Mishpatim: "Master of Hesed"

 "Master of Hesed"

Thoughts on Parashat Mishpatim 2022

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Rav Hayim Soloveitchik (1853-1918) is widely recognized as one of the greatest Torah minds of the 19^th Century. His unique halakhic methodology and novel Talmudic insights have echoed off the walls of most batei midrash from his time until today. Yaakov Gromer was a student of Rav Hayim, and after learning from him for several years, left to study with Albert Einstein in Berlin. He later compared his two teachers, explaining that although both of them were truly moral people, “Rav Hayim had more kindness in his little finger than Einstein had in all his heart and brain.”[1]

 

I believe that this difference between Rav Hayim and Albert Einstein is owed to the different sources from which they fashioned their respective ways of life.

 

Parashat Mishpatim presents an elaborate list of instructions regarding interpersonal conduct and behavior. It begins:

And these are the rules that you shall set before them… (Shemot 21:1)

Rashi commented that these rules immediately followed Parashat Yitro, which first told of the Ten Commandments at Sinai and then of the missvah to build a mizbe’ah:

What is the case with the former commandments (the Ten Commandments)? They were given at Sinai. So, too, these were given at Sinai. If this is so, why is this section dealing with the “civil laws” placed immediately after that commanding the making of the altar? To tell you that you should seat the Sanhedrin in the vicinity of the Mikdash.[2]

Surprisingly, the rules of Mishpatim were instructed together with the Ten Commandments at Har Sinai, and they will be applied in the future from the holy location of the Mikdash. While the mishpatim are certainly important for building a structured society, are they that important? Couldn’t they just be formulated in future Jewish communities and settlements, wherever they might be? Did they really belong at Har Sinai and in the Mikdash?

 

In a well-known Midrash, the Hakhamim distinguished between “hokhmah – knowledge” and “Torah”. They posited that although non-Jews may attain hokhmah, they can’t naturally discover Torah.[3] Maharal of Prague wrote that while hokhmah represents knowledge “as it is,” Torah is knowledge “as applied.” He explained that the very name “Torah” derives from “hora’ah,” which means instruction. The difference between hokhmah and Torah, then, is the difference between “just knowing” and “knowing and doing.”[4]

 

Coupling the Ten Commandments and mizbe’ah of Parashat Yitro with the many rules of Parashat Mishpatim, we’re exposed to the uniqueness of Torah. We learn that the Torah isn’t merely a system of thought and understanding which draws a straight path through life for us; it’s a programmatic guide to action which keeps us on that path.

 

I remember when I first visited Auschwitz, almost twenty years ago. As the bus I was riding on turned off of the highway, the guide turned on his microphone. He began describing the German society of the 1930’s. “It was the leading society for studying philosophy, applying psychology, and appreciating culture,” he told us, “Germany’s thinkers were the most prominent voices in the field of ethics and morality of that day.” He turned off the microphone to let the thought set in. A minute or two later, he turned it on again, and continued, “Somehow, the very people who first climbed to the upper the rungs of humanity then fell to its bottom, in a very short period of time.” Lowering his voice, he rhetorically asked us, “How could that be?” Those words haunted me for the rest of the trip. “How could that be?” I repeatedly asked myself. “How could people who were so refined in character plunge to the depths of depravity so quickly?”

After much thought, I discovered the answer. It came a day or two later, when we visited the ancient Jewish cemetery of Warsaw. Our guide led us to a small room, tucked away in the corner of the cemetery. There were two huge tombstones lying in the middle of the room. My eyes caught hold of the stone on the right. The name “Hayim ha-Levi Soloveitchik” was emblazoned on its center, in tall and wide letters. I read the epitaph carefully:

“Our great rabbi, rav ha-hesed (master of righteousness), minister of Torah…”

Rav ha-Hesed! I was immediately struck by the contrast to the Germany society I had just learned about. Germany boasted hokhmah. But they never had Torah. Hokhmah stands independent of action. Torah is enmeshed with missvot. A minister of Torah, then, is a master of righteousness – a person who holds a world of kindness even in “his little finger.”

 

Although humanistic thought is important in its own right, it’s severely unstable without the practical applications of mishpatim. Even an intricate system built on ethics and morality can topple without the real-world instructions of Torah.

 

The Torah which God gave us at Sinai coupled the wisdom of hokhmah with the practicality of mishpatim. And the future home of those divine mishpatim was, of course, in the holiest of places – God’s Mikdash.

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[1] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Abraham’s Journey: Reflections on the Life of the Founding Patriarch (New York, NY, 2008), pg. 120-121

[2] Commentary of Rashi to Shemot 21:1, s.v. ve-eleh.

[3] Eikhah Rabah 2:13.

[4] R. Yehudah Loew b. Bessalel, Derashot Maharal: Al ha-Missvot.

Forget About It!

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Read a related devar Torah, from Mishpatim 2020, here.

Parashat Mishpatim: Discovery

Discovery

Thoughts on Parashat Mishpatim 2020

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Ma’amad Har Sinai was a once-in-existence experience of absolute revelation. Parashat Yitro’s detailed description of the sounds and lights of Sinai portrays the profound exposure to Am Yisrael at that time. Parashat Mishpatim’s account of Moshe’s ascension to receive the luhot, in contrast, depicts a scene of vagueness and obscurity. The people’s vision at the time that he departed was blurred by a “consuming fire” engulfed by an effacing cloud (Shemot 23:15-18).

The Hakhamim hinted at the opposite natures which underlay these two events, as well, in their retelling of the stories. Describing the people’s supernatural retention of every detail and particularity of the Torah at the time of its reception at Sinai,[1] the Rabbis contrarily described Moshe’s repeated “forgetting” of the Torah over the course of his forty-day rendezvous atop the mountain en route to receiving the luhot.[2]

While the importance of God’s revelation to an entire nation at Har Sinai is easily understood, His reason for presenting the luhot in the hidden atmosphere of clouds and forgetfulness requires an explanation.

Several years ago, one of my sons returned home from school with an assignment. He needed to interview a parent and record their memories of September 11^th, 2001. I volunteered to be interviewed. Midway through my retelling of what happened on that day in my life, my wife passed by the room. She overheard my recollection and just couldn’t hold back. “I was together with Abba on that day,” she told my son, “and I need to correct a few details in his story.” I, in turn, dismissed her “corrections,” causing my son to look up at the two of us and confusedly ask, “So, which one of you is right?” Laughing at the absurdity of this all-too-typical situation, I explained to him the difference between “history” and “memory.” History must record the absolute and objective facts of an earlier time. Memory, however, is the reflective state of reliving that time as it was then experienced and subsequently understood. “Your assignment is not to research the history of 9/11,” I explained to my son, “but rather to record the memory of one of your parents.” And for that both my wife and I were “right.”

Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi relatedly noticed that the Rabbis of the Talmud were uninterested in recording history. Neglecting an account of post-biblical history, they showed no effort to preserve even that which had taken place in the ages immediately prior to their own. He furthermore noted that the Hakahamim’s retelling of biblical events demonstrates a certain indifference to history, as well, as they “seem to play with Time as though with an accordion, expanding and collapsing it at will.” In the Rabbis’ eyes, Adam instructed his son Shet in the Torah, Shem and Ever established a bet midrash, and the forefathers institute the three daily tefilot. “Classical rabbinic literature was never intended as historiography,” Yerushalmi explained, “Instead they were engrossed in an ongoing exploration of the meaning of the history bequeathed to them, striving to interpret it in living terms for their own and later generations.”[3] The Hakhamim thus turned their focus from retelling the facts of history to articulating its meaning in memory.

Stretching beyond the realm of history and memory, however, blotting out certain objective realities and past precedents from our thoughts may aide our own perception and creativity. Israeli psychologists Daniel Kahaneman and Amos Tversky realized that what people remember about the past is likely to warp their judgment of the future. “We often decide that an outcome is extremely unlikely or impossible because we are unable to imagine any chain of events that would cause it to occur,” they wrote. Kahaneman likewise remarked, regarding the study of memory, “You don’t study memory. You study forgetting.”[4]

The late neurologist Oliver Sacks recalled once rummaging through his old notebooks and finding that many of the thoughts he had recorded in them were forgotten for years, later revived by him and reworked as new. He realized a positive aspect to those “forgettings,” suggesting that “creativity may require such forgettings, in order that one’s memories and ideas can be born again and seen in new contexts and perspectives.” [5] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik z”l would likewise instruct his students to ignore their notes from past classes on the material they were then learning. He was forcing them to creatively engage with the text from an unbiased vantage point, free of any preconceived perspective or thought.[6]

“R. Yohanan said: Initially, Moshe would study Torah and forget it, until it was given to him as a gift” (Nedarim 38a). R. Yehezkel Landau z”l, the great 18^th Century rabbi of Prague, explained the nature of that “gift” of Torah which Moshe received by referencing another statement of the Hakhamim: “Rava says: Initially the Torah is called by the name of the Holy One Blessed be He, but ultimately it is called by the name [of the one who studies it]” (Avodah Zarah 19a). R. Landau thus suggested that the “gift” of Torah bestowed upon Moshe was his ability to claim it “as his own.”[7] In light of our above analysis we might further suggest that Moshe could only acquire the Torah “as his own” by means of approaching it with the wide eyes and open mind of an individual whose previous knowledge and perspective were wiped clean through “forgetting.” It was his fresh and unprejudiced engagement with the Torah that allowed for his heart’s creative capacity to emerge from its dormancy, finding expression in the words of God.

By contrasting Moshe’s mysterious reception of the luhot to the clarity of Ma’amad Har Sinai, the Torah shined light on the ideal engagement with its texts. It taught that its letters and words encompass a potential far greater than any static book of stories and law. The cloudy scene of Matan HaLuhot presented the Torah as an unimagined reality awaiting the creative discovery of all future seekers. It beckoned us to move beyond a mere reading of the Torah, encouraging us instead to dig deep and discover its depth.

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[1] See Commentary of Rashi to Vayikra 25:1, s.v. be-har Sinai, and HaRambam’s Introduction to Commentary on Mishnah.

[2] Nedarim 38a.

[3] Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle, WA, 1996), pg. 16-20.

[4] Michael Lewis, The Undoing Project: A Friendship that Changed Our Minds (New York, NY, 2017), pg. 194-195 and 129.

[5] Oliver Sacks, The River of Consciousness (New York, NY, 2017), pg. 108.

[6] See, e.g., R. Herschel Reichman’s recollection in Mentor of Generations: Reflections on Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Jersey City, NJ, 2008), pg. 206-207.

[7] R. Yehezkel Landau, Siyun LeNefesh Hayah: Berakhot 64a. Note that R. Landau’s particular elaboration differs from our above extension.

Parashat Mishpatim: Na'aseh Ve-Nishma

"Na'aseh Ve-Nishma"

Thoughts on Mishpatim 2019

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And he [Moshe] took the book of the covenant and read it in the hearing of the people, and they said, “All that God has spoken we will do (na’aseh) and we will hear (nishma).” (Shemot 24:7)

The Hakhamim taught that Am Yisrael’s declaration of “na’aseh ve-nishma” (“we will do and we will hear”) was a statement of ideal dedication. Defying the instinct to first hear the commands before committing to their adherence, the nation was then inspired to immediate action. Their ability to utter “na’aseh” before “nishma” was, in the eyes of the Rabbis, an expression of absolute devotion.[1] It was, in a way, reminiscent of Avraham’s adherence to God’s first command of “Go forth (lekh lekha)…to the land I will show you” (Bereshit 12:1), and a forebearer of their future wanderings in the wilderness “by God’s word” (Bemidbar 9:18). The activity in these several situations preceded the full knowledge of the particulars.

The worthiness of this approach is difficult to understand, however, as it seemingly debases each of the respective connections to God. In contrast to the strength of a commitment that is grounded in understanding, an uninformed dedication appears naïve or shallow, at best. What, then, was the “greatness” of na’aseh ve-nishma?

Aristotle wrote that the highest pursuit of intellect was theoria, or thought which is “useless,” as it serves no higher aim other than itself. He wrote: “To seek from all knowledge a result other than itself and to demand that knowledge must be useful is the act of one completely ignorant of the distance that from the start separates things good from things necessary.”[2] Whereas “necessary” knowledge is the thought and ideas that inspire another outcome, “good” knowledge stands independent of consequence.

As the philosopher Hannah Arendt probed the deficiencies of modern man, she noticed “his trust in the all-comprehensive range of the means-end category,” in his belief that “every issue can be solved and every human motivation reduced to the principle of utility.”[3] She realized, in other words, that our thoughts and actions ignore the “good” and focus instead only on the “necessary.”

Indeed, we spend most of our lives in anticipation of “the next stage” and absent from the precious present. As neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky sarcastically commented: “We study hard in high school to get admitted to a top college to get into grad school to get a good job to get into the nursing home of our choice.”[4] Our lives – from the time we grow out of playing games until the day we retire – are burdened by the constant strain of evaluating our actions by the outcomes they produce.

Hannah Arendt wrote: “Action reveals itself fully only to the storyteller, that is to the backward glance of the historian, who indeed always knows better what it was all about than the participants.”[5] And a life steadfastly committed to a connection with God focuses not on a particular “conclusion” to our individual “stories,” but on the experience of that connection itself.

Every moment along Avraham’s journey to that “place of God’s choosing” was imbued with the intrinsic meaning of connection to God. Instead of the “final destination” inspiring his every step, Avraham was driven by the independent meaning of each step. And Am Yisrael’s confident declaration of na’aseh ve-nishma was likewise a commitment to appreciating a connection to God through action. Although they would only perceive the broader meaning of their deeds in hindsight – nishma, they were nonetheless moved by the independent experience of connecting to God through action – na’aseh.

Na’aseh ve-nishma must remain an ambition for us on our own journeys through life. It is the call to divert our attention from the potential “outcomes” of a life of Torah and focus instead on the experience itself.

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[1] See, e.g., Shabbat 88a.

[2] Aristotle, Aristotle’s Protrepticus, sec. B41. Cited by Jennifer Summit and Blakey Vermeule, in Action Versus Contemplation: Why an Ancient Debate Still Matters (Chicago, IL, 2018), pg. 66.

[3] Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition 2^nd ed. (Chicago, IL, 1998), pg. 305.

[4] Robert Sapolsky, “This Is Your Brain on Metaphors,” New York Times “Opinionator” blog, Nov. 14,2010. <https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/this-is-your-brain-on-metaphors/>

[5] Arendt, pg. 192.

Parashat Mishpatim: "Seeing God" and Covenant

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Parashat Mishpatim: Relationship

Relationship

A Message for Parashat Mishpatim 2018

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Following an elaborate list of laws in Parashat Mishpatim, God informed Am Yisrael of His future plans. He told them:

Look, I am about to send a messenger before you to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I made ready. Watch yourself with him and heed his voice, do not defy him, for he will not pardon your trespass, for My name is within Him… (Shemot 23:20-21)

The Hakhamim sensed a negative motivation in this change. They noticed an implied shift from God’s direct leadership of the nation to the guidance of a “messenger,” or “angel,” in his place.[1] What was the cause of this change? Am Yisrael seemed dedicated to missvot ha-Torah with their famous exclamation that, “Everything that God has spoken we shall do” (19:8). And that impressive response was mentioned again at the end of Parashat Mishpatim (24:7). What, then, caused the rift in their relationship with God?

In the days and hours leading up to Matan Torah, God repeatedly commanded Moshe to caution the people from stepping onto Har Sinai. Fearing that the awe-inspiring experience would drive them to trespass the boundaries of the mountain, God time and again warned of its potentially fatal consequences. As the ceremony progressed, the people obediently listened to the Ten Commandments, but their reaction was entirely different than expected:

And all the people were seeing the thunder and the flashes and the sound of the shofar and the mountain in smoke, and the people saw and they drew back and stood at a distance. And they said to Moshe, “Speak you with us that we may hear, and let not God speak with us lest we die.” (20:18-19)

Contrary to the fear that they might race forward in an attempt to “cling” to God, the people instead turned away from the mountain in fear! They readily accepted God’s laws, but hastily dismissed the potential of a relationship.

I am reminded in this context of an anecdote regarding R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik z”l. At the onset of a summer several decades ago, R. Soloveitchik decided to break from his regular schedule of strict Talmudic instruction, to introduce his students to the world of Hasidic thought and philosophy. He began teaching Likutei Torah, a compilation of Hasidic treatises by the first Habad Rebbe, R. Shneur Zalman of Liadi. Shortly after beginning, however, R. Soloveitchik unexpectedly cancelled the classes. Asked why he had changed his plans, the rabbi explained that he had sensed his students’ disinterest in the material. He sadly remarked, “They are only interested in the contents of my mind, but not of those in my heart.”[2]

On another occasion, R. Soloveitchik bemoaned the delinquent “shomrei Shabbat of America.” He explained:

There are Shabbat-observing Jews in America, but there are not “eve-of-the-Shabbat” Jews who go out to greet the Shabbat with beating hearts and pulsating souls. There are many who observe the precepts with their hands, with their feet, and/or with their mouths – but there are few, indeed, who truly know the meaning of service of the heart![3]

Reading in between the lines of the Torah, I sense a similar reality regarding Am Yisrael’s spiritual state at Ma’amad Har Sinai. The people excitedly accepted the missvot ha-Torah with a definitive declaration of “We shall do!” And although they were in fact committed with their minds and bodies to the words of God, they lacked the passion and commitment of their heart. Fearing a deeper connection to God, they instead turned to Moshe for guidance and instruction.

God’s decision to send a messenger in His place, then, matched the people’s approach. Instead of seeking out a relationship with Him, Am Yisrael simply wanted a competent messenger to relay His laws. And that was exactly what they got.

The positioning of God’s messenger in relation to the nation is reminiscent of an earlier occurrence, which took place directly prior to crossing Yam Suf:

And the messenger of God that was going before the camp of Yisrael moved and went behind them, and the pillar of cloud moved from before them and stood behind them. (14:19)

In contrast to the previous accompaniment “from behind” the people, however, the messenger had now shifted to “the front” of their march. I believe that this change was similarly motivated by the deficient spiritual state of Am Yisrael at that time. Consider, for example, the Hakhamim’s well-known contrast of Noah to Avraham:

“Noah walked with God” (Bereshit 6:9). And regarding Avraham it says, “Walk before Me” (Bereshit 17:1). Noah needed support to bear him up, but Abraham would strengthen himself and walk in his righteousness.[4]

By contrasting these two figures to each other, the Hakhamim highlighted Noah’s failure to independently locate and act upon his admirable traits. They realized that his inability to “walk before God” indicated a deficient relationship with Him. Am Yisrael’s spiritual status at the time of Matan Torah resembled that of Noah. Although they were committed to God in thought and action, they lacked the depth of an emotional relationship. Realizing that the people were not yet prepared to “walk in front of Him,” God sent a law-teaching messenger “before them.”

Our own exclamations of “Everything that God has spoken we shall do,” is commendable. It represents our commitment to His word and commands. We must be cautious, however, to understand it as a mere stride on the journey. It begins our walk “behind His messenger,” but must proceed to the march “in front of Him.” Our commitment to God through thought and action are not a means in themselves, but rather the stepping stone into a relationship with Him that is bonded by our hearts.

If a man studies Torah in order to know, to feel, to live – then for him Torah study is not simply an intellectual accomplishment, but a many-faceted undertaking, rich in spiritual and psychological meanings.

(R. Joseph B. Solovetichik)[5]

Shabbat shalom!

Rabbi Avi Harari

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[1] Commentary of Rashi to Shemot 23:20 s.v. hineh.

[2] As related by R. Herschel Schachter, Nefesh HaRav (Brooklyn, NY, 1994), pg. 39 fn. 5.

[3] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, On Repentance (New Milford, CT, 2017), pg. 32 fn. 1.

[4] Commentary of Rashi to Bereshit 6:9 s.v. et.

[5] On Repentance, pg. 76.

Parashat Mishpatim: Boundaries

Boundaries

A Message for Parashat Mishpatim 2017

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Parashat Yitro presented Ma’amad Har Sinai as a scene of illuminated clarity:

 All of Har Sinai was smoking, because God had descended upon it in the fire (19:18).

And all the people were seeing the thunder and the flashes and the sound of the ram’s horn and the mountain in smoke (20:15).

The Har Sinai of Parashat Mishpatim was markedly different:

And Moshe went up, and the cloud covered the mountain. And God’s glory abode on Har Sinai, and the cloud covered it six days. And on the sixth day He called out to Moshe from the midst of the cloud…And Moshe entered within the cloud and went up the mountain. (24:15-18)

In stark contrast to the previous display of a radiant fire, clouds now obstructed a clear vision of the mountain. Indeed, it was the pillar of cloud that had once before served as a blinding veil, shielding Am Yisrael from the Egyptians upon the exodus from Egypt (14:19). This time it was Am Yisrael who could not see clearly.

From the specific descriptions of Har Sinai at these two different points of time emerge two sight-specific experiences that were practically opposite in nature.

Whereas the “fire-consumed” Har Sinai of Parashat Yitro served the purpose of clarity, the “cloud-covered” mountain of Parashat Mishpatim established the necessary boundaries between Am Yisrael and God. The described “elect of Yisrael,” who were barely spared punishment at that time, fittingly sinned by means of an optical transgression: But against the elect of Yisrael He did not send forth His hand, and they looked at God and ate and drank (24:12). Failing to appropriately set limits for themselves, these individuals overstepped their designated boundaries.[1] God’s unprecedented revelation to the people brought with it a simultaneous call for hesitancy and caution.

I believe that God had actually already begun to hint at the importance of an appropriate distance when he spoke at Har Sinai. In contrast to His initial encounter with Moshe – when He denied a revelation of His name (3:14), God then introduced Himself by means of his personal name: I am YHVH your God, Who freed you from the land of Egypt (20:2). Michael Wyschogrod underscored the significance of this revelation:

The God of Israel is not just a Thou. The God of Israel has a proper name. There is no fact in Jewish theology more significant than this.[2]

Several statements later, however, God issued a strict warning regarding an over-familiarity with His name: “You shall not take up (tisa) the name of Hashem your God in vain.” Leon Kass noted the verb “take up” in this instance, explaining that by treating anyone’s name as something that can be “taken up” is to take him up, as if by his handle. He further explained:

Like making images of the divine, trafficking in the divine name evinces a presumption of familiarity and knowledge. To handle the name of the Lord risks treating Him as a finite thing known through and through. Even if uttered in innocence, the use of the Lord’s name invites the all-too-human error that attends all acts of naming: the belief that one thereby knows the essence.[3]

God, then, set forth a delicate message to the people at Har Sinai. He urged them to come forth and learn His name – but do so with caution.

In The Art Of Loving, Erich Fromm described a common misconception regarding love. We tend to idealize “symbiotic love,” and desire a fusion with another wherein we know them as deeply as we know ourselves. Fromm explained that mature love of both man and God is instead achieved through the retention of the individual self, in the paradoxical state of both “belonging” and “not belonging” to the union.[4] The contrast between the “revealed fire” and “concealed cloud” scenes at Har Sinai remind us of the sensitive balance inherent in a healthy relationship. Mature love is only achieved together along the guidelines of appropriate limits and boundaries.

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[1] See Moreh Nevukhim 1:5.

[2] Michael Wyschogrod, The Body of Faith (Plymouth, UK, 1996), pg. 91.

[3] Leon Kass, “The Ten Commandments: Why the Decalogue Matters,” Mosaic Magazine, June 1, 2013. Available at: https://mosaicmagazine.com/essay/2013/06/the-ten-commandments.

[4] Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving (New York, 2006). See specifically pg. 67-72.

Parashat Mishpatim: Future Leadership

Listen to last night's class, "Future Leadership," here. Follow along with the sources here.