At the end of Parshat VaYelech, Moses calls the Torah a ’song’ and commands the Jewish people to remember this song. The next week’s parsha, Ha’azinu, is clearly a song as well, and many commentators suggest that it is to serve as a paradigm for the entire Torah. The question is why – Why is the Torah compared to a song? Why not call it a megilla – a scroll? Or a sefer – a book? And more importantly, what does it mean for us that the Torah is a song?
Regarding the first question, a recent study conducted with Duke University students is perhaps instructive. A large group of these students were asked to write down the words of the Star Spangled Banner. This should have been a relatively easy task considering how often all of these students had heard the national anthem sung over the years. And yet, they were on average only able to reproduce 32 words.
The experimenters then played the music to the Star Spangled Banner — but without any words — and allowed participants to hum the tune as they tried again to write down the words of the national anthem. This time, Duke students were able to recall on average 52 words — obviously much better.
[Unfortunately, there are actually 81 words in the Star Spangled Banner, which I guess means Americans are not so great at remembering the national anthem under any circumstances. Consistent with this fact, I once read about a website dedicated exclusively to PUBLIC performances in which people flubbed their rendition of the national anthem. In one, a famous singer is seen 'cheating' as he tries to read the words of the anthem off his hand during a rendition before a baseball game.]
If putting the words of the Star Spangled Banner to music can help us recall the words, perhaps putting the Torah to music can do the same — and not just with regards to ‘recalling the words’ but also in terms of remembering the values and integrating the emotions inspired by the Torah into our daily lives.
But that’s only half the story — the part that tells us why Moses would want to present the Torah as a song. The other half relates to what we are supposed to do with that information. When we sit down to learn the Torah, does the fact that it was written as a ’song’ inspire me to do anything differently?
Here, too, an interesting study might shed some light on this matter. In this study, a group of people were asked to memorize some words. Some of the people were asked to memorize the words in a classroom setting, while others were asked to memorize them … under water! In scuba gear! A little while later, both groups of people were asked to recall the words they had learned, but with a twist. Part of the people who memorized the words in the classroom were asked to recall them in the same classroom, while another portion of this first group was asked to don scuba gear and go underwater … and then try to recall the words. To no one’s surprise, the group that was asked to recall the words in the classroom did significantly better than the group asked to recall them under water.
But here is where it gets interesting. A portion of the second group — those that initially memorized the words underwater — were asked to recall the words above ground in a classroom setting; another portion of this second group were allowed to return under water and asked to recall the words there. To everyone’s surpise the group asked to recall the words under water did significantly better than the group asked to recall the words above ground. This despite the fact that as they attempted to recall the words they also had to deal with all their scuba gear, the pressures of paying attention under water and while dodging boats and fish alike.
From this, the scientists conducting the experiment concluded as follows: When asked to remember things, humans do much better when they are in the same place and doing the same thing as they were when they first encountered the thing they are being asked to remember. A startling additional experiment further proved this point: A person who learns something while a little drunk will actually remember that item better when he/she is once again a little drunk as opposed to being entirely sober.
These experiments have relevance to us as we attempt to learn Torah — or better, re-learn the Torah as it was first given to the Jewish people thousands of years ago. Since it was originally given in song, it suggests that we will have a better chance of properly recalling it — properly understanding it — when we try to do so in a state of song as well (kind of like humming the music to the National Anthem helped people recall that song better than when they simply tried to remember it without the music). By being in such a state, we will have better access to what it’s all about. We will hear its ‘music’ and understand its pace — we will grasp the emotions within it and uncover the unspeakable yet irreplacable inspirations it is trying to convey.
On a practical level, this does not mean we should reread the Torah only when music is being played (though that might not be a bad idea in certain situations when that music puts one in the right mood to ‘receive’ the information — i.e., when music makes us happy, we might be better able to open our hearts and minds to more Torah than if we were sad, which often limits our horizons and ability to receive). Rav Kook would say that the ‘music’ of the Torah is not just the music, but also the feelings, the joy and the meaning found within it. If one learns Torah and ignores any of the emotions the Torah is trying to convey to the reader, but rather views it purely as an intellectual exercise, this student will have missed a good part of what the Torah is about. If he only sees the details, but misses out on the big picture that God has chosen to communicate with us, that God has written a ‘love song’ as it were, well then he will have misunderstood the essence of the Torah.
Below is the recent review of my book, The Accidental Zionist, that appeared in the Long Island Jewish Star. To order the book, visit your local Judaica store, or shop online at Amazon.com.
The Kosher Bookworm: “The Accidental Zionist” by Rabbi Ian Pear
Reviewed by Alan Jay Gerber
Issue of June 26, 2009 / 4 Tammuz 5769
Let me start by saying that this is a very informal, somewhat irreverent book –– zany at times about subjects that are dead serious. To put a smile on the face of an impending disaster takes some doing, and in this Rabbi Ian Pear succeeds.
The basic premise of the book is that we, the Jewish people, are in
deep trouble. Surprise! When aren’t we in trouble? In good times we have trouble and in bad times we have tzores. What’s new about that? Well, in this book we are presented with a series of challenges that reflect the views of a man –– a rabbi –– who is a YU grad (and proud of that) and a ba’al teshuva, who takes his religious beliefs very seriously. Rabbi Pear has degrees in law from New York University’s School of Law and in international relations from Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service.
Today, Rabbi Pear is the founding rabbi of Shir Hadash, a popular Jerusalem-based shul, educational institute and community center. Before going to Israel he spent a summer as a guest rabbi at the
Atlantic Beach Jewish Center just after the stewardship of Rabbi Basil
Herring and before Rabbi Samuel Klibanoff assumed the rabbinate of
that distinguished shul.
Given this eclectic background, one should not be surprised to see a
book so brazen and challenging, by so young an author, be written as a
warning against secular nationalism and in defense of religious
Zionism.
What I found most endearing about this book was the sharp focus that
Pear places on his deep devotion to the religious component of the
State of Israel’s purpose for existence. To me, this focus is
everything. Without our belief in the divine origin of our claim to
Eretz Yisrael, all else is worthless –– yes, absolutely worthless.
A godless nationalism, however phrased in eloquent secular terms, is
not relevant to our people’s quest for a homeland in the Land of
Israel. Pear places this divine claim as the predicate for all that
comes in train when it involves the safety, security and wellbeing of
Israel.
And mind you, this predicate transcends all of our religious
denominational divisions, particularly that of the Mesorati
(Conservative) movement in Israel who share the same exact belief in
the divine origin of our historic claims to Israel.
In addition, Pear clearly defines how halacha-based ethical
monotheism, and an ethical behavior and lifestyle, is at the essence
of the Jewish people’s purpose as an agent of G-d’s rule on earth.
Basically, Israel is the base for such a message to go forth to all
mankind. There is no other purpose for both our existence as a
separate nation among the nations of this world and for Israel’s
existence as an “Am Segulah,” a treasured, chosen nation. Despite a
powerful military, a promising high-tech economy and a magnificent
higher educational system, we, as a nation, according to Pear, are
only defined by higher spiritual criteria. And how right he is, with
no apologies and no misgivings.
Pear’s style of writing, as noted before, helps to make these
arguments all the more understandable because of their charm and
obvious sincerity. While at times a bit much, his personal anecdotes
do make their points obvious to even the most casual of readers. This
helps to strengthen arguments that when presented by others seem
forced or embarrassingly clumsy at best. In Rabbi Pear’s pen, they are
presented with a smile by a man confident in his intellectual skin as
to the justice of his beliefs.
Toward the conclusion of this book, the author quotes from one of
America’s premier Jewish theologians, Rabbi Dr. Eliezer Berkovitz, of
blessed memory, who said the following that should serve as the
capstone to this review. He states as follows:
“The concept of Israel as a holy nation [should] not only not
conflict with the universalism of Israel’s prophets, but actually lead
to it as its own logical completion. The idea of a holy nation is not
to be confused with that of nationalism. The goal of nationalism is to
serve the nation; a holy nation serves G-d. The law of nationalism is
national self-interest: the law of a holy nation is the will of G-d.
In nationalistic ideology, the nation is an end in itself; the holy
nation is a means to an end.”
No one else could have said this better than Rav Berkovitz, and Rabbi
Ian Pear knew this, and had the grace to share his words with us.
According to the Talmud, Rabbi Akiva presided over 24,000 students until a terrible plague decimated nearly all of them (only 5 survived) in the 2nd Century CE. “Why did these students die?” asks the Talmud. The answer: “Because they did not show honor to one another.”
There are many questions one may ask about this story, but none is as troublesome as this: Rabbi Akiva was known as a lover of all, and he taught the same to all his students. Indeed, Rabbi Akiva is best known for the following statement: “Love your Neighbor as Yourself – this is the great principle of the entire Torah.” So I could understand Rabbi Akiva’s students failing to show up on time for morning prayers. And it is not inconceivable to imagine them being lax in some other ritual matter. BUT TO NOT SHOW HONOR TO ONE ANOTHER — that seems difficult to accept. They were Rabbi Akiva’s students! Respecting one another was his main lesson — and legacy. How is it possible that they failed to heed this message?
One possible answer can be gleaned from a proper understanding of the historical context in which Rabbi Akiva — and his students — lived.
The Temple had just been destroyed and Jewish national sovereignty suspended. According to the Talmud, the reason for these tragedies was sinat chinam, senseless hatred. People simply did not respect one another.
One might think this was a social plague of the common people alone, but clearly the scholars of the day were also involved. Consider but one of the distressing stories the Talmud shares with us in this regard. A certain student of Rabbi Akiva had become ill. The students of Torah are informed of his illness and his need for assistance … yet no one lends a hand. To the contrary, every student buries his head in his holy books instead and completely ignores the plight of their fellow student. Eventually Rabbi Akiva himself hears about the situation and visits the ill student. He had nearly died by this time, but is immediately refreshed by Rabbi Akiva’s visit. “You have saved my life!” he tells Rabbi Akiva. A happy ending, maybe, but where was everyone else?
So this was the sad state of Torah scholars in the time of Rabbi Akiva. What I would like to suggest is that the situation was even worse prior to Rabbi Akiva entering the scene.
Consider the following.
The story is told of Rabbi Akiva as a young man. He is a shepard, supposedly an ignoramus, not even able to read the alep-bet. Rachel, the daughter of the employer of Akiva (for he is not a Rabbi at this time) sees something special in this simple Shepperd. They fall in love and decide to get married — with one condition: Akiva must go to the beit midrash and learn Torah. Prior to this moment in his life – he is now 40 – he had never set foot into the beit midrash. Yet he agrees. Rachel’s father, Kalba Savua, is quite upset. Although quite wealthy, he refuses to support Rachel and Akiva in any way whatsoever. They marry and live in poverty, but Akiva becomes a great scholar.
Up until now, I’ve shared the traditional way this story is understood. But there are other Talmudic sources that suggest an alternative reading. For example, we are told that Akiva was not simply an ‘ignorameous’ — a person who couldn’t read the aleph-bet, presumably because he never had the opportunity to learn before – but rather, he consciously chose to remain outside the world of the beit midrash. In fact, the Talmud tells us that Akiva, prior to becoming one, hated the Torah scholars of his day. If he met one along the way, he would have ‘bitten him like a donkey.’ We see, therefore, that Akiva’s lack of Torah knowledge was not an accident; he purposely did not avail himself of the Beit Midrash world, and actively tried to avoid it. Why?
Perhaps part of the answer is that the early Akiva was very similar to the late Akiva, at least in the ways it mattered most. He may not have been a Torah scholar, but he certainly possessed the same love and respect for others that he preached about later. This, of course, makes sense; after all, we are told that Rachel saw something special in Akiva. He was a sensitive soul. He respected people. He didn’t raise his voice. He was caring. He was honest.
Would such a person want to become a Torah scholar in those days – when Torah scholars were known to use their Torah to lord over others, to disrespect others, to be selfish? Of course not. Rabbi Akiva was not an ignoramus. He was not a bore. To the contrary, he was a sensitive, principled man. He simply lacked Torah knowledge, which for him, was not considered so valuable given the results it produced in others. This is why he hated the beit midrash. Not because he was afraid that he couldn’t learn Torah, but because he was afraid that he might unlearn his basic principles.
We perhaps can say the same about Rachel’s father, Kalba Savua. His refusal to help his daughter is difficult to understand. The Talmud tells us he used to support the entire city of Jerusalem. In fact, even his name suggests his generosity. Poor people would come to his house hungry as a dog – Kalba in Aramaic – but leave fully satisfied - savua – after he gave them a meal. So he, too, was a tzadik, a righteous person. And he, too, might have ‘hated’ the world of the beit midrash for the same reasons his son-in-law did. They represent Torah, and yet they treat each other so poorly. I don’t want anything to do with that world. I refuse to support it in any way at all.
But then Rachel convinces Akiva to enter the Beit Midrash. What a betrayal to their shared enmity, thinks Kalba Savua. Akiva used to be a good guy, a righteous fighter against the hypocrisy of the selfish Torah scholars of his day, but now he is prepared to join them. I won’t have anything at all to do with them.
Before we tie all this together and answer the question of how is it possible that Rabbi Akiva’s students didn’t show respect for one another, let us consider one more story about Rabbi Akiva. We are told that one day he saw a stone with a hole in it, a hole formed by years of water dropping on it. He is moved by this scene. If a stone, which is hard, can be penetrated by water, which is soft, then certainly a man’s heart, which is soft, can be penetrated by Torah.
Usually, we understand this metaphor to suggest the following. Yes, Rabbi Akiva doesn’t know anything when he starts his long Torah journey at age 40, but if he perseveres — as he does — he will acquire a great deal of knowledge. Anything is possible with the proper commitment. But perhaps there is another way of understanding it. Perhaps Rabbi Akiva was not afraid about not being able to learn Torah because he was already too old, but rather he was afraid about not being able to make a difference in the Torah world because the scholars of his day were already too selfish. I believe in ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ he says to himself. But maybe I’ll never be able to convince the scholars of the importance of this phrase. They’re already too ensconsed in their warped way of life. … And then he sees the impression the water made on the stone. “It’s possible to make a difference!” he gasps to himself.
Rachel, of course, had always believed this. She conditioned their marriage on him entering the world of Torah, becoming prolific in it, and providing a model of what a Torah scholar can and should be. He hesitates at first (indeed, the Jerusalem Talmud says he doesn’t go to learn right away but waits 5 years), but is finally convinced that Rachel is correct by the water/stone analogy.
So he takes the plunge. He becomes a great scholar – for true change can only take place from within, from a position of knowledge. And then he tries to influence the scholars of his day. One example: In one Talmudic statement, we are told that there are 24,000 students. Elsewhere, however, we are told that Rabbi Akiva had 12,000 pairs of students. Why the different language? Perhaps the first thing Rabbi Akiva did was to ‘pair’ all his students together. You can’t be a great scholar — and decent human being — unless you lose your selfishness and join with others. So there cannot be 24,000 individual students; there must be 12,000 pairs.
But, alas, Rabbi Akiva is too late. Although he preaches day in and day out that “love your neighbor as yourself is the great principle of the Torah’ too much damage has already been wrought. The plague hits his students despite his best efforts of turning them around.
***
The plague ends on Lag B’Omer. But that is not the reason why we celebrate this day as a festival. As I noted earlier, the plague spared 5 students. These students, apparently, learned the lesson of Rabbi Akiva and DID respect one another. With these 5 as the foundation, Rabbi Akiva begins to teach once again. With these 5 it is possible, and eventually, Rabbi Akiva builds up 40,000 students from these original 5 — more than the number he had from before!
On Lag B’Omer we celebrate Rabbi Akiva’s spirit to try again. Yes, he failed miserably. And, of course, this was not his only failure. He also supported the Bar Kochba revolt, and that, too, ended in disaster. But no matter. He had the lesson of the water and the stone. Anything is possible; one just needs to never give up. And so Rabbi Akiva begins anew on Lag B’Omer and the Jewish nation begins anew as well. And this time, with the proper foundation — the foundation that Torah scholars must be mensch’s, that “Love your Neighbor as Yourself” must be the great principle of the Torah.
And one more thing. Now we can perfectly understand a second reason why we celebrate Lag B’omer. It was on this day, we are told, that Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai passed away. Why celebrate the day of his death? Because it was also on this day, the day he knew he was going to die, that he shared all his secret Torah knowledge, knowledge that ‘lit’ up the world. And who do you think was Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai’s teacher?
That’s right, Rabbi Akiva. Rabbi Shimon was one of his 5 remaining students. It thus makes perfect sense that his Torah is taught to the world on the day that Rabbi Akiva teaches all of us that one must never give up. After all, if he had, perhaps we would have never had a Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai.
A couple of Friday nights ago we had the privilege of having over to our home for Shabbat dinner a distinguished group of U.S. educators visiting Israel as part of the American-Israeli Friendship League Mission Program. As usual, we went around the table and had everyone introduce themselves. In addition to telling us a little bit about themselves, each guest — most of whom were Superindents of large school districts — shared what they considered to be the best part of their trip. Many spoke of the beauty of different parts of Israel, while others spoke of the amazing educational institutions they had visited the previous week. Still others — most of whom were not Jewish — spoke of the spirituality of the place.
One of the last guests, however, completely caught us by surprise. She represented the National Urban Alliance for Effective Education, an organization dedicated to strengthening public schools in urban America. When it came time for her to share with us what she considered the best part of her trip she said, “What I witnessed just now, right here at your table.”
When queried about what she meant, she referred back to the ritual my wife and I perform — and Jewish parents around the world perform – every Friday night with our children prior to commencing with the Shabbat meal. I go to each of my children individually, place my hands upon their heads, and then offer them the traditional priestly blessings: “May God bless you and keep you; May God shine His countenance upon you and be gracious to you; May God turn His countenance to you and bless you with peace.” Afterwards, we have the additional custom — I doubt very unique — of kissing and hugging our children after blessing them. Perhaps somewhat more unique, however, is the custom some of my children have adopted of returning the favor and blessing us once we have finished.
“Witnessing you blessing your children is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen,” she continued. “And not only that. As a educator, I’m pretty sure that if every child received such a blessing from their parents each week, many of our problems in public schools — and maybe in urban America in general — might go by the wayside.” She continued to wax poetically about how meaningful such a blessing would be for the children on whose behalf she works — pointing out quite passionately that such children would no doubt grow up to be self-confident, loved and loving students, which of course is exactly what schools need to be successful.
I found our guest’s comments quite beautiful and even inspirational. Not simply because she complimented a Jewish custom, ascribing to it near mythical powers of educational potential, though certainly that was nice to hear.
Rather, what I found inspirational was the fact that I had grown so accustomed to blessing my children, I had forgotten just how beautiful a custom it is. I knew I loved this practice, and once in a while would even become emotional during my blessings. But never did I entertain the thought that it possessed within it such deep meaning for not just my family but all the peoples of the world. And then I thought: How many other practices of Judaism possess such power? How many other things do I do on a regular basis possess the ability to transform the entire world? How many other customs and halachot am I fortunate enough to partake in that truly inspire other people when witnessed for the first time?
I imagine part of the reason our guest offered such nice comments was in order to express her thanks to us for hosting her. But in truth I felt far more in debt to her. After all, she reminded me that I live amongst diamonds and rubies and an untold number of other precious treasures. Since these treasures are so common in our lives, we sometimes forget that they are there. Her excitement over one of them, and her yearning to have the same in her life, awoke me from my complacency.
I apologize for the length of this post. Feel free to split it up into two or three reads.
***
Why do we take three steps back and then three steps forward before praying the silent ‘amida’ prayer?
There are a number of answers to this question, such as: This ‘coreography’ is to remind us of the actions of b’nai Yisrael just prior to receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. There, the entire nation steps back — some say to the distance of three miles — to express their awe and fear of God and the mountain from which the Torah will be revealed. Next, inspite of this fear, the nation is encouraged to approach the mountain nevertheless; if they truly want the Torah, they must actively accept it, which is symbolized by approaching it. Another suggestion: When a Jew prays, he is instinctively aware of all his flaws, and he realizes he has no right to stand in front of God. He thus recoils from standing so close. But then God does a hesed — an act of kindness — and encourages the Jew to approach him. As if to say: “Even though you are unworthy, I grant you permission to have an intimate conversation with me anyway.”
Another less symbolic reason is also offered: When one prays he is on a mission — or at least he should feel that he is on a mission. And one of the best ways to express such purposefull action is to step forward.
The only problem with this explanation is the first half of the custom. Yes, it explains well why we take three steps forward. But why the three steps backwards first?
To answer this question, let us consider another question. One of the most important parshiot we read in Synagogue is the parsha entitled Kedoshim. It begins “Kedoshim Tiyihu” or “You Shall be Holy.” As one might imagine, contained within this parsha is a great number of commandments that emphasize holiness, with ‘holiness’ being that aspect of Jewish life that separates us from our animal nature and elevates us towards the Divine.
[One of the best ways to understand this definition of holiness appears in the first book of the Torah, Genesis, when the text -- in the name of God -- says "Let us make man." All the commentators ask why is the plural used -- why does God say 'us' -- since there is only one God and such language suggests a duality Judaism does not condone. One answer suggested is that the 'us' being referred to are the animals, that God is speaking to the animals and saying "Let us -- you the animals, and Me, the Divine, create a new creature called man. This new creation will have both of us within him; he will have animal traits as well as Godly traits." Holiness is when this new creation either overcomes -- or better, transforms -- the animal traits within him to aspire to the Divine within him. It is for this reason there are many laws that relate to matters with which humanity shares with animals, for it is here that we must make the biggest distinction. For example: There are many laws that have to do with how we eat. Since eating could be simply an animal instinct, Judaism insists we elevate it -- with blessings, with ceremonies, with what and when we can eat, etc. -- to insure we elevate ourselves as well.]
Back to the parsha. So yes, there are a lot of laws that have to do with holiness. But there are also a lot of laws that are not related to holiness, but rather relate to ethics, to how humans relate to one another. Now ethics, of course, are not contradictory to matters of holiness; but nor are they identical. Holiness has to do with how we relate to God — and very often involve ritual laws — while ethical laws, though certainly not opposed to forging a relationship with God, are primarily concerned with improving our relations with other people.
So why does a parsha called “Holiness” that begins with the command “To be holy” have so many ethical commands contained within it?
Part of the answer perhaps can be found in the below youtube clip. If you choose to watch it — and I should warn you that its very graphic, so don’t feel obligated to do so — you will see how a male lion lives.
It is not always pleasant. For although he is ‘king of the jungle’ he also has a pretty hard life. As a young lion, he is kicked out of his pride and must become a nomad. But since male lions are not the best of hunters — usually it’s the women who do the heavy lifting here – they very often will starve unless they join another pride. Other prides, however, are not necessarily so welcoming. What often transpires, then, is a battle between the nomadic lions and the male lions in the pride; often, these fights are to the death. If the nomad succeeds, he becomes the new master of the pride; if he fails, he must search for another pride to take over, and once again risk starvation until he succeeds.
And then comes the worst of all things. If the new lion succeeds in ousting the old lion, he will instantly want to father children with the females of his new pride. To bring them into heat, he does the unthinkable. He kills all the young lions in his new pride.
Upon watching this clip you may become disturbed, as I was, for a number of reasons. First, doesn’t it seem so wasteful. Here are lions, the kings of the jungle, with no natural enemies. They’re at the top of the food chain. Yet, they still must live violent lives frought with danger – not because of threats from the outside, but from themselves. They are their own worst enemies.
A second reason for my discomfort is the parallel between these lions and human beings. We, of course, are different … but are we. We, too, are at the top of the food chain. We need not worry about any other species attacking us. Nevertheless, we still must confront violence and suffering, war and terrorism. Like the lions, we too are our own worst enemies — indeed, our only enemies.
But there is a major difference between lions and humans — and this difference is crucial. The lion’s behavior, though abhorrent, is not condemned. It’s part of his nature. He kills not to be cruel, but because that’s how he was programmed. We, therefore, do not speak of immoral behavior vis-a-vis the lion, despite the fact that it appears cruel and gruesome. Animals do not act ethically or unethically; they simply do what they do.
Humans, however, are to be held accountable. When someone murders, we think that’s terrible. We don’t excuse the person and say it’s part of his nature. Even when some of the motivation might be part of his nature. Selfishness is programmed in to us; so too is agressiveness; so too is ego and arrogance.
Nevertheless, because a person is not an animal, because we expect him to overcome his natural animalistic instincts, we do hold him responsible. We insist that he act ethically.
Now I believe we have an answer to our question of why this parsha called ‘holiness’ also contains so many ethical imperatives. Ethics, after all, only makes sense because a person is not an animal. If he were an animal alone — if he were like the lion — well then we don’t expect him to overcome anything and behave better. Therefore, if we want to promote ethics — if we even want to talk about ethics in any meaningful way — well, then, we must first insure that a person knows they are not an animal. And Judaism’s way of doing this is to instruct a person how to become holy. After all, the holier he becomes, the closer he draws to the Divine side within him, and further he learns to control the animal instincts within him.
The reason why ethical commandments appear in the same parsha as the holiness commandments is thus quite simple to understand. They only make sense as independent constructs when we learn about them together. Without holiness — without realizing we are not animals alone — ethics are irrelevant.
***
Now lest one think I learn all my Torah from YouTube, here’s a beautiful insight from the Sachochover Rebbe that seems to make the same point.
He begins his exploration of the parsha by quoting a midrash that says Parshat Kedoshim is so important that everyone is gathered together in order to hear it. And why is it so important? Because contained within the many commandments of this parsha are all of the ten commandments — not the actual ten commandments, but references to each of them.
For example, the first verses of Parshat Kedoshim speak of the commandment to be holy, because “I am the Lord your God” and “I am holy.” This same phrase, of course, appears in the beginning of the ten commandments as well: “I am the Lord your God (that took you out of the land of Egypt).”
One problem says the Sachochover: Yes, the phrase is identical — “I am the Lord your God” – but the context is totally different. With regards to the ten commandments, the Torah is talking about God’s ability to take the Jews out of Egypt and grant them freedom. With regards to the phrase in Kedoshim, it’s talking about holiness, not the exodus.
Not a problem.
The Sachochover proceeds to share with us an amazing midrash. The evil Nebuchadnezer once threw three Jews into a fiery furnace. An angel approaches God and says let’s put out the fire with hail and water and thereby save their lives. Another angel, Gabriel, says no; let’s not use hail and water because that’s too obvious. That’s the normal way of putting out a fire. Let’s do something more radical. Let’s change the nature of fire. Rather than have fire burn, make fire not burn. Let it continue to surround these Jews, but let it have no effect on them. This way, You – God – will have performed a miracle within a miracle.
Why the need for the miracle within the miracle? Wouldn’t the miracle of having hail appear be sufficient?
The Sachochover says no, comparing the situation to a fight between two men. Eventually, one of the men wins the fight. So we say he’s a little bit stronger; maybe even a lot stronger. That’s what it would be like if God sent down hail. God is stronger than nature; he can put out the fire with water.
But that’s not the reality. God is not ‘a little stronger’ than nature. God is completely different than nature. God created nature; God controls nature. Fire is only hot because God says so. To teach this lesson, then, Gabriel says it’s not enough simply to put the fire out with water. That just shows God is stronger than nature. To totally change nature, however, that’s a different story.
Now let’s return to the Sachochover’s initial question. How can we say the two “I am the Lord your God” quotes are parallel?
The answer: The first phrase, the one in Exodus that talks about God taking the Jews out of Egypt, is all about God controlling nature. God changes nature with the plagues. God changes nature by splitting the Red Sea. God controls nature by sending down the Manna from heaven.
And what about the second time the phrase appears, this time referring to the commandment of being holy. Remember the full phrase: We are told to be holy because God is holy. We are to emulate God’s actions. And what are God’s actions, God’s acts of holiness? We just said — they are acts in which God controls nature. We, therefore, are obligated to do the same, but rather than control nature in the way God did — like splitting a sea — we simply have to control OUR nature. Yes, we have certain instincts and inclinations. Sometimes those may be good. Sometimes, though, they might not be. How are we holy like God? By overcoming these natural tendencies, by controlling OUR nature, by separating ourselves from the animal instincts within us.
Sound familiar? Again we see that holiness is about separating ourselves from the animalistic; and again we see the positive ethical result. God separates from Nature in order to create the exodus, the most important liberation story of all times. We separate from Nature in order to make room for all the ethical commandes of this parsha — like love your neighbor, do not take revenge or bear a grudge, leave the corners of your field for the widow and orphan.
***
Now let us return to our initial question — which I realize was quite some time ago, so it perhaps bears repeating: Why do we take the three steps back if the reason why we take three steps forward is to symbolize the purposeful way we are meant to approach the task of prayer?
The Ben Ish Chai says as follows: When you take three steps back you turn your head to the side to see the people behind you. This is crucial. For it is quite possible when one approaches prayer, he will assume the task at hand is strictly personal. I’m praying to God, and that’s it. By taking three steps back, one realizes that he is not alone in this mission. He is part of a community, and the task at hand, the mission of praying to God — of praising God, thanking God and asking for God’s aid — is a communal mission.
Here, again, we see the link between that which is holy and that which is ethical. Prayer is a ritual that clearly is connected to holiness, about a desire to draw close to God. But wait, it cannot exist in a vaccuum. This holy act only makes sense when it is also connected to relating to others — the ethical. And vice versa. Thinking about engagement of the ethical — the forging of positive relations with others — only makes sense once we make ourselves holy.
“… and he shall dwell alone, isolated outside the camp will be his residence …” (Leviticus 13:46)
Thus we are told is the punishment for the person afflicted with Tzara’at, the spiritual disease often likened to leprosy and brought on by — according to our Sages — the sin of speaking ill of other people.
Rashi notes that this punishment is quite logical. After all, the sinner caused much harm to the people he spoke ill of, and most likely damaged their relationships with one another through his slander, thus isolating people from one another. He is thus separated from the entire community and made to feel the same pain he inflicted on others.
Others suggest a slight variation on this interpretation, arguing that his isolation is not so much a punishment but rather the natural consequence of his actions. After all, who wants to be around someone speaking ill of others? He is sent outside the camp to notify him of the likely self-inflicted consequences that will follow if he continues his despicable behavior.
I would like to offer a third possibility, one that I believe has ramifications for how we celebrate Yom Ha’atzmeut.
On a totally different topic, the Mishna in Kiddushin speaks of an individual that calls into question the validity of another person’s lineage, thus challening that second person’s right to marry. The Mishna dismisses this ‘overly righteous’ behavior as being detrimental, and suggests that the person who calls into question the ‘kosher’ status of another person is most likely ‘unkosher’ himself. The one who pasuls (disqualifies) another is to become pasul himself. Shmuel then goes on to offer a brilliant psychological insight: The disqualifying attribute he ascribes to another is nothing more than a negative quality he himself possesses.
In other words, the Rabbis of the Mishna understood quite well the power of projection. If someone sees a flaw in another, it is quite possible that the other is actually free of such a flaw but the accuser himself is not.
The lesson for us today is obvious: Before you criticize another, better check the mirror first.
Rebbe Nachman takes this idea one step further. He suggests that our internal flaws are not only the reasons why we often feel the need to criticize others, but are actually the sources for all our sins – from anger to hatred to pettiness to immodesty to you name it. It is our internal incompleteness that inspires our negative external behavior. When two people fight, for example, it is because they don’t like themselves (first) that causes them to hate each other (second).
I read an interesting newspaper article that offers some insight into this idea. It began by asking why so many people commit suicide by jumping off the Golden State Bridge in San Francisco, the most popular place to kill oneself in the United States. Part of the answer it suggests is connected to the fact that many of the suicides — most of them in fact — are not locals but rather people who travelled across the country to make the jump. For example, the police will very often find rental cars right next to the place where the suicide jumped. And even those ‘locals’ who jump — those that actually lived in San Francisco — are usually not long term residents, but rather people who recently moved to the Bay area. What does all this mean?
Some social scientists suggest that a person begins feeling depressed elsewhere, let’s say in New York. Perhaps he begins to entertain thoughts of suicide, but he doesn’t act on them yet because he assumes the cause of all his problems are external. It’s his job, his mean boss, his lousy friends, the bad weather, the noise … So this potential suicide moves to a new place, hoping that the new place will allow him to feel better about himself. To his great chagrin, his problems return, despite the fact he has a new job, new friends and better weather. So he moves again, further west, but his problems continue to follow him. Eventually he arrives in California and then San Francisco specifically. He has been told this is the most beautiful city in the country, so now, he hopes, everything will finally be better. But then a terrible thing happens. He’s still depressed. It turns out that it wasn’t his job, his friends, the weather. He’s in a beautiful place, and people let him be whoever he wants to be there … but you know what, he doesn’t like any of the options available. It’s not them, it’s him. He’s the problem. And if he thought he might be able to keep moving, the Pacific ocean presents a symbolic barrier. He can go no further. He can’t escape his problems — because they’re inside of him, and they are bound to travel with him wherever he goes.
So he jumps.
***
Now let us return to our initial question: Why is it that the person suffering from tzara’at — the spiritual disease brought on by speaking ill of other people – must be sent out of the camp and made to live all alone in complete isolation?
The answer should now be obvious: This person speaks ill of other people not because he is genuinely concerned with their flaws, but rather because he possesses these flaws himself. And more than that: He is a very unhappy person in general. Why else would he engage in this sin, or any sin for that matter? He must therefore work on himself, to rid himself of his internal demons and make himself complete. Only then will he stop sinning.
So he is sent outside the camp to the desolate desert. He is not allowed to think he can go to a different place and all his problems will be solved. The desert has nothing, no new friends, no new job. He must live by himself and no one else — because he must learn how to live with himself!
The punishment of tzara’at therefore is not a punishment at all. It is a cure. After he learns to live with himself, to become happy with who he is (and fix those things he’s not happy about), then he can return back to society. And obviously, at that point in time, he won’t have the need to speak ill of anyone else anymore.
***
I believe this message has great relevance for Jews today as we begin to celebrate Yom Ha’atzmeut tonight.
Consider this: Most of the world accepts the fact that Jews ‘own’ the Torah. True, other religions make claims that our Torah needs updating, and their ‘testaments’ do the job. But they never deny the holiness of the initial work, nor the Jewish people’s connection to this book. But when it comes to our connection to the Land of Israel it’s an entirely different story. Here, many people of the world refuse to recognize our intimate link to the land. Why the difference?
One answer I saw is based on the insight of one of the Rabbis of the Kollel Mitzion movement. He notes that we — the Jewish people — accepted the Torah in a different way than how we accepted the Land of Israel. With regards to the former, we said “na’aseh v’nishmah — we will do and then listen.” In other words, we completely accepted the Torah of Israel without any hesitation.
With regards to the Land of Israel, however, hesitation plays a significant role. God said to the Jewish people ’shlach lecha’ — send for yourself — spies to scout out the land. The commentaries note that we did not need to sent the scouts; we could have simply taken it on faith that the land was great and we would acquire it thanks to God’s help. But that didn’t happen. We sent the scouts. We waited for their report. And then we accepted their negative report of the land over the positive one offered by Joshua and Caleb. In short, we did not accept the land without hesitation as we did with the Torah.
Now perhaps we can understand why the nations of the world don’t always accept our connection to the land. How can they? We need to fully accept it first – without hesitation. We need to convince ourselves that it is ours, that it is precious and without equal … and only then will the rest of the world feel the need to do the same.
We need to do the same internal check nationally as the lesson of the tzara’at instructs us to do personally. If there is a problem, maybe it’s internal — maybe it’s us, not just them.
On Yom Ha’atzmeut we will have barbecues throughout the country. Will we pick up our litter? More globally, will we learn how to use all of Israel’s resources in a sustainable way? If not, our behavior is not a sign of accepting the land, of treating it as holy, as our home. It’s treating it as a garbage can.
And of course, what about the fact that Jews around the world don’t visit here in the same numbers as non-Jews do? Is this acceptance of the land as ours? How can we explain that the planes are not full with olim every single day? If the Jewish people have truly accepted Israel as ours, shouldn’t there be people knocking the doors down to enter here? How can we say we have accepted the Land without hesitation? I’m afraid we cannot — but if we wish others to accept our connection to the land, then we must accept it first.
So this Israel Independence Day, accept the land. Treat it as holy. Treat it as your home. Make it your home!
The Torah uses two phrases to describe how God took the Jews out of Egypt — with a mighty hand (Yad Chazakah) and an outstretched arm (zarua natuah). Why both expressions?
Rav Kook answers as follows. The mighty hand was employed to weaken Pharoah and force him into letting the Jews go. But that alone was insufficient — for even if Pharoah was prepared to let the Jews go there was no guarantee the Jews themselves would want to leave. And thus the need for the outstretched arm — the force necessary to convince the Jews they were not only permitted to leave but actually had to.
While Rav Kook’s answer solves our initial problem, it gives rise to a secondary one. Why in the world would the Jews not want to leave Egypt. Wasn’t the world of Freedom awaiting them so obviously better than the slavery they were currently experiencing?
My guess is probably so, but fear of the unknown — even a more positive unknown — prevented them from seeing this fact clearly.
Here’s an interesting study that might shed light on their psychological state. A group of volunteers received a series of 20 electric shocks to their right ankles, being warned three seconds before the onset of each one. Some of the volunteers received 20 high intensity shocks, while others received only three high intensity shocks and 17 low intensity shocks. One would think, of course, that the latter group was the preferred group, but that’s not what much of the data suggested. Surprisingly, the group that received only three high intensity shocks had much faster heart rates, more profuse sweating and rated themselves as much more afraid of the whole experience. Why?
Because the volunteers in the low shock group received shocks of different intensities at different times, which made it impossible for them to anticipate their futures. They didn’t know what was coming next, and therefore, even though what eventually came next was not so bad — in fact, it was ‘good’ compared to their counterparts — they were not able to appreciate their situation at all. To the contrary, they subjectively felt more afraid of their objectively better situation.
(To read more about this and many other fascinating studies, see Daniel Gilbert’s excellent book Stumbling on Happiness).
Now let us return to the Jews of Egypt. As slaves, they knew what to expect. As free people, though, they did not. This lack of knowing, this uncertainty, was a source a great fear and actually allowed them to fear freedom more than slavery. It is for this reason that God had to employ the outstretched arm to convince them to accept freedom.
There is a lesson for all of us today as well. Very often, we fear the future, but not because there is really something to fear, but more often than not, because we simply don’t know what will happen. That’s natural of course, but it should not prevent us from taking risks and moving forward nevertheless. Far too often fear is unfounded but we let it rule our lives nevertheless. Freedom requires an escape from such fear, which in turn truly liberates us.
For an interesting take on disposal of hazardous waste — 2,000 years ago! — check out the Talmud’s Bava Kama Tractate 30A. There, you will see the discussion held by a series of Rabbis of how to best dispose of dangerous materials, in those times things like thorns and shards of glass. The accepted practice was simply to hide this waste in a sturdy wall and be done with it. A group of Rabbis, however, were concerned about the remote possibility that the wall might collapse and the waste thus eventually come to harm people and property. They therefore insisted on a more stringent form of disposal for themselves and anyone else interested in going above and beyond the letter of the law. One had the practice of burying his dangerous waste in distant fields — i.e. those not normally used by people — while another would burn his waste completely away. Today, we of course know of even better ways to dispose of waste — and the imperative not to create such waste at all — but the practice of the Rabbis of old is nevertheless inspiring. If there was any chance of their waste causing damage to others, they insisted on finding a better — even if more burdensome — way to dispose of it.
Rabbi Israel Salanter was especially meticulous when it came to the baking of the town’s Matzah. To make certain that everything was done according to the strictest interpretation of Jewish law he personally supervised the baking. One year the Rabbi was bedridden and unable to go to the bakery so He assigned the task to two of his pupils. They asked their teacher,” Is there anything we should be especially careful about? ”
“Yes,” replied the Rabbi “The woman who does the mixing is a widow make sure no one yells at her.”
I just started rereading Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving and came across a beautiful insight that I believe not only sheds light on love but — forgive my lack of romance — halacha as well. He writes that loving another is perhaps the best way to penetrate the secrets of another person and genuinely attain knowledge of that person. Experiencing that person, giving to that person, forging a union with that person — all acts of love — brings one closer to knowing the true depths of that person. Thinking about the person alone, no matter how intensively or extensively, what we may often confuse with love, does not accomplish the same goal. To the contrary, thought alone only reveals who I am but very little about who the other person is.
Fromm then connects this idea to a relationship with God, stating that ”The problem of knowing man is parallel to the religious problem of knowing God. In conventional Western theology the attempt is made to know God by thought, to make statements about God. It is assumed that I can know God in my thought … [but this is not necessarily correct, and the more appropriate course of action is when] the attempt is given up to know God by thought, and it is replaced by the experience of union with God in which there is no more room – and no need – for knowledge about God.” The goal should be to experience God – and then maybe one can begin to know God as well. Thinking alone won’t do.
And here is where I think Fromm might be providing an important insight into the value of Halacha (which makes sense on some level, for although he ultimately abandoned an halachik lifestyle, he was brought up in one — both his grandfathers were eminent Rabbis – and constantly draws inspiration from his Jewish learning). Many people committed to God but unschooled in halacha make the claim that much of halacha is irrational — acts of routine ritual that bear little connection to the meat and potatoes of Jewish ethical and spiritual values – and a rational God, therefore, would have little tolerance for such behavior. It would thus be better to focus on those values, on erecting dogmas, than engaging in acts of halachik piety.
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (in his book, The 19 Letters) vehemently disagrees. Judaism is not about dogmas; it is not about thinking about God, but rather acting towards God, of trying to actually connect to God. And halacha — those routine rituals that express the desire to connect to God — is how we do so.
Sound familiar? I would say Rav Hirsch is in many respects depicting halacha in a way consistent to how Fromm depicts love. It is the only chance we have at knowing God (though of course even when successful there will still be more we don’t know than we do). Only by experiencing a union with God, however fleeting, can we approach knowing God in any meaningful way.
Back to Fromm: An attempt to experience a union with God — as opposed to intellectually thinking about God — is not irrational. “On the contrary, is is … the consequence of rationalism, its most daring and radical consequence. It is based on our knowledege of the fundamental, and not accidental, limitations of our knowledge. It is the knowledge that we shall never ‘grasp’ the secret of man and of the universe [and certainly not God], but that we can know, neverthless, the act of love.”
