Is it ever possible to act with a totally pure motive?

In many areas of theology and religious endeavour we are confronted by a tension and a need to compromise between sublime ideals on the one hand and the realities of practical human necessity on the other. One example of this conflict is the question of purity of motive when performing good deeds – a matter than Judaism Reclaimed explores in the context of this week’s parashah.

Commenting on Ya’akov’s request that his son, Yosef, perform true kindness (chessed ve’emet) in burying him, Rashi teaches that

“Kindness that is performed for the dead is kindness of truth [chesed shel emet] since one does not expect to receive a corresponding payment”

Rabbi S. R. Hirsch notes that Ya’akov was aware that this request would be deeply 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, R’ Meir Simcha of Dvinsk comments that it was precisely for this reason that Ya'akov felt the need to trouble 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.

These insights lend even greater meaning to Rashi's explanation: not only would those undertaking the burial journey go unrewarded for their efforts, but they would be acting against their own political judgment by displaying such overt identification with their land of origin. As the Midrash teaches, burying the dead is the most genuine chesed that one can perform since the recipient can neither know nor show gratitude. And the chesed is particularly altruistic in this case since the burial process involved Yaakov's sons placing the wishes and judgment of the deceased ahead of their own.

The principle of chesed shel emet forms part of a great emphasis which Judaism places on a person’s motive for performing mitzvot and studying Torah 'lishmah' (for its own sake) rather than in the expectation of receiving any reward.

In his Introduction to Chelek, Rambam writes that the concept of lishmah refers to a standard of conduct that is very difficult to understand, let alone achieve, since a person's natural inclination is to act only in a way that brings him tangible benefit. Nevertheless, we find that the sages expect that we perform commandments for the sake of ahavah (love), thereby condemning not only clearly negative motivations, such as honour and greed, but even more commendable stimuli such as the desire to receive reward in the World to Come or fear of punishment. This echoes the famous Mishnah of Antigonos Ish Socho (Avot 1:3) that we should not serve God "in order to receive a reward".

But is such a goal really practical and achievable? How should people go about trying to educate their children – and indeed themselves – in this matter?

Rambam is fully aware of the severity of this challenge, providing a sobering analysis of the realities of human behaviour and aspiration. He writes that in the absence of an intense and genuine effort to identify with and appreciate the Torah’s moral and spiritual goals, one is condemned to a perpetual cycle of selfish and worldly motivations in which the concepts of lishmah and ahavahremain well beyond one’s grasp.

In a pointed parable, 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 and the perfection that this can confer upon him, 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 honour and prestige.

In this biting critique of those who amass such superficial wisdom without ever contemplating and achieving a deeper appreciation of its value, Rambam in effect equates the adult – even one who has attained great scholarship but is motivated to study by external benefits —with the young child whose teacher offers him a sweet in order to teach him to read. In neither case is the person in question inspired by the inherent truth and value of the Torah and connection to God, but rather by the lo lishmah of the side benefits available.

In order to escape the clutches of the jealousy, lust and honour-seeking which naturally govern a person’s interactions with the world, one must obtain a recognition and appreciation that the final purpose of wisdom and truth is knowledge and morality in their own right. It is for this difficult goal that the sages permitted one to engage in Torah and mitzvot initially for ulterior motives – mitoch shelo lishmah– since it is only through gaining and contemplating the Torah’s wisdom that one can gradually achieve a more mature and meaningful relationship with God and His Torah.

First posted on Facebook 1 January 2023, here.

Immortality and the bare bones of religion

A few months ago I had the privilege to join an archaeological tour in the centre of Jerusalem. Upon reaching the site of an ancient grave, the guide related how it had once been customary to bury an entire extended family within a single grave. He explained that, once the body had decomposed in its initial resting place, the bones were then collected and combined with the other bones of the deceased’s family – hence the biblical description of death as being “gathered unto one’s people”.This eplanation was still floating around my mind more recently when I read Rabbi S. R. Hirsch’s analysis of this phrase. As part of a broader discussion regarding the apparent lack of references to the World to Come in the Torah, Rav Hirsch argued that the description of being “gathered to one’s people” is a certain indication that biblical figures believed in the immortality of the soul. Taking his argument to the other extreme, Rav Hirsch maintained that immortality of the soul was such a given in the ancient world that the Torah did not need to stake out any fundamental claim or proof for it (any more than it feels the need to prove the existence of God). Rather it is taken for granted that, with the demise of the body, “the spirit returns to God who gave it” (Kohelet 12:7). It was only in later eras when “sects alien to the spirit of Judaism” began to deny immortality of the soul that it became necessary for this doctrine to be formalised into a fundamental principle of faith.

One passage in this week’s parashah appears to bolster Rav Hirsch’s argument quite strongly. Describing the death of Ya’akov, the Torah describes how “he passed away and was gathered unto his people” (49:33). Yet this could not possibly have been describing the combining of bones that my tour guide spoke of, or even Ya’akov being laid to rest in the tomb of his ancestors. Immediately following his “being gathered unto his people”, we read how Ya’akov is embalmed – a process which takes 40 days – before lying in state for a further 70 days of national mourning. Only after this is there a discussion concerning Ya’akov’s burial arrangements and an eventual burial procession (which includes a further seven days of mourning at Goren Ha’atad). It would seem therefore, that it is indeed Ya’akov’s actual death rather the burial of his physical body which is being referred to as him “being gathered to his people”. This therefore can constitute an important biblical reference to the soul’s immortality.

The scarcity of references to the World to Come in the Torah is seen by Rav Hirsch as an important indicator of Judaism’s priorities. Basing himself on the writings of Rav Hirsch, Rabbi Y. Y. Weinberg (*Seridei Aish* vol. 4) described how the Israelite religion is focused very much on the thriving of humanity within this world, on guiding both the individual and the community to a vibrant and meaningful existence. This, he claims, was the reality of ancient Israel, in the times of the Tannaim, Amoraim and Geonim, and partially also in the Golden Age experienced by the Jewish people in Spain. Judaism never idealised suffering for Israel, rather it looked to celebrate and refine human life in its state of joy and thriving success. No one dreamed of a possible separation between religion and life, as though they were distinct or opposing forces.

But the Jewish people, influenced by asceticism and philosophy while in exile among Christian countries, underwent a mighty change during the time of the terrible Crusades. The horrific persecutions which followed, the banishment from different areas of life, the deprivation of breathing space and limitation of movement also damaged and seriously weakened the religious strength of the Jew.

Together with the impoverishment of our life, the scope of our religion became increasingly narrow. Broad, important areas of life were cruelly wrested from our people and its religion. The Hebrew soul was torn to shreds. That joy which results from the total correspondence of spirit and life, ceased in Israel. Religion lost its focus on refining and sanctifying the joyful worldly life, and consequently, life ceased to be a matter of religion and became a secular affair.

The concept 'secular life', which is foreign to the spirit of Israel, came to dominate during those dark times. The religious sense no longer drew sustenance directly from life, and was sustained only by the fear of death, and terror of severe penalties of the World to Come. It is true, of course, that belief in divine reward and punishment is a basic Jewish principle, but extensive use of it, placing it at the centre of religious feeling, turning it into the solitary propelling force for fulfilling mitzvot, diminishes the vibrancy and beauty of the life which Judaism guides us to build. This 'separation from life' resulted in the adoption of a negative stance towards life's achievements. The spirit of Israel wore black, donning a cloak of asceticism foreign to the spirit of Judaism.

First posted on Facebook 12 December 2021, here.