Archive for category Weekly Parsha
Parshas Noach — 40 Days and 40 Nights
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Weekly Parsha on October 30, 2008
For 40 days and 40 nights the rain fell upon the earth.
So what?
The Torah tells us that the Almighty opened the “well-springs of the deep,” from which most of the water came forth to inudate the world. And Rashi calculates that the water remained upon the earth for exactly one solar year. If so, of what significance is it that the rain fell for 40 days and nights?
The number 40 appears in Jewish tradition with curious frequency. Moses ascended Sinai and remained there for 40 days and nights, not once but twice to receive each set of tablets. According to the commentaries, he ascended one additional time in between, also for 40 days and nights, to petition HaShem to forgive the Jewish people for the sin of the golden calf.
The Jews wandered in the desert for 40 years, and the spies sent to investigate the land traveled its length and breadth for a period of 40 days. It is also taught that one should study Talmud until the age of 40 before engaging in the study of kabbalistic teachings. Our greatest kings, David and Solomon, each ruled for 40 years, as did the greatest of our judges, Deborah.
What is the significance of the number 40, and how does it relate to the Great Flood?
The Talmud tells us that the neshoma, or soul, enters an embryo 40 days after conception. Until then (although life has certainly begun), the incipient baby is a soulless golem, an arrangement of organic matter that can barely be called a human being. On the fortieth day, the insertion of the soul transforms this lump of developing flesh into the world’s most extraordinary creation: a future Man, fashioned b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of G-d.
It would appear, therefore, that the number 40 signifies not physical birth but spiritual birth, the process through which homo sapiens becomes human, a populace becomes a nation, a leader brings his people to a new level, and a scholar acquires the spiritual maturity to begin investigating the mystical secrets of the universe.
In the same way, the 40 days and nights of rain may have signified the process through which the Almighty restored the spiritual equilibrium of the world, suspending one complete cycle of creation for a full calendar year, immersing the earth in the purifying mikveh waters of the Flood. And, just like the waters of any kosher mikveh must originate with a volume of 40 sa’ah of naturally flowing water, so too did the Flood require an accumulation of rainwater over a period of 40 days.
With the corruption of the first ten generations of man washed away, human beings could return to their ultimate task of perfecting the world, physically diminished but with renewed spiritual potential. And the persistant sign of the Flood — the rainbow — reminds us that such potential remains with us even until today, every moment of our lives.
Parshas Noach — A New World Order
Posted by Yonason Goldson in History, Weekly Parsha on October 28, 2008
The aftermath of the Great Flood and a changed reality for mankind and the world. Adapted from my forthcoming book (G-d willing), In a Single Glance: a Philosophic Overview of Jewish History from Creation Through the Talmud.
Parshas Bereishis — Finding Grace
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Weekly Parsha on October 22, 2008
Koheles (Ecclesiastes) tells us what is evident from the narrative of Creation: that G-d created man yashar — upright. But man corrupted himself, thereby corrupting the world that was created for him. Since then, it has been a long, tortuous struggle toward reclaiming the perfection of Eden.
After the first sin of the Tree of Knowledge, mankind began a rapid downward spiral toward destruction. Kayin (Cain) murdered his brother, Hevel (Abel), introducing a more profound element of corruption into the human race. For a time, the descendants of Adam’s third and most righteous son, Sheis (Seth), kept themselves apart from the descendants of Kayin and thereby preserved their purity. But over time, the generations intermingled, until the spark of G-dliness within man became all but extinguished.
Within ten generations, HaShem saw that the wickedness of Man was great upon the earth, and that every product of the thoughts of his heart was eternally evil. And HaShem reconsidered having made Man on earth, and He felt profound anguish. And HaShem said, “I will blot out Man whom I created from the face of the earth…”
But Noach (Noah) found grace in HaShem’s eyes.
What was accomplished by Noach finding grace in G-d’s eyes? He did not stop the inexorable decline of the human race. He did not convince a single person to repent. He did not delay the destruction of the world by a single instant.
But Noach achieved true greatness by not allowing himself to become corrupted by the corruption all around him. By retaining his own inner purity and righteousness in a world of moral chaos, by resisting the influence of a human society that had lost its own sense of humanity, Noach succeeded in a uniquely heroic accomplishment. By not becoming a murderer in a society of murderers or a thief in a society of thieves, by not allowing the distorted values and mores of his time to erode the values and ethics that had been handed down to him from the Highest Authority, Noach saved himself and, by doing so, he saved mankind as well.
We often feel that we don’t have much impact on the world around us. Sometimes, as in the times of Noach, it is enough that we do not allow the world to have an impact on us. As we depart the holiday season and enter the darkening days of winter, it’s a lesson we should all take to heart.
More insights into Parshas Bereishis can be found here.
Asking the Right Question — Parshas Ha’azinu
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Weekly Parsha on October 10, 2008
So ask yourselves: Is this how you would repay G-d? O withered people who lack wisdom.
Deuteronomy 32:6
This is the question Moses places before the Jewish people, alluding to the future when they will turn away from the path of righteousness and then blame the Almighty for the misfortunes that follow.
The verse is written with an oversized letter, the “hei” that changes the meaning from a statement to a question. Rav Hirsch explains this as a hint, admonishing the people for asking the wrong question. Instead of asking why G-d has changed in His behavior toward them, they should be asking themselves how they have changed to elicit such unpleasant consequences.
Is there a better message for after Yom Kippur? Have we changed? Will those changes endure? What changes must we seek to make next?
Or perhaps, if our fortunes seem to have stayed the same, we need to ask ourselves if we have changed at all. If not, it’s past time to start.
Hakheil: the renewed covenant – Parshas Vayeilech
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Weekly Parsha on October 2, 2008
At the end of seven years, at the time of the Shmittah year, during the festival of Sukkos … you shall read this Torah before all Yisroel. Gather together the people – men, women, even infants – and the converts in your city, so that they will hear and they will learn, and they will fear HaShem, your G-d, and be careful to perform the words of this Torah.
Deuteronomy 13:10-12
Over the past year, Torah observant farmers in the Land of Israel have had to deal with the complicated and seemingly-impractical laws of Shmittah – the Sabbatical year. The Torah mandates that the land must have a year of “rest,” in which both agricultural work and the merchandising of produce are forbidden. The word shmittah literally means cessation: the Jew’s involvement with physical labor, and with all the burdens and anxieties that accompany it, comes to a stop until the beginning of the next agricultural season.
The Shmittah year ends as it begins – with Rosh HaShonah, the Jewish New Year. Two weeks later, when the entire nation would come together in Jerusalem to conclude the cycle of pilgrim festivals with the holiday of Sukkos, the Jews gathered in the Temple courtyard to hear the king himself read from the Book of Devarim (Deuteronomy) before the entire assemblage of his nation. This was the mitzvah of hakheil.
What is the connection between the conclusion of the Shmittah year and the public recitation by the king? And why is the Book of Devarim singled out to the exclusion of the first four books of the Torah?
The sages have referred to the Book of Devarim by a different name: Mishneh Torah, literally the Repetition of the Law. Although many laws previously taught in the Torah are indeed repeated in Devarim, many others are not; many laws are taught there for the first time. The term “repetition,” therefore, seems an imperfect description of the Book of Devarim.
Rav Hirsch explains the necessity of any repetition at all. Many of the Torah’s laws, most notably the agricultural laws, together with business and civic laws, had little relevance during the 40 years the Jews wandered in the desert. The festivals as well gained an agricultural context when the Jews entered their land that had not existed in the desert.
Consequently, as the Jews encamped on the east side of the Jordan River, Moses transmitted those laws yet untaught because of their limited practical application in the desert, and recapitulated those laws that would acquire a new dimension when the Jews began to settle their land.
Moreover, when the Jews had lived in the desert, theirs had been an existence of open miracles and the revealed presence of the Almighty. In that era, the commandments of the Torah did not serve as they do in our everyday lives – as the means of connecting to divinity that is concealed behind the veil of the natural world. For this reason, Moses had to “reteach” the Torah so that it could be fully understood and appreciated for its unique relevance to living a spiritual life while immersed in the responsibilities of a material world.
Herein lies the connection to the Sabbatical year. The Shmittah year was not a time of natural existence. It was a time of miraculous blessing, preceded by a double-harvest that allowed the people to involve themselves in spiritual pursuits without the distractions or worries of earning a living. To come back from that kind of extraordinary lifestyle to the mundane existence of plowing and reaping, the Jewish people required a kind of “refresher course” in practical spirituality.
For this reason the king would read from the Book of Devarim, reawakening the people to the changed reality that awaited them in the coming, post-Shmittah year, just as Moses had done when he originally addressed those same words to the Jewish nation before they entered the changed reality of their land for the very first time.
And for us, today, who don’t recognize the miracles of Shmittah, the mitzvah of hakheil reminds us that unlimited spiritual potential resides within every commandment, and that every mitzvah provides a priceless opportunity for us to unlock and to realize that potential.
Not in Heaven — Parshas Nitzavim
Posted by Yonason Goldson in History, Philosophy, Weekly Parsha on September 24, 2008
This commandment that I set before you today is neither remote nor inaccessable from you. It is not in heaven, so that you should say, “Why shall ascend to the heavens and bring it down to us so that we can understand it and keep it?” It is not beyond the sea, so that you should ask, “Who will cross the sea and bring it back for us so that we can understand and keep it?” Indeed, it is very close to you — it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can keep it.
Deuteronomy 30:11-14
One of the most enigmatic episodes in the Talmud is based on these verses. The following explication is excerpted from the forthcoming history (G-d willing), In a Single Glance.
During the era that shaped the form and structure of the Talmud, the ideological differences between two great Torah academies, Beis Hillel and Beis Shammai, never diminished the respect and affection the scholars of either house felt for the scholars of the other. Despite the Talmud’s description of their debates as battles fought “with swords and spears,” neither school ever resorted to any means other than sound Talmudic reasoning to advance its position.
Among members of the Sanhedrin, however, differences of opinion did not limit themselves to simple halachic interpretation. Disputes between the sages reflected the core of Talmudic philosophy, upon which the preservation of the Oral Law depended. To what extent will halachic leniency erode respect for Torah? To what degree must individual sages submit to the majority opinion by relaxing their own personal standards of Torah observance? Concerns such as these influenced not only isolated halachic rulings, but the very fabric of the Torah nation. The sages understood that their decisions would shape the attitudes of entire generations of Jewish society.
Given the need to set standards for future generations, individual sages would sometimes perceive the determination of a seemingly inconsequential halachic debate as if the future of halachic integrity depended solely upon its outcome.
One such dispute arose between the members of the Sanhedrin and Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrkanus, a sage so revered that his colleagues referred to him as “Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol — the Great.” Rabbi Eliezer asserted that a certain type of oven could not acquire tumah, ritual impurity, but even with his superior scholarship he failed to convince any of his colleagues. Frustrated by the failure of his arguments, Rabbi Eliezer proceeded to invoke a series of miracles: he made a carob tree uproot itself and walk across the garden; he made water in a stream run uphill; and he made the walls of the Lishkas HaGazis (the chamber in which the sages convened) tilt inward over the heads of the sages.
The sages remained unmoved and resolute in their collective opinion. Finally, at Rabbi Eliezer’s command, a heavenly voice rang out in the chamber declaring that the halacha followed the ruling of Rabbi Eliezer.
Rabbi Yehoshua, the Av Beis Din, arose in his place. Seemingly unimpressed, he declared: “Torah lo baShomayim hi — the Torah is not in heaven.”
In other words, it was irrelevant whether Rabbi Eliezer possessed greater insight into the divine will or whether he had attained such a high spiritual level that G-d Himself testified on his behalf. The Torah itself mandates that responsibility for its interpretation and application rests in the hands of the sages of each generation and depends upon their judgment. They, through consensus, both assess and determine the spiritual level of the era in which they live. Consequently, it is the majority opinion of sages that determines halachic reality and nothing else. An individual scholar may be “right” in an absolute, metaphysical sense, but if he cannot convince the majority of his colleagues through logical and textual proofs, then his own opinion is inconsistent with the spiritual potential of his generation. The system handed down from G-d to Moshe at Sinai may never be overruled — not even by the G-d who gave it.
Indeed, although any sage may debate halacha as far as his reason allows and his conscience demands, every sage must ultimately accept the majority decision once the Sanhedrin has ruled. By invoking miracles, Rabbi Eliezer demonstrated a contempt for the halachic process that his colleagues could not sanction. Rabbi Eliezer’s refusal to accept majority rule left the Sanhedrin no alternative other than the painful decision to place their revered colleague in cherem, imposing upon him the ban of excommunication.
As a result, none of the sages had any contact with Rabbi Eliezer for the rest of his life. Only as Rabbi Eliezer lay on his deathbed did the sages relax the cherem to visit him before he died. All of the Torah knowledge he possessed but had not yet taught went with him to the grave, and his bitterness over the verdict of the sages contributed to the early death of Rabbi Yehoshua — his own brother-in-law. Nevertheless, in the eyes of the Sanhedrin these tragedies were the lesser evil; nothing warranted the risk of irreparably compromising the integrity of Torah should the Jewish people learn from Rabbi Eliezer’s example that halachic decision is ever negotiable.
However, so exceptional was Rabbi Eliezer in his scholarship and righteousness that one of the sages, Rabbi Nosson, doubted whether the harsh response of Rabbi Yehoshua and the Sanhedrin had been justified. Rabbi Nosson sought out Elyahu HaNovi (the prophet Elijah) and asked how the Almighty had reacted when the sages overruled Rabbi Eliezer and the heavenly voice. Elyahu told him that G-d had declared: “nitzchuni bonai — My children have defeated Me.”
Far from being angry, the Creator rejoiced at the sages’ demonstration of the immutability of the system of Torah law G-d Himself had established. Once that system had been entrusted to Moshe as representative of the Jewish people, no force in the universe could alter it. By proclaiming that the Torah is not in heaven, Rabbi Yehoshua had shown future generations the extent and power of rabbinic authority.
But that was not all. The word netzach can be translated not only as “victory” but as “eternity.” Interpreted this way, nitzchuni bonai would mean, “My children have made Me eternal.” The Oral Torah allows for Jewish law to adapt itself to a constantly changing world while the Written Torah keeps Jewish law anchored with unalterable moral and legal axioms. Without concrete limits, Jewish practice would continually change until it retained no resemblance to the Divine Word given at Sinai. Without flexibility, Jewish law would calcify, losing all relevance to the present.
By overruling Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Yehoshua demonstrated not only the immutability of the Torah but its eternal relevance. Because the sages interpret the Torah according to the spiritual level of each generation, the Torah never becomes outdated, never becomes inapplicable, never requires editing or revision. The law is the law, forever and without exception. And it is the eternity of the law that keeps the Jewish people eternal.
The Common Denominator — Parshas Ki Savo
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Jewish Unity, Weekly Parsha on September 17, 2008
In one of the Torah’s most dramatic images, Moses commands the people that, upon crossing the Jordan River and entering the Land of Israel, they will divide themselves into two groups; half will ascend Mount Eval and half will ascend Mount G’rizim, where they will affirm the blessings and curses intoned by the tribe of Levi from the valley between the mountains.
For all its drama, Moshe’s instructions raise some perplexing questions. First is the division of the people. On Mount Eval, the tribes of Reuven, Gad, Asher, Zevulun, Dan, and Naphtali would receive the curses; on Mount G’rizim, the tribes of Shimon, Levi, Yehudah, Yissachar, Yosef, and Binyomin would receive the blessings.
The commentaries labor to explain this division, and none of them truly succeeds. There seems to be no logic to the arrangement of tribes, neither according to age or birth-mother. Moreover, why does the tribe of Levi both give and receive the blessings and curses? Why do some of the tribes receive only blessings whereas the others receive only curses? Why are only curses articulated in the Torah, and how to we understand the seemingly haphazard list of crimes associated with the curses?
Let us attempt the answer the last question first, then work our way back. Included in these curses are the crimes of idolatry in private, crimes of deviance within the home, taking advantage of the weak, moving the boundary marker of a neighbor’s property, and taking a bribe to put an innocent man to death. The final inclusion is one “who does not uphold and keep the entire Torah.”
In short, the list of curses results from crimes committed in secret, when there may be no witness and no one to come to the aid of the defenseless. Indeed, it is possible for one to appear outwardly righteous and pious, while secretly neglecting or perverting the most fundamental Torah laws.
If so, this may explain why only the curses are mentioned. The Torah has no need to articulate new blessings for one who follows the Torah with diligence and sincerity. These are implicit in the laws and instructions that have already been given. But one who masquerades as pious while trampling the letter and the spirit of the law behind closed doors — this is the one singled out for these curses.
From here we may explain the division of the tribes. The division is itself calculated to avoid any logical distinctions. It is too easy for us to generalize, to indulge in stereotyping based on family, community, or ideology. With no way of differentiating between one group of Jews and another, we have no choice but to evaluate every Jew as an individual and to discover who he is before passing judgment upon him. Even the tribe of Levi, charged with pronouncing the curses, does not receive a free pass when it comes to the presumption of virtue.
Finally, every Jew must account for himself and his own spiritual and moral integrity. I may stand among those receiving the blessings, but I cannot hide from the True Judge who will see me for who I truly am. I may find myself among those receiving the curses, but I am not free from accountability for my own actions.
Even if I am blessed, I cannot turn away from those among my people who have fallen by the wayside. Even if I am cursed, the road the repentance can always lead me back to take my place among the righteous. We are all individuals, all unique, all responsible for ourselves and our own actions, in public and in private. But we are also one people, responsible for one another. Our common denominator is the divine soul within each of us which, together with the Torah that guides us, will bring us home when we lose our way on the path of the cursed and steer us back to the path of eternal blessing.
In the long run — Parshas Ki Seitzei
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Education and Parenting, Weekly Parsha on September 11, 2008
One of the most tragic stories I’ve ever heard was recounted by the late Canadian-Jewish writer Mordecai Richler. Raised in an orthodox Jewish home, Richler worked as a teenager in his family’s store. One day, as he was tidying up behind the counter, he discovered a second set of the weights his father used to measure out goods upon the store’s old-fashioned scales.
Richler immediately recognized these weights for what they were: dishonest. By using a lighter set of weights when selling, his father would have to give his customers less for their money. By using a heavier set of weights when buying, he would get more for his own money.
The young Mordecai Richler immediately recalled the prohibition from this week’s Torah portion: You shall not have in your pouch separate weights – a large one and a small one … a perfect and honest weight you shall have, a perfect and honest measure you shall have, so that your days will be lengthened in the land… (Deuteronomy 25:13-15).
When Richler confronted his father, he was told: “That’s Torah; this is business.”
Mordecai Richler decided at that moment that he would never again have anything to do with Torah. He never did.
The Torah not only prohibits the use of dishonest weights; it prohibits us from even having them in our possession. Rashi comments that, if we violate this prohibition, we will have nothing, implying that one whose business dealings are less than upright will see no profit in the long run.
But Rashi’s words suggest even more. Why does the Torah forbid even ownership of such weights? Because there is no purpose for them other than dishonesty. The temptations of the material world are so compelling and so persistent that it is not enough for us to resist them – we have to distance ourselves from them to the limit of our ability. If we do not, we might escape their influence ourselves, but we will not be able to protect our children who, once exposed, may not have the strength of character or the resolve to follow the path of virtue.
We can always find endless rationalizations for sidestepping the law. It’s only a few pennies per customer; my suppliers are charging me too much to begin with; everybody else does the same thing. In the short term, we may see benefit from our infidelity. But in the long term, when our children either absorb our distorted values or recognize our hypocrisy and reject Torah values altogether, then we will have cut ourselves off from the future. Without the legacy of our children to carry on our defining mission, we will truly, as Rashi tells us, be left with nothing.
By trusting in ultimate justice, by distancing ourselves from dishonest practices, then we will gain more than success in business. “If you do so,” Rashi tells us, “you will truly have everything.” The self-respect that accompanies virtue is its own reward in the short run; the gratification of seeing children grow up with self-respect will be the reward in the long run.
Tripping over my tzitzis — Parshas Ki Seitzei
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Culture, Philosophy, Weekly Parsha on September 11, 2008
There is much symbolism contained in the fringes Torah observant men wear at the waist, and many stories about how those fringes can send a powerful message, sometimes to the wearer and sometimes to the observer. Here’s a little bit of both.
E-murder and the spirit of the law — Parshas Ki Seitzei
Posted by Yonason Goldson in Culture, Philosophy, Weekly Parsha on September 7, 2008
Last week, Federal Judge George Wu refused to dismiss charges against Lori Drew, the middle-aged mother accused of creating a fictitious MySpace persona to befriend and then humiliate 13-year-old Megan Meier, who subsequently took her own life. The indictment stands, and Ms. Drew will stand trial.
What is the Torah view? On the one hand, the sages compare embarrassing another person to murder. All the more so, it might seem, if embarrasment actually leads to loss of life. On the other hand, Jewish law quite clearly imposes punishment only upon the actual perpetrator, and only in the case of direct cause. Neither criterion seems to apply to Ms. Drew.
How United States law should address such cases will be, ultimately, determined by the justice system. But the defending attorney’s assertion that the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act is “unconstitutionally vague” warrants some discussion.
In Deuteronomy 22:8, the Torah commands, “When you build a new house, you must construct a parapet around the roof, so that you incur no guilt of blood if a fallen one falls from it.”
According to the Jewish understanding of Divine Providence, there are no accidents. If a person stumbles, falls, and dies as a result, then he was already a “fallen one,” i.e., his death had already been decreed on High.
Nevertheless, the Torah obligates us to do all we can to prevent such “accidents.” The more concern we show for our fellows, the more merit we have collectively and the less our society suffers from incidents of apparently random violence. If we are careless, abandoning our fellows to fate without regard for how we are integrally connected to them, we bring upon ourselves the guilt of their blood. It is almost as if we killed them by our own hands.
We all respond with revulsion to the cruelty of psychological harassment, even where it slips through the cracks in the law. But careless disregard for the well-being of our neighbors is only a little better, and nowhere near good enough by the ethical standards of the Torah.
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