Upsherin

 Upsherin may not be the most venerable minhag in Yiddishkeit, and neither I nor my wife had it from our families. Nevertheless, we chose to adopt it for our sons. I would like to share a little of what it symbolizes to us. This will be a double post, as I encountered a midrash while reviewing for publication that required a different approach to the one I originally formulated nearly a year ago. 

One source that is brought down is the mitzvah of 'orlah. Famously, Devarim 20:19 includes the phrase, "ki ha-adam eitz ha-sadeh," which various midrashim take homiletically, as "man is like a tree of the field". As with many symbolic teachings, we can give it greater weight by concretizing it through an action, and so we leave three years' growth of hair uncut to recall a mitzvah that distinguishes trees; we do not take the fruit of a newly planted tree in its first three years, in its fourth year the fruit is sanctified, thereafter it is fit for typical use. Let us explore this mitzvah, as applied symbolically to a child.

The verse that contains this prohibition, Vayikra 19:23, uses three variations on the root of 'orlah: "va-'araltem", "'orlaso", "'areilim". The Sifra brings that the excess verbiage comes to teach that the prohibition is not just to use for food, as explicit in the verse, but also to dye with its color or to burn with its oil. Just as we are cautioned against three 'orlahs in a tree, there are three parts of the human body that are described with 'orlah in the Chumash; most commonly, 'orlah refers straightforwardly to the foreskin, but we see also Moshe Rabbeinu refers to himself twice as 'aral sefasayim (uncircumcised lips), and in parshas ha-yirah he instructs us, "u-maltem es 'orlas levavchem" (circumcise the foreskin of your heart). Each of these organs has a dual nature, for extraordinary good and for the three cardinal 'aveiros that we are called to die rather than transgress. The first mitzvah given in the Torah, piryah ve-rivya, to be fruitful and multiply, is the closest we come to participating in yesh me-'ayin, creation ex nihilo; the marital union is an image of the deveikus between Hashem and klal Yisroel. However, the same organ, misused, is giluy 'arayos, sexual transgression. The mouth is given to speak divrei Torah. Misused, lashon ha-ra' and halbanas panim, gossip and embarrassment, are both compared to murder. The gemara at the beginning of Ta'anis teaches, "mah hi 'avodah she-hi be-lev? Zo tefilah." (What is the service which is in the heart? Prayer). Of course, tefilah misused is 'avodah zarah, idolatry.

These three line up nicely with the uses described in the Sifra. Food and sexuality are both bodily appetites, often paired and compared. Between the red of spilled blood and the white of an embarrassed face, color seems to have a special emphasis in that class of transgressions; in general, there is a powerful connection to draw between visual imagery and the power of speech to activate the imaginative faculty. Kitur (burning) is in the category of actions deemed intrinsically worshipful, alongside bowing, sacrificing, and pouring libations. So, when we cut off the first three years growth of hair, we have in mind to discard the propensity to use these abilities for harm, and dedicate the new growth to sanctity, that our son should grow to build a bayis neeman be-Yisroel, a house of Torah and 'avodah.

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That said, while reviewing these thoughts for publication, I encountered a midrash that required an alternative approach.

Brought down in several places, Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yishmo'el discuss the four 'orlahs of a man: the three I had identified from chumash, and a verse I had neglected in Yermiyahu that declares, "hinei, 'areilah oznam" (behold, their ears are uncircumcised). 

So, if I want to preserve the parallel to the triple 'orlah of trees, which of these is not like the others? It occurs to me that 'orlas ha-guf should not be symbolically removed at the age of three; it has already been literally removed at the age of eight days. Further, the ears, the heart, and the mouth form a natural unit, a flow that can be blocked by obstruction at any of these three junctures. Language in general and Torah in particular comes in through the ears, is understood in the heart, and given over by way of the mouth. As far as the Sifra mentioned above, eating is to take in from without, like the ears; dyeing is to incorporate and be given form, like the heart; burning is to radiate outward, like speech. Alternatively, there is another opinion in the Sifra that the triple language comes to include every stage of development of the fruit, which would fit this metaphor where we consider a single flow of transmission and development of an idea.

There is a dual aspect of our special relationship with Hashem, established once at the time of the Avos as a family, then reestablished at the time of yetzias Mitzrayim and Matan Torah as a nation. The former is associated with bris milah, the covenant of circumcision, and so the latter is sometimes given the corresponding label of bris ha-lashon, the covenant of language, bringing out a major theme of that narrative and its associated mitzvos and yomim tovim. 

For those who have a particular rav from whom they receive their foundation in Torah learning, the relationship is compared in many ways to a father. Both father and rav are, in some sense, extending themselves by participating in the formation of the next generation in a deeply personal way. Ideally, a father should be his sons' first rav. The two relationships clearly correspond to the two covenants. So, at the time of bris milah, I bring the son of my body into the covenant of the body. At the age of three, whereupon children typically reach the linguistic and emotional development to begin a Torah education, I bring the son of my teaching into the covenant of Torah learning. In both cases, we discard the 'orlahs that represent blockage of the flow from one generation to the next. A father's physical input in forming his son is governed by a single organ, but the spiritual and intellectual input requires a three-fold path through ears, heart, and mouth. After he was shorn, we immediately gave our son honey to lick from the aleph-beis, to taste the sweetness of Torah, and then took him to the beis midrash to learn a pasuk with me, that the first fruits of the new growth should be dedicated to sanctity. 'Eitz chayim hi, the Torah is a tree of life. 

Thanksgiving

 Adapted from remarks at the seudas hodaah, meal of thanksgiving, held after my son was released from the NICU.

In a Shabbos ha-Gadol drasha, the Maharal explains much of the symbolism of parshas Tzav. Regarding the korban todah, the offering of thanksgiving, he claims that the four types of bread that accompany the offering correspond to the four types of danger from which deliverance imposes an obligation to give thanks. Those four are brought in Brakhos 54B by Rav Yehuda in the name of Rav as those who go to sea, those who traverse a wilderness, those who recover from illness, and those who are released from prison, based on Tehillim 107. The Maharal takes those as archetypes of general categories of danger: the wilderness represents being cut off from sustenance, the sea represents violent force, the sickness represents subversion from within, and prison combines the other three with an added level of human agency and free will. Thus, the three varieties of matzoh correspond to the first three, and the chometz -- equal in weight to the other three combined, and with leaven classically symbolizing the yetzer hara' -- corresponding to incarceration. 

A curious point arises from this. I might have imagined, if each circumstance is tied to a single type of bread, that the one bringing the sacrifice should specifically bring the type of bread that symbolizes his own salvation. However, the Mishnah in Menachos 3:6 teaches that the four breads are me'akvin zeh es zeh; should the owner fail to bring all four, not only is the offering lacking those that are missing, but even those that were brought are invalidated. I think that this point combines with the Maharal's reading to bring out a profound insight into the nature of thanksgiving. When we experience a personal salvation, it is meant to give us the means to relate more deeply to Hashem as a savior. If we can accomplish that, that relationship transcends the particulars of our own experience. The same Hashem who saved my son from sickness is the architect of every deliverance, and part of giving thanks for his recovery is recognizing that commonality.

Both halves are necessary. Without the particular experience, we are left with an abstraction that cannot affect us deeply enough to transform our relationship to Hashem. The Maharal criticizes those who would bench gomel (the brokha that fulfills this requirement in the absence of a Beis ha-Mikdosh where we could bring the korban todah) without having an experience from the four categories, those whose danger is minor or imagined, saying that this is the sort of addition that subtracts. Without the generalization, we are left with gross materialism, a symbol cut off from its referent. 

If I may beg forgiveness for possible overreach, I would like to posit that this is a highly generalizable solution to various tensions between particularism and universalism, and between the concrete and the abstract. Consider love: love of all mankind that is not grounded in the personal experience of love for one's own family, friends, and community will naturally tend to be insubstantial, unworthy of the name. Conversely, love that stays confined only to one's own intimates reveals that it has failed to penetrate to the tzelem Elokim, the image of Hashem, and is thus lacking even toward those intimates. Or consider teachings through allegory, metaphor, and analogy: there is one temptation to take fantastic stories or arcane rituals at face value and move on, perhaps entertained but certainly unaffected. There is another temptation to flatter ourselves for having the sophistication not to take such things at face value, and use that excuse to dismiss the details, imagining that we become entitled to skip to the deeper meaning without engaging with the plain meaning. Both temptations make a mockery of the whole method of symbolism, obviously. In these cases, and many more, what appears as tension is really complementarity. 

As a matter of practical application, what follows? We don't achieve balance by dividing our energies in a particular proportion, any more than we would balance the energies we direct toward a path against its destination. The particular and concrete ought to absorb the bulk of our efforts, but always with hearts and eyes open to the way that those efforts can facilitate the natural development of the universal and abstract. 

As an addendum, I have found the Maharal's framework fruitful in drawing many comparisons beyond what he gives explicitly. Not exactly germane to the above vort, so I present only a brief synopsis here, but happy to engage if it sparks questions or feedback:

	Tzrichin hodaah	Malchuyos, Kingdoms	Ta’anis, Minor Fasts	Av Nezikin, Damages	Misos Beis Din	Yesod, Element	Hashem’s Regrets
Deprivation	Midbar, Wilderness	Bavel, Babylon	10 Teves, Besiegement	Bor, Pit	Chenek, Strangulation	Avir, Air	Galus, Exile
Violent Force	Yam, Sea	Paras, Persia	17 Tammuz, Walls Breached	Shor, Ox	Cherev, Sword	Mayim, Water	Kasdim, Imperialism
Internal Subversion	Choli, Sickness	Yavan, Greece	Tzom Gedalia, Civil Strife	Eish, Fire	Sreifa, Burning	Eish, Fire	Yishmaelim, Nomadism
All, with agency	Beis ha-asurim, Prison	Edom, Rome	9 Av, Total Destruction	Adam ha-Mazik, human	Skila, Stoning	Afar, Earth	Yetzer ha-Ra’, Evil Inclination

 

Gedalya Tzadok

Hodu la-Shem ki tov, ki le'olam chasdo. Happy first birthday to Gedalya Tzadok.

Gedalya is an interesting name to translate, allowing it to be read as, "Hashem is great," or as, "Hashem makes great." We thought to lean into that ambiguity, and to have in mind the intention that Hashem should help Gedalya grow to be great in some way informed by the greatness of Hashem. It may sound presumptuous, but we do have a general principle of halakhta bi-drakhav, imitatio dei, and every midah that we strive to emulate would be equally presumptuous if we fail to hold firmly to the recognition that we are translating it to a human level. However, that does immediately raise the question, "What do we really mean when we say that Hashem is great?"

The gemara in Yuma 69b asks that question on the pasuk Nechemia 8:6, where Ezra ha-Sofer describes Hashem as ha-gadol. There are two versions brought describing the dispute over the answer. Both have one opinion that Ezra uttered the Shem ha-meforash, the tetragrammaton, and one opinion that a takana was made to alter the liturgy. I understand these two versions as bringing out two aspects of that name. In the first version, the takana is to answer "Barukh Hashem Elokei Yisroel min ha-'olam ve-'ad ha-'olam" (blessed be Hashem, God of Yisroel, from eternity to eternity) in lieu of "amen" when in the mikdash. This emphasizes the sense of Shem Havayah as a juxtaposition of 'haya', 'hoveh', and 'yihyeh' ('was', 'is', and 'will be'), expressing our understanding of Hashem as the uniquely true, eternal, necessary existence. For a human-level parallel, I would understand gadlus representing becoming so much oneself as to transcend proximate causes and present as an independent existence. I think that that intuitively fits many of the ways that we use the term for people: a koton becomes a gadol when he achieves a certain independence from his father, a gadol be-Torah is one who has achieved a certain independence from his rav. 

In the second version, the takana is the restoration of the complete phrase "ha-Kel ha-gadol ha-gibor veha-nora," (the great, mighty, and awesome God), for which Ezra's beis din earned the appellation Anshei Knesses Ha-Gedolah (men of the great assembly). The Gr"a on the siddur notes the three-by-three parallel structure of the beginning of the first brokha of shmoneh 'esrei, with 'ha-gadol' corresponding to 'Elokei Avraham' (God of Avraham, paragon of human chesed) before it and 'gomel chasadim tovim' (who bestows good chesed) after it, and comments that ha-gadol itself should be read simply as chesed. Thus, I would read the second version as emphasizing Shem Havayah as the name of chesed.

Rav Hutner's kuntres ha-chesed at the beginning of Pachad Yitzchok Rosh Hashanah has several pieces that are relevant here, and most of the balance of this vort will be drawn from that source. Existence and chesed are not truly different aspects of Shem Havayah, they are ultimately the same thing; while every other midah we ascribe to Hashem is involved in shaping and directing creation, existence itself is underwritten solely by pure chesed. So, too, on the human level, we build our personal, inner world on the foundation of our own chesed. In order to be a proper foundation for growth, though, we must distinguish between two levels of chesed. The first level, characterizing the twenty-six generations from Adam until Matan Torah, was continual, free-flowing chesed, sustaining an existence of complete dependence. The higher level of chesed introduced at Matan Torah granted a framework through which creation could begin to earn and justify its own continuation. With this responsibility comes a level of dominion that enables accumulation, breaking the world out of its extended present and allowing each moment to build on the past and build toward the future, and so Rav Hutner identifies this level specifically as the subject of the phrase from Tehillim, "'olam chesed yibaneh" (chesed builds the world). 

This concept clearly parallels Rambam's formulation of the highest tzedakah as providing the means to become self-sufficient. Indeed, it seems clear to me that this is the primary denotation of the word 'tzedakah', a system of justice and obligation that remains nevertheless pure chesed. As the pasuk in Mishlei teaches, "tzadik yesod 'olam" (the tzadik is the foundation of the world). Our family are kohanim, and this midah feels particularly relevant to us, as it says in Tehillim, "kohanekha yilbshu tzedek" (your kohanim will clothe themselves in tzedek). While the other shevatim are given to act in the world, to shape and direct it, the kohanim are primarily tasked with the sustenance of the world. Avos 1:2 teaches that the world stands on three pillars: Torah, avodah, and acts of chesed. The particular role of the kohanim in avodah is obvious. For Torah, Toras chesed is brought down as Torah to be taught, and the kohanim are meant to be teachers and disseminators of Torah, as we see in parshas Shoftim, where the kohen is named alongside the judge in the mitzvos of the sanhedrin. For gemilus chasadim, Aharon ha-kohen was famously chosen for his role due to his 'ayin tovah (good eye), and his nature as an ohev shalom ve-rodef shalom, ohev es ha-brios u-mekarvan la-Torah (lover of peace, pursuer of peace, lover of humanity who brings them close to Torah, Avos 1:12). I think that this explains why the name 'Tzadok' has been so deeply associated with kohanim: in Vayikra Raba, Tzadok is given as a name of Aharon; Tzadok was the kohen gadol at the building of the first Beis ha-Mikdosh; Rabbi Tzadok represented keser kehuna (the crown of priesthood) among Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai's three requests from Vespasian at the destruction of Bayis Sheini, bookending the era of the Temples. We daven that, like these three namesakes, Gedalya Tzadok should embody this midah and be a true kohen tzedek.

Speaking of namesakes, I would be remiss not to mention that we chose this name also for Rav Gedalya Schorr and for Rav Tzadok ha-kohen Rabinowitz of Lublin. Their teachings and seforim have been especially formative for my wife, and we both continue to turn to them. Rav Schorr came from a chassidishe background, and became Rosh Yeshiva of Torah Vodaas; Rav Tzadok came from a litvishe background, and became a principal talmid of the Izhbitzer Rebbe. May Gedalya Tzadok, like these namesakes, integrate chassidish imagination with litvish rigor to find true depth, and in general take the best of all that he encounters until he becomes a chakhom ha-lomed mi-kol adam (the wise learn from everyone, Avos 4:1).

Gedalya was born layl Shabbos Va-era, whose opening passage contains the essence of this vort. The Shem Havayah could not be fully known, even to the Avos, until Hashem upheld His covenant and brought Klal Yisroel to Har Sinai to receive the Torah. Gedalya's name also fits his birthday, 25 Teves. Following the order of the camp in the wilderness, Teves marks the year moving into the northern camp, Degel Dan. The north is associated with darkness, and Teves is indeed the month with least daylight in the northern hemisphere. However, the holiest sacrifices are required to be brought on the northern side of the courtyard, "lifnei Hashem" (before Hashem). The Ohr Gedalyahu explains that the special sanctity of the north stems from its darkness, which imparts a fundamental association with our free will, the essential ingredient in our ability to take responsibility for our own sustenance. The number 25 is written in Hebrew as khaf-heh, spelling 'koh' (thus). This word is beloved of ba'alei medrash, who identify it as key to many momentous passages in Torah, from the Bris Bein ha-Besarim, "koh yihyeh zarekha" (thus shall be your descendants); to the 'Akeida, "ani veha-na'ar neilkha 'ad koh" (I and the lad shall go thus far); to Matan Torah, "koh somar le-veis Ya'akov, ve-saged li-vnei Yisroel" (thus shall you say to the house of Ya'akov, and tell to the children of Yisroel); to Birkas Kohanim, "koh sevorakhu es benei Yisroel" (thus shall you bless the children of Yisroel). 'Koh amar' (thus says) as a language of prophecy is contrasted with 'zeh ha-davar' (this is the word), a level of absolute clarity that only Moshe experienced. As with the darkness of Teves, limited clarity can be the necessary precondition for our independence and our ability to participate in relationship to Hashem. I think that this may be seen as a unifying strand throughout the disparate portions just quoted. We pray that Gedalya Tzadok should encounter the space created by uncertainty as a field for growth and self-realization until he can inhabit it fully as a true adom gadol ve-tzedek. 

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!