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.

The true lesson of the hanging corpse

A teaching cited by Rashi on yesterday’s Torah reading has proven a firm favourite among those who seek to prove ancient rabbinic belief in a physical deity (a subject addressed at length in Judaism Reclaimed).

While the verse intriguingly informs us that the corpse of a condemned criminal should not be left overnight on a tree because this is an affront to God, Rashi’s rabbinic parable has raised many an eyebrow through the years:

“This is comparable to two identical twin brothers. One [of them] became king, while the other was arrested for robbery and hanged. Whoever saw him [the second brother, suspended on the gallows], would say, “The king is hanging!” Therefore, the king ordered, and they removed him.”

Attention is commonly concentrated on analysing the implications of this story for how God was perceived in ancient Israel. Could the same God who revealed Himself to Israel at Sinai to a nation who “saw no image” (Devarim 4:15), now be mistaken for the hanging body of an executed criminal?

As the Sforno and Maharal to this verse both argue, the only commonality and point of comparison between humanity and God is the intellect – the human ability to examine ideas, develop concepts of good and evil and then choose freely between them. It is in this capacity alone that mankind is described as having been created in God’s image.

But to my mind this whole discussion misses the primary point and real significance of the rabbinic parable.

Rather than focusing on what this comparison means for how we perceive God, we should instead recognise its far-reaching message for how we are to view our fellow humans.

To place this teaching in its correct context we must bear in mind how condemned criminals were typically treated until fairly recently – paraded through the streets to be humiliated, spat upon, cursed and pelted with all sorts of degrading objects. The message of this verse – as taught in the rabbinic parable – is that even a person who has committed an appalling crime which warrants a death penalty must still be treated with the dignity befitting a tselem Elokim.

Societies need a criminal system. Law and order must be maintained and serious offences must of course be punished. What the Torah appears to be rejecting here is the smug triumphalism of those who celebrate the destruction of another human being whether through execution or calling to “lock them up and throw away the key”.

Even at a person’s lowest possible moment – being executed for a serious criminal offence – his special human attribute and Godly image is recognised and respected. To leave him strung up on a tree overnight would be to degrade a creature which was endowed with this special potential to develop and connect with the divine. Rather than rejoicing and looking to make an example of a criminal who has got his come-uppance we should be soberly mourning the abject failure of a fellow tselem Elokim. The tragedy of a capital sentence is reflected in a teaching of Rabbi Akiva (Sanhedrin 63b) that judges handing down a death penalty must fast for the entire day.

A further manifestation of this principle is the somewhat comical application of “loving one’s fellow as oneself” to mean “select for him a pleasant form of death” (Sanhedrin 45a). Though not the most intuitive way of fulfilling brotherly love, this law reflects the idea that has been discussed in this post: that even a condemned criminal retains his humanity and therefore must be treated with all possible respect and dignity as one created in the image of God.

As I explore in greater detail in Judaism Reclaimed, the commandment to love one’s fellow is not fulfilled simply by providing for the needs of another. That may be a simple act of anticipated reciprocity which every functioning society requires to a certain extent. Rather the religious command requires us to radically change our perspective – until we identify fully with the other as a fellow human – until their needs and feelings are as our own.

Yesterday’s parasha shows how broadly this requirement applies. Every human we come across – never mind how pathetic or wretched they may appear to us – must be identified with and dignified to the greatest extent possible. Rather than the hanging corpse prompting us to imagine God as a physical form, it instead is supposed to evoke genuine pity and tragedy that a free-choosing human, created in God’s image, has used this potential so poorly.

This message from yesterday’s reading is also a timely reminder for Elul as we examine our deeds and look to improve our religious standing ahead of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In just a month from now we will be sat in shul listening to the Yom Kippur Haftarah – how the process of repentance and fasting requires us to “break your bread with the hungry and bring the moaning poor to your home” and “offer your soul to the hungry”. Commenting on the latter phrase, Radak highlights the fact that it is not sufficient merely to throw a few coins at the unfortunate and feel that we have fulfilled our obligation – rather we must take a genuine interest in the recipient’s plight so that he sees that the gift is being presented wholeheartedly.

The prophet’s demands are not easy to fulfil. They require us to develop a sensitivity and perspective through which we regard every human being we come across – even the condemned criminal – not as a physical body but as a mind and soul endowed with the tselem Elokim.

First posted to Facebook 27 August 2023, here.