Category: Excerpts

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

The pilgrimages prescribed by our sidra for the three major festivals were no pleasure trip for the pilgrims of ancient Judea. Their journey had to be undertaken in days when there were unavailable not only first class hotels, but barely inns of any kind. The pilgrim had to sleep on the ground instead of his accustomed bed, scrounge for food, be deprived of all comfort and conveniences, whereas had he remained at home he could have lived his normal comfortable life. Nowhere in the Talmud do we find that any special arrangements were made to accommodate these pilgrims who came to perform this sublime commandment.

Yet, interestingly, in next week’s portion we find the description of another kind of traveler in the Holy Land. We are told that if a man murdered by accident, unwittingly, that we were to prepare for him a number of cities designated as “cities of refuge,” to which the murderer could flee and thereby escape the vengeance of the relatives of his victim. The Torah tell us that “you shall prepare the way” for the murderer (Deuteronomy 19:3). And the Mishna (Makkot 2:5) explains that the highways would be especially prepared throughout the country so that the man who murdered unwittingly would have no difficulty in making his way to the city of refuge. Throughout the country, at every crossroads, there were signs exclaiming “miklat, miklat,” i.e., “this way to the city of refuge.”

Thus, while the pilgrim had no signposts prepared for him to facilitate his journey to Jerusalem, the murderer had every consideration prepared for him in order to make his way to the city of refuge as quickly and easily as possible. What discrimination! Here the pilgrim must wander from place to place, inquire at the door of every village or hamlet: “Which way to Jerusalem?” – while the man who was a murderer would find his way with the greatest of ease.

Why this consideration for the murderer, and the apparent neglect of the pilgrim?

Permit me to commend to your attention an answer provided by one of the scholars of the Mussar movement. This discrimination was purposely legislated by the Rabbis, he maintains, for the purpose of chinukh, education. The Rabbis wanted to make sure that Jewish children in homes throughout the country would have every possible opportunity to meet with people who were decent and virtuous, and to minimize the opportunity to encounter people who had committed vicious crimes. Therefore they did not facilitate the way for the pilgrim, hoping that he would knock at every door along the way so that children should be able to meet people who are pilgrims, the people who are inspired to go to Jerusalem and sacrifice every comfort for it. In contrast, they wanted to make sure in the meantime that no Jewish child will meet with a rotze’ah, with a murderer. They therefore made sure that signs across the country would provide all the answers to the murderers’ questions, so that children would not be acquainted with that type of individual, and not have him for a sort of model whom a child might want to emulate.

Now this idea does not completely accord with contemporary principles and practice. We have somehow come to believe that in order for a child to receive a well-founded education, it is necessary for us to acquaint him with every sordid practice of contemporary society lest he grow up naïve and unknowing. We feel that a child must be acquainted with crime and degeneracy, and we import such models of behavior into our living rooms through television and radio, and we bring our children to the scenes of such negative ethical conduct in the movies and theaters.

According to this interpretation of our sidra, the reverse should be the case. We should not deny our children the knowledge of the presence of evil, but we ought to avoid any direct confrontation with it in their impressionable years.

Modern parents, unfortunately, do not always understand this. Many of us, motivated by genuine liberal instincts, oppose any censorship laws by government. This may be right or wrong, depending upon one’s political and social outlook. But certainly no parent should conclude that because government ought not to be given the power of censorship, that a parent too should never exercise censorship. If we want our children to grow up as decent citizens and good Jews, we must carefully control their diet not only in food but also in reading and entertainment. We must ease the way for that which is represented by the murderer to bypass our homes, whereas we must open our homes to that which is represented by the pilgrim.

This holds true not only for the home, the school, the camp, and leisure time for children, but for us as well. The Jewish heart and mind must be exposed to that which is valuable and creative and constructive, not the reverse. Wise human beings, from the Greek philosophers to the sages of Hasidism, have maintained that a person is where his thoughts are and that an individual becomes what he thinks. If our thoughts lie with the murderer, that will become the standard for our development; conversely, if our thoughts tend towards the pilgrim, then that represents the kind of persons we shall become.

We welcome, this week, the new month of Elul. During this month, when we recite the selichot prayers, we shall repeat, fairly constantly, one of them which proclaims: “We have come before You, O Lord, not with any special claim on your love, nor with any special record of good deeds. We knock on Your door like people who are poor and destitute.” The great teacher of Kabbala, R. Isaac Luria, has taught that the “poor” and the “destitute” are the symbols of the two months of Tammuz and Av, in which we fast and commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. If so, says the hasidic author of Benei Yisaskhar, then following this same prayer, the month of Elul must be symbolized by delet, the door. Thus, we come from the experience of “poor and destitute” (i.e., Tammuz and Av) to “knock on Your door” (Elul). This last month of the year, the month preceding Rosh HaShana, is symbolized by the door!

Indeed so! The door represents the entrance to our homes and our hearts; it is that which we may shut or open, depending upon whom we find at our doorsteps. Elul reminds us that we must use that door: to shut it in the face of the murderer, and to open it wide to welcome the pilgrim.

Indeed, God Himself demonstrated this. The first day of Elul is the time that Moses ascended Mount Sinai for the second time to receive the luchot, the Ten Commandments. Moses tarried there for forty days, and came down with the final and acceptable tablets on Yom Kippur. During this time, Moses prayed to God for forgiveness. And God closed the doors of Heaven on the sin of the Golden Calf, and opened them up to the petition of Moses and the teshuva, the repentance, of the people of Israel.

On these days of Elul, therefore, we remind ourselves about the doors of our homes and our very existence. And we turn to God and we pray to Him: “Open the doors of heaven – to our prayers.”

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

Context

With the phrase Zot chukat haTorah, “This is the statute of the Torah,”God introduces the laws surrounding the purifying ritual of the para aduma, the red heifer.

In summary, the Torah mandates that an individual who comes into close proximity with a human corpse enters a seven-day state of tuma, ritual impurity. On the third and seventh day of this period, as an essential step in the process of purification, a solution containing spring water and the ashes of a red heifer are sprinkled upon the contaminated individual. At the end of the seven-day period, after immersing in a mikva, a natural pool of water, the individual completes his process of purification.

In a perplexing turnabout, the Torah also mandates that those involved in the manufacturing of the red heifer solution and its application upon the impure individual experience their own brief period of tuma (ritual impurity).The ashes of the red heifer thus possess the unique, puzzling capacity l’taher et hateme’im u’l’tamei et hatehorim, “to purify the defiled [the subjects of the ritual] and to defile the pure [the performers of the ritual].”

Questions

Fundamental questions emerge as we confront one of the deepest mysteries of the Torah.

What is the significance of the red heifer and why do its ashes, mixed in a solution with spring water, effect purification?

Why does the para aduma solution “defile the pure even as it purifies the defiled”?

Are we consigned to accept the ritual of the para aduma as a commandment without rational basis or can lessons be learned even from this seemingly “magical” mitzva?

Approaches

A

Once again we find ourselves squarely in the realm of chukim (statutes), laws of the Torah that seem to defy logical explanation. While we have entered this arena in our studies before, for the first time we find ourselves at the core of this mysterious realm. More than any other set of Torah laws, the ritual of the red heifer, introduced by the text itself as chukat haTorah, “the statute of the Torah,” has come to symbolize God’s will at its most unfathomable.

Numerous sources in rabbinic literature attest to the depth of the mystery surrounding the para aduma. To cite a few:

1. King Solomon, the wisest man in history, was able to unravel all the mysteries of the Torah, with the exception of one. Concerning the laws of the red heifer, he was forced to admit, “I thought I would become wise, but it is beyond me.”

2. In response to the challenges of an idolater, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai offered an explanation of the laws of para aduma. Afterwards, his students objected: “Our teacher, you have pushed him away with a reed [you have given a weak argument]. What, however, will you say to us?”

Rabbi Yochanan responded, “By your lives, the dead do not defile and the waters [of the red heifer] do not purify. Rather, the Holy One Blessed Be He has decreed: ‘I have forged a statute and enacted a decree and you have no right to transgress my decree.’ ”

3. Knowing full well that the nations of the world will challenge the Jews concerning the unfathomable laws surrounding the para aduma, the Torah introduces these laws with the phrase Zot chukat haTorah, “This is the statute of the Torah. This is an edict decreed by Me, and you have no right to question it.”

How then are we to approach the puzzling edicts surrounding the para aduma? Can logical analysis offer any insight into their mysteries? Do we even have the right to try?

B

Before we continue our analysis, it will be helpful to review a series of conclusions reached in earlier studies concerning chukim (for a more detailed discussion of these points complete with references, see Shmot: Teruma 3; see also Vayikra: Vayikra 1, Approaches II A; Shmini 4, Questions, Approaches F; Tazria-Metzora 1, Questions; Acharei-Mot 1, Approaches; Kedoshim 5b).

1. Rabbinic opinion is divided concerning the value of intellectual search within the realm of chukim. At one end of the spectrum lie those authorities who insist that chukim must be viewed not only as laws beyond our comprehension but as edicts that have no individual intrinsic purpose. The primary role of these laws, as a group, is to develop man’s loyalty to God through the cultivation of unquestioning obedience to His will.

At the opposite end of the spectrum are those scholars who insist that each of God’s laws is uniquely purposeful and that the search for meaning within all mitzvot is not only allowed but encouraged. Man should make every effort, these authorities believe, to determine the fundamental reasons for each mitzva. Such study can only help us attain a more complete understanding of God’s will.

Intermediate positions along the spectrum of rabbinic opinion maintain that, while every mitzva has a reason, blind obedience to the commandments represents the highest level of relationship with the Divine. Only those unable to relate to God on this elevated plane, these scholars feel, should engage in rational investigation of the mitzvot.

2. Even those scholars who encourage rational examination of chukim clearly recognize the potential dangers of such search. Failure to determine the reason for a specific commandment, they emphasize, should never lead us to treat that mitzva lightly. We must also recognize that any rationale we do arrive at may or may not be accurate, given the limitations of our own intellectual abilities.

3. When we deal with issues related to the biblical constructs of tuma and tahara we must also overcome the problems presented by the terms themselves.  No appropriate English translation exists for the Hebrew words tuma and tahara. The commonly suggested translations “pure and impure” or “clean and unclean” carry value judgments that are not necessarily applicable.

For want of a better option, in the course of this study, we will continue to translate these terms in the usual manner, while recognizing the limitations of such translation.

C

As the rabbis focus on the core issues of the para aduma, their comments naturally reflect the range of opinion concerning logical analysis of divine law in general.

At one extreme are those scholars who not only acknowledge the inexplicable nature of the red heifer, but view its mystery as a commentary on the Torah as a whole.

Rabbi Yitzchak Arama, for example, lists various possible approaches to mitzvot in general, including the approach of rational search. He concludes, however, that the highest level of Torah observance is reflected in Rabbi Yochanan’s response to his students concerning the red heifer: “By your lives, the dead do not defile and the waters [of the red heifer] do not purify. Rather, the Holy One Blessed Be He has decreed ‘I have forged a statute and enacted a decree and you have no right to transgress my decree.’ ”

Blind obedience to God’s law without the need for rational explanation represents the pinnacle of religious devotion. The very inclusion of chukim in the panoply of mitzvot, Arama argues, is designed to convey this lesson and to apply it to the entire Torah. Just as we observe chukim without comprehending them, so too, we should observe all mitzvot, even those we think we understand, specifically because we are so commanded by God and not on the basis of any supposed rationale.

In a similar vein, the Hasidic master Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev is among those who note that the Torah does not introduce the laws of para aduma with the statement “This is the statute of the red heifer,” but rather, “This is the statute of the Torah”: “In principle, the reasons for the Torah and its laws are hidden from mankind. Man must perform and observe [the mitzvot of] the Torah simply because God commands us to perform and observe them. This truth is hinted at in the phrase ‘this is the statute of the Torah.’ The entire Torah and its mitzvot are to be considered by us as chukim.”

Another Chassidic master, Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech of Dinov, goes a major step further, maintaining that “belief does not require the concurrence of rational interpretation. Instead, rational interpretation requires the concurrence of belief.” To support his point, Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech notes that the Talmud uses a Torah phrase to prove that an object with a three-cubit circumference also possesses, by definition, a width of one cubit. At face value, this Talmudic exercise seems superfluous. Why should a fact easily verified by physical measurement require scriptural proof? Because, Rabbi Tzvi Elimelech argues, the Torah does not require logical support. Logic, however, requires the support of the Torah.

D

In stark contrast to those who are willing to accept the mystery of the para aduma without question, other scholars struggle to find rational meaning in this strange ritual.

An early Midrashic tradition, for example, views the red heifer as an atoning rite for the sin of the golden calf.In interpreting this Midrash, the Kli Yakar explains that full atonement can only be achieved by “digging up the roots of sin.” Only by addressing the underlying cause of a transgression can one hope to avoid its recurrence. The burning of the red heifer symbolizes the destruction of wealth, the abundance of which was a fundamental cause of the sin of the golden calf.

While the Rambam also views the para aduma as a ritual of atonement, he parts company with the Midrash concerning the sin for which the ritual atones:

The red heifer is called a sin offering because it effects the purification of persons who have become impure through contact with a human corpse and enables them to enter the Sanctuary…. Once a person became impure he would have been forever forbidden to enter the Sanctuary and to eat hallowed foods had it not been for this heifer which bore the burden of his sin.

Apparently, according to the Rambam, the very phenomena of tumat met and the distance from God caused by such impurity create the need for atonement. Even when caused for valid reasons, distance from God is a “sin.”

Comparing the ashes of the red heifer to the sent goat of Yom Kippur (see Vayikra: Acharei Mot 1) and other similar rituals, the Rambam also suggests a logical explanation for the para aduma’s puzzling capacity to “purify the defiled and defile the pure.” Just as the sent goat acquires the taint of sin by symbolically acquiring the transgressions of the Israelites during the Yom Kippur service, so too, during the ritual of the red heifer, sin is figuratively removed from the defiled individual and transferred to the waters of the para aduma solution. To underscore this symbolic transference, the solution now gains the potential to convey its own “acquired impurity” to anyone with whom it comes into contact.

Numerous other commentaries offer extensive and imaginative interpretations of the ceremonies associated with the red heifer. The Sforno, for example, suggests a pedagogic approach. Through the combination of the antithetical symbols of ashes (fire) and water in the para aduma solution, the Torah teaches that the path of tshuva, return from sin, sometimes requires bold counterbalancing action. An individual who falls into a pattern of extreme behavior may need the temporary corrective of acting at the other extreme in order to return to the desired middle path. The union of physical opposites in the “waters of the red heifer” thus symbolizes that the balance between behavioral excesses will produce the “golden mean.” Many other details surrounding the para aduma, the Sforno maintains, can also be explained by this approach.

The “first and irreplaceable condition for living our lives on a higher plane,” Hirsch maintains, is “freedom of will in moral matters.”Man’s perception of such freedom, however, is endangered when he confronts the fact of his own inevitable death. If death destroys the entire human being; if man, like all other organic creatures, lives under the spell of this “irresistible, overpowering force,”then moral freedom is only an illusion and moral laws become meaningless.

Only by recognizing that he operates simultaneously in two arenas – a limited physical sphere and an unlimited moral, immortal sphere – can man transcend his confrontation with death.

The laws of tuma and tahara throughout the Torah serve as correctives, designed to sensitize man to his moral freedom whenever he is challenged by physical limitations. In effect, God exhorts man: “Be not deceived by corpse and death, become free, become immortal not in spite of, but together with all that is physical…remain immortal master of your mortal body….”

Hirsch explains that the various details of the para aduma ritual are constructed to help man regain his equilibrium after a close encounter with death. The unblemished red heifer, for example, having never borne a yoke, represents the uncontrolled physical-animal nature of man. The handing over of the animal to the Kohen represents an individual’s free-willed, conscious choice to integrate his physical nature into a world governed by the laws of the Torah. Both the body’s eventual return to the earth, symbolized by the burning of the red heifer into ash, and the eternal continuity of the soul lie within the scope of God’s plan for mankind.

With great detail and care, Hirsch proceeds to show how each aspect of the para aduma ceremony further teaches that gaining proximity to God on earth requires the joining of both aspects of man’s existence. “The laws of God’s Torah always presuppose the mortal body joined to the immortal part of man’s being.”

E

No scholarly exercise within our tradition more clearly showcases the relationship of the Jewish people to the totality of Jewish law than our age-old, continuing struggle with the ritual of para aduma.

Both those who accept this mysterious rite with blind obedience and those who strive to pierce its mysteries view this difficult section of Torah text as relevant to our lives, transmitting lessons concerning our relationship with God, our world and ourselves.

Points to Ponder

Another observation concerns the para aduma’s unique capacity l’taher et hateme’im u’l’tamei et hatehorim, “to purify the defiled and to defile the pure.”

Perhaps what we have labeled as a unique phenomenon is not really so unique, after all. Our world is, in fact, filled with phenomena that can cut both ways – phenomena that, dependent upon the situation and the players involved, can give rise to either positive or negative results, and sometimes even to both simultaneously.

As a case in point, I have often felt that many “open,” heterogeneous Modern Orthodox communities, such as the ones that I have been privileged to serve, have the capacity, for want of better terminology, l’taher et hateme’im u’l’tamei et hatehorim.

Tolerant, welcoming and nonjudgmental, these congregations carry the real potential to draw individuals and families of varied religious backgrounds closer to Judaism and its practices. Many individuals who might well have felt uncomfortable in more rigidly Orthodox communities find themselves at home in these congregations, drawn in by the warm friendship and acceptance shown to them and by the acts of communal kindness and sharing that they observe. Their developing congregational affiliation often leads to a growing interest in Jewish tradition, resulting in greater personal study and observance.

At the same time, however, “open” Orthodox communities can prove challenging at the other end of the spectrum. The communal “tolerance” that proves to be such an asset in attracting the less affiliated can encourage diminished observance among the “already affiliated.” Communal standards of religious practice are invariably relaxed, as an atmosphere of “live and let live” is fostered. Behaviors that might be seen as questionable in other Orthodox communities become commonplace, even among those who would have adhered more strictly to the letter of the law had they lived elsewhere.

Don’t get me wrong….

I love the communities in which I have served as rabbi. Even more, I consider such communities essential to the fabric of Jewish life, presenting Orthodoxy in a welcoming fashion and providing a rich, dynamic religious texture that cannot be experienced elsewhere.

Nonetheless, these communities also offer an ongoing challenge to rabbis and congregants alike. Together, they must work to maintain a healthy balance between the tolerance that defines the community’s character and the potential relaxation of religious standards that can threaten its spiritual growth.

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

Reenacting an Old Drama

The rebellion of Korah and his co-conspirators against Moses and Aaron, of which we read this morning, is the first great, direct test of the leadership of Moses. The quelling of the rebellion of this band of malcontents reestablished and reaffirmed the leadership of Moses of his people in the desert.

And yet, according to Yalkut Reuveni, the Sages of the Kabbala taught that this great battle between Moses and Korah had ancient roots. The struggle between these two, they say, was merely the re-enactment of the old drama of the strife between Cain and Abel. They identify Moses with Abel and Korah with Cain.

The detailed kabbalistic analogy is beyond our limited comprehension. Nevertheless, it is obvious to all of us that the Sages of the Kabbala have here enunciated a great truth. For indeed, as we analyze the two dramas, we find confirmed the similarities between these two sets of biblical characters.

Thus, for instance, we can detect at least three elements which unite Moses with Abel and Korah with Cain. The first of these is kina – jealousy or envy. The fratricide committed by Cain against Abel had its roots in Cain’s envy of Abel – the Lord accepted the offering of Abel, but did not accept the offering of Cain. The same feelings provoked Korah to his abortive insurrection. Both Moses and Korah were brothers in the sense of being members of the same tribe of Levi. Yet Moses was the undisputed leader of the people, while Korah was not. He was consumed by the fires of jealousy – even as later he was consumed by the fires of the Lord when he met his end.

The second observable element that unites these two pairs is ta’ava – concupiscence, desire, a ravenous appetite for more and more. In the story of the sons of Adam, the Sages tell us that they divided the world between the two of them. Cain owned a full half of the world – yet he begrudged his brother the other half and desired it for himself. Korah, according to Jewish tradition, was exceedingly wealthy, so much so that “as rich as Korah” has become a byword in Yiddish. Yet Korah was not satisfied with his wealth, and instead he was overwhelmed by a ta’ava for political power as well.

A third similarity is the striving for kavod, for honor and recognition. More than envy or desire motivated Cain to his tragic act. He was, in addition, the older brother of Abel – and he regarded Abel’s distinction as an insult and an offense against his position. He did not receive the kavod he thought was his due. So, Korah felt deeply unhappy because of the lack of recognition he felt he deserved. He wanted kavod, and did not receive all that he expected. How clearly this comes out in the first accusation that Korah publicly directs against Moses in his denunciation, “Wherefore do you presume to raise yourselves over the congregation of the Lord?” (Numbers 16:3).

The Abels and the Moseses, the people of good will, must always be prepared to cope with the malcontents, the dissatisfied, those who always grasp for more than they deserve. As the Rabbis taught us in Avot (4:21), “Envy, desire, and undeserved honor drive a man out of the world.” This was literally true in both our cases. Cain was forced out of his world – he was sent into exile, to wander over the face of the earth. No place could he call his own, no house could he identify as his home. Korah too was driven out of the world – indeed, he literally was swallowed up by the earth and vanished from the world of men.

The quarrel between Moses and Korah was not something localized in ancient history – it is a universal drama, as old as man himself. So long as there will be people who will allow themselves to be dominated by unworthy aspirations, someone is going to be terrorized and victimized. The two cases of Cain and Korah are, in essence, a biblical insight into the personality of the aggressor.

Yet there is one question that remains to be answered. If indeed the story of Korah and Moses is but the reenactment of the old drama of Cain and Abel, why are the results so different? Why is it that Abel was the victim of Cain in that ancient story, while the man identified with Abel, Moses, is the victor over Cain’s representative, Korah? Why does the good lose in one case, and triumph in the other?

Before we answer that question, we must find yet one more similarity between these two couples. And that lies in the element of disguise, of cloaking evil in piety. The most characteristic element in both stories is the projection of selfish, egotistical, aggressive intentions in the guise of the noble, the good, the decent. For his own nefarious purposes, the devil will quote scripture, and the aggressor nation will announce itself “leader of the peace-loving camp.” Thus, Cain’s motivations were, as we have seen, completely selfish in nature. Yet, Cain did not announce his intentions as boldly as all that. Tradition teaches (Genesis Rabba 22:7) that Cain and Abel divided the world in the following manner: Abel was to receive all chattel, or moveable objects, while Cain was to possess all land, all real estate. Therefore, Cain decided to press his claims in the form of justice and righteousness. Wherever Abel went, Cain told him, “You are standing on my land. Please move on. If you continue to trespass I shall protect my rights against you.” From a formal, conventional point of view, Cain was apparently within his rights. He had justice on his side. If that was the agreement between the two brothers, Cain had the right to insist upon its complete execution – so his kina and ta’ava and kavod were all wrapped up in the cloak of legalism, piety, righteousness.

Korah, according to the Bible and Rabbis, did the very same thing. He did not call a press conference and announce that he was going to initiate a coup d’état in order to satisfy his ambition for greater power and influence. He did turn his eyes heavenward and act as the protector of a true demagogue, he denounced Moses and Aaron saying, “Have you not taken enough power for yourselves? Do you not realize that all these people are holy, that not only the two of you are holy?” He set himself up as the great democrat, defender of the people. Jewish tradition further records that Korah tried to make Moses and Aaron appear as tyrants who needlessly exploited the people for their personal gain and profit. He cast himself in the role of the advocate of the ordinary, common man against the tyranny of Moses.

So both in the case of Cain and Korah, the real motives of envy, desire for power, and the grasping for honor, are disguised in a veneer of righteousness. They are hypocrites.

Perhaps this is the reason we find in both these stories a strange grammatical construction – a verb without an object. In the story of Cain and Abel we read: “And Cain said to his brother Abel, and it was when they were in the field that Cain rose and killed his brother Abel” (Genesis 4:8). What did he “say”? We read that he said something, but we do not read what he said. So too, in today’s sidra we read: “Korah and the people who were conspiring with him, took…and they rose up and rebelled against Moses” (Numbers 16:1). But what or whom did they “take”? We are not told.

Perhaps what the Torah means to tell us with these unusual constructions is that the reasons they gave, what they said, the “front” they presented, the excuses they offered – were all empty, meaningless, and of no concern to us. What Cain said was totally irrelevant – he never said what he really meant. The fact is that he was fraudulent and hypocritical. What Korah said or whom he took along with him was equally inconsequential – the important thing is that in order to satisfy his own desire for power he deceived and almost destroyed his entire people. It is the action, the deeper motive, unspoken and unarticulated, but disguised in the cloak of piety, that is so terribly and unspeakably evil. It is that which really counts. The rest is unworthy of being recorded in Scripture.

Here, then, we can discover why Moses was the victor, while Abel was the victim of his aggressive brother. In all our readings of the Torah and our midrash we do not find that Abel truly fought back against Cain. We do not find him calling Cain’s bluff. Instead, in all likelihood, he tried to counter his brother Cain on his terms. No doubt he rebutted his arguments with legal arguments of his own. And when you try to fight the devil on the devil’s terms, you are bound to lose.

But Moses had learned the lesson of Abel. He refused to discuss Korah’s complaints in the manner they were presented. Instead he pierced the mask, he went straight to the heart of the matter, and ripped off the disguises of these evil men. He said to them (Numbers 16:8-9), “Listen here, you sons of Levi, is it not enough for you that God has chosen your tribe above all others, that you seek as well to become the priests, the sole leaders?” He stripped them of all their pious pretentions and let all the people see what these rebels really wanted – power, power, and more power. And then he turned to the people and said to them, “Depart from the tents of these evil, wicked people.” That is all that they really are. Moses learned from the story of Cain and Abel – and we must learn from the story of Koraĥ and Moses – never to be impressed by pious frauds, for even their piety is fraudulent. Evil should not be debated – it should be exposed.

This is a lesson for us in all aspects of life. In order to survive, physically and morally and spiritually, we must insist upon the truth and look for it with all the power at our command.

In recent years, Jewish writers and “intellectuals” who are very uncomfortable with their Judaism have pronounced publicly on our faith in many ways. Worse yet, certain organizations which should know better have turned to them as the oracles who will decide for us the real nature and future of Judaism. The magazine Commentary started this with a symposium, and the results were sad indeed. Now the American Jewish Congress has instituted a “dialogue” between American and Israeli Jews in Jerusalem. From the most recent reports of The New York Times, the dialogue this week included American writers, novelists, and columnists. All of them, according to the report, were “rather nebulous about their identification as Jews.” One author – whose recent book portrays a rabbi in a role that would make any sensitive reader blush with embarrassment – declared the “essential nature of Jewishness” to be a feeling of alienation, of being in exile, an outsider. Thus, he declared, most Jews in Israel and the United States, being insiders, in their respective societies have “ceased to be Jews.”

What a romantic definition! It certainly sounds appealing. But then, by this definition, King David, King Solomon, the Gaon of Vilna and countless others were not Jews! They were not alienated from their own society. This particular writer is a Jew, but they are not. Furthermore a Jewish society is impossible – for a society cannot be alienated from itself!

Another writer, who recently no doubt made a great deal of money with his “best seller,” declared that to be a Jew one must be a “dissenter from the affluent society.” By such terms, Rabbi Judah the Prince, who according to the reports of our tradition was very wealthy, was not a Jew – although he was the editor of the Mishna!

It is useless to show the emptiness of this dilettantism. It is humiliating to hear Jews alienated from Judaism describe Judaism as a state of being alienated from Jews. It is embarrassing that the American Jewish Congress saw fit to invite only one observant Jew – a Professor of Physics from the Hebrew University – to participate in this “dialogue.”

We must learn, and should have learned by now, that all this is a façade. It is an elaborate circumlocution for assimilation – a word no longer popular nowadays. It is a roundabout way for saying, “I desire to commit spiritual suicide but haven’t the courage to face up to it. I would like to forget that I am a Jew, but the cruel world won’t let me. In my heart of hearts I want to be reborn a ‘WASP’ – a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant – but my infantile wishes are constantly frustrated.”

It is a sad but true fact that those who ponder the definition of their Jewishness have usually lost it by that time. The Jew who practices Torah and mitzvot does not normally concern himself about the definition of his Jewishness. It is when an individual has assimilated in fact, but is unwilling to acknowledge it in words, that that person wraps up his assimilation in this existentialist rhetoric of “alienation.”

Our policy ought to be not to discuss “Who is a Jew?” on such terms. We should, rather, recognize assimilation for what it is, call it by its real name, and avoid unnecessary dialectic.

Those of us who are true to the Jewish tradition and loyal to our Torah need not participate in this new fad and fashion on inventing new definitions of Jewishness. Like Moses, we prefer to go straight to the truth. We will not call Judaism “alienation” or “dissent.” We will recognize such terms merely as excuse for assimilation, for the surrender of Torah and mitzvot, which alone constitute Judaism.

It is for good reason that the Aggada (Bava Batra 74a) tells us of Rabba bar Bar Hannah putting his ear to the ground in a spot in the desert pointed out to him by an Arab as the burial place of Korah and his cohorts, and hearing them declare from the bowels of the earth, “Moses is true and his Torah is true.” Our Torah is truth, and our truth is Torah. We shall not become ensnared by the slogans, “images,” and posturing of the Cain’s and Korah’s and others of their ilk. Through our Torah of truth we shall become perceptive. With its wisdom, its insights, and its eternal blessings we shall learn to live our lives in a manner pleasing to God. We shall forever proclaim, through all time and all the world, “Moses is true and his Torah is true.”

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

Chet Hameraglim 1: Unfair Blame?

Context

As the nation stands poised to enter the land of Canaan, Moshe selects twelve meraglim, spies, to tour Canaan and bring back a detailed report concerning the land and its inhabitants.

Upon their return, the spies issue an initial report:

We came to the land to which You sent us and indeed it flows with milk and honey, and this is its fruit.

But the nation that resides in the land is powerful, and the cities are fortified and very great, and also the descendents of the giant we saw there.

Amalek resides in the Southland; the Hittites, the Yevusites and the Emorites reside in the mountains; and the Canaanites reside by the sea and on the bank of the Jordan.

Reacting to this report and to the spies’ further arguments, the Israelites descend into despair, openly rebelling against God, Moshe and Aharon.

Questions

What exactly is the sin of the spies? Charged with the responsibility of collecting accurate intelligence concerning the land of Canaan and its inhabitants, why are they now apparently blamed for fulfilling their mission? To quote the Ramban: “Did [Moshe] send them for the purpose of testifying falsely?”

Why does this revolt, in contrast to all previous rebellions, seal the fate of the generation of the Exodus? This time, confronted with the specter of overwhelmingly powerful adversaries, the Israelites arguably have cause for despair. What aspect of the nation’s reaction does God apparently find unforgivable?

Approaches

A

A close look at the text reveals that the spies’ report to the Israelites unfolds in three distinct stages. With the unfolding of each stage, the culpability of the spies increases.

1. The initial report. While the spies’ initial report (see above) seems to be a faithful fulfillment of Moshe’s directives, one word changes everything. When the meraglim preface their remarks concerning the inhabitants of the land with the word efes (but), they endeavor to change the parameters of their role. No longer satisfied with simple intelligence gathering, the spies unilaterally assume an advisory capacity.

Rabbi Isaac Arama, in his Akeidat Yitzchak, offers a simple analogy. A servant, sent by his master to determine the quality and cost of a garment, oversteps his boundaries if, upon his return, he proffers an opinion concerning the reasonableness of the asking price.

In the case of the spies, however, this seemingly simple overstepping of boundaries has a devastating effect. The implication of their report becomes: The land is indeed beautiful; but the inhabitants are (too) strong (to conquer). Suddenly, what had been a certainty now becomes an open question. The spies, after all, had been sent to determine how to conquer the land, not to offer an opinion as to whether or not the land should be conquered. By venturing an opinion concerning the latter issue, the meraglim sow seeds of doubt concerning the Israelites’ very entry into the land.

Against this backdrop, the spies’ unusual use of the Hebrew word efes to introduce their doubts becomes particularly telling. Efes (literally “zero”) connotes total negation. Through their choice of language, the spies deliberately transmit a sense of profound hopelessness, striking to the core of the nation’s heart.

2. The second stage. No sooner do the ten spies conclude their initial report, than Calev courageously rises to neutralize the effect of their words: “We can certainly ascend and conquer it, for we can surely do it!”

Calev’s erstwhile colleagues, however, counter his efforts by immediately moving from oblique suggestion to open assertion: “We cannot ascend against that people for they are stronger than we [mimenu].”

Nehama Leibowitz explains the devastating double entendre within this seemingly straightforward declaration. The Hebrew word mimenu, she notes, can either connote the first-person plural, “than we” (as explained above, in line with the pshat), or it can be read as the third-person singular mimeno, “than he.” This dual meaning serves as the basis for the Midrashic tradition that a secondary, even more disturbing message courses through the words of the spies: Not only are the nations of the land more powerful than we, but they are more powerful “than He,” than God Himself.

3. The third stage. Although the third section of the meraglim’s report follows immediately upon the second, this stage is set apart in the text by an introductory statement: “And they brought forth an evil report concerning the land they had spied upon, saying…”

Finally, the true colors of the spies emerge as their tactics change. No longer do they issue pessimistically shaded reports. No longer is their full intent concealed in suggestion and double entendre. Instead, they now embark upon an open, deliberate, calculated campaign, using any means possible to discourage the people from entering Canaan. For the first time, the land itself is cast in a negative light as a “land that consumes its inhabitants.”8 The nations within are no longer simply characterized as strong and powerful, but instead are now described as “nefillim [giants], the descendents of giants.”

Most revealing of all, however, are the final, culminating words of the spies: “And there we saw the nefillim, the sons of the giant from among the nefillim; and we were in our own eyes as grasshoppers and so were we in their eyes!”

A careful reading of this sentence reveals a striking “Freudian slip,” millennia before Freud. “We were in our own eyes as grasshoppers,” the spies proclaim, and only then “so were we in their eyes.” Only once we felt our own worthlessness did we become worthless in the eyes of others.

Here then, in their own closing words, the bottom line, the true failure that lies at the core of the sin of the spies: when all is said and done, the spies are guilty of a loss of faith in themselves.

How overwhelmingly devastating their implied message to the Israelites must thus have been!

Do you know how we felt and what we realized when we saw ourselves matched against the nations of Canaan?

We realized that it’s all been a lie – all that we have experienced and all that we have been promised over these last months – the plagues, the Exodus, the parting of the Reed Sea, the Revelation at Sinai…

We are not a conquering nation; we are not a fledgling, divinely chosen people. We are grasshoppers! We are still the servile slaves who endured centuries of servitude to Egyptian masters. We haven’t changed; we haven’t moved an inch.

We simply cannot do it. We will never enter that land; we will never possess that land; we will never become a nation; we will never achieve our “promised” destiny.

B

We can now understand why the sin of the spies emerges as the turning point for the generation of the Exodus. Less a story of sin and punishment, the chet hameraglim reflects a frightening but inescapable reality: this generation simply cannot enter the Land of Israel.

By accepting the arguments of the meraglim, the Israelites negate the very journey that has brought them to this point. Their loss of faith in themselves clearly demonstrates that God’s attempt to forge them into a confident, conquering nation has failed (see Points to Ponder).

The generation of the Exodus cannot make the transition from slavery to freedom. A generation will have to pass before that transition can be made.

Points to Ponder

Two disparate areas of consideration rise out of our discussion of the sin of the spies.

I. Making the Leap

According to our analysis, the sin of the spies underscores the inability of the generation of the Exodus to make the leap from slavery to freedom. An entire generation will have to pass before the Israelites enter the land.

Our own current national experience proves powerfully instructive in helping us understand this biblical narrative on a human level. After all, the miracle of return to the Land of Israel in our day has certainly not been seamless. In many cases the full acclimation of new immigrants from disparate backgrounds has waited until the second generations truly become citizens of their newfound home.

Returning to the biblical narrative, however, a serious problem emerges as we examine the unfolding events. Doesn’t God know from the outset that the generation of the Exodus will fail in its transition to freedom? Why, then, does He allow the tragedy of the meraglim to unfold? Why not short-circuit the process and simply inform the Israelites at Sinai that their children, not they, will inherit the land?

This question, of course, brings us back to an issue that we have explored before (see Bereishit: Noach 1, Approaches A; Shmot: Teruma 1, Approaches B). How are we to understand the biblical narrative when God seems to change His mind; when out of apparent necessity, God discards Plan A in favor of Plan B? Why should a perfect God require the experience of trial and error?

The answer lies, as we have noted, in recognizing that God creates a world predicated upon the existence of free will, and that free will, in turn, is predicated on the possibility of human failure. God knows that man will fail, but He retreats to allow for man to learn from that failure.

Had God informed the Israelites of their fate from the outset, they, justifiably, would have felt that they had never been given the chance to prove themselves. They (and we) would never have learned the extent of their own limitations and the ramifications of their missteps. By giving the generation of the Exodus the opportunity to succeed and to (unfortunately) fail, God allows the unfolding events to transmit critical lessons across the ages.

II. Facts or Opinions?

A careful reading of the report of the spies reveals that they overstep another critical boundary – one easily crossed in our own experience as well.

From the outset, the meraglim offer their opinions as fact.

Had the spies stated upon their return, we believe that the nations that reside in the land are too strong for us to conquer, or even, it seems to us that we cannot enter the land, the Israelites might not have despaired so deeply. Opinions, after all, can be debated. Once, however, the spies offer their subjective report as fact, they leave no room for dispute. This phenomenon of transforming opinion into fact becomes more pronounced as the spies continue to speak.

The question could well be raised: How often are we – in our own dialogues, discussions and debates – guilty of the same sin as the spies? How easily do we slip from the realm of opinion into the realm of “assumed fact,” convinced of our correctness, unable to recognize the validity of other points of view?

The strength of our convictions, however strong they may be, does not have the power to transform opinion into fact. This lesson, tragically taught through the sin of the spies, should not be forgotten in our day.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishers.

The Book of Ruth read on Shavuot is a beautiful and inspiring story, instructive to us in many ways. The story itself is fairly simple, and most of us are, or should be, well acquainted with it. The cast of characters is well-known: Boaz, Ruth and Naomi as the major characters, and Orpah, Elimelekh, Mahlon and Kilyon as the minor characters.

But there is one personage who makes a brief appearance in this Book (chapter 4) whom we may designate as the “Mystery Man”! The Bible doesn’t even give him a name. He is an anonymous and therefore mysterious character. You recall that Boaz was determined to marry this young widow of his cousin, this Moabite girl Ruth who had embraced Judaism. Now since Ruth and her mother-in-law Naomi owned the land left to them by their respective husbands, marriage would mean that these estates would be transferred to the new husbands. Let us remember that in those days real estate had more than commercial value—it meant the family inheritance, and sentiment was supported by law in making every attempt to keep property within the family or as close to it as possible. Now while Boaz was a first cousin, there was a closer relative—the brother of Elimelekh, the father of her late husband. Before Boaz could marry her and take possession of the family property, he needed the closer relative’s consent (this relative is called the go’el or redeemer, for he redeems the family’s possessions). Boaz therefore met this man and offered him priority in purchasing the lands of father and sons. He seemed willing to do this, regardless of price. But when Boaz told him that he would also have to marry Ruth if he should redeem the land, the go’el hesitated, then refused. I can’t do it, he said. Boaz was then next in line for the right of redemption, and that he did, and, of course, he married Ruth. From this union, four generations later, came one of the greatest Jews in our long history, King David.

Who is this relative who missed the historic opportunity to enter history? What is his name? We do not know. The Bible does not tell us. It does tell us rather pointedly that it does not want to mention his name. When the book describes Boaz’s calling to the man to offer him the chance of redemption, we read that Boaz said, “Come here such a one and sit down” (Ruth 4:1). Peloni Almoni—“such a one.” Lawyers might translate that as “John Doe.” Colloquially we might translate those words as “so-and-so,” or the entire phrase in slang English would read, “and he said, hey you, come here and sit down.” Translate it however you will, the Torah makes it clear that it has no wish to reveal this man’s name. Evidently he doesn’t deserve it. He isn’t worthy of having his name mentioned as part of Torah.

We may rightly wonder at the harsh condemnation of this person by the Torah. Why did he deserve this enforced anonymity? He was, after all, willing to redeem the land of his dead brother and nephew. But he balked at taking Ruth into the bargain as a package deal and marrying her out of a sense of duty. Well, who wouldn’t do just that? Are those grounds for condemnation?

As a matter of fact, our Rabbis tried to pry behind this veil of secrecy and they found his true name. It was, they tell us, Tov, which means “good” (Ruth Rabbah 6:3; Tanhuma, Behar, 8). He was a good chap. He showed a generally good nature. There was nothing vicious about him. And yet the Torah keeps him as a mystery man, it punishes him by making him a nameless character. He remains only a faint and anonymous shadow in the gallery of sacred history. His name was never made part of eternal Torah. He was deprived of his immortality. He is known only as Peloni Almoni, “the other fellow, “so-and-so,” “the nameless one.” A goodly sort of fellow, yet severely punished. Why is that so?

Our Sages have only one explanation for that harsh decree. By playing on the word Almoni of the title Peloni Almoni, they derive the word illem—mute or dumb. He remains without a name she-illem hayah be-divrei Torah because he was mute or dumb, speechless in Torah (Ruth Rabbah 7:7). He was not a Torah-Jew. Some good qualities, yes, but not a ben Torah. When it came to Torah, he lost his tongue. He could express himself in every way but a Torah way. Had he been a Torah kind of Jew, he would not have sufficed by just being a nice chap and buying another parcel of land. He would have realized that it is sinful to despise and underrate another human being merely because she is a poor, forlorn, friendless stranger. Had he been imbued with Torah he would have reacted with love and charity to the widow and the orphan and the stranger, the non-Jew. The Rabbis suggest that his reluctance to marry Ruth was for religious reasons: that the Torah forbids marriage with a Moabite, and Ruth was a Moabite. Had he ever bothered to study Torah in detail, as a Jew ought to, he would have known the elementary principle of Mo’avi ve-lo Mo’aviyyah (Yevamot 76b)—only male Moabites could never marry into the Jewish nation; female Moabites are acceptable spouses. Once this Moabite girl had decided to embrace Judaism from her own free will and with full genuineness and sincerity, she was as thoroughly Jewish as any other Jewish woman, and a Jewish man could marry her as he could the daughter of the Chief Rabbi of Israel. But this man was illem be-divrei Torah, he was unfeeling in a Torah way, he was out of joint with the spirit of Torah, he was ignorant of its laws and teachings; he had no contact with it. And a man of this sort has no name, insofar as Torah is concerned. He must remain Peloni Almoni—the nameless one. Such a person is unworthy of having his name immortalized in the Book of Eternal Life. His name has no place in Torah.

What we mean by a “name” and what the Torah meant by it, is something infinitely more than the meaningless appellative given to a person by his parents. It refers, rather; to a spiritual identity; it is the symbol of a spiritual personality in contact with the Divine, hence with the source of all life for all eternity. A name of this kind is not given; it is earned. A name of this sort is not merely registered by some bored clerk in the city records. It is emblazoned in the sacred letters of eternity on the firmament of time. One who is, therefore, Almoni, strange to Torah, can never be worthy of such a name. He must remain a Peloni Almoni.

It is told of the famous conqueror, Alexander the Great, that he was inspecting his troops one day and espied one particularly sloppy soldier. He said to him, “soldier, what is your name?” The soldier answered, “Sir, it is Alexander.” The great leader was stunned for a moment, then said to him, “well, either change your name or change your behavior.” That is what we mean by a name in Torah. It is the behavior, the personality, the soul, and not the empty title that counts.

As far as we Jews are concerned as a people, we can be identified primarily through Torah. Without it we are a nameless mass. Our history, like that of other peoples, has in it elements of military ventures, politics, economics. But more than any other people, it is a history of scholarship, of Torah. It was a non-Jew—Mohammed, the founder of Islam—who called us “The People of the Book”—not just books, but “The Book.” It was a non-Jew—the famed economist Thorsten Veblen—who called Jews “eternal wayfarers in the intellectual no-man’s land.” It was a non-Jew—the Protestant philosopher Paul Tillich—who said that, for Christians, Jews serve the spiritual purpose of preventing the relapse of Christianity into paganism. It was a non-Jew—the King of Italy—who in 1904 told Theodor Herzl that “sometimes I have Jewish callers who wince perceptibly at the mere mention of the word Jew. That is the sort I do not like. Then I really begin talking about Jews. I am only fond of people who have no desire to appear other than they are.” The King of Italy was referring to nameless Jews, those who reject the name “Jew,” those who are “mute in the words of Torah.” For the Jew who is not illem be-divrei Torah knows that the function and destiny of our people is to be a “holy nation and kingdom of priests” (Ex. 19:6). As a people we have the choice: remain with Torah and be identified with the House of David, be benei melakhim, princes of the spirit— or become nameless and faceless blurs in the panorama of history; the people of Boaz, or a collection of Peloni Almonis.

And what holds true for our people as a whole holds true for us as individuals as well. The Kabbalah and Hasidism have maintained that the name of every Jew is merummaz ba-Torah, hinted at in the Torah. Here too they meant “name” as a source of spiritual identification, as an indication of a living, vibrating, pulsating, soulful personality, a religious “somebody.” When you are anchored in Torah, then you are anchored in eternity. Then you are not an indistinguishable part of an anonymous mass, but a sacred, individual person.

We who are here gathered for Yizkor, for remembering those dearly beloved who have passed on to another world, we should be asking ourselves that terrific question: will we be remembered? How will we be remembered? Or better: will we deserve to be remembered? And are we worthy enough to have our names immortalized in and through Torah? Are or are we not illemim bedivrei Torah?

Oh, how we try to achieve that “name,” that disguise for immortality! We spend a lifetime trying to “make a name for ourselves” with our peers, in our professions and societies. We leave money in our wills not so much out of charitable feelings as much as that we want our names to be engraved in bronze and hewn in stone. And how we forget that peers die, professions change, societies vanish, bronze disintegrates and stone crumbles. Names of that sort are certainly not indestructible monuments. Listen to one poet who bemoans the loss of his name:

Alone I walked on the ocean sand/A pearly shell was in my hand;

I stooped and wrote upon the sand/My name, the year, the day.

As onward from the spot I passed/One lingering look behind I cast,

A wave came rolling high and fast/And washed my lines away.

The waves of time wash names of this kind away, indeed. Try as we will, if we remain each of us an illem be-divrei Torah, unrooted in Judaism, then we remain as well Peloni Almoni. Is it not better for us to immortalize our names in and through eternal Torah, so that God Himself will not know us other than as Peloni Almoni?

There is a custom which we do not practice but which Hasidic congregations do, which throws this entire matter into bold relief. The custom stems from the famous Shelah ha-Kadosh, Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, who recommends that in order she-lo yishkah shemo le-Yom ha-Din, that our names not be forgotten on Judgment Day, we should recite a verse from the Bible related to the name at the end of the daily Shemoneh Esreh (Siddur ha-Shelah s.v. pesukim li-shemot anashim). There is a Biblical verse for every name. Thus my own is Nahum. And the verse I recite is from Isaiah, Nahamu nahamu ammi yomar Elokeikhem—console, console My people, says your God (Is. 40:1). My, what that makes of an ordinary name! Even as a child I was terrifically impressed with it—a job, a mission, a destiny: console your fellow man, your fellow Jews!

Let any man do that and no matter what his parents called him, God knows his name—it is not Peloni Almoni; it is an eternal verse which will be read and taken to the hearts of men until the end of days.

On this Yizkor Day, think back to those whom you will shortly memorialize: does he or she have a name in Torah—or must you unfortunately refer to Peloni Almoni a shadow of a memory about to vanish? How will we be remembered— not by children, not by friends, not by other men at all . . . but at Yom ha-Din, on the day of judgment, by God Himself? Will we distinguish ourselves with humility, so that our names will become merged with the glorious verse of Micah (6:8): Ve-hatznea lekhet im Elokekha, walk humbly with thy God? Or will we prove ourselves men and women of sincere consideration and kindness and love for others so that our names will be one with ve-ahavta le-re‘akha kamokha, love of neighbor (Lev. 19:18)? Or will we devote our finest efforts to the betterment of our people and effecting rapprochement between Jews and their Torah, so that our names will be beni bekhori Yisrael, Israel is my firstborn (Ex. 4:22)? Will we delve to the limits of our mental capacity into the study of Torah, so that our names will be an etz hayyim hi la-mahazikin bah, a tree of eternal life to those that hold it (Prov. 3:18)? Or will we do none of these things, just be tov, good-natured men and women. with no special distinction in Torah, no real anchorage in Jewishness, and find that our lives have been spent in nothingness and that even God has no name for us, that we will be just plain Peloni Almoni?

On this Shavuot day, when we recall the giving of the Torah at Sinai, the “Mystery Man” of the Book of Ruth calls to us from the dim obscurity in which he has been shrouded: Do not do what I did. Do not be illem be-divrei Torah, mute and speechless when it comes to Torah. Do not end your lives in a puff of anonymity. Grasp the Tree of Life which is Torah. Live it. Practice it. Overcome all hardships and express it in every aspect of your life. Do not abandon it lest God will abandon you. Jump at this opportunity for immortality. In short: make a name for yourself—through Torah, and with God.

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

Context

Conflicting signals mark the Torah’s attitude towards a man or a woman who vows to become a Nazir and thus accepts the personal obligation to refrain from

1. Consumption of wine, grapes and any grape product

2. Haircuts

3. Any defiling contact with a human corpse

On the one hand, the Torah emphatically states, “All the days of his nezirut, sanctified is he to God.”

On the other hand, if the Nazir comes into inadvertent, unavoidable contact with death, the Torah maintains that he must “atone” for his sin.In addition, upon completion of the term of his vow, every Nazir is commanded to bring, among other korbanot, a sin offering.

Questions

How does Jewish thought view a Nazir? Is the adoption of additional stringencies in the quest for holiness considered praiseworthy or not?

Why must a Nazir atone for circumstances beyond his control, in the case of unavoidable, inadvertent contact with death? Even further, why must every Nazir bring a sin offering upon completion of the term of his vow? Is this offering an indication of the Torah’s disapproval of the original vow of nezirut?

If nezirut is less than optimal, why is it offered as an option in the Torah? If, on the other hand, nezirut is praiseworthy, why isn’t this status mandatory for all?

Approaches

A

The textual hints of attitudinal ambivalence towards the Nazir emerge as full-blown debate in rabbinic literature. At the core of the argument lies the broader question: How does Jewish thought, in general, view the ascetic, someone who voluntarily abstains from that which God permits?

In a philosophical battle that rages across the ages, the sages map out widely divergent positions concerning the search for sanctity in a physical world. What follows is a representative – albeit far from exhaustive – sampling of their opinions.

B

A foundational Tannaitic dispute, quoted in the Talmud, sets the stage for the multigenerational discussion.

Rabbi Elazar Hakapar maintains that the Torah refers to a Nazir as having sinned because the individual unnecessarily deprives himself of the pleasure of drinking wine. “If an individual who deprives himself of wine is a sinner,” this sage concludes, “how much more so is someone who deprives himself of all pleasures? We therefore learn that an individual who voluntarily fasts is considered a sinner.”

Rabbi Elazar (ben Shammua, not to be confused with Rabbi Elazar Hakapar) draws the opposite conclusion. The Torah clearly describes the Nazir as sanctified. “If someone who deprives himself of wine is considered holy,” this sage argues, “how much more so is someone who deprives himself of all pleasures? We therefore learn that an individual who voluntarily fasts is considered holy.”

The Talmud goes on to explain, however, that even Rabbi Elazar limits his encouragement of abstinence to those who can bear the burden without undue suffering.

Other Talmudic sages weigh in on both sides of the debate.

C

As seen by the conclusions they draw, Rabbi Elazar Hakapar and Rabbi Elazar do not confine their debate to the case of nezirut. At issue is the overall question of asceticism within Jewish tradition. How does Judaism, they ask, a religion that generally embraces the physical world view those who wish to retreat from it? Can such retreat result in the attainment of greater spiritual heights or is abstinence a fundamentally aberrant path? Furthermore, are the answers to these questions consistent across the board or dependent on the makeup of each individual?

Centuries later, in his halachic magnum opus, the Mishneh Torah, the Rambam clearly adopts the position of Rabbi Elazar Hakapar on this fundamental issue:

A person should not say, “Behold: envy, desire, honor and the like are evil paths…; I will separate myself from them completely,” to the point where he will not eat meat or drink wine, will not marry, will not live in a beautiful dwelling, will not wear nice garments; but instead wears sackcloth, rough wool and the like, as do the priests of the nations.

This, as well, is an evil path upon which it is forbidden to travel; and one who travels this path is considered a sinner, for the text states: “And he [the Kohen] shall provide him [the Nazir] atonement for having sinned concerning the soul,” and the rabbis further maintain: “If a Nazir, who only separates himself from wine, requires atonement, how much more so does someone who abstains from many things [require atonement]?”

Therefore, the rabbis instruct that an individual should not abstain except from those things prohibited to him by Torah law [my italics]….

And concerning these issues Shlomo [King Solomon] proclaimed: “Do not be overly righteous nor overly wise; why should you destroy yourself?” (Kohelet 7:16).

Nonetheless, in spite of this clearly stated position in opposition to asceticism as a lifestyle, the Rambam does defend the institution of nezirut in his Guide to the Perplexed:

The purpose of nezirut is obvious: it provides for abstention from wine, a substance that has ruined lives in both ancient and modern times….

For he who abstains from wine is considered holy and is placed on the level of a Kohen Gadol in terms of sanctity, to the point where he may not defile himself, even [upon the death] of his mother or father. This is the honor granted to him because he abstains from wine.

The Rambam fails to clarify, however, how he considers the Nazir to be, at once, both a sinner (as he notes in the Mishneh Torah) and a sanctified individual (as he notes in the Guide to the Perplexed).

D

In stark contrast to those who consider the Nazir “sinful” for having restricted himself from that which is normally allowed, the Ramban adopts the position that nezirut is a totally laudatory state.

The sin offering brought by the Nazir at the end of his period of abstinence, the Ramban explains, is far from a negative comment on the state of nezirut. It is, in fact, exactly the opposite – a reflection of this state’s loftiness:

This individual sins to his soul on the day of the completion of his period of nezirut, for he now is a Nazir in his sanctity and in the service of God, and it would have been appropriate for him to separate forever and remain all his days a Nazir and sanctified to his God….And behold he now requires atonement upon his return to the defilement of earthly temptations.

In a bold move, the Ramban thus redefines the entire thrust of the sin offering at the end of the Nazir’s term. A Nazir requires atonement, this sage maintains, not for entering the state of nezirut, but for leaving its sanctified confines.

E

Numerous other commentaries offer their own solutions to the apparent contradiction between the Torah’s identification of the Nazir as both “sanctified” and “sinful.”

Rabbi Moshe Isserles (the Rema), for example, views the experience of nezirut as a spiritually curative process, in line with the Rambam’s general prescription for positive behavior modification.

The Rambam maintains that in order to arrive at a healthy behavioral middle road, there are times when individuals must temporarily go to extremes. Someone who has a tendency towards haughtiness and pride, for example, should debase himself for a period of time. Through this exercise, all haughtiness will be driven from his system and he will be able to return to the desired middle road.

In this vein, says the Rema, the Torah prescribes nezirut for someone who recognizes in himself the tendency to succumb to earthly pleasures. By temporarily adopting the extreme path of abstinence, this individual will train himself to eventually attain proper life balance.

The Torah’s description of the Nazir as sanctified, the Rema explains, refers to his condition after the period of nezirut is concluded. Through the vows of nezirut, the Nazir enters a temporary period of extremes (and all extremes are inherently “sinful”) in order to ultimately reach a “sanctified” equilibrium.

Agreeing with the Rema’s vision of nezirut as an exercise in positive behavioral modification, Rabbi Meier Simcha HaCohen of Dvinsk explains a strange choice of wording in the Torah’s description of the end of the nezirut period. The text states: “And this is the law of the Nazir, when the days of his nezirut are fulfilled, he shall bring himself to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.”

Why does the Torah make use of the cumbersome construction “he shall bring himself”? Why not simply state, “he shall come”?

Rabbi Meier Simcha explains that the fundamental purpose of nezirut is to cure an individual of his tendency towards lust, pride and excess. The Torah, therefore, mandates no specific length to the nezirut period. Each individual must determine for himself how long he must remain in this “corrective” period of nezirut in order to achieve the desired goals. The Nazir thus “brings himself”; he alone determines exactly when he should come to the doors of the Tent of Meeting.

Concerning the sin offering brought at the end of the Nazir’s tenure, Rabbi Meier Simcha offers an intriguing theory. The adoption of nezirut is not a sin, he suggests, but does create, by necessity, other ancillary sins of omission. During the time of his nezirut, the Nazir was proscribed from performing specific mitzvot such as the mitzva of honoring his dead (due to the nezirut restrictions concerning contact with death) and the mitzvot of Kiddush and Havdala over wine (due to the prohibitions concerning consumption of grape products). Although the acceptance of his nezirut may well have been positive, the Nazir still must atone for the mitzvot that he consequently missed.

The Netziv maintains that God Himself will sometimes “weigh in” concerning the judgment to be passed on a particular Nazir. As proof, this sage focuses on the atonement required of a Nazir upon inadvertent contact with death. Why, asks the Netziv, should a Nazir be culpable for an unavoidable situation that arises, in the Torah’s words, with “quick suddenness”? The Netziv therefore argues that, in reality, the Nazir atones, not for the contact with death that was beyond his control, but for his original decision to become a Nazir and deprive himself of wine. Such abstinence can be commendable, but only for the select few who are worthy of attaining a higher level of sanctity. By placing this particular Nazir in a situation of unavoidable contact with death, God sends a divine sign that this individual is unworthy of being a Nazir. The individual must therefore atone for unnecessary self-denial in what has been a flawed attempt to attain a status beyond his reach.

Finally, the Kli Yakar, in one of a number of approaches, views the Nazir’s sin from a societal perspective. Quoting the Talmudic statement “Anyone who vows is considered to have built a personal altar [a practice forbidden by Jewish law],”18 this scholar chastises the Nazir for separating himself from the community. By denying himself that which others are allowed, the Nazir embarks upon a search that is inherently isolating.As we have noted before, from the perspective of Jewish thought, connection to and involvement with the surrounding community is essential. Any religious path that breeds isolation is, as a rule, fundamentally flawed.

F

Yet other commentaries maintain that the mindset of the Nazir is the ultimate determinant of the value of his vow.

The Ohr Hachaim, for example, views the text itself as distinguishing between two different types of nezirut:

1. Nazir: Someone who accepts nezirut out of a personal predilection for an ascetic lifestyle.

2. Nazir La’Hashem (to God): Someone who accepts nezirut for the appropriate purpose of drawing near to God.

In a similar vein, The Chatam Sofer differentiates between the Nazir who, mistakenly, views asceticism as a goal unto itself and the Nazir who, appropriately, views nezirut as a means to an end.

To these and other like-minded scholars the message conveyed by the textual ambivalence towards the Nazir is clear: “It depends.” An individual who embarks upon the path of nezirut for the appropriate reasons is “sanctified,” while an individual whose motivation is faulty is “a sinner.”

G

When all is said and done, the most basic questions concerning nezirut still remain largely unanswered: Given the controversy surrounding these laws, why does the Torah offer nezirut as an option in the first place? Why not simply insist that all individuals find meaning and significance within the complex decrees that are already commanded to all Jews?

The answer to these questions reveals the brilliance of Torah law as it continues to strike a delicate balance between man’s initiative and God’s will.

On the one hand, nezirut reflects God’s recognition of the need for “safety valves” within the structure of ritual worship. There will always be those, the Torah acknowledges, for whom the norm will not be sufficient – individuals who will aspire to a different, perhaps loftier path. And while, as we have seen, such aspirations are of questionable merit, nezirut provides the necessary structure within which these individuals can pursue their personal objectives.

There is, however, a catch….

For if nezirut provides a channel for individual religious expression, this very same phenomenon also clearly limits such expression. Counterintuitively, the Torah denies the Nazir the right of self-determination in his religious search.

In effect, God declares to the would-be Nazir: You desire to move beyond the law, to be the exception governed by standards all your own? I will allow you to do so. If I attempt to stifle your initiative, if I deny you an avenue within the system, your need to be different may well find expression in other, less productive ways.

Just one point, however. As you leave the box that governs the behavior of those around you, here is the new box into which you must move; here are the new laws that you must now observe. For, within the world of My Torah, even those who would travel beyond the law will be governed by the law.

Ultimately you must remember that I, not you, make the rules….

Points to Ponder

As our discussion has shown, the jury is still out concerning nezirut. Unlike other faith traditions that view asceticism as a goal, Judaism views the path of abstinence with caution. Under certain circumstances, for specific individuals and with the right motivation, temporary self-denial and social seclusion can sometimes lead to a heightened state of sanctity. As a rule, however, on a day-to-day basis, sanctity is to be found through connection to the community and within the context of the physical world.

Jewish tradition’s ambivalence towards nezirut and the lifestyle that it represents should give us pause as we consider the nature of our own communal religious posture. Two areas of query can provide the framework for our brief self-analysis:

1. Is the adoption of greater ritual stringency necessarily always synonymous with deeper religiosity?

2. Given the clear value placed by our tradition upon belonging to the whole, shouldn’t the search for communal harmony factor into our halachic decisions, as well?

These questions acquire greater urgency against the backdrop of growing conflict between the increasingly strident Charedi and the increasingly alienated secular communities in Israel. With growing frequency, as these societies drift further apart, Jews perceive other Jews as opponents rather than as allies, as problems rather than as partners. The voices of moderation and pride-filled cooperation, once so strongly represented by the National Religious camp, seem strangely weak and silent.

Can a halachically true model of religious observance be attained in Israel that engenders harmony rather than hostility? Can a measure of respect for that observance still be regained among those who feel so deeply disenfranchised?

The answers to these questions will determine, in great measure, the future viability of the State of Israel.

Excerpted from Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Numbers by Rabbi Norman Lamm 

Our haftara for this morning, from the second chapter of Hosea, begins on a high optimistic note: “And the number of the Children of Israel shall be as the sand of the sea, which cannot be measured or numbered” (2:1). For a people who chronically suffer the status of a minority, this prophecy comes as a cheerful source of encouragement.

The verse seems simple enough. Yet the Rabbis of the Talmud (Yoma 22b) detected in this statement an apparent contradiction. The first half of the verse says that the number of the Children of Israel will be very large – as great as the sand of the sea. That, indeed, is a large number; but it is not infinite. The second half of the verse speaks of the population of Israel being so great that it cannot be measured or numbered; this implies an even greater number of Israelites.

This is, of course, only an apparent contradiction, because the prophet wants to explain his metaphor and tells us that by the words “as the sand of the sea,” he means that the people of Israel will be well-nigh too many to count. But the question of the Rabbis, counterposing the idea of a finite with the idea and an infinite number, was meant merely to introduce the answer they offer:

When Hosea speaks of the Children of Israel being beyond number, he refers to a time when the Israelites will do the will of God; and when Hosea speaks of us being as many as the particles of sand on the seashore, he refers to a time when we will not perform the will of God.

 

Now this is a stranger answer. When one reads the beginning of our haftara, one finds himself in a mood which is favorable to our people who obviously are considered as deserving of divine reward. How, therefore, can the Rabbis maintain that the great promise that we will be as many as the sand of the sea refers to a time when we do not do the will of God?

I should like to propose an answer, which, to my mind, touches the heart of the Jewish outlook on God and mankind and contains an incisive and perceptive comment on the ethics of our Torah. The answer derives from a comment, in another context, by one of the most seminal of hasidic thinkers, Rabbi Zadok HaKohen of Lublin. The Kohen, as he is called, distinguishes between two terms: retzono shel makom and mitzvato shel makom, the will of God and the commandment of God. All of the Halakha, including the 613 biblical commandments and the many more rabbinic commandments, represents God’s mitzva, His commandment, His directions, His demands upon us. These are the things that we must do in order to justify our existence before Him. But the mere performance of the divine commandment – His mitzva – does not exhaust the relation of God and mankind. There is much that goes beyond mitzvot, a surplus of meaning, whole worlds that transcend the idea of mitzva. This is the area of retzono shel Makom, the will of God. God wants of us more than He commands us; His ratzon is far greater than His mitzva. The divine mitzva is something that every Jew can, with enough exertion, perform completely. But that extra something beyond the commandment, namely the ratzon, is what each individual must strive to realize and actualize according to his own ability and talent.

For instance, the idea of mitzva means that we are commanded to be decent members of the Jewish community and fulfill our obligations. But the will of God, the ratzon, is that we be far more than passive participants in the drama of Jewish life; it means that those of us who have any leadership ability must develop it and use it. The will of God is that we not only get but we also give, that we not only belong but that we bring in others, that we not only react to others but that we act on our own.

One of the most obvious places where we may see the difference between commandment and will is the study of Torah. It is important to keep this in mind especially in contemporary times, when despite all our extravagant talk about intellectuals and sophistication, the study of Torah – the real intellectual content of Judaism – is honored more in the breach than in the practice. The Talmud (Menaĥot 99b) had already told us that one can get away with a minimum if he so wishes: Merely by reciting the Shema, which is a portion of the Torah itself, one can really fulfill the requirements of studying Torah by day and by night. It is easy enough to abide by the mitzva of the Almighty. But the function of man is to go beyond this and to try to live up to God’s will, His ratzon. And in this case, the Jew must realize the verse of Joshua who, speaking of the Torah, said, “You shall meditate therein by day and by night” (1:8). The commandment of God may not be confined to the recitation of two brief passages. The will of God is that we live in the study of Torah constantly, by day and by night – that every spare moment be devoted to the contemplation of the Torah.

Interestingly, both these interpretations found their way into the explanation of Rashi on the mishna in Avot (1:15) which says that we must set aside regular time to the study of Torah. One comment in Rashi has it that we must study “bekhol yom,” “every day”; the other requires of us to study “kol hayom,” “all day.” The first is the commandment of God, the second is His will.

With this distinction between mitzvato shel Makom and retzono shel Makom, we may understand what the Talmud told us about our verse in the haftara. Both halves of this verse are set in the context of an Israel which is obedient to the Lord. In both cases, Israel accepts and performs the commandments, the mitzva of the Almighty. The difference between these two halves is this: The first half, which speaks of Israel being rewarded by a large population, but not a very large one, refers to the time when Israel will perform only the commandments of God but fail to live up to His will. Whereas the second half of the verse, which promises an extraordinarily large increase in Israel’s citizenry, refers to the time when the Children of Israel will perform not only the commandments of God, but, even more, retzono shel Makom – His infinite will!

This distinction between mitzva and ratzon affords us a new insight in Judaism that is relevant to us and our times. For one thing, it means that none of us, no matter how observant we may be and no matter how Orthodox we consider ourselves, dare submit to the temptation of self-righteousness. It means that no matter how great our religious accomplishments may be vis-à-vis others, we must always bear and conduct ourselves with the utmost of humility. We must always remember that loyalty to the Halakha is not at all an expression of maximal Judaism, but merely minimal Judaism! To observe every last iota of the Shulhan Arukh is to live up to the mitzvato shel Makom. And that, most certainly, is not enough! If we observe kashrut, Shabbat, family purity, prayer, and all the other institutions of Judaism – we have only reached the level of God’s commandments. The real test of genuine piety and authentic Jewishness is when we can get beyond the mitzva and reach out for the sublimity of God’s ratzon! This will of God is far greater than His commandments not only quantitatively, but also measured by the standard of the kind of attitude we bring to the practice of Judaism. If we approach Judaism in the sense of mitzva, then it becomes for us an ole hamitzvot, a yoke, a burden, an obstacle to our freedom. But when we live the Jewish life with a feeling that we are blessed thereby, that this is what makes us happy – then we have gone beyond the commandments towards the will. The test therefore is: When we live Jewishly, do we feel deprived or privileged? Do we consider that the regimen of religion hampers us or hallows us?

Indeed, it is with reference to the study of Torah that our Rabbis (Song of Songs Rabba 1:53) tell us a remarkable story that illustrates our point. Ben Azzai was teaching Torah when suddenly the people about him noticed a remarkable sight: A wall of fire enveloped him. They quickly came to Rabbi Akiva and reported the incident to him, where­upon Rabbi Akiva hurried to Ben Azzai and asked him: “Is it true what they say, that a wall of flame enveloped you while you were teaching Torah?” “Yes,” answered the younger colleague of the great Tanna. “It is perhaps,” asked Rabbi Akiva, “because you were studying the ma’aseh merkava, the most mysterious portion of the Torah, that part which deal with the most divine secrets, and therefore it was the holiness of the subject matter which caused you to be enveloped in flame?” “No,” answered Ben Azzai, “it was nothing as remote and mysterious as that. I was simply studying Torah, Nevi’im, and Ketubim – just some Humash, some haftarot, and perhaps reciting some Psalms. What, then, was so unusual about my study? It was neither the particular subject matter nor the amount of studying I did; rather, it is just that I was so happy, so overjoyed, so enraptured with the Torah, as if this were the very day it was given from Sinai. These words were as sweet and as precious to me as when they were given.”

Indeed so! The study of Torah must not be considered merely an obligation which one must dispose of by doing it however reluctantly. It must be considered at all times as a joyous fulfillment of the will of God, as a reenactment of the drama of Sinai, far and above what is demanded of me – rather, in the realm of what is wanted of me.

This distinction has special relevance to the great Jewish institution of charity or tzedaka. If a man gives, no matter the amount, he performs a mitzva – and a very, very great one. But the will of God goes far beyond this. To give a coin to a poor man is to perform a commandment; to help him so that he does not become poor in the first place, that is the accomplishment of retzono shel Makom. To give by itself is a mitzva, but to give with love, with grace, with kindness and joy – that is the ratzon of the Almighty.

Mitzva and will with regards to philanthropy is beautifully reflected in a passage in the Talmud (Rosh HaShana 4a): “If one says I will give this coin to charity in order that my children may live, or in order that I may merit the life of the world-to-come, harei zeh tzaddik gamur – the man who gives in this manner is completely righteous.” Such is the reading of our text of the Talmud. But it is a problematical one; can such selfish and egotistical giving be the work of a man who is termed a tzaddik gamur, a completely righteous individual? The commentaries on the Talmud struggle with that question. But an answer is provided by another reading of the same text offered by Rabbenu Hananel and the Meiri. Their text reads, “harei zeh tzedaka gemura,” that this kind of philanthropy is considered complete philanthropy. In other words, it is a complete fulfillment of the mitzva to give charity; but it does not at all characterize the one who gives in this manner as a tzad­dik gamur! In terms of our own thought, this means that if one gives, but his giving is motivated by some self-concern, then he has abided by the commandment of God but he is still very far from performing the will, the ratzon, of God. The mitzva was performed, the act was fully done in accordance with every particular of the law – but such giving is without compassion and without love, and therefore has failed to rise to the level of retzono shel Makom. For the will of God is to give without the expectation of any reward, even without a spiritual kick-back!

Now we may understand the words of our Rabbis in Avot (2:4): “Do His will as you would perform your own will, so that He will do your will as if it were His own will.” Our will – our demands of God – are never minimal. We ask not for the material things which will keep us on a bare level of subsistence, but for the luxuries to which we are accustomed and for which we strive. We ask not that we be spared humiliation, but that we be accorded honor and dignity. We ask not that our children not abandon and revile us, but that they love and cherish us now and even after we have gone. We plead not that our children not intermarry, but that they marry well and Jewishly. We present God, as it were, not with a human mitzva but with a human ratzon. We are not satisfied with the minimum; we strive for the maximum. Therefore the Tanna tells us that we must respond not only to the divine mitzva but also the divine ratzon! If our material desires are maximal, so must our spiritual endeavors be maximal. Only when our gesture to God is on the level of His will may we expect that He will consider our will.

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

Two specific commandments to count seven cycles of seven units each, leading to a fiftieth culminating unit, appear in the Torah within the span of two contiguous parshiot.

In Parshat Emor, the Torah commanded the counting of the forty-nine days of the Omer (seven weeks, each of seven days) leading to the festival of Shavuot on the fiftieth day.

Now, in Parshat Behar, the Torah commands the counting of forty- nine years (seven Sabbatical cycles, each of seven years) leading to Yovel, the Jubilee, or fiftieth year.

A cursory review of the respective texts does, however, reveal a subtle distinction between these two precepts.

Concerning the Omer count towards the Festival of Shavuot, the Torah states: U’sfartem lachem, “And you shall count for yourselves” (in the plural); while concerning the count towards Yovel, the Torah states: V’safarta lecha, “And you shall count for yourself” (in the singular).

Questions

Is there a connection between the two disparate yet similar mitzvot of Sfirat Ha’omer and the counting towards Yovel, found in such close proximity within the text?

Does the seemingly minor move from plural terminology (associated with Sfirat Ha’omer) to singular terminology (associated with the counting towards Yovel) shed any light on the connection and/or contrast between these two mitzvot?

Approaches

A

The key to understanding the connection and contrast between the Omer and the Yovel counts may well emerge from an unexpected source, the distinction between two different dimensions of freedom in Jewish thought, dror and cheirut.

1. Dror (liberty): The removal of external constraints, physical or otherwise, that impede an individual’s personal choice and independent action. Dror is either conferred upon an individual by an outside force or attained through severance from that force.

2. Cheirut (freedom): The injection of positive purpose and value into one’s life. The individual who enjoys cheirut, by choosing to pursue a higher goal, actively frees himself from servitude to the surrounding world and its potentially enslaving forces. Cheirut cannot be granted by another but must be attained by an individual himself.

B

At the beginning of Parshat Behar, as the Torah outlines the Yovel laws concerning the freeing of Jewish indentured servants and the return of land to its original holders, the operant principle is dror: “U’keratem dror ba’aretz l’chol yoshveha, and you shall proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

This well-known passage, which enters the annals of American history with its partial inscription on the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, has very specific meaning in its original Torah context. At the onset of the Yovel year, Jewish society is mandated to “proclaim liberty,” by removing external constraints from certain individuals within its borders. Indentured servants are freed and land is returned to its original owners, as these individuals are liberated from bondage and poverty and afforded new possibilities for personal freedom. The full actualization of these possibilities, however, remains in the hands of the individuals themselves.

The numbering of years towards Yovel is thus a societal count, performed through the aegis of the beit din (the court) as it anticipates the time when Jewish society will act to “proclaim liberty” within its borders. The Torah therefore speaks of this count in singular terms: “V’safarta lecha, and you (beit din, as a single unit representing the society as a whole) shall count for yourself.”

C

The counting of the Omer leads, on the other hand, towards a different dimension of freedom.

As noted previously, many authorities view the mitzva of Sfirat Ha’omer as an act of linkage connecting the physical freedom of the Exodus with the spiritual freedom of Sinai. The nature of this spiritual freedom granted during Revelation is revealed in a fascinating Midrashic interpretation of a critical Torah passage: “And the tablets [received at Sinai] were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, engraved [charut] upon the tablets.”

“Read not charut [engraved],” the rabbis explain, “but cheirut [freedom]; for no man is free but he who occupies himself in the study of Torah.”

To the rabbinic mind, cheirut, full personal freedom, can only be attained through attachment to a higher goal and a higher good. Such an act of affiliation frees an individual from the limiting forces that abound in his world, enabling him to invest his life with meaning and achieve his full spiritual potential. It is this gift of cheirut which is offered to the Jewish nation through the laws given at Sinai.

The search for cheirut is therefore intensely personal and can only be performed by each individual for him- or herself. There can be no shortcuts nor can this journey towards true personal freedom be performed through a representative. When it comes to Sfirat Ha’omer, the mitzva that marks the passage towards cheirut, therefore, the Torah proclaims, U’sfartem lachem, “And you shall count for yourselves” (in the plural). Each individual is obligated to count for himself, to find his own road towards personal meaning.

D

Two mitzvot thus emerge within the span of two parshiot, each the mirror image of the other.

Both of these mitzvot speak of counting seven cycles of seven towards the goal of a fiftieth, culminating unit. Both represent a journey towards a specific dimension of freedom.

There, however, the parallel ends.

The counting of years towards Yovel, found in Parshat Behar, serves as a reminder to societies across the ages of their obligation to grant dror, liberty, to those under their sway; to break the chains of tyranny and prejudice that limit personal opportunity for any individual within their boundaries.

The counting of days towards the festival of Shavuot, found in Parshat Emor, on the other hand, speaks directly to the individuals themselves: No one can grant you personal freedom. Cheirut is a God-given right which you must discover for yourselves.

Points to Ponder

The inscription on the Liberty Bell is incomplete…

Searching for a passage to properly mark the fiftieth anniversary of Pennsylvania’s original Constitution (William Penn’s forward-thinking 1701 Charter of Rights), the Pennsylvania Assembly, in 1751, chose a phrase from Parshat Behar: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

They ignored, however, the end of the sentence: “…a Jubilee year shall it be for you, and you shall return every man unto his heritage and every man unto his family you shall return.”

The omission seems reasonable. This second section of text, speaking of the steps to be followed after the proclamation of liberty, is, after all, difficult to understand. What does the mandate to return to one’s family and heritage have to do with the acquisition of liberty?

On a technical level, Jewish law learns important additional precepts from the second half of this sentence. The phrase “You shall return every man to his heritage” conveys, according to the rabbis, the requirement that property revert to its original owners on the Jubilee year.11 From the words “Every man unto his family you shall return,” the scholars derive that all indentured servants, including those who had previously indicated a desire to stay in servitude, must be freed. Even an individual who has clearly renounced his claim to freedom is released on Yovel.

Another fundamental idea, however, may also be rooted in the passage “…a Jubilee year shall it be for you, and you shall return every man unto his heritage and every man unto his family you shall return.”

With the laws of the Jubilee year, the Torah informs us that true freedom cannot be gained through a complete severance with the past. In order to chart a new course towards the future, the past, with all its complexities, must be reckoned with: lessons must be learned, successes valued, failures confronted.

The law turns to the Jew who has sold himself into servitude because of poverty or thievery, and forces him to go free. You cannot run away from your past, the Torah insists, you must return to your roots and confront your failure. Likewise, the Torah instructs the property owner who has sold his cherished heritage, again because of poverty: Learn from any errors that you may have made, so that you will succeed tomorrow.

In short, the Torah informs us that the dror, liberty, granted by society on Yovel should serve as a prelude to the personal search for cheirut, freedom – a search that best begins with a journey into the past.

How ironic that a passage that has come to symbolize the American struggle to break free from past allegiances actually conveys the opposite message. There are no “brave new worlds” in Jewish thought. As we strike off towards a new dawn, we simultaneously step back, into our own complex past. Therein lies a wealth of experience that will guide us in our emerging endeavors. A healthy respect for that past is the best insurance for the future.

The words engraved on the Liberty Bell tell only part of the story. Any proclamation of liberty must be accompanied by a sense of responsibility emerging from the past. Only then do we stand a chance of succeeding as individuals and as a people.