National Scholar Updates

Together...Uniquely: Thoughts for Parashat Naso

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Naso

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

 

When the Almighty calls on Moses to command the priests to bless the people of Israel, the instructions are in the plural (emor lahem). When the blessing is concluded, the Almighty indicates: “and I will bless them” (va-ani avarakhem)—also in the plural. The setting of the priestly blessing, then, is clearly to be a public event intended for the entire collective.

Yet, the tripartite blessing itself is entirely in the singular form. Although the blessing is intended for the plurality of Israel, it is aimed at each individual separately. It prays that God will bless and protect each of us; that God’s countenance should shine on each Israelite and grant each one of us peace—shalom.

The formulation of the priestly blessing is alluding to a profound truth. The blessings are given to the entire community…not as an anonymous mass of people, but as an assembly of individual human beings. The emphasis is on the uniqueness of each person, the desire that each of us finds blessing and fulfillment in life. The goal is shalom…peace, wholeness, personal satisfaction.

God’s infinite wisdom encompasses all…but focuses on each. This idea is underscored in a Talmudic teaching (Berakhot 58a) that requires the recitation of a special blessing when witnessing a vast throng of Jews. We are to praise the Almighty Who is hakham harazim, the One who understands the root and inner thoughts of each individual. “Their thoughts are not alike and their appearance is not alike.” The Creator made each person as a unique being. He expected and wanted diversity of thought, and we bless Him for having created this diversity among us.

Religious life entails participating in a community, observing shared rituals, following traditional patterns. It can happen that one’s individuality may seem compromised or lost in the process. The overwhelming emphasis on communal mores tends to diminish the uniqueness of each individual. The priestly blessing reminds us of the need to be part of the community…but to retain our own distinctive individuality.

In his famous essay, “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson taught: “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion.” We each are who we are; to squelch our individuality in order to imitate others is self-destructive. Emerson lamented the tendency to forfeit one’s ideas, ideals and values in order to blend in with the dominant group. Rather, one should be true to him/herself.

Poignantly, Emerson wrote: “Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage.” These words, proclaimed in the mid-19th century, continue to ring true nearly 200 years later. So many religious people, including rabbis, are reluctant to express an original opinion unless it is authenticated by sages of earlier generations. Instead of relying on their own thinking, they seek to amass sources of earlier “authorities.”

The framework of the priestly blessing provides a vital dynamic. We are a community; we stand together in our beliefs and observances. At the same time, though, we are each unique individuals with our own particular thoughts, sensitivities and needs. While we—as members of a community—receive the blessings from the priests and from God, those blessings are directed to each of us separately.  

This is not merely a blessing on us. It is a challenge for us.

* * *

Rabbi Marc Angel has a youtube series on religion and literature, with the first session dealing with the teachings of Ralph Waldo Emerson:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqP9UMJOwmk

 

 

 

Interpretation and the Talmud: The Goal of Study

 

When reading any text, whether a work of literature or a legal work, there are broadly speaking two possible goals. The goal may be to understand what the author was trying to convey. Alternatively, the goal may be to extract meaning for the reader. Of course, these are two extremes, and a range of options exist in the middle.

The Talmud, and indeed all of rabbinic literature, is an extremely complex and deep corpus, and has been continually studied by Jews for thousands of years. The goal of the study, however, is not so simple. In this essay, I will examine how these texts ought to be approached, both according to their authors and prominent interpreters.

It may be natural to think that the ultimate goal in studying the Talmud is objective truth. As a religious act, the reader is attempting to understand God’s word, and thus the goal should be arriving at the meaning originally intended by the authors. However, the issue is far more complex, and as a result has theological implications.

Before looking at any specific piece, it is noteworthy to examine the very structure of the Mishna. The Mishna, like the Talmud after it, is noteworthy in its meticulous inclusion of all opinions, even those conclusively refuted. Unlike other law codes and religious works, the Talmud and Midrashim celebrate conflict, and preserve a multiplicity of opinions. The Mishna in Eduyot 1:4-6 explains why minority opinions are included:

 

And why do they record the opinions of Shammai and Hillel for naught? To teach the following generations that a man should not [always] persist in his opinion, for behold, the fathers of the world did not persist in their opinion.
And why do they record the opinion of a single person among the many, when the halakha must be according to the opinion of the many? So that if a court prefers the opinion of the single person it may depend on him. For no court may set aside the decision of another court unless it is greater than it in wisdom and in number. If it was greater than it in wisdom but not in number, in number but not in wisdom, it may not set aside its decision, unless it is greater than it in wisdom and in number.
Rabbi Judah said: “If so, why do they record the opinion of a single person among the many to set it aside? So that if a man shall say, ‘Thus have I received the tradition’, it may be said to him, ‘According to the [refuted] opinion of that individual did you hear it.’”

 

We can extract three reasons. Including the minority opinion teaches the important lesson that even the greatest scholars are sometimes wrong. It also allows for a later court to uphold a minority opinion. And further, it keeps a record of what has been refuted, so that such a position is not considered a second time.

From Eduyot alone, the reasons seem purely pragmatic. However, Eruvin 13b gives a more detailed picture.

Rabbi Abba said that Shemuel said: For three years Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel disagreed. These said: The halakha is in accordance with our opinion, and these said: The halakha is in accordance with our opinion. Ultimately, a Divine Voice emerged and proclaimed: Both these and those are the words of the living God. However, the halakha is in accordance with the opinion of Bet Hillel.[1]

 

Here, we are given a theological reason for the inclusion of minority opinions, for they, too, are the word of the living God.2 Similarly, Hagiga 3b states:

 

“Those that are composed in collections [ba’alei asufot]”: These are Torah scholars who sit in many groups [asupot] and engage in Torah study. There are often debates among these groups, as some of these Sages render an object or person ritually impure and these render it pure; these prohibit an action and these permit it; these deem an item invalid and these deem it valid. Lest a person say: Now, how can I study Torah when it contains so many different opinions? The verse states that they are all “given from one shepherd.” One God gave them; one leader, i.e., Moses, said them from the mouth of the Master of all creation, Blessed be He, as it is written: “And God spoke all these words.”

 

From the above sources, something remarkable emerges. All responsible opinions in a debate are deemed valid. While the halakha must follow one side, that does not make that opinion more correct. Bet Hillel is followed not because they are more correct but because they were more accepting, as Eruvin 13b goes on to explain:

 

The Gemara asks: Since both these and those are the words of the living God, why were Bet Hillel privileged to have the halakha established in accordance with their opinion? The reason is that they were agreeable and forbearing, showing restraint when affronted, and when they taught the halakha they would teach both their own statements and the statements of Bet Shammai. Moreover, when they formulated their teachings and cited a dispute, they prioritized the statements of Bet Shammai to their own statements, in deference to Bet Shammai.

 

In fact, not only are both sides of such a debate valid, but the debate itself is considered a good thing! This idea is beautifully formulated in Avot 5:17:

 

Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven, will in the end endure; But one that is not for the sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korah and all his congregation.

 

This Mishna establishes another important principle. While we ascribe value to both sides of a debate, that does not apply to all opinions. Some opinions are indeed deemed illegitimate. These debates are termed “not for the sake of heaven,” although such a designation is difficult to define precisely.

The above sources establish both pragmatic and theological reasons for keeping both sides of the debate in the dialogue. Still, from the above one would assume that the ultimate purpose of both sides is to determine what God meant. However, one of the most famous passages in the Talmud shatters this notion, the story of the oven of Akhnai in Baba Metzia 59a–59b. The Gemara relates a debate between Rabbi Eliezer and the Rabbi’s regarding the purity status of an earthenware oven that had been disassembled. Rabbi Eliezer, failing to convince his colleagues of his opinion, resorted to supernatural means to prove his position. After performing several miracles, conditioning their occurrence on his opinion being correct, the Rabbis remained unimpressed. Finally, Rabbi Eliezer resorted to an even more extreme means of proof:

 

Rabbi Eliezer then said to them: If the halakha is in accordance with my opinion, Heaven will prove it. A Divine Voice emerged from Heaven and said: Why are you differing with Rabbi Eliezer, as the halakha is in accordance with his opinion in every place that he expresses an opinion?

Rabbi Yehoshua stood on his feet and said: It is written: “It is not in heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:12). The Gemara asks: What is the relevance of the phrase “It is not in heaven” in this context? Rabbi Yirmeya says: Since the Torah was already given at Mount Sinai, we do not regard a Divine Voice, as You already wrote at Mount Sinai, in the Torah: “After a majority to incline” (Exodus 23:2). Since the majority of Rabbis disagreed with Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion, the halakha is not ruled in accordance with his opinion.

 

A literal read of the passage is shocking. Once God gave us the Torah, His intent is no longer the important question, but rather our interpretation. This takes the notion of Eilu v’Eilu (they are both words of the living God) a step further. Even if it weren't God’s word, it is still Torah! Or perhaps more accurately, God accepts all interpretations as His word. Indeed, the passage continues to say that God Himself was pleased with this outcome, saying “My children have triumphed over Me.”

One interpretation of this story, adopted by some medieval commentators, is that the goal is understanding God’s original intent as best as possible, but supernatural means are not a legitimate part of this process. This theory is a result of the uncomfortable implications of removing God’s intent from the picture, but is undermined by the simple reading of the texts cited above. Further, this clashes with several tendencies of the Talmud. For example, the Talmud is wont to interpret a Mishna or Beraita in accordance with the accepted opinion despite such a read going against the simple understanding of the text. Further, when defending an opinion from attacks based on earlier sources, often highly nuanced and convoluted reads are accepted as a defense, the simple read of the earlier source notwithstanding.

However, it would be a gross mis-categorization to claim that the Talmud places no value on authorial intent. Not all interpretation and debate is legitimate, as the Mishna in Avot so clearly indicates. The careful categorization of Stam Mishnayot with their authors, the precise exploration of and preservation of the words of earlier authorities, and the whole notion of the

mesora (tradition) demonstrates the implausibility of such an argument. But it is equally clear that a standard notion of authorial intent is decidedly not the goal. So which one is it?

 

The solution emerges from an analysis of the Talmud’s notion of fact and fiction. Whenever trying to establish a fact, the Talmud has two options, empirical observation, and canonical sources.

Whenever both exist, the latter is exclusively chosen, even in cases when observations are readily available. Counterintuitively, canon is deemed superior to observable fact.

So what is the Talmud’s reason for this inversion? The halakha does not operate in the observable world, but in an abstract one of ideals. This distinction, the subject of Rabbi

Soloveitchik’s Halakhic Man, has made its way into modern halakhic literature as well, as can be reflected in the attitudes of many contemporary decisors regarding dealing with halakhic ideas that have been empirically refuted, such as spontaneous generation. Its notion of truth, at least in the halakhic realm, exists in this abstract world of ideas.

Thus, it is not at all surprising that this phenomenon extends into authorial intent. This is precisely the idea of Eilu v’Eilu. The author’s intent is a key factor, but it is not judged by the empirical shackles of this terrestrial world but by the idealized conception of the author as reflected in the canon. In other words, authorial intent is everything in the Talmud, but its process at identifying it operates under foreign axioms.

This theory raises two fundamental questions that must be addressed. First, what exactly are these axioms, and how do they operate? Obviously not all interpretations are valid, so what rubric is used? Second, what is to be made of this idealized reality? What motivated the Rabbis to form this bifurcation and choose their idealized version over empiricism? How can this decision be justified?

My response to the first question is best posed with an analogy. Judaism holds the text of the Bible to be sacred. However, throughout history, two different schools have sought to protect its authenticity. While both are part of one whole, in a way they represent two different traditions.

On the one hand, we have the scribes, who faithfully transcribe the text word for word. Concurrently, we have the ba’alei keri’a, the members of the community whose job it is to read the Torah scroll. One theory of the origin of Kerei u’Ketiv is divergence between these two schools. While that theory has many issues with it, it illustrates this point perfectly. For, leaving aside the origins of Kerei u’Ketiv, it remains true that in the preservation of the Torah, we have those reading it and those writing it, but the two groups are indeed preserving a slightly different text.

Regarding Torah Sheba’al Peh, the same phenomenon is present. Originally, the Oral law remained oral. However, post the redaction of the Mishna, the mesora began to be transmitted in two concurrent forms, that of texts and that of people interpreting the texts. It may be the case that the two are not always identical, but the latter still remains a valid, indeed the only valid, interpretation of the former. This is reflected by the tendency to interpret mishnayot in accordance with the accepted halakha even if they do not seem to be. The accepted norms, as part of the oral tradition, remain as a key factor in the interpretation of texts.[2]

In recognition of this, the Talmud views as legitimate later innovative interpretations of earlier authorities, even as it acknowledges their novelty, as expressed poignantly in the story of Moshe and Rabbi Akiva in Menahot 29b:

 

Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: When Moses ascended on High, he found the Holy One,

Blessed be He, sitting and tying crowns on the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, who is preventing You from giving the Torah without these additions? God said to him: There is a man who is destined to be born after several generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name; he is destined to derive from each and every thorn of these crowns mounds upon mounds of halakhot. It is for his sake that the crowns must be added to the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, show him to me. God said to him: Return behind you. Moses went and sat at the end of the eighth row in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall and did not understand what they were saying. Moses’ strength waned, as he thought his Torah knowledge was deficient. When Rabbi Akiva arrived at the discussion of one matter, his students said to him: My teacher, from where do you derive this? Rabbi Akiva said to them: It is a halakha transmitted to Moses from Sinai. When Moses heard this, his mind was put at ease, as this too was part of the Torah that he was to receive. Moses returned and came before the Holy One, Blessed be He, and said before Him: Master of the Universe, You have a man as great as this and yet You still choose to give the Torah through me. Why? God said to him: Be silent; this intention arose before Me.

 

As to what may have influenced Hazal to form this conceptualization of the halakha, it seems this arises in part from the text of the Tanakh itself. Several laws point in this direction. The most obvious example is the biblical institution of testimony, which requires several extreme formalities, such as both witnesses being males, seeing each other, and concurring even regarding ancillary facts. The massive gap between these laws and the requirements of having a functioning judicial system is obvious. Hazal recognized this, instituting super-judicial[3] means of bridging the gap between the ideal and concrete by creating the kippah (Sanhedrin 81b).

This idea is far from limited to the above illuminating example. In a much broader sense, the very notion of rabbinic and biblical law, a dichotomy all across the Talmud, is much the same idea. Rabbinic law’s very existence is an admission that the biblical law as it stands is too far from reality, and needs a bridge of sorts, or perhaps a fence, to ensure its effectiveness.[4]

When faced with this reality, there are two philosophical positions that potentially emerge. The first is that biblical law is flawed. Obviously, this is not even considered in the Talmud. The other recourse is to postulate that Torah Law pertains exclusively to an idealized plane, and is perfect in this abstract universe, even if it sometimes comes into conflict with the reality of daily life.

With this context, we can attempt to understand the enigmatic imperative of Torah Study for its own sake. This ideal as the goal of Talmud Torah is expressed quite clearly in Avot 6:1.[5]

 

Rabbi Meir says: “Anyone who engages in Torah for its own sake merits many things, and moreover makes the entire world worthwhile.”

 

A warning of failure to do this can be found in Avot 4:5, which states:

 

Do not make the Torah a crown to magnify yourself with, or a spade with which to dig. So would Hillel say: “One who make personal use of the crown [of Torah] shall perish.” Hence, one who benefits oneself from the words of Torah removes one’s life from the world.

 

This ideal reaches its most famous form in Pesahim 50b:

 

Rav Yehuda said in the name of Rav: “A person should always be engaged in Torah and

mitzvoth, even she-lo lishmah, for doing so she-lo lishmah leads one to doing so lishmah.”

 

The precise meaning of this term is subject of much debate. It seems the simplest understanding is Torah learning not for any personal reward, gain, or practical benefit. It means Torah learning is not a means but an end. In light of the above analysis, this phrase takes on a new meaning. For the goal of learning Torah is not merely reconstructing an earlier historical position, but the further development of its own internal canon, to be understood in its ideal universe. Thus, in a very literal and real way, the only goal of Talmud Torah is its own sake.[6]

 

 

[1]  All excerpts of the Talmud are from the William Davidson edition, which can be found for free on Sefaria.org.

[2] An integral part of this is the belief that the mesora, the way we interpret God’s word, is guided over by His providence, making this method of interpretation the only valid one. And thus, a valid opinion is defined as one in accordance with this living tradition. The Hazon Ish made the argument that new manuscripts should not affect the halakha, since presumably God arranged history as it was for a reason. Since whatever transpires is God’s will, the way Torah is understood by its legitimate scholars is thus implicitly given his approval.

[3] Note the fine distinction between super-judicial and extra-judicial. These laws, while not “normal procedure,” were codified all the same.

[4] See Moreh Nevukhim 3:34 for what I believe is a philosophical restatement of this same idea, namely that law addresses an ideal plane.

[5] Several other sources in the Talmud make a similar point. See Sanhedrin 99a, Sukka 49b, Taanit 7a.

[6] It must be emphasized, Hazal firmly linked Talmud Torah to Ma’aseh, application of one’s learning. This essay does not mean to undermine that. It is not contradictory for the system to function in an abstract internal sense even as it is a concrete blueprint for how to act. Of course, halakha emerges from Talmud study.

 

Thoughts on the Akedah

Above all the Torah is a story. It is our story. It is replete with heroes, villains, drama, and ethical dilemmas. The Torah devotes a good deal of time talking about these characters and their trials, but more often than not, when reading these stories we learn less about the characters and more about ourselves. That’s because we weigh ourselves against the actions of our forefathers and foremothers. We ask ourselves: “Would I have done the same thing had I been in his or her position?” “Did he or she do the right thing?”

No story in the Torah exemplifies this better than Akedat Yitzhak, the binding of Isaac.1 On the surface, this story appears to be one of a conflict between obeying a divine commandment from God—“Take your son, your only son, whom you love, Yitzhak, and go to the land of Moriah and raise him up there as a sacrifice” (Genesis 22:2)—and a moral prohibition against murder and child sacrifice. In other words, Avraham is forced to decide between moral and divine considerations.

For 2,000 years, this story has plagued and intrigued Jews and non-Jews alike by drawing forth questions inside of us regarding Avraham’s actions: “Did Avraham do the right thing?” “Why was he rewarded?” “Would I have done the same?”

One common traditional interpretation is that Avraham “passed the test” by putting blind faith in God and by being willing to sacrifice his son to serve God. Avraham is held up as the paramount oved hashem, servant of God.

Another interpretation is that the Akedah was a punishment or reaction for Avraham’s actions. This interpretation is supported by Rabbi Yossi Ben Zimra in Sanhedrin 89b:

 

[To what does “after” refer?] Rabbi Yochanan said in the name of Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra: “After the words of Satan.” For it says (Gen 21:8), “And the child grew up and was weaned.” Satan said to the Almighty: “Sovereign of the universe! To this old man You graciously granted the fruit of the womb at the age of a hundred, yet of all that banquet which he prepared, he did not have one turtle-dove or pigeon to sacrifice before you!” God replied, “Yet were I to say to him, ‘Sacrifice your son before me,’ he would do so without hesitation.” Straightway, “God did test Abraham… And he said, ‘Take, I pray, your son’ [Gen 22:1].”

 

In Sanhedrin 89b, the Akedah is a reaction to Avraham’s failure to provide a sacrifice for God following the birth of Yitzhak. Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra imagines Satan questioning the depths of Avraham’s loyalty to God. Therefore, God seeks to prove Satan wrong by commanding Avraham to give the ultimate sacrifice: his own son, Yitzhak.

A second interpretation that views the Akedah as a punishment comes from Rashbam, who views the Akedah as a response to Avraham’s problematic treaty with Gerar in Genesis 21:22–32.

Both of these interpretations rely on the curious line, “And it was after these things” (Genesis 22:1). Rabbi Yossi ben Zimra and Rashbam read their peirushim into these four words.

Other interpretations also hinge on these four words. The Targum Pseudo-Jonathan imagines a conversation between Yishmael and Yitzhak:

 

Ishmael answered and said: “I am more righteous than you, because I was circumcised when thirteen years old; and if it had been my wish to refuse, I would not have handed myself over to be circumcised.” Isaac answered and said: “Am I not now thirty-seven years old? If the Holy One, blessed be He, demanded all my members I would not hesitate.” Immediately, these words were heard before the Lord of the universe, and immediately, the word of the Lord tested Abraham, and said unto him, “Abraham,” and he said, “Here I am.”2

 

Finally, Rambam (and other Rishonim) viewed the Akedah as the prooftext for the reliability of prophecy on the same level as a logical deduction. It teaches us that prophecy should be heeded just as any empirical experience of the world.

Now, turning to the contemporary world, we have several interpretations from Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Rav Kook, Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Rav Shagar), and Rabbi Dr. Walter Wurzburger.

For Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the Akedah is primarily about obedience to a divine command that stands contradictory to ethics.3

Rav Kook and Rav Shagar have similar interpretations of the Akedah that are based on a Midrash of the Akedah. The Midrash goes,

 

As [Abraham and Isaac] were walking, Satan appeared to Abraham and said to him, “Old man, are you out of your mind? You’re going to slaughter the son God gave you at the age of one hundred?! It was I who deceived you and said to you, ‘Take now [your son]….’”4

 

In this scenario, Satan approaches Avraham and attempts to convince him that it was not God who asked Avraham to sacrifice his son, but rather Satan himself. This is Satan’s attempt to dissuade Avraham from sacrificing Yitzhak. Rav Kook explains that Satan here is actually Avraham’s conscience.5

Rav Shagar goes a bit further. He concedes that it is possible that Satan represents Avraham’s conscience. Rav Shagar then states that this argument, this doubt is the central message of the Akedah. He argues that Avraham was unsure of whether he truly was commanded by God to sacrifice his son, but that he persevered through doubt to serve God. Rav Shagar concludes,

 

The lesson is clear: A conceited, all-knowing religious stance renders the trial, and with it the entire religious endeavor, a sham. The trial, along with a religious lifestyle and a connection to God, can exist only in the context of a humble personality that is content in not knowing. A conceited stance stems from pride, and it is the voice of Satan. The trial will forever be associated with a subject who by nature is in the dark.6

 

Action despite doubt is the essence of faith and the true victory of Avraham.

As well, Rabbi Dr. Walter Wurzburger argues that human morality is limited and that the act of the Akedah was not immoral. He critiques the Kantian categorical imperative that Kant describes as, “objective, rationally necessary and unconditional principle that we must always follow despite any natural desires or inclinations we may have to the contrary.”7 In other words, ethics are governed by rationally constructed, mutually recognized norms. Rabbi Wurzburger sees this view on ethics as limiting. He argues that humans have a “covenantal imperative” that is ethically correct even if we can’t rationalize it. Human morality is limited. Divine morality is not.8

Rabbi Wurzburger argues with Ramban’s interpretation of Devarim 6:18, “Do what is right and good in the sight of Hashem,” as a divine commandment to act morally, but qualifies this commandment by saying that there are times when human understanding of morality is insufficient to fulfill the “covenantal imperative.”

Finally, there are several contemporary non-rabbinic interpretations of the Akedah that are worth addressing.

The first comes from Jon D. Levenson, the Albert A. List Professor of Jewish Studies at the Harvard Divinity SchoolLevenson argues that child sacrifice was not morally problematic during the time of Avraham. Levenson believes that the purpose of the Akedah was to show us that child sacrifice was not acceptable.9

Aaron Koller in his work Unbinding Isaac understands the Akedah to be a moment in which God not only demands but desires the sacrifice of Isaac as a testament to Abraham’s ultimate faith in God’s promise of progeny. However, God values the individual human life more than he desires Abraham’s sacrificial act. Koller relates, “Consider a health-conscious person looking at a piece of cake. He may want the cake, although in the end, he won’t eat it. The rejection of the cake is a statement not of its despicability or fundamental abhorrence, but of a desire for health that is even more powerful than the desire for the confection.”10

This motif is recorded in rabbinic literature, as Koller cites,

 

R. El’azar b. ‘Azariah says: How do I know that a person should not say, “I don’t want to wear sha’atnez [the forbidden mixture of wool and linen],” or “I don’t want to eat pork,” or “I don’t want to have that illicit sexual relationship,” but rather, “I do want to! But what can I do? My Father in heaven decreed against it.” This is what is taught, “I separated you from the nations, to be Mine.” Thus one distances oneself from a sin and therefore accepts the yoke of heaven.11

 

Lastly, we have the interpretation of the Danish Christian philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard.12 In his seminal work, “Fear and Trembling” (1843), Kierkegaard offers his explanation. In his mind, Avraham’s actions were morally wrong, yet they were meritorious because of Avraham’s absolute subservience to God, what Kierkegaard terms “the teleological suspension of the ethical.” Avraham pushes ethical considerations to the side for the purpose of serving God.

All of the aforementioned peirushim are interesting and offer much insight into the troubling story of the Akedah. But none of them resonates with me. I take issue with both their incongruity with Avraham’s character as well as my own moral sensibilities. I will discuss each of these critiques in turn.

 

I find it hard to believe that Avraham would not know that child sacrifice is wrong. Avraham has a highly developed moral conscience. The entire Parashat Vayera is designed to show this fact. Avraham’s generous welcoming of the three messengers and his intercession on behalf of Sodom and Gomorrah serve as key examples to Avraham’s keen moral sense.13 Avraham’s compassion and generosity are highlighted in numerous Midrashim.14 To think that he would suddenly accept child sacrifice as morally acceptable is simply not likely.

Instead, I argue that not only did God not intend Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak but that Avraham intuited this and went along with it as a testament to his devotion to God. At no point during the story of the Akedah did Avraham truly believe that he was going to sacrifice his son. There is some indication of this interpretation in the text.

Firstly, it is not clear in the text that God asked Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak. Rather, it is possible that God commanded Avraham to raise Yitzhak as an offering but never intended to kill him. We can derive a proof of this interpretation from the text itself.

The original command was to “raise him up as a sacrifice,” but was never explicitly to sacrifice Yitzhak.15

Furthermore, when asked by Yitzhak where the animal was that they would sacrifice, Avraham responded, “God will see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son” (Genesis 22:8). Avraham indicated that he was not worried about the eventual sacrifice, since God would attend to it. In my opinion, this is Avraham tacitly revealing his belief that God would not make him sacrifice his son and that Avraham believes that there will be some force that will intercede and prevent the final action.

Also, Avraham never even began the downward stroke of the blade that would kill his son. He only raises the knife, “And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son.” (Genesis 22:10).

But he never brought it down. He never began the act that he knew he would not have to do. Yes, an angel interceded, but this was Avraham’s belief all along.

Avraham’s reward at the end of the Akedah was not for his blind faith in God and sacrifice of moral considerations, but rather Avraham’s commitment to both his faith in God and his own moral judgment. In Avraham’s eyes, God was morally perfect and would never command Avraham to commit a morally abhorrent act. His faith in God was the faith that God was morally perfect. This, I believe, is the message of the Akedah.

The idea that God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak is not my original thought. The suggestion that God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak is found in a Midrash in Taanit 4a: “And never entered my mind” – this refers to Isaac the son of Abraham.”

Another source for this interpretation comes from Rabbi Acha’s reading of Genesis Rabbah 56:8:

 

“When I said to you ‘take your son’ I never said to slaughter him. I merely said to ‘raise him up.’ I said this to you to demonstrate your belovedness, and you did my bidding. Now take him down.”

 

And finally, from Tanchuma 17:2,

 

“Abraham’s ram was created at twilight,” meaning from the beginning of creation God never intended Avraham to sacrifice Yitzhak for the ram that took Yitzhak’s place had already been created.

 

A final, striking insight comes from Israeli philosopher Yoram Hazony, who argues that the name that Avraham gives to the site of his ordeal is indicative of his understanding. Hazony comments,

 

As it turns out, Abraham does not leave the terrible scene at Moria without comment. He gives the place a name, and in so doing, tells us precisely what he believes is significant about what happened there. The name he gives the place is “The Lord Will See [adonai yireh],” this being a reference to his own words, reported a few lines earlier, when he tells Isaac that “God will see [elohim yireh] to the sheep for an offering himself.” The meaning here is unmistakable. For Abraham, there is one and only one thing that is worthy of remembering here and passing to future generations: That is the fact that he had held fast to the conviction that God would provide the ram so that there would be no human sacrifice — and that God had indeed come through for him, providing a ram in place of his son, as Abraham had believed he would.16

 

My hiddush, reinterpretation, is that Avraham, due to his acute knowledge of God and highly developed moral conscience, intuited that this was God’s plan. His “willingness” to sacrifice Yitzhak was not an expression of his willingness to blindly follow God’s commandments especially when they transgress Avraham’s moral code. Instead, it is an expression of Avraham’s willingness to follow God’s commandments knowing that they are in line with moral correctness.17

Two final points: The first is that human morality resembles divine morality. We can asymptotically approach divine morality by honing our own moral sensibilities much as Avraham did. In this way, we can better live our lives in accordance with divine morality and save ourselves from the error of human subjectivity. Avraham’s morality very closely approximated God’s morality because Avraham had worked hard on developing his moral conscience (See Sotah 14a).

Lastly, this is my interpretation. It speaks to me as I believe that human understanding of morality is central to Jewish, ethical life. Any interpretation of the Akedah that asks me to believe that Avraham desires or attempts to commit a morally abhorrent act is one that I cannot accept. Others may disagree with me and that is both expected and welcomed. The legacy and marvel of Judaism is its openness to multiple opinions. This, too, is a message of the Akedah.

As Rav Soloveitchik said, “The drama of the Akedah is multi-semantic, lending itself to many interpretations. God demands that man bring the supreme sacrifice, but the fashion in which the challenge is met is for man to determine.”18

I hope that all can find an interpretation of the Akedah that speaks to them, and I hope that in the process of listening to the words of Torah, we can hear ourselves and our souls whisper who we truly are.

 

 

Notes

1 One should not overlook the irony that the story is known as Akedat Yitzhak, the Binding of Isaac, when Isaac is almost a completely passive character. See Aaron Koller Unbinding Isaac “The Erasure of Isaac” and Stolle, “Levinas and the Akedah,” 137–139 cited in Koller.

2 Targum Pseudo Jonathan on Genesis 22:1–19.

 

3 “[Leibowitz’s] glorification of the Akedah—the binding of Isaac—which is the heart of the existential moment of true worship of God for its own sake, comes into focus as an alternative theology of redemption. The Akedah is understood as the ultimate redemptive act. The rational and the ethical, therefore, are suspended and, finally, transcended when one fully accepts the yoke of Torah and Mitzvot.” See also Rechnitzer, Haim O. “Redemptive Theology in the Thought of Yeshayahu Leibowitz.” Israel Studies, vol. 13, no. 3, 2008, p.138-139. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/30245835. Accessed 6 Sept. 2020. Note that this is also part of the Malbim’s understanding. See Malbim on Breishit 22:5.

4 Solomon Buber, ed., Midrash Aggada (Vienna 1894), Vayera 22. Cited in “Faith Shattered and Restored” Magid Books. Translated by Elie Leshem.

5 Riskin, Shlomo. “Parashat Veyera: Listening to the right voice.” Jerusalem Post. 17 Oct 2013. https://www.jpost.com/opinion/columnists/parashat-veyera-listening-to-the-right-voice-328994

Accessed 6 Sep 2020.

6 Rosenberg, Shimon Gerson. “Uncertainty as the Trial of the Akeda” Faith Shattered and Restored. Maggid 15 July 2017.

7 “Kant’s Moral Philosophy” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. 7 July 2016. Accessed 21 May 2020 https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant-moral/

8 See Wurzburger, Walter S. Covenantal Imperatives. Edited by Eliezer L. Jacobs and Shalom Carmy. Urim Publications 1 Sep 2008.

Levenson, Jon D. Inheriting Abraham: The Legacy of the Patriarch in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Princeton University Press. 2012 p. 59.

10 Koller, Aaron. Unbinding Isaac: The Significance of the Akedah for Modern Jewish Thought. Jewish Publication Society: 2020 p. 139.

11 Ibid.

12 For a more comprehensive explanation of Kierkegaard’s view and modern Jewish thinkers who were deeply affected by his writings on the Akedah see Unbinding Isaac by Aaron Koller.

13 David Hartman puts Abraham’s intercession on behalf of Sodom and Gomorrah as a balance to the story of the Akedah. The former puts forth the prophetic mode of protest, rebuke, and subjective moral sense. The latter emphasizes submission, acquiescence, and the objective, even inscrutable, divine will. David Hartman A Heart of Many Rooms p. 14.

14 Bereishit Rabbah 38, 48.

15 See Rabbi Levi ben Gershon (Ralbag) “Interpretation of the Words,” on Bereishit 22:1.

16 Hazony, Yoram. Philosophy of the Hebrew Scriptures. Cambridge University Press: 2012. p. 164.

17 An alternative reading of the Akedah that I am partial to is that Abraham deeply struggled with the conflict between his own moral intuition and the seemingly amoral divine command to sacrifice his son. Though he hoped that God would provide a deus ex machina to solve his moral quandary, Abraham was ultimately unsure of both the impending outcome and God’s desire. In this view, it is argued that God did not want Abraham to actually sacrifice his son, but rather wanted to test Abraham’s devotion to Him. In the climactic moment of the Akedah, Abraham, not seeing a way out from his internal struggle, submits himself to divine will and attempts to sacrifice his son. Whereupon realizing that Abraham chose submission rather than protest, God ends the test, seeing that Abraham has made his decision. In this reading, it appears that Abraham failed the test by submitting to the will of God instead of protesting against the immoral decree. This is evident in the text as God never speaks to Abraham again.

 

18 Student, Gil. “Rav Soloveitchik on the Akedah” Torah Musings. 31 Jan 2008. Accessed 21 May 2020. https://www.torahmusings.com/2008/01/rav-soloveitchik-on-akedah/

See also:

https://www.thetorah.com/article/mitigating-the-akedah

https://www.korenpub.com/media/productattachments/files/s/h/shagar_excerpt.pdf

https://washingtonjewishweek.com/17256/the-puzzling-akedah-story/uncategorized/

https://www.torahmusings.com/2008/01/rav-soloveitchik-on-akedah/

https://hds.harvard.edu/people/jon-d-levenson

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kant-moral/

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Holiness: The Unique Form of Jewish Spirituality

In a list of new developments in Judaism in the twenty-first century, one would have to include the search for Jewish spirituality. This includes the discovery of spiritual practices such as meditation, yoga, and prayer—often adapted from Eastern religions. In this essay, I will examine this phenomenon by employing a method of investigation that attempts to address contemporary issues through textual study called “Textual Reasoning” (http://etext.virginia.edu/journals/tr/). Textual Reasoning proceeds by identifying an important contemporary problem and engaging traditional methods of Talmud Torah—including text study in “havrutot,” small discussion groups—to find creative ways of addressing the problem.

In a number of Textual Reasoning sessions that I ran in Jerusalem this past summer (2010) we looked at issues of spirituality by relating them to notions of kedushah, or holiness. I am currently writing a Jewish theology of holiness (Blackwell Press, forthcoming), so I saw these Textual Reasoning sessions as a way to help me with this project. The word spirituality, “ruhaniut” does not exist in the Torah. There is, of course, ruah, “wind” or “spirit,” which seems to represent a vitalizing life force, and ruah Elohim, or ruah Adonai, the spirit of God, which represents the power, wisdom, and light of God. But there is far more attention given to the term “kodesh” and this term seems to be the closest Jewish parallel to what is meant by spirituality in the contemporary world.

We know, of course, that the term “Holy Spirit” was most significantly developed by Christianity as it became the third figure in the Christian Trinity and the continuingly available power of new life that is active in the Church and in the Christian community. Indeed, it may very well be that the interest in spirituality in the West began as an offshoot of a Christian concern, and then came to include elements from Eastern religions. However, our focus here is not Christianity but Judaism and its relation to contemporary forms of spirituality. As I said, in our Textual Reasoning study group, we decided to address this relationship by comparing notions of spirituality with kedushah.

To provide a focus for our text study, we looked at one of the central expressions
of the nature of kedushah in the Torah, vaYikrah 19, which Rashi, following Sifra Kedoshim, says contains the essence of the Torah (rov gufei haTorah). Our initial discussion of contemporary spirituality included a rather vague sense that spirituality involves a search of the individual for a religious experience, a mystical oneness with nature and/or God, or a special encounter with nature or humans that gives life meaning. These experiences are often presented as occurring outside of religious tradition. And thus we have the oft-heard phrase, “I am spiritual, but not religious.” I offered my sense that the “spiritual” included a large range of experiences from the unplanned spontaneous “peak experiences” that one might have in a visit to the Grand Canyon, to a more disciplined attempt to achieve “enlightenment” through meditation or yoga. In our first study session, a member mentioned that there was an “Institute for Jewish Spirituality” and that we ought to consult its website to get a more in depth sense of what Jewish spirituality is about. We did this and the reader will see that I include quotations from this website in this essay.

Our Textual Reasoning study sessions began by asking the following questions.

Is spiritual practice based on meditation congenial with traditional forms of Torah study and halakhic practice?
How is holiness like and unlike notions of spirituality?
Does Judaism have its own unique forms of spirituality? Is spirituality implicit in rabbinic holiness or must it be added to it from the outside?
In making this investigation, we acknowledged that the focus on vaYikra and its rabbinic commentaries might limit our ability to answer our questions about the relation of holiness to contemporary spirituality. We noted that a fuller study would require looking at other texts, most notably Kabbalah and Hassidut. But we began with the hypothesis that by looking at vaYikra some important insights and distinctions between Jewish notions of holiness and contemporary notions of spirituality could be found.

Textual Reasoning, in general, likes to function, somewhat like empirical science, with a hunch or hypothesis or intuition that is then subjected to experiment and deliberation through textual study to see if the hunch or hypothesis can be confirmed or disconfirmed. In this case, the hypothesis was that there is an important difference between holiness and spirituality and that holiness offers a unique form of Jewish religiosity that is often insufficiently articulated and appreciated by both Jews and non-Jews. Our text study involved looking at vaYikra 19 first, on its own, and then with a range of commentaries from Rashi, Ramban, to Haketav Vehakabalah,
Israel Salanter, and Hatam Sofer.

Spirituality: What Is It?

A quick and easy way to access what contemporary Jewish spirituality is concerned with is to look at the website of the “Institute for Jewish Spirituality.” The website describes its objectives in the following way.

The work of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality is the work of spiritual renewal and rejuvenation. It is the work of making the concepts, teachings and practices of Judaism lively, meaningful, and transformative for individuals and communities. It is a mode of careful attentiveness to the whole of one’s experience. It is a process of peacemaking and a path of justice making. It emphasizes telling the truth, respecting one’s experience, responding rather than reacting, and gently returning one’s attention again and again to the initial intention of the practice. It involves an awareness of impermanence, and the interconnection of all that is and a deep appreciation of the fact that every act has an intention and a consequence. We can use a variety of Jewish concepts to describe this work: healing the self and the world; bringing the light of the infinite into the finite; actualizing the divine qualities of wisdom and compassion; restoring a sense of wholeness to the fragmented.

From this quotation, we can see that the founders of the movement see spirituality in the context of an American Judaism that needs renewal and rejuvenation. As such, it is part of a larger movement sometimes referred to as “Jewish Renewal” that finds its origin in the “Havurah movement” of the 1960s and produced the rather well known “Jewish Catalogue” series of books. That movement began as a return to traditional aspects of Judaism mixed with elements of the 1960s counter-culture such as anti-war activism, freer sexual exploration, and openness to Jewish and Eastern forms of mysticism and meditation. The website goes on to describe meditation as the “core practice of Jewish spirituality” and it tells us how meditation came to occupy such a central place in its activities.

Meditation is a practice that entered the cultural vocabulary of the latter half of the twentieth century, a time of investigation of Eastern religions and philosophies. In one respect, the turn East epitomized for many the expression of a set of values opposed to American materialism, acquisitiveness, and busyness. In another respect, and perhaps particularly today, it represents a method of slowing down, of calming the mind, of relaxing the body in the face of our culture’s unrelenting pressure to “do.” If meditation were only to afford its practitioners that brief respite, the gift of just “being” as opposed to “doing,” it would be enough.

It is noteworthy that the Institute for Jewish Spirituality does not mention Torah or the God of Israel in its opening statement of its mission of Jewish rejuvenation. It is also noteworthy that it identifies the central problem that it is addressing as “American materialism, acquisitiveness, and busyness.” These are problems of the wealthy and the satisfied, and although the movement talks about a path of “justice making” there is no mention of actual problems of injustice or poverty in the Jewish or larger world. Since meditation is identified as the movement’s “core practice,” spirituality seems to be mainly an issue of self-healing and therapy for the individual and not the larger Jewish community. The Institute speaks of its particular type of meditation as “mindfulness meditation” and describes this as follows. “In this process we observe or witness the nature of mind, we see how conflict occurs, how illusion is born and grows, how connected each moment is to the next and how transient is every thought, experience, conclusion.” The goal of noticing these things is to learn how to “let go” of attachments to things, feelings, and thoughts that control us and thereby to open a sphere of tranquility, calmness, and equanimity. Thus, we are talking about an inward process of reflection and mind control. Those who want to practice meditation are encouraged to go to retreat centers away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life in which participants experience significant periods of silence. The Institute makes it clear that its meditation practice is an import from Eastern religions (most notably Tibetan Buddhism). Thus, the spirituality that is to cure what ails American Jews, finds its source outside of Jewish religious texts and culture in an inward individual practice outside of Jewish communal centers.

We will now juxtapose the goals and practices of the Institute of Jewish Spirituality with the rules of the life of holiness as we have them in vaYikra 19. For brevity’s sake, we will end at verse 18.

vaYikra19:1–18
Chapter 19

1. And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying,

2. Speak to the entire congregation of the children of Israel, and say to them, You shall be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.

3. Every man shall fear his mother and his father, and you shall observe My Sabbaths. I am the Lord, your God.

4. You shall not turn to the worthless idols, nor shall you make molten deities for yourselves. I am the Lord, your God.

5. When you slaughter a peace offering to the Lord, you shall slaughter it for your acceptance.

6. It may be eaten on the day you slaughter it and on the morrow, but anything left over until the third day, shall be burned in fire.

7. And if it would be eaten on the third day, it is abominable; it shall not be accepted.

8. And whoever eats it shall bear his sin, because he has profaned what is holy to the Lord, and that person shall be cut off from his people.

9. When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not fully reap the corner of your field, nor shall you gather the gleanings of your harvest.

10. And you shall not glean your vineyard, nor shall you collect the [fallen] individual grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger. I am the Lord, your God.

11. You shall not steal. You shall not deny falsely. You shall not lie, one man to his fellow.

12. You shall not swear falsely by My Name, thereby profaning the Name of your God. I am the Lord.

13. You shall not oppress your fellow. You shall not rob. The hired worker's wage shall not remain with you overnight until morning.

14. You shall not curse a deaf person. You shall not place a stumbling block before a blind person, and you shall fear your God. I am the Lord.

15. You shall commit no injustice in judgment; you shall not favor a poor person or respect a great man; you shall judge your fellow with righteousness.

16. You shall not go around as a gossipmonger amidst your people. You shall not stand by [the shedding of] your fellow's blood. I am the Lord.

17. You shall not hate your brother in your heart. You shall surely rebuke your fellow, but you shall not bear a sin on his account.

18. You shall neither take revenge from nor bear a grudge against the members of your people; you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.

In reading this text, one could say that it might be hard to find a text that is more different from the description of mindfulness meditation and the goals of the Institute of Jewish Spirituality. From the beginning “And the Lord Spoke to Moses” to the frequent refrain and last words quoted “I am the Lord,” the transcendent God of Israel makes the divine will known. Holiness begins with God and is brought to the people in the form of commands. It is issued from the outside, from the transcendent God in commandments that also stand outside the individual and are not found in his or her inner mind or soul. What the text suggests, is that holiness, in essence, is found in God and that humans can become holy, not by looking within, but by looking without to God. The statement “You shall be Holy, for I am Holy” suggests that being holy involves a process of imitatio Dei, of imitating God. And some rabbinic commentators (Sifra Kadoshim on 1:1) have made this explicit.

A significant contrast with spirituality is that holiness, as we find it in vaYikra, is not a matter for the individual alone. Indeed, vaYikra suggests quite the opposite; as Moses is instructed “Speak to the entire congregation of the children of Israel.” Being holy is then, in the main, a communal issue. Or perhaps, we can say it this way: Holiness requires a community in order to be achieved. From this text, we can also say that being holy is not a matter of contemplation; it is to be found as a result of actions, actions that take place in a social context. Respecting mother and father, observing Shabbat, properly bringing sacrifices, leaving gleanings for the poor, paying workers promptly, treating the deaf and blind rightly, rendering fair judgment in court, and finally living alongside the fellow-person without hatred or grudge, and, indeed, with love; these are the things that make one holy.

Comparing the practice of mindfulness meditation to the rule of holiness in vaYikra 19, one might rightly ask: Where is the self in all this? Indeed, instead of focusing on the “nature of mind,” instead of observing “how illusion is born and grows, how connected each moment is to the next and how transient is every thought, experience, conclusion,” vaYikra tells us that we are only holy when we focus on others.

Textual Reasoning with vaYikra19

When we began to study vaYikra 19 in our Textual Reasoning group, we noted one thing that was omitted. The holy act par excellence for Judaism is to study Torah. Thus, one of us said, that meditation, for the Torah, is first an act of textual study rather than a study of one’s mind. vaYikra 19:17–18 suggests that it is proper for the holy person to meditate on his relations with others. For example, figuring out how we are to rebuke a sinning friend might, indeed, require meditation. But it very well might be that in inserting the Torah text on rebuking a friend into our meditation we make that very act of meditation holy and we are then assisted by holy love when we carry out the act of rebuking.

One of our members suggested that we could take from Jewish spirituality the lesson of meditation and learn how to relate to our friends by meditating long and hard on these verses from vaYikra.

You shall not hate your brother in your heart. You shall surely rebuke your fellow, but you shall not bear a sin on his account. You shall neither take revenge from nor bear a grudge against the members of your people; you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.

Having studied these verses before our session, I remarked how they display an exquisite balance and deep psychological insight. The verses suggest the situation in which a brother or cousin or neighbor is committing a moral offense. What is your obligation here? Do you ignore it? Do you intervene? Should you be angry with him or her? If you must intervene, how do you do so? This is obviously a complex issue, and to assist you the Torah offers some guidelines. Do not hate your sinning brother, but still, you must rebuke him, for if not, you will incur the guilt of his sin. But when you rebuke him, do so not out of hate or revenge but only out of love.

The comment that one should meditate on verses 17 and 18 to learn how to relate to a sinning sibling or friend reminded another of us of an additional series of verses that we are commanded to meditate on—day and night, when we lie down and rise up, when we sit at home and when we walk along the way. These are the words of the Shema: Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Ehad, Hear O Israel, The Lord our God the Lord is One. As we considered the meditation that we are commanded to do on the words of the Shema, we discussed the extent to which meditation is part of the Jewish tradition or added to it from the outside. At this point someone recalled Isaac going out to the field to meditate (lasuah, see Bereshith 24:63) before meeting Rebecca. Another recalled Hanna’s prayers to God and her silent prayers before Eli (Shemuel 1: 2,1:10). Still others mentioned the Psalms as a series of long meditations on the trials and joys of the spiritual life, and finally another person spoke of the Lurianic Kabbalistic practice of meditating on God’s many names. At this point, some of us thought that meditation as a practice was both implicit in the Torah and further developed in Kabbalah. Yet others thought that meditation, particularly mindfulness meditation, was different from Jewish forms of meditation because the goal was to learn how to detach oneself from the worries of the world; Judaism seeks the opposite, to attach oneself to the world and to worry about its redemption at every moment. Thus, we had no definite conclusion on whether or not mindfulness meditation offers something of value to contemporary Jews that is not already available in Judaism.

The Commentary Material

In our next sessions, our Textual Reasoning group wanted to more deeply engage the text of vaYikra in the rabbinic tradition. We therefore focused on rabbinic commentaries. Here, we used commentary texts from a theological commentary on the Bible, “Reading the Bible for Meaning” that I am working on with Walter Herzberg, Professor of Bible and Parshanut at Jewish Theological Seminary. As we explored the commentary material, we found a wealth of interpretations that caused us to dwell on the meaning of verse 2: “You Shall be Holy, for I the Lord Your God am Holy.” When we studied the commentaries, we followed a suggestion Herzberg had made to me that they could be divided into two basic groups, one led by Rashi and Ramban and another rooted in early midrashic literature, but best represented by Israel Salanter.

Commentators: Group I—Rashi, Ramban, and Meklenburg

Rashi’s comment on the verse, “You Shall be Holy” took the discussion of holiness in a direction that most of us did not expect, especially as we were looking for a connection to spirituality. He inserts an element of self-restriction, especially in the area of sexual desire. His comments on this verse are as follows. To be holy, “separate yourselves from sexual immorality and from sin. For wherever you find restriction of sexual immorality [mentioned in the Torah], you find holiness [juxtaposed with it].” Rashi’s interpretation follows one of his typical interpretive moves—to place the verse in its textual context. His interpretation is then based on juxtaposing the commandment to be holy with the multiple restrictions on incest and other prohibited sexual relations in the chapter (18) that immediately precedes our chapter. Rashi seems to reason that since the previous chapter deals with prohibited sexual relations and the injunction to be holy follows immediately thereafter, holiness must have something to do with sexual restrictions.

As we discussed Rashi, I brought up the issue of purity in relation to holiness. Rashi brings up sexual purity laws related to permissible partners and appropriate times for sexual relations, taharat mishpaha. But we could also speak of all the laws of purity and impurity—those related to dietary practices, avoidance of blood and dead bodies, and the prohibitions and practices related to the bringing of sacrifices. This brought us to the recognition that holiness in Torah is a broader category than spirituality, including the distinction pure and impure and encompassing the larger categorizations of animals, rules of purification from sin, and whole series of practices that regulate marriage, sex, diet, and death. Unlike spirituality, which might come and go and can be limited to certain special practices, the holy must be inserted into all aspects of life. When placed in the larger context of the whole book of vaYikra and the larger system of halakha that emerges from the Torah, becoming holy can be seen as the goal of all of Judaism!

Ramban, indeed, sees the larger meaning of holiness, and he specifically takes on Rashi’s discussion of holiness relating to sexual prohibitions and radically expands it so that holiness comes to take on a kind of ascetic quality:

In my opinion, this abstinence does not refer only to restraint from acts of [sexual] immorality as the Rabbi [Rashi] wrote … The meaning is as follows: The Torah has admonished us against immorality and forbidden foods, but permitted sexual intercourse between man and his wife, and the eating of meat and wine. If so, a man of desire could consider this to be a permission to be passionately addicted to sexual intercourse with his wife or many wives, and be among winebibbers, among gluttonous eaters of flesh, and speak freely all profanities. This is so because these prohibitions have not been [expressly] mentioned in the Torah. Given this, a man could become a sordid person with the permission of the Torah (naval birshut haTorah)! Therefore, after having listed the matters that He prohibited altogether, the Torah followed them up by a general command that we practice moderation even in matters which are permitted…[Ramban Commentary on vaYikra 19, Chavel translation, emphasis mine]

This comment of Ramban indicates that he agrees with Rashi on two counts—that our understanding of holiness is based on thejuxtaposition to the previous chapter, and that holiness itself is a matter of separation, restraint, abstinence. However, the type of restraint or separation that Ramban suggests is very different from Rashi. For Rashi, holiness is attained by separating oneself from that which is explicitly forbidden by the Torah. According to Ramban, holiness involves going one step further—separating oneself from that which is permitted, and not indulging in excesses. For as Ramban states, the person who overindulges in technically permitted behavior is a naval birshut haTorah, a “sordid person with the permission of the Torah.” Ramban appears to get this ascetic view of holiness from the Talmud (Yebamoth 20a). He also mentions that we have a model of ascetic holiness in the figure of the Nazarite in the Torah. For the Nazir is separated from the general population and takes on ascetic practices e.g. refusing alcoholic drink, not cutting his hair and avoiding contact with the dead.

One of us noted that Ramban’s notion of holiness suggests that vaYikra 19:2 “You shall be holy” is not the preface to the series of commands that follow it (i.e., to respect parents, observe Shabbat, and so forth) but a separate commandment on its own that can be summarized as “separate yourself not only from what is prohibited, but also from what is permitted!” This means that holiness requires Israel to go beyond the letter of the law to understand its deeper purposes. This deeper purpose is to refine and elevate Jews, to free them from sordid obedience to physical desires of all sorts so that they approach the spiritual holiness of God. With his remarks, Ramban seems to be inserting an element of elitism along with asceticism to the understanding of holiness. He suggests that being holy requires one to rise above what the laws require by restricting oneself even in the realm of what is permitted by God.

Rabbi Jacob Zvi Meklenburg (1785–1865), the author of the commentary called the haKetav ve-haKabbalah, takes matters even further. He suggests that restraint from that which is permitted is not truly holiness, but is rather one level lower. True holiness is attained by an element of perishut described in the classic midrashic commentary on vaYikra called the Sifra. Here, one achieves holiness by separating oneself emotionally when performing commandments that involve physical pleasure. Meklenburg describes the ideal of these holy people as follows. They “indulge in sex exclusively for the purpose of procreation; they eat well on Shabbat only to fulfill the commandment of honoring the Sabbath. They do not indulge in pleasures per se but only as a product of activities designed for a loftier purpose (haKetav ve-haKabbalah on vaYikra 19:2 v.4 Eliahu Munk translation). Therefore, Meklenburg speaks of a level of intellectual or emotional discipline that leads to a form of restraint and separation not explicitly mentioned by Ramban.

As we discussed the positions of Rashi, Ramban, and Meklenburg on holiness, which include some obvious ascetic dimensions, a division developed in our group on whether this was closer or further from notions of contemporary spirituality. On the one hand, Eastern spiritual disciplines and values of non-materialism have some resonance with the ascetic interpretation of holiness of our commentators. Meklenburg’s sense that one should “separate oneself from physical pleasure” even when doing a mitzvah suggested to some that one needs to develop a form of self-control of the type that meditation could help cultivate. We know that there are ascetic values of Buddhist monks, and these very well might have parallels to rabbinic asceticism and to its further developments in Kabbalistic practices.

For others in our group, learning to do miztvoth solely to “fulfill the commandment of the Creator” is a different form of discipline than the one suggested by Eastern meditation since rabbinic practice requires the acknowledgement of God as creator and commander. Doing a mitzvah for the sake of God alone or because God commanded it is different from meditating for the sake of release from all attachments to physical realities.

Commentators: Group II: Israel Salanter, Hatam Sofer, Haim Benattar

While the commentators above all link the interpretation of “holiness” to the verses in vaYikra 18, which precede the exhortation to be holy, another group of commentators base their interpretations on the verses that follow the exhortation to be holy. These are the verses with laws to respect parents, observe the Sabbath, care for the poor and the handicapped, and so forth. The view that all of the commandments in vaYikra 19 supply something of a rule for the holy life is also found among the various midrashim in Sifra (10:2); but Israel Salanter (1810–1883), the great Lithuanian Mussar scholar, expands this position. He explicitly rejects the position of Rashi and Ramban. He admits that it is commonly “accepted in the [Jewish] world to associate the holy person with one who is great in Torah and Fear (of God).” However, he argues “that according to hazal there is another aspect to holiness—how one deals in money matters.” Referring to vaYikra 19 he says, it “establishes that the conditions for holiness are: Do not steal, do not lie, you shall not do an injustice in judgment.” He emphasizes that these are laws related to daily interaction in “commerce, work, and interpersonal relations.”[i] He supports his reading by noting that verse 2 links the command to be holy to God’s being holy: “You shall be holy for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.” But in his interpretation, this is done to make a distinction and not a connection between God and humans. “I God am holy, so to speak, in heaven, so if I require holiness of you, my intent is that you be holy in earthly, material matters.” Thus, Rabbi Salanter engages a polemic against a notion of holiness that is oriented solely toward heaven in favor of an earthly holiness that is oriented to relations between human and fellow human.

Hatam Sofer (1762–1839, Moses [Schreiber] Sofer)takes a similar approach to R. Salanter, highlighting the importance of involvement with people to holiness. He, however, takes the exhortation to be holy in a somewhat different direction by emphasizing the importance of communal involvement. He states that the holiness in our verse is “not holiness of separation and the Nazirite, but rather … holiness within the community and involvement with people.”[ii] He derives this interpretation from the important phrase in vaYikra 19:1 (which, by the way, occurs only once is the entire book of vaYikra). “Speak to the entire community of the children of Israel.” He believes that the words “entire community” signal that holiness must be sought in and through relations in the community and not outside it in some act of separation from the community.

The Hatam Sofer is not the only commentator who wonders why Moses is commanded to speak to the “entire community.” R Haim Benattar (1696–1743) in his Ohr haHayyim comments on this as well. However, he sees the fact that Moses addresses the entire community as a specific challenge to some of the elitist notions of holiness. He says that the Torah includes the words “the entire community” in order to teach us that “this commandment that He commanded ‘you shall be holy’ is a commandment that can be attained by each and every person… for there is no radical distinction among the people Israel that would preclude one from this achievement.” (Ohr haHayyim, my translation).

In this second group of commentators, our study group agreed that we see a real distinction between the search for spirituality and the search for holiness. Rabbi Salanter stresses that holiness is not really about the spiritual but the material dimension of life. For him, holiness is about how we deal with money! We see this theme carried forward in the comments of Hatam Sofer.

One of our members summarized this second group of commentators as saying something like this. ‘It is easy to be holy if you excuse yourself from the community, retreat from humanity, and remain silent. The real challenge is to be holy within the community, to preserve your holiness through relations with others and within the social world.’

I noted that if we put together the positions of the first and second groups of commentators, we actually have the traditional view that holiness requires both good relations of humans to God, bein adam laMakom and good relations of humans to humans, bein adam leHaveiro. As Jacob Milgram has argued in his great three-volume Anchor commentary on the book of vaYikra, holiness is a complex goal that includes both proper ritual and ethical practices that might take a life-time to achieve. As our group ended our discussions, a number of participants reiterated that it was not really fair to just focus on vaYikra as the point of comparison to the statements of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. They noted that Judaism has a well established spiritual tradition grounded in the texts of the Kabbalah and of the various sects of the Hassidim. Had we chosen a text from the Zohar, or a Hassidic text such as the Sefat Emet or the Tanya or, even better, had we looked for manuals of Hassidic prayer and meditation practices, we would find far more points of contact.

Yet others in the group noted Rashi’s words that, in vaYikra 19, we had most of the “essence of the Torah” and that therefore vaYikra provides the foundations of the Jewish holy life that must be established first before Kabbalistic or Hassidic spiritual practices are developed. Where the Institute of Jewish Spirituality mentions that meditation is their “core practice,” it could never be seen as the core practice of Judaism. Instead, what we did together, study Torah, and what the text we studied suggested, fulfilling the will of God in doing mitzvoth, are the core practices of Judaism. Also, I said that the essentially communal nature of holiness, that holiness is constituted in a community, within a communal context and requires a community, is another vital point of difference with the quest for spirituality which seems to be a mainly individual search. Perhaps, we should consider meditation, like the tradition of Kabbalah in Judaism, as something that can be added to the life of mitzvoth to enhance and develop its spiritual dimensions more explicitly. But this would mean that meditation could never become a core practice to replace mitzvoth.

Another participant wanted to insist, before we closed our study session, that there seems to be a form of Jewish spirituality that specifically fulfills one of the Institute of Jewish Spirituality’s main stated goals: the goal of relaxing the body and concentrating the mind on the present so that one can just “be” in the face of our culture’s unrelenting pressure to “do.” This goal, she suggested, was the exact objective of Shabbat! What better way to “be” and not “do” than enjoying an afternoon of Shabbat rest? Indeed, there is perhaps no better way to slow time down than by being in a community where everyone stops working, stops driving cars, stops turning on and off electrical devices, and attends only to God, family, friends, Torah, and tefilla. This is a kind of joint communal holy practice that represents the unique spirituality of Judaism—a combination of bodily and spiritual revitalization where an entire community works together to create an ideal time and space where the community is allowed to “taste” and “glimpse” life redeemed.

It might very well be that contemporary spiritual practices have something to contribute to Judaism by helping remind us of what we already have. The contemporary search for spirituality recalls the old Jewish story of the man who searched long and far to find a treasure of riches only to discover that the treasure was there all along buried under his own house.

The Sefira Restrictions

Rabbi Alan J. Yuter, a highly respected American Orthodox rabbi, went on Aliyah with his wife upon his retirement. They currently reside in Jerusalem. Rabbi Yuter is associated with Torat Reeva Jerusalem..

 

When we walk on the Streets of Boro Park.  NY, or Park Heights, Baltimore, Md., we see some Orthodox men walking on the street with beards during the seven weeks between the Passover and Shavuot holidays.  This season Is taken to be a period of mourning which seems to require a seasonal beard as well as a prohibition of music.   According to the ultra-Orthodox decisor and spokesman, R. Yisroel Belsky,

 

“Lately, it has become a trend to take every possible pleasure that one can think of and figure out ways to make them permissible at all times. Whether it is the imitation of non-kosher foods, making all chometzdike delicacies kosher l’Pesach, or other similar things, we find this attitude now more than ever. People cannot live for one minute with compromising on pleasures that they are used to or wish to experience. Often, the heteirim 

[dispensations] to permit such activities are, at best, based on very weak reasoning.

 

One such example is the desire to listen to music during Sefirah and The Three Weeks. It has become a trend to produce “Sefirah tapes,” referred to musically as ‘a cappella “ The wide acceptance of such tapes has not been with rabbinic approval. Indeed, many of the gedolei rabbonim [great rabbis]  have ruled that one should not listen to this type of music during Sefirah and The Three Weeks. Unfortunately, because the music albums are being sold in the stores, people think that they must be glatt kosher. If they aren’t acceptable, people say, why would a Jewish store sell them?”

 

Rabbi Belsky assumes that hearing music during this season is a violation of Torah propriety.  It is apparently also improper to have pleasures that are permitted if those pleasures show license or allow people to feel good.  Digital music is also banned because

 

“For example, a click with one’s mouth, or a chhhh sound, can be equalized to sound like a drum. If the tonal balance is changed beyond the capabilities of what a human can do, then the music can no longer be considered human sounds, but rather computer-made sounds, and would be prohibited during Sefirah and The Three Weeks.”

 

 

Although some have objected to the observance of Yom Ha-Shoah, the day of commemoration for the murder of six million Jews during the Holocaust, because it falls out during the festive month of Nisan, other voices indicate that remembering the tragedies that befell the Jewish People during the period of Sefirat Ha-Omer has its precedents. 

  

 Official Religion Jewish Law

 

  1. Orthodox Judaism not only professes commitment to Torah law, it requires the conscience driven conversation regarding the clarification of that law.  The only law of the Sefirah period [from Passover to Shavuot] is the obligation to count Sefirah [Numbers  23:15].  Some consider this law as Scriptural and others Rabbinic. Since this Scripture is not designated as Rabbinic in the Oral Torah, it seems that Sefirah counting should be taken literally and as a Torah mandate.
  2. bYevamot 62b reports a legend that 24,000 students of Rabbi Akiva  died between Passover and Shavuot, with the deaths ending on the 33rd day of the count. There is no Oral Torah legislation designating this period as a period of mourning. Furthermore, there is no independent attestation for the historicity of this aggadic/legendary claim, which may or may not have a historical core.
  3. Mourning practices are first reported in the post-Talmudic Gaonic collection called Sha’arei Teshuva 278.




The Tur [OH  493] reports the Gaonic custom that weddings do not take place during the Sefirah season and some but not all communities restrict haircuts as well. The Tur treats this period as akin to the mournful month of Av when we diminish joy from the beginning of Av to the fast day on the 9th of the month, [mTaanit 4:6] innovatively creating a new season of mourning unattested in the Oral Torah. Upon unpackaging the Tur we find that:

 

  1. The original invented practice was to restrict weddings and at that time nothing else was restricted.
  2. The restriction on haircuts is a later innovation or reform.
  3.  Shulhan Arukh (493:1-2) cites both of these customs which restrict weddings and haircuts. There is at this moment in the history of Halakha no mention of restrictions on music, shaving, or other pleasures the ignoring of which seems to bother Rabbi Belsky.
  4. Unaddressed by Rabbi Belsky is the Babylonian Amora Samuel’s legal principle that the law follows the lenient view [and we do not search for strictures] in matters of mourning. [Moed Katan 20a].
  5. The Sephardi Maimonides and the Ashkenazi Rashi’s school Mahzor Vitry know nothing of this season of mourning, indicating that neither of these plain sense and common sense sages believed that the innovative Sefirah mourning practices are normative and binding.

 

 During the Middle Ages, these mourning practices became normative and were justified after the fact:

  1. The Crusades made Jews feel insecure so the Jews made their Judaism understandably more morose. The Ashkenazi Yizkor memorial service dates from this period as well and was enacted over and against the competing Oral Law concern that mourning is not done on holidays. 
  2.  Taz [OH 483:2] assigns the Medieval mourning practices to medieval decrees against Jewry.  Rabbi Jacob Emden offers the same report in his Siddur. People had the practice to mourn during this period and were looking for contemporizing reasons.
  3. While in medieval times, Judaism was allowed to contemporize classical values to their immediate  present, in modernity, elements of Orthodoxy now object to Holocaust Day because it falls in the happy month of Nisan, which commemorates freedom and redemption.  However, these same groups do not object to observing Sefirah mourning during Nisan or the Ashkenazi memorial Yizkor service that by convention is observed on the last day of Passover, when mourning is forbidden by law. Rabbi Haim David ha-Levi questioned the propriety of such prayers on happy Jewish festivals. This inconsistency actually reveals what is at stake in the conversation regarding Sefirah strictures; a living religion responds religiously to contemporary realities while insecure religion pines for a past that never was because it fears the present that it dreads to confront.
  4. While religious innovations for spiritual expression are presented as forbidden in modern times, increased restrictions evolve in any case in spite of the Talmudic rule cited above that the Jewish mourning law prefers the lenient view.
  5. Nowhere in the Oral Torah canon is music forbidden for personal mourning.
  6. Rabbi Meir Kagan [Mishna Berura 493:3] allows a shiddukhin [engagement] repast during this period while disallowing dances. On one hand, R. Kagan cites as his source R. Abraham Gumbiner [Magen Avraham, supra. n. 1].  The latter sage innovates a restriction on dancing; the former sage innovatively adds a restriction on music.
  7.  It may be reasoned that since dancing reflects joy, all joy must innovatively be forbidden as per the Tur, and since music leads to dancing, music “must” be now forbidden as well. 
  8. Realizing that mimetic usage trumps Torah statute in the living religion of Orthodoxy, the Hareidi sage, R. Yitzchok Weiss [Minchas Yitzchok 1:111] astutely notes that music is not forbidden by statute but by custom, which is akin to a vow.  Note well that the notion that mourning law is to be lenient is unaddressed, as is the right to establish innovative customs of restriction. In Oral Torah Judaism, vows must be articulated with the lips [Leviticus 5:4, Baba Mezia 36a, and codified by, Maimonides, Oaths, 2:10].
  9. Rabbi Solomon Ganzfreid restricts music and dancing both during Sefirah and the three weeks between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av as well [Kitsur Shulhan Arukh 122:1].
  10. Reflecting popular culture Orthodoxy that assumes that music is forbidden by rule, as assumed by Rabbi Belsky, R. Moses Feinstein [Ingot Moshe YD 2:137] extends the rule even further to include tape recordings, which could not have been forbidden when the practice first evolved. Innovative stringency has become acceptable, even if the innovation violates Halakhic principle, because stringency valorizes religious heroism which emerges as the “new spirituality.”
  11. It is reported that R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik argued that new customs “must” follow pre-existing Halakhic paradigms [R. Herschel Schachter, Nefesh ha-Rav, 191]. On one hand, the Tur accesses the Mishnaic idiom regarding what in that Mishnah is an unspecified of decreasing joy in Av and innovatively assigns the stringency to the Sefirah; on the other hand, the Tur did not flinch from innovation and R. Soloveitchik proclaimed but did not demonstrate his requirement that customs must conform to pre-existing paradigms. In his web post, “Masorah and Change,” R. Schachter provides the operational rules of contemporary Orthodoxy; hiddush [innovation] that continues antecedent paradigms and are apparently not socially discordant are acceptable, while shinnui [change, reform] that projects discontinuity, is unacceptable.  According to this paradigm, the religious benchmark is not the statute and principle but is located in the innovative and heroic zeal of social convention and collective mood as determined and approved by the Great Sage.
  12. I was once asked by the MetroWest Federation to issue a ruling regarding the propriety of music during the Sefirah and I ruled leniently. A modern Orthodox rabbi then chided me for my ruling because Orthodox Jews could and would not participate.  I responded that since music is forbidden during Sefirah by late, innovative convention, Orthodoxy may have a right to ask the larger community to observe Torah and  Rabbinic law but ought not to impose  latter day innovations that are disputed in the halakhic literature, and that if modern Orthodox laypeople were exposed to a historical  halakhic conversation and not to social pressure to conform, they likely would agree that Orthodoxy should not waste its  moral currency in order to impose a culture that is not law upon those not yet committed to Orthodoxy and Jewish law.  At the 2011 International Rabbinic Fellowship conference, live music was permitted before the 33rd Omer day, reflecting a principled rather than policy driven approach to Jewish ritual practice.

 

 It has been reported there is a custom not to take a haircut during Sefirah. This restriction has been extended to shaving [Rabbi Feinstein, supra., OH 2:96]. Note that leniencies are available for those who have to work in a non-Jewish environment [Supra. 4:102].  If there was indeed a real rule here, outlawing shaving as opposed to restricting haircuts by custom, no leniency would be available.  In point of fact, this “custom” was proclaimed but not promulgated as an official communal enactment and instead serves as an identity marker that identifies the truly Orthodox affiliate, i.e., the person who submits to discipline of the “really” Orthodox rabbis. It is reported that R. Soloveitchik argued that Sefirah cannot be more rigorous a period of mourning than the twelve month mourning period for the loss of a parent, and therefore permitted shaving daily.  Given R. Soloveitchik’s larger concern for custom conformity, I suspect that his penchant for pragmatism led him to rule leniently on the matter of shaving.  

 

In conclusion:

 

  1. There is no legislated restriction regarding mourning restrictions during Sefirah.
  2. The original customary practice disallowed weddings and not haircuts
  3. Shaving is not the same as having a haircut; while customs should be respected, the ever increasing stringencies that are innovated in present times may rightly be questioned and rejected.
  4. The law follows the lenient view in mourning; strictures require explanation, not merely declaration.
  5. Individuals have a right to be heroically strict if they do so without arrogance.
  6.  On Israel Independence Day, one should not appear disheveled with unkempt beard of facial stubble, even if one would otherwise not shave at this time.  Surely the State of Israel is at least as real as the Talmudic Aggadah regarding the demise of 24,000 students.
  7. If it is proper to innovate a mourning custom and change Jewish practice in the Middle Ages [the halakhically questionable Ashkenazi Yizkor prayers], we have precedent for innovation [Israel Independence Day] in our time as well.
  8. It is proper to observe communal customs; these customs are however not laws and since they are innovations, they are themselves subject to conversation and when appropriate, change.  When we add restriction to restriction and erect fences around fences, Jewish law will be wrongly seen to be offensive.
  9. Those who claim that today’s rabbis are not on the spiritual level don't have the right to have an opinion have themselves not reached the spiritual level whereby they are empowered to invalidate the considered, reasoned, and demonstrated opinions of others. According to the Orthodoxy of  the Oral Torah,   Halakhic legitimacy resides in  the demonstrated logic of the law,  not the charismatic intuition of the claimant.

Sephardic Wisdom for Challenging Times

 

El Dio no aharva kon dos manos! God doesn't strike with both hands!

 

In late summer 2020, I was invited by Kol BeRamah Torah Learning Center of Santa Fe to offer a class in Ladino via Zoom. I had been attending their Zoom classes and other events to both support and take advantage of the offerings of my friends Rabbi Avraham and Rabinessa (Italian for Rubisa) Liora Koén Sarano Kelman.

The idea for a Ladino class had come from a member of the community: Karen Teutsch, born in Belarus of parents from Colombia and Nicaragua, where she also grew up, aware of her Ladino-speaking Sephardic origins on her mother's side. After reading The Key from Spain: Flory Jagoda and Her Music by Debbie Levy, illustrated by Sonja Wimmer (2019) to her three-month-old son, Asher Emanuel, she was inspired to ask the Rabinessa if we could have Ladino classes. I assumed that Karen had been inspired by my good wishes in Ladino sent by chat at the Zoom pidyon haBen ceremony for Asher, which I attended because his name combined my family name, my father's first name, and one of my passions, German. Karen never did see the chats, but this story is worth sharing as an example of the wonderful connections between members of our diverse group. Having taught Ladino Language and Culture to students at Tufts University for 17 years, and, after Tufts, to a very special student, I was anxious to share our Sephardic language and culture with yet more people. I also realized that exploring this culture with its positive outlook embodied in the language might be just what we needed in these challenging times. And so was born "Explore Ladino!"

The class was approved for an initial session of six weeks, starting December 1, 2020, but all wanted to continue. Except for a Pessah break, we have been meeting weekly ever since, for one hour, at a mutually convenient time. Participants come from various parts of the United States and Canada and range from beginners to native Ladino speakers, from undergraduate and graduate students to retired professors and grandparents, from Jews and others of Sephardic, Ashkenazic, and combined origin to those seeking to join our people. In terms of our ages, we range from one—Asher, our Asheriko—to 90. 

While some have left because of illness as well as family and professional obligations, a few have also returned, and others have joined. Given our remarkable diversity, it is a challenge to find ways to bring us together and to ensure that every participant can benefit. One enjoyable, instructive, also typically Sephardic activity is singing in Ladino, even if we don't sound our best all together on Zoom.

At our first meeting I introduced El Dio ke te dé salú i vida, my musical version of our essential wish: May God give you health and life! This wish is first addressed to a single person, te, then expanded to the plural vos, all of you, and finally extended to include all of us, mos. Underlying this wish is the great value we place on health and, above all, life, and the unmistakable, confident hope that God will, indeed, hear and grant our wish. We sang these words together when we first met, and they have set the positive tone that characterizes our meetings.

We sing often, and often together. For Hanuka we sang not only “Hanuká linda” (Beautiful Hanuka), also known as “Ocho kandelikas” (Eight little candles), by Flory Jagoda, but also my own “Hanuká.” Both celebrate the miracles and pleasures of the holiday with a Sephardic twist. Flory's song mentions the many joyful parties and the pastries with almendrikas (little almonds) and honey. The diminutives used to describe the candles and the almonds imply affection and closeness, thus enhancing the positive experience in a way characteristic of the language. The refrain emphasizes how the light multiplies and progresses to reach its full potential for "me," each individual. My song proclaims that even—just when—the weather and times are cold and dark, Hanuka is coming, and that we can, indeed, prevail, with courage and kon el nombre del Dio. The refrain, my mother's saying, found in a Hanuka parody from Salonika, features aunt and grandmother dancing for joy in the holiday and the hanukía (menorah). Both songs convey the happiness and promise of Hanuka in a specifically Sephardic way, as expressed in their very language.

We are blessed to have among us Susana Behar, who sings and composes songs in Ladino. For Pessah, she treated us to her stirring rendition of a Moroccan version (in Haketia rather than Ladino) of Mose [sic] salyo de Misrayim (Moses went out of Egypt). The familiar story of Moses' meeting with God at the burning bush is told in stark, almost minimalist terms. In typically down-to-earth, no-nonsense Sephardic fashion, God tells Moses to tell Pharaoh, if he doesn't let my Jewish people go, I'll punish him with 10 plagues that I'll send, pa ke sepa ken se Yo—so he should know who I am! The forceful, direct, very Sephardic language shocks us into reliving the heightened drama and relishing the liberating joy of Pessah.

On July 21, 2021, we were honored to welcome two special guests from Israel: Matilda Koén-Sarano, grande dame of Ladino and author of our textbook, and her sister Miriam Sarano Raymond, writer and specialist in dreams, whose poem “La talega” (The Gift Bag—for Tu BiShvat) we had discussed. We owe the idea and the realization of this wonderful occasion to the Rabinessa, Matilda's daughter, who planned it for during the time she would be visiting her mother. As our surprise gift, Susana and Matilda's grandson, Barli (Baruch-Lev Alfredo Kelman), gave a resounding rendition of Matilda's dramatic masterpiece, Diálogo de amor (Dialogue of Love, music by Haim Tsur), which we had sung in a previous class. The dialogue is initiated by and stars a strong, passionate young woman who falls in love with a passionately hostile young man on the bridge in Istanbul. We're told at the end that "They took each other by the hand, / And they went dancing. / And if they're not married yet—today they're going to get engaged." This song is so typically Sephardic, featuring a strong woman who knows and gets what she wants, passion on both sides, a locale that is still home to many Sephardim, and, not least of all, a happy end that respects tradition—they must get married! The dialogue itself is full of scathing negativity, but the outcome reaffirms our positive outlook.   

This positivity, almost palpable through the Zoom screen, pervaded the whole meeting: Matilda singing along with gusto, her masterful telling of a classic Joha tale in which negatives like ignorance and anger are dissipated through the lens of humor, members of the group conversing with our guests in Ladino, all of us laughing together. At least for this hour, the joy seemed to overwhelm the negatives: the technological difficulties that delayed our guests' arrival, the accident one had on the way, the passing this spring of their sister. Of course, we already knew Matilda from her wonderful textbook, the Fourth English Edition (my translation) of Kurso de Djudeo-Espanyol (Ladino) para Prinsipiantes/Course in Judeo-Spanish (Ladino) for Beginners (2008), which has provided a common focus for our meetings. A combination grammar, reader, workbook, and cultural resource, it includes a historical introduction, traditional and contemporary songs—like Flory Jagoda's “Hanuká linda”—essays, conversations, and proverbs. Lisión No. 1, the first lesson, teaches the basics of pronouncing and writing the language. It then presents, as the very first Reading (Lektura), a list of 15 Refranes, Proverbs (p. 9). They appear suddenly, like an unexpected gift, a reward for having gone through the preceding mechanics of the language, and are a prime example of its spirit, the culture it exemplifies. 

These proverbs are overwhelmingly positive, affirming the preponderance of good and the joy of life and respecting women as human beings and as the decisive force in the home. Proverb 1 provides a suitable beginning: De la spina nase la roza. From the thorn the rose is born. Out of something that seems bad—sharp, potentially harmful—comes something good— smooth, definitely pleasurable. A similar message is conveyed by Proverb 11, La ora mas eskura es para amaneser.

The darkest hour is right before it dawns. This proverb has its counterpart in English, but the language of the Ladino version suggests a yet richer meaning. Para amaneser can mean "about to dawn," as reflected in the above translation. But it can also mean "in order to dawn," suggesting that the relationship between darkness and light is not only temporal, but causal as well. Not only will the darkest hour soon give way to light; the darkest hour is, exists, in order to dawn.

Light can grow out of darkness, much like the rose from the thorn in the first proverb. The negative forces and aspects of life become, then, not only things to avoid and overcome, but also sources that nourish the positive. Though we were already in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic when our class was proposed, and I realized the potential of exploring our positively inclined language and culture to provide an antidote, we could not foresee the challenges the following months would bring, nor did anyone anticipate the full effect of that antidote. At the beginning of each meeting I offer the traditional greeting, Ke haber? Literally, "What news?" I expect and hope for the stock response, Todo bueno, "Everything's OK." Too often I've gotten the alternative answer, which I taught half in jest: No demandes. "Don't ask." In these past nine months we have, indeed, faced more than the usual, expected challenges—as individuals, as a group with ties to Jewish and especially Sephardic culture, as a nation, and as creatures who inhabit the earth.

On Wednesday, January 6, we had the first meeting of 2021. I had hoped to share not only good wishes, but news of the many events and resources concerning Ladino and things Sephardic. But that night had already become defined by the unprecedented storming of our nation's capitol. Some emailed me that they were too upset to come. Others came, but they felt as if they were still watching the incredible events unfold live on television and could think of little else. This was no time for my notes and plans. Putting them aside, I asked everyone to think of what they had learned so far. Was anything still relevant? What response could Ladino and Sephardic culture offer? With just a little prodding, a gentle reminder of those proverbs, the answers came, first as a trickle, then as a mighty stream! First came a proverb we had learned, then another, and then one remembered from family tradition. The shocking images on television, though never completely displaced, became more and more overshadowed by the positive spiritual images from a cultural tradition that, rather than succumbing to the negatives, reimagines them as an often integral part of the basically positive grand design. De la spina nase la roza! La ora mas eskura es para amaneser! Though we did not leave that class meeting laughing and singing, as we often do, we did feel better equipped to face new challenges with hope and courage. A few days later, on Sunday, January 10, our Jane Mushabac, author of works in English and Ladino and founding creator of the annual Ladino Day in New York, played a starring role in this year's virtual celebration, which she had co-created. As for me, I left that January 6 class feeling strangely comfortable and confident, with renewed appreciation of and gratitude for the treasure that is our Sephardic tradition.

I usually follow my initial greeting and their responses with news regarding the progression of the Jewish year. As indicated, we celebrated Hanuka with contemporary songs in Ladino, notably Flory Jagoda's “Hanuká linda.” We also shared our impressions, some from personal experience, of Flory and her music. A little over a month later, we mourned her passing, on January 29, 2021. Some of us attended and even participated virtually in the shiva, the korte de trenta (sheloshim), and the memorial concert. In class we learned and sang another of her masterpieces, “La yave de Espanya” (The Key from Spain). Singing those beautiful words to that haunting melody, we could celebrate Flory even while grieving. Like the key from Spain, she was living on in our memory, even while hidden from our view.

We have had our share of challenges during the past nine months of Explore Ladino! Aside from the news of murders, devastating accidents and disasters, and tragedies like the collapse of the Surfside Condominiums in Miami, we faced our own illnesses, operations, accidents, and injuries. We cared for loved ones with COVID-19 and other afflictions, and even mourned them, as we mourned others close to us. Through it all, we have been comforted, nourished, and sustained by the energizing positivity of the language and culture we explore together. Early on I suggested that participants give short, informal presentations in Ladino, in whatever form and on whatever subject they choose. I wanted to encourage active participation and expected simple, pleasant vignettes. To my delight, we have been treated to a series of little masterpieces, with more to come. First to present was Judith Leznoff, who sang and discussed her favorite Ladino song, “Avre este abajur, bijú” (“Open This Shutter, My Jewel”), with feeling and obvious pleasure. Jane Mushabac told us how she came to write Mazal Bueno: A Portrait in Song of the Spanish Jews for National Public Radio, now a CD, starring Tovah Feldshuh as Jane's wise and exuberant Ladino-speaking grandmother from Canakkale.

Perla Vida (Pnina) Asher Samuels, my relative, shared her touching poem, in which her mother, of blessed memory, offers wise words, including the proverb about the darkest hour, that give her courage, hope, and even joy in these sad and stressful times. The Ladino version of a poem that Noa Eshkar had written in Hebrew and then in English (“An Actor”) challenged us to discover multiple layers of meaning, some related to her Sephardic heritage. Elsa Arditti Farbiarz conjured up for us a magical neighborhood in the Bronx, New York (mine!) where Ladino was heard on the streets and in restaurants like her grandfather's. There young men far from home would find familiar food, fellowship, fun, and even love—as did Elsa's father with her mother, who was working there.

In her moving "Sephardic story," Vivi Ojalvo Silverstein, cousin of Susana Behar, honors her family, originally from Istanbul, by detailing their journeys and challenges, recalling their customs, songs and sayings and reclaiming Ladino, her ancestral language. Showing photos she collected, Karen Teutsch told the story of the Teutsch family from late sixteenth-century Hungary, where the family name was Aschkenazy, to their long sojourn in Germany, to the present. Notable in Germany was Arthur (Asher) Teutsch, an honored lawyer. Arthur's two sons made it to the United States, but Arthur was killed in a concentration camp. Karen's son, Asher, is named after this great-great-grandfather. Each presentation is not only an original, contemporary piece in Ladino, but a unique, personal expression of the very spirit of the tradition. Thus Karen's story ends not with the victim of the Shoah, but with his namesake and heir to his legacy.

 Like our singing, learning, laughing, and struggling to find sense and hope together, these presentations have helped us connect to each other and to the language and tradition that unite us. Thanks to these shared activities, Ya mos izimos famiya! We have really become a family!

As such, we share anecdotes and jokes, family treasures, and news of our activities. Each participant has made a unique contribution. For example, Stanley Habib, Professor Emeritus of Computer Science, uses his expertise to save us in emergencies and facilitate communication. Stanley has also been introducing Ladino songs, proverbs, blessings, and other materials to the Boston Workers Circle, a traditionally Ashkenazic, Yiddish-speaking community to which he belongs.

Rhonda Miller suggested, set up, and manages our Google group, which helps us communicate beyond our meetings. Rashelika Cohen has organized a Jewish tour of her native Greece conducted in Ladino to be scheduled during a Jewish holiday, so that synagogues there will be filled with worshippers and thus saved from being repurposed by the government. Dianne Mortensen reads aloud and does grammatical exercises with pleasure and precision, reflecting her knowledge of and enthusiasm for linguistics. Torin Spangler, a graduate student who has researched Sephardic connections on his mother's side, enriches our meetings with his perceptive comments and unique Portuguese-flavored Ladino. Sara Gardner, a graduate student who is already a recognized scholar and popular writer, shares her expertise in Sephardic culinary history and its implications with characteristic enthusiasm. Adams Kornnblum Carney, an undergraduate currently exploring his Jewish roots, shares his considerable knowledge with humor and grace. Reed Spitzer, also an undergraduate, brings freshness and curiosity to his exploration of Ladino.   

The family treasure that Perla Vida (Pnina) Asher Samuels shared with us is found in a book published in memory of her cousin Shelomo Asher, son of Emanuel Asher, by the family: Para Munchos Anyos (For/Looking Toward Many Years, Tel Aviv, 2002). A compilation of blessings, prayers, and songs for Rosh Hashana, including the irasones (yehi ratsones), according to Izmirli custom, it is written in Hebrew and in Ladino in Hebrew letters (here in transliteration). At the end there are one hundred wishes, one for every occasion, as Perla Vida notes. It is these wishes that she has shared with us, 10 at a time. What a welcome, appropriate, typically Sephardic gift—expressions of hope for something positive, for us and everyone else! As one of the wishes says, Eyos tengan bien i mozós también! May they have it good and we, too! This wish, traditionally found at the end of a folk tale, was said in my family when something good happened to other people. Though we didn't begrudge them their good luck, we did wish for some for ourselves, too. This wish is a reminder of where we started: El Dio ke te, vos, mos dé salú i vida!—and of the positive path we continue to seek.

A month ago, when my dog, Jozepiko (Yosef, originally Joseph Francis) died, I was consoled by our Sephardic language and culture, transmitted back to me by my Ladino family. How wonderful to hear those proverbs and expressions from them! El Dio no aharva kon dos manos! God doesn't strike with both hands! A few days after his death, verses came to me, first in English and then, more forcefully, in Ladino. I offer them as a closing tribute to the healing power of our potent Sephardic antidote to all negativity.

 

                        Life is flat and empty.                La vida sta vazía, sin savor.

                        Joseph's gone.                          Jozepiko ya se fue.

                        True when I (just) wrote it.     Verdá kuando lo eskriví, agora.

                        Now, move on.            Ayde, alevántate!

 

 

 

 

Halakhic Response to Meta-Halakhic Values

 

 

What is the relationship between the halakhic and the ethical spheres? This question has been addressed widely by foremost Jewish thinkers and scholars, though with widely varying answers—from a total disinterest of halakha in the ethical,[1] to the ethical consistently overriding all other halakhic factors.[2] The goal of this paper is not to provide a comprehensive view of these opinions, but to argue for a halakhic outlook that includes within it a sensitivity for ethics rooted in traditional Jewish sources as larger meta-halakhic principles. Moral values derived from biblical sources lead to halakhic reality in nearly all spheres of life—economic, social, and marital. Meta-halakhic values can also generate new obligations, creating the category of Lifnim Mishurat haDin, beyond the letter of the law. In addition to examining cases in each sphere, this paper will look at two differing halakhic models that account for values-driven halakha. The contention of this paper is that throughout Jewish history, halakhic discourse has been unmistakably and remarkably shaped by meta-halakhic principles.

Among the most well-known debates between the schools of the great sages Hillel and Shammai is their disagreement on how to “dance before,” or greet, a bride.[3] This argument demonstrates the inevitable clash between values when applied to real-world situations. The Gemara, on Ketubot 17a, asks what one should say about a bride on her wedding day while in her presence. Bet Shammai, in line with the value of emet, truth, states: “as she is,” while Bet Hillel, in line with the value of hessed, loving-kindness, maintains that one should call her “fair and attractive,” regardless of her appearance. As Bet Shammai immediately points out, Bet Hillel’s position will inevitably lead to compromising the truth in some cases, and therefore violates the verse “keep away from a false matter.”[4] How could Bet Hillel hold a position that is in direct contradiction with a command from the Torah? The Gemara responds by stating the principle that “a person’s disposition should always be empathetic with humankind.” As with nearly every other dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel, here, too, we rule with Bet Hillel, that even in the face of an explicit verse, the argument of basic human empathy remains compelling. However, while this passage, in its most straightforward reading, seems to imply that hessed simply overrides the Torah prohibition on falsehood, Ritva interprets it differently. In fact, Ritva maintains that this case contains no clash between hessed and a Torah command at all. Instead, he asserts that when dealing with a case related to the “ways of peace,” the prohibition on engaging in falsehood is rendered entirely inapplicable.[5] This assumes that there can be no conflict between law and morality, or that, at least, it does not exist in this specific case; a law simply cannot be applicable if it will lead to results that are at odds with the ways of peace. With either reading of this sugya, we see the unmistakable influence of the values of empathy and peace within practical decisions.

            Central to the halakhic discourse around larger Torah principles is the verse, Proverbs 3:17: “all her paths are pleasantness, and all her ways are peace,” from which stems the talmudic concept of darkhei shalom, ways of peace. As Rabbi Marc Angel states in reference to this verse:

 

The verse is also prescriptive: It reminds us that religious life must take into consideration the qualities of pleasantness and peace....They are not peripheral adornments to the Torah way of life, but are essential and central ingredients. Without these qualities, Orthodoxy is false to its mission and misrepresents the ideal Torah way of life.[6]

 

Similarly, Rav Abraham Isaac Kook writes,

 

Morality in its natural state, with all its profound splendor and might, must be fixed in the soul, so that it may serve as a substratum for the great effects emanating from the strength of Torah…. Every element of Torah must be preceded by Derekh Eretz [= natural ethical behavior].[7]

 

Pleasantness and peace—which encompass morality, decency, and human rightsare not detached from Jewish law. As is stated in Mishna Avot (3:23) “There is no Torah without derekh eretz.” Without the moral principles of the Torah guiding it, the halakhic system strays from its intended path. This is why a prescriptive reading of Proverbs 3:17 was employed by rabbinic tradition in shaping halakha to meet the standards of “pleasantness and peace.” In Masekhet Gittin, the Mishna lists a number of rabbinic institutions in the name of darkhei shalom, from establishing the order of aliyot during public Torah reading, to establishing property rights for minors and the disabled, to ensuring that non-Jews can partake in charity.[8] None of these seem to have any explicit roots in the biblical text, yet the rabbis realized the importance of these enactments on moral and social grounds.

This in and of itself is remarkable, demonstrating the devotion of the rabbis to supra-legal values, but the Gemara takes this concept a step further.[9] Commenting on the aforementioned Mishna in Gittin, Abaye expresses incredulity at the characterization of these laws as rabbinic in nature, questioning why they are not of biblical status. But they have no source in the Torah! How could Abaye possibly think the laws are de’Oraita, having the status of Torah (as opposed to rabbinic) law? The answer is that, according to Abaye, “Aren’t the halakhot of the entire Torah also given on account of the ways of peace, as it is written: “Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace” (Proverbs 3:17). This statement assumes that anything done in line with pleasantness and peace is by definition included in Torah law. The statement, in terms of practical application, is limited somewhat by the Gemara, but the moral force of the claim that the Torah itself is given on account of the ways of peace remains untouched. In this case, there, by definition, cannot be a way of Torah that is not a way of peace. For how could even one aspect of the Torah go against its raison d'être?

Rambam, in codifying the halakhic obligations of Jews to non-Jews includes Abaye’s reasoning, asserting that

 

Our Sages have commanded us to visit their [i.e., non-Jews’] sick and bury their dead along with Jewish dead, and sustain their poor along with the poor of Israel is for the “sake of peace”, since it says, “God is good to all, and His mercies extend upon all his works” (Psalms 145:9) and it says, “her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace" (Proverbs 3:17).[10]

 

By including these verses in his legal code, Mishneh Torah, Rambam establishes the role of these meta-halakhic factors as the basis for action. From talmudic to modern times, we witness the influence of these factors in rendering practical halakha, including in areas of economic concern. One of the most well-known examples of a rabbinic institution that seems to prioritize financial needs is Hillel’s Prozbol. In the Torah, we find the explicit commandment for the cancellation of debts in the Shemitah year:

 

At the end of every seven years, you shall make a release. And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor shall release that which he has lent unto his neighbor; he shall not exact it of his neighbor and his brother; because Hashem's release has been proclaimed. (Devarim 15:1–2)

 

Yet, in the second temple period, Hillel the Elder, the leader of the Jewish people, realized that this commandment was leading to unintended negative consequences, as lenders would not give loans when the Shemitah year was approaching. The reality in which loans were not available to those in need of them was, to Hillel, untenable. As a result, Hillel instituted a Prozbol, which transferred the ownership of debts from an individual to a Bet Din (religious court), thereby allowing debts to remain despite the Shemitah year.[11] Facing negative effects of the direct application of a Torah command, Hillel chose to create a loophole in order to preserve the moral integrity of the system.

Similarly, the Heter Iska has been utilized to avoid the prohibition of lending money to another Jew with interest, in the name of promoting overall social economic welfare. A Heter Iska restructures a loan to qualify it as an investment, thereby rendering a loan with interest halakhically valid, albeit on a technicality. One of the earliest decisors to implement this was the Terumat Hadeshen, a fifteenth-century Rishon, who asserts that “one is permitted to create a Heter Iska even when the goal of both parties is only to find a ‘kosher’ way of creating a transaction that is very similar to an interest-bearing loan.”[12] This seems to fly in the face of Torah law! But the author of Me’or Einayim explains that although “this is something surprising that appears to evade the law, [...] it should not be forbidden when needed in a particular situation to provide sustenance to fellow Jews.”[13] Both the Prozbol and the Heter Iska were instituted in the name of fostering a society that includes loans for those in need, without which many would have been adversely affected. However, this monetary concern is not only limited to Jews. In a responsa, Rav Ben Zion Uziel, the first Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel, addresses the financial obligation of a Jewish man who fathered a non-Jewish child. After lengthy halakhic consideration that seems to exonerate the man of any financial responsibility, Rav Uziel nonetheless obligates the man in providing for his child, stating that “this is the way of Torah, whose ways are ways of pleasantness.…”[14] Despite technical reasoning, Rav Uziel relies on the commitment of the Torah to the value of pleasantness and peace to enforce his ruling.

 

Within the social sphere, the emphasis on refraining from humiliation is used forcefully in demarcating the bounds of Torah law and in prompting rabbinic enactments to maintain it:

 

Rabbi Yoḥanan says in the name of Rabbi Shimon ben Yoḥai: It is more amenable for a person to throw himself into a fiery furnace if faced with the choice of publicly embarrassing another or remaining silent even if it leads to being burned, and not humiliate another in public. From where do we derive this? From Tamar, as she was prepared to be burned if Judah did not confess, rather than humiliate him in public.[15]

 

This is not a halakhic statement, but a midrashic way of bearing out a Torah value. It is not, however, kept separate from the legalistic discussions of Judaism; rather, it is a principle used to reach implemented law. For example, when discussing the parameters of the commandment, “You shall surely rebuke your neighbor, and not bear sin because of him” (Lev. 19:17), the law only applies up to the point of causing embarrassment.[16]Another case that elicited concern of humiliation was the case of a widow, who, due to having a child from her first husband, had been required to marry outside of the family of her former husband, after which her child died. Normally a childless widow either must marry a relative of her late husband, or undergo a ceremony, known as halitza, with that relative to terminate her obligation toward him. But in this case, when she was already married to another man, what should the rule on halitza be? The rabbis ruled leniently in this case, allowing her to remain married to her new husband without undergoing that ceremony.[17] Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits writes,

 

From the point of view of talmudic reasoning, this was not at all obvious. A rule of talmudic deduction is employed to argue that really the woman ought to perform halitza. But all logical reasoning is pushed aside by the statement that such could not be a law of the Tora, for it is said of the Tora: “Her ways are ways of pleasantness.” In other words, it is inconceivable that the Tora would in this case require halitza. The woman is already married. To subject her to such a ceremony would be humiliating for her vis-a-vis her present husband.[18]

 

The rabbis also instituted a number of rules surrounding burial and mourning to ensure honor and prevent embarrassment specifically for those on the lower economic rungs of society. In Moed Katan, the Gemara relates that while in mourning, the rich were brought baskets of gold and silver, while the poor were brought baskets made of twigs. As a result, the poor felt ashamed. Similarly, the corpses of the rich were carried on couches while the poor were carried in simple wood boxes. This, too, shamed the poor. The clothes that a corpse was expected to be buried in were so expensive that sometimes those without the means to buy such clothes would run away and abandon the body. In all of these cases, the rabbis commanded that the standards change to accommodate those who were humiliated by the previous customs.[19] Baskets of gold and silver, ornate couches for carrying the dead, fine clothes for those being buried, and more were all prohibited, not because of a technical command or Torah obligation, but because of respect of the rabbis for the emotional needs of the lowest strata of society.

            One of the most challenging halakhic issues of modern times, that of the Aguna, arises in the marital sphere. Aguna, literally a chained woman, is a status that occurs when the husband of a married woman disappears or is recalcitrant to give his wife a get, or Jewish bill of divorce. In either case, the Aguna is stuck with her husband and unable to remarry. The tragic nature of this situation was not lost on the rabbis and led them to do whatever possible to evade an Aguna situation. Discussed on Yebamot 88a, the Gemara asserts that unlike normal cases, a single witness can be relied on, responding to objections that, “due to the case of a deserted wife (Aguna), the sages were lenient with her.” The Rambam codifies this very line in his Mishneh Torah.[20] The Tosafot explains this as “not the uprooting of a matter in the Torah, for the matter appears inherently credible [and hence a single witness is acceptable]….”[21] But the Maharsha explicitly rejects this reading of the Gemara as “far-fetched.” Instead, he argues that without rabbinic intervention in the normal system,

 

she may thereby become an Aguna, which is not a peaceful state…. And it says “there is great peace to the lovers of your Torah,” for this is not an uprooting; rather, it is an application of the attribute of peace to prevent having the woman become an Aguna, as is written, “Its ways are ways of pleasantness.” And the passage concludes with the verse (Ps. 29:11), “The Lord will give strength to His people,” for it is not a matter of uprooting something in the Torah, inasmuch as the Holy One Blessed Be He gave strength and power to his people, who are scholars, to rule leniently in this matter, for “the Lord will bless His people with peace,” as is written, “all its paths are peace”— and there will be no peace if she becomes an Aguna.”[22]

 

Tosafot’s reading of this Gemara would keep the conversation surrounding Agunot as one of technicality—perhaps the plausibility of this claim generates different standards of testimony. But to the Maharsha, the technical conversation yields to one of values and sensitivity. For the Maharsha, there is no more likelihood that one witness is more accurate than in any other case, in which we would reject the testimony of a single witness. It is the value of preventing an Aguna, which contends with the Torah’s desire for peace, that elicits the deviation from normal halakhic standards. One of the Torah giants of the modern era, Rav Ovadia Yosef was known for his dedication to preventing women from becoming Agunot:

 

Generally, it is the way of some of the Sages of our generation to remove all possible doubtful situations to make universally applicable legal rulings that cannot be challenged. This is generally a good path to take, but by Aguna I follow in the footsteps of earlier and later Sages that would find every possible facet of the law that could be used to treat an Aguna case with leniency.[23]

 

Rav Ovadia expresses the need for deviation from standard proceedings when dealing with such sensitive cases, and rejects the application of halakha that is divorced from the nature of the case. In the case of the Aguna, we see the willingness of the rabbis, from talmudic to modern times, to bypass the established norms in order to maintain peace for these women.

            Not only do meta-halakhic principles guide the halakhic process, but they can also create new obligations in cases where the halakha is silent. This yields the category of Lifnim Mishurat haDin, beyond the letter of the law:

 

The Gemara relates an incident involving Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Certain porters broke his barrel of wine after he had hired them to transport the barrels. He took their cloaks as payment for the lost wine. They came and told Rav. Rav said to Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Give them their cloaks. Rabba bar bar Ḥanan said to him: Is this the halakha? Rav said to him: Yes, as it is written: “That you may walk in the way of good men” (Proverbs 2:20). Rabba bar bar Ḥanan gave them their cloaks. The porters said to Rav: We are poor people and we toiled all day and we are hungry and we have nothing. Rav said to Rabba bar bar Ḥanan: Go and give them their wages. Rabba bar bar Ḥanan said to him: Is this the halakha? Rav said to him: Yes, as it is written: “And keep the paths of the righteous” (Proverbs 2:20).[24]

 

As Rashi points out (commenting on “the way of good men''), this is “Lifnim Mishurat haDin.” Yet, there is no indication from this passage that Rav is giving a mere suggestion of what to do—he is giving a ruling. But how could a ruling be given on something that is beyond the letter of the law? The answer must be that it is not only the letter of the law that obligates, but the spirit of the law as well. In fact, when Rabba bar bar Hanan asks, “Is this the halakha?” the Gemara seems to imply that the letter of the law is with him, not Rav. As Rabbi Sperber explains, “The Law itself may have supported Rabbah’s position, but Rav compelled him to pay more than the law required: the ethical value of walking in the paths of the good and righteous trumped the letter of the law.”[25]

One of the most well-known formulations of Lifnim Mishurat haDin is Ramban’s conception of Naval Bershut haTorah, a scoundrel with permission of the Torah.[26] That is to say, people can follow the letter of the law to a tee, but nevertheless can remain a “scoundrel” if they do not conform their behavior to the general principles the Torah presents, beyond merely its legal precepts. To Ramban, Lifnim Mishurat haDin is not optional, but specifically commanded in verses such as “be holy,” and “And you shall do the straight and the good.” This concept is powerfully expressed in a passage in Baba Metzia discussing Lifnim Mishurat haDin:

 

Rabbi Yoḥanan says: Jerusalem was destroyed only for the fact that they adjudicated cases on the basis of Torah law in the city. The Gemara asks: Rather, what else should they have done? Should they rather have adjudicated cases on the basis of arbitrary decisions [demagizeta]? Rather, say: That they established their rulings on the basis of Torah law and did not go beyond the letter of the law.[27]

 

To Rabbi Yohanan, not acting beyond the letter of the law is such a grave sin that the Temple was destroyed on its account! Lifnim Mishurat haDin is not an expression of extra piety, but foundational to functional halakhic life. The Torah’s directives are multiplanar. There is the strict Din, the letter of the law, but beyond that are the values of peace and pleasantness, respect and love for all creations, and more. These together—the specific Din and the general values—make up the obligations of the halakha.[28]

            Even among thinkers who accept the role of general Torah principles in halakhic decisions, there are multiple conceptions of the halakhic system and its relationship with those principles. One model is put forth by Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, in his essay “The Human and Social Factor in Halakha.”[29] This model parallels Ritva's reading of the argument regarding dancing before the bride. There, Ritva acknowledges no discrepancy between values, but rather assumes that different values help set boundaries on others, maintaining a closed system that still gives voice to each value. Rav Lichtenstein similarly advocates a model of halakha that neither ignores what he refers to as “human and social factors,” nor overrides the halakha in the event of a clash—because for Lichtenstein no such clash can exist. As Lichtenstein writes,

 

The human and social factor is relevant to halakha at its various levels; and the point can be briefly illustrated by the example of shalom perceived not only in moral and hortatory terms, with primary reference to the aggadic sphere, but as a halakhic element. At the teleological plane, it is described in one context as the impulse for the entire Torah.

 

While shalom is of teleological import, its implementation comes about as a result of its status as a “halakhic element.” This integration allows for sensitive halakhic decisions in line with the broader values of the Torah, while in no way compromising the system, which can only be “superseded by the internal dynamics of the halakhic system proper.” This approach also asserts that neglecting the human and social factors is not just “insensitive,” but “bad halakha” as well, for to neglect any halakhic factor in giving Pesak, halakhic decision, must be “bad halakha.” This is not fundamentally different than ignoring any other technical factor that may affect the final ruling. Lichtenstein propounds that “to the extent that kevod ha-beriot [basic dignity], for instance, permits a "violation," be it of a de-rab-banan [rabbinic] injunction, actively, or of a de-oraita [biblical law], passively, failure to act on that principle undercuts a spiritual ideal.” Halakhic ruling demands consideration of any internal element that may affect the outcome, and principles of peace and human dignity are no different. Rav Lichtenstein in no way condones using moral arguments to push aside halakha, but rather asserts that perhaps “what had been apt and perhaps even necessary in a given socio-historical setting was no longer ideally suited to his own.” This promotes obedience to traditional halakha, while recognizing that the halakhic system itself contains paths to avoid consequences seen as contrary to Torah values and does not mandate uniform application of previous rulings to new cases. This model minimizes, if not eliminates altogether, the language of clash between halakha and larger meta-halakhic principles, while striving to stay true to those principles.

            In contrast to this stands the model wherein one maintains a separation between Torah values and technical halakha, and navigates those situations by prioritizing the value, as put forth in the writings of the Dor Revi'i and Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits. Rabbi Moshe Shemuel Glasner, known as the Dor Revi’i, while discussing whether one should eat an explicitly forbidden food or human flesh, which is not explicitly forbidden in the Torah, writes,

 

You should know that as to all the loathsome things that man finds despicable, even if the Torah had not forbidden them, anyone eating such things would be regarded as being far more abhorrent than one who violates an explicit Torah prohibition….

But tell me now, a dangerously ill patient having to choose between meat from an improperly slaughtered or congenitally defective animal and human flesh—which should he eat? Do we say that he should eat the human flesh, which is not forbidden by a Torah prohibition—even though it is forbidden by the moral code accepted by civilized man, so that anyone eating or feeding another person human flesh is cast out from the community of men—rather than eat meat which the Torah forbids with a negative commandment? Would it enter your mind that we, the chosen people, a wise and understanding people, should violate this moral code in order to save ourselves from violating a Torah prohibition?[30]

 

The Dor Revi'i similarly rules that in a case where one’s house is on fire, and he can either run out naked or in a women’s dress, that although wearing women’s clothing seems to be a more serious prohibition, it is undoubtedly preferable to wear it than to run out unclothed. He roots his opinion in the concept of Tzelem Elokim, man as made in God’s image. To the Dor Revi’i, it is clear that in these two cases there is a clash between a Torah prohibition and “moral code,” which he gives credence to by linking it to the biblical principle of Tzelem Elokim. Unabashedly, the Dor Revi’i upholds the moral principle in the face of the halakhic. It should be noted that Rav Asher Weiss expresses incredulity at this position of the Dor Revi’i, but nevertheless recognizes that it is within the bounds of normative halakhic Judaism.[31] Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits similarly describes the “priority of the ethical” when discussing the application of halakha.[32] To Rabbi Berkovits, there are certain immutable Torah values that the halakha must, by definition, reflect.  Any halakha that does not conform to those principles is “inconceivable.” In his essay, “The Nature and Function of Jewish Law,” Rabbi Berkovits writes,

 

The rabbis in the Talmud were guided by the insight: God forbid there should be anything in the application of the Tora to the actual life situation that is contrary to the principles of ethics. What are those principles? They are Tora principles, like: “And you shall do that which is right and good in the sight of the Eternal”; or, “Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace” (according to Talmudic teaching, this refers to the ways and paths of the Tora); or, “That you may walk in the way of good people, and keep the paths of the righteous.”... Quite clearly, these principles, and such an understanding of the meaning of the Tora, give priority to the ethical demand.[33]

 

Unlike Rav Lichtenstein’s model, which integrated the quoted verses into halakhic discourse by conceiving of them as formal halakhic elements, Berkovits and the Dor Revi'i allow for a separation of halakhic factors and values, yet maintain a dialogue between the two. For both Berkovits and the Dor Revi’i, that dialogue must always conclude with a halakhic decision that is in line with Torah principles, even if that means foregoing normative halakhic reasoning. In this approach, halakha is seen as a vehicle for the application of values that therefore must inform and completely shape any halakhic ruling.

            With either model—one being the formalization of general principles into finite halakhic categories, the second being the shaping of halakha to conform to those principles—we see the emphasis on values-driven Pesak. The statements of the Torah regarding ethics and human dignity, peace, and pleasantness, must remain central factors in halakhic dialogue. As we have seen, in a wide array of cases, from Rav Uziel obligating a man to financially support a non-Jewish child, to the rabbis of talmudic times enforcing new norms around mourning, to generations of halakhists, from Talmudic to modern times, ruling leniently in the case of Aguna, values matter. In Halakhic Man, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik states “the actualization of the ideals of justice and righteousness is the pillar of fire which halakhic man follows.”[34] We must not sever the connection between halakha and Torah values. When Abaye asks (albeit rhetorically), “Aren’t the halakhot of the entire Torah also given on account of the ways of peace?” we must resoundingly answer yes!

 

 

[1] Daniel Rynhold. “Yeshayahu Leibowitz.” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Stanford University, 6 Mar. 2019, plato.stanford.edu/entries/leibowitz-yeshayahu/#JewFaiJewLaw.

[2] See Dor Revi’i and Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits, as discussed later in this paper.

[3] BT Ketubot 17a.

[4] Exodus 23:7.

[5] Chidushei HaRitva, Ketubot 17a.

[6] Marc Angel. “Reclaiming Orthodox Judaism.” Jewishideas.org, www.jewishideas.org/article/reclaiming-orthodox-judaism.

[7] Orot ha-Torah, chap. 12, 2–3.

[8] Mishna Gittin 5:8.

[9] BT Gittin 59b.

[10] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Melakhim 10:12.

[11] Mishna Shevi’it 10:3.

[12] Terumat haDeshen #302.

[13] See Daniel Sperber, “Friendly Halakhah and the Friendly Poseq,” The Edah Journal 5:2 (2006): 1–36.

[14] Mishpetei Uziel § 4 “Obligation of father in sustenance of a child born of a non-Jewish woman.” I came across this example in Marc Angel. Loving Truth and Peace: the Grand Religious Worldview of Rabbi Benzion Uziel. Jason Aronson, 1999.

[15] BT Sotah 10b.

[16] Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, Negative Commandments 6.

[17] BT Yebamot 87b.

[18] Eliezer Berkovits. “The Nature and Function of Jewish Law.” Not in Heaven, Shalem Press, 2010, pp. 3–70.

[19] BT Moed Katan 27b.

[20] Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Geirushin 13:28.

[21] Tosafot on Yebamot 89a.

[22] Maharsha on Yebamot, 122b.

[23] Teshuvot Yabia Omer 6: E.H. 3.

[24] BT Baba Metzia 83a.

[25] Daniel Sperber, “Friendly Halakhah and the Friendly Poseq,” 13.

[26] Ramban on Leviticus 19:2.

[27] BT Baba Metzia 30b.

[28] See Aharon Lichtenstein. “‘Does Jewish Tradition Recognize an Ethic Independent of Halakha?’” Modern Jewish Ethics, by Marvin Fox, Ohio State University Press, 1975, pp. 62–88.

[29] Aharon Lichtenstein. “The Human and Social Factor in Halakha.” Tradition, vol. 36, 2002, pp. 89–114.

[30] Dor Revi’i, General Introduction, 2.

[31] I learned of these positions of the Dor Revi’i and Minhat Asher from Rav Dovid Silverstein, my rabbi in Yeshivat Orayta.

[32] Berkovits, “The Nature and Function of Jewish Law.”

[33] Ibid., 28–29.

[34] Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Halakhic Man, p. 91.

Israel: A Tiny Nation, A Great Destiny: Thoughts for Yom Ha'Atsmaut

Thoughts for Yom Ha'Atsmaut
by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

A tiny nation, often misunderstood and maligned, changed the course
of history for the good. This tiny
nation produced the Bible and its prophets; sages and mystics; poets and
dreamers. This tiny nation, generation after generation, in many ways has been
the conscience of humanity, the litmus test of human civilization.

This tiny nation lived in a tiny land in antiquity. Its King David
established Jerusalem as its
capitol city a thousand years before the dawn of Christianity and more than
1600 years before Mohammed. It was seldom allowed to live in peace: other
nations threatened, attacked, made war. It saw its capitol city razed by
vicious enemies, its Temples destroyed
by Babylonians and Romans, its citizens ravaged and exiled.

This tiny nation, scattered throughout the world, faced persecutions and
humiliations. Its men and women and children were confined to ghettos, deprived
of elementary human rights, subjected to pogroms and pillage. Millions of them
were murdered during the Holocaust.

Exiled from its land for nearly 2000 years, it always dreamed of
returning to its ancestral soil and re-establishing its sovereignty. It prayed daily
for the return. Many of its members made pilgrimages, and some remained living
in the land throughout the generations, in conditions of poverty and
oppression.

In spite of the persecutions it suffered and in spite of the callousness
of so many nations of the world, this tiny nation maintained faith in One God
and in the mission He assigned it to bring the lofty teachings of Torah to
humanity. In spite of all its sufferings, this tiny nation maintained faith in
humanity: it strove to make the world a better place for all human beings, with
an eternal optimism that is truly a wonder.

This tiny nation, born 3500 years ago, wove its way through history and
refused to be destroyed or silenced.
This tiny nation, scattered throughout the lands of the world, found the
will and the courage to return to its historic homeland after nearly 2000 years
of exile. The return home has been difficult. It has had to fight wars, withstand
terrorism, overcome economic boycotts, endure political isolation, and combat
hateful propaganda.

Yet, this tiny and ancient nation, against all reasonable odds, has
re-established its sovereignty in its historic homeland; it has created a
vibrant, dynamic, idealistic society, dedicated to the ideals of freedom and
democracy. With its memory spanning the millennia, it has created a modern,
progressive state.

My wife Gilda and I first visited this historic land in the summer of
1968, a year after our marriage. When we glimpsed the shoreline from the
airplane window, we both found ourselves with tears in our eyes. We were not
born in this land; we had never been there before; and yet we were returning—we
and all the generations of our families were returning through us. “When the Lord turned back the captivity of Zion, we were
as in a dream (Psalm 126:1).”

This tiny people is Israel. This tiny
land is Israel. This
nation of dreamers and visionaries, builders and farmers, sages and scientists,
warriors and peace makers—this nation is Israel. This tiny nation is a great nation. This tiny
land is a holy land. “The tiny shall become a thousand, and the least a mighty
nation (Isaiah 60:22).”

Israel is a bastion
of hope in a world filled with despair. It is a wellspring of human dignity in
a world filled with shameless hatred and strife.

To stand with Israel is to
stand for the redemption of the people of Israel and
humanity. To stand with Israel is to recognize
the sheer wonder of the survival and contributions of the people of Israel. It is to
affirm the preciousness of life over a culture of death; righteousness over
hypocrisy; idealism over despair. This tiny nation in its tiny land is a
testament to the greatness of the human spirit. It is a testimony to God’s
providence.

It is a privilege, beyond words, to dream with Israel and share
its destiny.

“For Zion’s sake I shall not be
silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I shall not rest, until her righteousness go
forth as brightness and her salvation as a flaming torch (Isaiah 62:1).”

I and Thou: Thoughts for Parashat Bemidbar

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Bemidbar

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

 

When the Israelites were liberated from their slavery in Egypt, they did not—and could not—immediately become free people. Although the physical servitude had come to an end, psychological/emotional slavery continued to imbue their perception of life.

For generations, they had been viewed as objects, as lowly slaves whose existence was controlled by Egyptian taskmasters. Not only did the Egyptians see the Israelites as beasts of burden, but it was inevitable for the slaves to internalize this evaluation of their own lives. They were dehumanized…and it was very difficult to retain their humanity, self-respect, and dignity.

In this week’s Torah portion, we read about the census of the Israelites in the wilderness. The Torah specifies that those who were to be counted in the census were to be identified by their names and by their families. This was a dramatic way of telling them: you have names, you have families, you are dignified human beings; you are not chattel, you are not nameless slaves, you are not objects. Until the Israelites came to internalize their freedom and self-worth, they would continue to see themselves as inferior and unworthy beings.

In his famous book, I and Thou, Martin Buber pointed out that human relationships, at their best, involve mutual knowledge and respect, treating self and others as valuable human beings. An I-Thou relationship is based on understanding, sympathy, love. Its goal is to experience the “other” as a meaningful and valuable person. In contrast, an I-It relationship treats the “other” as an object to be manipulated, controlled, or exploited. If I-Thou relationships are based on mutuality, I-It relationships are based on the desire to gain functional benefit from the other.

Buber wrote: “When a culture is no longer centered in a living and continually renewed relational process, it freezes into the It-world, which is broken only intermittently by the eruptive, glowing deeds of solitary spirits.” As we dehumanize others, we also engage in the process of dehumanizing ourselves. We make our peace with living in an It-world, using others as things, and in turn being used by them for their purposes.

In critiquing modern life, Erich Fromm has noted that “We have become things and our neighbors have become things. The result is that we feel powerless and despise ourselves for our impotence.”

The line between I-Thou and I-It relationships is not always clear. Sometimes, people appear to be our friends, solicitous of our well-being; yet, their real goal is to manipulate us into buying their product, accepting their viewpoint, controlling us in various ways. Their goal isn’t mutual friendship and understanding; rather, they want to exert power and control, and they feign friendship as a tactic to achieve their goals.

Dehumanization is poisonous to proper human interactions and relationships. It is not only destructive to the victim, but equally or even more destructive to the one who does the dehumanizing. The dehumanizer ultimately dehumanizes himself/herself, and becomes blinded by egotism and power-grabbing at any cost. Such a person may appear “successful” based on superficial standards; but at root, such a person is an immense failure who has demeaned his/her humanity along with the humanity of his/her victims.

The Israelites, after their long and painful experience as slaves, needed to learn to value themselves and to value others; to engage in I-Thou relationships based on their own human dignity and the dignity of others. One of the messages of the census in the wilderness was: you are a dignified individual and your life matters—not just for what you can do as an “It” but for who you are as a “Thou.”

I-It relationships are based on functionality. Once the function no longer yields results, the relationship breaks. I-Thou relationships are based on human understanding, loyalty and love. These relationships are the great joy of life.

I recently received an email with the following message: “Friendship isn’t about who you have known longest…it’s about who came and never left your side.”

 

Review of Ronald Benun's New Volume on Psalms

Book Review

Ronald Benun, Psalms and the Prophetic Message of Jeremiah, vol. 1 (Tebah: 2021), 368 pages.

 

Reviewed by Rabbi Hayyim Angel

 

After many decades of research, Ronald Benun has published the first volume of his life’s work on the Book of Psalms. Benun follows in the footsteps of his revered mentor, Rabbi Solomon David Sassoon.

 

This work is original and creative, as Benun identifies a plethora of proposed allusions between selected psalms and the entire Bible, most notably the Book of Jeremiah.

 

Benun’s thought-provoking analysis combines careful attention to minor details within a psalm, as well as the interlocking nexus of the entire Tanakh (“intertextuality”). In the 1980s, Benun developed then cutting-edge software to improve his ability to compare multiple biblical passages at once. He presents the results of his research in his book.

 

Benun also submits explanations of the sequencing of the psalms: “Psalms is not simply an anthology of unrelated poems. Rather, it also has the characteristics of a book, with an overall message, and sequence from chapter to chapter and from unit to unit” (306). Ibn Ezra (on Psalm 3:1) rejected this approach out of hand, but other great commentators, such as Rabbi Saadiah Gaon, pursued this line of inquiry.
 

The volume is best suited to scholars and other highly educated laypeople with strong backgrounds in Jewish Studies.

 

The sheer quantity of potential parallels Benun adduces is breathtaking. Each reader likely will reach different conclusions as to which to accept as compelling and which to consider more tenuous. Even once a set of parallels is established, individuals also may disagree over how to interpret the significance of those parallels. As the adage goes, one person’s peshat is another person’s derash.

 

Following the path of the best of Jewish scholarly tradition, Benun encourages his readers to evaluate his arguments based on the evidence. He painstakingly presents his arguments with careful documentation, rigor, and clarity.

 

Another compelling methodological contribution is Rabbi Solomon Sassoon’s “bumps in the road” interpretive stance. Many academic scholars have a tendency to smooth out difficulties, often by mechanically proposing text emendations. Benun retorts that more thoughtful attention to these anomalies may serve to unlock the intent of the biblical authors. For example, by deviating from an alphabetical acrostic or another pattern, an author may deliberately convey a shift in idea and mood. Emending a text to “correct” the anomaly, by contrast, is not only facile and tenuous, but may well obscure precisely the point the biblical author wishes to express through the use of that variance!

 

On a personal note, I also am coming out with a book on Psalms this year (Hayyim Angel, Psalms: A Companion Volume (New York: Kodesh Press, forthcoming). I found it particularly enlightening to read an entirely different approach to the psalms. There are endless facets to the prophetic works of the Bible, and we are blessed to have high-quality scholarship like that of Ronald Benun now in the mixture of ideas and approaches to the ever-inspiring and elevating words of the Psalms.