Category: Excerpts

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays

Toward the end of the Book of Esther, which we shall read this week, we are told that after their miraculous deliverance the Jews accepted upon themselves the observance of Purim forever after. Kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, the Jews “confirmed and took upon themselves” and their children after them to observe these two days of Purim (Esth. 9:27).

Now, logic dictates that the two key verbs should be in reverse order: not kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, but kibbelu ve-kiyyemu, first “took upon themselves,” accepted, and only then “confirmed” what they had previously accepted. It is probably because of this inversion of the proper order in our verse that the Rabbis read a special meaning into this term in a famous passage in the Talmud (Shabbat 88a). When the Lord revealed Himself at Sinai and gave the Torah, they tell us, kafah aleihem har ke-gigit—He, as it were, lifted up the mountain and held it over the heads of the Israelites gathered below as if it were a cask, and He said to them: “If you accept the Torah, good and well; but if not, sham tehei kevuratkhem, I shall drop the mountain on your heads, and here shall be your burial place.” Moreover, the Rabbis then drew the conclusions from this that the Israelites were coerced into accepting the Torah. R. Aha b. Ya‘akov maintained that if this is the case, then moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita—this becomes a strong protest against the obligatory nature of the Torah; it is “giving notice” to God that the Torah is not permanently binding, for the Torah is in the nature of a contract between God and Israel, and a contract signed under duress is invalid.

The other Rabbis of the Talmud treated this objection with great seriousness. Thus, Rava agreed that, indeed, the Torah given at Sinai was not obligatory because of the reason stated, that moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita; but, Rava adds: af al pi ken, hadar kibbeluha bi-yemei Ahashverosh, the Israelites reaffirmed the Torah voluntarily in the days of the Purim event, for it is written: Shabbat Parashat Zakhor 5728 (1968) kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, that the Israelites “confirmed“ and then “accepted,” which means: kiyyemu mah she-kibbelu kevar—after the Purim incident the Israelites confirmed what they had long ago accepted; that is, now, after their deliverance from Haman, they affirmed their voluntary acceptance of the Torah, which they originally had been forced to accept at Sinai. Therefore, since the days of Mordecai and Esther, we no longer possess the claim of moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita, of denying the obligatory nature of Torah because we accepted it originally under duress; for we affirmed it out of our own free will in the days of the Purim episode.

What does all this mean? The Rabbis offer us a double insight into both theology and psychology.

A moral act is authentic only if it issues out of genuine freedom of choice. The Torah is meaningful only if man is free to accept it or reject it. Spiritual life is senseless where it is coerced. “See,” the Torah tells us, “I give you this day life and death, benediction and malediction, u-vaharta ba-hayyim, and you shall choose life.” God gives us the alternative, and we are free to choose. Therefore, if I am forced at gun point to violate the Sabbath, I cannot be held responsible for my action. I am not guilty, because my act partakes of the nature of ones, compulsion. But coercion can be not only physical but also psychological, as when a man performs a criminal act in a seizure of insanity or other mental distress. Both the physical and the psychological deeds are characterized as ones. Even more so, extreme spiritual excitement also implies a denial of freedom and therefore lack of responsibility. Hence, if suddenly I am confronted by the vision of an angel who commands me to perform a certain mitzvah even at great risk to myself, and I proceed heroically to do just that, no credit can be given to me for my act. My freedom to decline pursuit of the mitzvah has almost vanished as a result of my unusual spiritual experience.

Thus, too, Israel at the foot of Sinai was engulfed in the historic theophany; they heard the voice of God directly in the great revelation of Torah. Of course, under the impress of such revelation, they accepted the Torah; they would have been insane not to. The felicitous and full confrontation with God elevates man to the highest ecstasy. But it robs from him his freedom to say no, to decline, to deny. And as long as man does not have the option of saying no, his yes has no merit. If he does not have the alternative to deny, then his faith is no great virtue. Faith and belief and submission and renunciation are all meaningful only in the presence of the moral freedom to do just the opposite.

Therefore, when I am faced with extremely happy circumstances, my freedom is diminished; even as it is when I am faced with a very harsh situation. When God honors me with His direct revelation, when I am privileged to hear His Anokhi, “I am the Lord thy God,” directly from Him, I am as unable to disbelieve and disobey as when He twists my arm and threatens me with complete extinction—sham tehei kevuratkhem—if I do not accept the Torah. God’s promises and His threats, the blessing of His presence and the threat of His wrath, are both coercive and force me to do His will under duress, without making a free choice of my own. Only a demon in human form would have done otherwise.

This, I believe, is what the Rabbis meant by their interpretation of Sinai as kafah aleihem har ke-gigit. They did not mean that literally and physically God raised a mountain over the heads of the assembled Israelites and threatened to squash them underneath. They did mean to indicate thereby that the very fact of God’s direct revelation was so overwhelming that Israel had no choice but to accept His Torah, as if He had literally raised a mountain over their heads. The common element, in both the symbol and what it represents, is a lack of freedom to do otherwise. For this reason the Rabbis conceded that moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita. Since the acceptance of the Torah was not voluntary, since we were morally coerced and spiritually forced and psychologically compelled to do what we did, then the Torah lacks that binding nature which can come only from free choice. Israel had no choice at Sinai; therefore, the contract called Torah cannot be considered obligatory.

I suggest that just as the felicity of God’s presence is coercive and curbs the freedom to disobey, so too the opposite, the tragedy of His absence, is coercive, and denies us the freedom to obey and believe. And just as when God reveals Himself it is as if He threatened us with sham tehei kevuratkhem, making our obedience mechanical and not virtuous, so too when He withdraws from us and abandons us, it requires a superhuman act of faith to believe, obey, pray, and repent. We are not morally responsible for lack of faith brought on by existential coercion.

Not long after the biblical tokhahah, the long list of horrible dooms predicted for Israel, we read the terrifying words: ve-amar ba-yom ha-hu, al ki ein Elokai be-kirbi metza’uni ha-ra‘ot ha-elleh, “and Israel shall say on that day, because God is not in the midst of me have all these evils befallen me” (Deut. 31:18). What does this mean? The commentator Ovadyah Seforno interprets it as the absence of God, the silluk Shekhinah, the withdrawal of the Divine Presence. This silluk Shekhinah will make Israel despair of prayer and repentance, and this despair will result in a further estrangement of Israel from God. Now, this kind of irreligion is not a heresy by choice, it is not a denial that issues from freedom. It is a coerced faithlessness. There are times when man is so stricken and pursued, so plagued and pilloried, that we dare not blame him for giving up his hope in God. Not everyone is a Job who can proclaim, lu yikteleni lo ayahel, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him” (Job 13:15).

When Elijah will come and proclaim the beginning of redemption, when the Messiah will appear and usher in the new age of universal peace and righteousness, when God will reveal Himself once again in the renewal of the institution of prophecy, at that time there will be no virtue in the return of Jews to Torah and the return of mankind to the canons of decency. For they will not have acted out of freedom, but out of moral compulsion and spiritual coercion. Similarly, we cannot really blame the victim of the concentration camp who called upon God out of his misery and received no answer, who was himself witness to the ultimate debasement of man created in the image of God. We cannot condemn him for abandoning religion, much as we would prefer that he emulate those few hardy souls who were able to survive the Holocaust with their faith intact. For both the presence and the absence of God, the silluk Shekhinah and the giluy Shekhinah, take away my freedom from me. In one case I am forced to accept Torah; in the other, to reject it. Under such conditions, moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita.

However, if freedom is denied to us in both revelation and withdrawal, if there is no praise for believing in God in the time of His presence and no blame for doubting Him during His absence, if both fortune and misfortune, happiness and tragedy, are equally coercive, if in each set of circumstances our attitude to Torah is considered involuntary—when then do we accept Torah out of freedom, and when is our loyalty praiseworthy and our kabbalat ha-Torah valid? The answer is: When God is neither present or absent; when He neither conceals nor reveals Himself; when Fortune neither smiles at us nor frowns at us. In a word, our freedom is greatest when life is neither here nor there! For then, and only then, do we have genuine options: to accept God and Torah, or to deny them; to choose the way of life and blessing, or the way of death and evil.

And it is this situation, that of “neither here nor there,” that prevailed during the Purim episode. The victory of the Jews over Haman and the frustration of his nefarious plot was a surprising triumph and showed that God had not abandoned us; but there were no overt miracles either, no clear and indisputable proof that God was present and responsible for our victory. That is why the Book of Esther is included in the Bible and yet is the only book in which the Name of God is not mentioned. That is why the Rabbis maintain that the very name “Esther” is indicative of the hiding of God, the lack of His full revelation and presence. The Megillah itself is described in the Book of Esther as divrei shalom ve-emet, “words of peace and truth”(Esth. 9:30). By emet, or truth, is meant the action of God directing the forces of history. Intelligent and wise people reading the Megillah, or experiencing it during that generation, know that all that has occurred is the result of the actions of God “Whose seal is Truth.” All the improbable events leading to the redemption of Israel were obviously the providential design of the God of Israel. But it was just as possible for one less endowed with spiritual insight to interpret all the events as shalom, peace, as a result of fortuitous events helped by the stupidity of the Persian king, the arrogance of Haman, and the wisdom of Mordecai: a diplomatic exploitation of unusually happy circumstances. Thus, the astounding victory was natural enough; there was no supernatural intervention in the affairs of the Jews of Persia. Therefore, the Purim story was “neither here nor there.” So Jews were free, authentically free, to interpret the events of that historical episode as they wished. Hence, if—as they did—they turned to God and accepted the Torah, this was a genuine and binding choice: kiyyemu ve-kibbelu. The first time, at Sinai, they accepted the Torah but without the freedom to reject it, and it therefore represented a moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita, a protest against its obligatory nature because of the lack of freedom; but now, kiyyemu mah she-kibbelu kevar, they confirmed in freedom what they had previously accepted out of compulsion.

This lesson should not be lost on us in our individual lives. It is often said that in crisis, in the extraordinary moments of life, you can test the true character of a man. I do not believe that this is true, except if his reaction is contrary to expectations. If a man, for instance, responds heroically at a time of tragedy, he may be commended. But if he falls apart in extreme adversity, he cannot be condemned; he simply was not free to do otherwise. The same holds true in reverse situations. One who is friendly and charitable as a result of the miraculous recovery of a sick child may not yet be considered a man of nobility and generosity. He has almost been forced into charm and sweetness by his overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude.

When, then, can we tell what a man is really like? When may he be held morally accountable for his acts, and considered either guilty or praiseworthy? When he is free. And he is free when things are neither here nor there, when he is subject neither to elation nor depression, neither to the distress of adversity nor to the uplift of felicity.

It is in the Purims of life, when we have no clear proof that God is with us or against us, that there is a special virtue to accepting the Torah. Those who come to the synagogue and pray only on occasions of simhah, or when reciting the Kaddish, are doing the right thing. But the real test comes after the simhah or the eleven months of Kaddish—then, when things are neither here nor there, is the religious fiber of a personality tested. And not only is it tested, but at that time the decisions are more meaningful, more enduring, more lasting; for then the act of kiyyemu, confirmation, has kiyyum—enduring quality.

That is why I am not always happy with the famous statement of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch that “the Jewish calendar is the catechism of the Jew.” This might possibly be interpreted as saying that the high moments of simhah and the low moments of tzarah define the Jew’s life. But I prefer the ordinary to the extraordinary. The real test of kabbalat ha-Torah is not Shavuot but Purim. The real test of loyalty is not on Passover with its manifest miracles, but on Hanukkah, which is more in the category of “neither here nor there.” What is accepted in high moments or rejected in low moments does not always last the great majority of moments and hours, of days and months and years, when we live neither on the mountains nor in the valleys but on the boring plateaus; when the days in the office and the evenings at home follow each other in dull succession. Then does our commitment have the greatest value, the strongest effect. Then it deserves the highest praise.

Halakhah is the discipline of the Jew in his daily routines. The Western mentality has not always understood the Halakhah. The Halakhah teaches man to acquire faith, to search for God, to sanctify himself, in the hundred and one prosaic acts of everyday existence when man is seized neither by joy nor sorrow, neither by love nor hate. It does not trust the religious experience of narcotic ecstasy, the easy religion of LSD, the attractive luxury of following the guru to India and meditating in silence—nor does it condemn the despair of the man who murmurs against God out of his misery. It challenges us to holiness in the course of a life which is neither here nor there. And when we respond to Halakhah’s call, when we answer with the act of kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, it stands us in good stead and keeps us level-headed and stout-hearted even in the extremes of life.

In decades past, in the horror of the Holocaust, we experienced many a moment when it seemed that God had abandoned us and forsaken us. Now we look forward to the vision of the renewal of prophecy and our manifest redemption when God will reveal Himself directly to us once again.

But now, in between these two poles, these two extreme ages, we live in Purim- type days, times that are neither here nor there religiously and spiritually.

Now, above all other times, we have both the freedom and the responsibility to confirm with all our hearts and all our souls the rousing declaration of ancient days, the na‘aseh ve-nishma.

Let it be said of us, as it was said of the generation of Mordecai: kiyyemu ve-kibbelu ha-Yehudim aleihem ve-al zar‘am, that we confirmed and accepted Torah and tradition upon ourselves and our children.

And then it shall be said of us, as it was said of Mordecai himself (Esth. 10:3), that we shall be gadol la-yehudim ve-ratzui le-rov ehav, great Jews, beloved by the majority of our brethren, doresh tov le-ammo, ve-dover shalom le-khol zar‘o, seeking only the welfare of our people, speaking only peace to all our children and descendants after us.

 

 

Excerpted from Rabbi Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery,’ co-published by OU Press and Yeshiva University Press

Who is the real hero of the Megillah? Of course, if we refer the question to the folk-consciousness of our people, there is no doubt that the answer is either Esther or Mordecai. Remarkably, however, if we refer to the Megillah itself, we discover that the name mentioned most frequently throughout the entire book is that of King Ahashverosh. One nineteenth-century Jewish scholar went to the trouble of counting the number of times that the term melekh, king, appears in this little book. His study showed that the name appears no less than one hundred eight-seven times. King Ahashverosh is a central figure, the axis of the whole plot. All revolves about him, nothing occurs without him. At almost every point we are apprised of the feelings and emotions of Ahashverosh: the king is happy, the king is angry; the king is restless, the king is upset; the king is fuming, the king is drunk; the king commands, the king consents. Even the greatness of Mordecai is tied to the king. At the very end of the book, we read that “Mordecai the Jew was next unto King Ahashverosh.”

Yet, despite the fact that nothing seems to happen in this book without the ubiquitous king, he appears as a man who is feeble, spineless, unimaginative, and powerless. In the ten chapters of Megillat Esther, not one single act of importance is initiated by Ahashverosh — except, of course, his merry-making at parties and his romantic adventures. Even in these he shows no originality. He is angry at Vashti — but it is Memukhan who suggests that she be punished. He looks for a new queen — but only after the young men of his court have recommended it. He makes the decision to commit genocide against the Jewish people only because Haman has proposed it. Soon he gives his royal ring to Haman, thus making him, for all practical purposes, the ruler of the realm. Later he will give the same ring to Mordecai, thus gearing the whole apparatus of government to a new policy. And when he is fuming against Haman, he hangs him only because the idea is planted in his mind by one of his ministers. The Book of Esther shows a remarkable paradox: On the one hand, the king is an essential figure; on the other hand, he is a mere follower, a weakling, a king who reigns but does not rule. He is, in the words of our rabbinic tradition, a melekh tipesh — a foolish and ineffectual sovereign. He is a royal puppet; others hold the strings.

How does one account for this paradox? If Ahashverosh is really a nonentity, why does everything seem to revolve about him? The answer is that the Megillah, as a document promulgated by Mordecai and Esther, was, of necessity, addressed to two separate audiences. Primarily, it was written to and for their fellow Jews both of that age and all ages. But secondarily, it was a document which had to satisfy, or at least not offend, Ahashverosh, his royal court, and especially the official religion of the empire. The Jews of Persia triumphed, they were victorious, but they could not afford to assert their independence as openly as were the Maccabees able to do in a later era. they were still in galut. Hence, the tale must be subdued. It must be written on two levels: revealed and concealed, open and hidden, an outer and an inner story. And hence, in the words of Mordecai himself, the Megillah was sent to the Jewish communities of one hundred and twenty-seven provinces as divrei shalom ve-emet — “words of peace and truth.” To the Jews the story of the Megillah was emet — truth, the real story which they had to discover by a patient and careful perusal of the text. But the apparent story of the Megillah was not the same as the inner, true story for purposes of shalom, peacefulness and a desire not to offend the ruling circles and established religion. In other words, the Megillah is an unusually splendid example of a diplomatic document which tries to accommodate the competing demands of shalom and emet.

Let us try to analyze both levels, both stories. Look at the Megillah superficially, and you will notice that the royal court of Ahashverosh and the king himself are glorified, while the distinctively Jewish religious elements — which must have been offensive to Persian paganism — are subdued and only hinted at vaguely. Ahashverosh was probably proud of the praise of the melekh in the Megillah. He probably regarded it as a public relations coup, as a propaganda victory, as a worthy chronicle for the sovereign of one hundred and twenty-seven lands from India to Ethiopia.

Of the thirty-four times that the word mishteh (party or banquet) appears in all of Scripture, seventeen of them are in the Book of Esther. There is good reason for the elaborate description in the Megillah of the king’s court and his lavish banquets. The royal party was evidently a status symbol for Persian kings. The bigger the king, the bigger and the better his parties. The one described at the beginning of Megillat Esther lasted for no less than one hundred and eighty days. Vashti’s downfall occurred at a mishteh. Esther plans the destruction of Haman and the frustration of the pogrom at a mishteh. And when Mordecai and Esther declare for all generations the holiday of Purim, it consists, primarily, of a mishteh. These constant references to lavish parties, to the riches of Ahashverosh, to the extent of his realm, and attributing all actions to him, these are part of the attempt to appease the absolute monarch of this ancient empire. These are the words of shalom.

For the same reason, whatever there is of Judaism and Jewish religion in the Megillah is only in disguise. Thus, we are told that Mordecai refused to bow down to Haman. Our tradition tells us the reason — it was because Haman wore, around his neck, the statue of an idol. The Megillah itself, however, makes no mention of these religious scruples of Mordecai. A three-day fast assembly is declared by Esther and Mordecai. The Megillah mentions nothing about prayer, and certainly nothing about Him to Whom the prayers are directed. At the end we are told of the declaration of Purim as a holiday — but, aside from more parties, gifts, and charity, is there no thanksgiving? The Megillah tells nothing of this, or of Him to Whom thanks are given. There is only the vaguest hint: le-hiyot osim et shnei ha-yamin ha-elah — to “do” the two days of Purim. Those who know Jewish tradition will recognize that this refers to certain religious practices. But it is only a hint. It is certainly not explicit.

In the same manner, Haman’s accusations against the Jews were no doubt far more elaborate than they appear in the Megillah. The Megillah has toned them down, and recorded that Haman accused us only of being dispersed and “different.” In all probability, Haman told Ahashverosh that the Jews were dispersed and disunited — and that they were united only in their stubborn opposition to Persian paganism. Yet the Megillah does not mention this.

Finally, the clearest indication that we have here a “diplomatic” document with an inner story that is only hinted at, comes in the verses which describe Mordecai’s message to Esther when he discovers the nefarious plans of Haman’s program. Mordecai tells Esther that she must appear before the king to request his royal intervention lest succor come from another place (makom aher) and “who knows, u-mi yode’a,” whether you have not come to royal estate for such a time as this. these expressions — “another place” and “who knows” — are euphemisms for God. The Name of God does not appear at all in this book — strange for a Biblical book, is it not? So that God and Judaism are hinted at, but nowhere are they spelled out clearly.

Thus, insofar as the apparent story of the Megillah is concerned, Ahashverosh is at the center, whereas Judaism is deemphasized and peripheral. It is an apologetic document calculated to satisfy any third-rate Persian super-patriot. Still, the Jews knew the real meaning of the Megillah. They saw the emet despite the attempt at shalom. They did not need an interpreter. For the real story of the Megillah is the one that is concealed, not the superficial tale. And here there is no need to mention the Name of God, for the whole story is Godly, providential, and holy. The real story, the emet of the story of the Megillat Esther, is, as in all of the Torah — especially the story of Joseph — that every individual lives and acts on two levels On the lower, conscious, human level, he makes free-will decisions for which he is fully responsible. But they appear out of context, seemingly as if man is the true sovereign of the universe and there is no God Who has larger designs. Yet on a higher level, all these free, single, individual decisions and acts fall into an overall pattern determined and predestined by God Himself. Here man acts out the role already written by God. The true story, therefore, is that man is both puppet and puppeteer, master and servant of his fate, molder of and molded by his destiny.

This is the inner, real story of the Megillah. It tells us to look at the grandiose figure cut by Ahashverosh, the Persian potentate. In reality he is a weakling, a despicably ineffectual piece of putty in the hands of his underlings and especially the hands of his Creator. He thinks he directs the current of events when in fact he is swept along the mighty tides and swift streams of history like driftwood on a raging river.

Take each individual event of the Megillah’s story and it may appear insignificant. But put them together, and you have the marvelous unfolding of the will of the Hashgahah — Divine Providence. No individual detail seems to make too much sense in and of itself. But when you finish the reading of the story, they all fit into their places and assume a meaning that surpasses what the individual actors could possibly have known at the time they were performing their normal deeds. And throughout the story, the king who might otherwise — insofar as shalom is concerned — appear as the Great Man, appears to us, in emet, as a pawn and a puppet. He plays only a minor role in which there are greater actors, and in which the director and producer is the Almighty.

No wonder that the Book of Esther is part of Kitvei Kodesh, Holy Scripture. And no wonder that the Rabbis, asking, “Remez le-Esther min ha-Torah minayin, where do we find a hint or reference to Esther in the Bible?” answer: With the verse “ve-anokhi haster astir panai, and I shall hide my face on that day” (Hullin 139b). The name of Esther is etymologically related to the word hastir, to hide or conceal. The story of Esther is a story that is concealed within the book. Behind the veil of mundane events, in which man arrogantly assumes that he is the sole master of his own destiny and that all that counts is power and might, God smilingly, but in His mysterious way, guides His universe and directs the flow of history. The Book of Esther is, indeed, the story of hastir.

Megillat Esther, the document of divrei shalom ve-emet, words of peace and truth, is most appropriate to our own day. For we, not only one day a year, but throughout the twelve months, live a life of Purim. We will recall that the derivation of the word “Purim” is from the pur, the lots that Haman threw. Purim therefore means “fateful days,” and in these fateful days, with the imminent threat of cosmic catastrophe, all human beings, but especially Jews, must learn the two lessons of the Book of Esther. They are, first, that we must seek to accommodate the principles of shalom and emet; that it is possible for them to co-exist, to maintain the integrity of emet, or truth, and at the same time live a life of shalom, or peacefulness, as we have explained.

But even more important is the story of emet as such, the real, inner, concealed story of the Megillah. It is that, despite all appearances, nothing we do is insignificant or inconsequential in the eyes of God. Despite occasional feelings of inferiority and flashes of meaninglessness, we are all actors in a great, divine drama. Not all is as it appears to be. What sometimes appears as great might and overwhelming power is often only a mirage in the desert of life. And in that desert, the real oasis is the will of God, and the human aspiration to reach out for the Almighty and follow His ways. This is what Mordecai and Esther have taught us. And that is why, in the words of the Megillah, “their memories shall not vanish from their children” — nor from our children and our children’s children unto the end of time.

 

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

 The key verse in our sidra, which introduces the entire subject of sacrifices, reads: “adam k yakriv mikem korban laHashem,” “When any man of you bringeth an offering unto the Lord” (Leviticus 1:2). The Zohar, intrigued by the use of the term “adam,” declares that by this word, “man,” the Torah means neither the first man nor the last man. Rather, the Torah is concerned with the faith, the devotion, and the love of all mankind in between man at the very beginning of time and man at the very end of time.

What the Zohar tells us is that for the first man and the last man, devotion to the Almighty is not an extraordinary achievement. The first man, Adam, lived in Paradise, he had every indication of God’s bounty, and his communication with the Lord was clear and direct. Certainly, it required no great moral effort for him to believe in and worship God. Man at the end of time is one who will have experienced the complete redemption, and who will have enjoyed the divine revelation at the termination of history. For him, too, faith will not be an act of moral heroism, for he will have seen the hand of God acting in history. For these individuals, paradoxically, korban is not a sacrifice, and loyalty to the Creator is not a particularly noteworthy mitzva. But it is for the man in the middle of the course of history, for the Adam who flourishes neither at the beginning nor at the end of time, for whom korban is a sublime accomplishment. For man in the middle of the course of history, for whom certainties are elusive, for whom faith is so difficult, who dwells neither in Paradise nor in a state of redemption – for him korban and emuna are an unexampled and unparalleled triumph of the human spirit (see Ateret Mordechai by Rabbi Mordechai Rogov).

The real mitzva is accomplished when the korban laHashem is offered by man who finds himself in the middle of time and history, his horizons beclouded by uncertainty, his heart filled with fear, his innards pulled apart by anxiety, and his prayers doomed to frustration.

The period we live in is such a middle period, neither at the beginning of time nor at the end of time. We live in a time that the Bible has called hester panim, the hiding of God’s face, when we yearn for some experience of His presence, but we are disappointed; when we strive to communicate with Him, but receive no answer; when we are willing to submit our very lives to him, but we fear that He doesn’t care; when He seems to have vanished from our midst without leaving a trace; when life appears meaningless and existence absurd. How easy for modern man, living in the middle of this hester panim, to yield to despair, to cease praying, to quit believing. And it is precisely because of this that it becomes his crowning achievement to believe despite doubt, to hope despite despair, to continue to pray despite divine silence. It is this high resolve of the “man in the middle” performing the act of faith that makes him a true adam, a true human being.

But I believe that the verse we have just discussed and interpreted is meant as more than a compliment to the “the man in the middle” who retains his faith, and more than an encouragement to continue on his way. I believe that if we examine this verse carefully we shall also find in it the beginnings of an answer to the question of questions for modern man, the man in the middle: How and where shall we discover the sources of faith? How shall we acquire emuna sheleima, complete faith, in a world gripped by skepticism, in a society soaked in cynicism, in a civilization that has permitted holocausts and obscenities known as concentration camps? How shall we be adam in an age which is neither first nor last? How shall we offer ourselves up laHashem when we dwell neither in Paradise nor in a state of complete redemption? How shall we emerge from bedeviling doubt into the fortitude of faith? What advice do we have for that man in the middle who would like to believe but finds that he cannot?

I believe we can find three suggestions that await us in our verse. Let us take them in the order in which they appear.

First, “adam ki yakriv,” if a man “yakriv” – that word means not only to offer up, but also to draw close, to come karov, close, to God. Faith is not a gift that magically appears out of heaven and graces the lucky individual. It is something which requires great and strenuous effort. Emuna is not a state; it is a process which demands study and experience and thinking and willingness and labor and diligence.

In Judaism, unlike other religions, we do not accept uncritically the apparently logical idea that faith must precede religious practice. On the contrary, Judaism prefers the psychological truth to the logical statement, and holds that emuna and mitzva feed on each other, that often leading the right kind of life will bring man to the right kind of belief. It is possible for a man to believe – and yet to live like a pagan. However, if man will live like a Jew, even if he thinks like a pagan, ultimately he will come to think and believe as a Jew should, too.

In the Jerusalem Talmud (Ĥagiga 1:3), the Rabbis put, as it were, into the mouth of God some very bold words: “halevai oti azavu ve’et Torati shamaru,” “Would that the Jews abandoned Me as long as they observed My Torah!” That is, let the Jew hold in abeyance his belief in God, as long as he studies Torah, performs mitzvot, and leads a moral and ethical Jewish existence. For then, having experienced Judaism pragmatically, he will ultimately arrive at emuna: “hase’or sheba haya mekarvan etzli,” the inner leavening agent of Jewish existence will bring him back to God. In other words, “adam ki yakriv” means that man must take the initiative in reaching out to God; he must commit himself to Jewish living, in the confidence – which Judaism promises us will be vindicated – that this kind of life and these kinds of deeds will lead him to become karov, close, to Almighty God.

Now this refers not only to a commitment of deeds, but also to a commitment of emotions. I recommend that you read, if you have not already done so, Elie Wiesel’s Jews of Silence, his description of his visit to Russian Jewry. He describes the current generations of Russian Jews, young people who were never permitted to hear a Jewish word, to learn a Biblical verse, to hear a single tale or law of the Talmud. Their minds were filled with nothing but materialism and Marxism, and they consider themselves good Russian Marxists. Yet, they also prefer to be known as Jews, no matter what the risk. And how do they express this nascent and latent love of Judaism and the Jewish people? What is it that brings them back to the synagogue? Not the shofar on Rosh HaShana, not even Kol Nidre or Ne’ila on Yom Kippur, but the singing and the dancing on Simĥat Torah! We, in America, all too often take these festivities on this holiday in a sense of amusement, as a semi-humorous manifestation of levity. Yet in Moscow, every fall, on this day, in front of the Great Synagogue, thousands of young Jewish Marxists gather together to sing and to dance their devotion to Judaism! “Adam ki yakriv” – these are Jews, long alienated by the strong hand of Communism, who are drawing close by committing their emotions, by committing their joy and their happiness, to Judaism! No matter what they believe intellectually, no matter how they live the rest of the year, this commitment of their deepest and their most cherished emotions of Jewish joy is an indication that there survives in them the “pintelle yid,” that precious dot of Jewishness that, with the help of God, will someday bring them completely back to Judaism and, it is our fervent hope, to the State of Israel.

The first means of rediscovering the sources of faith, then, is to live as a Jew, both in general conduct and in emotional attachments, and thereby return to full Jewish faith.

The second means is by remembering that faith, in Judaism, is not entirely personal and individual; it also reflects the experience of our whole people and its history. That is why we speak of ourselves not as individuals who, all together, constitute a people, but rather as individuated members of keneset Yisrael, the congregation of Israel. That is why prayer is encouraged by individuals in their homes, but it is preferable that we worship in a minyan. The faith that each individual Jew has or seeks can be strengthened by associating with other faithful Jews, so that all together we will find strength in each other.

Thus, the next word of our key verse is: “mikem,” “from amongst you” – “adam ki yakriv mikem.” We can become the right kind of spiritual adam only if we issue from the right kind of mikem, only if we seek our most intimate associations with people who have similar inspirations and aspirations. That is why our Rabbis commented (Ĥulin 5a) on “mikem – velo mumar,” that this excludes the willful heretic, that in our Sanctuary we may not accept the sacrificial offering of one who rejects God with malice aforethought.

We have spoken often of the need for modern Orthodox Jews to view their fellow Jews, with whom they disagree and from whose opinions they dissent, with love and understanding, and that in general we must open ourselves up to the modern world and the best of its culture. But that does not mean that we must break down all the defenses that life and nature permit us; that we must yield our most intimate lives to the pervasive non-Jewish influence of the great world around us. It means that we must seek out for our own closest friendships those who will serve to enhance our religious devotion rather than to detract from it. It means that we must create for ourselves the right sort of family environment, that we must seek the proper communal milieu, and live only in an appropriate residential area where we can enjoy the kind of society that will help us in our aspirations to find Jewish fulfillment in life. Only one who is possessed of foolhardy self-confidence can believe that he can survive with his Jewishness intact in a neighborhood or society where Jewishness is either ignored or derided; and such a person stands condemned of committing spiritual suicide. We must know in advance that we will not remain Jewish if we move into a literally God-forsaken neighborhood just because we prefer the social status of certain exclusive areas. So too, we can have little hope for our children to remain in the Jewish fold if we send them to schools in remote areas in which Jewishness is an oddity, and if we let them spend their summer vacations in children’s camps where the word “Torah” is never heard.

The third means to full Jewish loyalty I find in the next two words, “korban laHashem,” “an offering to the Lord.” I base this idea on a discourse by one of the greatest teachers of Mussar in the last generation, Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler of England and Israel (see Mikhtav MeEliyahu, vol. I, pp. 32-39). We all know that mankind is by nature acquisitive. Psychology teaches it, experience confirms it, and we know it intuitively. From the moment a person is born he begins to grasp whatever he can. What we do not sufficiently appreciate, however, is that there is another and opposite tendency that is indigenous to human beings: the desire to give as well as to receive. That humans should possess this wish to give is, from the Jewish point of view, only natural. For our tradition teaches us that mankind is created in the image of God, which means that in many respects we resemble the Creator. And God has no need to take from us; He only gives. That is why one of His attributes is ĥessed, love, or the capacity for giving of Himself. The very creation of the world, as King David puts it in Psalms (89:3), is an act of ĥessed, “olam ĥessed yibaneh”, and the revelation of Torah is an act of giving and ĥessed as well. Therefore man, created in His image, resembles the Creator in possessing this inherent desire to give of himself.

Connected with this concept of giving is the fact of love. It is worth pondering, says Rabbi Dessler, which comes first, or which is cause and which is effect – the act of giving or the act of love? Does a person love first and then give to his beloved because he loves, or is it perhaps reversed – that an individual gives and as a result that individual loves? That we normally bestow gifts upon those we love – that is fairly evident. What is less evident, but equally true, is that the act of giving itself enhances love and often creates it. When I give of my time and my substance and my talents to another human being, I feel I have invested in him or in her and therefore my attachment and my affection and love grow every time I give and in proportion to what I give. In this sense, the giving is the cause and the loving is the effect. The Rabbis taught us this same truth: “If you desire to love your friend, do something good for him!” (Derekh Eretz Zuta, ch. 2).

This advice is most pertinent for young couples about to be married – or even married already. Whatever you do, do not make demands upon each other! It is the quickest way to frustrate the development of true conjugal love. This is one time that an Orthodox rabbi pleads with his people not to live according to the Shulĥan Arukh! It is a sad state of affairs when a couple must adjudicate their differences by reference to the code of Jewish law. The Shulĥan Arukh elaborates the claims of a husband upon a wife and a wife upon a husband. And when a couple is reduced to legal action based upon mutual claims, they are in desperate trouble indeed. The ideal of Jewish married life is to live so that there shall be no need to resort to the arbitration of Jewish law. Therefore, there should be no demands upon each other – instead, each partner must make it his or her business to give and give and give. It is the only way to transform infatuation into love, momentary attraction into permanent bonds – give your time, give your loyalty, give your talent, give your affection, give pleasure and joy and happiness, give gifts, give attention and concern – and from this there will blossom love and ultimately the fruits of profound and lifelong affection and loyalty.

Now the same principle should be applied to religion. We have spoken of faith, but that is an abstraction. Jews prefer to speak of ahava, love, for that is about passion. More than believing in God, we are commanded to love Him. Judaism recognizes that the love for God is indigenous in the human heart; religion is not grafted on to us artificially from without, but pre-exists within us. The question is, how shall we express it and enhance it? And the answer is – “korban laHashem,” you must learn to give to God. When we give of our time by getting up early to pray with a minyan, when we give of our substance to the causes of the Almighty, such as a synagogue or school or charity, when we give our attention and our concern to Him and His people, then the process of giving enhances the love we bear for Him within. The more we give, the more we love. The person who would like to believe but cannot, ought to learn how to give – then that individual will not only believe, but will also love.

In summary then, how does one become an adam in this middle of time? First, one must commit, in action and emotion, to seek out God. Second, one must provide one’s self with a society and environment of Jewishness. And third, one must give of one’s self and one’s possessions to the Almighty and His causes, and then that individual will learn to have love, which is even more than faith.

When we have done this, we shall attain the status of adam, as genuine human beings in the middle of history. And then we shall deserve, in return, the attention and affection of the Creator. For the Midrash (Leviticus Rabba 2:8) tells us that the word adam has particular meaning; it is “leshon ĥiba vileshon aĥva vileshon rei’ut” – the language of divine love and brotherliness and friendship.

 

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

 Context

 As the curtain rises on Parshat Vayakhel, Moshe assembles the nation in order to convey God’s commandments concerning the construction of the Mishkan.

Suddenly, however, he opens his remarks with the following directives concerning Shabbat:

Six days work may be done and the seventh day shall be holy for you, a Shabbat, a day of complete rest for God; whoever does work (melacha) on that day shall be put to death. You shall kindle no fire in any of your dwellings on the Shabbat day.

 

 

 

Questions

As is evident from the body of Parshat Vayakhel, Moshe’s clear purpose in assembling the nation at the beginning of the parsha is to launch the construction of the Mishkan.

Why, then, does Moshe abruptly insert the subject of Shabbat?

While Shabbat is certainly a hugely important topic, why must it be mentioned, apparently out of context, specifically at this historic moment?

 

Approaches

The abrupt, seemingly arbitrary pairing of Shabbat and the Mishkan at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel is not an isolated phenomenon. Earlier, in Parshat Ki Tissa, on the summit of Mount Sinai, God follows His commandments to Moshe concerning the construction of the Sanctuary with the immediate warning “However, you must observe my Sabbaths…” This admonition introduces a series of further directives concerning Shabbat. In the book of Vayikra, Shabbat and the Sanctuary are again connected without explanation in the passage “My Sabbaths you shall observe and my Sanctuary you shall revere – I am the Lord.”

This repeated pairing of themes, clearly intentional, serves as the source for a series of foundational halachic observations on the part of the rabbis.

 

A

Commenting on the opening passage of Parshat Vayakhel, Rashi verbalizes the most immediate halachic lesson learned from the encounter between Shabbat and the Sanctuary: “[Moshe] prefaced the commandments concerning the work of the Mishkan with a warning concerning Shabbat – to convey [that work within the Mishkan] does not supersede Shabbat.”

 

B

The halachic decision granting Shabbat supremacy over the Sanctuary is more far-reaching than it may seem, playing a major role in the legal definition of Shabbat observance itself.

To understand, we must recognize the challenge created by an apparent omission in the Torah text.

Over and over again, the Torah prohibits the performance of “melacha” (usually translated as “work”; see Points to Ponder, below) on Shabbat. The problem is, however, that nowhere does the Torah directly define or quantify the term melacha. The list of activities prohibited on Shabbat is never cited within the text. Left to our own devices, with only the written text to guide us, we simply would not know what tasks to refrain from on this sanctified day. Shabbat observance would be impossible.

Thankfully, the Oral Law comes to the rescue. Based upon the repeated juxtaposition of the themes of Shabbat and the Sanctuary in the text, the rabbis learn, not only that the tasks associated with the Sanctuary must cease on Shabbat, but that the very definition of the activities prohibited on Shabbat is determined by the tasks that were connected to the construction (and, some say, the operation) of the Mishkan.

Specifically, the rabbis delineate thirty-nine avot melacha – major categories of creative labor – associated with the construction of the Sanctuary, which are, consequently, prohibited on Shabbat. These thirty-nine general categories of melacha and their derivatives serve as the basis for the laws of Shabbat.

The encounter between Shabbat and the Sanctuary, orchestrated by Moshe at the beginning of Parshat Vayakhel, is far from arbitrary. Emerging from the intersection of these two foundational phenomena are the laws which define the observance of Shabbat itself.

 

C

On a philosophical plane, the message which emerges from the encounter between Shabbat and the Mishkan is significant, as well.

Shabbat and the Sanctuary represent two different realms of potential sanctification within Jewish tradition: the sanctification of time (e.g., Shabbat, Rosh Chodesh and the festivals) and the sanctification of space (e.g., the Mishkan, the Temple, the Land of Israel and the city of Jerusalem). Through the observance of God’s laws, man is challenged with the investiture of holiness into each of these central domains.

And yet, while both of these realms are clearly significant, when a choice between them must be made, the sanctification of time reigns supreme. That is why the observance of Shabbat supersedes the construction of the Sanctuary.

The primacy of time sanctification is indicated in other ways in the Torah, as well.

Not by chance, the phenomenon of kedusha (sanctity) is first mentioned in the Torah in conjunction with Shabbat, an example of the sanctification of time.

As we have also seen, the first mitzva granted to the Jewish nation is Kiddush Hachodesh (the sanctification of the new moon), an example of the sanctification of time.

While the clear transcendence of time sanctification over space sanctification remains unexplained in the text, a rationale may be offered from our own experience: the single most precious and tenuous commodity we possess in life is time. Our moments are limited; each moment exists…and before we know it, that moment is gone.

There could, therefore, be no greater expression of our belief in and our loyalty to God than the dedication of some of our limited moments specifically to His service. The sanctification of time – the dedication of time solely to our relationship with God – is one of the highest religious acts possible, transcending other acts of sanctification.

When Moshe, therefore, underscores the laws of Shabbat immediately before the launching of the construction of the Mishkan, he reminds the people to remember their priorities. As monumentally historic as the launching of the Mishkan may be; as overwhelmingly important as the Mishkan and all of its symbolism will be across the face of history; even more precious to God is the dedication of our own moments of time to His service.

 

D

Another message of prioritization may well be included in Moshe’s words, as well.

By specifically stating, “You shall kindle no fire in any of your dwellings on the Shabbat day,” Moshe underscores the primacy of that fundamental unit – the centrality of which is underscored, over and over again, at critical points in Jewish history – the Jewish home.

Even as the nation congregates for the stated purpose of launching the central concept of the Sanctuary within Jewish tradition, Moshe cautions:

As central as the Sanctuary and Temple will be in your experience, their role will pale in comparison to that of your homes and your families. Within your homes, new generations will learn of their affiliation to our people and its traditions; observance will be taught through example; children will be raised, deeply connected to their proud past and prepared for their challenging futures.

The Sanctuary is meant to inspire and to teach, but the lessons it teaches will reach their fulfillment only within your homes…

Never believe the Mishkan to be more important than your personal observance of a single commandment: “You shall kindle no fire in any of your dwellings on the Shabbat day.”

 

Points to Ponder

What is the secret of Shabbat? What is the ultimate purpose of this all important, weekly holy day?

The answer, it would seem, should lie within the laws which define the day. As we have seen, however, approaching Shabbat through the law is a difficult task, a path shrouded in mystery. The Torah does not clearly classify the term melacha, the term used by the text to refer to the Shabbat prohibitions. The ultimate definition of melacha, derived through association with the Sanctuary, is technical, with no apparent philosophical base.

Popularly, the term melacha is often defined as “work” – and the logical claim is made that “work” is prohibited on the “day of rest.” This explanation, however, is clearly insufficient. Using the classical definition of work – “an activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something” – we would be hard-pressed to explain why, for example, one is allowed to lift a book on Shabbat but prohibited from flipping a light switch; why one can move a chair or walk up stairs but cannot rip a paper towel.

In his short, classic work, The Sabbath, Dr. Dayan I. Grunfeld analyzes sources in the oral tradition and arrives at the following working definition of the term melacha: an act which shows man’s mastery over the world by the constructive exercise of his intelligence and skill.

We might, based upon those same sources, suggest a further refinement of Dr. Grunfeld’s definition: melacha represents an attempt by man to transform his environment through a thought-filled act of physical creation.

The Torah tells us that, on the “seventh day” of the world’s birth, God stops creating in the physical realm. To mark that divine cessation, we are commanded to cease physical creation, each week, on the “seventh day,” as well.

What specifically, however, is accomplished by this mandate? Why would God commands us to commemorate His “day of rest” with our own?

The brilliance of the Shabbat concept can best be understood, I believe, by considering two dangerous philosophical extremes towards which each of us can easily gravitate.

At one end of the spectrum lies our tendency to develop, to use Torah terminology, a kochi v’otzem yadi complex. Towards the end of his life, Moshe warns that, upon successful entry into the Land of Israel, the Israelites should not falsely conclude, Kochi v’otzem yadi asa li et hachayil hazeh, “My power and the might of my hand made me all of this wealth.”

How easy it is, particularly in our era, to lose our way at this extreme. Mind-boggling scientific discoveries, ferociously fast-paced technological advancement, define the world in which we live. Our mastery over our physical surroundings grows exponentially with each passing day. Never before has man been as “powerful” as he is today.

At the same time, at the opposite end of the spectrum, lies our deep capacity for despair in the face of our “powerlessness” – the moments when, standing beneath the vault of the heavens, we contemplate the stars above and mark our own apparent insignificance. How many galaxies, suns, planets, stretch out around us? In the face of such unimaginable vastness, how can we even contemplate the notion that we are important or powerful?

Much of Jewish tradition is designed to place us exactly where we belong, in the middle between these two extremes.

Tefilla (prayer), for example, reminds the individual suffering from a kochi v’otzem yadi complex that he is dependent upon God for continued health, sustenance and so much more. At the same time, prayer addresses the individual in despair by sensitizing him to his own value. He is a unique, independent being of inestimable potential value, capable of discourse with a responsive God.

Our weekly observance of Shabbat is carefully crafted to help us maintain a proper balance between power and limitation, as well.

One day a week, we remind ourselves of our creative limitations. Through the cessation of physically creative acts we testify to the true mastery of the Divine Creator. We recall the creation of the world on Shabbat and we recognize that only God has the power to create yesh mei’ayin (something from nothing), while man, at his best, can only create yesh mi’yesh (something from something).

During my college years at Yeshiva University, excitement ran high in the scientific community, which felt itself to be on the brink of the creation of life (specifically a virus) in a test tube. Such an accomplishment, many scientists proclaimed, would constitute an assault on the very heavens, proof of man’s God-like powers to create life itself. Deeply concerned, we raised the issue to one of our teachers – a Talmudic scholar who possessed significant scientific background as well. “I see no issue,” he responded. “If scientists could take an empty test tube and conjure life within, that would present a theological challenge. What they propose to do now, however, is to take God’s hydrogen, God’s oxygen, God’s nitrogen, etc., and mix them together to create their virus. That does not make them, God forbid, God; it makes them good chefs.”

A kochi v’otzem yadi complex is impossible to maintain in the face of Shabbat. The observance of this day reminds us that, in the final analysis, only God is the true Creator.

At the same time, however, while Shabbat sensitizes us to the limitations of our power, this very same day reminds us how truly powerful we really are.

Throughout the week our lives are, in so many ways, controlled by the forces surrounding us. Work, school and other responsibilities pull us along at a frenetic pace. Cell phones, BlackBerries and e-mail keep us in constant contact. The demands on our time and energy, from all sides, are overwhelming. We feel out of control, powerless to set these pressures aside.

And then…Shabbat arrives. The cell phones, computers and BlackBerries are shut down and put on the shelf. Work, school and other responsibilities are set aside for another day. Time is spent, at ease, with family and friends. We reconnect with community. We are given the opportunity to regain control of our lives. Our cessation of physically creative acts becomes a freeing experience, enabling us to truly recognize the power we possess to define and control the quality of our lives.

This empowering aspect of Shabbat was driven home to me many years ago through the example of a friend whom I will call “Bill.” Bill was a chainsmoker who went through several packs a day. Come sundown each Friday night, however, he would lay down his cigarettes. He would light his first cigarette of the next week, Saturday night, from the Havdala candle (the candle used as part of the ceremony marking the end of Shabbat).

If you asked Bill at any point of the Shabbat day whether he missed his cigarettes, he would look at you as if you were crazy and say, “Of course not – it’s Shabbat.” He could not, however, replicate this abstinence on a weekday. Shabbat freed my friend from a habit that controlled him every other day of his adult life.

Tragically, Bill failed to learn the full lesson that Shabbat is meant to convey. The true power of this day lies in its potential effect beyond its borders. If on this one day of the week, we are successful in reaching proper perspective – in striking a healthy balance between our power and our limitations – then we can strike that balance on the other days of the week, as well.

The genius of Shabbat, in the final analysis, is evident from its laws. Through the cessation of melacha, this holy day teaches us how to reclaim proper life perspective.

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

Context

As previously indicated, God initiates the creation of the Mishkan (the portable Sanctuary in the desert) with the seemingly straightforward directive, “And they shall create for me a mikdash (a holy place), and I will dwell within them.”

Questions

Two linguistic issues emerge upon careful review of the commandment concerning the Mishkan.

Why does God state, “and I will dwell within them”? Parallel structure would have mandated that the sentence read: “And they shall make for Me a holy place, and I will dwell within it.”

Why does the Torah use the generic term mikdash (holy place) in this commandment? This is the only occasion in the text where the portable desert Sanctuary is not referred to by its specific name: Mishkan.

Approaches

A

In light of our previous discussion concerning the Mishkan, the apparent non-parallel structure of this commandment makes abundant sense. The Torah does not state “and I will dwell within it,” because God does not dwell in the Mishkan nor will He dwell later in the Beit Hamikdash.

Centuries later, in his historic address on the occasion of the First Temple’s dedication in Jerusalem, Shlomo Hamelech (King Solomon) makes this point clear:

Will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You; how much less this house that I have built? Turn, therefore, to the prayer of Your servant and to his supplication… that Your eyes will be open towards this house night and day…. And You will listen to the supplication of Your servant and of Your nation Israel that they shall pray towards this place…

Shlomo’s sentiments are thus foreshadowed in the Torah text with the very first introduction of the Mishkan, the precursor of both Temples. The Torah states, “and I will dwell within them,” to stress that the purpose of the Sanctuary is to bring God into the lives of the people. Whether a sign of God’s reconciliation with the nation after the sin of the golden calf or a corrective for that sin or an originally mandated symbol of continued divine presence, the Sanctuary serves to represent God’s constant accessibility to man.

Some commentaries, including the Malbim, go a step further in their interpretation of the phrase “and I will dwell within them.” The Israelites are commanded, they say, to build not only a physical sanctuary in the midst of the camp, but an internal spiritual sanctuary within each of their souls. They are thus instructed to create a place for God to “dwell within them” – in the hearts of the individual Israelites and their descendents.

B

Concerning the text’s use of the generic term mikdash, in place of the more specific Mishkan, a number of scholars maintain that the chosen terminology reflects the continuing character of the obligation. The nation is commanded from the outset to erect a mikdash (a holy place), not only at this point in their history, but also when they successfully establish a presence in their homeland.

The Rambam codifies this eternal mitzva as follows: “It is a positive commandment to build a ‘House for the Lord’…as it states, ‘And they shall make for Me a holy place…’ ”

C

The Ohr Hachaim derives a beautiful additional lesson from the text’s use of the word mikdash.

The sequence within the sentence “And they shall make for Me a holy place, and I will dwell within them,” he claims, is counterintuitive. One would expect the Sanctuary to become “holy” only after the investiture of God’s presence. By referring to the Sanctuary immediately as a mikdash, a holy place, the Torah conveys that the Temple is holy from the moment that the Israelites create it – even before God fulfills His commitment to “dwell” within the nation.

The commandment to build the Temple thus reconfirms the fundamental truth repeated over and over again, in different ways, during the critical period of our nation’s birth: Sanctity is created in this world when man acts in accordance with God’s will. Man, as God’s partner, invests the Sanctuary with holiness.

Points to Ponder

Two points for consideration concerning the term mikdash:

1. If the commandment to build the mikdash is ongoing, are we not obligated to construct the Third Temple in Israel in our day? While numerous positions concerning this issue are staked out by the halachists, the approach presented by the Sefer Hachinuch is particularly intriguing.

The Ba’al Hachinuch explains that the parameters of the obligation to build a “holy place” shift dramatically with the building of the first permanent Temple in Jerusalem (tenth century bce). From that time on, the commandment is effective only when the majority of the Jewish nation is living in the Land of Israel.

An immediate challenge to the Ba’al Hachinuch’s position, however, emerges from a clear historical reality. The Second Temple was erected at the end of the Babylonian exile, when the vast majority of “exiles” tragically opted to forgo a return to Zion and remain in Babylon. Why, then, was the Second Temple built by the minority who did return?

Rabbi Yehoshua of Kotno defends the Ba’al Hachinuch with a bold contention: the Jews of Babylon remained in “exile” of their own choice. They therefore effectively ceded their rights to the Temple and could no longer, through their absence, prevent its rebuilding.

The Ba’al Hachinuch’s basic contention and Rabbi Yehoshua’s further observation highlight the historic opportunities and challenges of our day. As the balance of Jewish life inexorably shifts from the diaspora to the State of Israel, we are rapidly approaching the point when the majority of Jews will be living in their homeland. Will we be biblically obligated at that point, political exigencies aside, to commence rebuilding the Temple?

Even further, an argument might be made that the “tipping point” concerning the Temple has already been reached. The majority of diaspora Jews today, like the Babylonian Jews of the Second Temple period, live in an “exile of choice” with the opportunity of return to the Land of Israel fully available. Have those of us in the diaspora lost our “rights” to the Temple? If so, should the Beit Hamikdash be built today, even in our absence?

The question remains academic given the political realities as well as other philosophical/halachic concerns. The issues raised, however, certainly should give us pause as we consider the momentous times in which we live. For the first time in nearly two thousand years we approach the point when, after centuries of wandering, a majority of the Jewish nation will be “home.” What halachic, philosophical and psychological changes should occur within our nation’s psyche as a result of this new reality? How are we meant to mark our momentous transformation from a “people of exile” to a “people of return”?

And what of those of us who choose not to participate fully in this new historic national adventure – we, who, yet today, live our lives outside of the Land of Israel?

We are quick to criticize, in retrospect, the Babylonian exiles who failed to return to Zion. How, we must honestly wonder, will history judge us?

Our excuses are many – some, perhaps, more valid then others. But the question must be asked: what “rights” do we lose when we voluntarily choose not to return home?

2. A refrain often sounded in today’s Jewish community bemoans the lack of “spirituality” in traditional practice and worship. Pulpit rabbis regularly hear, “Rabbi, I fail to be ‘moved’ by the tefilla (prayer service)… The daily ritual leaves me empty.”

Responding to the challenge, numerous religious schools, synagogues and communal institutions have instituted studies and programs designed towards making age-old ritual personally relevant to their constituents. Federations have commissioned studies with an eye towards “reinventing the synagogue”; synagogues, themselves, have initiated programs, from prayer services featuring the poignant tunes of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach to innovative adult education classes; schools regularly design and implement new curricula for the teaching of prayer and ritual.

On an individual level, frustrated by the perceived lack of meaning in “ordinary” Jewish practice, many Jews find their search leading to more esoteric areas of their tradition. Kabbalists and mystics – some of them authentic and some less so – become frequent visitors to “modern Orthodox communities,” with claims of easy access to sacred realms. Sophisticated members of the Jewish community treasure questionable symbols – such as the “red bendlach” (red threads worn on the wrist purportedly to ward off the “evil eye,” often received from beggars at the Western Wall) – with greater intensity than they do normative Jewish rituals.

While communal creativity (within halachic boundaries) is certainly laudable, and authentic spiritual search is essential to Jewish tradition, Judaism offers no shortcuts to religious meaning. Spiritual “quick fixes” are alien to our tradition. In a world marked by instant gratification, Judaism preaches that spirituality is ultimately found only as a result of hard, continuing work.

An individual, for example, who expects to be spontaneously and passively “moved” by weekly synagogue prayer, without the investment of true effort into that prayer, is doomed to disappointment. Tefilla is neither theater nor spectator sport. Prayer becomes meaningful only as a result of study of text, honest personal introspection, wrenching self-assessment and a continuing evaluation of our relationship with God.

As the Mishna proclaims: “One should not stand to pray without full and serious intent. The righteous of old would deliberate a full hour before beginning to pray, in order to direct their hearts towards the Almighty.”

Consider, in contrast, the hurried, preoccupied nature of so much of our tefilla today.

Like tefilla, all the daily rites and rituals of Judaism are filled with significance readily available to those motivated, committed and industrious enough to explore the familiar. Within and through this regular ongoing observance, we are meant to find true religious meaning in our lives.

Centuries ago, God launched the central symbol of Jewish worship with the commandment “And they shall make for Me a holy place…” Only we, as God’s partners, generate holiness in this world. Only we, through conscientious effort, can create sanctity and attain spirituality in our lives.

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

Historians tell us that when they find a law in a document, they assume that the mode of conduct which this law prohibits is the one that generally prevailed before the law was passed.

With this in mind, let us turn to a Talmudic law enunciated as a commentary on one of the verses in this morning’s sidra. We read, as part of the Torah’s civil legislation, “If you lend money to any of My people, to the poor with you…” (Exodus 22:24). It is this verse which, in addition to the prohibition of usury, is the source of the commandment that we must lend our money to those in need. The Rabbis (Bava Metzia 71a), troubled by the odd construction of the verse – “My people, to the poor, with you” deduced the following order of priority as to who shall be the beneficiary of our generosity in lending money:

– If two people solicit your loan, and one is a fellow Jew and one a gentile, then, all other things being equal, if you have sufficient funds to lend to only one of them, the Jew takes precedence over the non-Jew.

– If the two people appearing before you are otherwise equal, but one is a poor man and one a rich man, the poor man comes first.

– If you are approached for a loan by a poor man who is a relative and a poor man who is a neighbor, the relative is to be preferred over the neighbor.

– If one of them is a poor man who lives in your town, and the second is a poor man who lives in another town, the poor man who is your neighbor takes precedence over the poor man from afar.

Note well that the Talmud does not bid us neglect the gentile, the non-relative, or the stranger. It does give us a list of priorities. What the Talmud is telling us is that a totally altruistic ethic, which does not recognize intimate human bonds and affiliations, is unnatural, unrealistic, and impractical – and hence, ultimately morally valueless. An ethic that does consider and that affirms such human associations as nation, people, family, neighborhoods, is realistic and hence morally invaluable.

That would seem to be an acceptable and self-evident principle. Yet the need the Talmud saw for legislating this rule indicates, according to the historian’s device we mentioned earlier, that this principle was often violated. There were, and are, apparently, many people who would rather assist the stranger than the acquaintance, would rather benefit the non-relative than the relative.

Indeed, I would diagnose this phenomenon as an American Jewish disease! Western Jews, since the Emancipation, have grown up on the myth of “Universal Man,” a universalism which negates ethnic identity and national-religious uniqueness. It is the kind of myth which, for many years, fed anti-Zionist classical Reform and the American Council for Judaism, which, thank Heaven, we hear less and less from as time goes on.

I recall a passage in the notorious “Symposium of Intellectuals,” which appeared several years ago in Commentary magazine. One writer, who apparently came from a warm, ethnic Jewish home against which he had been leading a decades-long adolescent rebellion, complained that in his family people would, upon reading in the newspapers the casualty list of some airplane disaster, scan the names for those which were Jewish-sounding and express their horror at finding such names. I confess that for many years thereafter I was embarrassed when I found myself doing the same thing. The embarrassment, however, was shortlived, because I soon noticed that this nefarious tribalistic habit was not unique to Jews. When an airplane disaster occurred overseas, the American press would list the names only of the American passengers. And in the listing of Vietnam War casualties, the New York newspapers would list only New York names, the Chicago newspapers only Chicago names, etc. It dawned upon me, as it never dawned upon the pretentious intellectual of Commentary who had liberated himself from his parents’ Jewish provincialism, that it is quite rational and natural for people to give emotional and practical priority to those who are closest to them, either in flesh or faith or geography. I realized that one can feel greater attachment to his fellow Jews in reading of such unfortunate events, without in the least detracting from his fundamental human compassion for all his fellow men. To give priority to Jews does not imply disdain for gentiles. To give precedence to the poor of your city does not compel you to an attitude of cruelty to those who live afar. To love your family does not imply that you hate your friends.

The New Left, whether here or in Israel and Europe, seems to be guilty of that same perversion of the human spirit. The Jewish members of the New Left apparently believe that every people has the right to its own national expression, but that only Jews must be “universal.” When Jews assert their national or ethnic individuality, then that same attractive spirit of nationalism undergoes a traumatic change from glorious self-determination to an ethnocentric jingoism that is beneath contempt. The same nationalistic consciousness which, when practiced by Castro or El Fatah, is described as a healthy, struggling, emerging liberation movement, is referred to by the New Left, when the nationalism appears as Zionism, as an “oppressive, neo-colonialist imperialism.” They have reversed the Talmudic formulation and believe that between your people and a stranger, the stranger comes first; and the poor of another city come before the poor of your city.

But of course, the parents of the New Left – if not biologically then ideologically – were not much different. The immediate predecessors of today’s interreligious dialogues were the little lamented
“interfaith” meetings, which assimilated and semi-assimilated American Jews approached with so much solemnity, and which were really so empty and vacuous. A famous anecdote about such events expressed a great deal of truth in its wit: After one such meeting, a Jew who attended was asked by another Jew how many people were present, and he replied “There were two goyim and ten ‘interfaiths.’”

The time has long passed for us to get away from the pretense of supposedly non-sectarian bodies with all-Jewish membership. We should by now have sufficient dignity to do away with that colossal make-believe that when defending Jewish interests we are doing so only because they are primarily universal interests. That is nonsense! There is nothing wrong with defending your own interests and those of those closest to you. Show me a parent who does not love his or her own children, and I will show you a parent whose love for other children I do not trust. If there is a person who has no feeling for his own people, his feeling for other people is meaningless. There is no reason to be embarrassed by asserting clearly and unequivocally the principle of “the poor of your city come first.” There is no need to excuse American Jewish support of Israel by the old UJA slogan “Israel is the only bastion of democracy in the Middle East.” It is true that it is the only fortress of democracy in the Middle East. But what if Lebanon were similarly democratic, would that call for the UJA to divide its funds equally between Israel and Lebanon?

There is nothing undemocratic, non-humanitarian, or unenlightened about Jewish solidarity. It is natural, proper, and understandable. On the contrary, for Jews to pretend and dissimulate and apologize is unnatural, degrading, undignified, and humiliating.

For too long have we allowed the apostles of extravagant universalism to lay exclusive claim to the prophetic tradition, as if the prophets of Israel demanded that the Children of Israel abandon all claims to their self-interest and think first and foremost, if not altogether, only about the welfare of the Egyptians and Babylonians and Hittites. That of course, is nonsensical. The prophets’ universalism grew out of their nationalism, and was not at all in conflict with it. Remember the famous words of Isaiah (58:7) which roll down at us with the force of a thunderclap every Yom Kippur afternoon when we read them as part of the haftara, “Is it not to give your bread to the hungry, and so that you bring the poor that are cast out to your house? When you see he who is naked, that you cover him, and that you do not hide yourself from your own flesh?” The prophet tells us that the true fast must result in a genuine moral transformation of man, so that he will break his bread and share it with the hungry, and bring into his own home the abandoned poor, and offer clothing to cover the nakedness of those who can afford no garments. But the climax comes in the last three words, “umebisarkha lo titalam,” “do not hide yourself from your own flesh!” Do not imagine that charity to all means neglect of those closest to you! Of course you must break bread with all the hungry and offer shelter to all the poor and give clothing to all the naked, but without this last reminder not to ignore your own flesh and blood, what came before it is simply universalistic preachment that makes good copy for a liberal press but is otherwise ineffective and meaningless; with it, you have true prophecy, the kind that can be actualized as a real ethic of life. The prophets did not preach love of Man, but the love of men, beginning with your own. Only if “the poor of your city take precedence,” will you learn to care as well “for the poor of another city.”

It is in this sense that I take an especially dim view of the opposition by the majority of American Jewish organizations to the Speno- Lerner bill currently being debated in Albany. According to this bill, the government will subsidize by a certain amount the secular education of those children who attend private religious schools. I am not at this time referring to any particulars of the bill, but rather to the principle that informs the American Jewish opposition. I do not by any means suspect their motives, but I question their rightness and their relevance in their almost intuitive, Pavlovian reaction to any suggestion of Federal or State aid to parochial schools.

Let us be honest. For a long time, and even now, such opposition to government aid for religious schools came from an unadmitted fear of control of education in New York by the Catholic Church. But this is an unworthy element. First, if the law results in an unjust and onerous burden of double taxation on parents of children whose consciences cause them to choose a private religious school, then it is unfair to deny them government aid for the secular portion of their studies. Furthermore, from a practical point of view, there is no danger today of the Church taking control of the government or the educational system of New York; the Church today is not even in control of the Church! Such elements therefore are completely irrelevant to the issue at hand.

But most important, even if we should assume that such government aid would not accord with the strictest and most rigorous application of the principle of separation of Church and State – and I seriously doubt whether there was any time in the history of this country that this principle was maintained in its pristine purity – and even if such federal aid were to be considered in the minus column of the equation that determines the welfare of the public school systems, do not the American Jewish organizations have any obligation to Jewish parents whose children attend day schools, the only real guarantee of survival of Jewish life in this country? Must these organizations persist in their knee-jerk reactions without ever reconsidering their policies on the basis of an enlightened self-interest? Are not “Jewish Jews” also a part of their constituencies?

All of life, all of law, all of politics revolves around the question of conflicting interests and competing claims. There is little in these areas that is all black or all white. It is true that we must not always prefer our own individual interests over the overriding interests of the general welfare. But must the American Jewish Congress and the Federation of Jewish Philanthropies make it a rule that “the poor of the other city come first?” Have we not pushed the universalistic myth to the point of self-denigration and self-harm?

I have spoken in day schools around the country, and have met with parents and principals and lay leaders of these schools. Our day schools are in trouble. No matter how much tuition they charge the parents, the schools are tottering on bankruptcy. And parents are groaning under the burden. I am not referring primarily to parents of the upper middle class or even the lower middle class, although they find the task very difficult and for young parents it is often staggering, but especially to parents of the lower economic class, who have to deny themselves not only luxuries that others enjoy, but the basic needs of life, in order to give their children a Jewish education. Why do these claims find no resonance in the lofty, liberal, and universalistic proclamations and exhortations of many of the organizations of our establishment? “Do not hide yourself from your own flesh!”

Yet, having said all this, I would not want us to lose our sense of balance. I would not want to see our communities slip into the opposite kind of one-sidedness – an extravagant ethnic retrenchment that throws off responsibility to the poor of another city, to the poor of the non-Jew. It is true that we can no longer afford to indulge in this polite and unhealthy collective masochism that gives precedence to all other causes over the Jewish interests. But neither is it desirable for us to encourage a wave of reaction whereby we neglect other needs and general humanitarian causes, whether civil rights or ecology, whether politics or world peace or economic justice.

The Talmud (Chulin 63a) asks why in the Bible the stork is called “chasida,” a word derived from the root “chesed,” which means love or charity or kindness. The Talmud says it is called “chasida” because the stork performs acts of chesed, benevolence, with its friends and children. Whereupon the Hasidim ask: if so, why does the Bible consider the stork an unclean bird, non-kosher and unfit for human consumption? And they answer: because it is only kind to its own young and not to the young of other species of birds!

If we are to be sane, natural Jews, we must care for our own first. But if we are to be kosher Jews, we must not neglect the others.

We must therefore strike a balance between ethnic introversion and exclusiveness on the one hand, and universalistic masochism and self-denigration on the other. With Maimonides, we must choose the middle way in this as in all else, between the unhealthy consequences of the universalistic myth and the commandment “Do not hide yourself from your own flesh!”

The trouble with some people is that for them charity begins at home and ends at home. The trouble with others is that their charity excludes their own home, and therefore ends up as a solemn and vacuous joke. The right way is for charity to begin at home, and then to extend in ever-widening and concentric circles outward, to encompass all people. Perhaps all this was best summed up by that immortal aphorism of Hillel the Elder: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am for myself alone, what – or who – am I?” (Avot 1:13).

Jewish moods are notoriously volatile, often oscillating from one extreme to the other without going through the transitions. It is best that we always remember and practice both principles:

“If I am not for myself ” – the priority of our own needs; and “If I am for myself alone, what am I?” – to proceed therefrom to service all other human beings.

Both together are the Golden Mean – that of enlightened self-interest. Now, above all, is the time to reassert this authentically Jewish doctrine, for “if not now, when?”

 

---

1. February 20, 1971

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

A Healthy Distance

Context

The physical posture of the Israelites during the Revelation at Sinai is clearly delineated in advance when, preparatory to Matan Torah, God instructs Moshe: “Set a boundary for the people roundabout saying, ‘Beware of ascending the mountain or touching its edge; whoever touches the mountain shall certainly die…”

This commandment of hagbala (setting a boundary), however, will not be divinely enforced. Instead, God commands the Israelites to execute anyone who crosses the mandated perimeter.

Questions

Even the most familiar scenes of our history warrant critical assessment.

Why is the moment of closest contact between man and God marked by divinely mandated distance, on pain of death? Why must the Israelites remain at the foot of Mount Sinai during Revelation?

Furthermore, in a setting marked by monumental supernatural miracles, why does God leave the enforcement of the boundary around Mount Sinai to man? God can certainly protect the perimeter surrounding the mountain through any number of divinely ordained means.

What are the lessons to be learned from this God-orchestrated scene at Sinai?

Approaches

A

A fascinating rationale for the phenomenon of hagbala is offered by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. The physical setting at Sinai, says Hirsch, is designed to prove that the word of God came “to the people” rather than “out of the people.” By insisting that the Israelites remain at the foot of Sinai to receive divine law, God clearly demonstrates for all to see that the people themselves are not the authors of that law.

The foundations of Jewish law are objective, eternal and not subject to changes wrought by time and circumstance. The Torah is not the product of a nation contemporary with the time of Revelation, but a divinely ordained document speaking to all times and places.

B

Moving beyond Hirsch’s suggestion, the decree of hagbala also reflects a fundamental dialectic lying at the core of man’s connection to God. At the moment of Revelation, as God launches His eternal relationship with His chosen people, He uses the scene at Sinai to define the very parameters of that relationship.

The God-man relationship will be forged out of a tension between distance and familiarity.

On the one hand, God is certainly remote, existing in a realm beyond our comprehension and often acting in ways we simply do not understand. On the other hand, as the psalmist maintains: “God is near to all who call Him, to all who call Him in earnest.” We are meant to see God as accessible, interested and involved in our daily lives, near enough to be “found” if we only seek Him out.

This balance between distance and familiarity in our relationship to God is reflected in many ways within our tradition. Three of them follow.

1. Each day, at climactic moments of our prayer service, we recite the Kedusha, a proclamation of God’s holiness. Central to this proclamation is the vision of the prophet Yeshayahu, who witnesses the heavenly hosts exclaiming, “Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of Hosts; the whole world is filled with His glory.”

To be holy within Jewish thought means to be separate, removed. Three times, in the prophet’s vision, the heavenly beings declare God’s separateness. In Jewish law, the repetition of an event or phenomenon three times creates a reality. God’s absolute remoteness is thus mirrored in the threefold proclamation of the angels.

In the very next breath, however, these very same celestial beings declare, “The whole world is filled with His glory.” God, the angels say, is apparent and easily reached in every aspect of our physical surroundings. We need only look around us to find Him.

The Kedusha thus reflects the dichotomy created by a God who is beyond our ken and who, at the same time, fills the world with His splendor.

2. Two seemingly conflicting elements are essential to the formation of a personal relationship with God: yira and ahava (fear and love): “And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His paths, and to love Him, and to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul.”

You can only love and fear the same being when you embrace the complexity inherent in the bond between you.

This truth is perhaps best demonstrated by focusing on the human associations which, in their own small way, most closely mirror our relationship with God. Consider, for example, the contradictory currents that course through a healthy parent-child relationship or a strong teacher-student bond. These relationships are not one-dimensional. A parent who tries to become his child’s friend (a phenomenon which is unfortunately much too common in our own day) will simply not be an effective parent. A rabbi or teacher who forgoes the respect and authority due his position loses some of his ability to successfully educate. Yet, while maintaining the space demanded by the relationship, both the parent and the teacher must still remain – each to different degrees – accessible, warm and caring.

The complexity of the parent-child bond is, in fact, codified in halacha through two distinct sets of laws that are designed to mold and govern the attitude of a child to his parent.

The laws of kavod (honor) speak to the personal care that must be shown to parents during times of need, such as infirmity and old age.

The laws of yira outline the respect that must be shown to parents at all times. Included are the prohibitions of calling a parent by his first name, sitting in a parent’s seat, contradicting a parent in public, etc.

Through the laws of kavod and yira, the halacha reflects the balance meant to be struck between the warmth a child should feel towards his parent and the awe in which that parent must be held.

In a different realm but somewhat parallel fashion, our relationship with God must be forged out of a similar tension.

God, therefore, mandates distance at the moment of His closest contact with man, striking the balance upon which their eternal shared relationship will be built.

3. The Kohanim (priests) are fixtures within the Temple service, representing the nation through the performance of sanctified rites and rituals before God. Even the Kohen Gadol (High Priest), however, is prohibited from entering the Kodesh Kadashim (Holy of Holies), the centerpiece of the Temple, except on the most sacred day of the year, Yom Kippur.

Why shouldn’t the highest Temple functionary be allowed free access to every part of the Temple at all times? Why limit his entry to the holiest site in the world?

Once again, the answer would seem to lie in the balance at the core of our relationship with God. Even the Kohen Gadol might become too familiar in his attitude towards the Holy of Holies and fail to treat this site with the reverence it so richly deserves. By severely limiting the High Priest’s entry into the Kodesh Kadashim, the Torah ensures that he, and by definition the entire nation, will never lose sight of the Temple’s sanctity.

Through these sources and others, our tradition reminds us that we must continually struggle to maintain the balance – rooted at Sinai – between distance and familiarity, so critical to our relationship with God.

If we lose the sense of awe meant to be present in our approach to the divine, our worship becomes pedestrian, rote and uninspired. If, on the other hand, we view God as unreachable and inaccessible, we will never succeed in truly experiencing His personal presence in our lives.

C

Finally, the commandment of hagbala at Sinai reiterates a message conveyed by God to Moshe earlier on this very same spot. During the vision of the burning bush, God ushered Moshe into leadership with the charge: “Do not come nearer to here. Take off your shoes from your feet, for the place upon which you stand is holy ground.” Do not look for Me, Moshe, in esoteric visions of a burning bush. Stand where you are, rooted to the ground. There, sanctity will be created, wherever you stand, as you work My will within your world.

By commanding the Israelites to remain at the foot of Mount Sinai during the onset of Revelation, God now transmits the same message on a national scale: As our shared journey begins, understand full well where and how My Divine Presence will be found. Do not search for Me in the mist-enveloped summits of Sinai. Do not seek Me in lofty, mysterious realms removed from the reality of your lives.

Stay at the base of the mountain, rooted with your neighbors in your world, and there receive My Torah. Remember always that I will enter your lives as you obey the Torah’s laws and pursue its goals. Partner with Me in the creation of sanctity in your world, and through that partnership you will discover and discern My Divine Presence.

D

We can now also understand why God hands the enforcement of the edict of hagbala to the Israelites, rather than maintaining the designated perimeter Himself, through divine intervention.

The partnership established at Sinai invests the Israelites with immediate personal and societal responsibilities.

As God transmits the law during Revelation, He also launches the process of legal jurisprudence. Included will be the people’s obligation to judge and to punish transgressors, to the best of their ability, as mandated by divine decree.

This responsibility begins immediately. God, therefore, does not enforce His own ruling of hagbala. He instead relegates that task to His new partners, the people themselves.

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

Context

After recording the triumphant song offered by “Moshe and the children of Israel” on the banks of the Sea of Reeds, the Torah states: “And Miriam the Prophetess, the sister of Aharon, took the drum in her hand; and all the women went out after her with drums and with dances. And Miriam sang unto them: ‘Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.’ ”

Questions

Although Miriam has appeared in the text before, this marks the first time that she is mentioned by name. She must, therefore, be clearly identified.

Why, however, is she referred to specifically as “the prophetess, the sister of Aharon”? According to rabbinic tradition, Sara was also a prophetess; yet, the text never identifies her as such. Also, why isn’t Miriam described as the sister of Moshe as well as the sister of Aharon?

What is the nature of the song offered by Miriam and by the women on the banks of the Reed Sea? Is this a separate paean, different from the one chanted by “Moshe and the children of Israel”? If not, why does the Torah mention it?

If Miriam’s song is unique, what is its message?

Approaches

A

Concerning the designation of Miriam as “the prophetess, the sister of Aharon,” a number of explanations are offered by the commentaries.

Rashi, quoting the Talmud, maintains that Miriam’s prophetic ability was evidenced before Moshe was born, when she was only “Aharon’s sister.” At that time, she predicted, “My mother is destined to give birth to a son who will be the redeemer of Israel.”

Alternatively, continues Rashi, Miriam is identified as Aharon’s sister because Aharon is destined, at a later time, to struggle on her behalf. When Miriam is punished with leprosy for speaking ill of Moshe, Aharon pleads with Moshe to intercede for her welfare.

The Rashbam, as is his wont, adopts the path of pshat and maintains that Miriam is referred to as the sister of Aharon simply because Aharon is the firstborn.

The Ramban entertains the same approach as the Rashbam but prefers a different explanation: the text wants to ensure that all three siblings – Aharon, Miriam and Moshe – are mentioned in conjunction with the song at the Reed Sea. Miriam is therefore specifically referred to as the sister of Aharon, who would otherwise not be cited.

Finally, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch argues that Miriam occupied the same position among the women that Aharon occupied among the men. They both acted as Moshe’s emissaries, carrying his messages to the people. Miriam is, therefore, referred to as the sister of her counterpart, Aharon.

B

While the above commentators discuss why Miriam is referred to as Aharon’s sister, they fail to explain why she is specifically identified as a “prophetess” in this context.

Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin suggests that Miriam’s prophetic vision centered on the redemption of the Israelites from Egypt. The Torah therefore refers to Miriam’s prophetic ability only now, after that redemption is complete.

C

Perhaps the key to Miriam’s identification as a prophetess lies in the nature and significance of her “song.”

Does Miriam’s song add a new, prophetic dimension to the events at the Sea of Reeds?

A review of the traditional sources would seem to indicate that the answer is no. Most scholars do not envision a substantial difference between the song of Moshe and the song of Miriam.

Some commentaries, for example, such as the Chizkuni, reflect an earlier Midrashic tradition that Miriam led the women in a repetition of the entire text of Moshe’s song after the men had finished.

Other scholars, including the Ramban, maintain that Miriam and the women did not sing a separate song, at all. Miriam instructed the women to echo the words as they were chanted by Moshe and the men.

D

A careful reading of the following hints in the text, however, reveals another possible approach.

1. Only one sentence is recorded in the Torah as the text of Miriam’s song; it is a subtle variation on the first sentence of Moshe’s song:

Moshe: “I will sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

Miriam: “Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

2. As soon as Miriam concludes her song, the text states, Vayasa Moshe et Yisrael mi’Yam Suf, “And Moshe caused Israel to journey from the Sea of Reeds.”

As a rule, when the Torah speaks of the nation’s journeys in the desert, the text simply states, Vayisu B’nai Yisrael, “And the children of Israel journeyed.” Why does the Torah specifically state at this point that Moshe “caused Israel to journey”?

E

Perhaps Miriam “the prophetess,” the individual who, according to rabbinic tradition, was instrumental in convincing her father to move forward in the face of Pharaoh’s decrees, now plays a pivotal role in urging the Israelites to move forward from the site of their full redemption from Egypt?

Miriam’s admonition could be imagined as follows: “Sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted; the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.” Moshe, you and the men sing eloquently of future dreams:

I will sing to the Lord, for He is highly exalted…; Peoples heard and they were agitated, terror gripped the dwellers of Philistia. Then the chieftains of Edom were astounded, trembling gripped the powers of Moav, all the inhabitants of Canaan melted away. May fear and terror fall upon them…until Your people passes through, Lord, until this people that You have acquired passes through. Bring them and plant them on the Mount of Your Sanctuary, the foundation of Your holy place that You, Lord, have made – the holy place, Lord, that Your hands established. The Lord shall reign for all eternity!

These dreams will only be realized, however, if we stop singing and move on. After all, all that has happened so far is, “the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.”

Have we achieved our heritage? Has God given us the Torah? Have we entered our land? All of these challenges yet lie before us; and they will only be met if we move forward from the banks of this Sea.

So sing, yes, but with open eyes: “the horse and its rider He has thrown into the sea.” Then, let the song end and let us move on.

In response to Miriam’s song, the text relates: “And Moshe caused Israel to journey from the Sea of Reeds.” Understanding and acknowledging his sister’s message, Moshe forces a reluctant nation to end their celebration and move forward from the sea.

Had it not been for Miriam and her song, perhaps we would still be dancing and singing at the banks of the Sea of Reeds.

Points to Ponder

As the initial phases of our nation’s journey continue to unfold, eternal lessons are transmitted with each step.

The ability to move on, to celebrate but not be paralyzed by achievement, will prove to be a critical skill, essential to our success across the ages.

For example, in our time, the creation of the State of Israel, after centuries of diaspora existence and in the shadow of the Holocaust, was nothing less than a monumental, miraculous achievement. Acknowledgement and celebration are certainly warranted. Sometimes, however, you can celebrate too long…

A number of years ago, however, during a discussion on Israel-diaspora relations, an official of the Israeli government complained to me: “Too many American Jews think that we are still dancing the hora and draining the swamps. They are blind to the changes taking place within the Zionist enterprise and to the complex internal and external challenges that we currently face.”

No matter how great the achievement, celebration must invariably yield to challenge. If we “celebrate” too long, if we remain rooted in the glow of past accomplishments, we endanger those very accomplishments.

Only by moving forward, only by discerning and meeting new challenges that develop by the day, can we preserve the past even as we secure the future.

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

Context

As the intensity of the afflictions increases over the course of the plagues, Pharaoh offers three compromise positions to Moshe and the Israelites: worship your God in Egypt, depart Egypt temporarily with some of the people while others remain, depart Egypt temporarily with the entire nation but leave your cattle behind.

Moshe emphatically rejects each compromise in turn.

The second of these potential compromises appears towards the beginning of Parshat Bo, in the following puzzling conversation between Moshe and Pharaoh:

Pharaoh: “Go and worship your Lord! Who are they that shall go?”

Moshe: “With our young and with our old we will go! With our sons and with our daughters! With our sheep and with our cattle! For it is a festival of the Lord for us!”

Questions

How can Pharaoh ask, after all that has taken place, “Who are they that shall go?” Hasn’t God made it abundantly clear that He demands the release of the entire people?

Why, in addition, does Moshe answer Pharaoh in such confrontational fashion? He could simply have said, We all must go. Why risk further antagonizing the king with the unnecessarily detailed proclamation “With our young and with our old we will go…”?

Approaches

A

Much more is taking place in this conversation than initially meets the eye. The negotiation between Moshe and Pharaoh overlays a monumental confrontation between two towering civilizations, as Pharaoh and his court begin to face, with growing understanding, the true nature of the new culture destined to cause Egypt’s downfall.

B

Pharaoh is, in reality, being neither deliberately obtuse nor intentionally confrontational when he raises the question “Who are they that shall go?” His response to Moshe is, in fact, abundantly reasonable in light of Moshe’s original request of the king.

As we have already noted, God did not instruct Moshe to demand complete freedom for the Israelites. From the very outset, the appeal to the king was, instead, to be, “Let us go for a three-day journey into the wilderness that we may bring offerings to the Lord our God.”

In response to that request Pharaoh now argues: All right, I give in! You have my permission to take a three-day holiday for the purpose of worshipping your Lord. Let us, however, speak honestly. Moshe, you and I both know that religious worship in any community remains the responsibility and the right of a select few. Priests, elders, sorcerers – they are the ones in whose hands the ritual responsibility of the whole people are placed. Therefore I ask you, “Who are they that shall go?” Who from among you will represent the people in the performance of this desert ritual? Let me know, provide me with the list and they will have my permission to leave.

C

Moshe’s emphatic response is now understandable, as well: You still don’t get it, Pharaoh. There is a new world a-borning and we will no longer be bound by the old rules. No longer will religious worship remain the purview of a few chosen elect. A nation is coming into existence that will teach the world that religious participation is open to all.

“With our young and with our old we will go, with our sons and with our daughters….” No one and nothing is to be left behind; our “festival of the Lord” will only be complete if all are present and involved.

D

Moshe’s ringing proclamation reminds us that the Exodus narrative chronicles not only a people’s bid for freedom, but the beginning of a new chapter in the relationship between God and man. Step by step, a nation is forged that will be based upon personal observance, study and spiritual quest – a nation that will teach the world of every human being’s right and responsibility to actively relate to his Creator.

With the Exodus and the subsequent Revelation at Sinai, the rules will change forever. The birth of Judaism will open religious worship and practice to all.