PARSHAT KI SEITZE

Question By Joel Cohen

The Woman Of Beautiful Form (“Yifat Toar”) (Deuteronomy 21: 10-14)

So the Taliban or the Mujahadein or the Khmer Rouge go to war against their respective enemy.
War is hell, despite their perception that God is on their side. Still, the soldiers have lustful desires – they are men, after all. One soldier encounters a woman of the enemy, a civilian, but too tempting to resist (a “Yifat toar”). He is smitten with love for her – not some cheap, tawdry, sexual thing. He would marry her. Although she despises him and his people, she doesn’t get to vote. He takes her home to be his wife after combat (with the enemy). He has her head shaven, he lets her nails grow, he has her remove the garments of her captivity, and he gives her one month to mourn her parents’ death at war or separation from her. If he still wants her, he marries her. If he doesn’t, he simply ships her back home. Still no vote for her. Pretty raw, huh?
Nonetheless, we don’t need to consider the examples of the Taliban, the Mudjahadein or the Khmer Rouge, assuming that is their way, to encounter this code of conduct (and accepting that their conduct may indeed be even worse). All we need to do is look to this week’s parsha. Because, gentlemen, as you well know, this conduct is precisely what the Torah authorized for “When you go out to war against your enemies.” For after God delivers the enemy into the hands of the Children of Israel and “you capture its captivity,” the soldiers of Israel were accorded the right to proceed precisely the way described.
How can this be?

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel---your question this week was asked by the rabbis over two thousands years ago. They explain that the law of the yefat toar was included in the Torah---"as a response to the yetzer ha-ra-the evil inclination". This means, according to the rabbis, that if the Torah did not allow for the taking of the beautiful woman in battle, the Jewish soldiers would have done it anyway.

This idea that the Torah recognizes the fraility of people and responds to it is a profound notion in rabbinic Judaism and allows us to realize that the rabbis did not live in an ivory castle.

However, the rabbis do not conclude their comments on this episode with this comment. They continue to explain the juxtaposition of this law with the laws of two wives and the wayward son as follows, "However, if he marries her he will come to hate her and they will have a wayward son." Here the rabbis remind us that while the Torah recognizes the fraility of people, it nevertheless reminds us of the risks of succumbing to this fraility.

The Torah at the beginning of this week's parsha offers an insight into the rabbinic view of the nature of people through its insights into this ancient law.

Eli Popack

Joel it is interesting that you have focused on this point. The Torah here is concentrating on the realities of human nature, and attempting to counter the yetzer ha-ra (evil inclination). For if there was no (halachic) legal process for the union between the soldier and the captive woman to be memorialized, the soldier may take her illicitly, and not treat her with the respect that needs to be accorded to a fellow person, as is all too common in war throughout the generations to present day. Therefore the Torah, allows that he take her as a wife.

It is for this reason that the Torah insists that she must shave her head and grow her nails. This is on order to allow her to make herself unattractive to this man (soldier), so that he should ultimately lose interest and send her free, or express his true love for her by committing to marry her. Unlike other all-too-recent societies, where you can take people as slaves the Torah instructs that this women must be accorded all the honors of a wife. "And it will be, if you do not desire her, then you shall send her away wherever she wishes, but you shall not sell her for money. You shall not keep her as a servant, because you have afflicted her."

Nevertheless, the Torah does not view this positively, and if the soldier marries her, he will ultimately come to despise her, as it says after this, "If a man has [two wives-one beloved and the other despised]..." (verse 15). Moreover, he will ultimately father through her a wayward and rebellious son (see verse 18). For this reason, these [three laws] are juxtaposed.


To conclude though, there is a deep mystical insight in this law as well. The Ohr Hachayim (Rabbi Chayim Attar, 17th- 18th century) writes that sometimes a most holy soul is imprisoned in the depths of the kelipot (the "husks" which conceal G-dliness in our world). Thus it comes to pass that the Jewish soldier is attracted to a captive woman, because his soul recognizes the "beauty" imprisoned within her. (This is why the Torah refers to her as a "beautiful woman," even though -- as the Sifri derives from the verse -- the same law applies if one is attracted to a physically ugly woman.) Hence the Torah provides the procedure by which she is to be cleansed of the impurity of the kelipot and "brought into your house" -- included in the holy community of Israel

Parshat Devarim

Joel Cohen's Question:

As the Israelites traveled through the desert, they were instructed by G‑d to cross the Amon Brook, where G‑d would "deliver" Sihon King of Heshbon, the Amorite, and his land. They were told to possess the land and, unlike in dealing with the Moabites, they were told to actually "provoke" war with Sihon. Moses sent messengers to Sihon asking that he allow the Israelites safe passage through his land until they reached the Jordan, straying neither to the left or right—that they would simply purchase food and water that they would need along the journey. Sihon refused, for G‑d "had hardened his spirit and made his heart stubborn in order to give him into [the Israelites'] hand." Remember, though, G‑d first instructed that the Israelites "provoke" the war.

As expected, Sihon thereupon went to battle, but the Israelites prevailed—Sihon, his sons and his entire people were annihilated by the Israelites. All of Sihon's populated cities were occupied by the Israelites and all of their women and children were killed, leaving no survivor, as Moses proudly tells us.

Gentlemen, do I even need to articulate a question to address this troubling incident? And please don't tell me that Sihon was "asking for it." Lest we forget, G‑d told Moses to provoke the war in the first place. And even if Sihon was at fault, why the women and children?

Rabbi Adam Mintz:

Joel, I believe that there are two questions that must addressed concerning the battle with Sihon:

Why did G‑d harden their hearts? Wouldn't it have been more peaceful and ultimately easier to have Sihon let the Jews pass through their land?
Why did the Jews kill all of the Amorites, even the women and children?
I believe that the answer to the first question takes us back to the first instance in the Torah in which G‑d hardens a heart—the heart of Pharaoh. G‑d hardened Pharaoh's heart because he wanted to teach the Egyptians and the Jews a lesson that would not have been learned had Pharaoh been compassionate to the Jewish people. The question of how G‑d can take away free choice is a good question but for another blog entry. The same thing is true in this case. The Torah tells us that G‑d wanted these nations destroyed to instill fear among all the nations as the Jews were entering the land, so that the process of conquering the land would be an easy one for the Jews. We have to remember that Moses is about to die and the miracles of the desert were not carried out in as magnificent a fashion once the Jews entered the land. The Jews would be forced to win the battles without the hands of Moses being raised to miraculously declare victory. The fear that was instilled in these nations was a step that Moses could take in his last days to help guarantee victory. If Moses couldn't be there, at least he could assist ahead of time in the battle.

The killing of the women and children, as ruthless as it seems, reminds us of the story of Pinchas that we read several weeks ago. The women and even the children had the power to seduce the people to sin. G‑d was very concerned that the Jews would regress in Israel to the ways of idolatry that they exhibited during the episode of the golden calf. He decided that in order to protect the Jews, everyone needed to be killed. In modern day Israel, there are many responsa written discussing the rules of law and of Jewish soldiers. All of these responsa agree that halachah must be interpreted in a different way when it comes to soldiers and war. The story of the war against Sihon is an early model of these "war-time responsa."

Eli Popack:

Instead of asking how the Israelites could provoke war and kill the women and children, ask how they could justify going to battle against a nation that never wronged them, solely with the intent of conquering their land! Obviously, you aren't assuming that in Biblical times they followed the Laws of War as outlined in the Hague and Geneva Conventions.

The land occupied by the Amorites was promised to Abraham's descendents (Genesis 15:21). Avoiding this land, therefore, instead of conquering it, such as they did with Moab and Amon, was not an option.

How can G‑d take away a nation's homeland just to give it to another that He's fallen in love with? He created that land, so I suppose He has the right to give and take as He pleases.

Also bear in mind that the Amorites still had the option of making a peace settlement, but they chose not to. Though G‑d "hardened Sihon's spirit," this still didn't preclude him from choosing to make peace. See Why Didn't Pharaoh Release the Israelites? for more on this topic.

The Israelites followed the Torah's rules of warfare. Though the Torah's standard rules mandate the sparing of women and children, the Seven Nations, of whom the Amorites were a member state, are an exception. The Israelites were instructed (Deuteronomy 20:10-18) not to leave any remnant of these nations, should they not agree to a peace settlement:

Of these peoples' cities, which the Lord, your G‑d, gives you as an inheritance, you shall not allow any soul to live. Rather, you shall utterly destroy them . . . so that they shall not teach you to act according to all their abominations that they have done for their gods...

In fact, as is recorded later in the books of Judges, Samuel and Kings, the Israelites did not comply with this instruction and left many of the people of these nations alive. These heathens influenced many Israelites to abandon the Torah, leading to dire consequences.

Furthermore, those children who would have been spared would have forever posed an existential threat to those who killed their fathers in order to take their land. When they would mature they would seek to avenge their fathers’ deaths and reclaim the land. If killing to conquer is justifiable, so is killing to avoid later casualties. You can question perhaps why G-d decided that His nation should obtain their land through such a violent and unfair process—but that's for another discussion.

PARSHAT PINCHAS

When He Took the Law into His Own Hands

Joel Cohen's Question:

Pinchas saw wrong, and he brazenly "righted it." G‑d had come to him, and he did G‑d's bidding—for Moses didn't act to quickly punish the wrongdoing. And for Pinchas' action, that is, for taking vengeance against (for killing) Zimri ben Salu and his Midianite paramour Cozbi bat Zur for sexual promiscuity at the Tent of the Assembly, Pinchas gained from G‑d a "Covenant of Eternal Priesthood." G‑d thus rewarded his zealotry and violent conduct. Simply said, Pinchas was the first radical "Fundamentalist."

Did Pinchas "talk to G‑d" or "hear from G‑d"? Maybe so. Still, the problem with people who claim to have received their instructions from direct intercourse with G‑d is that the conversation ends right there.

Fundamentalists today are also willing to take the law into their own hands, e.g., by eliminating the "infidels," claiming to have received their instructions directly from G‑d (or, as they would call him, Allah). But today's Fundamentalists, although they haven't done it so far, could shove down our throats the precedent of Pinchas: no witnesses, no judge, no trial, no appeal—simply, "G‑d came to me; and He will reward me like He did Pinchas."

Isn't the Pinchas precedent, then, far too dangerous? Or is his precedent distinguishable from what today's Fundamentalists are willing to do "In the Name of G‑d"? And, if so, how?

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Many years ago I saw a bumper sticker that read, "G‑d—Save Us From Your Followers." Unfortunately, the history of religious fundamentalism has borne great tragedy and suffering over the centuries. But, you ask, isn't Pinchas the model of a Jewish fundamentalist who took matters into his own hands?

Furthermore, the Talmud uses Pinchas as an example of acceptable fundamentalism, and according to the Midrash, Pinchas is equated with Elijah who also stood up for G‑d and was rewarded with fire descending from heaven.

Yet, if we do not provide a distinction, what prevents fundamentalists from claiming Pinchas as their model? Religious fundamentalism is one of the most complicated subjects in the history of world religion. Each religion instructs its followers to heed the commandments and to spread the word of G‑d, at least to their fellow religionists. So what prevents a religious person from claiming that he is performing a religious duty by killing someone else in the name of religious observance, be that the sexual crime that Pinchas addressed or the debate over the ownership of the land of Israel?

I believe that one distinction between Pinchas and other fundamentalists may be that in the Biblical story nothing goes without repercussion. It was a time when good was immediately rewarded and evil openly rebuked and punished. You collect extra manna, you get notable mention and it all spoils. You collect wood on Shabbat and G‑d openly declares what your punishment is. Plagues break out when people unrightfully complain. Pinchas knew that G‑d would either agree or disagree with his actions. While, according to the simple reading of the text, Pinchas did not consult with G‑d beforehand, the knowledge that G‑d would intervene prevented this example from serving as a general model. G‑d agreed with Pinchas—but don't assume that He will agree with every fundamentalist. And today's fundamentalist has the luxury of never being exposed.

Yet, at the end of the day, this is only the beginning of the answer. Let us all hope that the religious leadership guides its followers to understand the model of Pinchas and to apply it to the narrow case in which it was carried out.

Eli Popack

Joel, you left out some crucial details of the story. Let me add some important background to the story – some details straight from the Bible, some from the Talmud – and perhaps you will view it in an entire different light:

The people of Moab hear of the Israelites' miraculous victories, and are determined not to become the next on the list of conquests. Realizing that conventional warfare can not compete with a nation whose breakfast, lunch and supper fall daily from heaven, a nation that spends its days studying and meditating because their material needs are all seen to from Above, they decide to use alternative metaphysical strategies.

The first idea is to hire the most renowned sorcerer of the time to curse the nation into oblivion. This prophet/sorcerer, Balaam, has no luck, and instead ends up blessing the Israelites with some of the most powerful blessings of all time. He informs the Moabites that G‑d is madly in love with this nation that has blindly committed itself to follow Him through thick and thin.

Balaam then offers the Moabites counsel: "Come, I will advise you..." (Numbers 24:14). But – at that point in the narrative – the Torah does not specify the advice that Balaam offered (instead, abruptly switching to Balaam's visions about the future). Not to leave us in the dark, however, later (Numbers 31) Moses instructs the Israelites who waged war against Midian to kill the women as well (an exception to Torah's usual rules of war): "They were the same ones who were involved with the children of Israel on Balaam's advice to betray G‑d over the incident of Peor, resulting in a plague among the congregation of G‑d." The advice that Balaam offers is, as the Talmud (Sanhedrin 106a) explains at length: "The G‑d of this nation despises lewdness." He therefore devises a scheme whereby the Midianite and Moabite women seduce Israelite men to sin.

The advice works wonders, for lack of a better word. G‑d was angered and sent a plague upon His people—Israelites were dying left, right and center. Not ten, not one hundred, not one thousand. 24,000 Jews died in the plague. G‑d is pretty angry.

G‑d then instructs Moses (25:4) to appoint judges to "hang [the perpetrators] before G‑d, facing the sun, and then G‑d's flaring anger will be removed from Israel." The judges begin doing so...

In the midst of this all, a leader from the tribe of Shimon decides to defend the right of his people to consort with the Midianite women. He will make a public mockery of G‑d's laws by cavorting with a Midianite princess and flaunting his illicit relationship before Moses and the Israelite elders.

Moses and the leaders burst into tears at this brazen and public sacrilegiousness.

"And Pinchas saw," says verse 25:7, "arose from the congregation, and took a spear in his hand."

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 82a) explains that Pinchas saw the act and was reminded of a law that Moses had already taught—a law that the others had forgotten or didn't have the courage to act upon. He said to Moses, "I learned from you, 'When a Jewish man cohabits with a heathen woman, zealots have the right to strike him dead [while he's in the midst of the act].'"

"Let the one who reads the letter be the agent to carry it out," Moses replied.

Immediately, "he took a spear in his hand…went after the Israelite man…drove it through both of them; the Israelite man, and the woman through her stomach, and the plague ceased from the children of Israel."

(Interestingly, this law is quite unusual in that if a person were to approach a Jewish court or rabbi and ask whether he should kill the offending person, the court would instruct him not to do so. It's basically a dispensation for a zealot who does so, not a law that is encouraged. This explains why even after being reminded of the law, Moses did not directly instruct Pinchas to do so.)

Pinchas did not take the law into his own hands. He followed the teaching exactly as Moses had previously conveyed it from the Almighty.

Pinchas was, in fact, a hero. There are times when, though we know what's right, we don't have the guts to live up to our values—especially if it comes at the cost of being mocked by the entire community. Pinchas, a "nobody" up until this point, actually put his life in danger by killing a prince. Zimri was supported by his entire tribe, and they could have easily killed Pinchas (and would have, if not for a sequence of miracles that occurred, as detailed in the Talmud). But Pinchas was not deterred by the danger. What concerned him was the danger facing his people, and he was willing to risk his life to eliminate the threat.

Nobody would have criticized him had he let the situation pass. On the contrary, he provoked much criticism for his deed, and was very nearly ostracized.

What makes this different than fundamentalism? Fundamentalists impose their religion on people who haven't had the same "vision" has they have. The Israelites did not deny that they had all heard the instructions from G‑d at Sinai.

And Fundamentalists act out of hate for anyone who doesn't share their belief. Pinchas acted out of a love for a nation that was suffering a deadly plague.

What are we to learn from this story?

Pinchas was not the leader amongst the Jewish people; Moses, Elazar, and the elders occupied the positions of authority. Yet when the need arose, Pinchas did not wait for the leaders' guidance, but seized the initiative himself.

The same applies with regard to every individual today, for every one of us has a unique contribution to make. With the confidence that comes from the truth of our inner conviction, we must all take the initiative and teach the truth, and not sell our true beliefs short for a pat on the back from the prominent and popular.

Parshat CHUKAT-BALAK

Joel Cohen's Question:

After Miriam died, there was no water for the people. They gathered against Moses and Aaron and quarreled, again arguing that they would have been better off to have died in Egypt. Moses and Aaron went to the Tent of the Meeting and prostrated themselves before G‑d.

Earlier when the people thirsted (Exodus 17:1-7), G‑d told Moses to "hit the rock" to draw water. This time, G‑d told Moses to "Take the staff…and speak to the rock." Moses took the staff; but, this time, ignoring the contrary command, Moses struck the rock, and water flowed.

Apparently angered at Moses' failure to comply with His explicit command to speak to the rock, G‑d told Moses (and Aaron) that going to the Promised Land was out of the question.

Why did G‑d become angry at Moses for such a seemingly trivial offense?
Was G‑d "insecure"—disturbed that the congregation might actually believe that Moses, not He, caused the miracle?
Or was the incident just a story to "justify" G‑d's plan to ensure that the captain must go down with his ship? The Nation couldn't go, so its leader couldn't go.

Rabbi Adam Mintz:

Joel, the sin and punishment of Moses is one of the most troubling and problematic stories in the entire Torah. As you wrote, how could the leader of the Jewish people who led the Isrealites out of Egypt and spoke directly to G‑d be punished for what seems to be such a trivial action? And, you correctly point out that in Exodus Moses was actually told to hit the rock. Why is this case different?

The simple answer to the question is that great people are held to a higher standard. So, while for most people this sin would be considered minor, for Moses this was a reason to be punished. Of course, this idea is true throughout history and we are all aware that politicians and other celebrities are held accountable for things that would not be considered transgressions for average people. Given this understanding, we can appreciate the story of the sin of Moses in a deeper and more significant manner.

I do not believe that G‑d is setting up Moses to be punished because "the captain must go down with the ship."

I believe, actually, that G‑d's decree not to allow Moses to enter the land was not a punishment in the classic sense of the term. Moses just did not sin to a degree that should have caused him to lose the right to fulfill his life's dream for which he had worked so hard. Rather, after Moses loses patience with the people and as a result hits the rock, G‑d realizes that Moses' "superimposing-on-nature" style of leadership – symbolized by "striking" the rock – which was necessary for the birth of a free people from a slave nation, was not sustainable by the people on a day-to-day basis. A people who will be knee-deep in worldly affairs upon entering the land will not be able to identify with this outer-worldly experience.

How often in history do we find that the person who leads a rebellion is not the leader who rebuilds the country? Moses was the greatest Jewish leader of all time. He led the Israelites out of Egypt, gave them the Torah and led them to the edge of the Land of Israel. However, his reign would end at this point and it would remain the role of his student Joshua to lead the people into the Promised Land.

Eli Popack

The episode of Moses striking, instead of speaking to, the rock is definitely intriguing.

Just to give you an idea of the extent this is discussed in the commentaries, the Ohr Hachaim (Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar, 1696-1743) lists ten explanations offered by his predecessors to explain what was so terrible about Moses' actions, dismisses them all, and offers another one of his own. Nevertheless, I'd like to more or less stick to some of the classic answers.

But first, I'd like to add two questions to your list:

Why did G‑d tells Moses years earlier to hit the rock, and here He instructs him to speak to it instead?
Why couldn't Moses just do as he was told? For the man who constantly drills the nation on the importance of strict obedience, and reprimands them when they fail in this area, why exactly is it so difficult to talk to a rock? Why can't he resist the "temptation" to hit it?
The biblical commentator Rashi explains (on Numbers 31:21), "Since Moses came to a state of anger, he came to err." Moses and Aaron were right in rebuking the people, but getting emotional about it to the point of actual anger led them to make the mistake of their lives. Rabbi Judah Lowe, the Maharal of Prague, writes that one who is in a state of complete trust in G‑d is forever joyous and can never be angered. Their anger at the people, says the Maharal, caused Moses and Aaron to pass up on the opportunity to inspire the Jewish nation with much needed trust in G‑d.

From when the story of the Exodus began to unfold until this point in the narrative, the Israelites were shown one miracle after another, constant reminders of G‑d's omnipotence. But during the episode with the Spies (recounted earlier in Numbers), the people demonstrated that, despite all the miracles, they lacked trust in G‑d's omnipotence. So G‑d decided to show the people that trust in G‑d is not despite human nature, it is the very nature of every creation: the rock does not need to be struck in order to give forth water. The rock exists at G‑d's word, and therefore naturally follows His instructions (through Moses) to give forth water when told to do so.

Hadn't Moses hit the rock, the fact that G‑d is the very essence of all creation would have been ingrained for all time in the minds and hearts of the entire community who witnessed this.

As for the second question I mention above, Moses did speak to the rock (see Rashi to 20:11), but it was the wrong rock. The people got antsy, and Moses and Aaron, in a fleeting moment of doubt, allowed themselves to become angry, a sign that they too were troubled by what seemed to be a mission gone awry. When they found the correct rock, instead of speaking to it as per their instruction, they erred, and thought that they should strike it, as they had done in the past.

The mistake of striking the rock, brought about by their anger, expressed a deficiency in the degree of faith expected of people of the stature of Moses and Aaron. This, in turn, caused that the greatest opportunity to sanctify G‑d's Name in such a public forum was lost.

The Torah's advice on anger management: Anger does not exist in the face of trust in the One who created, and constantly recreates, the entire existence.

There is, however, a certain degree of "the captain not abandoning his ship" in this story. Even after G‑d decreed to punish Moses, we find in Deuteronomy Moses recounting to the people how he implored G‑d to allow him to enter the Land. But G‑d refused, instructing him to halt his prayers.

The Midrash (Devarim Rabba 2:9) relates the breaking point:

G‑d told Moses: "I can forgive you and allow you to enter the Promised Land now, but if I do, the generation which you led, upon whom it has been decreed that they will die in the desert before entering the Land, will not merit to the Resurrection and the World to Come. If you stay here with them, they too will be ingathered along with their leader."

Faced with this decision, Moses, who while alive dedicated his entire being to his people, chose to dedicate himself to the people in his death as well.

Parshat Shelach

Question By Joel Cohen

God told Moses: "Send forth men, if you please, and let them spy out the Land." He chose distinguished princes and instructed them to determine whether the inhabitants were strong or weak, few or numerous. They reported back that the Land flowed with milk and honey, but that the cities were fortified, their inhabitants powerful: a Land of Giants.

Caleb and Joshua calmed the people and assured them of victory. The others, though, gave an "evil report," that the Land devours its inhabitants. They complained bitterly that it would have been better to have died in Egypt.

Having reported their "honest" assessment of impending doom, God became angry: All of those above the age of twenty would die in the wilderness. Further, as punishment, because the spy mission took forty days, the nation would wander aimlessly in the wilderness for forty years. The spies themselves would die in a plague.

What mortal sin did the spies commit, if they actually believed that the Land was unconquerable?
Why was the nation punished for simply "listening" to an adverse report by their princes—princes whom Moses himself selected to spy on the Land?
Maybe, the spy episode was actually G‑d seeking to "justify" killing off a slave nation whose past enslavement made them unequipped to "conquer"?

Rabbi Adam Mintz:

Joel, as I reviewed this week's questions, I realized that I basically agree with your conclusion—that G‑d decided to kill the remnant of the slave nation as they were unfit to conquer the land. Yet, there needs to be some development to reach this conclusion.

The Jews are prepared to enter the Land of Israel and G‑d is convinced that they will succeed in created a Jewish homeland. But, then everything begins to unravel. In last week's Parshah, the Jews complain for no reason. We all know that when people start complaining for no reason that bad things are about to happen. Yet, G‑d still trusts the people and commands Moshe to send the princes of each tribe to scout the land. These twelve princes were not spies as is commonly translated—they were scouts whose job was to bring back an accurate assessment of the Land and its inhabitants.

At the beginning of their report, they did exactly as they were commanded. They described the land and the giants that lived there. The cities, they said, were well fortified. All of this would have been fine had the conclusion of the report led the people to believe that in spite of the intimidating circumstances, G‑d would lead the people into the Land. However, instead, they reported that due to what they had seen, the Jews would never be able to conquer the land. And, to compound the problem, the Jews who listened to this report did not reprimand the scouts and reassure one another that G‑d would lead them into the land. Rather, they cried out of a sense of desperation.

It was at this point that G‑d recognized that the people who had experienced the slavery of Egypt did not have the faith and the confidence to enter the Land of Israel. So Joel, I believe that G‑d decided that the generation of slaves could not enter the Land. However, I believe that G‑d came to this decision only after giving this generation every chance to rise to the occasion.

Eli Popack:

You've picked what I believe is one of the most telling stories in the Torah. It is a story that addresses man's mission in this world, the attitude necessary in order to achieve it, and the essence of failure—is it, too, part of the plan? I'll address the questions one-by-one: the spies' sin, the people's mistake, and G‑d's plan throughout this all.

The Spies

The Hebrew word for the verb "to spy" is leragel, and a spy is a meragel. Interestingly, Moses never instructs the spies "leragel," rather he tells them "latur," to "explore." Throughout the episode we read about their "exploring" the Land.

What's the difference? Explorers merely "examine for the purpose of discovery," while spies "observe secretively or furtively with hostile intent" (thank you dictionary.com!). Moses never instructed his delegates to spy; all he wanted was a factual report of what they saw. Whether or not the Land was conquerable was not an issue, they were not asked to supply a report regarding the feasibility of that task. For, after all, G‑d had promised them the Land, and would certainly ensure their victory in battle.

Their sin was this minute deviation from what they were told to do. What started as a mere subjective assessment of how they would militarily conquer the land, ended up in them saying "for they are stronger than He," doubting the ability of the Almighty G‑d Himself.

Lesson One: When human beings, of limited intelligence and perception, receive instructions from the One who knows all, they ought to stick to what they're told to do, and not embellish upon G‑d's command with their own ideas of how to serve Him.

The Nation

Why would a nomadic nation in the middle of a barren desert be so quick to abandon a dream of a homeland? Why would they be so untrusting of the G‑d who splits the sea at whim, brings down a full menu from the sky, and has crushed every army they've encountered until now?

Apparently, it was less about mistrust than it was about being actually quite happy where they were and dreading a change of scenery. And for good reason, both materially and spiritually.

In their estimation, for one to properly receive and assimilate divine wisdom, one must be utterly free of the responsibilities and frustrations of physical life—something only possible in the kind of environment which they enjoyed during their sojourn in the desert.

The daily miracles they experienced provided them with sustenance and protection. But more so, they shielded them from any and all involvement with the material world. For the first generation of our existence as a people, we lived a wholly spiritual life, free of all material concerns; the very food which nourished us was "bread from heaven."

This is why, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, the entire generation was less than excited about entering the land. Becoming a people with a land would require complete immersion in the task of developing and running a successful country. Think of all the work in the kibbutzim in this past century!

The nation's underlying problem with the land was, as the spies expressed it, that "it is a land that consumes its inhabitants"—it consumes one's time and energy with its demands and infringes on one's capacity to study the divine wisdom of Torah and meditate upon its truths. They were unwilling to relinquish their spiritual utopia for the entanglements of an earth-oriented life.

This way of thinking, however, completely misses the point of the creation of the world and man upon it. The raison d'etre of the entire mess we call a "world" is for the human being to discover the Truth and reveal it within every aspect of physical life.

"Make a dwelling for G‑d in the lowly realms!" says the Midrash. You came to this planet to imbue your eating and sleeping, your commerce and government, with a holy and G‑dly purpose.

Lesson Two: The hustle and bustle of material life can not be allowed to disturb you from a spiritual, Torah-based lifestyle. Rather, it's there waiting to be imbued with the Truth, by the Jew who is conscious of his mission in life.

The Plan

Is sin part of the plan too? Does G‑d allow the opportunity for failure so that we can do better in round two?

It's a difficult thing to say, yet the Chassidic masters explanation of how sin is unwanted by G‑d, but part of His arrangement too.

In short, the free choice that G‑d gives us is G‑d's "fearsome plot upon the children of man" (Psalms 66:5). It is He who creates us with the ability to make mistakes, because the might of the rebound that is inspired by the search to come home is even greater than when you never left in the first place. This is obvious in our own story where immediately after Moses stormed angrily at the people for their mistake, they were immediately filled with remorse, were prepared to enter the Promised Land despite all, even at the cost of their very lives.


Lesson 3: Don't despair because of your past mistakes. They serve only as a springboard to bring you to even greater heights. In the words of the Talmud (Sanhedrin 99a): "Where the penitents stand the perfect saints cannot."

Parshat Naso

The Ordeal of the "Bitter Waters"

Joel Cohen's Question:

If a man's wife strays, but there is no witness, the husband must bring his wife to the kohen. The kohen takes "sacred water" in an earthenware vessel. He tells the woman that if she did not stray she will be innocent of the bitter waters that possess cursing power; but if she strayed, she is cursed.

Compelled to drink from the bitter waters, if guilty she will die a very painful death. If innocent, the bitter waters will have no impact. Trial by Ordeal.

Does this passage mean to communicate that this seemingly barbaric "trial by ordeal" replaces a true trial to determine guilt or innocence of capital offense?
Was this procedure foolproof—only guilty women would die?
And, putting aside why straying men don't need to submit to the ordeal, should we understand that when the Temple is rebuilt, this "trial" will replace the criminal justice system for such offense?

Rabbi Adam Mintz Responds:

The case of the sotah, the suspected wife, is one of the most problematic sections of the Torah to the modern reader. Joel, you have identified the lawyer's problem with the Torah's description of this case. How can the miraculous drinking of the water substitute for the legal procedure that the Torah demands before punishing a suspected violator of the law?

Actually, the Talmud asks this question in a special tractate that is dedicated to the laws of the sotah. The Talmud concludes that while the ultimate test of the guilt of the woman is determined by the drinking of this special potion, the woman is only tried by the kohen if two witnesses testify that she secluded herself with a man other than her husband. The Talmud, as would be expected, is troubled by how the witnesses can give testimony to the fact that the woman is suspected of committing adultery without actually knowing what transpired. Is witnessing a wife and another man entering a hotel room alone enough evidence to convict them of adultery or does that case require her to drink of the special sotah potion to determine what really took place in that hotel room? This Talmud, Joel, is a lawyer's delight in the detailed way that it defines what constitutes witnessing an event.

Now, the question of whether this test is foolproof is an extension of the first question. The testimony of witnesses in cases of potential adultery is far from foolproof (at least in most cases). How often do two witnesses actually witness the act of adultery? This test was actually initiated to protect the woman against two witnesses who might be too quick to accuse a woman of committing adultery. While there were no blogs or gossip columns in the times of the Torah, it seems that there was a tendency for witnesses to err on the side of guilt in a case of potential adultery. This miraculous potion protected the innocent woman much as it punished the guilty one.

While this test is far from our twenty-first century sensitivities, it can be understood in light of our appreciation of the Torah's approach to law and to both punishing the guilty and protecting the innocent.

Eli Popack Responds:

Some skeptic we have here! You don't question the ability of water mixed with dried ink and a harmless bitter herb to cause someone's body to explode. This you apparently consider a natural outcome of drinking this mixture. You therefore deem this procedure to be a barbaric "Trial by Ordeal," in which only the lucky few are spared and survive.

I, on the other hand, can find no natural explanation why these waters would have any effect whatsoever. To me, someone being affected in such a bizarre and supernatural way would be the exception. If G‑d makes such an outlandish miracle, causing someone to explode upon drinking some bitter water, that would be a clear sign that all natural order is being suspended in order to punish someone who is quite guilty. So there's no reason for concern that these waters were not "foolproof" and could accidentally kill someone innocent.

As far as a criminal justice system, regular court proceedings were held, and the sotah waters were not used if there was even one witness who could definitively testify that the women had actually been unfaithful.

So what is the case of the sotah who drinks the bitter waters?

A husband asks his wife, in the presence of two witnesses, not to seclude herself with a particular man with whom he suspects she is carrying an affair. She ignores this warning. Two witnessed now testify that indeed she has secluded herself with this man—though they have no knowledge of what actually happened when the two were in seclusion.

In such a situation, where the preponderance of evidence is against the woman (and regardless of whether she was actually unfaithful or not, she certainly engaged in behavior that is unacceptable) halachah stipulates that the marriage cannot continue until the matter is cleared up.

And the woman is never compelled to drink the waters. If the women in question pleads guilty – or even if she pleads "not guilty" but merely choose to leave the marriage without suing her husband for alimony – she would not be forced to drink the sotah waters. If she chooses to leave, because there is no conclusive evidence of her misdeed, she suffers no penalty––besides the loss of alimony and perhaps a damaged reputation.

But if she wishes to remain married and prove her innocence, G‑d offers to supernaturally intervene to save this marriage. He creates a supernatural means which He promises to activate to determine whether the woman is innocent or guilty.

G‑d has His ways, and if He is already walking the miracle path, the options of the Infinite G‑d are endless, literally. But He wants to make a point:

We are warned in the Torah not to destroy anything that is associated with G‑d. Every synagogue has its "shaimos" collection where that torn page from an old prayerbook is deposited and eventually taken to be buried—rather than callously discarding an object upon which G‑d's name is inscribed. When writing a Torah scroll or a mezuzah, the G‑d-fearing scribe immerses himself in a mikvah (ritual pool) before inscribing G‑d's name. Even when we write His name in a foreign language, notice that we write "G‑d" with a dash to avoid the possibility that His name could be disrespectfully mishandled.

When a husband and wife seek to maintain their marriage despite momentary differences or fleeting urges to be disloyal, G‑d asks that His holy name be dissolved in the waters that the sotah drinks. As if saying: "I will break all the rules to keep you two together. I'll put everything aside for you, if you will do the same for each other."

In the light of the above, what other "more preferable" means do you suggest for settling this issue when the Temple is rebuilt?

Parshat Bamidbar

Joel Cohen's Question:

After meticulously describing the responsibilities for the grandsons of Kehot at the Tent of Meeting, G‑d tells Moses and Aaron to not let these families be "cut off" from among the Levites: "Thus shall you do for them so that they shall live and not die when they approach the Holy of Holies. Aaron and his sons shall come and assign them every man to his work and his burden. But they shall not come and look as the holy is inserted, lest they die."

The passage is curious. G‑d proposes, always, that we come closer to Him—but here He demands a conspicuous distance. He seems to want to create a "mystery" of an "Inner Sanctum": "Gaze At It And Die!"

The rabbis take it a strange step further. When the kohanim bless the congregation, the congregants are told to "look away," lest they be blinded by the Shechinah (Divine presence) that ostensibly passes through the kohen's parted fingers.

* Are we supposed to believe that G‑d's Spirit – a Spirit He doesn't want us to approach, lest we die or be blinded – is located in the "sanctuary" of a kohen's fingers?
* Isn't this our religion, both in the command to the Sons of Kehot and the priestly blessings, simply trying to create "mystery"?
* And, in doing so, do the rabbis merely create a superstition?

Rabbi Adam Mintz Responds:

The mystery of G‑d is part of our religious experience. Maimonides tells us in his Guide for the Perplexed that it is impossible to describe G‑d. Therefore he chooses to tell us what G‑d "isn't" as a way to understand more about the nature of G‑d. In truth, Maimonides understands that to define G‑d would be to see G‑d in human terms thereby minimizing G‑d's ultimate power and transcendence.

With this background we can begin to answer your questions. G‑d's presence is indeed a mystery and the Torah is filled with laws and stories that strengthen this mystery. Beginning with the story of the Burning Bush, we get the impression that G‑d reveals only a piece of Himself to even the greatest of prophets. In the Anim Zemirot that many sing each Shabbat, we refer to a wonderful tradition that teaches that G‑d revealed only the back of His tefillin to Moses.

Yet, while G‑d is a mystery, He is also accessible and available. How else can we explain that fact that we are commanded to pray three times a day and to approach G‑d with our most personal requests and desires? The Torah at the beginning of the Book of Numbers reflects this tension between the transcendence and mystery of G‑d and the accessibility of G‑d. The kohanim are commanded to approach G‑d and if they do not approach G‑d they are punished. Yet, at the same time, they are warned about the risks of approaching G‑d.

The Priestly Blessing contains the same tension. The tradition teaches that G‑d's presence can be found between the fingers of kohanim as they bless the people. Yet, we are prohibited from looking at the kohanim. And, just in case we become tempted, the kohanim cover their hands with their tallit. G‑d is right there during the priestly blessing—yet, we are not allowed to see Him.

I believe that this tension does not create a superstition. Rather, it defines a religious struggle and tension that we feel as a Jewish community.

Eli Popack Responds:

This is not the first place that we find this "don't look here" admonition. In Exodus 24:9-11, the Torah records, "Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel ascended, and they perceived the G‑d of Israel... And upon the nobles of the children of Israel He did not lay His hand, and they perceived G‑d, and they ate and drank." The commentaries point out that the verse calls attention to the fact that "He did not lay His hand," indicating that they indeed deserved that a "hand be laid upon them"—because they gazed at Him with levity, while eating and drinking.

The basic reason for this is the irreverence of staring at the sacred, or, on a superficial level, an effort to create an enigma. But in truth, I believe that herein lies the yin and yang of a Jew's service of G‑d. Come close, but stay far. In the words of Ezekiel (1:14), "run and return."

The Jew is commanded to search for G‑d with all his soul, to desire to strip himself of all worldly wishes and gratification in an effort to "run" towards the Truth. But just before he completely rids himself of the burden of corporeality he is told to stop and "return." The purpose of the soul's descent into this world is to affect the material; not escape it. And then, once he is knee-deep in elevating the dirt of the farce we call materialism, he is told to "run" once again. Don't get too caught up in it, or you will be influenced instead of influencing.

This idea is expressed in the final passage of the fourth chapter of Avot (4:22): "Against your will you live; against your will you die." The soul searching to cleave to G‑d is instructed, "They shall not come in to see…lest they die"—against your will you live. And just as the Jew gets comfortable with his physical surroundings, he is torn away and told, "Seek My presence" (Psalms 27:8)—against you will you die, figuratively referring to the abandonment of the hubbub of Wall Street or Collins Ave. in an effort to discover the Divine.

What about the Kohen's hands?

First, a disclaimer. For all the skeptics who have taken a peek at the Kohen's outstretched fingers and not been blinded, the Talmud (Chagigah 16a) states that in the Holy Temple, where the priestly blessing was recited using G‑d's Ineffable Name, one was blinded if he dared look. Today – as explained in the Code of Jewish Law, Orach Chaim 128 – we are only forbidden to gaze intently at the Kohen's hands so as not to lose focus from the meaning of the words being recited—much as we are also proscribed from staring anywhere else during the blessing. But we don't even glance at the hands, to remind us of Temple times when we were forbidden to do so—though the same risk does not apply today.

And did the Shechinah actually reside on the hands of the Kohen when he recited the blessing? If the Shechinah is some sort of monster that blinds people, this may be hard to believe. If, however, Shechinah means a manifestation of G‑d's presence to a greater degree than is normally felt by the human, who is meant to work within a world where G‑d's presence is concealed, then gazing may blind him of his true mission down here. And as the spiritual always plays out in the physical too, he would be literally blinded as well.

PARSHAT BEHAR-BECHUKOTAI

:
Joel Cohen's Question:

The Land belongs to G‑d, not us. I get it. I also get that G‑d wants us to remember that immutable fact of His ownership of the Land—underscoring it by ordering that the Land remain fallow every seven years. There's nothing to remind a farmer or property owner that "his" land is not really his like telling him, when he wants to plant in the seventh year: "Not so fast!"

But, there's more to the Shemitah (Sabbatical Year) story. G‑d tells us that, given their periodic injunction against sowing and harvesting crops, the people may say, "What will we eat in the seventh year?" The answer? G‑d will "ordain" His blessing in the sixth year and will yield a crop sufficient for three years; the farmers will sow in the eighth year, and until that year's crop is harvested – in the ninth year – they will still eat from the sixth year's crop.

This is awfully hard to accept. G‑d is essentially foretelling for us the future's agricultural reality: that is, for every cycle of seven years, during the sixth year a crop will be harvested sufficient for the public's consumption for three years: a Biblical Farmer's Almanac, as it were.

Really? Am I to understand that since the time that our ancestors "landed" in the Promised Land forty years following the Exodus, when the rules of Shemitah began, this foretelling by G‑d has always been an agricultural reality?

And if not so, what should one make of His foretelling?

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel, your question this week is a good one and the answer, I believe, relates not only to the laws of Shemitah but to the entire Jewish belief system.

The world that the Torah addressed was an agricultural world, one in which a vast majority of the people owned fields and through the produce that the fields produced they fed their families and traded for those things that their own fields did not produce. Therefore, the prohibition of Shemitah, of not working your field during the seventh year, must have been the most frightening of all 613 commandments. Basically, the people were being told that they would make no money every seven years.

How does a Jewish community committed to the word of G‑d and His Torah react to such a prohibition? Or, maybe the question should be asked whether G‑d wanted the people to suffer so much as to be without income for entire year. It is in this vein that we can understand the Torah's description of the Shemitah year. Don't worry, G‑d tell the people, there is a prohibition against working the field every seven years. However, I promise, says G‑d, that I will allow the fields to produce enough in the sixth year to cover three years. G‑d tells the people not to worry. He will take care of the people and they will not suffer due to the Shemitah prohibitions.

However, if the Jews will not suffer due to Shemitah why bother with the prohibitions? Is it merely a game of symbolic gestures on both sides? Here, I believe is the essence of Shemitah and its importance in the corpus of Jewish religion. G‑d promises that the Shemitah year will not adversely affect the people. Yet, did the people always believe G‑d? Sometimes, when things are going well you are more prone to accept G‑d's promise. Yet, in times when things are going poorly, you may doubt G‑d's promise. Therefore the Torah tells us that Shemitah falls very seven years regardless of how things are going. It is our job every seven years to reaffirm our faith and trust in G‑d regardless of what is going on around us. That is the lesson of Shemitah that applies to this very day.

Eli Popack

After browsing through pages and pages of Bible commentaries from medieval to contemporary, I can say with certainty that the answer to your question is yes, it means exactly that. To quote you: "G‑d is essentially foretelling for us the future's agricultural reality: that is, for every cycle of seven years, during the sixth year a crop will be harvested sufficient for the public's consumption for three years."

This is perhaps the reason why later in this week's (double) Torah portion, when G‑d speaks of the punishments that will befall the Jews because of their disobedience, the only sin singled out for notable mention is the abandonment of the Sabbatical year. "Then, the land will be appeased regarding its sabbaticals. During all the days that it remains desolate while you are in the land of your enemies, the Land will rest and thus appease its sabbaticals" (Lev. 26:34). In my humble opinion – and apparently Joel, you concur – this is the most difficult of G‑d's promises to swallow and act upon. But He really means it, and that's why He is so disturbed by the lack of trust.

(It is important to note, that there are two ways of explaining how this miracle will play out. While some explain that the sixth year will yield triple the natural amount of produce, R. Chaim ibn Attar (1696-1743; Morocco and Jerusalem) author of the Ohr HaChaim commentary on the Torah, explains that the actual harvest will be the same, but the crop will miraculously replenish itself, much like the story related in I Kings 17:16, when "the pitcher of flour did not end neither did the flask of oil diminish.")

I would like to share the following story which I found, of a modern day Shemitah miracle. The names and places are authentic, so this story can be verified by anyone who'd like:

My name is Dov Weiss, and I was one of a group of about thirty young men that started the moshav (agricultural settlement) of Komemiyut, in the south of Israel. It was in 1950, after we had completed our army service. I was still a bachelor then. Among the founders was also the well known Torah scholar and rabbinical authority, Rabbi Benyamin Mendelson, of blessed memory. He had previously immigrated to Israel from Poland and had served as the rabbi of Kfar Ata.

At first we lived in tents, in the middle of a barren wilderness. The nearest settlements to ours were several kibbutzim associated with the left-wing Shomer Hatzair movement: Gat, Gilon, and Negvah. Several of our members supported themselves by working at Kibbutz Gat, the closest to us, doing different types of manual labor. Others worked in our fields, planting wheat, barley, rye and other grains and legumes. I myself drove a tractor. Our produce, which grew throughout the 15,000 or so dunam (nearly 4000 acres) allotted us, we sold to bakeries and factories.

At that time, there were not yet water pipes reaching our moshav. We had to content ourselves with what could be grown in dry rugged fields. Every few days we would make a trip to Kibbutz Negvah, about 20 kilometers distant, to fill large containers with drinking water.

The second year we were there, 5711 on the Jewish calendar (1950-1951), was the Shemitah year which comes every seventh year in which the Torah commands to desist from all agricultural work. We were among the very few settlements in Israel at the time to observe the laws of the Sabbatical year and refrain from working the land. Instead, we concentrated on building and succeeded that year in completing much of the permanent housing. The moshav gradually developed and expanded and more and more families moved in, as well as a number of young singles. By the end of the year we numbered around eighty people.

As the Sabbatical year drew to its completion we prepared to renew our farming activities. For this we required seed to sow crops, but for this purpose we could only use wheat from the sixth year, the year that preceded the Shemitah, for the produce of the seventh year is forbidden for this type of use. We went around to all the agricultural settlements in the area, near and far, seeking good quality seed from the previous years' harvest, but no one could fulfill our request.

All we were able to find was some old wormy seed that, for reasons that were never made clear to us, was laying around in a storage shed in Kibbutz Gat. No farmer in his right mind anywhere in the world would consider using such poor quality seed to plant with, not if he expected to see any crops from it. The kibbutzniks at Gat all burst into loud derisive laughter when we revealed that we were actually interested in this infested grain that had been rotting away for a few years in some dark, murky corner.

"If you really want it, you can take all that you like, and for free, with our compliments," they offered in amusement.

We consulted with Rabbi Mendelson. His response was: "Take it. The One who tells wheat to sprout from good seed can also order it to grow from inferior wormy leftover seed as well."

In any case, we didn't have an alternative. So we loaded all the old infested seed that the kibbutz had offered to us free of charge onto a tractor and returned to Komemiyut.

The laws of Shemitah forbade us to plough and turn over the soil till after Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the eighth year, so we didn't actually sow the seed until sometime in November. This was two or three months after all the other farmers had already completed their planting.

That year, the rains were late in coming. The farmers from all the kibbutzim and moshavim gazed upward longingly for the first rain. They began to feel desperate, but the heavens were unresponsive, remaining breathlessly still and blue.

Finally it rained. When? The day after we completed planting our thousand dunam of wheat fields with those wormy seeds, the sky opened up and the rains exploded down to saturate the parched earth.

The following days we were nervous in anticipation but we turned our attention to strengthening our faith and trust in G‑d. Anyway, it did not take a long time for the hand of the Al-mighty to be revealed clearly to all. Those wheat fields that were planted during the seventh year, months before the first rain, sprouted only small weak crops. At the same time, our fields, sowed with the old infested seed and long after the appropriate season, were covered with an unusually large and healthy yield of wheat, in comparison to any standard.

The story of "the miracle at Komemiyut" spread quickly. Farmers from all the agricultural settlements in the region came to see with their own eyes what they could not believe when they heard the rumors about it.

When the farmers from Kibbutz Gat arrived, they pulled a surprise on us. After absorbing the sight of the bountiful quantity of wheat flourishing in our fields, they announced they wanted payment for the tractor-load of old rotten wheat they had scornfully given us for free only a short time before.

Even more startling: they said they would file a claim against us at a beit din, a rabbinical court, and with Rabbi Mendelson himself, no less! They must have figured that in a secular court such a claim wouldn't have even the slightest possible chance of gaining them a single penny.

Rabbi Mendelson accepted their case seriously, and in the end judged that we should pay them. He explained that the reason they gave it for free was because they thought it worthless for planting, while in truth it really was excellent for that purpose. We were astonished to hear his ruling, but needless to say, we complied.

The whole story became an extraordinary kiddush Hashem (glorification of G‑d) in the eyes of Jews across the country. Everyone agreed it was a clear fulfillment of G‑d's promise in the Torah (Leviticus 25):

Six years you shall sow your field, and six years you shall prune your vineyard, and gather in its fruit. But in the seventh year shall be a sabbath of solemn rest for the land, a sabbath for G‑d...

And if you shall say: "What shall we eat in the seventh year? Behold, we shall not sow, nor gather in our produce!" But I will command my blessing upon you...

"Parshat Emor"

The Disqualified Kohen (Leviticus 21:16-22)

Questions by Joel Cohen

We consider ourselves a spiritual people, a people who look out for the downtrodden among us, a people who are obliged to judge each other by their character -- not by wealth or physical process. Still, when it comes to the kohen serving in the Temple, the Bible clearly looks down and disqualifies the unfortunate.
What is this about? Well, the parsha quotes God’s specific instruction to Moses that a descendant of Aaron who is blemished, or blind, or lame, or having a nose with no bridge, or having one limb longer than the other, or with a broken leg or arm, or with abnormally long eyebrows, or with a membrane on his eye, or a blemished eye, or a dry skin eruption, or moist skin eruption, or crushed testicles, “shall not come near to offer the food of his God.” Nor may he eat from the offering as might a non-disqualified kohen. For, if he were to do so, he would “desecrate My sacred offerings, for I am God, Who sanctifies them.”
So, here, we have God Himself telling us that those unfortunate individuals among us, as enumerated above, who have done nothing sinful leading to or causing the infirmities, are disqualified from service in the Temple. Given this challenging Biblical instruction by God, how does God expect us, the rank and file among His followers, to treat the downtrodden or the deformed better than He is willing to? Aren’t we supposed to try to emulate His ways?

Rabbi Adam Mintz
Joel---your question this week is a troubling and difficult one. It is also a question for which most of the medieval explanations will not satisfy our twenty-first century sensitivities. The classic explanation teaches that the kohen represents the people to God. However, he also represents God to the people. In this second role, it is vital that the kohen be “perfect” without spiritual or physical imperfections. This explanation resonates with a world that considered physical deformities as blemishes and felt that such people could not assume positions of leadership.
However, this view was not limited to the medieval period. As we all know, President Franklin D. Roosevelt had polio as a child and had trouble walking. Yet, whenever he spoke publicly he always stood supporting himself on the podium. This was such a concern that at his last State of the Union Address in early 1945, just months before he died, the speech was limited to eight minutes because the doctors determined that he could only stand for that period of time. It is a very recent phenomenon that we do not discriminate or think less of people with physical deformities.
But---Joel---does this really answer your question? The Torah is God’s word. Shouldn’t God in His Torah rise above the prejudices of the time and use the blemished kohen as a example for the acceptance of all people regardless of infirmities? Here, the rabbis suggest an insightful answer. They explain that the Torah was written in a language that would be easily understandable to people in every generation. God did not attempt to create a moral and religious code that people would consider unobtainable. The Torah is not in heaven---says Moshe at the end of the Book of Devarim. This is not only in terms of its religious message but also in regard to the practical lessons that it teaches. If the Torah were to have treated blemished kohanim as if they were unblemished, the people might have seen the Torah as being unrelated to the world. So, the Torah is articulated in a manner that people could accept.
I believe that the idea of rephrasing an idea in a language that will be better understood and accepted by the intended audience is an important lesson for all of us in every generation.

Eli Popack
Thank G‑d for the Zohar!

To be honest, this question has bothered me ever since the first time I was taught this section in elementary school. Days before learning this Parshah, one of the children had made a snide comment about handicapped people, and landed our class a lengthy lecture on respecting the true value of a human being, and recognizing that people with handicaps actually possess souls of a higher nature than the rest of us… And then the following week we learned that these "holiest" people were "unfit" to serve in the Temple.

This week I discovered in the Zohar – a text written many centuries before sensitivity towards the disabled became, thankfully, the norm – that my teacher was correct. It is indeed true that the disabled have greater merit than the rest of us; and for precisely this reason they cannot work in the Temple. However, Joel, contrary to what you wrote, they may eat from the sacrifices: "His G‑d's food from the most holy and from the holy ones, he may eat" (Lev. 21:22).

In the words of the classic Kabbalistic text (Zohar, Vayeshev 181a):

Rabbi Shimon opened with the verse: "Only, he shall not go in to the veil, nor come near to the altar, because he has a blemish..." (Lev. 21:23).

...When the moon is rendered defective by the same aspect of the evil serpent, all the souls that are issued at that time, although they were all pure and sacred, are flawed. Since they emerged at a defective time, their bodies are crushed, and the souls suffer pains and afflictions wherever they reach. The Holy One, blessed be He, cares for and loves those who are broken, although their souls are sad instead of joyous.

…These righteous are the constant companions of the moon and have the identical defects.... And "G‑d is near to them who are of a broken heart" (Psalms 34:19)—that is, to those who suffer from the same defect as the moon, those who are always near her. "And He saves such as are of a contrite spirit" (ibid.), by giving them a portion of the life …because they who suffered with her shall also be renewed with her."

...Those defects from which the righteous suffer are called "sufferings of love," because they are caused by love and not by the man himself…Happy is their portion in this world and in the world to come...

The third Lubavitcher Rebbe explains this passage of the Zohar in Derech Mitzvotecha, his tract on the inner meanings of the mitzvot. The following is my humble understanding of his dissertation:

G‑d created the world following a very complex plan. He wanted a world where there would be opposition to Him, and that we should overcome the opposition and reveal the truth—that G‑d is all and all is G‑d.

Ambushing is a classic battle tactic: allow the enemy small advances, and even victories, only so that they eventually fall in your hands, completely vanquished. There is a price to pay for this, but within the pain of these losses lies the potential for the ultimate victory.

In order to allow for ultimate victory, G‑d created a situation where the opposition – which He Himself created – can make small advances and even expropriate some divine energy. When the enemy lets down its guard, as it were, they are vulnerable and can be vanquished.

The moon represents this very idea: each month suffering losses, steadily waning, until it is reborn at the beginning of the following cycle.

Our souls, each a part of G‑d above, are born within the war room where G‑d's strategic plan was devised and is being monitored. Some souls are born when the figurative moon shines bright, and some are born within the ambush strategy. The latter group is born disabled and challenged, going through the world bearing the burden and pain that the G‑dly energy that they mirror suffers too.

But we all know that the moon doesn't actually shrink or vanish; it only compromises some of its external expression—the light that it emits to benefit us here on planet Earth. Similarly, the "opposition" doesn't affect, or receive from, the essence of the G‑dly energy—it can only take its spoils from G‑d's external manifestations.

The same is true with handicapped individuals: though the external elements of their souls are inhibited and temporarily held captive by "the opposition," internally they are whole, like the moon in the latter half of the cycle. They suffer with G‑d, but they will have a greater part in His ultimate victory for they too bear His wound.

G‑d is present in the entire world, but in the Holy Temple His glory is open and manifest. Since the souls within handicapped bodies are avatars of G‑d's hiddenness, of the temporary victories that the enemy achieves in their attempt to obscure the divine reality, their service in the Temple would be inappropriate.

But the meat of the sacrifices carries holiness that is not revealed. Therefore: "His G‑d's food from the most holy and from the holy ones, he may eat."

Parshat Acharei

Azazel (Leviticus 16) Questions by Joel Cohen
It is understandable in a regime of animal sacrifice, that sacrifices would be especially required on Yom Kippur in an effort to placate God. And in a regime that requires contrition, requiring the House of Israel to suffer some form of “pain” would likewise seem appropriate – although when the Torah says that one should “afflict” oneself, and that turns out to mean refraining from food and drink, washing and sexual activity, we are somewhat relieved. (Let’s hope that’s all that God intended).
But sending an ignorant goat into the desert to somehow carry away our sins? It is unsurprising that the nowadays term “scapegoat,” which the poor goat sent off to the desert personifies in ritual history – Azazel – gains sympathy. The paradigm scapegoat (like the contemporary “scapegoat”), has no sin, but yet he takes on the weight of a person’s or the Nation’s sins. And that somehow helps the people and the Nation to baptize themselves from their sins no matter how grievous? An ignorant goat sent to the desert without a roadmap, presumably to die, becomes a lucky charm? It would almost make more sense to send the kohen gadol, since maybe he at least bears some fault. My question doesn’t stem from a concern about animal rights, but rather because this ritual seems to have such a superficial meaning.

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel---you are correct to identify the procedure of sending the goat to his death as a symbolic act. Yet, you seem to downplay the role of symbolism which has been at the heart of the entire Book of Vayikra. At the beginning of the Book of Vayikra, there is a dispute between the Rambam and the Ramban about the nature of korbanot. While the Rambam saw korbanot as a reaction to the practices of the pagans of the time, the Ramban understood them as a symbolic act of substitution. We deserve to be sacrificed for our sins---yet in our place we substitute the animal sacrifice.
The scapegoat is merely the most striking symbol in the Book of Vayikra as it represents not only the sins of an individual but the sins of the entire nation. If I were to try to paraphrase the rationale of the Torah, I would say, “how lucky is this goat who is able to achieve atonement for the entire Jewish nation!”
You are correct that the Torah is not very sensitive to animal rights in the Book of Vayikra. However, everything must be seen in context and in the ancient world, sacrifices were not considered cruel or even a punishment for the animal.
Finally, a word about the goat that was sent to Azazel. The ability of a goat to atone for the sins of the Jews seems not only symbolic but also much too easy. What prevented the Jews from sinning all year long and relying on the sa’ir la-azazel. The Talmud addresses this question and explains that the goat only atones for those people who have first performed the necessary steps of the Teshuvah process. The goat is merely the symbolic conclusion of the process in which the Jews saw their sins cast over the mountain. In Judaism, symbolism is important but it is not a replacement for the real thing.

Eli Popack

In other times and societies, many a Hebrew-schooler’s questions were dismissed with “the laws of the Torah are above our understanding. This is Judaism, that’s the way it is.” For better or for worse, that doesn’t sell awfully well anymore.

Interestingly enough, in Nachmanides’ commentary to Leviticus 16:8, I found a great spin on a quote from the Talmud that seemed to conveniently categorize the goat of Azazel as a chok – a G-dly ordinance that is above human logic - as well.

The Talmud in Yoma 67b states: “"And my statutes shall ye keep" - there are things that Satan laughs at, as abstaining from pork, from wearing shatnez, the taking off of the shoe of the husband's brother at the levirate marriage, purification of a leper, and the dispatching of the Azazel goat. Lest it be said, they are nonsense, it is therefore written "I am the Lord your God." I have commanded it; you have no right to question.”

Yet, in a most unconventional understanding of Jewish practice, the medieval Jewish philosophers Avraham Ibn Ezra and Moshe ben Nachman explain that the Goat of Azazel was actually a bribe. Not the “appeasing the gods” type of bribe, but a bribe nonetheless.

In Chassidic thought it is explained, that the forces charged by G-d to challenge the Jew by concealing G-d’s presence in the world, receive their nourishment when one succumbs to sin, and especially when he derives pleasure from the forbidden activity. When one repents and wants to steal back the energy that the “forces of evil” nursed from his act, they don’t part with it so easily, and therefore prosecute him before the Heavenly Court. To keep them out of the way, G-d instructs the Jewish people to send off a goat to “the prosecutor” on the day of Yom Kippur, to ensure that when he is called to testify he will only speak well of the nation. These forces of prosecution, formerly those who seduced the human to sin to begin with, will then see no sin in the Jewish people and instead declare before G-d, “There is a nation on earth that is as pure of sin as the angels themselves.”

Why then does the Talmud say that this practice defies logic? Because Jews don’t believe in intermediaries, let alone offer sacrifices to them. So the Azazel goat is not offered as a sacrifice, merely “sent off” to the “other side”.

Parshat Shmini

When Moses “Consoled” Aaron (Leviticus 10:1-3)

Questions by Joel Cohen

Ostensibly seeking to do no intentional harm, but nonetheless breaking God’s dictate, Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, took a fire pan and placed incense upon it and they brought “an alien flame” as God had commanded against. The fire came forth and consumed them; and in an instant they died. Moses came to his brother Aaron and said, “Of this did God speak, saying: I will be sanctified by those who are nearest Me, thus I will be honored before the entire people.” And Aaron was “silenced.”
What could Moses have possibly meant or intended by his comment? In the cold night of Aaron’s despair, having disastrously lost his two sons, Moses offered a platitude – when, given his unimaginable loss, Aaron needed comfort. Moses could have told Aaron that Aaron’s loss was his loss too, offering comfort that he too suffered greatly in the loss. Moses could have said that “Your sons are in a better place in the presence of God – and their punishment will enable us all able to lead a less sinful life.” And if really going for the gusto, Moses could have said, “Your sons have preceded you to prepare your place in heaven, making better your transition – for surely heaven will be your resting place too, when your time comes.” But no, Moses offered a trite remark – akin to the formulaic comment we, today, make at the home of a mourner.
Couldn’t Moses have used this tragic moment to teach the Children of Israel how to better comfort those who suffer from personal tragedy? Or was Moses simply a Lawgiver – the Law was violated and God, as always, needed to be honored above all else. To put it otherwise, was Aaron “silenced” – or was he instead astounded by what Moses offered him that most horrible day in his life?

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel---I am surprised that you are so startled by Moses’ words of comfort to Aaron. Aarons’ two sons had just perished while they were serving in the Tabernacle. What a terrible way to die---how could Aaron have seen it as anything other than a rejection by God of his sons’ actions. Their service was not accepted as service to God rather rejected by God and the cause of their demise. It is not coincidental that the Torah does not specify exactly what the sons of Aaron did to deserve the death penalty. What does it mean “for sacrificing foreign fire before God.”? Commentators have argued about the meaning of these words for centuries but Joel, I guess that can be next year’s topic.
So, with that introduction, we can begin to understand Moses’ words of comfort. At a time when words cannot possibly provide a true sense of consolation, Moses attempts to put the episode in a context that Aaron can both understand and one in which he will not consider his sons as sinners. You see, in the ancient world, they believed that “good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people”. So, if the sons of Aaron died, they must be bad people! No, says Moses, God sanctifies Himself with those who are closest to Him. Nadav and Abihu were not bad people---they were actually those “who were closest to God”. Aaron was not consoled and his silence reflects his inability to grasp the moment and deal with the moment. Yet, the reassurances from God’s servant Moses that his sons were not sinners but were those who were close to God must have made Aaron feel better.
We don’t have the ability when paying a shiva visit to offer insight into God’s relationship with the deceased. Aaron was fortunate that his brother’s shiva visit included a reassurance from God about the righteousness of his sons. Maybe Aaron’s silence was his way of thanking his brother for those words of comfort.

Eli Popack

Joel, to add to what Rabbi Mintz has said, There is much in the Torah's account, and in the words of our Sages, Nadav and Avihu's act was not a neccesarily a "sin". The Torah records Moses' words to Aaron immediately following the tragedy: "This is what G-d spoke, saying: 'I shall be sanctified by those who are close to Me.'" Rashi, citing the Talmud and Midrash, explains his meaning:
Moses said to Aaron, "When G-d said 'I shall be sanctified by those close to Me,' I thought it referred to me or you; now I see that they are greater than both of us."

Following the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, G-d specifically commanded that their example should not be repeated: And G-d spoke to Moses after the death of Aaron's two sons, who came close to G-d and died: "... Speak to Aaron your brother, that he come not at all times into the Holy... So that he die not..." (Leviticus 16:1-2). The Lubavitcher Rebbe adds: The purpose of this Divine command was not to limit the degree of self-transcendence and closeness to G-d attainable by man. On the contrary: the commandment empowered us to accommodate, as a physically alive human beings, the very fire that consumed the souls of Nadav and Avihu. Hence the "strange fire" of Aaron's two sons was also "strange" in a positive sense: an unprecedented act that introduced opened a new vista in man's service of G-d.

As an aside: , Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov Says : "It is only out of a great kindness on the part of the Almighty that one remains alive after prayer."
Prayer is the endeavor to transcend the enmeshments of material life and come close to one's essence and source in G-d. When a person truly achieves this closeness--when he truly prays--he can experience an attachment to G-d of the magnitude that "released" the souls of Nadav and Avihu. But G-d has enabled us (in the very act of commanding us to do so) to incorporate such sublime experiences into our daily, humanly defined lives.

While he had just lost his sons, possibly Aaron was silenced because he accepted his brothers view of how great his sons were, and more importantly how high of a level they had reached. Not dissimilar from your comment that Moses could have comforted his brother by saying your sons have gone to a better place.

Parshat Tzav

The Guilt Offering (Leviticus 7:1-8)

Questions by Joel Cohen

In exquisite and meticulous detail, the parsha tells us the technicalities of sacrifice – and, of “the guilt offering; it is the most holy.” We are told of the blood ceremony “all around the altar”; how the fat, the innards, the tail, the kidneys, the diaphragm, and the liver are to be offered up in smoke on the altar. Finally, the parsha tells us that every male priest may eat of it in a holy place, but that it belongs to the priest who performs the atonement service.
But where, and what about, the sinner who contributes the guilt offering? Indeed, Leviticus 5:1-6 already told us. That is, if, after agreeing to do so, a witness declined to testify about something he knew about, effectively giving false testimony by saying “I did not know”; or a person became unwittingly contaminated by the carcass of an animal, or of a human; or a person unwillingly swore to do or abstain from doing something (however that could happen) – he became obliged to “confess” his guilt and give a guilt offering.
Still, this doesn’t make much sense. It does make sense that a person should confess his sin. But, if his act is unwitting, why should there be anything at all to confess? And if his act is intentional, for example, in the case of the person who declined to comply with his acceptance of a demand to give testimony, and thus lying, why is it sufficient that he simply confess his sin? Shouldn’t he also be required to repent? But yet, the Torah doesn’t tell us that. Instead the Torah tells us of the need to confess sins that the sinner didn’t intentionally do, and neglects to demand repentance for the ones he does intentionally.
Has the Torah become too enmeshed in the technicalities of the sacrifice itself, allowing the “meaning” of penitence to take a back seat?

Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel---You have identified the fundamental issue of how one repents in the Jewish tradition.
The Rambam, in his quest to write an encyclopedia of Judaism, addresses the laws of repentance in a separate set of laws at the beginning of his Mishneh Torah. In this work, he describes a three tiered approach to repentance. He writes that if a Jew sins, he/she must:
1. Recognize the fact that he/she sinned.
2. Regret the sin
3. Commit to never do it again
The Torah tells us that an integral part of the process of the sacrifice is the confession on the head of the animal. This highlights the fact that the korban is a part of the repentance process but not the whole thing. If a person sins in the time of the Temple, he must bring a sacrifice to the Temple. The bringing of the sin offering is the equivalent of the Rambam’s first category of recognizing the sin. Then the sinner must place his hands on the head of the animal and confess the sin. This is the fulfillment of the Rambam’s second category of regretting the sin. There is still one aspect of the process of teshuva that the korban cannot achieve---that is the acceptance never to sin again. Of course, this is the most difficult part of the teshuva process. It is easy to realize when you have sinned and even to regret your actions. But, to commit to never doing it again! This requires a serious self-evaluation and the recognition that this commitment may not always be met by success. You may accept never to sin again but in truth you may be faced with a challenge and find that your weaknesses overcome you and that you indeed sin again.
The Torah commands the bringing of the korban as the beginning of the process of teshuva. It intentionally leaves out the final step in the process for this last step cannot be accomplished through a korban given in a public setting. It can only be achieved through the private and serious consideration in which we encounter our inner selves.
Joel---the practice of sacrificing in the Temple is far removed from our lives in the twenty-first century. Yet, its message is as relevant to us today as it was when the torah was given over 3400 years ago.

Eli Popack

There are essentially several parts to your questions.
1) Is repentance itself a requirement of the Torah?
2) Is there a point to confession if one did not repent?
3) Why does someone who has inadvertently sinned need to confess?
I.
Let’s begin with what seems to be the opinion of Maimonides. In the Law of Repentance, the Rambam writes:
“If a person transgresses any of the mitzvos of the Torah, be it a positive command or a prohibition, whether intentionally or unintentionally, he is required to confess before G-d when he repents and returns from his sin, as the verse states, “If a man or woman commits any sins against [another] man...they should confess the sin they committed,”1 which refers to a verbal confession. This confession is a positive command from the Torah...
One is required to confess with one’s lips and state verbally those things which one has resolved in one’s heart. If a person confesses verbally, but has not resolved in his heart to repent, it is comparable to one who immerses in a mikvah while holding a sheretz [a creature that causes ritual impurity], for the immersion will not be effective until he casts the sheretz away.”
However, on further analysis, it could be argued that, in fact, the confession does have meaning even without proper repentance first and also enhances the penitence of someone who has already repented in his heart.
This is expressed in the words of the Sefer Hachinuch (in his commentary to Mitzvah 364):
“Through verbal confession of sin, the sinner reveals his thoughts and feelings, that he truly believes that all his deeds are revealed and known before G-d, and that he will not act as if “the Eye that sees” does not see. Furthermore, through mentioning the sin specifically, he will feel remorseful about it, and he will be more careful on another occasion not to stumble in the same way again.”
This shows that indeed the confession itself is an integral part of the repentance as the raised awareness of the sin and the shame that comes along with it actually propel one to authentically repent. (It can be argues that the Rambam too would agree to this, as it seems from other places where he writes about repentance.)
In summary, confession is effective before, during and after the teshuvah process:
1. Before a person has resolved to stop sinning, an insincere confession helps him to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed, initiating the teshuvah process.
2. When a person has sincerely resolved in his heart not to sin again, confession brings his resolutions to be expressed outwardly.
3. The confession is then effective in inspiring the person to further remorse, and, “he will be more careful on another occasion not to stumble.”
On a deeper level, the confession is actually a part of the “uprooting of sin” that repentance is meant to accomplish. Just as the sin was comprised of both a physical and emotional deed, namely, the physical wrongdoing and the passion that fueled it, the repentance too requires a physical and emotional manifestation. The uprooting of the sinful passion is through the heartfelt regret, and the reversing of the sinful deed is through a physical deed of repentance, namely, confession.
II.
Returning to the words of the Maimonides quoted above, “If a person transgresses …he is required to confess before G-d when he repents and returns from his sin”, it seems that repentance is not the actual Mitzvah, rather, repentance seems to be the circumstance or clause in which case the “Mitzvah of Confession” must be fulfilled.
Though the commentaries debate if this is indeed what the Rambam intended with these words, the Minchat Chinuch maintains that teshuvah is indeed wholly optional. He posits that the Torah only requires us to confess if we do teshuvah, much as we are commanded to slaughter an animal if we desire to eat meat -- but eating meat per se is not obligatory.
An understanding of the nature of teshuvah sheds light on its anomalous nature.
There's something special, a particular genuineness, about an unsolicited and unexpected act. It's a more accurate reflection of who you really are and what you really want to be doing.
But the Mitzvahs, the tasks demanded by our relationship with G d don't leave much room for impromptu outbursts of love. Our relationship with Him seems to be scripted from the moment we rub our eyes open in the morning until the moment we shut them for the night. The tasks demanded by this relationship -- all 613 of them -- seemingly don't leave much room for improvisation, for impromptu and original outbursts of care and love. You want to compliment Him -- great, you are just fulfilling your requirement to pray. You want to give Him something special, maybe a nice donation to the synagogue -- nice, but you have just satisfied your obligation to give charity.
Luckily we do have the ability to express ourselves in the course of this all-important relationship. The uncharted part of our relationship is called teshuvah, loosely translated as repentance. Accurately translated, however, teshuvah means "return." Teshuvah is about returning and reconnecting with one's inner self, one's very essence. At the core of every Jew there is a soul which is a burning coal of love for G d, a soul whose only desire is to connect to its Creator and serve Him dutifully. Connecting with one's true self, and thus revealing the awesome relationship which one shares with G d, automatically cleanses one of all sins, and is the starting point of a new chapter in life, a chapter dominated by new goals and priorities.
With this understanding, it is clear that teshuvah cannot be a commandment. Teshuvah is the ultimate expression of one's self -- and following a command is not the truest expression of self.
This Teshuvah is the “soul” of the repentance; the “body” of the repentance remains the physical act which it requires – confession. Instructions about the physical aspect of Teshuvah can be counted a s a Mitzvah, and that’s why the Torah keeps on mentioning it.

III.
This leaves us with our last question. Generally speaking, sacrificial offerings were brought in atonement for those sins that were done inadvertently. Why is someone who did something by accident, required to repent, bring a sacrifice, and confess to something that he did with no malicious or evil intention?
The answer lies in the fact that though the sin itself was committed unwittingly, the fact that it was possible for the person to have sinned is an indication that he is spiritually lacking; were he to be spiritually complete he would not even sin inadvertently, as the verse states: “A righteous individual will not happen upon iniquity” (Mishlei 12:21).
Thus, inadvertent sin is a direct result of having allowed one’s animalistic tendencies to get out of hand.
Those things that a person does without thinking tend to reflect the things in which he is immersed, and where his true pleasure lies. The actions of a truly holy individual are good and holy; succumbing to evil — even inadvertently — is an indication that a person does not find his pleasure only in goodness.
Thus, in one way inadvertent sin indicates a greater spiritual taint than conscious sin: When a person does something wrong knowingly, his action does not necessarily indicate to what degree he is bound up with the evil; it is entirely possible that his sole connection was only at the time of the deed, and affects only his power of action and present level of intent. However, when an individual sins unconsciously and without premeditation, then his action indicates a subconscious connection to sin; evil touches him on a level that goes much deeper than his awareness.

Teshuvah is powerful. According to our sages, a sin can take you higher than all the mitzvahs could ever reach—if you do teshuvah out of love. Love for G d, for His Torah and for your precious soul.

Parshat Vayikra

Blood on the Altar (Leviticus: e.g., 4:17-19)

Questions by Joel Cohen

Animal sacrifice is hard enough to understand. For when we see it displayed in contemporary times, as practiced, for example, by the Santeria religion, it seems, inhumane, and at least arguably barbaric. True, as Maimonides would and did maintain, one can understand it in ancient times as God’s effort to wean the House of Israel from the barbarity of human sacrifice practiced then among the nations of the world. One can also understand that animal sacrifice was intended as a substitute for the punishment of death for the Israelities who violated God’s sacred commands – i.e., “ the animal’s blood for our blood.” Essentially, the blood from the sacrificial animals would remind the people of their vulnerabilty, and how God chose to spare them through animal sacrifice.

But the blood-letting ceremony on the altar seems particularly bizarre. For example, in the instance of the korban chatas, when the young bull was sacrificed, the priest would dip his finger and sprinkle it seven times before God toward the Curtain; he would put some blood on the horns of the altar; and the remaining blood he would pour on the base of the Elevation Altar at then entrance of the Tent of the Meeting. But nothing says that the individual offering the sacrifice (presumably, in substitution for his own body) would be situtated nearby so that the experience of the blood-letting would infuse his personal consciousness.

Maybe, just maybe, animal sacrifice was merely a ritual intended to satisfy God Himself, and had nothing to do with the consciousness of the offeror, other than the monetary sacrifice he made in purchasing the animal whose carcas, and kidneys and fat and diaphragm and liver, etc. -- each identified individually -- would go up in smoke.

Gentlemen, please help me to understand why this practice should sound like a good thing to me (and, presumably, the many others who might see it as I do). Yes, I know – God instructed us to do it. But still . . . .



Rabbi Adam Mintz

Joel---this week you have jumped ahead of yourself. You have posed the question regarding why the offerer of the korban does not stand by as the blood is being sprinkled. You sound as if you understand the process of the sprinkling of the blood in the first place. I would like to focus on the mitzvah of sprinkling the blood and then answer the question that you asked.

When the Torah describes the mitzvah to sprinkle the blood, it tells us that the blood must be sprinkled “around the altar.” This was accomplished through the sprinkling on two opposite diagonal corners of the altar so that the blood would actually be found on all four sides of the altar.

But why does it matter how many sides of the altar have the blood? We have to imagine that the altar must have been a pretty messy place---did one more blood offering really make a difference?

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that this detail of the blood sprinkling is essential in understanding the reason for the entire practice. We are obligated to sprinkle the blood, explains Rabbi Hirsch, because it represents the soul of the person who is sacrificing the korban. But, what is the relationship that the korban is trying to establish? According to Rabbi Hirsch, the sacrifice strengthens our relationship with God. This relationship is one that encompasses everything that we do and is represented by the fact that the blood is sprinkled on the entire altar. The process of sacrifice is the process of giving our complete being to God. How better to reflect that essence than by sprinkling the blood on the entire altar.

So, why is the sprinkling done by the kohen? The Talmud explains that the process of sprinkling the blood was one of the most complex activities that took place in the Temple. It had to be done by the experts---having anyone else hanging around would only serve as a distraction to the process. So the kohen sprinkled the blood for the offerer of the sacrifice but he was instructed to remain at a distance. Sometimes, we non-kohanim are most helpful from a distance!





Eli Popack



Joel, you could not have said it better. No matter how many rational explanations we will provide for the Mitzvot, some of the details will always be “out there”.

Popular conception has it that after G‑d created a world, He decided to give us earthlings a moral code to follow. Thus, the Torah was born--somewhat as an afterthought. It's here to keep the world civilized and sprinkle some meaning into man's often chaotic life. Something like a self-help manual for humankind.

Now, such a manual is not a bad thing to have. But if that were the sum total of Torah, it would have very little to do with G‑d Himself. It might be part of the Creator-of-the-World job description, but--like if Einstein were to sew his pants--it has little do with G‑d's essential wisdom. Don't steal, don't hurt anyone, give charity--very nice, but this you call infinite wisdom?

And so, we are told that, "The Torah preceded the world by 2000 years." (Midrash Psalms 90:4)

In other words, the Torah is not just G‑d's guidebook for man. It precedes man, precedes world, and precedes all of existence. It's G‑d's own will and wisdom, that He, so to speak, discusses with Himself. And He decided to share that with us.

That’s why in every Mitzvah there are some details that don’t seem to fit with the rationale or meaningful experience that the general Mitzvah is supposed to provide. It’s a small reminder that the grasp of the human mind on G-d’s wisdom is both perfect and imperfect at once. Is it possible that the mind and will of the Creator could fit within the mind of the created?

Truth be told, according to the Kabbalah, G-d’s will is beyond His own wisdom as well. But we’ll leave that for another time….