The historical descent of Edom

*This week we are privileged to be celebrating the Barmitzvah of our eldest child, Gavriel. His speech, which he delivered a couple of days ago, analysed the drastic deterioration of the relationship between Israel and Edom, and how the Torah’s depiction of Edom evolved through Jewish history. *

*The post below is based upon his speech.*

The animosity and rivalry between Yaakov and Eisav can be traced back to the opening passages of this week’s parashah, which describes Eisav returning starving from the field. Yaakov is cooking lentil soup. Eisav demands to be fed “from this red stuff” and is even willing to forgo his birth-right for the privilege. Therefore – the Torah informs us – he was called Edom.

A running theme in the book of Bereishit is that, when someone is assigned a name, this is not just a matter of convenience so that people know how to refer to a person. The Torah uses names in order to pinpoint and highlight a person’s core essence – what the Torah considers to be their spiritual identity or mission. So in what way does Edom (“red”) represent Eisav’s core identity? And in what way is that related to the soup episode?

A few years back I was warming myself up on a cold November afternoon with a bowl of lentil soup when a question struck me. The soup that I was eating – and indeed all lentil soup that I’ve had before and after – was a deep yellow colour. So why did Eisav, in his highly significant description of lentil soup, claim that it was red?!

I consulted with a friend of mine who works as a chef, and learned that, while lentil soup is indeed yellow, raw lentils are of a much more reddish hue. It occurred to me that this may provide the key to understanding what the Torah is telling us here about Eisav. He came in from the field and just had to eat straight away. He could not contain his instinctive urges; rather, - he refused to delay his instant gratification even for the sake of greater physical pleasure of consuming fully-cooked soup. Such a person certainly would find neither relevance nor meaning in the more elevated spiritual benefits conferred by being firstborn.

The Torah seizes on Eisav's grab for the uncooked red lentils – his uncontrolled "living for the moment" –as a statement of who he had become and what he represented. It was this trait that Rivkah recognised; she wanted to prevent from playing a pivotal role in the family of the Avot the building blocks of the Jewish people. This explains why she went to such lengths to prevent Eisav from receiving the blessing and legacy of Avraham.

While Eisav-Edom was not worthy to receive the blessings in this week’s parashah and was removed from the Jewish nation, Edom was not condemned as being evil in the same way as the Torah’s ultimate villains -- Amalek and the seven Canaanite nations. The Torah commanded that Amalek and the Canaanite nations be annihilated – but what do we read of Edom? The Jewish people were not permitted to attack them or even pass through their territory without permission. At this stage Edom is addressed as Israel’s “brother” (Bemidbar 20:14), being granted Har Seir as an inheritance (Devarim 2:5). There is even a specific commandment not to hate an Edomite “for he is your brother” (Devarim 23:7).

So Edom is no longer part of the Chosen People, but, as an Abrahamic cousin he still appears to bear a special protected status. As biblical history progresses the Jewish view on Edom shifts sharply. Edom has not just lost its place in the Chosen Nation by rejecting its spiritual birth-right by choosing instant gratification over deeper religious values. It has now come to oppose and attack Israel, employing extreme violence and displaying, pride and deceit.

A series of particularly brutal wars were fought between Israel and Edom in the second half of the First Temple era, leading the prophet Ovadyiah to declare that Edom has lost its special protected status as a descendants of Avraham. It would seem that this elevated status itself has led them astray: “The pride of your heart has deceived you”, – he accuses them. Ovadyiah specifically contrasts the fate of Israel who would go into exile and be returned – with Edom who would be exiled forever. The same idea can be found in this week’s Haftarah, in which Malachi contrasts God’s love for Israel with his rejection of Edom, – who would now be forever demoted and condemned because of their violence and hatred of Israel: “Eisav is Yaacov’s brother; yet I have loved Yaacov and hated Eisav, and I made his mountains desolate…”. And if Edom plans to return? “They shall build, but I will demolish…the people whom Hashem has damned forever”.

So as a result of Edom’s pride and violence, he goes into permanent exile from his rocky fortress of Bozrah – in present day Jordan. During the Second Temple period, instead of inhabiting the Land of Edom, they now live in “Edomite cities” within Israel, – around present day Chevron. No-one is entirely sure what to make of them.

In one political-religious drama, the two sides of which are still debated in modern-day Israel, the now-secular Hasmonean government attempted to mass-convert whole cities of Edomites to Judaism in order to integrate them into the country and Jewish society. The government claimed that it was untenable to have whole cities of residents living within the Jewish state who were not Jewish and would remain separate from the majority.

The sages and religious leaders of the era fiercely opposed the legitimacy and desirability of this move. First, it is not clear that the Edomites genuinely wanted to convert, which would impact the validity of their mass -conversion. Secondly, the Torah teaches that Edomite converts can only enter the Jewish people in the third generation. This all led to an unclear status for those who emerged from such cities – such as the infamous King Herod. This in turn led to a great deal of confusion. According to one historical source:

**When John Hyrcanus conquered the region of Edom, he required all Edomim to obey Jewish law or to leave; most Edomim converted to Judaism, which meant that they had to be circumcised, and many intermarried with the Jews and adopted their customs. While Herod publicly identified himself as a Jew and was considered as such by some, this religious identification was undermined by the decadent lifestyle of the Herodians, which would have earned them the antipathy of observant Jews*.*

**All the worldly pomp and splendour which made Herod popular among the pagans, however, made him hated by the Jews, who could not forgive him for insulting their religious feelings by forcing upon them idolatrous games and combats with wild animals*. *(Encyclopaedia Judaica).

Herod meanwhile harboured a strong hatred of the Sages for rejecting and questioning the authenticity of his Jewishness. The Gemara describes how he slaughtered many sages and sent most of the rest into hiding.

A century later, the Tannaim identified Edom with the Romans, an apparently violent offshoot of Edom (see Rashi at the end of parashat Vayishlach. ). The Edomite Romans (represented by the pig) are now taken by Chazal to represent deceit and false piety).

A Midrash teaches:

*“*Why are the Romans – Edom - compared to a pig? For this reason: when the pig is lying down it puts out its hoofs, as if to say, "I am clean," so does this wicked State rob and oppress, yet pretend to be performing justice*..."* (Midrash Rabbah, – Bereishit 65:1)

Herod, like the fellow Edomites with whom he is allied, matches the midrashic porcine depiction. He builds beautiful structures all over Israel; the ruins of many are still visitable today. The Tannaim are openly amazed by his reconstruction of the Beit Hamikdash, saying “whoever did not see Herod’s Temple did not see a beautiful building in their life”. Yet, like the pig’s trotters, Herod’s building was also seen to represent a beautiful and impressive exterior which attempted to furnish him with a legacy which would mask his cruel and blood-stained leadership. Herod insisted on placing a semi-idolatrous Roman icon within the Temple precincts. Young Torah scholars who attempted to prevent this were captured and burned alive.

By this stage, the sages viewed Edom and Israel as irreconcilable foes, teaching as a matter of tradition that “*Eisav soneh et Yaakov*” ([“Eisav has a deeply rooted hatred for Yaakov”]). This masking of hatred and violence in high culture and the arts has continued to haunt the Jewish people – perhaps most painfully in the desolation of European Jewry at the hands of the highly-cultured “master race” of Nazi Germany. It can be argued that such Edomite hatred can be seen to continue to this very day, with universities and places of higher culture leading the way in the delegitimization of Israel’s actions – and sometimes of the very legitimacy of the Jewish return from exile to build a presence in their homeland.

First posted to Facebook 4 November 2021, here.

Stairway to Heaven: Yaakov's ladder and Jewish leadership

The opening scene of parashat Vayeitze presents a prophetic dream experienced by Ya'akov which cries out for a profound interpretation. Judaism Reclaimed explores the meaning of the mysterious creatureswho ascend and descend their celestial stairway. We draw upon various sources to relate the dream’s message to Ya'akov as he embarks upon a crucial journey, hard-earned blessings in hand, to establish his credentials as the third and final forefather of the Jewish people.

R’ Chaim Volozhin, in his book Nefesh Hachaim, explains the Zohar's approach to the dream, in which the ascending and descending angels provide Ya'akov with a visual demonstration of the interplay which exists between the spiritual and physical spheres. The ladder is based firmly on the ground, with its upper rungs scaling the heavenly heights until they reach God. The angels moving up and then down the ladder represent the spiritual ‘ripple effect’ of good deeds, first moving up towards the heavens, and then descending with the resultant divine bounty. R’ Chaim explains the apparent difficulty of the angels first rising up the ladder and only then descending – an order which seems to suggest that their journey begins in the physical world rather than in the heavens by saying:

"… the primary task of mankind is to first raise the world from a lower to a higher level, and after that the (divine) light will be drawn from above to below".

This interpretation of the dream as an allusion to the dynamic role of spirituality within the physical world is reinforced by a dramatic midrashic subplot, which tells of squabbling stones uniting beneath Ya'akov's head. Maharal explains that division and separation between objects is a purely physical phenomenon. The intense spiritual level to which Ya'akov soared during his dream made an impact on the physical objects within his vicinity, uniting the squabbling stones into a single unit. The clear message emerging from both the dream and the quarrelling stones is that spiritual forces generated by good conduct, control and manipulate objects and events in the physical world.

As Ya'akov travels to Haran to build a family, household and nation, the lesson of his dream holds particular relevance. Rivka's diversion of the blessings of prosperity to Ya'akov propels him from the tents of meditation and study to the ruthless, amoral business world of his uncle Lavan. There he amasses significant wealth, and is forced into situations that challenge his inherent honesty and integrity. The extent of Ya'akov's material success is underscored by his eventual meeting with Eisav. While Ya'akov is clearly nervous and preparing for a violent confrontation, Eisav greets Ya'akov warmly, proposing that the brothers join forces and travel together. R' Ari Kahn suggests (“Explorations” – newly expanded and released) that Eisav believes that, while he has lost the blessings of the first-born, he has nonetheless won the ideological war, since the studious Ya'akov has been transformed into a 'man of the world' to whom Eisav can now relate and give respect.

The dream sent to Ya'akov is intended to guide his perspective throughout this rite of passage, so that his new-found wealth and status remain a means with which to build his nation rather than being an end in their own right. Ya'akov's response to the dream is that "All that You will give to me I will surely tithe to You". This response may be an indication that this lesson has been duly internalised. And when Eisav suggests 'walking together', Ya'akov firmly refuses, choosing instead to build sukkot — booths for his cattle, in a symbolic recognition of the ephemeral nature and secondary importance of Ya’akov’s worldly possessions.

Ya'akov's dream also plays an important role within the very different worldview of Rambam, for whom the ladder teaches the role of the prophet. While Rambam understands prophecy to be the preserve of those who have greatly developed their intellect, Ya'akov's dream teaches that the prophet, having scaled the heights and gained a great intellectual insight, must return down to the masses to lead and be involved with their affairs. With this message, the Torah rejects the stereotype of the prophet as a reclusive 'Man of God', who is removed from and unconcerned with the fate of those around him.

The profound message that Rambam extracts from the ladder dream may be instrumental in resolving the enigmatic ending to his Moreh Nevuchim. Having spent most of the book emphasising the primary role of a person's intellect in connecting with God both in this world and the next, Rambam concludes with the bombshell that intellectual speculation alone is not sufficient. One must also understand and internalise the "chessed, mishpat and tzeddakah" of God's attributes through which we perceive Him to relate to humanity.

The ‘ultimate perfection’ of the prophet, as described in the Moreh’s conclusion, requires studious development of the intellect in order to perceive divine truths. Such a development must however be accompanied by the perfection of one’s character traits in order to imitate God's attributes of chessed, mishpat and tzeddakah. The message of Ya'akov's dream is, therefore, that if one has truly internalised 'knowledge of God', he will be motivated, like God, to descend back down the ladder to demonstrate through his own conduct the Godly attributes of "chessed"; holding the hand of the common man and encouraging him to take his first tentative steps up the rungs of the celestial ladder.

With Ya'akov poised on the threshold between the era of holy individuals and the emergence of a 'Godly nation', the timing of his dream with its instructive message could not be more appropriate, establishing for eternity the hallmark of the Jewish prophet and Man of God.

In his Akeidat Yitzchak, R' Yitzchak Arama explains the midrash of the uniting stones consistently with Rambam's interpretation of Ya'akov's dream. With the stones representing disparate and sometimes contradictory truths and human perceptions, the process of 'ascending the ladder' and attaining Godly knowledge involves these truths coalescing into a single, harmonious body of knowledge. This is necessarily achievable since all truth, knowledge and existence emanates from God, the ultimate united entity. What the dream teaches is that such pure divine truths must be brought back down the ladder by the prophet in order that they improve and unite the fractured and squabbling stones which abound in the physical world in its unperfected state.

First posted on Facebook 22 November 2020, here.

Maimonidean middot: how Rambam relates to character development

The chapter of Judaism Reclaimed which relates to parashat Vayishlach explores various religious dimensions of interpersonal mitzvot. The parashah certainly provides several potent examples for examining questionable character traits, including Shimon and Levi’s massacre of Shechem and the inappropriate actions of Reuven. While Ya’akov initially rebukes Shimon and Levi for their political miscalculation, it is only later on his death bed that he highlights the character flaws that lay behind his sons’ sins in this parashah.

What, however, is the significance of negative character traits within the Maimonidean understanding of Judaism? Rambam describes how the element of humanity which transcends physicality and can connect to God for eternity is purely the intellect (sechel). How then does he explain the great religious significance placed on character development?

On a basic level, Rambam understands that proper intellectual development is premised upon the person having first achieved a properly balanced set of character traits. As he explains in Hilchot De’ot, each correct 'de'ah' (or ‘character trait’) is the optimal path between two extremes. Over-indulgence and abstinence, brazenness and timidity, generosity and miserliness are all sets of harmful extremes between which a middle path of balance must be navigated. A crucial precondition for the intellect’s ability to function properly, however, is the correct balance of all aspects of the soul. Each imbalanced trait creates a 'mechitzah' — an interference from the physical realm — which weakens the ability of the intellect to grasp and internalise divine truths. This explains why Rambam insists that prophecy, the highest state of the intellect, cannot be found among people with undeveloped character traits, and "not with those who are lazy, sad, frivolous or light-headed".

Rambam relates this teaching to a central theme in the Torah, the repeated demand that we are to “walk in God’s ways” – explained by Rambam in Hilchot De’ot to refer to the intermediate path between extremes in order to facilitate the greatest possible intellectual connection to God. But is it really satisfactory to limit the role of character development in Judaism to a facilitatory role? To a pre-condition for intellectual perfection? This does not appear to be the approach of the sages, who interpret the very same verse of “walking in God’s ways” to refer to positive emulation of God’s actions: “Just as He is Merciful so must you be merciful”.

We note how the conclusion of the Moreh Nevuchim implies a far more positive role for character development. Moving beyond the correct balancing of traits found in Hilchot De’ot, we find that a far more substantive emulation of God is implied by "walking in God’s ways". According to this section, a person's ultimate purpose is to internalise "chessed, mishpat and tzedakah" (kindness, justice and charity). We explore some profound ideas of Rabbis S. R. Hirsch and Joseph B. Soloveitchik as to how the Torah’s teachings of “loving one’s fellow as oneself” do not merely require certain kind actions to be performed. Rather, at their ideal level, they challenge the actor to transform his or her entire perspective of the world in order to view it from beyond the selfish interests and biases of their own personal needs and requirements (more on this here). Thus kindness and character development can have a direct and impact on one’s intellectual development.

These two dimensions of character development and kindness within Rambam’s understanding of Judaism can also be seen in their separate halachic sources. The first chapter of Hilchot De’ot focuses on a person’s need to balance his or her traits correctly strictly in terms of facilitating one’s own intellectual development:

“The straight path: This [involves discovering] the midpoint temperament of each and every trait that man possesses [within his personality.] This refers to the trait which is equidistant from either of the extremes, without being close to either of them. Therefore, the early Sages instructed a man to evaluate his traits, to calculate them and to direct them along the middle path…We are commanded to walk in these intermediate paths - and they are good and straight paths - as [Deuteronomy 28:9] states: "And you shall walk in His ways."”

Elsewhere in his legal writings, however, Rambam discloses the second dimension of character perfection – the requirement to focus on and care for the other:

“It is a positive commandment of Rabbinic origin to visit the sick, comfort mourners, to prepare for a funeral, prepare a bride, accompany guests, attend to all the needs of a burial, carry a corpse on one's shoulders, walk before the bier, mourn, dig a grave, and bury the dead, and also to bring joy to a bride and groom and help them in all their needs. These are deeds of kindness that one carries out with his person that have no limit. Although all these mitzvot are of Rabbinic origin, they are included in the Scriptural commandment Leviticus 19:18: "Love your neighbor as yourself." That charge implies that whatever you would like other people to do for you, you should do for your comrade in the Torah and mitzvot.” [Avel 14:1]

Each act of kindness that a person performs is therefore operating simultaneously on two levels. Both on the “between man and God” dimension – of improving one’s personal traits and thereby allowing the intellect to flourish. And, at the same time, caring for the other, learning to view the world through the perspective of other people’s needs rather than one’s own subjective and ultimately selfish outlook. In this way, one can develop a more divine perspective of the world and truly start to “walk in God’s ways”.

First posted on Facebook 18 November 2021, here.

Rambam, Greeks and Chanukah: ideological battle or philosophical synthesis?

Earlier this week we explored the interplay between “Yafet” – representing the artistic and cultural faculties of humanity – and the religious dimension symbolised by “Shem”. We did so primarily through the perspective of Rabbi S. R. Hirsch who taught that the arts and aesthetics hold substantial positive value for humanity, but only when influenced by and “dwelling within” the tents of Shem.

This post will attempt to examine the dynamics of the ideological clash between Maccabees and Hellenists from the perspective of Rambam. This is of particular interest since Rambam – one of Judaism’s primary sources concerning philosophy and theology – is remarkably silent when it comes to the ideological battles of the Chanukah era. Even though such ideological divergences are emphasised in prior Rabbinic sources. Additionally, it is evident throughout his writings that Rambam possessed a healthy respect for many aspects of Greek philosophy, albeit as we will discuss, from an earlier era. What did he see as being the key differences between Greek thought and Judaism? And could any of these ideological tensions have been at play in the Chanukah story?

While it is true that Rambam enthusiastically embraced many aspects of Greek philosophy and science which represented in his day (and for many centuries after), the main framework and template for understanding the world, he does make some crucial qualifications.

At the conclusion of Rambam’s explanation of the concept of miracles as having been built into nature at the world’s creation, he presents a simple summary of his fundamental agreement and disagreement with Aristotle. Rambam explains that, with regard to the functioning of the physical world according to its natural order, he broadly follows the Aristotelian structure of fixed, immutable and eternal rules of nature – that God instituted the rules of nature and doesn’t plan to breach them. In fact, the wisdom contained within the functioning of the universe bears testimony to God’s supreme wisdom. Nevertheless, the same section of Moreh Nevuchim also firmly rejects Aristotle’s understanding of the world as having existed eternally in the past, with God merely ensuring its existence.

Aristotelian theory, as presented by Rambam, held that God cannot be said to have created the universe at any one specific point in time, but rather constantly and eternally causes the world to exist. According to Aristotle’s understanding therefore, God is not free to in any way influence the physical world which emanated from Him.

Rambam states strongly that such an Aristotelian understanding would render the Torah meaningless since it would relegate God to some kind of technical cause, unable to exercise (or grant) free will, perform miracles and all other aspects of providential interaction with the world. For this reason, Rambam emphasises creation in time as “the basis for the Torah”; if Aristotle were correct on this point, writes Rambam “the entire Torah would become void”. The reason for this becomes more apparent when we explore Rambam’s understanding of miracles.

Rambam addresses the concept of miracles in two of his works – both of which emphasise how all miraculous occurrences were built into the natural order at the time of creation – based on God’s knowledge of the future. In Moreh Nevuchim, Rambam cites a midrashic teaching to support his understanding that “When God created this existence and established all of its nature, He placed within the physical world that all miracles too would occur.”

Then in his commentary to Avot, he states further that the ten miraculous phenomena – such as Moshe’s staff and the mouth of the earth that swallowed Korach – were said to have been formed already during the days of creation because:

The Sages did not believe in the constant renewal of God’s will, but at the beginning of Creation [God] put the nature of things into the world, both the way in which things should act regularly—this is “nature”—or the abnormal manner in which they should act rarely—this is a “miracle.”

For Aristotle however, who opposed the very notion of creation in time by a freely-acting God, there is no scope within the rigid rules of nature for any miracles, providence or revelation. For this reason, Rambam considers that such an Aristotelian system renders the entire Torah void.

How might this relate back to Chanukah?

It must be borne in mind that Greek philosophical thought of the Hellenic Chanukah era had evolved somewhat from the Classical era of Aristotle. Nevertheless, and without wanting to get too involved, there were strong trends of similarity in the way that major Hellenist philosophical groups such as the Epicureans understood God as no longer involved in any meaningful way in the functioning of His Creation. Aristotle’s thought too remained highly influential right the way through to, and beyond, Rambam’s era.

As we explained in the previous Chanukah post, within the worldview of R Hirsch, Noach’s prophecy implies that the ideology of Yafet (of which the Greeks are a primary element) is not to be viewed as an entirely negative contribution to humanity – but rather as containing positive potential when correctly harnessed to the Torah’s teachings – ie when it “dwells in the tents of Shem”.

Similarly, we can suggest within Rambam’s worldview, that the Greek-Aristotelian conception of steady and unbreakable natural laws emanating from a single source is to be embraced. As Rambam writes, reflecting upon the beauty and wisdom inherent in the universe can lead one to fear and love of God and appreciation of His wisdom.

Rambam believed that Aristotle’s methodology for analysing the world was extremely beneficial, and could lead to recognition and knowledge of the Single God of the Torah. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote how monotheism and the Torah’s description of God creating the world:

“made science possible. No longer was the universe seen as unpredictable. It was the work of a single, rational, creative will.”

Others have noted how science has particularly flourished in societies based on monotheistic belief. Only if one perceives the world as an organic whole designed by a single Creator, can one analyse and develop meaningful theories as to how it all functions together.

But this acceptance and approval of Yafet’s systematic understanding of the natural order is only proper when placed in the correct context of creation in time – an acceptance of God’s creation of the universe with all of the accompanying implications for providence and miracles. If this is correct, then for Rambam too the ideological conflict between the Jews and the Greeks was not a total rejection of Greek thought, but rather represented an attempt to reposition the beneficial aspects of Yafet firmly within the tent of Shem as the verse advises. So that, as Rambam demands, appreciation of the structure, wisdom and beauty of the universe can lead to the further comprehension of the Creator who freely designed it.

Perhaps this can explain the strong emphasis we find in Rambam’s Laws of Chanukah on publicising miracles. Particular attention is paid by Rambam at the start of his discussion of Hilchot Chanuka to the miraculous aspects both of the deliverance from the Greeks and its connection to the miracle of the oil. At the conclusion of these laws Rambam teaches that the mitzvah of the Chanukah light holds particular importance as it makes God’s miracles known.

According to the ideas highlighted in this post, it is the capacity of God to have introduced miracles into the natural order which represented the crucial distinction, for Rambam, between Jewish and Greek ideologies. For Rambam therefore, so-called “Greek” truths and appreciation of the wisdom and beauty inherent in the world can and must lead us towards understanding, appreciation and love of its Creator.

Devoid of Shem’s guidance this wisdom loses its deeper meaning and utility. Rather than leading to a warm appreciation of and relationship with the Creator, scientific and philosophical wisdom outside the tent of Shem becomes cold, detached speculation and knowledge. In such a system of thought, God can be relegated to an eternal but irrelevant and limited cog in the eternal wheel of existence – rather than the Source of the wisdom - who freely created and interacts with the world.

First posted to Facebook 16 December 2020, here.

How Judaism approaches pain and suffering

The hardest moments that any rabbi or religious figure have to deal with tend to relate to pain, grief and suffering of innocent people. Sometimes this can involve otherwise less-religious people who are trying to make some sort of sense of their devastating difficulties, but for many religious people too, witnessing such inexplicable suffering at close hand can present a significant challenge to their faith.

What range of responses does Judaism offer to people who find themselves in such an unfortunate situation – or to rabbis who are approached to advise them?

Perhaps the most important words of wisdom that Jewish tradition has for rabbis – and indeed anyone who finds themselves in a position of providing support – are taught in Pirkei Avot (4:23):

Rabbi Shimon ben (son of) Elazar said, do not appease your fellow at the time of his anger, do not console him at the time his dead lies before him…

A person’s profound suffering will sometimes express itself in the form of theological questions: “why is this happening?” “why is God doing this to me?”. Those numb with grief are unlikely to be genuinely seeking a deep philosophical response, and their minds are typically not settled enough to appreciate such a response anyway. At a particularly tragic shiva I attended a couple of years ago, the parents of the deceased stared blankly across the room – clearly uninterested in engaging any of the visitors in conversation. After what seemed like an interminable awkward silence, another family member told the gathered crowd that their very presence was providing support and comfort for the mourners – even if no words, conversation or advice were being sought.

While knowing when to remain silent and avoid theological discourses is certainly important, Judaism certainly does contain an interesting range of responses to why the innocent suffer. The closing section of Judaism Reclaimed’s chapter relating to parashat Vayeshev focuses primarily on Rambam’s approach to explaining human suffering in Moreh Nevuchim.

Rather than trying to explain and justify individual cases of suffering, Rambam seeks to provide a broader perspective on why an all-powerful perfect deity should have constructed a world which contains so much suffering and pain. His answer presents three primary categories of suffering experienced by humanity, all of which are necessary components of creation.

The first category is caused by the inevitable disintegration of all aspects of physicality. Only God and spiritual entities can be unchanging and eternal. Humanity’s purpose is to transcend mortal physicality, and for people to develop their souls in order to earn the eternity of the World to Come. Our physicality, indispensable to this fundamental purpose, automatically makes us subject both to mortality and to the illnesses generated by the process of decay, a natural consequence of the body’s temporal physical existence. Natural disasters are also included in this category, these being the inevitable result of the dynamic nature of the cycle of growth and decay which characterises the physical world.

According to this approach, God’s plan required a world which could operate by itself through perpetual, dynamic and self-regulating rules of nature. Humans, the sole bearers of the ‘tzelem Elokim’ divine intellect, possess the ability to transcend this mundane physicality by connecting to the metaphysical divine, thereby attracting hashgachah (divine providence) and the prospect of entering the World to Come.

[As an aside, Rambam’s proposition that illness and natural disasters are the result of a necessary process of decay is developed on the basis of modern scientific understanding by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (The Great Partnership p 244). Rabbi Sacks finds support for this understanding from the dynamic conditions necessary for the emergence and evolution of life.]

The second category consists of the evil that humans are capable of inflicting on one another through the operation of their free will. Allowing free will to function is of fundamental importance to the purpose of the world, therefore God will rarely interfere with it.

Finally, Rambam considers that the most prevalent form of suffering in the world is self-inflicted through the choice of unwise and imbalanced conduct such as the pursuit of unhealthy lifestyles. Lack of control over one's desires for worldly pleasures not only has a negative impact on the intellect but can also lead a person towards illness and hardship

Rambam’s explanation certainly does not cover and explain all instances of suffering, and may well be too cold and detached to comfort many people. A more common approach to coping with grief and difficulty in this world seeks to place it in a wider perspective of the function and purpose which Jewish tradition attaches to our lives. As another Mishnah in Avot (4:16) teaches:

Rabbi Yaakov said: this world is like a corridor before the World to Come; prepare yourself in the corridor, so that you may enter the banqueting-hall.

The most far-reaching version of this approach explains suffering of innocents in terms of gilgulim, and each soul having its own specific mission and rectification that it needs to achieve. As someone put it to me earlier today, this is “surely the correct approach within Judaism as it is the only way to explain such suffering”. For those whose Judaism includes belief in gilgulim, this is probably correct. Its place within Jewish thought has been strongly challenged however by great figures such as Rav Sa’adiah Gaon, and it is notably absent from biblical passages – such as Job and Habbakuk – which address the suffering of innocents.

One final dimension to suffering of innocents emerges from a debate between Rabbi Akiva and Turnus Rufus, the Roman governor of Judaea. Turnus Rufus confronts Rabbi Akiva with the question: “If your God loves the poor so much why doesn’t He feed them?” Rabbi Akiva’s profound response is that it is of course within God’s power to feed the poor. But, in a perfect world which contains neither suffering nor poverty, there would be no real opportunity for humans to perform acts of kindness.

Reflecting further upon Rabbi Akiva’s response, one can ask which other forms of suffering it can be extended to cover. In a world in which there were no poor, suffering or sick people, what opportunities would there be for individuals to empathise with others and demonstrate the sort of self-sacrifice which really sets apart the greatest among us.

The Ramban, at the start of his commentary on the akeida, explains the concept of nisayon (a divine test): that God will sometimes test us in order to draw out the latent potential within us and thereby improve our character. But how far can such an argument be taken? There were certainly many Holocaust heroes including Raul Wallenberg, Oskar Schindler and many righteous people who risked their lives to protect others that they did not know. Had it not been for the Holocaust would these people still have pushed themselves to become great? Yet I’m not sure anyone would agree that the Holocaust was justified in order to produce such heroes.

While this approach may seem insufficient in its own right, taken in combination with some of the other ideas contained in this post, it may be able to provide a degree of comfort to those who are suffering (personally or their loved ones).

Ultimately, we cannot expect to fully understand or explain such events. One thing that we can take from the experiences of Ya’akov and Yosef in these parshiyot, is that years of painful and apparently pointless suffering can sometimes be part of a bigger picture and project that we are not aware of at the time.

The true prophetic response may therefore be contained in the words of Isaiah:

For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways, says the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts [higher] than your thoughts.

First posted to Facebook 28 November 2021, here.

Scholarly stretches and the search for fugitive heroes

By Daniel Abraham and Shmuli Phillips

The dramatic biblical description of Moshe’s early years and his rise to prominence as leader of the Jewish people at the Exodus has long fascinated biblical scholars. Attempts have been made to draw thematic and textual comparisons between the Torah’s account and those of other Ancient-Near-Eastern texts, with the strong implication that the Torah simply replicated earlier stories and literary themes when seeking to portray its heroic saviour. Last year, we examined the claim that Moshe’s birth story was copied from earlier Near-Eastern legends telling of the birth of Sargon (among others).

This year we address another scholarly theory (by Professor Edward Greenstein, linked below) which attempts to identify numerous commonalities between Moshe’s fleeing Egypt and subsequent rise to power, and those of other ancient heroes: Sinuhe the Egyptian, Idrimi the Syrian, Hattushili III the Hittite Esarhaddon of Assyria and Nabonidus of Babylon. By depicting the episode as a repurposed ancient myth, Greenstein seeks to deprive the biblical details of Moshe’s life of any historical significance. More subtly, in implying that the Torah uses these characters as its basis for the Moshe narrative, Greenstein is challenging traditional Judaism’s belief in the Torah’s revelation at Sinai – since some of these fugitive heroes lived many centuries after the era in which the Torah is believed to have been revealed.

We must therefore examine the strength of the features common to these five stories. Do they demand us to conclude that Moshe’s journey from fugitive-to-hero was built upon a clearly identifiable mythical motif?

Greenstein tells us that:

“all these texts share a common fugitive narrative pattern: They tell of a national leader or hero who is compelled to leave his homeland, spends a period in exile, receives an instruction or encouragement from a deity to return home, achieves leadership or fame at home, and founds or renews a cult or ritual”.

He then breaks down these common features into fourteen points of comparison.

As readers of history will confirm, such a narrative pattern is quite unremarkable given the political manoeuvering and machinations in ancient times. Unless the theory can be fortified by demonstrating the duplication of specific or unexpected details, it remains speculative and weak. Bearing this in mind, it is deeply disappointing that the single such distinctive feature in the list of fourteen commonalities – an exile of specifically seven years – is acknowledged not to have been replicated in the Moshe narrative.

Aside from this inconsistency, several of the other thirteen commonalities between the Moshe episode and its apparent ancient predecessors do not hold up to scrutiny. Moshe does indeed marry a daughter of his host Yitro – but this only features in two of the five ancient stories on which the Torah is allegedly based.

When Greenstein is unable to match up claimed common features between the narratives, he instead wrongly represents the evidence. Regarding the claimed commonality of the fugitive hero being protected by females he writes:

“When Moses reaches Midian, to the east, he is brought home by the daughters of the local priest, and probably the chieftain, Reuel/Jethro (Exod 2:18-20).”

This in stark contrast to the Torah’s actual narrative which describes Moshe rescuing Yitro’s daughters who then leave him to return home – it is only their father who subsequently insists on offering Moshe protection.

Several of the other elements of claimed similarity between the Torah’s account and the other stories from the ancient world demonstrate that Greenstein possesses a creative imagination. While the fugitive heroes fight off attacks from rival armies, Moshe is the subject of a mysterious divine visitation. And when Moshe, the proposed fugitive-hero, specifically fails to loot and enrich himself, his identity is conveniently melded with that of the Jewish people who claim their promised riches on their way out of Egypt.

Greenstein himself seems to sense the lack of a smoking gun – a remarkable or unexpected common feature or clear indication that the Torah’s narrative drew upon these other tales. He attempts to fill this void when describing Moshe’s meeting with Aharon prior to his return to Egypt (albeit at a different point to such meetings in other ancient tales).

“There is little if any real purpose to this encounter, prior to Moses’ arrival in Egypt, but it follows the elements of the fugitive hero pattern.”

The implication is that the inclusion of this meeting in the Torah’s account can only be explained in view of the fact that it is drawing on the ancient motif of fugitive hero stories. What this claim fails to recognise, however, is that Aharon’s joyous greeting of Moshe was earlier presented by God as a sign to Moshe – seemingly to reassure him that Aharon does not harbour any jealously or resentment over his ascent to leadership (see 4:14 and Rashi there).

Having satisfied ourselves that the comparison between Moshe and the other ancient stories struggles or fails entirely in several of the claimed fourteen features, and contains no remarkable unexpected commonalities, we now turn to a broader historical question. Taking a look at the political realities which prevailed throughout the ancient world (and indeed the Middle Ages), what options were available to a member of the royal or political elite who feared imminent death or imprisonment? Would he or she not be likely to seek refuge from nearby rival nations? Such nations might be happy to oblige because, if their investment paid off, they would have a powerful ally ruling a neighbouring nation.

Such patterns are evident later in the book of Kings I (chap. 11), with King Haddad of Edom fleeing his country, taking refuge with the King of Egypt and marrying the princess before returning with an army to reclaim his country. There is no suggestion there that the Edomite monarch is being depicted as a biblical returning hero.

But even looking at the history of the British monarchy in recent centuries, this motif can be seen to have occurred repeatedly. Princess Mary (born 1662) was exiled to Holland where she married her fellow Protestant cousin, William. She later returned together with William and an invading army to depose the Catholic King James in what has become known as the “Glorious Revolution” in which the Bill of Rights set the stage for the first constitutional monarchy in Europe. Two centuries earlier, Henry VII spent most of his life in exile in France before returning to England at the head of an invading army and securing a military victory which is generally regarded as heralding the beginning of the modern era.

Most of Greenstein’s fourteen features are contained within these British royal stories too. Could this, by any chance be coincidental? An expected feature of palace intrigue and the political machinations of bygone eras?

Original article can be read here.

First posted on Facebook 23 December 2021, here.