Parashat Chayey Sarah, Gen. 23:1-25:18

The fifth portion of the week – “Chay’ey Sarah” (literally, “the Life of Sarah”) – offers somewhat of a comic relief in comparison to the first four.  “Comic relief?” you may ask, “How dare you say that? Both Sarah and Abraham die in the course of this portion.  What is so comic about that?” Well, no disrespect here:  The “comic” part has nothing to do with their death. And while it is true that they both die, they do so at a very old age – well over a hundred and twenty years (which is, to be sure, nothing compared to the first lineage described in Genesis where eight and nine hundred years were no exception); they both live long and fulfilling lives; and they die among their family and friends.  All that, of course, is not part of the comic-relief section of this week’s portion (hence the “almost” in my opening sentence). 

The comic relief, if you will, lies in the fact the God is almost completely missing from this week’s Portion. After being at the epicenter of each of the first four portions, the fifth portion offers us something much more mundane, though equally fascinating: the story of human life.  Indeed, this week’s potion is all about people – the soap-opera version of the bible, if you will – without much God involved.  No flood, no burning of a city, no punishments, but also no creation of the Universe, no moral lessons, no intervention.  Instead, we find the cycle of life and death, family values, falling in love, wooing rituals, a bit of Freudian psychology, and marriage.  This is what this portion has to offer, and in that sense, it is a very welcome comic relief (or respite) from the previous four.  No divine drama; only human drama.

To sum up the human story in a nutshell: Sarah dies (I will immediately explain why a portion entitled “the life of Sarah” opens with her death); Abraham successfully negotiates the purchase of a burial ground for her within the land of Israel; He is preoccupied, as any father who almost sacrificed his son, with finding a suitable bride to his beloved son Isaac; he dispatches his loyal slave to go out and find Rebecca; Rebecca and Isaac get married (actually, the whole idea of marriage is quite complicated at the time, but, for simplicity sake, let us assume they in fact got married); Abraham dies; both his sons – Isaac and Ishmael – burry him. End of story. End of an era.

As suggested by the title of this week’s portion, my three comments today would be dedicated to Sarah and her legacy.

I. "The Life of Sarah" – An Ironic Title?

The first four portions bore strong resemblance to their titles: “Be’re’shit” (in the beginning) dealt with the creation of the Universe; “Noah” celebrated the life of the first righteous man; “Lech Lecha” (Go, go away) began a journey to the Promised Land; and “Va’yeera” (“And God was seen to him”) asked some difficult questions about the relation between a man of true faith and his God. 

The fifth portion, in contrasts, presents somewhat of a conundrum:  The title of the portion is “the Life of Sarah,” but the portion actually begins with her death. (“And the life of Sarah has been … (127 years)… And Sarah died.” Gen. 23:1-2). How can that be?  How can the title spells out the exact opposite of the content? The answer is simpler than one might assume.  The title of each week’s portion is not selected after careful examination of its content, or a review of the portion’s main theme. Rather, the title is simply the first (meaningful) word or words appearing in each portion.  Recall that the division to verses and portions, and the actual naming of the portions, is a much later ritual than the (divine?) writing of the text itself.  Thus, although in some cases – and all the cases we had until now – there may exist a strong correlation between the title and the content, it is not always – or even not mostly – the case. 

The portion thus opens with the announcement of Sarah’s death, at the age of 127 years.  Now comes the question: is the title truly a complete coincidence, which has nothing to do with Sarah’s life, or does the text offer a bit more nuanced an explanation?  The answer is that in two very important ways, the portion is, in fact, about Sarah.  But before we get to that, a word about the age in which she dies, 127 years, which may provide us with an interesting reference: That same number – 127 – appears again in the very first verse of a story about another very influential Jewish woman in the Mikra, Queen Esther. I doubt this is a coincidence.  [See Book of Esther, 1:1]

II. Sarah’s Death and Burial Ceremony

Despite Sarah’s death right at the beginning of the portion, one may argue that this week’s portion could not be more aptly named.  First, Sarah’s burial ceremony, and the negotiation over her burial grounds, occupies a great deal of the portion – and rightly so.  Abraham insists to bury his wife in Hebron, within the land of Israel, and not in the land in which he came from.  The great detail in which the text describes every stage of the elaborate negotiation between Abraham and the local real-estate moguls may suggest that such a negotiation – between a foreigner and the locals – was an exception.  Indeed, a careful reading of the text shows how the negotiation tactics employed by each of the parties turned this affair into an almost legal tug-of-war.  In short, Abraham knew that despite his inferior status as “a foreign resident” (or a “resident alien,” as nicely translated by JTS, Gen. 23:4), the only way to buy and own land in the new country – and therefore to become a land-owner with rights to the country as a whole – would be through buying a land for his wife’s burial ground.  Who would refuse – then and now – to sell a parcel of land for several times its value only to bury the wife of an extremely wealthy and powerful foreigner?

Well, the local residents were very clever about their negotiation tactics. At first, understanding full well that buying the land would constitute an irreversible first step on the way to future ownership of (perhaps) much more land, they “kindly” offer Abraham to take the land for free – a symbolic gesture, that would not grant him any ownership title or status, but only “a right of passage” to use the land for burial and visit his loved wife’s grave.  “Not so fast,” insists Abraham, I want to buy it “for the full price.” (Gen. 23:9) Indeed, Abraham is willing to pay a lot – in both sense of the term – to enter the elite club of land-owners in Israel.  Well, again – the locals are far from naive. By the time the negotiation reaches the point where the actual designated place of burial is discussed – Me’arat Ha’machpella in Hebron, a place that today, as then, was a great source of tension between Jews and Arabs – they turn the negotiation into a public display. Statements are made for the ears of the audience, who watches “the best show in town.” The drama intensifies.  Efron, the local real-estate mogul, insists again – “No, my lord, hear me: I give you the field and I give the cave that is in it; I give it to you before the eyes of my people; bury your dead.” (Gen. 23:11). When Abraham insists, Efron retorts with the unforgettable statement, downplaying a huge amount of money into a symbolic gesture: “My lord, the land would listen to me: four hundred shekels of silver – what are they between me and you? [pay me and] bury your dead.” (Gen. 23:15). Now, it is important to understand that this was a fantastic, truly fantastic sum (think of $400 million). According to several interpreters (of which I most like Meir Shalev, in his “Tanach Achshav”), this amount was so high that most people in the crowd have never heard about so much money, let alone seen it in person. And Efron casually drops that number, as if it nothing “between you and me.”

Now imagine the staging for a minute: A great crowd – all locals – is gathered, standing between the two people; the local landowner, and the foreigner who wants to become one.  The local landowner consults with his advisors, and then publicly dares Abraham (the foreigner) to either receive the parcel of land for free (with no rights), or to buy it for the equivalent of $400 million. The old foreigner, on the other hand, is aided by no one (other than by his God, of course). What should he do?

Abraham says nothing.  He quietly turns to his slaves, and within short order “weighs” each of the four hundred silver coins to Efron, the landowner. The crowd disperses, speaking of this amazing sum of money that they have never seen before.  End of Act I.

The moral of the story? It was in her death that Sarah enabled her husband – and, as a result, the entire Jewish People – to become land owners in Israel. Not conquerors, but legal buyers. This is a huge legal achievement, that was made possible only through – and at the time of – Sarah’s death. Indeed, Abraham himself would be buried there in short order, too. (Gen. 25:8-10)

III. Sarah’s Legacy

Sarah’s spirit dominates this week’s portion in another, very important way as well. The entire story of the selection of Rebecca as Isaac’s wife is a true story of (what is known today as) “women’s power,” or true feminism.  To begin with, Abraham understands, before he dies, that while he would not be able to amend his relationships with the son he already tied to the woods, he needs to find him a proper wife; he sees it as his most important last task. Second, the slave that Abraham sends for this mission encounters an “extremely good looking virgin,” who, to eliminate any doubt, “no man has ever known,” (Gen. 24:16). The slave then meets her brother, Laban.  As you may recall, Laban is about to cause a whole lot of problems to our Third Father, Jacob.  But even now, at this very early stage, we get a glimpse of his conniving ways. Thus, right after noticing the jewelry and gold that his younger sister received from the slave, Laban suddenly becomes extremely friendly to the foreign, uninvited slave, who then describes his master’s wealth in great details.  Laban happily agrees that his sister would wed into this rich family (indeed, not much has changed since), but when the time to leave arrives, he (Laban) suddenly comes up with what later becomes his trademark – a nasty delay tactic: “let the girl sit with us some days, or ten, and then she would come with you.”  [Importantly, the “ten” may also be interpreted as a decade.] (Gen. 24:55) This, of course, is presumably done to raise her price – as if Laban was saying: “if you want her now, pay more. Nobody said anything about now.” [Recall that the same Laban surprised Jacob with giving him Le’ah, the older sister whom Jacob never wanted, after promising him Rachel; Jacob had to wait fourteen years for Rachel…]. In this case, however, the slave insists. He wants to leave now (before his master, Abraham, dies).  Laban, pressured, thinks of a creative solution.  There’s no chance, he thinks, that Rebecca – until now completely devoid from the process – would like to leave with a complete stranger, a slave at that, to marry someone she never even met in a foreign country. “Here is the solution,” thinks Laban, “let’s make her say she doesn’t want to go, and this would be over.”

And thus comes one of the most famous – and surprising – feminist statements in all the bible, from none other than one of the most conniving, hypocrite, and (very likely) chauvinistic persons in all the bible, Laban; and so he says:  “Why won’t we call the girl and see what she wants?” [or, more traditionally translated: “Let us call the girl and ask for her reply.” Gen. 24:57] So, the text continues in great detail, they did go over and called Rebecca – in other words, the young lady wasn’t even there when all this was taking place – and asked her “would you go with that man?” (marriage ceremony, anyone?).  Her beautiful answer, only one word in Hebrew, without any hesitation is “I will.”  And this is the true meaning of Sarah’s heritage.  This is why this portion, more than any other, is aptly named “ the life of Sarah.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron  

Parashat Va'yai'ra, Gen. 18:1 - 22:24

The fourth portion of the week – Va’yai’ra (which means, more or less, that God revealed himself to Abraham) – is as famous as the first three (which, perhaps, are the most famous portions of all), primarily for two reasons:  The first relates to Abraham’s emotional call to God, imploring him to do what is right with a city full of sinners; the second relates to Abraham’s silence in the face of God’s order to sacrifice his first born.

Today I will not dwell on Isaac’s A’ke’da – the story of the binding – as it is too deep to cover in the framework of this blog.  Suffice is it to say that this story is regarded by many as the supreme point of God’s worship, while by others as Abraham’s lowest point as a human-being.  Be it as it may, anyone who is remotely interested in understanding Genesis must read each of the 20 verses [Gen. 22:1-19] slowly and carefully; ask yourself who or what is participating in this drama (including the two helpers, the donkey, the fire torch, the slaughtering knife, the woods, the angels, and the ram), and what is the role played by either one; note the textual tool-kit (on which we said a few words last time); and finally, ask yourself how are the two hardly-speaking protagonists – the father and his son – were feeling throughout.  If you have kids, try and imagine how would you feel during those three days.

But enough with the binding.  This week, I wanted to shortly comment on these two issues: first, the famous cry by Abraham to his God about doing what is right, or just; and second, the notion of hospitality in the ancient world.

I. Abraham and Constitutional Due Process

Genesis 18:25 is one of the most shocking, dramatic, and nearly impossible-to-translate verses in the entire Bible. Here is Abraham – who says nothing when God orders him to go and sacrifice his own beloved son – arguing ferociously with God who wants to kill a large group of sinners in Sodom and Gomorrah, a group of people Abraham has likely never seen before (although, it should be mentioned, his nephew Lot lives there). 

As you may recall, a very interesting argument – or is it negotiation? – ensues, where Abraham asks God to take pity on the town in case He may find 50 righteous people there, and God agrees; then Abraham lowers his offer to 40, and God agrees again; to 30 – yes again; to 20; and finally, to 10 (but not lower).  God agrees, and the two parties go their own ways. [Gen. 18: 22-33]

In the heart of this negotiations stand Abraham’s call to God. In Hebrew, the words are:

“Chalila Le’cha, Ha’shofet Kol Ha’Aretz Lo Ya’ase Mishpat?” [Gen. 18:25] (according to JPS translation, just for general knowledge, the translation is: “Far be it from you! Shall not the judge of all the earth deal justly?”).

Not surprisingly, I could not find any translation – among the ten offered on bible.cc or otherwise – that comes close to the original.  The first thing to note here is the Abraham warns God – “Ch’alila Le’cha,” which, by today’s standards would easily be translated – if it weren’t for God being at the other end – as “I dare you!” Now, none of the interpreters – nine of them opting for the vague “far from Thee” – would have imagined such a provocative statement from the first “true believer” to his own God. But it gets better. The rest of this famous call is usually interpreted as a call for justice of some sort (“do right,” or “do justice” are the most common terms used by English translators.)  But the actual words are more refined: Abraham does not warn God from not doing the right thing; he warns him – as the Judge of the entire universe – to bring down the punishment before having a trial.

Indeed, according to a contextual reading, Abraham was not afraid that God “has forgotten” what’s wrong and what’s right; rather, he was afraid that God would not act like a judge, but rather as a jury and an executioner.

Let us try and understand why. Before this famous discussion begins, in a little-noted verse, God mentions in his blessing to Abraham the important fact that he – Abraham – will keep the ways of God by doing “Tzdaka Umishpat” – that is, will do both compassionate deeds (T’zdakah) but will also keep the law (Mishpat). This tension between the letter of the law (known in Mishna as Midat Ha’Din) and the compassionate side (known as Midat Ha’ra’chamim) has been one of the greatest hallmarks of Jewish thinking throughout the ages.

Only a few minutes after that blessing, God intends to do neither:  There is no mention of any compassionate thought related to the people of Sodom; and, on the other hand, there is no mention of trial – or trial-related procedures.  Instead, all of the inhabitants of both Sodom and Gomorrah are simply sentenced to die. (Or are they? Upon close reading, it seems that the text itself does not suggest how exactly did Abraham learn about God’s plan to eviscerate all those people; but this point is of less importance now. See Gen. 18:20-21).

And herein lies Abraham’s greatest frustration. Where is the compassion? Where is the law? And he warns God (and this is the entire verse, according to one possible translation):

 “I dare you to do such a thing, to kill the righteous together with the wicked – and by that turning the righteous into wicked; I dare you – shall the Judge of the entire Universe not hold trial?”

While this interpretation may seems, at first blush, procedural (primarily to the non-lawyer readers of this blog), please recall that many constitutions, including the American, see Due Process as one of their cornerstones, and for a good reason.       

Thus, Abraham wanted to make sure that Sodom’s people – yes, they too – get a fair trial before they are sentenced to death.  And he served as their lawyer, and an excellent one at that. That makes me, personally, more proud of the Father of my People than the more conventional interpretation.

II. A Word About Hospitality

On a lighter note, it is hard not to notice the special care the text takes in informing us what type of food – precisely what type of food – Abraham prepared and served to his uninvited guests – the three mysterious men who appeared “in the heat of the day” and broke the news about his otherwise barren wife soon having a boy. [Gen. 18:1-12; the inevitable comparison here is to Job 2:11]. Similarly, we hear of the special measures taken by Lot to host and defend his own two uninvited guests – this time the text informs us -- rather than merely suggests -- that the two were actually angels [Gen. 19:1]. Here, Lot was willing to sacrifice his two virgin daughters to the mob crowding outside his door, if only they would leave his guests alone. [For a fascinating description, read Gen. 19:4-11] 

These two stories come to show, in my mind, how important hospitality was in ancient times. Until today, many middle-eastern tribes will welcome you as a king – invited or uninvited – if you come across their land to visit.  This is true even – and perhaps especially – for an enemy. If an enemy comes to visit, and he’s found on the tribe’s territory, he (or she) will be treated like royalty, and would not be hurt, until they leave.

Some food for thought for today’s world leaders.

Shabat Shalom,

Doron

  

Parashat Lech-Le'cha, Gen. 12:1 - 17:27

The third portion of the week, “Le’ch Le’cha,” begins with the unforgettable words spoken by God to his first chosen son, Avram: “Go, go away from your country, from your home-land, from your father’s home, to the land I will show you.”

Note the fascinating deductive linguistic move here – from the general (“your country”) to the specific (your “father’s home”); from the easiest to accept to the hardest to acknowledge. The same move repeats itself, almost to the letter, with the second “Le’ch Le’cha” story, the more famous of the two – the story of the Ak’eda (the sacrifice of Itzchak). [Next week, we’ll deal with the interesting question of why God needed to try Avraham after it was already established that he “believe in God” – the first-ever to do so (Gen. 15:6).] In the Ak’eda story, God commands Avraham (his name was changed by then from Avram):

Gen. 22:2: And [God] said [to Avraham]: Take your son, your only son [recall that Avraham had two sons at that stage!], that you have loved, take Itzchak, and go, go to the land of Moriah and sacrifice him on one of the mountains that I will point to you.

Again, we see the linguistic move from the general (“your son”), to the particular (“Itzchak”), and from the easiest to the hardest to accept. We can also see the repeated request to leave – “Le’ch Le’cha” – from that familiar, loved, and steady place (be it a physical or a mental place), to the place to which God will direct you. Today I want to focus on the early Avram.

         The Image of Avraham - Our First Father 

The (first) Father of Our Nation – much like his modern-day title-sake, a General and our First President – can easily be said to have two personalities. The first is told from father to son, carried in classrooms all over the land, and is so well entrenched that questioning it is considered heresy (for the modern-day version, try to question the veracity of the story of Washington and the Cherry tree). Then again, there is the text. And that’s where things may seem a bit different. Let us review these two in turn.

Avraham – The Official Version

Our sages made a considerable effort to paint the first real Jewish person, the father of the entire Jewish nation, not only in the best light possible, but also in a way fitting the holiest of hollies. Since the text is scant in details on Avraham’s background – we meet him when he’s already 75 years old (Gen. 12:4) – they came up with some of their own.

The Rambam (Maimonides), for example, tells us how Avram went through a philosophical metamorphosis, realizing that all the people around him were wrong to assume that there could be many a god, or that the world may revolve on itself without a cause or a power source. Following this impressive thought experiment, Avram began arguing with people around him about their wrongful beliefs, broke some statues of other gods, and called on everyone to worship only the one true God. [Rambam, Book of Science, Part IV.]

Others have followed suit. Legend has it that Avram, who worked at his father’s shop, used to constantly break many of the gods’ images that were sold there, and kept asking people not to buy them. In addition, he used to talk to the clients, asking them to return from their wrong ways, and attempted to turn their hearts to the only real one God. [See Nechama Leibovitz, Notes on Be’Reshit, at 80 (Hebrew)].

The text itself – as it is mostly remembered – tells us of a great person who listened to his God constantly, leaving his homeland for Him, sacrificing his son to Him, and generally a true Jewish role-model we should all aspire to. And that is the “official” version. Reading of the actual text, however, may reveal quite a different image of the man.

Avraham – The Textual Version

Much like the last portion (No’ach), our portion actually begins a few verses prior to its official starting-point. There we find some interesting details. For example, it turns out that Avram’s father, Terach, was the one to actually leave his own country. He took with him Avram, his son, and Lot, his grandson, and Sarai (Avram’s wife), and went from Ur-Kasdim (their “homeland”) to Kna’an – the famous land known today as Israel. To be sure, they never arrived there; instead, they settled in a place called “Haran,” apparently outside Kna’an. (Gen. 11:31-32).  But the most important point here is that the entire journey is made with no mention of God; not a word about a promised land; no religious components at all. Then the father dies. And then our portion begins.

This time, however, it is God who asks Avram to “Go, go away from your country,” etc. But, interestingly, Avram is no longer there; in fact, he’s already half way between his home-land and Israel, in Haran; the order, then, is less hard to follow than initially appears.

Finally, Avram arrives at the promised-land: “And the Lord appeared to Avram and said: I will give this country to your offspring.” (Gen. 12:7). One would think Avram would stay in that country for a little while; it has been, after all, a long journey, and the entire place was promised to him by God. But only three verses later, right after the divine promise was made, Avram leaves Israel and goes (“down” – a word used until today to describe people immigrating from Israel) to Egypt, for the famine was severe (12:10). Once arriving at Egypt, he presents his wife – his very, very beautiful wife, as the text reminds us repeatedly (see, e.g., 12:14-15)– as his sister, for fear he would be killed and she would be taken away. The ploy works: Avram received considerable fortune from the Egyptian king for Sarai [Gen. 12:16]. The king, in return, is severely punished for even thinking of touching this married woman (of which, of course, the king knew nothing about). Somehow, in a bizarre twist of faith, Pharaoh does not kill Avram when he discovers the ruse – he doesn’t even take his fortunes back! – but rather simply tells Avram to “take [the money] and leave!” [Gen. 12:19]

Apart from these clues about Avram’s pragmatic nature, the text also supplies great materials about our first leader’s extraordinary sense of strategic thinking. For example, when he experiences his first significant business fight with his cousin, he doesn’t use strong-arm tactics or pulls rank as the senior partner. On the contrary: Avram does what seems unthinkable today – he lets the junior choose:

Gen. 13:8: And Avram said to Lot: Let there be no quarrel between you and me, and between my shepherds and yours, for we are brothers; since the entire country is in front of you, let us separate – if left you choose I will turn right; and if right, I will turn left.” 

This seemingly “cowardly” strategic move (as it may be called today by some of Wall-Street’s deal-makers) brought Avram an immediate relief for his herds (in the short term), several years of business prosperity (in the intermediate term), and an important ally on the West (in the long term). What do you think about that, financial-market “sharks”?

Later this line of thinking manifests itself again, when Avram – who just won decisively a series of wars against the local kings – is asked by one of the defeated kings to bring back that king’s men, and in return to keep the victory spoils. Avram’s now-famous answer may surprise those who don’t know him well: “But Avram said to the king of Sodom . . . I will not take so much as a thread or a shoe-string of what is yours; you hall not say, ‘It is I who made Avram rich.’” (Gen. 14:22-24) Again, Avram gains a great strategic ally, and prevents future wars from that front by acting (seemingly) in an altruistic fashion.

There are many more clues as to Avram’s unique’s nature. In two weeks we shall discuss his magnificent negotiations techniques, which enabled him to be the first, apparently, to actually purchase real estate as a foreigner in the Land of Israel.

Importantly, the textual analysis above is not meant to disrespect the image of our First Father, or to demean him. On the contrary: It only comes to supplement and enrich his well known – though somewhat simplistic – image as it appears in folklore and our memory. Both Avraham and the reader, I believe, would end up gaining by this perspective.

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron

Parashat No'ach: Gen. 6:9 - 11:32

One might expect, right after the dramatic opening of “In the Beginning,” to encounter somewhat of a lighter material this week. Indeed, what could stand on the heels of creating of the entire known universe, all of nature, mankind, and the Garden of Eden – to name just a few of last week’s highlights? Well, to the extent you were waiting for a “light” portion – no such luck. The second portion is a “universe” all unto itself: The first righteous person, architecture and water-proofing, global warming, biology and evolution, urban planning, eternal covenant between God and all people – are just some of the many issues explored in this week’s portion. And yes, lest we forget – the second indecent exposure. [You may recall that last week’s portion dedicated a large segment to Adam and Eve’s realization that they were naked. This time, we have a father – righteous, but drunk (which goes to show that the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive) – who is lying naked in a tent. What’s a son to do in that situation? (Hint: try Gen. 9:23 for an answer)].

Indeed, the second portion more than earns its esteemed “real-estate location”—right after Genesis. Today I’d like to dedicate a few words to each of the great two stories that, not unrelated, consist of today’s potion: The Flood, and the Tower of Babylon. But more than that, I would like to examine just how “human” God's image is – or how humanly it is being depicted – in this week’s portion.

I. The Flood and God’s Heart

Whenever I think about the flood, I can’t escape thinking of the miraculous survival story of the first mariner, the first biologist, the first weatherman – a man truly above and beyond not only his generation, but all generations of his time (as the text clearly informs us in the opening verse of our portion, Gen. 6:9; but see Gen. 7:1, where God tells No’ach that he is only righteous in his generation). Indeed, Noa’ch (not “Noa”) has well earned the title of being the first person to ever “walk with God.” (Id.) But is the flood story really about No’ach?

Let us turn for a moment to the few verses preceding this week’s portion, where the story actually begins. There, God is said to realize – somewhat to His surprise – “that the man’s evil is aplenty, and that all man’s desires and thoughts of his heart are evil all day long.” (Gen. 6:5). Then the text goes on to describe – not for the first time – God’s internal thought-process while He ponders His next steps:

Gen. 6:6-8: And the Lord regretted that He had made man on earth, and His heart was saddened. The Lord said, “I will eliminate from the earth the man whom I created – from man to beasts to creeping things, and birds of the sky; for I regret I made them. And the Lord was pleased with No’ach.”(Note: the GWT translation receives a brownie point here for daring to reverse the linguistic order of the last verse, which begins in Hebrew with the words “And No’ach …”; that opening seems to skew all other nine translations I reviewed; see http://bible.cc/genesis/6-8.htm.)

Before I get to God’s “heart,” I want to present a few questions about this very interesting – but often neglected – passage, which comes at the tail-end the greatest portion of all. First, when the text reports on the Lord’s regret of mankind, it uses the lesser form of “made” to describe man’s first appearance on earth (“the Lord regretted that He made man”). In contrast, when God actually “speaks” of the punishment, he uses the higher descriptive verb, “created” (which in Hebrew, as I explained last week, has even a higher connotation, suggesting creation ex-nihilo, out of nothing) – “I will eliminate … the man whom I created.” What could be the reason for such distinction? Second, while God only regrets the creation of mankind, He decides to eliminate all living things, not only humans. What is the reason for that? Were the animals, too, devising “bad” all day long? Third, what does No’ach have to do with all that? Recall that God just decided, without too much (reported) hesitation, to wipe out the better part of His entire creation in six days, including the “crest of the creation,” mankind itself.  Why is it important, then, to mention that God was really “pleased” with one person, of which we know nothing at this point?

Let us turn back now to God’s “heart,” which is mentioned here for the first time. Once His “heart” is saddened, God decides to bring an end to mankind, a plan he executes with meticulous detail in next chapter – the story of the Flood. (Recall, however, that the story does have a relatively happy ending: No’ach and his family are saved, and thus become the sole representatives of all the animals.) 

So does God really have a “heart”? Can He (or His heart) really be saddened? We’ll come back to that in a minute.

II. The Tower of Babel and God’s "Eyesight"

The second, but not less interesting, story of this week’s potion begins with the dramatic statement that “And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech.” (Gen. 11:1 KJV trns.) Yeshayahu Leibowitz, for one, fiercely argues that this original state, far from being ideal, actually depicts tyranny and unity of thought. Accordingly, he is of the opinion that the so-called “punishment” of creating many languages and dispersing mankind to all four corners of the earth was not a punishment at all; rather, it was a blessing that has brought us the plurality of languages, opinions (including dissenting opinions), and viewpoints – in short, it brought us the famous “different views of the cathedral.” (Y. Leibowitz, Notes on the Weekly Torah Reading, 14-15 (1988) (Hebrew)).

What is worth noting, again, is the “humanization” of God in the story.

Gen. 11:5: And the Lord has descended to see the city and the tower which the sons of man have built. 

Why would God need to “descend” in order to “see” the city? Can’t He simply see it from the heavens (or, assuming He is everywhere, from any point He chooses)? Does the text suggest that God is near-sighted, and needs to come closer to actually see? More broadly, how does God’s “vision” work at all?

III. One Possible Answer: Maimonides’  “Negative Theology”

Throughout history, many a commentator tried to explain this “human” treatment of God by the biblical text. Does God really have eyes? Heart? Other organs? Does he “descend” in order to “see” things? Does he “feel sorry” for things?

The most comprehensive attempt to reason this attitude was made by the most important Jewish thinker of all times, the Rambam (acronym for Rabi Moshe Ben Mimon; also known here as Maimonides). The Rambam, who was an Aristotelian philosopher in addition to being an accomplished physician, begins his analysis from the premise that we can only express and comprehend content through the limited medium of language. Even God’s act of creation ex-nihilo, with all its heavenly glory, can only be related to us through words – and nothing more. Thus, while it is clear that we cannot really understand or comprehend everything God does, the text has to relay to us, in one way or another, that God in fact operated in some way. Accordingly, the text may only provide us with no more than a glimpse unto God’s glory and actions through the extremely limited medium of words. [The Rambam then went on to develop his theory Negative Theology, but I’ll stop here.]

In short, the Rambam explained that God doesn’t really have a “heart” that is “saddened,” nor was He required to “descend” in order to “see” what was happening in Babel. Rather, these are linguistic tools, used by the text to try and convey to us, in very human terms, what God was about to do.

Still, despite the Rambam’s very elaborate theory, many today see God – and not only in Judaism – as a good grandpa with a white bird, who has a heart (which is sadden sometimes by the deeds of men), and is required to “descend” in order to see things up close. Would you prefer such a God?

Shabat Shalom,

Doron

Parashat Ki-Tetze, Deut. 20:10-25:19

Sometimes life is wilder than any imagination.

Last week I was finalizing a move to Cleveland. With all my books and resources long gone – shipped away in boxes – I did not find the time and mental space to write about the portion of the week - “Ki Tetze.” There was some symbolism in that, as Ki-Tetze was the last portion for me to complete a full cycle of posts on this blog. So I drove to Cleveland with every intention to find my “portion” books in their box (those include the Torah Text, some commentaries, and, always, Leibovitz’s take on the portion) and complete the cycle with a bang.   

But then terrifying news arrived. My father just passed. My own dad – is no longer. The most ardent reader – and fierce critic – of the post would read it no more. It is hard to put into words what that meant to me. It is as if I have lost at once my closest family member, my best friend, my advisor for life, my mentor, my biggest supporter, my Abba. I spoke to him – as I do every day – on Tuesday morning; the next my mom called and told me he passed.  This is still too hard to accept.

I am writing this post from Israel, where we are about to bury my father in a couple of hours.  This post, then, is dedicated to him. As you will see immediately, this is no coincidence: This week’s portion deals extensively with both the delicate issue of father-son relationship, as well as with the issue of death. It even connects the two, in a bizarre and strange manner.

The Law of the Rebellious Son

The complicated relations between father and son are presented in this week’s portion in a very interesting way. Since the book of D’varim (Deuteronomy) is a book of laws, it does not bother to deal with the day-to-day aspects of life – these warrant no special attention or regulation. Rather, this law book – like countless of others written following it throughout history – deals mostly with the aberrations of life, those instances that warrant special attention (and, the concomitantly-related special punishment). One of those instances is that of the rebellious son.

We are all familiar with the notion of a son who is not listening to his dad. We have all been there – Dad always wants you to do “what’s right”; you, on the other hand, think you know better and opt to do another thing. What are the options that dad has in this situation?

Throughout most of my life I tended to examine this question from a very narrow perspective – that of the ignorant son, who naturally thinks think he knows better and therefore opts to do the opposite of what his dad tells him to. That view has evolved over the years, however; as Mark Twain remarked once, “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But, when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years." Indeed, I, too, realized how much my dad “learned” over the years.

But my perspective not only evolved through the years; it has also changed completely four years ago when I became a dad myself. Suddenly I realized what it means to actually ask your son to do something and having him completely ignore you (or worse, do the opposite). From that vintage point, all of a sudden, the question of “the son who knows better” received an entire different meaning. It begins with very small things – the insistence that he would hold your hand when crossing the street, the requests not to play ball near traveling cars – but these things matter, as they are safety-related; and once your little boy ignores you there, he might be in real danger (and you, as a parent, in real trouble).

So what is a father to do in these situations? What can we do when our children repeatedly ignore our requests, or insist on doing the opposite? The Torah, at first glance, offers very little guidance. The solution it offers – quite shockingly – is nothing if not radical: “Kill the boy!” the Torah says, let him die. And in the language of the text:

If a man has a wayward and rebellious son, who does not obey his father or his mother, and they chasten him, and [he still] does not listen to them; his father and his mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his city, and to the gate of his place. And they shall say to the elders of his city, "This son of ours is wayward and rebellious; he does not obey us; [he is] a glutton and a guzzler.” And all the men of his city shall stone him to death, and he shall die. So shall you clear out the evil from among you, and all Israel will listen and fear. (Deut. 20: 18-21)

I am not sure – I did not conduct the research – just how many times this penalty was actually utilized by parents (and executed by the city-people). But I have a hunch – very little. Indeed, more than an actual advice (in my mind) this “law of the rebellious son” is intended more as a cautionary tale – a cautionary tale to all of us, “sons” and “fathers” alike. On the “son” part, it intends to tell us that our parents – through the representing institutions – have the ultimate power upon us. They are instructed with the role of our education; but they also have the power to constrain us should we keep disobey their orders. So extreme is the power parents have, that they can even lead to our death as disobedient sons.

But the lesson to the parents, in my mind, is even more striking. Allegedly, this provision provides the parents with the ultimate solution to a very difficult and delicate problem; “Know you, all parents out there,” the Torah instructs us, “that should your son consistently disobey you, you are hereby granted with the ultimate power; you may – through the representing institution – put your son to death.” But this solution is of very little comfort. Very few parents would like to see their son die (even a disobedient son). And even fewer parents would like to send their son to his death.

Indeed, perhaps the Torah is trying to tell us something much deeper here. Perhaps the message is that death can never be a solution; that even if you have the power to inflict death, in a relation between parents and children you should never use that power – you should always opt for much more sophisticated, and lesser harsh, sanctions that would amend the ways of your disobedient son.

And to that extent – that in the father-son context, death is never a solution – I find the Portion very rewarding this week.

Shabbat Shalom.

Doron  

 

    

Parashat Shoftim, Deut. 17:18 - 21:9

This week’s potion – “Shoftim,” literally Judges – is a wonderful potion. It is wonderful because it still sounds fresh after thousands of years; it is wonderful because it contains many useful lessons – even today, in the age of ipad and i-can’t-get-any-advice-over-three-seconds-long; and it is wonderful because it shows us, as Kohelet observed later, that “nothing is new under the sun.”

Of the many issues that the Portion deals with, I want to focus on four: The Judges; the Police Officers; the Law of the King; and the “Green Heritage” of the bible. I will take those in turn.

1.      The Judges

The portion begins with both a descriptive and prescriptive role of Judges in the community. First, they should judge according to “the law of justice.” (Deut. 16:18) Then, they are ordered not to be biased; not to recognize one party over the other; and not to take bribes. While the first two orders are (apparently) self-explanatory, the last one – about bribes – receives a special, short-but-sweet explanation: “For the bribe will blind they eye of the wise,” and would “twist” (or “take out of context”) the “words of the just.” This is a wonderful analysis of the effect of bribe; until today, it is of full force and effect. This part ends with the wonderful order: “Justice, Justice you shall pursue.” (16:20) – Indeed, the quest for justice is never-ending; but still, this ideal state should always be pursued, despite all the hardships.

This section is one of the eloquent ever written about the judges’ role. Many judges – all around the world, from Israel to the U.S. and anywhere in between – have quotes from this passage hung in their chambers. And for good reasons; the more you think about it, the better judge you are. It not for nothing that judges of the Supreme Court are called “Justices”; now you also know why.  

2.      The Police Officers

Though the translation of the term from Hebrew – Shotrim – is straight-forward (police officers), the true meaning of the term is far from clear. These biblical office holders are probably not precisely the “policemen” of today, although it seems clear from the context that they are an arm of the executive branch (as they are today). Be it as it may, I want to focus today on a unique moment – in which those police officers are in charge – and that is the moment before setting out to war. The text begins with a description of what the spiritual authority – the Chief Priest (Cohen) – would tell the people (a form of religious pep-talk, if you will; see Deut. 20:2-4). But now comes the time of the “police officers.” They would stand before the people and start to provide “waivers” for all of those who would not be required to go to war: First, “He who just built anew house, but have yet to dedicate it.” He may go back home, “lest he would fall in battle and another man would dedicate his home.” Second, and very similar, “He who planted a vineyard but has never harvested it.” He, too, may go back home, for the exact same reason. In similar form “He who was engaged to a woman, but has yet to marry her,” may return home. Generally speaking, therefore, the bible recognizes (through the police officers) that for those who the war comes at a very bad timing, perhaps their heart would not be with the war but elsewhere; these people should be let go. But then comes a surprise: “And the police officers continued to speak to the people and said: Who is the man who is afraid, that his heart is soft (disheartened) – he should go back home.” But why? Why would the cowardly-acting warrior allowed to go back home? He has no home to dedicate, no vineyard to harvest, to wife to take – nothing, in fact, to wait for. So why? In one of my favorite movies, A Few Good Men (already known to loyal readers of this blog), Col. Nathan Jessop – played by Jack Nicholson in a career-defining role – comes face to face with the same exact question. In the movie, a failing Marine – Private William Santiago – is asking to a transfer from Gitmo, where he is currently stationed under the command of Jessop, primarily due to poor performance (a “sub-standard marine,” in Jessop’s language). Jessop, in turn, is consulting with two of his officers about the request. The two provide opposite solutions - one (Kiefer Sutherland) suggests he stays and be “re-educated,” while the other (J.T. Walsh) recommends he would be transferred as requested, as he simply is not fit to be a part of the team. Upon hearing that, Col. Jessup’s response is memorable:

Col. Jessep: Hmmmm... transfer Santiago. Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'm sure that's the thing to do. Wait a minute, I have a better idea. Let's transfer the whole squad off the base. Let's... On second thought, Windward! Let's transfer the whole Windward Division off the base. John, go on out there get those boys down off the fence, they're packing their bags. Tom! 
Tom: Yes, sir! 

Col. Jessep: Get me the President on the phone right away. We're surrendering our position in Cuba!

Tom: Yes, sir. 

Col. Jessep: Wait a minute, Tom, don't get the President just yet. Maybe we should consider this a second. Dismissed, Tom. Maybe, and I'm just spit balling here, maybe, we have a responsibility as officers to train young William. Maybe we as officers have a responsibility to this country to see to it that the men and women charged with its security are trained professionals. Yes, I'm certain I remember reading that somewhere once. And now I'm thinking, Col. Markinson, that your suggestion of transferring Santiago, while expeditious and certainly painless, might not be, in a matter of speaking, the American way. Santiago stays where he is. We're gonna train the lad! 

The biblical solution, however, is different. The bible suggests to release the “William Santyago’s” of the world, and to enable them to go back home prior to the war. But why? The answer is striking: “For he shall not melt his brethren’s heart as his own,” meaning – that his cowardness (and, in modern terms, “sub-standard performance”) would not be infectious. The interesting point here is on the focus: While Col. Jessup is focusing on “Young William” himself, the biblical text is more concerned with the effect such soldiers may have on their brothers-in-arms. Who is more right?   

3.      The Law of the King

This point is interesting only because of the striking contrast between the biblical Order (T’zivuy, like “Mitzvah”), and biblical Reality. Long before Shaul, our first King (and the tension that that institution created with Shmu’el, the head of the religious establishment at the time), the biblical text warns the people of Israel from an opulent king, who would be extremely extravert about his status. But reality, as it happens, is quite the contrast. Let us compare the writings here with the story of King Shlomo (Salomon):

Deut. 17:16: “(The King) should not have many horses… “

King Shlomo (Kings I, 5:6): “And King Shlomo had forty thousands stalls of horses, for his chariots, and twelve thousand horsemen.”

Deut.: “And he (The King) should not many women…”

King Shlomo: “And he (King Shlomo) had seven hundred (primary) wives, and three hundred concubines…” (King I, 11:4)

Deut.: “And he (The King) should not amass silver and gold….”

King Shlomo: “And all King Shlomo’s drinking vessels were of gold, and all the vessels of the house of the forest of Levanon were of pure gold; none were of silver – that was considered nothing gin the days of Shlomo… “

You get the idea.  

4.      Biblical “Green Heritage”?

Finally, a very interesting note – or warning, perhaps – appears in an unexpected place in the text. The subject of the discussion is the law of siege – what should you do while besieging a city “for many days.” And while we may expect the text to suggest to perhaps spare the lives of the women and children in the city, the text suddenly turn to discuss something completely different: the lives of the trees near the city. And here is what the bible tells us: “When in your war against a city you have to besiege it for many days in order to fight and capture it, you shall not destroy its trees or wield an ax over them, for you shall eat from that tree and you shall not cut it for a man is merely a tree in the field.” (Deut. 20:19) This last sentence, by the way, is the title of a beautiful poem by Nathan Zach, where he compares the growing of a tree to that of a human. (For a wonderful rendition, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiswDU4JZSY).

Importantly, this shows us the great “green heritage” of the bible – which considers the lives of the trees in general, and in particular in times of war.

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron  

Parashat Re'eh, Deut. 11:26 -16:17

This week’s portion – Re’eh (literally, “see” as in “See, today I hand down to you both a blessing and a course”) – is, in a sense, a continuation of last week’s portion; these notes, therefore, may also follow suit. As you may recall, last week we introduced the notion of the “love” of God (not to be confused with the opposite notion of “for the love of God!”).  We saw two different views as to how to interpret that notion: the first, according to Halacha (Leibovitz, Rambam), which is a more “objective” notion of love (and translates into following all the rules and committing all the Mitzvoth). The second, according to other interpretation, which is more a “subjective,” internal notion of the (very deep, and very strong) relationship with God.

Today I want to continue this discussion, from the more objective point of view, by looking at the actual ways in which we are to love our God. In particular, I want to point to the complete experience of the faithful person. I want to suggest that a man of faith both sees, hears, taste, smells, and touches – not his God, but rather his experience of loving God. And then there are other dimensions. In short, the love of God – according to the biblical text – is a multi-sense, multi-level process. Today I will simply point to the text of this week’s portion to demonstrate this point.

Love of God – An Experience for All Five Senses

This week’s portion begins with – and therefore is named after – the order to see (Re’eh). God is ordering us to “see” the fact that he’s handing us both a blessing and a course; the blessing, of course, for following him (and as I have explained in the past, the blessing is in the act of following him; there is no need for additional rewards – Emu’na Le’shma (a belief for its own sake)). The course, is, naturally, for the opposite case (And again – no need for classic “punishment” here; suffice it is that a person goes through his entire life in the empty and shallow way of – according to this line of thought – not having a God in their lives; that, alone, constitutes enough of a punishment).

After “to see” comes “to hear” (or “to listen” – in Hebrew, both collapse into one word in that context.) Last week, we had the classic “to hear” – Sh’ma Israel; Hear, Oh Israel. But this week, too, the verb “to hear” appears immediately after the order “to see”: “The blessing [is that] you will listen to the orders of God (Mitvoth) that I order upon you today; and the course – if you shall not listen [to the same]. (Deut. 11:26-27). The command “to hear” appears several more times this week, and in some cases in key settings (see, e.g., “Be guarded and hear everything that I order upon you today.” Deut. 12:28)

Next comes “to taste.” And this week’s portion if full of tasting requirements – both in the positive (“you may eat meat in any of your settlements,” Deut. 12:15), and in the negative (of which this week’s provides us with the most famous example: “You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” Deut. 14:21). Plenty of other examples exist in this week’s portion to demonstrate how much “tasting” is involved in the loving of God.  

The next sense – “to smell” – is the single exception to the five senses in that it does not directly appear in the text. Still, a quick look into the text may reveal that “smell” is all around us.  Take, for example, Deut. 12:27: “You shall offer your burnt offerings, both the flesh and the blood, on the altar of the Lord your God; and of your other sacrifices, the blood shall be poured out on the altar of the Lord your God, and you shall eat the flesh.” Can’t you just “smell” the scene? Again, my point here is not to show that we are ordered to smell; my point is to show that the experience of a faithful person – he who truly loves God – are a multi-sense experience of belief.

Last, but not least, comes the sense of touch. Naturally, we cannot “touch” God – but we can neither see, hear, taste, or smell Him either (recall that this is not my point here). But our experience of faith – our experience of loving God – is full of “touch.”  Thus, we are ordered to “tear down” all non-Jewish pillars (Deut. 12:3); to “burn down” their gods (Id.); to “offer blessing” (blood and flesh and all) (Deut. 12:14-15); and many, many other examples where we are ordered to do things “by hand.”

Love of God – Beyond the Five Senses

But the five senses, it seems, are only the starting point for the experience.  This week’s potion text is full of other orders that make the process of loving God – the process of faith – even more complete than that. Thus, for example, we are ordered:

“To rejoice before the Lord.” (Deut. 12:12);

“To do what is good and right in the eyes of the Lord.” (Deut. 12:28)

“[As to your indigent neighbor] – you shall open your hand to him, and you shall provide him enough for his needs.” (Deut. 16:7-8).

These are all but examples – samples, really – of what is required from the person of faith. He, or she, are fortunate enough to have God in their lives; but they are also bound by a 360-degree experience, encompassing all their senses – and more – in every step on their daily lives. As the Sh’ma reads  - this experience is with us when we are at home or outside, when we lie down in our bed or walk about our ways in the world.

The best summary, as usual, was given by the portion itself. When the text discusses the law of a “false prophet” – he who would try to persuade you that you should follow another God, the text concludes:

“Do not heed to the words of that prophet or that dream diviner, for the Lord your God is testing your to see whether you really love the Lord your God with all your heart and all of your soul; and you shall follow you God, and you shall see Him, and you keep his Orders (Mithvoth), and you shall listen to His voice, and you shall worship Him, and you shall stick to Him.” (Deut. 13:4-5).

Can you think of a more comprehensive experience?

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron