Somewhere over the Rambam? The peculiarities of rainbows in Jewish thought

Towards the end of last week, in the midst of Israel’s much anticipated rainy season, this image from Bat Yam was a striking ray of beauty in what has been a dark and gloomy horizon for much of the past 16 months. But being a product of the Jewish school system I immediately started to ponder the significance – if any – of this rainbow. And to wonder if my gazing at the picture in front of me even was permitted and appropriate!

The first appearance of a rainbow in the Torah is as a symbolic accompaniment to God’s covenant with Noach, in order to reinforce His commitment that such universal destruction will not be revisited on humanity. Ramban(!) comments on the relevant verse that we are bound to accept the scientific conclusions of the Greeks and that we can therefore be confident that the rainbow is a natural phenomenon which would have appeared many times previous to Noach’s generation. Ramban then notes the past tense presentation of the verse: “My rainbow I have placed in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of a covenant between Me and the Earth” (9:13). The significance, he notes, is that God was designating a pre-existing natural phenomenon as bearing newfound symbolic significance – much the same, writes Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, as the moon would later be imbued with symbolic significance of renewal and freedom immediately prior to the Exodus.

The rainbow’s profound symbolic significance led to a deep dichotomy over how it should be viewed – or whether it may be viewed at all! On the one hand, as with all displays of natural wonder and beauty, the Talmud formulates a blessing to be recited by one who sees it. On the other hand, the Talmud (Chagigah 16a) also records that one should avoid looking at the rainbow altogether, as doing so represents a “lack of concern for one’s Creator’s glory” – the rainbow, it is important to note, is used to describe aspects of the divine chariot in Yechezkel’s Merkavah vision. The Shulchan Aruch attempts to reconcile these two teachings, writing that one may glimpse briefly at a rainbow in order to make the blessing. More sustained gazing, however, is not permitted.

When we move to look at the Rambam’s approach to this question, however, it is striking that he omits any mention of a prohibition to gaze at a rainbow. Commenting on this glaring omission, the notes in the Makbili edition of the Moreh Nevuchim point out that Rambam interprets the rainbow description in the Merkavah vision allegorically to represent the process of prophecy. This being aptly alluded to by a beautiful yet constant projection of light which is perceived differently depending on the eye of the beholder (no two people see a rainbow identically!).

In Rambam’s understanding, therefore, it seems likely that the aggadic injunction against feasting one’s eyes on a rainbow does not pose any contradiction to the Talmudic instruction to recite a blessing over it. Rather it is likely a manifestation of another similarly presented Talmudic caution to be “concerned for the honour of one’s Creator” – in the first Mishnah of Chagigah – which relates to the attempt to explore theological questions that the human mind is incapable of understanding. In this explanation, staring inquisitively and uninhibitedly at the prophetic process represented by the rainbow appears to be the equivalent of the “Nobles of Israel” who “stared at a vision of the God and ate and drank” thus incurring divine wrath.

Given that I never seem to be able to recall the lengthy and cumbersome wording of this blessing, it is fortunate that my recent exposure to the Bat Yam rainbow was limited to an image on my screen. Yet there is an important lesson to be gleaned even from this awkward wording. It emerges from the Talmudic discussion on the topic that this wording is the result of a compromise – a combination of blessings proposed by two different rabbis. At a time when social media posts and discussions frequently and quickly descend into a cesspit of name-calling, finger-pointing and insults, it is important to remind ourselves of the necessary – even if maddeningly difficult – price of compromise and unity, even at the expense of an inconveniently worded utterance. Perhaps this is the most important lesson that the rainbow can come to symbolize.

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"Not by means of an angel, saraf or shaliach ..."

This line, which appears both in the Pesach Haggadah and Sifre to Devarim, appears to be conveying the idea that the smiting of all Egyptian (human and animal) firstborns was performed directly by God himself. Taking a step back and analyzing this idea in the context of Rambam’s teachings on the subjects of angels, miracles and providence, I believe that the midrash may contain a very profound insight.

The nature of biblical miracles and the extent to which the plagues which struck Egypt can be explained as rare and unlikely yet fully natural occurrences is a popular subject of debate in certain circles. Rambam, in the Moreh Nevuchim, seems to cater for both possibilities.

Some fascinating and surprisingly overlooked chapters near the start of the second section of the Moreh describe angels as the agents through which God delegates the overseeing and implementation of His Will in the world. More specifically, each rule of nature – which represents an aspect of the divine will – is guided by a specific angel (“no angel performs more than one task”). As part of his discussion, Rambam introduces the example of God’s destruction of Sodom – which Avraham perceived prophetically to be the work of angels – to show how God’s providential will can be seen to operate through nature.

What is particularly fascinating about the example of Sodom, is that it involves the resolution of a conflict between different aspects of God’s will: the angel dispatched to destroy Sodom needed to co-ordinate with the angel sent to save Lot. Here, writes Rambam (2:7, supported by a teshuva from Sherira Gaon), we find the notion of limited angelic discretion and free will – not as to whether to obey or disobey God’s instruction but rather as to how God’s will should best be implemented.

The angel is clearly unable to overturn Sodom while Lot is still inside as that would be an act of disobedience to the divine will: “Hasten, flee there, for I will not be able to do anything until you arrive there” (Bereishit 19:22).

However, when Lot believes that he is unable to make it all the way to the designated mountain, the angel is authorized to amend the plans and save a small, less wicked town on the outskirts that is within Lot’s range: “I have granted you this matter too not to overturn this city that you have mentioned” (19:21).

Awakening from his prophetic dream, Avraham looks out over the plains of Sodom and sees smoke rising. Lot, as we are about to be told in great detail, has been saved alongside two of his daughters. God’s will has been effectively implemented through the angelic forces of nature – whether by asteroid or another geological phenomenon. Anyone lacking Avraham’s prophetic insight into the providential dynamics at play behind the scene might have considered this to have been a fully natural event.

In contrast with this more regular modus operandi of God’s will being implemented through the angelic agency of nature, the Rambam introduces a separate category both in the second section of the Moreh and in his commentary to Avot. There he interprets a midrash to be teaching that “God made conditions with all that he created during the six days of Creation” so that, on specific historical occasions, part of creation would behave in an abnormal or unnatural way:

“Not only with the sea did God make conditions [that it would split before Israel] but with all that was created in the six days of creation… I commanded the sea to split and the oven not to harm Chananiah, Mishael and Azariah, and the lions that they should not harm Daniel and the fish that it spit out Yonah. And comparisons can be made to other instances”. [2:29]

While Rambam does not comment as to how many of the ten plagues might belong within this category of divine conditions, it would seem that the midrashic teaching included in the Haggadah is making just this very point regarding the killing of the firstborns:

“And God took us out of Egypt”: Not by means of an angel, and not by means of a saraf and not by means of a messenger. Rather the Holy One Blessed be He himself in his glory…as it says “And I passed through the land of Egypt on that night” – I and not an angel…”.

The Haggadah is at pains to point out that this final plague, at the very least, was not performed via the providential format of God’s will being implemented discreetly through the angels of nature. Rather it was God himself who, presumably as understood by Rambam, would have foreseen and integrated such an occurrence during the period of creation of the world.

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Tefillin: a Sinaitic sign with an Egyptian origin?

While it is not uncommon to find numerous rationales being suggested for biblical commandments, the sheer range and diverse nature of the explanations offered for the mitzvah of Tefillin is quite remarkable. Tefillin is a highly valued ritual for the mystics – Talmud Reclaimed shows how the mitzvah was once a primary battleground between traditional Talmudic halachists and those who sought to integrate the Zohar’s teachings into mainstream Jewish practice. For many mystics, the practice of wearing two types of Tefillin – Rashi and Rabbeinu Tam – is not intended merely to ensure correct halachic practice, but rather to maximize the protective potential and divine energy flows that Tefillin are understood to promote.

Viewed through the perspective of peshat, this week’s parashah provides a far simpler psychological approach to understanding Tefillin:

“And it shall be to you as a sign upon your hand and as a remembrance between your eyes, in order that the law of the Lord shall be in your mouth, for with a mighty hand the Lord took you out of Egypt.” (Shemot 13:9)

This verse, which appears in the midst of many commandments intended to commemorate the Exodus, ties the mitzvah of Tefillin into the greater goal of recalling God’s miraculous rescue of our nation from Egypt. Is there anything specific to Tefillin that allows it to fulfil this function?

One fascinating idea that I read in an essay published several years ago in the Habura Pesach journal (which is currently being redacted, here) links Tefillin to symbolic practices in ancient Egypt which describes how

“In artistic depictions of subsequent campaigns, the Pharaoh is depicted adorned in sacred bracelets as he charges into battle against his enemies. These particular objects, often worn in the New Kingdom period by Pharaohs, were blessed in the names of various deities, especially Hathor who appeared in many stelae of Ramesside military propaganda as a protector of Pharaoh.

Secondly, another important area to look for parallels for Tefillin is on the head of the Pharaoh. In battle, Ramesses II was often depicted wearing the common ritual item known as the Uraeus, a talisman shaped like the snake goddess Wadjet. Commonly placed in both the Pharaonic headdress, known as the nemes, and the Pharaonic battle helmet, the kherpes, the Uraeus acted as a talisman representing the divine mission of the Pharaoh, acting as the emanation of the divine on the earth. These objects would act as conduits between the ruler and the deities of Egypt, ensuring continued divine favor for the country.”

If this is all true, Tefillin could be another manifestation of a perspective popularized recently by Rabbi Dr Joshua Berman’s Ani Maamin, which sees many aspects of biblical symbolism and phraseology as deliberately utilizing an Egyptian style in order to maximize the ability of the Torah to communicate its messages to those who would first receive it. There seems to be something deeply ingrained within human nature which motivates people to publicise their allegiances and political views – think Star of David necklaces and yellow hostage pins. In light of the historical evidence quoted above, the Israelites would most likely have reflected this by attaching symbols to their arm and head.

This insight into ancient Egyptian practice may also impact on another significant debate among Rishonim explored in Talmud Reclaimed. The primary topic of the first section of the book is to investigate which aspects of the Oral Law are understood to have been transmitted immutably from Sinai, and which would have been developed by the sages and Sanhedrin in subsequent generations.

The details of the mitzvah of Tefillin represents a fascinating example in this discussion,

Two manuscripts of Ibn Ezra's commentary on the book of Shemot have reached us. In what is believed to be the earlier commentary, Ibn Ezra presents two possible interpretations of the words "And it shall be for a sign upon your hand and for totafot between your eyes". The first, which is consistent with Rashbam's position, understands the words metaphorically, requiring the Exodus to be constantly remembered as if it were written on our heads and arms. The second possible interpretation - that these signs refer to the commandment to physically don tefillin - was adopted by the sages. Therefore, continues Ibn Ezra, the initial explanation was annulled.

In Ibn Ezra's second manuscript, however, which is understood to have been produced later in his life, he appears to have reconsidered this position, simply stating "that which the sages have transmitted to us – to write parshiyot – is the truth". This implies that he understands the commandment to don tefillin as the original “true” meaning of the verse rather than a later addition.

Rambam, meanwhile, does not display any doubt on the matter, stating emphatically in the full version of his 13 Principles of Faith that the design of tefillin that we wear today “is itself the design that God communication to Moshe”.

If the Egyptian context cited above is indeed relevant, it would seem likely that the biblical verse does refer to an actual act of wearing Tefillin as a sign upon the body – as the law was transmitted to us by the sages. We might add that, given the fact that the early Israelites would have been deeply immersed in Egyptian culture, the Torah’s text did not need to elaborate in great detail as to what the “Totaphot” consisted of. While this might lend support to Rambam’s position that Tefillin as an actual symbolic attachment was transmitted from Sinai, it still remains to be understood why he believes that its specific forms of black boxes would have been part of this original Sinaitic teaching.

Find out more about Talmud Reclaimed: Philosophy and Theology in the Torah at www.TalmudReclaimed.com

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Hakirah: investigating a journal

At the end of this post there's a link to my Facebook page from which you can access my response essay published in the most recent edition of the Hakirah journal. Their previous volume featured a highly disappointing critique of one of the later chapters (or more accurately half-chapters) of Talmud Reclaimed on the subject of the contrasting halachic methodology of the Geonim and Sephardi and Ashkenazi Rishonim. It is unfortunate that they chose not to show me the critique before publishing which would have allowed me to highlight its severe shortcomings.

First, it was clear that the reviewer had not read much of the relevant Talmud Reclaimed chapter, since he raised questions which were comprehensively addressed at the chapter’s conclusion. Secondly, while using some very strong and sarcastic language to dismiss the theory that I advanced, his critique entirely ignored the primary sources which I cited in support. Highly accepted and mainstream figures such as Rabbi Yosef Karo, Migdal Oz, Yad Malakhi, the Maharshal and Netziv all made similar points about the respective methodologies of Sepharad and Ashkenaz. They were all cited alongside academic scholars in my chapter; not a single one of these sources was addressed by the reviewer who nevertheless proceeded to accuse me of attempting to “reclaim the Talmud from its interpreters of the last eight hundred years”.

My essay is attached – I hope that members of this group enjoy reading it. It includes excerpts from a very supportive email that Professor Robert Brody, an expert in the field, wrote to me after reading the review.

I have just discovered that Hakirah chose to print another response to my essay alongside what I wrote. I have asked them for a copy of this new response and look forward to the chance to read it when they have the opportunity to send it to me.

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Grief, joy and the agony of absence

The Torah as an eternal treasure and guidebook of the Jewish people has constantly demonstrated its ability to offer new inspiration and wisdom as it is reread in each generation. As we enter a highly-charged period of weeks (and perhaps months) in which our nation will experience a complex cocktail of conflicting emotions – joy, grief, fear and frustration – I sat down to review a particularly poignant passage of the Torah with a new perspective. A perspective from the last 15 months in which hundreds of faces of people who had previously been strangers now plaster public areas and inhabit the deepest recesses of our minds; whose families’ unbearable pain and suffering is never far from our thoughts even when we temporarily turn our minds to other mundane matters.

In the opening weeks of the war I attended a gathering at the Kotel of shell-shocked hostage families where we prayed and cried together and tried to find words of support to somehow strengthen those vacant faces suffering unimaginable pain. Pain, and anguish which many of those who I stood with that day have now been suffering for well over a year.

In recent weeks we read once again the episode of Yosef’s 17-year disappearance, the unending grief of an inconsolable Ya’akov and, finally, the tear-filled reunion in Egypt. Having been informed of his son’s disappearance we are told that Ya’akov refused to be comforted; in Rashi’s telling he had a strong intuition that his son was still alive – somewhere – with no idea how or where he was being held, lacking any notion of how to begin to search for him. Unable to grieve or move on with his life, Ya’akov is stuck in a never-ending hell. Barely believing he would see his beloved son again – as he later tells him: “to see your face I never considered possible” – yet unable to set his mind on anything else.

When Ya’akov was eventually informed that his son is alive and that he will reunite with him, his heart skipped a beat in this moment of overwhelming emotion and his “spirit lived again”. Yet a careful reading of the text reveals that he was forever scarred by the experience.

Pharaoh is clearly impacted by Ya’akov’s age and appearance asking him “how many are the days of the years of your life?”. Ya’akov replies “few and bad have been the days of the years of my dwelling”. This strange combination of words is often taken to show that righteous people utilize each and every day of their life. But I believe there is more going on here. While Pharaoh inquires of the length of Ya’akov’s “life”, Ya’akov responds that his “dwelling” has been bad. Rav S. R. Hirsch interprets this to imply that he has not fully lived for much of this time – just dwelt and existed. I would add that the “days of the years” of his life can be taken to mean that each and every day of the years of his life was a separate source of agony and suffering.

As for the moment of reunion itself, the account is both simple and profound. Reading the verses of the Torah we see Ya’akov and Yosef embracing and crying on each other’s shoulders. The overpowering emotion of the moment transcends speech or attempts to capture their thoughts and feelings in words. Digging below the surface, however, we find Rashi citing a tradition that Ya’akov “recited Keriat Shema”.

Whether or not we understand this to refer to a literal recitation of the words, I believe that it encapsulates the religious response to this overwhelming and sensitive moment. The unfathomable joy mixed with the painful realisation that they have lost so many years together – Ya’akov struggles to recognise and relate to Yosef’s new position and family. How can they even begin to understand the role and possible purpose of God in such difficult and complex times – especially while experiencing such powerful emotions. The midrash appears to be teaching the correct response – Shema represents accepting the yoke of Heaven. Accepting and pronouncing that, whether or not we can understanding why things occur or what God’s plan might be, we can have the humility and clear-headedness to recognise that there is a greater plan and a higher wisdom at play.

With such a response, Ya’akov as our forefather has embodied a fundamental example which has guided his persecuted descendants through to this very day.

This post specifically wants to avoid the complex and ongoing debate over the wisdom of the hostage deal, recognizing the very legitimate concerns over the dangers and threat that it creates – there are plenty of places on Facebook and elsewhere where this has, is and will continue to be debated.

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Dancing in the moonlight: the evolution of a simple blessing

One of the more peculiar communal rituals we regularly indulge in is the monthly Kiddush Levanah – a blessing over the new moon following which participants greet each other as long lost friends (“Shalom Aleichem!”) and then proceed to hold hands and dance slowly in a circle.

Talmud Reclaimed explores the relationship between Kabbalah and Halacha – and the different methodologies employed by legal authorities when these sources do not agree. The laws relating to Kiddush Levanah offer a perfect framework for exploring these methodologies as well as more broadly the way in which various Rishonim balance up halachic sources in order to determine Halacha.

One particular peculiarity about the law of Kiddush Levanah is that the main law itself appears to be missing from the primary halachic source: the Talmud Bavli. Instead of the expected location in Masechet Berachot, it is only a tangential passage in Sanhedrin where the latest time for reciting this blessing is debated. The primary obligation itself, as well as the earliest time for performing Kiddush Levanah do not merit a mention.

With the Bavli holding its silence, the earliest commentaries and halachic codes appear to draw upon the Yerushalmi, which places this law where it seems most suited – in the chapter of HaRo’eh among numerous other blessings recited over natural or historical phenomena:

“One who sees the moon in its renewal should say Blessed [is the God who] renews the months”.

As Talmud Reclaimed details, while the Rambam and Rif both consider the Bavli to be the more legally authoritative of the two Talmuds, this is only because it was sealed and published after its Palestinian counterpart and is thus considered to have superseded it. On occasions such as this where the Bavli is silent, the Yerushalmi’s prior teaching remains legally binding. In view of this, Rambam, Rosh, Rashi and others all rule simply that the blessing can be recited from the very first sighting of the moon (Rambam and perhaps Rashi even consider this to be the ideal time). A minority opinion of Rabbeinu Yonah requires one to wait three days – presumably in order for the moon to have sufficiently “renewed” to warrant a blessing. Yet all of this still seems very distant from the ceremony as it is customarily practiced today.

For further clarification of the popular practice we need to examine post-Talmudic sources, starting with Masechet Soferim – a work understood to have been authored in the Land of Israel during the Geonic period. Here for the first time we discover recommendations that the blessing be recited on Motzei Shabbat with due pomp and circumstance.

Characteristically, Rambam and other Rishonim who follow his strict legal methodology, do not record this as law since being post-Talmudic it lacks formal legal authority. Notwithstanding this, the custom to perform the ceremony on Motzei Shabbat became increasingly popular and widely practiced to the extent that it has practically been formalized as law in the popular perception. The positions of Rashi, Rambam and others that it should ideally be recited at the first opportunity, and the Gra’s protest against unnecessarily delaying the performance of a mitzvah (particularly against those who delay until after Yom Kippur and Tishe Be’Av) are rarely acknowledged.

The reason for this seismic shift in the popular approach to Kiddush Levanah would appear to lie not simply in Masechet Soferim but rather in a kabbalistic teaching of Rabbi Yosef Gikatilla which introduces a notion that is absent from both Talmuds: that the blessing should not be recited until at least the seventh of the month for kabbalistic reasons.

This opens a can of worms which is thoroughly parsed in Talmud Reclaimed. In theory it is agreed by all – including Rav Yosef Karo’s Beit Yosef and the Mishneh Berurah – that in a clash between Talmud and the Zohar it is the Talmudic conclusion which must be followed for Halachah. Nevertheless, Rav Yosef Karo’s Shulchan Aruch is widely credited with introducing kabbalistic considerations into mainstream halachic dialogue. Talmud Reclaimed shows the extent to which delicate legal reasoning is engaged in order to demonstrate that the Zohar can be reconciled with the Talmud. The case in hand is particularly difficult to reconcile, the Bach arguing strongly that the seven-day ruling should not be followed as it opposes Talmudic law.

With Kiddush Levana gradually transformed from a blessing over viewing a natural phenomenon – one of the group of Birchot HaRo’eh – to a communal Motzei Shabbat celebration of the moon, its focus can be seen to have shifted significantly. The text of the Berachah specifically addresses God, and makes reference to a prophecy of Yeshaya in order to pray to God to renew and redeem his Chosen People (the “amusei baten”) – a symbolic association with the renewal of the moon. Writing in his commentary to Mishneh Torah, Rabbi Yosef Kappach notes critically how the customary verses and dances which have slowly attached themselves to the blessing have gradually shifted the focus of the ceremony from a prayer to God to the moon itself – sometimes even appearing to address it.

Where this all leaves us is uncertain. But it may be fair to comment that what was initially one small prayer to God has seen itself transformed into one giant leap in the popular evolution of Halachah!

For more information about Talmud Reclaimed: An Ancient Text in the Modern Era and Judaism Reclaimed: Philosophy and Theology in the Torah, visit www.TalmudReclaimed.com.

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Articles of faith: approaches to biblical criticism

For many years, Rabbi Gil Student's Hirhurim blog and social media activity has been at the forefront of online Orthodox discussion and debate as to how to grapple with challenging topics in the modern world. A number of the chapters of Judaism Reclaimed benefited from his thorough and well-sourced posts. Now Rabbi Student has published an account and summary of much of this discussion. Below is a sample - on the subject of Biblical Criticism. We are honoured to host him on this page.

Forgiveness and Biblical Criticism

By Rabbi Gil Student

Biblical critics often point to repetitions in the biblical text as evidence of multiple texts that were (clumsily) edited together by a redactor. One example is the story of Yosef’s forgiveness of his brothers, which seems to be repeated unnecessarily. In my recently published book, Articles of Faith: Traditional Jewish Belief in the Internet Era, I explore traditional beliefs about the authorship of the Bible and three failed approaches and one successful approach to reconciling those with biblical criticism. In another chapter, I explore the topic of forgiveness and show that biblical critics oversimplify the topic when claiming that there is a repetition in the story of Yosef and his brothers.

I. The Forgiveness Doublet

R. Jonathan Sacks argues that Yosef’s forgiveness of his brothers is the first time in history we explicitly find someone forgiving others. After testing his brothers and finding that they had truly changed, Yosef can no longer hold himself back and reveals his identity to them. He tells them, “And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, for God sent me ahead of you to preserve life” (Gen. 45:5; see R. Jonathan Sacks, Covenant & Conversation, Genesis, p. 323ff.; idem., Essays on Ethics, p. 65ff.; idem., Ceremony & Celebration: Introduction to the Holidays, p. 33ff.)

In a later analysis, R. Sacks deepens his study by explaining the double-passage of Yosef’s forgiveness of his brothers. In Gen. 45, Yosef pardons his brothers for their actions, as noted above. In Gen. 50, after Ya’akov dies, the brothers fear Yosef’s retribution. To save themselves, they send a message to Yosef in Ya’akov’s name, asking for forgiveness. “Your father left these instructions before he died: ‘This is what you are to say to Yosef: Please forgive your brothers’ wrong and the sin they committed in treating you so badly.’ Now please forgive the sins of the servants of the God of your father” (Gen. 50:15-17). Yosef replies, again absolving them of guilt for the entire episode. Why is this repeated in the text?

Ephraim Speiser claims that these two passages emerge from different authors (Anchor Bible Genesis, p. 378). However, this approach fails to see the depth in the narrative, the important message about human nature and reconciliation. In the posthumously published Judaism’s Life-Changing Ideas (p. 59), R. Sacks differentiates between these two passages by saying that the first passage looks like forgiveness but is not — in fact, the term is not even mentioned. Only the second passage reflects forgiveness. We can expand on that distinction by defining our terms and concepts more precisely, thereby understanding an important lesson the text is teaching us about forgiveness.

II. Forgoing and Forgiving

One way to think about forgiveness is by noting how its language is used in finance. When you forgive a loan, you allow someone not to repay you. You lent him money, which he owes you. He has an obligation to you. You forgive the loan, removing that obligation. In this framework, forgiveness is the removal of an obligation. If someone hurts you, whether intentionally or negligently, he has an obligation to repay that offense, to make you whole. Even if the offense entails no tangible loss, he needs to restore your sense of completeness, your emotional state. When you forgive him, you remove that obligation. While we use the language of forgiveness in this case, really it is an example for forgoing. You, the victim, declare that you are willing to pardon him, to forgo the debt due you.

Forgiveness goes further than forgoing. It takes two to forgive. The offender must repent and attempt to undo the harm, if at all possible. To obtain forgiveness, a sinner must undergo personal change. Maimonides lists four steps of repentance: regret, cessation of the sin, confession and commitment to refrain from this sin in the future (Hilchos Teshuvah 2:2). However, these steps suffice only for sins between God and man. The Mishnah (Yoma 85b) says that interpersonal sins also need the forgiveness of the victim. In contrast to forgoing, forgiving means reconciling, healing the damaged relationship between offender and victim through an apology and an acceptance.

III. Yosef’s Two Acts of Forgiveness

At first, on revealing his identity to his brothers, Yosef tells his brothers, “And now, do not be distressed and do not be angry with yourselves for selling me here, for God sent me ahead of you to preserve life” (Gen. 45:5). Later, after Ya’akov dies, the brothers say to Yosef in Ya’akov’s name, “Now please forgive the sins of the servants of the God of your father” (Gen. 50:17). To this, Yosef responds favorably.

We see in this double passage the important differences between forgoing and forgiving. At first, Yosef forwent the brothers’ terrible treatment of him. He told them not to worry about it because he did not hold it against them. But they never had a chance to apologize before the events moved forward very quickly. There was never a real reconciliation. The brothers never fully talked through with Yosef what had transpired and their roles in it, and therefore there were still unanswered questions within the relationship. Yosef removed the moral obligation from the brothers but he never repaired their relationship. That is an example of forgoing, a lower level for forgiveness.

Only later, through the artificial medium of their deceased father Ya’akov, did the brothers convey their apology. By saying what had remained unsaid until that point, the brothers and Yosef were able to reconcile. They asked for forgiveness and Yosef forgave them. At the end of Genesis, the relationship between Yosef and his brothers is finally repaired. Thus, the double-passage of forgiveness is not a repetition but a story of deepening forgiveness, moving from forgoing to forgiving.

We can ask why doublets are problematic at all. Why should we assume that ancient writing styles would avoid telling stories that seem relatively similar? Indeed, familiarity can help people remember the stories and recognize the differences. In the case of forgiveness, we see that there is no repetition at all but merely the careful development of the narrative and the slow process of reconciliation between Yosef and his brothers.

Articles of Faith is available on Amazon here.

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