NuViewTalmud

Life cycle: the wheel goes 'round / b.Sanhedrin 92a

2011-11-20T16:44:00.000-08:00

The term “life cycle” is tossed around a lot. Certainly, a community experiences birth, growth, marriage, aging, and death, and then more births in its midst. But does an individual experience a life cycle? I was born, I go through various stages of life, and then I die. How is that a cycle? For the Rabbis it was a perfect cycle: birth, all the stages of life, death, resurrection/rebirth. The belief in resurrection of the dead affirmed for them a true life cycle.

We are still amidst the Rabbis’ epic effort to prove that resurrection of the dead derives from the Torah. They have pulled out nearly all the stops, threatening the loss of olam haba (the world-to-come), citing numerous verses creatively interpreted, and envisioning court cases before Alexander the Great that affirmed their view. Very near the bottom of daf 92a is a passage I take as a unit (though far more learned and esteemed scholars of Talmud disagree).

And R. Elazar said: Whoever looks at a woman’s genitals, his bow will be empty, as it says, Your bow is stripped bare (Habbakuk 3:9).

And R. Elazar said: Be forever in the dark and live.

R. Zeira said: Also we have learned this: We do not open windows in a dark house to see its plague [referring to mishnah Nega’im 2:3]. Learn from this.

R. Tavi said in the name of R. Yoshiyah: What is the meaning of the grave, a barren womb, earth that cannot get enough water (Proverbs 30:16)? What is the connection between the grave and the closed [barren] womb? It is to teach you [that] just as the womb takes in and expels, so too does the grave take in and expel. And in fact these are a kal va’chomer: If a womb, into which things are deposited quietly, and from which things emerge noisily, then [concerning] the grave, into which we deposit things noisily, isn’t it logical that things emerge [from the grave] amidst great noise? From here [we have] a response to those who say that resurrection of the dead does not derive from Torah.

The Rabbis are attempting to prove resurrection from Torah. R. Elazar opens with an image of marital intimacy, the quintessential act that brings new life into the world. If you look at your wife’s genitals in the course of lovemaking, however, your bow I stripped bare. (Please see my note at the bottom of this blog post for more on whether R. Elazar was standing on solid ground with this claim.) At first glance we might think that the verse from Habbakuk applies to the wife, but R. Elazar surprises us and applies it to the husband: the man who looks at his wife’s genitals will suffer either impotence or sterility (I’m not sure which; perhaps he means either). This behavior will result in the diminution of life - a kind of death. Lovemaking intended to engender new life, will achieve the opposite.

Understood this way, his counsel to “be forever in the dark and live” makes sense. He cannot see what he shouldn’t be looking at in a dark room. In other words, give up those romantic candles and buy room-darkening blinds. Perhaps there is a very subtle hint here of where we’re going. Being in the dark to generate new life parallels or foreshadows the dark of the grave, which precedes rebirth by resurrection. From birth to death to life after death.

R. Zeira offers us much the same message, but in citing Nega’im (the tractate about tzara’at, skin afflictions that affect people, clothing, and homes) he suggests that this behavior will bring a plague upon your house. All the good of intimacy gives way to loss, death and disease if you don’t “follow the rules.” From birth to death.

We begin with a fertile womb that doesn’t conceive because of inappropriate sexual behavior. The images of male sterility (diminution of life, death of the potential to have children) and plagues sets us up for R. Tavi’s interpretation of Proverbs 30:16. R. Tavi quotes a snippet from the middle of the verse. (The entire verse, with R. Tavi’s phrase bolded, is: The leech has two daughters, “Give!” and “Give!” Three things are insatiable; four never say, “Enough!”: the grave, a barren womb, earth that cannot get enough water, and fire that never says, “Enough!”) R. Tavi uses this excerpted phrase to equate the grave and the womb, and then apply the argument of kal va’chomer (a fortiori argument) to them. The argument goes like this: Proverbs 30:16 juxtaposes “womb” and “grave” to tell us that they evince the same phenomenon. Sperm is quietly deposited into the womb, but the baby that emerges is noisy. The process goes from quiet to noisy. The grave must therefore follow that same pattern. We deposit the body into the grave amidst the noise of crying and mourning; therefore (1) something must emerge from the grave (as from the womb); and (2) what emerges must be extremely noisy. In the minds of the Rabbis this must mean that people are resurrected to the noise of the messianic age. Hence we derive resurrection from Proverbs 30:16.

Then why the conversation launched by R. Elazar before it? The passage begins with an image of life and procreation -- a couple engaged in lovemaking. Conception and birth. R. Zeira introduces the idea of plague -- it may cause death. Conception, life, then death. R. Tavi’s interpretation of Proverbs 30:16 “proves” resurrection of the dead. We have the process: birth, life, death, rebirth/resurrection.

NOTE:

This passage initially caught my eye because it opens with a claim similar to one found elsewhere in the Talmud, in masechet Nedarim, daf 20. There the Rabbis handily and brilliantly dismantle the claim that a husband should not look between his wife’s legs at her genitals.

Nedarim 20 features a protracted discussion of sexual practices, arrived at by branching off from the main topic twice. R. Yochanan b. Dahabai claims to have learned four things from the Ministering Angels: a man should not engage in anal sex with his wife, nor kiss her genitals, nor converse with her while engaged in lovemaking, nor even look at her genitals. (Puritanical, no? It was H.L. Mencken who defined Puritanism as, “The haunting fear that someone, somewhere may be happy.” R. Yochanan b. Dahabai sounds like he’s from that school.) The Rabbis then recount Ima Shalom’s testimony that her husband, R. Eliezer, engaged in the most modest sex imaginable, never uncovering more than a few square inches of her skin at a time. The Sages then cleverly turn her testimony upside down and use it not only to permit talk during lovemaking, but to laud it. The notoriously strict and stringent R. Eliezer now becomes the model for a liberal attitude toward marital intimacy. But wait! R. Yochanan b. Dahabai claimed he learned the four prohibitions from heaven. The Rabbis are able to dismiss R. Yochanan b. Dahabai’s rules altogether by saying that “Ministering Angels” is merely a polite term for rabbis; hence his rules are simply the opinion of some. In fact, they now tell us, a husband and wife may do whatever they wish because -- as R. Yehudah haNasi unequivocally affirms -- Torah does not regulate consensual sexual acts between a husband and wife. Torah is concerned only with emotional states, especially those that might lead to violence.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

On prooftexting and Humpty Dumpty / Sanhedrin 92a

2011-11-08T09:12:00.000-08:00

A man has had a successful business for decades. It is now going down the drain. Despondent, he seeks his rabbi’s advice, thinking that if he cannot find help, he will commit suicide.

The rabbi listens to the man’s tale of woe and offers this advice: “The Torah contains the answers to everything in life, including your problem. Take a chumash and beach chair and drive to the beach. Sit at the water’s edge, open the chumash, and let the wind blow it open. When the chumash stays open on a certain page, you will find your answer there.”

The man does precisely as his rabbi instructed. Three months later, he returns with his wife to the rabbi. He is wearing a $1500 Italian hand-tailored suit; his wife is wearing a beautiful silk dress and expensive jewelry. The man hands the rabbi a generous check and says, “Rabbi, your advice worked wonderfully. I want to donate this money to the synagogue.”

“Which words in the Torah brought this good fortune?” the rabbi asks.

The man replies, “Chapter 11.”

Prooftexting has a bad name among academics, and from an academic perspective deservedly so. The isolated use of biblical verses to prove the “truth” of a religious claim is hardly new. It is the S.O.P. of the Talmud. Often verses are decontextualized, which is a neutral, academic term meaning: wrenched out of context, original intent is ignored, they are made to mean something entirely different. When Alice objects to Humpty Dumpty’s definition of “glory” as “a nice knock-down argument,” Humpty Dumpty replies, “When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.” Substitute “verse” for “word” and you get the picture.
Chapter ten of Sanhedrin is a magnificent compendium of prooftexts to argue that resurrection of the dead derives from Torah.

In the section that follows, biblical verses are used slightly differently, but essentially this is a form of prooftexting. R. Elazar will argue that when a term is sandwiched between two divine names, that proves it is of special significance. This short passage is a tight unit by itself, and a lovely homily, as well.

R. Elazar said: Dei’ah is great because it was mentioned between two divine names, as it says, For the Lord is an all-knowing God (I Samuel 2:3).

R. Elazar said: The Temple (mikdash) is great because it was mentioned between two divine names, as it says, [in the place] that You made, Lord; in the sanctuary [mikdash] that your hands established (Exodus 15:17).

Rav Adda Karchina’ah objected: But now vengeance is great, for it is mentioned between two divine names, as it says, God to whom vengeance belongs; God to whom vengeance belongs shine forth (Psalms 94:1)

[R. Elazar] said to [Rav Adda Karchina’ah]: Because it is an important matter, it is as Ulla said: Why are there these two appearances [of the term “vengeance”, not one appearance as with dei’ah and mikdash]? One for a measure of good, and one for a measure of punishment.

R. Elazar said: Any person who possesses dei’ah, it is as if the Temple were built in his days because this [dei’ah] was mentioned between two divine names, and this [mikdash] was mentioned between two divine names.

The term Dei’ah, which I left in transliteration, means “knowledge” or “insight” or “wisdom.” That’s a lot of meaning for one word to hold. These are the facets of Talmud Torah, the Rabbis' enterprise.

R. Elazar’s methodology is simple: where a term is found in a verse with a name of God before it and after it, that signifies that it is extremely important and valuable. Dei’ah (knowledge, insight, wisdom, all the facets of Torah study) and Mikdash (either the sanctuary in the wilderness of later the Temple in Jerusalem, where God was served through sacrifices) fit the bill.

This simple structure -- a term sandwiched between two names of God -- opens the door to a raft of pasuk hunting. What other verses possess that characteristic? To what else then is Scripture ascribing greatness? Rav Adda Karchina’ah brings us an example that would seem to imply that “vengeance” must be a great thing according to R. Elazar’s methodology. R. Elazar has no trouble dismissing it because he finds the term “vengeance” twice in the verse and can interpret it to mean both the good kind of vengeance (presumably my vengeance against another?) and the bad kind of vengeance (presumably another vengeance against me?). To our minds, yet another scriptural slight of hand. To R. Elazar, completely legitimate.

R. Elazar now employs yet another rabbinic interpretative trick, a gezeira shava: since both Dei’ah and Mikdash share this distinction, they must be connected. The connection he draws for us is beautiful: one who possesses Dei’ah (understood here as Talmud Torah -- Torah knowledge and wisdom), it as if through his studies he has effectively built a Temple in his own day. Where once the Jewish People served God though sacrifices offered on an altar in the prescribed precinct of the Mikdash, now they serve God through Talmud Torah, the study of Torah. The “program of the rabbis” is furthered by this claim: it’s now all about Torah study.

We read in Pirke Avot (1:2), Shimon ha-Tzddik taught: Al shelosha devarim… The world depends upon three things: Torah [study], Avodah [worship, service], and Gemilut chasadim [deeds of loving kindness]. If we take a closer look, Torah is named first. It is the center post holding up the roof. Avodah has now been defined by R. Elazar as Torah study, Gemilut chasadim is the outgrowth of Torah study. In sum: The world is sustained by Talmud Torah, which serves God and humanity.

There is much truth to that. Torah tells us that the Jewish People came into existence to share our portion of God’s wisdom with the world. This is neither an exclusive claim to wisdom, nor a mandate to convert others. But it does define the Jewish mission: to share the wisdom of Torah with those seeking wisdom.

How well are we succeeding? If I were to be at all honest, I would have to see that we are doing a mediocre job at best. And that’s a generous evaluation. In our day we spend out time in internecine battles over legal trivialities, many centered on kashrut, which are a thin veneer for authority and turf battles. Or we argue about whose interpretation of Judaism is more valid. So unbecoming and such a tragic waste of human time and energy.

Our texts and the way we study them offer priceless riches for exploring the universal questions of humanity: What does it mean to be human? Does my life have purpose? How should we respond to evil? How can I fulfill my potential? How should I raise my children? How should I treat others? What are the attributes of a righteous community? How do we build one? How should community leaders behave? What are our obligations to the poor and homeless? How do we best take care of the sick and suffering? How should we deal with people who are different from us? How do we work our way to peace? Torah is not a textbook for looking up answers -- it is a way to work through the questions to find one’s own answers.

It seems to me that R. Elazar got it right after all.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Lawsuits ancient and modern: nothing new under the sun / Sanhedrin 91a

2011-10-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

Eight years ago, Dr. Nabil Hilmi, dean of the faculty of law at the University of Al-Zaqazig in Egypt, announced his intention to sue all the Jews in the world. In an August 2003 interview in the Egyptian weekly Al Ahram Al-Arabi, Dr. Nabil Hilmi, said:

''Since the Jews make various demands of the Arabs and the world, and claim rights that they base on historical and religious sources, a group of Egyptians in Switzerland has opened the case of the so-called 'great exodus of the Jews from Pharaonic Egypt.' At that time, they stole from the Pharaonic Egyptians gold, jewelry, cooking utensils, silver ornaments, clothing, and more, leaving Egypt in the middle of the night with all this wealth, which today is priceless… If we assume that the weight of what was stolen was one ton, [its worth] doubled every 20 years, even if the annual interest is only 5%. In one ton of gold is 700 kg of pure gold - and we must remember that what was stolen was jewelry, that is, alloyed with copper. Hence, after 1,000 years, it would be worth 1,125,898,240 million tons, which equals 1,125,898 billion tons for 1,000 years. In other words, 1,125 trillion tons of gold, that is, a million multiplied by a million tons of gold. This is for one stolen ton. The stolen gold is estimated at 300 tons, and it was not stolen for 1,000 years, but for 5,758 years, by the Jewish reckoning. Therefore, the debt is very large.”

Every plaintiff -- even this one -- has to marshal evidence for his case. Here it is:

And the Lord had disposed the Egyptians favorably toward the people, and they let them have their request; thus they stripped the Egyptians. (Exodus 25:6)

After Jews around the globe stopped laughing, caught their breath, and got up off the floor, many pointed out that this case was already tried in a court long ago -- the court of Alexander the Great -- in the imaginations of the Rabbis. The Talmud’s court account comes from the beginning of chapter ten of masechet Sanhedrin, daf 91a.

The tenth chapter of Sanhedrin opens with a mishnah that lists six things for which a person forfeits Olam Haba (the world-to-come). Gemara begins with the first item: denying that the belief in Olam Haba derives from Torah. Speculation concerning what Olam HaBa is like will follow. More on that later. Back to the Egyptians’ lawsuit.

The Rabbis tell us that Alexander of Macedon, serving as judge (common for kings in the ancient world -- think of King Solomon) heard three cases against Israel, defended (of course!) by the Rabbis. It’s worth noting quickly that Alexander III of Macedon died in 323 B.C.E., and there were no Rabbis until the latter half of the first century C.E. -- a good four centuries later. No matter. Perhaps the Rabbis painted Alexander into the story because he was a rare conqueror who respected the integrity of the nations he conquered and their territorial borders, the central claim in two of the three cases Talmud says he heard. He did not try to dismantle these nations nor dissolve their culture so long as they paid him tribute. (Alas, his successors had a very different attitude.)

Pausing in the larger discussion designed to prove that Olam Haba (the world-to-come) derives from Torah, we find three stories involving Alexander the Great. The stories themselves have nothing to do with Olam Haba, and seem to have been inserted to demonstrate the disputation skills of Geviha b. Pesisa who is cited in the ongoing discussion. The three stories follow the same pattern: A nation brings a lawsuit against Israel to the court of Alexander the Great. The descendants of Canaan claim Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel). The Egyptians claim recompense. The descendant of Ishmael and Keturah claim join ownership of Eretz Yisrael. Each claim is made on the basis of a biblical verse, and each argument is soundly defeated by our savvy disputant, Geviha b. Pesisa, with another verse.

Here is the Talmud’s “transcript” of the case:

… the Egyptians brought a lawsuit against the Jews before Alexander of Macedon. They said: “Is it not written, And the Lord had disposed the Egyptians favorably toward the people, and they let them have their request; thus they stripped the Egyptians. (Exodus 25:6)? Return to us the gold and silver you took!'

Thereupon Geviha b. Pesisa said to the Sages, “Give me permission to go and argue against them before Alexander of Macedon. If they defeat me, you will say, “You have merely defeated common man.” If I defeat them, you will say, "The Torah of Moses has defeated you.’”

So [the Sages] gave [Geviha b. Pesisa] permission, and he went and argued against [the Egyptians]. He asked them, “Whence do you derive your proof?” They said, “From the Torah.” He said to them, “Then I will bring proof from nothing other than the Torah, for it was written, The sojourning of the Israelites, who dwelled in Egypt, was 430 years (Exodus 12:40). Pay us the wages for the work of 600,000 whom you enslaved for 430 years.

Alexander of Macedon said to [the Egyptians], “Answer them!

“Give us three days’ time.”

They sought an answer but did not find one. Immediately they abandoned their fields [already] planted, and their vineyards [already] planted. And that was the sabbatical year.

In other words: been there, done that, even have t-shirts for the youngest members of the tribe. So it seems that Hilmi doesn’t earn high marks as a lawyer or mathematician, nor does he take home the coveted Originality Prize.

The Rabbis argument is that Jews can stake claim to the Land of Israel on the basis of biblical verses. The choice of verses in the three stories that include the one cited above is clever. Here’s a summary:

#1
Descendant of Canaan: [The Lord spoke to Moses, saying:] Instruct the Israelite people and say to them: When you enter the land of Canaan, this is the land that shall fall to you as your portion, the land of Canaan with its various boundaries [which Torah proceeds to delineate in detail] (Numbers 34:2)
Geviha b. Pesisa: [Noah] said: Cursed be Canaan; the lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers. (Genesis 9:25)

#2
Egyptians: And the Lord had disposed the Egyptians favorably toward the people, and they let them have their request; thus they stripped the Egyptians. (Exodus 12:36) Geviha b. Pesisa: The length of time that the Israelites lived in Egypt was 430 years. (Exodus 12:40)

#3
Ishmaelites and Keturians: This is the line of Ishmael, Abraham’s son… (Genesis 25:12)
Geviha b. Pesisa: Abraham willed all that he owned to Isaac; but to Abraham’s sons by concubines Abraham gave gifts… (Genesis 25:5-6)

Either Geviha b. Pesisa is a genius, or it’s not such a trick to find a verse that can be interpreted to say what you want. I’m voting for the latter, but I will hand it to Geviha: the man is clever. He tells the Rabbis to allow him to represent them before Alexander the Great because if he loses, they can say, “But he’s just a common man,” implying that their defense was not adequate and they are entitled to have the case retried. The Rabbis would now have a turn. But by this time, they have heard the plaintiff’s argument and have a distinct advantage. Geviha, however, never loses.

Underlying this passage -- indeed, all three “cases” -- is the presumption that the People Israel owns the Land of Israel because God promised it to their ancestors, and that title to the land is found not in a bank vault, but in the Torah.

This is a claim that is still heard today. Speaking on the floor of the U.S. Senate on March 4, 2002, Senator James M. Inhofe (R-Oklahoma) delineated seven reasons why Israel is entitled to the land that now constitute the State of Israel. Here is Reason #7:

Because God said so. As I said a minute ago, look it up in the book of Genesis. It is right up there on the desk. In Genesis 13:14-17, the Bible says:

The Lord said to Abram, “Lift up now your eyes, and look from the place where you are northward, and southward, and eastward and westward: for all the land which you see, to you will I give it, and to your seed forever… Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it to thee.”

That is God talking.

The Bible says that Abram removed his tent and came and dwelt in the plain of Mamre, which is in Hebron, and built there an altar before the Lord. Hebron is in the West Bank. It is at this place where God appeared to Abram and said, “I am giving you this land,” -the West Bank.

This is not a political battle at all. It is a contest over whether or not the word of God is true. The seven reasons, I am convinced, clearly establish that Israel has a right to the land.

This is the foundation of the Settlers Movement in Israel. God said it, I believe it, that settles it. (Apologies, couldn’t resist.). In the 21st century, the Bible does not constitute a legitimate claim to the land. It certainly motivates a deep and abiding attachment of Jews to the land of their forebears, but so do the past 3,000 years of continuous Jewish presence in the Land of Israel, and the past 17 centuries of prayer directed to Israel, both physically and religiously. But a claim based on divine fiat leads only to bloodshed. A negotiated settlement is the only path to a cessation of hostilities and secure borders.

A second look at the Talmud’s account of Egypt’s lawsuit suggests the very same thing. Certainly in the mind of the Rabbis, on each occasion, Geviha b. Pesisa brings a verse that trumps his opponents’. Yet the passage demonstrates that one can always pluck out a verse to “prove” one’s case. If the verse is not explicit enough, what do we do? Long ago the solution was interpretation; today we call it spin. Inadvertently, the Rabbis have provided us with an argument that undermines their own argument.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

THE TECHNOLOGY OF THE SHEMA - Y. BERACHOT 14A

2011-06-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

Twenty five years ago I participated in a session led by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shlomi for klei kodesh: rabbis, cantors, prayer leaders and others who serve the Jewish community as religious leaders. Among the many teachings Reb Zalman shared was the assertion that the technology that rabbis and others needed to master was our texts, including liturgy. In this context technology means the use and knowledge of given techniques and systems in order to serve a purpose, such as enhancing prayer. Just as we would hesitate to use an electrician who had not mastered the details of working with his technology, so we should be cautious about a rabbi or prayer leader who had not mastered and was not adept at using the liturgy of the prayerbook.

I like that notion; as a Reform rabbi who often chooses what prayers to include in the service on any given occasion I believe it is essential to understand the function of the prayers and be able to articulate why I am choosing the service I lead. If I cannot explain why I am including or excluding a given prayer, why would I think my congregants could understand the service?

Some of my colleagues have objected to my description of the liturgy as a technology. They argue that the prayers have intrinsic meaning and that describing them as technology lessens that meaning and turns them into the “nuts and bolts” of the service. I appreciate their concern. I certainly agree that the prayers have meaning and that constitutes the heart of the service. But I also acknowledge that I and many others manipulate the service from time to time and I believe we need to know the import of our choices every bit as much as an electrician knows what wire to use when.

Which leads to a surprising discussion regarding the Shema found in Y. Berachot 14a. The broad discussion is about the function of the Shema. The problem is that the Shema is not a prayer but a quote from Torah. Other prayers, like those in the Amidah or the ones that surround the Shema, fit the categories that we normally associate with prayer – petition, praise, gratitude or adoration. The Shema is composed of three passages drawn from different sections of Torah. While we sometimes describe it as “the watchword of our faith” and the mishna describes it as “accepting the yoke of heaven and the commandments”, it is an anomaly in the prayerbook.

This particular passage is concerned with public prayers held on a fast day. The service is convened as one of the steps beseeching God to end a drought. The service is held late enough in the day for people to gather, but after the designated time for reciting the Shema. R. Aha is concerned that the recitation will not “count”, will not fulfill the obligation to recite the Shema or may mislead others to think it would be effective at that hour, while R. Yose argues that the recitation serves a different purpose on this occasion.

R. Yose and R. Aha were present for prayers on a public fast day when the congregation recited the Shema (but after the 3^rd hour of the day). R. Aha wanted to stop them [because the time had passed . R. Yose said, “They have already recited the prayer in its proper time and are now repeating it so they can pray the Amidah along with words of Torah.” R. Aha responded, “Nevertheless I object because it may mislead unlearned folk who will think this is a proper time for the Shema.”

R. Aha's concern is understandable. As one who believes that the Shema is only effective as a prayer within certain time boundaries, he does not want to give anyone the wrong impression. He wants every word of prayer to be as effective as possible.

R. Yose introduces two new thoughts. First, that the Shema may carry power as words of Torah over and above its power as words of prayer. Most of the time I suspect we are unaware of the Shema as a passage of Torah. We encounter it in the prayerbook, read it as part of our service and describe it as an affirmation of our love of God. All well and good, but it is also words of Torah and we account those words as having power.

Second, he states that prayer requires Torah study. In order for the prayers of that fast day to be effective, he argued, they needed to include words of Torah. The Shema was chosen, I suspect, because in a large crowd which includes scholars and non-scholars, it is the best known passage one could choose.

This exchange between R. Aha and R. Yose is all about technology, what tool works in what situation. While R. Aha argues that the purpose of the Shema within a prayer service is limited, R. Yose understands that it may serve multiple purposes. R. Yose is willing to use the “technology” of the Shema in multiple ways, while R. Aha is not.

The past half century has been a time of amazing creativity in Jewish liturgy. Among the most obvious examples are the creation of innovative ceremonies for welcoming daughters into the Covenant, the composing of egalitarian Ketubot for weddings, and the groundbreaking use of the mikveh as a place of healing. Similarly the explosion of new Jewish liturgical music, from Shlomo Carlebach, Debbie Friedman and many others, has changed the musical landscape of synagogues across the globe. Along the way there have been many failed attempts at shaping meaningful liturgies for these occasions and similar occasions for prayer.

If I consider why some of these efforts succeeded while others failed, I come back to the debate between R. Aha and R. Yose and to the advice offered by Reb Zalman. Every piece of our service has meaning and purpose. Nothing is there just because it sounds nice. Every element, if properly understood, moves us toward a spiritual goal. Like any technology, if an expert uses it well, it succeeds; if one simply moves the pieces around without purpose, it fails.

Imagine attending a service where everyone present understood the import of every prayer. As the service progresses each pray-er awakens their body, their heart, their mind, and their soul to the possibilities before them. Not everyone can reach the same height; nor can any individual enter the prayers with the same energy day after day. But as a community our prayers can soar. The technology of prayer, properly used, can make this happen. May we all be blessed to experience it.

May you be blessed / Yerushalmi Berakhot 13b

2011-06-10T11:39:00.000-07:00

A dear friend who died this past January taught me the power of blessing in the last year of his life. Diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor, he was determined to make the time he had left meaningful to him and others. He wanted to be a blessing. Everywhere he went he bestowed blessings on people. He told me that everyone yearns to be blessed. He told me I, too, should bestow blessings on people. At first this sounded presumptuous to me. Who am I to bless others? He responded that blessings are hopes for someone, not guarantees and not a claim to power, so there is no arrogance involved. Then it sounded hokey. He told me that if it feels uncomfortable and hokey, get over it because it’s good for others. As his condition deteriorated, I came to realize (yet again) that time is our most precious commodity, and that he was absolutely right: get over it and get over it quickly because other people should not have to wait for what they need.

I want to share one very short passage in the Yerushalmi, Berakhot 13b. It begins by citing Mishnah 1:5:

MISHNAH: And on shabbat, they add one blessing for the outgoing mishmar (guard).

GEMARA: What is the blessing [they added]? R. Chelbo said: This is it: “May the One Who dwells in this house plant among you companionship, loyalty, peace, and friendship.”

Perhaps you’re wondering: What is a mishmar? The Priests and Levites were divided into twenty-four “guards” (mishmarot) to offer the daily sacrifices and performed the ancillary work of the Temple, in rotation, in order to involve as many people as possible. The change-of-shift to the new mishmar occurred every shabbat in the late afternoon as evening arose. The previous mishmar would offer the morning and musaf (additional) sacrifice for shabbat, and then the new mishmar would come to replace them. Their first act was to replace the twelve loaves of showbread on the table in the Temple. In the time of the Second Temple, the population had increased prodigiously and the Priests and Levites were so numerous that the mishmarot (guards) were further subdivided into batei avot (subdivisions) and often each person performed at most one task during his week of service. Mishnah 1:5 tells us that as one guard left and another came on duty, a blessing was added to the evening recitation of the Shema on that occasion.

The additional blessing is beautiful: “May the One Who dwells in this house [i.e., the Temple, where the changing of the guards is taking place] plant among you companionship, loyalty, peace, and friendship.” (The Bavli – Babylonian Talmud – on Berakhot 12a records virtually the same blessing, except that the order of companionship and loyalty is reversed.)

The Hebrew in the Mishnah is a bit ambiguous: U’v’shabbat mosifin b’rakha achat la’mishmar ha-yotzei can mean both, “And on shabbat they would add one blessing for the outgoing mishmar [to recite],” and “And on shabbat they would add one blessing for [the sake of] the outgoing mishmar.”

Traditional commentators agree that the outgoing mishmar recited this blessing for the incoming mishmar, expressing the hope that their service for the coming week would be marked by “companionship, loyalty, peace, and friendship.” Perhaps they had in mind a disturbing and graphic incident recorded in Yoma 23a. The priesthood had proliferated so that even menial tasks were deemed highly desirable. Cleaning away the ashes from the altar early in the morning (t’rumat ha-deshen) became a competitive foot race up the altar, on one occasion with disastrous consequences:

It once happened that two [of the priests] were neck and neck as they ran and ascended the ramp [to the altar]. One of them came within four cubits [of the top of the ramp]. His colleague took a knife and drove it into his heart. (Yoma 23a)

Perhaps the blessing was intended to remind the incoming mishmar that their holy work for the week to come should not devolve into a vicious competition of the most unholy kind. It was meant to draw them together as they served in the Temple for the sake of Israel, not serve as an opportunity for self-centered and self-aggrandizing behavior.

The Hebrew, however, lends itself to another interpretation: “And on shabbat they would add one blessing for [the sake of] the outgoing mishmar.” In this reading, the incoming guard bestows a blessing on the outgoing guard, expressing the hope that their service of the past will inspire them to bring “companionship, loyalty, peace, and friendship” home with them to their families and communities. May the One who dwells in the house – i.e. God who dwells in the Holy of Holies – bless their houses (both familial and communal) with the very attributes that should mark their service in Jerusalem. In this way, they truly represent the people, and their service in the Temple reaches those of Israel who live outside Jerusalem.

I think of this alternate understanding in connection with our service to God: prayer, study, chesed (deeds of kindness), pursuit of social justice, or whatever we do in response to God in our lives. Do we do it purely for our own spiritual benefit, or do we do it with a mind to also share the blessings we seek for ourselves, with others?

I recall reading in a prayer book, but do not know the original source, a thought that has always stuck with me: “Those who rise from prayer better persons, their prayer is answered.”

I am especially intrigued and moved by the word yita (“plant”) – “May the One Who dwells in this house plant within you…” The image of planting attributes is one of setting down roots that will take hold in firm soil, blossom, and propagate, giving rise to new generations and bearing fruit for many. The blessings we bring to others – and the blessing we are to others – do precisely that. May you be blessed with life, peace, joy, and fulfillment in all that you do.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Okay, just who's in charge now? / Yerushalmi 11b-12a

2011-06-04T10:06:00.000-07:00

Who’s in charge – God or the Rabbis? Which is more authoritative – Torah or the laws of the Rabbis? The answer in the Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) may surprise many of us.

Did the Amoraim (the Sages of both Talmuds, from the time of the compilation of the Mishnah in ~200 C.E. until the end of the 6th century) have the authority they claimed over the Jewish community in the Land of Israel in the 3rd and 4th centuries? Or did they operate and adjudicate as if they had the authority, and thereby in the course of time, establish it for their successors?

Was the enterprise of the Rabbis – Rabbinic Judaism, including Mishnah, Gemara, and midrash – a translation and extension of the Judaism of the Second Temple period to post-Temple rabbinic Judaism, or was it a complete transformation? Evolution or emergent phenomenon?

To answer the third question (and thereby gain insight into the first two questions) we might investigate rituals and practices. We might scrutinize how service to God was carried out. Or, we might examine who claimed authority and how it was wielded.

The first chapter of Berakhot in the Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) discusses when to say the Shema – morning and evening – as well as who must interrupt their activity to recite it precisely on time, in the first two mishnayot. Mishnah 3 records a disagreement between Bet Hillel and Bet Shammai concerning the proper position for reciting the Shema in the evening. Bet Shammai say one should recline because the Shema specifically states, b‘shockh’b’cha u’v’kumecha, which Bet Shammai take to mean “in your lying down and in your rising up.” Bet Hillel, however, say you may recite Shema however you choose, because it also states, u’v’lekh’t’cha va’derekh, “when you go on your way.” Bet Hillel understands b‘shockh’b’cha u’v’kumecha to be temporal, not positional: “when you lie down and when you rise up.” This occasions an excursion in the fourth mishnah to discuss Rabbinic authority vis-à-vis the Torah, and more particularly Bet Hillel versus Bet Shammai.

Mishnah 4 is an anecdote concerning R. Tarfon who followed the opinion of Beth Shammai with nearly tragic consequences:

Said. R. Tarfon, “I was traveling and I reclined to recite the Shema in accordance with the opinion of Bet Shammai. [As a result] I placed myself in danger of [attack by] bandits.” They said to him, “You have only yourself to blame [for what might have happened to you] because you violated the opinion of Bet Hillel.”

This story precipitates a discussion in which the Rabbis aver the supremacy of rabbinic authority over even the Torah. Shocking? Let’s take a look.

The colleagues in the name of R. Yochanan, “The words of the scribes [i.e. rabbinic teachings] are as precious as the words of Torah and as dear as the words of Torah.” And your mouth [=rabbinic teachings] is like the best wine [=Torah] (Song of Songs 7:9).

Shimon bar Va in the name of R. Yochanan: the words of the scribes are as precious as the words of Torah and more dear than the words of Torah, [as it says] For your love [=Rabbinic teachings] is better than wine [=Torah] (Song of Songs 1:2).

R. Ba bar Kohen in the name of R. Yehudah b. Pazi: You will know that the words of the scribes are more dear than the words of the Torah, for if R. Tarfon had not recited [the Shema] he would only have violated a positive commandment [for which there is no punishment]. But because he violated the words of Bet Hillel [i.e. the opinion of the Sages] he was liable for death [at the hands of bandits] according to [the principle] And a snake will bite him who breaks through a wall [i.e. one who violates a rabbinic regulation will be severely – or perhaps lethally – punished] (Kohelet 10:8).

The gemara opens with R. Yochanan’s assertion that rabbinic teachings are as precious (i.e. authoritative) as Torah. Shimon bar Va in his name claims that R. Yochanan went further: rabbinic teachings are more authoritative than Torah. How do we know? Because had R. Tarfon failed to recite the Shema altogether, he would have violated only a positive commandment of the Torah and would therefore not have been subject to the death penalty. In purposefully following the opinion of Bet Shammai, however, R. Tarfon violated the opinion of Bet Hillel, and was therefore liable – or at least deserving of – death.

What an incredible and audacious claim!

Our passage ends with the claim that with in the world of the Sages, Bet Hillel has greater authority than Bet Shammai:

This [rule that Bet Hillel’s authority trumps all others] applies only after the heavenly voice went forth [to decree that the law follows the view of the Bet Hillel].

But before the Heavenly voice went forth anyone who wanted could be stringent with himself and follow the stringencies of Bet Shammai and the stringencies of Bet Hillel. Concerning this one it is said, The fool walks in darkness (Kohelet 2:14).

One who follows the leniencies of this one and that one [i.e., both Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel] is called wicked.

Rather, [one should follow] the leniencies and stringencies of this one, or the leniencies and stringencies of that one. This was before the heavenly voice went forth.

But after the heavenly voice went forth, the halakhah forever followed the words of Bet Hillel. Anyone who violated the words of Bet Hillel was liable to death.

The declaration of the bat kol (heavenly voice) alluded to here is found in the Bavli (Babylonian Talmud):

Rabbi Abba said in the name of Shmuel: For three years there was a dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel, the former saying, “The law follows our views,” and the latter saying, “The law follows our views.” A bat kol [heavenly voice] proclaimed: “Both are words of the living God, but the law follows Bet Hillel." (Eruvin 13b)

Our last passage from the Yerushalmi explains that prior to the bat kol promulgating heaven’s decision that Bet Hillel has the final say in all halakhic matters, people had options. They could take upon themselves stringencies, or follow only the stringencies of both schools, or choose one school to follow consistently. However, they could not follow only the leniencies of both schools. Since the bat kol alluded to in Eruvin 13b, all options are off the table save following the decisions of Bet Hillel.

It is irresistible to compare this passage with the famous passage in the Bavli (Baba Metzia 58-59) which also discusses divine authority versus rabbinic authority, and which prominently features a bat kol (heavenly voice). I mentioned this passage in my previous posting. Amidst a disagreement among the Rabbis, a heavenly voice declares that heaven concurs with the decisions of R. Eliezer in all matters, but the Sages say, “…Torah has already been given at Mount Sinai. We no longer pay attention to a Heavenly Voice.” Judaism – as interpreted by the Rabbis – has emerged from its adolescence, strong, independent, and capable of making its own decisions, with the wisdom of what my kids call “the parental unit” informing them but in the background. The “parental unit” is delighted: “My children have defeated Me!” God laughs with joy.

In our passage in the Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) we do not meet God as a participant or witness. God has no role in this story because, it appears, the Rabbis have assumed sole authority. One could claim – and rightly so – that the very same situation pertains in the Bavli. There is both a difference and a similarity. Baba Metzia paints a picture of transition, God ceding authority willingly, and delighting in the Rabbis assuming their new role. That is absent in our Yerushalmi passage. What is more, the Yerushalmi presumes that Rabbinic authority trumps Torah and moves on to the internal struggle between the opinions of Bet Hillel and Bet Shammai. Both, however, ironically find license to claim authority over Torah – which they understand to be God’s word – from God! It is the bat kol who proclaims their authority.

While the Bavli paints a scene of transition of authority, the Yerushalmi paints a scene of complete transformation: out with the old, in with the new.

Perhaps the Sages of the Yerushalmi are more honest about what they are doing: creating something radically new, different from the Second Temple Judaism that came before both in structure, content, and authority. Perhaps because they live in the Land of Israel and therefore maintain that powerful connection to the past, they are freer to assert what is radically new. The Sages of Babylonia, 1000 miles from the Land, lack that powerful connection, and seek to portray their enterprise as arising organically from the earth of pre-Temple Judaism.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Majority voting: Is it good for the Jews and halakhah? / Yerushalmi Berakhot 8b-9a

2011-05-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the most famous passage in the Babylonian Talmud about rabbinic process from the Babylonian Talmud is known as the “Oven of Achnai” (Baba Metzia 59). This story has something for everyone: miracles, power, violence, love, tragedy, revenge… Perhaps we should phone Steven Spielberg or George Lucas and see what they could do with it on the big screen. Among the many serious themes running through the passage is a discussion of rabbinic authority and process.

Which promotes community cohesion and survival better: flexibility or rigidity in law? Which assures that unity of the community holding the reins of authority to make and decide law?

Prior to 70 C.E., halakhah was pluralistic. Its nature was an exploration of how Torah was to be applied to life. With the Temple’s destruction, and even more the transition from the Tannaim to the Amoraim, flexibility gave way to rigidity. This is the thesis of Paul Heger in The Pluralistic Halakhah: Legal Innovations in the Late Second Commonwealth where he notes: “The issue of authority thus became the major impediment to legal development… At the primary stage, logical and practical considerations, within the boundaries of the Torah, dominated the halakhic disputes and decisions, allowing creative legislation in all directions, lenient and strict, tolerant and exclusive, flexible and rigid, pluralistic or with fixed halakhot, according to the circumstances… the transition from the tannaitic to the amoraic concepts constituted a real cut-off between two distinct types of theories and convictions… The rigidity of the halakhah, and the conviction that only an ‘infallible’ leader knows God’s will, undermine all tolerance to divergent opinions and exacerbate divisiveness” (pp. 348-350).

Could that “infallible” leader be the majority of sages in the Academy?

In the “Oven of Achnai” story, R. Eliezer circumvents the decision process in the Academy in order to assert his authority. He claims divine prerogative (buttressed by a few highly impressive miracles, with a heavenly voice in a cameo role) but his colleagues reject his arguments. They cite Deuteronomy 30:12 (“It is not in heaven”) which ironically gives them the authority to overrule even heaven itself, which happens to have sided with R. Eliezer. When the dialectics and debates are over, the Sages vote. The majority opinion is the one every Sage is expected to abide by, for as Torah says, Incline after the majority (Exodus 23:2). R. Eliezer, however, armed with an imprimatur from heaven, refuses. The result is devastation, destruction, and death. This is not a pretty passage.

Had R. Eliezer accepted the majority opinion, the tragic ending would have been averted. The culture of the Academy in Babylonian, as in Eretz Yisrael, was based on the principle stated in Exodus 23:2 – once a vote is taken, every rabbi is expected to follow the majority opinion. It is easy to imagine why this is so. Imagine that you could go to different authority to learn his/her version of the traffic laws. In the case of a decimated Jewish community, unity and a centralized authority were deemed essential for several reasons. First, to engender a consistent set of standards for the life of the community. Second to insure that relations between sages would remain civil and stable so that they could study and work together. The “Oven of Achnai” story serves as a warning in this regard. But is it good for the enterprise of halakhah, and as an outgrowth for Judaism overall?

Could this not also be stifling, preventing alternative views from being voiced and considered once a vote is taken? Edmund Burke wrote in 1790 that “They tyranny of the multitude is a multiplied tyranny” (Reflections on the Revolution in France). Alexis de Tocqueville coined the phrase “the tyranny of the majority” nearly half a century later in his remarkable work, Democracy in America (1835). He signaled a prescient warning that a majority voting system could promote the interests of the majority so far above those of individuals or minority groups that dissenters would be effectively oppressed and tyrannized by the majority. It is a danger to always keep in mind with any majority voting system.

The Jerusalem Talmud, tractate Berkhot explains in far more peaceful terms than bBaba Metzia, how this worked. The first mishnah of both Talmuds inquires how late into the night one may recite the evening Shema. R. Eliezer (the same R. Eliezer we find in the “Oven of Achnai” passage) gives us until the end of the first watch (the first third of the night) but the Sages say midnight, and Rabban Gamliel extends it even further to amud ha-shachar (the first light of dawn). An incident is cited: Rabban Gamliel’s sons came home from a party after midnight. They told their father that they had not yet recited the evening Shema. He responded, in accord with his opinion above, that they had until amud ha-shachar to fulfill their obligation. Was Rabban Gamliel teaching his sons to follow his opinion in violation of the majority view of the Sages that midnight is the cutoff?

We find the discussion of this question on 8b-9a. The passage is quite long, so I will include a translation of it for you beneath this discussion (scroll down a lot) and mostly summarize and cite small portions here. The gemara begins with the obvious question and immediately cites three examples of prominent rabbis who found themselves in disagreement with their colleagues yet submitted to the authority of the majority.

Does Rabban Gamliel disagree with the rabbis and act according to his own opinion [even against the opinion of the majority]? R. Meir, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion. R. Akiba, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion. R. Shimon, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion. (8b)

The gemara proceeds to provide an example for each sage. As briefly as I can, here is a summary of the three examples:

1. R. Meir believed it was permissible to vigorously mix ingredients to make and apply a salve on shabbat for someone who is ill. The Sages, however, determined the vigorous mixing to be a violation of halakhah. When R. Meir himself became ill, he refused to allow his students to prepare and apply such a salve to him. They asked why R. Meir was not following his own opinion on the matter and R. Meir replied that he was following the majority view.

2. R. Akiba disagreed with his colleagues concerning a matter of ritual impurity: what is the minimum amount and source of various bone, blood, and body tissues required to impart ritual impurity to those under the same roof with these tisues. R. Akiba’s opinion in mishnah Ohalot 2:6 is quoted on our daf. Then we learn of an incident in which a question arose about a box filled with bones. Reputable physicians conducted an examination and determined that the bones met the minimum requirement of R. Akiba, but in the interim, the Sage had voted for a more lenient standard, so R. Akiba proffered their opinion as his own revised opinion, thereby inclining after the majority.

3. R. Shimon holds a lenient opinion concerning the collecting and eating of plants that sprout spontaneously during the sabbatical year, when plowing, sowing, and harvesting are forbidden. The Sages, however, come to a more stringent decision. When R. Shimon encounters a man out in the field following his more lenient standard, he tells the man that he has now adopted the more stringent opinion of his colleagues.

How could it possibly be, then, that Rabban Gamliel failed to incline after the majority in the case of his party-animal sons?

And Rabban Gamliel disagrees with the rabbis and acts according to his own opinion? It is different here. Because it [Shema] can be said for studying. But even after the first light of dawn [it would have been appropriate for his sons to recite Shema – it would have been the morning Shema]. There are those who want to say [this – that Rabban Gamliel followed his own opinion in contradiction to the opinion of the majority of the rabbis]. There [in the three cases cited above] they could fulfill the words of the sages. But here, midnight has already passed and [Rabban Gamliel’s sons] could not fulfill the words of the sages. [Therefore Rabban Gamliel] told them to act according to his opinion.

The gemara explains that Rabban Gamliel was merely giving his sons permission to study the passage of the Torah including the Shema; certainly that is permissible at any hour day or night. Not everyone is convinced, and still there are those who claim that Rabban Gamliel held to his own opinion in opposition to that of the majority. The solution is quite clever: since the sons returned after midnight, they could not have fulfilled their obligation as prescribed by the Sages. Therefore Rabban Gamliel – in this particular case alone, and only because it was too late for his sons to do as the Sages said – had them act according to his personal opinion.

The gemara’s solution intrigues me. As the Sages of the Yerushalmi tell the story, Rabban Gamliel both accedes to his colleagues, thereby respecting the majority ruling, and simultaneously asserts his own opinion at least in some small way. He could have told his sons that their opportunity to say the evening Shema had elapsed. Sorry, too late, you lose. Instead, he found a creative way to keep alive a minority view in the lived experience of the community.

The myth that Judaism has always proffered the same rules, and that all Jews follow the same rules if they follow any at all, needs to be busted wide open. Halakhah is a process, not an outcome. It is an evolving process, reshaping itself in each generation according to the needs and sensibilities of the community. This is a wonderful thing and assures Judaism’s continued vitality and viability. Preservation of the minority opinion, respectfully presented, is one of the attributes of the Bavli, but there is little room for it to live and breath in the life of the community. Here in the Yerushalmi, we see a bit more openness – an occasion where a minority opinion is put into practice to the benefit of all involved.

Here is a translation for the Yerushalmi Berakhot 8b-9a to accompany the commentary above.

8b

An incident: Rabban Gamliel’s sons came [home after midnight from a party and had not yet recited the evening Shema].

Does Rabban Gamliel disagree with the rabbis and act according to his own opinion [even against the opinion of the majority]? R. Meir, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion. R. Akiba, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion. R. Shimon, when he disagreed with the rabbis, did not act according to his own opinion.

Where do we find that R. Meir disagreed with the rabbis but did not act according to his own opinion? A baraita: We may spread alvantis [some kind of healing ointment or salve] on a sick person on shabbat. When? In the case in which one mixed it vigorously with wine and oil prior to shabbat. But if he did not mix it vigorously prior to shabbat, it is forbidden [to spread it on the sick person]. [Another] baraita: R. Shimon b. Elazar said: R. Meir permitted vigorous mixing of wine and oil and spreading on a sick person on shabbat. And it once happened that R. Meir became sick and we [his disciples?] requested to do this for him [on shabbat]. But he would not permit us. We said to him: Master, will you nullify your words in your own life experience? And he said to them: Although I am lenient with regard to other people, I am strict concerning myself because [a majority of] my colleagues disagree with me.

Where do we find that R. Akiba disagreed with the rabbis but did not act according to his own opinion? A mishnah [Ohalot 2:6 asks what is the minimum that suffices to convey ritual impurity to everyone under the same roof as the spinal column and skull]: A spinal column or a skull from two corpses, a revi’it of blood from two corpses, a quarter-kav of bones from two corpses, a limb from a dead person from two corpses, a limb from a live person from two people. R. Akiba says these [quantities are sufficient] to convey tum’ah (ritual impurity) and the sages say [everyone under the same roof remains] tahor (ritually pure). A baraita: There was an incident in which they brought a box filled with bones from Kfar Tavi and deposited it in the air [i.e. not under the roof] of the synagogue in Lod [presumably in the courtyard or outside the entrance]. [The gemara now seems to presume that prior to arriving in Lod, the bones had been stored in a building, so the question arises whether those who were in the building with the bones are now to be considered tamei or tahor – ritually impure or ritually pure.] Todros the physician entered and all the other physicians [entered] with him. Todros the physician said: The spinal column and skull here are not from one corpse. [The bones therefore come from two separate corpses.] They [the rabbis] said: Since there are some here who rule [bones from two corpses are insufficient to convey tum’ah and therefore] they are ritually pure, and there are some here who rule [that bones from two corpses are sufficient to convey tum’ah and therefore] they are ritually impure, let us take a count [i.e. vote].

9a

They began with R. Akiba [i.e. asked his opinion first]. He said tahor [bones from two corpses do not convey tum’ah, in contradiction to his ruling in Ohalot 2:6, cited above]. They said to him: since you already ruled tamei, and now you are ruling tahor, [they are certainly] tahor.

Where do we find that R. Shimon disagreed with the rabbis but did not act according to his own opinion? We learned in a mishnah (Shevi’it 9:1): R. Shimon says all aftergrowth [i.e. plants that sprouted spontaneously without having been purposefully planted by people] are permitted [to be collected and eaten in the sabbatical year] except the aftergrowth of cabbage because there is nothing else like it among the plants of the field. But the sages say: All aftergrowth are forbidden. R. Shimon b. Yochai was involved in an incident in the sabbatical year. He saw someone collecting aftergrowth of the seventh year. He said to him: Is this not forbidden? Are these not aftergrowth? The man said to him: Aren’t you the one that permits [aftergrowth in the sabbatical year]? [R. Shimon] said to him: And don’t my colleagues disagree with me? Concerning him [the man who continued to collect the aftergrowth despite R. Shimon telling him not to] it is said, and he who breaks down a wall will be bitten by a snake (Ecclesiastes 10:8) – and this happened to him.

And Rabban Gamliel disagrees with the rabbis and acts according to his own opinion? It is different here. Because it [Shema] can be said for studying. But even after the first light of dawn [it would have been appropriate for his sons to recite Shema – it would have been the morning Shema]. There are those who want to say [this – that Rabban Gamliel followed his own opinion in contradiction to the opinion of the majority of the rabbis]. There [in the three cases cited above] they were able to fulfill the words of the sages. But here, midnight has already passed and [Rabban Gamliel’s sons] could not fulfill the words of the sages. [Therefore Rabban Gamliel] told them to act according to his opinion.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

THE PRIESTLY BENEDICTION AND OUR PRAYER – Y. BERACHOT 5A

2011-04-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

Dr. Spock’s Vulcan salute owes its origin to the duchenin, the recitation of the priestly benediction (Numbers 6:22-27), that Leonard Nimoy saw growing up in the Boston Synagogue. Nimoy describes the experience this way:
“They were very loud, ecstatic, almost like at a revival meeting, and they were shouting this prayer in Hebrew, ‘May the Lord bless and keep you…’ but I had no idea at the time what they’re saying. My father said ‘Don’t look’ and everybody’s got their heads covered with their prayer shawls or their hands over their eyes. And I see these guys with their heads covered with their shawls but out from underneath they have their hands up. It was chilling, spooky and cool.” http://herocomplex.latimes.com/2009/05/11/leonard-nimoy-star-trek-fans-can-be-scary/
When he had to create a Vulcan greeting he copied the way the cohanim held their hands at that awesome moment.

The first time the Priestly blessing was recited, according to the Torah, was when the Israelites were gathered together for the dedication of the Tabernacle, the movable altar that accompanied them through the desert. The blessing happened in stages – God told Moses, who told Aaron, who then recited the blessing over the gathered assembly. The priestly recitation was not the actual blessing but served to link God’s name with the people allowing God’s blessing to rest on them. It was God, not the priests, who blessed the Israelites.

What did it feel like to stand in that assembly and have the Divine blessing rest on you? Would you have felt the blessing on your body, a weight pressing down or a shiver running up your spine? Would it have been more internal, your heart racing? Might you have experienced a flash of insight, a glimpse of a broader universe? The midrash offers no description of that moment, but I suspect it might have left you awestruck. Perhaps it was as Nimoy describes – chilling, spooky and cool.

These two experiences of the Priestly benediction – ancient and modern – contrast with the way Rav Huna describes the blessing as it occurred in the synagogue of his time. The procedure he describes transforms the experience from one of pure reception to an interactive conversation.
“One who is in the synagogue when the priests recite the first blessing [during
morning prayers] should respond, “Bless God, O his angels…;” to the second blessing respond, “Bless God, all his legions…;” and to the third, “Bless God all his works…” (Y. Berachot 5a)
The verses Rav Huna prescribes come from Psalm 103:20-22. He describes a similar procedure for the musaf recitation though the antiphonal verses in that case come from Psalm 134.

The experience Rav Huna describes feels so different to me. I can imagine the recitation being formal and solemn, but not chilling or awesome. I wonder why they instituted that change?

Rav Huna lived in the early 3rd century. Though the Temple had been destroyed over a century earlier the ritual of the synagogue was still developing. The synagogue functioned differently than the Temple. Worship was not confined to Jerusalem, but could take place wherever Jews gathered. Prayer replaced sacrifice with the result that the spoken word took on added importance. The prayer leader did not need to be a cohen [priest]. The synagogue, however, was only a substitute for the Temple, a status that remains evident in traditional prayers that call for the restoration of the Temple.

Perhaps that generation of sages sensed that the power of the Temple could not be replicated in the synagogue. The power of a sacrificial offering lies in the experience of seeing the gift accepted. When the offering burned on the altar one could see the smoke rise, hear the Levitical choir intone the sacred words, and receive the confirmation from the cohen that the offering was successful. Whatever else we might think about those sacrifices, they engaged us through all of our senses. We saw, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted the offering. There was an immediacy in the Temple that differed from the synagogue experience.

Perhaps the early sages felt that the Divine Presence was more distant. Could those words, once recited in the Sacred halls of the Temple, call God’s blessing down on the humble buildings that now served as synagogues? Rav Huna lived in Babylonia; could the words that drew God’s blessing in Jerusalem extend to the ends of the earth?

Perhaps the power of the synagogue now depended on the presence of the people as much as on the Presence of the Divine. A minyan, a quorum of ten, was now required for public prayer. Human words, spoken by the gathered community, rose to heaven in the place of smoke and incense and constituted the Divine service. In the synagogue the power of prayer was a shared enterprise between the people and their God, and so it was as Rav Huna describes the Priestly benediction. The Sacred words of blessing were met in holy, interactive conversation as the people responded to the words of Torah with the words of Psalms. Blessing emerged from the joint action of God and human.

The ritual Rav Huna described did not last. By the time of Maimonides (12th c.) the custom was different – a communal amen sealed each of the blessings. Today the custom is to respond to each blessing saying, Ken yehi ratzon, So may it be God’s will. This passage is merely a footnote in our liturgical history.

It points, however, to a problem that remains. When we sit in the synagogue holding books and reciting words, what moves us? I believe we want to know that the service of our heart stirs a Divine response, but it is often difficult to find that experience. I seek places where the chanting raises our voices above the plain meaning of the words to allow a bit of sacred mystery to enter. I hope for those moments when the prayers of the synagogue can be, in the words of Leonard Nimoy, chilling, spooky and cool.

Ties that Bind / Yerushalmi Berakhot 5a

2011-04-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

Infatuation can be intense, but it lacks mutuality and is usually short-lived. Genuine love is reciprocated and self-sustaining because both partners nurture one another. Our prayers speak of love often – the love between God and the people Israel. The mutual quality of that relationship is often reflected in our liturgy.

In my last posting, I discussed two models the Rabbis envision for us in prayer. Both involve standing erect with legs together: angels and priests. Having mentioned the priests, the Gemara turns to a discussion of the descendants of priests who recite the Birkat Kohanim (the priestly benediction) in the synagogue. Birkat Kohanim is inserted in birkat shalom (the final benediction of the Amidah) during the reader’s repetition. There is a tradition of duchenen in some synagogue: all those who are considered kohanim (descendants of the biblical priests according to the paternal line) assemble in the front of the congregation, place their tallitot over their heads, and blessed the assembled congregation with the threefold benediction with which Aaron and his sons blessed the Israelites, found in Numbers 6:24-26:

May God bless you and keep you. May God cause the divine light to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May God turn toward the divine countenance toward you, and grant you peace.

Here is a picture of the kohanim delivering the priestly benediction (duchenen) at the Kotel on Sukkot.

The Rabbis of the Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) explain that the congregation responds antiphonally to each of the three blessings with a verse from the Bible, creating a conversation between the kohanim blessing the people, and the people receiving God’s blessing through the kohanim. Alternatively, you can think of it as a canon in which two different tunes are interwoven and their “notes” blend to create a new piece of music. In Shacharit (the morning service) the kohanim recite Numbers 6:24-26, and the congregation responds with Psalm 103:20-22.

The verses from Psalm 103, as we find them in that psalm, speak of the heavenly retinue, God’s hosts, who do God’s will. They come at the end of the psalm, seemingly as a contrast to human beings, who are the subject of the psalm up through verse 18. Verse 19 introduces the idea of God’s sovereignty over heaven, as well as earth. The psalm then closes with these three verses:

Bless the Lord, O you his angels, you mighty ones who do his bidding, who obey the voice of his word.
Bless the Lord, all his hosts, his servants who do his will.
Bless the Lord, all his works, in all places of his dominion. Bless God, O my soul.

The “canon” looks like this:

PRIESTS: May God bless you and keep you. (Numbers 6:24)
CONGREGATION: Bless the Lord, O you his angels, you mighty ones who do his bidding, who obey the voice of his word. (Psalm 103:20)

PRIESTS: May God cause the divine light to shine upon you and be gracious to you. (Numbers 6:25)
CONGREGATION: Bless the Lord, all his hosts, his servants who do his will. (Psalm 103:21)

PRIESTS: May God turn toward the divine countenance toward you, and grant you peace. (Numbers 6:26)
CONGREGATION: Bless the Lord, all his works, in all places of his dominion. Bless God, O my soul. (Psalm 103:22)

My first observation is that the antiphonal voice of Psalm 103 makes relational sense: the kohanim are calling down God’s blessings on the congregation, and the congregation responds by blessing God. For a relationship to be meaningful, it must be mutual. (We see this affirmed liturgically in the insertion of Shema after the blessing for Revelation. The prayer for Revelation says, in essence, “God loved us so much, God gave us Torah.” Shema is a response to the question that affirmation inspires: how do we show our love for God?) But Psalm 103:20-21 are not about human beings blessing God; these are the blessings of angelic creatures in heaven. It is as if the kohanim are the earthly stand-ins for God’s angels. The priests-as-angels bless the people, and the people respond by affirming that those who bless them also bless God – like angels. Perhaps this is inspired by the earlier discussion about standing erect like an angel to pray (please see my previous posting on this subject). The third response, Psalm 103:22, clearly refers to those in the congregation. Perhaps what is happening is that the congregation affirms the stature of the kohanim to call down God’s blessings in the first two responses, and then after all three blessings of Birkat Kohanim are recited, the congregation responds by blessing God.

The Gemara goes on to say that for Musaf (the additional service on Shabbat and festivals), the congregation’s responses are taken from Psalm 134:1-3 (Psalm 134 has only three verses), creating a second canon that looks like this:

PRIESTS: May God bless you and keep you. (Numbers 6:24)
CONGREGATION: Now bless the Lord, all you servants of the Lord who stand nightly in the house of the Lord. (Psalm 134:1)

PRIESTS: May God cause the divine light to shine upon you and be gracious to you. (Numbers 6:25)
CONGREGATION: Lift your hands toward the sanctuary and bless the Lord. (Psalm 134:2)

PRIESTS: May God turn toward the divine countenance toward you, and grant you peace. (Numbers 6:26)
CONGREGATION: May the Lord, maker of heaven and earth, bless you from Zion. (Psalm 134:3)

Here, the first and second verses of Psalm 134 project the image of a priest in the Temple, standing guard at night, lifting his hands toward the Mikdash (the Hebrew in verse 2 is “Kodesh,” a term for the Temple itself). This seems altogether fitting, since it is the descendants of the kohanim who are calling down God’s blessing on the congregation, and the congregation responds yet again by affirming that the kohanim bless God – this time as priests. The third verse, however, shifts the focus, as did the third verse in the Psalm 103 triplet above, but not in the same direction. It does not serve as the congregation’s blessing for God. Rather, in the context of Birkat Kohanim, it functions as the congregation’s reciprocal blessing of the kohanim.

In this way, both “canons” of Birkat Kohanim link the kohanim, congregation, and God in a circle of blessing, an intimate relationship of love and nurturance. The kohanim – as both angel-stand-ins and as Temple priests – serve as the tie that binds, just as they did when the Temple stood. I am not calling for a return to duhenen in liberal congregations that no longer practice this tradition, but certainly understanding how our liturgy and rituals function to bind us closer to God is valuable.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Becoming: imagined or inspired / Yerushalmi Berakhot 4b

2011-04-06T13:42:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with a colleague about the new Visual Tfilah project whose creators describe it as utilizing “contemporary technology, including but not limited to digital projectors and screens, to display liturgy for the community intermingled with art and other visual imagery.” Having recently experienced Visual Tfilah for shacharit (the morning service), my colleague was taken by the Mi Chamocha of the Ge’ulah. (Please go here and click on Mi Chamocha. You are supposed to feel you are walking through the Reed Sea, the waters parting on your left and right.) “I felt like I was there, on that path, going through the Reed Sea,” my colleague said. For my part, I couldn’t even recall the image. My colleague felt that the images – especially those of the natural world – were inspiring, “just like being there.” Perhaps I am less imaginative, or more experiential, but for me, there is a world of difference between an image and the reality. The exquisite beauty of nature can never be captured in a photograph because so much of the beauty is being there, in the moment, in that place, surrounded by it, part of it, intoxicated by it. For me, photos may trigger memories, but can never capture the experience itself. The assumption of Visual Tfilah, in part, is that images can convey experience. Clearly, that is true for some, and the rest of us prefer to daven with a siddur in our hands.

Jewish prayers are meant to invoke a wide variety of images, emotions, ideas, and experiences – including experiences that the worship has never had. Jewish prayer is a multi-sensory experience: it involves music and movement, sight and sound, poetry and choreography.

The Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) begins with a mishnah that asks when the Shema should be recited in the evening, launching a lengthy discussion about how we define evening, night, and morning. The conversation continues for pages. And then, quite abruptly, another idea is introduced: One who stands and prays must line up his legs. In others, one should stand erect with his/her feet together, while praying. In reality, Jews tend to sway rhythmically while praying, both because the Hebrew of the prayers themselves has a beautiful poetic cadence and because, after all, who can stand still for very long? (Certainly not me.) Nonetheless, I can appreciate that the ideal is to stand respectfully, reflecting the dignity of the activity, and respect for God and the community.

The Sages go further. They want us to have an image of who we are when we stand with our legs together in prayer.

One who stands and prays must line up his legs.

Two Amoraim [disagree about how to understand this]: R. Levi and R. Shimon. One says like angels, and one says like priests.

The one who says like priests [supports his position by citing] You shall not ascend My altar with stairs [so that your nakedness should not be exposed over it] (Exodus 20:23) – that [the priests] would walk heel next to the big toe, and the big toe next to the heel. And the one who says like angels [supports his position by citing] And their [four] legs were a [or: one] straight leg (Ezekiel 1:7). R. Chanina bar And’rei [said] in the name of R. Shmuel bar Sutar: The angels do not have knees. What is the proof? I approached one of those standing (Daniel 7:16) – “standing” [means always standing].

R. Levi and R. Shimon offer us two images: we are like angels in heaven praising God and basking in the divine glow of God’s holiness, or we are like the priests in the temple who ascended the altar to offer sacrifices that assured Israel’s well being and daily renewed the people’s relationship with their God. We might begin by asking why we need these images at all. Isn’t it enough to be a respectful human being in covenant with God? In his Tales of the Hasidim, Martin Buber recounts a classic:

A rabbi named Zusya died and went to stand before the judgment seat of God. As he waited for God to appear, he grew nervous thinking about his life and how little he had done. He began to imagine that God was going to ask him, "Why weren't you Moses or why weren't you Solomon or why weren't you David?" But when God appeared, the rabbi was surprised. God simply asked, "Why weren't you Zusya?"

Do I need to be other than who I am? Isn’t the goal to become my true self? Isn’t the goal of prayer to enable me to search within myself – my true self – to find God, the divine spark within? Isn’t daily prayer (and even more so, Shabbat) a pause in our lives to reclaim our true selves?

For the Rabbis, an even higher goal seems to be to take on the identities of the angels in heaven and the kohanim (priests) who ministered in the Temple. Why angels or priests?

Angels are divine creatures who do only, and exclusively, God’s will. They can do nothing else. Their entire existence is devoted to pure worship of, and service to, God. In a sense, our lives can model that too, in that the work we do to sustain our families, communities, and the world is service to God; the love we lavish on others is service to God; the pleasure we take in our lives and in this world reflects gratitude to God. But it’s not the same as being an angel. So for the duration of our prayers, we can imagine ourselves – or truly try to be – angels.

Priests are a special family within Israel ordained to preserve the connection between God and Israel through sacrifices. Sacrifices serve to unify the nation, and are made in response to what Israel understands to be God’s will. They are an act of obedience, but also spiritual uplift. To be a priest is to stand as close to God (figuratively) as a human can stand, representing Israel to God, and God to Israel. So for the duration of our prayers, we can imagine ourselves as the offspring of Aaron – priests.

For the Rabbis, becoming in your mind an angel or a priest was elevating, ennobling, inspiring. For me, it is much too far a stretch. I am more moved by Zusya’s revelation that his purpose was to become Zusya – the very best version of himself he was capable of becoming. For me, the model of angel or priest is a reminder that I am more than I often think I am, and that thinking I can be more will help me make that a reality. When I was newly ordained and faced particularly difficult situations (the death of a child, a vigil at a deathbed, people’s deep emotional pain) I usually thought, “Don’t they realize that I’m nobody? Don’t they know I’m just a kid?” But in their faces I saw not only trust, but more importantly the acute need that I be the rabbi they required at that moment – and that was enough for me to propel me to become just that rabbi.

I began by recounting my first experience with Visual Tfilah, and said that for me, there is a world of difference between an image and the reality. The notion of becoming an angel or a priest does not move me, but the underlying message that there is more to me than I recognize, and that prayer is way of tapping into it, inspires me to be the Zusya within.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Living Liminality / Jerusalem Talmud Berakhot 2b

2011-03-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, the daughter of dear friends became a bat mitzvah. Her family held a reception in their home that evening. Standing on the front porch, her father said, “Would you lead Havdalah?” I told him I would be honored and delighted. “Do you think it’s time? Wait, I’ll go check my computer,” he said and turned to walk into the house. Chuckling, I grabbed his arm, pointed to the sky, and counted stars, “One, two, three. It’s time.”

The Rabbis in Eretz Yisrael ask what constitutes “night time” for the purposes of saying the Shema. They choose an astronomical sign provided by God and visible everywhere (except on an overcast night). The luminaries in the firmament are their clock. Would that we could live a life so intimately tuned to the physical universe in which we abide, but which we largely ignore thanks to feats of human engineering.

When the stars appear, night has descended.

But how many stars must appear for it to be considered night? R. Pinchas in the name of R. Abba bar Pappa says that when one star is visible it is definitely still day; when two stars are visible, it is uncertain whether it is day or night; when three stars are visible, it is night.

It would seem then that the short period when two stars are visible is liminal time. It is bein ha-shemashot (twilight), neither day nor night. For a tradition that categorizes everything (permitted/forbidden, ritually clean/ritually unclean, holy/mundane, kasher/traife), time that stands outside the day/night dichotomy causes discomfort and anxiety. What is it? How do we consider it? What is permitted? What is forbidden?

There are two times a week when we are concerned with whether it is day or night with respect to the prohibition of melachah [work forbidden on shabbat]: when shabbat arrives and when it departs. When must we cease work, and when may we recommence work?

The Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) offers two formulations, one that accepts liminal time, and one that attempts to obviate it. The first formulation is that of the same R. Pinchas mentioned above.

On the eve of shabbat, if someone saw one star and performed melachah [work that is forbidden on shabbat], he is exempt [from bringing a sin offering]. [If he saw] two [stars], he brings a conditional guilt offering. [If he saw] three [stars] he brings a sin offering. At the conclusion of shabbat, if someone saw one star and did melachah [work that is forbidden on shabbat] he he brings a sin offering. [If he saw] two [stars] he brings a conditional guilt offering. [If he saw] three [stars] he is exempt.

R. Pinchas’ interpretation is consistent with what he says above. The cases of one star and three stars are clear: on erev shabbat one star means it is still day, so no violation has occurred; three stars means it is shabbat, and therefore a violation has occurred. On the other end, motza’ei shabbat (the conclusion of shabbat), one star is still shabbat so a violation has occurred, but three stars is no longer shabbat so no violation has occurred. In between, for that short period of time that we cannot define, a conditional guilt offering is brought, acknowledging that perhaps a violation has occurred, but we don’t really know.

The second formulation is that of R. Yosi the son of R. Bun. R. Yose feels compelled to pin down the two-star moment and place it in either the day or night category on both ends (erev shabbat and motza’ei shabbat).

R. Yose the son of R. Bun explained:

If you say that when there are two stars, it is a questionable [situation] [here are the two possibilities to analyze]:

If he saw two stars on the eve of shabbat and they warned him, but he did melachah [work that is forbidden on shabbat], and if he saw two stars at the conclusion of shabbat, and they warned him but he did melachah [work that is forbidden on shabbat], whatever your desire [to say about the period when two stars are visible, he has transgressed the prohibition of melachah [at either the beginning or conclusion of shabbat].

If the first [two stars] [mean that it is still] day, then the latter [two stars at the end of shabbat] [also mean that it is] day, and he will be liable [for what he does] during the latter [stars]. If the latter [stars] [mean that is] night, then also the former [two stars on erev shabbat] also [mean that it is] night. And he will be liable [for what he does] during the former [stars].

R. Yose gives us two options:

Option #1 is where we claim that two visible stars is still daytime. One who does melachah during this period, both during the arrival and at the conclusion of shabbat, is violating the prohibition at both ends. But how can this be? If two stars before shabbat is day, he is not in violation. R. Yose adds the condition that he was warned that his work might be considered a violation. If it is not a violation before shabbat, then it certainly is at the end of shabbat. In this case, the liminal period of bein hashemashot (twilight) is defined as day.

Alternatively, Option #2 is where the first star is considered day, and the second and third star are considered night. Consistency demands that we apply the same standard at the beginning and conclusion of shabbat. If he is not guilty at the first star before shabbat (because it is day), he must certainly be guilty at the first star at the conclusion of shabbat (because it is day – it is still shabbat). In this case, the liminal period of bein hashemashot is defined as night.

We can applaud R. Yose for his consistency and logic. The first scenario strains logic, but R. Yose repairs that by adding the dimension of the warning. I think his reasoning is not a case of “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” (those immortal words of Ralph Waldo Emerson), but rather a case of discomfort. R. Yose cannot live with the uncertain, undefined, uncategorized two-star moment. The liminal state of bein hashemashot makes him anxious.

British cultural anthropologist Victor Turner (1920-1983) studied liminality in rituals. (Turner published “Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites of Passage” in his 1967 book The Forest of Symbols.) Liminality is an in-between state characterized by being outside established structures (including hierarchies). It is, at its core, a state of uncertainty, defying clear definition. It is unstable. This is why it is a source of discomfort and anxiety to many in authority.

Yet Jewish life and tradition are filled with liminal moments, even extended liminal periods of time. The ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a liminal time when we, like Jonah in the belly of the big fish, are suspended between life and death. The Israelites’ 40 years in the wilderness – neither slaves in Egypt nor free people in Eretz Yisrael – was a liminal time. In a sense, our entire lives can be seen as lived in the liminal time between Creation and ultimate redemption, the Messianic Age.

What is it that R. Pinchas can live with, and indeed honor, but which makes R. Yose so uncomfortable? It is uncertainty. Yet life is filled with uncertainty. Perhaps it is more honest to say, as author Ursula LeGuin observed, “The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.” If uncertainty brings discomfort, it is also, according to Nobel Laureate in Chemistry Ilya Prigogine, “at the very heart of human creativity.” It is uncertainty – and our willingness to invite it into our lives – that opens our minds and hearts to new ideas, new experiences, and new ways to conceive the world and our place in it. Living with liminal, uncertain time, is an excellent training ground.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

THE HOLINESS OF THE SHEMA – YERUSHALMI BERACHOT 1:1

2011-03-18T19:51:00.000-07:00

(Note: With this posting we begin a new tractate in our on-going study. We are turning to the opening tractate Berachot (Prayers) of the Yerushalmi, also known as the Talmud of the Land of Israel.)

The Talmud opens with a question of time: “From what hour may one recite the Shema in the evening, that is, when does nightfall occur so we can fulfill the obligation to say the Shema “when we lie down.” In our contemporary world a question of time focuses us on the clock, but I believe that leads us in the wrong direction as we consider the Sage’s answers. The responses found in the Mishnah and the two Talmuds (from Babylonia and from the Land of Israel), uncover new dimensions to this question of time. They mark this time in distinctively different ways from what we might expect.

The Mishnah defines nightfall as that moment when the Kohanim, in the time of the Temple, would enter to eat their terumah. Some definition is needed. If a Kohen, a priest who served at the altar in the Holy Temple, encountered some form of impurity, they needed to immerse in a mikveh, a ritual bath, and wait until nightfall before they could re-enter the Temple and eat from the terumah, the portion of the offerings reserved for the priests. The priests, apparently, would parade back to the Temple after purifying themselves in the mikveh, providing a visible, public moment which could define nightfall. When these kohanim could once again eat their due, it was considered nightfall.

Fine, but neither the author of the Mishnah, nor anyone who he knew had ever seen this moment. The Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 AD, fully 130 years before the Mishnah’s composition by Rabbi Judah HaNasi. While the answer may have been useful in Temple times, by the time of the Mishnah the reference must have had other resonances. One possibility is that it serves to remind us of the tragedy that accompanied the loss of the Temple and which gave birth to this new way of observance. I suspect, however, that there is a more elegant lesson to be learned.

The Talmud of the Land of Israel (Yerushalmi) responds to the mishnah, offering its own definition of nightfall. Rabbi Hiyya teaches that it is simply when people ordinarily enter to eat their bread on Shabbat eve. This sounds like a reasonably direct restatement of the Mishnah, just translated into a more common experience. Dinner time marks evening; evening is the time for the Shema; once people begin dinner, you may begin the Shema. Except that is not quite what Rabbi Hiyya says.

Note that neither the Mishnah nor Rabbi Hiyya answer by referencing ordinary time. Why not simply say that one may recite the Shema when people ordinarily eat dinner? That would offer the most widely recognized time – everyone eats dinner. They opt instead for a less common experience – the Mishnah relates it to the Temple while Rabbi Hiyya relates it to Shabbat. One is holy space while the other is holy time. The issue may not be the particular hour at all, rather the crucial element may be that one enters into a time or place of holiness when reciting the Shema.

In our contemporary world we often focus on the words of the Shema, proclaiming them to be the watchword of our faith. The Mishnah and the Talmud seem to have a different focus. The opening teachings on how to recite the Shema in the first two chapters of the Mishnah emphasize the performance of the prayer – the times, the posture, the orientation of our bodies. If not the words, what is the significance of the Shema?

The opening passage of the Babylonian Talmud (Berachot 2A) addresses the mishnah’s question in a manner that bears little resemblance to the other answers we have considered. Rather than offering a definition of when nightfall occurs, they ask why the mishnah begins by talking about the evening Shema rather than the morning recitation. It seems like a no-win question; if they had begun with the morning the question would have been about the evening. But there is a point to this seemingly pointless question.

The gemara first considers whether the verse in the Shema, “and you shall recite them … when you lie down and when you rise up”, explains the order. Could it simply be a matter of word order? But that explanation is rejected in favor of a different proof text drawn from Genesis 1:5: “And it was evening and it was morning, Day One.” (Genesis 1:5) The Babylonian Talmud suggests that we begin discussing the evening Shema first because that places us in God’s time frame. Reciting the Shema in its proper order and time, this suggests, aligns us with the holiness of Creation.

These three responses to the Mishnah’s question agree that there is an intimate connection between the recitation of the Shema and holiness. They offer distinctly different understandings of that holy moment. For the Mishnah we imaginatively enter the holy precincts of the Temple, the place of meeting and atonement between God and Israel. For the Yerushalmi, we mimic Shabbat, the moment that unites Creation and Redemption. For the Bavli we place ourselves onto the Divine clock; if God sustains the cosmos at every moment, our recitation of the Shema morning and evening allows us to become God’s partners as we sanctify each day.

What might change if we approached the recitation of the Shema in this way? This understanding suggests that the recitation of the Shema is not an intellectual experience, but one that involves our entire being. In pronouncing the Shema, we commit ourselves – body, soul and strength – as partners in the holy work of Creation. It is not an act to be taken lightly.

Of Payment and Intimacy / Baba Metzia 86b

2011-02-09T11:42:00.000-08:00

We have been studying a long sugya toward the end of Baba Metzia for what feels like half of forever. It’s complex and confounding, and we are not yet prepared to share any major thoughts, but for the moment, I’m intrigued by a short passage in which the Rabbis discuss on daf 86b the manner in which God responds to Abraham’s righteousness. It follows on the heels of a comparison between Abraham’s generosity in feeding the strangers (ministering angels) who appear out of the desert, and Solomon’s generosity in feeding the nation. Abraham wins not on an absolute scale, but on a per capita comparison. In response to the magnitude of Abraham’s generosity, God repays Abraham’s descendants when they, like the ministering angels, journey through the Sinai desert.

Rav Yehudah said in Rav’s name: Everything that Abraham did personally for the ministering angels, the Holy One blessed be God did personally for his children. Whatever Abraham did through an agent, the Holy One blessed be God did for his children through an agent: And Abraham ran to the herd (Genesis 18:7) [corresponds to] And there went forth a wind from the Lord (Numbers 11:13); and he took butter and milk (Genesis 18:8) [corresponds to] Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you (Exodus 16:4); and he stood by them under the tree (Genesis 18:8) [corresponds to] Behold, I will stand before you there upon the rock, etc. (Exodus 17:6); and Abraham went with them to bring them on the way (Genesis 18:16) [corresponds to] and the Lord went before them by day (Exodus 13:21); let a little water, I pray you, be fetched (Genesis 18:4) [corresponds to] and you shall smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink (Exodus 17:6).

But this disagrees with R. Chama bar Chanina. For R. Chama bar Chanina said, and the School of Ishmael also taught: As a reward for three things [done by Abraham] they [his descendants] obtained three things. As a reward for, [and he took] butter and milk, they received the manna; as a reward for, And he stood by them, they received the pillar of cloud; as a reward for, Let a little water, I pray you, be fetched, they were granted Miriam's well.

Perhaps a chart will help you picture the two views more easily. Rav Yehudah argues that each and every kindness Abraham does for the angels – God’s messengers – is repaid in kind by God to Abraham’s descendants, the Israelites. Not only that, but just as Abraham is kind to the angels during their trek through the desert, so God’s kindness to the Israelites is during their long trek through the Wilderness. Human kindness is repaid by God in a like manner.

R. Chama bar Chanina does not share the view that God repays kindness in such a precise (mechanical?) way, but rather that God seeks to the “major category” provisions the Israelites need to sustain and guide them through the Wilderness.

Several questions spring to mind: Does God actually repay people in the manner suggested here? Or, are the Sages conveying their view of the interaction – the flow of energy, love, and commitment – between heaven and earth?

Time and again, Torah and Gemara affirm: humans act, and God responds. What we do here has resonance in heaven and throughout the universe.

The Rabbis’ sense of the closeness between God and Israel is felt throughout Talmud, and expressed in a surprising way in this passage, where Israel’s failure to engage diligently in Torah study weakens God:

R. Elazar opened a discourse with the following proverb: “Through laziness the rafters (hamekareh) are weakened (yimach), and through idleness of the hands the house leaks” (Ecclesiastes 10:18). On account of Israel’s laziness, in not occupying themselves with Torah, the Holy One blessed be God is weakened (mach). The word “weak” (mach) means impoverished, as it is said, “But if the person is too poor (mach) for the estimated donation…” (Leviticus 27:8). And the word “rafters” (mekareh) refers to the Holy One blessed be God, as it is said, “The One who sets (hamekareh) his upper chambers in the heavenly waters” (Psalm 104:3). (Megillah 11a)

Does Israel’s lack of diligence actually weaken God? Or does it figuratively weaken God? Those who imagine God a Being will likely choose the latter option, finding the first option problematic. But for those whose conception of God is not as a Being, to the extent that our commitment to Torah study, and everything that arises from it (our concern and commitment to others in keeping with God’s covenant) bespeaks God’s influence in the world, God’s weakening is very real: we are the eyes, ears, arms, and legs of God in the world.

For me, the passage underscores the Jewish sense of our intimacy with God, expressed beautifully in a Yiddish poem by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. The translation below was rendered by Rabbi Morton Leifman, and I commend to you the translation and musical adaption by Rabbis Mordecai Creditor and David Paskin found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TB1Z5bOeOZE. The poem is meant to be a dialogue or conversation between God and Humanity. God speaks first.

I and You

Transmissions flow from your heart to my heart, My pain is intertwined, intermixed with yours. Am I not you? – Are you not me?
My nerves are bound together with yours.
Your dreams have met with mine.
Are we not one in the bodies of millions?
Often I see myself in everyone’s face, Hear in people’s weeping my own speech – a distant, quiet voice. Right under millions of masks my face lies hidden.
I live in me and in you.
From your lips flows a word from me to me.
From your eyes drips a tear – whose source is in me.
When a need springs in you – it’s in me. When you crave a human presence – tear at my door. You live in yourself. You live in me.

How many of us yearn for that sense of intimacy, merging, connection with God? The Rabbis sought it, and their interpretations and midrashim reverberate with that desire. They found it through study, prayer, and observance of their obligations to God. In our day, the door has opened to include pursuit of social justice, meditation, and more. However God is conceived, and however connection is achieved, it is about completing the circle and experiencing the oneness of all.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

HOW BAD CAN BADMOUTHING OTHERS BE? – BABA METZIA 58b

2010-11-24T14:37:00.000-08:00

Badmouthing others is big news these days. On one end you have the tell-all celebrity gossip columns. They may not end careers, but they certainly lower our estimation of the people involved. On the other end of the scale we hear more and more of the fatal consequences of bullying, in person and via the internet. What many consider just normal neighborhood gossip has its deadly side.

The sages understood the power of words. We state in the morning prayers, “Blessed is the One who spoke and the world was.” God created the world through words. They also understood that words are dangerous.

The majority of Baba Metzia, chapter 3, is concerned with behavior known by the Hebrew term ona’ah, generally translated as fraud or overreaching. There are a variety of ways in which merchants can deceive buyers or buyers can take advantage of sellers. The sages establish boundaries that protect both buyer and seller against such abuses.

Suddenly, about 2/3 of the way through the chapter, the mishnah extends this concept of ona’ah beyond the realm of business and applies it to interpersonal relationships. “Just as a claim of ona’ah applies to buying and selling, so does it apply to spoken words.” (B. Baba Metzia 58b). The examples offered by the mishnah describe the logic that carries this precept forward. One should not ask a merchant for details on merchandise you have no intention of buying because it misleads him. But then… One should not confront a repentant sinner with his past deeds nor a convert with his family’s pagan past. All of these are considered forms of verbal abuse.

In the gemara (B. Baba Metzia 58b) Rabbi Yohanan asserts both that verbal ona’ah is far more common than business fraud and that it is considerably more serious. We soon learn that

“All who go down into Gehenna [the equivalent of Hell] return except for three, who go down but do not come back up, and these are they: (1) he who has sexual relations with a married woman, (2) a person who embarrasses his fellow in public, and (3) he who assigns a mean nickname to his fellow.”

Did you know that the consequences of verbal abuse were so long-lasting?

The stakes get raised even higher. The gemara quickly assimilates calling someone by a mean name (the third category) into the idea of embarrassing one in public (the second category). These are two ways of saying the same thing. Only two are subject to this harsh judgment – the adulterer and the one who abuses another through verbal ona’ah.

Then the sages remove the adulterer from the list. How can they do that? After all, adultery is included in the 10 Commandments. Sexual immorality is included on the short list of three commandments that a Jew must die for rather than transgress them (the other two are idolatry and murder). But Rabbah bar bar Hana in the name of R. Yohanan sees it differently. He suggests that “it would be better for someone to have sexual relations with a woman who may or may not be married but not embarrass his fellow in public.” His reason – the adulterer can repent, but the one who commits verbal ona’ah, abuse, cannot.

And then there was one. Only one offender goes down to Gehenna and does not return – the one who commits verbal ona’ah, verbal abuse.

As if that were not bad enough, the gemara goes on to illustrate the long-lasting and devastating effects of verbal ona’ah. This discussion serves as the introduction to the famous story known as the Oven of Achnai (59b). Here a dispute within the academy over whether a new style of oven (created by Achnai) should be considered kosher. Rabbi Eliezer approved of the oven while the sages did not. Rabbi Eliezer forcefully insisted on his point of view leading the sages to excommunicate him. The story is long and the details important, and for our purposes it is sufficient to note that the tale ends tragically. The verbal ona’ah exchanged that day leads to chaos in the academy, destruction in the countryside, and the death of Rabban Gamaliel who was the brother of Rabbi Eliezer’s wife, Imma Shalom (mother of peace).

How bad is it to badmouth others? The sages insist that it leads to death and destruction in the world and consigns the perpetrator to Gehenna. In the end it is better to follow your mother’s advice – if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

"May it be Your will..." / More from Berakhot 16 and 17

2010-10-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote that our studies in Baba Metzia led us on an excursion into masechet Berakhot, specifically searching out prayers beginning, “May it be Your will…”

Today, for your pleasure and enjoyment, several of the Sages’ prayers recorded on dapim 16 and 17. Often, we think that Jewish prayer is restricted to the “authoritative” prayers published in authorized siddurim (prayer books). In fact, originally all Jewish prayer was the spontaneous creation of each individual engaged in prayer to God. Our Sages ordained the themes and order of the prayers, but not the precise wording. At a later point in time, it became clear that it was onerous to compose prayers each and every day to cover the lengthy order of prayer themes, so the Rabbis commissioned the writing of prayers, resulting in many of those we use today.

Among those recorded on dapim 16 and 17 is the prayer of Rav that was used as the foundation of Birkat HaChodesh (the prayer to announce the coming of the new moon) and prayer of Mar b. Ravina that is recorded in most siddurim following the Amidah as an example of personal prayer. In fact, the Talmud tells us that all the prayers on these pages were the personal prayers of the Sages following the recitation of the Shema. These days, we think of them as being more appropriately appended to the Amidah because there is a tradition that merely reciting the words of the Amidah, without adding something from one’s own heart, is insufficient. God wants to hear what’s on our minds. Given that prayer is not about making ourselves subservient to God and acting the role of obedient automaton, but rather about forging a meaningful relationship with God, this makes perfect sense.

Here are some lovely examples from the Talmud. Perhaps you might like to “take them out for a spin.” See if they work for you. Perhaps they will inspire your own expression in prayer.

R. Eleazar, on concluding his prayer, used to say the following: May it be Your will, O Lord our God, to cause to dwell in our lot love and brotherhood and peace and friendship, and may You make our borders rich in disciples and prosper our latter end with good prospect and hope, and set our portion in Paradise, and confirm us with a good companion and a good impulse in Your world, and may we rise early and obtain the yearning of our heart to fear Your name, and may You be pleased to grant the satisfaction of our desires. (16b)

Here’s another beauty:

R. Safra on concluding his prayer added the following: May it be Your will, O Lord our God, to establish peace among the celestial family, and among the earthly family, and among the disciples who occupy themselves with Your Torah whether for its own sake or for other motives; and may it please You that all who do so for other motives may come to study it for its own sake! (16b, 17a)

There is a disagreement concerning whether the following prayer was said by R. Hamnuna or R. Alexandri. What I love about it is that it acknowledges that our failures, while sometimes due to outside forces, cannot be entirely blamed on others. We must take responsibility, too. The prayer names the failure of human will before external influences, reminding us that we should look within before casting around elsewhere for blame:

Sovereign of the universe, it is known full well to You that our will is to perform Your will, and what prevents us? The yeast in the dough [i.e., the evil inclination] and the subjection to the foreign powers. May it be Your will to deliver us from their hand, so that we may return to perform the statues of Your will with a perfect heart. (17a)

Rav Sheshet, when he fasted, would say this prayer, in which he draws a fascinating parallel between the blood and fat offered on the altar in the Jerusalem Temple, and the blood and fat he would lose through his fast. Rav Sheshet offers up his blood and fat for atonement. Given Judaism’s stance against asceticism, we might wonder that this prayer was included, yet you might want to consider it next Tisha B’Av and Yom Kippur.

Sovereign of the universe, You know full well that in the time when the Temple was standing, if a man sinned, he used to bring a sacrifice, and though all that was offered of it was its fat and blood, atonement was made for him by it. Now I have kept a fast and my fat and blood have diminished. May it be Your will to account my fat and blood which have been diminished as if I had offered them before You on the altar, and please favor me. (17a)

If you have a favorite prayer you have composed and would like to share it here, by all means, please do.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS AND BAILMENTS – BABA METZIA, CHAPTER 3

2010-10-15T11:35:00.000-07:00

Dostoyevsky would be my preferred author to turn chapter 3 of Baba Metzia into a novel. It opens with a request for a simple favor, “Would you watch over my goods for a while,” and ends as a psychological drama as the presumed guard contemplates theft. This is the trajectory traced by this chapter which serves as an extended exploration of the verses from Exodus 22:6-8:
If a man shall deliver to his neighbor money or utensils to keep, and it is stolen from the man’s house; if the thief is found, let him pay double. If the thief is not found, then the master of the house shall be brought to the judges, to see whether he has put his hand to his neighbor’s goods. For every kind of trespass, whether it be for ox, for ass, for sheep, for garment, or for any kind of lost thing, which another challenges to be his, the cause of both parties shall come before the judges; and whom the judges shall condemn, he shall pay double to his neighbor.

I find it hard to blog on the individual issues within this chapter. The arguments tend to be complex and not easily summarized. The chapter as a whole, however, serves as a cautionary tale worthy of our notice.

The opening mishnah (B. Baba Metzia 33b), poses what sounds like a simple situation: “If someone deposits an animal or vessels with his friend and it gets stolen or lost.” The questions that follow are predictable: how does one substantiate that the goods were stolen, what compensation is due, what happens if a thief is located after a settlement has been reached. In certain ways the Talmudic concerns differ from our own because there is the possibility of goods having been dedicated to the Temple. It is a complication without parallel in the modern world. Much of the discussion that follows is recognizable in our contemporary setting.

The problem at the root of this discussion is that the one who is watching over the goods is the legitimate caretaker, but not the owner. On one hand, he bears responsibilities that are similar to an owner, but there are limits on his behavior. On the other hand, the goods in his possession may be a temptation. The Mishnah explores a variety of permutations on the theme, which leads to the title of this blog. What begins as a bailment (a legal arrangement that arises when a person gives property to someone else for safekeeping), may lead one to consider committing a misdemeanor or tempt one to consider even worse crimes.

At the outset the focus notes the tension between ownership and possession. “If one rents a cow from his fellow and then lends it to another, and then the cow dies or natural causes.” (B. Baba Metzia 35b) On whose watch did the cow die? Is there compensation for the owner who has lost a cow, for the renter who no longer has the means to complete his work, or for the borrower? More, the cow, which can be sold for meat, still has some value. Who is to benefit from that value?

Fittingly the Mishnah discusses the differences that exist when dealing with different goods. If one is entrusted with an animal, there is a responsibility for the maintenance of the animal. When storing produce, which can rot or be eaten by vermin, different considerations come into play. And if one entrusts money for safekeeping with another, there are appropriate ways to protect those funds.

By the middle of the chapter, the focus begins to shift. What if the guardian was guarding a barrel of wine, but moved it about and it broke? If he was authorized to move it about, perhaps it is okay. But then the sages wonder if he was moving it for its own benefit, to somehow improve his situation, or if the move was for his convenience or benefit. Perhaps he was using it as a stepladder to reach some high object. One must distinguish between several possible ways to understand the guardian’s actions. The last half of the chapter tries to sort between these possible understandings of a guardian’s action:
• the latitude the guardian was given by the owner,
• the reasonable authority he held as the one on the scene,
• the possibility of negligence in caring for the property poorly,
• the opportunity to borrow some of the goods now with the intention of returning them before the owner reclaims the goods,
• the temptation to misappropriate the goods (say, to have an occasional sip from the stored wine),
• or the enticement to steal the object for his own benefit.

The final mishnah considers the intention that may precede action. “Someone who intends to misappropriate a deposit…” (B. Baba Metzia 43b) Beit Shammai (44a) considers that the thought is sufficient to establish the crime, while Beit Hillel argues that he is not liable until he actually stretches out his hand to do the deed.

Throughout our study of this chapter I found parallels between the gemara and the daily news. Revelations of malfeasance, from Madoff to unscrupulous mortgage lenders to unexamined foreclosures, reflected the ancient discussions of the sages. In the simple act of asking a friend to watch over some goods, we have explored a wide range of possible deeds and misdeeds. It recognizes that entrusting goods to another is not a simple act at all. It opens up questions of competence and integrity. It acknowledges the temptation that we feel when we have control over another’s property.

The last word of the chapter is teiku, meaning that the question remains unanswered until Elijah the Prophet comes to resolve all outstanding questions in advance of the Messiah’s arrival. While it responds to a specific and limited issue within the gemara, I feel that the choice to leave this as the last word points to a bigger matter. When we are entrusted with another person’s goods we face choices on how we will act in this instance. Will we be a trustworthy guardian of the bailment in our hands, or will we succumb to the temptation to commit crimes and misdemeanors.

Musings and Meanderings from Baba Metzia to Berakhot / Baba Metzia 42 and Berakhot 16-17

2010-10-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

We’ve taken a side trip on our excursion through Baba Metzia. It came about because of a passage in Baba Metzia 42a:

Our Rabbis taught: Someone who goes to measure [produce] in his granary says: “May it be Your will, Lord our God, that You will send blessing upon the work of our hands.” After he has begun to measure, he says, “Blessed is [God] Who sends blessing upon this pile [of produce].” If he measured and afterward said a blessing, this is a prayer said in vain, because blessing is not found, neither in something that is weighed, nor in something that is measured, nor in something that is counted, but [only] in something that is hidden from the eye, as it is said, The Lord will command the blessing upon you in your storehouses (Deuteronomy 28:8).

The passage seems to be an attempt to balance prudence and providence, but it evoked many questions, among them:

Why is it proper to recite a blessing prior to or in the midst of measuring, before one knows the extent of the harvest, but after measuring it’s a tefilat shav (a prayer said in vain)? An experienced farmer can look at a pile of produce and estimate its volume fair precision; measuring merely confirms what he or she has already discerned, so there is little surprise in the measurement. But even if the final tally is a delightful surprise, the quantity has not changed from the time measuring began until the final total is jotted on a clipboard or entered into a laptop. It seems that the experience of not knowing (or not having confirmation of the final tally) versus the experience of learning the measured quantity is what matters: until the grain is measured, the farmer presumably cannot be sure what he or she has. Hence the final quantity is still “in God’s hands” until the measuring is completed. (I don’t find this religiously satisfying, but I can imagine that others would.)
Why are the two blessings offered in the text couched in different tenses (the first in the future tense – “that you will send” – and the second in the present tense – “who sends”). Why does one begin “May it be Your will…” while the other begins “Blessed is [God] Who…”

The second question sent us in search of other prayers following the “May it be Your will…” structure and we ended up on Berakhot 16-17, which are replete with the personal prayers of many Sages. We jumped into the pool on 16b with a mishnah that cites three cases in which the students of Rabban Gamliel and his son, Shimon, question their masters’ decisions to contravene a halakhic ruling.

[Rabban Gamliel] washed the first night after his wife died. His students said to him: You, our master, have taught us that a mourner is prohibited from washing. [Rabban Gamliel] said to them: I am not like other people; I am a delicate individual.

When [Rabban Gamliel’s] slave Tavi died, he accepted condolences for him. His students said to him: You, our master, have taught us that one may not accept condolences for a slave. He said to them: My slave Tavi is not like other slaves; he was worthy.

If a groom wishes to recite the Shema on the first night [following his wedding] he may recite it. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: Not everyone who wishes to take the name may take it.

The three examples appear to be in ever-widening circles of relationship. The first (washing) concerns one’s relationship with one’s body. The second (Tavi) concerns one’s relationship with another human being. The third (reciting Shema) concerns one’s relationship with God. In each case, the halakhah establishes standard procedure, but Rabban Gamliel and Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel find that the global ruling is not appropriate in all cases, particularly in their own circumstances. Rabban Gamliel has a fragile constitution; his ill health requires that he wash. His washing reminds us that Jewish practice cannot be “one size fits all” because we not all the same (“A person stamps many coins with one die and they are all alike, one with the other, but the Holy One blessed be God, Sovereign of sovereigns, has stamped all humanity with the die of the first man and yet not one of them is like another.” Sanhedrin 4:5) Similarly, Rabban Gamliel developed a close tie to Tavi such that Tavi was family to him and conventional societal roles were trumped by the tenderness and intensity of their friendship. Rabban Gamliel opens a window of fresh air to flexibility in one’s relationship with tradition. Perhaps in reality it’s a reflection of time before rigidity set in.

Our third example, however, seems to suggest a different direction: Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel rejects the Sages’ permission to a groom to choose whether or not to recite Shema on his wedding night; he appears to view it as hubris to believe you have the kavanah for Shema on such an occasion. The Gemara on 17b discusses Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel’s viewpoint. The question is raised: if Shimon is worried about the appearance of haughtiness, does this imply the Rabbis are not? They introduce another mishnah, Pesachim 4:5, in which we are told that the Rabbis taught that where people normally work on Tisha B’Av (the date in the calendar on which Jews commemorate and mourn the destruction of the First and Second Temples), one may work; where it is not the custom to work, one need not work. However, Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel says a person should always act like a Torah scholar (and hence abstain from work). Does this not make one appear haughty? Is this not in contradiction to our mishnah above on Berakhot 16b? The Gemara concludes that no contradiction exists because in the first case (Berakhot) the brideroom holds himself out as different from others. In the second case (Pesachim) we can assume that there are many others who are not working, so abstaining from work on Tisha B’Av does have the appearance of haughtiness.

We began in Baba Metzia with a question about prayers that begin “May it be Your will…” and that led us to Berakhot 16-17 which is replete with examples. The mishnah that inspires these prayers, or calls them into the Talmud, sets a tone of flexibility and personal practice. The prayers themselves are deeply personal, individual prayers. These aspects of our tradition – flexibility in practice and personal prayer not connected to fixed liturgy – is set in the beginning, but not nearly as emphasized today as they deserve to be.

Berakhot 16 and 17 record some beautiful prayers, a few of which have been incorporated into our liturgy, and others that are worthy of attention. I’ll share several with you next time. You might like to use them.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

GUARDIANSHIP: PRACTICAL AND SPIRITUAL – BABA METZIA 38A

2010-09-05T13:21:00.000-07:00

When studying long legal sections of gemara I sometimes feel the spiritual core of the teaching is missing. This is not to dismiss or denigrate the legal portions. The extended discussions about returning lost objects or caring for goods left in your care have revealed important aspects of these seemingly mundane transactions.

Our current study in Baba Metzia concerns the issue of guardianship, the responsibility of a guardian to care for perishable goods entrusted to him. A midrash on Parshat Netzavim seems to parallel our current passage. I wonder if the midrashic author might have had our passage in mind as he created his parable. I fell that it adds a spiritual dimension to the legal passages we are studying. See what you think.

Our mishna asks how a guardian, one who is appointed to oversee someone else’s goods, may deal with depreciation, specifically a product that might deteriorate quickly.

“When one deposits fruit (or other perishables) with his fellow, even if they are rotting, the guardian may not sell them. Rabban Shimon ben Gamiliel says: He should sell them before a court because he is considered as one who is returning a lost object to its owner. (Baba Metzia 38a)

The two opinions are not hard to understand. Rav Kahana offers a straight forward explanation in the gemara: “owners prefer their own goods more than nine measures of someone elses.” Presumably the owners understand that their product is subject to depreciation, fruit may rot or vermin may eat at it, and would have given instructions if they wanted the guardian to do more than watch over it. The task is simply to protect the product. Rabban Shimon ben Gamiliel, by contrast, believes the guardian is obliged to proactively protect the value of the goods under his supervision. If the guardian needs to sell the goods in order to preserve their value, the court serves to protect the interests of both the owner and the guardian.

At the end of Moses’ closing speech to the people he entrusts the Torah into their care. He reminds the people that if they listen to God’s voice, as heard in the Torah, then

the Lord your God will make you abundantly prosperous in every work of your hand, in the fruit of your body, and in the fruit of your cattle, and in the fruit of your land, for good; for the Lord will again rejoice over you for good, as he rejoiced over your fathers. (Deuteronomy 30:9)

The text goes on to reassure the people that “this commandment which I command you this day, is not hidden from you, nor is it far off.” (Deuteronomy 30:11)

The Midrash wonders about this commandment which is entrusted to the people. It is, to highlight the parallel with our mishnah, the product (Torah) that is deposited with the guardian (the people) and for which they are responsible to return it in good condition. The midrash underscores the fragile nature of Torah by saying: were it not for the Torah the world would have already reverted to chaos.

Here is the full passage (Deuteronomy Rabba 5:5)

FOR THIS COMMANDMENT: What commandment is this? The sages say, it is hard [to talk about because the stakes are so high].
To what may this be compared: A king had a precious stone which he entrusted to his friend. He said, Please take care and guard it properly. If you lose it you do not have the ability to repay me, nor do I have another like it. You will have sinned against me and against yourself. Act to our mutual benefit and guard it well.
Similarly Moses said to Israel, If you guard the Torah you will act for the benefit of yourselves and for me.

The midrash parallels the mishna. God has deposited the Torah, a precious and fragile product, with the people. If the Torah is not cared for the world will depreciate and return to tohu va-vohu, chaos, and will be worthless. It is the responsibility of the guardian (the Jews) to assure the quality and value of the goods and to return them to the Owner in good condition.

Is there anything to be learned from the parallel of these two passages? On the simplest level, it reminds me that there is a spiritual lining to these legal discussions. The straightforward transaction of one person entrusting another with their goods involves trust, honesty, reliability and good judgment. The legal discussion relies on the middot, the ethical qualities of the owner and the guardian. Torah teaches that these middot are spiritual qualities, developed through a life of Torah.

This parallel reinforces the idea of the covenant between Israel and God as a legal agreement, one based on mutual obligations. God gave us the Torah knowing the stakes were high. The fate of the cosmos hangs in the balance. If we are unreliable guardians, chaos will reign. If we are faithful guardians, we will all prosper. The Torah is not merely a spiritual idea or a personal practice, but a precious trust that is entwined with the whole of Creation.

This seems an appropriate topic as we approach Rosh HaShannah, the birthday of the universe. Over these Days of Awe we will renew our vows with God, return through teshuva, repentance, to fulfill our part of the bargain. My we be steadfast guardians for our good and the good of all.

L’shanna Tova Tikateyvun – May all of our readers be blessed with a good year.

© 2010, Rabbi Louis A. Rieser

The Ins and Outs of "Must" and "May" / Baba Metzia 37-38

2010-08-20T10:06:00.000-07:00

The Talmud’s concern about lost articles, and our responsibility to care for lost articles we acquire until the rightful owner can be found, as well as its discussion of the rights and duties of a bailee caring for someone else’s property, cross paths on daf 37b – 38b thanks to the view of Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel.

We begin with the mishnah on 37b:
One who deposits fruit with his friend [for safe keeping], even if [the fruit] is beginning to rot, he may not touch it. Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel says: he sells it [the fruit] by the authority of a court because he is like someone who is returning a lost item to its owners.

The anonymous opinion says that I may not do anything with produce left in my care, even if it is rotting and will soon become utterly worthless. It’s not mine to use, eat, sell, or touch. I am just the bailee. Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel, however, views the situation in light of what Talmud says about lost articles: the value of the fruit is about to take a drastic nosedive. Therefore, I should obtain permission from a court to sell the fruit before it loses all value and thereby salvage something for the owner. When the owner returns, I can hand him the money from the sale of his fruit. Presumably, he will pleased that his fruit did not come to a total loss. Or will he?

Two defenses of the anonymous opinion are raised immediately in the gemara The first addresses the assumption just articulated. Rav Kahana tells us, “a person prefers a kav [a kav is a volume measure equivalent to 1.4 liters] of his own to nine kabim of someone else’s.” Hyperbole aside, the point is that most people would prefer the fruit they had grown and harvested, intact, to anyone’s else. I can understand this with regard to clothing, jewelry, cooking utensils, or hand-made items, but fruit? Really? Fruit is entirely fungible. And rotting fruit? The second defense of the stam (anonymous) opinion is ascribed to Rav Nachman bar Yitzhak, who tells us that the owner of the fruit might have designated it as terumah or ma’aser, without the bailee being aware. Terumah and ma’aser are tithes on produce grown in the Land of Israel. They were given to the priests, and until separated from the rest of the crop, the owner could not eat the rest of the produce he had harvested. Once designated for the priests, terumah and ma’aser became hekdesh (consecrated); this means that were the bailee to eat or sell them, he would be committing an act of me’ilah (misappropriation of Temple property). Rav Nachman tells us that the bailee may not sell the fruit because then he would be committing me’ilah.

The gemara explores the situation by raising, and analyzing, several objections. On daf 38, the gemara introduces a baraita that tell us:

One who deposits fruit with his friend and it rots, or wine and it turns sour, or oil and it becomes rancid, or honey and it crystallizes, [the bailee] may not touch it; these are the words of Rabbi Meir. But the Sages say: he makes a remedy for them [the spoiling objects] and sells them on the authority of a court. And when he sells them, he must sell them to others, and may not sell them to himself…

We then find this assertion:

Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel says: he sells them [the fruit] [by the authority of] a court because he is like one who returns a lost article to its owners. It was said: Rabbi Abba the son of R. Yaakov said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: the halakhah follows Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel. And Rava in the name of Rav Nachman said: the halakhah follows the Sages.

What is the difference between Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel’s opinion in the mishnah (on 37b) and again in the baraita above, and the Sages’ opinion as expressed in the baraita quoted on 38b? There are appears to be two differences:

Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel considers selling the fruit an obligation, while the Sages give the bailee permission to sell the rotting fruit, but do not require him to do so.
When Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel justifies this obligation by treating the rotting fruit as a soon-to-be lost object (monetarily); thus the bailee must salvage some value for the owner. The Sages treat the fruit is merely an item entrusted to the bailee, and hence do not make the bailee responsible for its monetary condition when natural deterioration takes place.

What is at stake here? On the one hand, there are many occasions in this scenario for something to go wrong and resentments to arise. Perhaps the owner will resent the bailee selling his fruit (could it be that Rav Kahana is correct?). Perhaps the bailee will resent the additional burden of running to court for authorization to sell, and then the time and hassle of hauling the fruit to market. After all, all he agreed to do was store the fruit in his basement. Perhaps if the bailee sells the fruit in an effort to limit the financial loss suffered by the owner, the owner may feel that the bailee undersold the fruit and he has been cheated of the profit due him. Rabbi Shimon b. Gamliel’s model opens the door to all these and more.

If Rabban Shimon b. Gamliel’s opinion is accepted as halakhah, the model is lost property, and the bailee must sell the fruit, with all the possible consequences delineated above. If, however, the Sages opinion is accepted as halakhah, the model is that of serving as a bailee, and no further effort is required, though one may choose to exercise sound and kind judgment and seek to limit the financial loss of the owner of the fruit.

In our conversation, Rabbi Rieser offered an interesting and inverse, analogy: The by-laws of his congregation say that a board member who misses three meetings must be removed from the Board and the president fills the vacancy. This sounds draconian, but it is ironically the more lenient and safer approach than the alternative: the president may remove the Board member. First, the president is free to fill the vacancy with the very person who was removed for missing three meetings. Second, if the by-laws were to say that one who misses three meetings may be removed from the Board, this would open the president to suspicion of capriciousness or favoritism. By saying must be removed, the president can hold a confidential conversation with the Board member who has missed three meetings and inquire if there is a problem precluding attendance, and whether this person is still committed to serving on the Board, and then make an appropriate decision without sitting under a cloud of suspicion.

Where the synagogue by-laws create flexibility by stating “must,” the Sages achieve flexibility and avoid the possible problems implicit in selling the rotting fruit by saying “may.”

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

WHO IS YOUR TEACHER – BABA METZIA 33A

2010-07-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

Forty years ago I sat in the lobby of the King David Hotel in Jerusalem talking with a man we had met while walking on the street. Ezra was from Philadelphia, had made aliyah, and now lived and taught in the Holy City. We had encountered him a few times and he had acquired a special aura for us because he seemed to appear when least expected. That day the conversation turned to terrorist bombings and questions of responsibility. Ezra pointed toward the entry and commented, “See the doorman. If a bomb were secreted in those bags by the door and exploded, he would get all the blame for not being more attentive. But we are sitting here; we see the bags; we are observing everyone as they come and go. Why would we escape blame? We see as much as he does.”

I had never considered that I bore responsibility in that way. If it were my job, of course. But Ezra was correct; responsibility is not limited to those tasks or times for which we are payed. We are responsible for all that we see and encounter. That day Ezra became my teacher.

Who are your teachers? How did they earn that title? I do not grant that title easily. Not everyone who stands at the head of a classroom achieves that status. They are instructors or facilitators, but a teacher is something more. While we may find our teachers in the classroom, we are as likely to find them on the street, among our friends, or in random encounters.

Henry Adams wrote that a teacher “affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” His insight helps us understand why we are privileged to find only a few teachers in our lifetime. Teachers do more than inform us, they change us. The change may not be obvious. It may not actually occur when we are at that key moment of teaching, but may lie dormant for years. Nonetheless some piece of wisdom passes between us and moves us in powerful ways.

The Mishnah (B. Baba Metzia 33a) gets to a discussion of who qualifies as a teacher through a seemingly odd discussion. “If you should happen to have the opportunity to retrieve an object lost by your father at the same time that you could reclaim one lost by your teacher, whose property should you recover first.” The question strikes at a basic principle. After all, Torah clearly and repeatedly instructs us to honor both father and mother; a command that sits at the center of the Ten Commandments. The Torah does not speak of teachers or rabbis, and certainly does not present them in contrast to parents. So how does the Mishnah come to weigh the relative honor due to parents and teachers?

The mishnah's response contrasts the role played by father and teacher: his father (and mother!) brought him into this world, but his teacher, who taught him wisdom, brings him into the world to come. Our biological birth, they imply, is not the only birth we experience. We enter into worlds within worlds and may, therefore, be birthed multiple times in our life. Our biological genealogy describes only one aspect of our lives. In my book, The Hillel Narratives, I detail Hillel's spiritual genealogy, which includes Moses and Ezra and leads to Akiva and Judah HaNasi. While we know his spiritual genealogy in detail, we know little of his biological background. His teachers and spiritual descendants take precedence over his biological kin.

But what qualifies a person as a teacher? The Gemara offers this range of possibilities:
“His teacher means the one who taught him wisdom, but not the teacher who taught him Bible or Mishnah; these are the words of Rabbi Meir. Rabbi Yehudah says, it means the one from whom he has learned most of his wisdom. Rabbi Yose says, Even if he enlightened his eyes about only one Mishnah, this is his teacher.”

The differences between these three sages offers some interesting reflection on what it means to be a teacher.

Rabbi Meir focuses on the quality of the learning, regardless of the amount. Why are Bible and Mishnah teachers excluded? I suspect because they were recitation type disciplines. You chanted the Bible or repeated the Mishnah to memorize the chapters and verses, but these are not analytical tasks. They do not prepare you for the unpredictable experience of daily life. Wisdom, by contrast, lays a strong foundation on which one can build an holy and honorable life which withstand the unexpected.

Rabbi Judah and Rabbi Yose do not focus on the quality of the material taught, perhaps they have no disagreement with Rabbi Meir. They disagree on whether one can have more than one teacher at a time. Rabbi Yose argues that every person who teaches you even one Mishnah becomes your teacher. You may have one or dozens of teachers. Each may have brought you one step closer to the World to Come, without any one of them having brought you the entire distance. In my own experience I count among my teachers at least one who taught me the meaning of a single letter.

Rabbi Yehudah reserves the title teacher for that one individual who has taught you the majority of your wisdom. This is the position endorsed by the halakhah; that one teacher is known by the title of “Rav Muvhak.” But there is no assurance that you will have only one such rav in your lifetime. The teacher of your youth may be surpassed as you grow older by one who teaches you even greater insights and wisdom. At any given time you will, however, have only one rav, teacher.

Pirke Avot twice counsels one to make (Hebrew, aseh) a teacher for yourself (M. Avot 1:5 and 16). It is an odd choice of words. We are assigned teachers in classrooms, we hire teachers as tutors. We encounter wise people in a variety of settings. But how do we make a teacher for ourself? I believe that the sages of our passage offer possible answers to that puzzle. Rabbi Meir looks to the quality of the teaching, those life skills that give us wisdom and allow us to navigate a confusing world. Rabbi Yose urges us to acknowledge every person who has touched our soul and taught us in a way that impacted our life. And Rabbi Judah bids us to recognize that person who is our guiding light.

Consider those who have affected your life. Who are the people who have been your teachers? In what way have they taught you the intricacies of life? Have you let them know that their teaching, formal or not, has made a difference in your life and that you consider them a teacher? The Sages taught that our teachers deserve high honor. And your teachers deserve your thanks.

© Rabbi Louis Rieser 2010

A hard heart vs. an open hand / Baba Metzia 31b (and Ketubot 67b)

2010-07-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

Human dignity is a tricky thing. Respecting and preserving the human dignity of another soul requires us to assess someone else’s sensibilities and sensitivities. We can start with some universal truths (people like to be independent, self-sufficient, and enjoy the respect of others) but precisely what that independence, self-sufficiency, and respect “look like” and “feel like” can range widely from individual to individual. Talmud, in its far-reaching meanderings, often comes back to the sine qua non of human dignity that undergirds all of Jewish thinking and value-making. How far do our obligations extend? Where are the limits drawn?

Baba Metzia jumps into this moving river. I share with you a long passage, Deuteronomy 14:4-11, from which Talmud quotes only verse 8 (bolded below). It is curious that this passage begins with the idea vision of world devoid of poverty, and ends in the reality that poverty will never be entirely expunged from our world. While we hold aloft a vision of the ideal, we must nonetheless live and labor in the world of the real.

In Deuteronomy 15:4-11 we read about the shemittah (sabbatical year). Every seventh year, the land lies unplanted and fallow to renew itself. Debts are forgiven to permit those who have fallen into debt-driven poverty to start anew. Torah expresses the concern that in the waning years of the sabbatical cycle, people might refrain from providing loans to needy people because all loans are canceled in the sabbatical year, and provides this stern warning and exhortation:

There shall be no needy among you – since the Lord your God will bless you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion – if only you heed the Lord your God and take care to keep all this Instruction that I enjoin upon you this day. For the Lord your God will bless you as He has promised you: you will extend loans to many nations, but require none yourself; you will dominate many nations, but they will not dominate you. If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your kinsmen in any of your settlements in the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kinsman. Rather, you must open your hand and you shall surely lend him sufficient for whatever he needs. Beware lest you harbor the base thought, “The seventh year, the year of remission, is approaching,” so that you are mean to your needy kinsman and give him nothing. He will cry out to the Lord against you, and you will incur guilt. Give to him readily and have no regrets when you do so, for in return, the Lord your God will bless you in all your efforts and in all your undertakings. For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land, which is why I command you: open your hand to the poor and needy kinsman in your land. (Deuteronomy 15:4-11)

Talmud understands verse 8 as the case of a needy person who is loath to accept a handout. Need engendered by poverty can be alleviated by a loan. But what about a more complex case? What if a person is in need, but the need arises because he refuses to expend his own resources on his own care? (The image of Lyzer the Miser in I. B. Singer’s short story, “Lyzer the Miser and Shrewd Todie” comes to mind here. It’s a marvelous story: treat yourself and read it.) Here, the Gemara offers two viewpoints: (1) We are obligated to provide a loan to insure that the individuals basic needs are met; (2) R. Shimon says we have no such obligation; Torah speaks of precisely the case we would expect: someone without financial means to see to his basic needs.

Rather, you must open your hand and lend him sufficient for whatever he needs (Deuteronomy 15:8). I know this only of one [a poor man] who has nothing and does not wish to maintain himself [at your expense; i.e. he does not want to accept charity]. [Concerning this situation] Scripture says, you shall surely lend him sufficient for whatever he needs. Whence do I know it [that I should provide him a loan] if he possesses his own [financial resources] but does not want to maintain himself [at his own cost]? Torah teaches, you shall surely lend him. But according to R. Shimon, who maintained: If he has his own [financial resources] but refuses to maintain himself [with his own resources], we are under no obligation to him, so do we need ta’avitenu [a doubling of the verb]? Torah spoke in the language of human beings. (Baba Metzia 31b)

A far more extensive version of this discussion is found elsewhere in the Talmud, in Ketubot 67b, where the question of how to deal with someone who exhibits “need” but not “poverty” is addressed head-on. The passage is long (though well worth studying!) so I will provide part, and summarize part.

Our Rabbis taught: Sufficient for whatever he needs (Deuteronomy 15:8) [implies] you are commanded to maintain him, but you are not commanded to make him rich; for whatever he needs [includes] even a horse to ride upon and a slave to run before him. It was related about Hillel the Elder that he bought for a certain poor man who was of a good family a horse to ride upon and a slave to run before him. On one occasion he could not find a slave to run before him, so he himself ran before him for three miles.

Goodness! Are they serious? Do the words “for whatever he needs” means that each person defines his own needs and the community must meet them? What if I say I need a swimming pool, or minimally a hot tub in my backyard? Hillel was so sensitive to human dignity that he recognized that one whose fortunes had been severely diminished experienced a diminution of dignity as well, and he felt obligated to compensate, even to the extent of playing the part of a slave. Hyperbole, to be sure, but let us now lose sight of his point: poverty and affluence are, to some extent, relative; what is fixed is the notion of human dignity.

Ketubot 67b continues with a series of examples of Sages who acted on the model of Hillel until we meet Raba, who questions whether we are obligated to provide “fat chicken and aged wine” at the expense of community tzedakah funds. What seems an extravagance is justified by quoting Psalm 145:15, The eyes of all wait for you, and you give them their food in its (his) time, suggesting that God intends for everyone’s needs to be met on a case by case, individual basis. Then we arrive at a discussion of our same verse Deuteronomy 15:8, echoing Baba Metzia 31b:

Our Rabbis taught: You shall surely lend him (Deuteronomy 15:8) refers to a man who has no means and is unwilling to receive his maintenance [from the poor funds] to whom [the allowance] must be given as a loan and then presented to him as a gift. You shall surely lend him refers to a man who has the means and does not wish to maintain himself [at his own expense] to whom [the allowance] is given as a gift and repayment is claimed from his [estate] after his death, according to R. Yehudah. The Sages, however, said: If he has the means and does not wish to maintain himself [at his own expense] no one need feel any concern about him. To what, however, is the text You shall surely lend him to be applied? The Torah speaks in the language of people.

What follows are several anecdotes about Mar ‘Ukba who sought to deliver tzedakah unobtrusively, not always with great success. And then this:

Mar 'Ukba had a poor man in his neighborhood to whom he regularly sent four hundred zuz on the Eve of every Day of Atonement. On one occasion he sent them through his son who came back and said to him, “He does not need [your help].” “What have you seen?” [his father] asked. “I saw that they were spraying old wine before him.” “Is he so delicate?” [the father] said, and, doubling the amount, he sent it back to him.

Perhaps this is the resolution of the dilemma. Surely, the extreme response of Hillel – enslaving himself to meet the needs of an affluent person who fell on hard times – is more than we would expect of anyone, and surely not what the community is obliged to provide. The conversation between Mar ‘Ukba and his son, however, provides another avenue of consideration: those who seem to need more are perhaps more needy in a way we have not considered. Rather than judging, perhaps we can consider them with compassion and mercy, and thereby find the right balance. In all such cases, delicate and difficult decisions must be rendered, but if we approach people from the side of compassion, not only will our decisions be better, but we will feel better about them. And isn’t that what our passage in Deuteronomy was telling us: do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kinsman.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

GOING BEYOND THE LETTER OF THE LAW – BABA METZIA 30A

2010-06-17T14:05:00.000-07:00

“Going beyond the letter of the law” is a familiar phrase, one which comes up in our current study of Baba Metzia. On a whim I googled the phrase and was surprised to find that roughly 2/3 of the hits on Google and other search sites were to Jewish sources. It made me wonder if the Jewish and general usage of the phrase matched, so I did a small comparison study.

Here are some examples of its usage in the general culture:

* Northrup Gruman posts its standards for dealing with Kickbacks, gratuities and such. They state that employees must go beyond the letter of the law to “avoid even the appearance of improper conduct in all of our business dealings.”
* Toyota in Kentucky describes its environmental commitment to the surrounding communities as going beyond the letter of the law to do more than required as part of their corporate citizenship.
* When HP was confronted by the fact that their printers were being sold by outside distributors to Iran, possibly in violation of US law, they vowed to go beyond the letter of the law to stop all such shipments.

Other examples use the phrase to indicate a desire to embrace the spirit of the law rather than focusing on its details. By contrast a column extolling the conservative-leaning Federalist Society considered the phrase a negative quality: “some judges go beyond the letter of the law, usurping the Congressional power to legislate and the Executive power to administer.”

Based on this brief survey I would suggest that in common usage the phrase refers to public efforts to be a good citizen and to act to distance one’s self from the appearance of misconduct. It addresses something greater than the details of the law. While a positive quality in most of these cases, none of them presented this to be a basic or universal value.

In Jewish tradition “going beyond the letter of the law”, lifnim mesurat hadin, is basic. Among the key passages which illustrate this phrase in Talmud is B. Baba Metzia 30a. A tale is told of the scholar, Rabbi Yishmael son of Rabbi Yosi. While walking down a road he encountered a laborer carrying a bundle of wood. The laborer stopped to rest and then asked Rabbi Yishmael for help lifting the bundle. Rabbi Yishmael, according to halakhah was exempt from doing this work which was below his status as a scholar (that’s a discussion for another time), but offered to buy the wood so the laborer did not need to carry it any farther. The deal was completed. The Talmud commends Rabbi Yishmael who could have simply declined to help, but went beyond letter of the law to purchase the goods and relieve the worker of his burden.

The gemara proves its point by examining Exodus 18:20 in which Jethro lays out a moral map for Moses to teach the people: Moses should “teach them the laws and the teachings, and make known to them the way they are to go and the practices they are to do.” The last phrase, “to do”, is interpreted as to act lifnim mesurat hadin. The implication is that going beyond the letter of the law is an integral part of living a moral life.

The gemara underscores that idea when it cites the teaching of Rabbi Yohanan. He states that "Jerusalem was destroyed because they judged there only according to the dictates of law, and did not go beyond the letter of the law.” This is a stunning charge. It means that those who limit their understanding to the letter of the law undermine both law and society. A strict reading of the letter of the law becomes instead a transgression of both law and the moral order.

The classic Torah commentators linked the concept of lifnim meshurat hadin to a few key verses. They teach that this notion is crucial to the very existence of our world.

Ramban, 13th century Spain, as part of his discussion of the verse (Leviticus 19:2) “You shall be holy because I the Lord your God am holy,” says:

This is the way of Torah…for after the warnings about the details of the laws regarding business relationships … God stated the general rule (Deuteronomy 6:18) “to do that which is right and good," that he should do that which is right and equitable and go beyond the letter of the law for the sake of pleasing his fellow.

Ramban connects this concept to the very idea of holiness. It offers us a way to emulate the Holy Blessing One.

Similarly, Rabbi Baruch Epstein in his commentary, Torah Temimah, discusses this concept in relation to Exodus 34:6, the enumeration of God’s thirteen attributes. He cites a passage from B. Rosh HaShannah that asks how God’s attributes can include both truth and mercy then explains:

Hesed, lovingkindness, means going beyond the letter of the law, while Emet, truth, is the attribute of judgment. Once the Holy One saw that it was impossible to rule entirely with pure judgment, Emet, God judged with Hesed, lovingkindness.

He cites Bereshit Rabbah 12 as proof that without the inclusion of Hesed, which he identifies with going beyond the letter of the law, the world could not exist.

According to Jewish understandings, then, to go beyond the letter of the law is both praiseworthy and necessary. More than good citizenship, it is linked to God’s nature and to the very fabric with which the Holy One created the universe.

It is not unusual for common phrases or terms to appear both in Jewish and general English usage, nor is it unusual that the meanings would differ. It helps to take a little extra time to go beyond our normal routine and explore the deeper meanings.

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

Possession Protection / Baba Metzia 29b

2010-06-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

Mark Russell once quipped, “The scientific theory I like best is that the rings of Saturn are composed entirely of lost airline luggage.” Anyone whose baggage has been lost while traveling has probably wondered if this isn’t true. How would you feel about Martians using your stuff until you came to reclaim it? That is the subject of a discussion on Baba Metzia 29b.

For Torah, and Talmud as well, a well-ordered society revolves around the notion that, as Hillel taught, “What is hateful to you, do not do to another” (Shabbat 31a). Indeed, as Hillel taught, “That is the whole of Torah. Now go and learn.” In Baba Metzia, we learn the nitty-gritty of how that principle operates in the case of finding a lost object.

Mishnah teaches:

If one finds books [i.e. scrolls], he should read them every thirty days. If he cannot read, he should roll them. But he should not learn from them something new, and he may not read them with another person.

If he finds a suit of clothes, he should shake it out every thirty days, and spread it out for its need [i.e. for the benefit of the garment], but not for his own honor.

Silver and copper vessels may be used for their own benefit, but not [so much that they become] worn out.

Gold and glass vessels may not be touched until Elijah comes.

If one finds a sack or basket, or any object that he does not customarily take with him, he need not take it.

The general principle uniting these disparate examples is that objects in our care until the owner comes to claim them may be handled for their own sake, but not for ours. Books may be aired, clothing spread out, and vessels used, but none may be worn out or damaged. Gold and glass require no maintenance and hence should not be touched at all.

The Rabbis explore the limits of this principle in the Gemara. They recognize that when you have a lost article in your possession, it is natural to want to make good use of it, and if the use to which you put it is a mitzvah, we have conflicting obligations here: setting the lost object aside and handling it only for its own sake, and the obligation of the mitzvah that could be fulfilled through the lost object. Hence:

Shmuel said: If one finds tefillin (phylacteries) in a sack, he must have their monetary value assessed and set the money aside.

Rabina objected: [Mishnah says:] If one finds books, he should read them every thirty days. If he cannot read, he should roll them. Thus, he may only roll, but [he may not] not sell them and set the money aside.

Abaye said: tefillin can be obtained at Bar Habu [i.e. are easy to purchase] whereas books are rare.

Shmuel presumes the owner of lost tefillin would be pleased to know that his tefillin are being used to fulfill a mitzvah (commandment). Therefore, the finder may set aside their monetary value for when the owner appears to claim them, and in the meantime use them for prayer. Rabina, however, objects that tefillin are covered by the Mishnah’s prohibition against reading found books beyond a month airing out. This elicits the interesting explanation of this seeming discrepancy by Abaye that tefilling are ubiquitous – since every adult man (in his time, only men wore tefillin) required a pair for daily prayer – whereas books are rare. Hence tefillin may be used because they are easily replaced, but books may not be used because they are much harder to come by.

But what about a sefer Torah? Does it follow the rule for tefillin (it is needed on a daily basis) or does it follow the rule for books (it is rare and costly)? The Rabbis bring a baraita (a mishnaic-era teaching that was not incorporated into the Mishnah of R. Yehudah na-Nasi) that speaks of a borrowed sefer Torah because it speaks to the subject of how the scroll is to be treated while under the care of someone other than the owner.

Our Rabbis taught [in a baraita]: If one borrows a Scroll of the Torah from his neighbor, he may not lend it to another person. He may open and read it, but may not study [a subject] in it for the first time; nor may another person read it together with him. Likewise, if one leaves a Scroll of the Torah for safe keeping with his neighbor, he [the neighbor] must roll it once every twelve months, and may open and read it. But if he opens it for his own sake, it is forbidden. Symmachus said: In the case of a new [Torah scroll], every thirty days; in the case of an old one, every twelve months. R. Eliezer b. Yaakov said: In both cases, every twelve months.

The Sages, as well as Symmachus and R. Eliezer b. Yaakov all agree that a sefer Torah follows the rule of books: its preservation trumps the finder’s desire to fulfill a mitzvah through it, because it is a rare and expensive item.

R. Yehudah ha-Nasi (compiler or our Mishnah) now comments that one who borrows a sefer Torah may not turn around and lend it to another with the owner’s permission. This comment seems peculiar to Resh Lakish: wouldn’t we have known that already? We have been discussing found objects, not borrowed objects.

The Master [R. Yehudah ha-Nasi] said: If one borrows a Scroll of the Torah from his neighbor, he may not lend it to another. Why particularly a Scroll of the Torah – surely the same applies to any article? For R. Shimon b. Lakish said: Here Rabbi has taught that a borrower may not lend [the borrowed article], nor may a renter rent it [to another person]. It is necessary to state this for the case of a Scroll of the Torah. I might have said: One is pleased that a precept be fulfilled by means of his property: therefore we are informed [otherwise].

Resh Lakish tells us that the baraita specifies the sefer Torah because, although we would know that we can neither lend a borrowed object nor rent a rented object, we might have though that the owner would make an exception in the case of a sefer Torah and be pleased that a mitzvah might be fulfilled through his property. But this is not a presumption we have a right to make.

We might be surprised at this. After all, doesn’t Torah study trump the responsibility to guard a found object until the owner comes to reclaim it? Yet it is precisely Torah that confers this responsibility! How then could the learning of Torah be permitted to violate the teaching of Torah? A new twist on what John D. Rockefeller, Jr. once wrote, “I believe that every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity an obligation; every possession a duty.”

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

FINDERS, BUT NOT KEEPERS

2010-05-26T11:18:00.000-07:00

“Can I keep him, Mom? He followed me home and he’s real friendly. It won’t be any trouble; I promise! I’ll take care of him. Can I keep him; can I?”

Confronted by a pleading child and a cute, tail-wagging puppy a parent must remain rational. There is more than meets the eye when this domestic drama emerges.

“You know that there is probably some worried little boy or girl wondering if their pet is okay. They love him too! And he is really a part of their family. We need to try to find his real home. For now you can take care of him while we try to find his owners. But just remember, when we find his owners you have to be brave and give him back.”

As a parent you might admire your child’s passion. Their concern and enthusiasm is not to be dismissed. This scenario, however, presents a variety of ethical considerations. Until you can find the puppy’s home you become the caretakers and there are some costs associated with that. How do you manage the balance between welcoming this cute puppy into your home and exercising your objective duty to simply serve as temporary caretakers?

Finding something of value that needs to be returned changes you. It creates a relationship between you and the person who lost the object. It is not unusual to read news reports of objects, often wedding rings, returned to their owner’s years after they are lost. For example: Boy Digs Up Long Lost Wedding Rings in Yard - wbztv.com. The finder needed to expend time and energy to find the rightful owner. The mother of the 3-year old in the story above connected with the woman who had lost the rings. She says, “I explained to her that my 3-year old son was digging outside and possibly found something that belonged to her. And she was like 'you're kidding me. Those were my rings I lost over thirty years ago.' It was amazing. I just got chills talking about it. It's amazing."

The Torah reminds us that we have an obligation to return lost objects of all kinds:
You shall not see your brother’s ox or donkey go astray and turn away; you must return them to your brother… and so shall you do for his clothing, and so for every lost object which he has lost and you have found. You must not turn away. (Deuteronomy 22:1-3)
While the Torah states our obligation, it remains for the Mishnah to provide the details.

Mishnah Baba Metzia 2:7 offers two examples of how to fulfill this obligation when you find a lost animal.
Any [lost animal] which is capable of work and which requires food can be used for labor and must be fed. And if it is not capable of work but requires food, it can be sold, since torah teaches, “you must return it to him.” Pay attention to how to return it.

The mishnah seeks to balance two competing needs. As much as you have an obligation to see after the well-being of the animal, the owner (when found) bears the obligation to repay you for the costs incurred caring for his possession.

As long as the animal is in your possession you have an obligation to care for its well-being. That can add up. In addition to the simple needs of providing food, a stray animal might require a visit to a vet if there are injuries or other concerns. The simple good deed of holding on to a lost animal for a few days can get expensive.

That is why the mishnah allows one who finds a working animal to use his labor. The animal can pay his own upkeep. (Does a found puppy earn its keep as it entertains your children?) When it works, there are no significant extra costs incurred by the finder and the one who lost the animal can retrieve his property without needing to pay a large penalty.

Which leads to the second case in the mishnah (And if it is not capable of work but requires food, it can be sold), which sounds so harsh. If you found a lost animal, would you look to sell it on the open market? When you look under the “lost and found” category on Craigslist you will not find items listed for sale.

What happens, the Mishnah wonders, if the care you provide for a lost animal exceeds its objective worth? What if you have spent a lot of money for food and materials by the time you find the owner, but the total amount is more than the animal is worth? What if the owners respond that they don’t have the expendable cash to repay that amount for an animal they can replace for free from the shelter? Recognizing that there may be an objective value for this animal the Mishnah allows the finder to sell it so he can return a full value to the owner, rather than run up an unreasonable bill that will need to be paid. In real life I would find it a difficult decision to sell someone else’s possession and convince them it was in their own interest for me to do so.

Dealing with lost animals is only once instance of this rule, of course. The mishnah (Baba Metzia 2:1-2) details objects that must be returned because they have distinguishing marks, such as wedding rings, and objects with no identifying marks, such as coins, that do not need to be returned.

None of this is obvious. The common wisdom, “finder-keepers, losers-weepers,” suggests any lost object is fair game, but ignores the truth embedded in the Torah that the loser is our brother. A relationship exists between the one who finds and the one who loses. The one who finds a lost puppy can imagine the sorrow of the one who lost their pet. Since the Torah recognizes the implicit relationship that exists between finder and loser, it teaches we have a positive obligation to return lost objects.

PS. For a longer, more legal look at this principle, look at this related article:
Jewish Law - Articles - Finders Keepers? First Impressions ...

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

It doesn't have to be a "finders keepers losers weepers" world / Baba Metzia 58b

2010-05-17T11:40:00.001-07:00

My husband lost his iPod at the airport in Dan Diego several months ago. It was returned within 10 minutes, even before he knew it was missing. The finder turned on the iPod, found my husband’s name and cell phone number, and called him. This is the ideal: a finder who is scrupulously honest, and a claimant who can easily identify his lost property because of its distinctive characteristics. But in truth there is much room for lies and deception in the matter of lost articles, and Mishnah seeks to find the limit to responsibility and the boundary for presumption of deception.

But first, Torah tells us it should not be a “finders keepers losers weepers” universe: If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow If your fellow does not live near you and you do not know who he is, you shall bring it home and it shall remain with you until your fellow claims it; then you shall give it back to him. You shall do the same with his ass; you shall do the same with his garment; and so too shall you do with anything that your fellow loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent. (Deuteronomy 22:1-3)

Torah is trying to build a societal culture of consideration in which people go out of their way to take care of one another as they would want others to do for them. But how much is it reasonable to require, and at what point is so much required that people are unwilling to comply? Mishnah seeks to examine those boundaries, and in so doing reveals the inherent danger of our assumptions about human nature.

The first half of Mishnah Baba Metzia 2:7 is found on daf 28b:

If [the claimant] said what the lost article is, but did not [describe] its identifying marks, it should not be given [to the claimant]. If he is a deceiver, even if he says what the identifying marks are, it should not be given to him, as it is written, until your fellow claims it (Deuteronomy 22:2)[meaning] “until you examine your fellow [to determine] whether or not he is a deceiver.”

If I stand out in the middle of the town square to proclaim that I have found a lost article, what should I say? Should I simple say, “I found something!” and wait to see who lost it? Should I say what I found? If I say what I found, should I describe identifying marks (e.g., “I found pitcher’s mitt with a red stain on the inside near the thumb” or “I found a Nokia cell phone with a neon-orange cover”) or should I simply say, “I found a pitcher’s mitt” or “I found a cell phone” and require the claimant to provide details – such as the red stain or the neon-orange cover – to prove he is the rightful owner? How much do we trust people to be honest and not claim items that are not theirs because the lost-and-found bin strikes them as a treasure-trove of free stuff?

Mishnah first attempts to balance the benefit of having people return found items, with the concern that false claimants may appear. Claimants are required to articulate identifying marks to establish their rightful claim. But then concern is expressed about those who would cheat and deceive the finder: how do we handle this possibility? We don’t want to hand over valuable items to such people, and thereby deprive the rightful owner from reclaiming his property. Here the amoraim of the mishnah offer us Dt. 22:2 with a new twist: “until our fellow claims it” is read “until you examine your fellow to determine whether or not he is a deceiver who claims it.”

But how do we know if someone is a deceiver and a cheat? Is this something revealed by previous experience? Or must we examine each and every claimant? Moreover, do we presume people are honest? Or do we presume a priori that their motives are suspect?

Gemara explores this conundrum. If we hand over a lost articles to someone, we might well be giving away something to a deceiver, and depriving the rightful owner of his property. Yet what is the social cost to presuming people are deceptive and should be examined as to their honesty in each and every case? Gemara offers a curious anecdote that delivers a stern warning about prejudging people:

Our Rabbis taught: At first, whoever lost an article would articulate its identifying marks and take it. When deceivers increased in number, it was enacted that he should be told, “Go and bring witnesses that you art not a deceiver, then [you may] take it.”

It once happened that Rav Pappa's father lost a donkey, which others found. When [the father of Rav Pappa] came before Rabbah bar Rav Huna, he told him, “Go and bring witnesses that you are not a deceiver, and [then you may] take it.” So he [the father of Rav Pappa] went and brought witnesses. [Rabbah bar Rav Huna] said to them, “Do you know him to be a deceiver?” “Yes,” they said. “I, a deceiver?!” [the father of Rav Pappa] exclaimed to them. “We meant that you are not a deceiver,” they answered him. “It stands to reason that one does not bring [witnesses] to his disadvantage,” said Rabbah bar Rav Huna.

When Gemara says, “When deceivers increased in number” we might think that someone had examined crime statistics and determined that there is objective truth to this observation. Perhaps in the aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple and the impoverishment of the Jewish community in Eretz Yisrael, this was the case, but the Gemara was written in Babylonia where the Jewish community was not uniformly impoverished. Moreover, Rabbah bar Rav Huna, the early fourth century amora (d. 322 C.E.) was wealthy in his own right, the owner of fields and forests from which he made his living (Baba Metzia 108a) and he headed an academy in Sura (though, it seems, not the primary academy which his renowned father, Rav Huna, had led).

What is clear is that Rabbah bar Rav Huna assumes the worst of people: they are deceivers until proven otherwise. Hence he requires that even a well-respected man, none other than the father of Rav Pappa, bring witnesses who will attest to his character. And when Rav Pappa’s father does this, Rabbah bar Rav Huna asks his question in such a contorted and negative manner that the witnesses inadvertently testify against the character and integrity of Rav Pappa’s father. They expect Rabbah bar Rav Huna to ask, “Do you know him to be an honest man?” and so the response “Yes” rolls right off their tongues. But this is not how Rabbah bar Rav Huna formulates the question. He asks, “Do you know him to be a deceiver?” The father of Rav Pappa, listening carefully to the exchange, is astonished. He expresses his bewilderment, at which point the witnesses realize what has happened and immediately change their testimony. They have been deceived, and it turns out that Rabbah bar Rav Huna is the deceiver.

Did this happen due to the particular temperament of Rabbah bar Rav Huna? Talmud knows him as a modest man who treated those beneath him in learning and social status with consideration and respect. His treatment of the witnesses brought by Rav Pappa’s father strikes us as completely out of character. Could this be Gemara’s warning that deception is a contagion? When we perceive others as deceptive-until-proven-otherwise, as the Mishnah could be construed to suggest, then we fall into the trap of presuming everyone is a deceiver, and therefore resort to deceptive means to reveal their deceptive ways? When that happens, basic trust is undermined, and indeed “deceivers increase in number.” If, however, we presume that everyone will turn on the iPod in order to locate the owner, we spread the contagion of integrity, and build the society of decency we envision.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS – SOTAH 49B

2010-05-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

The end of this tractate is unusual for two reasons. First, while the Mishnah generally is ahistorical, this passage focuses on the losses caused by the successive revolts against Rome. Second, in contrast to other tractates, this tractate does not end with a nechemta, words of consolation or uplift .

David Kraemer notes the Mishnah’s typical silence on the destruction of the Temple, the conversion of Jerusalem to a pagan city, and the Bar Kokhba rebellion.
“Given the historical context in which this document was produced, we should expect to find in it significant responses to the events of the day. Yet, carefully as we might look… there is little in the Mishnah that relates to history at all. But it is not only the silence that startles, Equally surprising is the fact that, despite the destruction of the Temple 130 years before, a major proportion of the Mishnah’s laws is devoted to the Temple…” (Responses to Suffering in Classical Rabbinic Literature, pg. 53)
So the direct mention of the destruction of the Temple and the loss of the sages at the end of this tractate is striking.

The last mishnah of the tractate records the decrees that followed the unsuccessful revolts:
“In the war against Vespasian they decreed against the wearing of wreaths by bridegrooms and against the wedding-drum. In the war against Titus they decreed against the wearing of wreaths by brides and that a one should not teach Greek to his son. In the last war [Bar Kokhba’s] they decreed that a bride should not go out in a palanquin inside the town. But our rabbis permitted it. (B. Sotah 49a)
The very last passage of the tractate (less two sentences) laments the death of 13 notable sages of which these are the last several entries:
“When Ben Azzai died, diligent students came to an end. When Ben Zoma died, exegetes came to an end. When Rabban Simeon ben Gamaliel died, the locust came and troubles multiplied. When Rabbi died, troubles were doubled. When Rabbi died, modesty and fear of sin came to an end. (B. Sotah 49b)

These closing passages, which account for one-third of the last chapter, mark over 40 losses of the kind cited above. Institutions were lost, sages were killed, virtuous behavior disappeared while social, ethical and natural troubles increased. One feels the weight of a community in dissolution.

Considering the tractate as a whole, I realize that this conclusion had been foreshadowed at the beginning. In a sense the entire tractate is a metaphor; the ritual of the Sotah, the unfaithful wife, is the story of the unfaithful people. The ordeal of the bitter waters is paralleled by the Roman destruction.

On the first page of the tractate we learn that marriages are rooted in the very fabric of Creation.
“Rabbi Judah said in the name of Rav: Forty days before the creation of a fetus a Divine Voice goes forth and declares that this child is designated for that one. (B. Sotah 2a)
They are holy, as is our own covenant with the Holy One, conceived before Creation and sealed by the Torah.
“Six things preceded the creation of the world. Some were actually created; others merely arose in God’s mind. These are they: Torah and the Throne of Glory were created, the Patriarchs, Israel, the Temple and the Name of the Messiah only arose in God’s thought. (Genesis Rabbah 1:4)
The bond of marriage, like the covenant between Israel and God, is a holy creation that sustains the world.

Rabbi Hisda, however, voices a warning early on. At first it sounds like he is only commenting on family dynamics:
“Rabbi Hisda taught, “Unfaithfulness in the house is like a worm in a sesame plant.” And Rabbi Hisda said, “Temper in the house is like a worm in the sesame plant.”
The continuation of his teaching, particularly when read against the background of the closing passage of the tractate, clearly draws the parallel with the fate of the nation.
“In the beginning, before Israel sinned, the Divine Presence rested on every one of them, as it says, (Deuteronomy 23:15) For the Lord your God walks with you within the camp… Once they sinned, the Divine Presence separated from them, as it says, (Deuteronomy 23:15) Lest He see some unseemly thing in you and turn away from you. (B. Sotah 3a)
The discussion of the Sotah, the unfaithful wife, lends itself to the discussion of the destruction of Jerusalem, the Temple and all that it stood for.

Given the arc of its discussion, what nechemta, consolation, could be offered at the end of this tractate? By all accounts the devastation caused by Rome in response to the Jewish Wars was massive. The Temple would not be rebuilt. The loss of Jerusalem turned out to be permanent, reinforced by the Emperors Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian; and eventually sealed by the ascension of Christianity after the conversion of Constantine. There was little to lift one up after so great a loss.

Similarly they did not have recourse to the great Sages who brought Torah forward into the new, post-Destruction age. Rather they lamented the deaths of the great sages and with each of them the loss of that sage’s particular skill or virtue. They recounted the spreading disaster; the growth of natural, social and ethical troubles.

The last two lines of the tractate sound odd to me given the long list of losses that precede them, but they may be the only possible nechemta. The last sentences come in response to the Mishnah’s assertion that when Rabbi [Judah Ha-Nasi] died, modesty and fear of sin came to an end.
“Rabbi Joseph said to his Tanna [the one who repeated received traditions], “Do not include the word ‘modesty,’ for I am still here.” Rabbi Nahman said to his Tanna, “Do not include the words ‘fear of sin’ for I am still here.”
In response to the tremendous loss and devastation, the decimation of the population and the death of so many Sages comes a modest ani, I am here, which echoes the response of Abraham when God first called; hineni, here I am. Rabbi Joseph and Rabbi Nahman stand firm in the face of devastation. I hear in their response the power of one person to resolve to carry on the tradition. It is a stance of courage, a singular commitment that preserves our tradition.

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

Special feature: Midrash Mosaic

2010-04-27T16:07:00.001-07:00

In response to Rabbi Rieser's posting of April 15, 2010, Rabbi Ruskin mentioned a mosaic she created. Here it is above. In Rabbi Ruskin's words, the mosaic illustrates the midrash, "'Shall we make a human?' Rabbi Simon teaches that when the Holy One came to create the first Human Being the Ministering angels formed groups. Hesed (lovingkindness) and tzedek (justice) voted in favor of our creation while peace and truth voted against. God broke the tie and human beings came into being. The version I illustrated in my mosaic ends with God breaking the tie by casting Truth to the ground. Thus is Truth scattered over the face of the earth and over the face of our lives. Our task then becomes the seeking and elevating of Truth. 'Attention must be paid' to this ultimate Truth: that each human life is of value, that each of us has the potential for chesed, tzedek, and shalom. And "attention must be paid" to the other truth: that we must be constantly struggling with the yetzer ha-ra luring each of us away from chesed, tzedek, and shalom. Not exactly the point of this piece of Gemara, but on my mind as I observe human behavior around me and the challenges within me."

The value of a human being / Sotah 46a

2010-04-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

I have a close friend who does not have children, and who is offended by the rabbinic claim that God commanded procreation. The Rabbis based their claim on Genesis 1:28, God blessed [humanity] and God said to them, “P’ru u’r’vu / Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it; and rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and all the living things that creep on earth.” I have come to believe that the Rabbis’ decision to read this verse as a prescription, rather than descriptive, is mistaken and deeply problematic. Chapter 1 of Genesis is riddled with phrases that are grammatically similar but pertain to land and ocean, plants and animals, none of which can be “commanded” in the sense of a divine obligation. Rather, Genesis 1:28, like all the other similar expressions in the chapter, is describing God’s creation of a self-sustaining universe – which is astounding enough!

The Rabbis knew their claim was problematic. Requiring women to engage in a life-threatening activity runs counter to Jewish law. So they exempted women (Mishnah Yebamot 6:6 is appended to the end of this blog posting). But how many men can reproduce without a woman? Catch 22.

Masechet Sotah, in chapter 10, discusses the eglah arufah, the calf who is decapitated as part of a ceremony required by Torah (Deuteronomy 21) when a person is found murdered, but the perpetrator is unknown. The elders of the city closest to where the corpse is discovered convene in a valley (presumably at the site of the murder) and recite a formula disavowing responsibility for the murder that took place: “Our hands have not shed this blood, neither have our eyes seen it.” The Gemara is quick to reinterpret this to mean not – heaven forbid! – that the elders could possibly have committed the murder, but rather that the elders did not fail to offer the man food, nor fail to provide him an escort through dangerous terrain (Sotah 46b).

You might well be wondering: why decapitate the calf at all? How does this atone for the murder? We find a remarkable answer offered, rejected, and reworked:

R. Yochanan b. Shaul said: Why does the Torah mention that he should bring a heifer into a ravine? The Holy One, blessed be God, said: Let something that has not produced fruit [i.e. has never given birth] be decapitated in a place which is not fertile, and atone for one who was not given [the opportunity] to produce fruit. What “fruit” mean? If I say “offspring,” then according to this argument we should not break a heifer's neck if [the person found dead] was old or castrated. Therefore [we understand “fruit” to mean] commandments. (Sotah 46a)

I find the three parallels (murder victim, calf, location of murder/ceremony) breathtaking. Because the murder victim will be unable to “produce fruit” (i.e. father children), we decapitate a calf that itself has never given birth, and the ceremony takes place in a valley that has born no “offspring” (i.e. where no crops can grow because it is a harsh, rocky environment).

R. Yochanan’s explanation highlights the murder victim’s loss of opportunity to have children, suggesting that this is the most tragic aspect to his death. The emphasis on reproduction – indeed the elevation of reproduction to a divine commandment – jumps immediately to mind. Is this the most important thing lost when a person is murdered? As the biological parent of four children, I certainly appreciate the value of procreativity, but is this capacity (which to my mind is a blessing) the most important aspect of me, or anyone else? One is reminded of the famous mishnah found in Sanhedrin 4:5:

For this reason was a single man created: to teach you that whoever destroys a single soul in Israel, Scripture imputes [guilt] to him as though he had destroyed an entire universe. And whoever saves a single life in Israel, Scripture credits him with having saved an entire universe. (Sanhedrin 37a)

While this homiletical and ethical teaching references procreation – the first man Adam is regarded as the progenitor of all humanity – this is not the same thing as saying that the essential worth of a human being is encapsulated in his/her ability to reproduce. Rather, it expresses the immense worth of a human being.

The Gemara asks this question, as well, by posing a legalistic question: would we dispense with the ceremony if the murder victim were old (and therefore beyond the age of procreativity) or castrated (and hence incapable of reproducing)? It is a rhetorical question because Torah commands the ceremony whenever someone is slain and the murderer is unknown. Gemara’s answer is wonderful. What is lost is the person’s mitzvot – all the good things he would have done, all the divine obligations he would have undertaken, all the ways he would have lived in response to God have been lost irrevocably. An image of God has perished, stolen from humanity and from God, and all that the victim would have done and could have become has tragically been lost. This interpretation of “fruit” raises it to a much higher, more humane, and indeed holier level.

Addendum: for those interested, here is Mishnah Yebamot 6:6. (It is worthwhile to examine the discussion on Yevamot 65b–66a where a significant minority express discomfort with the exemption of women.)

No man may abstain from keeping the law, Be fertile and increase (Genesis 1:28), unless he already has children: according to the School of Shammai, two sons; according to the School of Hillel, a son and a daughter, for it is written, Male and female God created them (Genesis 5:2). If he married a woman and lived with her ten years and she bore no child, he is not permitted to abstain [from fulfilling this legal obligation]. If he divorced her, she may be married to another and the second husband may live with her for ten years. If she had a miscarriage the space [of ten years] is measured from the time of the miscarriage. The duty to be fruitful and multiply falls on the man but not on the woman. R. Yochanan b. Baroka [dissents from this view and] says: Of them of both it is written, God blessed them and God said to them: “Be fertile and increase” (Genensis 1:28).

ATTENTION MUST BE PAID – SOTAH 46A

2010-04-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

“I don’t say he's a great man. Willie Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall in his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person.”
(Death of a Salesman, Act 1, by Arthur Miller)

The cry of Willie Loman's wife echoes across the generations. The Psalmist asks a similar question:
O Lord, what is man that you should care about him, mortal man that you should think of him?” (Psalm 144:3) What is it that makes a human being unique, worthy of attention?

If the midrash is correct, this may have been one of the earliest questions ever asked. Bereshit Rabbah 8:5 records the opinion of Rabbi Simon who reads the verse in Genesis 1, na-aseh adam, let us make Man, as a question rather than a statement: “Shall we make a human?” Rabbi Simon teaches that when the Holy One came to create the first Human Being the Ministering angels formed groups. Hesed (lovingkindness) and tzedek (justice) voted in favor of our creation while peace and truth voted against. God broke the tie and human beings came into being. The Midrash reminds us that human beings possess equal measures of holy and destructive traits.

The Ministering angels apparently weren't sure we were worthy of being created, much less of continuing notice. But God disagreed. Human beings were formed in God's image and likeness; every human being bears that stamp. Even “if one is guilty of a capital offense and is put to death, and you impale him on a stake, you must not let his corpse remain on the stake overnight, but must bury him the same day, for an impaled body is an affront to God.” (Deuteronomy 21:22:23) Rashi (ad loc) comments that it is a cheapening of the image. Even the worst of the worst don’t forfeit the image of God implanted within them.

Too many people are willing to say that human life is expendable. Millions have been lost to genocides, organized murder on a national level: Armenians, Hutus, Cambodians and more. The Nazis declared the Jews to be vermin, not true human beings. Some individual hold similar beliefs. The Social Darwinists accuse the poor of deserving their poverty. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina some declared the destruction came as punishment for imagined mis-behaviors on the part of some victims. These and more adopt the attitude that certain human beings are expendable, not worthy of attention.

The Torah disagrees. Every person deserves attention in the eyes of Torah. If Arthur Miller put a face to the plight of everyman when he created Willie Loman, the Torah removes any face and leaves us with an anonymous, faceless victim; the ultimate blank slate. Nonetheless, attention must be paid.

If someone slain is found lying in the open, the identity of the slayer unknown, Your elders and your judges shall go out and measure the distance form the corpse to the nearby town. (Deuteronomy 21:1-2) No one knows this victim. He/she is found in the countryside. We are given no information about this forgotten soul. Since responsibility cannot be assigned to the one who perpetrated the crime, Torah requires those at the highest levels of communal leadership to step forward.

M. Sotah 9:1 teaches that “three from the high court in Jerusalem,” members of the Great Sanhedrin, be present. The elders and judges of the two closest towns were present. Rabbi Eliezer ben Jacob even suggests that the king must be present. (B Sotah 45a) The distance was measured and the closest town was charged with the responsibility for that death.

Once it is decided which of the two towns bore responsibility then the corpse was brought down to a rocky valley. “A heifer from the herd which has never been worked and which has never pulled in a yoke,” (Deuteronomy 21:3) was brought to the site and decapitated with a hatchet from behind. The site where this takes place “is prohibited for sowing and for tilling.” (M. Sotah 9:5) It remains barren, a physical and visible reminder of death.

Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul, by focusing on the odd requirement to bury the body in such a forlorn site, asks the unspoken question: Why does this anonymous death deserve all of this attention?
Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul asks: Why did the Torah specify, “bring the heifer to a valley?” The Holy Blessing One said: Bring something that produced no fruit and break its neck in a place that produces no fruit, to atone for one who was not allowed to bear fruit.
What are those fruits?
Shall we say it is “to be fruitful and to multiply?”
If so, then [if the victim were] an old man or a eunuch we would not break the heifer's neck.
Rather, [the fruits we speak of are] mitzvot. (B. Sotah 46a))
Here Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul answers the Psalmist. What is Man that God should care about him? Human beings, the Rabbi responds, possess intrinsic worth in both the physical and the spiritual realms.

Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul would dismiss all those who would measure the relative worth of human beings. He would reject those who claim that some people are sub-human, not the same as you or I. He would put out of mind those who demonize others for their lifestyle or their life choices. Human beings possess intrinsic worth.

He sees the burial requirement as a metaphor. The barren site reminds us of the fruitfulness lost when this person was murdered.

One rabbinic voice asks how we are to understand that fruitfulness. The obvious answer reflects Yohanan’s choice of words. The very first command, perhaps the most human of impulses, is to be fruitful and multiply. If the murder prevented this soul from being fruitful in that way, perhaps it is understandable. But if they are unable to fulfill that biologic function, as an old man or a eunuch would be, perhaps they are indeed expendable.

Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul is not so easily trapped. Without denying our physical fruitfulness, he asserts we are not limited by our physical fruitfulness. “The fruits we speak of are mitzvot.” Rabbi Yohanan ben Saul sides with God and the angels who advocate creating human beings, even knowing in advance our potential destructiveness and evil. Every mitzvah we perform – from lighting Shabbat candles, to acts of tzedakah and lovingkindness, to honoring parents, to honesty in business, to preventing causeless hatred in the world – transforms the ordinary into the holy. Our life can bear fruit from our first breath to our last.

We mark the untimely, lonely and anonymous death of that person found abandoned in the field. The loss is not merely to him or his family; not a simple matter of loss of income or offspring. Humankind is made the poorer by his loss. Attention must be paid.

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

Calling the troops to battle / Sotah 44a

2010-04-09T08:32:00.000-07:00

In a curious diversion from the topic at hand, the Gemara discussion on Sotah 44a jumps from a detailed explanation of the nooks and crannies of Deuteronomy 20:5 to an idealistic understanding of the role of sacred texts in our lives, via a midrashic leap into a verse from Proverbs.

How does this happen? Much of the latter portion of Sotah is devoted to a protracted discussion of which prayers and official legal formula must be recited in Hebrew, and which may be recited in the vernacular. Mishnah 8:2 on Sotah 43a begins by citing Deuteronomy 20:5 which describes the procedure whereby “officials” address battle-ready troops in a citizen army on the eve of war to stipulate who is exempt from fighting: And the officers shall speak to the people saying, “What man is there who has built a new house and not yet dedicated it? Let him go back to his home [lest he die in battle and another dedicate it]…” The verse in Deuteronomy continues by exempting one who has planted a vineyard but not yet harvested its fruits, and one who has betrothed a woman but not yet married her. Mishnah Sotah 8:2 explicates each: What constitutes a new house? What constitutes a vineyard? Precisely which marriages exempt a man from battle? Thus far, concrete and pragmatic.

By and large, Gemara addresses the question of who should be exempt from battle and on what basis, and how to balance the need for an effective army with exemptions for those engaged in building society (a competing priority during a time of war) as well as those who, if they stay, will demoralize the fighters. Amidst this discussion comes a curious diversion.

On Sotah 44a, the Sages consider the phrases asher banah (“who has built”), asher natah (“who has planted”), and asher eiras (“who has betrothed”), which we mentioned above. They draw a parallel to Proverbs 24:27 and use it as a launching pad for an interpretation that takes us far from the realm of the battlefield:

Our Rabbis taught: [The order of the phrases is] “who has built,” “who has planted,” “who has betrothed.” Torah has thus taught a rule of conduct: that a man should build a house, plant a vineyard, and then marry a wife. Similarly Solomon declared in his wisdom, Put your external affairs in order, make ready what you have in the field, and afterwards build your house (Proverbs 24:27: “put your external affairs in order,” that is a dwelling place; “make ready what you have in the field,” that is a vineyard; “and afterwards build your house,” that is a wife. Another interpretation: “put your external affairs in order,” that is Scripture; “make ready what you have in the field,” that is Mishnah; “and afterwards build your house,” that is Gemara. Another explanation: “put your external affairs in order,” that is Scripture and Mishnah; “make ready what you have in the field,” that is Gemara; “and afterwards build your house,” that is good deeds. R. Eliezer, son of R. Yosi the Galilean says: “put your external affairs in order,” that is Mishnah and Gemara; “make ready what you have in the field,” that is good deeds; “and afterwards build your house,” that is expound [upon Torah] and receive a reward. (Sotah 44a)

At this point, a table may prove helpful to lay out the Proverbs verbs laid parallel to Deuteronomy 20:5, and the four interpretations offered in the Gemara.

The first interpretation (C1) of Proverbs 24:27 supports Deuteronomy 20:5 and establishes that this is not a mere set of three items but a chronologically ordered prescription for living. One should first build a home, next plant a vineyard to establish a source of income, and once firmly established, take a wife. The subsequent three offerings (C2 – C4), however, take us in an entirely different direction: we are now in the study house, rather than on the battlefield, discussing sacred texts. Moreover, there is a clear pattern to the last three interpretations (C2 – C4). Each builds on the previous troika. The pattern is ABC, BCD, CDE, as we work out way from “Scripture” to “Expounding Scripture and receiving a reward.” We have come full circle.

This pattern is all the more interesting if we consider the version found in Tosefta Sotah 7:21, which I will summarize with a similar table.

The same pattern emerges, although there are five interpretations offered: ABC, BCD, CDE, DEF, FGH. The additions are “Midrash,” “Halakhot,” and “Aggadot,” terms about whose precise meaning at the time Tosefta was generated we might ask many questions. Perhaps they become subsumed in the category of “Gemara” by the time the Talmud is redacted and codified.

The starting point and end point, however, are the same: “Scripture” and “Expound and collect a reward.” We might ask: is the reward for expounding Scripture truly the ultimate goal? Or is doing good deeds the goal, and the reward is motivation for doing good deeds (when energy and inspiration are flagging)? Or perhaps the Rabbis are telling us that Scripture, mishnah, and gemara – sacred texts through which God speaks to us – sustain us spiritually and promote the society God envisions, in which chesed (deeds of loving kindness) will be routine, and we will all reap the reward both here, and in olam haba, of creating and living in such a society. Scripture, mishnah, and gemara are then the “soldiers” that protect Israel, enlarge her spiritual territory, and protect her from the incursions of life. Time and event have proven the truth of this insight.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

WHO GOES TO WAR – B. SOTAH 42B-43A

2010-04-01T06:38:00.000-07:00

Who goes to war? Nations have choices about who they recruit and who they send to war. Over the past decades there has been a debate in America about the values we project though these choices. It is a reasonable debate and one that reflects key societal values.

The rules of war outlined in the Torah describe the steps leading up to battle. A specially appointed priest, the Mashoakh Milkhama, addresses the troops according to a script found in Deuteronomy 20. The Sages divide the address into two parts, first at the border and later on the battlefield. The message, predictably, is a call to courage and a reminder that God is with them, but it also presents a list of those who may not go to war because they have more pressing obligations at home. It is here that we see the societal values promoted by the Torah and the Sages.

My focus is on the address at the border when four categories of people are sent home, and more specifically on the first two groups. Those who are commanded to return home include those who have built a new home but not dedicated it, planted a new vineyard but not used the fruit of it, one who is betrothed but not yet married, and those who are fearful and fainthearted. The Sages could have read each of these categories narrowly, maximizing those who enter the battle, but they chose to broaden the list, sending many people home.

Before venturing off to war the mashoakh milkhama addresses the troops. (B.Sotah 42b) At the border he says, “Obey the words of those who lay out the rules of battle and go home [if you are among those designated to return home].” This is not a matter of choice, an option for those who might be conflicted. Rather it is a command; these people have more important work to do at home.

When Torah says those who have built a house but not dedicated it must return home, the obvious question is what constitutes a house.
“A house”: I know only that the rule covers a house. How do I know that the
rule encompasses “a house built for straw, a house for cattle, a house for wood,
and a house for storage” [as the Mishnah states]? Scripture says, “Who has built a house” — of any sort.
And how far can this category be stretched?
Is it possible, then, that I should include within the rule a gate-house, portico, or
porch? Scripture states, “A house.” Just as a house is suitable for a dwelling, so anything that is suitable for a dwelling [is included, while these unenclosed structures are not included]. (B. Sotah 43a)
The distinction could be that a house has four walls while these other structures have only a roof or that a structure qualifies as a house if it can be used as a regular residence even if it was built for some other purpose. I hear a different emphasis. This allowance includes the outbuildings that contribute to the sustainability of the homestead: the barn for the animals, the fodder to feed them, and the storage necessary for well functioning home. A home includes everything necessary to make a homestead productive.

Similar concerns define what constitutes a vineyard. The Sages are not concerned with the provenance of the vineyard. Does it matter if the vineyard was purchased, inherited or acquired as a gift? Scripture says, “Whoever has planted a vineyard.” (B. Sotah 43b) Regardless of how he comes into ownership, the concern is that he has the opportunity to harvest its fruit. The Sages do demand, however, that it constitute a real vineyard. The Mishnah (8:2) specifies: All the same are the ones who plant a vineyard and who plant five fruit-trees, even if they are of five different kinds. Similarly if one planted such a tree, who sank them into the ground, or grafted them. Other kinds of configurations are rejected; that is, if they are less that five trees, if they are not fruit-bearing trees and the like. Similar to the definition of the home, the concern is that this new vineyard or these trees provide for the long-term prosperity of the homestead and, by extension, the nation.

I see a distinction between the values raised by the Torah and those highlighted by the Sages. The Torah emphasizes the right of the individual who built the home or planted the vineyard to enjoy the first fruits of his own labor. “Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another dedicate the home or harvest the vineyard.” The major concern is that the individual reap the fruits of his labor.

The Sages shift the focus and concentrate on what constitutes a home or a vineyard. They do not cite the biblical phrase, “lest he die in battle, etc.” Their focus is on the new home or the vineyard, the basic building blocks of a settled people. The Sages knew of the devastation that accompanied the destruction of the Temple and the devastation that followed the defeat of Bar Kokhba. They understood that war, even when it is a necessary war or a Divinely-commanded war, removes people from the land. War potentially destroys society while the goal of Torah is to establish it.

The Torah’s overriding concern is to establish a livable world. Isaiah (45:18) said it most directly: God, the Creator of heaven, “did not create [the earth] as a waste but formed it for habitation.” When the Sages opt to define what constitutes a home or a vineyard in broad terms, they support the value Isaiah articulated. Despite the call to war, those who have unfinished business in settling the land and building the society must return home. They may have the higher calling, to build for the coming generations.

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

What will fawning flattery get you? / Sotah 41-42

2010-03-24T08:59:00.000-07:00

“Flattery is like cologne water, to be smelt of, not swallowed.” So wrote humorist Josh Billings (AKA Henry Wheeler Shaw, 1818-1885). Perhaps this is because flattery seems to confirm what we wish to believe about ourselves, but would be wise not to believe without reserve. Edith Sitwell is quoted in a memoir as saying, “The aim of flattery is to soothe and encourage us by assuring us of the truth of an opinion we have already formed of ourselves” (Elizabeth Salter, The Last Years of Rebel: A Memoir of Edith Sitwell, 1967). Both Billings and Sitwell suggest that flattery is largely a matter of self-deception; better to abstain than to quaff.

In Mishnah Sotah 7:8 the Rabbis take up the topic of flattery in the larger political and national realm. Amidst a description of how the precept of Deuteronomy 31:10 – requiring a public reading of ha-Torah hazot (“this Torah”) every seven years at the close of the sabbatical year (shemittah) – was carried out in the late Second Temple period, Mishnah Sotah 7:8 contains a fascinating description of the participation of Agrippa I, who ruled Judea and Samaria from 41-44 C.E., and the fawning flattery of the Rabbis in response. Descended from the Herodian line (Agrippa I was the grandson of King Herod, and the son of Aristobulus and Berenice) Agrippa I was of technical Jewish ancestry, but questionable Jewish identity. Following the assassination of emperor Caligula in 41 C.E., Agrippa I was appointed king of Judea and Samaria by Caligula’s successor, Claudius, in gratitude for Agrippa’s assistance in securing the throne.

Deuteronomy 31:10 tells us that, Moses instructed [the people] as follows: Every seventh year, the year set for remission, at the Feast of Booths [Sukkot], when all Israel comes to appear before the Lord your God in the place that God will choose, you shall read this Teaching aloud in the presence of all Israel. (Deuteronomy 31:10-11)

Mishnah Sotah describes how this happened in the late Second Temple period, during the reign of King Agrippa I:

How was the passage [read] by the king?... they made a wooden platform in the Courtyard and he sits upon it… The attendant of the gathering takes the Torah scroll and hands it to the head of the gathering, and the head of the gathering hands it to the deputy (of the High Priest), and the deputy [of the High Priest] hands it to the king. The king rises and receives [the scroll], but he reads sitting.

Then we are treated to this historical anecdote:

King Agrippa rose and received [the scroll] and read standing and the Sages praised him. When he reached, “You may not place over you [as your king] a foreigner [who is not your brethren] his eyes flowed with tears. They said to him, “Do not fear, Agrippa. You are our brother! You are our brother!”

Agrippa’s behavior was pure spectacle and the Sages’ response was fawning flattery. Agrippa’s theatrical tears were rewarded with undeserved adulation. Surprisingly, Mishnah presents the incident without comment.

Gemara, however, has plenty to say. Gemara first questions the propriety of what we might call Agrippa’s standup routine. Perhaps he had no right to sit, that right being accorded to descendants of King David alone. But R. Chisda tells us that even Agrippa could sit. Perhaps, R. Ashi suggests, the king ought not forego the honor of sitting because doing so reflects poorly on the people as a whole. But this, too, is overturned on the grounds that while one may not forego that which is purely an honor, this is a matter of the fulfillment of a commandment, and hence the honor associated with it may be set aside. Unable to fault Agrippa on technical grounds, the Gemara turns to the real problem: the fawning flattery of the Sages.

When he reached, “You may not place…” A Tanna taught in the name of R. Natan: At that moment [when the Rabbis said, “You are our brother!”] the enemies of Israel [here, the gemara uses a euphemism for the people Israel] made themselves liable to extermination, because they flattered Agrippa. R. Shimon b. Chalafta said: From the day the fist of flattery prevailed, justice became perverted, conduct deteriorated, and nobody could say to his neighbor, “My conduct is better than yours.” R. Yehudah the Palestinian, or another version, R. Shimon b. Pazzi, expounded: It is permitted to flatter the wicked in this world, as it is said: The vile person shall be no more called liberal, nor the churl said to be bountiful (Isaiah 32:5); consequently it is allowed in this world. R. Shimon b. Lakish said: [We learn it] from this text: For seeing your face is like seeing the face of God (Genesis 33:10). On this point he is at variance with R. Levi; for R. Levi said: A parable of Jacob and Esau: To what is the matter like? To a man who invited his neighbor to a meal, and the guest perceived that his host wished to kill him. So he said to him, “The taste of this dish I am eating is like the dish I tasted in the king’s palace.” The other said [to himself], “He is acquainted with the king!” So he became afraid and did not kill him. R. Eleazar said: Every man in who engages in flattery brings anger upon the world: as it is said: But they that are flatterers at heart lay up anger (Job 36:13). Not only that, but their prayer remains unheard; as [the verse] continues, They do not cry for help when God afflicts them… (Sotah 41b)

The Sages’ purpose is clearly to excoriate flatterers. “The enemies of Israel” is none other than Israel herself, who weaken their nation by groveling before rulers such as Agrippa I. R. Shimon b. Chalafta boldly claims that flattering powerful leaders leads directly to perversion of justice, as people stumble over one another and themselves seeking to curry favor with whomever is in power. His claim is both brazen and idealistic. By contrast, R. Shimon b. Pazzi provides what we might term a pragmatic political response: this is not an ideal world, and in this very real and imperfect world of power politics, flattery is a valid political tool. Resh Lakish offers a Biblical example. When Jacob reunites with his brother Esau after a 22-year separation, he fears that Esau may still harbor a lethal resentment, so he offers words of flattery: For seeing your face is like seeing the face of God. R. Levi explains further that this is like one who fears his host seeks his death and therefore says, “The taste of this dish I am eating is like the dish I tasted in the king’s palace” therefore letting his host know that he enjoys the protection of the king. Yet R. Eleazar concludes that flattery does not affect anything good and serves only to increase the anger in the world.

This inspires R. Yirmiyahu b. Abba’s teaching:

…R. Yermiyahu b. Abba said: Four classes will not receive the presence of the Shechinah: the class of scoffers, the class of flatterers, the class of liars, and, the class of slanderers. The class of scoffers, as it is written: He stretched out His hand against scorners (Hosea 7:6). The class of flatterers, as it is written: For a flatterer shall not come before Him (Job 13:16). The class of liars, as it is written: He that speaks falsehood shall not be established before Mine eyes (Psalm 101:7). The class of slanderers, as it is written: For You are not a God that takes pleasure in wickedness; evil shall not sojourn with You (Psalm 5:5); i.e., You are righteous, O Lord, evil may not sojourn in Your habitation. (Sotah 42a)

Flatterers are in the same category as scoffers, liars, and slanderers: they are insincere, dishonest, and manipulative, and thereby separate themselves from the Shechinah. The king of political cunning and deceit, Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527) wrote in his seminal political treatise, The Prince, “There is no other way of guarding oneself against flattery than by letting men understand that they will not offend you by speaking the truth; but when everyone can tell you the truth, you lose their respect.” Machiavelli was warning the very one he wished to flatter, not to fall for flattery. Gemara addresses the leaders of the Jewish people who engage in flattery that their behavior is detrimental to the people’s political security and spiritual welfare.

We all engage in flattery. Do we shower others with praise and kind words to boost their morale? to curry favor? because we believe the praise to be genuine? to encourage them to view us favorably? The gemara advises us to stop and examine our motives and the possible consequences of flattery.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

CREATING THE PRIESTLY BENEDICTION – SOTAH 38A-40A

2010-03-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

The Priestly benediction, “May the Lord bless and keep you; May the Lord look upon you with kindness; May the Lord’s face be turned toward you and give you peace” (Numbers 6:22-27), may be among the most familiar of biblical prayers. It is used for many kinds of occasions within both the Jewish and Christian communities. It comes out of the Torah text as one compact whole, including stage directions (Aaron and his sons say… God blesses). Seemingly one needs to do very little to transfer this prayer from its first invocation at the foot of Mt. Sinai to the synagogue.

The sages, however, debate in detail how this prayer should be recited. The extended discussion, from Sotah 38a-40a, considers many aspects relating to how one recites this short prayer. In doing so they recreate the prayer, recognizing the changes it undergoes as it moves into the new setting of the synagogue. They also teach us to listen carefully to the prayer so we may respond appropriately.

Among the many topics discussed are: the contrast between reciting this prayer in the Mishkan (the Jerusalem temple) versus the countryside; whether the priests should be standing or sitting, facing the people or not; with raised hands or not; in a loud voice or a whisper, invoking the Divine Name or using a substitute. Joshua ben Levi teaches that the Holy One desires this blessing and reminds the priests what a privilege it is to be the one doing the recitation. Another section focuses on the particulars of how the priest holds himself; questions of posture and presence.

All of this underscores the power and importance of this moment. The Torah asserts that Aaron and his sons will intone these words but that God will bless the people. While one might have assumed that the power of the prayer was diminished when the Temple was destroyed, the attention the sages give to this prayer suggests that its power remains.

The sages suggest a communal response to the recitation of the priestly prayer which is considerably different than our contemporary practice. We have a standard response to each line of the prayer – ken yehi ratzon (So may it be). Sotah 39b offers a longer response. While alternate responses are noted for certain special occasions: Shabbat musaf, Fast day afternoons, and Ne’ilah at the end of Yom Kippur; I am going to focus only on this one set or responses.

“What do the people say at the time the priests are blessing the people.
Rabbi Zira said Rabbi Hisda said: (Psalm 103:20 – 22)
“Bless the Lord, O his angels, mighty ones who do God’s will, responsive to the call of God’s word;
Bless the Lord, all God’s hosts, God’s messengers, doing God’s will;
Bless the Lord, all God’s works, in every place of God’s rule;
Bless the Lord, O my soul.”

These responses move me. They transform the moment from one in which the people stand passively to receive a blessing to one in which they are active participants and this section seems a perfect verse for verse match.

As the priests ask God to bless and guard us, we call on the angels, God’s messengers, to respond to God’s word.
As God is asked to extend kindness toward us, we call on God’s host to carry out the Divine will.
As the priestly prayer asks for peace, our call is for the workings of the Holy One to reach into every corner of God’s rule.
Finally, in response to the blessing received, we ask our own soul to bless God.

The Hebrew of this psalm maintains the cadence of the priestly prayer. Each verse opens with the words, borchu HaShem, Blessed be God, indicating our acknowledgement of the One who gives Blessing. Our response calls for action appropriate to the words of the prayer. The closing verse, addressing the soul, draws the blessing deep into one’s own being. I can imagine saying those words with full, focused attention and feeling it reverberate through my entire body.

The sages, for their part, seem ambivalent about using these verses. They ask whether these verses should be interspersed with the priestly recitation or recited as one block after the priests complete their prayer. Some suggest that these responses apply only when the prayer is recited in the temple and may not be appropriate elsewhere.

In the end we know that this option is not adopted; our current custom never involves the recitation of psalms in response to the priestly benediction. The various objections of the sages prevail. The gemara (Sotah 40a) however preserves one anonymous voice which advocates for the inclusion of this response. This anonymous sage simply asks: “Have you ever heard of a slave who is blessed and pays no attention?” Or “Have you ever heard of a slave who receives a blessing whose face does not brighten?” The question is uncomplicated, how can you not respond if you feel this blessing resting upon you? For me, this sage captures the essence of the debate. The invocation of the priestly blessing evokes a response.

I read this passage as one of creation and transition. The sages are moving this key prayer, first invoked at Mt. Sinai, from the Temple to the synagogue. They rightly recognize that the move will change the prayer in various ways and we are privileged to eavesdrop on their debate. It reminds us, in turn, to be alert to the power of the prayer and to respond from the depth of our soul.

© 2010 Rabbi Louis Rieser

A good eye vs. tunnel vision / Sotah 38b

2010-03-03T17:26:00.000-08:00

We all want to think of ourselves as good people. But what does it mean to be truly good? Does it mean to perform the minimum prescribed, or to look beyond the minimum? The Talmud uses two graphic terms to describe a person with a kind and generous spirit, and one who is greedy and selfish. One who possesses an ayin tov (“a good eye”) is generous. One who is tzarei ayin quite literally has a “narrow vision” or tunnel vision: he sees only what’s in it for himself.

The Talmud introduces this discussion with a teaching concerning who may lead Birkat haMazon (grace after meals):

R. Yehoshua b. Levi also said: We give the cup of blessing for the recital of Birkat haMazon (the grace after meals) only to one who is of a good eye (i.e. generous disposition), as it is said: The generous man (tov ayin) is blessed (yevorach), for he gives of his bread to the poor (Proverbs 22:9). Do not read yevorach (“shall be blessed”) but rather yevareich (“he will bless”).

Only a person of generous spirit is suitable to lead Birkat haMazon, R. Yehoshua b. Levi claims, because yevorach (blessed) in Proverbs 22:9 can be read yevareich (he will bless): “The generous man will bless.” But is the extent of his meaning? Or is R. Yehoshua b. Levi suggesting more? Perhaps he is teaching us that when we approach others with a generous, giving, and loving spirit, the ultimate reward is not that we will be blessed by God, but rather than we, in our generosity, will bless others. And if we consider that a greater reward, then surely we will continue to be generous and bless one another more and more. What a marvelous self-sustaining system of generosity and blessing!

The Rabbis then explore what it means to have an ayin tov (a generous spirit). First they warn us about selfish people, who may at times appear generous, are merely spreading their net for personal gain:

R. Yehoshua b. Levi also said: Whence do we know that even birds recognize those who have a narrow eye (i.e. selfish spirit)? As it is said: For in vain is the net spread in the eyes of any bird (Proverbs 1:17). R. Yehoshua b. Levi also said: Whoever accepts the hospitality of greedy people of selfish spirit transgresses a prohibition, as it is said, Do not eat the bread of one that has an evil eye, [neither desire his dainties]. For as he reckons within himself; so is he; eat and drink, he says to you, [but his heart is not with you] (Proverbs 23:6, 7). R. Nachman b. Yitzhak said: He transgresses two prohibitions, “Do not eat” and “Do not desire.”

We should avoid such people, because we will be used by them.

What, then, constitutes genuine generosity of spirit? The Rabbis choose what at first seems a most surprising case to explore:

R. Yehoshua b. Levi also said: [The necessity for] the heifer whose neck is to be broken [see Deuteronomy 21:1-9] only arises on account of those of greedy spirit, as it is said: Our hands have not shed this blood (Deuteronomy 21:7). But can it enter our minds that the elders of a court of justice are shedders of blood?! The meaning is, [it was] not [the case that the man found dead] came to us for help and we dismissed him, nor did we did see him and leave him be; [it was] not [the case that] he came to us for help and we let him go without supplying him with food, nor did we see him and let him go without escort.

The Rabbis present the case of the egla arufah, the heifer whose neck is broken as expiation for an unsolved murder. If the victim’s body is found between two cities and it is not known who committed the murder, the elders of the two nearest cities gather around and stage an unusual ceremony in which they disavow knowledge of, and responsibility for the murder, and then break the neck of the heifer as expiation for the life that was taken. Yet is this sufficient? Does this ceremony – after the fact of the murder – suffice to consider them people of ayin tov (generous spirit)?

For the Rabbis, simply disavowing responsibility is far from exhibiting a generous spirit. In fact, the formulaic disavowal provided by Torah inspires the question: could we possibly think that the elders themselves murdered this poor man? Of course not! Rather, they must have done far more than merely not have been involved in the commission of murder. They must mean by their recitation that they did not fail to be generous, accommodating, and hospitable to the man before this terrible murder occurred. Their disavowal must mean that they did not deny him help, they did not fail to provide him food, and even that they did not knowingly allow him to go off without an escort. Their avowal must mean that did everything in their power to help and protect him and prevent the murder that nonetheless ensued.

How often do we do the bare minimum and then pat ourselves on the back because we’ve done what was required?

We are left with the clear message that to possess a tzarei ayin (selfish spirit) is as the Hebrew term implies: to have a narrow vision, or tunnel vision, concerning what we owe one another. Those who have a tzarei ayin limit their vision to the bare minimum requirements of what they must do for others. But those who possess an ayin tov (a generous spirit) reach well beyond the minimum and think not only of what they are obligated to do, but what others truly need. They are more than blessed by God; they bless others, which our Rabbis want us to understand is even greater.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

IN THE FACE OF TRAGEDY – SOTAH 35A

2010-02-25T12:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes people do the right thing and disaster follows. It is disturbing and confounding, neither fair nor just. And yet it happens. In the aftermath there is a desire to find a reason, to bring understanding to that which is beyond understanding. Sadly, the tendency is often to find a way to assign fault, and that, in my opinion, often compounds the tragedy.

The tragic story of Uzza, found in 2 Samuel 6:3-8 and in I Chronicles 8:7-11, is one example. As a result of fighting between the Israelites and the Philistines the Ark remained in the home of Abinadab, who cared for it for 20 years. David came to move the Ark to Jerusalem. They built an ox cart which was driven by Ahio and Uzza the sons of Abinadab. They placed the Ark on the cart and headed toward Jerusalem. Tragedy happened along the way. “By the threshing floor of Nacon, the oxen stumbled and Uzza reached out to steady the Ark. Adonai was angered and God struck him there for his error (Hebrew uncertain) and he died there alongside the Ark.” (II Samuel 6:6-7)

The death angered David, but it also made him afraid. He renamed the site “Peretz-Uzza”, the place of the strike against Uzza, but was afraid to move the Ark any further. He stored the Ark in the home of Obed-edom until he received a sign that it was safe to move it to Jerusalem.

Uzza’s death cries out for an explanation, but this is dangerous ground. Consider the motivation behind the search for an explanation. Is it to understand, offer comfort or to fix blame?

Four explanations by the sages concerning Uzza’s death can be found on Sotah 35a.

The first asserts that Uzza was punished for lack of knowledge. He should have known, the Gemara asserts, that the Ark takes care of itself. The story is a bit complex.
“"The Holy One said to Uzza, the Ark [when it crossed over the Jordan River into the Land of Israel] carried those who would have carried it, don’t you think it can bear its own weight.”
According to the account in Joshua 4, as the people prepared to enter the Land of Israel the Cohanim carried the Ark into the middle of the Jordan River. The waters split and the people crossed into Israel on dry land (haven’t we heard this story before?) When the waters closed after them the Cohanim remained on the Jordan side of the river. The text reads: ““When all the people finished crossing, then the Ark crossed with the Cohanim before the people” (Joshua 4:11), meaning the Ark carried the Cohanim rather than being carried by them. The sages claim that Uzza should have known from this very public miracle that the Ark had the power to care for itself. While his act looks responsible to our eyes, in reality it was an act of ignorance or worse.

The second accuses Uzza of even worse sins. Rabbi Yohanan and Rabbi Eleazar split on their opinions, one accusing him of neglect, other accusing him of relieving himself in front of the Ark. They ground their opinions on their reading of the Hebrew word, shal, which is of uncertain meaning. One tradition translates it to mean that Uzza erred, and they raise his error to the n-th degree.

Both of these approaches place the blame on Uzza. Despite what looks like an act of caring and concern, they assert, he really brought disgrace to God and the Ark.

The third explanation, also recorded in the name of Rabbi Yohanan, swings to the other side, not assessing blame, but noting a positive outcome.
“Rabbi Yohanan taught, “Uzza entered the World to Come, since it says [he was] “by the Ark of God.” Just as the Ark exists forever, so will Uzza in the World to Come.”
Here there is no attempt to assign blame. Rabbi Yohanan here assumes that for his positive, if misguided, action, Uzza earned a place in the world to come. It is the most comforting of the explanations offered by the sages.

The last explanation again seeks to assign blame, but now looks for another source. The text in 2 Samuel notes that David became very angry following Uzza’s death. Rabbi Eleazer builds a pun on the Hebrew to turn this tale back on David. The Hebrew asserts that David “yichar”, meaning he was burning up over this offence. Rabbi Eleazer envisions the moment saying, “his face turned black as a burned cake.” His pun turns the meaning of the Biblical text; David is no longer angry but stricken. The Gemara goes on to ask why he was punished and find that it was David, not Uzza, who was truly at fault. While the elaborate details of David’s sin will lead us astray, the thrust of this explanation is clear. Uzza is the unfortunate and inadvertent victim of David’s error.

I do not like any of these explanations, but I find the impulse behind them familiar. When an airline crash occurs, we wonder if it is pilot error, the result of sloppy maintenance, or an act of God. When a tsunami hits we wonder if it was inevitable or if there should have been earlier and clearer warnings. When tragedy strikes we hope for some path towards understanding.

Earlier I warned that we need to consider our motivation for seeking such explanations. Are we searching for understanding, comfort, or blame? No one could object if the goal is to seek understanding in order to prevent future tragedies. It is certainly a worthy goal to provide comfort for the bereaved. But if the goal is to assign blame, beware.

I believe we often seek to assign blame as a way to avoid accepting that our world is sometimes random, that there are events that defy our understanding. It is easier to scapegoat a person, any person, than to admit that our sometimes scary universe is beyond our understanding.

I wish our sages had not tried to explain Uzza’s death, but had simply lamented it. I wish that instead of trying to understand what defies understanding they had offered a way to live with the unsettling grief that accompanies tragedy.

Wild and Wonderful Water / Sotah 34a

2010-02-19T11:17:00.000-08:00

I am struck by three accounts in our tradition that concern water.

We find the first, concerning the crossing of the Reed Sea, in sefer Shemot (Exodus):

Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the Lord caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided. And the Israelites went into the midst of the sea on dry ground; and the waters were a wall to them on their right hand, and on their left… Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned (הים וישב – vayashov ha-yam) to its strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled against it; and the Lord overthrew the Egyptians in the midst of the sea. And the waters returned (המים וישב – vayashuv ha-mayim), and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, even all the host of Pharaoh that went in after them into the sea; there remained not so much as one of them. (Exodus 14: 21-22, 27-28)

The second concerning the crossing of the Jordan River 40 years later. It is described in the Book of Joshua, and elaborated upon in the Bavli (tractate Sotah). Joshua suggests that the Jordan River crossing 40 years later was a replay of the Reed Sea crossing; the Sages envisioned it with enhanced special effects.

When the feet of the priests were dipped in the water [of the Jordan River], the water flowed backward; as it is said: And when they that bore the ark were come unto the Jordan … that the waters which came down from above stood and rose up in one heap (Joshua 3:5f). What was the height of the water? Twelve mil by twelve mil in accordance with the dimensions of the camp of Israel. Such is the statement of R. Yehudah; and R. Eleazar b. Shimon said to him, According to your explanation, which is swifter, man or water? Surely water is swifter; therefore the water must have returned and drowned them! It rather teaches that the waters were heaped up like stacks to a height of more than three hundred mil, until all the kings of the East and West saw them; as it is said: And it came to pass, when all the kings of the Amorites, which were beyond Jordan westward, and all the kings of the Canaanites, which were by the sea, heard how that the Lord had dried up the waters of Jordan from before the children of Israel until they were passed over, that their heart melted, neither was there spirit in them any more, because of the children of Israel (Joshua 5:1). And also Rahab the harlot said to Joshua's messengers, For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea etc. (Joshua 2:10); and it continues, And as soon as we heard it, our hearts did melt neither did there remain any more etc. (Joshua 5:11). (Sotah 34a)

The third account is not a water crossing, but involves water flowing backward (as the Talmud does in Sotah) comes from another Talmudic passage concerning Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus’ efforts to convince his colleagues that his view of the kashrut of the oven of Aknai was correct. Having exhausted all logical arguments, R. Eliezer worked three miracles (the second involves a stream of water), but his colleagues reject wonder-working as a valid halakhic argument:

[R. Eliezer] said to them [his colleagues in the Academy]: “If the halakhah agrees with me, let the stream of water prove it!” Whereupon the stream of water flowed backwards. “No proof can be brought from a stream of water,” they rejoined. (Baba Metzia 59b)

In each case, water defies its nature to accommodate the Israelites, or a rabbi in need of a powerful argument. In each case, water contravenes the laws of physics to serve the purposes of people who are pursuing God’s will. The natural world yields to their needs of the moment to enable them to do the extraordinary in response to God’s will.

In a sense, all three water accounts relate to key pillars of our relationship with God. The Crossing of the Reed Sea bespeaks redemption, which is the goal and promise of our covenant with God. Moreover, it was the redemption from Egypt that paved the way for Israel – as a nation – to enter into a covenant with God. The Crossing of the Jordan River bespeaks our relationship to the Land of Israel, which has from the beginning been integral to our understanding of the covenant and our relationship with God, as well as the importance of living together as a community. R. Eliezer’s pursuit in the House of Study was one of elucidating and applying Torah, and in fact generating Oral Torah, in response to our covenant with God. So too does each of us respond individually and personally to God and our place in the covenant, and when we do, we too generate torah.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Off the Beaten Track / Thoughts on parshat Mishpatim

2010-02-12T10:31:00.000-08:00

This posting is off the track of Talmud, an extra for Parshat Mishpatim that we share as a pre-shabbat gift.

Rabbi Rieser and I have been considering the meaning and role of circumcision in connection with studies we undertook recently at a rabbinic study conference. This posting is very long because it includes our full translations of passages in midrash Tanhuma, because translations are not readily available.

Tanhuma, parshat Mishpatim 3 is a remarkable and disturbing polemic about brit milah (the covenant of circumcision) that makes the claim that only those who are circumcised can study Torah and thereby gain access to God’s statutes that insure survival. The background is the conversion of Avtilas, whose uncle Andrinos recommends he seek his fortune doing business in natural resources, but Avtilas seeks Torah instead.

These are the rules (Exodus 21:1). So says Scripture: [God] conveys his word to Jacob… and not to everyone (Psalm 147:19-20 ). Akilas the son of the sister of Andrinos wanted to convert. He was afraid before Andrinos, his uncle. He said to him, I am seeking to make a purchase. He said to him: Perhaps you lack silver or gold? Behold the treasury is [open] before you. He said to him: I want to make a purchase, and to know the knowledge of creatures. And I wish to be directed by you concerning what to do. He said to him: all goods that you see that are natural resources, concern yourself with them because they will rise in value. He intended to convert, came to the Land of Israel and learned Torah. When R. Eliezer and R. Yehudah came to him after some days, they found his countenance changed. They said to one another: Akilas has learned the Torah. When they came to him, he became to ask them questions and they answered him. He returned to Andrinos and he said to him: Why has your countenance changed? Perhaps your trade in natural resources suffered a loss? Or perhaps someone has made trouble for you? He said to him: no. Then why has your countenance changed? He said to him: I have studied Torah, and not only that, but I have been circumcised. He said him: who told you [to do all this]? He said to him: I was directed by you. He said to him: when? He said to him: when I said to you I sought to make a purchase, and you said to me: all goods that you see that are natural resources, concern yourself with them because they will rise in value. I reviewed all the nations and did not find a single one devoted to the land like Israel. And their end is to rise in value, for Isaiah has said (Isaiah 49:7 ): Thus said the Lord, the redeemer of Israel his holy one: To the despised one, to the abhorred nations, to the slave of… His [Andrinos’] associate regent said to him: Those whom you have destined to be destroyed, the kings [nations] will come to stand before them, as it is said (Isaiah 40:16) Kings shall see and stand up. Adrinos slapped him across the face. He [the assistant regent] said to him: one only applies a plaster to a wound. Perhaps one applies it to healthy flesh and not to a wound. Now if [people] see a common soldier, they don’t stand before him. What did his assistant regent do? He went up to the roof, fell of it [threw himself off it] and died. The Holy Spirit cried out (Judges 5:31 ), So may all your enemies perish. Andrinos said to Akilas: why did you do this? He said to him: I wanted to learn Torah. He said to him: You could have learned but not been circumcised. He said to him: If a man is not circumcised, he cannot learn [Torah], as it is said (Psalm 147:19), He issued His commands to Jacob, his statutes and rules to Israel. To one among Jacob who is circumcised, his commands are Torah, and his statutes are the laws, as it says (Exodus 19:25), chok u’mishpat (a fixed rule). The Holy One Blessed be God said to Moses: I gave them the Torah; you give them the rules. The Holy One Blessed be God said: if you seek to survive in the world, keep the[se] rules because a person cannot survive without [these] rules. The generation of the flood perished only because they transgressed the rules. R. Eliezer ben Padat said: what is written concerning them? Shattered between daybreak and evening, perishing forever unnoticed (Job 4:20). That is the meaning of, These are the rules (Exodus 21:1).

We can more easily understand this radically particularistic Jewish perspective when we consider the historical background against which it was composed; we can read this midrash as a reaction to the vulnerable position of Jews under ascendant Christianity.

I view this polemical viewpoint as one end along a spectrum of views concerning brit milah and the covenant of Torah. I offer this passage -- reflecting the Jewish covenant amidst a far more universal framework -- from Arthur Green’s EHYEH: A Kabbalah for Tomorrow (p. 95):

[The Oneness of God] is a deeply universal teaching. It understands that there is a primal revelation, that of the single word, prior to all specific revelations, including our own Torah. All revelations are living truth only insofar as they serve as arks to contain and preserve that single word, their true source of energy and inspiration. In that sense both exclusivity (‘Ours is the only true religion’) and triumphalism (‘Ours is the best religion’) are distortions of reality and obstacles to the work we must do. The One as primal word needs to be accessible to all people in a cultural form that they can call their own; indeed the single Word of God must be implanted and discoverable in every human spiritual ‘language.’ To think any less would be to diminish or limit the holy spirit.”

I find far more comfortable with Green’s open and embracing perspective, but recognize that many will find it difficult to relinquish the exclusivity and triumphalism that are ingrained in so many veins of our tradition. We should worried about clogged arteries. Green’s view is deeply honest and hence profoundly liberating.

If radical particularism goes too far, we may still ask: What is the purpose of Jewish particularity? Why should I keep these laws and customs and practice these rites and traditions? Perhaps there is resolution in Tanhuma itself:

R. Alexandri said: two donkey-drivers were traveling along the road and they hated one another. One of their donkeys stumbled. When his companion saw him, he passed by. After he had passed, he said: it is written in Torah (Exodus 23:5), when you see the donkey of your enemy [lying under its burden and would refrain from raising it, you must nevertheless raise it with him]. Immediately he returned and helped him. He began to have a conversation in his heart about the one who had treated him with love: I didn’t know [that this man was my friend]. They entered a tavern, ate and drank [together]. What caused peace between them? It happened because the one looked into Torah (Psalms 99:4), It was you who established equity. What is this? This is mishpatim (Torah laws).

Torah law is not meant to fuel feelings of superiority and separation from others, but rather to bring us together and help us see the tzelem Elohim in one another. Torah, understood this way, enables us to more than survive; it empowers us to build bridges of peace, even between enemies. Consider the possibilities of using Torah not to build walls against the outside world, but rather bridges to others.

Shabbat shalom.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

HIGHER POWERS – SOTAH 33A

2010-02-08T05:36:00.000-08:00

Hebrew National brags, “We answer to a Higher Authority”. Are their hot dogs really any better? I don’t know, but perceptions are important.

Perceptions play a role in the tales I want to highlight in this posting. Two brief accounts in this section of B. Sotah suggest the sages had access to a Bat Kol, a Divine voice, that gave them inside information about world affairs. The same theme is found in other stories, as you will see below.

Following the Hurban, the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, the Jewish community had little power. They were scattered and defamed. Although the Roman Empire often promoted diversity and supported the various religious cults spread across the Empire, successive Emperors refused to allow the rebuilding of the Temple or the restoration of Jewish sovereignty.

In contrast to their lack of political power we find a number of tales which claim that certain sages had inside knowledge of world affairs. Our section of Sotah (33a) includes the following tales:

A Baraita teaches: Yohanan, high priest, heard a Bat Kol, a divine voice, from the Holy of Holies, proclaiming [in Aramaic], “The young men who went to make war against Antioch have conquered.”
There was the further case of Simeon the Righteous, who heard a Bat Kol from the Holy of Holies, proclaiming [in Aramaic], “The decree which the enemy planned to bring upon the Temple has been nullified, and [in Hebrew] Gasqalges (Caius Caligula) has been killed and his decrees nullified.” They made a note of the exact hour, and it turned out [to be accurate].

In each case the Bat Kol, the Divine voice, reveals a matter of world politics. It is not clear that the information Yohanan received about the battle in Antioch affects the Jewish world in any way, though the oracle that Simon the Righteous heard would certainly have been welcome.

These are far from the only examples. The most famous such event involves Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai. During the siege of Jerusalem he was secreted out of Jerusalem in a coffin and then made his way to the camp of the Roman general Vespasian. When he got there, according to Gittin 56a-b, he greeted Vespasian as king.

[Vespasian] said to him, “You are subject to the death penalty on two counts; first of all, I’m not a king, and you called me king; second, if I really am king, then how come you didn’t come to me up till now?”...
[Moments later] an agent came to Vespasian from Rome. He said to him, “Arise, for the Caesar is dead, and the citizens of Rome propose to enthrone you at the head.”
Vespasian offered ben Zakkai a reward. Make a request and I will grant it. He said, “Give me Yavneh and its sages…”

Again, it seems that this information was known only to Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, though we are not told the source of his inside information.

Along the same lines we find tales of emperors seeking information from the sages. The Ceasar asked Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah about the nature of God (B. Hulin 59b-60a). This same Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah outwitted the sages of Athens, according to Bekhorot 8b-9a. Numerous tales record the Emperor Antonius asking questions of Rabbi Judah HaNasi, including why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west (B. Sanhedrin 91b) and about the secret spice of Shabbat (B. Shabbat 119a). It goes without saying that these engaging tales do not accord with academic history. So what function do they serve within our religious history?

I believe these tales balance our lack of worldly power in this world with the abundance drawn from the Divine world. Whether it is the Bat Kol revealing secret knowledge or the superior knowledge gained through Torah, the message is that the Jews hold a higher truth that cannot be gained through worldly power. Not only do we answer to a Higher authority [like Hebrew National], but that same authority provides us with insight.

A similar impulse, I believe, is implicit in the report that many of the archenemies of Jewish life or their descendants became Jewish. In B. Sanhedrin 96b (also recorded in Gittin 57b) we learn:

Naaman [the Syrian general who kills Ahab in II Kings 5] was a resident proselyte. Nebuzaradan [who destroys the Temple under orders from Nebuchadnezzar as recorded in II Kings 25] was a righteous proselyte. Grandsons of Sisera [who led the war against Deborah in Judges 4-5] studied Torah in Jerusalem. Grandsons of Sennacherib [who besieged Jerusalem in II Kings 18-19] taught Torah in public. And who were they? Shemaiah and Abtalion. Grandsons of Haman [from the Book of Esther] studied Torah in Bene Brak.

Why would these individuals who tried to destroy the Jewish people or their descendants join the Jewish people and teach Torah? Surely it is because they had discovered something greater. The power they could wield at the head of their armies was no match for the Higher power of Torah.

Do we make similar claims today? I believe so, but in a slightly different vein. We express our power in more temporal terms. We note with pride that the number of Jewish Nobel Prize winners far exceeds our percentage of the world population. We point to the outstanding Jewish authors and artists who have earned international reputations. When Hanukkah comes around we click on YouTube and rock along with Adam Sandler as he recounts this year’s list of who celebrates Hanukkah. Don’t judge us by our numbers, we seem to say, but by our impact on the world.

Judaism teaches a universal truth. The early sages taught that the Torah was presented at Mt. Sinai precisely because it is a place owned by no particular people and is therefore accessible to everyone (Mechilta, Parshat haChodesh 1). Nonetheless, our universal reach contrasts with our physical presence and power in this world. So we sometimes need to remind ourselves, if not the world, not to be fooled by the present but to see the bigger picture. Like Hebrew National, we look to a Higher Authority.

You Say Tomato, I Say Tomato / Sotah 32-33

2010-02-02T13:44:00.001-08:00

One of Gautama Buddha’s criticisms of the practice of Hinduism in his time (6th century B.C.E.) was that religious leaders insisted upon conducting arcane religious rituals in Sanskrit, a language most people could not comprehend. He inveighed against ritual and promoted the use of the vernacular. When I explained this recently to Jewish students in a Comparative Religions class I am teaching, there were nods of assent and approval. Then I asked, what about Torah and the Shema? people grew quiet, and someone said, “That’s different.”

Talmud takes up the subject of the use of the vernacular, as opposed to Hebrew, in tractate Sotah. The mishnah in Sotah 32a, at the beginning of chapter 7, informs us that certain prayers and rituals may be recited in the vernacular, while others must be recited only in Hebrew, “the holy tongue.” The mishnah begins with those that may be recited in any language:

The following may be recited in any language: the passage concerning the suspected adulteress, the confession made at the presentation of the tithe [Dt. 26:13ff], the Shema, the Tefilah [the Amidah], Birkat HaMazon [grace after meals], the oath concerning testimony [against the withholding of evidence], and the oath concerning a deposit [that it had not been misappropriated]. (Sotah 32a)

The Sages discuss the Shema on daf 32a and 32b, providing a marvelous example of Talmudic argumentation and interpretation. Rabbi Yehudah haNasi holds that the three paragraphs of Shema, recited morning and night, must be prayed in Hebrew because Torah says “these words shall be” and the emphatic “these” means just as these words are written – in Hebrew. The Sages, however, hold that “Hear [O Israel]” means that the Shema may be recited in any language the worshiper speaks and comprehends.

The Shema. Whence do we know this [that Shema may be recited in any language]? As it is written: Hear, O Israel [Dt. 6:4] [means] in whatever language you understand.

Our Rabbis taught: Shema must be recited as it is written [i.e. in Hebrew]. Such is the statement of Rabbi [Yehudah haNasi] but the Sages say: in any language.

What is Rabbi's reason? Scripture declares, And [these words] shall be [Dt. 6:6] [meaning] they must remain as they are.

And [what is the reason of] the Rabbis? Scripture declares, Hear, O Israel [meaning] in any language you understand.

The Sages next explain that if Rabbi is relying on “and these words shall be” to limit the recitation of the Shema to Hebrew, and the Sages are pegging permission to the vernacular on “Hear,” we must explore how “and these words shall be” is interpreted by the Rabbis, and how “Hear” is understood by Rabbi. The first step is to ask how the Rabbis understand “and these words shall be”:

But for the Rabbis it is likewise written: And [these words] shall be! That indicates that one may not read it in the wrong order.

Then whence does Rabbi derive the rule that one may not read it in the wrong order? From the fact that the text uses these words and not merely words.

And the Rabbis? [What meaning do they ascribe to these words?] They draw no inference from the use of these words instead of words.

The Sages, we are told, learn from “and these words shall be” that one must recite the verses of the Shema in the prescribed order. It makes sense, then, to ask whence Rabbi Yehudah haNasi knows this rule. The answer is that “these” provides the emphasis that conveys correct order. If that is the case, what do the Sages make of “these”? We are told: nothing.

Above we learned that the Sages derive permission to pray the Shema in the vernacular from “Hear” – in whatever language you hear and comprehend. Having asked what the Rabbis do with “these,” it makes sense to now to ask what Rabbi Yehudah haNasi does with “Hear.” The answer is that for Rabbi, “Hear” means that I should recite the Shema audibly enough that I hear my own words (but not so loudly as to intrude on the prayers of others). The Sages agree with Rabbi.

But for Rabbi it is likewise written: Hear! He requires that for the rule: Make audible to your ears what you utter with your lips.

And the Rabbis? [Do they also require that the Shema be recited audibly?] They agree with him who said that if one has not recited the Shema audibly he has fulfilled his obligation.

The problem of language is a perennial one. Sotah discusses at length what may be recited in the vernacular and what may not. In general, instructions and prayers may be recited in the vernacular, but public rituals and formal rites must be recited in the original Hebrew. Prayer should not be formulaic, even if the prayers are prescribed. Prayer should be an experience in self-transformation, in which we reach into the deepest part of our soul, evaluate, and grow. We can hear God speak to us through the prayers. The term hitpallel (“to pray”) comes from the root meaning “inspect” or “judge” and since it is couched in the reflexive, it means “to inspect or judge oneself.” That is such a personal and intimate religious act that language should never be a barrier. For those who understand and are comfortable with Hebrew, all is fine. But for those who wish to use the vernacular, the goal of lehitpallel takes precedence. Happily, God is multilingual.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

NEW LAND, RENEWED COVENANT: Sotah 32 A-B

2010-01-22T07:43:00.000-08:00

I the Lord am your God. You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws. My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws: I the Lord am your God. (Leviticus 18:2-4)

Consider the challenge posed by this passage. The Israelites are told to enter the land but not to copy either the practices of the people among whom they have lived for centuries nor those of the people who will surround them in the new land. Do not take from the old place or the new place, they are told. It seems impossible. How can you not be influenced by the world and culture in which you live?

The Torah proposes that when the people of Israel enter the land of Israel they start from scratch, free from those outside influences. This is no easy task. If you erase everything to create a clean slate, what do you have to work with? The entry to the land, however, transforms everything. The people, fresh from Mt. Sinai, bring with them a new ethic and the land becomes transformed to meet them.

The moment when the people enter the land, then, is idyllic. The meeting of the renewed people with the renewed land. If I could translate that moment into a visual scene, I might end up with the one described by mishnah Sotah 7:5 (32 a-b, in purple below). It must have been a soul-shaking moment for every individual present.

When Israel crossed the Jordan and arrived before Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal in Samaria, near Shechem, beside the oak of Moreh, …. six tribes went up to the top of Mount Gerizim, and six tribes ascended to the top of Mount Ebal. The Kohanim and Levites and the ark of the covenant stood at the bottom, between the mountains.

According to Wikipedia, these two mountains are among the tallest in the land of Israel. Mt. Gerezim is on the south side of the valley, Mt. Ebal on the north, and Nablus sits in between. The people, after crossing through the divided waters of the Jordan River (Joshua 4), spread out through the valley – half to one side, half to the other. The sacred ark, with its caretakers, remains in the middle.

The Kohanim, who have conducted the holy service of the people since the Tabernacle was built, and who will continue in that role, serve as masters-of-ceremony. The Kohanim surround the ark, then the Levi’im circle them, and all Israel surround them, since it says, “And all Israel and their elders and officers and judges stood on this side of the ark and on that...” (Joshua 8:33).
It is a dramatic moment. How could you help but stay focused on the central point – the ark which led you through the desert, which divided the waters of the river for you, which will now usher you into the land?

This moment contrasts with Moses’ vision on Mt. Nebo before his death (Deuteronomy 34:1-4). God showed him the whole land, its width and breadth. Moses saw land and palm trees, desert and plain. The people, actually in the land, see only the Ark of the Covenant. Moses saw the promise of sacred geography; the people, by contrast, were presented with sacred life. The focus was not where they would live, but how.

They turned to face Mount Gerizim and began with the blessing: “Blessed is the man who does not make a graven or molten image.” And these and those answer, “Amen.”
They turned to face Mount Ebal and began with the curse: “Cursed is the man who makes a graven or molten image” (Deuteronomy 27:15). And these and those answer, “Amen.” [This procedure continued] until they completed the blessings and the curses.

I imagine their voices echoing through the valley – each side boasted several 100,000 voices. If I were the director I would have everyone chanting. The tune would be simple, just enough to maintain an on-going momentum as the list of blessings and curses bounced back and forth across the valley.

First one side speaks, and their words call forth a thundering, “Amen.” Then it repeats from the opposite side. The rhythm of the alternating voices, punctuated by the resounding, communal, “Amen,” would be heard by the ears and felt through the soles of the feet until it penetrated into the heart and soul of every person there – from the woodchopper and water carrier to the tribal chiefs and high priests. On that day the holy words were truly before your eyes and in your heart.

If you were present that day, you would remember it. It is reminiscent of Mt. Sinai when the Holy One of Creation presented the people with the Torah. But this generation who were now entering the land had not been privileged to experience that holy moment. This time the words were the words of God, but the voices were those of men and women and children. They actively gave voice to the covenant by which they would live.

It is an appropriate change. While they wandered in the desert they had been under Divine protection. They had eaten manna. Their clothes had not worn thin, their shoes held up, they lacked for nothing. God cared for them well. But once they cross the Jordan they bear human responsibility for human actions. The covenant now exists in their homes and businesses, in the fields, and along the roadways. The moment of entry into the land marks the transference of the covenant from Divine realms to human commerce.

As dramatic as this moment might be, it is only a moment. In due time this generation will pass away and the next generation will not have experienced this mini-Sinai. It is an eternal problem -- one generation’s experience is mere history to the next. Nonetheless their very existence on the land depended on keeping the covenant alive for generations to come. One final ceremony marked that day.

Afterward they brought stones and built an altar and plastered it with plaster and they wrote on it all the words of the Torah in seventy languages.

The twelve stones, one carried across the Jordan by each tribe (Joshua 4:2-3), represented the entire people. Every person could show his son and daughter that they were part of that whole. Their physical attachment to the covenant was visible and permanent. The words of the covenant were in all the known 70 languages of the world – universal translation assured that every person could understand what was expected of them.

I don’t know what happened to those stones. I wish they still stood to call us back to our roots. I would have liked someone to say to me, “Here is where your great-grandparents heard the words that have guided our family, and here is the stone our tribe contributed to make this foundation secure.” I wish I could offer such physical proof to my children, to my congregants, and to you. That evidence is gone. But we still have the story, and that will have to be enough.

© Rabbi Louis Rieser

Which is more powerful: love or fear? / Sotah 27b & 31a

2010-01-16T10:47:00.000-08:00

Which is more powerful and lasting: love or fear? A corollary question: do you keep Jewish traditions because of other people or because of God? And if because of God, is it out of love or fear?

For many Jews, living Jewishly is about family, community, ethnicity, and history. Jewish traditions, rituals, and practices emanate from their relationships with other people (present and past). For others, it is a direct response to their relationship with God. They do what they do either because they love God, or because they fear God.

Curiously, the mishnah in Sotah 27b asks about a Gentile and what lay at the root of his loyalty and commitment to God: they ask about none other than Job. R Yehoshua b. Hyrcanus attributes Job’s service to God to his love for God. R. Yochanan b. Zakkai, however, as R. Yehoshua tells us, taught that Job served God out of fear.

On that day R. Yehoshua b. Hyrcanus expounded: Job only served the Holy One Blessed be God out of love, as it is said, Though he slay me yet will I wait for him (Job 13:15). And should it still be in doubt whether the meaning is “I will wait for him” or “I will not wait,” there is another text to declare, until I die I will not put away my integrity from me (Job 27:5). This teaches that what he did he did out of love. R. Yehoshua [ben Chananiah] said: Who will remove the dust from our eyes, R. Yochanan b. Zakkai, since you have been expounding all my life that Job only served the Omnipresent out of fear, as it is said, that man was perfect and upright, and one that feared God, and eschewed evil (Job 1:1). Did not Yehoshua, the student of your student, teach that what he did was from love?

The gemara on Sotah 31a discusses this mishnah. R. Meir draws a parallel between Abraham and Job to conclude that both served God out of love, rather than fear. He doesn’t suggest what the difference is between serving God out of love or out of fear, however. R. Shimon b. Eleazar, however, declares that serving God out of love is superior to serving God out of fear because the attachment forged by love lasts through many more generations.

It has been taught: R. Meir says: It is declared of Job one who feared God (Job 1:1) and it is declared of Abraham you fear God (Genesis 22:12). Just as “fearing God” in the case of Abraham indicates from love, so “fearing God” in the case of Job indicates from love. Whence do we have it in connection with Abraham himself [that he was motivated by love]? As it is written: The seed of Abraham who loved Me (Isaiah 49:8). What difference is there between one who acts from love and one who acts from fear? The difference is explained in this teaching: R. Shimon b. Eleazar says: Greater is he who acts from love than he who acts from fear, because with the latter [the merit] remains effective for a thousand generations but with the former it remains effective for two thousand generations… (Sotah 31a)

I would have thought that had he said that love evokes a strong bond than fear in the lifetime of one individual would have been interesting enough. Love inspires behavior for the sake of the relationship, to bind the two parties more tightly, to express appreciation, to bring pleasure. Throughout the ages, Jews have engaged in mitzvot (commandments) to feel God’s presence more keenly in their lives, to express their appreciation for God’s blessings, and to fulfill obligations they believed would please God (from the earliest sacrifices whose rei’ach ni’cho-ach – pleasing odor – was understood to please God). Fear also inspires behavior, largely to avoid negative repercussions and punishment. Love draws one in, but the urge to serve out of fear evaporates as soon as the perceived threat is withdrawn. I have always considered the religious claim that God desires our fear peculiar and misguided, and most likely designed for manipulation of people by those who promulgate such ideas. If God is a punishing God, God is also an immorally capricious God, because punishment is meted out arbitrarily and unjustly. Job recognized this (not the job of the first and last chapters of his book, but the real Job of the poetic dialogues that comprise the vast majority of The Book of Job.

R. Shimon b. Eleazar makes quite a different point, however. He tells us that love that induces the bond of attachment and the desire to serve lasts for many more generations. This approach to Judaism – positive, warm, loving, affirming, joyful –is attractive from generation to generation. This attitude toward Judaism opens the door to creativity and innovation, celebrating each generation’s encounter with the Covenant and role in redefining it for their own lives.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

HOW WE PRAY: B. SOTAH 30B

2010-01-15T06:51:00.000-08:00

The first communal prayer “service” took place on the shores of the Reed Sea. The way they prayed on that day continues to resonate in our contemporary synagogues.

When the people were safe on the Eastern shore of the Reed Sea, when they realized they were finally and completely free, they spontaneously knew to praise their God who led them to freedom. "Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song unto the Lord and spoke saying…” (Exodus 15:1).

But how did they sing? The particular, and somewhat odd, wording of the verse offers the sages the opportunity to speculate on the manner in which the song was sung. The details of their grammatical problem may lead us astray; it is sufficient to know that it led the sages to find multiple possibilities for how to recite this prayer. The sages, on B. Sotah 30a, suggest four models for reciting the Song of the Sea. Each of these models is recognizable in the regular synagogue service. I encourage you to consider how these methods fit in your own style of prayer.

1) A litany.
According to the Tosefta (T. Sotah 6:2) Rabbi Akiba teaches that the Ruach HaKodesh, the Holy Spirit, recited the song for Moses, much the way God spoke to Moses in other places. Moses repeated those words to the people. “How did they say that song? Like an adult who recites the Hallel [for the congregation] and they answered him with his opening refrain.” Moses, Akiba suggests, is the “adult” and the people are the responding congregation. They are the newly freed slaves who are not yet capable of, or obliged to act with, adult behavior. Moses recites the song like a litany that might be heard in a contemporary church service. As Moses recites the people respond to each new phrase with one set phrase, “I will sing to the Lord.” I can imagine the steady, repetitive voices of the people building in strength and emotion as Moses recites the dramatic verses of this song.

A contemporary version of Baruch She-Amar has the cantor singing through the prayer while the congregation responds to each line with the words, “baruch hu u-varuch shemo.” The sing-song rhythm builds and gives power to the words of the prayer.

2) Repeat after me.
Rabbi Eleazar ben Rabbi Yosi HaGalili suggests that “They proclaimed the song like a child who proclaims the Hallel [in synagogue-worship], responding to him with the foregoing phrase.” This is the way we traditionally recite the closing passages of the Hallel, the Songs of Praise recited on holidays. The reader chants the entire phrase and the congregation echoes those words. Particularly for one who is not fluent in the language of prayer, like the newly freed slaves, this method allows one to speak in an awe-filled moment.

3) Antiphonal chanting.
Rabbi Nehemiah offers a third alternative. “[They proclaimed the song] like men who recite the Shema’ in the synagogue-worship… for he first opens, and the rest reply following him.” According to Tosefot’s comment on this passage Rabbi Nehemiah envisions Moses reciting the first half of each verse and the people answering him with the second half of the verse. Each matches the other as the words of prayer grow and deepen.

This is the way we chant Ashrey, Psalm 145, with the reader and the congregation chanting alternate verses, each answering the other. In contrast to the models offered by Rabbi Akiba or Rabbi Eleazar, here the reader and the congregation are peers. Each side speaks their words independently, but they are connected one to the other. Both are necessary voices if the prayer is to express its full praise.

4) Individual prayer.
Without the commentary of Tosefot I would have assumed Rabbi Nehemia to say that
Moses sang out the opening words and then everyone continued individually. This describes many traditional services. The shaliach tzibur, prayer leader, chants the opening words of the prayer and each person proceeds on their own.

Rabbi Nehemia gives everyone more credit. He presents Moses as one who is accustomed to spend time in the synagogue and who knows the proper protocol. Once Moses indicates that it is time to offer these praises everyone takes responsibility for themselves. This is a band of equals who speak to God each on their own behalf.

As I noted above all of these modes of prayer exist in our contemporary synagogue service. Which fits you the best? Do you prefer to be led, or would you prefer to speak for yourself?

Some of the hottest trends in the Jewish world suggest that how we pray matters. Tablet Magazine recently ran an article titled, “Prayer Unbound”, which reviewed the trend toward niche siddurim (prayerbooks), the on-line wiki-like “Open Siddur Project”, with some comment on the proliferation of independent minyanim. They quote Elie Kaunfer, executive director of Mechon Hadar: “When people are not satisfied by traditional prayer service, is it the words or the performance of the prayers that’s tripping them up?” For those who are creating their own prayerbooks or their own minyanim, how we pray matters.

The debate in B. Sotah 30b confirms that the way we pray has mattered from the start. The alternative modes of prayer described by Rabbi Akiba, Rabbi Eleazar ben Rabbi Yosi HaGalili and Rabbi Nehemia echo our modern debate of how best to construct prayerbooks and lead services. One hopes that within that debate, however, we do not lose track of the most important point: prayer is a tool to help us express praise to the One who brought us out of Egyptian bondage and continually renews the work of creation each day.

© Rabbi Louis Rieser

Apotheosis (you always wanted to know what it means, right?) / Sotah 14a

2010-01-06T10:40:00.000-08:00

“Apotheosis” is one of those words I run into now and then and have to look up each time. It never sticks in my head, but hopefully this posting and this piece of gemara will work like Crazy Glue.

“Apotheosis” comes from the Greek ἀποθεόω meaning “to deify” or “become divine.” The term refers to an individual or group that has been elevated to godlike stature. Historical examples include the Hellenistic leader Philip II of Macedonia and most of the Roman emperors. Here is the famous painting, “The Apotheosis of Homer,” by Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres (1780-1867).

In Ingres’ imagination, Homer rises above the human realm to join the divine beings in heaven.

The type of apotheosis our Sages have in mind, as reflected in the teaching of R. Chama b. Chanina in Sotah 14a is quite different: one becomes most godlike when one engages in the difficult, uncomfortable, and messy work of caring for those most vulnerable and most hurting here on earth in this world.

The Sages are discussing the location of Moses’ burial site. It has been suggested that it is a magical, mystical place that no human can locate, or perhaps that it is located near Baal-Peor to atone for the egregious sin committed there (see account in Numbers chapter 25). Into this discussion a teaching of R. Chama b. Chanina is inserted because his last (of four) points relates directly to the burial of Moses:

R. Chama b. Chanina further said: What is the meaning of the text: You shall walk after the Lord your God (Deuteronomy 13:5)? Is it even possible for a human being to walk after the Shechinah; for has it not been said: For the Lord your God is a devouring fire (Deuteronomy 4:24)? But [the meaning is] to follow after the attributes of the Holy One, blessed be God. Just as God clothes the naked, as it is written: And the Lord God made for Adam and for his wife coats of skin, and clothed them (Genesis 3:21), so should you also clothe the naked. Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, visited the sick, as it is written: And the Lord appeared to him by the oaks of Mamre (Genesis 18:1), so should you also visit the sick. Just as the Holy One, blessed be God, comforted mourners, as it is written: And it came to pass after the death of Abraham, that God blessed Isaac his son (Genesis 25:11), so should you also comfort mourners. Just as the Holy one, blessed be God, buried the dead, as it is written: And [God] buried him in the valley (Deuteronomy 34:6), so should you also bury the dead.

Four specific behaviors are mentioned:

Clothing the naked
Visiting the sick
Comforting the bereaved
Burying the dead

Can we imagine God engaged in the nitty-gritty of these tasks? Perhaps a prior question ought to be: can we image ourselves engaged in these tasks? For many people, these are tasks that place us in contact with people and situations that are unsettling, disturbing, and frightening. These four situations, and the people who are caught in these four situations challenge many of to the core. As the saying goes, “There but for the grace of God go I.” And even if your theology doesn’t match that statement, these are four of the most “messy,” nitty-gritty situations of ordinary life that require loving attention. These are the very situations to which God personally attends. God doesn’t send angels; God does it with (as it were) God’s own hands. When we stand in that spot, attending to those most in need, we stand in God’s shoes and we extend God’s loving hands (our own).

R. Chama b. Chanina teaches us that being godlike does not mean sitting on a throne and having an angel crown us with an olive wreath or elevate us out of this world to the heavenly realm. Apotheosis occurs when, like God, we attend with our own hands those most in need, most in pain. We raise ourselves to heaven when we become most human.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

INVITING GOD'S INTERVENTION: REFLECTIONS ON CHAPTER ONE OF TRACTATE SOTAH

2010-01-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year – 2010!! May 2010 bring many blessings to you and to our world. With this posting we complete Chapter 1 of Tractate Sotah

It's time to offer a summary and some reflections on our chapter, which comprises roughly one-quarter of tractate Sotah. Opening chapters of Talmud, as of other literature, point us in the direction of what is to follow. The discussion in this chapter frames what we will encounter in the remaining chapters of the tractate.

My most basic question is: why does this tractate exist? Not every mitzvah of the Torah rates its own tractate; most don't. While the Sotah ritual was no longer possible by the time of the Mishnah, nonetheless it is unique in asking God to intervene directly in human affairs. In other cases human courts are competent to judge, but here where guilt or innocence cannot be determined, we ask God's intervention. The last chapters of this tractate deal with similar instances where our interaction with God is particularly direct: where we can use the common language to address God, the preparations for going to battle, and the eglah arufa, the ritual performed by community leaders in the case of an unsolved homicide.

Viewed from that perspective the entire first chapter can be read as a preparation for inviting God's intervention. Three topics form the outline of the chapter: the warning given by the suspicious husband to his wife which assures there is proper cause to call forth God's intervention, the preparation of the woman for the ordeal which preserves the proper protocol, and a reflection on God's eminently fair justice. This last section reassures us that God’s intervention into human affairs will be appropriate and fair.

The opening mishnahs focus on the warning given by the husband to his wife: what witnesses are required, what constitutes a proper warning. Before diving into the procedural details the sages reminds us how precious marriage is. They teach that making a marriage is harder than splitting the Reed Sea. They speculate that marriages are divinely ordained matches, made in heaven even before one's birth. It is as if the sages want to warn the husband to think long and hard before invoking Divine participation in this ordeal.

What would motivate a husband to resort to this humiliating ritual? It is not his only option. Divorce is possible. If the infidelity is certain, there are normative legal avenues to pursue. The Sotah ritual places the woman in limbo: neither permitted nor free, neither guilty nor innocent. Does the husband choose this option based on his psyche or on his wife's actions? Does he act from pure or base motives? The mishnah opens with neutral language, ““He who expresses jealousy to his wife concerning her relations with another man”, but the sages understand that it is a moment filled with emotional angst. I believe the question of motivation lies behind the extended reflections on jealousy, faithfulness, arrogance and humility found in this chapter.

The third mishnah and beyond set the stage for the ordeal itself. This discussion recognizes the indeterminate status of the woman. If she were otherwise eligible to eat trumah, the part of the Temple offerings reserved for the priestly families, she is not permitted to do so for the interim. While she is not divorced from her husband, she is also not permitted to have sexual relations with him. It is as if she were temporarily in suspended animation. She does not have the privileges which she had prior to the accusation, but she is not yet free to adopt a new status. It is an uncomfortable limbo, characterized by a strange discussion of whether her husband can be trusted to escort her to the site of the ordeal, or whether he would now be suspected of having marital relations with her along the way.

When she arrives at the Temple, the site of the ordeal, the priests urge her to speak. They tip their hat to the idea that she is within her rights. They tell the tale of Judah and Tamar (Genesis 38), with its dramatic ending when Judah declares that Tamar is more righteous than he. But the bulk of this section moves in the opposite direction with the priests urging her to confess her guilt. It feels heavy-handed, and it is. It runs contrary to our contemporary notion that one is presumed innocent until proven guilty. It defies our sense of fairness.

The priests, however, have a different understanding of that moment. There is more at stake here than the guilt or innocence of one woman. There is more at stake than the survival of one marriage vow. The accused woman will stand at Nicanor's Gate, on the liminal edge between the holy and the profane, and she will be tested by God. While one hopes that God's intervention will be limited to the case at hand, how can one know? What if God's action set in motion ripples that extended far beyond the question of one woman's guilt or innocence? Is the world as we know it safe?

The Mishnah reassures us that Divine justice is measured and precise. The mishnah states: By that same measure by which a man metes out [to others], do they mete out to him. God's justice, the Sages insist, maintains an exquisite balance. The punishment or reward precisely matches the individual's behavior. In the case of the Sotah it is the woman's own presumed behavior that defines the treatment she receives: She primped herself for sin, the Omnipresent made her repulsive. She exposed herself for sin, the Omnipresent exposed her.

What is true in the case of the Sotah is generally true. The last third of the chapter is devoted to long midrashic passages illustrating the principle of “measure for measure”. Those who do wrong are punished in appropriate measure and style, and those who do good are similarly rewarded. “Samson followed his eyes, so the Philistines blinded him.” Absalom's hair did him in. But Miriam, Joseph and Moses were all rewarded even beyond the measure of their deeds. In each case God's intervention addressed the particular need of the moment – reward or punishment – and no more.

These midrashic justifications are clever and engaging, but raise troubling issues. One concerns our understanding of justice. Do we seek pure black and white justice? Is there no gray area of doubt that clouds our certainty? Particularly in the case of the Sotah aren't we concerned to know what led to the disintegration of the marriage; to understand what led these “two loving friends” [from the marriage ceremony] to become such adversaries? Isn't there room for mercy and compassion in the process of judgment?

When do we invoke God's intervention? Here we do so with some care, cautious to see that God addresses only the guilt or innocence of this one woman. The invitation is not a request for God to judge the world as a whole. Indeed Mishnah Berachot (9:3) warns against crying out to God for what is past, condemning it as a prayer offered in vain. If God can discern guilt or innocence that is indiscernible to human eyes, why should God be unable to affect the gender of a child or protect a home from danger? Similarly in the oft-cited story of the Oven of Achnai (Baba Metzia 59b) the sages rebuff the attempts of Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus who calls on the Bat Kol, the Divine Voice, to prove his halakhic position correct. The Sages are wary of invoking God's intervention in the course of human events.

On one level this tractate provides the details for an ordeal prescribed by Torah. On a deeper level this allows us the opportunity to reflect on what it means for God to intervene directly in our lives. This opening chapter sets the stage for a broader discussion on God's Presence in the world.

© Rabbi Louis Rieser

Amazing Nile Woman / Sotah 12a, b

2009-12-22T11:15:00.000-08:00

The women mentioned in the opening chapters of Exodus are extraordinary by any measure. Even a cursory reading of the first two chapters of Exodus reveals that Shifra and Puah (the midwives), Yocheved (Moses’ mother), and Miriam (his sister) are endowed with wisdom, courage, insight, and fortitude in abundance. They collude to undermine Pharaoh, possessed of the quintessential “Us-versus-Them” mentality.

Our Rabbis concur in this assessment and enlarge the view. They tell us that when Pharaoh decreed the death of all Israelite baby boys, Amram (Moses’ father) divorced his wife to prevent births that would give way to deaths:

And there went a man of the house of Levi (Exodus 2:1). Where did he go? R.Yehudah b. Zevina said that he followed the advice of his daughter. A Tanna taught: Amram was the greatest man of his generation; when he saw that the wicked Pharaoh had decreed, Every son that is born you shall cast into the river, he said: “In vain do we labor.” He arose and divorced his wife. All [the Israelites] thereupon arose and divorced their wives.

His daughter [Miriam] said to him, “Father, your decree is more severe than Pharaoh's because Pharaoh decreed only against the males whereas you have decreed against the males and females. Pharaoh decreed only concerning this world, whereas you have decreed concerning this world and the world-to-come [the babies drowned in the Nile will receive a portion in the world-to-come, but those who are never born will not]. In the case of the wicked Pharaoh there is a doubt whether his decree will be fulfilled or not, whereas in your case, because you are righteous, it is certain that your decree will be fulfilled, as it is said, You shall also decree a thing, and it shall be established for you (Job 22:28). He arose and took his wife back [in marriage]; and they all arose and took their wives back. (12a)

The Rabbis attribute to adolescent Miriam the insight, courage, and wisdom her father lacks. She is responsible for the continuation of Jewish life in Egypt.

On the daughter of Pharaoh, the Rabbis lavish equal praise, or perhaps even higher praise. She alone in the royal house of Egypt – indeed, in the entire country – rejects her father’s idolatry and separates herself from his genocidal plans.

And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river (Exodus 2:5). R. Yochanan said in the name of R. Shimon b. Yochai: It teaches that she went down there to cleanse herself of her father's idols; and thus it says: When the Lord shall have washed away the filth of the daughters of Zion… (Isaiah 4:4). (12b)

They hint that her immersion in the river was a conversion, the river serving as her mikveh.

We are not surprised that the daughter of Pharaoh – whom the Rabbis will honor with the name Batya (“daughter of God”) – not only saves Moses, but insists upon doing it with her own hands, rather than through the agency of her servants. The discussion revolves around the possibly ways to parse amatah: it could be understood as “female servant” or “her amah” where an amah (cubit) connotes the arm, which is its basis of length.

And [Pharaoh’s daughter] sent her handmaid to fetch it (Exodus 2:5). R. Yehudah and R. Nechemiah [disagree in their interpretation of amatah]: one said that the word amatah means “her hand” and the other said that it means “her handmaid.”

The one who said that it means “her hand” said this because it is written amatah. The one who said that it means “her handmaid” said this because the text does not say yadah [literally: “her hand”].

But according to the one who said that it means “her handmaid,” it has just been stated that Gabriel came and beat them to the ground! [Just above this passage, we were told that the angel Gabriel beat the servants of Pharaoh’s daughter into the ground because they criticized the princess for opposing her father’s genocidal policy toward the male babies of the Israelites.] He [Gabriel] left her one [servant], because it is not appropriate for a king's daughter to be unattended.

But according to the one who said that it means “her hand,” the text should have been yadah (literally: “her hand”). It teaches us that [her arm] became lengthened; for a master has said: You find it so with the arm of Pharaoh's daughter and similarly with the teeth of the wicked, as it is written: You have broken [shibbarta] the teeth of the wicked (Psalm 3:8), and Resh Lakish said: Do not read shibbarta but rather shirbabta [you have lengthened, or stretched].

R. Yehudah and R. Nechemiah disagree about how to understand the term amatah. We don’t know which sage offers which viewpoint, but one clearly wants us to understand that the daughter of Pharaoh does not relegate the task of saving the child in the Nile to her servant. She boldly reaches into the water and scoops him out herself. What is more, God assists her effort by making her Elastigirl (you did see “The Incredibles,” right?) so that she could maintain her dignity by standing on the shore and reaching into the Nile to retrieve the basket containing Moses. The sage who offers this interpretation relies on a gezeirah shava, comparing Exodus 2:5 to Psalm 3:8 and also reformulating a term in the latter verse to read “lengthen” or “stretch” rather than “broke,” and applying this rereading to Pharaoh’s daughter’s situation at the shore of the Nile.

And if this isn’t high enough praise, the Rabbis continue, questioning the seemingly awkward Hebrew va’tir’ei’hu et ha-yeled in Exodus 2:6:

She (Pharaoh’s daughter) opened it [the basket] and saw the child (Exodus 2:6). It should have said “and saw.” R. Yose b. R. Chanina said: She saw the Shechinah with him.

R. Yose reads va’tir’ei’hu et ha-yeled as “she saw him with him.” The extra “him” who was present was the Shechinah, God’s indwelling presence in the world. So add this to the attributes of the daughter of Pharaoh: she is keenly attuned to the Shechinah.

These are beautiful passages about the power of courage and insight to bring redemption.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Which Organ Rules? / Sotah 8b - 9b

2009-12-14T10:06:00.000-08:00

The Rabbis of the Mishnah articulate a general rule in Sotah 8b:

According to the measure by which one measures, they measure it out for him.

In other words: Heaven (“they”) exacts retribution for evil in a manner that both identifies and reflects the sin committed. The subsequent Mishnah, on daf 9b, spells this out with examples that reinforce the notion of measure-for-measure retribution. Here’s the mishnah on 9b:

Samson went after his eyes; therefore the Philistines put out his eyes, as it is said, The Philistines laid hold of him and put out his eyes (Judges 16:21). Absalom gloried in his hair; therefore he was hanged by his hair. And because he cohabited with the ten concubines of his father, he was stabbed with ten lances, as it is said, Ten young men that bore Yoav’s armor encompassed him (II Samuel 18:15). Because he stole three hearts – the heart of his father, the heart of the court of justice, and the heart of Israel, as it is said, So Absalom stole the hearts of the men of Israel (II Samuel 15:6) – therefore three darts were thrust through him, as it is said, He took three darts in his hand and thrust them through the heart of Absalom (II Samuel 18:14). [This principle] is the same in connection with the good. Miriam waited a short time for Moses, as it is said, And his sister stood afar off (Exodus 2:4); therefore Israel waited for her seven days in the wilderness, as it is said, The people did not journey onward until Miriam was brought in again (Numbers 12:15). Joseph earned merit by burying his father and there was none among his brothers greater than he, as it is said, Joseph went up to bury his father… and there went up with him both chariots and horsemen (Genesis 50:7-9). Who is greater than Joseph? No less than Moses, who occupied himself with [Joseph’s] burial. Moses earned merit through the bones of Joseph and there was none in Israel greater than he, as it is said, Moses took the bones of Joseph with him (Exodus 13:19). Who is greater than Moses? No less than the Omnipresent was occupied [with his burial], as it is said, He buried him in the valley (Deuteronomy 34:6). Not only concerning Moses did they said this, but concerning all the righteous, as it is said, Your righteousness shall go before you, the glory of the Lord shall be your reward (Isaiah 58:8).

The examples offered us on the negative side of the ledger are Samson (who went after his eyes) and Absalom (who gloried in his beautiful mane). On the positive side of the ledger stand Miriam (who patiently waited to see that her brother would be saved by the daughter of Pharaoh) and Joseph (who buried his father, Jacob). Evil is requited with evil; goodness is repaid with goodness.

All four examples affirm that our mind – our consciousness –is our dominant organ. Samson’s eyes may have led him astray, but his mind was in complete collusion. Absalom was enamored of his gorgeous locks because he indulged in vainglorious thinking. Miriam and Joseph kept their priorities clear – their minds were locked onto appropriate targets and hence their actions were meritorious.

The Rabbis speak often of the Yetzer Ra (inclination to do evil) and the Yetzer Tov (inclination to do good). No one would deny the power of our physical desires in our lives. The Rabbis seem to be suggesting, however, that our minds are both the mitigating factor and the final arbiter. We see, hear, smell, taste, and touch what is in the world, but it is our minds that construct a narrative that determines how we will respond. In other words, physical experiences are powerful, but the mind can overpower them and rule the roost – both for good and for evil.

While there are many strains of Buddhism today, all subscribe to the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama (~563 – 483 B.C.E.), the Buddha who taught that the mind – human consciousness – is the most powerful organ of all, and that when our minds completely overpower our bodies we can access ultimate reality. For Buddhists, detachment from the physical world is an essential skill for achieving nirvana. Detachment means that physical experiences are denied the power to control our lives.

Judaism generally favors full engagement with the physical world and sees the capacity for physical sensation as a blessing from God, even if it can lead us in the wrong direction. The Rabbis even tell us that if we don’t enjoy the pleasures of life, we will be held to account in olam haba, the world-to-come, for foregoing God’s gifts. Moreover, Yoma 69b records that once the Rabbis captured the Yetzer Ra and imprisoned it in a barrel for three days. During that time, no one worked and even chickens stopped laying eggs. The Rabbis conclude that without the impetus of the Yetzer Ra, “no man would build a house or marry a wife” and no constructive work would be done.

Yet our minds are meant to be mediators and gatekeepers in control of our bodies’ responses to the physical world. When we need strength, we can draw on God through prayer, study, and meditation. But whence the God we draw on, but deep within ourselves, the divine spark burning in our souls, at the core of our minds?

For Buddhists, the goal is to detach from the physical universe and sever its control over us, to overcome desire and achieve release from the narrow confine of self-interest that torments us endlessly. For Jews, in contrast, the goal is to channel desire constructively and achieve righteousness in this physical world, whose value we affirm and whose beauty we celebrate. Samson and Absalom failed, but Miriam and Joseph succeeded gloriously.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

TZADIKIM BEHAVING BADLY

2009-12-08T06:02:00.000-08:00

The sages have a problem. Samson, the classic bad boy, is on a Divine mission. How can they reconcile his bad behavior with his holy work?

Even before he is conceived the Tanakh informs us that Samson will “be the first to deliver Israel from the Philistines.” (Judges 13:5) Throughout his life he receives guidance from God. As a youth “the spirit of the Lord began to move him in the camp of Dan.” (Judges 13:25) When he goes down to Timneh and sees a certain Philistine woman, who he asks his father to get for him as a wife, that too comes from God, as we are told, “His father and mother did not realize that this was the Lord’s doing.” (Judges 14:4) Even later in his career, after he slaughters 1,000 Philistines with the jawbone of an ass, Samson calls upon God to give him water, and God responds. (Judges 15:19) For 20 years Samson served as a judge, and it seems he had clear a divine endorsement.

The chronicles of Samson are recorded in Judges 13-16. They begin with a lovely, mystical oracle – an angel coming to tell Manoach and his wife that they will finally bear a child, although all earlier attempts failed. But very quickly we see Samson emerge as the proverbial wild child. Among his exploits:

He takes a Philistine wife, as a pretext for attacking the Philistines;
He tears a lion to pieces;
He takes several other Philistine women;
He eats the honey that bees have collected directly from the corpse of the lion;
He kills thirty men in Ashkelon;
He takes 300 foxes, ties their tails together and sets themon fire, sending the out to destroy the surrounding fields and vineyards;
and more.

Yes, his task is to redeem the Israelites from the Philistines, but his methods are particularly brutal. He is just gross in so many ways.

While the Tanakh endorses Samson, the Mishnah condemns him. Mishnah 1:7 teaches that God matches one’s behavior with appropriate response: “With whatever measure one treats others, so it is done to him.” The following mishnah (1:8) offers positive and negative examples of this principle, with Samson being the first negative example. “Samson followed the desire of his eyes, so the Philistines put out his eyes.”

What is a sage to do? The Tanakh cannot be wrong – it repeatedly says that God endorses Samson’s behavior. The Mishnah cannot be wrong, and it unequivocally condemns him.

The gemara to this mishnah, Sotah 1:8, found on 9b, tries to thread a very narrow needle. They cannot condemn what the Tanakh endorses, but they are also unwilling to set Samson up as an exemplar. So they go through a careful, extended, confusing at times, analysis of Samson’s behavior. Where they can they offer justification of Samson’s behavior. Where they can they illustrate where he strays. Because the passage is long, I offer only two brief examples.

In response to the assertion that even in pursuing the Philistine women he is doing the will of God, the sages respond, “When he went, he went after his own arbitrary will [not the will of God],” and so he was liable to a punishment. If only he had not pursued the Philistine women with such passion…. But let’s not go down that objectionable path.

On the other side of the coin Rabbi Isaac, a member of the house of Rabbi Ammi, explains the closing words of the oracle that announce Samson’s birth, “And the spirit of the Lord began to move him in the camp of Dan,” (Judges 13: 25). He teaches that the Presence of God was striking like a bell before him.” (Sotah 9b)

And so it goes. Where they must justify his behavior, they do; where they can condemn him, they do.

Here is the problem. Samson is charged from conception with saving the Jews from the oppression of the Philistines, and he succeeds. By any measure that is a good thing. At the same time, Samson behaves horribly. His actions are abominable, beyond what any ethical teacher can endorse. How can those two realities exist side by side?

I am reminded of Oskar Schindler. He was, according to all accounts, a miserable person most of his life. But for one brief and crucial period of his life he was a tzadik among tzadikim. No one looking at the record of his life pre-war could have predicted that he would act to save innocent Jews as he did. No one assessing him during the war would have bet that he would so totally undermine the system that was supporting him. But he did! So with one hand we praise him and with one hand we don’t.

This is again a reminder that we humans are complicated creatures. The Mishnah tries to present a one-dimensional portrait of Samson, the bad boy who lusts after what his eyes see and is done in by his passions. But the sages tasked with explaining this teaching cannot ignore Samson’s divinely endorsed mission. He is deeply flawed even while he accomplishes significant good.

We prefer our heroes unblemished. It is best if their motivation is clear, their hearts pure, and their actions beyond reproach. Such a person rarely ever appears in our world – perhaps not in any world. Often, they are generally good people with whom we can identify. But sometimes we are forced to admit that they are, like Samson, tzadikim behaving badly.

Measure for Measure? (Sotah 8b - 9b)

2009-12-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

In Measure for Measure, Shakespeare asserts, “Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall” (Act II, Scene 1). In an ideal world goodness is rewarded, but sin is not.

In contrast, the Mishnah on Sotah 8b claims that not only is sin severely punished by God, but punishment is meted out precisely measure for measure; that is, according to each aspect of one’s sin, one is punished:

According to the measure with which one measures [out one’s actions], it is measured out to him. She [the sotah] adorned herself with sin; the Holy One blessed be God made her repulsive. She exposed herself to sin; the Holy One blessed be God held her up for exposure. She began the sin with the thigh and afterward with the belly; therefore she is punished first in the thigh and afterward in the belly – and the rest of the body does not escape.

The Gemara on 9b supplies an example of measure-for-measure punishment in a remarkable midrash on the story of the serpent in the Garden of Eden:

We thus find with the primeval serpent [in the Garden of Eden] that set its eyes on that which was not proper for it: what it sought was not granted to it and what it possessed was taken from it. The Holy One, blessed be God, said: “I declared: Let it be king over every animal and beast; but now, Cursed are you beyond all cattle and beyond every beast of the field (Genesis 3:14). I declared, let it walk erect; but now it shall crawl on its belly. I declared: Let its food be the same as that of humans; but now it shall eat dust. It said: I will kill Adam and marry Eve; but now, I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed (Genesis 3:15).” (Sotah 9b)

We already know from the Torah’s telling that the serpent was cursed for enticing Eve to eat the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. The Rabbis here suggest that its punishment is not in the least arbitrary: it is a one-for-one reflection of his overstepping proper boundaries. In each manner that the serpent seeks and takes too much, he correspondingly loses something.

My chevruta, Rabbi Rieser, pointed out that this midrash supplies motivation for the serpent to entice Eve that is absent from Torah’s account: the serpent desires Eve as his sexual partner. Rabbi Rieser’s point is well made, but I would add that as Torah tells the tale, the serpent’s motivation is his desire to manipulate and control, an attribute we all possess to one degree or another and which can lead us down dangerous paths. (We might compare the serpent to Anansi the Spider of West African and Caribbean folklore: he is a trickster endowed with a certain degree of wisdom and the power of speech; similarly, Coyote in Native American tales.) The power to influence the behavior of others is real power that inflates the ego; this is sufficient motivation.

Returning to the Gemara’s claim about divine punishment, I find three aspects troubling.

1. The first is the claim itself, which stands in stark contrast to the reality we experience. Yet we find it so ingrained in rabbinic thinking that we even find a passage in Ta’anit 21a in which Nachum Ish Gamzu explains to this students that the horrors and sufferings that have befallen him were not only deserved, but he actually requested them and God confirmed them as just (Nachum could hardly have brought these punishments on himself; God must have approved and acted in accord with his wish):

It is related of Nachum of Gamzu that he was blind in both his eyes, his two hands and legs were amputated, and his whole body was covered with boils… his disciples said to him, “Master, since you are wholly righteous, why has all this befallen you?” And he replied, “I have brought it all upon myself. Once I was journeying on the road and was making for the house of my father-in-law and I had with me three donkeys, one laden with food, one with drink, and one with all kinds of dainties, when a poor man met me and stopped me on the road and said to me, ‘Master, give me something to eat.’ I replied to him, ‘Wait until I have unloaded something from the donkey.’ I had hardly managed to unload something from the donkey when the man died [from hunger]. I then went and laid myself on him and exclaimed, ‘May my eyes which had no pity upon your eyes and become blind, may my hands which had no pity upon my hands be cut off, may my legs which had no pity upon your legs be amputated,’ and my mind was not at rest until I added, ‘May my whole body be covered with boils.‘” Thereupon his pupils exclaimed, “Alas! That we see you in such a sore plight.” To this he replied, “Woe would it be to me did you not see me in such a sore plight.” (Ta’anit 21a)

2. The second troubling aspect is that throughout Sotah we find the pervading presumption that the suspected adulteress is guilty. We know that the bitter waters can exonerate her, but the humiliation she is subjected to (daf 8 spells it out in graphic and disturbing detail) seems to presume that she is guilty until proven innocent to a far greater degree than Numbers chapter 5 suggests.

3. Should we truly aspire to seeing the guilty punished severely? I can understand the desire that those who grotesquely overstep boundaries lose accordingly – the Kenneth Lays and Bernie Madoffs, not to mention the Hitlers, Pol Pots, and Stalins – because it is a human response. In a truly ideal world, we would follow the teaching of Beruriah, the daughter of R. Tarfon and the wife of R. Meir:

There were once some robbers in the neighborhood of R. Meir who caused him a great deal of trouble. R. Meir accordingly prayed that they should die. His wife Beruriah said to him: How do you justify [that such a prayer should be permitted]? Is it because it is written (Psalm 104:35) Let chatta'im cease? Is it written “sinners”? It is written chot'imchatta'im “sins”! Further, look at the end of the verse: and let the wicked be no more. Since the sins will cease, there will be no more wicked people! Rather pray for them that they should repent, and there will be no more wicked. He did pray for them, and they repented. (Berakhot 10a)

While many who perpetrate evil are not open to repentance and rehabilitation, others are. Hopefully, we can aim higher than human revenge and divine retribution.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

NICANOR’S GATE AND MYTHIC GEOGRAPHY

2009-11-27T06:36:00.000-08:00

The sotah ritual determining the guilt or innocence of a suspected adulteress (see Numbers 5:11-31) took place at the Temple in Jerusalem before the great Sanhedrin of 71 judges. If, after questioning by the court, the accused woman maintained her innocence and said, “I am clean”, they brought her to Nicanor’s Gate to administer the bitter waters required by the ritual. The Mishnah (Sotah 1:5) notes that this is also the place where women would come to be purified after childbirth and where lepers would come to be purified.

Nicanor’s Gate was a central site in the Jerusalem Temple. There is a great deal written about this gate into the Temple. In part it has to do with how these doors came to be and, in part, with where they were located in the Temple itself. The location of this gate made it the prime site for many rituals.

In M. Yoma 4:10 we learn that “As to Nicanor, miracles were associated with his doors. And they remembered him with honor.” The mishnah only tells us that miracles were associated with these gates. That same mishnah tells of about various donations that were made to the Temple: by Ben Qatin, King Munbaz, Queen Helene, and Nicanor. The mishnah offers some details about the other gifts, but of the doors of Nicanor we learn only that miracles happened there and that he was honored.

The full story of these doors is found at B. Yoma 38a (a slightly different version is found at T. Yoma 2:4).
When Nicanor was bringing the doors from Alexandria, Egypt, a storm blew up and threatened to capsize the boat. They took one of the doors and threw it overboard, but the seas did not calm down. They wanted to throw the 2nd door over as well, but he grabbed hold of it and said, “Throw me overboard with it.” The seas clamed down. He remained distressed over the lost door. When they arrived at the port of Acco the other door bubbled up and came out from under the boat. And there are those who say that a sea monster swallowed it and then regurgitated it onto the shore.

Very special doors, indeed. And they were treated with extra respect. At some point the doors of the Temple were all changed to be covered with gold, with the exception of Nikanor’s gate, because of the miracle associated with them. Others say that it was because their bronze shone like gold. (B. Yoma 38a)

According to M. Middot 1:4 there were seven gates to the courtyard….on the west was Nicanor’s gate. The doors stood between the Court of the women and the court of the Israelites. It must have been a magnificent place. M. Middot 1:5 says fifteen steps led to the court of the Israelites, corresponding to the fifteen Psalms, the Songs of Ascent, and the Levites would sing on those steps. One source suggests the doors were so large it took 20 priests to open them each morning.
Tosefta Kelim 1:12 places this all into a mythical geography. Just as there were three camps in the wilderness: the camp of the Shekhina, the camp of the Levites and the camp of the Israelites, so to in Jerusalem. From the entrance to Jerusalem to the entrance to the Temple Mount paralleled the camp of the Israelites. From the entrance of the Temple Mount to Nicanor’s gate paralleled the camp of the Levites. From Nicanor’s Gate inward represented the camp of the Shekhina.

Nicanor’s gate marked liminal space. It stood between the outer and inner court. It was the dividing line between the area that was open to all and the area that required ritual purity. The opening at Nicanor’s gate offered a space that stood between the holy and the profane. The Mishnah notes that the sotah is brought to Nicanor’s gate for the ordeal and that the leper and the woman following childbirth bring their offerings to that same gate. In each case the reason is the same – they need a place that was neither holy nor profane from which to present their offering, see it offered, but not threaten the ritual status of the inner courtyard.

These rituals share one other common element. After a birth there is a period of purification. At the end of that period the woman brings an offering to the priest “at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting.” (Leviticus 12:6) When the leper completes his period of isolation he presents an offering “at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting.” (Leviticus 14:11) The sotah also brings an offering which “the priest shall present before the Lord” (Numbers 5:16). In the mythic geography of the Temple, Nicanor’s Gate parallels the door of the Tent of Meeting.

As I said in a previous post, the sotah ritual is most unusual; the only instance in which God is asked to come judge a person directly, as Nachmanides explains in his comment on Numbers 5:20-21, “There is no other matter among all the laws of Torah that hangs on a miracle except for this one.” No human court can decide her guilt or innocence, her fate is literally in God’s hands. Nicanor’s Gate places her at just the right spot, perhaps the only spot on earth, where God can judge her guilt of innocence.

© Rabbi Louis Rieser

Expecting the worst usually results in fulfilled expectations (Sotah 7a)

2009-11-23T12:16:00.000-08:00

So often what you expect is what you get. Do we expect people to be at their best, or do we assume that they’ll behave immorally and get away with as much as possible? And how do our expectations influence their choices?

The Torah’s account of the Sotah ritual is confusing. It’s difficult to imagine how it would take place, what it would look like. The Rabbis wonder too. In the Mishnah on daf 7a they present a disagreement: The Rabbis assign two escorts to accompany the man and his wife to Jerusalem; R. Yehudah says this is not the case.

How does [the husband] deal with her? He brings her to the court where he lives and they assign him two disciples of the Sages [to accompany him and his wife to Jerusalem] lest he cohabit with her along the way. R. Yehudah says: her husband is trusted with her.

Torah says nothing about chaperones. Numbers 5:11-15 tells us only that if a man is overcome by a fit of jealousy and believes his wife to be unfaithful, but there are no witnesses to support his suspicion, the man shall bring his wife to the priest (verse 15).

How, then, does the Gemara explain Mishnah’s assertion that escorts are required? Gemara quotes R. Yehudah in the name of Rav as teaching that escorts are assigned only if the husband does not live in Jerusalem and must travel a distance to the Temple with his wife.

But what is the purpose of the escorts? Two suggestions are offered:

… on a journey there must be three, in case one of them should have need to relieve himself and consequently one of them will be left alone with [the possibility of] immorality! No. Here the reason is that they should be witnesses against him.

The Gemara first suggests that two disciples of the Sages accompany the man and his wife so that there will be two men in her presence at all times, because were there one escort, when the husband excused himself, the single escort might engage in inappropriate sexual activity with the wife. The Gemara next suggests that the escorts are there to supervise the husband, so he will not cohabit with his wife. But in the first case, two men alone with a woman is no guarantee against sexual activity – even ten escorts is no guarantee – and the Rabbis realize this. Therefore the escorts are there to patrol the husband.

[The Rabbis] did not teach [that a woman may be in the company of two men] except in the case of pure men. In the case of dissolute men not even with ten. It once happened that ten men carried a [live] woman [out of the city] in on a bed [to violate her]. No. Here the reason is that they will know to warn him.

The circle of high level of suspicion surrounding sexual behavior has broadened to encompass the husband himself. It’s a curious thing to imagine that this husband, who has accused his wife of adultery and is about to impose on her a humiliating ordeal, would be interested in intimacy. We might imagine his sexual intentions rather more dangerous than intimate, thought the Rabbis do not voice this concern.

The Rabbis next turn to the claim that R. Yehudah makes in the Mishnah that escorts are unnecessary because the husband can be trusted not to cohabit with his wife – who is in a state of tum’ah (ritual impurity) – on the way to Jerusalem. What follows is a fascinating back-and-forth concerning a kal va’chomer (a fortiori) argument offered by R. Yehudah to prove that the husband can be trusted to bring his wife to the Temple without escorts. The discussion that ensues both establishes the inherent weakness of many kal va’chomer arguments – they can be argued as effectively backward as forward – and the fact that the entire matter rests on a foundation of presumptions concerning the psychology of the husband.

R. Yehudah says: By kal va’chomer (from minor to major, a fortiori) reasoning [we deduce] that a husband is trusted. If a husband is trusted in the matter of his wife during menstruation where the penalty [for sexual contact] is karet (excision, which the Rabbis generally understand as an early and untimely death brought about by heaven), how much more so in the matter of his wife under suspicion in connection with which there is merely a prohibition [but no penalty].

[How do] the Rabbis [respond]? The same reasoning establishes [their viewpoint, which is that the husband is not to be trusted to be alone with his wife on the trip to Jerusalem]: in the case of a wife during menstruation where the penalty is karet (excision), since it is so severe, the husband is trusted; but in the case of a wife under suspicion where [cohabitation] is a mere prohibition, since there is no severe [penalty] for him, he is not trusted.

Having turned R. Yehudah’s kal va’chomer around, they now offer an entirely different justification from R. Yehudah: in fact, they tell us, he bases it on Scripture (Numbers 5:15) which makes no mention of escorts, and the Rabbis simply declare on their authority that chaperones are assigned.

Gemara offers another round of kal va’chomer arguments. The first is attributed to R. Yosi and as we shall see, it is identical to R. Yehudah’s kal va’chomer. However, when the Rabbis unravel it, they reverse it in a new and inventive manner.

R. Yosi says: By kal va’chomer (a fortiori) reasoning [we deduce] that a husband is trusted with her. If a husband is trusted in the matter of his wife during menstruation where the penalty is karet (excision), how much more so in the matter of his wife while under suspicion in connection with which there is a mere prohibition.

[The Sages] replied to him: No. If you argue [that the husband is trusted] in the case of his wife during menstruation who will be permitted [to him when she is no longer a menstruant], will you argue so in the case of his wife under suspicion when he might never have a right to her! It further states: Stolen waters are sweet, etc. (Proverbs 9:17).

The proof text cited by the Rabbis deserves to be quoted in its entirety and its context considered. Chapter 9 of Proverbs speaks of Wisdom personified as a woman inviting wayfarers to a grand feast of understanding and insight, the first course of which is yirat Adonai (awe or fear of God – verse 10). The author of Proverbs (presumptively King Solomon) then compares her with a stupid woman who sits in her doorway beckoning to travelers and saying, “Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten furtively is tasty.” The Rabbis, in assuming that the husband will cohabit with his wife on the way to Jerusalem, presume he will sip stolen waters and eat bread furtively.

The Rabbis often seem to presume the worst in human behavior. The Sotah is treated as guilty until proven innocent. The husband cannot be trusted to escort her to Jerusalem alone. There is a presumption that only fear of punishment motivates self-control. Parents who expect the worst from their children make poor choices and bad behavior a self-fulfilling prophecy. I always found that expecting the best from my children worked beautifully and powerfully to elicit good behavior and appropriate choices. Would it not work with adults, with ourselves? I wonder if focus on presumption of bad behavior doesn’t miss an opportunity to encourage people to look for the best within themselves.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

THE CATALOG ON ARROGANCE

2009-11-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

An American proverb teaches, “Arrogance is a kingdom without a crown.” We all know the type. They come with an attitude of superiority and an air of haughtiness. They are overbearing and filled with pride. In their own eyes, they can do no wrong. The order of the world is up-ended; as George Eliot wrote, “He was like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.”

The Hebrew term for such arrogance is gasut ruach, someone with an inflated spirit. Beginning on B. Sotah 4a ff. we find the Talmudic catalog on arrogance. It is not a pretty picture.

The catalog begins with this statement. R. Hiyya bar Abba in the name of R. Yohanan teaches, “Whoever is arrogant will eventually stumble by committing adultery with a married woman.” (Sotah 4b) Note that it is not adultery that leads to his arrogance. Long before he approached the woman, this man believed he could seduce her and get away with it. It all begins with his attitude, and this is only the first step down a slippery slope.

This Talmudic presentation moves through several different stages. The first stage details where the attitude of arrogance will lead. The second considers the consequences. A third reflects on the inner psychology of the arrogant person. A fourth flips the scales to suggest that students may require a small touch of arrogance to succeed. In presenting the breadth of this catalog I have skipped most proof-texts and some other material that accompanies these brief descriptions. Nonetheless, this review gives the flavor of the section.

Rabbi Yohanan first says in the name of Rabbi Shimon b. Yohai, "Whoever is arrogant is as if he worships idolatry." He then speaks in his own name to add that it is as if "he denied the core principle [of the world]." And Ulla extends that to say “It is as if he built a high place.”

Where is the boundary of arrogance? If you can lord it over your neighbor's wife, can't you also lord it over other people? If you can break the rules in one realm, why not another? Where will it end? Rabbi Yohanan suggests that it won't end until you deny the very foundations of the universe. Ulla goes further; you won't stop until you make the world over in your own image. Beyond worshiping idols, you will become one yourself.

In a sense Rabbi Eleazar’s teaching follows smoothly on the heels of Rabbi Yohanan and Ulla. He focuses on what will happen to one who is so full of themselves. He teaches on B. Sotah 5a, “Whoever is arrogant is worthy of being cut down like an asherah [a tree that is worshiped].” Arrogance has consequences. One who believes he is a god deserves to be treated as an idol and cut down.

Rabbi Eleazar teaches that the effects reach beyond one’s death. “Whoever is arrogant — his dust will not be stirred up [when the dead are resurrected],” meaning that they will not be resurrected in the time-to-come and no dust will stir over their grave-site. The arrogant person forfeits their place in the world-to-come. As a result he notes that “the Shekhina laments for whoever is arrogant.” While every soul is precious, not every soul merits life in the world-to-come, and the Shekhina grieves for every lost soul.

Rabbi Alexandri shifts the focus to consider the inner psychology of the arrogant person. “Whoever is arrogant — even the slightest breeze shakes him, “as it is said, ‘But the wicked are like the troubled sea [which cannot rest, whose waters toss up mire and mud. There is no safety, said my God, for the wicked]’ (Isaiah 57:20-21).” They may appear as over-bearing brutes, but on the inside they are quite insecure – even the slightest breeze shakes them. Rabbi Alexandri offers a striking image. The sea is huge and powerful, but let a wind blow across the surface of the water and you see the water quiver. The strength of the sea is an illusion. The same is true of the arrogant. They may seem strong, but ultimately they cannot stand up in the face of a breeze. Their insecurity shows through.

Rabbi Hiyya bar Ashi, citing Rab offers a surprising reflection. “A disciple of a sage should have one eighth of an eighth [of pride].” Said Rabbi Huna son of Rabbi Joshua, “And it serves as his crown, like the fan of a grain.” An eighth of an eighth, one sixty-fourth, is a very small measure. Perhaps it is just enough to stir a reluctant student to offer a new insight, to take pride in his work or to challenge his fellow students to dig deeper into the meaning of the text. But it is a delicate and precarious balance. Said Raba, “He is subject to excommunication if there is [arrogance] in him, and he is subject to excommunication if there is no [arrogance] in him.” It reminds me of homeopathic cures; small doses of substances, often poisons, that induce effects similar to the symptoms one suffers as a way to counteract disease. A little arrogance may stimulate the student while inoculating him against greater arrogance in the future.

The last word goes to Rabbi Nahman bar Isaac who disagrees strongly with those who find even an iota of redeeming virtue in arrogance. He teaches “[A student should have] no part of it [arrogance], nor even of part of part of it. Is it a small thing that it is written in connection [with arrogance], ‘Every haughty person is an abomination to the Lord [assuredly he will not go unpunished]’ (Proverbs 16: 5)?” His proof text asserts that there is no measure small enough to be safe or helpful. He points back to the opening teachings by Rabbi Yohanan and Ulla – arrogance is a slippery slope that will inevitably lead one astray.

In all the Talmud this is the longest discussion of the concept of gasut ruach, arrogance. I believe our ancient sages could easily agree with our American proverb: “Arrogance is a kingdom without a crown.”

© Rabbi Louis Rieser, 2009

Inflation: when it hits souls, not shekels (Sotah 4b)

2009-11-11T13:21:00.000-08:00

The Talmud’s discussion of the Sotah and adultery in marriage, has thus far assumed that blame for a failed marriage lies primarily with the wife. While the Rabbis acknowledge that, at least in theory, it’s as difficult to make a good match as it is to part the Reed Sea (Sotah 2a), the prevailing assumption on the first two dapim is that women are responsible for the quality of the marriage. The turning point comes on 4b where the Sages explore the meaning of a verse from Proverbs:

What is the meaning of the verse, and a married woman ensnares a precious soul (nefesh y’karah) (Proverbs 6:26)? R. Chiyya bar Abba said in the name of R. Yochanan: Any person who possesses a haughty spirit in the end will stumble [into the sin of committing adultery with] a married woman, as it is said, and a married woman ensnares a nefesh y’karah (Proverbs 6:26).

R. Chiyya conveys R. Yochanan’s teaching that the “precious soul” of the lover that is ensnared by a married woman may be understood as the “haughty soul” of the lover that ensnares him, and as a result he becomes involved with a married woman. In reading nefesh yekarah as “haughty soul” rather than “precious soul” he opens the door to recognizing that the lover shares responsibility. Rava makes this point more explicitly:

Rava said: [but it reads] nefesh y’karah (“precious soul”); it should have said nefesh g’voha (“haughty soul, or spirit”); and also it should have said “it ensnares” [rather than “ensnares [the married woman]”]. Rather, Rava said, anyone who has sexual intercourse with a married woman, even if he has studied Torah, about which it is written, it is more precious than pearls (peninim) (Proverbs 3:5) – [that is] more precious than the Kohen Gadol who enters the innermost sanctum (lifnai v’livnim) – she ensnares him into the judgment of Gehinnom (purgatory).

Rava holds that it is the lover’s own arrogance (his haughty soul) that ensnares him, not the woman. The “she” in Proverbs 6:26 is understood by Rava as the nefesh gevoha (haughty soul).

Jungian psychologist James Hollis, in his book Why Good People Do Bad Things: Understanding Our Darker Selves asks: why do otherwise good, decent people, do unexpected bad things? Drawing on Jung’s concept of the Shadow, Hollis points out that we think our egos reign over our psyches, but in fact our psyches are driven by discrete energies and an agenda we are barely aware of, and need to bring out into the open, into the light of day, so we can deal with the pain fueling them.

In a sense, the gemara says something similar when the passage continues, comparing arrogance to idolatry:

R. Yochanan said in the name of R. Shimon b. Yochai: Any person who possesses a haughty spirit is like an idol worshiper, because here it is written, Every haughty person is an abomination to the Lord… (Proverbs 16:5) and there it is written, And you shall not bring an abomination to your house (Deuteronomy 7:26).

R. Yochanan himself said: It is as if he denied God’s existence altogether, as it is written, And your heart will become haughty and you will forget Adonai your God… (Deuteronomy 8:14).

Robert L. Moore (author of Facing the Dragon: Confronting Personal and Spiritual Grandiosity) argues that the deep structures of our minds harbor narcissism and spiritual grandiosity that can erupt to cause havoc and wreak destruction. Moore writes, “There is a healthy narcissism that results in self-esteem and a healthy exhibitionism, in contrast to pathological narcissism, which results in an oscillation between arrogance and terrible self-hate” (p. 100). Destructive narcissism is arrogance on steroids. For the Rabbis, as in Torah, idolatry is uniquely dangerous and always destructive of human life – spiritually and physically. Moore, who promotes a healthy spirituality and recognition that we are not God, would agree.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

EDITORIAL POWERS

2009-11-04T12:15:00.000-08:00

If you have ever read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road you can appreciate the power of the editor. Kerouac wrote on a continuous strip of paper, 120 feet long, with no chapter or paragraph breaks. His work was rejected by several publishers until one brave editor took on the task. We enjoy what the editor culled from the mass of writing.

In our passage we see the power of the editor in a different way. I believe, as I will detail below, that the editor added one line to the teaching of Rabbi Hisda and turned the meaning of that teaching on head. While Rabbi Hisda intended to teach that both men and women bear responsibility in the relationship, the editor added one line that permanently exonerates the husband.

Sotah 3a offers a teaching by Rabbi Hisda, a student of Rav who later became the head of the academy at Sura in Babylonia until his death in 620. He is a powerful teacher and leader. His teaching here consists of three statements and argues that the husband and the wife may share blame when the situation in the house deteriorates and the charge of sotah is brought forward. There is a fourth line in the passage, in my view added by the editor, which subverts Rabbi Hisda’s understanding.

Rabbi Hisda uses a graphic image to suggest that both husband and wife may be suspect. R’ Hisda said: Unfaithfulness in the house is like a worm in a sesame plant. R’ Hisda said: Anger in the house is like a worm in a sesame plant. These seem to be paired statements. The destruction of the household may come as a result of her unfaithfulness or of his anger. It seems a reasonable argument since both unfaithfulness and anger can lead to or result from alienation in the relationship. Like a worm eating at the stalk of a plant, these behaviors destabilize the infrastructure of the relationship until it cannot stand on its own.

The next line, unattributed and so in my mind the work of the editor, places the blame unilaterally and completely on the woman: Each of these applies to a woman, but in a man there is no objection. For the moment I am not going to comment further on this line. It is important to read Rabbi Hisda’s third statement before returning to comment on the effect of this unattributed line.

Rabbi Hisda final statement teaches: In the beginning, before Israel sinned, the Divine Presence rested on every one of them, as it says, (Deuteronomy 23:15) For the Lord your God walks with you within the camp… Once they sinned, the Divine Presence separated from them, as it says, (Deuteronomy 23:15) Lest He see some unseemly thing in you and turn away from you. The key words are that the Divine Presence rested on every one of them – not on males alone, not on females alone, on every one of them. The Hebrew reads, kol echad v’echad, each and every one.

Take out the middle line – the one I disagree with – and the passage reads smoothly:

unfaithfulness brings on destruction of the marriage,
anger brings on destruction of the marriage,
once upon a time every single person was blessed by the Divine Presence,
sin caused the Divine Presence to depart from every one.

This is a complete teaching that expresses balance throughout. He can cause disruption in the marriage and she can cause disruption in the marriage. Once the Divine Presence rested on everyone – male and female – and since we sinned the Divine Presence departed from everyone – male and female. Rabbi Hisda recognizes that the sotah holds an indeterminate status – neither guilty nor innocent – that can only be resolved by undergoing an ordeal. Adding the anonymous line skews the balance. I don’t believe it fits.

We know that the editors of the Talmud worked to smooth out the arguments found in the gemara. We hear their unattributed voice in a variety of places. Sometimes it closes an argument by declaring that halakhah, Jewish practice, follows a particular position. Sometimes they insert material to reconcile conflicting positions by declaring that the two statements refer to different situations and therefore they are both right. I believe the editors insert this intermediate statement as a way of spinning Rabbi Hisda’s statement to match their own point of view.

What does that additional line do? By inserting the line, Each of these applies to a woman, but in a man there is no objection, the editor changes the story. The burden now rests solely on the shoulders of the wife. This change replaces uncertainty with certainty. Even if the woman is not guilty of adultery, she remains guilty of provoking anger or other behaviors that undermine the marriage. The editor exonerates the husband before the process has even begun. Worse still, this change allows the husband to act out with impunity – since neither his philandering nor his anger are objectionable – while she bears all the responsibility.

The editor subverts Rabbi Hisda’s teaching, but also skews our understanding of the precarious moment in which the husband and wife find themselves. Neither of them stands on solid ground. The sotah ritual is most unusual; the only instance in which God is asked to come judge a person directly, as Nachmanides explains in his comment on Numbers 5:20-21, “There is no other matter among all the laws of Torah that hangs on a miracle except for this one.” No human court can decide her guilt or innocence, so how can our editor declare that only the woman can be held liable and the man’s deeds are unobjectionable.

I always appreciate the advice of a good editor. In this instance I wish the editor had let Rabbi Hisda speak for himself.

The "spirit" of jealousy (Sotah 3b)

2009-10-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

Rabbi Rieser wrote, “The very idea of the Sotah ritual is repugnant.” In this posting, I want to address the Sotah ritual itself and a passage in the gemara that questions what kind of “spirit” inspires a husband to feel the sort of jealousy that sets this all in motion.

The ninth commandment forbids coveting. It’s unusual for Torah to command or prohibit an emotion (how is it even possible?) yet jealousy is so insidious that Torah makes the effort. How do we dissipate a toxic emotion when there is a risk it can boil over into violence?

People in the ancient world did not enjoy the benefits of police, an extensive court system, legal restraining orders, locking doors, and home alarm systems. If a man became overcome with jealousy and believed his wife to be involved in an illicit affair, he could be a real danger to her. I googled “jealous husband kills wife” and found an alarming number of articles chronicling horrific examples – and in some cases there were restraining orders. Anger given over to rage is perilous, and the anger of presumed betrayal in an intimate relationship can explode and become homicidal.

What does one do with a man whose jealousy is boiling over yet there is no evidence that his suspicions are valid? I would contend that the ritual of the Sotah is a valve for releasing pent-up jealous rage, hopefully before violence ensues.

…If any man’s wife has gone astray and broken faith with him in that a man has had carnal relations with her unbeknown to her husband, and she keeps secret the fact that she has defiled herself without being forced, and there is no witness against her – but a fit of jealousy comes over him and he is wrought up about the wife who has defiled herself; or if a fit of jealousy comes over one and he is wrought up about his wife although she has not defiled herself – the man shall bring his wife to the priest… (Numbers 5:11-15)

The ordeal of the Sotah involves elements that are unquestionably demeaning to the woman: her dress, her hair, the concoction she must drink, the whole manner of the ritual. With a defined course of action and priests overseeing the entire ritual, which is held in the Mishkan (Tabernacle) or Mikdash (Temple), there are several layers of control in place so that the jealous husband is less likely to attack his wife.

Most importantly, the “decision” is out of all human hands; it is in God’s hands alone and thus cannot be questioned once rendered. The woman drinks a potion containing a bit of ink, some dust, and water. Perhaps not nutritious, but unlikely to cause serious harm. (Have you heard the saying, “You have to eat a peck of dirt in your life”?) The horrific consequence of drinking the potion if guilty of adultery – that her genitals will fall out – is unlikely to occur. Rather, the ritual would most likely exonerate the woman. Moreover, if she had indeed been engaged in an adulterous affair, and if she were pregnant by her lover, the ritual covered that exigency, too. The Sotah who underwent the ritual and survived was rewarded with fertility – a special gift of recompense from God. This child would be considered her husband’s – no question of paternity. This precludes branding an innocent child a mamzer.

The entire ordeal is public, and this too is important. Everyone now knows that the husband’s jealousy overcame him and that he put his innocent wife through a horrendous ordeal. This alone could serve as a check on future emotional outbursts and behavior. I would imagine that a husband who put his wife through such an ordeal only to see her both exonerated and pregnant would be a man with a fair stock of guilt to work off and a long road to walk to make up to his wife what he had put her through. Perhaps this was the best-case scenario in a world without police, locks, and marriage counselors, for promoting reconciliation. Far from perfect, but possibly effective.

The Rabbi, interpret kin’a as “warning” rather than the pshat, “jealous fit.” Jealousy can lead to chaos and violence; a warning might lead to repentance and reconciliation. But on what basis is a warning issued? Somebody must have seen something; there must be a witness. Yet Torah says that there were no witnesses. While the simple meaning of the text is inescapable, picturing the reality of the situation is far more difficult for the Rabbis as it is for us.

The Rabbis wonder about the “spirit of jealousy” that overcomes the husband. The word ruach generally has positive connotations, but not always:

A tanna of the academy of R. Yishmael taught: A man does not warn his wife unless a spirit enters him, as it is said: And the spirit of jealousy came upon him and he became jealous of his wife. What is the meaning [of the word] “spirit?” The Rabbis identify it as a spirit of impurity, but R. Ashi says it is a spirit of purity. It is logical accordingly to the view of the one who declares that it is a spirit of purity, because it was taught (in a baraita): and he became jealous of his wife lends the husband permission. These are the words of R. Ishmael. But R. Akiba says it is an obligation. It is well if you say that it means a spirit of purity, then everything is right; but if you say that it means a spirit of impurity, [can there be] permission or an obligation for a man to bring a spirit of impurity into himself?

Rashi tells us that the source of the “spirit of impurity” is satan who incites the husband to accuse his wife. The spirit of purity inspires a similar warning, but with the intent of insuring her decency. Did the Rabbis see these “spirits” as from without (good angels and satan) or from within (the yetzer tov/good inclination and the yetzer ra/evil inclination)?

R. Ashi of the academy of R. Yishmael, holding that it is a good spirit that inspires the husband, tells us that the husband thereby has permission to warn his wife, but not an obligation. R. Akiba, however, holds that the husband is obligated to warn the wife. The Rabbis point out that if the impetus could come from an impure spirit, then the man ought not have permission, let alone be obligated by it. R. Akiba, for whom no word is extraneous, will eventually argue (on 3b) that the double use of the root kuf-nun-aleph in Num. 5:14 makes the act of warning an imperative.

It appears that the Rabbis would like to ascribe to the man good motives, but leave open the possibility that he was truly overcome by a “fit of jealousy.” Yet, having defined kin’a as “warning” in order to place a layer of control (safety) on the process, they feel constrained to presume it was a spirit of purity. The hole dug by jealousy and even sincere attempts to curtail its consequences grows deeper and deeper, messier and messier. No wonder we have the ninth commandment!

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman