Parshat Terumah
by Rabbi Avi Billet
As we undertake the building of the Mishkan (Tabernacle), we find many instructions that have been made more understandable to us through the numerous illustrations books and charts that describe the holy vessels in great detail.
Funny enough, as much as know, we can argue with hindsight that we understand the instructions better than most of those who lived at that time. [For comparison, Google “Tabernacle images” and you’ll find many Christian sources and illustrations, who certainly value and understand the story of the Exodus and the Tabernacle, but who clearly have a very different perception of what the Torah’s instructions translate to in practical terms.]
And the truth is that even Moshe had difficulty with some of the instructions, so much so that God needed to show him the equivalent of a holographic image in order for him to be able to transmit the instructions to the builders in a fashion they would understand.
Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan translates 25:40 as follows: “Carefully observe the pattern that you will be shown on the mountain and make [the menorah] in that manner.” Note the brackets. This is a clear reflection of Rashi’s commentary, that Moshe did not understand what the Menorah was to look like. And, since this verse comes at the conclusion of the depiction of the Menorah, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the Menorah was the sole item which Moshe could not picture in his mind based on its description.
However, the verse says “You will see and do, in their forms, as you will be shown on the mountain.” The word “forms” is attached to the plural, indicating that in truth, it wasn’t just the Menorah. It was, at the very least, all the vessels which preceded this one.
Could it really be that Moshe couldn’t understand what all the vessels were to look like? More pointedly, owing to the actual plural language of the verse, why does Rashi pinpoint the Menorah alone, ignoring that Moshe may have had a problem with all the vessels?
On a simple level, it is certainly understandable if Moshe does not understand the details of construction. There are plenty of people who are great scholars of Torah who could not read a blueprint or understand architectural drawings. These are different disciplines that require different kinds of training.
The Maharal of Prague (Gur Aryeh) addresses the problem in Rashi’s insight, noting that the Talmud (Menachot 29a) says “God showed Moshe a Menorah of fire, a table of fire, and an ark of fire.” He notes that Moshe actually had difficulty with the menorah alone, but once God was showing him the Menorah, God showed him everything, because the entire Mishkan is interconnected in a deeper way than their just being the vessels of the same edifice. (see verse 25:9 as support)
The Hebrew word of what you should see and do is “B’tavnitam.” Rabbenu Bachaye notes that the word should really be “k’tavnitam!” The former means “in its form” while the latter means “as its form.” If you are imitating what you’ve seen, you should do “as it is” and not “in its form!”
He explains that there is no way to do “as” it was because Moshe was shown a fiery version of each vessel. The prefix of the letter “bet” indicates to Moshe that there is an internal understanding and an internal influence which will manifest itself in the instruction and in the final construction of each vessel.
It is a very simple lesson. We do not live our Jewish lives simply mimicking that which we see in others. We don’t do what we do as copycats. We do what we do because we internalize the strength and value in the ways we interpret and live our Jewish lives.
This takes strength and fortitude. And it also takes personal education, and personal motivation to grow in our connection to God, and in our understanding of what it takes to raise the bar on our own experiences.
For Moshe, he knew what he knew and understood what was clear. But even in what he did not understand, he recognized that the Mishkan was an entire package. Some things came easily, some were more difficult. But when you look at the totality, you see where God’s influence is needed – not just in the parts you don’t understand, but even in the parts that seem to be clear as day.
Let us be blessed to see God’s place in not only the difficult ("I do this because God said so, even though I don’t understand"), but also in the aspects of our Jewish experiences that are easy, and as a result, sometimes rote.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
When Crime is Committed, Everyone Loses
Parshat Mishpatim
by Rabbi Avi Billet
Less than 2 chapters after telling us “Thou shalt not commit murder” the Torah gives us an example of where it is perfectly permissible to kill someone: “If a burglar is caught in the act of breaking in, and is struck and killed, he has no ‘damim.’” (22:1)
The phrase “he has no damim” is typically translated to mean, “it is not considered an act of murder” because the burglar took his life into his own hands through the invasion, making himself already a dead man, and his killer innocent based on double indemnity.
This is the overwhelming view of most commentaries.
Rabbi Chaim Paltiel explained the verse differently, utilizing the Talmudic definition of the word “damim” which is “money,” and noting that there is no space in the Torah between this verse and the previous verse. Despite the new chapter, the lack of a break between 21:37 and 22:1 stands to indicate a connection between the verses, at the very least thematically, if not even still remaining the same topic completely!
Parenthetically, we’ll note that the chapters as divided were not made by Jews, but by early Christian scholars who divided the text into chapters based on their interpretations, but clearly with no knowledge of the tabs and returns (keyboardly speaking) in the actual text of the Torah. They were accepted as standard fare out of convenience, but they are by no means authoritative, as in being able to teach us anything. For that we rely on the spaces in the text, as transmitted through our mesorah.
Rabbi Paltiel assumes that the burglar is coming in the night to steal an ox or lamb (the topic of 21:37), and if the animal is killed in the process of the theft, the burglar has no responsibility to pay the otherwise necessary fine of 5x the amount for cattle and 4x the amount for sheep. However, “if the sun shines on him,” and he is successful in his thievery, then “he has damim and he would have to pay, and if he does not have the money, he is to be sold to pay the debt.” (22:2) In this case “damim” means a financial responsibility owing to the ownership he claims on the item. When it is still in the actual owner’s property, the thief hasn’t taken control of it. Anything that happens while on the owner’s land is not considered stolen property.
Go back and look at the verses, and you’ll likely find this argument to be a lot more compelling than you’ve given it credit for until now.
So what are we to do with the “classic” interpretation? Can we argue that the Torah is not really condoning the killing of a burglar?
The fact of the matter is that every other time the word “damim” appears in the Torah, it refers to blood. This would suggest that the word likely means “blood” here as well, and not “money.”
I think that even if we apply the depiction of the “struck and killed” to the animal, as Rabbi Paltiel does, we could still argue that the phrase “he has no damim” is referring to the burglar - he is a dead man walking around in the property of his victims.
Which leads us to the bottom line, which I believe is an almost-universal truth.
There is something very very wrong with being a burglar. Anyone who burgles, no matter the outcome of the theft, has no rights to his (or her) own blood. Certainly if it happens that the burglar dies in the process, but even if an animal dies on account of criminal negligence, or the animal being put in harm’s way on account of the crime, the burglar is responsible for all resultant consequences (not merely whether he has to pay the full fine, but ALL consequences).
So, is the Torah telling us a bit of legal-eze in the realm of thievery, or is the Torah calling a homeowner James Bond and granting a license to kill?
I think the Torah is doing a little bit of both. But even more than anything, the Torah is using this little anecdote to prove that crime, in one form or another, doesn’t really pay in the end. On the contrary – crime only serves one purpose: it makes everyone involved a loser.
by Rabbi Avi Billet
Less than 2 chapters after telling us “Thou shalt not commit murder” the Torah gives us an example of where it is perfectly permissible to kill someone: “If a burglar is caught in the act of breaking in, and is struck and killed, he has no ‘damim.’” (22:1)
The phrase “he has no damim” is typically translated to mean, “it is not considered an act of murder” because the burglar took his life into his own hands through the invasion, making himself already a dead man, and his killer innocent based on double indemnity.
This is the overwhelming view of most commentaries.
Rabbi Chaim Paltiel explained the verse differently, utilizing the Talmudic definition of the word “damim” which is “money,” and noting that there is no space in the Torah between this verse and the previous verse. Despite the new chapter, the lack of a break between 21:37 and 22:1 stands to indicate a connection between the verses, at the very least thematically, if not even still remaining the same topic completely!
Parenthetically, we’ll note that the chapters as divided were not made by Jews, but by early Christian scholars who divided the text into chapters based on their interpretations, but clearly with no knowledge of the tabs and returns (keyboardly speaking) in the actual text of the Torah. They were accepted as standard fare out of convenience, but they are by no means authoritative, as in being able to teach us anything. For that we rely on the spaces in the text, as transmitted through our mesorah.
Rabbi Paltiel assumes that the burglar is coming in the night to steal an ox or lamb (the topic of 21:37), and if the animal is killed in the process of the theft, the burglar has no responsibility to pay the otherwise necessary fine of 5x the amount for cattle and 4x the amount for sheep. However, “if the sun shines on him,” and he is successful in his thievery, then “he has damim and he would have to pay, and if he does not have the money, he is to be sold to pay the debt.” (22:2) In this case “damim” means a financial responsibility owing to the ownership he claims on the item. When it is still in the actual owner’s property, the thief hasn’t taken control of it. Anything that happens while on the owner’s land is not considered stolen property.
Go back and look at the verses, and you’ll likely find this argument to be a lot more compelling than you’ve given it credit for until now.
So what are we to do with the “classic” interpretation? Can we argue that the Torah is not really condoning the killing of a burglar?
The fact of the matter is that every other time the word “damim” appears in the Torah, it refers to blood. This would suggest that the word likely means “blood” here as well, and not “money.”
I think that even if we apply the depiction of the “struck and killed” to the animal, as Rabbi Paltiel does, we could still argue that the phrase “he has no damim” is referring to the burglar - he is a dead man walking around in the property of his victims.
Which leads us to the bottom line, which I believe is an almost-universal truth.
There is something very very wrong with being a burglar. Anyone who burgles, no matter the outcome of the theft, has no rights to his (or her) own blood. Certainly if it happens that the burglar dies in the process, but even if an animal dies on account of criminal negligence, or the animal being put in harm’s way on account of the crime, the burglar is responsible for all resultant consequences (not merely whether he has to pay the full fine, but ALL consequences).
So, is the Torah telling us a bit of legal-eze in the realm of thievery, or is the Torah calling a homeowner James Bond and granting a license to kill?
I think the Torah is doing a little bit of both. But even more than anything, the Torah is using this little anecdote to prove that crime, in one form or another, doesn’t really pay in the end. On the contrary – crime only serves one purpose: it makes everyone involved a loser.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Torah is a Unifier When Accepted With Humility
Parshat Yitro
by Rabbi Avi Billet
Though the parsha begins with a story of Yisro, the chronology of this story with the rest of the Exodus narrative is debated by the commentaries. If we ignore this particular tale for a moment, we would easily see that the events in Refidim rounding out last week’s parsha – drawing out water at Masah U’Mrivah, as well as the war with Amalek – are what preceded chapter 19. The Torah does say in 19:2 that they traveled from Refidim to arrive at Sinai.
Kli Yakar looks at the name Refidim, noting it has the same letters as “Peridim” – which means they were divided. The event at Masah U’Mrivah (water) also refers to fighting. The name Refidim can be read to as Rafu Y’deihem, that they removed their hands from the Torah, another indicator of non-unity.
And yet, when they were attacked by Amalek, they were unsurprisingly forced to band together militarily to fight a common enemy. And yet, it did not last in the continued sojourn through the desert, until they got to Sinai, a place which caused them to come together as one. As Kli Yakar puts it “the seeking of honor and appointment was the reason behind every fight and plague,” but now that they realized how small Sinai actually was, “then they saw that God chooses the humble.”
Seeing Sinai caused them to embrace the feeling of submission – in other words, to avoid strife – so that they could embrace peace. The essence of the mountain, modesty and humility, is what brought about the peace among the factions of Israelites.
The Torah speaks in the plural: 19:1 – they came to the Sinai Wilderness. 19:2 – they traveled from Refidim, they came to the Sinai wilderness, and they camped in the wilderness. Then the singular Israel camped at the Mountain.
Wilderness-wise they were still many people, many opinions, not united. But when they got to the mountain, realizing God would reveal Himself on this particular and specific mountain, they realized the key ingredient to accepting the Torah was humility! Then they were "as one heart, as one man.”
The Talmud (Shabbos 89b) gives a number of explanations for why the mountain and its surrounding wilderness were called Sinai, rejecting each suggestion, one by one.
Rav Kahana – it’s a play on words. Sinai reflects Nissim (miracles) don’t for Israel.
The Talmud responds, “In that case, it should be call Mt. Nisai!”
The next suggestions is that Sinai almost sounds like Siman Tov – it’s a place where good things happened to Israel. Well, in that case, the Talmud recommends it should be called Mt Simanai!
The last suggestion is that Sinai reflects the place where Sinah (hostility) was descended toward the nations at this mountain. (see below)
Another argument of the Talmud is that the mountain’s real name was Horeb, reflective of the Hurbah (desolation) which descended to idolators from that place and time.
Rashi explains the “hatred” or the “destruction” to the nations of the world as meaning their moral compass was demonstrably skewed because they did not accept the Torah! I do not believe this means that people who are not guided by the Torah can’t live a moral life – of course they can! Nor does it mean that those who live by the Torah can’t be immoral. There are exceptions to any rule. It just means that the moral compass has a different source.
And yet who did accept the Torah? Not the Israelites as individuals, each with their own very personality, but the Israelites as a group.
They arrived at Sinai and they were united because the mountain demonstrated for them that the Torah isn’t just for the mighty and lofty and powerful. The Torah is for everybody. And everybody has a personal challenge, to ask oneself, how am I making the Torah mine?
The Ten Commandments are written in the singular. It is as if God was speaking to every Jew, tete a tete, so that each Israelite could internalize the message, take the lessons, and apply the Torah as an individual mandate – as part of the collective Am Yisrael.
The Kli Yakar’s lesson was that the seeking of honor is what causes strife, and that the lesson of humility that was learned merely from looking at the mountain is what brought the Jewish people together.
It was called Sinai, because from there “Sinah went down upon the nations” – it doesn’t mean hatred. It just means there’s a difference between “us” and “them” – and that difference is that all of us received the Torah. And so, it is so important to remember that while “loving one’s fellow Jew” is meant to lead us to love all Jews regardless, we should certainly have such feelings towards those who identify with Torah, and who struggle to do their best in their dedication to it and in their dedication to the Master of the World.
Don’t be judgmental, don’t view others as lesser people or lesser Jews, stop looking over shoulders to see what others think, or even worse, to be nosy in order to bring others down.
Remember that the Torah is the great unifier, and humility is the ingredient that allows for such unifications to take place.
by Rabbi Avi Billet
Though the parsha begins with a story of Yisro, the chronology of this story with the rest of the Exodus narrative is debated by the commentaries. If we ignore this particular tale for a moment, we would easily see that the events in Refidim rounding out last week’s parsha – drawing out water at Masah U’Mrivah, as well as the war with Amalek – are what preceded chapter 19. The Torah does say in 19:2 that they traveled from Refidim to arrive at Sinai.
Kli Yakar looks at the name Refidim, noting it has the same letters as “Peridim” – which means they were divided. The event at Masah U’Mrivah (water) also refers to fighting. The name Refidim can be read to as Rafu Y’deihem, that they removed their hands from the Torah, another indicator of non-unity.
And yet, when they were attacked by Amalek, they were unsurprisingly forced to band together militarily to fight a common enemy. And yet, it did not last in the continued sojourn through the desert, until they got to Sinai, a place which caused them to come together as one. As Kli Yakar puts it “the seeking of honor and appointment was the reason behind every fight and plague,” but now that they realized how small Sinai actually was, “then they saw that God chooses the humble.”
Seeing Sinai caused them to embrace the feeling of submission – in other words, to avoid strife – so that they could embrace peace. The essence of the mountain, modesty and humility, is what brought about the peace among the factions of Israelites.
The Torah speaks in the plural: 19:1 – they came to the Sinai Wilderness. 19:2 – they traveled from Refidim, they came to the Sinai wilderness, and they camped in the wilderness. Then the singular Israel camped at the Mountain.
Wilderness-wise they were still many people, many opinions, not united. But when they got to the mountain, realizing God would reveal Himself on this particular and specific mountain, they realized the key ingredient to accepting the Torah was humility! Then they were "as one heart, as one man.”
The Talmud (Shabbos 89b) gives a number of explanations for why the mountain and its surrounding wilderness were called Sinai, rejecting each suggestion, one by one.
Rav Kahana – it’s a play on words. Sinai reflects Nissim (miracles) don’t for Israel.
The Talmud responds, “In that case, it should be call Mt. Nisai!”
The next suggestions is that Sinai almost sounds like Siman Tov – it’s a place where good things happened to Israel. Well, in that case, the Talmud recommends it should be called Mt Simanai!
The last suggestion is that Sinai reflects the place where Sinah (hostility) was descended toward the nations at this mountain. (see below)
Another argument of the Talmud is that the mountain’s real name was Horeb, reflective of the Hurbah (desolation) which descended to idolators from that place and time.
Rashi explains the “hatred” or the “destruction” to the nations of the world as meaning their moral compass was demonstrably skewed because they did not accept the Torah! I do not believe this means that people who are not guided by the Torah can’t live a moral life – of course they can! Nor does it mean that those who live by the Torah can’t be immoral. There are exceptions to any rule. It just means that the moral compass has a different source.
And yet who did accept the Torah? Not the Israelites as individuals, each with their own very personality, but the Israelites as a group.
They arrived at Sinai and they were united because the mountain demonstrated for them that the Torah isn’t just for the mighty and lofty and powerful. The Torah is for everybody. And everybody has a personal challenge, to ask oneself, how am I making the Torah mine?
The Ten Commandments are written in the singular. It is as if God was speaking to every Jew, tete a tete, so that each Israelite could internalize the message, take the lessons, and apply the Torah as an individual mandate – as part of the collective Am Yisrael.
The Kli Yakar’s lesson was that the seeking of honor is what causes strife, and that the lesson of humility that was learned merely from looking at the mountain is what brought the Jewish people together.
It was called Sinai, because from there “Sinah went down upon the nations” – it doesn’t mean hatred. It just means there’s a difference between “us” and “them” – and that difference is that all of us received the Torah. And so, it is so important to remember that while “loving one’s fellow Jew” is meant to lead us to love all Jews regardless, we should certainly have such feelings towards those who identify with Torah, and who struggle to do their best in their dedication to it and in their dedication to the Master of the World.
Don’t be judgmental, don’t view others as lesser people or lesser Jews, stop looking over shoulders to see what others think, or even worse, to be nosy in order to bring others down.
Remember that the Torah is the great unifier, and humility is the ingredient that allows for such unifications to take place.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Different Yokes For Jewish Folks
Parshat B'Shalach
by Rabbi Avi Billet
After Moshe followed the instructions that made the waters of Marah drinkable, we are told, “there he taught them ‘chok u’mishpat’ and there he tested them.” The simple translation of the term ‘chok u’mishpat’ is ‘a decree and a law,’ while the view of ‘survival techniques and methods’ is Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan’s translation of choice, on the heels of Ramban and the Tur.
Survival techniques?
Be a helicopter, or I guess in 2017 I need to say “drone,” for a minute. Take a bird’s eye view of what has transpired. Slaves left Egypt and went out into the wilderness with limited provisions, not knowing if this is a 3-day journey or a full exodus, they’ve just seen their masters drowned in the sea, and now that they are on the other side of that sea, they know there’s no going back.
Looking at each one from above, we might ask ourselves about each of them: What do you need to learn? What do you need to know to survive? What guarantees do you have that things will work out in your near and distant futures? This question is particularly poignant as in verse 15:22 we see you walking for 3 days without finding water?
Maybe Ramban and the Tur are onto something? Maybe the Israelites do need courses in “Wilderness Survival 101” and “How To Make It Through a Few Weeks Travel To the Promised Land With the Shirt on Your Back.”
Rav Kasher, in his Torah Shleimah Commentary (note 270) shares a few salient points, organized in progression. First, the Pesikta, which explains how the Torah begins with interpersonal laws. Second, the Ramban, who explains Moshe needed to give the people basic instructions for how to survive in the wilderness. Third, how to call out to God when hungry or thirsty, without resorting to complaining. Fourth, that they should learn to love their neighbors and to follow the advice of the elders to “walk humbly with your God.” Fifth, they should engage peacefully with neighbors who come from outside the Israelite camp, to engage in commerce. Sixth, he aimed to give them “mussar” (ethical behavior lectures) to avoid being like other traveling bands who engage in every abomination – to be above such base desires.
Most directly, he quotes Rabbenu Chananel (?) (it is a rabbi whose abbreviated name begins with a “chet”) who spells out very clearly that Moshe had to teach them the ways of the wilderness – how to take best care of your wife, your children, how to engage with wanderers who want to buy or sell from you.
Another possibility is that God had taught him botany, herbology and pharmacognosy, so he could use plant life they’d come across for medicinal purposes while traveling and engaging with other human beings.
I find all of these perspectives fascinating because they imagine a real experience for the Israelites. It comes before the gift and promise of the Manna, and it comes in the wake of people needing real solutions to real problems. Meaning, it is one thing to consider the miraculous existence of the Israelites in the wilderness as something supernatural – protected by clouds at night and fire, and all else is dandy. It is entirely different to consider the truth. That they needed to learn the ways of the world – how to conduct a business transaction, for example, or train their military skills and tactical actions so they could confront an Amalek on the battlefield.
They needed to learn about medicine and what is safe to eat, what is helpful, and what is poisonous.
How many of us would be able to survive without electricity? How many of us would be able to survive in a wilderness or in forests? The story of Rav Yisroel Zev Gustman having had a lesson in edible plants from Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzienski before WWII is reportedly why he would lovingly water plants in his yeshiva in later years of his life – as gratitude for the opportunity to survive made possible by the plants he knew were safe or beneficial owing to the lessons from Rav Chaim Ozer.
When my family went to Mount Vernon, we too marveled over how meat would be stored without a refrigerator. Or how all kinds of household chores we rely on electricity for were done. Perhaps we should all visit Amish country and learn a thing or two about how to live in the world without electricity.
Taking a slightly different turn, we can easily understand that just as there are different ways to live and survive in the wilderness, on the miraculous front and in the natural arena, the same principle would apply to how we live our Jewish lives today.
There are different theories as to how many ways of understanding there are in Jewish life and observance. Whether it is “eilu v’eilu,” 49 tameh v. 49 tahor, or seventy faces, there are a number of ways that people can get close to God.
Nowadays, too often we see people saying things like “My way or the highway.” This is tragic, because seeing things in only one way is anti-Torah. It could be that one way works for me. But my way may not work for you. Your own way might not work for me.
I can’t find the quote, but in a recent “off-the-derech” memoir, I found a very provocative insight about this. The author suggested that hassidism was founded on the notion that a person can come to God through multiple different paths. That Torah study wasn’t for everybody, and that the reality of differences in personality is what attracted so many to Hassidism, if the cold Talmud-study of traditional yeshivot approach was not for them. The author lamented that Hassidism today (in some sects) is often the exact opposite. It is strict, unembracing of the outside world and cold or indifferent (at times – these are certainly generalizations) to Jews who are not like them (with the exception being, of course, when doing “chesed” or “kiruv”).
This kind of rigidity exists in many circles, when we too often say what the other person is doing shouldn’t bother us. But very often, we are judgmental, and the way others live their Judaism really really bothers us.
It’s time to recognize that 70 faces means seventy. And not “my way or the highway.” Do what works for you! But don’t be critical of the person whose approach is different, but is nevertheless grounded in the Torah.
We learn from Rav Kasher’s collection of ideas that there are many ways to live, to connect with the world, and to connect with God.
by Rabbi Avi Billet
After Moshe followed the instructions that made the waters of Marah drinkable, we are told, “there he taught them ‘chok u’mishpat’ and there he tested them.” The simple translation of the term ‘chok u’mishpat’ is ‘a decree and a law,’ while the view of ‘survival techniques and methods’ is Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan’s translation of choice, on the heels of Ramban and the Tur.
Survival techniques?
Be a helicopter, or I guess in 2017 I need to say “drone,” for a minute. Take a bird’s eye view of what has transpired. Slaves left Egypt and went out into the wilderness with limited provisions, not knowing if this is a 3-day journey or a full exodus, they’ve just seen their masters drowned in the sea, and now that they are on the other side of that sea, they know there’s no going back.
Looking at each one from above, we might ask ourselves about each of them: What do you need to learn? What do you need to know to survive? What guarantees do you have that things will work out in your near and distant futures? This question is particularly poignant as in verse 15:22 we see you walking for 3 days without finding water?
Maybe Ramban and the Tur are onto something? Maybe the Israelites do need courses in “Wilderness Survival 101” and “How To Make It Through a Few Weeks Travel To the Promised Land With the Shirt on Your Back.”
Rav Kasher, in his Torah Shleimah Commentary (note 270) shares a few salient points, organized in progression. First, the Pesikta, which explains how the Torah begins with interpersonal laws. Second, the Ramban, who explains Moshe needed to give the people basic instructions for how to survive in the wilderness. Third, how to call out to God when hungry or thirsty, without resorting to complaining. Fourth, that they should learn to love their neighbors and to follow the advice of the elders to “walk humbly with your God.” Fifth, they should engage peacefully with neighbors who come from outside the Israelite camp, to engage in commerce. Sixth, he aimed to give them “mussar” (ethical behavior lectures) to avoid being like other traveling bands who engage in every abomination – to be above such base desires.
Most directly, he quotes Rabbenu Chananel (?) (it is a rabbi whose abbreviated name begins with a “chet”) who spells out very clearly that Moshe had to teach them the ways of the wilderness – how to take best care of your wife, your children, how to engage with wanderers who want to buy or sell from you.
Another possibility is that God had taught him botany, herbology and pharmacognosy, so he could use plant life they’d come across for medicinal purposes while traveling and engaging with other human beings.
I find all of these perspectives fascinating because they imagine a real experience for the Israelites. It comes before the gift and promise of the Manna, and it comes in the wake of people needing real solutions to real problems. Meaning, it is one thing to consider the miraculous existence of the Israelites in the wilderness as something supernatural – protected by clouds at night and fire, and all else is dandy. It is entirely different to consider the truth. That they needed to learn the ways of the world – how to conduct a business transaction, for example, or train their military skills and tactical actions so they could confront an Amalek on the battlefield.
They needed to learn about medicine and what is safe to eat, what is helpful, and what is poisonous.
How many of us would be able to survive without electricity? How many of us would be able to survive in a wilderness or in forests? The story of Rav Yisroel Zev Gustman having had a lesson in edible plants from Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzienski before WWII is reportedly why he would lovingly water plants in his yeshiva in later years of his life – as gratitude for the opportunity to survive made possible by the plants he knew were safe or beneficial owing to the lessons from Rav Chaim Ozer.
When my family went to Mount Vernon, we too marveled over how meat would be stored without a refrigerator. Or how all kinds of household chores we rely on electricity for were done. Perhaps we should all visit Amish country and learn a thing or two about how to live in the world without electricity.
Taking a slightly different turn, we can easily understand that just as there are different ways to live and survive in the wilderness, on the miraculous front and in the natural arena, the same principle would apply to how we live our Jewish lives today.
There are different theories as to how many ways of understanding there are in Jewish life and observance. Whether it is “eilu v’eilu,” 49 tameh v. 49 tahor, or seventy faces, there are a number of ways that people can get close to God.
Nowadays, too often we see people saying things like “My way or the highway.” This is tragic, because seeing things in only one way is anti-Torah. It could be that one way works for me. But my way may not work for you. Your own way might not work for me.
I can’t find the quote, but in a recent “off-the-derech” memoir, I found a very provocative insight about this. The author suggested that hassidism was founded on the notion that a person can come to God through multiple different paths. That Torah study wasn’t for everybody, and that the reality of differences in personality is what attracted so many to Hassidism, if the cold Talmud-study of traditional yeshivot approach was not for them. The author lamented that Hassidism today (in some sects) is often the exact opposite. It is strict, unembracing of the outside world and cold or indifferent (at times – these are certainly generalizations) to Jews who are not like them (with the exception being, of course, when doing “chesed” or “kiruv”).
This kind of rigidity exists in many circles, when we too often say what the other person is doing shouldn’t bother us. But very often, we are judgmental, and the way others live their Judaism really really bothers us.
It’s time to recognize that 70 faces means seventy. And not “my way or the highway.” Do what works for you! But don’t be critical of the person whose approach is different, but is nevertheless grounded in the Torah.
We learn from Rav Kasher’s collection of ideas that there are many ways to live, to connect with the world, and to connect with God.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Behaving in a Manner Befitting Being Created in the Image of God
Parshat Bo
by Rabbi Avi Billet
When one reads the opening of Parshat Bo, it is hard to ignore the question of who has the bigger ego – Pharaoh or God?
Over the course of the previous 7 plagues, Pharaoh has actually given in 4 times. He allowed the Israelites to leave during the plague of frogs, twice in the plague of beasts, and once in the plague of hail. In each case, however, after the plague dissipated, he changed his mind, most likely because his ego wouldn’t allow for him to give up his slaves so easily.
In God’s case, it seems that the plagues have taken on a life of their own, with their objective having become “So that Pharaoh will know that I am God.”
We all know who is going to win this proverbial battle of wits. It’s not even a contest. But the truth is, if the objective is for Pharaoh to learn who God is, that was achieved during the plague of hail when Pharaoh declared, “I have sinned. God is righteous, while I and my nation are wicked!” (9:27)
Most troubling in trying to pinpoint the critical turning point is when the shift comes from Pharaoh standing stubbornly in defiance of God, versus when the Torah tells us that God Himself strengthened Pharaoh’s heart. It first happened in the plague of boils, and we’re told in the prelude to the plague of locusts that “I have hardened [Pharaoh’s] heart as well as the heart of his servants, so my signs can be spread through them.”
It seems unfair at this point – even if Pharaoh were to give in, he has other devils controlling his mind. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Rabbi David Fohrman has developed a very innovative approach to the differences between the phrases “va’y’chazek et libo” and “va’yakhbed at libo” (strengthened and hardened his heart, respectively) which is worth perusing on his Alephbeta website. In a shiur I heard on yutorah.org, Rabbi Zev Leff argues that the purpose of any strengthening of Pharaoh’s heart was to make it that he wouldn’t give in and let the Israelites leave Egypt on account of the plagues – he needed to come to the realization on his own that letting the slaves leave was the right thing to do, irrespective of plagues.
Which brings us to the question of God’s ego. There are many ways to explain God’s role in the world, what He represents, what He wants of us, and why He created the world in the first place. Some of the answers include the desire to have a world of Emet (truth), Chesed (kindness), Shalom (peace), and of course to spread His word and teaching through the Torah. Prior to the Torah being given, His purpose was for His Name to be known – an objective concretized by Avraham, following the failed efforts and non-efforts of prior generations.
Is this egotistical? You create a world, and You don’t want its inhabitants, particularly those capable of the greatest intellectual and spiritual heights, to forget about You? You don’t want them to take You and Your world for granted? This isn’t ego. This is normal. This is healthy pride. If I’m a CEO, a principal, a business owner, I am proud of what I built. And even if not everyone sees me, and it seems that I’m not in touch with the littlest people, I care about them. And I’d like them to at least know who I am – know that I employ them, that their purpose in this position is guided by my rules, and that I care about the things which touch their lives.
It is true that Pharaoh seemed to recognize this in the plague of hail, but 6 verses after asking Moshe to pray for the hail to go away, we see that once the hail is gone, “And he continued to sin.” (9:34) Rashbam and Chizkuni note this timeline, suggesting that the explanation for the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is Divine influence, based on the opening verse of our parsha, which God said to Moses, “Come to Pharaoh. I have made him and his advisors stubborn, so that I will be able to demonstrate these miraculous signs among them.”
Prior to this, we’ve seen God strengthen Pharaoh’s heart after the plague of boils, but not specifically after the devastating plague of hail. So what gives? Why does God take credit for Pharaoh’s hardened heart in the foreshadowing of the plague of locusts, and not in the immediate aftermath of the plague of hails, where such credit would be due?
I think the answer is that the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is not an unfair tactic utilized by God to delay Pharaoh’s chances of salvation for himself and his people. Pharaoh has let the slaves leave multiple times, and each time he backpedaled. And, after hail, not only did he backpedal, but he sinned and doubled-down in his obstinance. What does it take – after you’ve said God is righteous – to recognize the folly of your position?
For Pharaoh, it is a huge ego. He can’t admit he’s wrong for more than a minute. Even when the evidence is staring him in the face.
There is a lot of talk these days about what is right and wrong, who has an ego, who is a narcissist, what is best for this country, for other countries, for the world. Those of us who practice a little humility know we don’t have the answers, even if we think we know what’s correct. The world is complicated. Nothing is black and white.
Except, in the end, that this world is God’s world, and we must answer for the way in which we behaved and interacted with others. We can yell and scream all we want about how we understand injustice and what it means. But if we are yelling and screaming and never respectfully listening to another point of view, we are not demonstrating the kind of qualities that are Godlike – truth, kindness, peace. If in the end, the purpose of the plagues was for Pharaoh to learn about God, we too must never remove God from how we relate to others. All people are created in the image of God.
What they do in the name of that image determines how we treat them – whether refugees and immigrants from across the globe, or our neighbor with whom we have political differences.
by Rabbi Avi Billet
When one reads the opening of Parshat Bo, it is hard to ignore the question of who has the bigger ego – Pharaoh or God?
Over the course of the previous 7 plagues, Pharaoh has actually given in 4 times. He allowed the Israelites to leave during the plague of frogs, twice in the plague of beasts, and once in the plague of hail. In each case, however, after the plague dissipated, he changed his mind, most likely because his ego wouldn’t allow for him to give up his slaves so easily.
In God’s case, it seems that the plagues have taken on a life of their own, with their objective having become “So that Pharaoh will know that I am God.”
We all know who is going to win this proverbial battle of wits. It’s not even a contest. But the truth is, if the objective is for Pharaoh to learn who God is, that was achieved during the plague of hail when Pharaoh declared, “I have sinned. God is righteous, while I and my nation are wicked!” (9:27)
Most troubling in trying to pinpoint the critical turning point is when the shift comes from Pharaoh standing stubbornly in defiance of God, versus when the Torah tells us that God Himself strengthened Pharaoh’s heart. It first happened in the plague of boils, and we’re told in the prelude to the plague of locusts that “I have hardened [Pharaoh’s] heart as well as the heart of his servants, so my signs can be spread through them.”
It seems unfair at this point – even if Pharaoh were to give in, he has other devils controlling his mind. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Rabbi David Fohrman has developed a very innovative approach to the differences between the phrases “va’y’chazek et libo” and “va’yakhbed at libo” (strengthened and hardened his heart, respectively) which is worth perusing on his Alephbeta website. In a shiur I heard on yutorah.org, Rabbi Zev Leff argues that the purpose of any strengthening of Pharaoh’s heart was to make it that he wouldn’t give in and let the Israelites leave Egypt on account of the plagues – he needed to come to the realization on his own that letting the slaves leave was the right thing to do, irrespective of plagues.
Which brings us to the question of God’s ego. There are many ways to explain God’s role in the world, what He represents, what He wants of us, and why He created the world in the first place. Some of the answers include the desire to have a world of Emet (truth), Chesed (kindness), Shalom (peace), and of course to spread His word and teaching through the Torah. Prior to the Torah being given, His purpose was for His Name to be known – an objective concretized by Avraham, following the failed efforts and non-efforts of prior generations.
Is this egotistical? You create a world, and You don’t want its inhabitants, particularly those capable of the greatest intellectual and spiritual heights, to forget about You? You don’t want them to take You and Your world for granted? This isn’t ego. This is normal. This is healthy pride. If I’m a CEO, a principal, a business owner, I am proud of what I built. And even if not everyone sees me, and it seems that I’m not in touch with the littlest people, I care about them. And I’d like them to at least know who I am – know that I employ them, that their purpose in this position is guided by my rules, and that I care about the things which touch their lives.
It is true that Pharaoh seemed to recognize this in the plague of hail, but 6 verses after asking Moshe to pray for the hail to go away, we see that once the hail is gone, “And he continued to sin.” (9:34) Rashbam and Chizkuni note this timeline, suggesting that the explanation for the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is Divine influence, based on the opening verse of our parsha, which God said to Moses, “Come to Pharaoh. I have made him and his advisors stubborn, so that I will be able to demonstrate these miraculous signs among them.”
Prior to this, we’ve seen God strengthen Pharaoh’s heart after the plague of boils, but not specifically after the devastating plague of hail. So what gives? Why does God take credit for Pharaoh’s hardened heart in the foreshadowing of the plague of locusts, and not in the immediate aftermath of the plague of hails, where such credit would be due?
I think the answer is that the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is not an unfair tactic utilized by God to delay Pharaoh’s chances of salvation for himself and his people. Pharaoh has let the slaves leave multiple times, and each time he backpedaled. And, after hail, not only did he backpedal, but he sinned and doubled-down in his obstinance. What does it take – after you’ve said God is righteous – to recognize the folly of your position?
For Pharaoh, it is a huge ego. He can’t admit he’s wrong for more than a minute. Even when the evidence is staring him in the face.
There is a lot of talk these days about what is right and wrong, who has an ego, who is a narcissist, what is best for this country, for other countries, for the world. Those of us who practice a little humility know we don’t have the answers, even if we think we know what’s correct. The world is complicated. Nothing is black and white.
Except, in the end, that this world is God’s world, and we must answer for the way in which we behaved and interacted with others. We can yell and scream all we want about how we understand injustice and what it means. But if we are yelling and screaming and never respectfully listening to another point of view, we are not demonstrating the kind of qualities that are Godlike – truth, kindness, peace. If in the end, the purpose of the plagues was for Pharaoh to learn about God, we too must never remove God from how we relate to others. All people are created in the image of God.
What they do in the name of that image determines how we treat them – whether refugees and immigrants from across the globe, or our neighbor with whom we have political differences.
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