Kashrut: Of Labels Permanent and Transient

Some thoughts on kashrut, from an article appearing in this week's Toronto Torah:

Twenty years ago, a student asked me, “If G-d made a cow, and G-d made a pig, then why am I allowed to eat a cow, but not a pig?” The student was not asking about kashrut as a whole; he wanted to know how our Torah portion could identify particular creations of G-d as permanently impure and off-limits, while marking other Divine creations as pure and permitted. It’s a very old question, and its answer may provide insight into a deep message regarding human nature.

One classic answer is that G-d created certain animals for a purpose other than consumption; eating them would actually harm us. (Yoma 39a, Moreh haNevuchim 3:48) The danger may be physical, or metaphysical; we might even absorb moral character from the permitted and prohibited beasts. (Horeb 454) Each prohibited creature harbours an intrinsic threat.

Another traditional approach suggests that the creatures G-d formed are neither toxic nor beneficial. Nonetheless, G-d provided detailed dietary rules in order to improve our discipline. (Bereishit Rabbah 44:1; Moreh haNevuchim 3:26) Among the benefits of this discipline may be to perpetually recall Divine Truth (Ramban to Devarim 22:6) or to draw closer to G-d. (Maharal, Tiferet Yisrael 7) Each instruction further envelops the Jew in an all-encompassing life of law.

We might suggest a third idea, based on the Torah’s emphasis on distinguishing between kosher and non-kosher creatures (Vayikra 11:47), and the Talmud’s explanation of two verses in the book of Iyov.

Iyov complained to G-d, “If You wished [to make it so], I would not sin; but none can save from Your Hand.” (Iyov 10:7) The sage Rava expands, “Iyov sought to exempt the entire world from judgment. He said before G-d: Master of the Universe! You created the ox with split hooves and You created the donkey with sealed hooves! You created Gan Eden and You created Gehennom! You created righteous people and You created wicked people! Who can stop You?” (Bava Batra 16a) In other words, Iyov claimed that Man is like the beast, lacking the freedom to choose between the paths of good and evil. Just as a donkey’s sealed hooves mark it as non-kosher for life, so certain people are created as wicked, and they cannot shift their steps from the road to Gehennom. We enter this world bearing the label under which we depart.

With his mention of the ox and the donkey, Iyov identified a critical lesson of the Torah’s division of animals between kosher and non-kosher: the legitimacy of permanent labels. As our Torah portion states in summing up this division, “You are to distinguish between impure and pure, between the beast which may be consumed and the beast which may not be consumed.” (Vayikra 11:47) Every time she decides what to eat, the Jew is warned that there are permanent labels in this world. G-d created the good, and G-d created the malignant, and you are tasked – not only in eating but in life – with identifying the malignant and steering clear of its influence. Do not permit shifting cultural mores and claims of progress to sway your good judgment; among animals and among ideas, there is good which is timeless, and there is evil which is eternally so, and some labels never change.

However, the permanent labels of the animal kingdom are alien to human beings; it is an offense to G-d and Man to typecast any human being for life. As the Talmud interprets the response of Iyov’s visitor Eliphaz, “You would nullify reverence and reduce the study of Torah [sichah] before G-d!” (Iyov 15:4) Yes, human beings exhibit natural weakness, but G-d has provided the influence of Torah to rescue the human being from any depth to which she may sink. Our labels are as transient as we wish them to be.

We might add that the transient label even exists in the world of kashrut, when the human hand intervenes. All animals are non-kosher, until they undergo the shechitah rite of kosher slaughter. Then again, one can transform kosher meat to non-kosher by combining it with milk. Humanity is empowered to alter certain labels.

This may answer the question I was asked twenty years ago. The laws of kashrut teach that there are permanent labels and judgments in our world. However, these laws also demonstrate that labels of the descendants of Adam and Chavah are transient; it is possible for a human being, via Torah, to change her own label from non-kosher to kosher and back. Determining which labels should be transient, and how to alter them, is challenging, but may this moral lesson, which the Talmud sees in Iyov’s dialogue with Eliphaz, inspire us to examine, and alter where appropriate, the labels in our lives.

Judaism: Spiritual or Practical?

Of course, Judaism is both Spiritual and Practical; we are taught to develop our personal spiritual character, and also to carry out practical mitzvot. But which is more important?

The Talmud (Avodah Zarah 20b) describes a hierarchy of traits for development, suggesting that a person can grow from basic observance of Torah and concern for avoiding sin to purification and holiness to Divine inspiration. After presenting the list, the Talmud mentions a debate between two authorities; Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair says the highest trait is chassidut, and Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi says the highest trait is humility.

As it used in mishnah and gemara, chassidut usually refers to exceeding one's practical mitzvah obligations. Humility, on the other hand, is an internal, spiritual trait. Which leads me to wonder: Is this really a debate about whether it is better to work on one's spirituality or to work on one's deeds?

It's a good question. Of course, one could and should point out that spiritual character affects one's deeds, and one's deeds (per Sefer haChinuch) influence one's spiritual character. And, yes, humility leads to knowing how much one needs to learn in other areas. But that is not my point at the moment.

I want to know: Given the chance to learn mussar or Shulchan Aruch, which should one choose?

Or, perhaps better: Given the chance to learn mussar or work in a soup kitchen, which should one choose?

Working hard doesn't mean you're doing a good job

Our culture emphasizes effort, and the Torah does likewise. We are taught in the Talmud, "Whether you do a lot or a little, the key is that your heart should be for heaven," "Gd desires the heart," and so on.

This is religious truth, certainly. We would never want to reward laziness, and we believe in the value of the heart. Nonetheless, a culture that honors effort runs the risk of accidentally encouraging mediocrity.

Case in point: Some time back, I had my WebShas website critiqued by someone who told me, "The front end stinks." It stung - getting slapped in the face hurts - but he was right. (And he remains right; I don't have the time to work on improving it.)

More recently, I had another on-line project of mine ridiculed by an observer. Granted, the observer didn’t really understand the goal and emphasis of the project, and his version of mussar was so vintage technogeek kaltkeit that I couldn't take it seriously, but his remarks, combined with the remarks about WebShas, reminded me of a basic principle: The fact that you worked hard on something doesn't mean you did a good job.

Another example of this lesson: I loaded my schedule with shiurim and programs during Elul, including a five-day stretch from September 20-24 when I completely overloaded. I worked hard and made it through - but to be frank, by the end the shiurim were not my best, and I felt terrible for letting people down.

The fact that you worked hard on something doesn't mean you did a good job.

I'm reminded of that now as I work through my pre-Yom Kippur cheshbon hanefesh, my accounting of what I have done and what I have not done, of what I have accomplished and what I have failed to accomplish. I work hard. By the standards of effort, I'm doing all right. But effort is not the same as achievement.

Take the slap in the face. The fact that you worked hard on something doesn't mean you did a good job.

Moving and Growing

[This week's Haveil Havalim is here]

Jack is moving, apparently, and he seems a bit down about it. [Unless this is yet another mix of fiction/fact, which Jack likes to do from time to time.]

I've moved too many times. After a lifetime in one house, from pre-school through semichah (dorming doesn't count; neither do two years in Israel), I've lived in three cities, and numerous homes.

In Rhode Island, we had an apartment and then the first floor of a house and then the second floor of a different house.

In Pennsylvania we had our one, beautiful, spacious home, for eight years; I still keep a picture of it on my cell phone. Here, take a look. It had a two-story library, 5 bedrooms, hardwood floors, double-sized yard, and three aravah bushes I planted.











Here in Toronto we're in our third year in a rented house, and we know we need to move out at the end of this year. Where in town is as yet unresolved.

I never wanted a peripatetic life. I always wanted to live in one place, be part of one community, preferably in Israel. The Israel piece didn't work out, for very good reasons that won't be on this blog. But I still wanted to be in one community, for the sake of my relationships and work, for the sake of my children and their stability. I've written about this before.

But so it is, a life of transitions.

I cope by trying to make it an experience of transformation, rather than mere transition, so that I have sense of going toward something rather than simply shifting locations. Every move should be adding something, broadening or changing me in some way.

Picking up and moving is hard, confusing, alienating. If it happens without growth, it's just all of those emotions without any payoff. The newness of a place may relieve boredom, but that's about it for most people. We naturally need some fulfillment to go along with it.

Biblically, Yosef's travels were supposed to teach him something, make him greater, transform him. It was more than a move to Egypt, to prison, to the palace; Yosef was to grow. And it worked, and he was patient and it paid off.

On the other hand, the Jews' travels when they left Egypt were supposed to teach them and make them greater, and it didn't work. They were the same people, just in a different setting, and it showed as they travelled for 40 years largely without outgrowing their original problems. Frustration. And consequent disaster.

The same applies to our many life changes – birthdays, marriages, bereavement, illness, job changes and so on. If we only transition, then we just get frustrated. We need to grow.

So I need to keep asking myself whether I am transitioning or transforming.

As a new year begins – I pick up our new Sgan at the airport tonight, and the new avreichim arrive in the coming days, and I'm planning new shiurim and chavrusos – I need to maintain that question on the front burner. Am I transitioning or transforming? And if it’s the former, how can I make it the latter?

Roger Neilson says: Count the Weeks!

[This week's Haveil Havalim is here!]

During my trip back to New York for Pesach, I had a chance to look through some of the many, many newspaper clippings which once lined my bedroom wall. One caught my eye, from the New York Times of November 20, 1989: “Rangers Top Neilson Ratings”.

This was a long time ago, in NHL years – the Rangers had played the Hartford Whalers ע"ה the night before, and the next night they would play the Winnipeg Jets, also ע"ה. One of their recent victories was against the Quebec Nordiques, also ע"ה. They were listed as first in the NHL’s Patrick Division – you guessed it, also ע"ה. And they were coached by Roger Neilson, who has also since passed on.

Worth noting: Coach Neilson is credited with furthering ice hockey in Israel, by opening up a branch of his summer ice hockey camp in Metula. There is now an annual hockey tournament in his memory, in Israel. I don’t know with certainty that he was Jewish, but it's a good bet he was.

In any case, the article begins by noting, “Roger Neilson, the coach of the Rangers who spends his rare idle minutes breaking down game video tapes, spends most his many working hours encouraging his players to break down their season. He likes to analyze the season in segments of 10 games…”

In other words, as reflected in the article itself: Instead of looking at where the team is based on the overall season, the players look at how they are doing in the current ten-game set. This reflects their current play more accurately, it can keep a time from resting on laurels from the earlier months of the season, and it can provide hope as they look past early failures.

I found the same concept in the breakdown of 49 days and 7 weeks for the Omer count from Pesach through Shavuot. We are taught to use this as a period of growth, and we number each day based on where it is in the overall 49, as well as what day it is within a given week of the Omer. As in, “Today is the 12th day – which is 1 week and 5 days of the Omer.”

Certainly, there are many lessons in counting both days and weeks, but one of them is this: We don’t only look at where we are in the 49-day “season”, we also look at each seven-day increment. The past is gone, the present is my responsibility. If I can accomplish some growth in these seven days, then I will be able to consider this week a success.

Thanks, Roger. [And no, that title wasn't a Steve Weeks joke. He was gone from the Rangers before Roger arrived.]

It's the middle that matters (Derashah - Masei 5768)

Some ten years ago I visited a good friend in the hospital; she was recovering from a life-threatening operation, and we talked about her two daughters, who were beginning their teenage years. I mentioned something about how people say kids grow up so fast; our son Amram was just an infant at the time, and already people were warning us about that.

She said something that has remained with me ever since; it went something like this: “I don’t wish I could keep them as they are. As long as I’m happy with the way they’re developing, the journey they’re on, I’m content.”

This, to me, is the message of the beginning of our parshah, with its exhaustive record of the Jews’ travels through the desert.


For a space of dozens of pesukim, the Torah painstakingly enumerates each and every step the Jews had taken, from one generic wilderness site to the next, on their way from Egypt to Israel.

And not only is every stop listed, but every stop is listed twice - “And they traveled from X and camped in Y, And they traveled from Y and camped in Z.” A simple X-Y-Z list would have been, apparently, insufficient.

Clearly, this is not an interesting travelogue for the reader - many of the sites along the way are mentioned nowhere else in the Torah, and have no familiar events associated with them. We know nothing about what happened in אלוש, or מתקה, or לבנה - their only mention in the entire Torah is in this list of highway rest stops. So why does the Torah dedicate all of this space to recording the nation’s trail?

Rav Aharon Lichtenstein suggested that this enumeration teaches us the value of journeys.


I’ve been reading a book called “Making the Corps,” about the Boot Camp training of a squad of United States Marines, and the way their experiences on Parris Island shaped them. The book breaks down every step of the Marine Corps indoctrination, analyzing its methods and results. As the books shows, removing any single step from that military journey would significantly alter the results - each part of the journey matters.

All journeys are about more than their beginnings and endings. Imagine an abridged version of The Wizard of Oz that would begin with a tornado and end with Dorothy returning to Kansas, skipping all of the adventures and crises, all of those points about courage and brains, etc. Hey, her ultimate goal was to get back home anyway, right? What’s the big deal? But few people would anyone be interested in a Wizard of Oz stripped of its middle.

Applying that to our parshah, then: Had the Torah just recorded that the Jews left Sinai and arrived in Israel, we would have missed the importance of the journey in between.


Witness this moment, at the end of the trip, through the eyes of Moshe Rabbeinu.

Moshe stands at the helm of this nation, just as he had stood there as a much younger man at Yam Suf, and as he looks back over a very long and exhausting road he perceives the development of each שבט, each family, each individual.

Sure, Moshe sees the leaders, Yehoshua, Kalev, Pinchas, as well as, yes, Korach, but being Moshe, who believes in leading כאשר ישא האומן את היונק, carrying every Jew in his arms, he also sees everyone in between.

Yehoshua, Kalev, Pinchas, Korach, those standout figures mentioned in each parshah are archetypes, individuals whose strong personalities and bold strokes of action represent the best and worst of the Jewish people, but among this nation of millions each and every life reflected mixtures of the writ-large traits of those leaders - and each of those lives evolved at אלוש, at מתקה, at לבנה, in ways that the biblical text could never have recorded but which those people, and their relatives, and their friends, knew quite well. Deaths, births, marriages, milestones of maturity, taking care of the animals, gathering the Mun and distributing it, engaging in Torah study and Mishkan labor and community tasks, all of these altered people’s lives, and helped them grow and change and develop.

The listing of each place name in the Torah is shorthand for those changes, a reminder for the people who had experienced them. When Moshe said, “We traveled from בני יעקן and camped at חר הגדגד,” Shmuel from the tribe of Dan nodded his head, remembering the crisis he had weathered there, in his own family. When Moshe said, “We traveled from חר הגדגד and camped at יטבתה,” Sarah from the tribe of Yissachar thought about the passing of her mother at that spot, and the way she had taken over a matriarchal role in the clan. And so on, and so on, for millions of people.

It was important for the Jews, parked at the entrance to Israel - to a new identity, to a new form of living, to a new relationship with HaShem - to take stock and remember where they had been, whom they had been, and where they were now, and whom they had become.

Arriving at the destination may have been their moment’s satisfaction, but travelling the journey was their life’s education.


The same lesson holds true for us, in our own lives.

The gemara reminds us that אגרא דפרקא ריהטא, the reward for learning Torah is in the journey to the shiur, the trip we take to get there - even if we will not fully understand the shiur, even if we will fail in our attempt to remember what we learned. It’s the journey.

Rabbi Tarfon said, לא עליך המלאכה לגמור, the key is not in completing tasks. Rather, it’s in our engagement, the journey, itself.

To quote Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, “It is important for a person to plan his future, but not to the extent that he perceives the present as purely a means to that end.” The present possesses its own value - as Moshe demonstrated in enumerating the 42 “presents” the Jews had experienced.


R’ Avraham Gombiner, in his halachic work Magen Avraham, recorded a practice of reading all 42 stages of the Jews’ trip together, without any interruption. The usual explanation for this practice is that the 42 stages represent a special, mystical, indivisible 42-letter name of Gd. But there is another explanation:

R’ Yitzchak Zimmer wrote that these 42 stages are a שירה, a biblical poem, a song like the Az Yashir song of thanks with which the Jews serenaded Gd after crossing the Sea, and like Devorah’s song of thanks after HaShem saved us from Sisra and the Canaanites.

I understand R’ Zimmer to mean that these 42 stages, recording as they do the Divinely-guided growth of each Jewish life along the way, are a hymn of thanks to Gd for the 40 years’ journey - for all of the challenges and obstacles as well as assistance, for everything Gd had done to help us grow.

Like my friend in the hospital, Moshe and the Jews were now able to look back at the border of Israel, to contemplate each stage they had endured, to feel satisfied, and to turn to HaShem, and say, “Thank You.”

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Notes:
1. Rav Aharon Lichtenstein's shiur is summarized here. He takes it in a direction from the one I did. He also sees this message in Rashi at the start of the parshah, but I'm not sure that's what Rashi meant in the midrash he cited.

2. Of course, much of this derashah reminds me of the famous "hyphen on the tombstone" idea, but it didn't really fit the derashah. Especially because we have a baby-naming this Shabbat, and I don't want to introduce unnecessary funeral themes; the dvar torah already lends itself to the Torah-Chuppah-Maasim Tovim journey.

3. The אגרא דפרקא ריהטא line is Berachot 7b or so, as I recall. R' Tarfon is in Pirkei Avot. The Magen Avraham is 428:8; see also Aruch haShulchan Orach Chaim 428:6.

4. R' Zimmer's line about the מסעות as a שירה, which he does not explain, is in an article from Sinai #68, found on-line here. This thought was really the inspiration for the entire derashah.

5. Of course, I am troubled by the fact that the whole 40-year trek was unnecessary, and really shouldn't be seen fondly at all... other than, perhaps, through the idea of making the best of what we have?