Pareshath Vayigash

This week's paresha contains a brief interchange between Ya'akobh and Hashem, in a vision during the night on the way to Egypt. It barely registers in the flow of the narrative, but there are a couple of textual clues indicating that this is rather a big deal. First, we have the opening of the dialogue: twice, Hashem calls Ya'akobh's name, and Ya'akobh responds, "Hineini". This structure appears in exactly two other places in the Tanakh, at the climax of the 'akeidhath Yitzḥak (the binding of Yitzḥak), and again when Moshe stands before the burning bush. Second, the body of God's message opens, "Al tiyra..." (Do not fear). Each of the abhoth received exactly one such message in the Tora. Abhraham at the berith bein habetharim (the covenant between the parts, the first time that God's promises to Abhraham were formalized as a covenant), and Yitzḥak after he digs the wells 'Eisek, Sitna, and Reḥobhoth (associated with the three Temples) and ascends to Beeir Shabha'.

What makes these few verses into a major inflection point in the story of the Jewish people? Here, we enter galuth. Exile. Each time a patriarch is told, "Al tiyra," we do not see immediate cause for fear, but there is a recurring pattern of darkness. The prophecy of galuth is first revealed to Abhraham at that time. Each time, God's promised comfort is offered with "anokhi", and emphatic form of the first person pronoun, and the promise follows an escalating pattern; not greater in extravagance, but greater in intimacy. To Abhraham, God promises, "anokhi maghein lakh", I will be a shield to you. To Yitzḥak, the promise is "itkha anokhi", I am with you. To Ya'akobh, "anokhi eireidh 'imkha Mitzrayma", I will go down to Egypt with you. There are two Hebrew words for with, et and 'im, the former used with Yitzḥak and denoting proximity, the latter used with Ya'akobh and denoting togetherness of a deeper sort. The gathering darkness is matched by Hashem drawing close in a crescendo that peaks here, at this night in Beeir Shabha'.

What does this have in common with the 'akeidha, and with the burning bush? Ya'akobh is being called to a test. Until this night, he seems eager to make the journey and be reunited with his beloved Yoseph. His spirit revives, and he is once more Yisrael. Many commentators read his stop here and the sacrifices he brings before his vision as a request for permission, given that his father was told in that place not to descend to Egypt during a famine. The answer he receives seems to shake him. He becomes simply Ya'akobh once more, and from here on to Egypt he must be carried rather than continue under his own power. Upon arrival, despite seeing Yoseph, his joy is not unmixed, as he proclaims that he is ready to die, and that his days of life have been short and bitter. Presumably, more is revealed in these visions than the words indicate. I imagine that he sees all the suffering that is to come from this journey. Abarbanel makes clear here that Ya'akobh is not commanded to go down to Egypt. God's plan is laid out before him, but he must accept it. We have a mirror image of his wrestling match with the angel. Leaving the land rather than entering, he transitions from Yisrael to Ya'akobh, but the result is much the same. He succeeds, passes the test and proceeds toward the destiny that he is heir to, but his successes are not glorious and resounding like Abhraham's. He emerges wounded, less mobile than before. In many ways, I find his tests more inspiring.

Shabath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Parshioth Vayeshebh & Miketz

Sorry to have missed last week's post; I was at a wedding. However, these parshioth rather naturally flow together, so it was not such a stretch to find a topic that straddles the two. There is a shoresh (root) that is used quite frequently through the story of Yoseph and his brothers, despite being rather infrequent in the rest of the ḥumash: variations on nikar, recognition, are absolutely central to this narrative. True, Yoseph's hidden identity makes this an important plot device, but I think that there is more to the matter. The fact that Yoseph recognizes his brothers is conspicuously repeated in consecutive verses, subject to significantly greater emphasis than their failure to reciprocate, which is the plot relevant point. 

What exactly is the meaning of this root? First let us compare to where else it appears. There are two categories. First, in the rest of sepher Bereishith, it is used three times, once in each of three stories, each with a strong connection to the story of Yoseph. The first time, Yitzḥak does not recognize Ya'akobh when the latter seeks the brakha in disguise; sibling rivalry and mistaken identity, the clear case with no hints needed. The second, Ya'akobh demands that Labhan recognize whatever is rightfully his in the camp, unaware that Raḥeil has stolen his idols; in case we missed the parallel to the scene where Yoseph's steward finds the goblet in Binyamin's pack, the midrash makes the reference explicit. The third is at the trial of Tamar, when she insists that Yehudha recognize the sureties that he left her; this story comes in the middle of the broader cycle of Yoseph and his brothers, and there are various other textual clues that point to a parallel (one that I had thought to develop last week was Yehudha's comparison of himself to Tamar, as though he had lately been in similar circumstances and failed to rise to her level on that occasion, when the only other story we have seen him involved with was the sale). The root is never used through Shemoth, Vayikra, and Bamidhbar. The second category is the collection in sepher Debharim. At this point in the text, it is used almost invariably in a derogatory fashion, a reference to corruption and bias. Judges are repeatedly exhorted not to "recognize" faces in judgment. The Leviim are praised for refusing to "recognize" at the time of ḥeit ha'eigel (the sin of the golden calf).

Clearly, the term does not simply mean "to identify". If so, it would be imperative that true justice should recognize every particular of its subjects. Rather, we see that every instance involves a recognition not of the object itself, but of its relationship to the subject. Hakarath hatobh, gratitude, is not recognition of some abstract good, but recognition of good with regard to yourself. It is the most subjective form of knowledge, in many ways more self-knowledge than knowledge of the one recognized. 

This reading encompasses both the uses in Bereishith and those in Debharim, but it does not yet account for the clear bifurcation in use. For the patriarchs, this sort of discernment seems absolutely essential. Clearly, Yehudha is unfit to rule until his confrontation with Tamar, which takes the form, "Haker-na...Vayaker Yehudha..." (Please recognize... and Yehudha recognized). Similarly, when Yoseph haTzadhik recognizes his brothers, this is clearly to his credit and leads to the peaceful and whole-hearted reunion of the family. Recall that double language I mentioned at the beginning. There are some explanations for that in the classical commentaries; the strongest on the level of peshat, in my mind, is that at first he recognized them as a group, and then he interacted with them and knew each one individually. However, I would like to propose a different reading. Instead of translating verse 32:8, "And Yoseph recognized his brothers, and they did not recognize him," we can translate, "And Yoseph recognized his brothers, whereas they had not recognized him." He recognized their relation to him, his obligation to them beyond any claim of justice, in the way that they failed to do when they saw him twenty two years earlier despite knowing full well who he was at that time. A simple reading presents the sale as an act of anger and jealousy, deeply personal, but ḥazal reject that reading. They see the brothers as acting to protect the nation from disastrous misrule under a vain, ambitious, unscrupulous tyrant in the making. Perhaps, without the adversity that followed, their judgment would have been entirely accurate. When they repent, they say not that they had been unjust, but unmerciful. Seemingly, they followed the principles that Moshe would later lay down in Debharim. So, what was the crime? 

Bereishith establishes the roots of the nation. The foundations rely on bias. Veahabhta lerei'akha kamokha, love your fellow as yourself. According to Rabbi Akibha, this is a kelal gadhol, an all-encompassing principle of the Tora. Much of the law is designed to inculcate partiality, requiring obligation toward other Jews that goes beyond the strictures of justice. To allow yourself to be impartial rips the fabric of society, separates you from the community. Never-the-less, a mature nation about to take up the burden of sovereignty, as we find in Debharim, must have law. It is a paradox. We cannot be both judge and kinsman. Society cannot function if we are not judges, and cannot exist if we are not kinsmen. For now, the best answer I can see is, in this matter, as in so much, seek balance.
Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!
Ḥanuka sameiḥa!

Pareshath Vayishlaḥ

I have been traveling this week, and I haven't a full drash on the paresha prepared. However, in talmudh Torah, often a good question is better than a good answer. So, I will relate the question I hoped to investigate and answer, again working off the Yalkut Shim'oni; perhaps the explanation will be clear to the reader. If so, please share your thoughts.

Typically, midrashim are extremely terse commentaries on particular verses. Although these verses are often discussed at length, this usually takes the form of alternative opinions. In this week's paresha, however, there are two exceptions to this structure, with far too many parallels for coincidence. Each jumps off from a point of tense, but peaceful, relations between Ya'akobh's family and their neighbors. In both cases, the midrash posits that there was a later war that goes unmentioned in the text, and goes on to at great length to describe the war in a vivid narrative that would be far more at home in the Illiad than in the rabbinic corpus. At least Sepher Yehoshu'a or Sophrim. In both cases, Yehudha plays the heroic protagonist leading the fight, which is not so surprising, but also in both, Naphtali is one of the most prominent supporting characters, which is more surprising.

Specifically, the first is in the aftermath of the destruction of Shekhem, when the surrounding nations dare not take vengeance for the city, for the terror of God was upon them. The midrash claims that this was only at that time. Later, Ya'akobh and family return to settle in Shekhem, and the inhabitants of the land are outraged; what chutzpah, to live in the very site of their crime, in the very houses of their victims! They make war, but contra Ya'akobh's dire prediction to his sons, they are decisively defeated. One by one, over several days, their armies are driven from the field and their fortified cities stormed. In the end, the Amorites make peace, and Benei Yisrael return to the survivors all the loot and pillage they have accumulated.

The latter midrash comes as 'Eisav departs the land on account of his brother, building a kingdom to the south with his Kana'ani in-laws. The midrash again claims, this was only at that time. Later, just after Leia dies, the family of Ya'akobh is in mourning, and 'Eisav comes with four thousand men to wipe them out. Ya'akobh speaks words of peace and reconciliation, which are met with arrows and rocks until Yehudha takes charge and leads a counterattack. Yehudha heads south, leading Naphtali and Gadh, Reuvein goes north accompanied by Yissokhar and Zebhulun, Levi goes east accompanied by Dan and Asher, and Shim'on goes west accompanied by Binyamin and Ḥanokh ben Reuvein (Yoseph had already been sold at this point). For comparison, in the wilderness the order of camp was Yehudha in the east accompanied by Yissokhar and Zebhulun, Reuvein in the south accompanied by Shim'on and Gadh, Ephraim (Levi is removed from this count, and so Yoseph is split into two) in the west accompanied by Menashe and Binyamin, and Dan in the north accompanied by Asher and Naphtali. Completely different, but the same fourfold division with one leader and two subordinates in each cardinal direction. The forces of Edom are fought off and almost entirely killed, including some of 'Eisav's sons and, according to one opinion, 'Eisav himself. The remnant flee back to their southern kingdom and thenceforth live in peace.

What are we to make of these? Fantasies of a muscular and victorious Judaism in the aftermath of the disastrous wars with Rome? Mystical allegories of spiritual struggle and the messianic age? I don't know. Why here, twice in this paresha, so different in style, methodology, and content from what we have come to expect? This paresha was studied by the rabbis before they would undertake diplomatic missions to Rome, seeing the exemplar of Jewish relation to the goyishe world in Ya'akobh's approach to his estranged brother and re-entry into his estranged land. In this paresha, Ya'akobh doubly becomes Yisrael. First, from his mysterious adversary in the dark, connected with his encounter with 'Eisav. Second, from the word of God in the immediate aftermath of the incident at Shekhem. Are those answers? No, but they might become answers. Again, I welcome your thoughts.

Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Pareshath Vayeitzei

This week, Raḥeil imeinu complains to her husband, demanding children lest she be as the dead. Ya'akobh responds angrily. Nechama Liebowitz discusses some of the explanations for his anger in the rabbinic tradition. One that struck me was a passage from Rav Yitzḥak Arama. He drew from the story of creation, where Adam's wife is given two names, Isha and Ḥava. Ya'akobh was angry because Raḥeil only recognized the latter name, that of motherhood, and neglected that woman also has a name that parallels the masculine Iysh to teach that women have equal potential for moral and intellectual accomplishment to men. The good deeds of the righteous are accounted as their offspring, beginning incomprehensible chains of effect that continue to shape the world long after their author has passed therefrom. How, then, can a righteous woman like Raḥeil claim that she is completely bereft? For the record, whatever his justifications, the rabbis castigate Ya'akobh for rebuking his wife for her cry of distress. In any case, this is a very nice vort, and moved me to branch out from characterizations of noteworthy men and try to investigate Laban's daughters.
We are not given much in the way of detail about our matriarchs. For Raḥeil and Leia, we almost no direct description beyond Bereishith 29:17, "Ve'einei Leia rakoth, veRaḥeil haytha yephath-toar viyphath mare." (And Leia's eyes were soft, and Raḥeil was beautiful of form and beautiful to look at.) Perhaps that is because all the glory of the king's daughter is within, but we are given this glimpse, so let us make the most of it. 

Interestingly, these descriptors are not particularly common in the Tora. Where else it appears, for good or for ill, rakh is often paired with some form of 'anugh, the same root as 'onegh, tender and delightful. There are several explanations in the commentaries, but to my mind they are all variations on the theme of sensitivity. Those more inclined to peshat (plain meaning) say that her eyes were beautiful and gentle. Others draw on a midrash that she was originally to wed 'Eisav, but she inquired as to his character, and when she heard the sorts of things I wrote last week, she wept and prayed until the decree was nullified. A few connect this verse to the earlier meeting between Raḥeil and Ya'akobh at the well; why was only Raḥeil a shepherdess? Leia's eyes were pained by bright sunlight and sharp winds. This is in some ways a praiseworthy trait, but it also leaves her unable to handle adversity. We see this sensitivity again as the children are born. Ya'akobh loved Raḥeil more than Leia, and so Leia felt hated. Rav Hirsch sees the progression of names as an indication that her hopes were realized and that the children truly healed the gap between her and her husband, but Rav Sacks sees the opposite. Either way, she seems to find some measure of peace by the time Yehudha is born. According to Shim'on ben Yoḥai, she was the first to truly thank God since the time of creation. Her subsequent children, including those she  mothers through Zilpa, are also named in ways that seem to express contentment and a simple desire to build up the house of Yisrael (Zebhulun reverts to form at the end; needs further investigation).
Her sister is characterized not by how she sees the world, but by how the world sees her. Interesting that the more active is described more as an object and the more passive described more as a subject. There are only two other places in Tanakh where we see quite the same elaborate set of beauties that Raḥeil possesses. Her son, Yoseph, is described in very similar terms. Also, the symbols for the seven years of plenty in Pharaoh's dreams are each described as beautiful of form and beautiful to look at. Both very strongly associated with worldly prosperity and abundance. Raḥeil's struggles with fertility alongside her fecund sister reiterates the point from the last paresha that children are mentioned in the spiritual blessing, but absent from the material blessing. Similarly, Leia enjoys the blessing of eretz Yisrael in a much fuller way than Raḥeil's brief and painful sojourn. What comes with material blessing? Raḥeil's main observed trait, in my view, is that she is never content, always driven. The first words we hear her speak are those mentioned in my introduction, insisting that she must have children. The names she chooses lack the optimism and gratitude of Leia's children, always including some dissatisfaction. Dan, for God has judged her and also listened to her voice; Ḥizkuni and Sephorno pick up on that "also" to say that the judgment she refers to is against her, that she is barren and not that she was able to bear through Bilha. That judgment is the part of the explanation that is actually connected to the name itself, adding more than a note of discontent. Naphtali is not so straightforward, etymologically, but the plainest reading is that she has struggled with her sister in a holy matter, and even if she has not prevailed, she has proved capable. Yoseph, to add, that she should add another son. Ben Oni, child of my suffering, obviously does not break that trend. The jealousy that she feels for her sister is part of the same restless striving. Despite the fact that she has the greater share of their husband's love, love which Leia clearly craves, the only jealousy we see is Raḥeil's. This jealousy bothered the sages. At the time of the first wedding ceremony, surely Raḥeil must have known that she was not the bride, and yet she did not interfere. Indeed, the midrash teaches that she actively participated in the illusion, so that her sister should not be rejected and disgraced. Clearly, she loved her sister deeply, and was capable of selflessness on her behalf; why should she now be jealous? They answer that she was jealous of the righteousness by which Leia merited so many children. She allowed herself jealousy only to prod herself to strive ever harder, focusing her prayers to the point that only she, of all our saintly forebears, would be heeded in her plea for mercy when the nation went into exile. Sanctification of the material reaches the highest spiritual peaks.

Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Pareshath Toledhoth

I spoke about Yishma'el, now let us speak about 'Eisav. Ya'akobh's hirsute brother is much more the consummate villain, but that does not make him a straightforward character. According to one way of reading the text, he is a boorish simpleton, tricked time and again by clever Ya'akobh. Jewish brains against goyishe brawn. Would such an adversary be worthy of his place as antagonist to the Jewish people? The traditional understanding takes a nearly opposite tack. (Unless otherwise referenced, all midrashim below can be found in the Yalkut Shim'oni).

What do we know of 'Eisav? We know that he is an "ish yodhea' tzayidh, ish sadhe", translated by JPS as a cunning hunter, a man of the field. Tzayidh is an interesting word, only really associated with one other character in Tanakh: Nimrodh, the great dictator and hunter of men, founder of the first empire. It can mean to hunt or trap, but is also connected to roots for plotting and secrets. But where Nimrodh is a ghibor tzayidh, a hunter by dint of might and valor, 'Eisav is a yodhea' tzayidh, one who knows the hunt, using his intellect to trap and kill, doubling down on those associations of stratagem already present in the word. This is the opposite of his brother, the ish tam, a wholesome man. Similarly, the man of the fields is contrasted to the man of tents, the farmer/shepherd dichotomy that starts with Kayin and Habhel and appears again prominently in Egypt. These roots also contain more than their simple meaning; sadhe, field, is related to productivity and material sustenance, whereas ohel, tent, is related to radiant light. Here also, we see a certain sophistication in worldly matters contrasted with moral and spiritual qualities. Yitzḥak is said to love 'Eisav on account of the hunt in his mouth. According to the midrash, this means that 'Eisav would put his skills as a hunter to work in discourse with his father, appearing to be a righteous man by asking about the tithes on salt and hay.

How does this sophistication and self control relate to his monstrous appetites? We see him spurn his birthright to sate his hunger, and midrashically he habitually raped married women from the age of fifteen until forty. However, it is not clear that this was an inherent aspect of his personality. His first sin, at the age of thirteen, was that he began in secret to attend houses of idolatry. After two years of this intellectual corruption, his grandfather Abhraham is gathered to his people. 'Eisav's greatest moral strength lies in kibudh abh, his respect for his father and by extension his grandfather, and this event shatters what is left of his faith. He says to himself, "If grandfather died, then there is no reward for righteousness," and he throws himself into hedonism of the most violent and selfish sort, starting with murder and rape. Returning wearied from this dramatic loss of innocence, he finds his brother cooking the funeral meal and demands it. In the ensuing encounter, he plays the dark and warped version of Koheleth (Ecclesiastes), our philosopher king par excellence; with death coming, only this world matters, and so the exalted spiritual birthright of Abhraham is not worth even a bowl of soup (it seems clear from what follows that Ya'akobh gains no particular claim to the material inheritance; indeed it is not clear that he shares in Yitzḥak's wealth at all in the end). I understand this exchange to be a division of the roles of spiritual and material leadership, along the same lines that Yitzḥak seems to intend years later at the giving of the brakhoth, which division Ribhka decisively rejects and undermines. So, we have a picture of an active, vigorous, intelligent, kingly man who feels entitled to everything the material world has to offer and who justifies acting out his darkest desires through an erroneous moral framework. A true tragic hero in the classical mold, great in his potential and great in his flaw. No wonder, given this understanding, that the rabbis identify him with Rome.
Rav Yakov Medan draws a convincing parallel between him and Dovidh haMelekh, the beloved of God, in his relation to the world. Dovidh also was red haired, a warrior, hunter, and bandit. However, Dovidh also has God always before his eyes and on his lips. The hands of 'Eisav and the voice of Ya'akobh, the combination that so bewildered Yitzḥak. Only through such a union, the spiritual and the physical in one, can redemption come. Ribhka saw this, and arranged that Ya'akobh should have the blessing of the material world for his posterity, to enable that combination.

Obviously, there is much more to say, but I think that is as good a stopping place as any I am like to find. I could try to draw out a lesson, but I think there is a place for a more literary reading as well as the ethical. So,

Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Pareshath Ḥayei Sara

This week, Abhraham abhinu expresses his rather vehement preference that his son should marry a daughter of his lineage and avoid a local Kena'anith. Rav Hirsch asks on this point, why the distinction? These and those are both idolaters, so what makes one better than the other? His answer is that the Kena'anim are morally degenerate, whereas the family back in Ḥaran is simply misguided on an intellectual level; an intellectual error can be rectified much more simply through education, whereas moral development is much more deeply ingrained. Another classic answer to the same question relies on Abhraham's use of the phrase, "asher anokhi yoshebh bekirbo" (amongst whom I dwell), to say that the essential difference is isolation from the reinforcement of the idolatrous in-laws; without their influence, she can be brought to proper faith and piety, but surrounded by relatives who model the opposite and encourage her to do the same, the odds are not good. 

These answers are neat enough, but the question is off. There is a much stronger question that must be asked instead: we know that Naḥor and his descendants are idolaters, but we also know that Abhraham was a masterful proselytizer, and had many followers and disciples in Kena'an. Eli'ezer, the servant sent as shadchan (matchmaker), was a righteous man. 'Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre are called ba'alei berith Abhraham (either treaty-bound allies of Abhraham or members of the covenant of Abhraham), and they are considered righteous men. Melkhitzedhek was called kohein le-El 'elyon, priest to God most high, and is midrashically identified with Shem, son of Noaḥ. In Kena'an, unlike Gerar or Mitzrayim, Abhraham sees no need to dissemble from the lack of fear of God in the land. So, we are not left with a choice between two groups of idolaters, unsure what differentiates them, but between a strong community of monotheists and a distant group of idolaters. Indeed, Ramban explicitly and Rashi implicitly understand the above quoted phrase, "amongst whom I dwell", as coming to teach that Abhraham's instructions were specifically against taking a wife from these righteous local allies and disciples.
So, how are we to understand this choice? Ramban writes that current good behavior is not enough to overcome the curse of Ḥam, and Abhraham cannot countenance the marriage of blessing to curse. I do not see how he can take that position when Abhraham himself consents to be united with Haghar, herself a daughter of Ḥam. I would like to propose a different solution. Perhaps the issue is not, as it seems at first, the bride, but rather the groom. Abhraham has accepted the lesson from the last paresha, that the spiritual life of the nation is entering a new phase, and that his son is not suited to follow the model that served him so well. I think that the contrast between Abhraham's relationship to the surrounding nations and Yitzḥak's is best illustrated by their experiences in Gerar, so similar in so many respects, but fundamentally different. Abhraham dwells among the Pilishtim and is beloved by them, and they enter into covenant with him while he is in their midst. Yitzḥak also dwells among the Pilishtim, but he inspires envy and strife until he is driven out. However, after that, as he dwells apart, they come to recognize his Godliness and enter into covenant with him as well. 

This reflects a deep tension through Jewish history as we relate to the nations. How are we to be a light? Do we go out among them, teaching and preaching, building relationships and integrating? Or do we allow them to live as they please, focusing on ensuring that our own distinct community is a model ready for them to look to when they are ready to see it? As in most such tensions, each has its place and balance must be our end. Abhraham recognized that his strength was not his son's, and that Yitzḥak would need to live a life of much greater separation to realize his unique potential. As such, he sought a wife who would not perforce draw his son into the local community with all its mess and politics in which he would flounder. He sought a woman who would be as much an outsider as Yitzḥak, perfectly suited to join him in the wilderness, digging wells from whose living waters all people will eventually draw blessing.

Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Pareshath Vayera

I find the character of Yishma'el fascinating. He is often paired with 'Eisav, the two rejected sons of the avoth (the patriarchs) (benei Ketura notwithstanding), but his relationship with Yisrael is far less straightforward. 'Eisav is associated with Rome, that greatest oppressor of the Jews, combing the humiliation of Bavel (Babylon), the bald slaughter of Paras (Persia), and the assimilationist pressure of Yavan (Greece), managing to far outdo each of its predecessors in their own area of expertise; and he is further distinguished as the progenitor of 'Amalek, the ideological negation of Yisrael. Yishma'el, on the other hand, is one of those rare figures that the rabbinic tradition leaves as neither hero nor villain. Sometimes he is accused of great sin: Rashi connects the "mitzaḥek" that motivates Sarah to have him exiled to the three cardinal sins of 'abhodha zara (idolatry), giluy 'arayoth (illicit sexual relations), and retziḥa (murder). But then again, Ramban responds that it is outrageous to suppose someone raised in the house of Abhraham would act thusly, and even Rashi agrees that he repented later in life. He is the only person in the Torah called "adham" save for the progenitor himself, literally a mensch. We have a number of great rabbis who bear his name, despite the tradition to avoid the names of the wicked. Yet, despite all in his favor, he is not considered fit to remain a part of the trunk of the nation. Sarah says that he must go, and God supports her.

So, what does this ambivalent character represent? The three avoth are often connected to midhath haḥesedh, the outpouring of emotion that breaks down all barriers and flows toward oneness (Abhraham); midhath hagebhura, the analytic precision that puts everything in its proper place and orders creation (Yitzḥak); and midhath hatiphereth, the harmonious balance between the former and the latter (Ya'akobh). Interesting digression: Rav Matis Weinberg understands this whole paresha as providing a gradual transition for the spiritual life of the people from ḥesedh to din -- every time Abhraham runs, hurries, or wakes up to do something (almost everything he does this week), he finds himself a little closer to din, culminating in 'akeidhath Yitzḥak where Yitzḥak really becomes the dominant force, although the narrative transition waits until the next paresha.
By this understanding, both Yishma'el and 'Eisav are far more their fathers' sons than their younger brothers who are chosen to inherit. They represent the dangers of imbalance. They may also represent these midhoth to the nations; the Vilna Gaon has an interesting comment to God's promise to make a nation of Yishma'el, that there are traditionally seventy nations, and seventy already accounted for, but seventy often really means seventy-two, with two set apart and above, as is the case in the Sanhedrin, with seventy elders, one Abh haBeith Din (head of the court), and one Nasi (prince or president). Thus, there is room for Yishma'el and 'Eisav to father nations, and indeed a special place of leadership for them. This idea works nicely with the traditional identification of 'Eisav with Christianity and Yishma'el with Islam.
The dangers of excess gebhura seem clear enough, as stated in the first paragraph regarding 'Eisav. Every sort of tyranny and oppression. Yishma'el, the opposite figure, is described as the freest of men by Rav Hirsch, and full heir to those most typical gifts of Abhraham's ḥesedh: generous hospitality and a powerfully monotheistic intuition. Not so bad. But also dangerous. It means that "his hand shall be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell in the face of all his brethren." The generous spirit, untempered by din, is incompatible with society, order, and ultimately peace. Vehameibhin yabhin.

Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

Pareshat VeZot HaBrakha

Turns out it is a little harder to learn in the sukkah amidst snacks and games than in the beit midrash, so this week will be on the short and simple side.

One thing that has always bothered me about this week's paresha is the absence of Shim'on. Surely, the Jewish people are not complete without every tribe, every sort of Jew. 

The Abarbanel notes that Moshe's brakha differs from Ya'akov's in its focus on the land. Ya'akov addresses each of his sons according to their characters, and the way in which that will affect their places in the nation. Moshe addresses the tribes according to their portions in the inheritance, which impacts their role in a different way. Ya'akov deems two of his sons, in their character, unworthy of such a portion, cursing them that they should be divided and dispersed. Those sons are Shim'on and Levi. And yet, despite sharing equally in Ya'akov's condemnation, Levi merits praise and blessing from Moshe. So really, the question is reversed; not, "Why is Shim'on excluded?", but "Why is Levi included?". Note that a significant portion of Levi's blessing consists of praise for the behavior of the Levites during the journey through the wilderness. The only other tribe whose actions are similarly mentioned is Gad, in an enigmatic verse extolling the tribe for being first to claim their portion, a decision that Moshe was far from thrilled by initially. The mepharshim explain that that verse was not so much a blessing as a personal expression of gratitude, for without that act, whether or not it was praiseworthy in itself, Moshe could not have died and been buried in the land. By their request to settle on the east bank, they extended the land to include Moshe's grave. So, Levi's accolades remain unique. I think that they can be read not as praises so much as conditions, or explanations. Levi's portion is to be Hashem, and their support the tithes, but not because they are denied a share of land, Devarim 10:8-9 notwithstanding. They were not to receive land in any case. They receive a portion because they acted properly when the people were tested. Shim'on, by contrast, are most noted through the time in the wilderness for being the main sinners in the matter of ba'al peor.

This brings out an interesting tension that plays out in many ways through Tanakh. To what degree are we shaped by our ancestors, and to what extent free to make our own decisions? We see that through righteousness Levi is able to transcend the limitations of their curse and transform it into blessing. We have the freedom to set our own courses. However, there is no blank slate. Shim'on and Levi are both, ultimately, scattered and divided through the nation. Shim'on may have sinned in the wilderness, but so did many others who were not subject to the same punishment, because their starting points were not the same. The actions of their forefathers echo down through the generations, affecting every generation to come. Interesting to muse on as a ba'al teshuva.

Mo'adim leSimḥa!

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!

Pareshat Haazinu

For those who heard this drash last year, sorry. I hope it will still be interesting.

We call Hashem by many names, relating to him in different ways. Father, King, Savior, Creator, etc etc. This week's paresha emphasizes one such name, found nowhere else in the Torah as a reference to Hashem, but relatively common in later works, particularly tehillim (psalms), and tefilot (prayers). That name is Tzur, Rock. It is not so immediately evident how we are to relate to God in this way -- how do you relate to rocks generally? We have two explanations given in the Yalkut Shim'oni for the name: First haTzayar, the one who gives shape and form to matter. Don't forget about that, I will come back to it. There are then several midrashic treatments of haTakiph, the mighty one, whose characteristic might Rav Hirsch describes as the overpowering sort. In this role, the midrash describes God meting out reward and, much more so, punishment. Indeed, we see this theme prominently taken up by the rishonim, the medieval commentators. Rashi and Rashbam both say that these words refer to the punishments that he will send against the Jewish people, and Ramban says that they hint at midat hadin, the attribute of judgment. Clearly an idea with strong traditional support, brought here at the first instance of this way to refer to Hashem. However, when we look at how "Tzur" is used later on, in seems difficult to see it simply as an expression of din. Even within the paresha, we see "Tzur yeshu'ato", the Rock of his salvation, and "Tzur yeladkha", the Rock that gave you birth, and the post-ḥumash uses tend more toward that vein. Not exactly language of yira, of fear and awe.

To resolve this tension, I will recall to mind the first midrashic understanding of that pasuk, and connect it to another place where we see the word "tzur", albeit not as a name for Hashem. Everywhere in Tanakh that an implement is mentioned for berit mila (circumcision), that implement is always called "tzur". What is the role of the mohel? He cuts us, inflicting pain, in order that we may be brought closer to perfection. What is our attitude toward the mohel? Do we ask to be spared from his blade? Certainly we would be greatly upset if he cut any more than need be, or if he took pleasure in our pain, but we put our trust in him. We say, knowing that there will be pain, please cut according to your knowledge of what is needed, because we know that the result is worth the pain. So it is with Hashem in his attribute of strict justice. When we pray that he circumcise our hearts, do we expect that to be a painless process? Through his punishments, we are able to grow, we are shaped and given the form that is truly suitable for us. So, through the name Tzur, we relate to him in his judgment, but through bitaḥon (trust) rather than yira.

Why, then, do we pray for raḥamim (mercy), pleading that we not be held to account through strict justice? Should we not wish for a full punishment that will perfect us all at once? We are taught that not even the greatest tzadik can stand before Hashem's justice untempered by mercy. To seek such a shortcut is to court destruction. Raḥamim is needed to give us time to slowly improve, to take our due punishment bit by bit, to do teshuva and obviate the need for further correction through trial and tribulation. But that which has been decreed for us, do not think that it is too much or that God takes pleasure in our suffering, trust in his wisdom and his love. Try to grow from every pain that you experience.

Along those lines, a nice little story from yeshiva life. I don't generally go in for spooky hashgacha pratis (direct divine involvement) stories, but at least this one is in the first person, not about my roommate's aunt's friend. For background, I have had a bit of a problem with shaḥarit (morning services), historically. Really, with waking up in general. Now, a few days before Yom Kippur, I started feeling rather poorly. Headache, a little feverish, a bit dehydrated, and a sharp pain behind my eyes whenever I moved them. Naturally, my response was to drink vast quantities of water and sleep even more. Everything got worse. The headache especially became very nearly debilitating. Then, the day before Yom Kippur, I find myself awake and alert in good time to easily make it to davening, and feeling pretty good. I go, get through seliḥot, and start learning a little for the ten minutes until shaḥarit proper was scheduled to begin. As the davening is starting, I am in the middle of something, and I think maybe I will just finish a paragraph or two, and skip some of the opening psalms to catch up. BAM. Headache back instantly, and not subtly. I put away the book and start to daven, headache disappears again. Whole thing was maybe 2-3 seconds. Don't know how to explain it. But I know I am planning to work at being there on time in the future.

Back to the Torah, I would like to close with a question that I have been unable to resolve on this subject: our paresha ends with a reference to Moshe's sin with the waters at Kadesh. Now, when Moshe first brought forth water from a rock, at Rephidim, it was a tzur, and he was not criticized (Shemot 17). The second time, for which he was denied entry into the land, was water from a sela', a different word for rock with less connotation of hardness or sharpness (Bamidbar 20). How does this bear on our understanding of Hashem as a Tzur? I don't think that Hashem is ever referred to as a sela'.

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!

Pareshat Vayelekh

This week's paresha continues the coming of age narrative for the nation, but this time from the parent's perspective. Moshe Rabbeinu knows, from the revealed word of God, that the time has certainly come for him to relinquish his role as leader of the people, yet he seems stricken by concern for what will befall his community when he is not there to guide them. The week's tractate of mishnayot, Demai, reinforce this message of uncertainty. Contained therein are the laws regarding buying and selling produce with 'amei ha-aretz, those who are not completely reliable in their observance of the laws, in this case particularly the laws of tithing. What precautions can be taken by those who are meticulous to ensure that both they and their brethren keep the laws as closely as possible, despite the fact that they cannot know or control what the unlearned Jews will do the moment they are out of sight? 

Again and again, Moshe exhorts ḥazak ve-ematz, be strong and steadfast, first to the people and then repeatedly to Yehoshua'. Ḥazal (the sages of the Talmud) teach in a baraita (statements contemporary with the mishna, but not included therein) that four things require ḥizuk: Torah, ma'asim tovim (good deeds), tefila (prayer), and derekh eretz ("the way of the world", some combination of making a living, courtesy, and common decency). They go on connect the first two to our paresha, ḥazak baTorah ve-ematz bema'asim tovim. Rav Diskin questions, what is the difference between ḥizuk and amatz, that Torah should be attached to the former and ma'asim tovim to the latter, and further in that vein, how can the sages connect the amatz in the pasuk to ḥizuk in the baraita? He explains that ḥizuk is to be strengthened by something beyond yourself, and that it carries an implication of continual growth, whereas amatz is the quality of endurance without faltering. Torah is something for which maintenance is not so applicable; if you are involved with Torah, it continually strengthens you, and if you are not, then whatever knowledge you have will grow stale in your memory. Ma'asim tovim, on the other hand, even when you are deeply involved, there is continual temptation to let things slide, and so amatz becomes primary. However, the baraita comes to say that even there, ḥizuk is also needed; we should not be content with our good deeds, but always seek to do better and thereby be strengthened.

But exhortation is not enough. It fades with time. This paresha also contains the last two mitzvot of the Torah, that the people should be assembled every seven years for a public reading of the covenant, and that every individual should write for themselves a sefer Torah. At every stage of life, we must renew and re-enter the covenant, from early childhood where little is retained but the sense of awe and solemnity to the greatest scholar who knows every word being read by heart yet must still pay close attention. The covenant remains eternally the same every time, but we change and we see it in new ways. Similarly, with the mitzvah to write a sefer Torah, we must involve ourselves personally in our study and make it our own, yet do so without changing a letter.

Are these precautions enough? Clearly not. God tells Moshe explicitly that the people will, in due time, fall into sin, and our history well bears out that prediction. No matter how carefully you tithe, someone, somewhere is probably going to eat tevel (produce that is liable to be tithed, very strictly unkosher). Even the best parenting will not prevent your children from making choices that you disapprove of. I think that part of the message of this paresha is that that is unavoidable. Even Moshe, acting with close instruction from divine wisdom, and operating within a framework of kol Yisrael areivim ze ba ze (every Jew is a guarantor for every other), was unable to stop everyone else from making mistakes. We do what we can. What more can we do?

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!

Pareshat Nitzavim

As I mentioned earlier, I am accompanying my reading of the weekly paresha with the readings of mishna and nakh established by the Ben Ish Ḥai, the Seder HaMishmara. Until now, the tractates of mishna have had very clear connections with the paresha. However, this week was maseḥet Me'ila, the laws regarding personal benefit from things dedicated to sacred purposes. I was confounded, until I saw a midrash in the Yalkut Shim'oni on the first phrase of the last pasuk of the paresha. "To love the LORD thy God, to hearken to His voice, and to cleave unto Him; for that is thy life, and the length of thy days;". According to the midrash, this phrase refers to the study and fulfillment of Torah, and is ordered to teach that love of God must come first, and so that Torah must be learnt lishmah, for its own sake. It is not fitting to study so that you may be honored as a scholar, or so that you can gain monetarily. Perhaps this midrash is what the Ben Ish Ḥai had in mind, that Torah learning is in some sense subject to the laws of Me'ila.

But I digress. This midrashic identification of this verse with fulfillment of the Torah also resolves another question I had had, this one from long before. The previous verse reads, "I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before thee life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that thou mayest live, thou and thy seed;". Lovely, inspirational. Yet, as a teenage mored shamayim, I had a rather cynical take on that verse. How did I read it? I saw God playing the role of mafioso. Choose life, ie choose obedience lest I kill you. However, there are a number of textual problems that I missed at age fifteen. For instance, the Abarbanel notes that there are two Hebrew words generally used with regard to free will, ratzon and beḥira, with the former denoting will toward some freely chosen end and the latter denoting freely chosen means toward a given end. The word used here for choice is baḥarta, a form of the latter, and the sentence structure supports the idea that "life" is chosen as a means toward... life. Somewhat confusing. Also, in the choice presented, life and death precede blessing and curse. Looking at the blessings and curses from last week, one might be excused for thinking that blessing would enable continued life, and curse would quickly lead to death. Similarly in the choice several verses earlier between life and the good, and death and the bad. What is meant by life? The Malbim comments that life here means fulfillment of the Torah, and death means nullification of the Torah, perhaps basing himself on the midrash above. We also see this idea brought out in Psalm 34, verses 13-15, also connected by the mefarshim to these verses of life and death in our paresha: "Who is the man that desireth life, and loveth days, that he may see good therein? Keep thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile. Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it." Many places in Tanakh, we find summaries of the Torah through general principles; these verses constitute one such place.

What does it really mean to be alive? In the Talmud in Brakhot, the sages teach that the wicked are called dead even during their lifetime. Titus is said to have been rebuked for taking pride in his triumph, for he did nothing but defeat a people already defeated and burn a Temple already burnt. When we do not fulfill our purpose in life, we take ourselves out of the world. 

On that note, it grows late, so I will simply note in brief and without further transition that this paresha contains one of the classic sources for the idea of teshuva in the Ḥumash, in particular parek 30 of Devarim, containing the few verses I have focused on as well as some other lovely specimens. Repent, repent, yom hadin draws nigh!

Shabat Shalom uMevorakh!

LeShana tova umetuka tikatevu veteiḥatemu!

Pareshat Ki Tavo

Sefer Devarim is sometimes called by another name, particularly in early rabbinical works: Mishneh Torah, the second Torah or repetition of the Torah. It is from this name (through Greek) that the English name Deuteronomy is derived. The reason for that name is most evident in this week's paresha. The Jews have been party to numerous britot with Hashem through the Torah to this point; brit bein habetarim, brit milah, shabbat that is called brit 'olam, and most significantly brit ma'amad har Sinai. Probably others that do not come immediately to mind. However, we now come to the final covenant, the crown and seal of all that came before. Brit 'aravot Moav. Why, here, does Moshe Rabbeinu say, "Keep silence, and hear, O Israel; this day thou art become a people unto the LORD thy God."? And later, in the 29th perek of Devarim, he goes on at even greater length on the same theme. Surely, we were already a people to Hashem, in covenant with him? If not from the avot, then from yetziat Mitzraim, and if not from that, then certainly from Sinai. And yet, seemingly not, according to these pesukim.

To answer the question, I would like to first look back to the tokhaḥa in pareshat Beha'alotkha, the set of blessings and curses that accompanied the covenant at Sinai as our more extensive list accompanies the renewal of the covenant. There are several differences between the two tokhaḥot, but I would like to focus on two. First, in the earlier portion, Moshe Rabbeinu pronounces the blessings and curses in the name of God upon the passive people. In our repetition, he describes the blessings and curses that the people are to pronounce upon themselves from har 'Eival and har Gerizim. Second, the first set are given in lashon rabim, the grammatical plural, whereas we are now addressed in lashon yaḥid, the grammatical singular. The meforshim are divided on the interpretation of this latter difference, in a way that at first glance seems directly contradictory. Some say that the first tokhaḥa adresses the people as a mass, and the second is needed to address the individual alone in case one might think that their sins will not be punished, relying on the righteous in the group to stave off the promised rebuke. Others understand that the first is addressed to a number of individuals all at once, whereas the second addresses klal Yisrael as a whole, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. I think that the two positions are actually reconcilable, with reference to the other aforementioned difference and the idea that this is the capstone of the covenant. In fact, what is being taught is that we cannot truly be a united people until each of us takes responsibility for his own actions.

What is the connection between a covenant of personal accountability and the imminent entry into the land? The time of open miracles may not be over for another millenium, but compared to the time in the midbar, it is certainly about abruptly become rather harder to detect. As Moshe reminds them, for the past forty years, they have been fed miraculously, their clothes and shoes have not worn out, etc etc. God has been an intensely visible presence in their day to day lives. The coming absence of that visibility brings two potential problems. The first is that they may come to attribute the good that they enjoy to their own effort and the laws of nature, failing to appreciate God's more subtle role in their continued subsistence. The second is that they may come to believe that they can freely violate the laws of the Torah, so long as they can avoid the censure of their fellow men. 

The first concern is the subject of the opening paragraphs of the paresha, where we are taught in more detail the laws of bikkurim and of the vidui ma'aser. We are taught to remind ourselves particularly when we bring in the harvest to joyfully give thanks to Hashem, remember all that he has done for us throughout our national history, up to and including the current harvest from the holy and bountiful land that he has granted us. We then declare that we do not pretend to have full ownership of the produce, and have dedicated a fit portion of it to holy purposes in recognition of that fact (the purposes of the various tithes is probably worth a post in itself). In this way, we guard against forgetting God's involvement in all that we accomplish positively.

The second concern is the subject of the brakhot and kelallot. Note that the particular commandments singled out for repetition here are those that are particularly easy to get away with, as far as human judgment goes. Several even specify that they are done in secret. The Maharil Diskin gives a good answer to the classic question, why are only the curses listed, and the blessings taught through negation? According to him, the real ḥiddush is that the people say, "Amen". Regarding the brakhot, this is not much of a ḥiddush. However, that is not the case with the kelallot. With God's presence less easily sensed, the temptation to violate these sorts of commandments can become overwhelming. The dor hamidbar were wise and learned; surely they knew that much of human nature. Never-the-less, despite the absolutely horrifying nature of the curses involved, every single one of them said, "Amen" bekol ram, with a loud voice. They take responsibility for themselves, even and especially where nobody else will hold them accountable. 

In short, this is not so much the Jews being made into God's nation through the covenant as the Jews maturing into their role as God's nation and becoming active coparticipants in the covenant. After all, what defines this generation, aside from Calev and Yehoshua? They were all below the age of accountability when the covenant was forged at Sinai. That was, to them, the covenant of childhood and adolescence, as individuals and as a nation. Now, we enter into the full covenant of adulthood. 

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!

Pareshat Ki Tetze

This week's paresha has more laws than any other, touching on a vast array of topics with little apparent order. This mishmash is, I believe, intended to engender confusion and agitation; to stimulate the natural inclination towards order and categorization. Once that inclination has been awakened, it becomes easier to note that there does seem to be some pattern to the laws here presented: they mostly address that very topic, insisting upon our cooperation in the establishment of an orderly society with clearly defined categories, or in a few cases reminding us of the exceptions that limit even our ability to set limits.

Much of Jewish thought, in particular legal thought, depends upon the identification of distinctions and similarities to find the order in creation. We are not merely observers in this process, but active participants in making creation orderly, and so these categories can be prescriptive as well as descriptive. However, we also need to recognize that division and definition are things that apply only to the created world; God is a perfect, transcendent unity. Thus, transgressing boundaries has an aspect of holiness, but in a way that is incompatible with the material world. So we see that when the produce of a mixed field is prohibited, it is prohibited with the language of kedusha. So we see that shatnez is prohibited, but required for the clothing of the Kohen Gadol, the hangings of the mishkan, and allowed for the sake of the mitzvah of tzitzit. Tzitzit are a physical representation of this idea of clearly defined boundaries with an element of holiness that transcends them. However, if we go beyond those gedarim in a way that we are not given explicit license for, we transgress against the holy rather than sharing in it. This sort of transgression is incompatible with created existence, as Nadav and Avihu found, and the elders who were led astray by Koraḥ. The mishna that accompanies this week's paresha is masechet Gittin, focusing mainly on the laws of divorce. Few subjects in Jewish law are as fraught with this need for clarity in categorization, with blurred lines and uncertainty leading to agunot and mamzerim, real human tragedies.

Aside from tzitzit, where does our paresha divert from setting down subject after subject that must be assigned to its proper place, and remind us to remember that gevurah must always be balanced by ḥesed? The place that seems clearest to me is the treatment of the ger, the yatom, and the almanah. These three groups, strangers/converts, orphans, and widows, are the classic recipients of ḥesed. What do they have in common? They are unsupported, cut off in some way from the general society. According to the Rambam, when two converts marry, their children retain the status of convert until they marry into the broader population or until enough time has passed that the status is forgotten. Without the bonds of family, they lack a proper place, and so room must be made for them beyond the boundaries of propriety. In a strict sense, the gleanings of our fields might be seen to be the same as the produce harvested on the first gathering, ours by right. However, we revoke that right for the sake of ḥesed. Not only with grain, symbolizing basic sustenance, but also with regard to wine and oil, joy and luxury, we make a space for those who have none by strict right and say that only that can be called unperverted justice. Compared to the laws of tithing for the poor and leaving the corners of the fields, which are taught elsewhere, the laws of gleaning make this point especially clear. The space that we leave in this case is dependent on our own limitations. While we partner with God to impose order on chaos, some things get left out or left behind, and that too is part of the way the world functions.

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!

Pareshat Shoftim

First of all, welcome back to my blog. I will try to keep up with weekly posts on the paresha with some reference to Seder haMishmarah, but I am happy to intersperse with other topics if there are any that interest you.

So, let us begin:

What does it mean to live in a Jewish state? A rather contentious topic in this place and time, and among those who have a connection thereto. Conversion courts challenging the rabbinate; state security cracking down on splinter groups of radical religious Zionist revolutionaries; demographic concerns over the non-Jewish population; the relationship between an ethical tradition that has been shaped by millennia of galut and the exercise of power; etc etc. I won't address that question on a philosophical level, but this week's paresha and the accompanying readings in Seder haMishmara come to describe the traditional answer on a structural level. Here we see the description of the biblical system of national governance, from the basic theory in the Torah to the practice in Divrei haYamim to the developed law in Mishna Sanhedrin. Four roles are laid out before us.

I will first discuss the king, because his role seems most difficult to me, and seemingly also to the tradition, which takes a rather ambivalent view of malkhut and allows for a kingless society while insisting on the other institutions of government. One might think that the king's role is as military leader, given the prominence that military decisions take in the descriptions of the kings later in Tanakh, but here we find not like that. The laws of the king are given here, and shortly thereafter we turn to laws of war and the king is nowhere to be found. Rather, we see kohanim and shotrim, the latter connected at the beginning of the paresha to the rabbinic courts. Not only that, but the foundational military experience of the nation, the conquest of Eretz Yisrael, must precede the appointment of a king. 

So, if he is not there to lead us into battle, perhaps he comes to judge, like Shlomo haMelekh? Again, no. Not only are the courts a separate locus of power, but the king is not even allowed to sit as a judge according to Sanhedrin 2:2. 

Shmuel describes a king who levies taxes and organizes the people for public works and development, but that is a warning more than a promise. 

What is the king required to do? He must write for himself two Sifrei Torah, one of which he carries with him at all times. He must read a particular passage from the Torah to the assembled nation once every seven years. He must lead the fight against `Amalek (I know I just rejected to role of military leader, but the fight against `Amalek is different in kind from all other wars and is often seen as a metaphor for a certain kind of spiritual struggle; perhaps a later post can go into more depth on the particulars of `Amalek as a symbol). He must insist upon his honor in many ways, even to the point of being exempt from certain obligations when fulfilling them would be undignified in some way. He must refrain from amassing personal power and women and wealth.

I would say that I am led to agree with a vort I heard in the name of the Sfas Emes, that the purpose of the king is to serve as a symbol. His powers are extensive, unlike the symbolic leaders of contemporary constitutional monarchies, but those powers are part of the symbol rather than empowering him to exercise them pragmatically. The strictures on the king are meant to ensure that he establish and maintain his own connection to Hashem in the form of yirah, and the powers and honors of the king are meant to transmit to the people that connection of awe and splendour. However, when we are able to make a connection of that form without an intermediary, that is preferable, for a bad king can do great harm. When we relate to Hashem through yirah, we would never say, "Asimah `alai melekh, kekhol hagoyim asher sevivotai." (I will put a king over me, as all the surrounding nations 17:14).

Next we look at the twin loci of the kohanim with their leviim and the shoftim with their shotrim. Here, unlike the kings, there is a clear role. However, we would really like to see two distinct roles for the two groups, and that we lack. There is almost complete overlap between the two, and the midrash in Sifre notes from here that ideally the kohanim and leviim should be rabbis and judges. Both groups are to be in every gate, readily accessible to the entire nation, yet both are also to be established with their highest authority on Har haBayit, seat of both the Sanhedrin haGedola of 71 and of the Kohen Gadol when the Beit haMikdosh stood. Both are charged with teaching and administering the law. Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch makes the distinction that the kohanim were the primary guarantors of the Torah SheBiKhtav, whereas the sages kept the Torah SheBe`Al Peh. As noted above, both have a role in leading the troops to war. True, the kohanim also have their role with regard to korbanot, but that is heavily deemphasized in this paresha, blurring the distinction between kohen and levi, in favor of their role as leaders of the people. There is another distinction that comes forth vividly in Mishna Sanhedrin. The rabbinate is intensely meritocratic and open to the masses. Justice and righteousness are pre-requisites for the office, which the Torah cannot extend to kings and priests who hold their position by birth, even when they fail to live up to their ideal types. According to the Rambam, every city with at least 120 adult men would have an established court of 23. Why 120? 23 for the judges, 69 for the three tiers of students who would sit before the court and were all qualified to sit in when called for, two court scribes, two officers of the court, eight so that a case can be held with sufficiently complicated claims and counterclaims among the witnesses to make things interesting for all those legal scholars, three to be involved in collected and distributing tzedaka, a doctor, a scribe, a teacher, and ten more to make minyan while all this is going on. All 92 of the sages would be ranked by wisdom, to know who should speak in which order and who should be called upon to sit in when more judges were needed. (In cases where there was no concern regarding intimidation, the wisest would speak first out of respect, whereas in capital cases they would speak last to ensure that the others would not defer without being fully convinced). There was an opinion that really we would only have courts of 23 in cities with at least 230 adult men, because the judges ought to have serara and we don't find that for less than the sarei `asasrot, the chiefs of tens. But really, that would lead to a town that where only 40% of the adult men were rabbis; outrageous! 

The final form of leadership we see in the paresha is that of the prophets. We see very little about them here beyond the promise that true prophets will come and the warning to beware false prophets. We are told to do all that they say, but not even in as strong language as was used to command obedience to the levitical priests and the rabbis. As we see them in later Tanakh, though, their role seems clear enough. Not really rulers, as they must maintain enough independence to criticize and expose failures on the part of the governing bodies to conform to their requirements. 

So, details aside, how would this look in contemporary terms? The bulk of the job of running the country would go to meritocratic courts, mass participation but high standards, with the supreme court taking on legislative powers. A significant minority would serve full time at public expense, while a larger portion of the population would serve without pay while working in the private sector (like jury duty, but requiring a JD, with law school being tuition free). There would be some sort of symbolic figurehead under the tutelage of the courts, with enough actual power to make the pomp and circumstance actually solemn and inspiring, rather than just quaint or entertaining, but generally discouraged from using that power. There would be an active independent press, but stopping short of complete freedom to print whatever unverified nonsense it pleases without itself being held to account.

Sorry for the rambling; I got a late start and don't really have time to edit before Shabbat. Hopefully, as I get back into the habit of writing, the quality will improve. Looking forward to seeing your thoughts, if you choose to share them. Again, feel free to request topics of interest.

Shabbat Shalom uMevorakh!