Vayakhel/Pikudai - 5773

Vayakhel and Pikudai have an undeserved reputation as being “boring” Parshiyos as they cover topics already addressed at length in Terumah and Tetzaveh, namely the construction of the Mishkan and the making of the Priestly vestments. However, a careful examination of the texts reveals subtle differences which are illuminating.

In Parshas Terumah, when Moshe is given the initial instructions for building the Mishkan, first priority is given to the Aron, Menorah, and Shulchan. Only afterward does Hashem describe the curtains, boards, and sockets which form the external structure. In Parshas Vayakhel, in discussing the actual construction, the order is reversed; first the components of the external structure are fabricated and only afterward are the vessels to be made.

(It is noteworthy that Chazal (Berachos 59a) cite a conversation between Moshe and Betzalel, the architect of the Mishkan, regarding this exact point. Moshe, in his directions to Betzalel, put the Aron and vessels first. Betzalel argued that the external structure should be first. While we have no record in the Chumash of this conversation, we do have the seemingly contradictory texts cited above. This seems to indicate that there is more to this issue than meets the eye.)

R. Yehoshua Heller, a disciple of R. Yisrael Salanter, offers an ingenious insight to resolve the difficulty (Ohel Yehoshua, Derush 1):

What is the symbolism of the inner vessels as opposed to the external structure?

In the mystical tradition, there is a correspondence between the parts of the human being and the parts of the universe. (As Malbim puts it in his Remazei HaMishkan in Parshas Terumah, “The human is a small universe and the universe is a large human being!”) As well, there is a correspondence between the components of the sanctuary and the components of the universe/human being. While a full treatment of this subject is beyond the scope of this short essay, this much is clear: The inner vessels correspond to the inner human – the intellect and emotion. The external structure corresponds to the external body which includes the limbs – arms and legs – with which actions are performed.

There is, in Jewish thought, a reciprocal relationship between the workings of the mind and the actions of the body. Sometimes our proper actions flow from pure ideals and feelings; this is the case for the truly righteous. Sometimes our proper actions are meant to condition our minds to embrace pure ideals and feelings. (See Mesilas Yesharim, Chapter 7.) This is true for those who have not yet achieved righteousness. There may be internal resistance to living on the highest plane of Torah observance. Yet, these individuals “force” themselves to comply with Torah ideals and soon their thinking and feeling “catches up”.

A Mishkan whose vessels come before the external structure symbolizes the person whose thoughts, feelings, and ideals are the roots of his actions; a Mishkan whose external structure comes first symbolizes the person engaged in spiritual struggle, for whom his actions are the roots of his thinking.

Now the contradiction can be easily resolved. Before the sin of the Golden Calf, the Jewish people were on a lofty spiritual level. According to Chazal (Avodah Zarah 5a), they were virtual angels! The Mishkan instructions given at that point in Parshas Terumah reflected that stature by placing the vessels before the structure.

But the Mishkan was built after the sin of the Golden Calf. By that time the spiritual level of the Jewish people had been greatly diminished. Thus, in the actual construction, priority is given to the structure (symbols of action) over the vessels (symbols of thought and sentiment). In our diminished state it is through the conditioning of deeds that we come to pure motives.

Ki Sisa - 5773

In the Parshiyos of Terumah and Tetzaveh the Torah discusses the plan for the construction of the Mishkan sanctuary, the vestments of Aharon and his sons, and the procedure for their investiture as priests. This very long discussion is “framed” by introductory verses (Shemos 25:8-9) and concluding verses (Shemos 29:44-46) which express the idea that the objective of this entire effort is to bring Shechina – the Divine Presence – into the midst of the Jewish settlement.

Following these concluding verses, we have a series of sections which appear to be appended to the longer discussion of the Mishkan as afterthoughts. These sections, which begin in the end of Tetzaveh and carry over to the beginning of Ki Sisa – this week’s portion – deal with the Golden Altar for incense (30:1-10), the half-Shekel contributions (30:11-16), the Kiyor/washing station (30:17-21), the anointing oil (30:22-33) and the Ketores/incense (30:34-38). At least two of these subjects – the Golden Altar and the Kiyor – seem to be out of place; we would have expected their inclusion among the vessels of the Mishkan in Parshas Terumah.

The Seforno justifies their exclusion from the earlier discussion by pointing out that the function of these two vessels was different than that of the others. The Aron, Shulchan, Menorah and so on were essential components of the Mishkan and thus integral to its function which is to bring the Divine Presence. The Golden Altar’s function was to be used for the offering of incense in acknowledgement of that already ensconced Divine Presence. The Kiyor as well was non-integral to the overall function of the Mishkan: It was only there to enable the priests to prepare for the performance of the sanctuary rites by washing their hands and feet.

We may conjecture an additional rationale for the exclusion of the Kiyor from the discussion of the Mishkan vessels. The Targum Yonasan (Shemos 30) explains the symbolism of the various vessels and points out that the Kiyor represents the idea of Teshuvah/repentance. (This is hardly surprising. Washing is a most appropriate metaphor for the “coming clean” which is the essence of Teshuvah.) In the ideal world, there would be no need for the Kiyor as there would be no need for repentance. Thus, in the fundamental conception of the Mishkan, as outlined in Parshas Terumah, the Kiyor is excluded. In the practical implementation of that conception, as outlined in Parshas Vayakhel, the Kiyor finds its place.

This is reminiscent of the teaching of Chazal (cited in Rashi, Bereishis 1:1) that initially Hashem wanted to create the world with strict judgement. One corollary of this fact would have been that there would be no allowance for the very idea of Teshuvah; after all, how could one rectify the past by merely feeling remorse? (See Mesilas Yesharim, Chapter 4.) But Hashem saw that such a world was unsustainable and therefore blended in the attribute of mercy, thus creating the possibility of Teshuvah.

As well, the Mishkan, which in the Mystical tradition is understood as being a microcosm of the created universe, would not have included the symbol of Teshuvah in its ideal form. On the practical level that symbol was indispensable.

Tetzaveh / Purim - 5773

The Rambam writes in his introduction to the Mishneh Torah that the Rabbinic ordinance of Purim is not a violation of the Biblical prohibition of adding to the Torah. Explains the Rambam: The Rabbis never said that Purim is part of the Torah that was given at Sinai. It is rather a later Rabbinic enactment designed to impress upon us the truth of the idea that is part of Torah itself - that Hashem answers the prayers of the Jewish people.

The question arises: Why was it necessary for the Rambam to explain the rationale behind the ordinance? Certainly to answer the original question it is enough to declare that Purim was merely rabbinic in origin.

We must understand that Torah is not only the complete body of commandments for the Jewish people; it is also the complete body of values for the Jewish people. Whatever causes we embrace and whatever goals we aspire to achieve must be consistent with and endorsed by the Torah.

If the ordinance of Purim was instituted to celebrate and promote an ideal not implicit in Torah, the acceptance of that ideal would itself be an addition to the Torah even though the rituals that symbolize that acceptance were clearly Rabbinic in nature. Thus it is essential to the Rambam’s argument that Purim was ordained to serve as a reminder of an idea which the Torah itself reiterates - that Hashem answers the prayers of the Jewish people.

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On Purim there are two practices that are widely observed which - at first glance - seem contradictory: the practice of becoming intoxicated to the point of not knowing the difference between “Cursed is Haman” and “Blessed is Mordechai” and the practice of wearing costumes and masquerading.

The first of these practices - the intoxication - is designed to reveal as Chazal teach, “When the wine enters, the secrets emerge.” The second of these practices - the costuming - is  meant to conceal. How do we reconcile both?

We learn in the book of Koheles, “God made man straight but they sought for themselves many calculations”. In other words, deep down we all know what is important and how we should live our lives. This understanding is buried however under layers and layers of relatively unimportant considerations such as: What will the neighbors say? Will this ruin my chances (or my children’s chances) for a prestigious Shidduch? How will I do without the comforts that wealth could provide?

These calculations are made in our minds using a function called in Hebrew, “Da’as” or in English, “Rationality”. Of course, we cannot live without it. But at the same time we must know that, when Da’as seeks its many calculations, we are then confronted with the greatest obstacle to a life of genuine contentment and satisfaction.

Accordingly, once a year, on the day which is designed to be the root of true joy for all time, we are instructed to taste a life that would be free of the calculations of Da’as. We all understand that we cannot have Purim every day, but the delicious memories of Purim can remind us to be skeptical of the calculations of Da’as when these stand in the way of our true bliss.

The greatest of these calculations is our obsession with how we appear to others. (Just think of the young man who would want to join in the basketball game but, not being the most nimble athlete, will sit out rather than suffer the disapproval of his peers.)

Therefore, on Purim we masquarade. Not to conceal ourselves, but to give ourselves the license to be ourselves without the usual inhibitions. The two practices are thus not contradictory bur rather complementary.

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Two of the Mitzvos that we perform on Purim are Matanos L’evyonim (giving charity to the poor) and Mishloach Manos (sending edible treats to our friends and neighbors). The Rambam advises that the former deserves priority over the latter. In our health-conscious and diet-conscious society, there would be many advocates for the abolition of Mishloach Manos beyond the bare minimum Halachic requirement - sending to a single recipient.

To be fair to the Mitzvah of Mishloach Manos, a change in perspective may help. The great Chassidic master R. Tzaddok HaCohen (Resisei Layla 22) observes that these two Mitzvos have two different objectives. Matanos L’evyonim is designed to satisfy a need - the poor man needs money to live; we address that need. Mishloach Manos addresses no need. (Think of the needless candy and coconuts!) Sending these gifts is a way of giving honor to the recipient. “I know that you have everything that you need and more, but I want you to know that you are dear to me and I value your friendship.” Mishloach Manos accomplishes what it does precisely because it is not needed!

Of course, this makes a strong case for the elimination of the hurried Mishloach Manos drop-offs that so typify our harried Purims. If we are going to show friendship, we should take the time to do it right.

Terumah - 5773

In the nineteenth century a number of Rabbinic luminaries explored the possibility of rebuilding the Bais HaMikdosh and/or offering sacrifices in advance of the coming of Mashiach. Among these were the Chasam Sofer in his Responsa to Yoreh Deah, R. Yaakov Ettliger in Responsa Binyan Tzion, and R. David Friedman of Karlin in She’elas David. (As an aside, although R. David of Karlin is hardly known today, in his lifetime he was considered to be among the Gedolei Hador by no less than R. Chaim of Brisk!)

One of the relevant sources to this question is the statement at Sanhedrin 20b:

It has been taught: R. Jose said: Three commandments were given to Israel when they entered the land; [i] to appoint a king; [ii] to cut off the seed of Amalek; [iii] and to build themselves the chosen house [i.e. the Temple] but I do not know which of them has priority. However, when it is said: “The hand upon the throne of the Lord, the Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation”, we must infer that they had first to set up a king, for 'throne' implies a king…Yet I still do not know which [of the other two] comes first, the building of the chosen Temple or the cutting off of the seed of Amalek. However, when it is written, “And when He gives you rest from all your enemies round about…then it shall come to pass that the place which the Lord your God shall choose,” it is to be inferred that the extermination of Amalek is first.

If appointing a king comes before the war against Amalek and, in turn, the war against Amalek precedes building the Bais HaMikdosh, it follows that appointing a king comes before building the Bais HaMikdosh. It would therefore appear that the coming of Mashiach would be a precondition to the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. This argument is advanced by R. Dovid Karliner z’l in She’elas David, but he raises two fascinating points:

1. How was the second Bais HaMikdosh built in the absence of a Jewish king? We know that the monarchy was not restored until after the Hasmonean revolt and the legitimacy of that dynasty – being comprised of Kohanim – is questioned. (See Ramban, Bereishis 49:10, and Rambam, Hilchos Melachim 1:8 for a dissenting view.)
2. In the Shemoneh Esreh, the blessing in which we pray for the restoration of the Bais HaMikdosh comes before the blessing in which we pray for the coming of Moshiach which implies that there is at least a possibility that the Bais HaMikdosh will be rebuilt first.

I would suggest a resolution to these difficulties by pointing out that there is an apparent contradiction in the Rambam as to the source of the Mitzvah to build the Bais HaMikdosh. In Hilchos Bais HaBechira (1:1) he cites the verse in our Parsha (Shemos 25:8), “And you shall make for Me a Sanctuary and I will dwell in their midst.” In Hilchos Melachim (1:1) discussing the three Mitzvos obligatory upon entry into Eretz Yisrael – based on the above cited Gemara in Sanhedrin – he cites a different verse (Devarim 12:5), “You shall seek the place of the Shechina and you shall come there.”

The answer to this contradiction is actually quite simple. There are two different components to this Mitzvah. First, there is an obligation to build a facility in which the Divine service will be performed. This has nothing to do with Eretz Yisrael. The construction of the traveling Mishkan in the desert was a fulfillment of this imperative. But there is a second aspect – derived from the Devarim verse – which is to identify the permanent site of the Bais HaMikdosh. This, of course, only applies after the entry to Eretz Yisrael.

A careful reading of the two source texts shows a subtle but meaningful distinction. Regarding the temporary Mishkan, the Torah says to build it and afterward the Shechina will come. Regarding the permanent Bais HaMikdosh, the Torah says the opposite: Seek the place of the Shechina and then build the building there. Of course, this makes perfect sense. As the Jews crossed the desert, the Shechina led them and came to rest where the Jews made a home for it. In Eretz Yisrael, the Shechina was already in Yerushalayim; according to Chazal this was the point of contact between the spiritual and material worlds from the very moment of creation. The place merely had to be identified.

I would suggest that having a Jewish king is only a necessary condition for this second Mitzvah of identifying the permanent site. (Keep in mind that the Mishkan was built in the desert without a king!) Furthermore, I would suggest that once the site had been identified, if there should arise the need to rebuild the Bais HaMikdosh on the same spot, there would be no requirement for a Jewish king. Thus, the second Bais HaMikdosh was rebuilt before the restoration of the monarchy and the possibility exists that this pattern will be repeated for the third and final Bais HaMikdosh as well.

Yisro - 5773

Let us begin with a trick question: How many of the six hundred thirteen Mitzvos are contained within the Aseres Hadibros/Ten Commandments? The surprising answer – at least according to the Rambam – is fourteen!

Where do the extra Mitzvos come from?

The second commandment (Shemos 20:3-6) is comprised of four separate prohibitions:

• “You shall have no other gods beside me,” prohibits belief in the existence of deities other than Hashem;
• “Do not make for yourself an idol,” prohibits the manufacture of objects for worship;
• “Do not bow to them,” prohibits serving false gods in the manner reserved for Divine worship; and
• “Do not worship them,” prohibits serving false gods in the conventional ways practiced by their worshippers.

The fourth commandment (Shemos 20:8-11) is comprised of two separate Mitzvos:

• “Remember the Shabbos Day,” is the positive Mitzvah to sanctify the Shabbos with the recitation of Kiddush; and
• “Do not perform any work,” is the negative Mitzvah to refrain from the thirty-nine categories of Melacha.

Each of the remaining eight commandments is comprised of a single Mitzvah. Do the math (4 + 2 + 8 = 14) and you come to the surprising answer cited above.

The dual calculation indicates that there are two different aspects to these verses. First, they are a section of the Taryag Mizvos; in that sense they are but a small section of a larger whole. Second, they form a distinct unit in their own right called the Ten Commandments. How do we understand this?

Maharal (Tiferes Yisrael, Chapter 35) explains that there are two aspects to Torah:

• Torah is Divine self-revelation. Hashem desires that man – to the extent possible – come to an understanding of His essence, his ways, and priorities. We achieve this through the study of Torah, the vehicle through which Hashem “introduces” himself to mankind.
• Torah is the ultimate “self-help” book. It gives us the techniques for achieving correct opinions and proper character traits; it facilitates a relationship with the Divine which gives meaning and fulfillment to our lives.

Divine self-revelation is always associated with the number ten. Hashem revealed himself as creator of the universe with the ten statements of the first chapter of Bereishis. He revealed himself as liberator with the ten plagues in Egypt. In the Kabbala, His conduct of the universe is through the conduit of the Ten Sephiros.

(The significance of the number ten is that, in our system of decimal notation, the number ten is actually a single body of “ten”. It is comprised of the digit “one” located in the “ten’s place”; the “zero” is really just a placeholder to show that the “one” is not in the “unit’s place”. The number ten thus represents an underlying unity of disparate elements which, of course, is fundamental to our understanding of Hashem’s nature.)

Consequently, at Sinai, the moment of the ultimate Divine self-revelation, the content of that revelation is contained in ten separate utterances – the Aseres Hadibros.

The number six hundred thirteen, according to Chazal (Zohar 1:170b), corresponds to the 248 bones and 365 sinews of the body. This number indicates that the function of Taryag Mitzvos is the repair and refinement of the human being. Thus Taryag relates to the second aspect of Torah mentioned above.

Perhaps this will shed light on the interesting fact that the Aseres Hadibros were inscribed on tablets of stone while the Taryag Mitzvos are written on parchment manufactured from animal skin. Aseres Hadibros relate to Hashem’s self-revelation. In the same way that Hashem is unchanging, they are inscribed on a material that is unchanging. So to speak, they are carved in stone.

The Taryag Mitzvos, on the other hand, as they relate to the human condition, are witten on an organic material which is subject to the same pattern of birth, growth, degeneration and death as the human being.

Beshalach - 5773

Last week we observed that the “great wealth” with which the Jews left Egypt ultimately led to the catastrophe of the Golden Calf. According to the Talmud (Berachos 32a), Moshe defended the Jews by making the case that Hashem was to blame for granting them the abundance of gold from which the calf was fashioned, and Hashem accepted this argument.

The unanswered question is: Why did Hashem promise and grant this wealth knowing that the consequences of the gift would be so terrible?

Actually, this question may be related to the mystery of another perplexing Talmudic statement (Berachos 9a):

The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moses: I beg you, go and tell Israel, “I beg you to borrow from the Egyptians vessels of silver and vessels of gold,” so that this righteous man [Abraham] may not say: “And they shall serve them, and they shall afflict them” He did fulfill for them, but “And afterward shall they come out with great wealth” He did not fulfill for them.

It appears that Hashem took the position that his initial promise was not binding; he would only fulfill it to avoid Avraham’s protest. Why would this be? The Vilna Gaon, along with other commentators, answers that the promise made to Avraham was conditional upon the Jews completing the full term of four hundred years of bondage.

According to Rabbinic tradition, the Jews were released prematurely and there is a range of opinions as to why this was. Among the possibilities: the four hundred years are to be counted from the birth of Yitzchok; the harshness of the enslavement compressed four hundred years of torture into a shorter period; or, the supernaturally abundant population performed the equivalent of four hundred years of labor in less time. Any of these explanations would allow for the argument that the condition for receiving the wealth was in fact met.

However, there is another opinion (Midrash Shir Hashirim Rabbah, Chapter 2) that the premature exodus was an act of Divine mercy; according to this opinion the condition for receiving the wealth was not met.

In the above Talmudic citation, explains the Vilna Gaon, Hashem takes the position that the Jews did not fulfill the necessary condition for receiving the wealth, but, as Avraham would undoubtedly take the alternative position, He allowed the Jews to receive the money anyway.

This requires some explanation. Why was the “great wealth” conditional on completing the entire term of four hundred years? One could argue that, for completing half the term, the Jews should have been entitled to half the wealth!

Perhaps the key to solving all our difficulties is a proper understanding of the purpose of our experience in Egypt. In the mystical tradition, the Galus Mitzrayim was a process of purification; we would attain lofty levels of spiritual perfection and thus be fit to perform our mission as Hashem’s people. While we are not mystics and have little access to esoteric wisdom, we can nevertheless understand this on a rational level. Maharal (Gevuros Hashem, Chapter 4) writes that when two diametrically opposed peoples are brought together often the consequence is a polarization through which each becomes more extreme in its views and position. (Unfortunately, sometimes the opposite takes place and there is a blending or synthesis. See ahead.) The holiness of Yisrael would have been raised to higher heights by the forced proximity to the depravity of Mitzrayim. Over four hundred years this would have raised our people to unimaginable heights.

But was this ideal ever achieved? Yes and no. In the area of sexual purity, Chazal (Yoma 75a, Midrash Vayikra Rabba 32:5) teach that the Jews in Egypt attained worthy levels. They were a “locked garden” and a “sealed spring” building protective fences of separation between themselves and the Egyptians who, as is well known, were most depraved in this area of life. Yet, on the other hand, in the realm of theological purity the Jews succumbed to temptation. The Jews began to worship Egyptian deities (Yechezkel, Chapter 20) and accordingly the Satan argued at the Red Sea that they were not deserving of salvation (Midrash Shemos Rabbah 21:7). Undoubtedly this is the basis of the well known mystical teaching that the Jews had descended to the forty-ninth level of impurity; if they would not have been redeemed when they were, they would have been lost forever.

Thus, in the area of religious worship, things did not work out as they should. Instead of a four hundred year term of spiritual ascent there was a two hundred-ten year term of spiritual degeneration from which the Jews were saved in the nick of time. Perhaps this is why the gift of “great wealth” was conditional on the completion of the four hundred years. On the level of spiritual perfection they would have attained there would have been no danger that the gold would have been misused and fashioned into a calf for worship. But because the opposite was the case, the Jews should not have been given the gold. Only to prevent Avraham’s potential grievance did Hashem take the chance.

Bo - 5773

The covenant which Hashem made with Avram provided for the Jews’ leaving Egypt with great wealth (Bereishis 15:14). Why was this promise so important that it was incorporated into the covenant itself? We know that, to the righteous, material assets are often considered a burden. The Chassidic master, Reb Bunim of P’shischa commented on the verse (Bereishis 13:2), “And Avram was heavy with livestock, gold and silver,” that, in fact, Avram saw these riches as a heavy weight. If so, in what sense was Hashem’s promise of wealth a good thing for the Jews?

Avram was a private individual; if he could manage with less, why encumber him with more? After all, Chazal teach (Avos 2:7), “With plenty of property comes plenty of worry.” The Jewish nation as a whole, on the other hand, needed wealth. The infrastructure of the planned Jewish state – and especially the building of the Sanctuary – required a strong financial base. (It is well known that one of the major causes of small business failure is undercapitalization.) This was the purpose of the “great wealth” promised to Avram.

This explanation points to an uncomfortable fact of life. Freedom, in the sense of relief from external constraints, means very little in the absence of the material means for the realization of one’s goals and ambitions. Without the great wealth, freedom from the enslavement of Pharaoh would have been a hollow victory. (To illustrate: Martin Luther King, leader of the American civil rights movement, in the last years before his assassination, changed the focus of the movement from the attainment of legal rights to the realization of economic opportunity.)

It is noteworthy that several observances of the Seder night are described in Halachic sources as being “the manner of freedom” – reclining when eating the ritual foods, for example – but would be more correctly characterized as “the manner of wealth”, being that these were the practices of the upper classes when the rites of the Seder received their final form. The association of freedom and wealth is obvious.

This wealth, however, created a terrible challenge. The gold of Egypt was eventually made into the Golden Calf. The Talmud (Berachos 32a) records that Moshe Rabbeinu’s defense of the Jews was that given their abundance of gold the sin was bound to happen:

They said in the school of R. Jannai: Thus spoke Moshe before the Holy One, blessed be He: Sovereign of the Universe, the silver and gold which You showered on Israel until they said, “Enough,” led to their making the Calf…R. Hiyya b. Abba said: It is like the case of a man who had a son; he bathed him and anointed him and gave him plenty to eat and drink and hung a purse round his neck and set him down at the door of a brothel. How could the boy not sin…

More surprisingly, according to Chazal, Hashem accepted this argument:

R. Samuel b. Nahmani said in the name of R. Yonathan: From where do we know that the Holy One, blessed be He, in the end agreed to Moshe? Because it says (Hoshea 2:10), “And I multiplied unto her silver and gold, which they used for Baal.”

Before we proceed, we must first understand what Moshe Rabbeinu meant to say. Does the granting of means always guarantee that the sin will be committed? We may conjecture that the Golden Calf was a unique case. Why? The temptation to manufacture tangible objects for worship was a common practice among the ancients. According to our tradition, the Jews in Egypt were no exception:

And I said unto them, Cast away the abominations of your eyes, and defile not yourselves with the idols of Egypt; I am Hashem your G-d. But they rebelled against Me, and would not listen unto me; they did not cast away the abominations of their eyes, neither did they forsake the idols of Egypt. Then I said I would pour out my wrath upon them, to express my anger against them in the midst of the land of Egypt. But I did for My name's sake, that it should not be profaned in the sight of the nations, among which they were…(Yechezkel 20:7-9)

Given the means to do so, there would be a strong likelihood that, after the Exodus, the Jews would revert to their old ways. The sin of the Golden Calf could only have been prevented by depriving the Jews of the necessary gold. (See Ramban to Shemos 32:2 where he explains – based on Kabbala – that the intentions of the people could only have been fulfilled with a calf of gold; in the absence of gold they never would have made a calf of silver, wood, or stone.)

Now that we understand Moshe Rabbeinu’s point, we must now advance to the next question: Why did Hashem grant this gold knowing that the consequence of this gift would be an inevitable sin that would have consequences for all time? This question we will take up next week.

(To be continued)

Vaerah - 5773

The opening verses of Parshas Va’erah (Shemos 6:6-7) contain Hashem’s charge to Moshe Rabbeinu in which the idea redemption is expressed in four terms:

• I will remove you from under the burdens of Egypt.

• I will save you from their enslavement.

• I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments.

• I will take you as a nation and I will be your G-d.

As is well known, this four-fold expression is the basis for the Mitzvah to drink the four cups of wine at the Pesach Seder (Midrash Rabbah cited in Rashbam, Pesachim 99b).

In the Torah text, the fourth expression is followed by the words, “And you will know that I am Hashem, your G-d, who removed you from under the burdens of Egypt.” This is somewhat perplexing. The verse seems to imply that only after the fourth step in the process will we understand that Hashem was the active agent in carrying out the first step. What could this mean?

To answer this question we must first understand the precise meaning of this four-fold division of redemption. Although many interpretations have been given over the centuries, perhaps the simplest – and most elegant – is that of Maharal (Gevuros Hashem, Chapter 30).

In the Biblical prophesy foretelling the Galus Mitzrayim, Avraham Avinu was told (Bereishis 15:13), “You should know that your descendants will be strangers in a land which is not theirs, and they will be enslaved, and tortured for four hundred years.” There were thus three stages in the decree:

First, there would be a period in which the Jews would live as strangers in Egypt. This began with the arrival of Yaakov and his family in Egypt. They were welcomed with dignity and honor, yet living in a land where everything is unfamiliar – the language, values, and lifestyle – entails a considerable level of discomfort.

Second, there would be a period of enslavement. This followed the death of Yosef and his brothers. This is an obvious escalation of the suffering. However, it is not the ultimate catastrophe.

Third, there is a period of torture. We may identify this with the later decrees of Pharaoh (withdrawal of the straw and maintaining the brick quota) or with earlier decrees, but in any case it implies a harshness which goes beyond enslavement.

Explains Maharal, the reversal of these decrees was also incremental. Over the course of the twelve months in which Egypt suffered the plagues, Pharaoh never agreed to release the Hebrews, but there was a gradual lifting of the torment. (As an example of this, note the teaching of Chazal – Rosh Hashana 11a – that the enslavement formally ended six months before the departure from Egypt.) First, the torture ended (I will remove you from under the burdens of Egypt). Then the enslavement ended (I will save you from their enslavement). Finally, the Hebrews could leave the land and no longer lived as strangers (I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments).

The fourth and final step takes place when the Jews stand at Har Sinai to receive the Torah. Then and only then can it be said, “I will take you as a nation and I will be your G-d.”

The Rambam writes (Hilchos Yesodai Hatorah, Chapter 8) that the Jews did not believe fully in Moshe’s being a true prophet despite all the miracles he performed. Miracles can be done with smoke and mirrors, slight-of-hand, mass hypnosis, or magic. Consequently, there was a lingering doubt. Perhaps Moshe did these wonders on his own by deceptive means. Only after the revelation at Sinai, when all the Jews had a direct prophetic experience did the Jews come to perfect belief.

This then is the meaning of that problematic verse: Only when the fourth stage of the redemption takes place with the revelation at Sinai, will you truly know that Hashem was the cause of all the earlier stages.

Shemos - 5773

One of the curious aspects of the Galus Mitzrayim is the fact that the tribe of Levi was not enslaved. Rashi (Shemos 5:4) raises this point to explain why Moshe and Aharon were apparently free to come and go as they wished. Ramban, citing the Rashi, agrees and quotes the Midrash Rabba which is the source for the idea. Then Ramban offers a conjecture as to why this was so: Every nation had its sages who taught its doctrines; Pharaoh therefore provided this for the Hebrews as well by freeing the tribe of Levi to perform this function.

This strikes us as odd. Was Pharaoh truly concerned for the spiritual enlightenment of his slaves?

Perhaps we can suggest an alternative explanation. There is a well-known aphorism of Karl Marx, “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” This means that religion, by holding out the promise of a blissful afterlife as a reward for suffering in this world, tends to anesthetize people to their suffering and suppress the motivation for revolution to make this world a better place. Perhaps it was put best by Vladmir Lenin:

Religion is one of the forms of spiritual oppression which everywhere weighs down heavily upon the masses of the people, over burdened by their perpetual work for others, by want and isolation. Impotence of the exploited classes in their struggle against the exploiters just as inevitably gives rise to the belief in a better life after death as impotence of the savage in his battle with nature gives rise to belief in gods, devils, miracles, and the like. Those who toil and live in want all their lives are taught by religion to be submissive and patient while here on earth, and to take comfort in the hope of a heavenly reward…Religion is opium for the people. Religion is a sort of spiritual booze, in which the slaves of capital drown their human image, their demand for a life more or less worthy of man. (Novaya Zhizn No. 28, December 3, 1905)

In the history of man, there was no religion more focused on the afterlife than the Egyptian state religion. The mummies, tombs, and pyramids all testify to the extensive preparations for the “next world” that was in store. (Although our museum artifacts represent the provisions made for the Pharaohs, the focus on the afterlife was common to all social classes.) We may suggest that this religious doctrine satisfied the needs of the state to suppress revolution and maintain tight control over an enslaved populace.

There is a tendency for people to assume that everyone thinks as they do. (If I want a power saw for my birthday, undoubtedly my mother also wants one for her birthday!) Pharaoh assumed that the Hebrew religion would be based on the same premises as the Egyptian religion and would thus serve to facilitate the further enslavement of the Hebrews.

But Pharaoh was soon to discover something that the Communists were to discover hundreds of years later. Even after Communism evolved from a revolutionary movement to a movement that was determined to crush revolution, there was still a need to suppress religion. While religion sometimes encourages an attitude of acceptance and passivity, it can also serve as a force for idealism and radical social change. (Recall that the overthrow of Communism in Poland was driven by the Catholic Church.)

Pharoah assumed that Moshe and Aharon, the finest of Shevet Levi, would be the teachers of a doctrine that would advance his domestic political agenda. By the time he came to realize that Moshe and Aharon were the vanguard of revolution, it was too late.

Vayechi - 5773

As the Sefer of Bereishis comes to its conclusion this week, we may reflect on the very fact that the Torah is divided into five Seforim. It is highly unlikely that this is simply a matter of convenience. Rather, it is reasonable to assume that each of the Seforim is a comprehensive treatment of a single overall theme; when the treatment is concluded, the book comes to its end. In fact, the Ramban in his introductions to each of the Seforim develops these themes. His comments will be the starting point for our discussion.

Sefer Bereishis, contends Ramban, is the Sefer Yetzira - the book of formation. It comprises the account of the formation of the physical universe as well as the formation of the Jewish people. How so? Explains the Ramban, there is a fundamental principle, Ma'aseh Avos Siman L'bonim, the acts of the forefathers are an omen for the children. This means that Hashem guides the course of Jewish history by leading the forefathers through episodes and events that pave the way for similar episodes and events which will occur later on the national level. Throughout his commentaries on Sefer Bereishis, the Ramban points out the parallels in the stories of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov  to subsequent developments in Jewish history.

Sefer Shemos, says Ramban, is the Sefer HaGeula - the book of redemption. Although it appears that only the first four weekly portions deal with the redemption from Egypt and that the rest deal with unrelated themes, this does not challenge the Ramban's contention. Redemption is not to be defined as mere deliverance from political oppression. Rather, it is a full restoration to original status. The Avos, explains Ramban, lived life on such a lofty spiritual plane that to describe them as the Divine Chariot would not be an exaggeration. The Divine Presence literally rested upon their tents. But with the descent of the children of Yaakov to Egypt a process of decline began. Ultimately, in the estimation of the angels, the Jews were indistinguishable from the Egyptians. (When Hashem saved the Jews and drowned the Egyptians at the Red Sea, the angles were incredulous. "But these and these are both idolators.") The Jews were only restored to this status when they were liberated from Egypt, had received the Torah, and built the Mishkan. When the Mishkan was complete and the Shechina rested upon it, the Jews had truly been restored to their original position Then the process of Geulah is complete and the Book of Shemos comes to its end.

Thus, the connection of Sefer Bereishis to Sefer Shemos is relevant in two distinct ways. First, Sefer Bereishis foretells and foreshadows that which will happen to us further down the road. This knowledge could benefit us; knowing what is in store gives us the ability to cope in times of crisis and difficulty. For example, recounting the story of Avraham and Sarah in Egypt in which Sarah was abducted and saved through Divine intervention which resulted in Avraham becoming fabulously wealthy, undoubtedly was a tremendous source of satisfaction and emotional support to the enslaved Hebrews.

But, secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it inspires us to follow in the footsteps of the Avos by presenting a view of Jewish history in which the basic enterprise of the Jewish nation is the struggle to reclaim the spiritual level of our founding fathers and mothers. Thus Sefer Bereishis must be carefully examined, not only to analyze that which happens to us, but also to discover how the Avos react and respond to the situations in which they find themselves. To illustrate: Yaakov's experience in the house of Lavan is not only significant in that learning about it prepares us for the type of abuse that Jews will experience at the hands of our Galus tormentors. It also serves as a guide for how we must maintain our own integrity in the face of the duplicity of those taskmasters just as Yaakov did, (See Rambam, conclusion to Hilchos Sechirus, where he develops the idea that Yaakov become successful in the merit of his honesty and trustworthiness in his dealings with Lavan.)

Vayigash - 5773

Joseph said to his brothers and to his father's household, "I will go up and tell Pharaoh, and I will say to him, ‘My brothers and my father's household who were in the land of Canaan have come to me. The men are shepherds, for they were [always] owners of livestock, and their flocks and their cattle and all they possess they have brought.’

And if it comes to pass that Pharaoh calls you and asks, ‘What is your occupation?’ You shall say, ‘Your servants have been owners of livestock from our youth until now, both we and our ancestors,’ so that you may be allowed to dwell in the land of Goshen, because all shepherds are abhorrent to the Egyptians." (Bereishis 46:31-34)

The anticipated tension between the native Egyptians and the newly arrived Jews is rooted in the fact that the Jews were shepherds and that this profession was especially despised by the Egyptians.

Rashi contends that this abhorrence is related to the fact that the sheep was the deity of Egypt as is well known from the teachings of Chazal regarding the symbolism of the Korban Pesach.

Yet, the matter still calls for explanation. One could conjecture that those who tended to the deities should be considered the most distinguished members of society!

Rav Elchanan Wasserman zt’l, who was a disciple of the Chofetz Chaim zt’l, was once asked to explain the uniqueness of his Rebbe. He responded by pointing out that many sages that we may admire from a distance become diminished when we observe them from close. What was special about the Chofetz Chaim zt’l was that the closer you became, the greater he appeared to be.

The deification of the sheep would be undermined in a society whose members lived in close proximity to sheep. They would see the sheep for what they truly were – animals! Consequently, those members of society had to be marginalized.

There is another approach to understanding the Egyptian disgust with shepherds: the conventional tension between farmers and herders. Egypt was a farming society; flocks and herds could potentially ruin farmland. (See Bava Kama 79b for a discussion of Rabbinic ordinances made in Eretz Yisrael to prevent this problem.)

One could easily say then that the bottom line is economic; the strangers’ herds and flocks could bring ruin upon Egypt’s economy. But Rav Hirsch (Commentary to Bereishis Ch. 4) argues that the farmer/herder issue is the root of the spiritual and cultural divide between Mitzrayim and Yisrael as well. I will present his words verbatim; it would be impossible to merely paraphrase them and still do them justice:

Agriculture demands all of one's physical energies. The Divine decree "By the sweat of your countenance shall you eat bread" (Genesis 3:19) is applicable particularly to the tiller of the soil. He must devote himself totally to his physical existence. Self-pride and pride of possession are especially predominant in the tiller of the soil. The ground that the farmer has fertilized with his own sweat becomes for him a supreme value, becomes part of his personality, and he is caught up in it and settles down.

To be sure, agriculture stimulates and develops civilization. Most inventions and skills may be credited to agriculture. The settlement of the land implicit in agriculture leads to the formation of society and state and to the administration of justice. The decree upon the human being to work the ground opened the way to humankind's development.

On the other hand, a farmer is a slave to his field, which lowers him to the level of the soil. Once he places his neck under the yoke of the pursuit of possessions, his spirit, too, becomes bowed. He can be manipulated through his desire for property. This leads to slavery; one human being is subjugated to another. Moreover, the farmer can easily come to worship the forces of nature, on whose influence hinges the success of his field.

Agricultural peoples were the first to lose faith in God and in the higher dignity of the human being; it was in their midst that slavery and idolatry first emerged.

By contrast, there is much virtue and advantage in pastoral life. The shepherd works mainly with living creatures, and the care he extends to them fosters in him human feelings of tenderness and empathy. His property is movable. The flock needs the shepherd's care, but does not owe its very existence to the human being. As a result, the shepherd is saved from the danger of attaching too much value to himself and to his property. His vocation does not drain all his energy, or occupy his mind to a great extent, and he has time to elevate his spirit to Divine and humane values. Hence, our forefathers were shepherds, as were Moshe and David.

Conversely, consider the antipathy of the ancient Egyptians towards shepherds and pastoral peoples. All the negative outgrowths of the agricultural mentality discussed above were found in Egypt. Egyptian culture was based on agriculture; its characteristic features were polytheism, on the one hand, and human enslavement, on the other. Work was the purpose of the human being. The individual per se had no value, no dignity, no freedom. The Egyptian was born a slave to his occupation. Faith in God, the freedom of the human being, and the human being's likeness to God remained alive only in the hearts of one tribe of shepherds: our ancestors. The Egyptian leaders were therefore very shrewd in instilling in their people an implacable hatred for pastoral peoples.

Thus, the reluctance of the newly arrived Jews to give up shepherding was much more profound than is conventionally believed. We assume that it was simply a ploy to gain isolation from the Egyptians who would consider the Jews disgusting. In reality, there was much more at stake; the Jews could not give up their traditional profession without giving up as well every spiritual and cultural value that they cherished.

Miketz - 5773: Response to Hazony, Part 2

Last week this column began an analysis of a recent New York Times article by Yoram Hazony, president of the Institute for Advanced Studies at the Shalem Center in Yerushalayim. The premise of the article is that the traditional conception of G-d as omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly virtuous has no basis in the Bible and that the very concept of Divine perfection can be questioned. As this position runs counter to the most basic premises of our faith, the need to respond is self-evident. The previous column critiqued the first half of the Hazony article which presented the scriptural “evidence”; this week we will turn to Hazony’s philosophical claims. (The italicized paragraphs are from the Hazony article; the responses are in regular typeface.)

I’d start with this: Is it really necessary to say that God is a “perfect being,” or perfect at all, for that matter? As far as I can tell, the biblical authors avoid asserting any such thing. And with good reason. Normally, when we say that something is “perfect,” we mean it has attained the best possible balance among the principles involved in making it the kind of thing it is. For example, if we say that a bottle is perfect, we mean it can contain a significant quantity of liquid in its body; that its neck is long enough to be grasped comfortably and firmly; that the bore is wide enough to permit a rapid flow of liquid; and so on. Of course, you can always manufacture a bottle that will hold more liquid, but only by making the body too broad (so the bottle doesn’t handle well) or the neck too short (so it’s hard to hold). There’s an inevitable trade-off among the principles, and perfection lies in the balance among them. And this is so whether what’s being judged is a bottle or a horse, a wine or a gymnastics routine or natural human beauty.

What would we say if some philosopher told us that a perfect bottle would be one that can contain a perfectly great amount of liquid, while being perfectly easy to pour from at the same time? Or that a perfect horse would bear an infinitely heavy rider, while at the same time being able to run with perfectly great speed? I should think we’d say he’s made a fundamental mistake here: You can’t perfect something by maximizing all its constituent principles simultaneously. All this will get you is contradictions and absurdities. This is not less true of God than it is of anything else.

Hazony misses the entire point. The doctrine of Divine perfection asserts that G-d is truly unique and beyond comparison to any created entity or object. Perfection in the physical realm may be defined as the optimal balance of trade-offs, but this is because it is a composite of elements, each with its own characteristics and qualities. (The bottle, to use Hazony’s example, is a composite of neck, bore, and container.) G-d’s essence, on the other hand, is an absolute unity in which all aspects of perfection exist.

The attempt to think of God as a perfect being is misguided for another reason as well. We can speak of the perfection of a bottle or a horse because these are things that can be encompassed (at least in some sense) by our senses and understanding. Having the whole bottle before us, we feel we can judge how close it is to being a perfect instance of its type. But if asked to judge the perfection of a bottle poking out of a paper bag, or of a horse that’s partly hidden in the stable, we’d surely protest: How am I supposed to know? I can only see part of it.

Is G-d’s perfection to be limited by our ability to perceive and understand it? (That would be the case only if G-d was a human creation!) Again, Hazony misses the point. The doctrine of Divine perfection does not make the claim that empirical observation leads us to our understanding of G-d; rather, through revelation and reason, we accept certain propositions about G-d, the full implications of which we are unable to sense and even fully comprehend.

Yet the biblical accounts of our encounters with God emphasize that all human views of God are partial and fragmentary in just this way. Even Moses, the greatest of the prophets, is told that he can’t see God’s face, but can only catch a glimpse of God’s back as he passes by.

Exactly! Because G-d’s perfection is absolute and thus outside the boundaries of human experience, our perception of him is partial and fragmentary.

At another point, God responds to Moses’ request to know his name (that is, his nature) by telling him “ehi’eh asher ehi’eh” —“I will be what I will be.” In most English-language Bibles this is translated “I am that I am,” following the Septuagint, which sought to bring the biblical text into line with the Greek tradition (descended from Xenophanes, Parmenides and Plato’s “Timaeus”) of identifying God with perfect being. But in the Hebrew original, the text says almost exactly the opposite of this: The Hebrew “I will be what I will be” is in the imperfect tense, suggesting to us a God who is incomplete and changing. In their run-ins with God, human beings can glimpse a corner or an edge of something too immense to be encompassed, a “coming-into-being” as God approaches, and no more.

A note on Hebrew grammar is required here. Modern scholars of Biblical Hebrew claim what we, as schoolchildren, called future tense is a misnomer. In English, for example, the phrase, I will eat, clearly implies that the action will take place in the future. However, in Biblical Hebrew, the verb ya’aseh, could equally imply something occurring at the present time on an ongoing basis. (See Iyov 1:5 for an illustration.) Consequently, modern Biblical grammarians use the term imperfect tense instead of future tense. (This is not to be confused with the use of the term imperfect in Indo-European languages.)

Regarding the phrase “ehi’eh asher ehi’eh”, our recognition of the dual use of the imperfect tense should lead us to the conclusion that “I am that I am” is actually the preferable translation. It means that Hashem is consistent with his fundamental essence not only at the moment he was speaking to Moshe but rather from the beginning of time for all eternity. The claim that the use of the imperfect implies “coming into being” is a misunderstanding of the grammatical issues.

The belief that any human mind can grasp enough of God to begin recognizing perfections in him would have struck the biblical authors as a pagan conceit.

We never claimed this. (See above.) It would not only be a pagan conceit; it would be a monotheistic conceit as well!

So if it’s not a bundle of “perfections” that the prophets and scholars who wrote the Hebrew Bible referred to in speaking of God, what was it they were talking about? As Donald Harman Akenson writes, the God of Hebrew Scripture is meant to be an “embodiment of what is, of reality” as we experience it. God’s abrupt shifts from action to seeming indifference and back, his changing demands from the human beings standing before him, his at-times devastating responses to mankind’s deeds and misdeeds — all these reflect the hardship so often present in the lives of most human beings. To be sure, the biblical God can appear with sudden and stunning generosity as well, as he did to Israel at the Red Sea. And he is portrayed, ultimately, as faithful and just. But these are not the “perfections” of a God known to be a perfect being. They don’t exist in his character “necessarily,” or anything remotely similar to this. On the contrary, it is the hope that God is faithful and just that is the subject of ancient Israel’s faith: We hope that despite the frequently harsh reality of our daily experience, there is nonetheless a faithfulness and justice that rules in our world in the end.

What would the basis of our faith and trust be if G-d is understood as being inconsistent, constantly oscillating between indifference and action? Would there be any greater moral failing than this? Why should we be so confident that things will work out in the end? Hazony himself recognizes this:

The ancient Israelites, in other words, discovered a more realistic God than that descended from the tradition of Greek thought. But philosophers have tended to steer clear of such a view, no doubt out of fear that an imperfect God would not attract mankind’s allegiance.

Instead, they have preferred to speak to us of a God consisting of a series of sweeping idealizations — idealizations whose relation to the world in which we actually live is scarcely imaginable. Today, with theism rapidly losing ground across Europe and among Americans as well, we could stand to reconsider this point. Surely a more plausible conception of God couldn’t hurt.

It most certainly would hurt. Our conception of G-d is not a mere preference, a vanilla/chocolate choice. It is rooted in our deepest conviction that it is the absolute truth. To give it up because we are losing ground across Europe and among Americans is absurd. Perhaps we should embrace the principle that 1+1=3 as this would result in increased aggregate economic activity, thus addressing the European and American fiscal crises?

In conclusion, no coherent argument has been presented for the abandonment of the traditional conception of G-d and, as well, no evidence has been presented for the claim that this conception would have been foreign to Jews of Biblical times. However, a few additional comments are in order:

The starting premise of the Hazony article was that abandonment of the traditional conception of G-d could solve the problem of theodicy. Presumably, it is only the view of G-d as omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly virtuous that creates the expectation that G-d should prevent all suffering. Rejecting any one of the three beliefs would solve the problem; suffering could be easily understood if G-d was powerless to stop it, unaware of it, or indifferent to it. But let us explore these choices. Which of the three should we be most eager to surrender?

Generally it is assumed that the belief in G-d’s moral perfection cannot be rejected without undermining religion generally. As Hazony himself acknowledges, a morally imperfect G-d would not attract our allegiance. So we must now contemplate the rejection of omnipotence or omniscience. Again, it is generally assumed that these could be safely rejected. A G-d imperfect in these ways would still be worthy of our devotion.

Frankly, I find this argument to be flawed. Put yourself in the imperfect G-d’s shoes – to use an inaccurate metaphor – for a moment. You are contemplating creating a universe. You are aware of Your own shortcomings – that You are not omnipotent and not omniscient. You must therefore be aware that Your acts of creation may result in sufferings and injustices that You will not be able to prevent or stop. Is it then morally justified for You to create the universe? I believe not. The only way we could contemplate a non-omnipotent G-d or a non-omniscient G-d is if we also assume that He is imperfect in the moral sphere. But this, as we have already stated, undermines religion totally.

If this is the risk that Hazony wishes to take, that is his own business. (Although I would warn him that after 120 years he may discover that he made a big mistake!) But let us not follow him into the abyss.

Vayeshev - 5773: Response to Hazony, Part 1

As a rule, this column does not respond to articles in the press, especially those published in the New York Times. However, a recent guest submission by Yoram Hazony, president of the Institute for Advanced Studies at the Shalem Center in Yerushalayim, calls for comment. As it casts doubt on the most cherished theological principles of Torah Judaism without a scrap of justification, it must be countered so not to lead the unwitting astray by the elegance of its literary style. (The italicized paragraphs are from the Hazony article; the responses are in regular typeface.)

Is God perfect? You often hear philosophers describe “theism” as the belief in a perfect being — a being whose attributes are said to include being all-powerful, all-knowing, immutable, perfectly good, perfectly simple, and necessarily existent (among others). And today, something like this view is common among lay people as well.

There are two famous problems with this view of God. The first is that it appears to be impossible to make it coherent. For example, it seems unlikely that God can be both perfectly powerful and perfectly good if the world is filled (as it obviously is) with instances of terrible injustice.

The problem of theodicy – justification of Divine judgement – has been discussed for hundreds of years. According to the Talmud (Berachos 7a), Moshe Rabbeinu himself asked Hashem to provide an explanation of these issues. The Biblical book of Iyov is, according to the commentaries of Rambam in the Moreh Nevuchim, Ramban, Malbim and others, a comprehensive treatment of this subject from many perspectives.

The starting point for any discussion, however, is the Biblical verse (Devarim 32:4-5): “The deeds of the Rock are perfect, for all His ways are just; a trustworthy God, without injustice, He is righteous and upright. Corruption is not His; it is His children's defect, you crooked and twisted generation.”

To assume, as Hazony does further in the article, that the Bible embraces a view of an imperfect deity and thus can accept the possibility – let alone the certainty – of  “terrible injustice” is clearly absurd.

Similarly, it’s hard to see how God can wield his infinite power to instigate alteration and change in all things if he is flat-out immutable.

It is hard to believe that any serious philosopher would roll out this chestnut in the twenty-first century. This argument is rooted in an Aristotlean conception of the Deity whose acts follow of necessity from His essential nature. Thus, if His essence is unchanging, his works (i.e. the created world) should be unchanging. The Rambam has already noted (Moreh Nevuchim 2:25) that the Aristotelian view runs counter to the belief in miracles. But Judaism has never accepted this conception.

And there are more such contradictions where these came from.

Should we take Hazony’s word on this? Presumably he has chosen his best arguments for presentation. The ones he expects us to accept on faith cannot be better!

The second problem is that while this “theist” view of God is supposed to be a description of the God of the Bible, it’s hard to find any evidence that the prophets and scholars who wrote the Hebrew Bible (or “Old Testament”) thought of God in this way at all. The God of Hebrew Scripture is not depicted as immutable, but repeatedly changes his mind about things (for example, he regrets having made man).

But the Bible itself says (Bamidbar 23:19), “G-d is not a man that He should lie, nor is He a mortal that He should change His mind. Would He say and not do, speak and not fulfill?” Obviously, the use of the term “regret” in relation to G-d (Bereishis 6:7; Shemos 32:14; Shmuel I 15:11; Shmuel II 24:17) is merely a metaphor for a change in action in response to new conditions. (See Abarbanel, Bereishis 6:5 for an elaboration of this idea.)

He is not all-knowing, since he’s repeatedly surprised by things (like the Israelites abandoning him for a statue of a cow).

Look up the story at Shemos Chapter 32. There is absolutely no indication in the text that Hashem was caught off guard by the Jews’ worship of the Golden Calf.

He is not perfectly powerful either, in that he famously cannot control Israel and get its people to do what he wants.

This is sheer nonsense. G-d wants man to choose good and reject evil of his own volition, as the verse states (Devarim 30:19), “This day, I call upon the heaven and the earth as witnesses [that I have warned] you: I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. You shall choose life, so that you and your offspring will live.” His non-intervention in our choices is not a contradiction to His omnipotence. (As to why our commission of evil is referred to as a violation of His will, see Rambam, Shemoneh Perakim Chapter 8.)

And so on.

We have already commented above on the undisclosed proofs.

Philosophers have spent many centuries trying to get God’s supposed perfections to fit together in a coherent conception, and then trying to get that to fit with the Bible. By now it’s reasonably clear that this can’t be done.

There is nothing in Hazony’s presentation that makes this clear at all. In fact, there is nothing that even challenges the traditional conception of G-d.

In fact, part of the reason God-bashers like Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris are so influential (apart from the fact they write so well) is their insistence that the doctrine of God’s perfections makes no sense, and that the idealized “being” it tells us about doesn’t resemble the biblical God at all.

The reason they are so influential is because they are writing for the uninformed masses. But the claim that Dawkins and Harris have made the argument that the idealized being does not resemble the biblical G-d leaves me scratching my head. They are not proving their claims from the Bible and they are not embracing a new conception of an imperfect G-d. They are unabashed atheists.

So is that it, then? Have the atheists won? I don’t think so. But it does look like the time has come for some rethinking in the theist camp.

This is true. The time has come for some rethinking in the theist camp. But the question to be asked is not Hazony’s. Rather we should be asking the following: Why are we – as Jews – so unfamiliar with our own Torah, heritage, and philosophy that we should take articles such as this seriously?

(To be continued next week.)