Lech Lecha - 5773

Regarding the covenant of Bris Milah, which is introduced in Parshas Lech Lecha, I believe that two important points can be made:

1.  The practice of Bris Milah is rooted in the conviction that the natural forms have no presumptive claim of superiority over the works of man. To the contrary: The world was fashioned in an incomplete and imperfect way to create opportunities for man to perfect creation.

This point is made in the well known Midrash (Tanchumah, Tazria 5):

The wicked Turnus Rufus asked Rabbi Akiva, “Which are more beautiful, the works of the Holy One, Blessed be He, or those of flesh and blood. Rabbi Akiva replied, “The works of flesh and blood are more beautiful.”

Turnus Rufus then asked, “Why are Jews circumcised?” Rabbi Akiva replied, “I knew you would ask this and that is why I told you previously that the works of man are superior.” Rabbi Akiva then brought sheaves of grain and loaves of bread. “These sheaves are the works of the Holy One Blessed be He. These loaves are the works of flesh and blood. Are the loaves not superior?”

The Bais Halevi points out that, in giving the command for Bris Milah, Hashem introduces Himself using the name “Shaddai” (Bereishis 17:1). This name is understood by Chazal (Chagigah 12a) as related to the Hebrew word “Dai”, meaning “Enough”, in that when Hashem created the world, it continued to expand endlessly until Hashem said “Enough” and arrested the process.

This process of expansion was not only quantitative. There was also a process of qualitative development in which everything was striving to higher and higher forms of perfection. Wheat would have evolved into loaves had this process not been stopped. But it was stopped in order to allow man the opportunity for using his ingenuity and talent to produced finished goods through his own efforts. The utterance of “Dai/Enough” creates the potential for bread and for Bris Milah and consequently the name of Hashem derived from this utterance is the name associated with the command.

2. Performing Bris Milah on babies rather then on adults entails a high level of conviction and commitment. If Bris Milah was a mere preference, we would not impose it on our young children; we would allow them to make the decision for themselves upon reaching maturity. (Many critics of Bris Milah do make this point!)

But because Bris Milah is an integral part of the Torah which is ultimate truth, we “impose” this on our children without hesitation. Just as no parent would be faulted for teaching the basic number facts (one plus one equals two etc.) to his children, no parent can be faulted for giving his child Bris Milah. These are not subjective preferences but rather objective truths.

Perhaps this explains the cryptic comment of the Rivash (Teshuvos Rivash 131) that whereas Pidyon Haben is a rite that the father performs on behalf of his young son, Bris Milah is a rite that the father performs for himself. (The Halachic ramifications of this distinction are developed in that Responsum.)

Bris Milah is not merely a service that the father performs to benefit the child with early admission to the covenant. The willingness of the father to peform Bris Milah is a demonstration of the depth of his own conviction. Thus it is a Mitzva he performs for himself.

Noach - 5773

And I will set up My covenant with you, and you shall come into the ark, you and your sons, and your wife and your sons' wives with you. (Bereishis 6:18)

A covenant was necessary for the fruits so that they should not rot and become putrid, and so that the wicked of the generation should not kill him. (Rashi from Bereishis Rabbah 31:12)

This understanding of the covenant is somewhat surprising as there really should be a simpler interpretation: The covenant was Hashem’s promise to Noach that he would survive the flood and emerge from the Tevah to begin the repopulation of the earth. In fact, this is the Ramban’s interpretation!

Rashi’s limitations on the extent of the Divine commitments lead us to an intriguing conclusion: There was no inevitability to Noach’s coming out of the Tevah alive. Hashem only promised that he would not be killed before the flood and that the food would not spoil, nothing more. This would mean that Noach’s being in the Tevah was not merely an opportunity for refuge from the floodwaters; it was a time for Noach to earn his right to survive the flood.

Interestingly, this seems to be a point of contention between Ramban and Rashi later in the story. We read that after the flood, “Hashem remembered Noach…” Ramban takes this to mean that Hashem remembered the covenant that he had made with Noach before the flood and accordingly sent a wind that caused the waters to subside. This, of course, is consistent with his understanding of the covenant.

Rashi, however, understands the verse to mean that Hashem took note of something that transpired in the Tevah – Noach’s prayers for an end to the ordeal. The clear implication is that, had Noach not prayed, the waters would not have subsided and Noach would not have emerged. This follows Rashi’s earlier position that the covenant did not entail Noach’s leaving the Tevah alive.

What Noach achieved in the Tevah perhaps can be understood in a different way.

The sin for which the fate of humanity was sealed was Chamas – theft. (See Rashi at 6:13.) The root of this sin seems to be a self-centeredness that allows an individual to see the entire world as existing only for his personal benefit or gain. (“What is mine is mine and what is yours is mine.”) Now, while Noach was clearly the greatest of his generation, he was not totally free of this personality flaw. The Zohar (1:67) tells us that in a sense Noach was responsible for the flood because he did not pray for his generation after his own safety and that of his family was assured. Consequently, Noach could not become the foundation of a new generation and a new world unless that fatal flaw was totally removed.

Hashem’s plan was to remove that tiny speck of self-centeredness by giving Noach the responsibility of service to others – specifically the myriads of animals which he was commanded to protect, feed, and nurture. Just as service to others naturally follows from selflessness, service to others can instill selflessness. (See Sefer HaChinuch, Mitzvos 16, 40, 99, 264, and 299 for a general statement of the principle that actions can instill personality traits and Mesilas Yesharim, Chapter 7, where this principle is applied regarding alacrity in Mitzvah performance.) That this experience was successful is attested to by the comment of the Zohar (1:254) that the sacrifices that Noach brought after coming out of the Tevah were to atone for the sin of not praying for his generation.

Bereishis - 5773

The various curses which were placed upon mankind as a consequence of eating from the Etz HaDa’as must be viewed not as punishments but rather as consequences. A punishment is justly applied only to the guilty party; children and grandchildren should not suffer for the sins of their forbears. Consequences, on the other hand, do impact future generations. If a parent does not provide his child an education, the child’s illiteracy is a consequence of that failure.

This distinction is significant. A punishment is merely a volitional response to an offence; the offence does not cause the punishment. A consequence, however, is causally related to the original act. Therefore, if our assumption is valid, we must attempt to trace this chain of cause-and-effect and explain the relation of the curses to the original sin.

While an examination of all the curses is beyond the scope of this small essay, let us focus on what is arguably the most severe of the curses – it certainly is the only one that was foretold before the sin – which is the imposition of death upon mankind. The text makes it clear that had man not sinned he would have been eternal; death entered the world as a consequence of eating the forbidden fruit. Why should this be?

Derech Hashem (Part 1 Chapter 3) in a lengthy discussion assumes that the scheme of Olam Hazeh and Olam Habah, a temporal, material world and an eternal, spiritual world, would have been true even had the sin never been committed. The transition from the one to the other, however, would have been incremental. Had Adam and Chava withstood temptation, their souls would have refined their bodies and, in turn, the entire universe that was ultimately created only for them. Thus, Olam Hazeh would have been transformed into Olam Haba.

The sin changed everything. By introducing elements of imperfection into their bodies – which is the natural effect of eating the forbidden – the bodies could no longer be refined to the extent that they could enter into the spiritual realm. They would have to undergo a process of degeneration and decay so that, at a later time, they could be reconstituted without the imperfections. This process of degeneration is, of course, what we call death.

There may be another aspect to the imposition of death. The Rambam (Moreh Nevuchim, Part 1 Chapter 2) cites a question that was asked by an individual who considered himself wise: We all know that before the sin in Eden, man did not have the Yetzer Harah, and thus was not subject to temptation. (Let us momentarily put aside the obvious problem: If he had no Yetzer Harah, what motivated him to commit the sin?) Why then was he given such a superior mind? What was the purpose of his masterful intellect, if there was no opportunity to exercise moral choice?

The Rambam, with uncharacteristic scorn, dismisses the question. Man was not originally given his intellect to make choices. He was given his intellect to come to know G-d! Had he not sinned, that would have been the focus of his life. After the sin, the nature of his life changed. Now the focus of his life would be the imperative of moral choice as “a knower of good and evil”. He would need every ounce of his intelligence to rise to this challenge.

In the original position, eternal life would have been possible. As G-d is infinite in every aspect of his being, an infinitely long life could be productively used in the quest to achieve understanding of the divine.

But in the new world of moral choice, it is precisely the shortness of our lives that create the greatest dilemmas, for one of the most important choices we make – perhaps the most important – is that of prioritization. We have so many options and so little time and so few resources. How do we decide what is important and deserving of our attention? What is unimportant and deserving our rejection? When man’s mission became the exercise of moral choice, it became necessary to introduce death; meaningful choice is only made possible by placing man in a setting which has real limits.

Vayelech - 5773

The Rambam opens his Hilchos Teshuvah with the laws of Vidui – verbal confession – stating that anyone who violates one of the Mitzvos of the Torah is obligated to say Vidui when he repents. (It is noteworthy that Rambam does not consider Teshuvah itself to be a Mitzvah; only the Vidui which concludes the Teshuvah process is counted as one of the 613 commandments.) In the Rambam’s formulation, the Vidui is more than an admission of guilt. The Vidui must also contain an expression of regret (Charata) and an expression of resolve not to repeat the sin (Kabbala L’haba). In other words, Vidui is a verbalization of the entire Teshuvah process.

Why is this necessary? Why must Teshuvah be put into words? Why can’t Teshuvah simply be a state of mind?

One possibility is that words are more firm than mere thoughts which are often vague and cloudy. Putting the Teshuvah steps into words makes the repentance solid.

There may be however another idea behind this mandated verbalization:

The Rambam writes that the Vidui must be said “Before Hashem”. To put it differently, in Vidui we are communicating with Hashem. (Perhaps it is for this reason that on Yom Kippur the Vidui is inserted into the silent Amidah. Prayer too, as the Rambam explains in Hilchos Tefillah, must be said “Before Hashem”. While engaged in the one, we are in the necessary state of mind for the other.)

Teshuvah without Vidui can cut Hashem out of the picture entirely. You see, the very concept of sin can be understood without reference to a Supreme Being. A person can sin against himself by contravening his most deeply held principles or by failing to achieve his own potential. Teshuvah then would just be another form of self-improvement akin to stress reduction, time management, or goal-setting. By requiring that the penitent speak to Hashem, he is forced to acknowledge that sin is first and foremost a violation of a relationship with the Divine Other. A damaged relationship cannot be repaired unilaterally; the guilty party must face the other and speak words of apology and appeasement. This is the meaning of Vidui.

Perhaps this explains the apparent redundancy in the opening line of the special Haftarah for this Shabbos (Hoshea 14:2-3), “Return, Israel, to Hashem, your Lord, for you have stumbled in your sins. Take for yourself words and return to Hashem…” Why is the admonition to return repeated?

The initial return refers to the process of Teshuvah; regret for the past and resolve for the future themselves constitute a return to Hashem in the sense that the person has returned to compliance with the Divine Command. The “taking of words” is a reference to the words of Vidui (see Shaarei Teshuvah, Part 1 on his discussion of the Fifteenth Fundamental of Teshuvah). This is a return of a different kind. Here the penitent returns to face Hashem in addressing the words of Vidui to Him.

In the Hebrew, the two “returns” are expressed differently. The first is “Ad Hashem”; the second is “El Hashem”. While both “Ad” and “El” are translated as “to”, there is a subtle difference in connotation. By way of illustration: A person traveling to a border but not crossing can be said to have traveled “to” the border. Here the Hebrew “Ad” would be more appropriately used in the sense of “up to”. A person traveling to New York and entering the city would be said to have traveled “El”. Thus, in speaking of the approach of one person to another – or to Hashem – “El” would imply a greater closeness than “Ad”. It is only in Vidui that this higher level is attained.

Nitzavim - 5772

The study of Jewish customs – Minhagim – can provide a fascinating insight into the various ways in which different communities understood certain aspects of religious life.

Take, for example, the custom of reciting Selichos. The common practice today is to recite these prayers for forgiveness both before Rosh Hashana and during the days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Yet, this is not the only possibility. The Rambam (Hilchos Teshuvah 3:4) states that the custom was observed only between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Chabad Chassidim only say Selichos before Rosh Hashana (except for Tzom Gedalia which, being a fast day, also calls for Selichos).

The Rambam’s position is not difficult to understand. Prayer is an integral part of the process of atonement as we cannot take Hashem’s forgiveness for granted. Therefore, during the days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur which have been designated as days of Teshuvah, it is certainly appropriate to pray for forgiveness. In fact, we can even offer an argument that the Selichos before Rosh Hashana are not really a preparation for Rosh Hashana at all, but rather additional preparation for Yom Kippur. After all, we have no Selichos on Rosh Hashana and there is no confession on Rosh Hashana. The Rosh Hashana service is actually not focused on sin and its atonement at all. So in what sense could the Selichos be a preparation for Rosh Hashana?

The Chabad custom, however, now becomes even more problematic for in that custom the Selichos are viewed exclusively as a preparation for Rosh Hashana! How is this to be understood?

There is a letter that was sent by the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Schneerson zt’l to his students in 1937 (included in the collection of letters printed along with the Tehillim Ohel Yosef Yitzchok) in which he recounts a thought of the Ba’al Shem Tov on the verse in Parshas Miketz (Breishis 43:10) in which Yehudah tries to convince his father Yaakov to allow the brothers to bring Binyamin to Mitzrayim. Yehuda says, “If we had not tarried, we could have already returned twice.”

In the Hebrew, the first words of the verse are לולא התמהמהנו. The word לולא, when its letters are rearranged, spells אלול, the Jewish month preceding Rosh Hashana. The phrase thus can be understood this way: If instead of rushing through Elul, we would tarry and utilize every moment for preparation, we could “return” to Hashem twice – first on Rosh Hashana and then a second time on Yom Kippur.

The Rebbe explained that the Teshuvah of Rosh Hashana and the Teshuvah of Yom Kippur are really quite different. The Teshuvah of Rosh Hashana is a “general” repentance. Rather than focusing on our specific misdeeds, it is an overall recommitment to the ideal of accepting Hashem’s kingship and authority. The Teshuvah of Yom Kippur, on the other hand, deals with the fine details of our conduct. It demands that we identify our areas of deficiency, work to rectify them, and thereby we receive atonement and forgiveness.

The Rebbe continues to explain – and this is the part relevant to our earlier questions – that whereas the main preparation for Yom Kippur is after Rosh Hashana, the main preparation for Rosh Hashana is during the time of Selichos. By begging for forgiveness, we impress upon ourselves the idea expressed in the very first line of the liturgy, “Kindness is Yours, Hashem, and embarrassment is ours.” Becoming mindful of our shortcomings, we come to a greater appreciation of how truly beholden we are to Hashem, and thus we readily accept the yoke of his majesty.

The point is so subtle it can be easily missed. But if we appreciate it, it can answer the question we raised. The objective of saying Selichos is not to persuade Hashem to “change His mind” and forgive us even if He was not so inclined. If this would be the objective, the Selichos would have been said only after Rosh Hashana which is when we actually seek forgiveness. The real objective is to impress upon us our debt to Hashem as a way of motivating us to accepting Hashem’s yoke. Thus the most appropriate time for Selichos is during the several days before Rosh Hashana.

Ki Savo - 5772

The central theme of this week’s Parsha is the Tochacha, the blessings and curses that are consequences of our observance or non-observance of the Torah. The Gemara (Megillah 31b) states that Ezra ordained that the Tochacha be read before Rosh Hashana and before Shavuos – also a “Rosh Hashana” of sorts, as we are then judged regarding fruits of the tree. This serves as a positive omen: The old year and its curses should finally come to an end.

What is the deeper meaning of this practice?

We generally assume that things remain static and unchanging. (Inertia, of course is a law which operates in the physical world!) Even the Halacha makes this presumption; it is the basis of the well-known rule of Chazaka. If things were in a given state at an earlier time and we are in doubt as to whether things changed at a later time, Chazaka tells us that the change did not take place. Accordingly, we assume that our personal circumstances – health, income, family issues – are the way they are because this is how they were yesterday and undoubtedly they will continue to be the same way tomorrow.

Whether this assumption is ever valid can be debated, but there is one particular juncture in time where this argument is especially flawed. The last day of Elul and the first day of Tishrei are fundamentally disconnected. The former belongs to the previous year and its character is determined by the judgement of the previous Rosh Hashana; the latter belongs to the current year and its character is determined by the current Rosh Hashana. If there is no change, this can only be because we have not changed and consequently the judgements of the two years are identical.

This insight can be either very frightening or very reassuring.  If things have been going badly, the prospect of a new year being different is very reassuring.  On the other hand, if last year went well we may be disturbed by the fact that this coming year may be very different. 

Taking Rosh Hashana seriously requires our understanding that everything is on the table; nothing is decided or determined. The curses of the old year can end because the coming year is governed by new calculations. If we change, our destiny can change as well. This is the vital message implicit in the ordinance of Ezra.

One additional point regarding this practice of reading the Tochacha before Rosh Hashana:

Surprisingly, our practice is not to read the Tochacha on the Shabbos that immediately precedes Rosh Hashana but rather two Shabbosos before. (As well, we do not read the Tochacha of Bechukosai on the Shabbos immediately before Shavuos but again two Shabbosos before.) Tosfos (Megilla 31b) explains that we don’t want to read the curses just before Rosh Hashana as this would be a bad sign. This is rather perplexing. The premise of Ezra’s ordinance is that reading the Tochacha before Rosh Hashana is a good sign. How does it become a bad sign because it is immediately before?

The Zohar (2:88a) says that all the blessings of the upcoming week are rooted in the preceding Shabbos. (In the Lecha Dodi recited at Kabbolas Shabbos, Shabbos is referred to as Mekor Habracha – the source of blessing.) Perhaps this is the basis of the custom that many Jewish celebrations begin on the Shabbos before the event proper. Marriages are preceded by an Aufruf, circumcisions by a Shalom Zachor, and – in many communities – a Bar Mitzvah was given Maftir on the Shabbos before his thirteenth birthday!

Accordingly, although it is a good omen to have completed the curses before Rosh Hashana, we avoid doing this on the Shabbos immediately before as that Shabbos is meant to be the source of blessing for Rosh Hashana itself.

Ki Setze - 5772

You shall not see your brother's ox or sheep straying, and ignore them. Rather, you shall return them to your brother. But if your brother is not near you, or if you do not know him, you shall bring it into your house, and it shall be with you until your brother seeks it out, whereupon you shall return it to him. (Devarim 22:1-2)

Although the simple understanding of these verses poses no difficulty – they comprise the source for the Mitzvah of returning lost property – the Or HaChaim reads into them an allegorical interpretation. The straying oxen and sheep refer to Jewish souls who have become estranged from their heritage and whose religious observance has lapsed. The command is to return these lost souls to G-d. Thus the verse serves as a source for the imperative of Jewish outreach – Kiruv Rechokim.

Regarding this subject, the Or HaChaim makes several fascinating observations based on the details of the allegory and we will soon discuss some of those points. However, there is one aspect he appears to overlook: Why are these lost souls compared to oxen and sheep?

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch in his commentary to Vayikrah makes the observation that while an ox is a beast of burden and provides economic benefit for its master by pulling the plow, the sheep is actually the recipient of its owner’s largesse. For an extended period of time the sheep must be nurtured and sustained by the shepherd. When we offer oxen and sheep as sacrifices, explains Rav Hirsch, we are really engaging in vicarious self-sacrifice; the choice of animal relates to the way in which we conceive our relation to G-d. One who feels that he has been derelict in the discharge of his duties to G-d, will rededicate himself to the Divine service through the offering of an ox. However, one who feels that he has been insufficiently appreciative of G-d’s kindness will bring a sheep, seeing himself as the recipient of G-d’s loving care.

The estranged Jew has strayed in both senses: He has lapsed in his duties to G-d and in his appreciation of G-d (often through no fault of his own). Thus, he is both a wandering ox and a wandering sheep.

The Or HaChaim does observe, that when we bring these souls back we are described as bringing them back to our brother. In the Biblical metaphor, our relationship to G-d is often depicted as one of the family relationships. Sometimes we are G-d’s children; sometimes we are G-d’s spouse. The greatest Tzaddikim however are depicted as G-d’s siblings. The use of that metaphor in the context of Kiruv Rechokim, implies that the individuals engaged in this work have the closest relationship imaginable with G-d.

The Or HaChaim does not elaborate, but I believe that there are two aspects to this. First, the individuals who are meant to engage in this work must be of the highest caliber. Kiruv Rechokim is too important to be relegated to those individuals who fall into it simply for lack of more viable career options. It must attract our “best and brightest” – those who are truly G-d’s brothers. These gifted and idealistic people will have the talents, tools, determination, and dedication to be successful in this calling. Second, engaging in Kiruv Rechokim brings the Kiruv worker closer to G-d transforming him into a brother; we become closer to G-d when we make His priorities our own.

Another fascinating point that the Or HaChaim makes is that the process of returning these souls is described in two ways. Sometimes the finder brings the ox/sheep to its owner; sometimes the finder brings the ox/sheep to his own home and waits for the owner to make a claim. Explains the Or HaChaim: There are times in Jewish history where G-d’s presence is manifest in the world and those who desire an intimate relationship with G-d can more easily access Him. In those periods, we can return the straying soul directly. We can introduce him to vibrant religious experience that will energize and uplift him.

However, there are times of Divine concealment as well. (Our current Galus, says the Or HaChaim is one such period.) In these times, even the most devoted Jews feel a measure of distance from the Divine. At such times how do we restore the lost souls when we all feel lost to a certain extent? At these times we are commanded to bring the lost souls to our houses – meaning the Batai Medrash, houses of Torah study. Here, the intellect will be enlightened and become committed to holding on until our “brother” – G-d Himself – will come to claim us with the advent of the coming of the Messianic Age.

Shoftim - 5772

“Judges and police you shall place at all your gates…” (Devarim 16:18)

While the literal interpretation of this verse is a reference to the establishment of the institutions that comprise the justice system, the Shelah Hakadosh sees here a hint to a different idea. “Gates” can be understood as referring to the seven openings through which we take in the sensory experiences of the world – the two eyes, the two ears, the two nostrils, and the mouth. Obviously there are good things to look at, hear, smell and eat; there are some bad things as well. To insure that only the good is allowed to enter, we must have judges and police at these “gates”.

There is more to this interpretation than is immediately apparent.

Among the ancients, there was a great philosophical debate as to the means through which children and students could be brought to virtue. Some – including the Greek philosopher, Plato – held that the key to the inculcation of virtue is instruction in morals. Given the assumption that no one would knowingly commit an injustice, merely providing instruction as to what is right and what is wrong would certainly result in complete compliance with the standards of virtue. Others – among them Plato’s greatest disciple, Aristotle – questioned the underlying assumption. People often do knowingly commit injustices. Many people lack the control that would enable them to live up to even their most deeply held convictions. Thus an additional ingredient is necessary for the development of virtue – exercise in self-discipline.

In this debate, Shlomo Hamelech clearly takes the second side. In Mishlei, he makes many references to Chochmah and Mussar, sometimes within the same verse. (See, for example, Mishlei 1:2 and 1:7.) As Malbim explains throughout his commentary, the possession of Chochmah, or moral knowledge, is the ability to identify the morally justified alternative when faced with a choice. Mussar, which comes from the Hebrew word which means restraint, is the ability to follow the course of action that Chochmah prescribes. We need both the guidance of Chochmah and the discipline of Mussar to lead lives that exemplify good character.

These, of course, correspond to the judges and the police of our opening verse. The judges issue rulings but only the police have the force with which to implement them. As applied to the “gates” of our heads, we must make good judgments as to what we should embrace and allow entry, but we need the strength of the police to compel us to live up to those judgments.

It would appear that there is a fundamental distinction between the roles of the “judges” and those of the “police” in our personal gates. Each “case” that comes before the judge is unique, and the underlying issues are different. How much television I should watch and which programs has little to do with the question as to what I should eat and in what quantity. Different areas of Halacha and Torah insight must be applied to every question. But the “police” function is the same in all cases: The individual uses the self-control needed to do the right thing. Consequently, every victory – in whatever area of religious observance – strengthens the willpower needed for success in every other area.

Elul, as we all know, is a time for introspection and self-improvement. We must all make an accurate assessment as to whether it is our “judges” that need strengthening or whether, in fact, our judges are fine; rather it is our “police” that need the reinforcement. Our answer to this simple question will determine our necessary strategy in the process of Teshuvah.

Chukas - 5772

Because you did not believe in Me, to sanctify Me before the eyes of the B’nai Yisrael, you will not bring this congregation into the land that I have promised them.” (Bamidbar 20:12)

The story of the Mei Merivah and its consequence - Moshe and Aharon losing their right to enter Eretz Yisrael – is the subject of a vast body of interpretation. But in virtually all readings of the story, the above cited verse remains problematic; the story does not seem to depict any lack of belief on the part of Moshe and Aharon.

The crisis which gives rise to the story – the desperate need for water – had also occurred almost forty years before. As described in Parshas B’shalach (Shemos 17:1-7), Moshe brought forth water by striking a rock with his staff. According to Chazal (Ta’anis 9a) this miraculous spring was granted in the merit of Miriam; her death, at the end of the forty years, resulted in the spring’s drying up. Again, as described in our Parsha, Moshe is commanded to take his staff, but this time he is meant – according to Rashi’s interpretation of the story – to speak to the rock and not to strike it. The incessant demands of the people anger Moshe, in error he strikes the rock, and the sin has been committed.

The Malbim takes note of one fascinating detail that differentiates the two episodes. In the first story, the rock is described in the Hebrew text as “Tzur”; in the second story, as “Selah”. The difference, says the Malbim, is that “Tzur” implies a hard. Solid, dry stone, while “Selah” implies a porous stone that may contain water. The miracle of extracting water from a “Tzur” is achieved by the application of a powerful force that transforms the stone into water; thus, the miracle was achieved by Moshe striking the stone with his staff. A “Selah”, by contrast, already contains water. If Moshe was to strike the rock, the emerging waters would not appear to be miraculous at all. Perhaps Moshe merely cracked open the covering rock and the waters flowed naturally. That it be understood as miraculous, it was necessary that Moshe coax water from the rock using words alone.  

The question is: Why were the two rocks different? It would seem that the earlier generation that left Mitzrayim and the later generation that was entering Eretz Yisrael were being taught two different lessons.

The earlier generation needed to be educated in the fundamentals of belief, most importantly, the belief in the omnipotence of G-d. The miracles performed for this generation, therefore, were dazzling in their power – the Ten Plagues, the splitting of the Red Sea, the thunder, lightning, and smoke of Har Sinai, and finally, drawing water for the entire nation from a hard stone.

Over the next 39 years, these lessons were absorbed, but there was a new lesson that needed to be taught, and – it can be argued – that the need was prompted by the nature of those dazzling miracles. The fact that Klal Yisrael was routinely saved just in the nick of time – the proverbial “damsel in distress” – left the people wondering whether Hashem really cared about them, because, if He really cared, wouldn’t He have made proper provisions for them well in advance? (See Shemos 17:7. Even after all the miracles the Bnai Yisrael apparently questioned whether Hashem was in their midst.)

 The “Selah” was designed to impress upon Klal Yisrael that they are always utmost in G-d’s thoughts. Contained within the rock is the water they so vitally need; it is just waiting to be tapped. This is a unique type of Emunah/belief; not belief in G-d’s power but belief in G-d’s caring. Thus, Moshe’s striking the rock – treating the “Selah” as “Tzur” – was a failure to believe that the water was really there all along and could be extracted with mere words.

Korach - 5772

Any dispute which is for the sake of Heaven will have a constructive outcome. Any dispute which is not for the sake of Heaven will have no constructive outcome. What is an example of a dispute for the sake of heaven? This is the dispute of Hillel and Shammai. What is an example of a dispute not for the sake of Heaven? This is the dispute of Korach and his company. (Pirkei Avos Chapter 5)

This comparison of the two types of dispute requires understanding. This Mishna gives the impression that we are essentially dealing with the same phenomenon; only the intentions of the participants are different. In the one case, the intention is altruistic; in the other case, the intention is self-serving. But this hardly seems to be so. Hillel and Shammai were engaged in the pursuit of truth in the interpretation and application of Torah. Korach and his company were attempting to undermine the authority of Moshe Rabbeinu which places the entirety of Torah in doubt. How could the same word be used to describe both?

The Hebrew word Machlokes is generally translated as “dispute” or “controversy”, but a more precise translation would be “division”. The monolithic nature of a group or community becomes divided and splintered as each member tries to assert his own personal vision. This is the common denominator of the two episodes. In both, each of the protagonists had a unique way of seeing things; thus, they become divided from one another. When the division leads to the questioning of authority, it is a negative thing; the opposing visions become the engines for competition for positions of leadership.When this division, however, facilitates the expansion of horizons in understanding Torah, it is a positive thing; the truth emerges from the dialectic between the two opposing viewpoints.

The question arises: In selecting an example of the Machlokes for the sake of Heaven, why does the Mishna cite the dispute of Shammai and Hillel? Isn’t every Halachic dispute for the sake of Heaven?

Maharal (Derech Chaim) offers an explanation which is genuinely frightening in its implications. He explains that a disputant can only be deemed as acting for the sake of Heaven if his arrival at a given conclusion was the outcome of a totally altruistic search for truth. But what if he arrived at the conclusion because he was too tired – or perhaps, too lazy – to devote all his energy to the issue at hand? To the extent that personal comfort becomes a factor in the process, the conclusion is not the outcome of a quest that was conducted one hundred percent for the sake of Heaven.

Only the disputes of Shammai and Hillel themselves attained this level of perfection. Regarding their students, the Gemara (Sanhedrin 88b) teaches that the students of Shammai and Hillel did not adequately apprentice under their masters – Maharal takes this as a personal failing – and as a result there was an explosion of Machlokes. While Shammai and Hillel themselves debated three or four points, their disciples, the Houses of Shammai and Hillel argued in over 250 instances!

Regarding issues of Torah ideology, people often embrace positions without thinking or without adequate research. Yet, they assume that their taking that position is for the sake of Heaven. The words of Maharal should give us pause. Following the path of least resistance undermines the claim of pure altruism.