Can matters of belief be subject to halachic resolution?

As diligent Daf Yomi dedicants drive on through the final chapter of Sanhedrin, they become increasingly exposed to theological and aggadic material which, while often fascinating, appears to have little impact on practical halacha.

It is on one of these discussions that Rambam relates a fundamental principle. In the third Mishnah of Chelek, sages dispute as to whether various sinful generations forfeited their share in the World to Come. While Rambam typically concludes his Mishnah’s commentary with a halachic ruling, here he teaches that, since this dispute has no practical ramification, it is not subject to the regular process of halachic determination.

Judaism Reclaimed shows how similar comments of Rambam can be found elsewhere concerning other disputes as to the methods and processes of the Heavenly Court.

Some writers, such as Marc Shapiro in The Limits of Orthodox Theology, have argued that this principle extends to any discussion over theology and heresy. The implications being that there can be no definitive red lines drawn to determine what is considered a heretical statement or belief. Judaism Reclaimed brings opposing arguments from the writings of Rabbi Gil Student – also endorsed later by Rabbi Joshua Berman in Ani Ma’amin – that determining the parameters of heresy indeed has practical halachic ramifications, albeit indirect. There are a numbers of laws concerning heretics which require and presuppose the existence of such a determination: for example a heretic cannot lead a prayer service and his ritual slaughter – and a Torah scroll he pens – is invalid.

A more careful reading of Rambam’s comments on the subject shows that he only writes this comment concerning disputes that relate exclusively to the operation of the Heavenly Court. The current Daf Yomi pages of study provide a strong support for this assertion.

After all, the opening Mishnah of Chelek details a series of heretical beliefs – some of which are disputed among the sages. Yet the Rambam does not state his principle here. Instead he waits until the third Mishnah of the chapter which contains disputes over worthy and condemned generations in order to tell us that disputes over the functioning of the Heavenly Court are not subject to halachic determination.

The tenth chapter of Talmud Reclaimed goes further to explore the ramifications of such a principle – how laws of heresy might be determined. To what extent these can be disputed and whether such required beliefs can change in the course of different generations.

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Rambam and belief in Techiyat HaMetim

Belief in the doctrine of revivification of the dead, normally associated with a future Messianic era, is declared by an undisputed Mishnah in this week’s Daf Yomi study to be a fundamental belief of Judaism and a pre-requisite to entry to Olam Haba. This position is adopted by Rambam in his halachic works, Hilchot Teshuvah and the 13 Principles of Faith at the end of his Introduction to Chelek.

In the worldview of Ramban, techiyat hametim is the highest level of posthumous reward, and is facilitated by the soul being reunited with the body. Accordingly, one can understand why such emphasis is placed on belief in techiyat hametim.

Such an approach, which suggests a role for the body in the ‘world of the souls’, is absolute anathema however to Rambam, for whom the body does not and cannot feature in any aspect of Olam Haba. For Rambam the physical body is a barrier which prevents the mind from fully grasping divine matters during a person's lifetime. The reward of Olam Haba is experienced by the soul when it achieves a purer perception of reality after death, a level of understanding which can be reached precisely because the soul is no longer restrained by its previous physical associations.

Techiyat hametim, Rambam explains in his introduction to Chelek, is not a reward in the sense in which Ramban understands it. Rather, it is a temporary return of the soul from its place of pleasure in Olam Haba to the physical body from which it had departed. But what is the utility of this techiyat hametim for Rambam, and how can we explain the importance he attributes to it, listing techiyat hametim among his 13 Principles of Faith?

One possible answer is that, since the ultimate reward of Olam Haba is limited by the extent of the connection that a person is able to forge with God during his lifetime, the opportunity to return temporarily from Olam Haba in order to enhance this connection is a considerable benefit. The extent to which the soul can comprehend divine truths in Olam Haba is determined by how much it was developed, both in terms of intellect and character traits, during the lifetime of the body which that soul inhabits. Techiyat hametim, in the sense of a temporary reunification of soul and body, will occur in the times of Mashiach when persistent worldly distractions will be replaced by a 'tidal wave' of knowledge of God. With this heightened awareness of God, conditions will be ideal for the soul to achieve its perfection, and a clear perception of Divine truths will be accessible to all. In this elevated state of perception, "Your sons and daughters will prophesy".

This way of explaining Rambam finds support in the Sefer Ha’ikkarim of R’ Yosef Albo (4:30):

“… Rambam concludes that the primary divine reward for mankind relates to the soul and not the body, and therefore it appears to him that the primary function of techiyah is not to furnish reward to the body, but rather so that the person can acquire a greater degree of perfection than he was able to achieve originally [in his initial life] when he was inhibited by external preventative factors such as those arising from exile, poverty or others; the inhibitions did not arise from him making unsound choices or in any way from himself.”

On this basis we can suggest that a particular significance of techiyat hametim to Rambam’s thought, which may explain its inclusion among the core tenets of Jewish faith, is that, without it, God and His system of Olam Haba appear fundamentally unfair. If reward in the next world is determined solely by the extent to which a person has been able to develop and connect his soul to God during his lifetime, it is inevitably limited by that person’s life-span, material and intellectual assets and position in society.

Without techiyat hametim providing a further opportunity to connect with God even after death, it would appear that every individual’s personal allocation of Olam Haba is strongly influenced by good fortune, with those afforded greater opportunities and resources receiving an arbitrary advantage. A corollary of this would be the conclusion that God operates unjustly, discriminating against those whose life circumstances do not permit them to reach their potential. In this light, Rambam's techiyat hametim can be seen as crucial in allowing for the rectification of unavoidable deficiencies which would otherwise have prevented the soul from achieving the connection to God in Olam Haba of which it was worthy.

Rambam’s acceptance of the doctrine of techiyat hametim was a matter of great controversy during his lifetime; his earlier works only making brief mention of it in order to confirm its status as an essential tenet of faith. This lack of coverage, combined with Rambam’s strong insistence on a purely metaphysical Olam Haba, led some to question whether he genuinely subscribed to the traditional view of the soul returning to the body. The issue gained particular prominence because it represented a deeper question: how did Rambam resolve contradictions between the Torah's teachings and his general worldview which was based upon Aristotelian rationalism?

In response to the ongoing controversy, Rambam wrote his Iggeret Techiyat Hametim in which he forcefully condemned the 'slanderous allegations' against him. Explaining why he had previously written so little on the subject of techiyat hametim, Rambam describes it as a 'mofet' that defies the kind of rational explanation which dominates his philosophical works.

Judaism Reclaimed’s treatment of this topic, which explores how the respective techiyah theories of Rambam and Ramban can be fitted into their broader worldviews, concludes with a comprehensive appraisal of claims made in various quarters that Rambam’s Iggeret concerning resurrection did not represent his true views on the subject. Whatever one concludes, the subject of techiyat hameitim remains pivotal to understanding the Maimonidean world view and how it contrasts to other systems of thought within Judaism.

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Tamid and the evolution of the commandment to recite Shema

Yesterday’s Torah portion detailed a number of activities, such as lighting the menorah and offering the daily sacrifices, with which the daily Mishkan workload was scheduled to start and conclude. Several of these activities attract the description 'tamid', which means ‘constant’, a term which sits uncomfortably with the reality that these activities were performed only once or twice a day, in the morning and evening. This difficulty is highlighted by the observation of Rashi, at the start of our parashah, that regular daily events can attract the term tamid even if they are not continuous. Why should this be?

One explanation of Rashi's statement is that the use of the term tamid to describe regular but non-constant activities provides us with a fundamental insight into how the dynamics of these cyclical events are viewed from the Torah's perspective. The opening and closing ceremonies of the Mishkan’s daily routine were not intended merely to supply an element of solemnity or grandeur. Rather, they contextualise and grant legitimacy to everything that happens during the span of time that passes between them. By validating the various offerings that were brought throughout the day, the opening and closing activities can be seen to exert a constant influence and thereby justify the Torah's description of them as tamid. Judaism Reclaimed explores the significance and symbolism of each of these practices in this context.

The importance attached to how a unit of time is commenced and concluded does not just apply to the Mishkan procedures. As part of the Gemara’s discussion of the lechem hapanimprocedure, a comparison is drawn between the use of the word 'tamid' to describe the lechem hapanim, and the requirement that Torah never be absent from one’s mouth. The Gemara concludes that this commandment can be fulfilled even by studying a minimal amount of Torah each morning and evening.

This obligation to fix a regular time for Torah learning each morning and evening, is codified by Rambam and the Shulchan Aruch; it exists in addition to the general obligation to study Torah during any available time. The added dimension of these fixed study times is that they encase a person's mundane activities, imbuing them with the spirit of Torah study and thereby ensure "lo yamush" — that the Torah is never entirely removed from his mouth.

Talmud Reclaimed develops this idea further in a central case study which explores the origins of the commandment to recite Shema twice-daily. Building upon Rambam’s principle, that matters which are disputed among the sages do not belong to the body of transmitted laws received from Sinai, we note that there is a Talmudic argument (Berachot21a) as to whether the mitzvah of Shema is biblical or rabbinic in nature. This would seem to indicate that the commandment was not transmitted immutably from Moshe. On the other hand it does seem to be unanimously accepted in the Talmud that some passage of Torah must be recited, at the very least, each morning and evening.

The suggested resolution, which draws some support from the Pnei Yehoshua and Sha’agat Aryeh, is that the original Sinaitic requirement was that each person commence and conclude their day with the study of some passage of Torah. As seen above, by encasing one’s more mundane daily activities in between sessions of Torah study, this imbues religious and spiritual meaning to all of what one does in the interim period.

At some point, however, the Sinaitic tradition of a biblical commandment to recite words from the Torah twice daily would have been fixed by the Court so as to apply specifically to the first sentence (or perhaps the first paragraph) of the Shema, the second paragraph being added as a purely rabbinic commandment. As suggested by the Pnei Yehoshua, this is likely to be because of the passage of Shema containing a declaration of the unity of God and an acceptance of the yoke of heaven. Matters which the Sanhedrin of the day is likely to have wanted to inculcate further into the hearts and minds of the nation undergoing particular challenges.

While the sages and Sanhedrin enacted this decree to narrow down the previously undefined obligation to study Torah (at least) twice-daily, the blessings recited over Shema may reflect the commandment in its initial undefined form – focusing on the importance of Torah study rather than mentioning the unity of God and accepting His authority and mitzvot.

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Esther: when midrashic methodology leads to halachic leniency

This past weekend saw an overlap between the Daf Yomi calendar and our preparations for Purim, as the subject turned – albeit briefly – to analysing Esther’s conduct. While the discussion lasted only a couple of lines, its implications are enormous and form a central case study in a couple of chapters of Talmud Reclaimed.

The Talmudic passage in question is examining the sins for which a person is required to give up their life rather than commit. These consist of the three “cardinal” sins: murder, idolatry and adultery, as well as any sin which a person is being forced by a non-Jew to commit in public or at a time of religious oppression. The Talmud then questions this conclusion, basing its challenge on the narrative of Esther, who willingly married Achashverosh – a non-Jewish king – rather than surrendering her life, despite her participation in this marriage being a public sin. It proceeds to offer various solutions. What concerns us here, however, is the nature of the Talmud’s question, which is based on the premise that Esther was single at the time of her marriage to Achashverosh. According to this premise, she could not have been committing the sin of adultery, but rather the non-cardinal sin of intermarriage, with the aggravating factor that her marriage was very much a matter of public knowledge.

Tosafot examine the Talmud’s question in view of a Talmudic teaching from the first chapter of tractate Megillah (13a), which treats Esther as having been married to Mordechai before she wedded Achashverosh. Based on this teaching, they ask why the Talmud did not pose a greater question: surely Esther was not only marrying a non-Jew, but was also committing adultery – one of the three cardinal sins – for which the Talmud would expect her to have given up her life? Based upon his synthesis of these Talmudic passages, Rabbeinu Tam, often seen as the most creative of the Tosafists, proposes an original and far-reaching principle. He concludes that, since the Talmud's challenge in the primary passage was not concerned with the question of Esther committing adultery with Achashverosh, even though Esther was already married to Mordechai, we can deduce that a sexual relationship with a non-Jewish man does not constitute full adultery.

Citing as support his own innovative expansion of a separate Talmudic teaching, he proceeds to issue a practical legal ruling to the following effect: a married Jewish woman who has a sexual relationship with a non-Jewish man who later converts to Judaism, is permitted to marry him. While a married Jewish woman’s sexual relationship with a Jewish man would have prohibited the two from subsequently marrying, Rabbeinu Tam permitted marriage in the case of a non-Jewish convert on the basis of his deduction that adultery with a non-Jewish man does not constitute full adultery.

The significance here is twofold. First, the source teaching that Esther and Mordechai were married is an aggadic inference which many of the peshat commentators to the Megillat Esther do not understand to be literal. As the Rashba comments on this passage: “We do not pose questions from aggadic sources”. Secondly, even setting aside the fact that Esther’s marriage is an aggadic addition, it is still far from simple that it should be taken into account when interpreting the sugya in Sanhedrin.

This Talmudic interpretation of Rabbeinu Tam, and the legal ruling that it produces, is a classic example of the creative Tosafist methodology which presumes that disparate Talmudic passages should be read in tandem and then introduces interpretative and legal innovations in order to reconcile them. The Maimonidean-Geonic approach to this matter, by contrast, having identified the primary Talmudic passage which deals with this area of law, does not presume that the authors of these passages were necessarily in agreement with the authors of the separate aggadic teaching that Esther and Mordechai were married. The Kessef Mishneh commentary of Rav Yosef Karo on Rambam’s ruling wholly dismisses the possibility that he took the aggadic passage into account.

In terms of the question of which sins require people give up their lives rather than transgress, the primary passage in tractate Sanhedrin does not distinguish between a woman committing adultery with a Jewish or non-Jewish man. Similarly, in terms of whether participation in an adulterous relationship prohibits any future marriage between its two parties, the primary Talmudic sources do not disclose any distinction based upon the man’s religious status. If anything, they appear specifically to include all sorts of men in this law. These laws as codified by Rambam therefore make no distinction between Jewish and non-Jewish men.

This also has potential implications for the analysis of Reb Chaim Brisk (opening pages of his famous Chiddushim al HaRambam) which takes on the assumption that Rambam did indeed combine these passages – just as Tosafot did – and proposes some wonderfully intricate solutions to explain how he nevertheless reached different legal conclusions. But that is the subject of another chapter altogether.

Find out more at www.TalmudReclaimed.com.

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Judaism as a genuine religion?

Parashat Yitro contains God's historic revelation and communication of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Much attention is focused, understandably, on the content and nature of this communication to the assembled masses. What is often overlooked however are the strict rules which governed the Jewish people's conduct both during this unique revelation and on the days leading up to it. Rabbi S. R. Hirsch analyses these laws and derives from them a series of crucial ideas concerning the relationship between the Torah which was being received and the nation which was to accept it.

The people were first instructed, three full days in advance, to prepare and purify themselves for the forthcoming divine revelation. Then, at the time of the law-giving, they were warned not to approach the mountain. Each of these rules was intended to emphasise the reality that the Torah was communicated to the Jews from an external superior source, and did not emanate from within them.

Rav Hirsch continues by describing how the fields of anthropology and sociology view religion, like arts and culture, as a mere projection of the social values of society. This approach treats religion as little more than a means by which we can understand the behaviour and beliefs of the social unit formed by its adherents. In this sense, Judaism stands apart and cannot be truly defined as a religion, since the Torah’s rigorous and demanding laws do not reflect the religious and moral status of the nation which first received them. God’s instructions to the Jewish people to purify themselves for several days in advance of receiving the Torah represent a principle of fundamental importance: that its recipients were not inherently worthy of hearing God's word. Additionally, the prohibition against drawing near the mountain during the Ten Commandments reinforces the distinction between the source of the communication and the people to whom it was addressed, thereby emphatically rejecting the notion that the Torah emanated from the people themselves.

The idea that the Jewish people were not initially suited to comply with the demanding standards of the Torah finds further expression in the aftermath of the shocking sin of the Golden Calf, which occurred so soon after the national revelation. As is clear from the conversation between God and Moshe which took place immediately after that sin was committed, the people were considered to be thoroughly unworthy of the recently-received Torah. God even suggests to Moshe that He annihilate the entire nation, replacing it with a new chosen people to be drawn from Moshe's own descendants. God’s proposal, though troubling, also imparts a constructive message: an eternal principle that the Torah contains timeless and unchanging truths.

Thus, when the people sinned en masse with the Golden Calf immediately after having received the strong prohibitions against idolatry, there was no suggestion that the Torah be watered down or altered to accommodate their human weaknesses. It was up to the Jewish people to prove themselves capable of living up to the standards required by the Torah: if they were unable to refine themselves, they could be replaced with a new nation comprised solely of Moshe’s descendants — a nation made up of people who could guard God’s eternal Law and live their lives in a way that embodied His immutable truths. That this first generation of Jews, when proven inadequate, faced the prospect of either having to change or be changed teaches a vital lesson for all generations: people cannot expect the Torah to accommodate and be manipulated to suit their personal preferences and sensibilities.

In summary, the deliberate distancing of the gathered nation from Mount Sinai can be seen as emphasising the gulf that existed between the capabilities of the nation leaving Egypt and the Torah’s lofty ideals. This conscious distancing demonstrated in purely physical terms the axiom that the Torah is not a mere expression of the Jewish people’s beliefs and thoughts of that era. The significance of this point is amplified by the fact that, when the Jewish people were subsequently tested by the episode of the Golden Calf, most of them immediately failed. This failure underscored their initial lack of suitability to be the nation of the Torah, a phenomenon which needed to be tackled by improving the suitability of the recipient nation, and not by tailoring the Torah’s immutable rules.

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Somewhere over the Rambam? The peculiarities of rainbows in Jewish thought

Towards the end of last week, in the midst of Israel’s much anticipated rainy season, this image from Bat Yam was a striking ray of beauty in what has been a dark and gloomy horizon for much of the past 16 months. But being a product of the Jewish school system I immediately started to ponder the significance – if any – of this rainbow. And to wonder if my gazing at the picture in front of me even was permitted and appropriate!

The first appearance of a rainbow in the Torah is as a symbolic accompaniment to God’s covenant with Noach, in order to reinforce His commitment that such universal destruction will not be revisited on humanity. Ramban(!) comments on the relevant verse that we are bound to accept the scientific conclusions of the Greeks and that we can therefore be confident that the rainbow is a natural phenomenon which would have appeared many times previous to Noach’s generation. Ramban then notes the past tense presentation of the verse: “My rainbow I have placed in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of a covenant between Me and the Earth” (9:13). The significance, he notes, is that God was designating a pre-existing natural phenomenon as bearing newfound symbolic significance – much the same, writes Rabbi S. R. Hirsch, as the moon would later be imbued with symbolic significance of renewal and freedom immediately prior to the Exodus.

The rainbow’s profound symbolic significance led to a deep dichotomy over how it should be viewed – or whether it may be viewed at all! On the one hand, as with all displays of natural wonder and beauty, the Talmud formulates a blessing to be recited by one who sees it. On the other hand, the Talmud (Chagigah 16a) also records that one should avoid looking at the rainbow altogether, as doing so represents a “lack of concern for one’s Creator’s glory” – the rainbow, it is important to note, is used to describe aspects of the divine chariot in Yechezkel’s Merkavah vision. The Shulchan Aruch attempts to reconcile these two teachings, writing that one may glimpse briefly at a rainbow in order to make the blessing. More sustained gazing, however, is not permitted.

When we move to look at the Rambam’s approach to this question, however, it is striking that he omits any mention of a prohibition to gaze at a rainbow. Commenting on this glaring omission, the notes in the Makbili edition of the Moreh Nevuchim point out that Rambam interprets the rainbow description in the Merkavah vision allegorically to represent the process of prophecy. This being aptly alluded to by a beautiful yet constant projection of light which is perceived differently depending on the eye of the beholder (no two people see a rainbow identically!).

In Rambam’s understanding, therefore, it seems likely that the aggadic injunction against feasting one’s eyes on a rainbow does not pose any contradiction to the Talmudic instruction to recite a blessing over it. Rather it is likely a manifestation of another similarly presented Talmudic caution to be “concerned for the honour of one’s Creator” – in the first Mishnah of Chagigah – which relates to the attempt to explore theological questions that the human mind is incapable of understanding. In this explanation, staring inquisitively and uninhibitedly at the prophetic process represented by the rainbow appears to be the equivalent of the “Nobles of Israel” who “stared at a vision of the God and ate and drank” thus incurring divine wrath.

Given that I never seem to be able to recall the lengthy and cumbersome wording of this blessing, it is fortunate that my recent exposure to the Bat Yam rainbow was limited to an image on my screen. Yet there is an important lesson to be gleaned even from this awkward wording. It emerges from the Talmudic discussion on the topic that this wording is the result of a compromise – a combination of blessings proposed by two different rabbis. At a time when social media posts and discussions frequently and quickly descend into a cesspit of name-calling, finger-pointing and insults, it is important to remind ourselves of the necessary – even if maddeningly difficult – price of compromise and unity, even at the expense of an inconveniently worded utterance. Perhaps this is the most important lesson that the rainbow can come to symbolize.

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"Not by means of an angel, saraf or shaliach ..."

This line, which appears both in the Pesach Haggadah and Sifre to Devarim, appears to be conveying the idea that the smiting of all Egyptian (human and animal) firstborns was performed directly by God himself. Taking a step back and analyzing this idea in the context of Rambam’s teachings on the subjects of angels, miracles and providence, I believe that the midrash may contain a very profound insight.

The nature of biblical miracles and the extent to which the plagues which struck Egypt can be explained as rare and unlikely yet fully natural occurrences is a popular subject of debate in certain circles. Rambam, in the Moreh Nevuchim, seems to cater for both possibilities.

Some fascinating and surprisingly overlooked chapters near the start of the second section of the Moreh describe angels as the agents through which God delegates the overseeing and implementation of His Will in the world. More specifically, each rule of nature – which represents an aspect of the divine will – is guided by a specific angel (“no angel performs more than one task”). As part of his discussion, Rambam introduces the example of God’s destruction of Sodom – which Avraham perceived prophetically to be the work of angels – to show how God’s providential will can be seen to operate through nature.

What is particularly fascinating about the example of Sodom, is that it involves the resolution of a conflict between different aspects of God’s will: the angel dispatched to destroy Sodom needed to co-ordinate with the angel sent to save Lot. Here, writes Rambam (2:7, supported by a teshuva from Sherira Gaon), we find the notion of limited angelic discretion and free will – not as to whether to obey or disobey God’s instruction but rather as to how God’s will should best be implemented.

The angel is clearly unable to overturn Sodom while Lot is still inside as that would be an act of disobedience to the divine will: “Hasten, flee there, for I will not be able to do anything until you arrive there” (Bereishit 19:22).

However, when Lot believes that he is unable to make it all the way to the designated mountain, the angel is authorized to amend the plans and save a small, less wicked town on the outskirts that is within Lot’s range: “I have granted you this matter too not to overturn this city that you have mentioned” (19:21).

Awakening from his prophetic dream, Avraham looks out over the plains of Sodom and sees smoke rising. Lot, as we are about to be told in great detail, has been saved alongside two of his daughters. God’s will has been effectively implemented through the angelic forces of nature – whether by asteroid or another geological phenomenon. Anyone lacking Avraham’s prophetic insight into the providential dynamics at play behind the scene might have considered this to have been a fully natural event.

In contrast with this more regular modus operandi of God’s will being implemented through the angelic agency of nature, the Rambam introduces a separate category both in the second section of the Moreh and in his commentary to Avot. There he interprets a midrash to be teaching that “God made conditions with all that he created during the six days of Creation” so that, on specific historical occasions, part of creation would behave in an abnormal or unnatural way:

“Not only with the sea did God make conditions [that it would split before Israel] but with all that was created in the six days of creation… I commanded the sea to split and the oven not to harm Chananiah, Mishael and Azariah, and the lions that they should not harm Daniel and the fish that it spit out Yonah. And comparisons can be made to other instances”. [2:29]

While Rambam does not comment as to how many of the ten plagues might belong within this category of divine conditions, it would seem that the midrashic teaching included in the Haggadah is making just this very point regarding the killing of the firstborns:

“And God took us out of Egypt”: Not by means of an angel, and not by means of a saraf and not by means of a messenger. Rather the Holy One Blessed be He himself in his glory…as it says “And I passed through the land of Egypt on that night” – I and not an angel…”.

The Haggadah is at pains to point out that this final plague, at the very least, was not performed via the providential format of God’s will being implemented discreetly through the angels of nature. Rather it was God himself who, presumably as understood by Rambam, would have foreseen and integrated such an occurrence during the period of creation of the world.

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