Category: Excerpts

Excerpted from The Koren Mesorat HaRav Kinot: The Lookstein Edition

“People respond to the story of an individual personal tragedy more readily than to a national tragedy on a large scale.”

The placement of this kina in the sequence of the kinot initially appears odd. The order of “החרישה ממני” following “ארזי הלבנון” is logical and proper. However, one would have expected that the kina following “החרישה ממני,” which commemorates the martyrs of German Jewry, would have been “מי יתן ראשי מים,” the second kina pertaining to the Crusades in which Speyer, Worms and Mainz are mentioned by name and the dates of their destruction are recorded. Instead, the story of the death of Rabbi Yishma’el’s son and daughter is interjected, interrupting the series of kinot about the destruction of the Jewish communities in Germany. To compound the question, one could also ask why it is necessary to interrupt the description in the kinot of major national catastrophes with a story of a young man and woman who suffered as a result of the Hurban of Jerusalem, but whose deaths did not change the course of Jewish history or the routine of daily Jewish life. The narrative flow of the kinot mourns the destruction of the state, the land and the Beit HaMikdash – all of which changed Jewish history – then the martyrdom of the ten greatest scholars of the Talmud, and then the massacre of thousands of people and the destruction of the most important communities in the Middle Ages, both spiritually and numerically. In the midst of this national commemoration of the tragedies that befell the community, the sequence of kinot is interrupted with the story of the death of two individuals.

The answer is that Judaism has a different understanding of and approach to the individual. We mourn for the individual even if he or she was not a significant person. Rabbi Yishma’el, the father of these youngsters was already killed, and they were orphans. In light of the major calamities, who is responsible to remember a story about an individual young man and woman who were taken captive by some slave merchants? The answer is that we are. We have a special kina dedicated just to them, as if one hundred thousand people were involved, not just two individuals. Their life and their death may not have changed Jewish history, but we suffer and remember. We do not forget the faceless, nameless individual even in the midst of national disaster and upheaval, even when telling the story of the greatest of all the disasters in our history, the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. In this kina we mourn not for the Jews of Worms or Mainz, not for the Hurban Yerushalayim, and not for the Beit HaMikdash. We mourn for a boy and a girl who were not leaders or scholars and who did not play any major public role. They are as important as the greatest leaders. Sometimes we become so engrossed in the national tragedy that we forget the individual, and the sequence of the kinot is interrupted to highlight the worth of the individual.

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

 

Context

Immediately after outlining the laws of the para aduma, the Torah resumes its historical narrative with the statement “And the children of Israel, the whole assembly, arrived in the Wilderness of Tzin in the first month, and the nation settled in Kadesh; and Miriam died there and was buried there.”

Questions

Something astonishing has occurred in the Torah that could easily escape our notice. Nearly thirty-eight years have passed without comment from the text.

The last historical event recorded in the text, the rebellion of Korach and its aftermath, took place at the beginning of the nation’s forty-year period of wilderness wandering. The death of Miriam, however, occurs at the end of this period, in the fortieth year of wandering. From this point in the text until the end of the book of Devarim and the close of the Torah, the Torah deals solely with the final year in the wilderness and with the commandments transmitted by Moshe during that year.

What happened to the bulk of the forty-year period of wilderness wandering? Clearly these have been important, formative years. An entire generation, the generation of the Exodus, has perished and a new generation has risen, destined to enter the land. According to numerous commentaries that is why the Torah now states, “And the children of Israel, the whole assembly, arrived in the Wilderness of Tzin….” The entirety of the nation that will enter the land is now present and accounted for.

Why, then, do all the wilderness years passed without any comment in the text at all – without, in fact, even a note that they have passed?

Approaches

A

Strangely enough, the Torah’s silence concerning the missing thirty-eight years is matched by a similar silence from the classical commentaries. While some of the scholars, such as the Chizkuni, are clearly aware of the phenomenon of the missing years, they make no attempt to explain why the Torah does not chronicle this period of time more fully.

B

Perhaps the key to this mystery lies in the answer to another, more technical question.
What is the symbolism of the repeated appearance of the number forty at critical moments of the biblical text? Why are there forty years of rain that create the flood, forty days repeatedly spent by Moshe on the summit of Mount Sinai over the course of Revelation, forty days during which the spies tour the land of Canaan, forty years of wandering in the wilderness…?

A possible answer emerges from an unexpected source.

In commenting on the development of a human fetus, the Talmud states that, until the passage of forty days from conception, the embryo is considered to be maya b’alma, mere water. From that point on, the fetus enters a new, more advanced stage of development. Clearly, to the rabbinic mind, the fortieth day marks a critical point in the birthing process.

C

If the number forty represents a critical juncture in the biological birthing of a human being, perhaps the number forty plays a similar role throughout Jewish tradition. Upon consideration, each time a phenomenon appears in units of forty in the Torah text, a new reality is about to be born. The forty days of rain in Noach’s time mark not only the destruction of the old world but the birth of a new one; Moshe’s forty days on the summit of Mount Sinai signal the birth of a new nation forged on the foundation of God’s law; the forty-day tour of the spies through Canaan gives rise to the birth of a new, devastating reality for the generation of the Exodus; and the forty years of wilderness wandering give birth to a new generation of Israelites who will enter the land.

D

The forty-year period of wilderness wandering, therefore, carries no intrinsic independent significance. The significance of these years emerges instead as a period of incubation, a time when, step by step, a new generation is forged through a crucible of experience. The value of the wilderness years will be determined by the nature of the generation born, by the product created during the passing years.

Will this new generation of Israelites avoid the missteps of their fathers? Will this people, surrounded by clouds of God’s protection, sustained on the heaven-sent manna, live in their journeys through God’s manifest will, effectively transitioning from the fear of God to the love of God? Will the forty years have done their job?

These questions can only be answered in retrospect, as the story of this generation unfolds, after the wilderness years have passed. The Torah therefore remains silent concerning the passage of the years themselves, allowing us to draw our conclusions concerning their value after the fact, on the basis of the generation born.

Points to Ponder

Often, we attribute automatic power to time’s passage: Give it time…. Things will get better…. Time heals…. Things get better over time….prohibited at any time after conception unless the life of the mother is threatened. Under all circumstances, appropriate rabbinic authority should be consulted.

And yet, when we consider our own experience and the experience of those around us, we are forced to admit that the passage of time doesn’t always “make things better.” In fact, often the reverse is true. As time passes, unaddressed psychic wounds can fester, perceived slights can grow in intensity and misunderstandings can turn into hostility.

As a rabbi, I have experienced the tragedy of families unwilling to sit together even at the funeral of a loved one. When asked, however, as to the origin of the problem, family members often cannot remember. A small slight, a minor insult lost in the mists of memory turns, over time, into a permanent rift that can no longer be repaired.

The Torah’s silence concerning the Israelites’ forty-year wilderness passage reminds us of a lesson too often forgotten: The passage of time, in and of itself, is immaterial. What matters is what takes place during that time, and how those events impact upon our lives.

If, over the years, problems are ignored and reconciliation avoided, then the passage of time will work against us. If, on the other hand, we use our time wisely and constructively, confronting our shared issues squarely and with sensitivity, then time will surely be our ally.

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

Is This Miracle Really  Necessary?

Context

In the aftermath of Korach’s rebellion, after harsh punishments have been meted out to the perpetrators, God turns to Moshe with one final set of instructions. He directs him to collect a staff from each of the tribes of Israel, to inscribe the name of each tribal leader upon his respective staff – with Aharon’s name etched onto the staff of the tribe of Levi – and to place the staffs overnight in the Sanctuary.

These staffs, God explains, will serve as miraculous indicators of His own divine will: “And it shall be that the man whom I [God] shall choose, his staff will blossom; and I shall cause the complaints of the children of Israel to subside from upon Me.”

Moshe complies with God’s instructions, and twelve staffs, each emblazoned with the name of a tribal leader, are brought to the Sanctuary where they remain overnight. On the morrow, when Moshe enters the Sanctuary, he finds that Aharon’s staff alone has “brought forth a blossom, sprouted buds and mature almonds.” God has, once again, made known His selection of Aharon for the role of Kohen Gadol, High Priest.

After Moshe brings the twelve staffs out for the people to see, God commands him to return Aharon’s staff to the Sanctuary where it will serve as a continual reminder, an impediment to further rebellion against God’s choices for leadership.

Questions

Why is this miracle necessary?

Hasn’t God, in the most decisive ways possible, already declared His clear choice of Moshe and Aharon for leadership? Weren’t the targeted earthquake, the heaven-sent fire and the devastating plague that punished Korach, his followers and the rebellious Israelites powerful enough indications of God’s resolve?

If the Israelites have not been convinced by now of God’s choices, will the quiet additional miracle of Aharon’s flowering staff really make the difference?

Approaches

A

Perhaps the key to understanding the miraculous coda of the Korach narrative lies in focusing not on the final miracle in isolation but, instead, on that miracle’s contextual message. The flowering staff of Aharon could hardly be more different from the preceding phenomena that marked God’s response to Korach’s rebellion. Gone, suddenly, are the terrifying images of earthquakes, fires and plagues. In their place, in stark contrast, now appears the peaceful vision of a budding staff.

As God, over the course of Korach’s rebellion, moves from death and destruction towards this culminating miracle of quiet beauty, He conveys a powerful message to the Israelites:

Although I was forced to respond to the uprising against Moshe and Aharon with overwhelming force and power, I do not want the election of these leaders to remain forever rooted in those tragic, necessarily destructive events. Let, instead, the flowering of Aharon’s staff become the enduring symbol of his priesthood. Let the leadership of “this lover of peace and pursuer of peace” be forever associated in your minds with a quiet final miracle of creation. And, through this miracle, let both leaders and disciples alike learn that there is no more powerful force in God’s arsenal, nor in their own, than the force of creation.

B

The transition towards the quiet miracle of Aharon’s staff may well herald the onset of an even greater global transition in the nation’s development. If we accept that Korach’s rebellion occurs, as recorded in the text, after the chet hameraglim, the Israelites now stand on the threshold of major changes in the nature of their relationship with God.

Over the course of the next forty years in the wilderness, as one generation of Israelites gives way to the next, the nation will move from the relational level of yira, fear and awe, to the level of ahava, love.

The generation of the Exodus and Revelation will inexorably disappear, erstwhile slaves whose ability to relate to God is limited to the primitive plane of fear. Heirs to a legacy of torment under Egyptian rule, this generation innately responds only to overwhelming power. God, therefore, speaks to them in a language they can understand. Through events such as: the ten plagues, the parting of the Reed Sea, the thunder and lightning of Sinai and the earthquake, fire and plague of Korach’s rebellion, God becomes their new master, to be held in awe and to be feared.

The children of these slaves, however, will experience God differently. Raised for nearly four decades in the bosom of God’s continual protection, surrounded by the clouds of glory, nurtured on the heaven-sent manna, this second generation will learn to relate to God through the more mature dimension of love. To this generation, God will emerge as a loving, benevolent parent Who, with kindness and sensitivity, sustains His people on their continuing journey.

The first step in the monumental transition from yira to ahava may well take place in the quiet of the night, in the solitude of the Sanctuary, as Aharon’s staff begins to blossom. With this miracle, God deliberately moves from destruction to creation, heralding a journey that will bring His people close.

Points to Ponder

Our people’s formative national journey from yira to ahava in its relationship with God creates the paradigm for the individual religious passage we each are meant to experience over the course of our lives.

If as children we necessarily begin with yira, perceiving God as a mysterious, distant and fearsome power, impassively controlling our destiny, a mature relationship with God requires that we successfully transition to the dimension of ahava, as well. The sense of awe that underlies our perception of the divine should certainly never be lost. As the years pass, however, a growing, more pervasive sense of love is meant to fill our hearts, as we learn to believe in an approachable, benevolent deity Who desires our welfare and cares deeply for our concerns.

Fearing God is easy. Loving Him can, at times, be difficult. Inevitably, there will be moments in our lives when God seems distant, when His will and intentions remain unclear, when our relationship with Him is strained. Nonetheless, we are challenged to cultivate a deep, abiding trust that He is with us even then – perhaps particularly then – watching over us and caring for us as a parent would a child.

The journey towards God experienced by our nation at its infancy should be experienced by each of us, as well. Only then can our relationship with God be complete.

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

Chet Hameraglim 3: A Tale of Two Sins

Context

The Jewish calendar contains two extraordinary fast days that are, at once, powerfully similar, yet vastly different.

These occasions, Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av, share fundamental characteristics as the only full twenty-five-hour fast days in Jewish tradition and as the only fasts that include the five halachic inuyim (afflictions): the prohibitions on eating and drinking, washing, anointing, the wearing of leather shoes and marital relations.

Yet as similar as these days are, they are also poles apart. Yom Kippur is a biblical fast day; Tisha B’Av, of rabbinic origin. Tisha B’Av remains immersed in sorrow while Yom Kippur is cautiously, solemnly optimistic.

As if to further highlight the connection and contrast between these two fast days, the calendar links them in a multi-week spiritual journey. Beginning with the three mournful weeks preceding Tisha B’Av, this passage continues through the Shiva D’nechemta, the seven weeks of consolation that lead to the high holidays, culminating with Yom Kippur.

Questions

Clearly, our tradition sees Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av as connected, but how? What can be learned from the comparison and contrast of these two fast days?

Approaches

A

The answer may well emerge from the mists of history. Intriguingly, the rabbis draw yet another link between Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av. Each of these occasions, they say, originates in a seminal sin committed at the dawn of Jewish history.

B

Yom Kippur is born as a result of the chet ha’egel, the sin of the golden calf.

In the shadow of Revelation at Mount Sinai, the nation, frightened by the specter of abandonment by Moshe, creates and worships a golden calf. Moshe, upon descending the mountain, witnesses the nation’s backsliding and smashes the divinely given Tablets of Testimony. God, upon forgiving the nation at Moshe’s behest, commands Moshe to once again ascend the mountain and receive a second set of tablets.

The rabbis relate that Moshe descends with the second tablets on Yom Kippur. This biblical fast day, the holiest day of the Jewish year, thus rises out of the forgiveness granted by God for the sin of the golden calf.

C

Tisha B’Av emerges as a consequence of the chet hameraglim, the sin of the spies.

As we have seen (see the two previous studies), a short time after their departure from Sinai, the Israelites find themselves at the southern border of the Promised Land of Canaan. Twelve spies are sent to observe the land and its inhabitants preparatory to the nation’s entry. Upon their return, ten of the twelve spies deliver a pessimistic report, citing the Israelites’ inability to conquer the land through battle. In reaction to the account of the spies, the nation despairs, weeping through the night and rising up in rebellion against Moshe and Aharon.

Based upon calendar computation, the rabbis maintain: “That very night [when the Israelites wept in response to the report of the spies] was the eve of Tisha B’Av. Said the Holy One Blessed Be He to them [the Israelites]: ‘You have cried for naught – and I shall establish for you crying across the generations.’ ”

Rooted in the nation’s despair over the report of the spies is the tragedy and sorrow that will visit their descendents, over and over again, throughout the ages, on the mournful day of Tisha B’Av.

D

Although the rabbis support their contentions concerning the origins of Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av through calendar computation, their intended message obviously strikes deeper. There are no coincidences on the Jewish calendar. To the rabbinic mind, concrete philosophical bonds link these two fast days, respectively, to tragic transgressions deep in our nation’s past. What are these connecting links and how can they help deepen our understanding of two of the most important observances in Jewish tradition?

E

We have suggested in the past that the sin of the golden calf reflects the Israelites’ desperate desire for distance from the demands of an omnipotent God.

From the outset, the Israelites are unable and/or unwilling to face the new responsibilities thrust upon them at Sinai, and they respond with immediate retreat: “And the entire people saw the thunder and lightning and the sound of the shofar and a smoking mountain and they trembled and stood from afar. And they said to Moshe, ‘You speak with us and we will listen; and let not God speak with us, lest we die.’ ”

And when, forty days later, Moshe apparently fails to return from the summit of the mountain at the expected time, and the people face the fact that they will now be required to interact with God directly, without the benefit of Moshe as their intermediary, their desperate desire for distance from God becomes an overwhelming fear. The Israelites create a golden calf to take Moshe’s place, to stand between them and their Creator. In the aftermath of the sin, after punishing those most directly involved, God moves to educate the nation to the ramifications of their crime. Threatening to distance Himself from the people, as per their expressed desire, He forces them to glimpse the emptiness that would result from such distance. The nation, in response, falls into mourning.

God thus reminds the Israelites of a fundamental truth that courses through all human relationships. While safety can be found in emotional distance, the desire for such distance produces a life of emptiness. Only those willing to risk the pain and heartache that can result from nearness to others will ultimately experience the potential beauty of friendship and love.

God’s message to the people in the aftermath of the chet ha’egel is powerful and clear: If I am absent from your lives you will be safe, as through distance you avoid the vulnerability that would accompany My close connection with you.

You will also miss out, however, on the grandeur that would have resulted from our closeness.

F

We can now begin to understand why the rabbis perceive a fundamental connection between the sin of the golden calf and Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year.

Yom Kippur is the day when, yearly, we move to repair the inevitable distance that has developed between us and our Creator. We mourn our loss of perspective, explore our missteps and admit our failings. We atone for our consistent tendency to pull away from God through our practice of comfortable rather than confrontational Judaism. We pledge to move close again – close enough to allow divine law to challenge our lives and test our commitments.

The message of this holiest of days is clear. The distance that develops between man and God can be repaired. Just as God ultimately forgives the Jewish nation at Sinai and invites them, once again, fully into His presence; so, too, through the process of tshuva on Yom Kippur we can reconnect intimately with our Creator.

G

At the core of the chet hameraglim, on the other hand, lies a profoundly different failing, yielding a profoundly different divine response (see previous two studies).

Ultimately the spies and the nation are guilty of a loss of faith in themselves. Not only do they doubt God’s ability to bring them into the land, but, even more importantly, they lose trust in their own capacity for change. They see themselves still as the slaves who toiled under Egyptian rule, and they negate the transformative impact of all that has occurred during and after the Exodus.

To this failing, God responds with harsh judgment. Intergenerationally, the nation is forgiven and will ultimately enter the land. The generation of the Exodus, however, remains irredeemable. When man loses sight of his own majestic potential, he simply cannot achieve.

H

The connection drawn by rabbinic thought between the sin of the spies and the mournful day of Tisha B’Av now becomes abundantly clear.

In stark contrast to the ultimately optimistic, reparative day of Yom Kippur, Tisha B’Av remains, each year, an occasion rooted in mourning and sorrow. We bemoan our own replication of the sin of the spies, our loss of personal and national vision, our inability to rise above our pettiness and spite, our failure to glimpse the majestic potential in others and in ourselves.

Because of these continued failings, Tisha B’Av rings, over and over again, to the divine decree that, according to the rabbis, was delivered as the Jews wept over the report of the spies: You have cried for naught, and I shall establish for you crying across the generations.

I

When you draw away from Me, God says on Yom Kippur, the anniversary of the chet ha’egel, our relationship can yet be repaired.

When you lose faith in yourselves, however, He decrees on Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the chet hameraglim, you and your generation will fail to achieve your potential, and the realization of your dreams will be further delayed.

Points to Ponder

A strange liturgical anomaly emerges in light of the rabbinic association of the sin of the spies with Tisha B’Av and the sin of the golden calf with Yom Kippur.

Each year, a powerful and poignant body of prayers known as Selichot, Prayers of Forgiveness, is recited on the days leading to and during the Days of Awe (Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur).

Central to these prayers is a section containing Moshe’s plea to God for forgiveness: “Forgive please the iniquity of this people according to the greatness of Your kindness and as You have borne this nation from Egypt until now.”

And God’s response: Salachti ki’dvarecha, “I have forgiven, according to your words.”

The problem is, however, that this interchange is found in the Torah in conjunction with the sin of the spies, not the sin of the golden calf. Given the vastly different nature of these two fast days, why would our tradition choose a source connected to the origin of Tisha B’Av as a central piece of the Yom Kippur liturgy?

The answer may well lie in the universal application of God’s words in this interchange with Moshe.

Salachti ki’dvarecha, “I have forgiven, according to your words.” My forgiveness, Moshe, is shaped by your own vision of the people’s potential. Given that your own words reflect recognition of their inability to change, My forgiveness will reflect that reality, as well.

Each year, as we approach the holiest season of our calendar, God turns to each of us and proclaims: Salachti ki’dvarecha, “I have forgiven, according to your words.” My judgment of you will be based upon your own vision of yourself. The higher you reach, the greater you see your own potential, the greater My capacity for forgiveness, the greater the promise for the coming year.

Each year, we, together with God, determine the parameters of God’s forgiveness.

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

Context

As the first anniversary of the Exodus approaches, God commands Moshe to instruct the nation concerning the rituals of the Korban Pesach.

The people comply, offering the korban on the afternoon of the fourteenth day of Nissan.

A number of individuals, however, approach Moshe with a problem: “We are tamei, ritually impure [and are thus unable to offer the Korban Pesach]…lama nigara, why should we be diminished by not offering the Lord’s korban in its appointed time in the midst of the children of Israel?”

When Moshe turns to God for direction, God responds by introducing the concept of Pesach Sheini, a second Pesach: “If any man becomes contaminated through contact with a human corpse or is on a distant road, he shall make a Korban Pesach for the Lord. In the second month, on the fourteenth day, in the afternoon, shall they make it; with matzot and bitter herbs shall they consume it.”
While the full observances of the festival of Pesach are not repeated on Pesach Sheini, the occasion provides a “second chance” for those who were unable to offer the Paschal Lamb on Pesach itself to do so a month later.

Questions

Why does God create a second chance in conjunction with – and only in conjunction with – the holiday of Pesach? The law does not provide, for example, a Yom Kippur Sheini for those unable to fast on Yom Kippur.

Nor is a Succot Sheini mandated for those who cannot sit in the succa on the holiday of Succot. What dimension unique to the festival of Pesach warrants the creation of an official makeup date?

Furthermore, if Pesach Sheini is warranted, why is it not included in the halachic code from the outset? Why doesn’t God instruct the nation concerning the laws of Pesach Sheini when He first introduces the Korban Pesach on the eve of the Exodus? Why wait until those who cannot participate on Pesach object?

Finally, exactly who is allowed to participate in Pesach Sheini? While legitimate inability to offer the Korban Pesach at the appointed time is the apparent criteria, the Torah’s definition of such inability is a puzzlingly restrictive. Why limit the observance of Pesach Sheini only to those who are ritually impure or who are at a distance from the Sanctuary at the time of the offering of the Korban Pesach? What of those individuals who are constrained from taking part in the Korban Pesach for other legitimate reasons? Is someone too ill to participate on Pesach, for example, included in the opportunities offered by Pesach Sheini? If not, why not? If so, why doesn’t the Torah say so?

Approaches

A

Our analysis of Pesach Sheini begins with the most basic of the questions presented. What is the rationale behind this phenomenon? Why in the case of Pesach, and only in the case of Pesach, is a second chance for at least partial observance offered within the halachic code?

An answer to this question is potentially derived from an unexpected source that can help reframe and deepen our understanding of the Pesach festival itself.

Consider the approach mandated by Jewish law towards an individual who wishes to convert to Judaism. Hesitation, caution and discouragement are the order of the day. Armed with the belief that those outside our faith tradition are not required to be like us, we confront the candidate with a sobering truth and an obvious question:It is hard to be a Jew. Why, if you are under no obligation to do so, would you want to take this difficult step?

Not so well known, however, is the exact form that this initial caution is meant to take. Contrary to expectations, we do not plunge immediately into a discussion of the mitzvot; we do not emphasize the difficult responsibilities and monumental life changes that the potential convert proposes to accept.

Instead, the Talmud lays out a vastly different introductory path for the would-be Jew:
The rabbis taught: [if a prospective] proselyte comes to convert in the present era, we say to him: “What did you perceive that prompted you to come? Do you not know that Israel [i.e., the Jewish people] is, in this day, afflicted, oppressed, downtrodden and harassed – and that hardships are frequently visited upon them?” If the individual responds: “I know, and I am not even worthy [to share in their hardships],” we accept him immediately [as a potential convert worthy of education].

Only after this interchange has taken place, continues the Talmud, do we begin to teach the candidate about the enormous responsibilities inherent in the halachic code.

Why must the potential convert’s formal journey towards Judaism open with a discussion of the historical persecution of the Jewish nation? Why not strike to the core issue facing the candidate immediately: his central challenge of kabbalat ol mitzvoth, an understanding and acceptance of the yoke (the obligations carried by) the commandments?

Apparently the rabbis intuited a prerequisite to the acceptance of mitzvot. The first step towards Jewishness is the step of “belonging.” Only someone who is willing to be part of the historical saga of the Jewish nation, who commits to share in that nation’s challenges, to mourn its losses and celebrate its triumphs – only that person can begin to accept the Jewish faith as his or her own. In short, potential candidates must be willing to throw their lot in with the Jewish people, whatever trials that choice might produce, whatever difficulties might ensue.

B

What, however, is the basis of this rabbinic position? What source can Talmud scholars cite to support their confident claim that conversion to Judaism must begin with the choice to “belong”?

The answer, it would seem, is powerfully simple. The rabbis believe that the initial journey of an individual who wishes to join the Jewish nation must mirror the initial journey of the nation itself.

As we have noted before, the birth of the Jewish nation unfolds in two formative stages: the Exodus and Revelation.

Before our ancestors could arrive at Sinai, they had to be willing to leave Egypt, to throw their lot in with a fledgling people traveling towards an unknown future, under the guidance of a relative stranger. Only those willing to take a chance on the Jewish people are privileged to stand in God’s presence at Sinai when the Jewish nation is born.

A potential convert to Judaism, apparently, must undergo the two-step transformative process that defined the birth of the nation he wishes to join. The rituals of the conversion process itself are derived from the experiences of the Israelites immediately prior to and during the Revelation at Sinai The first step towards those rituals, however, like the first step of our national journey, is rooted in the Exodus.

Before a potential convert can “arrive at Sinai,” before he can begin to encounter God’s law, he must first “leave Egypt.” He must consciously separate himself from the world he has known and affiliate with the Jewish nation. This act of affiliation, mirroring the Israelites’ Exodus experience, launches his journey towards Judaism.

C

We can now begin to understand the rationale for the creation of Pesach Sheini. So elemental is the Korban Pesach, so fundamental to our Jewish identity and experience, that God provides a second chance for those who are initially unable to participate. Pesach is, after all, where we begin as a people. No one should miss out on the yearly renewal of our shared affiliation. No one should be excluded as we re-create our first steps together.

The journey towards Jewishness opens with the step of belonging. Each year, as that journey is reaffirmed, every member of the community must be given the opportunity to join.

D

Our analysis of the basis for Pesach Sheini may well shed light on a series of perplexing laws concerning this festival of second chances.

As noted above, the Torah seems to limit participation in Pesach Sheini to those who are ritually impure or at a distance from the Sanctuary on Pesach. The rabbis, however, interpret the biblical mandate much more extensively. In two sentences in the Mishna, they increase the reach of this makeup festival:

An individual who is ritually impure or at a distance and did not perform the first [Korban Pesach] shall perform the second [on Pesach Sheini].

[An individual who otherwise] erred or was legitimately constrained from performing the first [Korban Pesach] shall perform the second [on Pesach Sheini].

The legal verdict of the Mishna is clear. The laws of Pesach Sheini apply not only to those who are impure or at a distance, but to all those who are legitimately constrained from participating in the Korban Pesach at its appointed time. This conclusion (and the Mishna’s own construction), however, raises a much more difficult question. If Pesach Sheini applies to all those who are excluded from participation on Pesach, why does the Torah specify the categories of tuma and distance? Why not simply apply the laws of Pesach Sheini in broad strokes from the outset, to anyone who legitimately missed the Korban Pesach?

The Mishna itself answers this question with a terse response that is interpreted differently by different authorities. The Rambam’s formulation of the law, accepted by many, can be summarized as follows: All individuals who are legitimately constrained for any reason from participating in the Korban Pesach in its appointed time are obligated to offer a korban on Pesach Sheini. The Torah, however, distinguishes in the area of punishment between those who cannot participate on Pesach because of impurity or distance and those whose inability stems from other sources:

1. An individual whose legitimate failure to participate in the Korban Pesach arises out of a reason other than impurity or distance is liable to the punishment of karet, excision from the community, if he deliberately chooses not to take advantage of the second chance offered to him by Pesach Sheini.

2. An individual, however, who fails to participate in the Korban Pesach because of impurity or distance is not liable for the punishment of karet even if he deliberately fails to offer a korban on Pesach Sheini. Such an individual, the Rambam notes, “has already been exempted from the punishment of karet on Pesach itself.”

At face value, this halachic verdict seems totally counterintuitive. While Pesach Sheini applies to all who are unable to partake in the Korban Pesach at its appointed time, the law is most lenient concerning the two categories that are specifically mentioned in the Torah: ritual impurity and distance. Individuals who fall into these categories are exempt from punishment even if they deliberately ignore the opportunities presented by Pesach Sheini. All others, however, who legitimately miss participation on Pesach are liable for punishment if they deliberately fail to observe Pesach Sheini.

Wouldn’t we expect the opposite to be true? Shouldn’t the law show greatest severity towards those whose obligation in Pesach Sheini derives directly from the text?

So puzzling is the Rambam’s codification of the law that the Ra’avad immediately objects: “Now [the Rambam] contradicts himself! What difference is there between impure or distant individuals who deliberately ignore the obligations of Pesach Sheini and others who deliberately ignore those same obligations?”

E

Our above-outlined discussion concerning the origins of Pesach Sheini, however, provides an approach towards the Rambam’s halachic formulation based on the following assumptions:

1. The obligation to participate in the Korban Pesach derives from the root concept of affiliation with the community. All individuals “affiliated” with the Jewish community at the time of the Pesach Sacrifice automatically become fully obligated to share in the ritual.

2. An individual who, at the time of the first Korban Pesach, is fully affiliated with the community but who, for tangential reasons, cannot participate in the Korban Pesach at its appointed time (e.g., someone who is ill) nonetheless remains obligated in the ritual. This obligation derives from his connection to the community on Pesach itself. For such an individual, participation in Pesach Sheini becomes a full obligation, providing a second chance to fulfill a responsibility already incurred at the time of the first Korban Pesach.

3. In response to the objections of the group that approaches Moshe, however, God defines two categories of individuals who are essentially excluded from participation in the Korban Pesach. Their exclusion is not tangential but rises out of a fundamental separation from the community at the time of Pesach. These individuals – the ritually impure, who are spiritually separate, and the distant, who are geographically detached – never became obligated in the Pesach sacrifice in the first place and are thus completely exempt from potential punishment regarding the Korban. Pesach Sheini emerges for these individuals, as a unique halachic construct: an obligatory opportunity.

As a result of the historic request outlined in the text, the law affords individuals who legitimately find themselves separated from the community on Pesach with the opportunity to affiliate at a later date. Once offered, this opportunity becomes obligatory as the Torah enjoins these individuals to take advantage of the second chance for affiliation that Pesach Sheini represents. There is, however, no punishment for failure. The exemption from punishment reflects the fact that Pesach Sheini initially originates as an opportunity rather than an obligation for these individuals.

F

Two other fascinating cases considered by the Talmud may well connect to our analysis of the Rambam’s halachic codification. What is the law, the rabbis ask, concerning an individual who converts to Judaism or a child who reaches the age of halachic responsibility during the month between Pesach and Pesach Sheini? Are such individuals obligated to bring an offering on Pesach Sheini or are they exempt because they never incurred any obligation at all at the time of Pesach?

While differing opinions are offered in the Talmud, the Rambam is once again emphatic: both the convert and the young adult are obligated in the rituals of Pesach Sheini. Even individuals who were not practicing Jews at the time of Pesach are to be given the opportunity to affiliate with the community once such affiliation becomes possible.

If our analysis is correct, however, such individuals should be exempt from punishment if they fail, even deliberately, to observe Pesach Sheini. The festival should emerge for them, as it does for the impure and the distant, as an “obligatory opportunity.” Unfortunately, however, the Rambam does not comment on the issue of punishment for the convert and the young adult. No proof can therefore be adduced either for or against our arguments.

G

Finally, we turn to our last remaining question concerning Pesach Sheini. Why aren’t the laws of this festival of second chances included in the halachic code from the outset? Why does God delay the transmission of these edicts until objections are raised by those unable to participate on Pesach itself?
A fascinating, well-known answer to this question is suggested in the Midrash and quoted by Rashi. God deliberately delays the transmission of the laws of Pesach Sheini in order to reward the individuals who approach Moshe concerning the Korban Pesach. So great is the merit of these individuals that God allows a section of the halachic code to develop as a result of their efforts. The Midrash, however, fails to define the rationale for such overwhelming reward. Why do these individuals deserve to have a section of Torah text recorded in their honor?

H

Compounding the mystery is the appearance, later in the book of Bamidbar, of a strangely similar event that seems to give rise to the very same issues.

After God prepares the nation for entry into the Land of Israel by delineating the rules that will govern the division of the land, four women, the daughters of Tzelafchad, approach Moshe with an objection: “Our father died in the wilderness…and he had no sons. Lama yigara, why should the name of our father be diminished among his family because he had no son? Give us a possession among our father’s brothers.”

Once again, Moshe turns to God for guidance and, once again, God responds by outlining a new set of halachic guidelines:

If a man will die and he has no son, you shall cause his inheritance to pass to his daughter. If he has no daughter, you shall give his inheritance to his brothers. If he has no brothers you shall give his inheritance to the brothers of his father. If there are no brothers of his father, you shall give his inheritance to his relative who is closest to him of his family.

Once again, the rabbis ask, why weren’t these rules conveyed to the nation from the outset? Why wait until the daughters of Tzelafchad object?

And once again, Rashi quotes the rabbinic response: “The passages of inheritance should have been written through Moshe, our teacher, but [since] the daughters of Tzelafchad were meritorious, it was written through them.”

And once again, we ask: Wherein lies the great merit of the protagonists in this episode? Why does God deliberately delay the transmission of a pivotal set of laws in order to pay tribute to the daughters of Tzelafchad?

I

As is often the case, the Torah embeds its answer in the text.

An uncanny linguistic parallel marks the seemingly disparate narratives of Pesach Sheini and the daughters of Tzelafchad. The heroes of both stories employ strikingly similar language as they raise their problems to Moshe:

Lama nigara, why should we be diminished by not offering the Lord’s korban in its appointed time…

Lama yigara, why should the name of our father be diminished among his family…

In each of these episodes the petitioners perceive participation in a communal mitzva to be an opportunity, missed only at great cost. We will be personally diminished, they maintain, through our inability to take part.

Therein lies their greatness….

Legitimately excused from responsibility for the Pesach ritual, the petitioners who approach Moshe will not rest easy. Exemption, they argue, is not an option. Why should we be denied the gift of participation? Why should the enriching experience of the Korban Pesach be disallowed to us?

Facing their nuclear family’s exclusion from inheritance in the Land of Israel, the daughters of Tzelafchad refuse to remain silent. Why should our family be denied a permanent legacy in the land of our people? Why should the name of our father be erased from the roster of his brothers?

In each of these cases, the divine legal verdict is clear: God provides those who mourn the loss of religious opportunity with new opportunity for fulfillment.

Even further, however, through a delicate interweaving of thought and law, in both the narrative of Pesach Sheini and in the narrative of inheritance, a more pervasive message emerges: when you perceive participation with your people to be a cherished gift worth fighting for; when you feel diminished by an inability to take part in Torah ritual; when you view a mitzva as an opportunity and not as an obligation, you are worthy of a portion of the Torah inscribed in your name.

Points to Ponder

Our age of immediacy – in which time is measured in milliseconds, easier is automatically viewed as better and goals must be instantly attained – inexorably shapes our religious attitudes. We find ourselves seeking quicker prayer services, devising shortcuts in holiday preparations and engaging in rote, undemanding ritual observance. We mark Pesach with mass exoduses to ever more exotic vacation spots, hire others to build our succot, buy prepackaged Purim mishloach manot…anything to make our lives a little easier as we balance multiple obligations and, at the same time, struggle to fulfill the letter, if not the spirit, of Jewish law.

In the process, however, we miss the whole point.

For while these commandments are obligations, they are also opportunities: prayer an opportunity to talk to God, Shabbat an opportunity to regain perspective, the holidays opportunities for shared family experience. All mitzvot are opportunities to glimpse the world that lies beyond, to connect with God, to sanctify our existence.

With the investment of time and effort, the observance of the mitzvot can deeply enrich our personal and family lives.

When we learn to view mitzvot as opportunities and not as burdens, we too will merit inscription in the unfolding scroll of our nation’s story.

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

Context

Parshat Naso, the largest single parsha in the Torah, is also one of the most fragmented.

Central to the parsha is a section consisting of disparate legal themes, including:

1. The temporary exile of individuals afflicted with specific forms of tuma from various sections of the camp

2. Laws concerning theft and false denial of financial obligation

3. The regulations governing a Sota, a married woman suspected of adultery

4. The laws of a Nazir, an individual who vows to undertake more rigorous religious observance

5. The rules of Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing

Questions

What, if any, unifying thread connects the seemingly disparate laws found in Parshat Naso? Why are these regulations specifically commanded now, as the Israelites prepare for their monumental departure from Mount Sinai?

Approaches

A

While, at first glance, a global theme uniting all of Parshat Naso’s laws remains elusive, connections between specific sections of the text are suggested by traditional sources.

The Talmud, for example, notes that the laws concerning theft close with an admonition to respect the legal rights of the Kohanim. Immediately thereafter the text records the regulations governing a Sota. Interpreting this textual flow midrashically in “cause and effect” fashion, the rabbis
proclaim that anyone who holds back the portions meant for a Kohen will be punished with family strife and will ultimately require the services of a Kohen at the ritual trial of his suspected wife.

The Talmud likewise explains the positioning of the laws of nezirut immediately following the regulations governing a Sota. The irresponsible, licentious behavior that can be caused by intoxication is starkly highlighted by the spectacle of the Sota. “Anyone who personally witnesses the degradation experienced by a Sota,” the rabbis maintain, “will be moved to separate himself [like a Nazir] from wine.”

Numerous commentaries address the potential link between the textual section concerning nezirut and the section immediately following, delineating the laws of Birkat Kohanim. The Ibn Ezra simply states that after discussing the Nazir, an individual of sanctified status, the Torah turns its attention to another sanctified group, the Kohanim. The Abravanel and, centuries later, the Alshich, maintain that the textual message strikes deeper. The path towards sanctity need not be inherited, as in the case of the kahuna, but can be earned, as in the case of nezirut.

Adding our voice to the mix, a tantalizing additional approach can be suggested to explain the flow between the regulations of nezirut and the laws of Birkat Kohanim. Perhaps the Torah means to highlight the critical overall similarities and distinctions between the categories of nezirut and kahuna.

On the one hand, both the Nazir and the Kohen are bound by strikingly similar rules. Each, to a varying extent, is commanded to refrain from contact with death, and each, again to a varying extent, is governed by regulations concerning the consumption of wine.

On the other hand, these two spiritual categories rise from contrasting origins.

The Nazir is motivated by a desire to separate, to move away from the surrounding society. His religious search is inherently isolating.

The Kohen, in contrast, gains his spiritual power specifically from connection to the community. One cannot, after all, be a priest without constituents, without those who are dependent upon his services as a representative before God. There can be no kehuna in isolation.

More than any other ritual associated with the kahuna, the Priestly Blessing underscores this fundamental connection between priest and community. By commanding the Kohen to bless the nation on God’s behalf multiple times daily, the Torah literally forces each priest to regularly and directly confront the true source of his own sanctity: the people themselves. The Kohen’s kedusha emanates out of his role as a representative of the nation before God. Absent the people, there would simply be no need for the Kohen.

Not by coincidence, therefore, the Torah places the laws of Birkat Kohanim directly after the regulations governing nezirut. In sharp contrast to what many see as the flawed, isolating religious attitude of the Nazir, the Kohen must always recognize that his role rests upon his connection to – and his need for – the people.

B

Numerous other commentaries struggle to discern additional thematic and even linguistic associations between the various legal passages of Parshat Naso.

As instructive as these and other links may be, however, they fail to answer the two global questions raised at the beginning of our study.

On the level of pshat, is there one unifying thread that somehow connects all of the laws of this section of Parshat Naso? Will the discovery of this unifying thread help us understand why these laws are commanded specifically at this pivotal moment in time, as the preparations for the nation’s momentous journey from Sinai near their end?

C

An approach to these issues can perhaps be suggested by reflecting on the overall placement of Parshat Naso itself in the text.

Until this point, the narrative of Sefer Bamidbar has focused mainly upon the physical structure of the Israelite encampment in the desert and upon the place of each family and tribe within that camp. Now, however, the Torah turns its attention to the harmony meant to reign within the camp’s boundaries.

Through a series of sharp legal strokes, the text addresses potential sources of spiritual and social disruption, outlining the response to each. While each of the examples cited by the Torah is case specific, they are meant to serve as paradigms as well. The text thus purposely addresses, as the nation’s journey is about to begin, a series of life arenas within which peace and harmony must be continually and assiduously cultivated:

1. Spiritual disruption will be addressed through the temporary expulsion of individuals afflicted with specific forms of tuma from various sections of the camp. Only once these individuals have regained the status of tahara can they return to full functioning within Israelite society.

2. The social fabric of the camp will be preserved through adherence to the laws prohibiting theft and dishonesty.

3. The structure of the family – critical yet at times fragile – will be addressed through the laws of Sota.

4. The potentially divisive desires of those wishing to move beyond the religious norm will be addressed and controlled through the laws of nezirut.

5. Finally, this entire section of text concludes with the laws of Birkat Kohanim, a blessing that culminates in the prayer for God’s most precious gift of shalom, peace.

Through the interplay of law and prayer, the Torah thus communicates that true peace within the Israelite encampment will be dependent both upon the nation’s conscious efforts and upon God’s continuing blessings.

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

A Calendar Coincidence and a Strange Book

Context

Two seemingly disparate phenomena, one technical and one philosophical, converge as we open the book of Bamidbar. Considered together, they provide powerful insight into the significance of this book of the Torah.

First, as a result of an apparent calendar coincidence, the reading of the book of Bamidbar begins each year in the synagogue on the Sabbaths directly before the festival of Shavuot.

Second, the book of Bamidbar is unique among the five books of the Torah as it is almost entirely limited to the description of the historical events and temporal commandments that mark the Israelites’ sojourn in the wilderness. Very few lasting mitzvot are recorded in this volume.

Questions

The calendar-created relationship between the opening of the book of Bamidbar and the festival of Shavuot is puzzling.

The book of Bamidbar opens with God’s detailed instructions to the Israelites preparatory to their departure from Sinai. Shavuot, on the other hand, marks the nation’s arrival at Sinai and the onset of Revelation, all of which occurs two years earlier.

Why do we read, each year, of our leaving Sinai specifically on the Sabbaths before we arrive?

Must we accept this reverse highlighting of the endpoints of the Sinaitic experience as a simple twist of calendar fate? If not, what possible lessons can be gleaned from this phenomenon?

More broadly, with the opening of the book of Bamidbar, the question could well be raised: What place does this book occupy within the eternal Torah text? Why are the time-bound details of Bamidbar significant enough to record for posterity? In what way is this text relevant for later generations?

Approaches

A

The seemingly coincidental calendar connection between Parshat Bamidbar and the festival of Shavuot may not be coincidental at all, but, instead, a clear reminder of a fundamental truth: the most important moment of Revelation is the moment the Israelites leave.

The instant of the nation’s departure from Sinai determines the quality of all that has come before. If the Israelites leave the site of Revelation changed by the experience, carrying the Torah with them and within them, then the dramatic events of Sinai will have achieved their purpose. If, however, upon leaving the site of Revelation, the people leave Sinai behind, then those miraculous proceedings will have been little more than a divinely orchestrated “sound and light show,” impressing the observers in transient fashion.

As we open the book of Bamidbar each year on the Sabbaths before Shavuot, as we read of our departure before we arrive, we proclaim our understanding that the years spent at Sinai achieve their significance in retrospect.

B

What, however, is the verdict regarding the lasting impact of Revelation upon the people? Are the Israelites ultimately successful in their transition from Sinai?

The parshiot unfolding before us will reveal a mixed verdict concerning these questions.

On the one hand, the specific generation that witnesses Revelation fails its ultimate test. “Like a child running away from school,” the Israelites leave Sinai with alacrity, anxious to rid themselves of the obligations thrust upon them by divine law. Their immediate rebellion launches a series of cascading calamities culminating in the sin of the spies, the transgression that ultimately seals their fate in the wilderness. On a temporal level, the departure from Sinai clearly leads to failure.

On the other hand, in spite of the failure of the generation of the Exodus, Revelation does successfully launch the majestic story of the Jewish people. Transcending the tragedies of the moment, a nation is forged at the foot of Sinai: a people that will be bound, across time and place, by the commandments and values of Torah law. In a timeless, eternal dimension, the departure from Sinai leads to success.

C

The Torah’s interplay between the transitory and the eternal, so evident at the moment of the nation’s departure from Sinai, is the key to understanding the book of Bamidbar.

As noted above, this book appears to be the least directly practical of all five books of the Torah, outlining, as it does, events rooted in the past with little apparent application to our lives. The detailed preparations for the departure from Sinai, the departure itself, the ensuing rebellions and their tragic aftermath, the forty years of wandering in the wilderness, all seem specific to a long-gone time and place. Few lasting mitzvot emerge from the text, and the stories therein do not possess the timeless character of many of the classic tales found in the other four books of the Torah.

The Ramban describes the uniqueness of Bamidbar’s character in his introduction to the book:

This book [concerns itself] completely with the temporal commandments that were transmitted to them [the Israelites] during their sojourn in the wilderness and with the miracles that were afforded to them…. There are within this book few lasting mitzvot….

D

And yet, when we move beyond the time-bound specificity of the narrative, eternal lessons begin to emerge.

Properly understood, the journey from Sinai represents not only the passage of those present at that historic moment, but the launching of our national journey across the ages. God’s instructions to the nation prior to their departure from Sinai reveal the human elements He considers critical not only to the success of that generation’s mission but to the success of the entire Jewish enterprise. Even the tragic shortcomings of our ancestors are powerfully relevant, revealing inherent flaws that threaten our own personal and communal achievements, as well. Finally, the Israelites’ forty years of wilderness wandering emerge as a critically formative period, cementing the relationship between God and His people and effecting essential changes in the developing nation’s psyche.

With the departure from Sinai serving as the turning point, the momentous event towards which the first half of the book of Bamidbar leads and from which the second half descends, this book of the Torah emerges as a blueprint for our journey across time. The ancient passage of our ancestors – bamidbar, in the wilderness – yields surprising lessons that continue to shape our lives.

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

The Torah’s Mystery Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As far as we Jews are concerned as a people, we can be identified primarily through Torah. Without it we are a nameless mass. Our history, like that of other peoples, has in it elements of military ventures, politics, economics. But more than any other people, it is a history of scholarship, of Torah. It was a non-Jew—Mohammed, the founder of Islam—who called us “The People of the Book”—not just books, but “The Book.” It was a non-Jew—the famed economist Thorsten Veblen—who called Jews “eternal wayfarers in the intellectual no-man’s land.” It was a non-Jew—the Protestant philosopher Paul Tillich—who said that, for Christians, Jews serve the spiritual purpose of preventing the relapse of Christianity into paganism. It was a non-Jew—the King of Italy—who in 1904 told Theodor Herzl that “sometimes I have Jewish callers who wince perceptibly at the mere mention of the word Jew. That is the sort I do not like. Then I really begin talking about Jews. I am only fond of people who have no desire to appear other than they are.” The King of Italy was referring to nameless Jews, those who reject the name “Jew,” those who are “mute in the words of Torah.” For the Jew who is not

illem be-divrei Torah knows that the function and destiny of our people is to be a “holy nation and kingdom of priests” (Ex. 19:6). As a people we have the choice: remain with Torah and be identified with the House of David, be benei melakhim, princes of the spirit— or become nameless and faceless blurs in the panorama of history; the people of Boaz, or a collection of Peloni Almonis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Parshat Bechukotai and the book of Vayikra draw to a close, God delivers a stinging rebuke and warning to the Israelites. Known as the Tochacha Haketana, the small rebuke (in contrast to a second, larger rebuke found in the book of Devarim), this section contains a series of frighteningly prophetic descriptions of the tragedies that will befall the nation should they fail to follow God’s ways.

At the core of this tochacha, a word is found that, in this conjugation, appears nowhere else in the Torah text. Here, however, this term, keri, is repeated no less than seven times within the span of twenty sentences. According to most authorities (see below), this term apparently connotes “casualness” or “happenstance” and is derived from the root kara, to happen.

The passages of the Tochacha within which the term keri appears are:

1. “And if you will walk with me keri…”

2. “And if in spite of these things you will not be chastised towards me, and you will walk with me keri…”

3. “And then I [God], too, will walk with you with keri…”

4. “And if with all this you will not hearken unto Me, and you will walk with Me with keri…”

5. “And I will walk with you with a fury of keri…”

6. “And they will confess their sin and the sin of their fathers, for the treachery with which they have betrayed Me, and also for having walked with Me with keri.”

7. “And I, too, shall walk with them with keri…”

Questions

By using the term keri so prominently at both ends of the Tochacha’s equation, in both the description of the nation’s possible transgression and in the description of God’s possible response, the Torah apparently emphasizes a critical idea, central to the very nature of sin and punishment. If we could only understand this concept, the text seems to say, we could finally recognize where we go wrong. We could strike to the core of our failures and their consequences, finding a way to break the recurring, tragic cycle that plagues our relationship with the Divine.

And yet, the text remains frustratingly unclear.

Why, at this point, does the Torah suddenly introduce, for the first and only time, the word keri?

Once introduced, why is this term repeated so often in such a short span of text?
Above all, within the context of the Tochacha, in the realm of both sin and punishment, what does the word keri actually mean?

Approaches

A

Confronted with this puzzling term and its use in the Tochacha, numerous commentaries propose a wide variety of interpretations.

Both Rashi and his grandson, the Rashbam, for example, introduce a basic translation upon which most commentaries build. These scholars translate the word keri to mean “casual” or “inconsistent” (derived, as stated above, from the root kara, to happen). If the nation sins by worshiping God in an erratic, inconsistent manner, Rashi and the Rashbam explain, God will respond in kind and will relate to the nation haphazardly and unpredictably, as well.

A number of other commentaries, including Rabbeinu Bachya and the Ohr Hachaim, choose a related but different path. The term keri, these scholars maintain, describes a flawed world outlook that can lead to immeasurable sin. An individual who sees the world in a fashion of keri perceives no pattern to the events unfolding around him. In place of Divine Providence, this individual observes only random coincidence; and in place of punishment for sin, accidental misfortune. For such an individual, tshuva (return to the proper path) becomes increasingly unattainable. In a haphazard world governed by arbitrary forces, after all, there exists little incentive for change.

Going a step further, the Ohr Hachaim perceives in God’s reaction – “And then I [God], too, will walk with you with keri…” – a carefully calibrated “measure for measure” response to the nation’s failing. If the people refuse to see a divinely ordained pattern in the world around them, God will withdraw, making it even more difficult for them to perceive His presence. The punishments to follow will seem even more random, bearing no obvious connection to the nation’s sins. The people’s failure to recognize God’s imminence will thus prove frighteningly prophetic, for God will respond with “distance.”

For his part, Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch interprets the sin associated with the word keri as “indifference” to God’s will. Those guilty of this transgression find considerations other than God’s will central to their lives and their sporadic obedience to Torah law is thus purely coincidental. God responds to this sin in kind, says Hirsch, by removing His Divine protection from the nation and allowing the natural course of world history to determine their fate. The welfare of the Jewish people will be advanced only coincidentally, when that welfare happens to correspond to the interests and needs of the powerful nations around them.

Finally a group of other scholars, Onkelos chiefly among them, diverge from the above explanations entirely and explain the term keri to mean “stubbornness” or “harshness.” If the nation stubbornly refuses to obey based upon God’s law, God’s response will be harsh and unforgiving.

B

A clearer understanding of the puzzling term keri and its repeated use in the Tochacha can be gained if we consider the basic approach of Rashi and the Rashbam (who interpret the term to mean a casual approach to God’s will) in light of the “rules” that govern our own life experiences.

Many years ago, I asked the participants in one of my synagogue classes to name the one most important component in any successful interpersonal relationship. Expecting a plethora of suggestions, I was surprised when they unanimously responded with the one word which I had earlier defined for myself as my own answer: trust.

Our associations with each other, from partnerships to friendships to marriages, can endure many blows and setbacks. One wound, however, invariably proves fatal: the total loss of trust. When mutual trust is gone and cannot be regained; when the relationship no longer feels safe and secure; when each participant no longer believes that the other consistently has his partner’s best interests at heart, the relationship is doomed.

God thus turns to the Israelites and proclaims: “And if you will walk with me keri…”

If I find that you are deliberately inconsistent in your commitment to Me; if I find that you are only at My door when you choose to be; if I find that I cannot trust you to seek My presence and relate to Me continually; then I will respond in kind…

“And then I [God], too, will walk with you with keri”

You will no longer be able to count on My continuing presence in your lives. I will distance Myself and not be there when you expect Me to be. Our relationship will become casual and inconsistent; all trust will be lost…

God will forgive many failings and sins, but when we lose His trust, the punishments of the Tochacha are the result.

Points to Ponder

The text’s prominent use of the puzzling word keri in the Tochacha brings our study of Vayikra full circle…This complex central book of the Torah, with its disparate laws ranging from minute, mysterious rituals to towering ethical edicts, makes one real demand upon the reader.

We are challenged to earn God’s trust.

Judaism is not a smorgasbord. The Torah emphasizes that we cannot pick and choose the elements of observance that suit our fancy. Each law, from a seemingly minor sacrificial detail to a powerful edict such as “Love your fellow as yourself,” has its place and its purpose. Each halachic element is an essential component in the tapestry of trust meant to be woven between God and his people.

In structure and content, the book of Vayikra reminds us that when we earn God’s trust through faithful adherence to His multifaceted law, we will be able to trust in God’s continued presence within our lives.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Vayikra’ Click here to buy the book

Context

In the midst of the Torah’s discussion concerning the festival cycle, immediately after the commandment concerning the Omer offering (a barley offering in the Temple which marks the beginning of the harvest and allows the use of that season’s grain), the following mandate is found:

And you shall count for yourselves – from the day after the Sabbath, from the day you bring the waved offering of the Omer – seven weeks; complete shall they be. Until the day after the seventh Sabbath, shall you count fifty days; and you will offer a new meal offering to the Lord.

This commandment is reiterated in the book of Devarim: “Seven weeks shall you count for yourselves; from the time the sickle is first put to the standing crop, you shall begin to count seven weeks.”

As codified by the rabbis, this mitzva, known as the mitzva of Sfirat Ha’omer, the Counting of the Omer, obligates each Jew to verbally count the days and weeks from the second day of the holiday of Pesach until the first day of the holiday of Shavuot.

Questions

What possible purpose can there be in verbally counting the days and weeks between Pesach and Shavuot?

The Torah offers no explanation for this mitzva.

Approaches

Responding to the Torah’s silence concerning the purpose of Sfirat Ha’omer, classical and contemporary scholars suggest a wide variety of approaches.

A

Most obviously, the Counting of the Omer is perceived by many scholars as an act of linkage between the two holidays that border the mitzva, Pesach and Shavuot. Through the act of counting we testify that the Revelation at Sinai (commemorated on Shavuot) was the goal and purpose of the Exodus from Egypt (commemorated on Pesach). This relationship is established at the outset when God informs Moshe at the burning bush: “And this is your sign that I have sent you: when you take the people out of Egypt, you shall serve God on this mountain.”

On a deeper level, our counting consequently affirms that the physical freedom of the Exodus is incomplete without the spiritual freedom granted by God’s law; a truth mirrored in the famous rabbinic dictum: “No one is truly free other than he who is involved in the study of Torah.”

By counting the days between Pesach and Shavuot, many scholars continue, we also are meant to re-experience the sense of excitement and anticipation that marked this period for the Israelites, newly redeemed from Egypt. Just as we would “count the remaining days” towards an extraordinary event in our personal lives, so too we should feel a real sense of anticipation each year as we again approach the holiday that marks the Revelation at Sinai.

B

Other authorities choose to view these days primarily as a period of “purification from” rather than “anticipation towards.”

By the time of the Exodus, the Israelites have been defiled from centuries of immersion in Egyptian society and culture. Numerous sources, in fact, maintain that they have descended to the forty-ninth of fifty possible stages of defilement and are on the verge of becoming irredeemable. With haste, at the last moment, God pulls the nation back from the brink. The newly freed slaves, however, must now undergo a process of purification before they can encounter God and receive the Torah at Sinai. Forty-nine days – to counter each level of defilement experienced – must elapse before Revelation can take place.

By counting the days between Pesach and Shavuot each year, we remember and mark this refining journey. Just as a married woman monthly counts the days leading to her immersion in a mikva we must count and spiritually prepare ourselves for our reunion with God at Sinai.

Based on this approach, the Ohr Hachaim explains why Sfirat Ha’omer begins each year on the second day of Pesach, rather than on the first. The Exodus, he observes, occurs on the first day of the festival. For a portion of that day, therefore, the Israelites yet remain in Egypt and the journey of purification cannot yet begin.

C

In stark contrast to the opinions cited above, a number of scholars emphasize the agricultural, rather than the historical, dimension of the Omer period. Opening the yearly harvest season, these days stretch from the beginning of the barley harvest (marked on the holiday of Pesach) to the beginning of the wheat harvest (marked on the holiday of Shavuot).

As the weather conditions over this period are critical determinants of the success or failure of the entire harvest, the Sforno perceives the associated rituals to be expressions of thanksgiving and prayer. The Omer offering itself, he says, was brought in thanks for the barley harvest. An accompanying korban served as a prayer for future success. The Counting of the Omer represents the daily prayers during this period, while the holiday of Shavuot is celebrated, in part, as an expression of thanks for the grain harvest.

Choosing an eminently practical path, the Abudarham maintains that the Counting of the Omer was meant to counteract a farmer’s inevitable preoccupation with his harvest. Counting the days towards Shavuot would ensure that he would not forget his obligation to travel to Jerusalem for the celebration of the holiday.

Finally, the Maharal finds reference to the global connection between the physical and spiritual dimensions of our lives within the ritual of the Counting of the Omer. We are enjoined to number the days towards Revelation specifically as the harvest season begins, in order to underscore the well-known rabbinic maxim “Where there is no flour, there is no Torah.” Proper Torah study can only take place against the backdrop of a healthy, well-nourished lifestyle.

D

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik perceives yet another lesson embedded in the act of Sfirat Ha’omer. The Rav suggests that, in Jewish experience, an individual can perform the act of counting within two realms: the realm of Sfira and the realm of minyan (the root of each of these terms means “to count”).

When you count in the realm of minyan, the Rav explains, all that matters is the attainment of the ultimate goal, the endpoint of your counting. Nine upstanding, righteous men can assemble for a prayer service but, without a tenth, there is no minyan.

When you count in the realm of Sfira, however, things are different. Although you still count towards a goal, each individual unit in the calculation becomes a goal, as well. While someone counting precious diamonds, for example, is certainly interested in the total number of diamonds he has, he also pauses and holds each gem up to the rays of the sun, admiring its unique facets, color and shape.

The act of Sfirat Ha’omer teaches us to “count our days in the realm of Sfira” – to see each day as a goal unto itself.

Too often, we live exclusively goal-oriented lives; moving from accomplishment to accomplishment, from milestone to milestone, rarely stopping to appreciate the significance of each passing day. And yet, when all is said and done, the quality of the journey, in large measure, defines our lives – and the ordinary moments spent with family and friends are as significant, if not more significant, than the milestones themselves.

The Rav’s observation may also be mirrored in two versions of the verbal formula for Sfirat Ha’omer which have developed over the years. Some communities recite, “Today is the —-day la’Omer (literally “to the Omer”)” while others count “ba’Omer (literally “in the midst of the Omer”).” Taken together, these two versions form the balance that should mark our approach to life. On the one hand, without goals our lives are aimless. We therefore count la’Omer, towards the endpoint of the Omer count. On the other hand, never losing sight of the journey’s value, we also count ba’Omer, in the midst of the Omer.

E

A historical overlay, emerging from the first-second century CE, dramatically transforms the days of the Omer from a time of anticipation and celebration to a period of sorrow and mourning. The Talmud relates: “Rabbi Akiva had twelve thousand pairs of students…and all of them died in one period because they failed to treat each other with respect.… They all died during the period between Pesach and Shavuot.”

In commemoration of this tragedy, the rabbis ordained that a portion of the Omer period be circumscribed by laws of mourning. Marriages, other festive celebrations and haircuts are prohibited during the restricted period, the exact computation of which varies according to custom, from community to community.

At first glance, the powerful reaction of Jewish law to the death of Rabbi Akiva’s students seems strange. Jewish history is, unfortunately, marked by a myriad of overwhelming tragedies that do not result in similar halachic commemorations. What makes this event different?

The Talmud explains that the death of these sages, tragic as it was in and of itself, actually resulted in a greater calamity. At a critical juncture of Jewish history, during the vulnerable period following the destruction of the Second Temple, the loss of Rabbi Akiva’s students left the world “desolate” through loss of Torah study. Their death represented a break in the chain of oral tradition at a time when such a rupture threatened the very survival of the Jewish nation. Only Rabbi Akiva’s success in finding and teaching new students “in the south” mitigated the calamitous effects of this tragedy.

This historical overlay placed upon the days of the Omer is clearly neither arbitrary nor coincidental. Both the potential effects of the death of Rabbi Akiva’s students and the fundamental cause of their demise connect directly to the period leading to Sinai.

Revelation marks not only the communication of the Written Law, but the launching of the Oral Law, as well. The rupture in the transmission of that oral tradition, caused by the loss of Rabbi Akiva’s students, threatens the very legacy of Sinai.

Concerning the relationship between the cause of the tragedy and the Omer period, one need look no further than at the teachings of Rabbi Akiva himself. As we have noted, Rabbi Akiva considers “V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, Love your fellow as yourself,” to be the most important principle of the Torah. By negating that very principle through their behavior, the students of this great sage contradict the very Torah to which they have otherwise dedicated their lives.

Points to Ponder

A powerfully perplexing mystery arises from the Omer period.

As noted above, Rabbi Akiva emphatically identifies “Love your fellow as yourself” as the most important principle of the Torah. Yet, his students perish because they “fail to treat each other with respect.”

Can it be that one of our sages fails to impart his core belief to his students? The problem would be less glaring had Rabbi Akiva’s students perished as a result of any other sin. But to transgress the very precept that serves as the core of their mentor’s beliefs and practices… How can it be?

Perhaps the issue is one of chronology. We do not know when Rabbi Akiva determines the centrality of the mitzva of V’ahavta. Perhaps he reaches this realization only in sorrowful retrospect, as a result of the tragic loss of his students. Perhaps it is precisely their death which leads their mentor to recognize the emptiness of Torah observance absent a foundation of interpersonal respect.

Or, perhaps, our tradition is referencing an entirely different life lesson through this tragedy – a lesson of overarching significance for us all. The stark inconsistency between Rabbi Akiva’s core belief and the actions of his students may reflect the universal challenge of intergenerational transmission.

I feel that we often make the mistake of assuming that just because something is vital to us, it will automatically be of importance to our children; that the ideas and beliefs that lie at the heart of our worldview are so obvious, they need not be openly stated and taught.

Nothing could be further from the truth…

Our children grow up in worlds different from our own, and within those worlds they form their own personal convictions. The basic foundations that we consider central to our lives are not automatically “givens” within theirs. The deep connection, for example, that we feel towards the State of Israel – in large measure a product of our own life experiences and the experiences of our parents – will not automatically develop in the hearts of our progeny, who are more temporally and emotionally removed than us from the creation of the state.

As we strive to convey critical ideas and principles to future generations, we can make no assumptions of prior knowledge and conviction. We must consciously and actively teach each and every one of the ideas and principles we feel important, through open discussion and deed.

Perhaps Rabbi Akiva fails to teach his students the central value of his worldview precisely because he considers that value to be self-evident. And just perhaps, across the centuries, he teaches us not to make the same mistake.