[Avraham] spoke with them, saying: “If you are willing that I bury my dead from before me, hear me, and approach for me Ephron the son of Tzohar, that he may give me his cave of Machpelah, which is in the end of his field. For the full price let him give it to me, in your midst, for a burial site.” Now Ephron dwelt/sat among the children of Heth, and Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the hearing of the children of Heth, of all that entered the gate of his city, saying: “No, my lord, hear me. The field I give to you, and the cave that is in it, I give to you; before the eyes of my people I give it to you; bury your dead.” (23:8-11)
There is one hard-to-understand phrase here: ועפרון יושב בתוך בני חת - “Now Ephron dwelt/sat among the children of Heth”. What does this mean and why is it mentioned?
One possibility is just to say that Ephron was already physically present and available to discuss the transaction. That's a very boring explanation but I can't rule it out. However, I also have a more interesting explanation. It relies on the following quote, regarding the prophet Elisha.
[The Shunamite woman] said unto her husband: "Look now, I have seen that this is a holy man of God, who passes by us continually. Let us make a little chamber in the attic; and let us set for him there a bed, table, stool, and candlestick; and whenever he comes to us, he will go there.” One day he came there, and he went to the upper chamber and lay there... [Then he asked the woman]: “Look, you have taken all this care for us; what is to be done for thee? Should you be mentioned to the king, or to the captain of the host?” And she answered: “I dwell among my people.” He said: “What then can be done for her?” Gehazi answered: “Indeed she has no son, and her husband is old.” (Melachim Bet 4:9-14)
At which point Elisha arranges for the woman to miraculously have a kid. But before that happened, Elisha offered to get the king and higher officials to help the woman out. She refused, with the explanation: “I dwell among my people.” Apparently this means that any special favors would make the people around her suspicious and jealous, and she valued her community more than whatever perks the king could give her.
Returning to the parsha. When it says that “Ephron dwelt/sat among the children of Heth”, perhaps this means the same thing as the Shunamite's “I dwell among my people”. Ephron would have loved to take the large payment which Avraham just offered him. But his community insisted on Avraham being able to bury for free, and Ephron felt he could not go against this. Thus, Ephron offered Avraham the land as a gift. When Avraham continued to insist on paying, Ephron was able to take the money. But still, to keep up the impression that he didn't care about the money, he continued talking as if he were giving a gift: “Land worth 400 silver shekels, what is it between us?”
Ephron was not necessarily a sleazy Middle Eastern bazaar salesman, professing generosity while manipulating the customer into paying an exorbitant price. It's also possible that he preferred to be honest, but social pressure from his countrymen forced him to present himself as more generous than he actually was.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Four beautiful women
תנו רבנן: ארבע נשים יפיפיות היו בעולם: שרה <ואביגיל רחב> [רחב ואביגיל] ואסתר. ולמאן דאמר אסתר ירקרוקת היתה, מפיק אסתר ומעייל ושתי
The rabbis teach: There have been four super-beautiful women in the world: Sarah, Avigayil, Rahav, and Esther. According to the opinion that Esther was sallow, [the list] would exclude Esther and include Vashti.
(Megillah 15a)
As you can see from the Hebrew, there is a difference of opinion as to how this teaching should be worded. The list of women, as it appears in normal gemaras, goes as following:
In our case, though, it's not obvious what the error is. In this list of names, how do we know, and why does it matter what order the names are in?
Let us try to understand the case by first looking at the “corrected” list. Here, the order is Sarah, Rahav, Avigayil, Esther. That corresponds to the chronological order in which the four women lived. In the “uncorrected” list, the names are out of chronological order. Evidently, whoever wrote the “correction” assumed that the list must be chronological, and reordered it accordingly.
In my mind, that is a rather reasonable assumption. (After all, the list is already mostly chronological, and one would hardly expect the names to be ordered randomly.) But there's another possibility.
After listing the four women, the gemara mentions that according to some opinions, Esther was actually rather ugly. If so, then what happens to our list of four beautiful women? The number four is preserved by replacing Esther with Vashti. Then, the “uncorrected” list becomes:
Now let us return to the “uncorrected” list involving Esther:
The rabbis teach: There have been four super-beautiful women in the world: Sarah, Avigayil, Rahav, and Esther. According to the opinion that Esther was sallow, [the list] would exclude Esther and include Vashti.
(Megillah 15a)
As you can see from the Hebrew, there is a difference of opinion as to how this teaching should be worded. The list of women, as it appears in normal gemaras, goes as following:
- Sarah, Avigayil, Rahav, Esther.
- Sarah, Rahav, Avigayil, Esther.
In our case, though, it's not obvious what the error is. In this list of names, how do we know, and why does it matter what order the names are in?
Let us try to understand the case by first looking at the “corrected” list. Here, the order is Sarah, Rahav, Avigayil, Esther. That corresponds to the chronological order in which the four women lived. In the “uncorrected” list, the names are out of chronological order. Evidently, whoever wrote the “correction” assumed that the list must be chronological, and reordered it accordingly.
In my mind, that is a rather reasonable assumption. (After all, the list is already mostly chronological, and one would hardly expect the names to be ordered randomly.) But there's another possibility.
After listing the four women, the gemara mentions that according to some opinions, Esther was actually rather ugly. If so, then what happens to our list of four beautiful women? The number four is preserved by replacing Esther with Vashti. Then, the “uncorrected” list becomes:
- Sarah, Avigayil, Rahav, Vashti.
Now let us return to the “uncorrected” list involving Esther:
- Sarah, Avigayil, Rahav, Esther.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Anger and incomplete understanding
"Anger and unkindness arise when people's understanding is limited. The deeper their understanding the more their anger disappears, and kindness, love and peace spread."
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, Likutei Eitzot.
In the comments to this post, I posted the following explanation to R' Nachman's insight:
Many issues are complex. People who cannot handle the complexity will choose a simpler explanation which is absolutely correct with regards to one aspect of the issue, but incorrect with regard to other aspects.* Imagine that two people chose different understandings of an issue, each of which is correct with regard to a different aspect of the issue. Each person will refuse to accept the other's criticism of their understanding, because that would mean giving up their understanding across the board - and they KNOW, correctly, that they shouldn't do that. So each person is forced to ignore rather than consider the other's arguments. Which leads to frustration, and from there to "Anger and unkindness".
The two incomplete understandings may both be intellectual. Or, as is common in debates about religion, one is philosophical and the other emotional or intuitive. Either way, the dynamic of the debate is the same.
*A good example is politics, where liberals and conservatives are both right SOMETIMES, but (partly due to incomplete information) nobody in the world fully understands the entire issue.
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, Likutei Eitzot.
In the comments to this post, I posted the following explanation to R' Nachman's insight:
Many issues are complex. People who cannot handle the complexity will choose a simpler explanation which is absolutely correct with regards to one aspect of the issue, but incorrect with regard to other aspects.* Imagine that two people chose different understandings of an issue, each of which is correct with regard to a different aspect of the issue. Each person will refuse to accept the other's criticism of their understanding, because that would mean giving up their understanding across the board - and they KNOW, correctly, that they shouldn't do that. So each person is forced to ignore rather than consider the other's arguments. Which leads to frustration, and from there to "Anger and unkindness".
The two incomplete understandings may both be intellectual. Or, as is common in debates about religion, one is philosophical and the other emotional or intuitive. Either way, the dynamic of the debate is the same.
*A good example is politics, where liberals and conservatives are both right SOMETIMES, but (partly due to incomplete information) nobody in the world fully understands the entire issue.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Teacher industrial complex
No longer will one person teach his fellow and brother saying "Know Hashem". For they all will know me, from their smallest to greatest, says Hashem. For I will forgive their iniquity, and their sin I will no longer remember. (Yirmiyahu 31:33)
Given the obvious benefit to everyone of doing teshuva, it is surprising that so few people manage to do it. There is only one possible explanation for this fact. Clearly, there must be powerful forces in society have an interest in our not doing teshuva.
The above verse from Yirmiyahu makes clear why. There are more than 100,000 teachers in Israel, and a similar number teaching Jews in the rest of the world. The verse makes clear that when the mashiach comes, and we all due teshuva, teaching will no longer take place.
Obviously, this represents a severe threat to the job prospects of all those teachers. The stated goal of teachers, particularly in religious schools, is that students emerge with the knowledge and ethical commitments that will allow them to fill positive and productive roles in society. This goal is broadly accepted, and few people would dare to publicly question it.
But one cannot discount the powerful incentive, in terms of job security, for teachers to encourage precisely the opposite characteristics in their students. In addition, teachers are uniquely and worryingly positioned to have influence, whether positive or negative, over their students. While certainly many teachers have pure intentions, it is inevitable that many others do not.
The effects of these teachers' negative influence cannot be known with certainty, but are undoubtedly vast. It is certainly difficult to confront entrenched interests with so much power, but perhaps the following steps can help in taking back our society. First, we need an immediate moratorium on the hiring of new teachers and building of new schools. Also, a watchdog organization must be set up to monitor contacts between teachers and the gambling, weapons, and pornography industries, all of which have a shared financial interest in the misbehaviour of our children.
Only thus can the effects of the teacher-industrial complex, unseen yet with such a hegemonic influence on our society, be countered.
Given the obvious benefit to everyone of doing teshuva, it is surprising that so few people manage to do it. There is only one possible explanation for this fact. Clearly, there must be powerful forces in society have an interest in our not doing teshuva.
The above verse from Yirmiyahu makes clear why. There are more than 100,000 teachers in Israel, and a similar number teaching Jews in the rest of the world. The verse makes clear that when the mashiach comes, and we all due teshuva, teaching will no longer take place.
Obviously, this represents a severe threat to the job prospects of all those teachers. The stated goal of teachers, particularly in religious schools, is that students emerge with the knowledge and ethical commitments that will allow them to fill positive and productive roles in society. This goal is broadly accepted, and few people would dare to publicly question it.
But one cannot discount the powerful incentive, in terms of job security, for teachers to encourage precisely the opposite characteristics in their students. In addition, teachers are uniquely and worryingly positioned to have influence, whether positive or negative, over their students. While certainly many teachers have pure intentions, it is inevitable that many others do not.
The effects of these teachers' negative influence cannot be known with certainty, but are undoubtedly vast. It is certainly difficult to confront entrenched interests with so much power, but perhaps the following steps can help in taking back our society. First, we need an immediate moratorium on the hiring of new teachers and building of new schools. Also, a watchdog organization must be set up to monitor contacts between teachers and the gambling, weapons, and pornography industries, all of which have a shared financial interest in the misbehaviour of our children.
Only thus can the effects of the teacher-industrial complex, unseen yet with such a hegemonic influence on our society, be countered.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
For the record
Shortly after acquiring my first ever digital camera last fall, I brought it with me on a hike (to the southwest part of the Carmel). I had the usual reasons for taking a camera with me. But I did not envision what the camera would take away from me.
Quickly I found myself doing pretty much nothing but snapping photographs. Instead of appreciating the sights around me, I was treating them in a purely functional manner. As I walked along, I constantly evaluated whether or not what I saw was worth recording. The pictures I ended up with were great. But I missed out on all the other reasons for hiking: the calmness of a landscape undistracted by modern development; the in-your-face beauty of forests, springs, and wildlife; the anticipation of never knowing which unique archaeological site or strange flower awaited me around the next bend. I returned from the hike with plenty of JPGs, but not nearly enough memories.
Of course I am not the first person to act this way. It is said that some tourists spend so much time and effort on taking pictures, that they never get around to actually experiencing the place they are in. They succeed in using their surroundings, as photo opportunities, at the expense of enjoying them. I had heard of this attitude, but it was a surprise how naturally I started doing the same thing.
My experience with the camera reminded me of the novel "The Famished Road", by Nigerian writer Ben Okri, which I had read in college a few years previously. One of the novel's main characters (Jeremiah) owns a camera and, in addition to taking family pictures and the like, he photographs riots and other events to support the poor in their fight for political standing. But the camera's usefulness soon turns into an unhealthy dependence. Rather than rely directly on their perceptions, people prefer to consult the photographic record for their facts, and are helpless when it is taken away from them.
Jeremiah's camera has great significance in the novel, as it is implicitly compared to the author's pen. A major theme of the novel is the challenge of converting a dynamic oral tradition (of folklore and legends) into a static form (the written novel) while not losing all that is vital and valuable in the process. The photographer Jeremiah failed at this. The author, through the novel's unusual choice of structure, tries to do better.
This challenge was not unique to West Africans like Ben Okri. The Jewish people had to face it too, nearly 2000 years ago when the Oral Torah first began to be written down. It was advantageous, and perhaps inevitable, to convert all that knowledge into a form that could survive the death of any individual. But presumably it was not done earlier because along with the advantages came costs. As the centuries pass and successive layers of commentary build up, it becomes progressively easier to focus on the minutiae of the uppermost layer, rather than on the broad ideas which underlie the entire system.
Returning to my camera: Soon enough I realized what the camera was doing to my hiking experience. With a little effort, I trained myself to keep the camera way in the back of my mind. Now, only if I see something striking do I consider whether it's worth a picture. At other times I try to ignore the camera entirely. I have struck a balance between use of the camera and use of myself. Now I think I get the optimal usage out of both of them.
The same balance can be achieved in regard to Jewish tradition. A person's Torah study often tends to the extreme of being either emotional and inspired, or technical and withdrawn. The same imbalance can carry over into how one lives their life. Ideally, of course, a person will achieve both aspects simultaneously. It is certainly a challenge to unite the Torah's logical and emotional aspects. But if you ever meet someone who has succeeded at it, or to some degree succeed in doing it yourself, you intuitively realize that you could never choose to live your life in any other manner.
Quickly I found myself doing pretty much nothing but snapping photographs. Instead of appreciating the sights around me, I was treating them in a purely functional manner. As I walked along, I constantly evaluated whether or not what I saw was worth recording. The pictures I ended up with were great. But I missed out on all the other reasons for hiking: the calmness of a landscape undistracted by modern development; the in-your-face beauty of forests, springs, and wildlife; the anticipation of never knowing which unique archaeological site or strange flower awaited me around the next bend. I returned from the hike with plenty of JPGs, but not nearly enough memories.
Of course I am not the first person to act this way. It is said that some tourists spend so much time and effort on taking pictures, that they never get around to actually experiencing the place they are in. They succeed in using their surroundings, as photo opportunities, at the expense of enjoying them. I had heard of this attitude, but it was a surprise how naturally I started doing the same thing.
My experience with the camera reminded me of the novel "The Famished Road", by Nigerian writer Ben Okri, which I had read in college a few years previously. One of the novel's main characters (Jeremiah) owns a camera and, in addition to taking family pictures and the like, he photographs riots and other events to support the poor in their fight for political standing. But the camera's usefulness soon turns into an unhealthy dependence. Rather than rely directly on their perceptions, people prefer to consult the photographic record for their facts, and are helpless when it is taken away from them.
Jeremiah's camera has great significance in the novel, as it is implicitly compared to the author's pen. A major theme of the novel is the challenge of converting a dynamic oral tradition (of folklore and legends) into a static form (the written novel) while not losing all that is vital and valuable in the process. The photographer Jeremiah failed at this. The author, through the novel's unusual choice of structure, tries to do better.
This challenge was not unique to West Africans like Ben Okri. The Jewish people had to face it too, nearly 2000 years ago when the Oral Torah first began to be written down. It was advantageous, and perhaps inevitable, to convert all that knowledge into a form that could survive the death of any individual. But presumably it was not done earlier because along with the advantages came costs. As the centuries pass and successive layers of commentary build up, it becomes progressively easier to focus on the minutiae of the uppermost layer, rather than on the broad ideas which underlie the entire system.
Returning to my camera: Soon enough I realized what the camera was doing to my hiking experience. With a little effort, I trained myself to keep the camera way in the back of my mind. Now, only if I see something striking do I consider whether it's worth a picture. At other times I try to ignore the camera entirely. I have struck a balance between use of the camera and use of myself. Now I think I get the optimal usage out of both of them.
The same balance can be achieved in regard to Jewish tradition. A person's Torah study often tends to the extreme of being either emotional and inspired, or technical and withdrawn. The same imbalance can carry over into how one lives their life. Ideally, of course, a person will achieve both aspects simultaneously. It is certainly a challenge to unite the Torah's logical and emotional aspects. But if you ever meet someone who has succeeded at it, or to some degree succeed in doing it yourself, you intuitively realize that you could never choose to live your life in any other manner.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The status of animals
The simple meaning of parshat Breishit indicates that before the flood, animals had a much higher status than at present. They had many characteristics and much of the same role that human beings now have.
Evidence for this assertion includes the following facts:
- Animals could speak, for example the snake.
- Animals could listen to speech: “God blessed them, saying: Be fruitful and multiply...” (1:22)
- Animals were potential spouses for mankind: “God formed from the earth every animal of the field and every bird of the sky, and brought them to the man... but the man did not find a helpmate for himself.” (2:19-20)
- Man was not allowed to kill animals for food. (1:29)
- Animals too were not allowed to eat animals, but had to eat plants instead. (1:30)
This depiction is surprising. Our first impulse is to explain away each of the above examples as being metaphorical. But putting them together, it is hard to escape the conclusion that they form, at least, a single and more daring metaphor.
It is equally surprising to see an extremely similar depiction in a different context.
ÅgThe wolf will dwell with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the kid; and the calf and lion and cattle together; and a little child will lead them. The cow and the bear will graze; their young ones shall will down together; and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The baby will play on the hole of the asp, and the child will put his hand on the basilisk's den.” (Yeshayahu 11:6-8)
Here we have many of the same elements as at the beginning of Breishit: Animals and humans coexist. All animals are vegetarian. Humans and snakes are friends, not enemies.
As hard as it is for us to understand the role of animals described here, the similarity between Breishit and Yeshayahu cannot be accidental. Apparently, we are being told, when God first created the world animals had a much higher status than they do today. Due to some kind of sin, the world had to be destroyed and remade with a different role for animals. But someday, in the messianic era, the world and animals will return to their original state.
When did the change in animals' role occur? Clearly a big change occurred at the time of the flood. The flood is justified by the judgment that “all flesh had corrupted its way on earth” - all flesh, apparently including animals. While Adam and Eve had a task in the Garden of Eden, Noach had to make the world he lived in, saving the animals in the flood and planting grapes after leaving the ark. Furthermore, right after the flood humans are allowed to eat animals and animals may eat each other. From this point on, animals' lives are no longer holy, and humans now rule over animals by force. Granted, even Adam and Eve were told to “have dominion” (1:28) over the animals. But perhaps this expression has less forceful and hostile connotations than what Noach was told - “Your fear and dread will be upon [all animals]... and they are delivered into your hand.” (9:2)
Besides the flood, there is at least one other event in which animals are punished. The snake's behavior in the Garden of Eden earns it a lower status and more hostile relations with humans. This seems similar to the punishment all animals received in the flood. Perhaps snakes lost their status at this point, and other animals lost their status at some later point prior to the flood. In the messianic era, when all these sins and punishments are repaired, perhaps the last to be repaired will be that of the snake. In this final stage of redemption – the final words of Yeshayahu's description, in which humans and snakes once more coexist peacefully – we will truly have returned to the Garden of Eden.
(Heard from R' Baruch Gigi. Possibly derived from R' Kook's writings on vegetarianism.)
Evidence for this assertion includes the following facts:
- Animals could speak, for example the snake.
- Animals could listen to speech: “God blessed them, saying: Be fruitful and multiply...” (1:22)
- Animals were potential spouses for mankind: “God formed from the earth every animal of the field and every bird of the sky, and brought them to the man... but the man did not find a helpmate for himself.” (2:19-20)
- Man was not allowed to kill animals for food. (1:29)
- Animals too were not allowed to eat animals, but had to eat plants instead. (1:30)
This depiction is surprising. Our first impulse is to explain away each of the above examples as being metaphorical. But putting them together, it is hard to escape the conclusion that they form, at least, a single and more daring metaphor.
It is equally surprising to see an extremely similar depiction in a different context.
ÅgThe wolf will dwell with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the kid; and the calf and lion and cattle together; and a little child will lead them. The cow and the bear will graze; their young ones shall will down together; and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The baby will play on the hole of the asp, and the child will put his hand on the basilisk's den.” (Yeshayahu 11:6-8)
Here we have many of the same elements as at the beginning of Breishit: Animals and humans coexist. All animals are vegetarian. Humans and snakes are friends, not enemies.
As hard as it is for us to understand the role of animals described here, the similarity between Breishit and Yeshayahu cannot be accidental. Apparently, we are being told, when God first created the world animals had a much higher status than they do today. Due to some kind of sin, the world had to be destroyed and remade with a different role for animals. But someday, in the messianic era, the world and animals will return to their original state.
When did the change in animals' role occur? Clearly a big change occurred at the time of the flood. The flood is justified by the judgment that “all flesh had corrupted its way on earth” - all flesh, apparently including animals. While Adam and Eve had a task in the Garden of Eden, Noach had to make the world he lived in, saving the animals in the flood and planting grapes after leaving the ark. Furthermore, right after the flood humans are allowed to eat animals and animals may eat each other. From this point on, animals' lives are no longer holy, and humans now rule over animals by force. Granted, even Adam and Eve were told to “have dominion” (1:28) over the animals. But perhaps this expression has less forceful and hostile connotations than what Noach was told - “Your fear and dread will be upon [all animals]... and they are delivered into your hand.” (9:2)
Besides the flood, there is at least one other event in which animals are punished. The snake's behavior in the Garden of Eden earns it a lower status and more hostile relations with humans. This seems similar to the punishment all animals received in the flood. Perhaps snakes lost their status at this point, and other animals lost their status at some later point prior to the flood. In the messianic era, when all these sins and punishments are repaired, perhaps the last to be repaired will be that of the snake. In this final stage of redemption – the final words of Yeshayahu's description, in which humans and snakes once more coexist peacefully – we will truly have returned to the Garden of Eden.
(Heard from R' Baruch Gigi. Possibly derived from R' Kook's writings on vegetarianism.)
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The snake
It is strange that humans in the Garden of Eden are tempted by a snake. The strangest part, of course, is imagining how an animal could approach humans as an apparent equal. (I plan to partly address that question in a future post.) Another interesting question is: why a snake? Why not a different animal?
To possibly answer this, let's look at some background information about the sin in the Garden of Eden:
1. Eating from the tree makes humans aware of the their nakedness, and the first baby is born afterwards
2. The tree of “knowledge” may be related to “knowledge in a biblical sense”
3. The “fruit” may allude to “being fruitful and multiplying”
4. The fruit is described as very attractive looking ("a desire to the eyes, and beautiful to perceive"), which is why the woman has trouble keeping herself from eating it.
5. The woman's punishment apparently relates to her desires and their consequences.
It is clear from all this that the sin is very closely related to sexuality.
With that background, let me mention the following idea:
6. In popular culture, the word “snake” is sometimes used as a euphemism for a body part.
As support for this interpretation, note that 1) The woman is tempted by the snake, not the man. 2) The snake begins the story standing (which real snakes can't do) and is punished by no longer being able to stand.
So the image of the snake may be chosen to further develop the role of sexuality in the story. And this not the place to elaborate.
The midrash that the snake wanted to mate with the woman probably flows from these considerations (as well as the fact that the man too tried mating with animals).
In order to uphold my reputation, please forget that I ever said what I just said. But I do think this idea explains some things pretty well. Even if you can't repeat it at the Shabbat table.
To possibly answer this, let's look at some background information about the sin in the Garden of Eden:
1. Eating from the tree makes humans aware of the their nakedness, and the first baby is born afterwards
2. The tree of “knowledge” may be related to “knowledge in a biblical sense”
3. The “fruit” may allude to “being fruitful and multiplying”
4. The fruit is described as very attractive looking ("a desire to the eyes, and beautiful to perceive"), which is why the woman has trouble keeping herself from eating it.
5. The woman's punishment apparently relates to her desires and their consequences.
It is clear from all this that the sin is very closely related to sexuality.
With that background, let me mention the following idea:
6. In popular culture, the word “snake” is sometimes used as a euphemism for a body part.
As support for this interpretation, note that 1) The woman is tempted by the snake, not the man. 2) The snake begins the story standing (which real snakes can't do) and is punished by no longer being able to stand.
So the image of the snake may be chosen to further develop the role of sexuality in the story. And this not the place to elaborate.
The midrash that the snake wanted to mate with the woman probably flows from these considerations (as well as the fact that the man too tried mating with animals).
In order to uphold my reputation, please forget that I ever said what I just said. But I do think this idea explains some things pretty well. Even if you can't repeat it at the Shabbat table.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Knowing good and evil
Since in light of modern science it's hard to take literally a description of 2 original humans alone in the world, here is how I understand the meaning of the Adam and Eve story.
Animals of a single species are essentially interchangeable with one another. As time passes some die and new ones take their place. But this transformation is of little significance; what matters is the species not individuals, and the species is effectively immortal. Within an animal's body cells continually die and are replaced by new cells; within a species animals die and are replaced by new animals. Both forms of death are insignificant, except from a biologist's perspective.
What is true of animals was also true of early humans, until they developed moral awareness. From the moment on, it was no longer possible to speak of individual humans as interchangeable, like cells in a body. Along with moral awareness comes a unique identity and personality - a soul. When a person dies, there is no identical, interchangeable person to take their place. Someone else takes their physical place, living in the same house, or working in the same profession. But morally speaking, this is a completely different person.
At the moment that he/she was tempted to eat from the Tree of Knowing Good and Evil, the immortal Adam - meaning Adam the species - ceased to be relevant. Adam the individual - and his children, their descendants, and all the other individual humans - became the focus of attention instead. Each of these people has their own unique identity, and each has a finite lifespan. The death introduced into the world by "knowledge of good and evil" was not physical death, but the death of moral identities. And the new sexuality which accompanies the "knowledge" is not the mating urge, which always existed, but rather the new ability to create new and unique moral identities.
Once Adam and Eve were confronted with the choice to obey or disobey, even before they chose wrongly, they had already made the transition from an immortal "species" to morally-aware "individuals". Had they chosen correctly, they would have stayed in the Garden as immortal individuals.
Such a state should not be so hard to imagine. It is well known and accepted that our inner identities - our souls - can themselves be immortal. Indeed we speak of them returning to the Garden of Eden, the place of immortality, after death. That is exactly what Adam and Eve would have achieved immediately had they not sinned.
Animals of a single species are essentially interchangeable with one another. As time passes some die and new ones take their place. But this transformation is of little significance; what matters is the species not individuals, and the species is effectively immortal. Within an animal's body cells continually die and are replaced by new cells; within a species animals die and are replaced by new animals. Both forms of death are insignificant, except from a biologist's perspective.
What is true of animals was also true of early humans, until they developed moral awareness. From the moment on, it was no longer possible to speak of individual humans as interchangeable, like cells in a body. Along with moral awareness comes a unique identity and personality - a soul. When a person dies, there is no identical, interchangeable person to take their place. Someone else takes their physical place, living in the same house, or working in the same profession. But morally speaking, this is a completely different person.
At the moment that he/she was tempted to eat from the Tree of Knowing Good and Evil, the immortal Adam - meaning Adam the species - ceased to be relevant. Adam the individual - and his children, their descendants, and all the other individual humans - became the focus of attention instead. Each of these people has their own unique identity, and each has a finite lifespan. The death introduced into the world by "knowledge of good and evil" was not physical death, but the death of moral identities. And the new sexuality which accompanies the "knowledge" is not the mating urge, which always existed, but rather the new ability to create new and unique moral identities.
Once Adam and Eve were confronted with the choice to obey or disobey, even before they chose wrongly, they had already made the transition from an immortal "species" to morally-aware "individuals". Had they chosen correctly, they would have stayed in the Garden as immortal individuals.
Such a state should not be so hard to imagine. It is well known and accepted that our inner identities - our souls - can themselves be immortal. Indeed we speak of them returning to the Garden of Eden, the place of immortality, after death. That is exactly what Adam and Eve would have achieved immediately had they not sinned.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
R' Nachman and R' Soloveitchik
Here is an excerpt from R' Nachman of Breslov's tale "Seven Beggars":
The symbolism seems clear to me. The "heart of the world", and the spring issuing from the mountain, represent the human soul and God. It is not obvious which is which, but my inclination is to identify God with the spring. This is because water symbolizes Torah; Mt. Sinai had a spring issuing from it (Shemot 17:6, 32:20, Devarim 9:21); and the spring "could not be of the earth at all... but for the earth's heart" - that is to say, God is transcendent and absent from the world, except in the human soul, while the human is fundamentally part of the "earth" or physical world.
The soul and God sense each other and try to meet one another. But exactly at the moment of closest approach, the line of sight between "heart" and "spring" (man and God) is blocked. The "heart" and spring sing love songs, but can no longer approach one another. Eventually the day ends: the failure of man and God to meet results in frustration and eventual abandonment of the task. But when all seems lost, another day begins, and God and man's struggles to meet each other begin again from scratch.
The dynamic here is very similar to what R' Soloveitchik describes in his book "Uvikashtem Misham". There, drawing on the metaphor of Shir Hashirim, God is the male lover and humanity the female. God knocks on our door, but we are lying in bed and at first do not have the energy to get up and answer. When we finally get to the door, God has already stopped waiting. We then go out and search the streets for God, who is presumably only a short way off, but without success. Then, it is implied, we return home and the story repeats itself. Both sides passionately desire a meeting, but at no point does the meeting ever occur.
Both of these stories seem overly pessimistic, as the cycle repeats itself without God and humanity ever managing to meet. I can think of two responses to this criticism. First, at least in R' Soloveitchik's metaphor, it is possible that despite all the failures so far, the two sides will someday succeed in meeting. Second, eventual failure is not necessarily a pessimistic conclusion. All human lives are destined to fail, through death. But that eventual failure does not erase the value of efforts performed beforehand. Similarly in our stories, the effort is valuable and "on the record", even if the desired conclusion is not obtained.
When reading a religious parable as complex and poignant as these two are, it's hard to escape the conclusion that the author is describing their personal experience in all its depth and detail. Perhaps no two Jewish leaders have inspired more dissimilar followers than did R' Nachman and R' Soloveitchik. For that reason, it's interesting how the two rabbis' religious experiences were so very similar.
Of course, the explanation may be that the kind of experience R' Nachman identified and tried to steer his followers away from, R' Soloveitchik identified and saw as ideal.
At the far end of the world there is a mountain, on the mountain top is a rock, and a fountain of water gushes from the rock.
This you know: that everything in the world possesses a heart, and the world itself has a great heart. The heart of the world is complete, for it has a face, and hands, and breasts, and toes, and the littlest toe of the world's heart is more worthy than any human heart. So at one end of the earth there is the fountain that flows from the rock on the mountain top, and at the other end is the earth's heart.
And the heart desires the mountain spring; it remains in its place far at the other end of the earth, but it is filled with an unutterable longing, it burns with an endless desire for the distant fountain of water...
Because of its great longing, it sometimes tries to go to the fountain, but if it goes nearer to the foot of the mountain it can no longer see the spring on the top of the mountain, and so it must remain far away, for only from a distance may a mountain peak be seen. And if it were for an instant to lose sight of the spring, the heart would die, and then all the world would die, for the life of the world and everything in it is in the life of its heart.
So the heart remains longing at the other end of the earth, longing for the spring that cannot come toward it, for the spring has no share in Time, but lives on a mountain peak far above the time that is on earth. And the mountain spring could not be of the earth at all, since it has no share in the earth's time but for the earth's heart, which gives the spring its day.
And as the day draws to its close, and time is ended, the heart becomes dark with grief, for when the day is done the mountain spring will be gone from the earth, and then the earth's heart will die of longing, and when the heart is dead all the earth and all the creatures upon the earth will die.
And so, as the day draws to a close, the heart begins to sing farewell to the fountain; it sings its grief in wildly beautiful melody, and the mountain spring sings farewell to the heart, and their songs are filled with love and eternal longing.
But the Truly Godly Man keeps watch over them, and in that last moment before the day is done, and the spring is gone, and the heart is dead, and the world is ended, the good man comes and gives a new day to the heart; then the heart gives the day to the spring, and so they live again.
The symbolism seems clear to me. The "heart of the world", and the spring issuing from the mountain, represent the human soul and God. It is not obvious which is which, but my inclination is to identify God with the spring. This is because water symbolizes Torah; Mt. Sinai had a spring issuing from it (Shemot 17:6, 32:20, Devarim 9:21); and the spring "could not be of the earth at all... but for the earth's heart" - that is to say, God is transcendent and absent from the world, except in the human soul, while the human is fundamentally part of the "earth" or physical world.
The soul and God sense each other and try to meet one another. But exactly at the moment of closest approach, the line of sight between "heart" and "spring" (man and God) is blocked. The "heart" and spring sing love songs, but can no longer approach one another. Eventually the day ends: the failure of man and God to meet results in frustration and eventual abandonment of the task. But when all seems lost, another day begins, and God and man's struggles to meet each other begin again from scratch.
The dynamic here is very similar to what R' Soloveitchik describes in his book "Uvikashtem Misham". There, drawing on the metaphor of Shir Hashirim, God is the male lover and humanity the female. God knocks on our door, but we are lying in bed and at first do not have the energy to get up and answer. When we finally get to the door, God has already stopped waiting. We then go out and search the streets for God, who is presumably only a short way off, but without success. Then, it is implied, we return home and the story repeats itself. Both sides passionately desire a meeting, but at no point does the meeting ever occur.
Both of these stories seem overly pessimistic, as the cycle repeats itself without God and humanity ever managing to meet. I can think of two responses to this criticism. First, at least in R' Soloveitchik's metaphor, it is possible that despite all the failures so far, the two sides will someday succeed in meeting. Second, eventual failure is not necessarily a pessimistic conclusion. All human lives are destined to fail, through death. But that eventual failure does not erase the value of efforts performed beforehand. Similarly in our stories, the effort is valuable and "on the record", even if the desired conclusion is not obtained.
When reading a religious parable as complex and poignant as these two are, it's hard to escape the conclusion that the author is describing their personal experience in all its depth and detail. Perhaps no two Jewish leaders have inspired more dissimilar followers than did R' Nachman and R' Soloveitchik. For that reason, it's interesting how the two rabbis' religious experiences were so very similar.
Of course, the explanation may be that the kind of experience R' Nachman identified and tried to steer his followers away from, R' Soloveitchik identified and saw as ideal.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Ibn Ezra on creation
"In my opinion, this paragraph [3rd day of creation] is connected [i.e. overlaps in time] with the previous paragraph [2nd day]. For the rakia [“firmament”/sky] was not made until the earth became dry... behold, on one day they [sky+earth] were created." -Ibn Ezra, Breishit 1:9
By implying here that what was listed on one day of creation was NOT all created on one physical day, Ibn Ezra can be added to the list of commentators who believe the first chapter of Breishit may be interpreted non-literally. This, of course, is important as it allows for compatibility with modern science.
Ibn Ezra's view on this issue is much more significant than that of Rambam or modern commentators, because their conclusions were heavily influenced by knowledge of contemporary scientific theories, while Ibn Ezra's opinion seems to derive solely from textual factors.
By implying here that what was listed on one day of creation was NOT all created on one physical day, Ibn Ezra can be added to the list of commentators who believe the first chapter of Breishit may be interpreted non-literally. This, of course, is important as it allows for compatibility with modern science.
Ibn Ezra's view on this issue is much more significant than that of Rambam or modern commentators, because their conclusions were heavily influenced by knowledge of contemporary scientific theories, while Ibn Ezra's opinion seems to derive solely from textual factors.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Secret sauce
There is a commonly used electronic device called a transistor. Among its parts are a "source" and a "drain".
Funnily enough, at least sixteen different people have received patents in which they described the transistor source as a "sauce" rather than a "source".
After finding one of those patents by accident, I decided to look for another, more famous misspelling. Sure enough, two people have received patents related to "nucular" power plants.
I can imagine making this kind of mistake in an email or blog post. But to make it in your final patent application - and then to have the patent office approve it - is just incredible.
Funnily enough, at least sixteen different people have received patents in which they described the transistor source as a "sauce" rather than a "source".
After finding one of those patents by accident, I decided to look for another, more famous misspelling. Sure enough, two people have received patents related to "nucular" power plants.
I can imagine making this kind of mistake in an email or blog post. But to make it in your final patent application - and then to have the patent office approve it - is just incredible.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Sukkot note
At dinner on Friday night, this lady guest mentioned how special the sukkah was, being the only mitzvah that a person is "surrounded by" and "inside".
I was tempted, but refrained from replying that there is another such mitzvah: yishuv eretz yisrael.
Later on, the same woman proudly mentioned how great her community was for refusing to sleep in the sukkah, because it was "too holy" for anything as mundane as sleeping.
This time I really should have replied, saying "That may have been true in Eastern Europe. But here in Israel there is holiness everywhere, not just in the sukkah. If holiness was a reason not to sleep then we couldn't sleep anywhere in Israel. So clearly it is not an impediment." And maybe, for good measure, I should have mentioned Shmuel Alef 3:3 where it says that Shmuel was sleeping in the Temple. Since the sukkah is so closely related to the Temple (think "ananei hakavod", "sukkat david hanofalet"), that should have proved the case that sleeping in the sukkah is OK.
But again, partly out of politeness and partly out of lack of confidence in my Hebrew (or both together - it's easier to simply make yourself understood than to do so politely), I refrained from commenting.
It's great to be able to refute people on their terms as well as on objective terms. But it's a little frustrating when such a chance comes up and for whatever reason you don't take it.
I was tempted, but refrained from replying that there is another such mitzvah: yishuv eretz yisrael.
Later on, the same woman proudly mentioned how great her community was for refusing to sleep in the sukkah, because it was "too holy" for anything as mundane as sleeping.
This time I really should have replied, saying "That may have been true in Eastern Europe. But here in Israel there is holiness everywhere, not just in the sukkah. If holiness was a reason not to sleep then we couldn't sleep anywhere in Israel. So clearly it is not an impediment." And maybe, for good measure, I should have mentioned Shmuel Alef 3:3 where it says that Shmuel was sleeping in the Temple. Since the sukkah is so closely related to the Temple (think "ananei hakavod", "sukkat david hanofalet"), that should have proved the case that sleeping in the sukkah is OK.
But again, partly out of politeness and partly out of lack of confidence in my Hebrew (or both together - it's easier to simply make yourself understood than to do so politely), I refrained from commenting.
It's great to be able to refute people on their terms as well as on objective terms. But it's a little frustrating when such a chance comes up and for whatever reason you don't take it.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Yom Ke-Purim
If vowelized differently, the holiday name "Yom Kippurim" would spell out "Yom ke-Purim" - "A day like Purim". There is a well-known idea, with this textual basis, that Yom Kippur is a day "like Purim", with the same importance or significance as Purim.
This is hard to take at face value. Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year, while Purim is a minor rabbinic holiday. How can the two be compared? Moreover, why is Yom Kippur compared to Purim, not Purim to Yom Kippur? Even if the comparison between Yom Kippur and Purim is valid, its order should be reversed!
Here are three possible understandings of the Ke-Purim idea. To me the first is the most meaningful.
1. Release of inhibitions
It seems clear to me that the link between Purim and Yom Kippur is the unique release of inhibitions that can occur on both. Normally, there are many legitimate actions which we do not let ourselves perform, because we worry how other people will react to them. We do not want to embarrass ourselves or get too emotional in public, so we set artificial boundaries to prevent that from happening. On only two days each year do we escape these boundaries - on Purim and on Yom Kippur.
The release of inhibitions on Purim is trivial to achieve - all you have to do is drink a lot. On Yom Kippur, it is much harder. Since this is the last chance to ask forgiveness for our misdeeds, the last opportunity to reform our actions, there is a feeling of urgency and desperation not present at any other time of year. There is a sense of "If not now, when", which can spur you to do to things you never would have contemplated on another date. Sometimes, your religious expression can become as spontaneous and natural as when you are drunk. It is not that the boundaries cease to exist, like on Purim, but that you through your efforts overcome them.
We can see an example of this in Sefer Shmuel, where Hannah prays and Eli accuses her of being drunk. Eli thought Hannah was, in a sense, celebrating Purim. But in fact, she was celebrating Yom Kippur.
This idea also explains why Yom Kippur is compared to Purim and not vice versa. The Yom Kippur experience may be more meaningful than that of Purim. But Purim is the more convenient yardstick by which to measure such experiences.
2. Acceptance of the Torah
On Shavuot, many years ago at Sinai, we accepted the Torah for the first time. On both Yom Kippur and Purim, we re-accepted it. Remember that after the Golden Calf incident, it was on Yom Kippur that Moshe returned with a new set of tablets. This day marks the second, and more permanent, acceptance of the Torah.
Purim marks a third acceptance ("kiyemu vekiblu"), which seems much more similar to the second acceptance than to the first. On Shavuot we accepted the Torah amid incredible miracles, but our acceptance lasted no longer than did the miracles. On both Yom Kippur and Purim there were no such open miracles, yet our acceptance of the Torah was much longer enduring. In this way, the historical significance of Yom Kippur and Purim is very similar.
3. Yonah and Esther
On Yom Kippur we read Sefer Yonah, in which Yonah spends "three days and three nights" in the fish's belly before delivering his message to Nineveh. Here he (presumably) does not eat or drink, and we know that he takes the opportunity to pray to God for his deliverance.
This fish episode resembles part of Megillat Esther, read on Purim. There Esther, too, meets an Eastern monarch after three days of fasting. And while not explicitly mentioned, it is very likely that she spent the three days praying to God, just as Yonah did. And Esther, like Yonah, seems hesitant to carry out her mission before finally agreeing to do so.
The Esther and Yonah stories are unusual in that in both, the story revolves around the behavior of non-Jews. In Yonah, God is principally concerned with the repentance of the Assyrians. Yonah is the instrument of this repentance, but his concern for himself, and possibly for his people (whom Assyria later conquered) are deemed irrelevant. Similarly, in the megillah, it is only the Persians who can make evil decisions, and only the Persians who can rescind them. The Jewish people will be saved somehow or other (רוח והצלה יעמוד ליהודים ממקום אחר), and if this will be accomplished through Esther's plea to Achashverosh, then Esther is just as much an instrument as Yonah was.
We, of course, focus on the "Jewish" angle of Megillat Esther. But the Persians, and not just Achashverosh and Haman, have a quite important moral role throughout the story. The residents of Shushan clearly expressed their feelings about the situation (sympathizing each time with the Jews), and many other Persians chose to either fight the Jews or convert to Judaism. It is not inconceivable that these public attitudes, particularly the pro-Jewish ones of Shushan, influenced Achashverosh's final decision to side with Esther over Haman.
How would the Jews have been saved, had not Esther managed to get the decree nullified? The answer may be that the Persian empire would lose its power to enforce decrees. Perhaps it would have been conquered like Assyria and Babylon before it. Or perhaps civil war might have broken out between the Persians and Medes (two peoples who jointly ruled the empire) or between some of the 127 diverse provinces. Either way, the capital city Shushan could have suffered mightily. As with Nineveh, Shushan through its good behavior may thereby have escaped destruction.
We read Sefer Yonah during Mincha of Yom Kippur, by which time we have had plenty of chances to repent yet our accomplishments in that regard are often meager. Perhaps the purpose is to remind ourselves not to become resigned to such a state. It is hard to imagine a group of people more physically and spiritually distant from God than the Assyrians (renowned in the ancient world for their cruelty), yet in their moment of crisis they were able to repent. We, who have been brought much closer to God, are no less capable of repentance. This message is similar to that of Megillat Esther. Even at a time of "hester panim", the leading minister of the far-off Persian empire is not beyond Divine justice, and people of Shushan - both Jewish and non-Jewish - are not beyond Divine mercy.
This is hard to take at face value. Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year, while Purim is a minor rabbinic holiday. How can the two be compared? Moreover, why is Yom Kippur compared to Purim, not Purim to Yom Kippur? Even if the comparison between Yom Kippur and Purim is valid, its order should be reversed!
Here are three possible understandings of the Ke-Purim idea. To me the first is the most meaningful.
1. Release of inhibitions
It seems clear to me that the link between Purim and Yom Kippur is the unique release of inhibitions that can occur on both. Normally, there are many legitimate actions which we do not let ourselves perform, because we worry how other people will react to them. We do not want to embarrass ourselves or get too emotional in public, so we set artificial boundaries to prevent that from happening. On only two days each year do we escape these boundaries - on Purim and on Yom Kippur.
The release of inhibitions on Purim is trivial to achieve - all you have to do is drink a lot. On Yom Kippur, it is much harder. Since this is the last chance to ask forgiveness for our misdeeds, the last opportunity to reform our actions, there is a feeling of urgency and desperation not present at any other time of year. There is a sense of "If not now, when", which can spur you to do to things you never would have contemplated on another date. Sometimes, your religious expression can become as spontaneous and natural as when you are drunk. It is not that the boundaries cease to exist, like on Purim, but that you through your efforts overcome them.
We can see an example of this in Sefer Shmuel, where Hannah prays and Eli accuses her of being drunk. Eli thought Hannah was, in a sense, celebrating Purim. But in fact, she was celebrating Yom Kippur.
This idea also explains why Yom Kippur is compared to Purim and not vice versa. The Yom Kippur experience may be more meaningful than that of Purim. But Purim is the more convenient yardstick by which to measure such experiences.
2. Acceptance of the Torah
On Shavuot, many years ago at Sinai, we accepted the Torah for the first time. On both Yom Kippur and Purim, we re-accepted it. Remember that after the Golden Calf incident, it was on Yom Kippur that Moshe returned with a new set of tablets. This day marks the second, and more permanent, acceptance of the Torah.
Purim marks a third acceptance ("kiyemu vekiblu"), which seems much more similar to the second acceptance than to the first. On Shavuot we accepted the Torah amid incredible miracles, but our acceptance lasted no longer than did the miracles. On both Yom Kippur and Purim there were no such open miracles, yet our acceptance of the Torah was much longer enduring. In this way, the historical significance of Yom Kippur and Purim is very similar.
3. Yonah and Esther
On Yom Kippur we read Sefer Yonah, in which Yonah spends "three days and three nights" in the fish's belly before delivering his message to Nineveh. Here he (presumably) does not eat or drink, and we know that he takes the opportunity to pray to God for his deliverance.
This fish episode resembles part of Megillat Esther, read on Purim. There Esther, too, meets an Eastern monarch after three days of fasting. And while not explicitly mentioned, it is very likely that she spent the three days praying to God, just as Yonah did. And Esther, like Yonah, seems hesitant to carry out her mission before finally agreeing to do so.
The Esther and Yonah stories are unusual in that in both, the story revolves around the behavior of non-Jews. In Yonah, God is principally concerned with the repentance of the Assyrians. Yonah is the instrument of this repentance, but his concern for himself, and possibly for his people (whom Assyria later conquered) are deemed irrelevant. Similarly, in the megillah, it is only the Persians who can make evil decisions, and only the Persians who can rescind them. The Jewish people will be saved somehow or other (רוח והצלה יעמוד ליהודים ממקום אחר), and if this will be accomplished through Esther's plea to Achashverosh, then Esther is just as much an instrument as Yonah was.
We, of course, focus on the "Jewish" angle of Megillat Esther. But the Persians, and not just Achashverosh and Haman, have a quite important moral role throughout the story. The residents of Shushan clearly expressed their feelings about the situation (sympathizing each time with the Jews), and many other Persians chose to either fight the Jews or convert to Judaism. It is not inconceivable that these public attitudes, particularly the pro-Jewish ones of Shushan, influenced Achashverosh's final decision to side with Esther over Haman.
How would the Jews have been saved, had not Esther managed to get the decree nullified? The answer may be that the Persian empire would lose its power to enforce decrees. Perhaps it would have been conquered like Assyria and Babylon before it. Or perhaps civil war might have broken out between the Persians and Medes (two peoples who jointly ruled the empire) or between some of the 127 diverse provinces. Either way, the capital city Shushan could have suffered mightily. As with Nineveh, Shushan through its good behavior may thereby have escaped destruction.
We read Sefer Yonah during Mincha of Yom Kippur, by which time we have had plenty of chances to repent yet our accomplishments in that regard are often meager. Perhaps the purpose is to remind ourselves not to become resigned to such a state. It is hard to imagine a group of people more physically and spiritually distant from God than the Assyrians (renowned in the ancient world for their cruelty), yet in their moment of crisis they were able to repent. We, who have been brought much closer to God, are no less capable of repentance. This message is similar to that of Megillat Esther. Even at a time of "hester panim", the leading minister of the far-off Persian empire is not beyond Divine justice, and people of Shushan - both Jewish and non-Jewish - are not beyond Divine mercy.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Ledavid, hashem ori veyishi
Psalm 27 ("Ledavid, hashem ori veyishi") is recited twice daily from the first of Elul until after Sukkot. There are two customs as to when it is recited. According to Nusach Ashkenaz, it is recited after shacharit and after maariv. According to Nusach Sefarad and Sefardi practice, the second recitation is after mincha not maariv.
The logic behind the Ashkenazi custom is straightforward: once during the day, once at night. That's also when we say the shema, and the purpose appears to be the same: it's constantly on your mind, even if you are not literally saying it for 24 hours nonstop. (See from Shabbat Kedusha: ערב ובוקר בכל יום תמיד, פעמיים באהבה שמע אומרים)
The Sefardi custom, that you recite the psalm at shacharit and mincha, is harder to explain. That means reciting it twice during the day, and zero times at night. The ideal of constant repetition is lost. Why then recite it at these particular times?
The obvious association with these two times is that of sacrifices. In the Temple there are two daily sacrifices, in morning and afternoon. As a consequence, nowadays there are two fully obligatory prayers - shacharit and mincha (maariv is at a lower level). The Sefardi custom appears to view Psalm 27 as a prayer to God. This is distinct from the Ashenazi custom, which views the psalm as a declaration about God.
Where do these two perspectives on Psalm 27 - as prayer and declaration - come from? In fact, both perspectives are already present in the psalm itself.
In the middle of the psalm, there is a section which addresses God in the second person. "Hear, Hashem, when I call with my voice, and be gracious to me, and answer me," it begins. This is quite obviously a prayer. Also, at the very end, is a line addressed at a human being. "Hope for Hashem; be strong and courageous of heart, and hope for Hashem." This is clearly some sort of declaration, not prayer.
Having shown that part of the psalm is declaration and part prayer, the question remains what the rest of the psalm consists of. My instinct is that the rest is a kind of declaration. But for the purposes of the custom we were discussing, it doesn't really matter. The Sefardi custom is based on the example of the prayer found in psalm's middle, while the Ashkenazi custom follows the declaration found in other parts of the psalm.
In the gemara's discussion of prayer one finds (Brachot 28b) the following statement: "One who makes his prayer fixed - his prayer does not consist of tahanunim [entreaties, pleas]." This is a strange formulation. Based on the first half of the statement, you would expect a clear value judgment in the second half, something like "his prayer is accepted" or "his prayer is invalid". Hearing "his prayer does not consist of tahanunim" confuses as much as it teaches. We learn here that a prayer cannot be both fixed and consist of tahanunim. If it is one, it cannot be the other. But then, which of the two should it be? Which one is preferable?
Perhaps the answer is that neither is preferable; both are necessary. There is value in an intimate and personal prayer, and there is also value in a clear and considered declaration of intent. But in practice, it's hard to have both at the same time. All year long, the Sefardi tendency to chant prayers aloud as a community seems to emphasize the "declaration" side of prayer, while the Ashkenazi tendency to say everything in a whisper encourages the personal side. With Psalm 27, the respective emphases of the two communities are reversed. It is Sefardim who emphasize the personal aspect, while Ashkenazim read the psalm as if it were a declaration.
The logic behind the Ashkenazi custom is straightforward: once during the day, once at night. That's also when we say the shema, and the purpose appears to be the same: it's constantly on your mind, even if you are not literally saying it for 24 hours nonstop. (See from Shabbat Kedusha: ערב ובוקר בכל יום תמיד, פעמיים באהבה שמע אומרים)
The Sefardi custom, that you recite the psalm at shacharit and mincha, is harder to explain. That means reciting it twice during the day, and zero times at night. The ideal of constant repetition is lost. Why then recite it at these particular times?
The obvious association with these two times is that of sacrifices. In the Temple there are two daily sacrifices, in morning and afternoon. As a consequence, nowadays there are two fully obligatory prayers - shacharit and mincha (maariv is at a lower level). The Sefardi custom appears to view Psalm 27 as a prayer to God. This is distinct from the Ashenazi custom, which views the psalm as a declaration about God.
Where do these two perspectives on Psalm 27 - as prayer and declaration - come from? In fact, both perspectives are already present in the psalm itself.
In the middle of the psalm, there is a section which addresses God in the second person. "Hear, Hashem, when I call with my voice, and be gracious to me, and answer me," it begins. This is quite obviously a prayer. Also, at the very end, is a line addressed at a human being. "Hope for Hashem; be strong and courageous of heart, and hope for Hashem." This is clearly some sort of declaration, not prayer.
Having shown that part of the psalm is declaration and part prayer, the question remains what the rest of the psalm consists of. My instinct is that the rest is a kind of declaration. But for the purposes of the custom we were discussing, it doesn't really matter. The Sefardi custom is based on the example of the prayer found in psalm's middle, while the Ashkenazi custom follows the declaration found in other parts of the psalm.
In the gemara's discussion of prayer one finds (Brachot 28b) the following statement: "One who makes his prayer fixed - his prayer does not consist of tahanunim [entreaties, pleas]." This is a strange formulation. Based on the first half of the statement, you would expect a clear value judgment in the second half, something like "his prayer is accepted" or "his prayer is invalid". Hearing "his prayer does not consist of tahanunim" confuses as much as it teaches. We learn here that a prayer cannot be both fixed and consist of tahanunim. If it is one, it cannot be the other. But then, which of the two should it be? Which one is preferable?
Perhaps the answer is that neither is preferable; both are necessary. There is value in an intimate and personal prayer, and there is also value in a clear and considered declaration of intent. But in practice, it's hard to have both at the same time. All year long, the Sefardi tendency to chant prayers aloud as a community seems to emphasize the "declaration" side of prayer, while the Ashkenazi tendency to say everything in a whisper encourages the personal side. With Psalm 27, the respective emphases of the two communities are reversed. It is Sefardim who emphasize the personal aspect, while Ashkenazim read the psalm as if it were a declaration.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
True story: the Netivot
At one point, Rabbi Yaakov Lorberbaum (aka "The Netivot", after his commentary Netivot Hamishpat) got divorced. At the time, it was such a scandal for a prominent rabbi to get divorced that he was fired by his congregants. He was forced to make a living elsewhere and went into business. One day, he became involved in a dispute with another businessman and the matter was brought to Jewish court. The judge, who happened not to recognize the Netivot, eventually ruled against him. He then asked the judge what sources were used in the ruling. The judge replied, "Well, I mainly based myself on the comments in a quite good recently published book..." As it turned out, a book authored by none other than the Netivot himself! Yet the Netivot had completely forgotten the relevant law.
In his Pirkei Avot shiur last Shabbat, R' Herschel Shechter used this story (which he said had been recently rediscovered from old documents) to illustrate how when one has a personal stake in a matter, even a great person will find it impossible to be objective.
In his Pirkei Avot shiur last Shabbat, R' Herschel Shechter used this story (which he said had been recently rediscovered from old documents) to illustrate how when one has a personal stake in a matter, even a great person will find it impossible to be objective.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Tehilim 115 and 116
When you can't find your keys, often it is not because they are in an obscure place you can't think of, but because they are in such an obvious place that you think it unnecessary to look there. Something similar applies to certain parts of Tanach. We see so often in one specific context that we effectively train ourselves not to look at them from any perspective other than the usual one.
Tehillim 115 and 116 are good examples. We recite them regularly in Hallel. But in Hallel each chapter is split into two paragraphs which are said separately (and often, one half is not even said). This makes it hard for us to notice connections between the halves which would be obvious if the chapter were said all at once. In this post I would like to examine several such connections.
O Israel, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield.
O house of Aharon, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield.
You that fear Hashem, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield. (115:9-11)
Hashem has remembered us, He will bless:
He will bless the house of Israel; He will bless the house of Aharon.
He will bless them that fear Hashem, both small and great. (115:12-13)
Here we have a list of divisions of the Jewish people: "Israel", "the house of Aharon", and "those that fear Hashem". This list first appears in verses 9-11, where each division is asked to trust God. In the very next two verses (but in a totally separate paragraph in Hallel), the list of divisions appears again, as a list of those who God will bless.
In Hallel, we see these lists of divisions as totally separate. But reading the chapter as a whole, we see they come one after another, and the connection between them is clear. When and because we trust God, God will notice it ("Hashem has remembered us"), and bless us. Not only does the chapter discuss human behavior and Divine favor, but it connects them, thereby introducing another very important concept: that of reward and punishment.
They have hands, but they handle not; feet have they, but they walk not; nor do they speak with their throat.
They that make them will become like them; as will all who trust in them. (115:7-8)
The dead do not praise Hashem, nor do any that go down into silence;
But we will bless Hashem from now and forever. (115:17-18)
There is a certain tension in last two lines. How can you contrast righteous people with dead people, when righteous people eventually die too?
An answer may perhaps be found in the first two lines, which further explain the "death" and "silence" of verse 17. Idols are dead and silent, and idol worshippers eventually become dead and silent too. So it is not all people, but only idol worshippers who are considered "dead". In contrast, God worshippers are considered "alive" forever.
Perhaps these verses are a reference to olam haba, which for those who get it is a form of perpetual life, while other people do not get it and "die". Alternatively, the verses refer to our physical lives. Every individual must die, but the Jewish people as a whole lives and worships God forever. While idol worship may similarly persist for many generations, idolatrous life is empty of meaning, so idolaters can well be considered "dead" like their idols even while physically alive.
I said in my haste: All men are deceitful. (116:11)
My vows to Hashem I will keep, opposite His entire people. (116:14)
My vows to Hashem I will keep, opposite His entire people. (116:18)
These lines contradict each other. The speaker here has just said that all men are deceitful. By implication this includes himself. But if so, what meaning can his commitment to keep his vows have?
It seems that the resolution goes as follows. Humans by their nature are dishonest. The speaker makes an effort to leave normal human behavior by being honest.
In effect, he chooses to part company with humans and their typical ways, and associate with God and His ways instead. (This does not make the speaker a sociopath; the "entire people" makes the same choice along with him.) On the spectrum between human corruption and Divine virtue, the speaker has chosen to shift in one particular direction. We see the distancing from human weakness in one verse, and the approaching of God in another. Only by looking at both verses together can we see that these are two different ways of describing the exact same movement.
Tehillim 115 and 116 are good examples. We recite them regularly in Hallel. But in Hallel each chapter is split into two paragraphs which are said separately (and often, one half is not even said). This makes it hard for us to notice connections between the halves which would be obvious if the chapter were said all at once. In this post I would like to examine several such connections.
O Israel, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield.
O house of Aharon, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield.
You that fear Hashem, trust Hashem! He is their help and their shield. (115:9-11)
Hashem has remembered us, He will bless:
He will bless the house of Israel; He will bless the house of Aharon.
He will bless them that fear Hashem, both small and great. (115:12-13)
Here we have a list of divisions of the Jewish people: "Israel", "the house of Aharon", and "those that fear Hashem". This list first appears in verses 9-11, where each division is asked to trust God. In the very next two verses (but in a totally separate paragraph in Hallel), the list of divisions appears again, as a list of those who God will bless.
In Hallel, we see these lists of divisions as totally separate. But reading the chapter as a whole, we see they come one after another, and the connection between them is clear. When and because we trust God, God will notice it ("Hashem has remembered us"), and bless us. Not only does the chapter discuss human behavior and Divine favor, but it connects them, thereby introducing another very important concept: that of reward and punishment.
They have hands, but they handle not; feet have they, but they walk not; nor do they speak with their throat.
They that make them will become like them; as will all who trust in them. (115:7-8)
The dead do not praise Hashem, nor do any that go down into silence;
But we will bless Hashem from now and forever. (115:17-18)
There is a certain tension in last two lines. How can you contrast righteous people with dead people, when righteous people eventually die too?
An answer may perhaps be found in the first two lines, which further explain the "death" and "silence" of verse 17. Idols are dead and silent, and idol worshippers eventually become dead and silent too. So it is not all people, but only idol worshippers who are considered "dead". In contrast, God worshippers are considered "alive" forever.
Perhaps these verses are a reference to olam haba, which for those who get it is a form of perpetual life, while other people do not get it and "die". Alternatively, the verses refer to our physical lives. Every individual must die, but the Jewish people as a whole lives and worships God forever. While idol worship may similarly persist for many generations, idolatrous life is empty of meaning, so idolaters can well be considered "dead" like their idols even while physically alive.
I said in my haste: All men are deceitful. (116:11)
My vows to Hashem I will keep, opposite His entire people. (116:14)
My vows to Hashem I will keep, opposite His entire people. (116:18)
These lines contradict each other. The speaker here has just said that all men are deceitful. By implication this includes himself. But if so, what meaning can his commitment to keep his vows have?
It seems that the resolution goes as follows. Humans by their nature are dishonest. The speaker makes an effort to leave normal human behavior by being honest.
In effect, he chooses to part company with humans and their typical ways, and associate with God and His ways instead. (This does not make the speaker a sociopath; the "entire people" makes the same choice along with him.) On the spectrum between human corruption and Divine virtue, the speaker has chosen to shift in one particular direction. We see the distancing from human weakness in one verse, and the approaching of God in another. Only by looking at both verses together can we see that these are two different ways of describing the exact same movement.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Rest and Torah study
On one hand, Shabbat is a time for rest and enjoyment - "menucha vesimcha or layehudim". On the other hand, according to the Yerushalmi "Shabbat and holidays were only given to Israel in order to do Torah study." So what is the purpose of Shabbat - to enjoy and refresh ourselves, or to learn Torah?
This article tries to reconcile the sources by saying that Torah study itself should constitute enjoyment. While true, this answer solves only half the problem at most. For while Torah study may be enjoyable, it is not restful. One who learns Torah all week long cannot "rest" by pursuing the same routine on Shabbat. And deep Torah study is considered strenuous rather than restful: " 'This is the Torah: when a person dies in a tent' - words of Torah are preserved only by one who kills himself over them." (Brachot 43b). How can Shabbat be a time for both rest and this kind of extreme effort?
Before solving the difficulty, let's extend it with the help of a cute gemara in Eruvin 56a. "R' Yehudah said: Night was created only for sleep. R' Shimon ben Lakish said: The moon was created only for study."* Each rabbi points to an aspect of nature (darkness and the moon) which makes possible their preferred nighttime activity (sleep and Torah study). Apparently nighttime, like Shabbat, is a time when we should be both resting and learning Torah. Yet R' Yehudah and Reish Lakish disagree, because is impossible for a person to do both simultaneously.
Perhaps this tension between rest and Torah study is not unique to night, or to Shabbat, but occurs whenever one has the opportunity to rest. If so, then the gemara in Brachot 64b suggests itself as a resolution to our question. "R' Chiya bar Ashi says in the name of Rav: Torah scholars have no rest, neither in this world nor in the world to come, as it says: 'They will go from strength to strength, they will appear before God in Zion'."
Here we find the answer to our question: what is required of Torah scholars may not be suitable for normal people. It seems that "rest", including that of nighttime and Shabbat, is an accepted part of life that most people can and should partake in. But Torah scholars are not "most people". One who aspires to be not only a good person but a leader must sacrifice some legitimate elements of his personal life. The responsibility a Torah scholar takes upon himself, in transmitting Jewish tradition from one generation to the next and supplying spiritual guidance for the rest of his generation, means that one will not be able to rest at every time he finds it desirable.
Of course, even the most righteous human being remains human. It is not possible to refrain entirely from sleeping at night, and even one who constantly learns Torah must differentiate in some way between Shabbat and weekdays. There are physical and psychological limits on what any person can accomplish. But up to these limits, comforts that are legitimate and even Torah-encouraged in one's personal life must sometimes be sacrificed for the common good.
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*Based on this, the Rambam (Hilchot talmud torah 3:13) says that a person learns most of his Torah wisdom at night. The Rambam goes further then the gemara in saying that night is not just a time for Torah, but MORE of a time than the day is. Presumably, this reflects the Rambam's expectation that a person work during the day.
This article tries to reconcile the sources by saying that Torah study itself should constitute enjoyment. While true, this answer solves only half the problem at most. For while Torah study may be enjoyable, it is not restful. One who learns Torah all week long cannot "rest" by pursuing the same routine on Shabbat. And deep Torah study is considered strenuous rather than restful: " 'This is the Torah: when a person dies in a tent' - words of Torah are preserved only by one who kills himself over them." (Brachot 43b). How can Shabbat be a time for both rest and this kind of extreme effort?
Before solving the difficulty, let's extend it with the help of a cute gemara in Eruvin 56a. "R' Yehudah said: Night was created only for sleep. R' Shimon ben Lakish said: The moon was created only for study."* Each rabbi points to an aspect of nature (darkness and the moon) which makes possible their preferred nighttime activity (sleep and Torah study). Apparently nighttime, like Shabbat, is a time when we should be both resting and learning Torah. Yet R' Yehudah and Reish Lakish disagree, because is impossible for a person to do both simultaneously.
Perhaps this tension between rest and Torah study is not unique to night, or to Shabbat, but occurs whenever one has the opportunity to rest. If so, then the gemara in Brachot 64b suggests itself as a resolution to our question. "R' Chiya bar Ashi says in the name of Rav: Torah scholars have no rest, neither in this world nor in the world to come, as it says: 'They will go from strength to strength, they will appear before God in Zion'."
Here we find the answer to our question: what is required of Torah scholars may not be suitable for normal people. It seems that "rest", including that of nighttime and Shabbat, is an accepted part of life that most people can and should partake in. But Torah scholars are not "most people". One who aspires to be not only a good person but a leader must sacrifice some legitimate elements of his personal life. The responsibility a Torah scholar takes upon himself, in transmitting Jewish tradition from one generation to the next and supplying spiritual guidance for the rest of his generation, means that one will not be able to rest at every time he finds it desirable.
Of course, even the most righteous human being remains human. It is not possible to refrain entirely from sleeping at night, and even one who constantly learns Torah must differentiate in some way between Shabbat and weekdays. There are physical and psychological limits on what any person can accomplish. But up to these limits, comforts that are legitimate and even Torah-encouraged in one's personal life must sometimes be sacrificed for the common good.
--------
*Based on this, the Rambam (Hilchot talmud torah 3:13) says that a person learns most of his Torah wisdom at night. The Rambam goes further then the gemara in saying that night is not just a time for Torah, but MORE of a time than the day is. Presumably, this reflects the Rambam's expectation that a person work during the day.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Who are these frummies?
Guesses welcome in the comment section. I'll probably post the answer in a week or two (does anyone come here more often than that?)
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