Category: Excerpts

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

Yaakov’s Vow

Context

On the morning after his dream of a ladder stretching heavenward, Yaakov renames the location of the dream Beit E-l.

He then makes the following vow: “If God will be with me and will guard me on this path upon which I go; and [if he] will give me bread to eat and clothing to wear; and [if] I will return in peace to the home of my father and the Lord will be my God – then this stone which I have set up as a pillar will be a House of God and all that you give to me I will repeatedly tithe to you.”

Questions

How are we to understand Yaakov’s vow? The patriarch seems to be making his worship of God conditional upon material gain!

Pivotal to our understanding is the interpretation of the phrase “and the Lord will be my God.” Could Yaakov possibly be saying that “the Lord will be his God” only if certain conditions are met?

Compounding the problem is the fact that the very conditions which Yaakov now seems to be questioning were already promised to him by God in his dream: “And behold I will be with you; and I will guard you wherever you will go; and I will return you to this soil….”

Why does Yaakov seem to be unsure of those promises now?

Approaches
A
A variety of approaches to Yaakov’s vow are offered by the classical commentaries. One authority quoted in the Midrash simply cannot accept Yaakov’s vow as a response to his dream. Yaakov would not question the very assurances that he had already received from God. This scholar, therefore, makes the radical suggestion that the order of events within the biblical text must be reversed. The patriarch’s vow actually preceded the dream, and God’s promises were a direct response to Yaakov’s concerns. (Note: The rule that events in the Torah are not necessarily recorded in chronological order is used by the rabbis sparingly, often to address otherwise unsolvable issues.)

B
Numerous other commentaries maintain that Yaakov’s words are not to be understood as a conditional vow at all but, instead, as a promise or a heartfelt prayer.

“If I am simply given the opportunity,” the patriarch is saying, “this is what I promise to do.”

Rashi, for example, directly correlates each of Yaakov’s requests to God’s corresponding promise in the dream. The patriarch is outlining how he will respond if the details of the dream are fulfilled.

Yaakov’s statement “and the Lord will be my God,” continues Rashi, relates to an earlier divine promise given to Yaakov’s grandfather, Avraham: “to be a God to you and to your children after you.” By recalling that pledge, says Rashi, quoting the Sifrei, Yaakov prays that God’s name will rest upon him and upon his children, so that he will give rise to no unfit progeny.”

The Rashbam interprets the phrase “and the Lord will be my God” as a prayer that God assist the patriarch in all of his future dealings, while the Sforno maintains that the patriarch’s entire vow should be seen as a request on Yaakov’s part that God remove all impediments to spiritual growth from his path. The Sforno goes on to say that Yaakov agrees to be held to a higher standard if his request is fulfilled: “‘and the Lord will be my God’ – then the Lord will relate to me as a judge and determine  whether or not I fulfill my obligations.”

C
A totally different, fascinating approach is suggested by the Ramban. Unlike the scholars previously quoted, the Ramban interprets the phrase “and the Lord will be my God” not as part of Yaakov’s requests but as a realization.

As a result of God’s promise to return him to the Land of Israel, the patriarch now understands that a complete relationship with God can only be experienced within that land. He therefore says: “‘And I will return in peace to the home of my father; and the Lord will be my God.’ – Only once I return to this land will the Lord fully be my God.”

Yaakov is not placing conditions upon his belief in God. He is simply stating that he understands the truth: A Jew can only be complete with his God within the Land of Israel.

The Ramban bases his interpretation of the vow upon the rabbinic dictum “all who live outside the land of Israel are is if they have no God.”

The Ramban’s explanation of Yaakov’s vow is consistent with a global, revolutionary approach taken by this scholar concerning the relationship between Jewish observance and the Land of Israel. The Ramban maintains that all mitzvot which we fulfill outside of the Land of Israel are fundamentally incomplete. So singular is our connection to God when we are within the Land of Israel, that Shabbat, kashrut, tefillin, the holidays, and all other obligations of our tradition can only be observed in their fullness within that land.

In a perfect example of practicing what you preach, the Ramban’s philosophical commitment to the Land of Israel was concretely mirrored in his own life decisions. At the age of seventy-three, the Ramban embarked on the difficult and dangerous journey to the Land of Israel, thereby fulfilling his lifelong dream of settling in the Holy Land. Once in Israel, the Ramban worked diligently to restore the Jewish community in Jerusalem. He is considered by many to be the father of modern Jewish settlement in that holy city.

D
Perhaps the Ramban’s approach can be taken one step further by interpreting Yaakov’s words “and I will return in peace to the home of my father” not as one of the patriarch’s requests but as the first of his promises.

Yaakov’s first and primary commitment was a commitment to return to the Land of Israel.

This pledge was much more complex than it sounds.

E
To understand, we must return to the scene of Yaakov’s dream. Put yourself, for a moment, in Yaakov’s place during the moments before his vision.

Bedding down in the darkness of the night, you are terribly fearful – fearful of the unknown, of your aloneness and of the threat posed by your brother…

You harbor, however, an even deeper fear. You live at a time when gods are considered territorial. If you leave your land, you leave your God behind.

And now you stand poised, for the first time, to run from the land that your family has not left for over a generation, the land to which your grandfather had been commanded to journey. What will become of your relationship with your God?

In response to your fears, God grants you a majestic vision of a ladder stretching heavenward upon which angels are ascending and descending. True, the angels who have watched over you until now are leaving; but other angels, other emissaries of your God, are descending to accompany you on your journey.

God appears to you in your dream with promises: that the land upon which you lie will be given to you and to your children; that your children will be as numerous as the dust of the earth and will spread to the west, to the east, to the north and to the south; that the nations of the world will be blessed through you and your descendents.

But then God says something truly astonishing: “And behold I will be with you and I will guard you wherever you may go.”

Suddenly you truly realize that your God is different – that there is only one God, Who is not tied to any land, Who is omnipresent.

You are no longer afraid…for you now know that by leaving the land you will not leave your God behind. He will be with you always.

F
This realization, however, potentially makes you think: If God will be with me wherever I go; if I can be successful anywhere; then, perhaps, I need no longer be tied to a specific land or place.

Further, if my task is to spread God’s word, won’t that be best accomplished by living in the world? Perhaps my family has developed past the need for a homeland.

But then God continues in your dream: “And I will return you to this soil; for I will not leave you until I have done all that I have promised to you.”

And you realize the fullness of your challenge. For while God will be with you wherever you may go; His constant presence does not release you from the obligation to return to your own land. There, and only there, will your relationship with God be complete; there and only there can you truly fulfill your destiny.

Your relationship with your Creator will be defined by a constant tension. You will live under his protection wherever you may be but you will fully relate to him only within your land. You may succeed in exile but your destiny waits for you in your homeland.

G
Yaakov, therefore, awakens the next morning and pledges: “Dear God: If You truly will be with me wherever I go; if I am successful in my endeavors in exile; then, I promise You I will not misunderstand. I will not assume that my success in exile means that I can remain there.

“I promise: ‘And I will return in peace to the home of my father.’ Given the opportunity, I will come back.”

Points to Ponder

The tension delineated at the dawn of our history, in Yaakov’s dream and in his subsequent vow, has marked our nation’s experience across the face of history.

For centuries, during a long and turbulent exile, we have retained a deep belief in God’s constant presence. Given the opportunity, we have succeeded greatly in land after land, contributing well beyond our numbers to the society around us.

And yet, we have always harbored the dream of a return to our homeland, of a return to Zion.

During the modern era, however, this age-old balance came under new scrutiny and challenge. The late 1800s and early 1900s saw within the world Jewish community growing dreams of real acceptance, coupled with visions of a new universal culture. Many Jews began to view the concept of a return to Zion as parochial and outdated. We had become, they felt, a global people and had, therefore, outgrown the need for a homeland. Zionism, with its practical vision of a return to Israel, was seen as an archaic throwback, to be actively opposed.

Thus, in 1885, the Pittsburgh Platform of the Reform Jewish movement stated that in light of the modern era of “universal culture of heart and intellect”: “We consider ourselves no longer a nation, but a religious community, and therefore expect neither a return to Palestine, nor a sacrificial worship under the sons of Aaron, nor the restoration of any of the laws concerning the Jewish state…”

By 1937, however, things had dramatically changed. Buffeted by the reality of world events, the same Reform movement affirmed in its Columbus Platform “the obligation of all Jewry to aid in [Palestine’s] upbuilding as a Jewish homeland by endeavoring to make it not only a haven of refuge for the oppressed but also a center of Jewish culture and spiritual life.”

The Holocaust, of course, gave further lie to the vision of a harmonious universal culture; and Zionist ideology can be found today alive and well across the religious spectrum, within the Orthodox, Conservative and Reform communities.

Ideology, however, is not enough. As noted before (see Lech Lecha 1, Points to Ponder), we live at a time when a personal return to Zion is within our grasp.

Yaakov’s vow challenges us.

What will be our response?

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

פרשת תולדות

הדמיון בין נתינת הברכות ליעקב ועשו לשני שעירי יוה”כ

“קח לי שני גדיי עזים טובים: טובים לך וטובים לבניך טובים לך שעל ידן אתה נוטל הברכות וטובים לבניך שעל ידן מתכפר להם ביום הכפורים אחד לה’ ואחד לעזאזל” (מדרש רבה).

המעיין בפרשת נתינת הברכות ליעקב ועשו, יראה שיש בה דמיון למהלך של שני השעירים ביוה”כ אחד לה’ ואחד לעזאזל. שהרי יעקב ועשו היו תאומים וקבלו אותו חינוך אלא שאחד נעשה איש ציד והאחר איש תם יושב אהלים, וכן הוא בענין שני השעירים שאכן דומים זה לזה במראה וקומה ולקיחתם כאחד אלא שע”י הגורל נקבע שאחד נעשה לה’ והשני לעזאזל.

והנה הגר”ח זצ”ל ביאר שחלוק עשו מישמעאל, בכך שישמעאל מלידתו הופקע מלהיות זרע אברהם, דכתיב: “כי ביצחק יקרא לך זרע”, אבל עשו יכול היה להיות זרע אברהם דכתיב “כי ביצחק” ולא כל יצחק, וזה היה יכול להיות או יעקב או עשו, אבל לא שניהם. וכאן בשעת נתינת הברכות היתה שעת הגורל לקבוע מי יהיה היורש של אברהם אבינו. [ועיין בחידושי הרי”ז עה”ת פר’ תולדות.]

ועיין ברמב”ן (ויקרא טו, ח) שהביא מבראשית רבה: “ונשא השעיר עליו, זה עשו שנאמר הן עשו אחי איש שעיר, את כל עונותם, עונות תם שנאמר ויעקב איש תם”, וזה מפורש ג”כ בפרקי דרבי אליעזר הגדול, ונמצינו למדים על הדמיון בין יעקב ועשו לשני השעירים ביוה”כ.

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

Religion by Relegation

In an almost casual, offhand way, our sidra tells us of a series of incidents in the life of Isaac that are apparently of no special significance, but in which our rabbis have seen the greatest importance.

Isaac lived in the land of Canaan, which suffered from scarcity of water most of the year, and he therefore decided to dig a well. We are told of three wells that he and his entourage dug. The first two involved him in difficulties with the people of Gerar, a Philistine nation. The first of these Isaac called Esek, because it was the cause of much strife and contention. He was no more successful with the second well; after his servants dug it, he incurred the hatred of the people about him. He therefore called the second well by the name Sitna, meaning enmity. It was only when the third well was dug that happiness prevailed once again; and so he called the third well Reĥovot, meaning: room, freedom, scope, peace, or joy.

Of what importance can these apparently prosaic matters be to later generations, who search in the Torah for matters of timeless significance and are not particularly interested in economic clashes and riparian rivalry in ancient Canaan? Nachmanides, following the principle of the rabbis that “ma’aseh avot siman levanim,” that the deeds of the fathers anticipate the history of the children, has taught us that the three wells of Isaac recapitulate the stories of the three great Sanctuaries of the people of Israel. The first well is a symbol of the First Temple, which was destroyed because of Esek – because of the battles and wars waged on the Jewish people by the surrounding nations. The second well, that called Sitna, represents the Second Temple, for this Temple was brought to ruins by the hatred and enmity that prevailed among the children of Israel during that period. However, the third well, Reĥovot, is the symbol of the Sanctuary that has not yet been built – that of the great future. It represents the Beit haMikdash which will one day be rebuilt in Jerusalem, and which will last forever in a spirit of Reĥovot – freedom, peace, and plenty.

However, the question remains: why indeed was Isaac successful with the third well, while failing with the first two? In what way was the third well, symbol of the Third Temple, superior to the others?

Permit me to provide an answer which has been suggested to me by my uncle, Rabbi Joseph M. Baumol, which not only answers this question but also provides us with a powerful moral for our own lives. If we analyze carefully the three verses which tell of how these three wells were dug, we will discover one significant difference between the first two and the third. The first two were dug by Isaac’s servants, his hired help. Of the first well we read: “Vayaĥperu avdei Yitzĥak,” “And the servants of Isaac dug the well.” With regard to the second well, we read: “Vayaĥperu be’er aĥeret,” “They dug another well.” In both cases, Isaac relegated his duties and activities to others. Only with regard to the third well do we find the element of personal participation: “Vayaĥpor be’er aĥeret,” “And he dug another well” (Genesis 26:19, 21, 22). As long as Isaac was going to leave the performance of his duties to others, and not do them himself, there was bound to result Esek and Sitna, hatred and argumentation. It is only when Isaac, despite the many people ready to serve him, was willing to dig the well by himself, that he was able to achieve Reĥovot – the peace and plenty and freedom that he so very much desired. The Third Temple, that which will last unto all eternity, will come about only when every Jew will take it upon himself to perform the “Vayaĥpor be’er aĥeret,” the willingness to work by himself, to commit his own energies, talents, concern, and participation to the sacred tasks which we have been assigned.

Actually, Isaac’s career from the very beginning reveals this tension between relegation and participation. Throughout his life we find signs of his struggling to learn this great principle of personal involvement. Even before he was conceived, the message came to his father Abraham that Sara would bear the child, Isaac. However, the message came not from God Himself, as it were, but through an angel. And so, when Sara heard it she laughed and ridiculed it – incurring Abraham’s annoyance and God’s irritation. Only afterwards do we read, “And the Lord said unto Abraham” – when God Himself addressed Abraham, by Himself and not through an angel, Sara began to believe in reverence and awe, and not doubt in mocking laughter, that she would be blessed with a child.

The great story of the Akeida also reveals this oscillation between relegation and participation. At first, Abraham decides to offer up Isaac himself. At the last moment, his hand is stayed and,  instead, Abraham offers up a ram caught in the thicket nearby. The Torah puts it this way (Genesis 22:13): And behold, “Ayil aĥar ne’eĥaz basvakh,” which we normally translate: “A ram was caught in the thicket behind them.” But this has also been interpreted in an equally valid fashion as: “Another ram was caught in the thicket” – that is, instead of Isaac, another sacrifice was discovered: the ram. Isaac’s life was saved and a “messenger” was offered up in his place, the ram!

His very marriage followed the same pattern. Isaac did not himself go to look for a wife; his father sent the servant Eliezer instead. According to our tradition (Tosafot on Ketubot 7b), Eliezer was legally a “shaliaĥ kiddushin,” an agent to marry a woman for Isaac by proxy. No wonder, as the Netziv has pointed out, throughout their married lives Isaac and Rebecca suffered from a sense of distance and remoteness between them, a lack of open communication and participation with each other. The Netziv sees this symbolized in the event that occurred when Isaac and Rebecca first met. There we read that at the moment she saw him, Rebecca took her veil and covered her face. This veil is a symbol of a domestic curtain, an obstruction that prevented them from communicating freely. If there is no direct personal participation, then there is a possibility of misunderstanding and even enmity.

So it was with the wells. It took two difficult diggings until Isaac learned that you ought not send someone else to do your tasks. He then learned that only if “he dug another well,” by himself and with his own effort, could he achieve Reĥovot, the peace and freedom and space that he needed for his full development.

This idea is especially important in contemporary society. As civilization grows more complex, each person grows less whole and less integrated, for he is less involved in the tasks that require his attention and devotion. With the division of labor, and the progressive concentration of expertise in narrower and narrower fields, we begin to suffer alienation, a sense of distance between ourselves and our fellow-man, a withdrawal from all of life to within ourselves. Especially in our crowded cities, this introversion and withdrawal takes place if only as a means to protect what little precious privacy we have left for ourselves.

And of course, to some extent, we must limit our involvement in society and the lives of others. We need the mechanics of the delegation of duties and tasks in order for society to function. A good administrator is one who does not do everything by himself, but sees to it that others do their parts. We cannot and should not attempt to do  everything by ourselves.

The halakha recognized this idea and incorporated it in the institution of sheliĥut, agency. We are permitted to designate an agent to perform certain tasks, not only in financial law, but even with regard to such mitzvot as the giving of charity or the writing of a sefer Torah. Nevertheless, the principle of sheliĥut is not valid for every occasion. For instance, I cannot make an agent to eat in the sukka for me, nor can I appoint someone to listen to the sound of the shofar for me. If I do, I have failed to fulfill my religious obligations. How do I distinguish between those functions for which I can appoint a messenger, and those which I must perform myself? The famous author of the Ketzot haĤoshen put it this way: I may make an agent to perform any commandment save a
mitzva shebegufo, a mitzva which I am required to perform with my own body, my own self. Thus, charity can be given by anyone – the important consideration is the result, that the poor man be fed or housed. Anyone may write a sefer Torah for me, provided that I commission it and possess it and use it. But when the commandment is that I eat in a sukka or that I hear the shofar – that is a commandment relating to my body, to my person, and no one can take my place.

Thus, certain things cannot be delegated and relegated to others. Today, as we are threatened with the progressive depersonalization of life, we must emphasize as never before the mitzva shebegufo, the significance of the individual, of selfhood, of personal participation and responsibility. We must come to recognize that we are each of us not only a collection of assignable functions, but integrated, whole, unique individuals, who must act by ourselves and as ourselves.

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

 

 

פרשת חיי שרה

השראת השכינה – במשכן, בבריאה ובבתי ישראל

ויביאה האהלה (כד, סז)

ברש”י: ויביאה האהלה ונעשית דוגמת שרה אמו, כלומר והרי היא שרה אמו, שכל זמן ששרה קיימת היה נר דלוק מע”ש לערב שבת וברכה מצויה בעיסה וענן קשור על האהל ומשמתה פסקו וכשבאת רבקה חזרו (ב”ר).

והנה שלושה דברים אלו – נר דלוק מע”ש לער”ש, וברכה מצויה בעיסה, וענן קשור על האהל, היו דברים שמצינו באהל מועד. נר דלוק מערב שבת לערב שבת – זהו נר המערבי שבמנורה, וברכה מצויה בעיסה – היה נס שבלחם הפנים על השלחן שהיה טרי כל השבוע, וגם במשכן היה ענן קשור על האהל להראות על השראת השכינה. וכולם היו גם באהלה של שרה, כי באהל שרה שרתה השכינה והיה האוהל כמשכן.

ועיין ברמב”ן בהקדמתו לפי’ ספר שמות שכתב שפרשיות המשכן נכללו בספר שמות, משום שספר שמות הוא ספר הגאולה, וז”ל: “והנה הגלות איננו נשלם עד יום שובם אל מקומם ואל מעלת אבותם, וכשבאו אל הר סיני ועשו המשכן ושב הקב”ה והשרה שכינתו ביניהם, אז שבו אל מעלת אבותם שהיה סוד אלוק עלי אהליהם, והם הם המרכבה (ב”ר סי’ מז אות ח’), ואז נחשבו גאולים, ולכן נשלם הספר הזה [שמות] בהשלימו ענין המשכן ובהיות כבוד ה’ מלא אותו תמיד”, עכ”ל. הרי שהשכינה היתה שרויה באהל האבות וזה מה שכתב רש”י ששלושה דברים אלו הם משום שהשכינה היתה שורה באהלי האבות.

ונראה ממשמעות הקרא ד”ושכנתי בתוכם” שמעלה זו קיימת במקצת בכל בתי ישראל, ולכן השולחן שבכל בית ובית דומה למזבח. ולפי זה יש לבאר כונת חז”ל במאמרם בשבת (פרק במה מדליקין משנה ז’): “על שלש עבירות נשים מתות בשעת לדתן על שאינן זהירות בנדה, בחלה, ובהדלקת הנר”. שלושת הדברים הם כנגד שלושת המעלות שבאהלה של שרה: נדה – כנגד ענן קשור על האהל, כי טהרת המשפחה מראה על השראת השכינה ושם השם השרוי בין איש לאשתו, ובלא זה אש אוכלתן (בגמ’ סוטה יז, א); חלה – כנגד לחם הפנים, וברכה מצויה בעיסה; הדלקת הנר – כנגד הנר הדלוק מע”ש לע”ש. שלושת המצוות האלו קובעות את הבית למקום משכן, ובלעדיהן אין מקום להשראת שכינה, ולכן אלו שאינן זהירות בהן מתות בשעת לידתן.

ונראה שזו גם כן כונת חז”ל במאמרם (משנה אבות פ”א מ”ב): “על שלשה דברים העולם עומד על התורה ועל העבודה ועל גמילות חסדים”. בכל הבריאה יש השראת שכינה והעולם כולו הוא מקום לה. תורה – כנגד נר הדלוק, המנורה מראה על חכמת התורה; עבודה – היינו הענן הקשור על האהל; וגמילות חסדים – היא הברכה המצויה בעיסה. והבן.

והנה בחנוכה מצות הדלקת נרות הוי נר איש וביתו, ועיקר המצוה הוא נר לבית. ולהרמ”א המהדרין מן המהדרין הוא דכל אחד ואחד מדליק לעצמו דהיינו דהוא חובת גברא, אבל עיקר המצוה הוא שיהא נר דלוק לבית.

ואשר נראה, שמה שעיקר המצוה בחנוכה הוא חובת בית, הוא להראות על זה שהשכינה שורה בביתו של כל איש מישראל, שהרי היונים רצו לטמאות לא רק את המקדש החיצוני שבירושלים, אלא גם רצו לטמאות ולחלל את הקדושה הפנימית השורה בביתו של כל יהודי מישראל, וכמבואר ברמב”ם ריש הל’ חנוכה, וז”ל: “בבית שני כשמלכו יון גזרו גזרות על ישראל… ופשטו ידם בממונם ובנותיהם, ונכנסו להיכל ופרצו בו פרצות וטמאו הטהרות”, עכ”ל. ולכן קבעו חכמים שמצות נר חנוכה היא מצות נר איש וביתו, כי הנר מראה על השראת השכינה בבתי ישראל.

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

Ger V’Toshav

Context

Parshat Chayei Sara opens with the death of Sara and the purchase of the Cave of Machpeila by Avraham as a burial site.

Questions

The Torah dedicates no less than twenty sentences to the negotiations between Avraham and the Hittites concerning the purchase of the Cave of Machpeila as a burial site for the patriarchal family. This is more text than was dedicated to the entire story of Akeidat Yitzchak.

Recognizing that every word of the Torah is significant, why is this incident recorded in such seemingly unnecessary detail?

Approaches
A
A variety of approaches are suggested by the classical commentaries. The Talmud, in a passage echoed elsewhere in Midrashic literature, sees the entire story of the purchase of the Cave of Machpeila as a testament to Avraham’s loyalty and fortitude. Even Satan has to admit: “I have traveled across the whole world and have found no one as faithful as your servant [Avraham]. You promised him, ‘Arise, walk across the length and breadth of the land for I will give it to you.’ Yet when the time came to bury Sara and he could not find a spot for her burial, he did not question your ways.”

Some authorities actually suggest that this episode is one of the ten tests administered to Avraham throughout his lifetime (see Vayeira 4, Context).

B
Other sources see this narrative as one of a number of texts that record for perpetuity the clear claim of the Jewish nation to specific areas in the land of Israel. The details serve to underscore and cement the legal, contractual nature of our ownership.

How ironic that in our time the city of Hevron and the Cave of Machpeila have once again become the flashpoints for violent dispute between Israel and its neighbors. The Torah’s recordation of Avraham’s purchase of this land remains frighteningly prophetic. We are being told that we will need, across the ages, every possible proof that the land of Israel belongs to the Jewish people.

C
Yet others understand this narrative as underscoring the deep respect that must be shown, according to Jewish law, towards the dead. With meticulous detail, the Torah records Avraham’s extraordinary efforts to ensure a proper burial for Sara.

From that time onward, Avraham’s descendents will continue to care for those who pass from this world with honor and dignity.

The Chatam Sofer goes so far as to learn from this episode the halachic requirement to purchase a burial plot, rather than simply receive it as a gift.

D
A careful reading of the text, however, reveals another, deeper level to this episode.

Beneath the surface, a defining confrontation actually takes place between Avraham and his neighbors as he negotiates for the purchase of the Cave of Machpeila. This confrontation brings Avraham’s career full circle and may well present him with the greatest challenge of his life.

The key to the episode lies in a strange two-word phrase used by Avraham as he opens the dialogue with the Hittites dwelling in Hevron: Ger v’toshav anochi imachem, “I am a stranger and a citizen together with you.”

The word ger, “stranger,” is derived from the verb lagur, “to dwell,” whereas the term toshav, “citizen,” emerges from the verb lashevet, “to live.”

As we have noted before (see Vayeira 2, Approaches c), these two verbs describe very different relationships with the land: lagur connotes impermanent residence while lashevet speaks of permanent residence.

Avraham’s self-description is, therefore, inherently self-contradictory. Is he a citizen or a stranger? It would seem that he cannot be both.

Rashi immediately notes the problem and offers two possible solutions: On a pashut pshat level, Avraham is saying, “I am a stranger from a different land, who has come to live with you.”

On a Midrashic level, Avraham is saying: “It is up to you. If you treat me well, I will deal with you as if I am but a stranger who has no rights to the land. If not, I will consider myself a citizen, and take this property by law.”

Each of these explanations is predicated on the assumption that the terms ger and toshav are, indeed, mutually exclusive. One simply cannot be a stranger and a citizen at the same time. Any explanation of the phrase containing both words must therefore resolve the internal conflict between the terms.

E
A totally different approach to the phrase ger v’toshav, however, can be suggested. Perhaps the inherent conflict between ger and toshav is not meant to be resolved at all. We are confronted, instead, with one of those phrases in the Torah which at first appear contradictory but which, when properly understood, reflect a significant philosophic dialectic (see Bereishit 2, Approaches g).

Avraham’s two-word self-description summarizes, in uncanny fashion, not only his own place in society at this critical moment of his life but the place that his children will occupy in the world community across the ages. What better description of the Jew than “a stranger and a citizen”?

Throughout our history, in country after country, the Jew has maintained a delicate balance in order to survive and succeed. Given the opportunity, we have been “citizens” of every country we have lived in. We have participated in all facets of communal life, contributed well beyond our numbers to culture and technology, played a role in governance and risen to the top echelons of societal life. At the same time, however, we have always been “strangers.” By choice, we have turned to an outside society and declared our difference. We have maintained our own laws and rituals, our own belief system and our own cherished traditions. We have been part of and apart from every civilization in which we have lived. Our ability to maintain the balance defined by the phrase ger v’toshav has determined our very survival in every generation, and how each Jewish community defines the balance for itself determines the very nature of that community.

This balance, so crucial to our nation’s existence, is struck at the dawn of our history.

Towards the end of his life, Avraham turns to the society surrounding him and says: Ger v’toshav anochi imachem, “I am a stranger and a citizen together with you.” Through this declaration Avraham announces: This is who I am. I am, at once, a stranger and a citizen with you. I will participate with you, I will contribute to your culture and to your life; but I will always be separate and apart. This is the balance that I must maintain if I and my descendents are to survive and contribute as a people.

How telling is the response of Avraham’s neighbors in the very next sentences! Nesi Elokim ata b’tocheinu, “You are a prince of the Lord among us.” B’mivchar kvareinu kvor et meitecha, “In the choicest of our graves bury your dead.” The message they convey is the following: Avraham, why all the fuss? No need to struggle with the parameters of your identity. No need to remain separate. You are fully accepted among us without reservation or stipulation.

From that moment the battle is joined. A battle that courses silently beneath the surface of Avraham’s negotiations, first with the Hittites in general and then with Ephron (the owner of the field) in specific.

It is noteworthy that even when Avraham negotiates privately with Ephron, the Torah goes out of its way to tell the reader repeatedly that the negotiations take place in full public view and hearing. These are not simply private negotiations over the ownership of a field but a clash of two cultures.

Over and over again, the Hittites attempt to persuade Avraham to lower his guard, to join their community without conditions. Over and over again, Avraham refuses, insisting upon boundaries and separation, insisting that the grave for Sara be fully purchased and not received as a gift. Even after death the Jew must remain distinct, his unique identity fully preserved.

This is one of those quiet moments of history where everything hangs in the balance. If Avraham fails, God forbid, in his attempt to define his identity, Jewish history ends right here. He is assimilated into the Hittite community, the Jewish nation never forms, and all the contributions that the Jewish people are destined to make to the world are never made.

F
The event at Machpeila also brings Avraham’s career full circle. The patriarch’s mission to the world was launched with God’s commandment: Lech lecha  mei’artzecha…, Leave your land, your birthplace and the home of your father and go “to the land that I will show you.” (see Lech Lecha 1).

The rabbis understand this commandment as creating a twofold obligation. On the one hand, Avraham was instructed to separate himself from his background and from all within the world incompatible with his mission. On the other hand, the rabbis say, God commanded Avraham to journey from place to place, in order to actively spread God’s word to a waiting world. The Midrash, in fact, compares the patriarch at the beginning of his career to a small jar of perfume. Left in one place, the perfume cannot be appreciated. If it is carried throughout the room, however, all can benefit from its aroma. So, too, Avraham was commanded by God to travel from his home so that others could benefit from his efforts.

In short, the rabbis see the first commandment given by God to Avraham as a commandment to be part of the world and apart from the world at the same time. This dialectic is reiterated by Avraham decades later, when he faces Hittite society and proclaims: Ger v’toshav anochi imachem, “I am a stranger and a citizen together with you.”

At the dawn of Avraham’s journey, God openly delineates the balance that will define Jewish identity across the ages. When the patriarch negotiates for the Cave of Machpeila, however, God is silent. Alone and on his own, Avraham must discern the challenge that confronts him and respond appropriately. He looks back upon the lessons he has learned throughout his career and, facing a foreign society, carefully negotiates the equation that will preserve both his involvement in that society and his own individuality. Avraham’s triumph at that lonely moment ensures the survival and success of his people.

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

 

 

פרשת וירא

ואנכי עפר ואפר – עבר ועתיד

בשני מקומות בתורה מופיע הלשון של “לך לך”, אחד בתחילת פרשת לך לך, והשני בפרשת וירא כשנצטווה אברהם בנסיון העקידה: “לך לך אל ארץ המוריה”. שני הנסיונות מקבילים אחד לשני, הנסיון של לך לך הוא בכך שאברהם בעוזבו את ארצו ומולדתו ובית אביו הקריב את עברו, והנסיון של העקידה היה שאברהם יהיה מוכן להקריב את העתיד של “כי ביצחק יקרא לך זרע”.

ועיין בבית הלוי שהסביר את דברי הגמ’ (סוטה יז, א) דבשכר שאמר אברהם ואנכי עפר ואפר זכה לעפר סוטה ואפר פרה. לעפר מעולם לא היתה צורה חשובה, אבל יכול לקבל צורה, כי יכולין לזרוע בו. ולאפר היתה צורה קודם שנשרף, אבל אין לו עתיד, שאין יכולין לזרוע בו או לגבל בכדי ליצור כלי. וזהו מה שאמר אברהם, שהשפיל עצמו ואמר שאין לו עבר או עתיד מבלעדי ד’. ומידה כנגד מידה זכה אברהם בעפר סוטה המברר שהאשה היתה טהורה ומעולם לא זינתה, ולאפר פרה שמטהר אדם לעתיד.

ההבדל בין השגת האבות הקדושים להשגת משה רבנו

שונה הוא אברהם אבינו ממשה רבינו, בכך שלמשה רבינו נתגלה הקב”ה מתחילה, אבל אברהם אבינו הגיע מעצמו להשגה שיש בורא המנהיג את העולם, מכח מה שהתבונן אברהם בבריאה ואמר שאי אפשר לבריאה בלא בורא ומנהיג, ובלשון חז”ל: “שראה בירה דולקת ואמר שאי אפשר לבירה בלא בעל הבירה”.

ושמעתי ממו”ר מרן הגרי”ד הלוי זצ”ל, שזוהי כונת הפסוק “וארא אל אברהם אל יצחק ואל יעקב בקל ש-די ושמי ד’ לא נודעתי להם”. ה’ נתגלה לאבות דרך הטבע וזו המידה של קל ש-די, שהוא הבורא שאמר לעולם די, אבל אין התגלות זו כהתגלות של שם המפורש שבו נתגלה למשה רבינו. האבות הבינו מעצמם שיש בורא עולם, כפי שהשכל הכריח את אברהם שיש בורא ומנהיג לעולם, וכמו שכתב הרמב”ם (פ”א מהל’ עבודת כוכבים ה”ג), וז”ל: “כיון שנגמל איתן זה התחיל לשוטט בדעתו והוא קטן והתחיל לחשוב ביום וכלילה, והיה תמיה היאך אפשר שיהיה הגלגל הזה נוהג, תמיד ולא יהיה לו מנהיג ומי שיסבב אותו, כי אי אפשר שיסבב את עצמו, ולא היה לו מלמד ולא מודיע דבר אלא מושקע באור כשדים בין עובדי כוכבים הטפשים, ואביו ואמו וכל העם עובדי כוכבים והוא עובד עמהם, ולבו משוטט ומבין עד שהשיג דרך האמת והבין קו הצדק מתבונתו הנכונה” וכו’.

כבישת הרצונות העצמיים בנסיון העקידה

והנה הפילוסוף היוני פלאטו שאל: מהו הטוב, האם מה שהוא רצון הקב”ה זהו הטוב, או שישנו טוב מוחלט שהשכל מחייבו והוא שקבע הקב”ה במצוותיו. ושתי הדרכים האלו תלויות באות אחת בגירסת הרמב”ם (פ”ח מהל’ מלכים הל’ י”א), וז”ל: “כל המקבל ז’ מצות ונזהר לעשותן הרי זה מחסידי אומות העולם ויש לו חלק לעולם הבא. והוא שיקבל אותן ויעשה אותן מפני שצוה בהן הקב”ה בתורה וכו’. אבל אם עשאן מפני הכרע הדעת אין זה גר תושב, ואינו מחסידי אומות העולם ולא מחכמיהם”. וגירסת ר’ זלמן מווילנא בדברי הרמב”ם היתה: “אלא מחכמיהם”. הרי ששתי הגירסאות נחלקו אם יש תוכן למצוה, דהיינו דנחשב לחכמה, בלא ציווי מהקב”ה. והנה ממה שטען אברהם אבינו, “השופט כל הארץ לא יעשה משפט”, לכאורה נראה דיש משפט שבא מהכרע הדעת מלבד ציווי הקב”ה ורצונו. [ועיי”ע ספורנו ומלבי”ם.]

והנה ממה שהאבות קיימו את כל התורה כולה אף קודם שנצטוו, נראה שישנו ענין של מצוה שהיו האבות יכולין לכוון אליה אף בלא הציווי. [ויעוין בהקדמת ר”נ גאון לש”ס ובקונטרס ד”ס סי’ א’ אות כב.]

כשאברהם קיבל את הציווי של העקידה, היה צריך להקריב את זה שהגיע לאמונה בקב”ה ע”י חכמתו ושכלו, שהרי הקב”ה כבר הבטיחו: “כי ביצחק יקרא לך זרע”, ועכשיו הוא מצווהו: “והעלהו לעולה”, ולא תמה על הסתירה בין שני המאמרים. והרי עצם העקידה מראה שה”טוב” תלוי ברצון ה’, ושלא כפי השגתו של אברהם אבינו מקודם. וכלשון חז”ל (ירושלמי תענית פ”ב ה”ד), וז”ל: “אמר אברהם לפני הקב”ה, רבש”ע גלוי וידוע לפניך שבשעה שאמרת לי והעלהו שם לעולה היה לי מה להשיב, אתמול אמרת לי כי ביצחק יקרא לך זרע, ועכשיו אתה אומר לי להעלהו לעולה, אלא שכבשתי את יצרי לעשות רצונך, כך יהי רצון שבשעה שיהיו בניו של יצחק נכנסין בצרה ואין להם מי שילמד עליהם סנגוריא תהא אתה מלמד עליהם סניגוריא”. דהיינו, כמו שאברהם העדיף את רצון הקב”ה על רצונו, כן יהיה הקב”ה מלמד סניגוריא על ישראל אף למעלה מן השכל.

ובניגוד להנהגתו של אברהם אבינו וכהקדמה לסיפור של העקידה, הוא מה שהתורה מספרת על הגר וישמעאל, דכתיב: “ותלך ותשב לה מנגד הרחק כמטחוי קשת, כי אמרה אל אראה במות הילד, ותשב ותשא את קולה ותבך” (בראשית כ, י), ובמדרש רבה איתא: “א”ר ברכיה כמטחת דברים כלפי מעלה, אמרה: אתמול אמרת לי הרבה ארבה את זרעך וגו’, עכשו הוא מת בצמא”, עכ”ל. הרי שהסיפור של ישמעאל והגר הוא ממש כסיפור של העקידה, בשניהם בא מלאך והציל את הילד, רק שהגר הטיחה דברים כלפי מעלה, ולעומתה אברהם אבינו קיבל באמונה שלימה את צוואת ה’.

 

 

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

Putting a Bad Conscience to Use

The story of the Akeida is, together with the revelation at Sinai, the central event in Jewish history and religion. One of the most remarkable aspects of this episode is the one word by which Abraham accepts upon himself this historic trial and its mental agonies and spiritual sufferings. God called to him, “Abraham!” and, in magnificent simplicity, the response is forthcoming: “Hineini,” “Behold, here I am,” or, “I am ready” (Genesis 22:1).

One of the commentators, Rabbi Abraham ben haRambam – the only son of Maimonides – emphasizes the quality of this response by contrasting it to that of Adam. He writes, “How great the difference between Abraham who answered the divine call with the word ‘hineini,’ and Adam who, when God called out to him, ‘Where are you?’ answered, ‘I saw that I was naked and so I hid.’”

Now this comparison is somewhat disturbing. The answer of Adam is, after all, the response of a human being pursued by God who demands an explanation for a terrible failure, whereas Abraham’s response is to a divine call not necessarily connected with any human offense. Is this not an invidious comparison? Is not Abraham great enough in his own right without seeking to enhance his reputation at the expense of his grandfather Adam?

I believe the answer I wish to offer not only justifies the comment of Rabbi Abraham ben haRambam, but has the widest ramifications both for a proper understanding of the Bible and for our own lives. This answer is that both men – Adam and Abraham – were, in a sense, being reprimanded!

The story of the Akeida begins with the words, “And it came to pass after these things.” What things? asked the rabbis (Genesis Rabba 55:4). In their answer they indicate that the words of the Bible imply some severe introspection. The Akeida took place, they say, after hirhurei devarim, deep meditation and self-analysis by Abraham. Abraham, according to the rabbis, was troubled. He had a bad conscience which caused these hirhurei devarim, these introspective sessions. The Akeida was a kind of punishment, and it was brought on by Abraham’s errors.

What is it that troubled Abraham? There are several interpretations (see Genesis Rabba 55). One of them (a midrash cited in Kav haYashar) refers to the special celebration arranged by Abraham in honor of the weaning of his son Isaac. The Bible refers to that party as “mishteh gadol,” a great feast. Our tradition maintains that the greatness of this banquet was due to the guests who attended: “Gedolim hayu sham” – a party which was attended by all the giants of the time. Shem attended, Eber was there, Og was one of the guests – all the crowned heads of the ancient Near East were at the great party that Abraham prepared. But this is precisely where the trouble lay: only the gedolim, the great ones, were there; but there was no mention of ketanim, small people, ordinary human beings, the poor, and the marginal and the unwanted. Certainly Abraham, who was renowned for his hospitality over all else, should have known enough that at his personal simĥa he ought to have as major participants also the poor and the rejected. Abraham’s conscience troubled him; had he not contributed to a subtle transformation and dangerous degradation from hospitality to mere entertainment? For this should be an occasion for the uplifting of downtrodden spirits, not the namedropping of high and exalted personages.

But whatever occasioned Abraham’s troubled conscience, it was responsible for the Akeida episode. So that the divine call to Abraham was a conscience-call. What Rabbi Abraham ben haRambam meant, then, was that both Adam and Abraham responded to the call of a bad conscience – Adam for the eating of the forbidden fruit, and Abraham for his omissions at the feast – but that is where the comparison ends. When it comes to the responses of these two individuals: “How great the difference!”

When Adam sinned and heard God calling him, he said, “I heard Your voice in the garden”; in the underbrush of his mind there takes place the rustling of a primitive conscience. “I saw that I was naked”; there is a sudden awareness of his nakedness, of shame and disgrace. And so what does he do? “And so I hid”; he withdraws, hides himself, denies that he did anything wrong. He runs away and, when confronted by God, blames his wife or the serpent…

How different is Abraham! God calls him and his response is: “Hineini,” “Here I am!” I am willing to harness my bad conscience to a good use. I am ready to go through an akeida, to overcome the past by creative achievement in the future, teaching the world the real meaning of faith and the lengths to which one must go in order to uphold it. Rashi tells us that the word hineini implies both anava, and zimun – it is the language of both meekness and preparedness. Indeed, it is the language of meekness because it reveals a bad conscience, and it is the language of preparedness because Abraham is ready to do something about it. He is ready to take the bad conscience and make good use of it.

So the difference between Adam and Abraham is in what to do with a bad conscience: whether to hide or to use it. And what a difference there is between them! A bad conscience irritates the mind and the heart, until that bad conscience is either repressed or converted into something creative and constructive. It is much like the grain of sand that is either expelled by the oyster from under its shell, or transformed into a shiny and precious pearl.

This example of Abraham has been repeated at chosen moments throughout history. The Nobel prizes which were awarded recently offer such an example. Alfred Nobel is a man who gave a fortune for awards to those who contribute to the advancement of peace in the world. Why did he do this? It was an effort to overcome his bad conscience for having created dynamite and made war more destructive. Many of the greatest Torah scholars in our history were people who brought to their spiritual and intellectual endeavors a special passion that arose from the knowledge of having strayed in their youth.

The same holds true for philanthropy. I knew a man who was very generous in his endowments of various communal institutions. As so often happens, others begrudged him this mitzva. They pointed to certain incidents in his past which were not luminous examples of all the great virtues. What should be the Jewish reaction? It should be: marvelous! God bless that man! The greatest communal institutions were built by people who knew how to use a bad conscience and convert it to good use. Hospitals, schools, synagogues, welfare institutions of all kinds, are the products of people who have learned from Abraham to take their hirhurei devarim and use it to say “hineini” to the call of God. And who, after all, is there who is so saintly that he never has an occasion for a bad or troubled conscience? On the contrary, any man or woman who honestly feels that he or she has no bad conscience at all should have a bad conscience for being so insensitive as not to have a bad conscience! Would we rather a man have no conscience at all, that he be a moral idiot? Would we rather he be like Adam who responds only with “and so I hid” – that he deny his past, that he evade his responsibility? Certainly the transformation of guilt into philanthropy has a respectable precedent in the hineini of Abraham.

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

What Kind of Answer Is This?

Context

Towards the end of Parshat Lech Lecha God delivers two dramatic promises to Avraham. The patriarch reacts to each in vastly different ways.

God first states, “Look up to the heavens and count the stars if you can; thus will be your children.” Faced with this prediction, Avraham responds with unquestioning belief. God then continues, “I am the Lord Who took you out of Ur Casdim to give you this land to inherit.” Here, Avraham objects, “O Lord God, how do I know that I will inherit?”

In response to Avraham’s objection, God commands the patriarch to slaughter a series of animals, divide some of the carcasses in half and place each half opposite the other. God causes a deep sleep to fall on Avraham and appears to him in a dramatic vision. “Know full well,” God proclaims, “that your children will be strangers in a land not their own, where they will be tormented and enslaved for four hundred years…. And the fourth generation will return here…”

God’s presence then passes between the divided animals and a covenant between God and Avraham is struck, known as the Brit bein Habetarim, the “Covenant between the Pieces.”

Questions

Why does Avraham believe God’s promise concerning progeny, yet question the inheritance of the land? If it is within God’s power to bless Avraham and Sara with children after so many years of barrenness, He is certainly capable of ensuring that the Jewish nation will inherit its homeland. Compounding the problem is the fact that on two previous occasions God has already clearly promised that the land of Canaan will be given to Avraham’s descendants. Avraham, for some reason, does not question that promise until now.

On the flip side, God’s response to Avraham’s doubts seems abundantly strange. How is the prediction of Egyptian slavery meant to allay Avraham’s fears or answer his questions? Is there a message of reassurance hidden in the dark vision of exile and slavery? Or is this simply God’s way of saying that “all will be well that ends well”? Further, what is the significance of the ritual accompanying the Covenant between the Pieces?

Finally, on a deeper level, how does this entire episode affect the delicate balance existing between prescience (God’s knowledge of the future; see Bereishit 4, Approaches A) and man’s free will? Once God informs us of the future, is He not, then, predetermining it? Are Joseph and his brothers, the biblical characters whose actions will lead to the descent of the Jewish people into Egypt, simply actors playing out predetermined roles on a predefined stage?

Approaches
A
The scholars of the Talmud and Midrash draw two direct yet vastly different connections between Avraham’s question and God’s response at the Covenant between the Pieces.

The first approach perceives the patriarch’s question as the catalyst for God’s dire prophecy. The very descent of the nation into Egyptian slavery will be a direct result of Avraham’s doubts.  Shmuel said: ‘Why was our forefather Avraham punished through the enslavement of his children in Egypt for 210 years? Because he questioned the powers of God, by saying, ‘how do I know that I will inherit?’”

In Shmuel’s eyes, God’s message at this moment is not one of reassurance but punishment. You have doubted my power, and as a result your children will suffer through enslavement at the hands of strangers. Then, and only then, will they inherit the land.

Shmuel fails to explain why Avraham suddenly doubts God. He also raises the serious philosophical question of why children should be punished for a sin committed by their ancestor.

The question as to whether or not children are affected by the sins of their parents is dealt with on a number of occasions within rabbinic literature. The most well-known iteration of the issue is found in a Talmudic passage in the tractate of Brachot. The Talmud notes an apparent discrepancy between the following two biblical passages:
1. “He Who visits the iniquity of fathers on children and children’s children until the third and fourth generation.”
2. “Fathers shall not die because of their children, nor shall children die because of their fathers. Each individual will die in his own sin.”

The Talmud resolves the contradiction by suggesting that God will indeed punish children for their parents’ sins but only if the children persist in continuing in their parents’ ways.

Based upon this Talmudic passage, the following balance can be suggested.

Judaism absolutely rejects the Christian concept of “original sin” (the idea that all generations of mankind continue to bear guilt for the original sin of Adam and Chava). We are not responsible for the sins of others. We are each responsible for our own fate.

Judaism cannot deny the idea, however, of “intergenerational reverberation.” Our actions help shape our children’s lives, just as we are, in large measure, a product of our ancestors’ decisions and deeds.

We are not guilty of the sin committed by Adam and Chava. We do, however, still pay the price. This is not punishment, but, rather, a reality of life. Had Adam and Chava not sinned, we would now be living a very different existence in the Garden of Eden. We are still affected by the actions of our primal ancestors.

Similarly, such overarching life issues as where we are born, to whom, into what environment, and, in fact, whether or not we are born at all, are determined not by us and not only by God, but also by our parents and those who came before them as well.

If, as we have said before, the box that defines our lives is, in large measure, predetermined by God (see Bereishit 4, Approaches a), it is also partially created by those who precede us.

The Talmud warns that parents and grandparents should be careful of their decisions and actions, for they help shape the lives of generations to come. Their children will build upon what they have built, reaping the rewards or paying the price.

In the episode before us, for example, Avraham’s descendants are neither guilty of nor punished for his failings. They are, however, affected by his decisions and by his actions – either because they will learn from his example and make the same mistakes in their time, or because Avraham’s actions themselves will create a given set of circumstances that will reverberate across the ages and influence generations to come.

B
The second Midrashic approach focuses not on the substance of God’s prophecy but on the ritual that accompanies it.

“Rabbi Hiyya Bar Hanina said: [Avraham did not question] as an accuser but, rather, he asked, ‘By what merit [will my children inherit the land]?’ God responded, ‘By the atonements that I will give to Israel.’” Rabbi Hiyya goes on to explain that the animals used in the covenant ritual represented specific sacrifices that would be brought by the Jewish people as atonements throughout the ages.

Rashi summarizes Rabbi Hiyya’s approach as follows: “Avraham asked, ‘In what merit?’ and God responded, ‘In the merit of the sacrifices.’”

According to this approach, Avraham is not questioning God’s power at all. He is instead questioning his own merit and that of his progeny. He believes in God’s ability but he doubts his own.

Textual support for Rabbi Hiyya’s position can be found in the seemingly superfluous word lerishta, “to inherit,” found at the end of God’s promise to Avraham concerning the land. In its active conjugation, this word does not mean to inherit but to conquer and acquire.10 God is informing Avraham that the land will not be given to his children as a gift. They will have to actively acquire the land when the time comes.

When the patriarch hears that his children will have to participate in the conquest of Canaan, he realizes, for the first time, that the acquisition of the land is not a foregone conclusion. He therefore asks: “How do I know that they will do their part? How do I know that they will inherit the land?”

God responds by reassuring Avraham that his children will indeed merit a return to their homeland. The source of that merit will be their religious devotion, represented by the sacrifices they will offer across the years. This reassurance is then driven home through the symbolic ritual of the covenant itself.

C
While Rabbi Hiyya focuses on the ritual of the covenant as a response to Avraham’s self-doubts, perhaps the prophecy of exile itself contains an element of reassurance. God is saying to Avraham that his children will inherit the land because when the time comes to leave Egypt, they will rise to the challenge. After centuries of slavery, they will still be a recognizable people and they will respond to God’s call.

In that merit, they will inherit the land.

Interpreted this way, the Covenant between the Pieces can also be seen as a harbinger of exiles to come. Throughout our turbulent history, we will be challenged, against great odds, to retain our integrity as a people and to keep the dream of return to our Homeland alive. How much greater is the challenge in our own day when the possibility of such return is real.

D
Finally, there are those commentaries, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch among them, who see no element of doubt at all in Avraham’s reaction. They claim that the patriarch, hearing for the first time that his children will have to actively conquer the land, simply asks, Ba’ma eida? How will I know when the time is right?

God responds: It will not happen in your time, or in your children’s time, or in their children’s time. Only after generations, only after exile, will your descendents conquer the land.

Points to Ponder

The tension between God’s foreknowledge of events and our own free will comes to a head when we encounter an event such as the Covenant between the Pieces (for a brief discussion of the concepts of free will, prescience and predestination see Bereishit 4, Approaches a). For while God’s prescience does not normally affect our actions in any way, the moment He shares a prediction of the future with us the equation changes dramatically. How much choice can we have if we know that events are already predetermined? How much choice, for that matter, did Joseph and his brothers have concerning Joseph’s sale, the catalyst for our exile in Egypt?

While a full discussion of the issues raised by this question is well beyond the scope of our text, the following brief comment can be made.

God will often paint the broad brushstrokes of history but allow us to fill in the details. We are told, for example, that the Mashiach (Messiah) is destined to come, bringing with him the culmination of our nation’s story. How he comes, when he comes, how much difficulty or ease will precede his arrival, and which of us will be there to greet him are all issues that are determined by our actions. Similarly, while God predicted in general fashion that the Jewish people would experience hardship and exile in a strange land, the details of how those events came to fruition were determined by the actions of the personalities at the time. (For a more complete discussion of these issues see Vayeishev 3, Approaches a.)

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

פרש

 

 

פרשת לך לך

שורש הפירוד בין אברהם אבינו ללוט

ויעל אברם ממצרים הוא ואשתו וכל אשר לו ולוט עמו הנגבה (יג, א)

שמעתי ממו”ר מרן הגרי”ד הלוי סולובייצ’יק זצ”ל, שבפסוק זה אנו רואים שינוי ביחס שבין לוט לאברהם, שהנה בתחילה כתיב (יב, ה): “ויקח אברהם את שרי אשתו ואת לוט בן אחיו ואת כל רכושם אשר רכשו ואת הנפש אשר עשו בחרן, ויצאו ללכת ארצה כנען, ויבאו ארצה כנען”. והרי קודם ירידתם למצרים לוט הוא תלמידו של אברהם והולך אתו. ועל כן בפסוק זה לוט מוזכר קודם הרכוש מפני שהוא מבני ביתו של אברהם, ועדיין מאמין בחזונו של אברם והולך אתו ארצה כנען.

אולם כשעלו ממצרים רואים שיש כבר מרחק בין לוט לאברהם, דכתיב (יג, א): “ויעל אברם ממצרים הוא ואשתו וכל אשר לו, ולוט עמו הנגבה”, הרי כאן הרכוש של אברהם – “כל אשר לו”, מוזכר קודם ללוט. וכן משמע מלשון “ולוט עמו”, שלוט רק נוסע באותו כיוון של אברהם, אבל אינו עוד מבני בריתו ואינו משתתף עוד בהשקפתו. וכנראה השינוי ביחס של לוט לאברהם הוא כתוצאה מהיותם במצרים; לוט התרשם מהעושר והגדולה של מצרים, וחמד את אשר ראה במצרים, וזה היה הגורם לפירוד הדעות בין לוט לאברהם.

וכך אנו רואים שכשבאה השעה להפרד לוט מאברהם, דכתיב: “וישא לוט את עיניו וירא את כל ככר הירדן כי כולה משקה לפני שחת ה’ את סדום ואת עמורה כגן ה’ כארץ מצרים בואכה צער” (יג, י) – בעיני לוט, ארץ מצרים היתה כגן ה’. בפסוק זה באים לידי ביטוי מחשבותיו והשקפתו של לוט, על אף שלפי האמת לא היתה כארץ מצרים לרוע, מבחינה רוחנית, מ”מ בעיני לוט דמתה מצרים לגן ה’.

הפירוד בין לוט לאברהם היה על רקע חילוקי דעות, וכפי שאפשר לשפוט מכך שהריב בין רועי מקנה אברהם לרועי מקנה לוט היה במיוחד על עניני דעות. רועי לוט היו גוזלים משדות אחרים, כמפורש ברש”י (יג, ז ד”ה ויהי ריב), וז”ל: “שהיו רועיו של לוט רשעים ומרעים בהמתם בשדות אחרים ורועי אברם מוכיחים אותם על הגזל”, עכ”ל. וכן אפשר להבין ממה שאברהם אמר ללוט: “אל נא תהי מריבה ביני וביניך ובין רועי ובין רועיך כי אנשים אחים אנחנו” (יג, ח), לשון ‘מריבה’ הוא יותר חזק מ’ריב’, ומשמעותו היא מחלוקת בדעות והשקפות, והיא שעמדה בין הרועים (עיין במלבי”ם).

Excerpted from Rabbi Menachem Genack’s Birkat Yitzchak Chidushim U-ve’urim al HaTorah

פרשת נח

א

חידוש העולם אחרי המבול הוא בריאה חדשה

המעיין היטב בלשון המקרא יווכח, שהתורה השוותה לשונה במעשה בראשית ללשונה בפרשת נח אחר המבול בשעה שנבנה העולם מחדש. ונציג את הדברים לפרטיהם.

“ויזכור אלוקים את נח ואת כל החיה ואת כל הבהמה אשר אתו בתבה ויעבר אלוקים רוח על הארץ וישכו המים” (ח, א); “ויסכרו מעינות תהום וארבות השמים ויכלא הגשם מן השמים” (ח, ב). והוא ניצב כנגד: “והארץ היתה תהו ובהו וחשך על פני תהום ורוח אלוקים מרחפת על פני המים” (א, ב).

הפסוק: “והמים היו הלוך וחסור עד החדש העשירי בעשירי באחד לחדש נראו ראשי ההרים” (ח, ה) – עומד כנגד: “ויאמר אלוקים יקוו המים מתחת השמים אל מקום אחד ותראה היבשה ויהי כן” (א, ט).

ומה ששלח נח את העורב והיונה – כנגד “ועוף יעופף על הארץ” (בראשית א, כ). ואז ברכם אלקים, כדכתיב (ט, ב): “ויברך אלוקים את נח ואת בניו ויאמר להם פרו ורבו מלאו את הארץ ומוראכם וחתכם יהיה על כל חית הארץ ועל כל עוף השמים בכל אשר תרמוש האדמה ובכל דגי הים בידכם נתנו”, תוכן ברכה זו מקביל לברכה שנתן ה’ לאדם: “ויברך אותם אלוקים ויאמר להם פרו ורבו ומלאו את הארץ” וגו’ (א, כח).

וכל זה, להראות שהעולם שאחר המבול היה נחשב בריאה מחודשת כבריאת העולם בבראשית.

ובמה שכתוב: “ומיד האדם מיד איש אחיו אדרוש את האדם” (ט, ה), באה התורה לרמוז על הריגת הבל ע”י קין, ולכן כתבה לשון “איש אחיו”.