Egyptian abominations and scholarly speculations

By Shmuli Phillips and Daniel Abraham

Parashat Vayigash features scenes of both confrontation and reconciliation between Yosef and his brothers. The warm sentiments of goodwill towards the Hebrews however, are insufficient for them to find full favour in the eyes of their Egyptian hosts. Just as we read earlier how Yosef dined apart from his brothers since “the Egyptians could not eat with the Hebrews, for that is an abomination to the Egyptians”, the brothers are now advised to settle separately from the Egyptians in the land of Goshen “since all shepherds are abominable to the Egyptians”.

But what was the cause of the Egyptians’ whole-hearted hostility towards the Hebrews? In an article published on theTorah.com, Rabbi Zev Farber and Prof. Jan Assmann claim to have unravelled the deep biblical mystery of Egyptian abominations.

According to Farber, the account of Egyptians refusing to dine alongside Hebrews is not predicated upon any ancient Egyptian practice, since historically “no record exists of any such taboo”. Rather it must have been adapted from a far later Persian-era Puritanical Code and anachronistically superimposed back onto the biblical text by its authors.

The methodological weakness of constructing such a speculative edifice on the flimsy foundations of an absence of evidence in ancient Egyptian records cannot be overstated. Biblical scholar, Kenneth Kitchen, was of the view that that "99 percent of all New Kingdom papyri are irrevocably lost”. Sir Alan Gardiner, a respected scholar of Ancient Egypt, went so far as to say that: 

“It must never be forgotten that we are dealing with a civilization thousands of years old and one of which only tiny remnants have survived. What is proudly advertised as Egyptian history is merely a collection of rags and tatters”.

In this instance, however, we do possess some evidence, with the Encyclopaedia of Ancient Egypt describing how at banquets “seating varied according to social status, with those of the highest status sitting on chairs, those slightly lower sat on stools and those lowest in rank sat on the raw floor”. It does not require a great leap of the imagination to suggest that disdained foreigners would not have been expected to dine at the table of the Egyptian Viceroy.

It should be noted that sharing of meals holds highly significant symbolic importance throughout the Torah. It demonstrated political, strategic or religious coalescence such as when pacts were formed between Yitzchak and Avimelech, Ya’akov and Lavan, Yosef’s brothers after casting him into the pit, and when Yitro joined the Jewish people in the desert (among other examples). If the Egyptians had dined together with Hebrews, this would have been an indication of shared ideological beliefs or political accord. Yet religiously and culturally, the Egyptians and Hebrews were worlds apart. A gulf attested to in a later statement of Moshe to Pharaoh significantly using the same word ‘’to’eivah’’ as the Torah employs to explain why Yosef and his brothers could not eat together:

"But Moses said [to Pharaoh], "It is improper to do that, for we will sacrifice the abomination/deity of the Egyptians to God our Lord. Will we sacrifice the abomination/deity of the Egyptians before their eyes, and they will not stone us?"

Is it readily apparent that the biblical reference to ‘’abomination’’ between Egyptians and Hebrews revolves around the religious status of the sheep which the Jews were set to sacrifice in Egypt in order to demonstrate their newfound religious and political freedom. For Egyptians, sheep enjoyed a position of great importance in their pagan pantheon – a fact that Farber and Assmann have themselves expounded upon elsewhere.

The ram-headed God Amun held pole position in the Egyptian pantheon for most of the New Kingdom, and together with Osiris, Amun-Ra is the most widely recorded of the Egyptian gods. Openly and publicly sacrificing the Paschal Lamb on Egyptian soil was an embodiment of Hebrew rejection of the pagan belief system, and an important stepping-stone on the path to monotheistic faith for which the nation was being prepared. Understood this way, sacrificing the lamb completed and complemented the Ten Plagues which went before it – which have been seen by scholars such as Professor Tom Meyer as representing a systematic dismissal of ancient Egyptian deities.

Relating the תועבת מצרים (abomination of Egypt) of the brothers’ sheep-exploiting occupation and תועבה היא למצרים (abomination to Egypt) regarding their eating arrangements to the תועבת מצרים (abomination/deity of Egypt) in the context of the Paschal Lamb offers a far more convincing and comprehensive explanation of the passage. An explanation which is thematically and linguistically consistent with other biblical passages, and which highlights why it is specifically the brothers’ occupation as shepherds – i.e. custodians of sheep – which is so offensive to the Egyptians. Further, it dispenses with the need for speculative historical somersaults and hypotheses about later biblical authorship. This in contrast to Farber’s far-fetched formulation, which supposes that Herodotus’s account, many centuries later, of ritual sensitivities related to cows can be seamlessly super-imposed on the biblical narrative of Hebrew shepherds.

First posted on Facebook 23 December 2020, here.

The rolling stones and midrashic mysteries

The chapters of Judaism Reclaimed which relate to parashat Vayeitze focus on the episode of Ya’akov’s dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder. Having attempted to explain the vision from both a mystical and a Maimonidean perspective, we turn our focus to the dramatic Midrashic subplot of the stones which, initially in competition with one another, eventually unite beneath the sleeping Ya’akov’s head.

At the start of the parashah we read how Ya’akov “took from the stones of the place and placed [it/them] at his head” (Bereishit 28:11). The primary practitioners of peshat – Ibn Ezra and Radak – detect nothing untoward, writing that Ya’akov took a single stone – the same stone which he subsequently uses as part of an offering (Bereishit 28:18). Rashi, on the other hand, cites an aggadic account which contrasts the earlier plural with subsequent singular form to teach that:

They [the stones] started quarrelling with one another. One said, “Let the righteous man lay his head on me,” and another one said, “Let him lay [his head] on me.” Immediately, the Holy One, blessed be He, made them into a single stone. This is why it is stated (verse 18):“and he took the stone [in the singular] that he had placed at his head.” [From Chullin 91b].

Maharal, who regards this aggada (and many others) as relating the profound spiritual dynamics which underpin the Torah’s text, reacts furiously to “those who pursue the simple meaning” of the Torah rather than the received aggadic traditions. Judaism Reclaimed explores the two extreme positions of Maharal and Rambam. For Maharal, midrashic interpretations are regarded as intended textual enhancements while, for Rambam, the majority of aggadot constitute a distinct body of ethical, philosophical and theological teachings, attached to the Torah’s text for the sake of convenience. This dispute is traced back to a deeper divide between the theological approaches of Maharal, who regards the Written Torah as an exhaustive compendium of all truths, and Rambam, for whom the Written Torah is regarded more as a practical guide towards religious and spiritual achievement. Rashi’s midrashic methodology is also examined in the process.

Taking a step back, we try to show that there are several distinct categories of midrash aggada. Some midrashim, such as those describing Avraham’s early years, are widely understood to be offering historical accounts, being attempts to fill in gaps in the narrative through ancient traditions. Other midrashim, strongly emphasised by Rambam, are taken to be repositories of profound ideas, which can be identified and extracted from them by sufficiently wise students. A further common category looks to use biblical characters, narratives and motifs in order to highlight and accentuate moral lessons. Judaism Reclaimed provides examples of these, and of how these various forms of aggada can be recognised and interpreted.

Modern readers may be willing to accept Rambam’s claim that certain aggadot contain esoteric material which had to be encoded in order to keep it from damaging those who would be unable to process it correctly. But what are we to make of instances in which rabbis appear to be deliberately misleading us with their fanciful aggadic depictions and by offering us ethical advice presented as historical enhancements to the narrative? Could some of our discomfort at this suggestion be due to the great gulf in culture and literary style between us and those for whom the aggadic passages were initially intended?

Rabbi Dr Joshua Berman has written extensively of the need to read biblical narratives with an awareness of the literary style of the ancient world. Might it be the case that the first aggadic readers would not have considered taking the narrative enhancements literally any more than 21st century readers imagine historical fiction to be fact?

First posted to Facebook 7 November 2021, here.

Not for the cold-hearted

Listening to the parashah being read yesterday, I was reminded of a short speech I made eight years ago at the Kiddush for our daughter, Avital, who was born in the immediate aftermath of a severe Jerusalem snowstorm. The unexpected storm left many people trapped in their homes, and much of our neighbourhood without electricity over a freezing weekend.

I noted in my speech how people’s reactions varied. Everyone was aware of the great difficulties that many in our area were experiencing. But while for some this was just an interesting discussion point, several local residents took the initiative to actively check up on the welfare of the elderly and young families, and to arrange necessary assistance where possible. (For the record I was busy desperately googling DIY home-delivery advice as the due date came and went!).

This parallels a very profound commentary on parashat Shemot that sadly tends to get overlooked. When Moshe grows up, he goes out and witnesses the brutal slavery that the Jews are being subjected to. On the words “and he saw their burden” Rashi comments “he set his eyes and heart to be troubled on account of them”. As Maharal explains, Moshe had surely been aware of the enslavement previously. It was only once he made this mental shift that he allowed himself to become moved by their desperate plight to the extent that he stood up to one of their oppressors. An act which started him on a long journey that would see him become God’s agent to lead the Jews out of Egypt.

Judaism Reclaimed explores this concept in connection with the biblical instruction to “Love one’s fellow as oneself”, a command that Rabbi Akiva labelled a “major principle of the Torah”. Rabbi S. R. Hirsch questions why treating others as one wishes to be treated oneself should be considered such a weighty religious matter. After all, a general principle of reciprocity can be found in almost all cultures and reflects not just religious but also secular humanist thought. It is a basic prerequisite for a functioning civilised society.

In response, Rav Hirsch highlights that the commandment refers to a person acquiring a particular attitude and identification with others rather than merely accepting a practical code of conduct. This concept was expanded by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik who contrasted two very different ways of performing an act of kindness.

Regarding a normal act of kindness, he says:

“I am committed to genuinely helping a poor man, am genuinely committed to furthering his wellbeing … [M]y personality is still individual, still unique, still all-exclusive. I help out the Thou but he remains other to me.”

There is, however, a far higher and more elevated way of empathising and identifying with those who are poor and suffering so that:

“… my personality shifts from being all-exclusive to being all-inclusive. The poor man is no longer an other separate from me. In God-like fashion my helping him out becomes a way of letting him share in my existence and reality. My helping him out thus becomes an act of imitatio Dei, an act of God-like hesed in the sense that I do not simple give to him, but I identify with him”.

This second level of helping others means that kindness is no longer merely a ‘good deed’ but rather consists of a radical shift in the person’s perspective. By genuinely caring about another individual’s welfare, one ceases to think of one’s personal needs and the needs of others as distinct. The reason that Rabbi Akiva deemed that treating others as one would want to treat them is a fundamental Torah principle is that, properly performed, it radically changes a person’s entire perspective and outlook on the world. From a selfish inward-thinking path through life to a “divine” altruistic outward focus. (Judaism Reclaimed develops this idea further in order to address the conclusion of Moreh Nevuchim).

Regardless of whether our life circumstances lead us to heroism or activism, we are all capable of empathy and attempting to look at the world through the lens of others, feeling their pain as well as acknowledging it. Rashi teaches us that this shift from selfish-human to altruistic-divine perspective requires an active decision. It is not always easy to genuinely share the troubles of others – to feel pain when those around you are suffering. For this very reason, the willingness to allow oneself to be disturbed in this manner is considered “a fundamental principle of the Torah”.

First posted on Facebook 26 December 2021, here.

The Torah's perspective on rape and sexual abuse

For almost a week now, my Facebook feed has been awash with angry posts. Initial reports of rape and abuse perpetrated by prominent children’s author, Chaim Walder, drew understandable outrage. Particularly jarring in recent days though has been the response to his suicide which saw him being feted and praised by leading rabbis and communal figures. In place of clear moral leadership, condemnation and efforts to support victims of abuse, they inexplicably sought to place blame on those who had investigated and publicised his crimes. More on this at the end of the post.

In the lengthy threads I scrolled through on the topic, one claim which surfaced several times is that the Torah does not condemn or provide clear punitive measures for rapists and abusers – and that this might have contributed to the less serious response to Walder’s crimes in some rabbinic circles.

Judaism Reclaimed addresses the Torah’s attitude to rape in the broader context of whether Jewish criminal law could ever provide a practical basis for a country’s criminal law system. Even when it comes to murder, a crime for which the Torah applies a clear capital punishment, the oral tradition places so many barriers to a Sanhedrin’s guilty verdict (such as the murderer needing to receive and verbally accept a warning from witnesses) that it would have been an extremely rare occurrence. Custodial sentences are absent from Torah law. So how would the Torah itself intend for a society to function based on its own criminal law?

The answer is found in the Derashot of the Ran, where the distinct prerogatives of the Sanhedrin and the king (or government) are outlined. The role of the king is like that of a government of any country: to provide a system of justice which maintains law and order. Drawing upon Talmudic passages in Sanhedrin, Rambam teaches that the king is not bound by the Torah's strict evidential and procedural constraints; this allows him to deal with offenders whose activities lie beyond the Sanhedrin's reach. The Sanhedrin, by contrast, is concerned solely with imparting what the Ran terms 'mishpat tzedek amiti' – specific divine attitudes and lessons. For example, divine justice demands that, in order for a death penalty to be declared, there must be absolute certainty that the accused carried out the offence, and did so intentionally (hence the need to deliver a formal warning). However the practicalities of keeping law and order in society require the Sanhedrin’s system to coexist with an effective governing system.

Thus the Torah’s criminal law was never intended to operate as the sole basis for running a country. Biblical passages describe kings such as David And Solomon dispensing practical “governmental” justice, in a system which includes jail sentences to keep dangerous convicts (and pesky prophets!) off the streets.

It is against this backdrop that Judaism Reclaimed examines the Torah’s approach to rape. Aside for a fine which is payable in very specific cases, the rapist – like the perpetrator of any violent crime – must fully compensate his victim for any pain, humiliation and other losses suffered. Quite apart from these basic compensatory measures, however, which are the remit of the Sanhedrin, we must also consider the important issue of maintaining law and order by preventing dangerous and violent individuals from threatening society.

What sort of attitude and reaction to sexual violence do we find being taken by governmental bodies in the Torah?

The rape of Dinah by Chamor led to a death penalty being imposed not merely on the perpetrator but also on all apparent accessories (“shall our sister be made like a harlot?”). A further example is that of Amnon’s rape of Tamar, a crime which was avenged through Absalom’s killing of Amnon leading to a fall-out which eventually spiralled into national rebellion.

Perhaps the most powerful biblical passage when examining current events, however, is the tragic incident of pilegesh b’Give’ah — the gang-rape of a concubine— towards the end of the book of Shofetim. For readers of one of Tanakh’s most harrowing passages, the reaction of the religious and political leaders of the day offers at least a crumb of comfort: the nation unites to demand that the perpetrators be brought to justice “for they committed lewdness and disgrace in Israel”. When the men are not handed over, the other tribes rally behind Pinchas – the leading sage of the generation – to declare war on the entire tribe of Binyamin which is sheltering the abusers.

For readers of the harrowing media accounts of Walder’s crimes last week, however, no such comfort and moral clarity was provided by our rabbinic leadership. Pinchas declared war against the tribal leaders of Binyamin for refusing to hand over those who sexually abused a concubine – a woman who, it can be presumed, came from the lower strata of ancient Israelite society. Our rabbinic leaders, by contrast, have attempted to close ranks behind the reputation of a powerful abuser and declare war, instead, on his vulnerable victims.

One of the clearest and most consistent messages we are taught by our prophets is the religious and moral duty to stand up for the weakest members of our communities. Not to allow the “strangers, widows and orphans” to be abused and downtrodden by society’s most powerful members.

At a time when those who claim to speak in the name of the Torah are doing the very opposite of this, protecting the forces of evil by attempting to squash and silence their innocent victims, we are all required to speak up and protest this dangerous desecration of God’s name and give voice to those who are being greatly harmed by it.

First posted on Facebook 2 January 2022, here.

Song of the Sea and a point of no return

By Shmuli Phillips and Joshua Berman

In what is probably the most fascinating and significant section of Rabbi Dr Joshua Berman’s  recent Ani Ma’amin, a strong and consistent parallel is found between the Song of the Sea (Shirat HaYam) that we read yesterday and the Kadesh poem – an Egyptian celebration of Rameses great victory over the Hittite army. The commonality is seen both in terms of specific unusual phrases which are employed and also in the overall structure and pattern of the two commemorations.

Most notably, both passages open with an army being subject to a surprise attack and calling out for divine assistance. When this assistance is forthcoming, the aggressor recognises that its opponents are receiving supernatural assistance and attempts to flee, only to meet total annihilation in water. There are distinctive parallels in some of the metaphors and terminologies which are drawn upon: in no ancient text other than these two does “right hand” signal strength – nor do any other military accounts refer to defeated enemies as “chaff”. Both passages conclude with their peerless kings or gods leading troops back home and intimidating foreign lands in the process.

Berman makes a compelling case for the Song of the Sea having been directly influenced and inspired by the Kadesh poem. Based on archaeological findings from Egyptian temples of that period, he suggests that the Kadesh poem would have been well known throughout Egypt – an important and much publicised element of nationalistic pride and propaganda.

This close comparison can provoke feelings of discomfort in some traditional readers who approach every feature and phrase of the Torah as containing profound spiritual and mystical truth (a matter which we will seek to address in an upcoming post). Berman’s theory nevertheless provides a measure of support for the traditional account of the Exodus, which has often been challenged from academic quarters.

Most significantly, it demonstrates that those who composed the Song of the Sea possessed intimate and detailed knowledge of Egyptian culture from the Egyptian New Kingdom (approx. 1250 BCE) – the period of Egyptian history in which many consider that the Exodus would have occurred. Such awareness of close details of Egyptian belief is not limited to the Song of Sea, but can also be seen in the ironic mirroring of Egyptian religious concepts such as “mighty hand and outstretched arm”, “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” and even prior details such as the ways in which the Torah describes the Jewish slavery, taskmasters and building materials. The parallels between the Song of the Sea and the Kadesh poem also represent a challenge to those such as David Rohl, who propose a far earlier date for the Exodus which precedes Rameses altogether.

An additional dimension to this early Israelite cultural appropriation may be psychological. The Torah makes it very clear that, after exiting Egypt, the newly-released slaves were vulnerable and had to be directed away from the shortest path to Canaan “lest the nation have a change of heart upon seeing war and return to Egypt”. Part of the project of the 40-year trek through the desert was to transform the weak and pagan-influenced Israelites, psychologically damaged by centuries of enslavement to the powerful Egyptians, into a warrior nation with belief in the God of Abraham. Whenever the nation faced hardship in the desert, the knee-jerk reaction was that they would be better off returning to enslavement. The Egyptians clearly had a strong psychological hold over them.

Part of the function of the Splitting of the Sea and its subsequent ironic celebration may therefore have been an attempt to shatter this psychological hold. By appropriating the Egyptians’ song of supremacy, the Israelites could embark upon their own national project, confident that “the way you look at the Egyptians today, you shall no longer perceive them for eternity”.

As explained by Rambam in his Guide, a major function of many biblical commandments, such as the sacrifices, which the nation was soon to receive, was to withdraw the people gradually from the pagan belief and practice of the culture in which they had been immersed in Egypt. The ironic appropriation of Egypt’s paen to its god-king may thus have been an exercise in breaking free from the psychological stranglehold of Egypt. This would now give the Israelites an opportunity to flourish as an independent nation and fulfil its role as a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation” – entering into a monotheistic covenant and marching confidently into Canaan to be a light unto the other nations of the world.

First posted to Facebook 16 January 2022, here.

Hammurabi and ancient texts: challenge or opportunity?

By Shmuli Phillips and Simi and Rivka Lerner

This week’s parashah sees a brief interruption in the account of events at Sinai for the sake of a through account of Jewish civil law. The presentation of these laws comes over at times as somewhat strange in its details and phraseology. Around a century ago, the archaeological discovery of an ancient law code appeared to shed some light on many of these verses. But what were the implications to be for the Torah of a very similar code of law written centuries before?

Much of this is discussed in this fascinating and clearly presented podcast by my friends Simi Rivka Lerner (https://nuancedjudaism.podbean.com/ see more about the weekly podcast below).

Judaism Reclaimed tackles the subject as part of its broader analysis of the Torah’s function and agenda. While noting that its religious and moral principles represent a dramatic contrast to the norms of the ancient world, it is hard to ignore the similarities which are clearly evident between the terminology and themes of the Torah and other ancient texts. This phenomenon was recognised by Rambam (Guide 3:30) who describes how the Torah’s passages of blessings and curses deliberately mirror the promises and threats made by pagan priests. Rambam cites ancient sources to demonstrate how people were promised peace and prosperity, rainfall and crop abundance if they worshipped in the pagan temples. Therefore, explains Rambam, the Torah’s general teachings regarding reward and punishment are deliberately couched in words and phrases with which the Jewish people were familiar in order to counter the pagan propaganda – even though those words in reality represent far broader concepts.

This aspect of Rambam’s thought, which reflects his expansive understanding of the dictum “dibrah Torah belashon b’nei adam” (the Torah speaks in the language of man), also relates to another strong theme in Rambam’s writing: that a primary purpose of the Torah is to uproot pagan belief and practice from Israel. On this basis, its blessings and curses are deliberately designed and phrased in a way that will nullify and oppose the messages of idolatrous cults. It is crucial, therefore, when analysing any apparent similarities between the Torah and earlier or parallel sources, to ensure that one’s focus remains on the content and core message being imparted by the Torah, and not to be overly distracted by the terminology and phrases through which these messages are presented.

It is against this backdrop that we must consider the similarities between the Torah’s text and the Code of Hammurabi. Historians of ancient Mesopotamia are quick to recognise similarities between the Torah’s laws and the Code of Hammurabi. Using the Rambam's understanding of the Torah’s presentation of its blessing, warnings and rebukes, however, we can allow for the fact (and perhaps even expect) that the Torah’s laws are also presented in a manner which its earliest students, whose acceptance of it was a precondition for its acceptance by future generations, would find accessible. What is crucial however, is that the content of the Torah — that is, the legal and ethical principles which it conveys — is a radical departure from the values of the ancient world that are expressed in the Code of Hammurabi.

In this podcast, Simi Rivka Lerner analyse and pinpoint many of the ways in which the Torah directs its adherents to a more moral approach to law than that of the Code of Hammurabi. Judaism Reclaimed also explores how Hammurabi focuses on the protection of property whereas the Torah seeks primarily to protect and promote humanity. This is most evident in the lack of death penalty for any property crime in the Torah – in contrast to the Code of Hammurabi, which legislated a death sentence for every form of theft.

Another significant distinction between Torah law and the earlier Hammurabi regime is that of equality before the law. Under Torah law, the law of damages is engaged regardless of the social status of the perpetrator and victim – a feature which was notably absent from Hammurabi’s system. While Hammurabi required a slave’s ear to be cut off for expressing a desire for freedom, Torah law sets the slave free in the case of his master inflicting a serious injury upon him. The most significant departure from its ancient predecessors lies in the Torah’s theme of personal holiness and beneficence towards the poor, of which there is not a trace in the harsh Hammurabi laws.

A further powerful demonstration of the contrasting moral values which underpin these two compendiums of law can be found in their treatment of murder, to which the earlier Code of Hammurabi, like the Torah, assigns a death penalty. Crucially however the Hammurabi penalty can be waived if the family of the victim agrees to pardon the offender. The Torah, by contrast, indicates that the seriousness of murder represents an absolute and unpardonable offence against God, as is implied by the verse:

“Do not accept a compensatory payment for the soul of a murderer…rather he shall surely die…”.

This framework is also used by Judaism Reclaimed to discuss how the Torah relates to phenomena which were once widespread but now considered distasteful or fundamentally immoral such as polygamy and slavery, as well as Torah narratives – such as the Flood – which bear a striking resemblance to earlier mythical accounts.

Nuanced Judaism is a new podcast by Rivka and Rabbi Simi Lerner. It features a dynamic discussion on philosophical, esoteric as well as relevant questions pertaining to the weekly parashah. A husband and wife with different perspectives but equal enthusiasm to seek out meaning and depth (approx. 15 mins).

First posted on Facebook 26 January 2022, here.

The golden calf and the challenges of Jewish education

A fascinating yet perplexing aggada in Berachot depicts Moshe arguing with God in the aftermath of the Golden Calf. Moshe appears to be blaming God for the Jewish people's sinful behaviour, claiming that the strong temptation to stray left no realistic expectation that the Jews could have behaved otherwise. Our surprise at Moshe's apparently outrageous accusation is compounded when the Gemara concludes by stating that God concedes the point and agrees with Moshe's assessment. This aggadah is puzzling for several reasons: why would God have wanted to create such an insurmountable temptation? And on what basis might God subsequently retreat from His initial position?

The chapter of Judaism Reclaimed that relates to Ki Tisa addresses these points as well as the broader question of when and how a prophet can argue with God.

At the start of his commentary on the episode of the akeidah, Ramban examines the concept of nisayon, a test specifically designed and delivered to an individual. He explains that when God sees a person's latent potential for spiritual growth, He will supply that person with a challenge in order to actualise this potential. For that reason, writes Ramban, God will design a nisayon that He knows the individual can succeed in overcoming.

While Ramban's formula can be understood with tests for individuals, it is extremely complex to apply to an entire nation, whose members possess a wide range of spiritual capabilities. Should a national challenge of faith and spiritual growth be so easy to pass that the entire nation should be capable of passing it, potentially sacrificing the growth of its more advanced members? Alternatively, should the test be so hard that only the nation’s most capable members could pass it, thus identifying those who possess the best potential for leadership? Or should the test be set at whichever level would be likely to benefit the majority?

Another conversation between God and Moshe, this time recorded explicitly in the Torah's text, further indicates their sharply contrasting approaches to the difficult trade-off between refining the nation's upper echelons on the one hand, and catering for its weaker members on the other. After Moshe is dispatched from the summit of Mount Sinai to witness the Golden Calf debacle, God proposes to annihilate the unworthy nation and develop a new chosen people from Moshe's descendants. Moshe emphatically rejects this suggestion, and once again we see God acceding to Moshe's position. Rather than eliminating the sinful nation, God instead replaces His direct hashgachahwith that of an angel, thereby diminishing the level of shechinah and hashgachahto a level that the entire nation could endure.

While the nation as a whole failed and was punished as a result of the test of the Golden Calf, a midrash in Bemidbar Rabbah notes how the tribe of Levi was greatly elevated as a result of passing this test, thereby meriting to become the 'tribe of God' and serve in the Mikdash:

"When Israel worshipped the golden calf, the Levites refused to participate … And when Moshe told them to gird themselves with swords, what did they do? They took their swords and showed no favouritism…God tested them and they stood up to His test … As a result Hashem chose them (to serve in the Beit Hamikdash) as it says, "God tests the righteous one …"

It would appear from this text that, from God's perspective, the rigorous examination that the entire nation was subjected to in the episode of the Golden Calf was justified by the significant spiritual growth gained by the Levites.

Returning to God's reconsideration in light of Moshe's request to spare the nation, neither position taken by God during this conversation should be viewed as incorrect. God's initial proposition to replace the Jewish people with a new nation of Moshe's descendants would appear to derive from middat hadin — the attribute of strict justice which generates difficult challenges and demands perfect responses. While the tribe of Levi thrived on this challenge, Moshe pleaded for the Jews to be treated instead with the attribute of mercy (the '13 attributes' of which God subsequently revealed to him). Through this attribute of mercy, it would be easier to accommodate human imperfection by diminishing the intensity of the providential relationship between God and the people – albeit at the expense of the opportunities for spiritual growth for its more advanced members.

In modern times, a similar debate has emerged over the primary objective of Jewish education. Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler contrasted the approach adopted by the Torah im derech eretz system of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch in Germany with that of the Lithuanian yeshivas. Rav Dessler comments that the choice of the 'Frankfurt school system' to teach secular subjects and approve of university education made its Judaism far more palatable to its devotees, with the result that the vast majority of them opted for a life of dedicated Torah observance.

In contrast to this, the Lithuanian yeshivas concentrated their students' energies and desires exclusively on studying Torah. These great Torah academies, writes Rav Dessler, produced outstanding Torah leaders and a yeshiva system which flourishes to this very day, but at significant detriment to the lives (and religious observance) of those who were unable to deal with the extreme lifestyle it demanded. The yekkish communities designed by Rav Hirsch, by contrast, largely failed to build great yeshivot or Torah leaders, leading to a situation which has seen their stable and observant youngsters being subsumed into the Lithuanian yeshiva world and adopted its values.

First posted to Facebook 13 February 2022, here.