In a recent post, I commented, "These days I find myself much less interested in the question of why Gd created this world, and much more interested in the question of what we can do with it."
I want to explain this a bit, because it could be read as glib, and even patronizing to those who do wonder about these matters. That's not at all where I was going with it. [I was also not claiming to channel Rav Soloveitchik's distinction between those two questions; that's a discussion for another time.]
I am not suggesting that one question is more worthwhile than the other, or that I have progressed to some point which others have not yet achieved. Just the opposite; I'm not sure that I'm okay with this change in myself. I might prefer to be otherwise.
But to the person I am today, the questions of "Why did Gd do X" and "Would Gd do X" have no practical meaning. I might as well ask whether Gd can make a rock He can't lift – the answers are irrelevant in the real world.
Let's pretend that I asked, "Would Gd, as understood traditionally in Judaism, create someone with a deeply homosexual nature and prohibit him from fulfilling them?" and the answer was "No." What would I do then?
Would I stop believing in the traditional Jewish version of Gd, since there are people who claim to have been created with a deeply homosexual nature? Would I abandon Torah? Of course not.
Would I respond differently to people who say they have been created with a deeply homosexual nature? Very unlikely.
It's like asking, "Why does Gd allow good people to suffer?" There are numerous answers, of course, and they offer varying degrees of satisfaction. But none of them affect what I do, in practice.
If I'm not willing to change my ways due to the answer, the question doesn't matter much to me.
On one level I wonder if this is part of the narrowing that comes to many people with age. Pathways of thought can become more rigid with time, certainly. But I don't think that's what it is; I think it's a function of my shift from rabbinate to rosh kollelate.
Since leaving the pulpit, I have narrowed in certain predictable, often very regrettable ways. One way is that my sphere of interactions is reduced; I don't have many opportunities for deep philosophical discussions, between shiurim and chavrusos and shiur preparation. There is little time, if any, for random conversations. As a result, I don’t spend much time thinking about the Why of suffering, and my interest in them has waned in comparison with my interest in questions about the What Now of suffering.
It's not better or worse, regress or progress. It just is.
Showing posts with label Judaism: Theodicy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judaism: Theodicy. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Really, King David?
[I found this interesting advice for a Rosh Kollel, at Life in Israel, interesting]
A couple of weeks ago, during a shiur, I was asked how King David could have said, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned.” (Tehillim 37:25) It's a question I hear frequently; here are three approaches:
1. Radak seems to have been troubled by this question; he appended the word “entirely” to the sentence, in his commentary. In other words, King David meant that Gd doesn't entirely abandon a person - even if it seems that way.
2. Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, in his book, To Heal a Fractured World, offers another explanation:
“There is, however, a magnificent interpretation attributed to the late Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik of blessed memory. He argued that the verb in the verse, raiti, "seen", should be understood as having the same meaning as it has in Esther 8:6... She says: "How can I see [raiti] disaster fall on my people? How can I see [raiti] the destruction of my kindred?" Here the verb means not simply to see but rather: to watch, to be a passive witness, to be a bystander.
“In this sense, said Rabbi Soloveitchik, the verse in Psalms should be read as: "When a righteous person was being forsaken or his children begging for bread, I never merely stood and watched." Understood thus, it has a similar meaning to the command (Vayyikra 19: 16), "Do not stand still when your neighbour’s life is in danger". As the Holocaust historian Yehudah Bauer put it: Thou shalt not be a bystander.
“Understood thus, the placing of the verse at the end of Birkat ha-mazon is beautifully symmetrical. Grace after meals begins by thanking G-d who feeds the hungry. It ends by urging us to do likewise. Having eaten and been satisfied and having blessed G-d, we now remind ourselves of those who do not have the blessing we have just enjoyed, who lack food - the righteous who are forsaken and the children forced to beg for bread. We commit ourselves, in King David’s words, not to stand silently and watch, but to act and bring them help. For we may not rest satisfied while others go hungry. We must heed their cry, as G-d heeds ours.“
3. To the words of Radak and Rabbi Sacks, I would add one more note: The book of Tehillim is neither a work of history nor a collection of prophecies. Rather, Tehillim is an archive of prayers.
Tehillim is King David’s monument to Faith, a record of his relationship with his Creator throughout the epic struggles of the most embattled figure in all of Jewish Scripture. From family strife to national upheaval to international conflict, from punishment and rejection and distance from Gd to cycles of sin and repentance and love and longing for the Divine, from public humiliation to the vision of a triumphant Temple built, King David expressed in words the extremes of human emotion he experienced through the numerous religious apices and nadirs of his seventy years of life.
Through that lens, the words, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned,” may be more prayer than assertion. The king who had known dire circumstances—poverty, flight, life as a fugitive before King Shaul in the land of his foes, a son Avshalom who attempted to kill him in pursuit of his throne, another son Adoniyahu who staged a feast while his father lay on his deathbed in an attempt to claim the throne for himself—pledged fealty to Gd, saying, “Despite all of the suffering I have seen and experienced, I have faith that You would never truly abandon the righteous.”
We invoke this prayer at the close of our Birkat haMazon, as part of our own assertion of faith. “The man who trusts in Gd is blessed, for I believe Gd will not abandon a righteous person, or his descendants. Gd will give strength to His nation, and He will send them shalom.” This is King David’s prayer, and ours as well.
What is your answer to the question?
A couple of weeks ago, during a shiur, I was asked how King David could have said, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned.” (Tehillim 37:25) It's a question I hear frequently; here are three approaches:
1. Radak seems to have been troubled by this question; he appended the word “entirely” to the sentence, in his commentary. In other words, King David meant that Gd doesn't entirely abandon a person - even if it seems that way.
2. Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, in his book, To Heal a Fractured World, offers another explanation:
“There is, however, a magnificent interpretation attributed to the late Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik of blessed memory. He argued that the verb in the verse, raiti, "seen", should be understood as having the same meaning as it has in Esther 8:6... She says: "How can I see [raiti] disaster fall on my people? How can I see [raiti] the destruction of my kindred?" Here the verb means not simply to see but rather: to watch, to be a passive witness, to be a bystander.
“In this sense, said Rabbi Soloveitchik, the verse in Psalms should be read as: "When a righteous person was being forsaken or his children begging for bread, I never merely stood and watched." Understood thus, it has a similar meaning to the command (Vayyikra 19: 16), "Do not stand still when your neighbour’s life is in danger". As the Holocaust historian Yehudah Bauer put it: Thou shalt not be a bystander.
“Understood thus, the placing of the verse at the end of Birkat ha-mazon is beautifully symmetrical. Grace after meals begins by thanking G-d who feeds the hungry. It ends by urging us to do likewise. Having eaten and been satisfied and having blessed G-d, we now remind ourselves of those who do not have the blessing we have just enjoyed, who lack food - the righteous who are forsaken and the children forced to beg for bread. We commit ourselves, in King David’s words, not to stand silently and watch, but to act and bring them help. For we may not rest satisfied while others go hungry. We must heed their cry, as G-d heeds ours.“
3. To the words of Radak and Rabbi Sacks, I would add one more note: The book of Tehillim is neither a work of history nor a collection of prophecies. Rather, Tehillim is an archive of prayers.
Tehillim is King David’s monument to Faith, a record of his relationship with his Creator throughout the epic struggles of the most embattled figure in all of Jewish Scripture. From family strife to national upheaval to international conflict, from punishment and rejection and distance from Gd to cycles of sin and repentance and love and longing for the Divine, from public humiliation to the vision of a triumphant Temple built, King David expressed in words the extremes of human emotion he experienced through the numerous religious apices and nadirs of his seventy years of life.
Through that lens, the words, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned,” may be more prayer than assertion. The king who had known dire circumstances—poverty, flight, life as a fugitive before King Shaul in the land of his foes, a son Avshalom who attempted to kill him in pursuit of his throne, another son Adoniyahu who staged a feast while his father lay on his deathbed in an attempt to claim the throne for himself—pledged fealty to Gd, saying, “Despite all of the suffering I have seen and experienced, I have faith that You would never truly abandon the righteous.”
We invoke this prayer at the close of our Birkat haMazon, as part of our own assertion of faith. “The man who trusts in Gd is blessed, for I believe Gd will not abandon a righteous person, or his descendants. Gd will give strength to His nation, and He will send them shalom.” This is King David’s prayer, and ours as well.
What is your answer to the question?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Science and Religion and Explaining the Holocaust
From time to time I attend a funeral at which the officiant begins by quoting these lines from Ben Sira: “Seek not to understand what is too difficult for you, search not for what is hidden from you, be not over-occupied with what is beyond you, for you have been shown more than you can understand.”
I always wonder how secular people take that sentiment, which strikes me as so offensive to the modern ear. “That which is too difficult for me?” “More than you can understand?” What happened to modern science, to exploration, to the idea that mystery is only that which I have yet to comprehend?*
But it’s certainly a Jewish perspective. See the mishnah in Chagigah (2:1), that one should not investigate certain matters related to Gd. See the innumerable Jewish sources delineating the ways in which a human being cannot comprehend the infinite.
I believe that this issue of a defined limit to human comprehension is one of the major points that separate Science and Religion within Judaism. Much about them is reconcilable, but this point, I think, is simply one of disagreement.
The scientific approach takes as axiomatic that given enough data, I will be able to reach an accurate conclusion. New tools/formulae may be required for data acquisition as well as analysis, but those, too, are within my grasp.
The religious approach of Jewish tradition, on the other hand, takes as a given that intellect is not the sole actor on the stage of exploration; other forces define/shape/limit my comprehension. These may include my spiritual character, the alienness of the subject matter, or some deus ex machina intervening to put a halt to my understanding, but there are non-neural factors which affect my ability to absorb and analyze.
This is on my mind because last night, while packing up some old tapes, I found a recording of a parshah class Rav Aharon Soloveitchik taught at Yeshiva University in the late ‘80s. I think it was Fall of 1989, because I was in my Junior year in high school, and the parshah under discussion was Ki Tavo.
One day I’ll have to blog about those classes, and the impact they had on me. I was looking for direction, and even though I only attended a handful of those shiurim, and I can’t say I grasped everything being said, they were still a key experience. But enough about that for now.
Rav Ahron discussed the problem of reward and punishment, and Divine oversight and theodicy. In the course of addressing various questions, he came to the Holocaust, and he said:
Because if one tries to explain the Holocaust, he will be nichshal [stumble] in one of two things. If he will try to explain the Holocaust under the secular perspective he will be nichshal in blasphemy. And if he will try to explain from a religious perspective, and point a finger at certain people, why the Holocaust took place, then he will speak stupidity and gasus haruach [arrogance].
[Speak might actually have been spout – it’s hard to tell on the recording, and my mental recollection is spout.]
From a scientific perspective, this answer is entirely unacceptable. I have data about Gd, I should be able to determine how Gd could permit the Holocaust. But from the religious perspective of Jewish tradition, Rav Aharon’s answer makes perfect sense – there is, indeed, a non-intellectual limit on what I will ever comprehend, so that none of my answers, from any approach, will ever be accurate.
One could, of course, try to harmonize the Science and Religion approaches. One could claim that what Religion calls the limit on comprehension, Science calls a lack of data – we cannot understand Gd because we lack the tools to collect the relevant data.
But I don’t believe that this is what Religion is saying; Religion, in Jewish tradition, states definitively that human beings will never possess the tools to collect the data. We will simply live in philosophical limbo, trying to contend with our world while avoiding blasphemy, stupidity and arrogance.
[*The use of Ben Sira is all the more remarkable to me because non-Orthodox officiants are the ones who cite this passage. Ben Sira is not generally considered to be in the Orthodox liturgical canon, his presence in the Talmud notwithstanding.]
I always wonder how secular people take that sentiment, which strikes me as so offensive to the modern ear. “That which is too difficult for me?” “More than you can understand?” What happened to modern science, to exploration, to the idea that mystery is only that which I have yet to comprehend?*
But it’s certainly a Jewish perspective. See the mishnah in Chagigah (2:1), that one should not investigate certain matters related to Gd. See the innumerable Jewish sources delineating the ways in which a human being cannot comprehend the infinite.
I believe that this issue of a defined limit to human comprehension is one of the major points that separate Science and Religion within Judaism. Much about them is reconcilable, but this point, I think, is simply one of disagreement.
The scientific approach takes as axiomatic that given enough data, I will be able to reach an accurate conclusion. New tools/formulae may be required for data acquisition as well as analysis, but those, too, are within my grasp.
The religious approach of Jewish tradition, on the other hand, takes as a given that intellect is not the sole actor on the stage of exploration; other forces define/shape/limit my comprehension. These may include my spiritual character, the alienness of the subject matter, or some deus ex machina intervening to put a halt to my understanding, but there are non-neural factors which affect my ability to absorb and analyze.
This is on my mind because last night, while packing up some old tapes, I found a recording of a parshah class Rav Aharon Soloveitchik taught at Yeshiva University in the late ‘80s. I think it was Fall of 1989, because I was in my Junior year in high school, and the parshah under discussion was Ki Tavo.
One day I’ll have to blog about those classes, and the impact they had on me. I was looking for direction, and even though I only attended a handful of those shiurim, and I can’t say I grasped everything being said, they were still a key experience. But enough about that for now.
Rav Ahron discussed the problem of reward and punishment, and Divine oversight and theodicy. In the course of addressing various questions, he came to the Holocaust, and he said:
Because if one tries to explain the Holocaust, he will be nichshal [stumble] in one of two things. If he will try to explain the Holocaust under the secular perspective he will be nichshal in blasphemy. And if he will try to explain from a religious perspective, and point a finger at certain people, why the Holocaust took place, then he will speak stupidity and gasus haruach [arrogance].
[Speak might actually have been spout – it’s hard to tell on the recording, and my mental recollection is spout.]
From a scientific perspective, this answer is entirely unacceptable. I have data about Gd, I should be able to determine how Gd could permit the Holocaust. But from the religious perspective of Jewish tradition, Rav Aharon’s answer makes perfect sense – there is, indeed, a non-intellectual limit on what I will ever comprehend, so that none of my answers, from any approach, will ever be accurate.
One could, of course, try to harmonize the Science and Religion approaches. One could claim that what Religion calls the limit on comprehension, Science calls a lack of data – we cannot understand Gd because we lack the tools to collect the relevant data.
But I don’t believe that this is what Religion is saying; Religion, in Jewish tradition, states definitively that human beings will never possess the tools to collect the data. We will simply live in philosophical limbo, trying to contend with our world while avoiding blasphemy, stupidity and arrogance.
[*The use of Ben Sira is all the more remarkable to me because non-Orthodox officiants are the ones who cite this passage. Ben Sira is not generally considered to be in the Orthodox liturgical canon, his presence in the Talmud notwithstanding.]
Friday, November 28, 2008
Rivkah, Mumbai, and Us: Why me? (Derashah Toldot 5769)
Even in India;
Even in the middle of what is fundamentally a war between Muslim and Hindu;
Even when the terrorists, Deccan Mujahideen or Indian Mujahideen, make demands not about Palestine and imprisoned Hamas terrorists but about Kashmir and about Muslim prisoners in Indian jails;
the death toll still includes Jews, in a Jewish center, targeted months in advance because they are Jews.
Rivka’s anguished cry, from the beginning of this week’s parshah, is echoed in our mouths, generations later: אם כן, למה זה אנכי? If this is the way it is to be, Gd, then why me?
Rivkah, plucked from her home in Aram, is childless with her husband Yitzchak for twenty years. She pleads with Gd for a child; ויעתר is the verb the Torah uses for her prayer, a term which literally means, “she turned with a pitchfork.” She twisted and turned in her angst. And then Gd responded and she conceived - but she felt great pain in the pregnancy.
The pain drove Rivkah not to a medical healer, but to Gd, because she took her infertility and then her difficult pregnancy as a definitive sign from Gd: You are not worthy. She cried out, אם כן למה זה אנכי, "Then why did You pick me?! I’m not like Avraham and Sarah, who came to you themselves. I’m not like Yitzchak, who was born into this. Maybe I’m not worthy, because I’m not great. Maybe it’s because of my parents, my brother Lavan, who are not worthy. But You Picked Me, Gd - so why are You putting me through this?"
And this has been the cry of Jews since time immemorial. Under the lash and boot of Egyptians and Assyrians and Babylonians, crushed by Greek and Persian and Roman and Byzantine, murdered by Christian and Muslim and atheist, the Jew has cried out, למה זה אנכי, Why me? בכל דוד עומדים עלינו לכלותנו, in every generation they rise up against us, to kill us. Why me?
And there is an answer as well, a Divine response which lacks the sheer force of Rivkah’s protest, but which nonetheless speaks to her and to us with a Divine logic borne out by the evidence of our history, generation by generation.
Gd tells Rivkah, שני גויים בבטנך, there are two nations in your womb. Two nations are going to emerge and separate, and one is going to be greater than the other, and the elder will serve the younger. This is going to be a problem, to say the least - how will the right one survive? How will the right one receive the blessings he is supposed to be receive?
You, Rivkah, were picked with a definite plan in mind. You learned how to deal with cunning when you grew up with Lavan, you displayed your great heart when you helped Eliezer at the well, and you demonstrated your strength when you overrode your family and agreed to come to Canaan with Eliezer. You, Rivkah, have the ability to deal with these two children, you have the heart to embrace an Esav, the strength to promote Yaakov over him, and the cunning to make it happen.
Why you? Because you are uniquely suited to the task.
This is the answer for the Jew across the generations, as well. It is you because you have the stubborn courage to refuse to die or assimilate. More, it is you because you have the wits and guts to flourish despite every attempt to subdue you.
The “lachrymose theory of Jewish history,” as Salo Baron labelled it, fails to do justice to the story of our generations. Yes, there were Romans who destroyed the Beis haMikdash, but there were also Yavneh and Tzippori as well as exiled communities which survived and thrived. Yes, there were Crusades, but there were also Jewish communities in France and Germany and points east and south which survived and thrived. Yes, there were Inquisition and Expulsion, but there were also Jewish communities in Tzfat and Turkey and Holland and Brazil which survived and thrived. And yes, there was a Holocaust, but there were also Jewish communities in Israel and America which survived and thrived.
For every moment when we have cried out, למה זה אנכי, Why me, the answer has been, Because you can.
This is not a comforting answer; it does not explain why anyone must suffer, it does not explain the inhumanity of humanity, it does not explain why Gd watches without bringing a halt to the bloodshed - but Rivkah is not someone who seeks comfort. Rivkah helped Eliezer at the well not for the sake of riches or reward, but because she knew it to be the right thing to do. Rivkah left her family homeland without a comforting Divine promise. Rivkah calculatingly deprived her elder son of his blessing, knowing all along the pain it would bring him. Rivkah is not concerned with comfort; she only wants to know that there is a plan, that there is a למה, a reason why. It is this reason Why, that HaShem provides for Rivkah, and for us.
At the end of our Haftorah, Malachi speaks of two others who were “chosen” for special missions - Aharon and Pinchas. Both of them had reason to ask למה זה אנכי, Why Me. Aharon lost two sons. Pinchas suffered attacks and alienation for his lineage and for his actions in killing Zimri. But each of them had a unique mission, Aharon to be Moshe’s prophet and to be the prototypical Kohen, and Pinchas to lead, across generations, with fire and strength - and HaShem said of them, “Because they fulfilled My mission, בריתי היתה אתו, החיים והשלום,” “My covenant is with them - for life and for peace.”
May the victims in Mumbai, and all of us as well, come to know that covenant of life and peace as well.
-
Notes:
1. This was the best I could do to address the topic today; I hope it will help someone deal with it. Thanks to Rabbi Yonah Gross of Phoenix for catalyzing the idea.
2. It is popular to translate Rivkah's question as, "Why do I have to suffer?" but that reads in the word "to suffer," which is not in the sentence. For more on this go here. Clearly, this version of the question better fits the Divine reply.
3. Ibn Ezra (Malachi 2:6) says that Malachi 2:5-2:7 refer to Aharon and Pinchas.
4. I love Salo Baron's view of the "lachrymose theory of Jewish history." I can't stand Jewish education which focuses on how much we have suffered; far better to talk about how much we have built, despite our enemies!
Even in the middle of what is fundamentally a war between Muslim and Hindu;
Even when the terrorists, Deccan Mujahideen or Indian Mujahideen, make demands not about Palestine and imprisoned Hamas terrorists but about Kashmir and about Muslim prisoners in Indian jails;
the death toll still includes Jews, in a Jewish center, targeted months in advance because they are Jews.
Rivka’s anguished cry, from the beginning of this week’s parshah, is echoed in our mouths, generations later: אם כן, למה זה אנכי? If this is the way it is to be, Gd, then why me?
Rivkah, plucked from her home in Aram, is childless with her husband Yitzchak for twenty years. She pleads with Gd for a child; ויעתר is the verb the Torah uses for her prayer, a term which literally means, “she turned with a pitchfork.” She twisted and turned in her angst. And then Gd responded and she conceived - but she felt great pain in the pregnancy.
The pain drove Rivkah not to a medical healer, but to Gd, because she took her infertility and then her difficult pregnancy as a definitive sign from Gd: You are not worthy. She cried out, אם כן למה זה אנכי, "Then why did You pick me?! I’m not like Avraham and Sarah, who came to you themselves. I’m not like Yitzchak, who was born into this. Maybe I’m not worthy, because I’m not great. Maybe it’s because of my parents, my brother Lavan, who are not worthy. But You Picked Me, Gd - so why are You putting me through this?"
And this has been the cry of Jews since time immemorial. Under the lash and boot of Egyptians and Assyrians and Babylonians, crushed by Greek and Persian and Roman and Byzantine, murdered by Christian and Muslim and atheist, the Jew has cried out, למה זה אנכי, Why me? בכל דוד עומדים עלינו לכלותנו, in every generation they rise up against us, to kill us. Why me?
And there is an answer as well, a Divine response which lacks the sheer force of Rivkah’s protest, but which nonetheless speaks to her and to us with a Divine logic borne out by the evidence of our history, generation by generation.
Gd tells Rivkah, שני גויים בבטנך, there are two nations in your womb. Two nations are going to emerge and separate, and one is going to be greater than the other, and the elder will serve the younger. This is going to be a problem, to say the least - how will the right one survive? How will the right one receive the blessings he is supposed to be receive?
You, Rivkah, were picked with a definite plan in mind. You learned how to deal with cunning when you grew up with Lavan, you displayed your great heart when you helped Eliezer at the well, and you demonstrated your strength when you overrode your family and agreed to come to Canaan with Eliezer. You, Rivkah, have the ability to deal with these two children, you have the heart to embrace an Esav, the strength to promote Yaakov over him, and the cunning to make it happen.
Why you? Because you are uniquely suited to the task.
This is the answer for the Jew across the generations, as well. It is you because you have the stubborn courage to refuse to die or assimilate. More, it is you because you have the wits and guts to flourish despite every attempt to subdue you.
The “lachrymose theory of Jewish history,” as Salo Baron labelled it, fails to do justice to the story of our generations. Yes, there were Romans who destroyed the Beis haMikdash, but there were also Yavneh and Tzippori as well as exiled communities which survived and thrived. Yes, there were Crusades, but there were also Jewish communities in France and Germany and points east and south which survived and thrived. Yes, there were Inquisition and Expulsion, but there were also Jewish communities in Tzfat and Turkey and Holland and Brazil which survived and thrived. And yes, there was a Holocaust, but there were also Jewish communities in Israel and America which survived and thrived.
For every moment when we have cried out, למה זה אנכי, Why me, the answer has been, Because you can.
This is not a comforting answer; it does not explain why anyone must suffer, it does not explain the inhumanity of humanity, it does not explain why Gd watches without bringing a halt to the bloodshed - but Rivkah is not someone who seeks comfort. Rivkah helped Eliezer at the well not for the sake of riches or reward, but because she knew it to be the right thing to do. Rivkah left her family homeland without a comforting Divine promise. Rivkah calculatingly deprived her elder son of his blessing, knowing all along the pain it would bring him. Rivkah is not concerned with comfort; she only wants to know that there is a plan, that there is a למה, a reason why. It is this reason Why, that HaShem provides for Rivkah, and for us.
At the end of our Haftorah, Malachi speaks of two others who were “chosen” for special missions - Aharon and Pinchas. Both of them had reason to ask למה זה אנכי, Why Me. Aharon lost two sons. Pinchas suffered attacks and alienation for his lineage and for his actions in killing Zimri. But each of them had a unique mission, Aharon to be Moshe’s prophet and to be the prototypical Kohen, and Pinchas to lead, across generations, with fire and strength - and HaShem said of them, “Because they fulfilled My mission, בריתי היתה אתו, החיים והשלום,” “My covenant is with them - for life and for peace.”
May the victims in Mumbai, and all of us as well, come to know that covenant of life and peace as well.
-
Notes:
1. This was the best I could do to address the topic today; I hope it will help someone deal with it. Thanks to Rabbi Yonah Gross of Phoenix for catalyzing the idea.
2. It is popular to translate Rivkah's question as, "Why do I have to suffer?" but that reads in the word "to suffer," which is not in the sentence. For more on this go here. Clearly, this version of the question better fits the Divine reply.
3. Ibn Ezra (Malachi 2:6) says that Malachi 2:5-2:7 refer to Aharon and Pinchas.
4. I love Salo Baron's view of the "lachrymose theory of Jewish history." I can't stand Jewish education which focuses on how much we have suffered; far better to talk about how much we have built, despite our enemies!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Daf: Gittin 56b-57b – Titus, Divine muteness, Onkelos, Eretz Tzvi, Suicide in Judaism
We continue the “Tisha b’Av” gemara regarding the destruction of the Beit haMikdash and the fall of Beitar. For those who are looking for something other than Daf Yomi notes, feel free to skip down for an article on surviving the 120-year death sentence.
Gittin 56b
Titus slashes the parochet curtain before the Ark, and sees blood emerge; he believes that this shows he has done something to Gd. The Maharam Shif suggests that the blood may have been from the sprinklings of the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur, but this is problematic. As Maharam Shif notes, the sprinklings were toward the curtain rather than on it – but, also, the gemara here states explicitly that the emergenc of the blood was miraculous.
The sages observed that Gd did not act to defend the second Beit haMikdash from the Romans, and altered verses as part of a pain-driven, theodicy-based challenge to Gd's mute unresponsiveness. For a passage that goes even further, see Yerushalmi Berachot 7:3, where Yirmiyah and Daniel actually altered the way we praised Gd, eliminating some of the praises, after the destruction of the first Beit haMikdash – until the Great Assembly restored those praises. (That is a beautiful passage of gemara; I need to use that in a derashah at some point.)
The gemara refers to Sisra drowning in water; that may be a reference to his chariots becoming stuck in the mud, or to Yael’s substitution of milk for water, which led to his death.
Abbaye uses the Aramaic word נקטינן here to introduce an aggadic observation. That’s odd; נקטינן is normally used regarding legal statements.
Regarding the identity of Onkelos in the story of Onkelos and Titus and conversion to Judaism, Mahartz Chajes discusses this and notes that he is not the Onkelos who recorded an Aramaic commentary on the Torah.
Gittin 57a
It is suggested that, in this passage, either Bilam, or “the sinners of Israel” are meant to be a reference to Jesus.
Regarding the three great cities on Har haMelech, the Yerushalmi has a different take on the explanation of Kfar Shichlayim and Kfar Dichraya. See also the Maharsha here.
The gemara here calls Israel ארץ צבי, but I don’t believe such a term appears in Tanach. The citation from Yirmiyah 3:19 is actually ארץ חמדה נחלת צבי צבאות גויים. Either way, the literal meaning of צבי in context is to connote something desirable – the desirable/desired land.
Gittin 57b
The Babylonian Nevuzaradan’s decision to write a will for disposition of his assets before converting to Judaism is a rebuke to Achitofel, who betrayed Dovid, was caught, and then wrote a will disposing of his assets before strangling himself.
The issue of Jewish children – and communities – committing suicide rather than face torture and death is a large and complex topic. Tosafot קפצו here has a brief discussion, but there is much more to say. For a start:
Bava Kama 91b clearly prohibits suicide.
Bereishit Rabbah 34:13 shows that we have exceptions – Shaul, as well as Chananiah, Mishael and Azariah.
Mitigating circumstances include certain death (Radak Shemuel I 31:5) and fear of having to violate one of the sins which warrant ייהרג ואל יעבור, death before violation (Tosafot Avodah Zarah 18a).
Pain, as a mitigating factor, is hotly debated but generally rejected for active suicide – see Avodah Zarah 18a, Chatam Sofer Yoreh Deah 326:3 and Shut Beit Efrayim Yoreh Deah 76.
There is much more to say, but any discussion would be incomplete if it did not include the story cited by Ritva (I forget where) and the Beit Yosef (Yoreh Deah 157), of the rabbi who was involved in his community’s mass suicide to avoid the crusaders, and who lived to see the decree against the community annulled, so that the deaths were unnecessary. See the horrible details there.
We then encounter the well-known story of the woman and her 7 sons who refused to bow to the idol:
Note that the story does not involve anyone named Chanah; that name doesn’t appear until the 15th century or so.
See three versions – ours, the Maharsha’s and Eichah Rabbah 1:50, all of which offer different orders of pesukim recited by the seven children.
The Maharsha and the Yefeh Anaf explain why each child chose a different pasuk. The Maharsha matches each pasuk to a day of the week; Yefeh Anaf on the midrash shows that each pasuk responded to a different claim made by the Roman.
Gittin 56b
Titus slashes the parochet curtain before the Ark, and sees blood emerge; he believes that this shows he has done something to Gd. The Maharam Shif suggests that the blood may have been from the sprinklings of the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur, but this is problematic. As Maharam Shif notes, the sprinklings were toward the curtain rather than on it – but, also, the gemara here states explicitly that the emergenc of the blood was miraculous.
The sages observed that Gd did not act to defend the second Beit haMikdash from the Romans, and altered verses as part of a pain-driven, theodicy-based challenge to Gd's mute unresponsiveness. For a passage that goes even further, see Yerushalmi Berachot 7:3, where Yirmiyah and Daniel actually altered the way we praised Gd, eliminating some of the praises, after the destruction of the first Beit haMikdash – until the Great Assembly restored those praises. (That is a beautiful passage of gemara; I need to use that in a derashah at some point.)
The gemara refers to Sisra drowning in water; that may be a reference to his chariots becoming stuck in the mud, or to Yael’s substitution of milk for water, which led to his death.
Abbaye uses the Aramaic word נקטינן here to introduce an aggadic observation. That’s odd; נקטינן is normally used regarding legal statements.
Regarding the identity of Onkelos in the story of Onkelos and Titus and conversion to Judaism, Mahartz Chajes discusses this and notes that he is not the Onkelos who recorded an Aramaic commentary on the Torah.
Gittin 57a
It is suggested that, in this passage, either Bilam, or “the sinners of Israel” are meant to be a reference to Jesus.
Regarding the three great cities on Har haMelech, the Yerushalmi has a different take on the explanation of Kfar Shichlayim and Kfar Dichraya. See also the Maharsha here.
The gemara here calls Israel ארץ צבי, but I don’t believe such a term appears in Tanach. The citation from Yirmiyah 3:19 is actually ארץ חמדה נחלת צבי צבאות גויים. Either way, the literal meaning of צבי in context is to connote something desirable – the desirable/desired land.
Gittin 57b
The Babylonian Nevuzaradan’s decision to write a will for disposition of his assets before converting to Judaism is a rebuke to Achitofel, who betrayed Dovid, was caught, and then wrote a will disposing of his assets before strangling himself.
The issue of Jewish children – and communities – committing suicide rather than face torture and death is a large and complex topic. Tosafot קפצו here has a brief discussion, but there is much more to say. For a start:
Bava Kama 91b clearly prohibits suicide.
Bereishit Rabbah 34:13 shows that we have exceptions – Shaul, as well as Chananiah, Mishael and Azariah.
Mitigating circumstances include certain death (Radak Shemuel I 31:5) and fear of having to violate one of the sins which warrant ייהרג ואל יעבור, death before violation (Tosafot Avodah Zarah 18a).
Pain, as a mitigating factor, is hotly debated but generally rejected for active suicide – see Avodah Zarah 18a, Chatam Sofer Yoreh Deah 326:3 and Shut Beit Efrayim Yoreh Deah 76.
There is much more to say, but any discussion would be incomplete if it did not include the story cited by Ritva (I forget where) and the Beit Yosef (Yoreh Deah 157), of the rabbi who was involved in his community’s mass suicide to avoid the crusaders, and who lived to see the decree against the community annulled, so that the deaths were unnecessary. See the horrible details there.
We then encounter the well-known story of the woman and her 7 sons who refused to bow to the idol:
Note that the story does not involve anyone named Chanah; that name doesn’t appear until the 15th century or so.
See three versions – ours, the Maharsha’s and Eichah Rabbah 1:50, all of which offer different orders of pesukim recited by the seven children.
The Maharsha and the Yefeh Anaf explain why each child chose a different pasuk. The Maharsha matches each pasuk to a day of the week; Yefeh Anaf on the midrash shows that each pasuk responded to a different claim made by the Roman.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
From Shifchah Charufah to Theodicy, “I don’t know” is the right answer
Over the years, I have learned to love the magic words “I don’t know” on many levels.
It started with my high school entrance interview with Rabbi Yitzchak Cohen, for MTA (Yeshiva University’s boys’ high school – aka TMSTAYUHSFB). Rabbi Cohen came to our elementary school, Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, and he interviewed us as a group, and then one by one.
Rabbi Cohen was very intimidating for me; I was a skinny 5-1 or 5-2 kid, and to me he looked like he was about 6-6. He had a long beard, black-framed glasses, and intense expression. His accent (Detroit?) and speech pattern were unusual for me, too, and I didn’t catch everything he said. It isn’t that he wasn’t kindly; I was just automatically intimidated. (Over the years since, I have come to respect and love him, and see him as a great role model.)
At one point during the 1-on-1, Rabbi Cohen began asking me questions. "What does X mean?" "Can you explain Y," that sort of thing. I did pretty well; thank Gd, I had a strong education and a good command of Hebrew, and knew what one would hope an eighth-grade Jewish boy would know.
Until he pulled out the stumper – “What is a Shifchah Charufah?”
I had no idea. I had heard the term somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. So I did the best I could – I knew shifchah was a maid, and charufah might be linked to חרפה, meaning embarrassment, so I tried, “An embarrassed maid.”
(The right answer: A חציה שפחה חציה בת חורין who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man. Or, according to one view, a regular שפחה כנענית who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man.
Yeah, I knew you knew that.)
That was when Rabbi Cohen taught me a lesson I haven’t forgotten in the 22 years since, and I hope never to forget: If you don’t know, say “I don’t know.” I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not the end of the world, pal – just say it. I don’t know.
I think he knew that his question would stump me. I think he asked that question just to be able to teach me that lesson in humility and honesty… for which I am very grateful today, although I wasn’t at the time.
The story comes to mind now for two reasons:
1. We’ve been discussing the bizarre case of the Shifchah Charufah in Daf Yomi this week, and
I was reminded again yesterday of this important lesson.
2. It goes back to my post from yesterday, about the funeral of a young woman, as great a person as I know here in Allentown, who died of an extremely painful disease.
After the funeral I was approached by someone who asked me the age-old question, “What is it about? Why does this happen? Is it just that Gd wasn’t looking, was busy somewhere else?”
I do feel, often, like I should have an answer, like I’m expected to have the answer. "Rabbi, you've been at this for a dozen years; what can we say when something like this happens?" And I’m supposed to say something which will give all of this meaning.
But I’m no closer to understanding this than I was to knowing the meaning of shifchah charufah as a fourteen year old kid.
Oh, on a theoretical level I can talk about the gemara’s four approaches to suffering and Rav Soloveitchik’s “what now” instead of “why” question, but, ultimately, when dealing with מתו מוטל לפניו, an actual case, Rabbi Cohen was right: When you don’t know, say I don’t know.
It’s the right answer.
It started with my high school entrance interview with Rabbi Yitzchak Cohen, for MTA (Yeshiva University’s boys’ high school – aka TMSTAYUHSFB). Rabbi Cohen came to our elementary school, Hebrew Academy of Long Beach, and he interviewed us as a group, and then one by one.
Rabbi Cohen was very intimidating for me; I was a skinny 5-1 or 5-2 kid, and to me he looked like he was about 6-6. He had a long beard, black-framed glasses, and intense expression. His accent (Detroit?) and speech pattern were unusual for me, too, and I didn’t catch everything he said. It isn’t that he wasn’t kindly; I was just automatically intimidated. (Over the years since, I have come to respect and love him, and see him as a great role model.)
At one point during the 1-on-1, Rabbi Cohen began asking me questions. "What does X mean?" "Can you explain Y," that sort of thing. I did pretty well; thank Gd, I had a strong education and a good command of Hebrew, and knew what one would hope an eighth-grade Jewish boy would know.
Until he pulled out the stumper – “What is a Shifchah Charufah?”
I had no idea. I had heard the term somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. So I did the best I could – I knew shifchah was a maid, and charufah might be linked to חרפה, meaning embarrassment, so I tried, “An embarrassed maid.”
(The right answer: A חציה שפחה חציה בת חורין who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man. Or, according to one view, a regular שפחה כנענית who is betrothed to an עבד עברי and then becomes involved with another man.
Yeah, I knew you knew that.)
That was when Rabbi Cohen taught me a lesson I haven’t forgotten in the 22 years since, and I hope never to forget: If you don’t know, say “I don’t know.” I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not the end of the world, pal – just say it. I don’t know.
I think he knew that his question would stump me. I think he asked that question just to be able to teach me that lesson in humility and honesty… for which I am very grateful today, although I wasn’t at the time.
The story comes to mind now for two reasons:
1. We’ve been discussing the bizarre case of the Shifchah Charufah in Daf Yomi this week, and
I was reminded again yesterday of this important lesson.
2. It goes back to my post from yesterday, about the funeral of a young woman, as great a person as I know here in Allentown, who died of an extremely painful disease.
After the funeral I was approached by someone who asked me the age-old question, “What is it about? Why does this happen? Is it just that Gd wasn’t looking, was busy somewhere else?”
I do feel, often, like I should have an answer, like I’m expected to have the answer. "Rabbi, you've been at this for a dozen years; what can we say when something like this happens?" And I’m supposed to say something which will give all of this meaning.
But I’m no closer to understanding this than I was to knowing the meaning of shifchah charufah as a fourteen year old kid.
Oh, on a theoretical level I can talk about the gemara’s four approaches to suffering and Rav Soloveitchik’s “what now” instead of “why” question, but, ultimately, when dealing with מתו מוטל לפניו, an actual case, Rabbi Cohen was right: When you don’t know, say I don’t know.
It’s the right answer.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sotah 46-48 – Theodicy, Elisha learning Talmud, and Complaining to Gd
As always, better to read this with a gemara in front of you.
Some more notes on 46b
The gemara (taking its discussion as a whole) identifies three benefits to escorting another person: (1) Protecting him, (2) Honoring him, (3) Learning Torah from/with him.
In discussing Elisha’s curse of the “young boys” in Melachim I 2, the gemara confronts the problematic scene of a prophet of Gd attacking children over a personal insult. Granted that the gemara (47a) views this as a sin on his part – for which he is punished – the gemara is still troubled by his actions.
In answering the question of מה ראה at the bottom of the page, the gemara offers three explanations of Elisha’s actions – which coincide with three of the answers the sages offer to address the fundamental problem of theodicy: If Gd rewards good behavior and (only) punishes harmful behavior, and Gd is omnipotent and omniscient, then why do apparently bad things happen to apparently good people?
1) Elisha didn’t consciously harm them; it was an automatic result of their insult to the prophet. In the theodicy discussion, this is known as the “natural consequences” view, that harm occurs outside the context of punishment, in the natural order of things.
2) Elisha saw that their parents were guilty of heinous sin. In the bad things/good people discussion, this is known as the “sins of the parents” view, that harm occurs to a family, even to innocent members of the family, because of collective guilt.
3) Elisha saw that they were personally guilty of grave sin. In the bad things/good people discussion, this is the approach of, “They weren’t really such great people in the first place.”
There are, of course, other approaches to the theodicy problem. I just find the parallel interesting.
47a
The gemara mentions that Elisha was involved in “שמנה שרצים,” which I would have taken to mean he was involved in laws of purity related to those eight creepy-crawlies listed in Parshat Shemini. Rashi, though, takes it to mean that Elisha was learning the chapter in Gemara Shabbat entitled שמנה שרצים, which deals with far different matters. I wonder what compels Rashi to take that view.
Ben Dinai, the outlaw mentioned at the bottom of this page, is known to us in the Kinot prayers of Tisha b’Av as well.
47b
The word רוצחנין should, presumably, be רצחנין or רוצחין.
In the punishment for our corruption, the text in our edition has ונולא and Rashi says it refers to the fall of the Jewish monarchy, but the Maharsha has it as ונזלא and explains it refers to the growth of the Roman monarchy.
48a
If our gemara is uncomfortable with the Leviyyim saying the line from Tehillim (as they suffer Roman persecution), “Gd, awaken, why do You sleep,” then why did the sages canonize that line in Tehillim in the first place?
The Maharsha explains that when we have a Beit haMikdash and we are able to live in Israel, we are not entitled to complain. The line in Tehillim was written regarding the period of exile, at which point we are entitled to voice this complaint.
Some more notes on 46b
The gemara (taking its discussion as a whole) identifies three benefits to escorting another person: (1) Protecting him, (2) Honoring him, (3) Learning Torah from/with him.
In discussing Elisha’s curse of the “young boys” in Melachim I 2, the gemara confronts the problematic scene of a prophet of Gd attacking children over a personal insult. Granted that the gemara (47a) views this as a sin on his part – for which he is punished – the gemara is still troubled by his actions.
In answering the question of מה ראה at the bottom of the page, the gemara offers three explanations of Elisha’s actions – which coincide with three of the answers the sages offer to address the fundamental problem of theodicy: If Gd rewards good behavior and (only) punishes harmful behavior, and Gd is omnipotent and omniscient, then why do apparently bad things happen to apparently good people?
1) Elisha didn’t consciously harm them; it was an automatic result of their insult to the prophet. In the theodicy discussion, this is known as the “natural consequences” view, that harm occurs outside the context of punishment, in the natural order of things.
2) Elisha saw that their parents were guilty of heinous sin. In the bad things/good people discussion, this is known as the “sins of the parents” view, that harm occurs to a family, even to innocent members of the family, because of collective guilt.
3) Elisha saw that they were personally guilty of grave sin. In the bad things/good people discussion, this is the approach of, “They weren’t really such great people in the first place.”
There are, of course, other approaches to the theodicy problem. I just find the parallel interesting.
47a
The gemara mentions that Elisha was involved in “שמנה שרצים,” which I would have taken to mean he was involved in laws of purity related to those eight creepy-crawlies listed in Parshat Shemini. Rashi, though, takes it to mean that Elisha was learning the chapter in Gemara Shabbat entitled שמנה שרצים, which deals with far different matters. I wonder what compels Rashi to take that view.
Ben Dinai, the outlaw mentioned at the bottom of this page, is known to us in the Kinot prayers of Tisha b’Av as well.
47b
The word רוצחנין should, presumably, be רצחנין or רוצחין.
In the punishment for our corruption, the text in our edition has ונולא and Rashi says it refers to the fall of the Jewish monarchy, but the Maharsha has it as ונזלא and explains it refers to the growth of the Roman monarchy.
48a
If our gemara is uncomfortable with the Leviyyim saying the line from Tehillim (as they suffer Roman persecution), “Gd, awaken, why do You sleep,” then why did the sages canonize that line in Tehillim in the first place?
The Maharsha explains that when we have a Beit haMikdash and we are able to live in Israel, we are not entitled to complain. The line in Tehillim was written regarding the period of exile, at which point we are entitled to voice this complaint.
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