No (Male) Moabites - A Reminder To Forgive and Move On

Parshat Ki Tetze

by Rabbi Avi Billet

Everyone who is familiar with the story of Ruth knows the Talmudic sentiment (Yevamot 69a, 77a and Ketuvot 7b) that a Moabite female is permitted to join the Jewish people. The Talmud has a classic word-game which helps clarify the mitzvah in Devarim 23:4-7, that an Ammonite and a Moabite may never join the Jewish people.

 The Torah gives two reasons for the mitzvah: “Because they did not greet you with bread and water when you were on the way out of Egypt, and also because they hired Balaam son of Beor from Pethor in Aram Naharaim to curse you.” (23:5) (Compare this to Devarim 2:29)

 It is understandable that the Moabites would be viewed negatively in that generation. But forever? The modern reader will certainly be troubled by what seems to be a racial sentiment in this law, that there is an inherent flaw in Moabite males that can never be undone, that there is no way Moabite men can ever overcome their natural feelings towards the Jewish people, no matter how society evolves and the world changes.

 Could this really be the Torah’s message?

 To call this a racial flaw is wrong, simply because Moabite women are welcome to join the Jewish people. But putting the Moabite men in such a category seems to fall under the rubric of a national “punishment” – irrespective of an individual’s behavior – that can last forever.

 There is much more background to this story that is needed to help us understand the Torah’s message. Firstly, Ammon and Moav were children of Avraham’s nephew Lot. This made them, in Torah terms, brothers with the Israelite nation. They were untouchable and their land was untouchable. However, owing to the fact that Sichon King of Emori had conquered the lands of Ammon and Moav (Bamidbar 21:26), their original lands were no longer unavailable to the Israelites. When Sichon came out to attack (Bamidbar 21:23), he opened himself to losing all his lands, including those he had conquered himself.

 See how Israel treated Edom (Bamidbar 20:14-21), Esav’s kin, offering to merely pass through their land while reminding them “We are your brothers, you know what we’ve been through,” we have no issues with you as we are merely going to retrieve our Promised Land. There is no reason to assume they would have treated Moav any differently (See Shoftim 11:18). And yet, Moav spends an entire Torah portion (Parshat Balak) trying to destroy the Israelite nation through necromancy and the curses of Bilaam.

 The Midrash Tanaim raises the possibility that “when you come to a city to fight, you should first offer peace” includes reaching out in this fashion to the Ammon and Moav nations, but concludes that it does not include them. But then the Midrash goes on to recount an episode when a potential Ammonite convert came to the religious court during the Talmudic period. Rabban Gamliel told him he could not join the Jewish people, while Rabbi Shimon said he could. When Rabban Gamliel challenged Rabbi Shimon based on the verse in the Torah, Rabbi Yehoshua countered saying that Sennacherib had thrown the world into disarray replacing populations, and there was no longer any truly identifiable Ammonite or Moabite.

 In simple terms, this would suggest that God had a plan for a certain amount of time, knowing that Sennacherib would come along one day and neutralize this law – along with the law of killing Amalekites, etc.

 Another answer is one that I first read in a sermon of Rabbi Norman Lamm from the 1960s in which he decried judging the Torah’s laws and narrative based on modern sensibilities which tend to be become more liberal over time.

 And yet, maybe there is something to the everlasting grudge. Ramban says, “Even though they are your family, and Avraham your father loved their father [Lot] like a brother, you cannot be brothers with them, because they abrogated the covenant of brotherhood, and destroyed it forever.” Certainly until Sennacherib, the national punishment against the male Moabite population would be carried forever. This is not about the individuals – it is a collective rule that no Moabite can become an Israelite.

 In our modern world, we often look to sins of the past and say “we are not like those people any more. We have evolved. We have tolerance and patience now.” Think about the relationship between Jews and Christians for millennia, blacks and whites for centuries in the Americas, and all the politics which were attached to the Confederate Battle Flag in the aftermath of the tragic shooting in mid-June at the AME Church in South Carolina mid-June. Christians are often the biggest supporters of Israel, racism is not allowed in the US as an official policy, and long-time Southerners have had to express that the Confederate flag stands for honor and not racism, at the same time as it is being pulled off of flagpoles at public buildings. Society evolves. Thanks to Sennacherib, even the Moabite could join the Jewish people today.

 And yet I know people who had a fallout and will never ever move past their fight. They will never forgive. They will never pick up the phone and make the call to move on in peace. There is a piece of human nature in this. But it is unhealthy for a society, and especially for a Jewish community, to see these kinds of attitudes in play.

 Rosh Hashana is fast approaching. We need to find a way to put the hurt behind us, and foment peace in our own ranks. Only then will our Teshuvah (repentance) be complete.

Prohibition of Consuming Blood: Of the Dead, AND of the Living

I wrote this before the Boston Massacre and the events in West, Texas and MIT this week. It is my response to the "scandal" involving Rabbi Michael Broyde that I learned of last Shabbos, and which was all the rage on the internet before the Boston Marathon. My sermon this week will address these issues.
Condolences to the Stern family on account of their tragedy this week.

Acharei Mot - Kedoshim

by Rabbi Avi Billet

William Faulkner was a master of writing single sentences that span an entire page. Though they run on and on, the sentences could not be marked as "run-on" by a grammar teacher. It is a unique skill possessed by the loquacious, which marvels readers.

            

The longest sentence I am aware of in the Torah has 34 words in it (Shmot 32:1). The Torah certainly doesn't hold its breath in making a point. And sometimes takes several sentences to do so. But sometimes one has to wonder why the Torah goes on and on about something which could otherwise be expressed in much fewer words.

            

Towards the end of Vayikra 17, the Torah tells us (as it does in Bereishit 9, Vayikra 3, 7, 19 and Devarim 12) not to eat blood. Were I to write such a commandment, I would write once "You may not eat blood of humans or animals." Pretty clear.

            

But the Torah does not do this. In addition to writing about it 5 times, in three different books, the Torah says the following in our parsha:

"If any person, whether of the family of Israel or a proselyte who joins them, eats any blood, I will direct My anger against the person who eats blood and cut him off [spiritually] from among his people. This is because the life-force of the flesh is in the blood; and I therefore gave it to you to be [placed] on the altar to atone for your lives. It is the blood that atones for a life, and I therefore told the Israelites, 'Let none of you eat blood.' A proselyte who joins you shall [likewise] not eat blood. If any man, whether of the family of Israel or a proselyte who joins them, traps an animal or bird that may be eaten and spills its blood, he must cover [the blood] with earth.  [All this] is because every living creature has its blood associated with its life-force. Tell the Israelites not to eat any blood, since the life-force of all flesh is in its blood. Whoever eats it shall be cut off [spiritually]."         (Vayikra 17:10-14)

Not only is the prohibition very clear, but the other factors thrown in essentially amount to the same idea: "A Jewish person may not eat blood."

Perhaps the message behind the over-and-over element of these instructions is reflective of another prohibition we have in our double parsha – Vayikra 19:16, "Do not stand idly over the blood of your neighbor."

All of these images of blood remind me of the excited pronouncement by the great swordsman Inigo Montoya who, on the verge of storming the castle and avenging the death of his father, exclaimed, "There will be blood tonight!"

We live in a time when we can have a more complete understanding and appreciation of what a book that transcribes one's every deed might look like. We can call it the Internet.

I once participated in a conference where a Reform rabbi was presenting material for High Holiday sermons (he was quite knowledgeable) and he kept on referring to his own "teshuvah process" and how it helped him develop some of the ideas he was sharing. Someone in the room asked, "What are you referring to?" and he said that as a young rabbi he had made a terrible mistake and was unfaithful in his marriage. One time. And kept the secret for 20 years – at which point, it came out.

He said, "Google my name – this story is the first one that will come up. And I have to live with that." He had traveled to the deepest and darkest places in his soul, his marriage and family fell apart, and he had to put his life back together.

Hearing all this, I was struck by a flood of contradictory feelings. At first judgmental, and then forgiving. "You wicked person. Have you no soul? How could you! And you're a rabbi!" was followed by, "You have gone through so much, hiding your secret, being outed, losing everything, and your personal teshuvah. Perhaps God has forgiven you. Why can't I?"

The experience is still haunting because I am not sure which feeling is correct. Or are both proper?

In our life experiences, we will always find people who make errors. No one is perfect. "To err is human, to forgive – divine" said Alexander Pope. And he was on to something.

Perhaps the blood references in our double parsha are reminding us not to look to skewer someone when we don't like what they've done. We can't stand by idly when blood is being spilled – even the blood of the guilty. And we may not look to exact the vengeance Inigo Montoya was looking to have with his father's killer.

There are cases where we can draw a line and say there's no going back. I personally have no sympathy for terrorists, deliberate murderers, thieves, or those who commit forceful crimes of a sexual nature. Immoral crimes between consenting adults is a different story – they make a very poor choice, have their own demons to deal with, and will certainly pay for their crimes in their families and communities and with God. And the same is true of other examples of poor judgment, particularly when a crime has been committed. 

And I certainly hope the same is true when no crime has been committed. That forgiveness from humans will be more readily sought.

Do all "misdeeds" warrant everyone else to skewer the guilty and seek their blood over and over and over again? If that were the case, many in our community would not be able to pass muster. No one is perfect. We all bend corners and rules when we can. Perhaps the Torah is saying that when blood is spilled, it is its own punishment. But then we are required to cover the blood and move on to the next story. A life which has seen a dark side of mistakes and poor choices has its own recovery to go through.

But we may not devour, eat and consume the blood. We don't stand idly by while blood is spilled. We make room for a teshuva process and hope that we can all merit to achieve what Alexander Pope declared to be a divine trait – to forgive and move on.

But the Children...

Parshat Vayishlach

by Rabbi Avi Billet

Towards the end of the conversation Yaakov has with Eisav about their future, Yaakov's final insistence that he cannot accompany Eisav to Seir puts the blame where most of us might put it.

'My lord,' replied Jacob, 'you know that the children are weak, and I have responsibility for the nursing sheep and cattle. If they are driven hard for even one day, all the sheep will die. Please go ahead of me, my lord. I will lead my group slowly, following the pace of the work that I have ahead of me, and the pace of the children. I will eventually come to [you], my lord, in Seir.'

When he describes the "regel ha'yladim" (the feet (pace) of the children) as the culprit for his having to move much slower, Ibn Ezra, Seforno and Ramban believe he is referring to his own children, "the oldest of whom is 12 and a few days" (Ibn Ezra). This could be supported by the verse that opens the chapter, in which Yaakov's children are referred to as "y'ladim" twice.

Others, however, believe Yaakov is referring to the children of his adult sheep who are weak and unable to be pushed hard to travel. Chizkuni (33:13), for example, points out that Yaakov placed his wives and children on camels (referring to 31:17), implying that their (the children's) inability to walk would be a non-factor.

A number of Midrashim take the reference to the weak children as a metaphor for a different time and place. It either refers to Moshe and Aharon, with the sheep being the Israelite nation who might have died in the days of Andaryanus were it not for the mercy of God, or to David and Shlomo, with the sheep again referring to the Israelite nation who might have died in the days of Haman were it not for God's mercy (Bereshit Raba Vayishlach 78).

The Medrash Agada puts a different spin on what it is the children can't handle: the burden of Gehinnom. If you push them too hard one day, they'll have no hope.

Yalkut Shimoni has two accounts which include the children metaphor referring to Chananya, Mishael and Azarya on the one hand, and the Messiah on the other hand.

The Chizkuni's interpretation is most sensible to me. One has to imagine that wealthy Yaakov's children were riding on camels, and that there is no way he would force them to walk to the point that they would not be able to continue. Sheep, on the other hand, would be afforded no such luxury.

And, as compelling as the midrashic interpretations are, I can't imagine Yaakov really had such images in mind when addressing his brother Eisav.

If Yaakov's children were riding on camels, why then did Yaakov blame his intent not to join Eisav on his small children? It may be true, as the Midrash Sechel Tov points out, that their age demanded much attention. But why couldn't Yaakov just be up front with Eisav? Why couldn't he say, "I don't think your place is the right environment for me"? His kids might not have cared where they ended up! Why blame them, when it is Yaakov who wants no part of it?

Because, as many of us well know, the most important decisions we make in our lives are heavily influenced by our children and their needs.

I know one family who chose to raise their children in a small town close to where the specific Orthodox day school they admired was located. I know of families that have specifically sought jobs in larger Jewish communities - even though they preferred a smaller or "out of town" environment - where the special education needs of one of their children could be met.

I am sure you can think of countless examples when you or your parents made important life choices that were heavily influenced by the effect and impact it would have on children.

On the flip side, there are sacrifices we make on account of our children. Sometimes we come late to or miss events we would have liked to attend because "something came up." It may be a medical emergency, or a meltdown, or a tough night at the negotiating table (ie "you are going to bed right now, or else...").

In our society, when the "detained on account of child" excuse is real, we always hope those who were offended could be forgiving and understanding.

On the other hand, there may be times when people overuse the "child" excuse to the point they are no longer believed.

Was Yaakov being truthful in his blaming his inability to continue the journey on his children? Maybe yes, maybe no. But Yaakov knew that with the right person, and presented in the right way, it is hard to refute a fallback excuse that includes the words "My kids are small and incapable of making the journey."

This is one of the shared elements of the human condition – once we have children, our lives become inexorably linked to their immediate needs when duty calls.

What was Tzlafchad's Sin?

A few years after writing this, I revisited Tzlafchad's sin over here
Parshat Pinchas

by Rabbi Avi Billet

“Our father died in the desert” (27:3) claim the daughters of Tzlafchad as they build their case to earn his portion in Canaan. Why would they use this as their opening statement when, after all, an entire generation died in the desert?

Chizkuni’s quick solution is that Tzlafchad was under twenty at the time of the spies incident and was not supposed to die on account of that decree and thus died from some other sin.

In the same verse, his daughters continue, “He was not among the members of Korach’s party who protested against G-d, but he died because of his own sin…” This claim could imply that the Korach rebellion either coincided with or preceded his death. Had he died before Korach, they would have said he “was not part of a previous group who had sinned” – such as the spies.

Furthermore, it would stand to reason that the deed for which he was punished was an objectively innocent one, as opposed to a deliberate and purposeful direct affront to G-d. Were he a real sinner, could his daughters use his sin as leverage to grant them their father’s inheritance? Can you imagine Datan’s and Aviram’s children saying “Our fathers died – but we want their inheritance?”

So what was his sin?

Rashi quotes the Gemara Shabbat 96b-97a and Sifrei 113 which record the opinion of Rabbi Akiva that Tzlafchad was the wood gatherer of Bamidbar 15:33 who was stoned for deliberately violating Shabbat in public. Since his daughters say “Our father died in the desert” and the Torah there says “When the Israelites were in the desert, a man was found gathering wood” the two stories are equated.

Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira (same gemara) is troubled with Rabbi Akiva’s attempt to identify the wood-gatherer when the Torah deliberately left him anonymous. How could this crime be pinned on Tzlafchad? He suggests Tzlafchad was one of the Ma’apilim, who tried to invade and conquer the land in the immediate aftermath of the spies, after the generation was told they’d die in the desert.

Many commentaries suggest he had a private sin, one in which he did not cause others to follow his lead.

The Zohar on Parshat Balak (Volume 3, page 205) uses a number of hints and nuances to create a different picture.

Tzlafchad was a leader – a “rav” (not a rabbi) – but he was not eligible to be a prince of his tribe because he was an “am haaretz” – not knowledgeable in Torah. When the Torah tells us “An ‘am rav’ died” on account of the snake bites in Parshat Chukat, it refers to an individual “am haaretz” who was a “rav” in his Israelite family.

When his daughters said, “Our father died ‘bamidbar’ – in the desert” the word “bamidbar” could be read to mean “b’dibbur” – on account of his speech, or complaints.

Taking nothing for granted, the Zohar offers a final proof, noting that the cantillation mark on the word “avinu” – our father – is a serpent-shaped zarka, which indicates that ‘our father’ was the lone person to die from a serpent bite in that incident.

The snakes were sent because those with gripes about manna spoke ill of G-d and Moshe. Objectively speaking, complaining is not necessarily sinning, because many complaints in the Torah do not result in punishment. It is compelling to suggest only one person died, as four verses earlier when the Canaanites took prisoners-of-war, commentaries say they only took one maidservant captive. Furthermore, unlike in other cases of plague where corpses are left behind for the counting (as opposed to when they’re swallowed by the ground ala Korach and company), we are given a tally of the dead. With the snakes, we are not given a number – which points to it being a small number such as “one.”

After telling Rabbi Akiva it is unfair to pin a sin on Tzalfchad, Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira does so himself, effectively ignoring that part of his own argument. The Torah gives us a number of examples of anonymous individuals who sinned – they remain so because their sin is not worthy to gain them infamy.

But in the case of Tzlafchad, the Torah retroactively pardons him and allows his daughters to inherit his property? Why?

There are times when people deliberately sin and give every indication of their inherent evil. And there are times when people make mistakes: something bugs them, and they take it to an extreme.

Rabbi Akiva takes a person who violates a fundamental tenet of the Torah and gives him a pardon through his daughters. Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira takes one individual out of a group of many, and focuses on him to say he alone deserves to live on in perpetuity, despite the fact that he was part of a group.

The Zohar argues that he acted alone, did not involve others, was not objectively rebelling against G-d, and he was punished on the spot for his mistake. But that does not mean that his name needs to be driven through the mud, forgotten and punished forever. Sometimes death is indeed a “kapparah” (a source of forgiveness for the soul), which allows the family to move on, while still being accepted and generally involved in the community.