Moshe: unwilling interlocutor to fearless superhero

The transition which Moshe undergoes at the start of yesterday’s Torah reading is sudden and difficult to understand. From the first time God appears to him, asking Moshe to take up the role of leader and redeemer of the Jewish people, he seems unwilling and unconvinced. “The people will not listen to me”. “Pharaoh will not listen to me”. “I am not a man of words”.

Even once Moshe reluctantly embarks upon his mission, his misgivings resurface at the initial setback: “Why have You harmed this people? Why have You sent me?”. Even after God’s subsequent rebuke, Moshe twice more questions whether the people and Pharaoh will listen to his aral sefatayim (closed lips).

Yet just a few verses later we see a remarkable transition. God once again commands Moshe to confront Pharaoh, and this time Moshe does not object. From this point onwards, Moshe steps fearlessly into his destiny as Exodus superhero, marching into Pharaoh’s Court, confronting him at the river and issuing a series of bold warnings and threats.

How are we to understand this stunning change of character and behaviour?

Judaism Reclaimed develops a fundamental principle taught by the Maharal according to which biblical prophecies are divided into two categories. Promises (“havtachot”), on the one hand, in which the prophet relays what will transpire should the recipients be found deserving of such a fate, and definitive statements of pre-ordained reality on the other in which the prophet tells of an irrevocable divine decision. Detecting which mode of prophecy is being transmitted requires a close reading of the biblical text. When the prophecy is presented in the future tense, this signifies that the predicted event is contingent on the worthiness of those involved. Other prophecies, by contrast, make use of the “prophetic past tense”, to indicate that the prophet is foretelling an unalterable and sealed divine decision.

The Maharal detects his principle in the commentary of Rashi to the Brit Bein HaBetarim. When Avraham is initially informed that his descendants will inherit the Land, he seeks reassurance “How will I know that I will inherit it?”. However, once God has stated (past tense) that “to your descendants I have given this land”, Avraham’s doubt dissipates. Rashi comments on this past-tense statement: “the word of God is as if it has been performed”

It is this key that Judaism Reclaimed utilises in order to unlock the perplexing dynamics between God and Moshe at the start of the book of Shemot. After being approached at the Burning Bush with the instruction to relay God’s word to Pharaoh and the Jewish people, Moshe is extremely reluctant and appears to lack confidence in the success of the mission. This reluctance can be explained on account of the future-tense “havtacha” indicated by God telling him “I will be with you”. Moshe’s reticence is because, in his humility, he lacks confidence in his own merit and is therefore not convinced that the mission will be successful.

This lack of confidence continues into parashat Va’eira until God discloses using the past-tense: “I have placed you as a Master over Pharaoh” [netaticha]. With this prophetic statement of pre-ordained fact, Moshe’s worries evaporate since the success of the mission is no longer contingent upon his own personal merit, and he henceforth fearlessly confronts Pharaoh and his courtiers without a hint of concern or protest.

First posted on Facebook 14 January 2024, here. 

Rambam, Kabbalah, and futile attempts to define God

Not long ago I was accosted by an enthusiastic panentheist, who accused me of seeking to minimise and limit God. Surely, he argued, any supposition that the physical world exists independently of God, inescapably diminishes God’s existence by imagining an area and dimension from which God is absent.

One chapter of Judaism Reclaimed, which relates to parashat Vayishlach, explores the contrasting ways in which Rambam and Kabbalah seek to relate to God. The most fundamental principle, from Rambam’s perspective, is to recognise and internalise the fact that God’s existence must not be related in any way to what we as humans consider to be existence – within fixed dimensions and frameworks of space, time and physicality:

“God is not a body, and that there is absolutely no comparison between Him and any of His creations in any way; that His existence, life and wisdom is of a different form to theirs – and that the difference between Him and them is not just a matter of more and less, but rather one of species of existence… so that no term can be used to describe them both.” [Moreh 1:35]

This latter point concerning terminology is crucial to Rambam. We can only meaningfully apply descriptions and definitions to concepts that our minds are capable of grasping, using descriptive words as way of integrating a new item, idea or concept within the framework of our previous knowledge and experience. Any term that we draw upon in an attempt to portray God is automatically limited by the restrictions of our vocabulary, which in turn is limited by the scope of our knowledge and imagination. The result of this is that any word that we use to describe God inescapably involves us drawing a parallel between God and the physical realm. Yeshayahu Leibowitz makes this point forcefully:

"This is the belief of God qua God, which cannot be conceived in the categories of human thought, as against the belief in God in terms of qualities and functions ascribed to Him, which are of necessity - a necessity following from the limitations of the human mind - corporeal. In our world of human consciousness, there are no qualities or functions which are not derived from the reality known to man. Thus, anyone who ascribes any such qualities to God sinks to the level of idolatry: he worships God in the image of man." [Faith of Maimonides p95

According to this approach, the panentheist’s error lay in his equating God’s mode of existence with that of humans. A human body cannot co-exist in a certain space with other physical matter. This person therefore presumed that the same must be true of God: either God must be present within the physical domain or His existence is necessarily diminished by the existence of a physical world.

Following Rambam’s path, there is a perpetual paradox. On the one hand our religious inclinations push us to want to relate to God – a project which is extremely difficult if we cannot first “make Him real” in our lives. On the other hand there must be a constant awareness that God’s essence is something which we can never, in truth, relate to by drawing on human imagination and experience. It belongs to a sacred higher realm.

This limitation in our ability to truly conceive of God remains the case regardless of whether one is dealing with biblical verses which describe God in physical terms (a subject which dominates the opening section of Moreh Nevuchim) or mystical systems of thought which seek to depict God’s interactions with the physical world. On the subject of the latter, Yeshayahu Leibovitz reports on a fascinating conversation he once had with Rav Kook:

“Rav Kook recognised that the veil separating Kabbalah from idolatry could collapse at any moment … he therefore regarded it as an act of grace on the part of God towards Israel that He gave us Maimonides, who could not be ignored by all these generations during which the Kabbalah spread among the Jews. During this period, Maimonides’ doctrine of the unity of God served as a brake against the deterioration of Kabbalah into idolatry.” [Faith of Maimonides p35]

First posted to Facebook 21 November 2021, here.

Blood on the doorpost: Exodus 12 and October 7

“He will see the blood on the lintel and on the two doorposts, and God will pass over the entrance, and He will not permit the destroyer to enter your houses to smite [you].” [Shemot 12:13]

Like so much else I read and hear these days, this verse from yesterday’s Torah reading instantly caused my mind to cross-reference to one of the countless survivor testimonies from the October 7 massacre. The account in question involved several residents of a Kibbutz, who had managed to fight off invading terrorists, fleeing to hide in a damaged building where they smeared ketchup around the door and frame. This, they hoped, would convince the “destroyers” that the building had already been attacked and thereby prevent them from entering.

The symbolism and imagery of blood is striking in the Exodus commemoration. From powerfully quoting Yeshaya’s statement that: “I passed by you and saw you downtrodden with your blood, and I said to you, 'With your blood, live,' and I said to you, 'With your blood, live.'” to the recognition that the very name Pesach is drawn from God’s “skipping over” houses that had been marked out with blood. This act of faith of defying Egyptian terror by marking out our houses with blood plays a central role in the birth of our nation, and is preserved to this day through the command of placing a mezuzah on our doorpost. This too has become particularly poignant at this time, with Jews in parts of the Diaspora debating whether such an outward expression of their Judaism remains safe.

Even after the Exodus, the presence and symbolism of blood in commemorating our emergence as a nation has brought immeasurable pain, with our communities suffering centuries of blood libels and Easter massacres. One visitor to our Seder, whose family originated from Bulgaria told us that his community had stopped the practice of drawing ten drops of red wine to correspond to the ten plagues after an “unfortunate incident” with their non-Jewish neighbours.

Yet the message of the blood and the mezuza also signifies what Judaism has always deemed to be the most proper response to such forms of persecution. Focusing internally and taking pride in our identity and the uniqueness of our nation. In our moral strength and commitment – upon leaving Egypt – to being the island of ethical monotheism among the raging seas of pagan immorality. In our covenant with God which has seen us bear His word to the world and, despite being hated and persecuted for it, outlive both physically and spiritually all of the empires which sought to eradicate us.

Rabbi S. R. Hirsch teaches that this ideological reinforcement lies at the very heart of observance of the commandment of mezuza. Each time we leave our house to engage with the outside world, we pass the mezuza and remind ourselves of the moral and spiritual values which must accompany us and form the basis for all of our interactions. Even more importantly, when re-entering our domestic fortress from the outside world, we must notice the mezuza and once again clarify and strengthen the values through which we want our family life to be built. It is this ideological reinforcement, teaches the Rambam, which explains the protective qualities which our tradition attaches to this commandment.

These symbols have, for me at least, taken on heightened significance in recent days, as they prompt us to remember our national values and to take pride in our national legacy and destiny. While other countries may for now choose to hate and misunderstand us, be jealous and suspicious of us, our prophets have promised that the day will come when they will appreciate and seek to learn from us. Ultimately, our covenant with God means that we and the light that we bring to all nations will ultimately always survive and prevail and spread to the darkest corners of the world.

First posted on Facebook 21 January 2024, here.

Why does Talmud Bavli enjoy halachic supremacy over Yerushalmi?

The Babylonian Talmud has enthralled and frustrated millions of dedicated students since first being published in 6th century Sura. Its apparently chaotic and challenging accounts of rabbinic debates over Jewish law have long formed the primary resource for subsequent scholars seeking to determine halachic rules and principles.

Often overlooked, however, is the Bavli’s older sibling compiled over a century earlier in the land of Israel. As Talmud Reclaimed explores, standard halachic tradition has long been based on the principle of the supremacy and binding nature of legal conclusions of the Babylonian Talmud – even if there are significant variations in the methodologies of how such conclusions are to be determined and implemented. While the Yerushalmi has not traditionally been accorded the same binding authority as the Bavli, neither has it been totally ignored and absent from the halachic process – even those who profess loyalty to the Bavli can sometimes be seen to have relied on the Yerushalmi too.

The uncertain status of the Yerushalmi and its mysterious overshadowing by the Bavli can be traced back to its earliest years. While its authorship is widely attributed to the first generation Amora, Rabbi Yochanan, what exactly was its authority? Was it approved by majority or collective of Palestinian scholars? Might it even have been approved by the Sanhedrin which was still sitting, albeit in limited and persecuted form, in the Land of Israel?

What is fascinating to note is that, while the Babylonian Talmud records numerous Palestinian voices and traditions within its pages and accords them great respect – often elevating their interpretations and traditions over those of its own sages – no mention is made at all of the existence of a Talmud from the Land of Israel. Given the great reverence with which the Bavli treats Rabbi Yochanan, the author of the Yerushalmi, why does it omit mention of his magnum opus? It is difficult to imagine that Babylonian rabbis were entirely unaware of this work.

One theory that has occurred to me is that it is actually inaccurate to refer to our Talmud as “Babylonian”. It is not only that Rabbi Yochanan is revered in the Bavli – he is one of its most frequent contributors. Together with Reish Lakish and other Amoraim from the Land of Israel, he ensures that there is a strong Palestinian voice and influence in almost every major discussion within the Bavli.

An important shift took place within the Talmudic world of Bavel during its 3-4th generation, as intense persecution shuttered the academies and courts within the Land of Israel sending its revered rabbis and considerable scholarship into Babylonian exile. This shift meant that fourth generation Babylonian sages, such as Abaye and Rava, now had the benefit of a vast array of traditions and interpretations that had not been available to their predecessors. As a result of this new information, a principle of halacha kebatra’i (law follows the latter authority) was introduced. Also from this generation, the Bavli no longer links rabbinic teachings back to earlier generations of Babylonian scholars as it did previously (e.g. Amar Rav Yehuda amar Rav) – seemingly because the pool of scholarship and traditions now meant that later generations were standing on the shoulders not only of their Babylonian predecessors, but of those of their Palestinian counterparts too.

In short, the later generations of Babylonian Amoraim, from Abaye and Rava through to Ravina and Rav Ashi who compiled the Talmud, represented the fruits of a joint tradition from Bavel and Eretz Yisrael. They sought to weave together and tease out the most authoritative, logical and practical traditions and interpretations and formalise them within the Babylonian Talmud. If this is true, it is not that the Yerushalmi was ignored – anymore than Rav and Shmuel were ignored. But that they were component parts of what was to become an all-encompassing compilation of the Oral Tradition.

Sherirah Gaon accords binding authority to the rulings of the Babylonian Talmud on account of the supremacy of Rav Ashi’s academy having been accepted by all other rival academies, an acceptance which Rav Elchanan Wasserman (among others) understands to have given it a quasi-Sanhedrin status. If we are correct in viewing the Yerushalmi as having been subsumed within Babylonian scholarship then it is far easier to deem Ravina and Rav Ashi’s Court to have represented some kind of National Rabbinic Authority. Independent historical sources from this era are hard to come by (some are analysed in Talmud Reclaimed), but it seems reasonable to suggest that at Rav Ashi’s time there was scant serious scholarship outside of Bavel which could challenge his authority.

By the time we reach the Geonic period we see a resurgence of Jewish communities and scholarship in the Land of Israel, and evidence of strong clashes between them and their Babylonian counterparts. While many of the divergences between Babylonian and Palestinian practice were limited to legitimate differences in minhag (such as prayer liturgy and triennial cycle of Torah reading), we also find disputes over halachic matters such as the observance of second day of Rosh Hashanah. The most high-profile and threatening “rebellion” against Babylonian authority came with an attempt to make significant changes to the Jewish calendar – an attempt which was forcefully defeated by Saadiah Gaon.

Ultimately, even Rambam and Rif, two powerful halachic authorities who prided themselves on their links to Babylonian Geonim, were openly prepared to draw upon Yerushalmi interpretations as long as these were not explicitly contradicted by later rulings of the Bavli. As the Rif stated at the end of his commentary to Eruvin, the reason for this is halacha kebatra’i. As with the teachings of early Babylonian Amoraim, the combined Yerushalmi-Bavli tradition woven together by Abaye and Rava through to Rav Ashi was taken to be superior to each of its individual component parts. A truly national Talmud.

For more information visit www.TalmudReclaimed.com

First posted on Facebook 24 December 2023, here.

Sepharadi and Ashkenazi Talmudic methodologies compared

 Here is a recording of my Shiur last night regarding the contrasting Talmudic and Halachic methodologies of Sepharad (Rambam, Rif and Geonim) on the one hand, and Ashkenaz -- represented by the Baalei Tosafot on the other.

First posted on Facebook 11 January 2024, here.

Sadducees, Sukkot and Simchat Beit HaShoeva

With the conclusion of Yom Kippur, our attention turns immediately to Sukkot. I am honoured to have my essay included in this wonderful book produced by the Habura. In it I survey and analyse the different categories of laws and customs which are observed over the coming weeks.

One of the more mysterious Sukkot ceremonies that I focus on involves the “drawing of water”; the famed “simchat beit hasho’eva” which became a centrepiece of the Sukkot celebration at the Mikdash. Upon closer inspection, this ceremony itself is not a commandment, but rather a preparatory process for the pouring of water on the mizbe’ach each day of Sukkot. Unlike the pouring of the wine, which is explicitly commanded by the Torah, the pouring of the water on Sukkot is listed by the Talmud as a Halachah leMoshe MiSinai, meaning that it is a law with biblical force but devoid of a scriptural source.

During the Maccabean era, the aristocratic and priestly classes became increasingly dominated by Sadducee doctrine, which rejected the notion of a transmitted oral tradition. Laws – and details of laws – which lacked an explicit scriptural source were challenged and disputed. The pouring of water on Sukkot, which was a public act of worship carried out by the kohanim, seems to have been a particularly contentious matter. In one particularly infamous incident near the start of the Maccabee era, the Sadducee High Priest who had been honoured with pouring the water onto the mizbe’ach instead spilled it on his feet to demonstrate his opposition to the practice. The assembled crowd expressed its outrage by pelting him with the etrogim.

Consistent with a pattern that can be found throughout Rabbinic Judaism, the Sanhedrin and leading sages sought to emphasise and celebrate the importance of laws which the Sadducees (and later the Karaites) objected to on account of their rejection of the oral tradition. Thus the transmitted commandment to pour water on the mizbeach during the week of sukkot was transformed into a ceremony of celebration and joy – the simchat beit hasho’evah.

A Mishnah sets out a process for the daily water-drawing ceremony, replete with golden vessels and repeated blasts from the trumpet and shofar which would publicise the event. In the following chapter, the Talmud describes the associated festivities in detail, including the lighting of an immense candelabrum in the Temple courtyard which generated such intense light that it illuminated every courtyard in the city. A Levite orchestra of flutes, trumpets, harps, and cymbals accompanied torchlight processions, and men of purity, character and scholarship danced enthusiastically to the hand‑clapping, foot-stomping, and psalm‑singing crowds. The account reaches its climax with the Tannaitic proclamation that “whoever who did not see the rejoicing at the place of the water-drawing has never seen rejoicing in his life”.

The Pharisaic expansion of the water-pouring ritual into a week of mass-celebration demonstrates just how significant the debate with the priestly Sadducees over the legitimacy of the practice had become. This is particularly understandable when one takes into account that the ceremony was performed at the Mikdash at a time when pilgrims from across the nation would have been in attendance to witness it. The establishing of this week of water-drawing celebration must also be seen in its historical context.

At the very start of the Maccabee period, the Sadducees appeared to be successfully wresting control of the priesthood and Sanhedrin from the Pharisees. Seeking a more flexible approach to interpreting the written text in a way that could support their Hellenistic reforms, Sadducees saw a string of high-profile successes; Yochanan Kohen Gadol defected to their ranks at end of his life, and Yochanan’s son King Yannai was a loyal Sadducee. Yannai executed a number of leading Pharasic sages and sent many others into exile. Megillat Ta’anit details a number of traditional laws which the Sadducees were able to overturn temporarily during this period. In the words of the Talmud “the world was desolate of Torah until Shimon ben Shatacḥ came and restored the Torah to its former glory”. With the help of his sister, queen Shlomtzion, Shimon managed to restore the court to the Pharisees. For a while, however, the very existence of the oral tradition had seemed under threat, and the priesthood in particular remained clouded in suspected Sadducee association. As a possible reaction to this perceived existential threat, the Pharisees repeatedly emphasised the importance of the traditional interpretation of the Torah, and sought to publicise its observance in any way possible.

I conclude with a broader analysis of other Mikdash rituals which had been the subject of Sadducee challenge and were therefore transformed into high-profile events. These include the harvesting of barley for the Omer, which the oral tradition maintains is to be performed on the second day of Pesach – and which the Sadducees disputed (rendering mimacharat haShabbat literally to mean Sunday) – is also depicted as an elaborate and protracted ceremony. When it came to the Para Aduma ritual, the Pharisees were even prepared to perform this in a less than ideal manner in order to publicly distance themselves from Sadducee doctrine. The emphasis placed by the sages on observing the commandments in a way that demonstrated loyalty to the oral tradition rather than Sadducee sensibilities is also seen in non-Temple laws. While Sadducees, for example, would sit in the dark over Shabbat in line with their reading of “you shall not burn a fire in any of your dwelling places on the day of Shabbat”, the Pharisees’ emphasis on lighting Shabbat candles has led to it being widely regarded as embodying the spirit of Shabbat through to this very day.

This attitude is not solely of historical interest. The concept that one must go to an extreme to combat a perceived threat to Jewish tradition was drawn upon in recent years by Rabbi Herschel Shachter in his firm ruling that halachic ground should not be ceded to the feminist movement - here.

We are left wondering at what stage does an apparent deviation from previously accepted halachah represent a threat to Jewish tradition? Are we living in an equivalent era to the one in which the Sadducees attempted to take over the Sanhedrin – the body which was charged with maintaining and transmitting the oral tradition?

First posted on Facebook 6 October 2022, here.

Where on Earth is God?

Yesterday’s Torah reading introduces us to a concept which is theologically challenging yet fundamental to our faith: that God can “dwell in our midst”. While the notion of God dwelling in a nation’s midst would seem to be conferring some sort of benefit on them, its precise meaning is complex and elusive. As the wise King Shlomo succinctly summarised during his dedication of the first Beit Hamikdash:

"Can God really dwell on earth? ... the heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain You, and surely not this Temple that I have built!" [Melachim I 8:27] 

The answer is indicated both in the continuation of Shlomo's speech (“But may you turn to the prayer … that Your servant shall pray towards this place”) and by God's subsequent response. God's 'residing' in a particular location represents, metaphorically, the notion that people’s prayers will be answered there, thereby making His existence more tangible to them.The Maharal (G.A. Bereishit 6:6) restates the problem before elegantly expanding upon this theme, explaining that God indeed 'fills the Earth' and cannot be confined to a specific place. One who claims, however, that all places are therefore equal to worship Him is attacking a core tenet of the Torah: the principle that God designates as 'holy' certain places in which He enables people to relate to Him more easily. Maharal’s statement highlights the tension that prevails between our awareness of God's infinity on the one hand, and the Torah's assertions that our ability to experience and relate to Him fluctuates in accordance with the limiting physical variables of time and place. 

In an almost “Maimonidean”-type manoeuvre, the Maharal clarifies that God’s dwelling in our midst does not imply any change in God – rather the “intervening screen” which typically diminishes our ability to perceive Him which is partially removed. This process, which is referred to biblically in terms of a relationship between God and His nation, evolves in Midrashic and Tannaitic Hebrew into a noun: “Shechinah” which is taken to denote God’s Presence in a particular place. 

Rambam’s presentation of this concept in the first section of Moreh Nevuchim focuses on the heightened providential opportunities that such a “divine dwelling” affords. One manifestation of this is the differential between the Land of Israel which “God’s eyes are always upon” [Devarim 11:12] and the rest of the world. Our analysis may help to clarify a perplexing statement of the Gemara that "anyone who lives outside the Land of Israel is considered not to have a God". Derashot HaRan (4) explains that a person who lives outside Israel distances himself from God's direct providence. In doing so, he forfeits the benefit of the special hashgachah-based relationship with God that only living in Israel can convey. Relatively speaking, therefore, such a person can be considered “not to have a God.” 

It is an important principle of Judaism that the opportunity to do good breeds a commensurate negative potential to do evil, and this principle manifests itself clearly in the 'residing' of the shechinah. While an increased concentration of hashgachah affords people an opportunity to enhance their perception and relationship with God, it is accompanied by the commensurate threat of a more direct and drastic response to any wrongdoing. This idea is used by Rabbeinu Nissim (Ran) in connection with God's sending an angel to oversee the Jewish People's journey to the Land of Israel in place of His personal direct Providence, which had governed the Jews’ progress until the sin of the Golden Calf.

The Netziv (Bemidbar 11:1), provides further examples of this principle, contrasting the immediacy of the punishment suffered by the 'mitonenim' (complainers) in the desert when compared to the relatively distant threatened punishments which would be visited upon the nation in the event of them sinning described in the book of Devarim. The Netziv deduces that this is due to a differential in the concentration of shechinah and hashgachah between that which existed in the desert at the time of the mitonenim, (whose complaints were "in the ears of God"), and the ‘regular’ hashgachah which would be present once the Jews had entered the land. 

Varying concentrations of shechinah or hashgachahmay also help us to explain the severe punishment meted out to Nadav and Avihu for bringing “strange fire” before God. The verse emphasises that their sin was committed “before God”, which indicates the presence of a heightened degree of the shechinah and an increased level of hashgachah. For this reason, the divine decree against them was both immediate and severe. Perhaps this is the real significance of the words "bikrovai ekadesh" (“among those close to Me will I be sanctified”): that God will be sanctified by the evidence of hashgachah among those closest to Him. This can be contrasted with the punishment received by King Uzziah in the late first Mikdash period for the same sin — the bringing of an unauthorised ketoret offering. Uzziah received punishment through the affliction of tzaraat, not death, because there was a reduced level of hashgachah after the inauguration of the Mishkan.

There is a tradition that "veshachanti betocham" refers not only to the shechinah residing in the Mishkan, but also alludes to each individual's mission to develop himself into a Mikdash within which the shechinah can reside. This teaching can be viewed consistently with Rambam's principle that the level of Providence that a person is capable of receiving is directly dependent on the extent to which he has developed his character and intellect. 

In Rambam’s understanding, as a person becomes more righteous, he gradually minimises the extent to which he is governed by forces of nature; through this process he becomes subject instead to God's direct hashgachah, which guides and facilitates his continued development. However, just as the direct hashgachah on a national level causes the nation to be judged more severely should they sin, so too an individual upon whom the shechinah resides is judged "kechut hasa'arah", causing him to be judged severely even for more minor infractions.

This reciprocal relationship between God and humanity is pointed out by Rambam in the closing stages of his Moreh Nevuchim where he writes that

“…the intellect that overflows towards us and is the bond between us and Him, may He be exalted. Just as we apprehend Him by means of that light which He caused to overflow towards us – as it says “In Your light do we see light” (Tehillim 36:10) – so does He, by means of that same light examine us; and because of it He, may He be exalted, is constantly with us, examining us from on high”. [3:52]

See more at www.TalmudReclaimed.com.

First posted on Facebook 18 February 2024, here.

The role and relevance of Korbanot: then and now

With the inauguration of the Mishkan nearing its completion, a final set of korbanot is set to be brought as part of its ceremonial designation as a “Tent of Meeting” between God and the Israelites. It is on these verses that Rabbi S. R. Hirsch makes a particularly sharp observation. Noting that, after these korbanot are brought, Moshe and Aharon then enter the Mishkan and recite blessings and prayers – at which point God’s glory appears – he writes that:

“God’s Presence, however, did not appear immediately upon the completion of the offerings. If that had happened, it might have lent credence to the pagan superstition that in the offering procedures there is a mysterious quality that has a magical effect upon God and produces an appearance of God to man, in a kind of physical cause-and-effect.”

The ritual nature of korbanot and their superficial similarity to pagan sacrifices meant that it was extremely important to tightly control this area of divine worship. Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi argues in the first section of his Kuzari that performance of all commandments must be dictated by careful consideration of halachah rather than enthusiastic embracing of what subjectively “feels right”. This is particularly true of korbanot, where a thin line separates legitimate service of God – within which korbanot express one’s total dedication to God – from attempting to innovate rituals and thereby producing, as Rav Hirsch described, a magical and superstitious effect upon God.

Talmud Reclaimed explores another dimension of this need for precision in korbanot. The opening section of the book analyses the structure of biblical law, which is often sparse in terms of explicit scriptural instruction – with further details supplied by the oral tradition and rabbinic legislation (through the authority of a Sanhedrin).

The copious details of lengthy biblical passages dedicated to the construction of the Mishkan and the sacrificial service which was performed there is therefore highly unusual. One possible reason for this relates to Rambam’s explanation of korbanot in his Moreh Nevuchim. 

In the understanding of Rambam, the primary function of korbanot was to wean the ancient Israelites off pagan thought and ritual towards a monotheistic faith and form of worship. For this to be effective, a very careful balance had to be struck: on the one hand the korbanot rituals had to be sufficiently similar to familiar forms of worship, while on the other hand crucial theological and practical distinctions were necessary to distance the Israelites from paganism. This means that in the area of korbanot – unlike other mitzvot – relatively more details were explicitly commanded to ensure that the balance not be disrupted. 

I’ve received numerous comments and questions over the years as to the relevance of Rambam’s reason for korbanot in the modern era: surely we, with our sophisticated 21st century mindset, don’t require any sacrificial assistance to divest ourselves of pagan proclivities? These comments tend to get me wondering what Rambam would make of the state of Judaism today and its idiosyncrasies. Of mass pilgrimages to graves. Of strange segullot and dancing around bonfires at Rashbi’s grave. Perhaps, in Rambam’s estimation, a return of the divinely-ordained and tightly controlled order of korbanot might help reduce the experiential attraction of some of these practices?

See more at www.TalmudReclaimed.com.

First posted on Facebook 7 April 2024, here.