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

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.

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

No sooner do the Israelites depart Egypt than they are confronted by a divinely ordained detour.

“And it was when Pharaoh sent out the people, and God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, ki karov hu (as it was near), for God said: ‘Lest the people reconsider upon seeing war, and return to Egypt.’ ”

Questions

Two sets of questions emerge as we consider this strange passage.

Textually, the sentence does not seem to flow. What does the phrase “ki karov hu (as it was near)” mean? Proximity would seem to recommend rather than discourage the choice of a path. Should the text not have said that God bypassed the way of the Philistines although it was near?

Conceptually, why is this detour necessary? God, after all, has just decimated the Egyptian empire on behalf of the Israelites. Can He not do the same to the Philistines or, at the very least, protect the Israelites from the effects of an outbreak of hostilities?

Approaches

 

A

The textual difficulty presented by this passage centers around the Hebrew word ki in the phrase “ki karov hu (as it was near).” The word ki, according to the Talmud, translates variably in the Torah, dependent upon the context: “Reish Lakish said: ‘Ki serves four possible meanings – if, perhaps, however, because.’ ”

Of these four translations, only “because” fits our passage. That interpretation, however, leaves us with the basic question, why would God avoid a specific path “because it was near”?

B

Numerous commentaries, including Rashi and the Ibn Ezra, offer a straightforward pshat approach to this sentence which preserves the translation of ki as “because.” God avoids taking the Israelites through Philistine territory because the proximity of this path to Egypt would have encouraged and facilitated the Israelites’ retreat from battle. At the first hint of hostilities, the nation would have returned to Egypt. The “nearness” of this path was thus not a potential benefit, as we might have assumed, but a drawback.

Raising issues of syntax, both the Ramban and Rabbi Moshe Hakohen (quoted by the Ibn Ezra) refuse to accept the straightforward solution proffered by Rashi and the Ibn Ezra. The Ramban maintains that the phrase ki karov hu is to be translated as “which was near,” while Rabbi Moshe understands it to mean “although it was near.” The objection can be raised, however, that neither of these approaches translates the word ki in a fashion consistent with the list suggested by Reish Lakish. The Rashbam, for his part, explains that God’s concern for the Israelites transcended the possibility of war with the Philistines alone. The path through Philistine territory was “near” – the most direct route to the land of Canaan. The Israelites, however, were not prepared for all the battles that would face them in the conquest of the land. God, therefore, diverts them from the shortest route to Canaan and leads them on a circuitous path in order to prevent a disheartened retreat to Egypt.

C

In stark contrast to the above suggestions, which reflect struggle with the pshat of the text, are a series of creative Midrashic alternatives. Two such explanations are quoted by the Da’at Zekeinim Miba’alei Hatosafot :

1. The phrase ki karov hu is not to be translated “because it was near” but, rather, “because He was near.” The Torah refers to the fact that God was “near” to the Israelites. Because of their preciousness to Him, God refuses to endanger the departing slaves by taking them along a path that could lead to war.

2. The phrase refers to the Philistines themselves, not to their territory. The Philistines were “near” to the Egyptians in that they shared common ancestry. God does not want the Israelites, upon their departure from Egypt, to encounter the Philistines because he knows that the Philistines will attack in order to uphold the honor of their relatives, the Egyptians. Numerous other approaches, including a tradition chronicling an earlier failed attempt by the tribe of Ephraim to escape Egypt through Philistine territory, can be found in Midrashic literature.

D

While the textual problems surrounding this passage are certainly intriguing, of greater concern are the conceptual issues. Why does God feel compelled to lead the Israelites on a circuitous route upon their departure from Egypt? Could He not have fought the battle for them or, at least, miraculously protected them from the ravages of warfare? Two possible approaches can be suggested; each carrying overarching eternal lessons:

1. God does not punish nations undeservedly.

As noted previously (see Bereishit: Noach 4, Approaches A), God includes a striking message to the patriarch Avraham in the Covenant between the Pieces. After predicting that Avraham’s descendents will be strangers in a land not their own, where they will be made to work and suffer for four hundred years, God states: “And the fourth generation will return here [to the land of Canaan] for the iniquity of the Emorites will not be complete until then.”

Do not assume, Avraham, because you and your descendents are chosen, that I relate to you alone. The legitimate rights of all nations continue to be My concern. Your fate will, therefore, be determined not only by your own merit but by the rights of others. You will not return to this land until its inhabitants have become so corrupt that they deserve to be expelled.

The very same principle may well be driving God’s decisions during the days immediately following the Exodus. God punished the Egyptians because their acts warranted such penalty. The Philistines, however, have done nothing to this point to earn divine retribution. God, therefore, will not act against them even to protect His “chosen people.” He instead leads the Israelites on a circuitous route in order to avoid the confrontation.

2. The Israelites have to learn to fight their own battles.

With the Exodus, the rules begin to change. Until now, before His people set out upon their journey towards freedom, God fought on their behalf. Now, the transition to independence requires that the Israelites must learn to fend for themselves. Even later, when the last act of the Exodus unfolds and God does intervene to complete the destruction of Egyptian might in the waters of the Reed Sea, God does not act until the Israelites take their destiny into their own hands and begin to move into the sea.

Had God waged a divine battle against the Philistines, had He even miraculously protected the Israelites from attack, the wrong message would have been transmitted. The time has come for the Israelites to begin fighting their own battles. They are ill prepared for such challenge, however, at this moment. God, therefore, moves to avoid the confrontation.

E

A final lesson can be gleaned if we view this episode in a larger context. The endpoints of Parshat Beshalach chronicle a striking transformation. While the parsha opens with God shielding the Israelites from the mere possibility of conflict, it closes, ironically, with the Israelites victorious in battle. The final scene of Beshalach describes the unprovoked attack upon the Israelites by the nation of Amalek and the ensuing battle from which the erstwhile slaves emerge triumphant.

The band of Israelite slaves, ready to retreat at the first hint of hostilities, has evolved, by the end of Beshalach, into a successful fighting force.

The march towards nationhood has begun in earnest.

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot’ Click here to buy the book 30% OFF LIMITED TIME ONLY!

Context

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

Moshe emphatically rejects each compromise in turn.

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

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

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

Questions

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

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

Approaches

A

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

B

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

As we have already noted, God did not instruct Moshe to demand complete freedom for the Israelites. From the very outset, the appeal to the king was, instead, to be, “Let us go for a three-day journey into the wilderness that we may bring offerings to the Lord our God.” (See Shmot 4.)

In response to that request Pharaoh now argues: All right, I give in! You have my permission to take a three-day holiday for the purpose of worshipping your Lord. Let us, however, speak honestly. Moshe, you and I both know that religious worship in any community remains the responsibility and the right of a select few. Priests, elders, sorcerers – they are the ones in whose hands the ritual responsibility of the whole people are placed.

Therefore I ask you, “Who are they that shall go?” Who from among you will represent the people in the performance of this desert ritual? Let me know, provide me with the list and they will have my permission to leave.

C

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

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

D

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

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

Excerpted from Rabbi Shmuel Goldin’s ‘Unlocking The Torah Text: An In-Depth Journey Into The Weekly Parsha- Shemot’ Click here to buy the book 30% OFF LIMITED TIME ONLY!

Context

When Moshe’s birth was chronicled in Parshat Shmot, the text deliberately omitted any description of his lineage, choosing instead to preface his birth with the mysterious sentence “And a man went from the House of Levi and he took a daughter of Levi.”

This omission of Moshe’s bona fides is now addressed in Parshat Va’eira.

God commands Moshe to return to Pharaoh and again demand the release of the Israelite slaves. When Moshe objects, citing his speech impediment, God repeats the directive, this time to both Moshe and Aharon.

The Torah then abruptly digresses to present a genealogical table listing the descendents of Yaakov’s oldest sons, Reuven, Shimon and Levi. The listing concludes with a detailed description of the lineage of Moshe and Aharon’s family within the tribe of Levi.

Upon completion of this genealogical record, the Torah returns to the narrative of the Exodus with the words “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Questions

Once again we are confronted with a strange and abrupt digression within the Torah text.

Why does the Torah specifically choose this dramatic moment to detail the lineage of Moshe and Aharon? Why interrupt the historical narrative midstream? This genealogical table would clearly have been more appropriate at the beginning of the story, when Moshe is first introduced.

Amram and Yocheved, the parents of Aharon and Moshe, are mentioned here for the first time by name. Given the reasons for the omission of their identities when Moshe is born (see Shmot 2, Approaches B, C), why does the Torah see fit to reveal those identities now?

Approaches

A

Most of the classical commentaries are strangely silent concerning the most perplexing aspects of this passage, choosing to comment only briefly.

Rashi, for example, states that because the Torah mentions Aharon and Moshe at this time, the text feels compelled to tell us more fully of their birth and lineage. He fails to explain, however, why this information was not given in conjunction with the earlier appearances of Moshe and Aharon in the text.

The Sforno and Abravanel both maintain that the genealogical table is presented to show that the choice of Aharon and Moshe was not arbitrary. God begins His search for worthy leadership with the descendents of Yaakov’s first- and second-born, Reuven and Shimon. Only when He proceeds to Levi, the third tribe, does God find the quality He is searching for in Moshe and Aharon.

Once again, however, neither of these scholars explains why this information
must be shared with us abruptly, at this point in the text.

The Malbim, in contrast, does offer a solution concerning the placement of the genealogical record. He explains that the passage in Va’eira marks the first time that Moshe and Aharon are clearly appointed by God as full partners concerning all aspects of the Exodus. Only once this partnership of brothers is firmly established does the Torah digress to chronicle their familial credentials.

Rashi finally notes that, as the Torah closes the genealogical table and returns to the historical narrative, the text identifies Moshe and Aharon twice and reverses the order of their names: “This was Aharon and Moshe…. They were the ones who spoke to Pharaoh…. This was Moshe and Aharon.”

Quoting the Mechilta, Rashi explains that, throughout the text, the Torah will variably list each brother first in order to demonstrate that Aharon and Moshe were equivalent to each other in greatness.

The premier halachic authority of the nineteenth century, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein (known throughout the Jewish world simply as Reb Moshe), objects, however, to the Mechilta’s explanation: “Moshe was the greatest of the prophets, the teacher of the world, and the Torah was given by his hand. How can it be claimed that Aharon was his equal?”

Reb Moshe answers that at this juncture in the text, even as the public leadership of Moshe and Aharon is firmly established, the Torah conveys an essential truth concerning the worth of every human life. Moshe and Aharon each fulfilled his personal role to the greatest extent possible. They are, therefore, in the eyes of God, considered equal. God judges each of us against ourselves and not against anyone else. Someone of lesser ability, who reaches his full life potential, towers over someone of greater talent who does not – even if, on an objective scale, the latter’s accomplishments seem grander.
How telling that one of the most brilliant, accomplished leaders in recent Jewish memory views this text as conveying the value inherent in each individual – skilled or unskilled, public or private!

B

The most extensive treatment of the genealogical passage at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira, however, is offered by Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch. Hirsch insists that the placement of this section specifically conveys a critical lesson concerning the nature of leadership throughout the Torah.

At this moment in the text, says Hirsch, we confront a major turning point in the careers of Moshe and Aharon. Until now, their efforts have been marked by frustration and failure. From this point onward, however, their triumphal mission – marked by powerful miracles and supernatural events – begins. The Torah, therefore, feels compelled at this juncture to make one fact abundantly clear for all time. Moshe and Aharon are of “absolutely human origin and the absolute ordinary human nature of their beings should be firmly established.” So important is this message that the Torah abruptly interrupts the historical narrative midstream to clearly delineate the ancestry of Moshe and Aharon.

As we have noted before (see Bereishit: Lech Lecha 2, Approaches), whereas pagans deified their heroes, and Christians returned to such deification, Judaism insists upon seeing its heroes as human beings. When your heroes are gods you can worship them, but you cannot emulate them. As long as we see the characters of our Torah as human beings, their greatness may be beyond our reach, but we can, nonetheless, aspire to that greatness.

On the other hand, Hirsch continues, a critical balance is struck in the passage before us. While the genealogical record clearly establishes the mortal origins of Moshe and Aharon, it also serves to counter the notion that every human being is suitable to prophecy. God’s choices are far from arbitrary. Aharon and Moshe were men, but they were “picked, chosen men.” God could have chosen from any tribe and any family. His specific selection of Aharon and Moshe serves to underscore that one who serves in a divinely ordained leadership role merits the appointment because of his own innate character.

The text thus captures the exquisite tension between the mortal origins of our biblical heroes and their overarching character and accomplishments.

C

Finally, the passage before us, with its extensive genealogical information, clearly serves as a contrasting companion piece to the earlier section in Parshat Shmot which chronicled the birth of Moshe. There, as noted in an earlier study (Shmot 2), the narrative is singular in its lack of information. Even the names of Moshe’s parents are deliberately omitted.

This omission is now apparently addressed and rectified in Parshat Va’eira.

Why, however, when all is said and done, are these two sections necessary? If the Torah eventually reveals the genealogy of Aharon and Moshe, why not do so immediately as soon as Moshe is first introduced in the text?

An approach can be suggested if we view these two passages as delineating a balance that shapes the life of every human being.

On the one hand, the glaring omission of Moshe’s ancestry in Parshat Shmot serves to remind us that the most important aspects of our lives are self-determined. While God decides to whom we are born, when and where we are born, our genetic makeup, etc., we determine, through our own free will, who we will become (see Bereishit: Bereishit 4, Approaches A). Moshe ascends to leadership because of the choices he makes. The Torah, therefore, omits his parentage at the moment of his birth. Yichus (pedigree) does not determine the quality of Moshe’s life.

On the other hand, while pedigree is neither the sole nor the most important determinant of a person’s character, an individual’s family background certainly contributes to the formation of that character. Our ancestry creates the backdrop against which we weave the tapestry of our lives. Moshe’s story would have been incomplete if his family had not been mentioned. The genealogical table presented at the beginning of Parshat Va’eira is provided to fill in the gaps.

The omission of the names of Moshe’s parents and relatives on the occasion of his birth reminds us that Moshe achieves greatness on his own. The inclusion of those names in Parshat Va’eira reminds us of the role his family background plays in enabling him to succeed in his quest.

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

Speaking from the burning bush, God commands Moshe to return to Egypt and deliver the following message to Pharaoh: “The Lord, the God of the Hebrews, has encountered us. And now please let us go on a three-day journey in the wilderness and we will bring offerings to the Lord, our God.”

Questions

God’s instructions to Moshe at the burning bush threaten to undermine our understanding of the entire Exodus narrative.

Where is the ringing, powerful demand for freedom, Let my people go? Why do we find in its place the seemingly tepid request, Please let my people go on a three-day journey to the desert to worship God? What could be more central to the Exodus story than the demand for complete freedom?

And…if Pharaoh had agreed to Moshe’s request, would the Israelites have returned after three days? If so, what would have been accomplished by their brief departure? If they would never have returned, if a three-day journey was not a truly viable option, why would God instruct Moshe to lie to the Egyptian king? Is the Jewish nation to be born through deceit? As the Abravanel exclaims: “How could the Almighty have commanded Moshe to lie in His name? It would have been better to clearly demand, ‘Release my nation from under the burdens of Egypt.’ ”

Finally, in the aftermath of the Exodus, after Pharaoh has released the Israelites from bondage, the text relates: “And it was told to the king of Egypt that the [Israelite] nation had fled.”

How are we to understand this bewildering statement? Clearly Pharaoh knows that the Israelites have left Egypt. The king himself, broken by the last of the ten plagues, ordered the slaves out of his country! Why must he now be told that the Israelites have fled? Can it be that Pharaoh, even after the devastation of the plagues, still believes he has released the Israelites only for a three-day religious holiday? Is that why the Egyptian king leads his army in pursuit of the Israelites three days after the Exodus, when the king concludes that the slaves are not returning? Has the entire Exodus been divinely structured, through the three-day request, to lead Pharaoh and his army inexorably to their deaths in the Sea of Reeds?

Approaches

 

A

The classical commentaries are divided in their approach to the limited request for a three-day journey from Egypt.

Some scholars, including Abravanel and the Akeidat Yitzchak, view the request as an exercise meant to test and expose the limits of Pharaoh’s obstinacy. As the Abravanel puts it, “The Almighty proffered this request in order to demonstrate to the world the extent of Pharaoh’s stubbornness and to justify the divine judgment and punishment about to be brought upon Pharaoh and Egypt.”

This position implies that the request for a three-day journey was offered as a serious option. Had the Egyptian king shown flexibility by agreeing to this first request presented to him, the Israelites would indeed have returned and the Exodus might well have unfolded in a different, less painful, fashion.

Once Pharaoh refuses to accede even to this reasonable appeal, however, the three-day option is removed from the table and replaced with the demand for total freedom.

B

Other commentaries maintain that the limited journey was never really presented as a viable option at all. God certainly had no intention of allowing His people to return to Egypt after three days of freedom.

What, then, can possibly justify the request? Why would God order Moshe to deliberately deceive the Egyptian king?

On this point, two contrasting schools of thought emerge:

1. Some authorities simply refuse to accept the possibility that God – and upon His orders Moshe as well – could be deceitful.

Rabbi Yaakov Mecklenberg, for example, maintains that, notwithstanding the implied commitment to return to Egypt, Moshe never clearly verbalizes a pledge to come back. He was therefore not guilty of an outright falsehood.

The Chizkuni goes one step further and claims that the request for a three-day journey was factually truthful. He points to the fact that on the second day after the Exodus the Israelites encamp at Eitam in the “edge of the wilderness,” effectively halting their flight from Egypt.

2. The Midrash, on the other hand, embraces, without apology or excuse, God’s deliberate deception of Pharaoh and the Egyptians.

Commenting on the puzzling phrase “and it was told to the king of Egypt that the nation had fled,” Rashi, quoting a Mechilta, relates that Pharaoh sends spies with the departing Israelite slaves. When the third day after the Exodus arrives, the day on which the Israelites had promised to return, the spies see that no such return is imminent. These agents therefore report to Pharaoh, “The Israelites have fled.”

The idea of a three-day journey, according to the Midrash, was never truly abandoned by Pharaoh. Even after the devastation wrought upon his land, the Egyptian king fully expects the Israelites to return. When he realizes that he has been deceived, he immediately takes off in pursuit of the “fleeing” slaves. Numerous other commentaries mirror this Midrashic approach.

From this point of view, the three-day request emerges as an integral part of God’s planning from the outset. The Exodus is designed, from its earliest stages, to ultimately lead Pharaoh and his army to the banks of the Reed Sea. The Israelites will never truly be free of their taskmasters unless they witness the total destruction of Egyptian power in the roiling waters of that sea.

Concerning the moral issues raised by this divinely ordained deceit, Shmuel David Luzzatto (Shadal) argues: “[The deception] was justified by the fact that Pharaoh would certainly have enslaved Israelites upon their return to Egypt. We should not be surprised, therefore, that God commanded the Israelites to give Pharaoh a taste of his own medicine.”

As Rabbi Yehuda Nachshoni essentially argues in his discussion of an earlier moral quandary raised by the Torah narrative (see Bereishit: Toldot 4, Approaches C), “All is fair in love and war.” If we are obligated to kill on the battlefield in order to defeat evil, it stands to reason that we are obligated to use subterfuge, when necessary, to accomplish the same goal.

C

One final approach to the three-day request is offered by Rabbeinu Bachya, who views God’s instructions from the perspective of the Israelite slaves. Abrupt, total change in the human condition is impossible. Consequently, the Israelites would have been unable to even conceive of an immediate transition from slavery to freedom. God, therefore, proceeds slowly. He approaches the Israelites with a proposal that they can accept. In this way, God orchestrates the entry of the Israelites into the realm of responsibility through measured steps.

Points to Ponder

What if…?

What if, as some of the sources quoted above maintain, the three-day request of Pharaoh was not a ruse at all, but a serious offer? And, what if Pharaoh had agreed to the request? Upon the return of the Israelites, how might the path of the Exodus have been altered?

While it is impossible to answer this question with any degree of certainty, we can suggest the one variable that would have changed: the Israelites themselves.

Granted a taste of freedom after decades of carefully orchestrated slavery and degradation, the Israelites would have returned to Egypt, in some measure, a changed people. Pharaoh knew this. He knew that he could not allow even a glimmer of hope to illuminate the lives of his slaves. Only through unremitting subjugation could he maintain their physical and spiritual servitude. A holiday from slavery, no matter how brief, could simply not have been countenanced. As the Exodus unfolds, a fundamental truth is mirrored in the depth of a demagogue’s fear – a truth that will be proven over and over again across the span of Jewish history. Even the most powerful subjugation and degradation cannot totally destroy the spark of human spirit burning deep in the hearts of the oppressed. Let the smallest glimmer of hope enter, and that spark will be quickly fanned into a rising flame.