Pursuing peshat: from boiling goats to cheeseburgers

Written together with Dr Moshe Sokolow, author of Pursuing Peshat: Tanakha Parshanut and Talmud Torah

Are Cheeseburgers Kosher?

Students will typically respond to this rhetorical question correctly – that cheeseburgers are not kosher. They are less comfortable, however, with the follow-up questions: If the Torah wanted to prohibit them, why is there no verse saying, “Thou shalt not eat cheeseburgers”? Why is the closest we can get to it, “Do not boil a kid in its mother’s milk”?

These questions are entrée to the consideration of the two most crucial issues in interpretation. First, why not assume that everything in Tanakh can be understood literally? Second, if we are persuaded that it cannot always be taken literally, what makes an interpretation acceptable?

The answers to both questions are straightforward. If the Torah were to legislate for every conceivable situation we might confront, it would have to be the length and complexity of the Mishneh Torah or the Shulhan Arukh, and even those two legal compendia are incomplete without the myriad commentaries and responsa that accompany them. To compensate for this shortcoming, the Torah is “polyvalent” (having many values), allowing for multiple interpretations and applications, that are judged by their fidelity to the linguistic traditions of the people who regard these works of literature as “sacred Scripture”.

The first part of Pursuing Peshat, on which we will focus here, traces these two issues through a millennium of biblical exegesis (parshanut hamika), from Se`adya Gaon in the 10th century through R. David Zvi Hoffman at the start of the twentieth. Some—including Se`adya and Ibn Ezra—addressed these questions explicitly in the introductions to their Torah commentaries. Others—like Rashi and Rashbam—whose literary style did not include introductory remarks, dealt with them in practice.

Here is how Rashi and Rashbam might handle our cheeseburger question.

Exodus 23:19, “do not boil a “gedi” in its mother’s milk.” Rashi, following in the footsteps of the Talmud and Midrash, interpreted gedi as any young animal, and deduced the additional prohibitions against eating and deriving pleasure, from the verse’s threefold repetition. In other words, working back from the given conclusion that cheeseburgers are prohibited, Rashi would justify that ruling exegetically.

Rashbam, however, found Rashi’s explanation problematic. If any young animal is intended, why specify a gedi, which is specifically a kid, and why does this clause always appear in the context of the three pilgrimage festivals?

His answer: “Scripture addresses reality” (lefi hahoveh dibeir hakatuv). Kids were indicated because they are usually born in pairs—with one designated for sacrificial purpose—and are rich in milk. The link to festivals, too, is a nod to reality since that is when people eat the most meat. And yet, citing Talmud Hulin, he concluded: “This is the rule regarding all meat and milk.” In other words, while Rashbam disagreed with Rashi in exegetical theory, he accepted his implementation in practice.

Talmud Reclaimed also draws upon this prohibition in order to contrast the approaches of two different Rishonim, Rambam and Ibn Ezra, as part of its exploration on which laws and interpretations are regarded as Sinaitic and which were developed subsequently by the sages and Sanhedrin.

In his discussion of this prohibition against boiling a goat in its mother’s milk, Ibn Ezra speculates as to its reason and suggests that, at its core, it is to be categorised alongside other “cruelty-mitigation” commandments such as not taking the eggs of a mother bird in her presence and not slaughtering a parent animal along with its offspring on the same day. Viewing the basic biblical prohibition as relating specifically to the boiling of a goat in the milk of its mother, Ibn Ezra (in a similar vein to Rashbam) writes that it was formerly common to eat goat meat – which typically has a dry texture – together with milk.

Crucially, he then suggests that the expansion of the original biblical prohibition against boiling goat meat in its mother’s milk so that it covers all forms of meat and milk is a rabbinic ruling based upon the principle of being stringent in matters of doubt over biblical law. Whether Ibn Ezra views the broader prohibition of cooking meat together with milk as purely rabbinic or as rabbinically legislated Torah law can be debated; what is clear, however, is that he does not regard the prohibition as belonging to the body of transmitted and immutable Oral Torah traditions. This would therefore potentially allow it to be revisited by a future Sanhedrin.

Rambam’s treatment of this law, by contrast, presents the oral tradition’s expansion of the prohibition against cooking goat meat in its mother’s milk so as to apply to the cooking together and eating of all types of meat and milk as an immutable transmitted Sinaitic teaching:

The Torah states: "Do not cook a kid goat in its mother's milk." The received Oral Tradition, teaches that the Torah forbade both the cooking and eating of milk and meat, whether the meat of a domesticated animal or the meat of a wild beast.

So integral and immutable is the oral tradition’s interpretation of this verse that “if a court will come and permit partaking of the meat of a wild animal cooked in milk, it is abrogating the prohibition not to detract from the Torah”. Rambam’s understanding that the expansive interpretation of the prohibition against cooking a goat in its mother’s milk is of Sinaitic origin is consistent with the approach taken in his Introduction to Commentary on the Mishnah, that Moshe clarified key definitions and components of the commandments when he taught the Torah’s text.

Nevertheless, we are left with the question of why the Torah presents the prohibition so narrowly in its verses, if an immutable Sinaitic tradition requires it to be construed so broadly. The answer to this may lie in the Moreh Nevuchim, where Rambam identifies a reason for the prohibition – distancing from pagan ritual – which relates most directly to the practice of seething goats in their mothers’ milk.

We therefore see a range of interpretive approaches by the Rishonim to this highly instructive prohibition. From Rashi, who appears to read the Oral Tradition’s conclusion back into the text to identify its peshat to Rashbam, who recognizes the inherent tension between the peshat and the transmitted tradition. And finally Ibn Ezra who appears to move in the other direction, reinterpreted the transmitted tradition in light of the simple meaning of the Torah’s text.

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Peshat literally means the simple, or literal, interpretation of the text. However, the definition and determination of peshat is anything but straightforward. The Sages of the Talmud and Midrash debated how to ascertain peshat. This debate continued among the Rishonim and Acharonim: how much weight should be given to peshat as opposed to allegorical and halakhic interpretations, what assumptions inform us in arriving at peshat, and how do we differentiate peshat from derash? These debates rage into the modern day, as leading rabbis, educators, and scholars seek to understand the place of peshat in the nexus of biblical interpretation.

First posted yesterday on Facebook, here.

From biblical bad guys to oral law role models

There is a conflict between biblical accounts of wrongdoing by figures such as Yehudah and King David, which criticise them, and parallel accounts in the Oral Tradition, which exonerate or even praise them. This conflict tends to generate lively discussion and strong opinions on either side. Devotees of peshat– the simple meaning of the text – argue fiercely for the primacy of the biblical text over subsequent aggadic reinterpretations, while their opponents point to Talmudic statements to the effect that a literal rendition of the text, unaccompanied by the context of Rabbinic teachings, is mistaken and therefore illegitimate.

Judaism Reclaimed grapples with this sensitive topic at the conclusion of its chapter on parashat Ki Teitze, which examines the functions and broader relationship between the Written Torah and the Oral Tradition. Our analysis starts with Ben Sorer Umoreh – the Wayward and Rebellious Son. The written law depicts in vivid detail how the delinquent youth is delivered to and denounced before the Court by his own parents before suffering a stony death. The oral law however presents a surprising alternative:

“R’ Shimon said: …it never happened and never will happen. Why then was this law written? — That you may study it and receive reward. R. Jonathan said: 'I saw [a Ben Sorer Umoreh] and sat on his grave'.”

Having examined several inherent difficulties presented by the Gemara’s presentation of this dispute, the essay progresses to its primary theme: the dissonance between the positions presented (here and elsewhere) by the written and oral components of the Torah. We use Rambam’s dual interpretation of “Eye for an Eye” as a key to resolving these inconsistencies. First, in his Commentary to the Mishnah and Mishneh Torah (“these interpretations are obvious from the study of the Written Law … and have been implemented in every single Jewish court from Moshe until today”) Rambam emphatically rejects the notion that the biblical ruling was ever intended to be implemented literally. When explaining this phrase in Moreh Nevuchim however, Rambam focuses only on the literal measure-for-measure disclosed by the biblical text: “the intention here is to explain the verses [of the Torah] not the words of the Talmud”).

What emerges is a hypothesis based on a two-tier didactic system of Jewish law and values. The first tier is the core divine wisdom contained within the Torah’s written text, while the second is the relative flexibility of the Oral Law to cater – within acceptable boundaries – to the realities and weakness of the human condition. This idea is developed further with the suggestion that the Written Torah represents God’s attribute of strict Justice (which demands a literal “Eye-for-an-Eye” etc) while the Oral Tradition moderates this in light of the frailties of human reality and on the basis of God’s attribute of mercy. (This has a parallel in the writings of Rav Kook, here).

Armed with this principle, the chapter progresses to apply it beyond the Torah’s legal passages. The Talmud teaches that the righteous are judged by God in a truer, more intimate way, “kechut hasa’arah” – in accordance with His attribute of justice. Putting all of this together, the biblical text discloses the very real sins of its heroes, but told from the harshly critical perspective of God’s attribute of justice by which they are held fully accountable for any slight misstep.

By contrast, the attempted justifications and excuses advanced in the Oral Tradition can perhaps be seen as describing the reality of these sins on a level in which the nation as a whole would perceive and relate to them. From this perspective, in the words of Shabbat 56a “Whoever says that King David sinned is surely mistaken”. This means that whoever reads the biblical account literally, failing to make an allowance for its critical agenda when judging the righteous, will be left with an inaccurate impression of what the Torah intended to convey.

This approach bears the potential to shed light on peculiarities and ambiguities from within the written text itself, which uses King David as a gold standard against which subsequent kings – even the righteous Hezekiah and Josiah – are measured. Were David truly the adulterous murderer implied by a simple reading of the text, it would hardly be an accolade to write of these kings that they “followed in all of his paths”. This more balanced approach may also help us to understand subsequent prophetic pronouncements of Divine endorsement of the Davidic dynasty through which King David has become inextricably linked with the very idea of a future utopian Messianic era in Jewish thought.

First posted to Facebook 26 August 2020, here.

Mountainous mystery: was the Torah actually received on Shavuot?

On what day was the Torah given? On what date do we celebrate the festival of Shavuot? Seemingly simple questions, yet ones for which the Torah’s text provides no clear answer.

In a fascinating passage, Rabbi S. R. Hirsch notes that Shavuot is unique among all biblical festivals in that no calendar date is prescribed for it – rather, it is observed seven weeks from the omer offering. Combining a selection of Talmudic traditions and calculations, he demonstrates that the Torah was most likely understood to have been given on the 51st day after the Exodus. Thus the 50th day from the omer is in fact the day BEFORE the Lawgiving (which the Torah identifies as having taken place on the sixth or seventh day of the third month).

On this basis, the day that is elevated to a festival is NOT the day of the Sinai revelation, but rather the final day of counting leading up to that great day. This indicates that the ‘festival of Matan Torah’ does not relate to the actual giving of the Torah; it celebrates our making ourselves worthy of receiving it. Jewish tradition depicts the nation as having undergone a significant transformation during this seven-week period (7 itself is a number understood to symbolise a purifying process). This transformative process, which culminated in them camping, united, at the base of Mount Sinai, it what we celebrate as a festival. It is the conclusion of this same seven-week period which both determines the date of the celebration, and accounts for the name “Shavuot” by which the festival is commonly known.

As we also examine in Judaism Reclaimed, the Lawgiving itself was in no way concentrated on that day at Sinai – the Torah was transmitted in the course of 40 years. Some of its most important features may only have been taught to the people on the Plains of Moav decades later. Both R’ Hirsch and Rambam emphasise that the primary significance of the Sinaitic spectacle was “in order that the people hear when I speak to you, and they will also believe in you forever”. Rambam understood that the people somehow participated in Moshe's prophecy to an extent that authenticated and legitimised all of his Lawgiving over the subsequent decades. In this way, perhaps, the entire Torah can be said to have ‘originated from Sinai’.

On a separate note, another favourite Jewish-school-Shavuot teaching which Judaism Reclaimed addresses vividly depicts God holding Mount Sinai above the nation and threatening it with destruction if it fails to accept the Torah. Maharal asks why this menacing threat was necessary in light of the Jews’ faithful utterance of “na’aseh venishma” (“we shall do and we shall listen”). His suggested answer is that the timing of this threat was intended to impart a clear message that the Torah’s laws are absolute and binding. It was thus required to reinforce the Jews’ faithful acceptance so that they should not imagine that their voluntary acceptance of the Torah could at any time be subject to reversal.

But can we relate this midrashic teaching in any way to the Torah’s actual description of events at Sinai?

While the nation’s declaration of “na’aseh venishma” is widely quoted, it is normally done so without the immediately preceding words: “And he took the Book of the Covenant and read it within the hearing of the people, and they said, "All that the Lord spoke we will do and we will hear."” A midrash Mechilta, along with other commentaries (see also Devarim 28:69), identify this “Book of the Covenant” as being none other than the fearsome litany of rebukes and curses enumerated in parashat Bechukotai – described by the Torah as one of the final passages transmitted at Sinai.

Might the vivid midrashic depiction of the mountain being held threateningly above the nation’s heads be an allusion to the significance of the tochachah passage of rebuke at Sinai? If so, it could then be construed as an embodiment of the message that our relationship with God and the Torah is premised not on our fickle and fluctuating feeling and fortunes but on an accepted sacred duty – and privilege – which we, as Jews, bear and carry with us throughout our lives.

First posted to Facebook 27 May 2020, here.

What if man was one of us? The most perplexing verse in the Torah

Parashat Bereishit contains one of the most perplexing verses in the entire Torah, the difficulty of which is compounded by the fact that two of our earliest sources read it in entirely different ways.

In the aftermath of Adam and Eve’s sin in Gan Eden, God declares:

הֵ֤ן הָֽאָדָם֙ הָיָה֙ כְּאַחַ֣ד מִמֶּ֔נּוּ לָדַ֖עַת ט֣וֹב וָרָ֑ע וְעַתָּ֣ה | פֶּן־יִשְׁלַ֣ח יָד֗וֹ וְלָקַח֙ גַּ֚ם מֵעֵ֣ץ הַֽחַיִּ֔ים וְאָכַ֖ל וָחַ֥י לְעֹלָֽם

"Behold man has become like one of us, having the ability of knowing good and evil, and now, lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever".

Or does He?

The above translation is favoured by Rashi and Ibn Ezra, and is consistent with the cantillation which is traditionally accorded to Ezra. Remarkably, however, Targum Onkelos – an Aramaic translation of the Torah from the Tannaitic era which the Talmud understands to trace back to Sinai – reads these words very differently:

הָא אָדָם הֲוָה יְחִידַי בְּעַלְמָא מִנֵּהּ לְמִידַע טַב וּבִישׁ

“Behold man has become unique in the world, by himself can know good and evil…”

Onkelos’s rendering of this verse is consistent with Rambam’s understanding of his agenda – not simply translating the Torah but also carefully ensuring that it cannot be mistakenly interpreted in a manner that he deems heretical. Rather than reading the verse as God describing Himself as a plurality which might include humanity, a meaning that introduces all sorts of theological complications, Onkelos places the sentence’s pause on the word “ke’achad”. Humanity is therefore described as unique among creatures in its ability to determine right and wrong.

Unsurprisingly, Onkelos’s reading of this verse is adopted by Rambam in Hilchot Teshuva (5:1), and cited as part of his discussion regarding human free will:

“Free will is granted to all men. If one desires to turn himself to the path of good and be righteous, the choice is his. Should he desire to turn to the path of evil and be wicked, the choice is his.

This is [the intent of] the Torah's statement: " Behold man has become unique in the world, by himself can know good and evil," i.e., the human species became singular in the world with no other species resembling it in the following quality: that man can, on his own initiative, with his knowledge and thought, know good and evil, and do what he desires. There is no one who can prevent him from doing good or bad. Accordingly, [there was a need to drive him from the Garden of Eden,] "lest he stretch out his hand [and take from the tree of life]."

Yet even once this verse is interpreted within the context of free will, its purpose and intent remain very unclear. Rambam proceeds to argue that free will is a fundamental pillar upon which the Torah relies. If people were compelled to act a certain way, he explains, there would be no place for God revealing a set of rules which would be the basis for reward and punishment.

But surely all that is required to justify commands, reward and punishment is that people are not compelled and can freely to choose whether to follow God’s word? Is it really necessary to bring in this verse to imply that humans also possess their autonomous moral compass to evaluate right and wrong? Would Rambam not expect a person to obey God’s law even in a situation in which he or she does not understand them to be morally correct?

One discussion that this verse might shed light on is the status of those who have not been exposed to the Torah or even the seven Noachide laws which are sometimes suggested to represent a basic universal moral code. There is no explicit mention of God revealing any set of laws to humanity prior to the Sinai revelation. Nevertheless, it is apparent that God expects certain minimal standards of moral conduct and punishes those such as the generation of the flood and citizens of Sodom for their corruption, cruelty and immorality. Indeed, Rambam in Hilchot Melachim (8:10) seems to consider Noachide laws to be binding upon all non-Jews. Perhaps the justification for this arises from Onkelos and Rambam’s interpretation of this verse to imply that humanity possesses its own moral compass and is therefore responsible for its own actions even without any form of divine command?

Many further perplexing questions remain. How, for example, do Onkelos and Rambam explain the cryptic continuation of the verse – that humanity’s newfound moral compass poses a danger “lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever”? And is this interpretation to be reconciled with Rambam’s interpretation of the Eden episode found in an early chapter of Moreh Nevuchim, in which “tov vera” represent the negative result of Adam and Eve’s sin – the corruption of their previous praised ability to perceive absolute truths (emet vasheker)?

One possible explanation is that, according to Rambam, humanity’s moral compass in its post-sin state could now also go very badly wrong due to it having internalised harmful imaginative and emotive elements. It is noteworthy that Rambam also follows Onkelos in rendering the Serpent’s promise to Eve as being that:

“on the day that you eat thereof, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like political leaders (ravravei), knowing tov vera."

In this new post-sin scenario, in which the human mind could concoct and persuade itself of the merits of destructive political philosophies such as communism or fascism, a safety valve of mortality had to be placed within its societies. No dictator could be allowed to enslave a society perpetually. God was now therefore concerned “lest he stretch forth his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat and live forever”.

First posted on Facebook 19 October 2022, here.

Locating the Flood: Is there a licence to reread early biblical narratives?

By Daniel Abraham and Shmuli Phillips

In a chapter which explores some of the complex challenges posed by science to understanding the Torah, Judaism Reclaimed notes the approach taken by Rambam to similar difficulties in his day. Faced with what were considered in medieval times to be decisive arguments against the doctrine of ex-nihilo creation, Rambam – echoing Rabbi Yehuda Halevi in the Kuzari – works with a principle that the Torah cannot be interpreted in a way which contradicts matters which are clearly proven. It is notable, however, that Rambam set the bar for reinterpreting the Torah based on scientific knowledge particularly high, and did not ultimately endorse a re-evaluation of the Torah’s opening passages on the basis of Aristotelian science.

When we examine the Torah’s accounts of early humanity – and particularly its accounts of the flood – in the modern era, we are assailed by an array of basic challenges to its literal reading. Scientific theories and accepted wisdom based on geology, paleontology, zoology among other disciplines combine to present a formidable barrier to the Torah’s narrative. Had Rambam and Rabbi Yehuda Halevi been living in the 21stcentury, we might ask ourselves, at what point might they have considered this body of evidence sufficiently persuasive to justify reinterpreting the opening parshiyot of the Torah? Furthermore, are there any existing indications within our tradition which might support such an attempt?

With regard to the creation narrative, our tradition explicitly regards it as esoteric and containing profound secrets which go far beyond its simple meaning. These traditional teachings could be taken to support a radical – possibly even allegorical – rereading in view of modern scientific knowledge. Turning our attention to the flood, however, our tradition does not appear to regard the passage as being esoteric or bearing a hidden meaning. What can be found though are scattered teachings which seem to limit its scope from a worldwide deluge to something significantly more local – a position advanced by Rabbi Dovid Tzvi Hoffman in his Torah commentary.

One of the first midrashim that grabs our attention is from Midrash Tehillim. When God was deciding which mountain to give the Torah on, Mount Tabor speaks up and says “The Torah should be given on me because the water of the flood did not descend on me.” (Midrash Tehillim 68:9). Elsewhere in Bereishit Rabbah 33 we read about the flood not raining upon the entire land of Israel. Zevachim 113a says this as well – a particularly significant source because it is located in a legal rather than an aggadic passage.

Ramban also adds that it’s possible that the rains did not fall upon the oceans as the Torah specifies “The rain was upon the land”. Other opinions go further and state the flood did not affect all parts of the earth. Meam Lo’ez writes how the great ocean, “was not affected by the flood, which only destroyed inhabited areas. The Torah therefore says, “there was rain on the earth” (ha’aretz) (7:12), and not, “there was rain on the world” (ha’olam). [The “earth” primarily denotes inhabited areas.] In his book The Challenge of Creation, Rabbi Natan Slifkin also notes, “Rav Saadia Gaon’s view [was] that the Deluge only covered inhabited parts of the world.” Rabbi Yonatan Eybeshutz goes into more detail, explaining that the flood was not necessary in uninhabited areas. He also writes that if the Americas had no population at the time of the flood, then no flood would have occurred on the continent (Tiferet Yonatan to Bereishit 8:22). So although the Torah states that all the mountains on earth were covered with the flood, there are opinions that this was not a literal depiction.

When we turn our attention to early humans and civilisations, further indications can be found of human (or proto-human) civilization beyond the primary biblical narrative. After slaying his brother Hevel, Kayin is condemned by God to wander to distant lands whereupon he is worried that “I will be a wanderer and an exile in the land, and it will be that whoever finds me will kill me” (4:14). If the entire human population is represented by those named in the Torah, this concern is not easy to understand. Furthermore, having gone into exile far away from Eden, Kayin proceeds to build a city – for whom might one ask?

Other categories of ancient human mentioned in chapter 6 of Bereishit appear to include the Nephilim (“mighty men of old”) and perhaps also the benei Elohim who corrupt early humanity and are noted as a cause for its descent into the depravity that prompted the flood.

Further sources indicate that groups of these Nephilim survived the flood. Some identify Og as one of the Nephilim who was allowed to be saved by ark during the flood. Other midrashim say that Sichon was another of the Nephilim who survived as well. From the text of the Torah we see that both Sichon and Og had sons, and that the Israelites slew both of these giants and their children with them. Perhaps most significantly, in Bemidbar 13:33 Rav S. R. Hirsch writes about the “Anakim” observed by the spies: “Thus there were still remnants of the antedeluvian Nephilim living in Eretz Yisrael. This fact fits well with the opinion (Zevachim 113a) that Eretz Yisrael was spared from the flood.” The implication being that there were people who survived the flood in Eretz Yisrael. The Zohar also makes reference to descendants of Kayin surviving the flood in a distant land.

If it is true then that human society existed well beyond the Torah’s limited descriptions and that the flood only covered a local area of Mesopotamia, why would it have presented its early narratives in such a misleading manner?

The answer to this requires us to recognize that the Torah is not primarily a historical work but rather a religious text which seeks to provide a foundation and insight into the nature of humanity and our relationship with God. As Rabbi Sacks put it, this does not mean that the Torah conveys untruths, but rather that it presents actual historical events through the prism of its theological teachings (https://www.rabbisacks.org/.../individual-and.../...).

God’s relationship with humanity begins with Adam and Eve – the first creatures whose minds are sufficiently sophisticated to rationalize and think abstractly. As Rambam writes near the start of Moreh Nevuchim, the whole notion of commandments, reward and punishment only makes sense when one is instructing someone who can understand right and wrong and possesses the free will to apply it. Interestingly, the first humans who are believed to have been sufficiently mentally developed to create a system of writing – putting ideas and concepts into symbols – lived 6,000 years ago in Mesopotamia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_writing).

This was the society and “world” that the Torah was interested in; it therefore only obliquely references the existence of other groups of humans. Similarly, as far as the area of the planet that was of relevance to the Torah’s project at that time, the flood effectively encompassed the “entire world” and the ark contained “all animals”. As another chapter of Judaism Reclaimed demonstrates, while other ancient Near Eastern cultures proceeded to relate this flood through the eyes of their polytheistic prejudices, the Torah retold it instead with its own theological underpinning: monotheism, morality and justice.

Whatever extent one finds such an approach compelling or even desirable, we believe that it can legitimately claim solid basis within traditional sources, and is the leading candidate for those seeking to reconcile the Torah’s account with what science tells us today about ancient history.

First posted on Facebook, 30 October 2022, here.

How should we approach these "long boring parshiyot"?

One significant benefit of the Jewish leap year is that it divides up the difficult parshiyot of Vayakhel and Pekudei with their long, detailed and repetitive recounting of the process of constructing the Mishkan. The question many are left with is what possible reason the Torah might have had (aside for training us in patience!) for dedicating so many lengthy passages to the commanding and construction of the Mishkan. From what I have seen, there are three primary approaches to this question: the historical approach, the theological approach and the warm-and-fuzzy approach.

The historical approach

This first way of addressing the question of lengthy repetitions bases itself on a brief suggestion by the Ralbag, which has recently been developed and popularized by Orthodox Bible scholar Joshua Berman. Ralbag proposes that, viewed from the correct perspective, such textual phenomena should not be viewed as anything remarkable at all. This is because we must analyse the Torah in the context of the stylistic flourishes of ancient literature – with an overriding awareness that the Torah was written in the Ancient Near East. Rabbi Dr Berman then supplies examples from Ancient Near Eastern history in which lengthy descriptions are repeated in a way which appears odd to the modern reader.

By so extending the principle of “dibra Torah belashon benei adam” – that the Torah was presented in a form which would make it easiest for its first readers to relate to it – Ralbag (and Berman) seek to deny that there is any question to be answered here at all.

Having established the existence of such a principle, Berman further draws upon it to address other challenges from academic bible critics, to establish the antiquity of parts of the Torah such as the Song of the Sea as well as claims that certain passages of the Torah originated from multiple authors and sources.

The theological approach

A second approach to the lengthy enumeration of all of the Mishkan’s details seeks to identify theological reasons which underpin this phenomenon. Towards the end of the first section of the Kuzari, Rabbi Yehudah Halevi places great emphasis on the need for the Torah’s commandments to be observed in a way which accords precisely with the way in which they were revealed. This requirement, he continues, is particularly acute with regard to ritual commandments such as korbanot and Mishkan construction. There is a very thin line between correct forms of divine worship and human attempts to rationalize and construct our own illegitimate way of worshipping God.

It was such an illegitimate rationalisation, argues the Kuzari, which led the Israelites to serve the golden calf in place of Moshe as some imagined form of intermediary. If the Mishkan construction can be viewed as part of the process of repairing the raw and unrestrained spiritual urges which led to the sin of the golden calf, the careful and deliberate adherence to precise details of this commandment lies at the very heart of its purpose. Thus, explains Rabbi Y. D. Soloveitchik in his Beit Halevi, each aspect of Mishkan construction which was faithfully enacted by the Israelites necessitated its own individual mention that it had been built “as God commanded Moshe” – a phrase which appears an impressive total of 18 times in the portion of Pekudei.

This approach can be viewed from the mystical perspective in terms of each commandment and detail of the Mishkan being capable of fulfilling its spiritual function. But it can also be understood from Rambam’s more practical and rational approach to the commandments. As told by Rambam, the purpose of korbanot and the Mishkan was to withdraw the Israelites from the sort of pagan worship and mindset which they had absorbed in Egypt in order to replace it with a monotheistic worldview. Talmud Reclaimed explains how for this to succeed, a very delicate balance had to be maintained in order to create a system of worship which was, on the one hand, sufficiently similar to existing religious rites, while also distancing them from problematic and idolatrous doctrines. This balance required a painstaking loyalty to the precise details of the divine command in these areas – and therefore this obedience was enumerated at great length in the Torah.

The warm-and-fuzzy approach

Championed by Ramban in his commentary to yesterday’s reading, this approach sees the lengthy repetition as an indication of great importance. Just as, the midrash teaches, the Torah’s copious recounting of Eliezer’s trip to Aram was seen to indicate God’s great love even for the chatter of the servants of the Avot, so too Vayakhel and Pekudei are confirmation of God’s great love for the Israelites and the abode they built for Him in their midst. This theme was further developed by the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, who contrasted the relatively few verses which the Torah dedicated to the world’s creation with the verbosity which embodied the construction of His abode among Israel.

On a personal note, I was grateful for the long and repetitive themes of yesterday’s reading, which allowed me to meditate on and lay the groundwork for the post that you have just read!

First posted on Facebook 10 March 2024, here.