Category: Excerpts

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

Context

As Moshe recounts the events following the sin of the golden calf, he adds a detail not mentioned in the original version of these events, recorded in the book of Shmot.

Moshe relates that when God commanded him to carve a second set of Tablets of Testimony to replace the first, God also instructed him to fashion an aron etz, a wooden ark, in which to house the new tablets. Strikingly, Moshe mentions this wooden ark no less than four times within the span of five sentences:

At that time the Lord said to me, “Carve for yourself two stone tablets like the first and ascend to Me to the mountain and make for yourself a wooden ark. And I shall inscribe on the tablets the
declarations that were on the first tablets that you shattered, and you shall place them in the ark.”

And I made an ark of cedarwood and I carved two stone tablets like the first, and I ascended the mountain with the two tablets in my hand. And He inscribed on the tablets, according to the first writing, the Ten Declarations that the Lord spoke to you on the mountain from the midst of the fire, on the day of the congregation, and the Lord gave them to me. And I turned and I descended from the mountain and I placed the tablets in the ark that I made, and they remained there as Hashem had commanded me.

Questions

Why is the creation of the aron etz mentioned by Moshe here, yet omitted in the original narrative concerning these events?

Why does Moshe place repeated emphasis on the fashioning and use  of the ark? What aspect of the aron etz captures the attention and fires the imagination of this great leader? And again, if the ark is so important, why isn’t it mentioned until now?

Why did Moshe apparently alter the sequence of God’s instructions surrounding the aron etz? God commanded Moshe to first carve Tablets of Testimony and then to fashion the ark. Moshe, however, responded by first fashioning the ark and only subsequently carving the tablets.

Why did God command Moshe to fashion an ark only in connection with the second set of Tablets of Testimony and not in connection with the first?

Finally, what ultimately happens to the aron etz? Does it continue to be used? What is the relationship between this wooden ark and the gold-covered Ark first detailed in Parshat Teruma as part of the overall construction of the Sanctuary and its utensils?

Approaches

–A–
Addressing our last question first, a dispute emerges among the classical commentaries concerning the ultimate role and fate of the aron etz fashioned by Moshe at Sinai.

Mirroring a position quoted in Talmud Yerushalmi and elsewhere, Rashi and the Da’at Zekeinim Miba’alei Hatosafot identify Moshe’s wooden ark as one of two arks that were destined to stand in the Sanctuary. These scholars explain that for a short period of time – after Moshe’s descent from Sinai until the creation of the Mishkan – the simple wooden ark held both the shards of the first tablets as well as the complete second set. With the building of the Mishkan, a primary, gold-covered Ark was created at God’s command to serve as the permanent home for the second complete set of tablets. Fashioned by Betzalel and his artisans, this second ark was designed to remain in the Sanctuary as the centerpiece of the Holy of Holies. The creation of Betzalel’s Ark, however, did not render Moshe’s first ark obsolete. The wooden ark remained in use as the lasting home for the shards of the shattered first tablets. Housed in the Sanctuary as well, this humble ark was periodically removed to accompany the nation in battle.

–B–
Noting that the Talmudic view postulating two arks in continual use is a minority opinion, the Ramban insists that only one ark, Betzalel’s Ark, stood in the sanctuary. This gold-covered Ark housed both the shards of the shattered first tablets as well as the complete second set. Moshe’s wooden ark was meant to be temporary from the outset. Once the Sanctuary’s Ark was created, the aron etz was stored away in preparation for respectful burial, as are all sanctified items that have fallen into disuse. The absence of a similar temporary aron in connection with the first tablets, the Ramban adds, reflects God’s awareness that those tablets were destined for immediate destruction by Moshe at the base of the mountain.

The Ramban also offers a second, alternative reading for this entire passage – a reading that completely changes our understanding of God’s message to Moshe at this critical moment.

In his second approach the Ramban contends that God did not command Moshe to create a separate wooden ark at all. Only one ark was built at Sinai: the Ark fashioned by Betzalel as part of the Sanctuary’s construction. This Ark, although covered and lined with gold, was primarily built out of cedarwood and could be rightfully referred to as a “wooden ark.” The divine instruction to Moshe, “Make for yourself a wooden ark,” therefore, does not refer to a new ark at all, but to Betzalel’s Sanctuary Ark. God deliberately repeats the instruction to create this ark in conjunction with the second tablets, in order to put Moshe’s mind at ease.

Moshe, explains the Ramban, was uncertain as to the extent of God’s forgiveness in the aftermath of the sin of the golden calf. Did that forgiveness, he wondered, extend to the building of the Sanctuary, as well, or would that sanctified edifice be denied to the nation as a result of their failing? God, therefore, simultaneous with His instructions concerning the second set of tablets, commands Moshe, “make for yourself a wooden ark. I reiterate, Moshe, the first mitzva associated with the Sanctuary’s creation – the fashioning of the Ark – as an indication of the extent of My forgiveness. Rest assured that the nation will not be denied the Mishkan as a result of the sin of the golden calf.

–C–
If we accept the Ramban’s second reading of the text, the question as to why the aron etz only seems to appear in conjunction with the second set of tablets becomes moot. God is not commanding the construction of a new ark, but instead reaffirming His commitment to the ark that has already been mentioned.

Also understandable is Moshe’s preoccupation with the construction and use of this ark in his recollections of these events in the book of Devarim. Traumatized by the nation’s sin, Moshe was deeply afraid that the Mishkan would be denied to the Israelites. His profound joy and relief upon realizing that his fears were unfounded are now expressed by his repeated emphasis on the ark.

–D–
The Ramban refers to his second approach – that only one ark was created at Sinai – as the pshat of the text. The vast majority of scholars, however, accept the more obvious reading: that God commands Moshe to fashion a separate wooden ark at Sinai, distinct from the primary Ark of the Sanctuary. If we reconsider the creation of this wooden ark against the backdrop of surrounding events, another explanation for its significance can be suggested.

Travel back for a moment to the scene at Sinai, to the swiftly moving events following the sin of the golden calf. The nation has failed grievously at the very foot of Sinai, moving Moshe to smash the first tablets at the mountain’s base; the primary perpetrators of the sin have been punished; God has threatened further penalties against the nation as a whole; Moshe has prayed; God has fundamentally forgiven. And now, God commands Moshe to begin again, to carve a second set of tablets. Only one question remains: What will be different this time? What must the nation learn from their previous failure, so that they will not fail again?

To convey the essential changes that must occur if the second attempt at Sinai is to succeed, God subtly varies His instructions concerning the tablets. These variations allow for the transmission of two critical lessons with the giving of the second tablets: the lessons of partnership and context.

The first of these lessons emerges from an obvious distinction between the tablets themselves. While the first Tablets of Testimony were both carved and inscribed by God, the second set is to be fashioned by Moshe himself, and only inscribed by divine hand. To a people whose sin may well have been an unwillingness to relate directly and closely to God, God’s primary message is clear:

This is a partnership that we are forging, you and I. You cannot be passive, distant participants in the process. I am giving you a living law that you will be required not only to obey, but to study, analyze and apply to ever-changing circumstances. 

You are full partners in the task of bringing My sanctity into the world. To symbolize that partnership, we will create these second tablets together. Moshe will carve the tablets and I will inscribe My word upon them.

If the nation is to succeed in this second attempt, however, another lesson must be taught as well. It is the lesson of context: the Torah is valueless in a vacuum. The words of God’s law are only significant when they find a ready home in the heart of man, shaping the actions of those who receive them. As we have previously suggested (see Shmot: Ki Tissa 4, Approaches E), this second critical lesson is conveyed not only through the second tablets themselves, but also through the newly commanded aron etz.

Moshe recognized a hard truth upon descending from Sinai with the first set of tablets in his hands. Confronted by the horrific scene of his nation celebrating before a golden calf, he realized that they were unready to accept God’s word. The Torah had no place to “land,” no ready context within which to exist. Had the law been given to the people in their present state, the Torah itself would have become an aberration, misunderstood and even misused. Moshe had no choice but to publicly destroy the Tablets of Testimony before the eyes of the people. Only then, at God’s command, could he begin the process of their reeducation.

This teaching process begins as God alters the details concerning the Tablets of Testimony. God will inscribe His decrees upon this second set, but this time, only on stone carved by Moshe. The tablets thus represent the word of God finding a home in the actions of a man. To further convey this point concretely, God also commands that these new tablets be immediately placed into a physical home, Moshe’s aron etz – a simple ark of wood. The symbolism is clear. Only if the contents of these tablets also find their home (in the humble hearts of man) – only if the Torah finds context – will this Torah be worthy of existence.

–E–
If these lessons of partnership and context are so critical, however, why  does God wait until the transmission of the second set of tablets to convey them? Couldn’t the horrific failure of the egel hazahav and the devastating ensuing pain and punishment have been avoided had these points been shared from the outset, with the transmission of the first tablets?

With these questions we once again enter difficult territory that we have already explored (see Bereishit: Noach 1, Approaches A; Shmot: Teruma 1, Approaches B; Bamidbar: Shelach 1, Points to Ponder). Why does God allow man to fail, at times educating him to his errors only after the failures have occurred? Why not avoid, through divine intervention, the devastation of the flood in Noach’s time, the sin of the spies after the Exodus or the sin of the golden calf at Sinai?

As we have previously suggested, it would seem that God’s education of man does not follow a linear course. By creating a world predicated upon the existence of free will, God accepts the inevitability of human failure. In such a world certain values cannot be taught frontally but must emerge through a process of human trial and error. Like the wise parent who hurts for his child’s pain, yet recognizes that his child must experience failure, God stands back and allows his creations to stumble, knowing that upon rising they will be better for the process. The values embedded in the second set of tablets and the accompanying aron could not have been fully appreciated by the Israelites until after their failure at Sinai. God therefore waits until the transmission of the second Tablets of Testimony to convey the lessons critical to the nation’s success.

–F–
God also appreciates the powerful impact that Moshe’s own dawning realizations can have upon the people. He therefore holds back any mention of the wooden ark in the initial narrative of the events, instead allowing this powerful symbol to emerge only in Moshe’s recollections. The repeated stress that Moshe places upon the aron as he speaks to the nation in retrospect drives home this great leader’s own critical recognition of the ark’s importance. Telling, as well, is Moshe’s self-admitted deviation from God’s instructions. While God commands Moshe to create the second tablets and then to fashion the ark, Moshe insists on creating the aron first. This great leader recognizes that the Tablets of Testimony cannot exist even for a moment outside of their proper spiritual context. For the nation to learn that lesson, these tablets must be placed immediately in their physical home, as well.

Points to Ponder

Every once in a while, we rabbis hit what we consider to be a sermonic “home run,” a critical speech that truly finds its mark.

From the reactions received, it seems that my Kol Nidrei drasha this past year was one such “home run.” This drasha, in fact, hit such a sensitive nerve with so many of my congregants that, with a bit of editing, I submitted it as an op-ed to my local area Jewish newspaper, again to strong reaction.

This piece deals in its own way with the lesson of context that we have discussed in our study, the recognition that Torah is only valuable when it shapes the character and actions of man. I therefore offer it for your attention, as well.

So there we were, Barbara and I, on a two-week vacation to the Canadian Rockies.

The trip was exceeding even our high expectations: majestic mountains, roaring crystal rivers, emerald lakes in hanging valleys, and wildlife – bear, elk, deer, bighorn sheep, an elk that we thought was a moose (we never did see a moose) – a nature lover’s dream. Ma nora ma’asecha, Hashem, How awe inspiring are Your works, God!

But as the days wore on, I unexpectedly found myself captivated by a different “life form.” I began to take note of the people we met along the way – non-Jews, mostly – along the trails, in the parks, at the picnic tables…

And you know what I found? They were nice! I mean, really nice! They were open, friendly, pleasant and engaging. Their children were polite, well mannered and cooperative. And strangely enough, the more people I met, the more uncomfortable I became. Because I began to feel that in some ways, they are nicer than us.

Now I know what some of you are saying to yourselves. Wow, the rabbi is skating on thin ice. He goes on a two-week vacation, meets a couple of people in passing, and returns to insult us. So let me make some things abundantly clear from the outset: Our congregations are exemplary in so many ways. The extraordinary human resource and wealth of spirit that exist within them are incomparable. The personal support that we extend to each other at critical life moments, whether joyous or challenging, sets a standard towards which other faith communities can aspire. When the chips are down, there is no one I would rather be with than the members of our Jewish community.

I also recognize that my chance meetings with a series of people on vacation in the Canadian Rockies hardly qualify as a scientific survey of the non-Jewish world.

Nonetheless, the High Holy Day season is a time for honest selfappraisal. Let me, therefore, ask you a question. Don’t you sometimes feel that we Jews could use an attitude adjustment? Don’t you sometimes think, and I don’t know how else to put it, that we need to get over ourselves a bit? The signs are readily apparent: How many of you in the service fields have come to me over the years and told me that you would rather deal with your non-Jewish customers than with Jews? How many of us, in the public arena, from the shul to ShopRite, have acted, or seen our coreligionists act, in ways that are a bit condescending, entitled, even pushy? And what about our children? Are we pleased with the way they talk to each other, to us, or to other adults?

If you are not convinced yet, try this little litmus test. Some of you may know the story of the El Al plane landing at Tel Aviv during Chanukah, in a year when Chanukah falls when it most often does. As the plane taxis towards the gate, the copilot announces over the loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, please stay in your seats. The plane is still moving; we have not yet reached the gates.” A few moments later, he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, once again, the plane is still moving. It is not safe. Please be considerate of yourselves and others – please remain in your seats.” And a few moments later: “Ladies and gentlemen, stay in your seats!” Finally, he announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you that we have arrived at the gate. To all of you who are standing, happy Chanukah! To all of you who are still seated, merry Christmas!”

The litmus test: Could this story be true?

I almost feel as if there is an attitudinal veneer that blocks the basic goodness in our hearts from rising to the surface. It seems to automatically kick in, like a switch that’s pulled, whenever we feel a bit stressed, tense, harried or pushed.

The reasons for this phenomenon are potentially manifold: Perhaps we have been pushed so often and so long throughout our history that given the opportunity, we naturally tend to push back. Perhaps we still feel a bit uncertain and vulnerable. Clearly many of us misinterpret our role as God’s chosen people to mean that we are inherently superior, rather than that we have greater responsibility. And to be honest, for some of us, it’s simply our affluence and our success that makes us feel that we can do anything or say anything with impunity. After all, there is no mitzva to be nice. Six hundred thirteen commandments, and not one of them says outright that we have to be nice, right?

Wrong! Dead wrong!

During this holiday period, as we return to basics, let me tell you what one of our greatest scholars has to say about the mitzvot. Rav Abba bar Aivu, who is known within Talmudic literature simply as Rav (“teacher”), emphatically declares: “The sole purpose of the mitzvot is to refine mankind.” He goes on to explain that our detailed performance of the mitzvot does not make a difference to God. It makes a difference to us. The mitzvot simply are created to refine us. To make us nice.

Let’s understand what this means. If we are punctilious in the performance of the mitzvot, yet that performance does not change us, refine us, make us better human beings, then the system simply isn’t working. If the performance of mitzvot doesn’t knock the chip off our shoulder, if it doesn’t bring us down a peg by making us realize that we stand on equal footing with all human beings before an all-powerful God, if it doesn’t bring us up a notch by making us recognize the majestic potential that lies within our souls, then we are not performing mitzvot properly. If the system of Jewish law does not produce nicer people, then something is desperately wrong.

The reason there is no specific mitzva to be nice is that the purpose of  all the mitzvot is to make us better human beings.

Now, you may say, You know, the rabbi is right. This is all fine and good. How, however, can we act upon this knowledge? How can we break through our own familiar attitudinal veneer? I would like, therefore, to prescribe a simple exercise.

This exercise is not mine. It was prescribed by the rabbis of the Talmud, centuries ago. Thankfully, they even hinged this drill upon an abundantly familiar biblical passage, so that it is very easy for us to remember: V’ahavta et Hashem Elokecha b’chol levavcha u’v’chol nafshecha u’v’chol me’odecha, “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your
soul and with all your might…” How, ask the rabbis, is it possible to “love God”? How can love apply to an entity that lies so far beyond our understanding? Among the answers they propose is the following powerful suggestion: “And you shall love… that the name of heaven should become beloved through you.” In other words, you should act in such a way that your very actions increase the awareness of and the love of God in this world. Others should see your behavior as a Jew and say, “How wonderful! What a mensch! If this is what Judaism produces, what a beautiful system it must be.”

So here’s the exercise: This year, every time you are about to lash out at the person next to you, every time you feel entitled to be rude, every time you become frustrated because the cashier at ShopRite (who is so obviously inferior to you in your mind, because she needs to work behind the counter to put herself/her children through college and you don’t) is too slow, every time you feel righteously entitled to criticize someone in your synagogue and you don’t feel the need to do so in a non-hurtful way (because you so obviously know better than the person you are about to criticize), every time you are about to be rough on your housekeeper (who is also so obviously lesser than you, although she is only doing the work that your grandmother once had to do for someone else; and there, but for the grace of God, go you)…

Every time, stop and ask yourself: “Is this really what God wants? Is what I’m about to do or say going to increase God’s presence in this world? Are my actions or words going to enhance the appreciation of God’s will and the love for His word?”

If the answer is no, then don’t do it. Don’t say it. Period!

And, who knows, maybe if we stop and regularly ask ourselves these questions, we will succeed in being nicer to each other, to those with whom we regularly deal, to those whom we glancingly meet on the journey.

We will succeed in bringing out the innate goodness that lies in each of our hearts. We will fill the world with a bit more love and respect for the Divine.

We will truly do “what God wants” and we will show our love for Him by bringing Him nachat.

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

Day Twenty One: 8 Av – Words on Fire

On Tisha B’Av, we think also of another book burning, far more ancient and closer to the heart of the day. In chapter 36 of the book of Jeremiah, God commands the prophet to write a scroll describing the future exile and destruction of Jerusalem. In Eikha Raba, the Rabbis suggested that what Jeremiah wrote was actually the book of Lamentations. He was in prison at the time and therefore contracted a scribe, Barukh son of Neria, to transcribe the words he dictated and to then read them publicly.

Jeremiah instructed Barukh, “I am in hiding; I cannot go to the House of the Lord. But you go and read aloud the words of the Lord from the scroll which you wrote at my dictation, to all the people in the House of the Lord on a fast day…” ( Jeremiah 36:5–6)

Barukh declaimed the words and the people became mightily afraid. The scroll was then read to King Jehoiakim of Judah and his court. They feared nothing in it, and the king took a scribe’s knife, cut into the document, and then threw it into the fire. Words that should have shaped Jewish life were consigned to flames. It is from this passage that the rabbis constructed a law, basing it on the verse, “And the word of the Lord came to Jeremiah after the king had burnt the scroll and the words…” (ibid. 36:27). If we ever have the  misfortune of seeing a Torah on fire, we are obligated to rend our garments twice in mourning, the first time for the scroll and the second time for the text. We mourn the physical loss of the parchment, and we mourn separately for the destruction of the actual words.

But as in this chapter, in every chapter of book burning in our history, it is the soul of the Torah that has the last word. God appears to Jeremiah after the burning of Lamentations, and tells him to write it again:

So Jeremiah got another scroll and gave it to the scribe Barukh son of Neria. And at Jeremiah’s dictation, he wrote in it the whole text of the scroll that King Jehoiakim of Judah had burned; and more of the like was added. (Ibid. 36:32)

More was added the second time, enhancing whatever was lost. Ralph Waldo Emerson once noted that “every burned book… enlightens the world.” The burning of a book only makes it words blaze clearer and more dramatically in our imagination. They may burn our books, but our words will endure.

Kavana for the Day 

One of the ways that we combat the book burnings of our past is with the purchase of books in our present. It is up to each of us to own a Jewish library, both for our own spiritual and intellectual growth, and to be a role model for our children, demonstrating what it means to live by the word. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, in the fifth letter in his book, The Nineteen Letters, says that “The very development of man’s intellect itself depends on means of putting it to use: on communication through words.” So many of these words of wisdom are included in Jewish books, but sadly, there are many Jewish homes today without any Jewish books. Redeem our past by buying a Jewish book for yourself and your family. Help your children begin a Jewish library of their own. It is a legacy of language and a gift to the soul.

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

 Being Commanded to Love*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, there is a nekuda in God too. And insofar as we develop the nekuda of love for Torah within us, does God develop the nekuda of love for Israel within Him. But whatever may be – the spark is there. And it is that which has insured our survival.

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

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

And may that be forever.

---

* August 21, 1954.

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

Context
As Parshat Pinchas opens, God details the divine reward to be bestowed upon Pinchas for his courageous defense of God’s honor during the episode of Ba’al Pe’or: “Therefore, proclaim: Behold! I give him My covenant of peace. And it shall be for him and his offspring after him a covenant of eternal priesthood, because he took vengeance for his God and he atoned for the children of Israel.”

Questions
The reward granted by God to Pinchas seems to be completely coun-terintuitive. During the episode of Ba’al Pe’or, Pinchas defended God’s honor by summarily executing an Israelite man and a Midianite woman who were engaged in an act of public desecration. Pinchas’ violent act of zealotry, while apparently warranted, could hardly be construed as a “peaceful” act. Why then does God go out of His way to specifically reward Pinchas with a divine “covenant of peace”?

In the same vein, why is ascension to the priesthood an appropriate practical reward for Pinchas? The paradigm of the priesthood is, after all, Pinchas’ grandfather Aharon, famously identified as a “lover of peace and a pursuer of peace.” Pinchas’ violent actions seem to be strange qualifications for his grandfather’s priestly mantle.

Are the “covenant of peace” and the “covenant of eternal priesthood” mentioned in the text synonymous, or does God grant this hero multiple rewards? If these rewards are separate, what is the exact nature of the “covenant of peace”?

Finally, the concrete implications of Pinchas’ priestly reward are equally unclear. Why must God bestow upon Pinchas a “covenant of eternal priesthood”? Isn’t Pinchas already a Kohen simply by dint of the fact that he is Aharon’s grandson?

Approaches

-A-
While some scholars, notably Rashi, perceive only one reward accruing to Pinchas, other authorities view the two covenants as separate pledges.

One group of commentaries, for example, including the Abravanel, interprets the divinely ordained “covenant of peace” as a concrete commitment on God’s part to ensure Pinchas’ personal safety. In the aftermath of the violent events at Ba’al Pe’or, God pledges to protect Pinchas from any retribution that might be taken against him by the powerful family and friends of his victim, Zimri.

The Sforno agrees that the “covenant of peace” granted by God to Pinchas is fundamentally a pledge of divine protection. The protection God pledges, however, is not protection from Zimri’s supporters but from death itself. Citing a series of textual and Midrashic sources indicating that Pinchas far outlives his contemporaries, the Sforno maintains that with this first covenant, God promises Pinchas the gift of personal longevity.

Moving in a completely different direction, the Netziv, Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Berlin, offers a powerfully stirring interpretation of the “covenant of peace.” This blessing, the Netziv maintains, is designed to counteract the destructive internal tendencies that Pinchas’ violent deed might have aroused:

He [God] blessed him [Pinchas] with the attribute of peace, that he should be neither quick-tempered nor easily angered. For it is only natural that the act performed by Pinchas, the slaying of a soul by his hand, would leave in his heart a powerful unrest….

Therefore, divine blessing is bestowed upon him, that he should continually experience tranquility and the attribute of peace, and that his own actions should not haunt him.

Through a divine “covenant of peace,” the Netziv claims, God ensures that Pinchas’ personal encounter with violence will not leave him permanently scarred.

Equally beautiful is the approach of Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, who suggests that the definition of “peace” is very much in the eye of the beholder. From a Torah perspective, however, the definition is clear:

True peace of men rests on the peace of all of them with God [my italics]. He who dares to wage war with people who are against divine Goodness and Truth is…fighting for the “covenant of peace” on earth. He who, for the sake of so-called peace, quietly leaves the field to people who are really at variance with God, his love of peace is at one with the enemies of the “covenant of peace” on earth.”

Pinchas’ violent actions in defense of God’s name, Hirsch argues, are actually “peaceful acts.” As he fights to preserve God’s will, Pinchas brings the world one step closer to the “covenant of peace,” to the true state of tranquility resulting from the attainment of harmony between God and man.

-B-
Turning to the second of the two covenants mentioned in the text, the “covenant of eternal priesthood,” we are immediately confronted with the technical questions surrounding Pinchas’ status as a priest before and after the fateful events of Ba’al Pe’or.

If Pinchas is already a Kohen by dint of his identity as Aharon’s grandson, why must he now be blessed with “a covenant of eternal priesthood”?

Two basic approaches are suggested by the commentaries, both based on the early Midrashic dictum “Pinchas was not appointed as Kohen until he killed Zimri….”

Rashi maintains that Pinchas, although a descendent of Aharon, is not a Kohen at all until these events unfold. The kehuna, this scholar explains, is granted to those descendents of Aharon who are born after Aharon and his sons are themselves inaugurated into the priesthood. Because Pinchas was born before the moment of Aharon’s ascension, he can only enter the priesthood in an exceptional fashion, as a result of God’s blessing in the wake of his heroic act. A slight alternative to this approach is suggested by a group of scholars who maintain that while Aharon and his sons were originally inaugurated into the kehuna, his grandsons were not. Pinchas is, therefore, not a Kohen until God confers such status upon him following the events at Ba’al Pe’or.

Both the Ibn Ezra and the Ramban, on the other hand, interpret the “covenant of priesthood” as referring specifically to the High Priesthood. Although Pinchas is a Kohen from the outset, his heroism catapults him to a new, higher status. God now commands Moshe to publicly proclaim that the chain of High Priesthood will, in the future, emerge directly from Pinchas.

-C-
Whichever approach we accept, however, the question remains: In what way is the granting of priesthood, in any form, an appropriate reward for Pinchas’ violent actions?

A number of commentaries, including the Abravanel, answer this by suggesting that the “covenant of priesthood” is a confirmation, rather than a conferral, of Pinchas’ kehuna. Through this covenant, God allays the zealot’s fears concerning his own current status. In the aftermath of the events at Ba’al Pe’or, Pinchas is concerned that he will lose his status as a Kohen because of the law invalidating any individual guilty of murder or manslaughter from the priesthood. God, therefore, grants Pinchas the “covenant of priesthood,” reassuring him that, because his courageous actions served the greater good, his current status as a priest remains intact.

-D-
The Ktav Sofer, however, chooses an interpretive path that skillfully weaves the two covenants bestowed upon Pinchas into one cohesive whole.

God, this scholar maintains, confers priesthood upon Pinchas after the events at Ba’al Pe’or specifically because the character exhibited by Pinchas during those events recommends him to the priesthood.

As teachers of the nation, the Kohanim are required to instruct the people with unbending strength and unyielding commitment. There is to be no compromise when it comes to matters of the law and ritual. The zeal demonstrated by Pinchas in his defense of God’s name, therefore, will serve him well in his priestly role.

At the same time, however, the passion for God’s law, meant to be part of every Kohen’s psyche, must be balanced by a warmth that discourages strife and brings others close. This is the warmth of Aharon, “the lover of peace and the pursuer of peace.” God, therefore, blesses Pinchas with both a “covenant of peace” and a “covenant of eternal priesthood.”

There will be times when, as a priest, Pinchas will have to be an Aharon, and times when he will have to be a zealot. Together, the two covenants will provide Pinchas with the balance essential to his success.

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

Context

Immediately following the death of Miriam, the nation rises in complaint against Moshe and Aharon due to a lack of water. When Moshe and Aharon turn to God at the entrance of the Sanctuary, God instructs Moshe: “Take the staff and gather together the assembly – you and Aharon, your brother – and speak to the rock before their eyes and it will give forth its waters. And you shall bring forth water from the rock and you shall give drink to the assembly and to their animals.”

Moshe takes his staff, gathers the people facing the rock and says to them, “Listen now, rebellious ones, from this rock shall we bring forth water for you?”

Raising his arm, Moshe then strikes the rock with his staff twice, and abundant water pours forth, providing for the people and for their livestock.

God turns to Moshe and Aharon and proclaims, “Because you did not believe in Me to sanctify Me in the eyes of the children of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this assembly to the land that I have given them.”

The Torah concludes this tragic event with the statement “These are mei meriva, the waters of strife, where the children of Israel contended with God, and He was sanctified through them.”

On three other occasions in the text, God explicitly identifies the events at Mei Meriva as the source of His refusal to allow Moshe and Aharon to enter the land of Canaan.

Questions

A number of years ago, on one of my synagogue’s numerous missions to Israel, we traveled to locations in Jordan, as well. Among the sites we visited was the mountain believed to be Har Nevo, the peak from which Moshe viewed the land of Canaan from afar, and upon which he died.

Like so many of us, I have long been troubled by God’s refusal to allow Moshe to enter the land of Canaan. As I stood alone, however, on that windy summit in Jordan, looking out, as once did Moshe, on a view that spans from the Dead Sea to the Galilee, I was struck as never before by the ultimate tragedy that marked Moshe’s life.

This humble, reluctant leader – pressed into service by divine command, pushed to the limit repeatedly by his backsliding flock, ever the defender of the nation before God – manages to lead his people successfully to the very border of their Promised Land. Yet, apparently because of a misstep at the scene of the waters of strife, he is denied the opportunity to enter that land himself. He leads the people to the realization of their dreams, but is denied the realization of his own.

Why does Moshe deserve this fate?

What specific sin does Moshe commit at the scene of Mei Meriva that is beyond forgiveness? And why, in addition, is Aharon punished simply for being a bystander?

In what way do the actions of these great leaders indicate a “lack of belief in God” and a “failure to sanctify Him”?

Approaches

A
Some scholars, upon careful review of the narrative, cannot find any action taken by Moshe and Aharon at Mei Meriva that merits the severe punishment they receive. Disputing the overwhelming evidence of the text, therefore, these authorities claim that the guilt of Moshe and Aharon actually emerges from other, more powerful sources.

The Abravanel, for example, maintains that Aharon’s sin lay in his involvement in the fashioning of the golden calf, while Moshe’s transgression consisted of expanding the mandate given to the spies prior to their entry into the land of Canaan. The actions of these great leaders were well-intentioned, the Abravanel argues, and yet in each case they inadvertently contributed to the national disasters that ensued. God therefore balances His responses carefully. To protect Moshe and Aharon’s reputation, He does not punish them immediately, together with those guilty of intentional rebellion. He instead waits for them to commit an intentional sin, however minor, and then punishes them for their original transgressions. When Moshe deviates from God’s commandment and strikes the rock, God seizes the opportunity to exact retribution upon these leaders for their previous, more substantial failings.

B
The vast majority of commentaries, however, find the clear testimony of the text incontrovertible. As noted above, God explicitly and repeatedly identifies the events at Mei Meriva as the source of His refusal to allow Moshe and Aharon to enter the land of Canaan.

Rashi reflects the position of these authorities when, commenting on the sentence “Because you did not believe in Me to sanctify Me in the eyes of the children of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this assembly to the land that I have given them,” he adamantly argues, “The text openly reveals that had it not been for this sin alone, they [Moshe and Aharon] would have entered the land.”

Clearly, something specific happens at Mei Meriva to seal the fate of these great leaders. The question, however, is what?

The rabbinic search for an answer gives rise to one of the most heated debates in biblical interpretation to this day.

C
Building upon an earlier Midrashic source, Rashi chooses the most obvious explanation for Moshe’s sin. Moshe is punished for his failure to obey God’s explicit commandment. Commanded by God to speak to the rock, Moshe instead strikes the rock twice. This deviation from God’s instructions, although perhaps mitigated by circumstances, diminishes the sanctification of God’s name.

Had water rushed forth as a result of Moshe’s verbal command, the people would have concluded: If this rock, which neither speaks, hears, nor requires sustenance, fulfills the word of the Lord, how much more then should we!

Because Moshe does not follow God’s commandment to the letter, the Israelites lose an opportunity to glean a lesson critical to their developing relationship with God. Moshe thus fails to sanctify God’s name and loses his right to enter the land of Canaan.

D
While agreeing with Rashi’s contention that Moshe’s failure lies in striking rather than speaking to the rock, numerous other commentaries offer alternative insights into the significance of that failure.

The Rashbam, for example, defends Moshe’s misstep as resulting from a logical misunderstanding of God’s intent. Because God specifically instructs him to “take the staff,” Moshe assumes that he is meant to strike the rock, as he had been commanded to do under similar circumstances, years earlier, at Refidim.10 Despite the inadvertent nature of Moshe’s actions, God nevertheless punishes him severely because, as the Talmud notes, “God is exacting with those nearest to Him to the point of a hair’s breadth.”

The Sforno, for his part, relates the problem raised by Moshe’s striking of the rock to the essential character of divine miracles. All supernatural events recorded in the text, this scholar claims, can be divided into three categories, in increasing order of intensity:

1. Hidden miracles, performed by God through natural means.
2. Open miracles that can occur naturally but only through powerful forces and over a long period of time.
3. Open miracles that cannot occur at all through natural means.

The full extent of God’s power, the Sforno explains, is demonstrated only through miracles from the third, highest category. Such events also attest to the worthiness of the earthly messenger through whose agency the wonder is performed.

In response to the complaints of the Israelites, God decides to demonstrate His own full power to the people and to reestablish Moshe’s credentials with them. He therefore commands Moshe specifically to perform a miracle that cannot occur through natural means: “Speak to the rock before their eyes and it will give forth its waters.”

Moshe, however, has his doubts.

Unable to believe that God would perform a miracle at the highest level on behalf of the rebellious Israelites, Moshe consciously deviates from God’s commandment and strikes the rock, splitting it in a manner that can occur through natural forces, over time. By deliberately lowering the caliber of the miracle performed at Mei Meriva, Moshe thus fails to sanctify God’s name to the fullest possible extent.

E
In his ethical work Shmoneh Prakim, the Rambam breaks from Rashi completely, choosing an entirely different interpretive path to Moshe’s sin at Mei Meriva. In the midst of a lengthy discussion encouraging a golden mean of personal conduct, the Rambam cites Moshe’s actions at the scene of Mei Meriva as proof of the dangers of immoderate behavior: “Moshe’s entire sin lay in erring on the side of anger and deviating from the mean of patience.”

This anger, the Rambam claims, is clearly evidenced in Moshe’s declaration: “Listen now, rebellious ones, from this rock shall we bring forth water for you?”

Unwarranted anger, in and of itself, is considered sinful. Moshe’s public rage at Mei Meriva, however, constitutes an even more dangerous failing in God’s eyes. Not only does Moshe set a dangerous example for the entire people, but he also potentially causes the nation to erroneously conclude that God is “enraged” by their complaints. There is, in fact, no indication in the text of such divine wrath. While God is indeed “angered” on a number of other occasions by the people’s groundless complaints, at Mei Meriva, the Israelites, suffering from thirst, are justified in their protests.

F
The Ramban strongly disagrees. In a lengthy exposition, this scholar disputes the approaches of Rashi, the Rambam and others to Moshe’s sin. Concerning Rashi’s suggestion that Moshe is punished for striking rather than speaking to the rock, the Ramban insists that God would not have commanded Moshe to “take the staff” had He not intended him to strike the rock. The Ramban also harshly rebuts the Rambam’s interpretation on a number of counts, pointing out, most fundamentally, that God never chastises Moshe for anger, and that, in fact, God Himself must have been angered by the Israelites’ bitter complaints.

The Ramban therefore quotes Rabbeinu Chananel in offering an entirely different perspective on the events at Mei Meriva. Moshe and Aharon’s failings are reflected not in the first half of the passage quoted by the Rambam, but in its second half: “Listen now, rebellious ones, from this rock shall we bring forth water for you?”

The problem is at once clear and startling. In place of stating, “Shall God bring forth water?” Moshe instead proclaims, “Shall we bring forth water?” Moshe and Aharon’s public assumption of credit for the miracle, although obviously inadvertent, cannot go unanswered. Absent a strong response from God, the nation might erroneously conclude that Moshe and Aharon had produced the water on their own, through magical powers. Such an interpretation would undermine the very tenets of belief in divine authority that these leaders themselves had worked so hard to instill in the nation.

God’s accusation, “Because you did not believe in Me to sanctify Me in the eyes of the children of Israel…,” can, the Ramban explains, be interpreted to mean: You failed to instill belief in Me in the people’s hearts. Even further, through your incautious words, you undermined My sanctity in their eyes.

The Ramban concludes his remarks concerning the events at Mei Meriva by acknowledging the limitations of rational explanation for what is “one of the great mysteries of the Torah” and by offering an additional kabbalistic interpretation for the episode, which remains outside the scope of our discussion.

G
Moving in yet another, totally different direction, the Ibn Ezra maintains that the sin of Moshe and Aharon lies in their initial undignified reaction to the people’s complaints. Instead of demonstrating confidence in God’s ability to provide for the people, these great leaders approach the Sanctuary “as fugitives,” fleeing before the nation’s threats.

Centuries later, Rabbi Joseph Albo elaborates on the Ibn Ezra’s approach by arguing that Moshe and Aharon should have directly asked God to perform a specific supernatural act in response to the people’s complaints. “The failure of a prophet to perform miracles,” Albo explains, “is liable to make people doubt the truth of the text that the Lord estab-lishes the words of his servants.”

God therefore accuses these great leaders of a “failure of belief.” In their humility, Moshe and Aharon do not trust that God will respond to their direct request for miraculous intervention.

H
Many years ago, Rabbi Harold Kanatopsky, a brilliant teacher and orator who served as rabbi of my community during my teenage years, offered a new, innovative approach to the events at Mei Meriva. So profoundly did this approach impress me that I have not only remembered it and quoted it over the years, but I have also added some thoughts of my own. I can no longer remember where Rabbi Kanatopsky’s ideas end and mine begin, but the foundation of this approach is certainly his.

To understand the events at Mei Meriva, we first must add to the puzzle.

As the Rashbam notes (see above), this is not the first time that Moshe finds himself in the circumstances presented at Mei Meriva. An almost parallel event occurs earlier in Moshe’s career. Shortly after the Exodus, at a location known as Refidim, the Israelites find themselves without water and converge in complaint against Moshe. On that occasion God distinctly commands Moshe: “And you shall strike the rock and water will issue forth from it and the people will drink.”

This seems to make our questions concerning the events at Mei Meriva even more troubling. How can Moshe be blamed, as Rashi and so many others claim, for striking the rock at Mei Meriva when that was exactly what he was told to do – with success – on a previous occasion? Even more importantly, why does God command Moshe at Refidim to strike the rock and at Mei Meriva to speak to the rock? Given the similarity between these two parallel episodes, why does God change His instructions in such seemingly arbitrary ways?

Upon consideration, there is one powerful variable between the episodes at Refidim and Mei Meriva: the Israelites themselves.

At Refidim, Moshe and Aharon are confronted by the generation of the Exodus. At Mei Meriva, forty years later, they are confronted by the wilderness generation.

As we have noted (see Korach 6, Approaches B; Points to Ponder; Chukat 2, Approaches D), the transition between these two generations marks a major paradigm shift in God’s relationship with His people. Over a forty-year period, the nation moves from the relational level of yira, fear and awe, to the level of ahava, love.

The erstwhile slaves who comprised the generation of the Exodus and Revelation were able to relate to God only on the primitive plane of fear. Shaped by their decades under the taskmaster’s whip, they responded to brute force and power. God, therefore, commanded Moshe at Refidim to speak to this generation in a language that they could understand. Strike the rock, He commanded, and let the Israelites recognize the power of their new heavenly master.

Forty years later, at Mei Meriva, a new generation has emerged that has not known slavery on an adult level. Nurtured under God’s watchful care, this generation has learned to relate to their Creator through the more mature dimension of ahava.

God therefore commands Moshe: Take the staff. Show the people that you can use it, but that you deliberately will not. Instead, speak to the rock and, in doing so, “speak” to the people. Demonstrate to them, at this critical moment, that the power of love is infinitely stronger than the power of brute force. Through love, I will provide for them now; through love, we will relate to each other across the pages of time.

Moshe, however, slips….

Confronted again by the bitter complaints of the Israelites, he flashes back to Refidim. He sees before him not the Israelites of the day, but their parents and grandparents of yesteryear. Nothing has changed, he concludes. These people still understand only the power of the staff.

And in that one fell instant, as Moshe lifts his staff to strike the rock, he fails to transition with his people from one generation to the next, from one relational level to another. This failure seals his fate. He and Aharon (who makes no move to stop his brother) will remain forever part of their generation, consigned to perish in the desert without entry into the land.

Far from a minor misstep, Moshe’s actions at Mei Meriva emerge as a fundamental failure of leadership. This greatest of leaders remains rooted in the past, unable to respond to the internal changes that have transformed his people. God’s seemingly drastic response to Moshe’s failure at Mei Meriva now becomes understandable. Sadly, Moshe’s time has come and gone. A new leader must now emerge – a leader who will be able to transition with the next generation in its march towards a glorious future.

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

Rebel and Revolutionary*

The rebellion against the leadership of Moses and Aaron is one which had tragic consequences and which left an indelible impression upon the collective Jewish memory. The Torah lists the names of those involved in the conspiracy in the desert. But who indeed were the members of this conglomeration of the displaced, the dissatisfied, and the disaffected? What motivated them, and what was their relation to each other?

Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, the Netziv, found three distinct groups in this mutiny of malcontents, and he describes them to us in his commentary HaAmek Davar. The first consists of the two hundred and fifty princes of the congregation. These community leaders were not at all malicious people. They were well-intentioned but misguided. They were great Jews, great even in their piety. That is why the Torah (Numbers 16:2) refers to them as “princes of the congregation, the elect men of the assembly, men of renown.” They were Levites who desired to be kohanim not because the priesthood offered them positions of influence and status, but because it represented an opportunity to come closer to God in the course of serving Him in the Sanctuary.

The second group consisted of two brothers from the tribe of Reuben – Dathan and Abiram. These two were known as trouble-makers even before the Exodus from Egypt. They were not at all people of ideals or convictions. They were merely power-hungry schemers – nothing more, nothing less.

The third element in this mutiny was Koraĥ himself. He was a man of great fame in Israel and yet was, in a way, the worst of all, for he tried to appear to the people a man of sincerity and genuineness, who had legitimate and selfless complaints, like the two hundred and fifty princes – but in fact he had the same base ends as Dathan and Abiram, namely, the usurpation of the authority of Moses and Aaron.

This analysis – of which we have mentioned but the bare outline – is not only an act of exegesis, but also a valid insight into character that is relevant to the human condition in general, whether in the days of Moses or our very own times.

Permit me to expand on this by referring to a recent essay by Dr. Erich Fromm, “The Revolutionary Character,” whose ideas we shall accept in part. Fromm distinguishes between two types – the rebel and the revolutionary. The rebel is one who is innocent of any ideological convictions. This individual is resentful of authority and wants to overthrow it so that he can become the authority himself. This person is dissatisfied not with the office, but with the office-holder. His goal is a naked power-grab.

The revolutionary is completely different. This person is not necessarily one who participates in revolutions; the term is used psychologically, not politically. The revolutionary is one who thinks independently. He is unimpressed by those in control and will not accept an idea just because it was pronounced by someone in authority. This individual’s mood is a critical one, not that of bland acceptance. The revolutionary will even be able to see through “common sense” when that term is used to describe what is but nonsense repeated often enough by those who are influential enough. The revolutionary is one who can transcend the parochial limits of his own society and milieu, and thus criticize both his own and any other society. The revolutionary character is one that enables a person to say “No,” and not automatically assent to authority, to the status quo, to their environment, to “conditions.”

Of course, not always is the revolutionary angelic. This person can be right or wrong, good or evil, constructive or destructive, depending upon what he says “no” to, and upon whether his criticism is valid or invalid. Simple “orneriness” is not a virtue. But at least the mood of the revolutionary character is authentic. He thinks and reacts as an individual, not a cipher, not just another sheep in the flock.

With this distinction we can, I believe, better appreciate the Netziv’s analysis of the Koraĥ episode. Dathan and Abiram were what we have called rebels. No ideals or principles or ideologies informed their treachery. They lusted for power directly and without inhibition. The two hundred and fifty princes were revolutionaries. They refused to accept without question the denial to them of the priesthood. But they misplaced their energies. Their criticism was well-intentioned but grievously misdirected. And Koraĥ played an opportunistic, political, demagogic game. He cloaked himself in piety and tried to disguise himself as a revolutionary character, like the two hundred and fifty princes. But in essence he was no different from the rebels Dathan and Abiram. He was the McCarthy of the biblical period.

Indeed, the Koraĥ-type is no stranger to our contemporary world. Far too many greedy, corrupt, and power-hungry men, from Iraq to Ghana and from Indonesia to Latin America, have taken over the reins of government without in the least benefiting their own people – and all this under the pretense of nationalism and anti-imperialism. The slogans are the slogans of revolution, but the goals are the goals of rebellion. Our age, so stormy and tempestuous – born in the French and American revolutions, sired by the industrial revolution, agonizing now in the scientific and nationalistic and civil-rights revolutions – offers great temptations to the Koraĥ-type character. As Fromm puts it, “Twentieth century political life is a cemetery containing the moral graves of people who started our as alleged revolutionaries and who turned out to be nothing more than opportunistic rebels.”

Now these three classes represent what is wrong with the protest against power and authority: the two hundred and fifty princes who were misguided revolutionaries, the avaricious rebels Dathan and Abiram, and the demagogic and deceiving Koraĥ. But the constructive, creative aspect of the revolutionary character also has a place of honor in the Jewish tradition. In fact, it is a distinguishing feature of Judaism in the world and one of the major functions of Orthodoxy within the Jewish community.

What is the prophetic tradition if not the expression of a revolutionary character? It had its genesis in Abraham – who was an iconoclast. It reached its heights in Moses who defied Pharaoh and both the military might and cultural hegemony of Egypt. Elijah was a revolutionary when he challenged Ahab, Isaiah when he thundered against the drunkards who ruled the northern kingdom of Israel, and Ezekiel when he dissented from the popular worship of Baal and Marduk. For three and a half thousand years Judaism has been out of step with the world – and has thus managed to be its repository of sanity and sanctity.

In like manner, today it is the mission of Orthodoxy to perpetuate this tradition of dissent and the revolutionary character within the Jewish community. Of course, if there are those who believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, that our American-Jewish community leaves nothing to be desired, that synagogue services must be rallies and that rabbis must be propagandists, then there is nothing more to be said. But for those whose love for Jews does not leave them blind, who are painfully aware of some of our faults and defects, there remains the problem of who will fulfill the role of the little boy who dared to proclaim that the emperor was naked. That role, I submit, is incumbent upon Orthodox Jews whose convictions force them to measure mankind and events by the criteria of Torah rather than by their own subjective tastes and shifting contemporary standards. It is we who have the obligation, painful though it be, of being the critics – constructive critics, of course, but critics nonetheless. It is part of the fate, the destiny, and the mission of the Torah Jew to say “no” when others sheepishly nod their heads in agreement, to arouse whilst others drowse in moral stupor, to irritate and goad when others seek only to pacify and tranquilize.

The founder of Chabad Hasidism, Rabbi Shneur Zalman, in his Likutei Torah, saw this idea implicit in the famous words of the prophet in the second chapter of Jeremiah (verse 2), “Thus says the Lord, I remember for you the affection of your youth, the love of your espousals, lekhtekh aĥarai bamidbar be’eretz lo zeru’a, how you went after Me in the wilderness, in a land that was not sown.” Those last three words, “be’eretz lo zeru’a,” says Rabbi Shneur Zalman, mean not only “a land not sown,” but also a land in which the word and idea and imperative “lo,” “no,” was sown! The most memorable achievement of our people was our willingness to accept a Torah and a tradition that emphasized the “no,” that enshrined the power of dissent, that glorified non-conformism with the popular and the conventional. “Eretz lo zeru’a” – the “ground” – principle of Judaism is: “lo,” “no.” There in the desert, the vast and lonely midbar, we learned to be ourselves, to forge our own souls and characters under the tutelage of God alone. There we learned to say No to the idols worshipped by the crowds; No to the ever-present threat of assimilation; No to the passions and lusts that tyrannize a man; No to the avarice which inheres in his character. There, in that “eretz lo zeru’a,” man learned to say No to the hidden fears that creep up on him in secret and threaten to paralyze his will and ruin his peace of mind; No to his grief when it turns excessive and overwhelms him; No to his worries and concerns when they give rise to despair and the kind of hopelessness that moves black clouds over his heart and his mind and his soul; No even to his perverse tendency to say “No” when there is no cause for it!

Today’s American Orthodox Jew must not forget his ancient origins in the “eretz lo zeru’a.” We must say “no” to the bankrupt Jewish secularism that surrounds us, often in clerical garb; “no” to the unreflective, obtuse, and self-disdaining tendency of certain Jewish organizations publicly to violate our most sacred tenets; “no” to Jews who dare call themselves observant or Orthodox but who perpetrate miserable, unethical business practices; “no” to renowned leaders of powerful Jewish organizations who seem to have lost every shred of self-respect. I refer, in this last instance, to the leaders of the American Jewish Committee who had an audience with the Pope in Rome to discuss Jewish-Catholic affairs just two weeks ago – on Shabbat! How horribly incongruous – leading Jews meeting with leaders of another religion on a day that they ought to be spending in the synagogue and in Sabbath rest! Can anyone blame church leaders for silently questioning whether they ought to take Jews seriously at all? Certainly we dissent. We counter pose a most vigorous “no” to this shameful exhibition of self-denigration and inferiority.

There may be those who will complain that this is a negative, unproductive attitude. But that is a shallow conclusion. For, when it issues from a commitment to Torah, every no is really a “yes.” “No” to the idol is “yes” to God. No to assimilation is “yes” to the promise of a Jewish future. “No” to Jewish self-denigration is yes to Jewish dignity and self-respect. “No” to despair and fear and hopelessness is “yes” to faith and trust in God. Our “lo zeru’a” issues from “ĥesed ne’urayikh” and “ahavat kelulotayikh,” from a relationship of love and affection. Our revolutionary character, unlike the rebellious character, seeks to correct, not abolish; to build, not to destroy. It is motivated by love, not enmity.

It is a difficult challenge which our historic tradition places on us – to be revolutionary without being rebellious, to know when to be critical and when to conform, when to dissent and when to assent, when to say “yes” and when to say “no.” But God in His goodness has given us a standard by which to judge. It is something Koraĥ and his children learned, albeit too late. For, as the Talmud (Bava Batra 74a) tells us in a most meaningful legend, when centuries later Rabba bar Bar Ĥannah put his ear to the ground where Koraĥ and his cohorts had been swallowed alive, he heard a voice that issued from the bowels of the earth. And that voice called out, “Moses is true and his Torah is true.”

That is our measure, our criterion. With that truth we shall know when to say “yes” – and when to say “no.”

---

*June 14, 1964.

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

 

Fringe Element

Context

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

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

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

Questions

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

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

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

Approaches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Praise of Impracticality*

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does this praise of the impractical teach us?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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* May 6, 1972