Some thoughts on Part II of Rabbi Dr Joshua Berman's Ani Maamin

I posted a few months ago in great anticipation of Joshua Berman’s new work on biblical criticism, historical truth and the Thirteen Principles of Faith. The book has certainly not disappointed: the first half is a comprehensive and highly accessible summary of much of Berman’s earlier work on biblical criticism, while the second investigates the content and application of Rambam’s Thirteen Principles. Many of the ideas contained within the first half – such as the need to view the Torah through the ancient Near-Eastern eyes of its first recipients – feature prominently in Judaism Reclaimed, where I integrate a number of Berman’s ideas into my chapters which address some of the challenges to the Torah from the halls of academia. This post will therefore focus on some of the engrossing material contained within the second half of Ani Maamin.

Orthodox Judaism’s embrace of Rambam’s Thirteen Principles and the implications for those who fall foul of them have been a popular subject in recent years, particularly in light of Prof. Marc Shapiro’s provocative Limits of Orthodox Theology fifteen years ago. That work sought to demonstrate the extent of Rabbinic dispute over core elements of Rambam’s principles. Berman’s analysis builds impressively on much of this material, presenting some thought-provoking original suggestions.

Studies of fundamental Jewish beliefs will often highlight the fact that the Torah itself contains no such catechism, the implication being that these required beliefs are therefore a later innovation. Continuing the theme from the first section of his book however, Berman provides his own unique and illuminating perspective on the subject: while all of the cultures of the ancient Near East were deeply religious and held numerous beliefs, none of the mass of religious texts unearthed by archaeologists have ever produced a basic list of beliefs (or even a term which could convey such beliefs). Berman draws upon the analogy of a marriage to argue that the thought systems of such societies were an integral part of their daily life, nurtured and clarified not through abstract articulation but through lived experience. The introduction of catechism to Jewish literature, he continues, was largely a medieval response to the aggressive Christian and Muslim societies in which Jews resided. Berman uses the example of belief in Torah from Heaven to demonstrate how the various pressures brought to bear by these societies led to the Principles being framed with different emphases.

“Beliefs matter and they matter halakhically”. Berman stresses the importance underlying determination of heretical beliefs in that they can invalidate shechitah (among other things) performed by one who holds such a view. This is an important rejection of the suggestion that Rambam would have considered that debates concerning correct belief are not subject to psak(halachic resolution) since they are not of a practical halachic nature. Much of the rest of the book explores how various Rabbinic authorities have approached the task of determining the boundary between acceptable and heretical beliefs. This is no simple task since, as Berman demonstrates, Rambam’s own presentation of the Thirteen Principles (part of his Commentary on the Mishnah) is far more detailed and restrictive than their presentation in his later and more authoritative Mishneh Torah. The gulf between Rambam’s presentation of required beliefs in the Thirteen Principles and Mishneh Torah is shown to be most pronounced with regard to the eighth principle, belief in Torah from Heaven. While the Thirteen Principles state unequivocally that every word of the Torah was dictated by God to Moshe, Hilchot Teshuvah contains the looser formulation that “one who says Torah, even one verse or one word, is not from God” is a heretic.

In addressing this difficulty, Berman introduces a distinction which is central to Rambam’s understanding of the nature and transmission of the halachic system. As I develop in Judaism Reclaimedin the context of Rabbinic dispute over principles of faith, Rambam makes a key delineation between ikkarim mekubalim (core tenets of mitzvot) which, he believes, were transmitted faithfully and without dispute from Sinai, and peratim (finer details) which were left to the Rabbis of each generation to determine. Accordingly, Berman argues, the Thirteen Principles in his Commentary to the Mishna are a reflection of Rambam’s own determination from Talmudic sources that each word of the Torah was indeed dictated to Moshe. In his more abstract legal work, however, Rambam was not prepared to establish as a required belief a matter which Jewish tradition records as a disputed non-ikkar. This is because of a Tannaic opinion that the final verses of the Torah were transcribed by Yehoshuah. The existence of this opinion means that the belief in Mosaic authorship of every word in the Torah could not belong to the body of core undisputed ikkarim which were transmitted from Sinai.

While I particularly enjoyed this suggested solution for resolving the inconsistency between the Thirteen Principles and Mishneh Torah, my only slight disappointment is that the book does not develop this suggestion further. Certainly, in my reading of the subsequent chapters, this idea kept popping back into my mind. To what extent could it be used to explain the way in which later authorities – comprehensively recorded by Berman – presented their own variations of Rambam’s Principles while remaining broadly loyal to the original underlying theme? Is there perhaps a broader principle at play in which Rambam’s Commentary to the Mishnah represents more his personal interpretations while the Mishneh Torah reflects his understanding of the correct halachic determination?

This delineation between core ikkarim and peratimdetails could perhaps even illuminate Berman’s provocative closing chapter. There he convincingly argues that a key function of later fluctuating formulations of Rambam’s Principles was sociological: to serve as an effective boundary marker between loyal members and those who were straying too far from the religious community. Could it be suggested on this basis that the principles of faith consist of two interwoven categories? A combination of core ‘basic truths’, denial of which would be seen by Rambam as automatically severing one’s connection with God, and the finer rabbinically-determined details which could fulfil functions such as boundary-markers (notably, Rambam also condemns those who “separate from the ways of the community” as losing their share in the World to Come).

To conclude, Ani Maamin is a book which challenges its readers and opens up new channels of thought and exploration rather than demanding adherence to fixed conclusions. In that way it can be said to mirror its own author’s depiction of the role of Rambam’s Thirteen Principles within Jewish theology.

First posted on Facebook 25 April 2020, here.

Circumcision: divine duties and human morality

The command of circumcision, which features in this week’s Torah portion, has become an important battleground in recent years for those seeking to challenge religious practices on apparent humanitarian grounds.

This challenge forms part of a bigger question of the interplay between mitzvot and morality in Judaism. In its chapter on Torah and universal morality, Judaism Reclaimed approaches first from the point of view of Rambam, maintaining that the Maimonidean perspective rejects the very notion of God being subject to or working within human conceptions of morality (although there is far more to discuss on this, see my post here).

Others however follow a more Hirschian approach which seeks to explain the Torah’s teachings as representing the pinnacle of morality. Mitzvot which may initially appear to present a moral challenge are accounted for by pointing to our lack of divine knowledge, wisdom and perspective. Circumcision itself is understood by R’ Hirsch to contain a rich array of profound symbolic moral teachings (a sample of which are well presented in this podcast by Simi Rivka Lerner here).

In this post I would like to focus on a fascinating essay on the subject by Rabbi Nathan Cardozo in his recent book on Bereishit (my review of his book is here). Rather than trade in apologetics and attempted moral justifications, Cardozo goes on the attack, arguing that

[T]he whole premise on which these objections are based is the result of a profound misunderstanding of what human beings are all about, what moves them, and what make their lives meaningful. To be truly alive is only possible when one lives for some supreme goal. There are values in life that surpass our concern for the mundane, and many of us are prepared to make highly uncomfortable – even painful – sacrifices in order to live by those values.

Instead of focusing on the right of parents to wound their newborn son, Cardozo turns the tables asking

What right do we have to bring children into the world without giving them a higher mission? While Socrates teaches that the unexamined life is not worth living, Judaism teaches us that a life without commitment is a life not lived. To deny our children this is to withhold from them true joy, and the capability to withstand major challenges, as well as the chance to experience the highest, truest value of living in this world.

Cardozo the proceeds to evaluate a more fundamental question of parental rights

But shouldn‎’t we also ask ourselves honestly whether we have the right to bring a child into this world at all? Is that not a much greater injustice than circumcision? After all, even with today’s medical knowledge, many children are tragically born with all sorts of deformities or illnesses, often crippled and handicapped for life. Others may suffer at some later stage in life, contracting diseases, experiencing violence, and even becoming victims of war and other atrocities…Subconsciously, we all know that we have the right to bring a child into the world because there is something about life that overrules all objections against it. If we did not believe this, it would be completely prohibited to risk bringing children into the world, knowing full well how much harm and pain they will probably encounter. Only if we understand that life is of invaluable importance – and not merely a matter of physical survival – can we live a life of grand spiritual import.

The discussion then proceeds to investigate the underlying difference in priority and perspective between Judaism and the contemporary Western society

Western society is rights-orientated, and secular ethics is deeply rooted in this distinction. One of the great contributions that Judaism…has made to this world is the concept of duty. Judaism does not believe that people own their bodies, and are therefore free to do with them whatever they please. Judaism, and most monotheistic religions, believe that the human body is a loan granted by God, Who is the ultimate Owner…

The rite of circumcision is the Jews’ way of passing on life’s meaning to their children, by obligating them to fulfil the Jewish people’s covenant with God, sealed thousands of years ago. It is duty we talk about, and there is no growth except in the fulfilment of one’s duties. For Jews, circumcision – the promise to live life with a great mission as its guide – is God’s seal imprinted on human flesh. And it is only proper that this sign of allegiance be imposed upon the body, for after all, it is not the soul that needs to make the commitment. The soul is already committed to its mission.

Cardozo concludes powerfully that

The claim that it may hurt for a moment, and that it interferes with a child’s self-determination, is totally disproportionate to its infinite spiritual value. The child, from the very beginning of his life, is physically and symbolically reminded that living a life of higher meaning requires sacrifice, but is also the source of both ultimate happiness and the notion of mission.

One final point, many readers may be questioning at this point why the divine seal of meaning appears to be an exclusively male notion: do women not also require or deserve such an imprint of Judaism's divine mission?

Rabbi S. R. Hirsch addresses this question in a passage we expand upon in Judaism Reclaimed's chapter on the Jewish view of gender. R' Hirsch highlights the unexpected placement, in parashat Tazria, of the commandment of circumcision amidst the laws relating to ritual purity of a new mother and Niddah. Among other things, R' Hirsch understands the Torah to be drawing a parallel between the dedication to divine mission that circumcision symbolises for the male and the symbolic moral significance offered for women by the laws governing the Niddah cycle.

First posted on Facebook 29 October 2020, here.

A tale of two tales

By Shmuli Phillips and Daniel Abraham

Parashat Noach lies at the heart of the battle between traditionalists and bible critics over the structure, origin and authorship of the Torah. While it has always been a core tenet of traditional Judaism is that the Torah as a whole was revealed to Moshe, source criticism in recent centuries has developed a methodology through which, its adherents believe, they can identify a multiplicity of original sources from which the fabric of the received text of the Torah was subsequently woven. Scholars have considered that the application of this methodology to the narrative of Noach and the Flood is “foundational” to source criticism; they count it as being amongst this methodology’s most “brilliant achievements”.

In his recent works (Inconsistency in the Torah, Ani Maamin) Rabbi Dr. Joshua Berman has challenged some of source criticism’s fundamental assumptions. In doing so he has identified what he claims to be serious methodological flaws in the critics’ interpretations of the Flood narrative. Motivated by what they understand to be widespread instances of contradiction and repetition, critics divide the narrative into 27 snippets of varying sizes. 14 of these snippets, they claim, originate with one source, while the other 13 emanate from the other. Yet, as Berman notes, the “unravelling” of the text into two sources “clearly does not provide us with two accounts, each free of contradictions and incongruities…”. He observes that, “…rather than walking back from the hypothesis, source critics have sought to buttress it by resort to a series of redactors, who are the agents responsible for the disruptive passages”. Citing other scholarly studies, however, Berman notes that the sort of redactive interference that critics propose in the Flood narrative is absent from other compositions which have reached us from the Ancient Near East.

It is on the subject of other ancient texts that Berman launches his most serious challenge to the claims of source criticism regarding the Flood narrative. Scholars have long noted strong thematic and structural parallels between the Torah’s account of the Flood and the Gilgamesh Epic, which originated in ancient Mesopotamia. Whether we assume that the Epic and the Torah are both independently reporting the same event, or whether the Torah is reworking a prior prototype from a monotheistic perspective, what stands out is that the discovered tablets similarly combine content which, the Torah’s source critics contend, originated from two distinct sources. As biblical scholar Gary A. Rendsburg put it:

We are supposed to believe that two separate authors wrote two separate accounts of Noah and the flood, and that neither of them included all the elements found in the Gilgamesh epic, but when the two were interwoven by the redactor, voila, the story paralleled the Gilgamesh flood story point by point. [The Biblical Flood Story p116]

While Berman’s rejection of source criticism’s attempt to have disassembled the Flood narrative may be persuasive, it nevertheless leaves us to address a further question. Why would the Torah – as a single source – present the episode in such an inconsistent and repetitious manner?

Judaism Reclaimed presents a fascinating explanation of this passage by Malbim which explains why the Torah might have adopted this style. The basis for Malbim’s approach is an ancient midrashic teaching that the divine names, YHVH and Elokim, represent different dimensions of the complex and multi-faceted relationship between God and humanity. The name Elokim is used when the Torah is describing God as a distant “First Cause”, relating to the world through the perpetual forces of nature. YHVH, by contrast, is employed by the Torah when it depicts God as a concerned providential deity, managing the lives of people in accordance with principles of reward and punishment. The Malbim utilises this distinction in order to contrast the first chapter of the Torah, which employs the divine name Elokim as part of its cold, factual account of Creation, with the use of YHVH in the subsequent chapter which examines creation specifically through God’s providential relationship with humanity (this theme is developed extensively by Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik in Lonely Man of Faith).

Malbim uses the same technique to analyse the repetitious and contradictory phenomena which critics highlight throughout the story of Noach. In the passage that opens the parashah, God (as Elokim) relates to Noach as the “distant first cause” – concerned only with ensuring that the natural world continues:

Noach was a righteous man, perfect in his generations; Noach walked with Elokim … The Earth had become corrupt before Elokim … And Elokim saw the earth … All flesh had corrupted its way upon the earth … Elokim said to Noach “The end of all flesh has come before Me ...”. From all that lives, of all flesh, two of each shall you bring to the ark … [Bereishit 6:9-19, selected text]

In the next chapter, the Torah again records that God instructs Noach to build an ark, but this time the deity carries the personal providential name of YHVH:

And YHVH said to Noach, come you and your household to the ark, for it is you that I have seen to be righteous before Me in this generation. Of every clean animal take with you seven pairs … [Bereishit 7:1-2]

Commenting on these parallel accounts of the world’s corruption and God’s instruction to Noach to prepare and enter the ark, Malbim appears to be following the approach of source critics in so far he separates them into two distinct passages. Each of these passages, however, plays an integral role in communicating the Torah’s core message: the multi-layered interaction and dynamic of the relationship between God and humanity.

While the Elokim passage, therefore, records Noach’s merit in cold, objective terms (“righteous in his generations”), the second passage describes it in terms of a personal providential relationship with God “I have seen that you are righteous before Me”.

In keeping with this approach, Noach is instructed by God in the Elokim passage to take two animals of each species. Malbim explains that this is because the perspective of the Elokim dimension of the God’s interactions with the world simply seeks to preserve and maintain the natural world. For this, a male and female of each species suffices. The YHVH passage, however, additionally commands Noach to take “seven pairs of pure animals”. This further requirement relates solely to the personal providential dimension of Noach’s relationship with God. As Malbim explains: Noach understood that “God had commanded me regarding more pure than impure animals so that I can offer them as sacrifices”.

This dichotomy continues through to the covenant(s) between God and humanity at the end of the Flood narrative. The Elokim description of the covenant (9:1-17) is essentially a detached divine commitment not to destroy the world’s natural order – animals and humans alike. This is in contrast to the second account of the covenant (8:20-22) which utilises the personal, providential YHVH name of God in order to relate God’s commitment specifically to humanity’s frailties. It is also significant that God’s commitment appears to be prompted by Noach’s sacrifices and by the providential dynamics that had been created by humanity’s good deeds.

Malbim’s approach offers a framework through which one can accept – and perhaps even expect – a degree of duality within a Torah narrative. Thus, where the Torah wishes to convey aspects of the Flood through different providential dynamics, it can do so within the flow of a single textual narrative. Adopting this approach also means that Malbim need not be troubled – as source critics are – by the presence of two apparently incompatible sets of storylines which cannot each tell a distinct and, free-standing version of the Flood episode.

First posted to Facebook 3 October 2021, here.

Bereishit: the Book of Science and Technology

By מרדכי איש ימיני and Shmuli Phillips

The notion that humans are created Betzelem Elokim – in God’s image – is a central feature of the Creation passage, and often viewed as a fundamental teaching of the Torah. As Judaism Reclaimed notes, the concept of all people bearing God’s image is used to emphasise the inherent value of all human life. Various commentaries also seek to identify the Divine image with particularly important features that humans share with God, such as the rational intellect (Rambam) or free will (Meshech Chochma).

There is an additional dimension to “the image of God”, however, the dynamics of which play themselves out across the primary narratives of the book of Bereishit. The verses state:

“And God created man in His image…and God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and rule over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the sky and over all the beasts that tread upon the earth." [1:27-28]

As Rabbi J. B. Soloveitchik points out in The Lonely Man of Faith, the command to “subdue” the natural world indicates that it is God’s will for mankind to employ its creative faculties in order to master its environment. Read in context of the previous verse, this implies that the ability that humanity has been granted to conquer and master the world through advancement in science and technology is an aspect of its being created in God’s image. To partner God in ruling the world, and governing it in accordance with His Will. According to this understanding, it is not simply reflecting upon the wonders and wisdom of the natural world that leads us to love of God – as Rambam writes (Hil. Yesodei HaTorah 2:2). But this must be taken further, fulfilling the Divine mandate to utilise our God-given intellect and skills to develop and sophisticate human existence. Through this process, humanity can improve its standard of living and, with it, its ability to focus on more elevated goals.

The religious importance of advancing human civilisation is a theme which appears to be emphasised through the book of Bereishit. Bereishit’s early heroes – the forefathers – are all shepherds, while its villains – such as Nimrod, Eisav and Yishmael – are characterised as wild hunters. With humanity gradually shifting from groups of hunter-gatherers to herders of flock, and eventually other forms of agriculture, the Torah subtly makes its stance on the matter clear.

Parashat Lech Lecha identifies Yishmael as a “wild-ass of a man”. The story continues in the following parasha to see him as a desert archer who is considered unqualified to be part of the foundations of the Chosen People who will bear God’s teachings to the humanity.

The message is presented in a particularly stark manner when the hunter, Eisav, returns exhausted from the field demanding to be fed. Ya’akov, by contrast, is patiently cooking lentil soup. The contrast between the wild, impatient Eisav and the calm “tent dweller” is evident. Hunter-gatherers’ existence is characterised by living for the here and now. Their food lasts for 48 hours before another hunt must be conducted. It is a lifestyle which led people to be impulsive, violent and living for the moment. Certainly “of what value for me is the firstborn?”. The forefathers’ shepherding and lentil-growing marked a level of increased civilisation and sophistication – a shift towards mastery of the world that the Torah strongly approves of.

The episode of Yosef and his brothers represents a further stage of progress, demonstrating that the Torah does not place inherent value on the occupation of shepherding. Instead Yosef dreams of wheat – a more sophisticated agricultural process which facilitates more stable cities and civilisations. As Viceroy in Egypt he takes this yet further, devising schemes for effective of storage of crops and thus teaching his subjects how to stave of famine.

Previous posts have described the profound meaning of Ya’akov’s dream – the angels going up and then down the ladder signify that they must, having perfected themselves, descend back down the ladder to bring the benefits of their knowledge to improve the societies around them. While this certainly includes religious and moral teachings, a Gemara (Shabbat 33b-34a) teaches that this also refers to human and technological advancement. It describes how Ya’akov, fresh from overcoming the angel of Eisav and reconciling with his brother, sought to enhance the living standard of the nearest civilisation. Different opinions suggest that he established a monetary system for them, a market system or public baths and hygiene. The common denominator being that the role of the prophet – and the role of religion – is to advance and develop the living standard of its society helping them to realise more fully the image of God with which they were created.

In today’s context this dimension of the image of God may lend particular importance to those who work, for example, in improving humanity’s lot by exploring genes and atoms. It is important for we who live in the modern era to remember that scientific and technological advancement can and must be viewed through the Torah’s lens of being partners in God’s Creation and further perceiving His wisdom and wonders. This can also prevent us from falling into the trap of those who built the Tower of Babel, whose technological advancements led to arrogance and a perception that they could transcend and overcome God and the mission which he entrusted to humanity.

For more on the Tower of Babel as a technological advancement see this superb analysis from R Alex Israel.

For more on the ladder in Ya’akov’s dream and its implication for prophets and Jewish leaders click here.

First posted on Facebook 14 October 2021, here.

The message of Noach: tyranny, culture and religion

The parashah of Noach raises more than its fair share of controversies and discussion points. In its chapters which arise from this parashah, Judaism Reclaimed focuses on the theme of the Torah’s universalist message being borne by a small Chosen Nation.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, whose universalist understanding of the Torah features heavily in our analysis of this parashah, builds upon the ideas of earlier commentators such as Rabbi Yehudah Halevi and Rabbi Ovadyah Seforno. These earlier commentators indicate that God’s primary plan for the world was for the entire human race to strive together for spiritual and moral perfection. Parashat Noach, following R’ Hirsch’s approach, is a demonstration of how a manifestly unified society repeatedly squandered this opportunity, leading to the fracturing of mankind into distinct rival groups from which only one would emerge as being suitably quipped to bear the responsibility and privilege of carrying God’s message to the world.

It is in this context that R’ Hirsch presents an original and illuminating interpretation of Noach’s prophetic utterances concerning his three sons, and of the interrelationship of the nations which would become associated with them. Crucially, R’ Hirsch distances himself from the notion that Cham’s descendants were terminally cursed with being enslaved to his brothers -- a reading which has prompted some to justify African slavery and which is mocked by Ibn Ezra (“Some say that Kushites are slaves because Noach cursed Cham. But they have forgotten that the first king who reigned after the Flood was from Kush”).

How then does R’ Hirsch explain Noach’s words? He proposes that Shem, Cham and Yafet represent three distinct traits (and even ideologies) to which their names allude. Shem (literally “Name”) indicates great intellectual and spiritual insight to perceive the essence of matters. Cham (“Hot”) embodies a surrender to unrestrained “burning” physical sensuality while Yafet (“Open”) represents the openness and sensitivity of people’s hearts to beauty and aesthetics.

Identifying these core traits and ideologies as national aspirations rather than as characteristics determined by strict biological descent, R’ Hirsch interprets Noach’s vision as a prayer and as guidance for the direction and religious perfection of mankind. In brief: many nations have risen and fallen throughout human history, their only essence and aspiration being exploitation and domination over others. Such nations of ‘Cham’ are thus identified with tyranny, brute force and craven submission to humanity’s primal urges (phenomena which are reflected in their religions and gods of war). For such cultures to develop a more sophisticated moral and spiritual dimension, R’ Hirsch writes, they must first come under the refining influence of Yafet’s thought and culture. This bears the potential to stimulate the mind and soul to develop an awareness and consciousness which transcends humanity’s most animalistic elements.

Elevated by of the principle of “Yaft Elokim leYefet”, the next step is for Cham to be “yishkon be’ohalei Shem” – to dwell in the tents of Shem where Cham can absorb the ultimate moral, spiritual and religious truths which lie beyond aesthetic satisfaction. R’ Hirsch traces the various influences of the Greeks and Jews (primary exemplars of Yafet and Shem) throughout history, demonstrating how Noach’s prophecy has elevated humanity.

Judaism Reclaimed continues this discussion with an assessment of how R’ Hirsch’s interpretation might have viewed the violent combinations of (i) Cham and Yafet in Nazi Germany, as well as (ii) Cham and Shem in the barbaric theocracy of the Islamic State. We conclude by demonstrating that Noach’s prophecy and teaching remains both relevant and critical in the 21st

century.

[Other controversial discussions arising from parashat Noach such as the parallel Noach narratives, Gilgamesh Epic and how to approach apparent conflicts between the Torah’s text and science, feature heavily in later chapters.]

First posted to Facebook 29 October 2019, here.

Matchmaking, divination and Heavenly signs

Over the years I have received numerous phone calls and emails from people asking me to assist a friend or family member in their search for a suitable marriage partner. The Torah reading yesterday got me wondering if, in light of my persistent failure as a matchmaker, I should perhaps adopt a more creative approach.

Having been dispatched by Avraham to identify a suitable wife for Yitzchak, Eliezer looks for a sign in order to fulfil his mission:

And it will be, [that] the maiden to whom I will say, 'Lower your pitcher and I will drink,' and she will say, 'Drink, and I will also water your camels,' her have You designated for Your servant, for Isaac, and through her may I know that You have performed loving kindness with my master. (24:14)

The rest, as they say, is history. Eliezer’s proposed sign immediately bears fruit, Rivka offers to water his camels and by the end of the chapter is married to Yitzchak. But setting aside the practicalities of following Eliezer’s example, how halachically advisable would it be for me to seek and interpret heavenly signs in order to cure my matchmaking shortcomings?

In its discussion of the biblical prohibition against “divining” – the attribution of superstitious significance to worldly events – the Gemara considers that Eliezer’s actions constituted a prime example of divination. Yet the Talmudic commentary of Rabbeinu Nissim of Girona argues that this was not a prohibited form of divination:

The divination prohibited by the Torah is that of a person who relies on a sign for which there is no logical basis that it should be beneficial or detrimental, such as bread falling from his hand or a deer crossing his path…these and their like are considered ‘darkei Emori’. But one who follows signs which have logical basis for providing benefit or detriment this is not divination, for all matters of the world are such … [Commentary to Chullin 95b]

As Judaism Reclaimed explores, this explanation parallels the approach of Rambam in Moreh Nevuchim, who understands that practices are only prohibited as superstitious if they i) have no logical basis and ii) cannot be demonstrably proven to have worked.

Rambam views the laws of the natural world as a product of divine wisdom. They represent an important means for acquiring awe, love and knowledge of God. Any practice which can be demonstrated to be effective is therefore a reflection of God's wisdom in creating the world. If magical rites and superstitious signs were actually effective, the Torah would have had no cause to prohibit them. The problem with these imagined products of trickery lies primarily in the claim that they involve the use of powers which lie above God's natural laws, therefore wielding the ability to control and manipulate them. This creates an impression of the existence of additional and distinct supernatural powers — a dark side to be served and appeased — which makes sorcery and necromancy natural bedfellows of idolatry.

On this basis we can vindicate Eliezer’s sign-seeking on two accounts. First of all, the sign that he proposed was an entirely logical test of character to identify the Matriarch-in-waiting. Secondly, he specifically includes God in the process – asking Him to ensure the success of his design. While the legitimacy of “testing God” in this manner leads to further complications under “Do not test God…” )Devarim 6:16, see Ramban’s commentary there).

In summary, while there therefore appear to be halachically acceptable ways through which to tap into heavenly signs, my match-making career cannot rely on the existence of any magical or fool-proof formula. Matches may indeed be made in Heaven. The ability to spot them, however, would seem to require a more Earthly enterprise!

First posted on Facebook 31 October 2021, here.