Category: Excerpts

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.

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

Context

The bulk of the parshiot of Tazria and Metzora deal with a description of the dramatic effects of tzara’at, often defined (for want of a better term) as biblical leprosy.

The Torah delineates in fine detail the specifics of this mysterious affliction – which affects individuals, clothes and dwellings – and the steps to be taken under the guidance of the Kohanim towards its diagnosis and treatment.

Questions

What exactly is tzara’at, biblical leprosy? Is this affliction a natural, physical illness or a supernatural phenomenon?

Given the myriad diseases that affect humankind, why does the Torah devote so much text to a description of this specific malady, its diagnosis and treatment?

Approaches

The mystery of tzara’at gives rise to a wide-ranging series of observations among the commentaries.

A

At one end of the spectrum lie those scholars who view tzara’at as a contagious physical illness with dangerous potential for spread to the entire population.

The Abravanel, for example, explains the Torah’s concern for “afflicted” clothing in distinctly natural terms. Unlike strong materials such as metal, clothing will readily absorb bodily decay upon close personal contact. The Torah is, therefore, concerned that tzara’at will spread from a metzora (an individual afflicted with tzara’at) to his garments. To prevent further contagion, therefore, all suspicious stains and growths on clothing must be examined by a Kohen.
For his part, the Ralbag interprets the puzzling phenomena of clothing and dwelling afflictions according to scientific theory of his day. Foreign moisture or heat entering an item, he claims, causes an imbalance in that item’s natural stasis and leads to the item’s disintegration. This destructive process is evidenced at an early stage through the appearance of red or green growth (colors associated in the text with tzara’at).

Although the Meshech Chochma initially categorizes the theme of tzara’at as one of the “secrets of the Torah,” he then avers: “Nonetheless, one can say that these afflictions are contagious diseases.” The treatment of the illness itself, this scholar maintains, is ample evidence of its communicable nature. The metzora experiences enforced isolation and is required to actively alert others to his condition. Any physical interaction with infected individuals is extremely dangerous. The Torah, therefore, assigns the task of such interaction (the diagnosis and treatment of the ill) to the sons of Aharon who, in their role as Kohanim, are separate from the rest of the people and are granted extraordinary divine protection.

Finally, Rabbeinu Bachya discerns concern for communicable disease in the Torah’s mandate that the metzora, at the end of his period of isolation, let loose a bird offering “on the face of the field.” The release of the bird into a place absent of human habitation, he maintains, represents an implicit prayer that the metzora’s erstwhile contagion should not spread to others.

B

At the opposite end of the spectrum are those commentaries who eschew any natural explanation for the tzara’at afflictions discussed in the parshiot of Tazria and Metzora.

These scholars point to a number of details of tzara’at outlined in the Written and Oral Law that are clearly inconsistent with the characteristics of communicable diseases, including:

1. The Kohen diagnoses tzara’at based only on examination of those parts of the body which he can readily see. No careful examination is required in the folds of the body.

2. When tzara’at is suspected in a dwelling, the Torah orders the Kohen to remove everything from the house before conducting his examination. If tzara’at is a communicable disease, such a procedure would expose the public to potentially infected material.

3. Examinations of potential tzara’at are not performed by the Kohanim on Shabbat, holidays, or upon a bridegroom during the seven days of celebration following his wedding.

4. The laws of tzara’at only apply to dwellings in the Land of Israel and only after the land has been divided into individual holdings. These laws do not apply to homes owned by non-Jews or to dwellings of any ownership in the city of Yerushalayim.

5. The laws of tzara’at do not apply to non-Jews. A lesion contracted by a convert before his conversion to Judaism is of no consequence.

6. Under certain circumstances, if lesions cover an individual’s entire body he is not considered contaminated.

7. After the nation’s entry into the land, a metzora is only to be excluded from walled cities (as determined by the city’s status at the time of the conquest of the land). He is to be allowed to remain in unwalled cities and to roam freely through the rest of the countryside. According to Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, these and other details “show the absolute folly” of any attempt to interpret Torah laws as rules and regulations created for health or sanitary purposes.

C

If the afflictions described in the parshiot of Tazria and Metzora, however, are not natural diseases, what exactly are they? What message is God sending the people through the visitation of these frightening supernatural phenomena? What crimes perpetrated by individuals within the nation could possibly trigger such severe divine reckoning?

D

The Talmud lists, in the name of Rabbi Yonatan, seven sins that cause the affliction of tzara’at: evil or damaging speech, murder, perjury, sexual immorality, arrogance, robbery and miserliness.

In similar (albeit more poetic) fashion the Midrash cites six phenomena, drawn from the book of Mishlei, that trigger the illness: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that spill innocent blood, a heart that ponders thoughts of violence, feet always ready to run for evil purpose, false testimony (that results in the spreading of lies) and the sowing of discord between brothers.

Of these associations between crime and punishment, however, only one seems to capture the rabbinic imagination completely. Over and over again, the rabbis link the punishment of tzara’at to the related crimes of motzi shem ra, slander (literally, the bringing out of a “bad name”), and lashon hara, evil or damaging speech. Within a halachic context, motzi shem ra refers to true slander, e.g., the spreading of false information about another individual, while lashon hara refers to the vocalization of any damaging information, even if true. Both of these actions are considered grave transgressions within Jewish law.

The rabbis find support for the link between these sins of speech and the affliction of tzara’at in a series of clues, including:

1. The term metzora itself can be broken down and linguistically connected to the expression motzi shem ra (slander).

2. Moshe is temporarily struck with tzara’at at the burning bush when he casts aspersions on the Israelites by doubting their willingness to respond to God’s call for the Exodus.

3. Miriam is punished with tzara’at when she maligns her brother, Moshe.

4. The practical response to tzara’at (seclusion from the community) results in a punishment that fits the crime. The metzora must distance himself through isolation from society because his words created distance between husband and wife, between a man and his friend.

5. The bird offerings brought by the metzora at the end of his period of seclusion mirror the nature of his sin. He injured others through the “chatter” of slander and gossip. His purification is, therefore, effectuated through the means of “chirping, twittering” birds.

E

A much deeper philosophical current, however, courses through the rabbinic assertion of a connection between sins of speech and the affliction of tzara’at. To the minds of the rabbis, few crimes are as damaging to both victim and perpetrator as the crimes of slander and damaging speech.

The foundation for this viewpoint is laid early on in a seemingly strange interpretation offered by the classical translator of biblical text, Onkelos. Commenting on the seminal phrase concerning the man’s creation, “And He breathed into his [man’s] nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being,” Onkelos translates, “…and man became a speaking spirit.”

Why does Onkelos cast the Torah’s overarching statement of man’s creation in such a seemingly narrow light? Why single out the power of speech as the one faculty that distinguishes the human being at the moment of his conception? Aren’t man’s true distinctions his soul, his intellect and his power of reasoned thought?

A brilliant insight into the approach of Onkelos is offered by Rabbi Yitzchak Arama in an extensive discussion on Parshat Metzora. While man’s intellect does set him apart from the beast, this scholar notes, his intellect is only fully revealed and actualized through verbal communication. Speech is the God-given tool through which an individual’s heart and mind are reflected to an outside world.

The fundamental connection between verbal communication and man’s inner being is underscored by King Shlomo in the book of Mishlei: “The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue comes from the Lord.”

Because speech is so reflective of man’s unique character, the obligations associated with verbal communication carry great significance. An individual who misuses his power of speech degrades himself through the very skill meant to mirror his greatness. So foundational is this transgression, that the perpetrator can no longer lay claim to the majestic title of “a speaking spirit.” Improper speech, says Arama, can be compared to “using royal garments to clean the trash heap.”

From this perspective, the sins of motzi shem ra and lashon hara acquire another, devastating layer of significance. Much of the literature concerning these transgressions focuses upon the obvious victim, the target of the verbal attack. This focus is certainly understandable. The damage potentially caused to others by an individual’s unthinking and deliberately cruel speech cannot be overstated.

Arama, however, together with other scholars, directs our attention towards another victim of these grievous transgressions: the perpetrator himself.

Created in God’s image – granted reason, intellect and the ability to actualize that intellect positively in the surrounding world – the perpetrator diminishes his own stature and demeans his human essence. Far from the “speaking spirit” that God created him to be, he reveals himself as a meanspirited creature, oblivious to – or even relishing – the pain his words cause to others. God, therefore, specifically punishes sins committed through speech with the plague of tzara’at, an affliction that mirrors what the perpetrator has done to himself. Through his grave actions, the metzora has fallen from his place at the pinnacle of God’s creation. No longer a “living being,” no longer a “speaking spirit,” he suffers from an illness so severe that the rabbis claim, “A metzora is considered dead.”

Ostracized from society, he must experience an isolating period of spiritual repair before he can begin, through true repentance, to reclaim his greatness.

Our tradition hopes that, perhaps then, chastened and humbled, the metzora will realize the truth of the psalmist’s assertion: “Who is the man who desires life? Guard your tongue from [speaking] evil and your lips from uttering falsehood.”

Points to Ponder

The possible connection between sins of speech and the plague of tzara’at raises serious issues concerning the application of divine justice to our lives. Are we to view the misfortunes that confront us, from illness to accident, as heaven-sent retribution for our sins? Does God punish us today, as He did in biblical times, through the direct visitation of calamity?

The answer that emerges from sources in our tradition seems complex, if not contradictory.
On the one hand, the Torah repeatedly speaks of the calamities destined to befall the Jewish nation as a result of their transgressions. The second paragraph of the Shma Yisrael, recited twice daily by observant Jews, for example, clearly states that the granting of natural bounty in the Land of Israel is contingent upon the actions of the Jewish nation. So direct is the connection between pain and wrongdoing in this world that the rabbis declare: “There is no suffering without sin.”

On the other hand, the relationship between affliction and sin in our experience is deeply elusive. The issue of theodicy, divine justice, lies at the core of all Jewish questioning, from the time of Avraham to our day. Even Moshe, whose communion with God was more direct than that of any other individual in human history, is denied insight into the mystery of theodicy.

Anyone who has witnessed the suffering of an innocent child can eloquently testify to our inability to decipher God’s ways.

What, then, should our approach be when calamity strikes? Are we meant to view the misfortunes that confront us during our lifetimes as punishment for our sins or as seemingly arbitrary phenomena beyond our ken?

While a full analysis of the overarching philosophical issues emerging from this question are well beyond the scope of our discussion, a lesson emerging from the dawn of our history can be particularly instructive.

Avraham responds to two critical challenges in strikingly different ways.

Confronted with the divinely ordained destruction of the evil cities of Sodom and Amora, the patriarch openly bargains with God in their defense. Challenged, on the other hand, with the Akeida (the God-commanded sacrifice of his son Yitzchak) Avraham emerges from the text as silent and totally compliant.

Where is the patriarch’s sense of justice in the face of his innocent son’s looming death? How can the man who argued so eloquently on behalf of Sodom and Amora remain silent when confronted with the Akeida and the apparent destruction of his own prophetic dreams of nationhood?

The key to Avraham’s behavior may well lie in the vast difference between the two events that confront him.

The fate of the cities of Sodom and Amora is firmly rooted in the realm of din, justice. God informs Avraham: The inhabitants of the cities of Sodom and Amora are evil; therefore, they deserve to perish. When God relates to man in the sphere of din everything makes sense; there is a clear cause and effect. Within this realm, we are invited to argue and struggle with our Creator. Avraham can thus rise and confront God in defense of the cities.

The Akeida, on the other hand, takes place in the realm of nissayon, trial. When God brings us into the sphere of nissayon, arguments and struggle are futile. In this arena, there is no clear cause and effect. In contrast to God’s decree concerning Sodom and Amora, no clear reason is given for the Akeida. God is hidden from view and there is no readily perceived logic to His actions.

Man’s challenge within the realm of nissayon is solely to pass the trial, to respond to God’s will with dignity and constancy of faith. That is why Avraham is silent in the face of the Akeida. He realizes that he has entered the world of nissayon, and that his challenges have changed.

Through prophetic vision, Avraham was able to distinguish between the two realms of din and nissayon and react to each appropriately. We, however, are unable to make this distinction. We have no way of knowing, nor are we meant to know, whether a particular life challenge is a punishment, a trial, or a combination thereof. We therefore react on both levels at once. In times of crisis, we struggle, pray, plead and argue for justice. We allow difficult experience to catalyze our personal repentance and charge our spiritual growth. And, then, when all the prayers are exhausted, when our soul-searching has ended, we turn to God and accept His unfathomable will.

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‘Out of the Depths’: The Story of A Child of Buchenwald Who Returned Home At Last

by Chief Rabbi Israel Meir Lau

PREFACE TO THE ENLISH EDITION

On June 27, 2008, the telephone rang in my home in Tel Aviv. Naftali Menashe, news editor of one of the Israeli radio stations, was on the line. He asked whether the name Feodor meant anything to me, and, if so, who Feodor was, and what I remembered about him. Surprised by the call, I replied that Feodor was a Russian taken captive by the Nazis and imprisoned in the Buchenwald concentration camp, in the same Block 8 where I was held toward the end of World War II. I did not know his last name, only that he came from the town of Rostov in Russia. “Why are you asking me about him?” I asked Mr. Menashe. He told me that the radio station had not received information from the Associated Press news agency about a Professor Kenneth Waltzer of Michigan State University in the United States. After having recently studied Gestapo documents at the Bad Arolsen archives in Germany, Professor Waltzer discovered that the Gestapo had kept records of the Russian prisoner who had protected a Jewish child in the block, a boy named Lulek from Poland. Waltzer also found that Feodor’s last name was Mikhailichenko, and that the boy was Israel Meir Lau, who eventually became chief rabbi of Israel.

That day, on Voice of Israel radio, I spoke of the great debt I owed Feodor. He had knitted me wool earmuffs so my ears would not freeze during the roll calls held before dawn, when we were forced to remove our caps. I recounted how he stole potatoes and made hot soup for me every day. With his body, he protected me from the hail of bullets shot at us from the guard towers on the day of liberation, April 11, 1945.

On the radio, I also spoke of my unsuccessful efforts over the decades to discover his whereabouts. I said that I would be happy to meet him, and would like to recommend to Yad Vashem in Jerusalem that he be granted the honorary title of Righteous Among the Nations. I contacted Chabad of Israel and they put me in touch with their emissary in Rostov, Rabbi Chaim Friedman. He discovered, to my disappointment, that Feodor had died, but that he had two daughters in Rostov: Yulia Selutina and Yelena Belayaeva. They were thrilled to hear that the boy who had survived Buchenwald, of whom their father had spoken until his dying day, was alive in Israel, had become a well-known rabbi, and that, despite the more than sixty years that had passed, the rabbi still remembered their father and had been looking for him all that time. They gave the Chabad representative a copy of a film that Feodor had made for Russian television at the former Buchenwald site 1992, one year before his death. In the film, Feodor recounts that, every day, the Jewish boy had to clean the entire block, the courtyard, and the toilets in order to earn his bread ration. Feodor and his companions used to get up at five every morning in order to do the boy’s cleaning job. He explained, “The boy has no parents. At least he should have some time to play like a child.”

On November 27 2008, I was privileged to host Yulia and Yelena at my home in Tel Aviv. They had traveled to Israel from Russia, for the first time in their lives, to have dinner in our home, and to visit Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. Rabbi Berel Lazar, chief rabbi of Russia, joined us that night and served as translator for Feodor’s daughters.

Toward the end of the meal, my sons and daughters arrived, along with their wives and husbands and our grandchildren, from all parts of Israel. I introduced them to Feodor’s daughters and said that it was largely thanks to him that this entire tribe had been brought into existence. The next day, I accompanied them on a tour of Yad Vashem, and they were deeply moved.

This story is yet another testimonial to the fact that the Holocaust is not only the heritage of the past but also has many implications for the present and the future.

All recent attempts that we have witnessed to minimize the Holocaust and even to deny it will not stand the bitter test of the reality that has affected all of humanity. Its lessons must serve as a warning sign for generations to come.

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

As Parshat Shmini draws to a close, the Torah abruptly turns its at¬tention to a set of laws that fall into the halachic category popularly known as kashrut.

The text delineates, among other laws, the categories of animals, fish and fowl that are halachically permitted or prohibited for consumption.

To be considered kosher, an animal must possess split hooves and chew its cud, while a fish must possess both fins and scales. Prohibited birds are listed individually in the text without the delineation of defining characteristics.

After outlining a series of additional regulations, Parshat Shmini ends with the following broad exhortation:

For I am the Lord your God, and you shall sanctify yourselves and you shall be holy, for I am holy.… For I am the Lord your God Who raises you from the land of Egypt in order to be for you a God; and you shall be holy for I am holy. This is the law of the animal and the bird and all living creature that swarms in the water and for every creature that teems on the ground. To distinguish between the impure and pure and between the creature that may be eaten and the creature that may not be eaten.

Questions

Is there any logical rhyme or reason to these laws of kashrut which occupy such a critical, prominent place in the life of every observant Jew?

Why does the Torah append these laws, in seemingly arbitrary fashion, to the end of Parshat Shmini? Does the placement of these regulations provide a hint towards their significance?

Before answering these questions, two general observations must be made.

A. The laws of kashrut do not emerge from the biblical text monolithically. In addition to the regulations before us, numerous strictures recorded in various passages in the Torah play a role in determining the status of specific foodstuffs. These restrictions are further expanded upon through rabbinic legislation.

The parameters found in the Torah include (but are not limited to):

1. The bans on the consumption of blood and forbidden fats of even kosher animals

2. The ban on the consumption of the sciatic nerve of a kosher animal

3. The prohibitions concerning the cooking of a mixture of kosher meat and milk, the consumption of such a cooked mixture, and the derivation of benefit from such a cooked mixture

4. The requirement for the proper slaughter of a kosher animal

5. The ban on wine that had been used for idolatrous purposes

In isolated cases, the Torah does provide historical or ethical rationales for the laws in question. On the whole, however, the text is conspicuously silent.

B. Due to the Torah’s silence, most specific laws of kashrut fall into the legal category of chukim, laws for which no reason is given in the Torah text.

Faced with the challenges presented by chukim in general, the rabbis debate whether or not one is allowed to posit potential reasons for these seemingly “reasonless” regulations. In this study we will adopt the position that one is allowed to suggest reasons for specific chukim, as we sample some of the suggested interpretations for the practical yet enigmatic laws that close Parshat Shmini.

Approaches

A

In her opening comments on this section, Nehama Leibowitz distinguishes between the Torah’s regulations concerning permitted/prohibited food sources and seemingly similar laws found in other ancient cultures. While other traditions demonize the forbidden creatures themselves, seeing them as representing forces contrary to God’s will, no such value judgments are rendered in Jewish law. The halachic ban on specific food sources is simply that: a restriction on human behavior. The animals designated as forbidden within the Torah are not inherently evil; they are simply forbidden for consumption by Jews.

This distinction mirrors the much greater divide between superstitious and religious practice; between belief in arbitrary, dangerous forces vying for governance of the world and loyalty to a unified, thinking God Who makes demands upon human behavior.

In light of Leibowitz’s observations, however, our primary question gains even greater traction. If the creatures forbidden by the Torah are not “inherently evil,” why would God prohibit their consumption?

B

A number of prominent classical scholars, including the Rambam, the Ramban and the Ba’al Hachinuch, maintain that the foods prohibited by the Torah are physically injurious to human health.

“If there are some among [these foods],” argues the Ba’al Hachinuch, “whose potential for harm is known neither to us nor to medical scholars, do not be concerned. The ‘True Physician’ [God], Who warned us of them, is wiser than you or they.”
Even the Rashbam, staunch defender of textual pshat, offers this health-based explanation as the “literal interpretation of the text and as a response to heretics.”

C

Other authorities, however, vehemently oppose the notion that the laws of kashrut could possibly be based upon health concerns.

“Heaven forbid that I should believe so,” claims the Abravanel, as he raises three primary objections to health-based explanations for the laws of kashrut:

1. Such interpretations reduce the stature of the Torah by lowering it to the level of a simple medical tome.

2. The foods prohibited by Jewish law are regularly consumed by non-Jews to no adverse physical effect.

3. Countless other dangerous substances abound in our environment, yet are not included in the Torah’s list of forbidden foods.

In the face of these and other arguments, a number of scholars shift the focus of concern. The foodstuffs prohibited by the Torah, they maintain, are indeed potentially damaging to man. The threat posed by these substances, however, plays out in the spiritual, rather than in the physical, realm.

As the Abravanel clearly states:

[Through the ban on specific foods] the Torah does not seek to heal the bodies of man nor to ensure their physical well-being…but rather to safeguard the health of the soul and to cure its infirmities. [The text], therefore, bans those foods which defile and desecrate man’s pure soul…, creating in him an evil disposition…, giving rise to a spirit of impurity, desecrating both thought and action.

One by one, with minor variations, commentaries such as the Sforno16 and the Kli Yakar17 fall in line with this approach. The creatures prohibited for consumption by Torah law, they maintain, all share one common feature. Their ingestion as food somehow damages man’s moral fiber and spiritual fabric.

Even the Ramban, who is willing to accept the idea that forbidden animals are damaging to man’s physical health (see above), nonetheless sees spiritual danger as a primary motive for prohibiting their consumption.

D

Building on the notion that the substances forbidden by the Torah are injurious to man’s spiritual welfare, the Sforno offers a fascinating rationale for the seemingly arbitrary placement of these laws towards the end of Parshat Shmini.

In order to understand the textual flow, this scholar maintains, we must return to the book of Shmot, to the sin of the golden calf. There, in the very shadow of Sinai, we find that God withdraws from His people in response to their overwhelming failure. The Israelites become a nation bereft, unable to relate to their God directly, as they did before their sin.

In the course of his prayers, however, Moshe discerns the mechanisms through which the Israelites can once again achieve direct communion with the Divine. The Mishkan, its utensils, priestly servants and sanctified offerings will draw God back into the midst of His people.

A journey of reconciliation thus begins, framed by God’s detailed commandments concerning the construction and operation of the Mishkan, the nation’s ready response, the building of the Mishkan, the transmission of the laws of the korbanot, the preparations for the investiture of the kahuna and the launching of the Sanctuary service. In the opening segments of Parshat Shmini, this transformative process reaches its dramatic climax, as the Kohanim enter their sanctified role and a heavenly fire consumes the offerings upon the altar.

Suddenly these events are tragically marred by the violent death of Nadav and Avihu at God’s hand. Moshe’s goal, however, has been achieved. God has returned to His people.

Noting this success, Moshe now moves to prepare the Israelites for God’s constant presence in their lives. He commands them to consume only those foods that will enable them to “bask in the light of eternal life” and he instructs them to refrain from ingesting those substances that would impede their spiritual growth.

Through the eyes of the Sforno, the Torah laws concerning permitted and prohibited foodstuffs are transformed from technical regulations into an essential component in the dramatic reconciliation between God and His people.

E

Finally, a number of commentaries propose what is, perhaps, the most basic rationale of all for the laws of permitted and prohibited foodstuffs. The foods banned by the Torah, they maintain, are not prohibited because of specific characteristics in the substances themselves. Instead, God com¬mands these regulations because He knows that the very act of selective abstinence, in the area of sustenance, will benefit the Israelites in manifold ways.

According to these scholars, the laws of permitted and prohibited foodstuffs are designed to:

1. Help maintain a clear separation between the Jewish people and surrounding cultures.

2. Train each Jew towards a disciplined lifestyle marked by the acceptance of God’s will.

3. Connect the ordinary act of eating to Jewish law, thereby injecting God-awareness into the daily life of each Jew.

4. Cultivate the people’s recognition of their own powers of self-control.

From the perspective of these scholars, the regulations of permitted and prohibited foodstuffs help maintain an essential equilibrium within the life of each Jew. As we have consistently, the Torah preaches that our physical surroundings are a divine gift, to be appreciated and enjoyed. Man’s embrace of the material world, however, must be balanced by a sense of limits, humility and personal perspective. To live a sanctified life, we must always be in control of, rather than controlled by, our passions. Through continued abstinence from those foods prohibited by the Torah, the Jew learns to control his own desires by bending them to God’s will.

F

When all is said and done, the Torah’s silence concerning many of the laws of kashrut leaves these regulations squarely in the realm of chukim. We may never fully understand, for example, why a deer is kosher while a horse is not; why shellfish are forbidden yet turkeys allowed.

As the above study demonstrates, many scholars find the struggle to comprehend these and other mysterious edicts of the Torah worthwhile, potentially yielding insights that can enrich our observance of the law. Success or failure in our search for meaning, however, can have no ultimate bearing on our observance of the law. The revelation of God’s will in the Torah is, in and of itself, enough to command the observant Jew’s obedience – even when God’s ultimate purposes remain unknown.

Points to Ponder

Sometimes it’s simply a matter of perspective…

With a short, incisive observation, the Chatam Sofer offers an approach to the laws of permitted/prohibited foodstuffs that turns things around one hundred eighty degrees.

The novel idea raised by the text, the Chatam Sofer suggests, is not what is forbidden to us but, rather, what is permitted.

This section of law opens with the statement “These are the creatures which you shall eat…,” and then continues with a list of foods that are allowed for consumption. With these passages, the Torah informs us that God grants us permission to eat “permitted foods.” Without this divine authorization, apparently, even these foods would not be allowed. The Torah thus reminds us that man acquires the right to benefit from the world only through God’s acquiescence.

In our age of “entitlement” we would do well to consider the Chatam Sofer’s perspective. Man should not begin with the assumption that the world is fundamentally “his” and that God then sets limitations.

The opposite is true: The world is a gift from God. Man is “entitled” only to that which God allows.

Excerpted from ‘The Seder Night: An Exalted Evening’ A Passover Haggadah with a commentary based on the teachings of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik; Edited by Rabbi Menachem D. Genack Click here to buy the book

סדר הקערה The Talmud (Pesachim 114b) discusses the requirement to place shenei tavshilin, two cooked items, on the Seder plate, commemorating the korban Pesach and the chagigah offering that were eaten when sacrifices were brought in the Temple. Rav Huna says that this requirement may be fulfilled by using beets and rice. According to Rav Yosef, one must use two different types of meat. Rambam (Hilkhot Chametz u-Matzah 8:1) follows the opinion of Rav Yosef, while the popular custom is to place one item of meat and an egg on the Seder plate (see Kesef Mishneh, loc cit.).

The presence of the egg at the Seder also has another source. The first day of Passover always occurs on the same day of the week as Tishah be-Av, the day that marks the destruction of the Temple and the exile of the Jews (Orach Chayyim 428:3). Accordingly, the custom is to eat an egg, a symbol of mourning, on the first night of Pesach (see Rama, Orach Chayyim 476:2). The egg, therefore, symbolizes both joy, the chagigah, and mourning, Tish’ah be-Av.

The Beit ha-Levi explains the correlation between the first day of Passover and Tish’ah be-Av as follows. Several midrashic sources indicate that the Exodus from Egypt was premature. The Jews were supposed to have been enslaved in Egypt for 400 years but were redeemed after only 210 years. After 210 years of exile, the Jews were in danger of completely losing their Jewish identity. Had they remained in Egypt any longer, they would have been hopelessly assimilated. The urgent need to redeem them without further delay explains why the Exodus occurred “be-chipazon, in haste” (Deut. 16:3). God, therefore, redeemed them prematurely, and the balance of their term of exile would have to be completed in future exiles. Thus, the redemption from Egypt was not a complete redemption, since it was the cause of the later exiles. It is, therefore, appropriate to eat an egg, an open expression of mourning, on the very night of redemption.

It is interesting to note that the terminology of shenei tavshilin occurs with respect to the laws both of Passover, when one is required to place shenei tavshilin on the plate, and of Tish’ah be-Av, when one may not eat shenei tavshilin in the meal preceding the Tish’ah be-Av fast. The similar terminology further points to the correlation between Passover and Tish’ah be-Av.

(Reshimot)

סדר ליל פסח There is a logic and a structure not only to the Maggid section of the Haggadah, but also to the entire Seder. The Gemara emphasizes in several places the necessity of preserving the proper order of performance on Pesach night. For example, the Gemara (Pesachim 114b–115a) asks what blessing should be made if one must eat maror before the Maggid section because there is no other vegetable for karpas. It is evident from the discussion that the fulfillment of the mitzvah of maror would not have occurred the first time it was eaten when it was eaten as karpas, but rather the second. If one could fulfill the mitzvah of maror at the first dipping, the whole discussion of the Gemara would be superfluous. Apparently, one may not eat maror before matzah. According to Rashbam (Pesachim 114a), the sequential order of eating matzah first and then maror is biblically mandated. This is based on the verse “al matzot u-merorim yo’kheluhu, they shall eat it (the korban Pesach) with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (Num. 9:11), implying that the matzot are eaten first, and then the maror. The requirement to maintain a sequence, however, is also applicable to the entire Seder.

In order to explain this, we must understand that each of the mitzvoth of Pesach night has two aspects, two kiyumim, two fulfillments. The mitzvah of sipur Yetzi’at Mitzrayim is discharged in a twofold way – through the medium of speech and through symbolic actions. A person who eats the matzah and the maror before saying Maggid fulfills the mitzvah of eating matzah, but does not fulfill the mitzvah of sipur Yetzi’at Mitzrayim by means of eating matzah. That is what the Gemara (Pesachim 115b) means by referring to matzah, lechem oni (Deut. 16:3), as “lechem she-onin alav devarim harbeh, the bread over which we recite many things.” Since eating matzah is also part of sipur, we understand the need for Seder, for a particular order of performance.

(Kol ha-Rav)

The language utilized by Rambam in his introduction to the order of the Pesach Seder is reminiscent of his introduction to the Temple service of Yom Kippur. In Hilchot Chametz u-Matzah (8:1), Rambam begins “Seder, the order, for the performance of the mitzvoth on the night of the fifteenth is as follows.” In Hilchot Avodat Yom ha-Kippurim (4:1), Rambam begins, “Seder, the order, for the performances of the day is as follows.” Just as following the order of the Yom Kippur service is essential for the proper performance of the mitzvah, so, too, following the order of the Seder is essential for the proper fulfillment of the mitzvoth of this night of the fifteenth of Nisan. By following an order we demonstrate that all the parts of the Seder are interconnected and only collectively do they properly retell the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim. If, for instance, one were to consume the matzah before reciting Maggid, the narrative would be deficient in that one would not have satisfied the facet of lechem oni, bread over which we are to recount the Exodus. Similarly, the karpas is intended to elicit the questions that will enable the Maggid discussion to proceed, and the failure to eat the karpas in its proper sequence would impair or forestall the Maggid section. Only through adherence to the prescribed order can we express the overarching principles and ideas that are intended to emerge from, and which are coordinated with, our actions on the Seder night.
(Reshimot)

Excerpted from Rabbi Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Commenting on one of the most well-known legal passages in the Torah, the rabbis overrule the seemingly clear intent of the text.

The Torah states, in its discussion of the laws of personal injury:

“…And you shall award a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand, a foot for a foot, a burn for a burn, a wound for a wound, a bruise for a bruise.”

In the book of Vayikra, the text is even clearer: “And if a man shall inflict a wound upon his fellow, as he did so shall be done to him. A break for a break, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; as a man shall inflict a wound upon a person, so shall be inflicted upon him.”

The rabbis in the Talmud, however, maintain that the Torah never intended to mandate physical punishment in personal injury cases. Instead, they say, the text actually authorizes financial restitution. The oft-quoted phrase “an eye for an eye,” for example, means that the perpetrator must pay the monetary value commensurate with the victim’s injury.

All the other cases cited in these passages are to be understood similarly, in terms of financial compensation.

So great is the gap between the face value of the Torah text and the legal conclusion recorded in the Talmud, that the Rambam, in his halachic magnum opus the Mishneh Torah, feels the need to stress that the decision to levy monetary compensation in personal injury cases is not the result of later rabbinic legislation: “All this is law given to Moshe in our hands, and thus did our ancestors rule in the court of Yehoshua and in the court of Shmuel from Rama and in each and every court which has stood from the time of Moshe, our teacher, to this day.”

In an unbroken tradition from the time of Revelation onward, the halachists insist that Torah law itself mandates financial restitution, not physical punishment, in cases of personal injury.

Questions

Why doesn’t the Torah simply say what it means?

Over the ages, the “eye for an eye” formula has been cited by critics as proof of the vengeful, primitive nature of Mosaic law. If the Torah never meant to mandate physical punishment in cases of personal injury, why wasn’t the text more clearly written?

A great deal of misunderstanding, misinterpretation and trouble could have been avoided had the Torah simply stated, “The court shall levy the appropriate compensatory payment in cases of personal injury.”

Approaches

A

An easily missed phrase in the Rambam’s above-cited codification of the law provides a glimpse into the Torah’s true intent:

The Torah’s statement “As a man shall inflict a wound upon a person, so shall be inflicted upon him” does not mean that we should physically injure the perpetrator, but that the perpetrator is deserving of losing his limb and must therefore pay financial restitution.

Apparently the Rambam believes, as do many other scholars who echo the same sentiment, that the Torah confronts a serious dilemma as it moves to convey its deeply nuanced approach to cases of personal injury: using the tools at its disposal, how can Jewish law best reflect the discrepancy between “deserved” and “actual” punishment?

The gravity of the crime is such that, on a theoretical level, on the level of “deserved punishment,” the case belongs squarely in the realm of dinei nefashot (capital law). The perpetrator truly merits physical loss of limb in return for the damage inflicted upon his victim. Torah law, however, will not consider physical mutilation as a possible punishment for a crime. The penalty must therefore be commuted into financial terms.

Had the Torah, however, mandated financial payment from the outset, the full gravity of the crime would not have been conveyed. The event would have been consigned to the realm of dinei mamonot (monetary crimes), and the precious nature of human life and limb would have been diminished.

The Torah therefore proceeds to express, with delicate balance, both theory and practice within the law. First, the written text records the “deserved punishment” without any mitigation: “…an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…” In this way, the severity of the crime is immediately made clear to all. Then, however, the actual monetary punishment must also be conveyed, as well. Concerning this task, the Oral Law serves as the vehicle of transmission. The practical interpretation of the biblical passage – commuting the penalty into financial terms – is divinely revealed to Moshe. This interpretation is then preserved and applied in an unbroken transmission, from the time of Revelation onward.

Jewish law thus finds a way to memorialize both the “deserved” and the “actual” punishments within the halachic code.

B

A few sentences further in Parshat Mishpatim, an even more glaring example of the discrepancy between theory and practice in the realm of punishment emerges. In this case, however, both variables are recorded in the written text itself. As the Torah discusses the laws of a habitually violent animal, two conflicting consequences appear in the text for the very same crime.

The Torah states that, under normal circumstances, if an individual’s ox gores and kills another human being, the animal is put to death but the owner receives no further penalty. Such violent behavior on the part of a domesticated animal is extremely rare and could not have been predicted.

If, however, the animal has shown clear violent tendencies in the past – to the extent that the owner has been warned yet has failed to take appropriate precautions – the Torah emphatically proclaims, “…The ox shall be stoned and even its owner shall die.”

The matter, however, is not laid to rest with this seemingly definitive declaration. Instead, the text continues, “If a ransom shall be assessed against him [the owner of the violent ox], he shall pay as a redemption for his life whatever shall be assessed against him.”

In this case, the written text itself seems bewilderingly contradictory. On the one hand, the Torah clearly states that the owner of a violent animal “shall also die.” Then, however, the text offers the condemned man an opportunity to escape his dire fate through the payment of a financial penalty assessed by the court.

Nowhere else does the Torah allow avoidance of capital punishment through the payment of a “ransom.” The very idea, in fact, is anathema to Jewish thought. In discussing the laws of murder, the Torah clearly states, “You shall not accept ransom for the life of a murderer who is worthy of death, for he shall certainly be put to death.”

Why, then, if the owner of the ox is deserving of death, is he offered the opportunity to ransom his life?

To make matters more complicated, many authorities maintain that what the Torah seems to present as a choice really is not. The ransom payment is mandatory. No one is ever put to death as punishment for the actions of his violent animal.

In partial explanation, the Talmud does maintain that the death sentence mandated in this case refers to death “at the hands of heaven” rather than execution decreed by an earthly court. Monetary payment enables the owner of the ox only to escape a divine decree. No ransom would ever be accepted as an alternative to true capital punishment determined through due process of law, in a human court.

The question, however, remains: if the punishment in this case is uniformly monetary, why doesn’t the Torah say so in the first place? Why pro-nounce a death sentence on the owner that will not actually be carried out, even at the hands of heaven?

Once again our questions can be answered by considering the distinction between “deserved” and “actual” punishment.

The Torah wants us to understand that, on a theoretical level, the owner of the ox deserves to die. His negligence has directly resulted in the loss of human life. On a practical level, however, this sentence cannot be carried out. Halacha only mandates capital or corporal punishment in cases of active crimes. Crimes of “uninvolvement,” consisting of the failure to do something right, cannot carry such penalties in an earthly court. The owner who fails to guard his dangerous animal can only be fully punished through heavenly means.

There is, therefore, an available corrective, a way for the condemned man to escape the divine decree. God, Who “truly discerns the soul and heart [of man],” will forgive a perpetrator in the face of real penitence and change.

Through payment of the fine levied by the court, the animal’s owner actively proclaims a newfound willingness to take responsibility for his past failure. In effect, he corrects the omission that led to tragedy by admitting his involvement in the crime. This admission, if heartfelt, suffices to avert a merciful God’s decree.

Through carefully balancing the textual flow, the Torah manages to convey a complex, multilayered message of personal responsibility in a nuanced case of “uninvolvement.”

Points to Ponder

The practice of studying and quoting passages from the biblical text “out of context” has become common, not only among those who seek to attack the divine authority and character of the Torah, but even among those who claim to respect it. Conclusions and lessons are often drawn from words and phrases in isolation, without attention paid to their surrounding framework.

As the above discussions clearly demonstrate, true Torah study must be contextual in the fullest sense of the word. Failure to consider context inevitably leads to misinterpretation and misrepresentation of the text.

Each phrase of the Torah must be analyzed against the backdrop of surrounding textual flow, other sources in the written text and related Oral Law. Only such complete, comprehensive study reveals the true depth and meaning of the biblical text.

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

A Healthy Distance, Revisited

Context

As the dramatic moment of Revelation approaches, thunder and lightning break forth, a thick cloud envelops Mount Sinai, and a powerful, rising shofar blast is heard.

Against this backdrop, God summons Moshe to the summit of Mount Sinai, where the following dialogue takes place:

God: “Descend, warn the people, lest they break through to God to see, and many of them will fall…”

Moshe: “The people cannot ascend Mount Sinai, for You have testified to us, ‘Create a boundary around the mountain and sanctify it.’ ”

God: “Go, descend! And then you shall ascend – you and Aharon with you. But the priests and the people shall not break through to ascend to God, lest He burst forth against them.”

No sooner does Moshe descend the mountain and deliver God’s message, than Revelation begins.

Questions

How are we to understand the puzzling dialogue that unfolds between Moshe and God, on the summit of Mount Sinai, in the direct shadow of Matan Torah?

Why does God summon Moshe to the summit of Mount Sinai, only to immediately command him to again go down and issue to the Israelites a warning which they have already received?

Why is the reiteration of this warning of hagbala necessary in the first place? If it is necessary, why doesn’t God direct Moshe to transmit it to the people without – seemingly needlessly – ascending and descending the mountain?

When Moshe objects that the people have already been warned, why doesn’t God answer substantively? He simply seems to offer the frustrating response (which children so often hear with chagrin from their parents):

Do it because I told you so!

God promises that Moshe will ascend the mountain again, together with Aharon, apparently to experience Revelation. Yet, no sooner does Moshe go down and deliver God’s message to the nation, than God, seemingly without warning, launches into the Ten Declarations and begins the process of Revelation. In our mind’s eye, we can almost picture Moshe running towards the mountain, frantically waving and shouting: Wait! Don’t start without me! I’m supposed to be up there!
Some authorities maintain, in spite of the textual evidence to the contrary, that Moshe does ascend Mount Sinai again before Revelation commences. Other scholars, however, accept the pshat of the text placing this great leader at the foot of the mountain as God begins to speak to the people. For these commentaries, the question remains: why does God orchestrate Moshe’s movements preparatory to Revelation in such a strange way?

Approaches

A

A number of interesting interpretive twists are proposed by the commentaries as they struggle to explain the interchange between God and Moshe on the summit of Mount Sinai.

The Ohr Hachaim, for example, suggests that God reiterates the warning of hagbala because He is concerned over the nation’s potential for religious zeal. Perhaps the people will arrive at the erroneous conclusion that the heightened religious experience of a close encounter with the divine is worth the cost of their lives. They will, therefore, deliberately cross the forbidden perimeter around Sinai in search of spiritual ecstasy. To forestall this possibility, God instructs Moshe to clearly inform the Israelites that such “religious escapism” is not what God wants. The people’s role is, instead, to live in and sanctify the physical world.

The Rashbam, wrestling as always with the pshat of the text, suggests that Moshe does not object when God commands him to reiterate the warning to the people. It is, after all, natural to issue multiple warnings as a critical moment approaches.

Moshe, instead, questions whether the rules have now changed:

Originally, Lord, You commanded the people not to ascend the mountain. Now, however, You instruct me to tell the nation not to “break through and see.”
Am I to tell them that even viewing from afar is forbidden?

God assures Moshe that the rules have not changed. The people are only prohibited from “ascending to God.”

While the Ibn Ezra agrees with the approach of the Rashbam, he also records a fascinating quote in the name of Rav Saadia Gaon. The Gaon maintains that for years he pondered and yet never understood Moshe’s rejoinder to God: “The people cannot ascend Mount Sinai, for You have testified to us…” Is Moshe, wondered the Gaon, really objecting to a direct order from God?

Then, however, the Gaon happened upon an edict recorded in the book of traditions of the Persian kings. This rule states that a king’s messenger is not permitted to say “I have done your bidding” to the king, until the messenger is commanded to another task. Now that God has told Moshe to speak again to the people, Moshe can safely respond: Lord, I obeyed Your first instructions and the people have been properly warned, as You commanded.

Moshe’s rejoinder to God is, thus, not an objection but a report.

How telling that Saadia Gaon considers Persian etiquette an acceptable source for the illumination of a biblical passage!

B

None of the above approaches, however, addresses why God would command Moshe to ascend and descend the mountain, seemingly without reason. Nor do these scholars explain why God suddenly commences Revelation once Moshe has come down the mountain, without allowing him the opportunity to ascend Mount Sinai again.

A surprising answer to these questions is offered in the Midrash Rabba.

With striking candor, the Midrash entertains the notion that God’s instructions to Moshe at this critical juncture might actually be “busy work” motivated by an external concern. God is concerned that if Moshe is present at the summit of Mount Sinai at the time of the transmission of the Ten Declarations, the Israelites will be uncertain as to whether the law actually emanates from God or from Moshe, from a divine or a human source. God therefore directs Moshe to descend Mount Sinai and once again warn the people, even though (as this great leader himself maintains) that warning is unnecessary. In this way, God ensures that Moshe is at the foot of the mountain as Revelation commences, and that the divine origin of the law is clear.

C

A final, entirely different approach can be suggested to the strange sequence of events before us.

God wants Moshe himself to learn a critical lesson that will speak to the underpinnings of leadership throughout Jewish history: At the onset of revelation, Moshe, your place is with the people at the base of Mount Sinai. There will be a time when you will again ascend the mountain, a time when your leadership role will raise you above the nation. Now, however, your place is with them, learning the very lessons of hagbala that they are learning.

Remember always that true leadership is marked by connection to the people. You must rise to leadership from their midst.

As with other important lessons in Moshe’s life, however, God does not convey the message directly; He wants Moshe to learn the lesson on his own

God’s methods thus become clear in retrospect: When I told you to go down the mountain, Moshe; when I commanded you to reiterate the warning to remain at the mountain base; when I refused to explain Myself; when I manipulated your presence at the base of Mount Sinai during the onset of Revelation – it was because this time, Moshe, I was speaking to you!

I wanted you to come to realize on your own that, at the most critical moment of your nation’s history, your place is with your people; that the rules which apply to them apply to you; that you must always be connected to those
who are entrusted to your care.

Learn these lessons well, Moshe, and your leadership will endure.