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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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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Vayechi: Lishmah and the pursuit of genuine religiosity

The chapter of Judaism Reclaimed relating to parashat Vayechi builds upon the midrashic interpretation of Ya'akov's words “Perform for me kindness and truth, do not bury me in Egypt”. Midrash Rabbah, quoted by Rashi, explains: “kindness that is done with the dead is true kindness, for one does not expect any payment or reward”.

The political context surrounding Ya’akov’s instructions to Yosef on his deathbed deeply exacerbated the degree of “kindness” involved. Ya’akov knew that this request would be highly unpopular with his family, which was already looking to integrate into Egyptian society and seeking to demonstrate loyalty to its hosts. In his Meshech Chochmah, Rav Meir Simchah of Dvinsk comments that it was precisely for this reason that Ya’akov felt the need to burden his sons with the task of carrying his body out of Egypt—so that neither their initial desire to integrate nor the subsequent years of exile and servitude would cause them to lose sight of their destiny of reaching the promised land.

The Midrash’s focus on the motive for an act of kindness forms part of a greater emphasis in Judaism on the thoughts which accompany good deeds. In his Introduction to Chelek, Rambam cites a number of teachings from the Sages which require mitzvot to be performed “lishmah” out of love for God – understood by Rambam to consist of a strong intellectual appreciation of the inherent value and truth of the Torah and its commandments. Recognising that this level of religious functioning is difficult to understand, let alone achieve, Rambam describes how the Sages not merely permitted but required the study of Torah and fulfilment of mitzvot even when they are motivated by heavenly reward and punishment. This concession was premised upon the understanding that such engagement with Torah and mitzvot could lead people to an appreciation of their inherent worth, and with it, a purer motive. Rambam’s understanding of the concept of lishmah, representing service of God through intellectual love, is contrasted with the approach of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler (possibly based on Ra’avad), who understands lishmah to consist of serving God with enthusiasm.

Our chapter moves on to consider why Rambam places so much importance on the motive for performing a mitzvah (from the final chapter of Hilchot Teshuvah it appears to be considered the pinnacle of religious achievement). One of the approaches that we suggest examines this question from the point of view of halachta bidrachav – walking in God’s ways. We analyse passages of Moreh Nevuchim which address God’s potential motives for creating the world before concluding that, while we can recognise that creation benefits humanity, it cannot be stated that creation in any way enhances or rectifies a need of God. God’s creation of the world could thus be viewed as the ultimate chessed shel emet – kindness without the possibility of any payment or reward. A person who achieves the level of lishmah may thus represent the most elevated embodiment of walking in God’s ways – a proposition which appears to find support in the Moreh’s closing paragraphs.

The chapter closes with a summary of Rambam’s sobering analysis of the shallow, unthinking religion-by-rote which, it appears, plagued Judaism in his day no less than in ours. Rambam starts by describing a child whose Torah teacher provides sweets and treats as a form of bribery in order to attract the interest of his young student. While the child may learn and succeed in his studies, his motivation is far removed from the profound truths of the Torah, being premised solely upon receipt of the confectionery that is dangled before him. As this child grows and matures, his tastes become more sophisticated, and the sweets and treats are gradually replaced by monetary prizes. Eventually, as an adult, this child may have now attained a degree of wisdom, but his motivation will be to attract a desirable marriage offer, gain renown, or receive a position of prestige. Ultimately, Rambam teaches, escape from the clutches of the jealousy, lust, and honour-seeking which naturally govern a person’s interactions with the world can only be achieved through genuine recognition and appreciation of the value and truth inherent in one’s religious pursuits.

First posted to Facebook 9 January 2020, here.

Censuses, inconsistencies and traditional responses

Over the past couple of years, this forum has regularly featured posts which seek to highlight the speculative methodologies which can be found within some academic source-criticism of the Torah. In a recent comment thread Micha Berger suggested that we should place greater emphasis on showing the “beauty and internal integrity” of the traditional understanding of a Torah revealed in its entirely by God.

The parashah of Bemidbar provides a perfect opportunity to exhibit such an example – an apparent textual inconsistency and idiosyncrasy which contains an exquisite and profound principle. An early chapter of Judaism Reclaimed notes how, in the census of parashat Bemidbar, we find that Ephraim is listed before Menashe when the population of the tribes is enumerated. At the end of the 40 years in the wilderness however, when a new census is recorded in parashat Pinchas, Menashe is now listed ahead of Ephraim.

This is precisely the sort of inconsistency which typically serves as a foundation for biblical scholars to concoct theories of multiple authorship of the Torah – with diverging passages attributed to authors with different goals and priorities. It is instructive, therefore, to witness how the Netziv (Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin) addresses this phenomenon in his Ha’amek Davar commentary to the Torah.

The inconsistent presentation of the tribes in the book of Bemidbar, argues Netziv, can only be explained through a profound understanding of an earlier passage in the Torah – in which Ephraim and Menashe are presented to the elderly Ya’akov for a blessing:

“And Joseph took them both, Ephraim at his right, from Israel's left, and Manasseh at his left, from Israel's right, and he brought [them] near to him. But Israel stretched out his right hand and placed [it] on Ephraim's head, although he was the younger, and his left hand [he placed] on Manasseh's head. He guided his hands deliberately, for Manasseh was the firstborn” [Bereishit 48]

Netziv addresses the strange manner in which Ya’akov imparted his blessings to Ephraim and Menashe. While Menashe was the firstborn and therefore the expected recipient of the primary blessing (represented here by Ya’akov’s right hand), Ya’akov repeatedly rejected Yosef’s advice, and switched his hands so that Ephraim, standing on the left, would receive the primary blessing signified by the right hand. Why, asks Netziv, did Ya’akov not simply rearrange his grandsons so that Ephraim would stand on the right, rather than crossing his hands over? The text appears to attribute the change of hands to the fact that Menashe was older (“he [Ya’akov”] switched his hands, for Menashe was the firstborn”), but this is perplexing – the whole purpose of the exercise appears to be to elevate Ephraim above Menashe despite the firstborn status.

According to Netziv, the subtle symbolism adopted by Ya’akov while giving the blessings represents a profound division of roles and responsibilities between Ephraim and Menashe. Ephraim did indeed receive Ya’akov’s right hand upon his head, but this implied that he was being awarded seniority and leadership only for spiritual endeavours (represented by the head, home of the intellect). For matters pertaining to worldly pursuits however, Menashe would retain primacy and his firstborn status would be unaffected.

Indeed, according to the midrashic tradition, Menashe assisted Yosef in his governmental duties. Not only did Menashe act as an interpreter for Yosef (Bereishit Rabbah 91:8), but he was also the messenger when Yosef sent after his brothers to accuse Binyamin (falsely) of stealing Joseph’s favourite cup” (ibid 84:20). Ephraim, on the other hand, is depicted in the Midrash as a man who shared his grandfather Ya’akov’s temperament — quiet and studious. According to the Midrash Tanchuma (Vayechi 6), it was Ephraim who reported Ya’akov’s illness to Yosef because he regularly studied with Ya’akov.

This division of roles, which traces back to Ya’akov’s blessing, can be used to explain the strange inconsistency in order of the Tribes between Bemidbarand Pinchas. The census of parashat Bemidbar takes place with the Jews living in an intensely spiritual and miraculous environment, which featured the daily manna and Miriam’s well. A special cocoon in which they are supposed to absorb quickly the teachings of the Torah and learn how to become a nation of God. In such a spiritual mode of existence it was most relevant to list Ephraim, the ‘spiritual firstborn’, before Menashe. At the end of the book of Bemidbar by contrast, the Jewish people are preparing to leave this miraculous existence and re-enter the realm of standard physical existence – a project which would require skilful political leadership and practical application. The census which was taken in preparation for this entry in the Land of Israel therefore placed Menashe, the ‘natural firstborn’, before Ephraim.

Far from indicating different authors, this inconsistency discloses a dynamic which underpins the sons of Yosef and their roles from the book of Bereishit through until the nation’s entry in the land of Israel.

First posted to Facebook 29 May 2022, here.