Monthly Archives: March 2019

by Rabbi Aryeh Klapper

There is no way to keep religion away from politics and psychology. G-d is willHe-nilHe involved in human affairs, because every human being who has or claims a relationship with Him affects other human beings. Moreover, we all have expectations of Him, and our sense of self and our position in society are profoundly  affected by His choices to fulfill or frustrate those expectations.

Rashi and rabbinic interpretations generally construct a narrative of the Mishkan’s construction which is all about managing those expectations.

The Jewish people expect G-d to respond to their overwhelming response to His appeal by sending a perceptible or even tangible expression of His presence. They cheerfully watch their volunteer artisans and engineers make the components, expecting that as soon as the parts are done, the whole will miraculously erect itself, as Rashi himself later expects the Third Temple to descend flaming from Heaven.  But the parts just lie there.

So they go to the craftsmen, and tell them angrily: “What are you waiting for?!  Build it, and He will come!” Truth be told, the craftsmen might prefer it this way.  So they cheerfully set up their blocks and tackles and go about putting up the walls – which promptly fall right back down.  And again, and again.

The craftsmen cannot bear the possibility that their work is inadequate.  So they don’t abandon the structure; they admit defeat and bring it, still in kit form, to Mosheh (Shemot 39:33). But the people have no such personal investment, and there is much grumbling as they trail behind.  Here is the Midrash Tanchuma’s retelling:

כיון שגמרו מלאכת המשכן – היו יושבין ומצפין

אימתי תבא שכינה ותשרה בו

והיו מצטערין הכל מפני שלא שרתה שכינה עליו,

מה עשו? הלכו להם אצל חכמי לב. אמרו להן:

ומה אתם יושבין העמידו אתם את המשכן ותשרה שכינה בינותינו!

היו מבקשין להעמידו, ולא היו יודעין, ולא יכולין להעמידו,

וכשהן חושבין להעמידו – הוא נופל,

מיד הלכו להם אצל בצלאל ואהליאב. אמרו להם:

בואו אתם והעמידו המשכן שאתם עשיתם אותו שמא על ידכם ראוי לעמוד!

מיד התחילו להעמידו ולא יכלו,

התחילו מסיחין ומרננין ואומרים:

ראו מה עשה לנו בן עמרם!

שהוציא את ממונינו במשכן הזה והכניס אותנו לכל הטורח הזה

ואמר לנו כי הקדוש ברוך הוא יורד מן העליונים ושורה בתוך יריעות עזים

When they finished the work of the Mishkan – they were anticipating:

When will the Presence come and inhabit it?

Everyone was suffering because the Presence had not come to inhabit it.

What did they do?  They went to “the wise of heart” (craftsmen).  They said to them:

Why are you just sitting there?! Go erect the Mishkan and the Presence will dwell among us!?

They tried to erect it; but they did not know how;

when they thought they had it erected – it would fall.

Immediately they went to Betzalel and Oholiav (the architect and designer). They said to them:

You come and erect the Mishkan that you have made!  Perhaps it will be fit to stand via your hands!

Immediately (Betzalel and Oholiav) tried to erect it, but they were unable.

So (the people) began complaining:

Look what the Son of Amram has done to us!

He spent all our money on this Mishkan,

and put us to all this bother,

saying to us that the Holy Blessed One would descend from Above and dwell in goatskin curtains!

Why does the Mishkan keep falling down?  Not because of any flaw in His design, or their skill.  Rather, because Mosheh was frustrated that he had no tangible part in the work, so G-d ensured that the final stage would be his, with more than a symbolic ribbon-cutting.

ולמה לא היו יכולין להעמידו,

אלא שהיה משה מיצר על שלא נשתתף הוא עמהן במלאכת המשכן,

כי צד הנדבה נתנה על ידי ישראל

והמלאכה נעשית ע”י בצלאל ואהליאב וחכמי לב

Why were they unable to erect it?

Because Mosheh was distressed that he had not participated with them in the work of the Mishkan

because the materials were contributed by the Jewish people

and the labor was done by Betzal’el and Oholiav and the wise of heart.

Because Mosheh was distressed, G-d hid the method from them and they were unable to erect it.

Yet the task that G-d leaves Mosheh is beyond his, or for that matter any single human being’s, physical capacities (unless Mosheh was a giant, which some midrashim suggest). So G-d tells him to playact, to pretend as if he is lifting the components – “Do something with your hands and make it appear as if you were erecting it” – while He miraculously causes the Mishkan to erect, but assures him that the plaque will still have his name on it.  Thus in Shemot 40:17 “the Mishkan was erected,” whereas in 40:18 “Mosheh erected the  Mishkan.”

Now the Mishkan is standing. Mosheh, and only Mosheh knows that the Divine presence is there. The people expect that G-d’s Presence will make itself known, but nothing at all happens, at least so far as they can tell.  Mosheh goes through the seven day inauguration ritual, taking the Mishkan apart and reconstructing it each day – and each day, nothing new happens.  Why?

Mosheh realizes: G-d was concerned for My frustration, but I should be thinking about Aharon – how would he feel if he had no part in this? So Mosheh tells the people (Rashi Vayikra 9:23):

אהרן אחי כדאי וחשוב ממני,

שע”י קרבנותיו ועבודתו תשרה שכינה בכם

ותדעו שהמקום בחר בו

Aharon my brother is more fit and worthy than I

because it is through his sacrifices and service that the Presence will dwell among you

and you will know that the Omnipresent chose him

Aharon now goes to perform His service.  Like the people, he expects – everyone has been told this, by Mosheh! that his service will be efficacious, and G-d’s Presence will descend as he concludes the final ritual.  But nothing happens.  So it’s his turn to complain:

יודע אני שכעס עלי המקום בשבילי לא ירדה שכינה לישראל

כך עשה לי משה אחי

שנכנסתי ונתביישתי ולא ירדה שכינה לישראל

מיד נכנס משה עמו ובקשו רחמים

וירדה שכינה לישראל

לכך: נאמר ויבא משה ואהרן אל אהל מועד.

I know that the Omnipresent is angry with me.

It is because of me that the Presence has not descended to Israel.

My brother Mosheh did this to me!

I entered the Mishkan, and I was shamed, and the Divine Presence did not descend to the Jews.

Immediately Mosheh entered with him, and they prayed,

and the Divine Presence descended to the Jews

Thus Scripture says: “Mosheh and Aharon came to Ohel Moed.”

At long last, “a fire came out from Heaven, and consumed on the altar” (Vayikra 10:2).  The people experience the giddy mixture of joy and terror they have been awaiting; Betzalel’s craftsmanship and Aharon’s Priesthood are confirmed; Mosheh is involved at every step of the process.  Everything is hunky-dory at last.

But we have come a long way from Mosheh’s first experience with Divine fire, which consumed nothing.

In Vayikra 9:22, Aharon descends “from making” the sacrifices. The straightforward reading is that he descends physically from the altar.  One mussar step straight down: He descends from the spiritual high of the sacrifice:  One spiral Chassidic step further: He descends spiritually as a result of making the sacrifices. 

In Chassidic literature, Aharon’s descent is the inevitable consequence of his effort to bring the people up.  Perhaps Chazal had the same reading, but interpreted it differently.  Aharon’s sacrifice was only necessary because Mosheh realized he was frustrated. Otherwise, the Divine fire would have descended before there was anything on the altar to consume.

Satisfying Aharon’s expectations has tragic consequences. Because Aharon’s sons also had expectations – after all, they were given uniforms! But they feel that it is He a late for complaints – fire has already descended from Heaven, and no one else feels that anything is still lacking. So they try to involve themselves, and another fire comes down from Heaven, and consumes them.

Perhaps Mosheh’s experience of pure innocence was possible only when he was a shepherd in the Wilderness, when there was only one man, who came with no expectations, only a sense of wonder.  In society, G-d is always a “consuming fire” (Devarim 4:24).

Wonder also requires expectations: what attracts Mosheh is that the shrub is not being burnt up even though he is expecting the fire to consume it.  (This is parallel to T.S. Eliot’s argument that creativity can only take place in the context of tradition.) What Mosheh lacks is expectations for himself. It does not occur to him that private access to G-d can be a source of power. He has been there, done that, and has no interest in unretiring. This is why Mosheh is the right person for the job.

We sometimes wish that all our religious leaders were Mosheh Rabbeinu the shepherd, learning Torah with pure spiritual wonder and no thought for themselves. There is good reason for that; human ambition makes G-‘d’s fire consuming, and fire spreads. Many leaders are not self-aware enough to empathize with the ambitions of others, let alone to deliberately make room for those ambitions to be satisfied. People with enormous Torah talents end up consumed by their own ambitions, like Nadav and Avihu.

But to get Mosheh to take the job of redeeming us from Egypt, G-d has to rekindle his ambitions. Religion needs the yetzer hora of ambition, as it needs every other human drive. Otherwise Torah becomes disconnected from society, and thereby from justice.

by Rabbi Aryeh Klapper

My wife’s driving instructor Tom Scott had a rule: Right-of-way must be given, never taken. What about halakhic authority?  Must it be given, or can it be taken?

Most yeshiva students are taught to read the halakhic passages of Talmud with the goal of abstracting and depersonalizing the content. We care about the ideas, and we want the halakhah to be decided based on who has the stronger argument. Yet if we are honest, we cannot avoid recognizing that the formal rules of psak are often about who has authority.

How is that authority obtained? Is it apportioned solely on the basis of intellectual, spiritual, or pastoral merit, or do the personal and private interactions among halakhists affect them as well?

A snippet of halakhic sugya on Pesachim 100a may offer a window into this issue, or at least a useful platform for analyzing it.

Our snippet comes at the end of a sugya discussing the rules for eating on the eves of Shabbat, Yom Tov, and Pesach. An Amoraic statement that “The Halakhah follows Rabbi Yehudah on Erev Pesach” is interpreted as referring to a hypothesized argument between Rabbi Yehudah and Rabbi Yose about whether a person who was already in midmeal needs to end that meal at the moment Pesach begins.  This hypothesis is supported by a beraita which records a parallel argument regarding Erev Shabbat:

[כ]דתניא:

מפסיקין לשבתות, דברי רבי יהודה;

רבי יוסי אומר: אין מפסיקין.

ומעשה ברבן {שמעון בן} גמליאל [ורבי יהודה] ורבי יוסי שהיו מסובין בעכו וקדש עליהם היום.

אמר לו רבן {שמעון בן} גמליאל לרבי יוסי

{ברבי} (ב”ר)

רצונך נפסיק, וניחוש לדברי יהודה {חבירנו}?

אמר לו:

בכל יום ויום אתה מחבב דבריי לפני רבי יהודה, ועכשיו אתה מחבב דברי רבי יהודה בפני?!

הגם לכבוש את המלכה עמי בבית?!

{אמר לו:}

אם כן – לא נפסיק, שמא יראו התלמידים ויקבעו הלכה לדורות.

{אמרו:}

לא זזו משם עד שקבעו הלכה כרבי יוסי.

as we learned in a beraita:
We break for Shabbatot, according to the words of Rabbi Yehudah:
but Rabbi Yose says: We don’t break:
A narrative about Rabban [Shim’on ben] Gamliel. [Rabbi Yehudah], and Rabbi Yose.
They were reclining in Acre when Shabbat came in (lit: when the day became holy on them).
Rabban [Shim’on ben] Gamliel said to Rabbi Yose
Berebbe
Is it your wish that we break, and be concerned for the words of Yehudah [our chaver]?
He replied: Each and every day you show affection for my words in the presence of Rabbi Yehudah, and now you are showing affection for the words of Rabbi Yehudah in my presence?!
“Will you even conquer the queen with me in the house?!”
[He said to him:] If so, we will not break, lest the students see and establish the halakhah for all generations.
[They said]: They did not move from there until the halakhah had been established as following Rabbi Yose.

The Talmud then reports an Amoraic statement that presumably relates to the beraita:

אמר רב יהודה אמר שמואל:

אין הלכה לא כרבי יהודה ולא כרבי יוסי,

אלא: פורס מפה ומקדש.

Said Rav Yehudah said Shmuel:
The Halakhah follows neither Rabbi Yehudah nor Rabbi Yose,
rather: One spreads a cloth (over the food) and says kiddush.

Three brief notes about manuscript variants:

1. In some versions Rabbi Yehudah is present for the conversation, and in some he is not
2. In some versions there is ambiguity as to whether RSbG responds to Rabbi Yose, or whether instead “If so, we will not break, lest the students see and establish the halakhah for all generations” is still Rabbi Yose himself talking.
3. In some versions RSbG refers to Rabbi Yehudah as “our colleague.”

After a conventional presentation of the halakhic dispute between Rabbi Yose and Rabbi Yehudah, the beraita segues into a narrative. This narrative opens with one or both of the rabbis involved reclining at a meal with RSbG (in some versions Rabban Gamliel) on Friday at the moment of nightfall. RSbG turns to Rabbi Yose and asks him whether he wants them to break and “take into consideration” the position of Rabbi Yehudah.  Rabbi Yose responds angrily.

Why is he angry? RSBG did not suggest that the Halakhah followed Rabbi Yehudah against him! In fact, it seems that RSbG deferred absolutely to Rabbi Yose, to the point of letting him  decide whether they should even take Rabbi Yehudah’s position into account. This is even though RSBG is the Nasi, the head of the Jewish community and the academy.

Rashbam’s commentary offers a clue.  He understands RSBG as addressing Rabbi Yose using a term of great respect, “Berebbi,” that is never used in direct address elsewhere. Moreover, his version has the Nasi implicitly set Rabbi Yose up as his equal, “our colleague.” This courtesy seems excessive.

I suggest that according to Rashbam, RSBG knows that he is walking on eggshells here.  Most likely RSBG meant, and intended Rabbi Yose to understand, that he thought Rabbi Yehudah was correct on this issue, and intended to rule like him.  But in Rabbi Yose’s presence, he preferred to present this as merely accounting for all positions, and he gave Rabbi Yose the opportunity to save face by endorsing this.

Rabbi Yose does not take the graceful way out. Instead, he lashes out at RSBG, accusing of at least inconsistency and perhaps hypocrisy, and of spectacular chutzpah, while comparing him to Haman.  Possibly RSBG is cowed by the outburst and agrees to follow Rabbi Yose; or perhaps Rabbi Yose himself insists that they keep eating until it has been established that the Halakhah follows him.

In Rashbam’s reading, the Rabbis in the beraita understand each other perfectly. What we have is an authority struggle between RSbG and Rabbi Yose, which Rabbi Yose wins absolutely.  It seems that halakhic authority can be “taken.”

Except that the sugya’s final comment undoes Rabbi Yose’s victory; Rav Yehudah in the name of Shmuel disestablishes the narrative’s halakhic conclusion, and perhaps the entire beraita, and instead adopts a position that can be viewed as either entirely new or as a compromise.

But we can also read the beraita very differently than Rashbam. Perhaps RSbG sees Rabbi Yose as more authoritative than Rabbi Yehudah – and tells Rabbi Yehudah so every day – but when both rabbis are present, he’d very much like to avoid making that hierarchy explicit. But Rabbi Yose misunderstands, and thinks that RSbG’s allegiance is wavering. RSbG responds to Rabbi Yose’s outrage with complete submission.

Both these readings are predicated on the assumption that rabbinic relationships affect rabbinic authority. What makes that assumption compelling in this story is Rabbi Yose’s memorable citation of Esther 7:8: “Will you even conquer the queen with me in the house?!” The reference to the verse is at once brilliantly clever and deeply personal. To rule like Rabbi Yehudah is one thing; to do so in Rabbi Yose’s presence is something else entirely. Never mind that Rabbi Yehudah is present as well – he is just an innocent bystander, a Charvonah.  The queen is Torah, and RSbG is alienating her affection, whether by force of personality or by simple force. And without her affection, is Rabbi Yose still king? Note also that he regards himself as king even in the presence of the Nasi, who is the current link to the Davidic monarchy.

The verse may also help us choose between our suggested readings.  Because the truth in Esther, of course, is that Haman is not conquering Esther in any way, let alone threatening Achashverosh. He is merely pleading for his life.  Perhaps the beraita cites Rabbi Yose’s bon mot to undermine his perspective and teach us that he is badly overreacting to RSbG’s innocent attempt at preserving Rabbi Yehudah’s dignity.

Rabbi Yose’s assertion of his authority appears to work; They did not move from there until the halakhah had been established as following Rabbi Yose. Maybe there was a real risk that onlookers would misunderstand; maybe Achashverosh had no choice but to condemn Haman once he found him on the bed with Esther, whether or not he understood the true situation. Perhaps sometimes halakhic authority must and can be taken.

But maybe the risk was only in his mind. Perhaps everyone else knew that RSbG always followed Rabbi Yose, and would have immediately realized that adopting Rabbi Yehudah’s stringency for one night was only a polite gesture.  Rabbi Yose gains nothing, since the halakhah would follow him without a formal public establishment.  And readers of the beraita must now suspect that his authority was always taken more than given (even if in fact it originally stemmed from the clarity of his analysis, נימוקו עמו). In the long run, perhaps that is what emboldens Shmuel to disestablish the precedent Rabbi Yose insisted on setting.

by Rabbi Aryeh Klapper

The Bible has been a bestseller for thousands of years.  Leviticus as a stand-alone book, though, seems to have all the appeal of Magical Creatures and How to Slaughter Them next to a Harry Potter collection.  A little more humor, and a lot more explicit gore, and perhaps it could compete with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. As best I recall, the Reader’s Digest Condensed Bible simply skips from Exodus to Numbers.

All these challenges are intensified if one deals with Parshat Vayikra alone.  Listen to the great medieval commentator Rabbi Yosef ibn Caspi in his Mishnat Kesef, believing that he is channeling Maimonides:

כבר התועדתי בפירושי זה פעמים,

ובספר הסוד ובספר במשל,

כי תכונתי חזקה בבחירת הקיצור בכל מקום.

לכן

כאשר ראיתי זאת הפרשה ורבות מהנמשכות אחריה סובבות על מעשה זבחים וקרבנות

אשר ידוע שמשרע”ה כתבו בספרו מוכרח ואנוס,

כי אין חפץ לה’ בעולות וזבחים,

רק הכרח מנהג האומות כולם בזמן ההוא הביאם לזה,

לכן

די לנו בידיעת מלות אלו הספורים

ואם לא נדעם – אין זה היזק בזה,

ורב במה שנמצא בפירוש רש”י וא”ע

לכן

אניח פרשה זאת, והפרשת צו . . .

I have already informed you twice in this commentary,

and also in my Sefer HaSod and Sefer HaMashal,

that my character tends strongly to choose brevity everywhere.

Therefore,

when I saw this Parshah and many that follow it focusing on the making of sacrifices,

which it is known that Mosheh Rabbeinu wrote in his book compelled and coerced,

because Hashem has no liking for sacrifices,

rather it was the compulsion of the universal custom of nations of the time that brought them to this, therefore

it is sufficient for us to know the meaning of the words in these descriptions,

and if we don’t know them – there will be no damage in this,

and more than enough can be found in the commentaries of Rashi and Ibn Ezra

therefore

I will leave this Parshah be, and Parshat Tzav . . .

But Ibn Caspi’s comment begs the question: why did sacrifice become a universal expression of religion?

One possibility is that sacrifice achieves atonement, and atonement is a universally recognized human need.  But I have always been bothered by the connection between sacrifice and atonement. What a waste!  An animal – a living thing, or at the very least a valuable natural resource – is reduced to its maximal carbon footprint.  What “sweet savor” could possibly waft from these pointless barbecues? Wouldn’t it be better to genuinely make amends?

Ok, I get it; atonement sacrifices are largely for commandments between man and G-d, and there really is no way to make things up to G-d.  Except there is – repentance, especially repentance out of love, which for some reason in G-d’s perspective transforms past sins into virtues.

You’ll tell me that sacrifices lead to repentance. The death of an animal is a significant thing – it makes one think that could’ve/should’ve been me, there but for the chessed or rachamim of G-d go I.  But honestly, anyone who would think that way probably doesn’t need a sacrifice to think that way – they’d react the same way to a dead squirrel on the sidewalk, maybe even to a pen that’s run out of ink.

History/anthropology seem to show that prescribed modes of repentance inevitably lead to cost-benefit analyses – is this sin worth a goat to me, or not? The equation tends to work out badly for the goats.

I read an article this week that tried to equate philanthropy with sacrifice. It is true that the Temple accepted voluntary sacrifices.  I suppose it’s even likely that there was a plaque somewhere with the names of the people who gave the most and best voluntary sacrifices – perhaps we’ll dig it up soon, which would seem to validate the initial investment in immortality. But I think the author was misled by the term in English.  The Hebrew term korban, means thing which is brought closer, or that brings closer – it has nothing to do with giving something up, let alone of giving something up voluntarily for a greater purpose. The same negative applies to words such as זבח and עולה.

In his commentary to Deuteronomy 12:30-13:1, Ibn Caspi raises a much darker possibility.  Here are the relevant verses, followed by his commentary:

הִשָּׁ֣מֶר לְךָ֗ פֶּן־תִּנָּקֵשׁ֙ אַחֲרֵיהֶ֔ם

אַחֲרֵ֖י הִשָּׁמְדָ֣ם מִפָּנֶ֑יךָ

וּפֶן־תִּדְרֹ֨שׁ לֵֽאלֹהֵיהֶ֜ם לֵאמֹ֨ר

אֵיכָ֨ה יַעַבְד֜וּ הַגּוֹיִ֤ם הָאֵ֙לֶּה֙ אֶת־אֱלֹ֣הֵיהֶ֔ם

וְאֶעֱשֶׂה־כֵּ֖ן גַּם־אָֽנִי:

לֹא־תַעֲשֶׂ֣ה כֵ֔ן לַה֖’ אֱ-לֹהֶ֑יךָ

כִּי֩ כָל־תּוֹעֲבַ֨ת ה֜’ אֲשֶׁ֣ר שָׂנֵ֗א

עָשׂוּ֙ לֵאלֹ֣הֵיהֶ֔ם

כִּ֣י גַ֤ם אֶת־ בְּנֵיהֶם֙ וְאֶת־בְּנֹ֣תֵיהֶ֔ם

יִשְׂרְפ֥וּ בָאֵ֖שׁ לֵֽאלֹהֵיהֶֽם:

 אֵ֣ת כָּל־הַדָּבָ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֤ר אָנֹכִי֙ מְצַוֶּ֣ה אֶתְכֶ֔ם אֹת֥וֹ תִשְׁמְר֖וּ לַעֲשׂ֑וֹת

לֹא־תֹסֵ֣ף עָלָ֔יו וְלֹ֥א תִגְרַ֖ע מִמֶּֽנּוּ: פ

Guard yourself,

lest you be ensnared after them,

after they have been destroyed from before you,

and lest you seek after their gods, saying:

“How would those nations worship their gods?

I too will do the same.”

Do not do the same for Hashem your G-d

because all the abominations of G-d. that He hates,

they did for their g-ds

because even their son and daughters

they would burn in fire for their gods.

It is everything that I command you – that is what you must guard to do;

you must add nothing above it; you must subtract nothing from it.

הנה אלו יכול משה למונעם מהזבחים לגמרי,

להיותם נעשים לאלהי העמים,

היה השם חפץ בזה

ואחר כי לא היה יכול להעתיקם משרש

והעתק הסעיפים

ככל אשר יוכל

בעבודות המגונות,

כשריפת הבנים

אם שריפתם לגמרי או שריפת עורם או שערם בהעברם,

כי על הכל יאמר שריפה בשיתוף מה

Now had Mosheh been able to completely prevent them from sacrifices,

seeing as they were done for the gods of the nations,

Hashem would have desired this.

But since he could not remove them from the roots

he removed them from the branches –

to the extent he was able –

of the disgraceful modes of worship

such as burning children

whether completely burning them up, or burning their skin or hair by passing them through flame,

because all of them can be called burning, with some commonality

I suggest that Ibn Caspi sees “sacrifice” anthropologically as at core the dedication of an act of violence to a god.  What matters is not that the sacrifice is killed, but that you killed it, and the more significant the thing you kill, the better.  All sacrifice is at core human sacrifice, not self-sacrifice.

The Torah came along and, unable to extirpate this practice directly, tried to change its meaning.  Removing human sacrifice from the apex of the ritual pyramid opened up the possibility of understanding animal sacrifice as sublimating violence rather than as sanctifying it.  There is always a danger that the original meaning will break through.  But when violence is given no controlled religious outlet, sanctified violence often finds far more dangerous expressions.

Ibn Caspi’s understanding of the etiology of sacrifice does not mean that all those who endorse sacrifice at core endorse violence. Sublimation can be real and effective. Moreover, maybe the Canaanite meaning was not the original meaning either, but a later distortion, and the Torah restored sacrifice to its pre-Canaanite glory.

Preserving a practice while changing its meaning runs two risks: critics may accuse you endorsing its original meaning, and followers may come to adopt its original meaning.

A similar dynamic may occur with regard to the mitzvot of battling, remembering, and erasing the memory of Amalek. The urge to extirpate evil can be positive, but it can also be the inspiration for much greater evils than those it seeks to extirpate. Halakhah postpones the mitzvah to the Messianic age, noting that Yehoshua made a point to attack only combatants, and categorizing Samuel’s instructions to Saul as extralegal.  This in turn drives many commentators to find ways to “spiritualize” the mitzvah and expand the category of Amalek so that it can have contemporary relevance.  But this approach is subject to three kinds of misunderstandings.

1. It is often misunderstood as reflecting an ethical difficulty with the halakhah, when instead it is a reaction to the practical irrelevance of the halakhah. Sometimes it is even an ethical protest against a halakhah that seems insufficiently exercised by the persistence of evil.
2. Sometimes critics misunderstand such spiritualizing expansions as instead expanding the literal mitzvah of total war.  A recent article in an online Jewish magazine got there by mistranslating the Hebrew phrase במסירת נפש להריגה as “prepare to kill,” rather than correctly as “accept the risk of being killed.”
3. Most dangerously, sometimes followers make the same mistakes as the critics, or worse, sometimes interpreters genuinely mean to expand the category so that the mitzvah can find practical expression.  It is therefore imperative to reiterate that not only is the mitzvah eschatological, the halakhic category of Amalek cannot apply to any people who have territorial conflicts with the Jewish people, and all ethnic Biblical categories were rendered halakhically obsolete by Assyrian population transfer policies.  Every attempt at giving contemporary relevance to the category Amalek must be must be monitored with great caution as a potential “stringency that leads to leniency.”

Shabbat shalom and Purim sameiach!

by Rabbi Aryeh Klapper

The planks that formed the walls  of the Mishkan were 10 amot long, according to Exodus 26:16. Assuming that an amah is 18 inches long (the low end of the halakhic range of values), this means that the carpets that formed the ceiling and roof of the Mishkan needed to be lifted into place at least 15 feet above ground.

Not an impossible feat by any means.  For example, the carpets might have been attached to ropes and winched into place by a team of oxen.  Or the planks might have been lain on the ground, and the carpets placed on them.  When the planks were raised into place, again likely by oxen and pulleys, the roof and ceiling would have been raised into place automatically.

However, a hyperliteral reading of Shemot 40:18-19 tells a different story.  Mosheh first assembled and raised the walls of the mishkan.  Afterward, he spread the ceiling and then the roof over them. Assuming that these actions were all done by Mosheh personally, it follows that he was tall and strong enough to manipulate huge carpets more than 15 feet above ground.  On Bekhorot 44a, Rav uses this argument to conclude that Mosheh was at least 10 amot tall.

אמר רב:

משה רבינו עשר אמות היה,

שנאמר:

ויפרש את האהל על המשכן,

מי פרשו – משה רבינו פרשו,

וכתיב:

עשר אמות אורך הקרש

אמר ליה רב שימי בר חייא לרב:

אם כן, עשיתו למשה רבינו בעל מום,

דתנן:

גופו גדול מאבריו או קטן מאבריו!?

אמר ליה:

שימי [את]?! באמה של קרש קאמר.

Said Rav:

Mosheh our Teacher was ten amot

as Scripture says:

He spread the tent over the Mishkan.

Who spread it?  Mosheh our Teacher spread it,

and it is written:

ten cubits the length of a plank.

Said Rav Shimi bar  Chiyya to Rav:

If so, you have made Mosheh our teacher blemished,

as a Mishnah is taught:

(Among the blemishes that disqualify a kohen for Temple Service are:)

“If his body is larger than his limbs or smaller than his limbs”!?

Rav said to him:

Are you Shimi?! What I said was in plank-amot.

Rav’s initial argument is straightforward, but every line of his subsequent dialogue with Rav Shimi seems mysterious.  In what way does making Mosheh taller imply that he was disproportionate? And what are “plank-cubits”?

Rashi explains that an amah can be measure either objectively or subjectively (the length of a forearm). Rav Shimi initially thought that Rav meant that Mosheh was ten times as tall as his forearm was long, which would certainly have made him disproportionate.  Rav responds that he meant that Mosheh was 10 objective amot tall, just as the planks were, but that his limbs were proportionate.

This reading seems to make Rav Shimi’s question absurd.  Rav’s proof was that Mosheh must have been as tall as the planks, so obviously he meant objective amot!?

The Talmud records at least three other such dialogues between Rav and his grandson Rav Shimi bar Chiyya bar Rav.  In each of them, Rav Shimi objects to a factual claim made by his grandfather, who prefaces his response with “Are you Shimi?!” (The את is missing in our text, but present in the version in Yalkut Shimoni and one manuscript.) Rav then explains that either he or his prooftext has been misunderstood. The most directly parallel case is Menachot 29a, where Rav declares that the Menorah was only 9 tefachim high (maximum value = 3 feet). Rav Shimi objects that according to Mishnah Tamid 3:9, the priest who serviced the menorah stood on a rock that was three stairs high!? Rav responds that he was referring only to the height of the Menorah above where its branches began.

It’s unclear to me whether Rav’s preface “are you . . .” is intended to praise or put down his grandson. (Rabbeinu Gershom records a tradition that Rav did not look at other people and so had to identify them by voice, in which case it would be neutral.  But Rashi convincingly rejects this on the ground that Rav never refers to anyone but his grandson this way.)  Perhaps Rav meant to praise Shimi generally but claim that this question was uncharacteristically weak.

On Nedarim 38a Rav Yochanan appears to assume the truth of Rav’s statement, and the Talmud seems to find another ground for objection.

אמר ר’ יוחנן:

אין הקדוש ברוך הוא משרה שכינתו אלא על גבור ועשיר וחכם ועניו,

וכולן ממשה.

גבור –

דכתיב: ויפרוש את האהל על המשכן,

ואמר מר:

משה רבינו פרסו,

וכתיב: עשר אמות ארך הקרש וגו’.

אימא: דאריך וקטין!

אלא מן הדין קרא, דכתיב:

ואתפוש בשני הלוחות ואשליכם מעל שתי ידי ואשברם,

ותניא:

הלוחות – ארכן ששה ורחבן ששה ועביין שלשה.

Said Rabbi Yochanan:

The Holy Blessed One rests His Presence only on the gibor, wealthy, wise, and humble.

All of these are derived from Mosheh.

Gibor –

as Scripture says:

He spread the tent over the Mishkan.

and a Master said:

Who spread it?  Mosheh our Teacher spread it,

and it is written:

ten cubits the length of a plank.

But maybe he was tall and narrow (and therefore not a gibor)!?

Rather from this verse, as it is written:

“I took hold of the two tablets; I threw them from my two hands; I shattered them”

and a beraita teaches:

“The tablets were six long and six wide and three thick.”

The anonymous Talmud here suggests that the lack of proportion was not between torso and arms, but rather between height and width.  Mosheh was giant but puny.  This also seems absurd, as it requires not only height but strength to lift and spread out a massive carpet. The Talmud however takes the suggestion seriously, and derives Mosheh’s gevurah from a different verse.

On Shabbat 92a, the Talmud has a third discussion of Mosheh’s height.

אמר רבי אלעזר:

המוציא משאוי למעלה מעשרה טפחים – חייב,

שכן משא בני קהת.

ומשא בני קהת מנלן?

דכתיב: על המשכן ועל המזבח סביב,

מקיש מזבח למשכן;

מה משכן עשר אמות – אף מזבח עשר אמות.

ומשכן גופיה מנלן? –

דכתיב עשר אמות ארך הקרש

וכתיב ויפרש את האהל על המשכן.

ואמר רב: משה רבינו פרשו.

מכאן אתה למד: גובהן של לויים עשר אמות.

. . .

דילמא משה שאני,

דאמר מר: אין השכינה שורה אלא על חכם גבור ועשיר ובעל קומה.

Said Rabbi El’azar:

One who carries something out (on Shabbat) above 10 tefachim is liable,

as that was how Bnei Kehat carried (the Mishkan and accessories).

From where do we know that Bnei K’hat carried above 10 tefachim?

As it is written: “[the cover of the gate was on the Mishkan and the altar around”

which compares the Mishkan and altar:

just as the altar was 10 amot, so too the altar was 10 amot.

From where do we know the Mishkan itself?

as it is written: ten cubits the length of a plank.

and Scripture says: He spread the tent over the Mishkan.

and said Rav: Mosheh our Teacher spread it.

From here you learn: The height of the Levites was 10 amot

 . . .

But maybe Mosheh was uniquely tall,

as a Master said: The Divine Presence rest only on the gibor, wealthy, wise, and tall.

Here height replaces humility as a condition for the Divine Presence, and is a necessary condition independent of gevurah.  Rabbi El’azar claims that all Levites were as tall as Mosheh, but the Talmud seems to rejects this on the ground that there would be no purpose in making them so tall, whereas Mosheh’s height was necessary for the Divine Presence to rest on him.

Later commentaries resurrect Rav Shimi’s question. If the purpose of excluding the blemished from the Temple Service is to prevent visual distraction, wouldn’t superhuman height, however well=proportioned, be a blemish? This might be why we prefer to have all Levites be that tall.  Some contemporary commentaries even try to argue that at 15 feet, the Levites in the Wilderness were only slightly taller than the average person of their time.

There are ideological countertraditions.  The Divine Presence rested on Sinai because it was not high and mighty, neither tall nor gibor.  Perhaps Rav Yochanan deliberately replaced “height” with “humility” on the list of qualifications for the Divine Presence, and reinterpreted gevurah from physical prowess to conquering one’s own urges.

Rav’s tradition puts Mosheh Rabbeinu’s greatness obviously beyond our reach and grasp. Rabbi El’azar suggests that the same is true of all the Levites of that generation, and maybe of all people then.  Perhaps Rav Shimi and the anonymous Talmud, and maybe Rav Yochanan, contend that such claims are definitionally false.  Superhuman greatness is a disproportion or even distortion, and allegedly superhuman role models are distractions rather than inspirations.