Chance or guided providence?

As I flitted through the reporting of Al Jazeera, BBC and the Tehran Times last week, one repeated theme I noticed in the anti-Israel media was the attempt to downplay the significance of Israel’s achievement in its “lucky” killing of Yihyeh Sinwar. But while it seems true that Sinwar’s demise did not involve the same degree of intelligence and planning as that of others such as Nasrallah, does it automatically follow that it should just be attributed to good luck?

On what will be a particularly poignant Simchat Torahin a few days’ time, we will read the final poetic portion of the Torah in which God is depicted as “rochev shamayim - Rider of the heavens”. This cryptic description is expounded by Rambam towards the end of the first section of Moreh Nevuchim, where he sees it as providing an important insight into the nature of the relationship between God and the physical world. Not only does “rochev” denote that God is separate from the world and not a force within it (a statement which powerfully rejects any notions of pantheism/panentheism), but it also indicates that God controls and moves the world just like a rider who “makes the beast of burden move and go where he wishes”.

This second aspect of “rochev” got me wondering if we could take the rider metaphor one step further. Some brief research on forums of horse-riding enthusiasts confirmed my suspicion that the way in which riders guide their horses can be extremely subtle – barely detectable to the casual observer:

“Someone recently asked me an interesting question: “Can my horse read my thoughts?” This person went on to describe the extraordinary bond he has with his Arabian horse, and his belief that the horse knows how he feels and where he wants to go without being cued. What appears to be a telepathic connection develops from experience and sensitivity and emerges when the horse and rider are working together in harmony with a common mind and purpose.”

What does this all mean for our understanding of hashgacha– the way in which God is perceived to manage and govern His world?

Judaism Reclaimed dedicates long chapters to an exploration of Rambam’s view of the subject. On the one hand, Rambam’s worldview sees God as having a constant will with which He established unchanging rules of nature. Certainly, those approaching Maimonidean thought from the academic perspective tend to downplay any possibility for miraculous or providential interference with the natural order. Rambam himself comments on a Mishnah in Avot:

“They (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’. All is equal.”

But does this tell the whole story?

As David Hartman pointed out in his Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest, once it has been stated that God used His knowledge of ‘future’ necessity in order to build miracles into the natural world from its origin, it makes no difference, from a strictly logical perspective, whether one admits to one or a thousand such miracles.

The Moreh Nevuchim also contains several intriguing comments which suggest that Rambam’s position on providence may be more complex than is commonly thought. First, in 1:35, Rambam states that “the character of His governance … the ‘how’ of His providence are truly the secrets of the Torah”. Later, at the peak of the famous palace parable, Rambam describes the highest category of those who seek God – the prophets in the king’s inner chamber – as turning their intellects “to know His governance of them in whatever way is possible”.

In his Iggeret Techiyat HaMeitim, Rambam explicitly considers the historical fate of the Jewish nation to be providential:

“…we believe that the blessings which come from obedience [to God] and the suffering from disobedience, for this nation, become a sign and a wonder”.

Returning to our opening question, to what extent should Sinwar’s death – along with a number of other events from the past year – be attributed to good or bad fortune?

Drawing upon the Torah’s horse-riding metaphor, at times it may be impossible to detect any guidance or direction from the rider – yet when one examines the horse’s entire journey around the race track or obstacle course it will be abundantly clear that it could not have achieved what it did unaided.

So too at times with our national fate. It may be possible to explain away each isolated event via natural cause and effect. But, taking a step back to appreciate the broader – sometimes historical – perspective, the series of events that we have experienced over the past year(s) and indeed throughout Jewish history appear far too unusual to be attributed to natural phenomena alone.

I am reminded now of an Israeli spy series “Tehran” that I watched a couple of years ago. At the time I thought that the show was well written and put together – my only complaint was that the final episode in each season just seemed way too far-fetched. Too removed from reality. Today the show’s drama and unexpected twists and turns cannot even begin to compete with what we have been witnessing on the news cycles.

We continue to pray to the Rochev Shamayim for the protection and success of our soldiers and swift return of all our hostages as we await the final dramatic episodes of the festive season.

First posted on Facebook 20 October 2024. For comments and discussion, click here.

Reclaimed reviewed

 I'm very grateful to Yosef Lindell for his recent incisive review of Talmud Reclaimed in the Jewish Press. The review focuses primarily on the opening third of the book.

Link to Yosef's review is here.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook,click here.

Repentance: to change our behaviour or ideas?

With Yom Kippur fast approaching in the midst of war and upheaval, it has been unusually challenging to concentrate my thoughts on the traditional seasonal discussion points such as judgement and repentance. This post is a brief attempt at to correct this oversight!

While for many, the term “repentance” is associated with the somewhat narrow yet laudable process of identifying one’s shortfalls from the previous year and attempting to repair them (seeking forgiveness in the process from anyone whom one has hurt), Rambam’s Laws of Teshuvah sees it far more broadly. Barely two chapters of this work on repentance focus on what I refer to as “micro-teshuvah”, while other chapters proceed to explore matters of free-will, necessary beliefs and the World to Come.

Particularly notable for me is the final chapter, which elaborates eloquently upon the notion of serving God out of love rather than for an ulterior motive. A notion which Rambam considers to represent the apex of divine worship in Judaism.

What emerges, it seems, is a concept of “macro-teshuva” which directs us not merely to examine our specific deeds, but also to develop and focus upon our ultimate religious ideals. The sort of person we aspire to be if circumstances so permitted. Not only our day-to-day actions but also our religious, moral and spiritual aspirations would appear to be an important part of our religious personality and relationship with God.

But to what extent does repentance even for specific sins require one to repair one’s thoughts?

An early teaching in Hilchot Teshuva relates that complete repentance is known to have been achieved if one has been placed in an identical situation with the same temptation – and this time withstood the ability to sin. This appearing to show that one now has gained the requisite self-discipline that one previously lacked.

However, as my friend Eitan Kastner recently pointed out to me, certain sins may also require a change of thought and attitude as well as simple self-restraint.

In his Shemonah Perakim, Rambam notes an apparent aggadic contradiction on this subject. On the one hand there is a Talmudic statement that “even if certain commandments had not been written in the Torah, we could legitimately claim that they ought to have been”, which presumes that we are able to discern reasons and spirit for the mitzvot. This is contrasted with the teaching that “One should not say that he does not wish for non-kosher food [etc]; rather, he should say, I would like to partake of it but my Father in Heaven has forbidden it to me”. Rambam shows how mitzvot which he labels mefursamot (widespread) – i.e. those which are commonly legislated in society (e.g. not to steal, murder…) – are understood to be in accordance with the Torah’s broader spirit and we would therefore expect to be prohibited. By contrast, mitzvot which have bear no clearly apparent reason (chukkim) such as prohibitions against certain foods and clothing mixtures are observed out of obedience to God’s word.

What emerges from here is that even the desire for the sort of sins which are considered to be inherently immoral is a fault and a matter than one should seek to educate oneself to amend. This being the case, would it be correct to argue that the ultimate form of repentance for such sins would not simply be a matter of self-control, however admirable, but a process of re-education too?

I would like to take this opportunity to wish readers a Shana Tova – a year of blessings, peace and better news. And hope that you will forgive me if anything that I have written has offended.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Is the concept of a 'chosen nation' inherently unfair?

Membership of any kind of elite club or select society is often designed to boost the status and egos of those fortunate enough to possess it - while leaving those excluded peering curiously and sometimes even enviously over their shoulder. When it comes to the elite club established by God, such inbuilt inequality can often prompt pointed and difficult questions:

Why did God desire and establish such a two-tiered system in which the apparently privileged “Chosen Nation” enjoys such a significant hereditary advantage over their unchosen counterparts?

Judaism Reclaimed addresses this question on the basis of Seforno’s commentary to a verse (32:7) in yesterday’s Torah reading – as developed by Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch. Seforno, like other commentators, understands parashat Ha’azinu to represent a poetic progression through human history as seen from God’s perspective.

In Seforno’s telling, God’s initial and ideal plan was for all of humanity to join together as a single society to serve God and implement a thriving moral and spiritual society. As explained by Rav Hirsch, it was only the repeated failures – such as those of the generations of the flood and tower of Babel – which necessitated a recalibration of the divine plan. This was because, while a single cohesive society could, in theory, unite more effectively to further God’s will, at the same time this also created a commensurate potential for evil to be spread quickly across human society.

When God promised, in the aftermath of the flood, that He would never again bring about worldwide destruction, this led to the splintering of human society into different countries, cultures and languages. From this point, evil could be more easily isolated – as seen in the instance of Sodom – but so too would the effective implementation of God’s moral and spiritual teachings be isolated to specific worthy communities.

The opening chapter of Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi’s Kuzari develops the idea that, for God’s purpose in creation to be realised, a broadly righteous and morally functioning society needed to be established which could receive God’s teachings and then successfully transmit it throughout the generations – to its own descendants and also, eventually to the entire humanity. The Kuzari relates that, in the 20 generations between Adam and Avraham, there was a steady supply of righteous individuals who taught this new mission with which humanity had been charged. However, these individuals were unable to influence the world around them by spreading this message and building a society based upon its values.

In subsequent chapters, Judaism Reclaimed continues to develop this idea of the nature and role of the Chosen Nation – including a teaching of the Rambam that the spiritual achievements of the Avot led to such a powerful providential overflow that it was even able to guide the fortunes of their descendants. Ultimately, as is also demonstrated, membership of the Chosen Nation is not solely a privilege but, in reality, a double-edged sword. The heightened providential focus which facilitates our ability to carry God’s torch and be a light unto the nations also means that, when we fall short, this attracts more immediate and intense divine correction.

Finally, the more universalist approach of Rav Hirsch, Rambam and the Seforno also informs their interpretations of prophecies which concern the messianic era. Having recognised that the humanity’s ideal is for the entire world to join to serve God, these commentators emphasise the prophecies which see all of humanity unite to serve God.

For comments and discussion of this post on Facebook, click here.

Reasons for mitzvot: the hidden and revealed

In one particularly mysterious verse from yesterday’s Torah reading we are told “The hidden matters are for Hashem our God, and the revealed matters are for us and our children…”. Yet the identity of these “hidden matters” is not revealed to us!

Needless to say, the commentaries step into the breaching to offer a range of suggestions. One that tends to be overlooked, however, is that of Ralbag who understands the verse to be addressing the rationales and reasons behind mitzvot – some of which we are aware and other which remain “hidden” and beyond our comprehension. In keeping with this analysis, Ralbag’s Torah commentary highlights “benefits” rather than stating “reasons” for the commandments.

It can be argued that Rambam adopts a very similar approach towards reasons for mitzvot. On the one hand he appears to provide comprehensive practical reasons for mitzvot which fulfil the functions of establishing a functioning moral society that directs its members towards religious and spiritual accomplishment. Yet at the same time he also adds emphatically at the conclusion of these reasons that “We only appreciate the justice of some of His commandments...what is hidden from us...is much more considerable than what is manifest”.

Talmud Reclaimed explores an additional fascinating dimension of Rambam’s approach to offering reasons for mitzvot.

In the third section of Moreh Nevuchim, Rambam undertakes a comprehensive study of ta’amei hamitzvot – the extent to which we can propose reasons for divine commandments. Addressing the broader question of the extent to which we can expect mitzvot to impart positive benefits, he cites two apparently contradictory midrashic positions. The first, found in the Talmud Yerushalmi, expounds a verse in Devarim:

“The matter is not empty for you” – if it is [i.e. seems] empty then it is [on account of] you. For you have not adequately delved into the Torah.”

Rambam explains that this Midrash refers to reasons for the Torah’s commandments – that none of the mitzvot are “empty” and devoid of a positive function – and that, if it appears to be so, the lack is only in the reader’s comprehension of the Torah.

However, a very different approach appears to be taken in Bereishit Rabbah:

“Does the Holy One Blessed be He really care whether an animal is slaughtered from the front or back of its neck? Rather, the mitzvot were given only to refine the creations [i.e. people].”

Rambam proposes a controversial solution to this contradiction, asserting that

"The generality of the mitzvah has a certain reason, and was commanded for a clear benefit. But details which it contains are only for [the sake of fulfilment of] the commandment."

He continues by explaining how the command to slaughter an animal is primarily concerned with using a sharp knife in order to give the animal a quick death. Similarly, with regard to the details of sacrifices, he explains that the reason for them is to withdraw the Jews from pagan culture, adding:

“Anyone who troubles himself to offer reasons for all its minutiae is in the grip of a prolonged madness…Necessity determined that there should be details for which no reason could be given. It would be something impossible within the context of the Law not to have contained this type of detail.”

It is pointless to ask why detail A rather than detail B was selected, since the very same challenge could have been made if detail B had been selected in its place. It is crucial for us to determine, therefore, how exactly Rambam distinguished between (i) the “generality” of commandments that are taken to relate to and further their function, and (ii) the details which are “necessary for the commandment” but do not relate to its basic purpose.

Fortunately, Rambam’s lengthy study of hundreds of commandments and their reasons—which spans a full fifteen chapters of Moreh Nevuchim—provides copious material for examination. These 15 chapters see Rambam systemise the commandments into their respective categories, before moving methodically through them in order to elucidate their underlying functions and the benefits that they confer. While some commandments merit only a fleeting generalised mention, others are analysed by Rambam in greater detail – drawing upon some of the more specific laws which govern their practice.

What is striking however, is that none of these specifics of the commandments ever includes a detail which has been hermeneutically derived by the sages – the sort of rabbinically-derived details of Torah law which constitute the vast majority of the Talmud. Instead, these details are gleaned from verses of the Torah (or later prophets) or are based upon traditions that Rambam considers to have been transmitted from Sinai as part of the core and immutable “received explanations” of commandments. Talmud Reclaimed contains an Appendix in which these 15 chapters of Moreh Nevuchim are analysed in order to demonstrate the accuracy of this theory.

Talmud Reclaimed then proceeds to combine this distinction that Rambam makes here between core aspects of each commandment in terms of the function of each mitzvah together with another Maimonidean distinction between core and peripheral aspects of mitzvot: Rambam’s distinction between core aspects of each commandment – which he understood to be transmitted intact from Sinai and immutable – and the finer rabbinically-derived details of biblical law which could be subject to dispute and altered by future Sanhedrin.

What emerges is a fundamental distinction, within Rambam’s understanding of Talmudic law. A distinction which, when fully internalised and applied to one's Talmud study can brilliantly illuminate many of the perplexing problems that one encounters in the vast and often confusing sea of the Talmud.

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The confusing command to "walk in God's ways"

A repeated theme in yesterday’s Torah reading is the instruction that we are to walk in God’s ways – understood by our sages as a commandment to imitate God’s attributes as they define them: “Just as He is merciful so must you be merciful, just as He is gracious so must you be gracious”. As Judaism Reclaimed explores, this is a perplexing idea – particularly from the Rambam’s perspective what does it mean to mimic a deity which is understood to be beyond comparison and cannot even be described in human language?

One fascinating discussion of this concept can be found in the first chapter of Rambam’s Hilchot De’ot, where he contrasts the chacham (wise person) with the chassid. It would seem that according to Rambam’s understanding, an important step in correctly achieving and internalizing wisdom is balancing one’s character so that one’s perspective and analysis is not skewed by undesirable traits. This is the aim of a chacham whose connection to God is focused upon wisdom and intellectual pursuits. It may even be suggested that “walking in God’s ways” means attempting to minimize any imbalance and faulty reasoning in the same way as, it is understood, God’s “thought process” operates without external interference.

In contrast to the “chacham”, Rambam depicts a different mode of approaching God – the “chassid” whose “actions are more numerous than his wisdom” (see commentary to Avot chapter 3:9). The chassid, it would seem, seeks to “walk in God’s ways” by copying His actions of kindness as defined by the sages rather than idealizing the path of balance. The Rashba compiles a list of Talmudic mentions of chassidim, who are depicted as meditating for hours before and after prayer, searching out and removing dangerous objects from the public domain, and being prepared to use all of their possessions for the benefit of others.

Another fascinating dimension of this commandment to “walk in God’s ways” is the extent to which it overlaps with another biblical injunction: To love one’s fellow as oneself. Paraphrasing the sages, Rambam in the final chapter of Hilchot Avel defines this law as performing acts of kindness for others which one would want them to perform for oneself – such as comforting mourners, visiting the sick and rejoicing at weddings.

What emerges is that, when performing such a prescribed act of kindness, one may well be simultaneously fulfilling two separate biblical commands. The first, walking in God’s path, would be categorized as bein adam lamakom (between man and God) – strengthening one’s relationship and connection with God by making oneself more like Him. The second – loving one’s fellow as oneself – is more associated with bein adam lechaveiro (between man and man) as it improves the relationships between people and within communities.

Aside from the different focuses of these two commandments, there may also be circumstances in which they can apply independently of each other.

Imagine a scenario in which one travels for hours to visit a mourner only to find that he has traveled abroad or has closed the house of mourning for the day. From the perspective of “walking in God’s ways”, one may well have succeeded, through the attempted visit, in train his or her traits towards being a chacham or chasid. It is harder, however, to say that one has actually performed an act of kindness towards the other.

Alternatively, for a person whose personality has already stretched too far to the side of kindness towards others (the Rambam says this needs to be balanced with concern for one’s own wellbeing), a long trip to a mourner’s house may not be viewed as “walking in God’s ways” – but nevertheless should certainly constitute an “act of kindness” if he gets to comfort the mourner.

For comments and discussion of this post, click here and also here (on Avot Today)

Rebellious sons and a radical rabbinic tradition

Near the start of yesterday’s Torah reading we find the strange commandment of ben sorer umoreh (wayward and rebellious son), the rabbinic interpretation of which serves only to intensify its perplexity:

If one of his parents had a hand cut off, or was lame, mute, blind or deaf, he cannot become a “wayward and rebellious son”, because it says “his father and mother shall take hold of him”—not those with a hand cut off; “and bring him out”—not parents who are lame; “and they shall say”—and not parents who are mute; “this our son”—and not parents who are blind; “he will not obey our voice”—and not parents who are deaf.

Talmud Reclaimed explores this extremely narrow line of interpretation, contrasting it with commandments elsewhere in the parashah which are interpreted considerably more expansively. Consider this passage of the hungry vineyard worker (a law I was privileged to observe for the first time while volunteering last week!):

“How do we know it of all other things? We infer them from the vineyard: just as regarding the vineyard its produce grows from the earth, and once it is ripe the labourer may eat of it, so too everything which grows from the soil and is ripe, the labourer may eat from…”

It seems surprising that the same interpretative tradition that renders seemingly simple verbs such as holding, bringing and speaking to exclude certain categories of parent, can also read vineyard and grapes to include anything that grows from the ground. Other commandments in the parashah such as not muzzling an ox on the threshing floor and not ploughing with a combination of donkey and ox are similarly expanded to apply to all members of the animal kingdom (including fish!).

Are we to assume that, as the Malbim claims, the sages were fully engaged in an exercise of drawing delicate hints and linguistic inferences from the biblical text in order to construct midrashic meaning? Alternatively were they basing their midrash on received traditions (Rabbi D. Z. Hoffman) or was it merely a means through which the Sanhedrin legislated new details of biblical law (Rabbi J. Faur)? Talmud Reclaimed probes the relative strengths and weaknesses of all these approaches and attempts to plot a middle path of compromise between them.

In addition to such efforts to discover the interpretative methodology of our sages, the law of the ben sorer umoreh contains a further – particularly peculiar – interpretive idiosyncrasy which Judaism Reclaimed explores. Was this case of ben sorer umoreh a law that could ever have had practical application?

The Gemara in Sanhedrin (71a) presents a fascinating Tannaitic discussion regarding ben sorer umoreh and ir hanidachat (idolatrous city): Rabbi Yehudah derives from a close interpretation of the relevant verses (and his colleague R' Shimon from logic) that these laws can have no practical application. If so why do they feature in the Torah? The answer is “doresh umekabel s'char” (study and receive a reward). Rabbi Yonatan emphatically disagrees with his colleagues: not only do these laws have practical application but, he reports, he has personally sat upon the grave of an executed youth.

This apparent dispute is very strange. Rabbi Yonatan and the other Tannaim were contemporaries who all studied under Rabbi Akiva. On the assumption that the Sanhedrin's destruction of a whole city or the judicial execution of a child would have been remarkable and therefore well-known events, it is extremely unlikely that only Rabbi Yonatan would have known of them, even if the Tannaim in question lived some time after the Sanhedrin had ceased to rule in capital cases. Even more strangely, the Gemara and commentaries do not question the source of this Tannaitic argument. Does Rabbi Yonatan reject the textual interpretation and logical deduction made by his contemporaries in order to render these cases possible?

One solution is offered by Rabbeinu Bachaye, who suggests that Rabbi Yonatan may not be referring to a ben sorer umoreh or ir hanidachat that was actually tried by the Sanhedrin. Another Talmudic passage teaches a principle that, when the death penalty cannot be imposed, the Heavenly Court may arrange for it to be carried out in other ways. Rabbi Yonatan therefore may not be arguing with the teaching of his colleagues who maintained that the legal requirements for ben sorer umoreh rendered the case impossible for the Sanhedrin to implement. He is simply adding that, despite this impossibility, the ben sorer umoreh and ir hanidachat may still be subject to a Divine decree. It is such a Divine decree which Rabbi Yonatan claims to have caused the early death of the ‘ben sorer umoreh’ whose grave he sat upon.

If this understanding is correct, it would appear that we have an agreed upon transmitted tradition that ben sorer umoreh – in contrast to other commandments in the parashah which are interpreted expansively – must be read so narrowly so as to prevent it from ever occurring.

But what would really be the point of such an exercise? Are there not plenty of other biblical verses which could serve as a basis for more practical rabbinic midrash – why have a law on the biblical books which was never intended to be applied? Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, implicitly addressing this question, identifies a swathe of ethical lessons and pearls of parental guidance that can be gleaned from these verses and their midrash.

A more recent answer from a historical perspective was suggested by Professor Moshe Halbertal. Halbertal argues that the Torah’s primary function with this law (perhaps alongside others in the parashah) was to prevent the father and mother of the young delinquent from taking the law into their own hands and performing some form of “honour killing”. Instead of this apparently accepted ancient practice, the father and mother are instructed to “bring their son to the city elders and the gates” for the matter to be dealt with by a proper court. A court which, it would seem, has a longstanding tradition to interpret the verses sufficiently narrowly so as to avoid handing the wayward and rebellious youth a death sentence.

For more details visit www.TalmudReclaimed.com

First posted on Facebook yesterday, here.