The confusing command to "walk in God's ways"

A repeated theme in yesterday’s Torah reading is the instruction that we are to walk in God’s ways – understood by our sages as a commandment to imitate God’s attributes as they define them: “Just as He is merciful so must you be merciful, just as He is gracious so must you be gracious”. As Judaism Reclaimed explores, this is a perplexing idea – particularly from the Rambam’s perspective what does it mean to mimic a deity which is understood to be beyond comparison and cannot even be described in human language?

One fascinating discussion of this concept can be found in the first chapter of Rambam’s Hilchot De’ot, where he contrasts the chacham (wise person) with the chassid. It would seem that according to Rambam’s understanding, an important step in correctly achieving and internalizing wisdom is balancing one’s character so that one’s perspective and analysis is not skewed by undesirable traits. This is the aim of a chacham whose connection to God is focused upon wisdom and intellectual pursuits. It may even be suggested that “walking in God’s ways” means attempting to minimize any imbalance and faulty reasoning in the same way as, it is understood, God’s “thought process” operates without external interference.

In contrast to the “chacham”, Rambam depicts a different mode of approaching God – the “chassid” whose “actions are more numerous than his wisdom” (see commentary to Avot chapter 3:9). The chassid, it would seem, seeks to “walk in God’s ways” by copying His actions of kindness as defined by the sages rather than idealizing the path of balance. The Rashba compiles a list of Talmudic mentions of chassidim, who are depicted as meditating for hours before and after prayer, searching out and removing dangerous objects from the public domain, and being prepared to use all of their possessions for the benefit of others.

Another fascinating dimension of this commandment to “walk in God’s ways” is the extent to which it overlaps with another biblical injunction: To love one’s fellow as oneself. Paraphrasing the sages, Rambam in the final chapter of Hilchot Avel defines this law as performing acts of kindness for others which one would want them to perform for oneself – such as comforting mourners, visiting the sick and rejoicing at weddings.

What emerges is that, when performing such a prescribed act of kindness, one may well be simultaneously fulfilling two separate biblical commands. The first, walking in God’s path, would be categorized as bein adam lamakom (between man and God) – strengthening one’s relationship and connection with God by making oneself more like Him. The second – loving one’s fellow as oneself – is more associated with bein adam lechaveiro (between man and man) as it improves the relationships between people and within communities.

Aside from the different focuses of these two commandments, there may also be circumstances in which they can apply independently of each other.

Imagine a scenario in which one travels for hours to visit a mourner only to find that he has traveled abroad or has closed the house of mourning for the day. From the perspective of “walking in God’s ways”, one may well have succeeded, through the attempted visit, in train his or her traits towards being a chacham or chasid. It is harder, however, to say that one has actually performed an act of kindness towards the other.

Alternatively, for a person whose personality has already stretched too far to the side of kindness towards others (the Rambam says this needs to be balanced with concern for one’s own wellbeing), a long trip to a mourner’s house may not be viewed as “walking in God’s ways” – but nevertheless should certainly constitute an “act of kindness” if he gets to comfort the mourner.

For comments and discussion of this post, click here and also here (on Avot Today)

Rebellious sons and a radical rabbinic tradition

Near the start of yesterday’s Torah reading we find the strange commandment of ben sorer umoreh (wayward and rebellious son), the rabbinic interpretation of which serves only to intensify its perplexity:

If one of his parents had a hand cut off, or was lame, mute, blind or deaf, he cannot become a “wayward and rebellious son”, because it says “his father and mother shall take hold of him”—not those with a hand cut off; “and bring him out”—not parents who are lame; “and they shall say”—and not parents who are mute; “this our son”—and not parents who are blind; “he will not obey our voice”—and not parents who are deaf.

Talmud Reclaimed explores this extremely narrow line of interpretation, contrasting it with commandments elsewhere in the parashah which are interpreted considerably more expansively. Consider this passage of the hungry vineyard worker (a law I was privileged to observe for the first time while volunteering last week!):

“How do we know it of all other things? We infer them from the vineyard: just as regarding the vineyard its produce grows from the earth, and once it is ripe the labourer may eat of it, so too everything which grows from the soil and is ripe, the labourer may eat from…”

It seems surprising that the same interpretative tradition that renders seemingly simple verbs such as holding, bringing and speaking to exclude certain categories of parent, can also read vineyard and grapes to include anything that grows from the ground. Other commandments in the parashah such as not muzzling an ox on the threshing floor and not ploughing with a combination of donkey and ox are similarly expanded to apply to all members of the animal kingdom (including fish!).

Are we to assume that, as the Malbim claims, the sages were fully engaged in an exercise of drawing delicate hints and linguistic inferences from the biblical text in order to construct midrashic meaning? Alternatively were they basing their midrash on received traditions (Rabbi D. Z. Hoffman) or was it merely a means through which the Sanhedrin legislated new details of biblical law (Rabbi J. Faur)? Talmud Reclaimed probes the relative strengths and weaknesses of all these approaches and attempts to plot a middle path of compromise between them.

In addition to such efforts to discover the interpretative methodology of our sages, the law of the ben sorer umoreh contains a further – particularly peculiar – interpretive idiosyncrasy which Judaism Reclaimed explores. Was this case of ben sorer umoreh a law that could ever have had practical application?

The Gemara in Sanhedrin (71a) presents a fascinating Tannaitic discussion regarding ben sorer umoreh and ir hanidachat (idolatrous city): Rabbi Yehudah derives from a close interpretation of the relevant verses (and his colleague R' Shimon from logic) that these laws can have no practical application. If so why do they feature in the Torah? The answer is “doresh umekabel s'char” (study and receive a reward). Rabbi Yonatan emphatically disagrees with his colleagues: not only do these laws have practical application but, he reports, he has personally sat upon the grave of an executed youth.

This apparent dispute is very strange. Rabbi Yonatan and the other Tannaim were contemporaries who all studied under Rabbi Akiva. On the assumption that the Sanhedrin's destruction of a whole city or the judicial execution of a child would have been remarkable and therefore well-known events, it is extremely unlikely that only Rabbi Yonatan would have known of them, even if the Tannaim in question lived some time after the Sanhedrin had ceased to rule in capital cases. Even more strangely, the Gemara and commentaries do not question the source of this Tannaitic argument. Does Rabbi Yonatan reject the textual interpretation and logical deduction made by his contemporaries in order to render these cases possible?

One solution is offered by Rabbeinu Bachaye, who suggests that Rabbi Yonatan may not be referring to a ben sorer umoreh or ir hanidachat that was actually tried by the Sanhedrin. Another Talmudic passage teaches a principle that, when the death penalty cannot be imposed, the Heavenly Court may arrange for it to be carried out in other ways. Rabbi Yonatan therefore may not be arguing with the teaching of his colleagues who maintained that the legal requirements for ben sorer umoreh rendered the case impossible for the Sanhedrin to implement. He is simply adding that, despite this impossibility, the ben sorer umoreh and ir hanidachat may still be subject to a Divine decree. It is such a Divine decree which Rabbi Yonatan claims to have caused the early death of the ‘ben sorer umoreh’ whose grave he sat upon.

If this understanding is correct, it would appear that we have an agreed upon transmitted tradition that ben sorer umoreh – in contrast to other commandments in the parashah which are interpreted expansively – must be read so narrowly so as to prevent it from ever occurring.

But what would really be the point of such an exercise? Are there not plenty of other biblical verses which could serve as a basis for more practical rabbinic midrash – why have a law on the biblical books which was never intended to be applied? Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, implicitly addressing this question, identifies a swathe of ethical lessons and pearls of parental guidance that can be gleaned from these verses and their midrash.

A more recent answer from a historical perspective was suggested by Professor Moshe Halbertal. Halbertal argues that the Torah’s primary function with this law (perhaps alongside others in the parashah) was to prevent the father and mother of the young delinquent from taking the law into their own hands and performing some form of “honour killing”. Instead of this apparently accepted ancient practice, the father and mother are instructed to “bring their son to the city elders and the gates” for the matter to be dealt with by a proper court. A court which, it would seem, has a longstanding tradition to interpret the verses sufficiently narrowly so as to avoid handing the wayward and rebellious youth a death sentence.

For more details visit www.TalmudReclaimed.com

First posted on Facebook yesterday, here.

Navigating the stormy seas of aggadah

Following dozens of pages of often complex and intricate legal analysis, Daf Yomi devotees might think they have earned some form of respite with the entertaining somewhat peculiar aggadic anecdotes recounted by Rabbah bar bar Channah. In truth, however, these aggadot present their own special set of challenges.

As Talmud Reclaimed comments in the chapter dedicated to contrasting the style, nature and purpose of aggadic and legal passages, these stories are so manifestly bizarre and exaggerated that they defy literal interpretation. They can only have been intended as parables that were drafted in such a manner as to impart some kind of deeper meaning. This leads the chapter into a broader analysis of the role of meshalim within Jewish learning and why the Talmud and midrashim have so often opted to present their teachings in the form of cryptic anecdotes rather than straightforward laws or advice.

Many of these stories, told by Rabbah bar bar Chana, describe seafaring adventures:

Rabbah [bar bar Chana] said: “Those who go down to sea told me that the wave which sinks a ship appears to have a fringe of white fire at its tip. But when one strikes it with a club upon which is engraved “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh…’, it subsides…”

Once we were going in a ship and we saw a certain fish. Sand settled on its back and a meadow sprouted upon it. We thought it was dry land and we went up and dwelled there and we baked and cooked on it. When its back became hot it turned over and, if not for the fact that the ship was nearby, we would have drowned.

The Vilna Gaon provides a systematic framework for showing how to interpret these tales and extract instructive messages from them. In short, the passage of a soul through this world is likened to a voyage across the sea. Seafarers do not intend to remain on sea for an extended period of time; the purpose of their trip is to acquire profitable merchandise which they can bring back home with them. So, too, is the soul’s journey through this world a voyage of limited duration, upon which it embarks with the intended purpose of acquiring merits to take with it to the World to Come. The ship corresponds to the body that transports the soul, while the waves that threaten the ship’s destruction are trials and tribulations that a person faces in this world.

arious challenges that tVhe seafarers face in these stories are identified as difficulties that people face in their lives. Thus in the first story the wave with white fire refers to the “burning” evil inclination that can sink the ship; this fire can only be overcome by drawing on the correct religious, spiritual or moral responses. In the second, the initially accommodating fish represents the superficial attraction of associating with the wicked, who lure people into their company. Reliance on such friendship, however, comes with the risk that it will ultimately disrupt one’s ability to bring back profitable merchandise. Indeed, it can even endanger a person’s life altogether.

Talmud Reclaimed notes how, in contrast to the legal rulings of the Talmud which remain fixed and binding for subsequent generations, the sages deliberately framed their aggadic teachings in a more flexible manner. This means that, even though such aggadot are often underpinned by one or more of the biblical injunctions, such as to love and fear God and to live a holy and ethical lifestyle, the specific methods through which these concepts are to be implemented can vary based on the era, society and set of character traits that people find themselves having to grapple with.

The question remains though as to how we are to determine the precise status, and therefore the authority and consequent credibility, of these flexible aggadic teachings. The very non-binding nature which allowed for their amendment and development in the post-Talmudic era also creates uncertainty as to their ability to act as an absolute guide to those seeking to follow the Torah’s teachings. Unlike clearcut laws, such as those concerning matzah or circumcision, which are fulfilled through specific actions, it is hard to determine the precise parameters of broader “aggadic” commandments such as loving and fearing God, walking in His ways and being honest and holy. This is not to say that they are less significant. Biblical verses from recently read portions emphasise the quintessential importance of these overarching laws:

What does the Lord your God ask of you, but that you fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His ways, to love Him and serve the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul, to observe the commandments and statutes of God?

Rather than signifying a lack of importance, the non-binding and flexible nature of aggadic teachings result from the fact that the commandments and wisdom to which they relate are deliberately framed in a flexible manner. This flexibility enables them to apply in various ways as between different individuals, societies and eras.

The mass of ethical advice and profound wisdom which is contained within aggadic passages is overwhelming and often confusing. By emphasising the great importance of such passages, yet framing them in flexible and non-binding form, the Talmud informs us that what the Torah demands is genuine engagement and grappling with its ethical teachings and concealed wisdom. It is the process of constantly seeking to improve one’s character, to purify one’s motives and to refine one’s understanding of theological difficulties which the Torah demands with its injunctions to love and fear God, be holy and walk in His ways. With regard to aggadah as opposed to law, the importance of active and genuine involvement in this process may outweigh any particular result that it achieves.

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The excruciating question of hostage negotiation

In dark times such as these, many of us find ourselves looking back to precedents from our tear-stained history for guidance and insight. What we find is not always clear and unambiguous, but even then it can provide a measure of perspective and comfort to know that our desperate struggles and moral quandaries are similar to those which our ancestors have faced over the millennia.

Talmud Reclaimed brings the example of redeeming hostages as one of a series of cases which demonstrate different methodologies through which Rambam and the Tosafists identify rulings from the Talmud. The primary Talmudic passage in (Gittin 45a) presents a clear rabbinic decree prohibiting the redemption of hostages “for more than their value” since this will encourage kidnappers to abduct more Jews and demand ever increasing ransoms. Rambam, in keeping with his usual practice, records this ruling without exception in his legal code (Matnat Aniyim 8:12).

Yet this is far from the end of the story.

The Ba’alei Tosafot (Gittin 58a), consistent with their own Talmudic approach, identified several exceptions to this Talmudic ruling – for example if the hostage’s life is in danger or if a Torah scholar is abducted. Was the Mishnah’s ruling simply too strict and uncompromising to be imposed unconditionally on the nation?

Fascinatingly, when one of the most prominent Tosafists, Maharam MiRottenburg, was kidnapped for a heavy ransom, he refused to allow his community to collect money to redeem him out of fear that this would merely encourage the gentiles to abduct more rabbinic leaders.

This painful moral conundrum has become magnified to an unimaginably horrifying extent in the current nightmare which our nation has been living for the last year.

On the one hand, there is the cold, rational voice of the Mishnah hanging over us. By agreeing to redeem hostages “for any price” we have undoubtedly encouraged our enemies to utilise hostage-taking as a preferred strategy against us. The 1000+ terrorists released as part of the Shalit deal in 2015 have been directly responsible for several Israeli deaths (and arguably indirectly for many more).

Perhaps more significantly, it established the norm that Israel will pay an outsized price to redeem its people (unlike the Ukraine-Russia conflict where prisoner exchanges frequently exchange at a 1-1 rate). When Hamas decided on October 7 to abduct Israelis rather than complete the massacre it was not done for the sake of the Israelis themselves but as a cruel tactic to ensure Hamas’s survival in the inevitable war that would follow. Israel, they predicted, would agree to any price to get its people back – even one that leaves them with a relatively open border to rearm and renew its ability to launch further murderous attacks on Israel.

On the other hand, what are the consequences of not agreeing a deal to bring our tortured brothers and sisters back home? Will seeing our hostages – their devastated families and friends – pleading for their lives yet us turning a blind eye to their pain irreversibly change us as a nation? Is our willingness to do anything to bring our people home, a willingness that our enemies identify as a weak spot, really a source of national strength, pride and unity? Perhaps a refusal to proceed with a deal will bring a pyrrhic victory – militarily degrading Hamas to a point of no return but morally and socially degrading Israel in the process. Will we be the same people afterwards?

It is an impossible question which we are faced with. How can we, as human beings and as Jews, face our hostage families and tell them that their loved ones are not worth the price of military compromise. At the same time how can we ignore that cold rational truth in our heads which predicts the numerous likely Israeli deaths in the years to come from agreeing such a deal – and the knowledge that we are playing along to Hamas’s strategy.

However there is another part of Hamas’s strategy we can and must do more to mitigate. We must keep at the forefront of our minds that our true enemies are not our fellow Jews who balance up these concerns differently to ourselves but the bloodthirsty terrorists who knowingly calculated to put us into this awful moral conundrum in order to tear us apart. None of us are traitors. We all want the hostages home and well as soon as possible and Hamas weakened and degraded to the greatest extent possible. We cannot afford to permit Hamas to turn us against each other with poisonous rhetoric and actions.

May this month, as we prayed this morning, be one of salvation and comforting, life and peace.

Unified we will be victorious. Am Yisrael Chai.

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