National Scholar Updates

ESTHER

PESHAT AND DERASH IN MEGILLAT ESTHER[1]

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

INTRODUCTION

Elisha ben Avuyah said: one who learns as a child, to what is he compared? To ink written upon a new writing sheet; and one who learns [when] old, to what is he compared? To ink written upon an erased writing sheet. (Avot 4:20)

          Megillat Esther is among the most difficult biblical books to study anew, precisely because it is so familiar. Many assumptions accompany us through our study of the Megillah, occasionally clouding our perceptions of what is in the text and what is not.

          Any serious study of the peshat messages of the Megillah must begin with a clear sense of what is explicitly in the text, what can be inferred legitimately from the text, and what belongs primarily in a thematic exposition, using the text as a springboard for important religious concepts. This chapter will consider some pertinent examples from Megillat Esther.

PESHAT CONSIDERATIONS IN THE MEGILLAH

A. THE SAUL–AGAG REMATCH

          On five occasions in the Megillah, Haman is called an “Agagite.”[2] Several early traditions consider this appellation a reference to Haman’s descent from King Agag of Amalek, whom Saul defeated (I Sam. 15).[3]

          Similarly, several midrashic traditions identify the Kish of Mordecai’s pedigree (2:5) with Saul’s father (I Sam. 9:1).[4] From this vantage point, Mordecai’s recorded pedigree spans some five centuries in order to connect him and Esther to Saul. If indeed Haman is of royal Amalekite stock, and Mordecai and Esther descend from King Saul, then the Purim story may be viewed as a dramatic rematch of the battle between Saul and Agag.

          However, neither assumption is rooted in the text of the Megillah. The etymology of “Agagite” is uncertain; while it could mean “from King Agag of Amalek,” it may be a Persian or Elamite name.[5] Had the author wanted to associate Haman with Amalek, he could have dubbed him “the Amalekite.” The same holds true for Mordecai and Esther’s descent from King Saul. If the Megillah wished to link them it could have named Saul instead of “Kish” (Ibn Ezra). It is possible that the Kish mentioned in the Megillah is Mordecai’s great-grandfather rather than a distant ancestor.[6]

        Regardless of the historical factuality of the aforementioned identifications, a strong argument can be made for a thematic rematch between the forces of good and evil which runs parallel to Saul’s inadequate efforts to eradicate Amalek. In this case, the association can be inferred from the text of the Megillah itself.[7] The conflict between Mordecai and Haman as symbolic of a greater battle between Israel and Amalek is well taken conceptually, but it is tenuous to contend that the biological connections are manifest in the text. However, if the midrashim had received oral traditions regarding these historical links, we accept them—ve-im kabbalah hi, nekabbel.

B. ASSIMILATION

          It is sometimes argued that the turning point in the Megillah is when the Jews fast (4:1–3, 16–17; 9:31), thereby repenting from earlier assimilationist tendencies demonstrated by their sinful participation in Ahasuerus’ party. According to this reading, Haman’s decree was direct retribution for their communal sin. However, the text contains no theological explanation of why the Jews “deserved” genocide; on the contrary, the sole textual motivation behind Haman’s decree is Mordecai’s refusal to show obeisance to Haman (3:2–8). By staunchly standing out, Mordecai jeopardizes his own life and the lives of his people.[8]

          Moreover, there is no indication in the Megillah that the Jews ever did anything wrong. On the contrary, the references to the Jews acting as a community display them mourning and fasting,[9] first spontaneously, and then at Mordecai’s directive (4:1–3, 16–17; 9:31). They celebrate their victory by sending gifts to each other and giving charity to the poor (9:16–28).

          Consider also Haman’s formulation of his request to exterminate the Jews: “Their laws are different from every nation” (3:8). Several midrashim find in Haman’s accusation testimony that the Jews observed the commandments and stood distinctly apart from their pagan counterparts.[10]

          Curiously, the only overt indications of foreign influence on the Jews in the Megillah are the names Mordecai and Esther, which likely derive from the pagan deities Marduk[11] and Ishtar.[12] However, the use of pagan names need not indicate assimilation of Mordecai and Esther, nor of the community at large.[13]

          Not only is there no textual evidence of Jewish assimilation—on the contrary, the Megillah consistently portrays Jews positively—but there is no rabbinic consensus on this matter either. The oft-quoted Gemara used to prove assimilation states:

R. Shimon b. Yohai was asked by his disciples, Why were the enemies of Israel [a euphemism for the Jews] in that generation deserving of extermination? He said to them: Answer the question. They said: Because they partook of the feast of that wicked one. [He said to them]: If so, those in Shushan should have been killed, but not those in other provinces! They then said, answer the question. He said to them: It was because they bowed down to the image. They said to him, then why did God forgive them [i.e., they really deserved to be destroyed]? He replied: They only pretended to worship, and He also only pretended to exterminate them; and so it is written, “For he afflicted not from his heart.” (Megillah 12a)

R. Shimon b. Yohai’s students suggested that the Jews deserved to be destroyed because of their willing participation in Ahasuerus’ party, but they did not state what was wrong with this participation. Song of Songs Rabbah 7:8 posits that the Jews sinned at the party by eating nonkosher food. Alternatively, Esther Rabbah 7:13 considers lewdness the primary sin at the party.[14]

          A contrary midrashic opinion is found in Midrash Panim Aherim 2, which relates that the Jews specifically avoided the party. Related sources describe that the Jews cried and mourned over Ahasuerus’ festivities.[15]

          Within the aforementioned rabbinic opinions, we find controversy over what was wrong with the party and the extent of the Jews’ participation (if any). But this entire discussion becomes moot when we consider that R. Shimon b. Yohai rejects his students’ hypothesis on the grounds that only Shushan’s Jewry participated; the Jews in other provinces never attended either of Ahasuerus’ parties.[16]

          R. Shimon b. Yohai then submits his own opinion: the Jews bowed to “the image.” Rashi avers that the image refers to the statue of Nebuchadnezzar erected and worshipped generations earlier (see Daniel chapter 3), while Meiri (Sanhedrin 74b) quotes an alternative reading of our Gemara, which indicates that the “image” was an idol that Haman wore as people bowed to him.[17]

          Both possibilities present difficulties: According to Rashi, the Jews were to be punished for the transgression of their ancestors, though there is no evidence that they perpetuated this sinful conduct. According to Meiri’s alternative reading, the question of R. Shimon b. Yohai to his students simply becomes more acute: only the members of the king’s court in Shushan bowed to Haman. Most Jews of Shushan, and all Jews from the outer provinces, never prostrated before Haman.

          In any case, the Gemara concludes that the Jews bowed without conviction. God “externally” threatened the Jews in return, that is, the threat was perceived, not real. The Gemara never resolves the theological question of why the Jews deserved such a harsh decree. The text of the Megillah consistently portrays the Jews in a favorable light, and the Gemara’s ambivalence over the theological cause of the Purim story only supports this positive assessment. In light of these factors, we must relegate discussions of assimilation to the realm of derekh ha-derash, that is, assimilation is something to be criticized, but the Megillah is not engaged in this condemnation—rather, it is concerned with other religious purposes.

C. RELIGIOUS OBSERVANCE

          The Megillah makes no mention of the distinctly commandment‑related behavior of the heroes, nor of the nation. Other than the term Yehudi(m), there is nothing distinctly Jewish in the Megillah. Most prominent is the absence of God’s Name. Also missing are any references to the Torah or specific commandments. In this light, the holiday of Purim could be viewed as a nationalistic celebration of victory. The only sign of religious ritual is fasting; but even that conspicuously is not accompanied by prayer. The omission of God’s name and prayer is even more striking when we contrast the Masoretic Text with the Septuagint additions to the Megillah—where the Jews pray to God and God intervenes on several occasions. In the Septuagint version, God’s Name appears over fifty times.[18] It appears unmistakable that the author of the Megillah intended to stifle references to God and Jewish religious practice. The second section of this chapter will address the question of why this is so.

D. MORDECAI’S DISOBEDIENCE

          Mordecai’s rationale for not prostrating himself involves his Jewishness (3:4), but the Megillah does not explain how. Many biblical figures bow to kings and nobles as a sign of respect, not worship; notably Esther bows to Ahasuerus in 8:3.[19] The text suggests that Mordecai did not want to honor the king and his command (see 3:2–4), but this explanation seems puzzling. Would Mordecai endanger his own life and the lives of all Jews[20] for this reason? Esther Rabbah 6:2 finds it unlikely:

But Mordecai did not bow down nor prostrate himself before him (3:2). Was Mordecai then looking for quarrels or being disobedient to the king’s command? The fact is that when Ahasuerus ordered that all should bow down to Haman, the latter fixed an idolatrous image on his breast for the purpose of making all bow down to an idol.[21]

Other rabbinic sources contend that rather than wearing an idol, Haman considered himself a deity.[22]

          Nevertheless, the text never alludes to idolatry in regard to Haman, nor anywhere else in the Megillah.[23] It appears that technical idolatry did not figure into Mordecai’s refusal to bow to Haman. In the second section of this chapter, we will consider alternative responses to this question.

          To conclude, certain midrashic assumptions are without clear support in the biblical text, and there often is disagreement in rabbinic sources. Both Mordecai and Esther’s biological connection to Saul and Haman’s descent from Agag of Amalek are debatable. There is no evidence of Jewish assimilation, nor is there testimony to overtly Jewish religiosity. Finally, it is unclear why Mordecai refused to bow to Haman, which is surprising given the centrality this episode has in the narrative.

          Although these ambiguities make an understanding of the Megillah more complicated, they also free the interpreter to look beyond the original boundaries of explanation and to reconsider the text and its messages anew.

THE CENTRAL MESSAGES OF THE MEGILLAH

A. AHASUERUS AS THE MAIN CHARACTER

          In determining the literary framework of the Megillah, Rabbi David Henshke notes that, viewed superficially, chapter 1 only contributes Vashti’s removal, making way for Esther. However, the text elaborately describes the king’s wealth and far-reaching power. This lengthy description highlights the fact that there is a different plot. The king’s power is described in detail because it is central to the message of the Megillah. Moreover the Megillah does not end with the Jews’ celebration. It concludes with a description of Ahasuerus’ wealth and power, just as it begins. The bookends of the story point to the fact that the Purim story is played out on Ahasuerus’ stage.[24]

          The other major characters—Esther, Mordecai, and Haman—are completely dependent on the good will of the king. For example, the political influence of Esther and Mordecai ostensibly contributed significantly to the salvation of the Jews. However, their authority was subject to the king’s moods. Esther knew that Vashti had been deposed in an instant. The king even held a second beauty contest immediately after choosing Esther as queen (2:19). When the moment to use her influence arrived, Esther was terrified to confront the king to plead on behalf of her people. The fact that she had not been summoned for thirty days reminded her of her precarious position (4:11).

          Mordecai, who rose to power at the end of the Megillah, likewise must have recognized the king’s fickleness. Just as the previous vizier was hanged, Mordecai never could feel secure in his new position.

          Rabbi Henshke points out that after Haman parades Mordecai around Shushan (a tremendous moral victory for Mordecai over his archenemy), Mordecai midrashically returns to his sackcloth and ashes (see Megillah 16a). After Haman is hanged, which should have ended the conflict between Mordecai and Haman, only the king is relieved, because the threat to his own wife is eliminated (7:10). Even after Ahasuerus turns Haman’s post over to Mordecai, Esther still must grovel before the king (8:1–6). The Jews remain in mortal fear because of the king’s decree, irrespective of Haman.

B. GOD AND AHASUERUS

          Most of the main characters of the Megillah have counterparts: Mordecai opposes Haman; Esther is contrasted to Vashti (and later Zeresh). On the surface, only Ahasuerus does not have a match—but behind the scenes, he does: it is God.[25] While God’s Name never appears in the Megillah, “the king” appears approximately 200 times. It would appear that Ahasuerus’ absolute power is meant to occupy the role normally assigned to God elsewhere in Tanakh.[26]

          Everyone must prostrate before the king’s vizier—how much more respect is therefore required for the one who appointed him! And one who enters the throne room without the king’s permission risks his or her life—reminiscent of the Jewish law of the gravity of entering the Holy of Holies, God’s “throne room.” Even the lavish parties at the beginning of the Megillah fit this theme. Instead of all the nations of the world coming to the Temple in Jerusalem to serve God (Isa. 2:2–4), all the nations of the world come to the palace in Shushan to see Ahasuerus’ wealth and to get drunk.

C. THE MEGILLAH AS SATIRE[27]

          Along with Ahasuerus’ authority and absolute power comes a person riddled with caprice and foolishness. Ahasuerus rules the world, but his own wife does not listen to him. He makes decisions while drunk and accepts everyone’s advice. Rabbi Henshke convincingly argues that the primary point of the Megillah is to display the ostensible power of a human king while satirizing his weaknesses.

          The patterns established in chapter 1 continue throughout the Megillah. Haman is promoted simply because the king wants to promote him. This promotion occurs right after Mordecai saves the king’s life and is not rewarded at all. Despite the constant emphasis on the king’s laws, Ahasuerus readily sells an innocent nation for destruction and drinks to that decision (3:11–15). Later he still has the audacity to exclaim, “mi hu zeh ve-ei zeh hu!” (who is he and where is he, 7:5). Despite the king’s indignant proclamation, the answer to his question is that it is the king himself who is the enemy of the Jews![28]

          The striking parallel between Haman’s decree (3:11–15) and Mordecai’s (8:7–14) further illustrates the king’s inconstancy: both edicts follow the identical legal procedure and employ virtually the same language, yet one allows the Jews to be exterminated while the other permits the Jews to defend themselves. The decree of self-defense rather than a repeal of Haman’s decree of extermination demonstrates that Ahasuerus is subservient to his own decrees to the point where he cannot even retract them himself (1:19; 8:8, cf. Dan. 6:9, 13, 15-16). Finally, the Bigtan and Teresh incident (2:21–23) serves as a reminder that the king’s power was precarious and that his downfall could arise suddenly from within his Empire.[29]

D. MORDECAI’S DISOBEDIENCE

          We may identify two layers of motivation for Mordecai’s not bowing to Haman: Rabbi Yaakov Medan asserts that Mordecai does not bow because he needs to send a strong message to Israel: passivity in the face of evil can cause even more harm in the future.[30]

          In light of Rabbi Henshke’s analysis, another answer emerges: Mordecai wishes to oppose the king’s command (3:2, 4). Once the king promotes Haman (especially right after Mordecai had saved the king’s life yet received no reward), Mordecai recognizes the fickle character of the king. Even further, Mordecai perceives that Ahasuerus had “replaced” God as the major visible power in Shushan. Thus Mordecai finds himself battling on two fronts. While superficially he opposes Haman, his defiance actually is also a spiritual rebellion against Ahasuerus. Therefore the text stresses that Mordecai was violating the king’s decree by refusing to prostrate before Haman.

          The Gemara lends conceptual support for this dual battle of Mordecai. After Mordecai learns of the decree of annihilation, he begins to mourn:

“And Mordecai knew all that had been done” (4:1)—what did he say? Rav says: Haman has triumphed over Ahasuerus. Samuel says: the higher king has triumphed over the lower king (Rashi: a euphemism for “Ahasuerus has triumphed over God”). (Megillah 15a)

According to Rav, Haman was the primary threat to Mordecai and the Jews. Mordecai bewails Haman’s manipulation of the weaker Ahasuerus. According to Samuel, Mordecai perceives that Ahasuerus was too powerful. That Ahasuerus allowed such a wicked individual to rise to power weakened the very manifestation of God in this world. Rav’s response addresses the surface plot, the conflict between Haman and Mordecai. Samuel reaches to the struggle behind the scenes—God’s conflict with Ahasuerus.

E. AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE WORLD OF AHASUERUS

          Instead of stopping at its satire of the king, the Megillah offers an alternative lifestyle to the world of Ahasuerus. As was mentioned earlier, the Megillah consistently portrays the Jews’ character in a positive light. In 3:8, Haman contrasts the laws of the Jews with the laws of the king. Thus Jewish laws and practices are an admirable alternative to the decrepit values represented by Ahasuerus’ personality and society.

          Ahasuerus is a melekh hafakhpakh, a whimsical ruler. His counterpart, God, works behind the scenes to influence the Purim story through the process of ve-nahafokh hu (9:1).[31] In the world of the hafakhpakh everything is arbitrary, self-serving, and immoral. There is no justice: a Haman can be promoted, as can a Mordecai. In contrast, God’s world of ve-nahafokh hu is purposeful and just.[32] Although the reader is left wondering why the Jews were threatened in the first place, God had justice prevail in the end.

          Even in their victory, however, the Jews remain entirely under the power of Ahasuerus. As a result, Purim is crippled as opposed to most other holidays:

[Why do we not say Hallel on Purim?]...Rava said: There is a good reason in that case [of the exodus] because it says [in the Hallel], “O servants of the Lord, give praise”— who are no longer servants of Pharaoh — But can we say in this case, O servants of the Lord, give praise—and not servants of Ahasuerus? We are still servants of Ahasuerus! (Megillah 14a)

CONCLUSION

          The showdown between Haman and Mordecai is central to the surface plot, whereas the more cosmic battle that pits God and Mordecai against the world of Ahasuerus permeates the frame of the Megillah from beginning to end.

          The reader is left helpless in the face of the question of why the Jews deserved this decree. The Jews appear completely righteous, and it specifically is the heroic integrity of Mordecai which endangers them in the first place. Yet the reader is led to confront God honestly, confident by the end that there is justice in the world, even when it is not always apparent to the human eye. This piercingly honest religiosity has been a source of spiritual inspiration throughout the Jewish world since the writing of the Megillah. The Megillah challenges us and brings us ever closer to God—who is concealed right beneath the surface.

nd Aharon Lichtenstein.

Book Review by Rabbi Hayyim  Angel

Joshua Berman, Ani Maamin: Biblical Criticism, Historical Truth, and the Thirteen Principles of Faith (Maggid, 2020), 321 pages

              Joshua Berman has written a much-needed book for those in the Orthodox community who have read popular works on Bible criticism but who lack the tools to evaluate the merits of various theories or the religious implications of these theories. Informed by decades of research into both traditional and academic methods, Berman is uniquely qualified to address the religious and academic issues in the first book-length study of its kind.[i]

Berman’s primary argument in the first half of his book is that most purported faith-science conflicts arise from misunderstandings of the nature of academic truth. There are several influential academic Bible theories, such as the documentary hypothesis, which posits multiple human authors of the Torah to account for the contradictions and redundancies in the Torah, or arguments that many narratives lack archaeological corroboration and therefore are fictional and irrelevant. Berman posits that these are based on anachronistic assumptions about literature, history, and law, rather than on the world of ideas in ancient Near Eastern texts and contexts. It is therefore critical from a scholarly perspective to shed these assumptions, and to attempt to understand the Torah as a literary creation of the ancient world. By doing so, we also may better appreciate the revolutionary religious and moral developments that the Hebrew Bible contributed to ancient Near Eastern culture and literature. These values transformed many areas of world culture.

Many of Berman’s arguments in the first half of his book are summaries of his two earlier academic books published by Oxford University Press: Inconsistency in the Torah: Ancient Literary Convention and the Limits of Source Criticism (2017), and Created Equal: How the Bible Broke from Ancient Political Thought (2008). Because Ani Maamin is primarily addressed to the Orthodox community, Berman is careful to demonstrate the continuity of his ideas and methodology with classical rabbinic sources. For example, he cites Maimonides and Gersonides when discussing the literary and historical context of the Torah, and he explores the thought of Netziv and Rabbi Zadok HaKohen of Lublin on the relationship between the Written and Oral Law.

Berman does an admirable job in challenging the central assumptions of the documentary hypothesis. For example, proponents of that foundational theory of biblical criticism maintain that Deuteronomy was written as a new version of history and law intended to replace the earlier books of the Torah. Berman notes many examples, however, where Deuteronomy clearly relies on the earlier Torah narratives and laws, and cannot be read as a stand-alone work. Berman asks why the Torah would retain conflicting narratives and laws. The source critics who proposed the documentary hypothesis respond that the Torah is an anthology of competing traditions that were brought together by later redactors. Berman argues, however, that the Torah’s laws are not a compromise between different communities that had different laws, as the source critics argue. Rather, the collections of laws in the Torah are replete with conflicts without having their differences synthesized. “The sine qua non of a compromise document…is that it will iron out conflict and contradiction so that the community can proceed following one authoritative voice” (134). There are also no known ancient Near Eastern narrative anthologies of combined sources, nor compromise legal documents, to serve as precedents to this hypothesis. Finally, “why would the later author of Deuteronomy compose laws designed to replace laws spoken by God in Exodus, and replace them with laws whose authority is only that of Moses?” (135).

Regarding the documentary hypothesis theory of two spliced documents to create the Noah narrative, Berman identifies the many textual and methodological holes in that theory. Once again, there are no known examples of interwoven texts in the ancient Near East. Most strikingly, the complete flood narrative in the Torah features 17 elements that are parallel with the Babylonian flood narrative, the Epic of Gilgamesh. Each purported document in the Noah narrative contains only some of these elements, whereas only the combined accounts (i.e., Genesis 6–9) contain all 17 elements, in the same order as Gilgamesh. Based on these and several other arguments, Berman states that “the two-source hypothesis… should be rejected entirely on academic grounds, because it collapses under the weight of its own deficiencies” (126).

The architects of the documentary hypothesis mistakenly read the narratives of the Torah as they would evaluate modern histories, and therefore concluded that the Torah’s contradictions must have arisen from the hands of different authors. However, Tanakh has no concept of history in the way that we think of that discipline today. The authors of ancient literature, including Tanakh, harnessed accepted historical details for the purpose of exhortation. Pre-modern writers did not sift sources to paint as accurate a picture of the past as possible, but rather used what was known about the past to inspire and instruct. The listener would engage with these texts to learn the lessons those texts come to teach:

The Tanakh is a valuable account of the past, not because all it records is fact. It is a valuable account of the past because of the divine authority behind it; it is valuable because it casts the events of the past in a way that ensures that we come away with the most important messages those events have to teach. Our modern environment tells us we should read the news or learn about past events and then process the facts for ourselves, determine their meaning on our own. Our sacred sources insist that we come to the sacred texts in submission with the belief and commitment that this alone is the best way to understand the meaning and lessons of the events that are portrayed. This is how God has authorized that we relate to these events (25).

Berman warns that we should not fall into today’s historical bias, that “facts” that are considered “historical” are more valuable than other forms of teaching.

In this vein, Berman devotes a chapter to the historicity of the exodus from Egypt. Although we cannot hope to corroborate every point of the Torah’s narrative from extant Egyptian records, the Torah’s account contains several significant parallels to contemporaneous Egyptian artifacts and literary records that demonstrate the Torah’s deep cultural familiarity with Egypt at the time of the exodus.[ii] The Torah built a series of religious and moral lessons upon a historical core.

Tanakh did break rank with other ancient foundational narratives of surrounding ancient Near Eastern cultures. Tanakh presents a historical continuum and depicts real people and events that occurred in known geographical settings. Ancient Near Eastern myth is generally set in places not easily identified by their readers, addresses realities of human existence, focuses on a small number of figures, and typically employs supernatural events and figures. In stark contrast, God’s interaction with people in Tanakh is dynamic, and relates to many people over a long period of time. Berman observes that these fundamental differences reflect the different genre established by Tanakh:

The Tanakh is… a record of how God responds to Israel’s actions across the history of their relationship in covenant…. The surrounding cultures of the ancient Near East believed that there was no force that unilaterally controlled world events; the gods were in tension with one another, and this tension played out in the chaotic turns of world events. By contrast, the Tanakh posits that the world is controlled by a God who purposefully directs human—that is to say historical—affairs according to His will… Writing in this new convention makes sense only if the Tanakh assumes that it is telling us about individuals that really lived and events that really happened. (37–38)

Hazal and classical commentaries generally assume that biblical stories are historical, but there is meaningful debate on that subject as well. The primary endeavor of traditional commentary is to uncover the religious meaning of our sacred texts, and that is precisely what the original prophetic authors intended for their audiences.[iii]

In addition to bringing their anachronistic sense of history into their analyses, the source critics who created the documentary hypothesis, influenced by Aristotle, also imposed an expectation of consistency. Since there are contradictions in the Torah, these critics argued, the Torah must be a literary product of different hands, as a single author would not contradict himself. Berman, however, challenges this assumption. Can we be certain that the authors of biblical Israel shared Aristotle’s notion that wise people do not contradict themselves? Shalom Carmy and David Shatz argue that

The Bible obviously deviates, in many features, from what philosophers (especially those trained in the analytic tradition) have come to regard as philosophy…. Philosophers try to avoid contradicting themselves. When contradictions appear, they are either a source of embarrassment or a spur to developing a higher order dialectic to accommodate the tension between the theses. The Bible, by contrast, often juxtaposes contradictory ideas, without explanation or apology.[iv]

To account for the narrative discrepancies between Deuteronomy and the other books of the Torah, Berman appeals to analogies with Hittite vassal treaties. They often made treaties between themselves as suzerain (the more powerful king) and vassal nations (subordinate countries who depended on the suzerain for protection in exchange for loyalty and taxation). Among the numerous similarities between Hittite treaties and the covenant of the Torah, Hittite kings used updated language in their treaties to suggest changes in terms of the relationship between the suzerain and vassal. Hittites did not want the earlier versions of the treaty to be forgotten or supplanted. Rather, they retold stories with differences, and those differences were critical for understanding the change in the standing of the vassal. The vassal would understand these changes in this manner, specifically by reading the earlier and updated versions together. Imagine a cuneiform version of “show track changes.” Berman concludes that

The Hittite kings “updated” the past to serve the needs of the moment…. There was no desire to forget now the story had been told in previous generations. Rather, the retention of the previous telling of the history was crucial, even as that history was rewritten.… Only by accessing the previous version of the history between the two kings would the vassal fully grasp the nuance of the new version of those events and properly digest the diplomatic signaling inherent in the telling.… Every change in nuance between the accounts was carefully measured. (101)

Similarly, Deuteronomy is a renewal treaty between God and Israel, who has been a rebellious vassal. The retold history highlights rebellions, leaving Israel on different terms with God as the people are about to enter the land. Deuteronomy is intended to be read along with the other, earlier biblical books, not to replace them. Deuteronomy does not present a stand-alone recap of all Israel’s history, but rather reviews only several critical points of the covenantal history from Sinai onward, often highlighting Israel’s intransigence. Readers are expected to discern the nuanced differences to ascertain the change in Israel’s standing before God after a generation of rebellions.

While Berman’s critique of the documentary hypothesis is persuasive, and his alternative hypothesis is consistent with a contemporaneous ancient treaty-making technique, one might ask the same question that Berman levels effectively against the source critics: If Deuteronomy is a royal upgrade of a suzerain-vassal treaty where the nuanced differences redefine the relationship, why is the book largely presented in the mouth of Moses? Shouldn’t God as sovereign be the one to restate the treaty? Berman maintains that Moses acts as God’s agent to tell them to recall the covenant, but it is unclear why God should not command Israel to recall that covenant.

The conventional position adopted by classical commentaries appears closer to what is suggested in Deuteronomy: At the end of his life, Moses reviewed certain seminal elements of the God-Israel relationship and gave them the tools for success in the Land of Israel in their relationship with God. Moses made rhetorical adjustments for his religious exhortation, and focused on events that strengthened the God-Israel relationship for future generations. This position arrives at the same approach as that proposed by Berman. We should read the narratives in the other books of the Torah alongside the accounts in Deuteronomy, paying close attention to the similarities and differences to ascertain the meaning of each passage. At the same time, this approach avoids making a complete analogy between Hittite treaties and the Torah, given that Moses is the speaker in Deuteronomy.

            Regarding the legal verses in the Torah, Berman rejects the source critics’ assumption that contradictions suggest different authors, with Deuteronomy intended as a comprehensive legal code to replace earlier codes. The critics’ theory is based on another modern assumption that the Torah and other ancient Near Eastern legal texts are comprehensive codes. This assumption is rooted in the usage of statutory law in America, England, and Germany that became prevalent in the nineteenth century. Statutory law is a comprehensive system that supersedes all earlier laws and is binding on the courts. However, until the early nineteenth century, a majority of Germans, English, and Americans used common law. In a common law system, judges arrive at decisions based on the mores and spirit of the community. Written laws serve as resources for making decisions, but are neither comprehensive nor binding on the courts. Law in the Torah is common law, as are the other law collections of the ancient Near East. The Torah never instructs judges to use the written law, nor does it provide a comprehensive code of laws. For example, there are no laws governing how to get married in the Torah, even though Judaism recognizes marriage as an institution governed by Torah law itself. Contradictions reflect different parts of an ongoing legal process and require a complementary Oral Law from the very beginning, since there is no way to use the Written Law exclusively to govern a society. Berman submits that Deuteronomy is Moses’ restatement and new application of earlier teachings of the Torah in anticipation of the people’s entry to the Land of Israel.

Although the critics’ theories are again weakened by Berman’s analysis, one still may wonder why Hazal and classical commentaries, living in ages when common law was widespread, viewed contradictions between legal verses in the Torah as requiring resolution. While they would agree with Berman that we require an Oral Law and that the Written Torah is not a comprehensive legal code, it appears that they did view the Written Law as somewhat more binding on the legal system than what Berman’s analysis yields. Additionally, in the real time of Exodus and Leviticus, the people expected to enter the land shortly after Sinai, since the sin of the spies and God’s decree of 40 years of wandering had not yet occurred. Why would these collections of laws not reflect a similar emphasis as Deuteronomy? Further study is required of the relationship between the laws in Deuteronomy and the other law collections in the Torah.

Having presented the usage of history and law in the Torah as following ancient Near Eastern conventions rather than modern conceptions, Berman identifies the revolutionary ideas of the Torah from within its ancient context. After enumerating several of the central innovations of the Torah, Berman concludes,

Throughout the ancient world, the truth was self-evident: all men were not created equal.… [The world they created] was ordered around a rigid hierarchy, where everyone knew his station in life, each according to his class. For the first time in history, the Torah presented a vision… with a radically different understanding of God and man. It introduced new understandings of the law, of political office, of military power, of taxation, of social welfare.… What we find in the Torah is a platform for social order marked with the imprint of divinity. (178)

The Torah’s religious and moral sense so vastly eclipses anything produced by its neighbors that one can better appreciate what God wanted Israel and humanity to recognize:

See, I have imparted to you laws and rules, as the Lord my God has commanded me, for you to abide by in the land that you are about to enter and occupy. Observe them faithfully, for that will be proof of your wisdom and discernment to other peoples, who on hearing of all these laws will say, “Surely, that great nation is a wise and discerning people.” For what great nation is there that has a god so close at hand as is the Lord our God whenever we call upon Him? Or what great nation has laws and rules as perfect as all this Teaching that I set before you this day? (Deuteronomy 4:5–8)[v]

Berman’s book is vital for understanding the relationship between faith and academic Bible study, where we can benefit from those texts as useful tools in learning and appreciate the staggering revolution of the Torah within its ancient context. We should not impose our modern Western notions of history or Aristotelian consistency onto the Torah, nor should we impose our modern sentiments of statutory law onto the Torah. By focusing on the Torah’s eternal lessons, by attuning ourselves to differences between narratives to refine our understanding of the message of each passage, by recognizing that the Written Law was never intended as a comprehensive code of law but always required an Oral Law, we can maintain complete faith in revelation without hiding from the beneficial aspects of contemporary scholarship.

            In the second half his book, Berman places Maimonides’ formulation of the 13 principles in Helek (the final chapter of Tractate Sanhedrin) into its historical context, noting that Maimonides was the first Jewish thinker who included God’s revelation of the Torah through the uniquely superior prophecy of Moses as essential aspects of Jewish belief. This fact alone explains the rabbinic views that allow for minor narrative additions to the Torah through later prophets. Significantly, Maimonides does not include these elements of belief when ruling on who is a heretic in Hilkhot Teshuva (The Laws of Repentance). Berman analyzes the sources and concludes that Maimonides would consider one who believes that God revealed parts of the Torah to later prophets to be mistaken, but not a heretic:

The Rambam’s view in Hilkhot Teshuva is that one must believe that all of the Torah is from Heaven. If one believes that at God’s behest another prophet added to the narrative portions of the Torah, then for the Rambam, that person is erroneous in his belief, but not deemed a kofer baTorah [a heretic]. (240)

Berman further argues that later halakhic decisors did not use Maimonides’s 13 principles of faith to exclude people from the community when they were otherwise mitzvah-observant.

            I leave it to the experts in pesak and Maimonidean studies to evaluate Berman’s arguments regarding the fate of the misguided. If Berman is correct, he makes a significant contribution to our understanding of the halakhic status, in Maimonides’ view, of much of contemporary Jewry, including many within the Orthodox community. Given Maimonides’ prestige and widespread acceptance as the primary source of the principles of Jewish faith, Berman’s analysis is exceptionally valuable.

Another productive avenue to arrive at the same communal conclusion is the position of Menachem Kellner, who surveys classical Jewish thinkers and concludes that Maimonides’ dogmatic view is a minority position. The majority adopt the view that one is a heretic only when one willfully denies a tenet espoused by Jewish thought, or willfully accepts a tenet denied by Jewish thought. Otherwise, one is mistaken but not a heretic.[vi]

            Berman’s book is an important contribution to scholarship, and to our religious pursuit of truth in the context of Tanakh study. He challenges readers to examine critically the assumptions they bring to the text. Those who ignore ancient Near Eastern laws and narratives lose a vital tool to evaluate the eternal messages of the Torah. At the same time, it is possible to exaggerate the parallels and analogies between the Torah and other ancient Near Eastern texts. Regardless of the proper balance, Berman provides a fresh perspective on Deuteronomy and its relationship with the other books of the Torah, and expands our horizons in learning, methodology, and religious growth.

The study of Tanakh is an awesome undertaking, given its infinite depth. This article will explore the approaches of the yeshiva and the academy to Tanakh study. We will define the yeshiva broadly to include any traditional religious Jewish setting, be it the synagogue, study hall, adult education class, seminary, or personal study. In contrast, the academy is any ostensibly neutral scholarly setting, primarily universities and colleges, which officially is not committed to a particular set of religious beliefs.

In theory, the text analysis in the yeshiva and the academy could be identical, since both engage in the quest for truth. The fundamental difference between the two is that in the yeshiva, we study Tanakh as a means to understanding revelation as the expression of God’s will. The scholarly conclusions we reach impact directly on our lives and our religious worldview. In the academy, on the other hand, truth is pursued as an intellectual activity for its own sake, usually as an end in itself.

Over the generations, Jewish commentators have interpreted the texts of Tanakh using traditional methods and sources. Many also drew from non-traditional sources. To illustrate, Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra (twelfth-century Spain, Italy) frequently cited Karaite scholarship even though he was engaged in an ongoing polemic against Karaism. Rambam (twelfth-century Spain, Egypt) drew extensively from Aristotle and other thinkers in his Guide for the Perplexed. Rabbi Isaac Abarbanel (fifteenth-century Spain, Italy) frequently cites Christian commentaries and ancient histories. In the nineteenth century, rabbinic scholars such as Samuel David Luzzatto (Shadal) and Elijah Benamozegh in Italy; and Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel (Malbim) and David Zvi Hoffmann in Germany, benefited significantly from academic endeavors.

Many other rabbis, however, have opposed the use of outside sources in explicating Tanakh.[2] These rabbis did not want assumptions incompatible with Jewish tradition creeping into our religious worldview. This tension about whether or not to incorporate outside wisdom into Tanakh study lies at the heart of many of the great controversies in the history of Jewish tradition.

II

In analyzing the respective advantages and shortcomings of the approaches of the yeshiva and the academy, it is appropriate to pinpoint the biases of each. The yeshiva community studies each word of Tanakh with passionate commitment to God and humanity, and with a deep awe and reverence of tradition. These are biases (albeit noble ones) that will affect our scholarship, and it is vital to acknowledge them. Less favorably, it is possible for chauvinism to enter religious thought, with an insistence that only we have the truth. Our belief in the divine revelation of Tanakh should make us recognize that no one person, or group of people, can fully fathom its infinite glory and depth. Finally, our commitment to Tanakh and tradition often makes it more difficult to change our assumptions with the availability of new information than if we were detached and studying in a neutral setting. Thus, academic biblical scholarship gains on the one hand by its ostensible neutrality. It may be able to see things that one in love with tradition cannot.

However, those professing neutrality may not always acknowledge that they, too, are biased. There is no such thing as purely objective, or infallible, human thought. For example, Julius Wellhausen, a liberal Protestant scholar of late-nineteenth-century Germany, is often considered the most important architect of the so-called Documentary Hypothesis. Building on earlier nineteenth-century scholarship, he asserted that different sections of the Torah were composed over several centuries, long after the time of Moses. He argued that some of the narratives comprise the earliest layers of the Torah. Then came the classical prophets, and only then were most of the legal sections of the Torah added. These strands were redacted by later scholars, he believed, into the Torah as we know it today.

Although many were quick to accept this hypothesis, Professor Jon D. Levenson (Harvard University) has demonstrated that it is an expression of liberal Protestant theology that goes far beyond the textual evidence. By arguing that later scholars and priests added the Torah’s laws, Wellhausen and his followers were suggesting that those later writers distorted the original religion of the prophets and patriarchs. According to Wellhausen, then, the Torah’s laws were a later—and dispensable—aspect of true Israelite religion. Instead of Paul’s related accusations against the Pharisees, these liberal Protestant German scholars dissected and reinterpreted the Torah itself in accordance with their own beliefs.[3]

The foregoing criticism does not invalidate all of the questions and conclusions suggested by that school of thought. Many of their observations have proven helpful in later biblical scholarship. We need to recognize, however, that the suggestions of Wellhausen’s school reflect powerful underlying biases—some of which go far beyond the textual evidence.[4]

The traditional Jewish starting point is rather different: God revealed the Torah to Moses and Israel as an unparalleled and revolutionary vision for Israel and for all of humanity. Its laws and narratives mesh as integral components of a sophisticated, exalted, unified program for life. The later prophets came to uphold and encourage faithfulness to God and the Torah.

In Tanakh, people who live by the Torah’s standards are praiseworthy, and people who violate them are culpable. So, for example, the Book of Samuel extols David for his exceptional faith in battling Goliath, and then mercilessly condemns him for the Bathsheba affair. This viewpoint reflects the singular philosophy of Tanakh—profoundly honest evaluation of people based on their actions. It would be specious to argue that the first half of the narrative was written by someone who supported David, whereas the latter account was authored by someone who hated David. Rather, the entire narrative was written by prophets who loved God and who demanded that even the greatest and most beloved of our leaders be faithful to the Torah.

Of course, truth is infinitely complex and is presented in multiple facets in Tanakh. Additionally, our understanding is necessarily subject to the limitations of human interpretation. Nevertheless, the text remains the standard against which we evaluate all opinions. Religious scholarship admits (or is supposed to admit!) its shortcomings and biases while relentlessly trying to fathom the revealed word of God.

III

The ideal learning framework espouses traditional beliefs and studies as a means to a religious end, and defines issues carefully, while striving for intellectual openness and honesty. Reaching this synthesis is difficult, since it requires passionate commitment alongside an effort to be detached while learning in order to refine knowledge and understanding. When extolling two of his great rabbinic heroes—Rabbis Joseph Soloveitchik and Benzion Uziel—Rabbi Marc D. Angel quotes the Jerusalem Talmud, which states that the path of Torah has fire to its right and ice to its left. Followers of the Torah must attempt to walk precisely in the middle (J.T. Hagigah 2:1, 77a).[5]

Literary tools, comparative linguistics, as well as the discovery of a wealth of ancient texts and artifacts have contributed immensely to our understanding the rich tapestry and complexity of biblical texts. The groundbreaking work of twentieth-century scholars such as Umberto (Moshe David) Cassuto, Yehudah Elitzur, Yehoshua Meir Grintz, Yehezkel Kaufmann, and Nahum Sarna has enhanced our understanding of the biblical world by combining a mastery of Tanakh with a thorough understanding of the ancient Near Eastern texts unearthed during the previous two centuries.

At the same time, it must be recognized that our knowledge of the ancient world is limited. We have uncovered but a small fraction of the artifacts and literature of the ancient Near Eastern world, and much of what we have discovered is subject to multiple interpretations. We should be thrilled to gain a better sense of the biblical period, but must approach the evidence with prudent caution as well.[6]

To benefit from contemporary biblical scholarship properly, we first must understand our own tradition—to have a grasp of our texts, assumptions, and the range of traditional interpretations. This educational process points to a much larger issue. For example, studying comparative religion should be broadening. However, people unfamiliar with their own tradition, or who know it primarily from non-traditional teachers or textbooks, will have little more than a shallow basis for comparison.

Religious scholarship benefits from contemporary findings—both information and methodology. Outside perspectives prod us to be more critical in our own learning. On the other side of the equation, the academy stands to benefit from those who are heirs to thousands of years of tradition, who approach every word of Tanakh with awe and reverence, and who care deeply about the intricate relationship between texts.[7] The academy also must become more aware of its own underlying biases.

IV

Ultimately, we must recognize the strengths and weaknesses in the approaches of the yeshiva and the academy. By doing so, we can study the eternal words of Tanakh using the best of classical and contemporary scholarship. This process gives us an ever-refining ability to deepen our relationship with God, the world community, and ourselves.

Dr. Norman Lamm has set the tone for this inquiry:

Torah is a “Torah of truth,” and to hide from the facts is to distort that truth into myth.… It is this kind of position which honest men, particularly honest believers in God and Torah, must adopt at all times, and especially in our times. Conventional dogmas, even if endowed with the authority of an Aristotle—ancient or modern—must be tested vigorously. If they are found wanting, we need not bother with them. But if they are found to be substantially correct, we may not overlook them. We must then use newly discovered truths the better to understand our Torah—the “Torah of truth.”[8]

Our early morning daily liturgy challenges us: “Ever shall a person be God-fearing in secret as in public, with truth in his heart as on his lips.” May we be worthy of pursuing that noble combination.

New Areas of Religious Responsibility: An Essay[1]

By Daniel Sperber

(Dr. Sperber is President of the Makhon haGavoah leTorah at Bar Ilan University. Author of numerous works in Jewish law, custom, and theology, he was awarded the Israel Prize by the State of Israel for his monumental contributions to Jewish scholarship.)

I would like to call attention to some new fields with which the contemporary rabbi has to acquaint himself and to learn their challenges and the possible approaches to giving them solutions. The obvious one is, of course, technology, which progresses with startling speed, presenting situations that never before confronted us. There is a huge literature on this subject, as is the case with medical ethics, business ethics, and so forth. But one area that I feel has been largely neglected is that of ecology. It may not really be new, but has hitherto been too little emphasized. In 2002, I wrote a short article in The Edah Journal 21, 2002, entitled “Jewish Environmental Ethics.” I began with a personal recollection based on changes that I had seen during a short part of my own lifetime. I wrote as follows:

A little more than thirty-five years ago, I served as a rabbi in India. When one went to India at that time, of course, one went to Nepal. So I took a week off and went to Katmandu. It was an absolute paradise. From this ancient, beautiful city, one could see the Himalayas covered in snow against pure azure skies. Running through the city was a pristine river called the Bagmati. It is a holy river, where people bathed. The waters were so limpid and pure, you could drink directly from them. The city was small and you could take a bicycle and ride eight or ten kilometers out to the surrounding, even smaller townships. These were ancient townships with gorgeous temples such as Badgaon. I thought then that if there is a Gan Eden Alei Adamot—a garden of Eden on Earth—this would be it. Had I wished to live in a land or city outside of Israel, it would have been Katmandu. I was offered very attractive jobs there. At that time, very few Europeans came to this part of the world.

A little over a month ago, my wife and I were invited to an international conference in Katmandu on conservation. It was planned by two organizations, the World Wildlife Fund, which is a massive well-known global organization, and the Alliance of Religions for Conservation (ARC), which consisted of representatives of twelve major religions, each trying to demonstrate that his respective religion had a clear interest in conservation and ecology. It was not the sort of conference in which participants tried to persuade one another of the higher ethical principles inherent in their respective religions. Instead, we were united in our goal of dealing with the challenges and dangers to the planet that we all inhabit.

The Earth is, at least so far, the only home we have. I am reminded of the midrash about a ship in which many people were sailing. When one of the passengers started to drill a hole underneath his seat, the others began to protest: “What are you doing? You are making a hole in the bottom of the ship.” He replied, “Well, it's only under my seat.” And so when I came to Katmandu, I came back to a completely different place. You couldn't see the sky. It was overcast, darkened by dirty, smelly clouds. The Bagmati was a cesspool and very much smaller that I had known it to be previously. It had shrunk to a size smaller than the Jordan, and it reeked. When you walked through the streets, you could smell the kerosene being used for cheap fuels in cars. My wife bought a pashmina—which is apparently what one has to get when one goes to this part of the world—and it smelled of paraffin. It had to be rinsed out. You couldn't see the mountains at all. You didn't realize that you were in the valley of Katmandu, surrounded by the highest and the most beautiful mountains in the world. You had to go out of the valley and climb another thousand meters or so in order to be able to see the actual mountains.

The city is now a huge, sprawling metropolis of over two and one-half million souls. Over a quarter of the population of Nepal is now concentrated in this urban sprawl. Those little townships ten miles away that I used to visit on a bicycle are all a part of the same city. They are linked up with no boundaries to demarcate borders. The roads are rutted. People walk around with cloth masks around their faces. If there was an ideal venue for an international conference to discuss conservation and ecology, this was it. Katmandu is now an example of how you can ruin the house in which you live, the garden you are meant to be enjoying.

I returned to this issue in a short article published in Bar-Ilan University's BIU Today, June 2008, pp. 8–9, entitled “The Jewish Mandate to Preserve and Conserve.” And finally in the journal Milin Havivin: Beloved Words, 5, 2010–2011, I revisited this subject in an essay entitled “Baal Tash’hit: Waste Not Want Not,” pp. 85–92, which I wish here to reprint as an introduction to the field. I would like to reintroduce some of its possible halakhic implications.

*****************

The biblical prohibition against wanton destruction is mentioned in two verses in Deuteronomy (20:19–20):
 

When thou shalt besiege a city a long time, in making war against it to take it, thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof by forcing an ax against them; for thou mayest eat of them, and thou shalt not cut them down, for the tree of the field is a man ('s) life to employ them in a siege.

Only the trees which thou knowest that they be not trees for food destroy and cut them down: and thou shalt build bulwarks against the city that maketh war with thee until it be subdued.

While this biblical prohibition of ba'al tash’hit—”not to destroy,” is quite limited, for it refers explicitly only to trees the fruits of which are edible but not to fruitless ones, and this within the framework of siege warfare. It makes no mention of scorched-earth policies, blocking off water sources, and wanton destruction in general. However, the rabbis broadened the application of this prohibition. Thus, in the Sifre to Deuteronomy, ibid., sect. 203[2] we read:

“Thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof by forcing an ax against them” (Deut., ibid.)—Are we speaking merely of “an ax,” or perhaps also [that one may not] draw away [from them their] water channel? Therefore we learn, “thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof—[meaning] in any way.[3]

Maimonides (in Hilkhot Melakhim 6:8) explains that they wish to cut off the water supply in order to dry up the trees, and his explanation is borne out by the reading in the Sifre Ms. London ad loc., “in order to dry up its trees.”[4]

However, this expansion still remains within the context of siege activities. The rabbis further broadened its application to apply to all sorts of situations, not merely during a military siege. Thus, Maimonides (ibid.)[5] applies this not just to whole trees but to fruit in general, and not only to trees and fruit but to all manner of food, utensils, clothes, etc. (ibid. 10).[6] And, indeed, this is surely the thrust of the biblical commandment. For if in times of war, and during an extended siege—“When thou shalt besiege a city a long time”—when the cutting down of trees serves a clear military purpose, such activity is forbidden, how much more so when there is less urgent a need, or no real need at all. Furthermore, even the barren trees may be cut down in order to serve as siege-engines to subdue the enemy, and presumably reduce potential loss of life on the part of the besieging army—from which we may logically and persuasively infer that the wanton destruction of barren trees, serving no real purpose, would also be forbidden. A further extension of the extended application of this principle is to be found in Sefer haHinukh (sect. 529). The author writes as follows:

… So too [there comes] under [the category of] this [prohibition] not to cause any sort of damage, such as burning or tearing a garment or breaking a utensil, and any similar kind of destructive activity…. And this was the way of the righteous and the men of [good] deeds… who would not even destroy a single mustard seed, and who would feel grief over any kind of waste and destruction they saw, and if they were able to save anything from destruction, they would do so with all the strength…..

R. Eliezer of Metz, writing in twelfth-century Germany, in his Sefer Yeraim (ed. A. A. Schiff, Vilna, 1892–1902, p. 402, sect. 382 ad fin.) goes so far as to say,

And a person should take heed of this prohibition. For we have found that a great man was punished for this transgression, as it is written, “[Now King David was old and stricken in years;] and they covered him with clothes, but he got no heat” (I Kings 1:1), and [concerning this] the rabbis said: For he shamed garments, when he tore Saul's cloak, therefore he had no benefit from them (B. Berakhot 62b). And he who destroys, transgresses two prohibitions, “thou shalt not destroy”—lo tash’hit, and “thou shalt not cut down—lo tikhrot (Deut., ibid.).[7]

There is indeed ample talmudic evidence that the principle of lo tash’hit was applied to all manner of destruction. Thus, in B. Kiddushin 21a we read that Rav Huna tore his clothing in front of his son, and the Gemara asks: Surely he transgressed ba'al tash’hit! And in Shabbat 129a, Rava is said to have broken a bench in order to use it for firewood with which to warm himself, and Abbaye reacted in surprise that surely this constitutes a transgression of ba'al tash’hit.[8]

Thus wanton destruction, or, to use a different formulation, the wasteful use of natural resources, is clearly eschewed by biblical law, expounded and expanded by rabbinic law.

This, however, should be understood within a broader ideological context. For the reason given for not destroying the fruit trees, even for the purpose of optimizing military objectives, is because “thou mayest eat of them,” meaning they constitute a vital resource for the continuity of life. Even during periods of war, one must take into account the basic injunction to preserve the world's resources and its environment for future generations. Indeed, Adam, the prototypical human being, on entering the Garden of Eden, was enjoined “leOvdah u-leShomrah” (Genesis 2:15), “to tend it and to preserve it.” The Hebrew word “leShomrah” bears two meanings: to look after it and to preserve it. These two meanings, which might seem to be almost identical, in actual fact reflect two different though related notions, both of which are alluded to by the use of this biblical term. LeShomrah, looking after something, indicates that the thing does not belong to you, that you are its shomer, its steward. Adam, is being told, as it were, that “the world and all that is in it belongs to God” (Psalms 24:21), but that “haAretz natan li-vnei adam” (Psalms 115:16), that the earth has been given over to human beings to be tended and guarded over. LeShomrah also has the semantic meaning “to preserve” something for its continued use in the future. So we are mandated to preserve the world's natural resources, which are not really ours to waste, for the continuing benefit of future generations.[9]

The Rabbis went even further to warn against overindulgent wastage. Thus, R. Hisda (Babylonia, third century ce) says: Whosoever can eat bread made from barley, and eats bread made from wheat[10] transgresses the prohibition of ba'al tash’hit. And Rav Pappa (two generations later) added: Whosoever can drink beer and drinks wine, transgresses the prohibition of ba'al tash’hit (B. Shabbat 140b).[11] It is true that the Talmud indicates that these opinions are not accepted, for one should not eat inferior food, but rather care more for one's health than one's purse. However, from the above we can deduce that when the foods are equally healthy, we should prefer the cheaper brand. Indeed the rabbis regarded waste of monetary resources as something that the Bible strongly advises to be avoided,[12] and they waged a constant battle against the overindulgent use of luxuries, for “the Torah expressed concern for the financial resources of the individual—“HaTorah hasah al memonam shel Yisrael” (B. Yoma 39a, based on Leviticus 14:36). Hence, Jewish law enjoins us not to make demands that go beyond the means of the individual. And this, too, as we have seen above, comes under the category of ba'al tash’hit, as does excessive and wasteful use of any resources. And on the basis of such a principle Jewish communities throughout the ages instituted bylaws limiting overspending, such as wearing extravagant clothing and jewelry. We find detailed rules of this nature enacted by the heads of Italian Jewish communities at Forli in 1408, and followed by rulings in Spanish Castile in 1432, etc. And already in the period of the Tosafists in the thirteenth century, we learn how the rabbis of the Rhineland limited the extent of feasts and banquets. Limits were placed on the number of invitees to wedding and other celebrations, as well as the fare offered them at such banquets, and these local communal enactments are to be found throughout Europe right up until the Second World War.[13] Such measures were taken to protect the poorer classes from societal pressures as well as to preserve the precious resources of the communities. We see, then, the extent to which this concept has been expanded in its practical applications. And indeed, the great nineteenth-century scholar, Rabbi Samson Rafael Hirsch, saw ba'al tash’hit as “the most wide-ranging warning to man not to abuse the position he has been given in the world for moody, passionate, or mindless destruction of things on Earth” (commentary on Deuteronomy 20:20).

The preservation of our natural resources is a concept that permeates biblical and rabbinic thought. Let us consider one simple example, shemitah, the sabbatical year, as it has much to teach us. On a strictly agricultural level, one may not exploit the earth without pause. The soil cannot generate crops year after year without losing its nutrients. You have to let the earth, the soil, rest—“az tirtzeh haAretz et shabtotehah,” “then shall the land be paid her Sabbaths” (Leviticus, 26:34). We know that in the medieval era, the feudal system divided parcels of land into three fields, one of which was left fallow at any given time. This made for a double shemitah, as it were. Similarly it appears that in the Land of Israel in talmudic times the fields were left fallow once every two or three years, and not merely in the seventh.[14] The earth has to gather its strength, as it were, to recharge its batteries, in order to be able to continue to produce crops and remain fertile.[15]

At times we may argue that immediate short-term benefits—metaphorically the use of fruit trees for siege-engines—may justify long-term diminution of resources. The immediate and urgent necessity to deal with vast amounts of waste products—nuclear or less volatile—and distance them from population centers by dumping them in the sea, or burying them in unpopulated areas, may indeed offer attractive, utilitarian, short-term solutions—and usually politically satisfactory ones! However, the long-term effect of pollution, both of seawater and of fresh-water sources, constitute a threat to future life, and the momentary benefits of our generation—i.e., the immediate “siege benefits”—must in no way jeopardize our progeny's ability to eat “the fruit of the trees.”

Thus, the principle of ba'al tash’hit touches upon the most basic mandate of the conservationist—the absolute prohibition of wasting our natural resources.

One might argue: Surely there are other fruit trees, not in the immediate vicinity of the besieged city. We will use these trees for our immediate needs, and there will be enough elsewhere to satisfy our future requirements. The Bible clearly remonstrates against any such thinking. Ultimately, the planet on which we live has limited resources. We can optimize them to a certain extent, but in the final analysis we live in a “closed system.” Any wanton destruction and irreversible damage reduces these resources and diminishes capabilities of the survival of future generations. Furthermore, in view of the present world population explosion, this has become a far more acute problem. Uncontrolled deforestation for short-term monetary gains, dumping toxic waste into fresh water lakes as a cheap and easy solution for major industrial concerns, irresponsible disposal of nuclear waste, etc., have already done disastrous and irreversible environmental harm, bringing drought, famine, and widespread sickness to millions of Earth's inhabitants. It is against just such practice that the Bible enjoins us, prohibiting and warning us in its characteristically laconic fashion.

One does not have to be a Bible-believer to understand the incontrovertible logic of this argument. One just has to be willing to look slightly farther afield, beyond one's immediate needs and environment, and to think in a broader geographical and temporal context.

But for the believing Jew, on the other hand, saving electricity and fuel,[16] the reduction in the use of non-biodegradable materials, and a hundred other little things of which one is hardly consciously aware, but which reduce wastage—these all may be perceived as coming under the category of a positive mitzvah. Thus, the use of both sides of writing paper, changing to energy-saving devices, lighting systems, air conditioners, washing machines, etc., may all be viewed as the carrying out of a divine commandment. For there are halakhic authorities who regard the words “for thou mayest eat of them” as a separate positive commandment, i.e., eating in such a way as to enable the fruits to be eaten also in the future.[17] Indeed, one who does not take account of such matters, and even thoughtlessly indulges in wanton wastefulness, according to some rabbinic opinions transgresses three biblical prohibitions![18]

How much do we waste in our bar/bat-mitzvah and wedding celebrations, or in our weekly communal kiddushes? Whether it be the food, or the disposable dishes, the sumptuous invitations, and the overabundance of flowers—all of these could well be seen as coming under the possible category of ba'al tash’hit and should be weighed against communal norms and societal conventions.

The world in which we live can no longer be perceived as a place in which communities are disparate and unrelated because of their separate locations. Everything is inextricably interconnected, and what happens in one location can and does affect people who live in other parts of the globe. Sadna de-arah had hu, said the rabbis (B. Kiddushin 27b), “The land is one single block,” and never was this more evident and relevant than in our own “globalized” world. It is, therefore, our religious, as well as our humanistic duty to develop a greater sensitivity to conserving and preserving resources, and to see this as a central mitzvah that regulates all manner of our activities.

We all are acquainted with the famous story of Honi haMa'agel, who saw an old man planting a carob tree, and asked him, “How long does it take until this tree will bear fruit?” “Seventy years,” the old man replied. “But,” he continued,” as I came to the world and found carob trees that were planted by my grandparents, so too I am planting trees for my grandchildren” (B. Taanit 23a).

So we too dare not act merely for our immediate material benefits. We must think ahead precisely because there is a mandate of horashah, of bequeathing: A person must transmit what he has received to coming generations. Because it is not yours, you have no right to decline to pass it on to the next generations. And wasteful destruction of resources in tantamount to denying their continuing benefits to future generations.

It is, therefore, incumbent upon our religious leaders most forcefully to convey this message to their constituent communities, so that all can participate in the primordial mitzvah of leShomrah, and avoid the dire transgression(s) of ba'al tash’hit.[19]

So baal tash’hit is not only a socio-ecological commandment to protect us from the harm we do ourselves, but also a deeply religious mandate, underscoring our status of stewardship on a planet we do not possess and resources which ultimately we do not control.

On the other hand, it is clear that not all acts that might appear to be destructive, come under the category of baal tash’hit. Obviously, we are allowed to pull out weeds or to prune trees because such forms of “destruction” are for useful positive purposes. Thus, for example, when one is unable to access earth for the purposes of fulfilling the mitzvah of kisuy haDam—covering the blood of an undomesticated animal or bird after slaughter,[20] a garment may be burned to provide ashes for this purpose, even though burning a garment would ordinarily be forbidden, coming under the rubric of baal tash’hit.[21] And on this basis, namely that baal tash’hit, by its very definition, does not include “constructive destruction,” R. Shimon Greenfeld (1881–1930), in his Teshuvot Maharshag vol. 2, 1944, no. 243, s.v. veHinei lo, argues that the injunction against hashhatat zera (masturbation),[22] a sin of biblical severity,[23] if it be performed as a preventive measure, in order to avoid transgression, as, for example, on the part of a homosexual to avoid homosexual activity, then his “spilling of seed” is not “in vain,” and “he has not really committed a sin.”[24]

Already the great Kabbalist, R. Mosheh Cordovero (1522–1570) in his Tomer haDevorah (1589) chapter 3, wrote:

And wisdom will give life to all, as it is written, “and the wisdom will give life to its owners” (Eccles. 7:12), so will it teach life to all the world and cause them to have life in this world and the next and give them life…

And his mercies are spread over all creatures, so that they be not dishonored nor destroyed, since the supreme wisdom is spread over all creatures, inanimate, growing, live and articulate, and it is for this reason we have been warned against spoiling food, for on this [too], just as the supreme wisdom does not dishonor (or spoil) any existing object, and all is created from there, as it is written “and all You created is wisdom” (Psalm 104:24), so too should man's mercy be upon all His creatures, may He be blessed… . And accordingly, one should not dishonor anything at all, for all [have their roots] in wisdom, and one should not uproot any plant other than when needed, and not kill any living thing except when required…, [and one may do so] only to elevate them from the status of living creatures to articulate ones [i.e., to humankind] For under such circumstances one may pluck the vegetable and slaughter living [animals] to harm them into order to give them merit.

This, of course, is formulated in mystical terms. But the gist of the statement in halakhic terms is that “constructive destruction” is permissible, and does not come under the category of baal tash’hit.

Some might then argue that industrial pollution, to take a random example, is by no means wanton destruction, since it is normally part of the process of positive industrialization, one which certainly yields immediate or short-term beneficial results to society. Nonetheless, I would argue, on the basis of our earlier analysis, that it most surely comes under the category of baal tash’hit, since its harmful effect to the atmosphere is patently evident, and this negativity certainly outweighs any short-term merit it may profess to have.

This leads us on to yet another area in which I believe contemporary rabbis must develop a degree of competence, in order to be able to advise their constituents and influence them actively to involve themselves in social ethical investment. For irresponsible investment, such as investing in harmful products, for example those that contaminate our planet or impoverish sectors of the population, and even impair their health, is to be firmly and vociferously opposed.

Now there are those who say “Money doesn't smell,” or as the English proverb has it, “Money is welcome though it come in a dirty clout.” What they mean by this is that the source of one's wealth, and the means by which one accrued it, is largely irrelevant. One does with one's possessions whatever one wishes, good deeds or otherwise, without regard to their source.[25]

But this certainly is not the view expressed in the Bible. In Deuteronomy 23:19 we read,

Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the Lord thy God for any vow: for even both these are an abomination unto the Lord thy God.

In other words, money gained by prostitution or other unsavory practices may not be brought to the Temple to fulfill the obligation of a vow. Or to formulate this in more modern terms: “tainted money” has no place in the house of God, even if the intent is to use it for an honorable cause.

However, it is not only inappropriate for “tainted money” to be presented to the house of God (cf. Malachi 1:7–8), but indeed, any God-fearing person should distance himself from such “spoiled goods.” It is for this reason that usury is forbidden by biblical and rabbinic law (Exod. 22:24, Lev. 25:36, Deut. 23:30, etc.), as it is also in Islamic law, although legal fictions were later developed to accommodate these laws to modern society and its economic infrastructure. Indeed, the Hebrew word for usury is neshekh, from the root nashakh, “to bite,” for usury bites into one's possessions as a beast bites into the flesh. And just as one may not extract usury, so too we read in Exodus 22:26–27,

If thou at all take thy neighbor's raiment to pledge, thou shalt deliver it unto him by the time that the sun goes down. For it is his raiment for his skin: Wherein shall he sleep? And it shall come to pass when he crieth unto me, that I will hear, for I am gracious.

And just as He is gracious, so too are we enjoined to be gracious (see B. Shabbat 133b; Y. Pe'ah, chapter I ad init.).

And to much the same end, the Sabbatical year annuls all debts, as we read in Deuteronomy 15:1–2:

At the end of every seven years thou shalt make a release [of debts]. And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor that lendeth unto his neighbor shalt release it; he shalt not extract it of his neighbor, or of his brother, because it is called the Lord's release.

And coming back to the subject of the “Sabbatical year” the rabbis devoted a whole chapter of the talmudic tractate Shevi'it to this issue.

For we have no absolute ownership over that which we possess (or think we possess). Our land, our property, our wealth is God's gift to us, and we are no more than guardians over it, enjoined to watch over it and preserve it for future generations. He bids us give tithes and other forms of charity from our earnings (e.g., Lev. 19:9–10, ibid. 23:22, Num. 18:21–24, 14:22–27, 28–29, 23:19–22), and preserve the sanctity—i.e., moral integrity—of our possessions. The sanctity of our possessions, and indeed the sanctity of the land we live on, is preserved by our judicious and ethical use thereof, and that which is “tainted” carries with it a stigma that bids us distance ourselves from it. As the rabbis have said (Derekh Eretz Zuta 2:8), “Distance yourself from that which leads to sin, and all that is like it;” or again (ibid. 1:12): “Distance yourself from the unsightly and all that is like it.” We have a further obligation to do all within our power to discourage the continuation of such unseemly activities.

Wealth poses numerous problems and challenges, as Meir Tamari, onetime chief economist to the office of the Bank of Israel, in his seminal work With All Your Possessions: Jewish Ethics and Economic Life, (New York/London, 1987, p. 25), wrote,

Ever since the dawn of history, material possessions and wealth have been seen as posing basic ethical and spiritual problems. All religions, therefore, have had to offer some perspective regarding the scope and legitimacy of economic activity. Judaism is no exception in this respect, though it differs radically from all other religions in the answers it provides to the relevant questions.

Two distinct sets of problems within the general issue of material wealth would seem to require a religious perspective: the proper allocation of time between work and spiritual activity (such as prayer, religious study, or the fulfillment of religious obligations), and the challenges to ethics and morality. Inequalities in wealth have given rise to injustice, theft, and often bloodshed, and the accumulation of wealth often looks as though it is linked to human lust. All of these behaviors are inconsistent with the ethical and moral teachings of almost all religions. In Judaism's approach to these and allied issues, we will be able to discover the foundations for a specific ethical framework with respect to economic activity, on the part of both the individual and society.

And indeed, in his 340-page book he attempts to paint a portrait of the vision of Jewish ethical economics.[26]

From a broader viewpoint, at a global level, we may note that “the capitalist free market, perhaps the greatest innovation of the modern economic system, one that has triumphed over its socialist and totalitarian foes, permits the individual to exert a good deal of control over his own private world. But capitalism is ill-equipped to redress injustice and inequity; in fact inequity is front-loaded into the system.”[27]

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the former Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, in his The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, (New York, 2002, p. ii), so eloquently stated:

The liberal democracies of the West are ill-equipped to deal with such problems. That is not because they are heartless—they are not; they care—but because they have adopted mechanisms that marginalize moral conditions. Western politics have become more procedural and managerial. Not completely: Britain still has a National Health Service, and most Western countries have some form of welfare provision. But increasingly, governments are reluctant to enact a vision of the common good because—so libertarian thinkers argue—there is little substance we can give to the idea of the good we share. We differ too greatly. The best that can be done is to deliver the maximum possible freedom to individuals to make their own choices, and the means best suited to this is the unfettered market where we can buy whatever lifestyle suits us, this year, this month. Beyond the freedom to do what we like and can afford, contemporary politics and economics have little to say about the human condition.

And he continues (ibid. p. 32):

Not only has the dominance of the market had a corrosive effect on the social landscape [and, we may add, the physical ecological landscape, too—D.S.], it has also eroded our moral vocabulary, arguably the most important resource in thinking about the future. In one of the most influential books of recent times, After Virtue, Alasdair MacIntyre argued that “We possess indeed simulacra of morality, we continue to use many of the key expressions. But we have—very largely, if not entirely—lost our comprehension, both theoretical and practical, of morality.” The very concept of ethics (Bernard Williams called it “that peculiar institution”) has become incoherent. Increasingly, we have moved to talking about efficiency (how to get what you want) and therapy (how not to feel bad about what you want). What is common to both is that they have more to do with the mentality of marketing (the stimulation and satisfaction of desire) than that of morality (what ought we desire).

And in what may seem to be an obvious statement, but I believe is a very significant formulation, he remarks (ibid. p. 42),

Religion and politics are different enterprises. They arose in response to different needs: in the one case to bind people together in their commonality, in the other to mediate peaceably between their differences.

Economic considerations play a key role in the political process. However, the single greatest risk of the twenty-first century (to paraphrase a Sacksian statement) is that economics become religionized. Religion should guide economics and not the reverse. Hence, ethics and morality should form the foundations of economic policy, whether at governmental or at non-governmental levels.

I therefore believe that it should be our aim, and indeed the universal aim of all faith groups, actively to encourage the socially responsible deployment of our assets and engage in a concerted effort to combat the use of unethical and harmful means to accumulate wealth. And this, of course, includes the use of industrial “short-cuts” with their immediate and very attractively financial returns, but also with their often devastating ecological effects.

What does all of the above mean from a practical Jewish perspective? Maimonides listed eight levels of charity, the highest being to give or loan or go into partnership or give work opportunities to the indigent in such a manner that he will be able to support himself and no longer be in need of charity. According to this criterion, microfinancing, as an example, in poor emerging countries, thus enabling the local population to move toward self-dependency, to improve their economic conditions as well their physical environment, must rank high on our scale of ethical activism. And all such ecological projects, be they in water purification, agriculture, forestry, etc., which will positively benefit local populations are also a clear religious mandate. Judaism sees every individual, irrespective of race or creed, as fashioned in the image of God, and hence, deserving of dignity and respect. Thus, the qualitative status of the individual, his freedom, his physical and economic well-being, and his legally recognized rights must be the concern of us all. The Jewish concept of tikkun olam must therefore address itself both to the amelioration of our environment, as well as to the bodily and socio-economic needs of the individual and, of course, to human rights. Within this broad spectrum of responsibility we should seek to dedicate our energies and our resources, and thus be ensured that we will be fulfilling the will of God.