“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
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
It doesn't have to be a "finders keepers losers weepers" world / Baba Metzia 58b
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.
The first half of Mishnah Baba Metzia 2:7 is found on daf 28b:
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:
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
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
Sunday, May 2, 2010
CONCLUDING THOUGHTS – SOTAH 49B
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
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
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Special feature: Midrash Mosaic
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."
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The value of a human being / Sotah 46a
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’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:
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.)
© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman
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).
© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman
Thursday, April 15, 2010
ATTENTION MUST BE PAID – SOTAH 46A
“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
(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
Friday, April 9, 2010
Calling the troops to battle / Sotah 44a
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:
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
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
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