Psachya Yitzchok

While the decision to write up our thinking about the name Yochanan Meir was inspired by the extraordinary circumstances surrounding our choice of that name, it does not seem just to have a post for one son without making a similar attempt for our equally beloved bechor. As such, on the occasion of his second birthday (a tashlumin, properly Adar I), an attempt to recall and recapitulate:

As noted, Psachya Yitzchok's birth was, for us, a time of gilui panim, revelation and miracles. True, there were attendant tzaros, but all precisely calibrated to highlight the tremendous chasadim. The labor was long, painful, and dangerous; could we fail to see the hand of Hashem when it ended suddenly, at the break of dawn, narrowly avoiding serious complications? We were discharged Friday afternoon, and sent back to the hospital Sunday morning; could there be a clearer reminder that our ability to have our first Shabbos as a family together in our own home was a pure gift from shomayim? Days before the bris our mohel was convinced we would need to postpone; when we welcomed Psachya into the covenant of Avraham Avinu on the eighth day, could we take it for granted as the natural course? Psachya means "God opened," and that is certainly how we felt.

Of course, our intention is that the name Psachya should refer not just to that opening, but to the complete relationship with Hashem characterized thereby, including our reception and acceptance thereof. Megillas Esther 9:27 begins with the words, "kiyemu vekiblu", they upheld and they received; Chazal teach that Purim was the time that the revelation and covenant of Sinai -- initially accepted through force majeure in the wake of awesome and irresistible miracles -- was finally ratified through love. Psachya was born in the period extending from Purim Koton to Purim, and so we sought to connect to the koach of that time by naming him after Mordechai HaTzadik, who is identified in the Gemara (Menachos 65a) with Psachya al hakinnim. Why, asks the Gemara, was he called Psachya? Because he was "poseach dvorim vedorshan," he would open matters and investigate them. In plain context, this relates to his role "al hakinnim," handling the transactions when those in need came to have a bird brought as a sacrifice on their behalf: that he was exceptional in having the care, patience, and discernment to fully understand each person's need and intent, ensuring that their sacrifice was brought correctly. This particular context brings together two general qualities central to Mordechai that are hinted at in those three words: 'avodah on behalf of klal Yisroel, and Talmud Torah. Mordechai is constantly described as sitting at the gate of the king, and stam "king" can be read as Hashem throughout the megillah, and the pesicha, opening, of the gates (of heaven, of prayer, of repentance, of mercy, etc. etc.) is one of the central images of 'avodah throughout our liturgy; the final verse of the megillah describes him as doresh tov le'amo, seeking good for his people. Talmud Torah is even more explicitly referenced, as pesicha, opening with a verse, and drasha, the following investigation and interpretation, characterize the classical form of commentary. We wish for Psachya Yitzchok that he, like this namesake, should always find and bring out the good, from the heights of heaven to the simple words of a humble soul to the depths of the most profund and difficult sugyos.

Yitzchok, too, continues these themes in reference to Yitzchok Avinu. Yitzchok actively accepted all the Torah of Avraham Avinu, rebuilding it according to his own middah without distorting it in any way. Like the kiyemu vekiblu of Purim, this gave a permanence and power of renewal that had been lacking until then. As the Torah puts it, Yitzchok re-dug the wells of Avraham and gave them the same names; Avraham's wells were stopped up, Yitzchok's endured. Yitzchok also symbolizes both Torah and 'avodah on behalf of Klal Yisroel. The Tur connects Yitzchok to chag haShavuos, zman Matan Toraseinu. The Maharal on Avos connects Yitzchok to 'amud ha'avodah, as the 'olah temimah who was makriv himself at the 'akeidah, and the Gemara in Shabbos 89b teaches that this allowed him to seek clemency for Klal Yisroel where the other Avos could not or would not. The particular symbolism of Torah and 'avodah associated with Yitzchok Avinu also furthers the theme of pesicha and derisha: his Torah, as noted, is strongly associated with the image of the well; and his makom 'avodah is the sadeh, the field. Both wells and fields share the quality that their true value is hidden beneath the surface, requiring labor in pesicha and derisha in bringing it forth. We wish for Psachya Yitzchok that he, like this namesake, should put his whole soul into his Torah and 'avodah, so that he can accept all that the tradition has to offer him and make it entirely his own.

Psachya Yitzchok is also named for two later Yitzchoks whose writings have deeply influenced me: Don Yitzchok Abarbanel, whose commentary on the Chumash is a masterful guide in how to read, clearly highlighting a sample of the sort of questions that ought to stand out to a careful reader at any level, and walking through addressing them while integrating a reverence for tradition with confident application of reason and personal judgement. And Rav Yitzchok Hutner, whose Pachad Yitzchok gives me a taste of another layer of the depths of Torah, bringing profound concepts from a diyuk on a few words in the rabbinic corpus, the sort of questions I might not be able to ask (let alone attempt to answer) without a great deal more erudition. We hope for Psachya Yitzchok that he, like these namesakes, should share his wisdom and understanding with all those whose hearts are open to learn.

Psachya Yitzchok was born on the 22nd day of the twelfth month, in the week of parshas Vayakhel with the oft-paired parshas Pekudei in the week of his bris. Vayakhel-Pekudei, concluding Sefer Shemos with the account of the completion of the mishkan following Matan Torah, is the ultimate paradigm of the relationship that is active reception of Hashem's revelation. It also contains several noteworthy uses of the root of pesicha; the gate from the courtyard into the heikhal is also called pesach ha-ohel, the opening of the tent, from which we learn that the korban tamid and shelamim can only be brought when the entrance is open, extending the paradigm from the time of construction forward to all generations. There are three inscriptions on the garments of the kohein gadol: the names of the tribes on the shoham stones of the ephod on his shoulders, the names again on the avnei miluim of the choshen mishpat over his heart, and "Kodesh LaShem", sanctified to Hashem, on the tzitz on his forehead. In each case, the inscribing is described as "pituchei chosam", the openings of a seal. The Vilna Gaon teaches that chosam here is an abbreviation of chiya, techiyas ha-meisim, and matar -- birth, resurrection of the dead, and rain, the three keys that Hashem keeps. The month of Adar is associated in Sefer Yetzirah with tzchok, laughter, the root of Yitzchok. 22 naturally represents the 22 letters of the aleph-beis through which the Torah was given and the world created, corresponding to the revelation of Torah and our response echoing maaseh bereishis in the construction of the mishkan. Twelve naturally corresponds to the twelve tribes, and so to the extension of that response to echo maaseh merkava in the order of the camp around the mishkan. We hope for Psachya Yitzchok that he should build himself into a fit dwelling for the Shechina.

Yochanan Meir

 When our first son was born, at dawn on the cusp of Spring after a difficult labor, we felt strongly that we were seeing open miracles. That is one aspect of our relationship with Hashem, when he opens to us, and our avodah is to teach our eyes to see, our ears to hear, and our hearts to receive that revelation. However, to have a true and intimate relationship, that cannot be the only aspect; we would be left passive, lacking agency. Thus, we must expect that there is an aspect where Hashem gives us the space to make the opening, to reveal ourselves to him. We have been granted such an opportunity with the birth of our second son, at nightfall as the yontif season gave way to Winter, which led us to choose his name: Yochanan Meir.

Often, this aspect of hester panim, the hidden face of Hashem, is associated with suffering, with exile, with darkness and bitterness. Our avodah, then, would simply be to cry out to Hashem with faith that he will see our distress, hear our cries, and remember the covenant. That has certainly been a part of Yochanan's life so far, born to pain and danger in the grip of a fearsome disease, and inspiring an incredible outpouring of tefillos from loved ones around the world. One word for this mode of tefillah is tachanunim, from the same shoresh as Yochanan.

But that is not all that hester panim represents, nor all the role that we hope to see it play in Yochanan's life. Another instance of the same dichotomy is Torah shebichsav, the written Torah, and Torah sheb'al peh, the oral Torah. The former is pure revelation, and all we can do is receive it to the limit of our capacity; the latter is also doubtlessly min hashomayim, but it is revealed through the mechanism of human action, the give and take of rav and talmid, of chavrusos. Several figures in Jewish history could plausibly claim to represent Torah sheb'al peh: perhaps Ezra haSofer, leader of the Great Assembly, or Rabbi Yehudah haNasi, who fixed the six Orders of the Mishnah. But the one that spoke to our hearts was Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai. In the mishnah in Avos, he is the last described explicitly as receiving the Torah from his rebbeim, Hillel and Shammai, and he is the only rabbi who is recorded in Avos explicitly in dialogue with his students. He shepherded us through the deepest hester panim, the destruction of the Beis haMikdosh and Yerushalayim, mass slaughter and enslavement, and the imposition of the Roman exile in which we still languish. Through him and his students, Torah sheb'al peh was preserved and restored. Like this namesake, may Yochanan Meir be saved from his tzaros, and may his salvation establish an unceasing wellspring of Torah for all future generations.

There is another level, brought out by a dichotomy within Torah sheb'al peh itself. The gemara, Sanhedrin 24a, brings a number of teachings describing the superiority of the torah of eretz Yisroel over the torah of Bavel. The sages of E"Y are pleasant in discussion, while the sages in Bavel wound each other in the milchemta shel torah; the sages of E"Y are sweet as olive oil, the sages of Bavel bitter as olives; Bavel is a place of flattery and haughtiness, of confusion, of darkness. My rosh yeshiva at Darche Noam, Rav Yitzchak Hirshfeld, taught that this distinction symbolically describes two ends of a process, rather than a geographic fact. The nature of Torah sheb'al peh is that, through laboring in it, we transform it for ourselves from one to the other. In the framework I outlined above, the torah of Bavel would be our opening ourselves to Hashem, and the torah of E"Y would be the relationship that follows when Hashem receives and accepts us. This insight is most clear to me in the teaching of the olives. How do bitter olives become sweet? Through grinding and crushing, or through brining in bitter waters. It is not simply that we escape the bitter and have sweetness in its place at the end; through further tribulation, the bitterness itself becomes the sweetness. The olives were never bad, we just had not yet brought out their goodness. This lesson appears again in this week's sidra, when klal Yisroel encounter the bitter waters at Marah and Moshe is instructed to cast in an 'etz. Chazal teach that this was a bitter tree, and extrapolate that this is the way of Hashem, to make sweet the bitter through bitterness. The section concludes with a giving of undefined chok and mishpat, with an exhortation to listen -- Torah sheb'al peh. To drive that message home, the text flows directly into the camp at Eilim, representing the Torah sheb'al peh of E"Y, with seventy sweet trees for the seventy elders of the sanhedrin and twelve sweet springs for the torah of each tribe. To represent this aspect of Torah sheb'al peh, symbolized by the torah of E"Y vis-a-vis Bavel, none can rival Rabbi Yochanan, who taught most of the great Amoraim of E"Y for three generations in his long tenure leading the yeshiva he founded in Teveria. So strongly did he shape the torah world of E"Y that he is credited as the primary author of the Talmud Yerushalmi, though it was not redacted until well after his death. Like this namesake, may Yochanan Meir find favor with Hashem and be welcomed into the deepest and most intimate communion, transforming all his tzaros to sweetness and light.

The symbol of the olive tree is especially poignant given that Yochanan Meir's bris was held 'erev Tu BiShvat. Tu BiShvat is described in the mishnah as the Rosh Hashanah for trees, particularly fruit trees where the count of years has legal ramifications. As both human beings and the Torah are compared to fruit trees, this is understood to have great mystical significance. The fruits of the tree, which have their Yom HaDin on Shavuos, represent chiddushim in Torah, novel ideas and insights that come through human effort. It is also connected to the bris milah in particular, because fruit trees lose their status as 'orlah on their third Tu BiShvat, producing neta' reva'i, sanctified fruit, in place of fruit that must be discarded. So, too, a boy at his bris loses his 'orlah, the foreskin, and has in its place an os bris kodesh, a sign of the covenant. 

Yochanan Meir was born on the eighth day of the eighth month, and the number eight is connected to light. Rav Hirsch describes it, one more than the seven of creation, as a spiraling return to begin creation anew at a higher level, and creation begins with light. The Maharal similarly sees the essence of eight in being one more than the seven of creation, but draws from that a complete transcendence of the natural order, a symbol of miracles and the or haganuz, the hidden light, that is reserved for the righteous in the world to come, which is hinted at in Chanukah. Chanukah itself was important in Yochanan Meir's life, marking his coming to full term and being deemed healthy and stable enough to leave the intensive care unit: our own glimpse of light in the darkness. The great tanna, Rabbi Nehorai, is better known as Rabbi Meir, because he gave light through his teaching. We wish for Yochanan Meir to share that illuminating quality all his life.

The combination of the or, light, of Meir with the chein, favor, of Yochanan is intended continuously to invoke all the blessings alluded to in the verse, "Yaeir Hashem panav eilekha vichuneka", Bamidbar 6:25, the second verse of birkas Kohanim. Birkas Kohanim is taught to contain within it every blessing, and the second verse focuses on the spiritual. The or of the Shekhina and of Torah, the chein that it should be freely and lovingly granted. This verse, in our eyes, distills into five words the essence of our hope that our opening to Hashem should be received and transform hester panim into intimate revelation. That is why we named our son Yochanan Meir.

Parshas Pekudei

Editorial note: having received complaints about ever-less-decipherable transliterations, I have decided to indulge my Ashkenazic roots. Hope it helps.

Those who follow the weekly parsha may have noticed that this week and last contain more than trace echoes of parshios past, specifically the detailed descriptions of the mishkan and the various accouterments of service. Why the extensive repetition, rather than a simple statement that everything was carried out as earlier commanded? I believe that one answer helps to resolve a long-standing difficulty I have had with the treatment of idolatry in traditional Jewish sources. On the surface, there seems to be a tendency toward creating a straw-man, a simplistic caricature of idolaters as if they literally worship the works of their hands. This is far from the theory behind any system of veneration of images that I am familiar with. Rather, idols serve as tools for worship, taking some less accessible divine and making it more immediate. One response is that the idolatry that we encounter is not full-blown biblical idolatry; that after Anshei Knesses haGedola (the men of the Great Assembly) slaughtered the urge for idolatry, the pagans developed more philosophical rationalizations for the traditions they inherited, but that feels like a cop-out. Rather, let us return to our doubled mishkan, and the aureous bovine that splits the first instance from the latter.

There are two main opinions regarding the purpose of the mishkan. First, it is an extension of Sinai, a point of interface between the Jewish nation and HaKadosh Barukh Hu and an enduring symbol of the entirety of the covenant. Second, it atones for the sin of the golden calf. I see these two ideas as different sides of the same concept. What motivated the Jews, fresh from the most impressive series of miracles since the flood if not before, culminating with the direct encounter with the divine mere weeks before, to turn aside in such a dramatic fashion? In truth, I do not think it is so very strange, if we take them to be the more philosophical sort of idolaters described above. When they stood at har Sinai and heard the unmediated word of God, they were overwhelmed and requested that Moshe play the role of mediator; at that time, Hashem approved of their desire for a physical intermediary in their service. If Moshe could no longer serve as that intermediary, should he not be replaced? The calf was not meant to draw worship from the Lord, but to enable worship of the Lord. Indeed, that is what the mishkan will be, a physical space and physical objects that are sanctified to serve as the focus and medium of avodas Hashem. That parallel is half the reason that the mishkan makes atonement for the sin, but clearly there must be difference as well as similarity, else no atonement would be needed.

This is where the double description of the mishkan and every item associated with it becomes essential. First it is commanded, and then it is carried out scrupulously, meticulously, in every detail. Again and again in this week's reading, the refrain is repeated, "kaasher tziva Hashem es Moshe" (as Hashem commanded Moshe). Just as will be reiterated when Nadav and Avihu meet their fate, and again when Korach and his followers stage their challenge to Moshe and Aharon, there is a fundamental difference between service that is commanded and service that is not, however superficially similar. What is that difference? Is God simply an obsessive control freak? Not at all. The difference has to do with the very essence of mediation and relationship. These things must be two sided. If we decide to serve God without reference to revelation, we deny God any role in our service. No longer mediating a mutual relationship, the worship becomes a pious veneer on self-expression. Having cut God out of the picture, we substitute a false "image" of God as the object of veneration (and make it an object indeed, not a co-subject at all). In this way, even the most sophisticated philosopher is indeed worshiping nothing but his own creation as long as he fails to allow God as much stake in the intermediary as he claims for himself. So, ultimately, the caricature of the pagan that so bothered me is vindicated, far more subtle than it first appeared. 

Of course, this has lessons for us also in our earthly relationships. In sefer Yechezkel (the book of Ezekiel), the careful and precise measurement of the Beis haMikdosh is juxtaposed with an exhortation to care and precision in our obligations towards our fellow people, scrupulosity and reciprocity the basis of connection in this case as well. Just as we cannot invent our own order of sacrifice and call ourselves pious, so we cannot invent our own schedule of payments for debts and call ourselves honest. Faithfulness, emuna, is as indispensable for the one as for the other. 

Gut Shabbos!

Pareshath Teruma

Warning: this post is highly speculative. That is, I make a bunch of stuff up based on chains of tenuous symbolic equivalences with, at best, tangential support from traditional sources. I do this without pretense to rigor. It will also range and drift rather widely and may end up the longest yet by far. That, at least, is justified: the mishkan is a microcosm of all creation. I have been in something of a fey mood lately.

I have heard it said that a good rabbi can use the paresha of the week to speak on any topic, and a bad rabbi will actually do so. Thus, I will talk about why women should learn gemara, why sex should not be in public, and why kos Miriam should not be added to the seder. And some other things related to that topic. After all, that is not what I set out to write, but that is what jumped out at me from this week's reading. Let me at least try to begin reasonably, before this goes off the rails.

As I read, I found one glaring difficulty impossible to ignore. I speak, of course, about the mizbeaḥ hazahabh, the golden alter for the incense. Now, some of you may think, "Eytan, you have surely skipped too many weeks and become confused. We are in pareshath Teruma, not Tetzawe. The mizbeaḥ hazahabh does not appear until next week." To which I respond, precisely! What is it doing way over there? Why not here, with the other kelei kodhesh (holy vessels)? Indeed, of the four primary keilim within the mishkan, if one were to be separated from the other three, I would have expected the outlier to be the aron (the ark), the one that is physically separated by a curtain and kept in the kodhesh hakedhoshim (the holy of holies), and the only one to have no particular 'abhodha (service). Surely, the other three make such a unit, it is hard to understand the interposition of the details of the mishkan itself, the mizbeaḥ haḥitzon (the outer alter, distinct in many ways from the other keilim), the bighdei kehuna (the priestly garments), not to mention the paresha break.

In response to this difficulty, I would like to jump to a pair of pesukim (verses) from the second paragraph of the shema' and drash them out in a way that I am completely unqualified to do. Consider Debharim 11:14-15 (Wenathati metar-artzekhem be'ito, yore umalkosh; weasaphta dheghanekha wetiroshekha weyitzharekha. Wenathati 'asebh besadhekha libhhemtekha; weakhalta wesabha'ta. And I shall give the rain of your land in its time, early and late; and you shall gather your grain, your wine, and your oil. And I shall give grass in the field to your animals; and you shall eat and be satisfied). Here we see a brief summary of God's promised blessing, conditional on whole-hearted upholding of our covenantal obligations. Given that Rav Hirsch reads Shemoth 25:8 (we'asu li mikdosh, weshakhanti bethokham; and they shall build for me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them), at the beginning of our paresha, as an indication that the mishkan and its kelei kodhesh symbolically represent the whole of those obligations and the blessings that follow, I have some reason to make the connection, although I depart from his interpretation of particulars. Allow that these two verses correspond to the kelei kodhesh. The second mentions consumption in a way that bothers some commentators, seeming slightly out of place. I will take that as a remez (hint) to the mizbaḥoth (the alters), the grass of the field to the ketoreth (incense, brought on the inner alter), and the animals to the korbanoth (sacrifices, brought on the outer alter). True, the menora also has an 'abhodha with a consuming fire, but there the consumption is not the ikar (the essential nature), rather the light produced is the ikar. As we see by the miracle of ḥanuka, when the fire is lit but does not consume the oil, that is a great fulfillment of the 'abhodha. The first verse, by contrast, mentions rain, which carries connotations of tephila (prayer) and shepha' (influence flowing from God to creation), and seems more appropriate to the other kelei kodhesh, the shulḥan (table), the aron, and the menora, corresponding to the grain, the wine (compared to Torah), and the oil. 

Now we have a set of three. Obviously, the natural thing to do is connect this with every other set of three things in the Torah. Most proximately, and taking two with one shot, there is a midrash that assigns the three primary miraculous supports by which God sustained the nation in the wilderness to the merit of the three siblings who led them. In the merit of Moshe, we received the mon (manna). In the merit of Miriam, we received the water from the rock. In the merit of Aharon, we received the 'ananei hakabhodh (clouds of glory). Mon, and thus Moshe, clearly and naturally corresponds to grain and the shulḥan. Oil generally represents glory, and the 'ananei hakabhodh also lit the way for the people, guiding and sheltering them in the midhbar; the menora is also particularly associated with Aharon in midrash Tanḥuma, as his special merit after the princes offer their sacrifices on behalf of the various tribes at the dedication of the mishkan. Further, the menora is ornamented with almond blossoms, and Aharon's election is confirmed through the flowering almond blossoms of his staff at the time of Koraḥ's rebbellion. Water and wine are two halves of the same symbol, representing joy, life, and Torah, and so the aron goes to Miriam. In particular, her miracle is water (Torah) flowing from a tzur (a hard, flinty rock). I believe that Sinai is often identified with tzur; certainly, when Moshe prays to see God between the first and second ascents, God says he may stand in a cleft in the tzur. For further evidence, why were the Jews brought out from Egypt? There are basically two classic answers. One, on the merit of the women. The other is sometimes phrased as the fulfillment of the covenant with the abhoth, but can also be said as, "in order that they might receive the Torah". Put them together, the Torah was only given on the merit of the women, and Miriam was the leader, teacher, and representative of the Israelite women at the time. 

However, all is not said and done. Miriam does not get the Torah all to herself. The Torah is not just water and wine. Surely, it is also our guiding light and crowning glory! Aharon and the menora also represent an aspect of Torah. Note that the symbolism connecting Aharon to the menora was extraordinarily clear, almost heavy-handed, whereas Miriam's identification with he aron relied on an odd double symbol of water and wine, and most of the direct involvement with the aron and with Torah goes through Moshe; that is part of the symbolic message. The menora rests in the outer portion of the mishkan and shines forth radiantly; the aron takes its treasure and keeps it under a cover and behind a veil. One easily accessible, outward oriented; the other hidden and inward. In tractate Sanhedrin, Rav Yirmiya teaches that the Talmud Yerushalmi is light, and the Talmud Bavli is darkness. The Bavli meanders between halakha and aggadeta, leaving questions open and raising doubts and difficulties. The Yerushalmi follows closer to the tradition of the mishna, in seeking to give clear rulings. The carrying poles of the aron are never to be removed, teaching that it always travels with us. When the aron was captured by the Pelishtim, they found that they could not keep it, and were forced to return it. The menora, on the other hand, was the great prize for both the Babylonians and the Romans, carted back as the chief of the spoils. Exile can strip us of the outward glory of Torah, cloud our easy understanding of its laws, but the inward portion is ours eternally. The hidden part requires struggle to access; the tzur must be struck, Yitzḥak must dig well after well against the contention of the Pelishtim (I may have neglected to mention: Abhraham-ḥesedh-Aharon-'ananei hakabhodh-oil-menora-etc; Yitzḥak-din-Miriam-well-wine-aron-etc; Ya'akobh-emeth-Moshe-mon-grain-shulḥan-etc. Clear, right? Fits birth order, traditional association of masculine with ḥesedh, feminine with din, gives ultimate primacy to balance and emeth. Every set of three is connected.) But it is through that toil in the hidden things that true intimacy is found. The aron is not just more inward, but in a place of greater holiness, for there the divine presence rests and meets humanity.

This point leads me to a reversal of my previous understanding of the relationship between ḥesedh/din and transcendence/immanence. I had thought that the relation to God as all powerful master and creator of the universe, the relation of yira, was naturally one of din. Similarly, I saw the relation to God as caring partner in covenant, the relation of ahabha, as naturally one of ḥesedh. I now think that there may be greater subtlety in the opposite formulation. For those who have read The Lonely Man of Faith (and for those who haven't, do so), Adam I represents the relation of yira and transcendence. Yet, in his awe, he is confident and conquering, seeking to understand and master creation to engage the creator in his works. Creation is the ultimate act of giving, and he is the beneficiary. Adam II represents the relation of ahabha and immanence. In his intimate relationship with God, he experiences fear and trembling. We rejoice on Rosh Hashana when the King dispenses judgment and are overcome on Yom Kippur when we are nearest heaven. This seems to me to be psychologically sound. Assuming in both cases that we trust in God's benevolence and wisdom, what is truly to be feared? Any punishment from a distant king is ultimately for our own benefit. But when we disappoint those we love, when we undermine that relationship, that is a prospect to induce paḥadh (terror, associated with Yitzḥak's relation to God). Relationship involves risk and vulnerability in a way that insignificance cannot.

This may be running a little longer than anyone wants to read. Feel free to figure out for yourselves pesaḥ-matza-marror, pesaḥ-shavu'oth-sukkoth, melekh-kohein-nabhi, 'abhodha zara-giluy 'arayoth-shephikhuth damim, etc etc. Also, note that couplets are often relevant to triplets of the form thesis-antithesis-synthesis, as above with Yerushalmi-Bavli and ahabha-yira, so consider ḥanuka-purim, written Torah-oral Torah, reason-revelation, and more! Everything is connected!

So, in conclusion, women should be disenfranchised, because masculine, visible, outward roles are the only ones that matter, but we make up nonsense about feminine, subtle, inward roles to keep them happy in their slavery.

Ḥodhesh Tobh! Shabbath Shalom uMebhorakh!

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!