Wednesday, 19 February 2025

Judaism as a genuine religion?

Parashat Yitro contains God's historic revelation and communication of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Much attention is focused, understandably, on the content and nature of this communication to the assembled masses. What is often overlooked however are the strict rules which governed the Jewish people's conduct both during this unique revelation and on the days leading up to it. Rabbi S. R. Hirsch analyses these laws and derives from them a series of crucial ideas concerning the relationship between the Torah which was being received and the nation which was to accept it.

The people were first instructed, three full days in advance, to prepare and purify themselves for the forthcoming divine revelation. Then, at the time of the law-giving, they were warned not to approach the mountain. Each of these rules was intended to emphasise the reality that the Torah was communicated to the Jews from an external superior source, and did not emanate from within them.
Rav Hirsch continues by describing how the fields of anthropology and sociology view religion, like arts and culture, as a mere projection of the social values of society. This approach treats religion as little more than a means by which we can understand the behaviour and beliefs of the social unit formed by its adherents. In this sense, Judaism stands apart and cannot be truly defined as a religion, since the Torah’s rigorous and demanding laws do not reflect the religious and moral status of the nation which first received them. God’s instructions to the Jewish people to purify themselves for several days in advance of receiving the Torah represent a principle of fundamental importance: that its recipients were not inherently worthy of hearing God's word. Additionally, the prohibition against drawing near the mountain during the Ten Commandments reinforces the distinction between the source of the communication and the people to whom it was addressed, thereby emphatically rejecting the notion that the Torah emanated from the people themselves.
The idea that the Jewish people were not initially suited to comply with the demanding standards of the Torah finds further expression in the aftermath of the shocking sin of the Golden Calf, which occurred so soon after the national revelation. As is clear from the conversation between God and Moshe which took place immediately after that sin was committed, the people were considered to be thoroughly unworthy of the recently-received Torah. God even suggests to Moshe that He annihilate the entire nation, replacing it with a new chosen people to be drawn from Moshe's own descendants. God’s proposal, though troubling, also imparts a constructive message: an eternal principle that the Torah contains timeless and unchanging truths.
Thus, when the people sinned en masse with the Golden Calf immediately after having received the strong prohibitions against idolatry, there was no suggestion that the Torah be watered down or altered to accommodate their human weaknesses. It was up to the Jewish people to prove themselves capable of living up to the standards required by the Torah: if they were unable to refine themselves, they could be replaced with a new nation comprised solely of Moshe’s descendants — a nation made up of people who could guard God’s eternal Law and live their lives in a way that embodied His immutable truths. That this first generation of Jews, when proven inadequate, faced the prospect of either having to change or be changed teaches a vital lesson for all generations: people cannot expect the Torah to accommodate and be manipulated to suit their personal preferences and sensibilities.
In summary, the deliberate distancing of the gathered nation from Mount Sinai can be seen as emphasising the gulf that existed between the capabilities of the nation leaving Egypt and the Torah’s lofty ideals. This conscious distancing demonstrated in purely physical terms the axiom that the Torah is not a mere expression of the Jewish people’s beliefs and thoughts of that era. The significance of this point is amplified by the fact that, when the Jewish people were subsequently tested by the episode of the Golden Calf, most of them immediately failed. This failure underscored their initial lack of suitability to be the nation of the Torah, a phenomenon which needed to be tackled by improving the suitability of the recipient nation, and not by tailoring the Torah’s immutable rules.
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Tuesday, 11 February 2025

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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Saturday, 8 February 2025

"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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Can AI ever replace a posek?

We are honoured this week to be hosting a fascinating piece by R.  Gil Student  (adapted from his recent book, Articles of Faith: Traditiona...