a Jewish song! It will live with that wrong-doer for many a year. It will inspire him – he will himself finish that rebuke and, while mulling over your words, tell himself what you dared not tell him. And those words will most certainly be as effective as can be in directing him to teshuva, a new and fresh outlook upon life.

The great Jewish songs of all ages, those which conform to the standards and criteria we outlined, shall never be silenced. And the first Jewish song, the Song of Moses and the Israelites by the shores of the Red Sea, the song concluding with “Hashem yimlokh le’olam va’ed,” the eternal reign of God, shall itself be eternally re-sung by all Jews. The echoes of the Song of Moses resound in the chambers of the Jewish soul and pluck its heartstrings forever. All Jews, themselves finishing that song, must rise to new heights, and gain entry into the coveted and lofty Gates of Penitence.

---

1. February 9, 1952