Shining Our Light

by Eliezer Segal

Talmud Shabbat 21b …The House of Shammai say: On the first day eight lights are lit and afterwards they are gradually reduced.  And the House of Hillel say: On the first day one is lit and subsequently they are increased.Ulla said: In the West two amoraim,–Rabbi Jose bar Avin and Rabbi Yose bar Zevida, disagree.  One says: The reason of the House of Shammai is that it corresponds to the days still to come, and the reason of the House of Hillel is that it corresponds to the days that have passed.  And the other one says: The House of Shammai’s reason is that it corresponds to the bullocks of the [Sukkot] Festival; and the House of Hillel’s reason is that we rise in holiness but do not descend. Rabbah b. Bar Hana said: There were two old men in Sidon: One acted in accordance with the House of Shammai, and the other one acted in accordance the House of Hillel. The former gave as the reason of his action that it corresponds to the bullocks of the Festival. And the latter said that his reason was because we ascend in holiness and we do not descend.

In the spirit of acknowledging the victory of “the few against the many,” I would like to open with an appreciation of that quintessential minority of talmudic tradition, the House of Shammai. Although normative halakhah usually follows the opinions of Beit Hillel, which achieved the support of the majority, it acknowledges that “both views are words or the living God” and that the House of Shammai is arguing coherent and legitimate positions that are deserving of careful study.

We are all familiar with the dispute between the Houses of Shammai and Hillel in the Talmud over the preferred sequence for lighting the Hanukkah candles: Beit Shammai believe that we should decrease the number from eight to one, while Beit Hillel propose the procedure that we now follow, of increasing the number of candles on each successive night.

In their discussion of the underlying reasons for the respective rulings, the rabbis of the Talmud propose that Beit Shammai were taking their cue from the sacrifices on Sukkot. According to the Torah (Numbers 29), thirteen bulls are offered on the first day of the holiday, twelve on the second, finishing off with seven bulls on the seventh day. The House of Shammai thought that this pattern of decreasing numbers should also be followed in the lighting of the Hanukkah lights. 

As arbitrary as this association between two totally unrelated rituals might appear to us at first sight, the connection of Hanukkah to Sukkot is, in fact, confirmed by historical documents. 

According to 2 Maccabees 10:6, the original decision to celebrate for eight days was intended to compensate for the fact that during the war against the Hellenists the Jews were not able to celebrate Sukkot properly. It actually describes Hanukkah as being observed originally through the carrying of lulavs.

Now, this explanation is very difficult to accept at face value. After all, the uprising against the Hellenists went on for two years before the purification of the Temple. Granted that Sukkot was the most recent holiday of which they had been deprived, it was not the only one. The fighters would have missed out on the full cycle of the festivals. Why, then, of all festivals in the Jewish calendar, was it Sukkot that they missed so much?

And why, in the end, did the rabbis choose to perpetuate the connection with a ritual that has no visible association with Sukkot–the lighting of candles?

With respect to the first question, some of the commentators call our attention to a remarkable passage from the Talmud that explains the significance of those Sukkot sacrifices. This explanation is based on the premise that, if you add up the total number of the bulls offered on the seven days of Sukkot–13+12+11+10+9+8+7–you will arrive at a total of seventy, the number that traditionally represents the nations of the world. Following from this, the Talmud (Sukkah 55b) records:

Says Rabbi Eleazar: To what do those seventy bulls correspond? To the seventy nations…

Rabbi Johanan said: Woe to the idol-worshippers, for they suffered a great loss but do not even know what they have lost. While the Temple was standing, the altar atoned for them, but now who shall atone for them?

We see, then, that the Sukkot sacrifices are unique among the Jewish festival rituals in focusing on our responsibilities and contributions to humanity at large. While we are rejoicing in the ingathering of the crops, and as we recall the special relationship that we enjoyed with our Father in Heaven during our wanderings in the desert, we are reminded that the ultimate purpose of all this is to share our blessings with the rest of the world. 

Antiochus and his collaborators sought to eradicate the distinctive faith of Israel; but had they succeeded in their campaign, the resulting spiritual devastation would not have been confined to the Jews.

On Hanukkah, as we are commemorating a military and spiritual conflict with hostile gentiles, it is all too easy to lose sight of these goals, to despair of the outside world, and to withdraw into insularity and xenophobia. Perhaps this is what Judah Maccabee had in mind on that first Hanukkah when he chose to model the new festival after Sukkot. If the point of the holiday was only to commemorate the triumph against foreign oppression, then Passover would surely have provided a more fitting model–or even Purim. However, focusing on Sukkot was Judah’s way of teaching us that our determination to take up arms for the protection and preservation of the Jewish way of life is not only for our benefit; and that the purification of the Temple involved rededicating it to its original universal goals.

And this helps us to appreciate why Hanukkah focuses on the kindling of lights rather on any of the numerous rituals that were conducted in the holy sanctuary. In the terminology of the rabbis, the intent of this observance is pirsomei nissa, to spread the word of the Hanukkah miracle. The lights of the Menorah were very different from the fire of the altar. Whereas the latter was believed to have descended from the heavens in order to achieve atonement, the Menorah shone outwardly from the Temple, illuminating the world with the radiance of our devotion and the values of the Torah. 

Maybe this also helps us understand another unusual feature of Hanukkah. As pointed out by the Rebbe Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger in his Sefat Emet, of all the holidays in the Jewish year, Hanukkah is the one that whose observance is defined almost entirely in terms of the individual household. There is no major event that is conducted in the Temple or the synagogue–nothing analogous to the Passover sacrifices, the Hoshanna processions on Sukkot, or the Megillah reading on Purim. There is no real obligation to light Hanukkah candles in the synagogue, though it is required that every family–and preferably each family member–light a menorah that is placed at the door or window of their home. In spite of all those toddlers marching around like Maccabee soldiers, this week on what is ostensibly the recollection of a triumph in battle, we do not observe Hanukkah by means of military parades, or any other conventional collective ritual. Instead we emit our light from the home into the street, spreading it to wherever there is anybody around to see it. 

Evidently, this is also the meaning of that odd time measurement that is utterly unique to Hanukkah. In connection with this mitzvah alone, we do not measure time by sunrise, sunset or the appearance of the stars–but rather by how long people are walking in the streets and marketplaces: “ad shettikhleh haregel min ha-shuk.” Because it is those people whom we are targeting with our light.

With respect to the miracle of Hanukkah, the Sefat Emet explains that the purpose of miracles is not really accomplished until the world has recognized their spiritual significance. Though the Almighty can perform all kinds of wondrous acts, involving suspensions of the laws of nature or of history, those acts do not fully achieve the status of miracles without the cooperation of human beings who publicize them to the world at large. 

The appropriate method for publicizing the miracle of Hanukkah is through the mitzvah of lighting candles in each household, allowing the flames to illuminate the surrounding world. The very fact that Boxing-week shoppers can glance up to our windows and see Jewish families devoutly observing the precepts of lighting the menorahs is an indispensable part of the Hanukkah miracle. 

Therefore, in celebrating Hanukkah, we are not only remembering the miracle–we are participating in it.

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, December 31, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Desperate Housewife

by Eliezer Segal

Genesis 27 41 Now Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing with which his father had blessed him, and Esau said to himself, “The days of mourning for my father are approaching; then I will kill my brother Jacob.”  42 But the words of Esau her older son were told to Rebekah; so she sent and called Jacob her younger son, and said to him, “Behold, your brother Esau comforts himself by planning to kill you.  43 Now therefore, my son, obey my voice; arise, flee to Laban my brother in Haran, 44 and stay with him a while, until your brother’s fury turns away; 45 until your brother’s anger turns away, and he forgets what you have done to him; then I will send, and fetch you from there. Why should I be bereft of you both in one day?”  46 Then Rebekah said to Isaac, “I am weary of my life because of the Hittite women. If Jacob marries one of the Hittite women such as these, one of the women of the land, what good will my life be to me?” Genesis 28 1Then Isaac called Jacob and blessed him, and charged him, “You shall not marry one of the Canaanite women.  2 Arise, go to Paddan-aram to the house of Bethu’el your mother’s father; and take as wife from there one of the daughters of Laban your mother’s brother.  3 God Almighty bless you and make you fruitful and multiply you, that you may become a company of peoples.  4 May he give the blessing of Abraham to you and to your descendants with you, that you may take possession of the land of your sojournings which God gave to Abraham!”  5 Thus Isaac sent Jacob away; and he went to Paddan-aram to Laban, the son of Bethu’el the Aramean, the brother of Rebekah, Jacob’s and Esau’s mother.  6 Now Esau saw that Isaac had blessed Jacob and sent him away to Paddan-aram to take a wife from there, and that as he blessed him he charged him, “You shall not marry one of the Canaanite women,”  7 and that Jacob had obeyed his father and his mother and gone to Paddan-aram.  8 So when Esau saw that the Canaanite women did not please Isaac his father,  9 Esau went to Ish’mael and took to wife, besides the wives he had, Ma’halath the daughter of Ishmael Abraham’s son, the sister of Neba’ioth.

The closing verses of Parashat Toledot have been a source of puzzlement, to say the least, to many commentators. The preceding chapters were devoted to the story of how Jacob had incurred Esau’s anger when he received Isaac’s blessing under fraudulent circumstances. We have been told that Esau’s fury reached murderous proportions, and that Jacob had to flee for his life.

And then, abruptly, from verse 27:46 onwards, the narrative undergoes a complete about-face. Everybody is suddenly concerned with finding wives. Jacob’s departure is now attributed to his parents’ dissatisfaction with the local bride market. The fear of Esau’s revenge does not merit the slightest mention. In fact, the only interest that the story now has in Esau’s life relates to his own efforts to find an acceptable life-mate from Ishmael’s family. 

What is going on here? Some modern Bible scholars blame this bizarre situation on bad editing, assuming that two separate stories about Jacob’s departure have been spliced together.

According to several Jewish exegetes, the about-face should not be blamed on an inconsistency in the narrative, but on the persuasive skills of the matriarch Rebecca. As she has been doing since the beginning of the episode, here too, she continues in her attempts to define the terms of reference for the other members of her family. 

She is the only one who knows about Esau’s intention to kill Jacob. Jacob had left the scene before Esau’s return, and though Esau had uttered his threat “in his heart,” it was somehow reported to Rebecca. (Maybe she employed the household servants as personal spies. She strikes me as the type who, if she were lving in a later age, would peek into her children’s confidential diaries or hack into their email accounts.) Rebecca warns Jacob of the danger to his life, but evidently she never divulges this crucial information to her husband. 

Several of the commentators. including Rashbam and Rabbi Isaac Arama (author of the Aqedat Yis-haq ), make reference to Rebecca’s hokhmah in handling this situation. This Hebrew word can encompass quite a wide range of meanings, and it is not clear whether they are using it here in the approving sense of “wisdom,” or merely as “cleverness,” “cunning” or “shrewdness.” 

Rabbi Arama implies that he is equating Rebecca’s hokhmah with shrewdness, in the sense of psychological perceptiveness. He discerns this quality in her decision to represent Jacob’s flight to Padan Aram as if it were simply some sort of singles cruise to find him a mate. She reasons that if Esau were to catch on that Jacob was fleeing for his life, the scent of his brother’s fear would provoke him to chase after Jacob immediately; whereas, as long as he had no reason to suspect that Jacob was aware of his murderous designs, he would postpone his revenge to a more opportune occasion. Following her elaborate strategy, Rebecca convinced her husband Isaac of the urgent need to send Jacob to Laban’s house to find a wife, thereby creating the impression that his departure was motivated by obedience to his father’s commands. 

According to Rabbi Arama’s reading, Rebecca was so successful in concealing the real reason for Jacob’s departure that even Esau fell for the ruse, and turned his energies to the new project of finding himself an acceptable partner from Uncle Ishmael’s family and, forgetting all about his quarrel with Jacob over the blessing.

When Don Isaac Abravanel paraphrases this passage, he states that Rebecca twisted the facts “for the sake of peace.” He is, of course, alluding here to the midrash about how the Almighty misquoted Sarah’s response to the news that she would bear a son (Genesis 18:12). Sarah had found this news impossible to accept because of Abraham’s advanced age. However, when reporting the conversation to Abraham, God quoted her as if she had been referring to her own age: “Shall I indeed bear a child, now that I am old? (verse 13)”. The rabbis inferred from this that domestic harmony is so precious that it overrides the obligation to tell the truth–even for the one whose name is Truth. 

By alluding to that midrash, Abravanel seems to be implying that Rebecca too was acting out of noble motives. 

These days, one hears frequent calls for openness in a relationship. Experts tell us that spouses should never keep secrets from each other, and that they should strive to be frank and honest no matter how unpleasant the immediate consequences. In my own limited experience, I have not found that uncompromising honesty is usually conducive to the stability of a marriage. Clearly, the rabbis whom we quoted here did not share that commitment to unconditional honesty, at least not in cases where it would lead to hurt feelings or resentment.

Nevertheless, I am not really so sure that Rebecca’s conduct here can be read in such a positive manner, or whether the Torah is encouraging us to emulate her approach to dealing with family problems. After all, there is a great difference between God glossing Sarah’s innocent slip of the tongue, and Rebecca’s refusal to own up to her responsibilities for a deep rift in the family.

It would seem that what went on in Isaac and Rebecca’s household was more serious than a few little diplomatic white lies. Rebecca seems inherently incapable of holding a direct or open conversation with Isaac. When she hears of her husband’s intention to bless Esau (evidently by spying on their conversation), she does not approach him to voice her concerns, nor does she encourage Jacob to do discuss the matter with his father. She always prefers to operate deviously behind the scenes, and she urges Jacob to do the same.

In fact, when we take a closer look at Abravanel’s interpretation of the passages, we see that he is also quite critical of Rebecca’s motives. He ascribes her concealment of the true situation to her fear of Isaac’s reaction: If he were to realize the degree to which her meddling has destroyed the harmony of their household and driven a wedge between the two siblings, his outrage against her would have been unbearable. It was in order to avoid this confrontation that she worked so hard to put a positive spin on the disintegration of their family. As far as Isaac is aware, it is not fear and loathing that are driving their son away, but the constructive desire to seek a wife among Rebecca’s kinfolk. 

Isaac is easily taken in by her version of the situation. When he makes his farewells to Jacob it is as if he has internalized all of Rebecca’s complaints about the local women. He seems completely unaware of any danger to his son’s life, or of his wife’s part in the tragedy.

Certainly, there is much to be said for sparing people’s feelings by protecting them from upsetting truths. Open communications between spouses and family members is also an important value. The complexities of real life make it very difficult to know which approach is the correct one to follow in a given situation. The Torah offers us guidance and models for emulation, but it cannot provide us with simplistic solutions to all of life’s difficulties. When all is said and done, it is up to each of us to draw form the wisdom of the tradition and choose the responsible course of action that is appropriate for the individuals and the situation.

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, December 3, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

A Great Name

by Eliezer Segal

Genesis 12 1 Now the Lord had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee.  2 And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing.  3 And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee: and in thee shall all families of the earth be blessed.

When God invited Abram to leave his home and embark on his new life mission, he promised him several things in order to make this venture into the unknown seem more attractive. Most of these promises can be easily understood. The prospect of becoming the progenitor of a great nation must have been particularly desirable for a man who was still childless. Similarly, the assurance that he would become a blessing for all humanity must have held a special appeal for a caring and compassionate person.

However, it is not so easy to understand why Abram would have been impressed by the promise that God would make his name great. The concern for fame and reputation is something we tend to associate with the vanities of Hollywood–a concern with shallow externals that does not seem appropriate for a profoundly spiritual personality like Abraham. Was he really interested in being an international celebrity or in achieving the adulation of the masses.

This question was discussed by one of the earliest known Biblical exegetes, Philo Judaeus of Alexandria, who composed his discourses in Greek during the first century C.E. Philo concedes that, if a person has to choose between true virtue and a mere appearance, then there is no doubt that one must prefer the former-“there is no advantage whatever in seemingunless being has also been added long before.” Nevertheless, the ideal situation is when the two can be combined; and this fortunate situation was offered to Abraham as an incentive for devoting his life to the service of God.  

It is not merely a matter of feeling satisfaction in the fact that your righteous deeds are being appreciated by others–though Philo sees nothing at all wrong with having such feelings. He goes on to argue that a favourable public image contributes substantially to the effectiveness of one’s virtuous efforts.

For one thing, if good people are so indifferent to how they are being perceived by others that they allows their motives to be misrepresented and misunderstood, then they stand the risk of unnecessarily antagonizing  enemies who will be working against them. The provoking of frictions will ultimately prove counterproductive to the realization of our good intentions in the world.

In the real world, Philo observes, most people judge the worthiness of a cause by looking at its agents and representatives. If those representatives have unsavoury reputations–even if the notoriety is entirely unfounded–they bring their noble ideals into disrepute and make it difficult to recruit others to the cause. I am reminded of those scruffy American radicals and hippies who chose to “come clean for Gene” in 1968 in order to enhance the political respectability of their candidate among the broader electorate. Though we might be convinced that the concern for appearances is shallow and unjustified, we must recognize nonetheless that it is a reality, and take it into account when we try to deal with the public.   

In order to illustrate this point, Philo provides a remarkable example from his own community in Alexandria. He observes that some of his contemporaries interpret the laws of the Torah as symbolic representations of philosophical concepts, the understanding of which constitutes the ultimate objective of Judaism. Thus, the Sabbath was ordained in order to teach us that God created the universe, and that human beings are entitled to periodic rest from their labours. The various agricultural festivals were instituted in order to instill us with gratitude for God’s generosity in providing for our needs. Circumcision symbolizes the supremacy of the intellect over physical pleasures. 

Thus far, there is nothing particularly remarkable in these attempts to give meaning to the rituals of the Torah. However. the Alexandrian Jews did not stop there. They took their reasoning to its extreme logical conclusion, and reasoned as follows: If the real purpose of the mitzvot is to instruct us in philosophical truths, then what need is there to observe them after they have done their job and we have learned the doctrines that they were designed to teach us? Basing themselves on this argument, they deduced that there was no longer any need to observe the commandments in their literal form once they had mastered their theoretical meanings.

Philo found this situation intolerable, but he was caught in something of a bind. After all, he was probably the most distinguished proponent of the allegorical method of reading Scripture, and his discourses are devoted almost entirely to the uncovering of philosophical themes in the stories and precepts of the Torah. Since he subscribed so enthusiastically to that premise, what grounds did he have for refuting those who used it for undermining the performance of the commandments?

It is in this context that Philo invokes the principal of “Good Name.” He is ready to concede that the abandoning of observance might make sense if people lived in some sort of solitary, isolated ivory tower, completely removed from any social interactions, “as if they were mere souls unconnected to the body.” In the real world, however, we have a responsibility to spread the divine teachings to the world. For that purpose alone, it is crucial that we project a respectable image. When a person offers to teach the community religious truth and morals, the average person who is lacking in philosophical sophistication will look first at the externals: Is this prospective teacher a pious, respectable Jew? And the respectability will be measured in terms of the conventional standards of appearance and performance of the mitzvot. This is the concern that Philo ascribes to the patriarch Abraham–who devoted himself not only to the attainment of abstract truth, but also to the “great name”–the image he presented to the outside world.

I would venture to suggest that most of us feel very uncomfortable with Philo’s attitude. Even if we are willing to agree that the commandments are a means to a higher end, I doubt that anyone would be bold enough to insist that they could ever exhaust the full significance of its lessons. More fundamentally, there is something very unconvincing in Philo’s facile assumption that the mind and the body operate on completely separate planes, and that Judaism can be reduced to a purely intellectual exercise. 

A more realistic attitude is that of the author of the Sefer Ha-Hinnukh. He shares Philo’s assumption that human perfection lies in the metaphysical knowledge of the divine, and that the life of Torah provides the conditions and guidelines for the successful pursuit of that goal. Nevertheless, he reminds repeatecly that the mind follows the body–that intellectual fulfilment cannot be achieved in a vacuum. Our minds and spirits cannot achieve real clarity unless we have disciplined our bodies, through the physical regimen of the commandments, to overcome temptations and distractions. Looked at from this perspective, it is unimaginable that we could ever arrive at a state where we can confidently declare that we have completely understood the content of a mitzvah and can move on to a higher level. 

Quite the contrary, the life of Torah requires that we maintain a continuing integration of body, mind and spirit. In appreciating the importance of having a “great name,” of making a favourable impression on society, Abraham was acknowledging that Torah is neither a philosophical theory nor a mechanical set of rituals. Rather, it is a way of life that is meant to be lived in physical bodies in a human society. 

For this reason, our father Abraham was deemed worthy to bring his unique blessings to all the families of the earth.

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, November 12, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

The Little Ones

by Eliezer Segal

Deuteronomy 31 10 Moses commanded them, saying, At the end of every seven years, in the set time of the year of release, in the festival of booths, 11 when all Israel is come to appear before the Lord your God in the place which he shall choose, you shall read this law before all Israel in their hearing. 12 Assemble the people, the men and the women and the little ones, and your sojourner who is within your gates, that they may hear, and that they may learn, and fear the Lord your God, and observe to do all the words of this law; 13 and that their children, who have not known, may hear, and learn to fear the Lord your God, as long as you live in the land where you go over the Jordan to possess it.

This passage describes a kind of Torah-reading on steroids. Of course, we conduct partial readings through the year in our individual congregations, at which we read sections from the law of Moses, and these are crucial vehicles for instilling the teachings in our ears, hearts and minds. But the ceremony described here is infinitely intense: Every woman, man and child in Israel are to gather together once in seven years in order to have the Torah read to them. There is no difference in the words; they are the same ones that they have heard in their local synagogues. But the occasion itself has a power of its own that derives from the infrequency of its scheduling and the inclusiveness of its audience.

This very inclusiveness has been puzzling to some of our sages. After all, what advantage is there to inviting children? They are unable to understand what is being recited, and are likely to turn into distractions, defeating the whole purpose of the gathering.

In a famous d’rashah delivered in Yavneh by Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah, he posed this question, and offered the solution, that the purpose of bringing children to the ceremony was in order to grant reward to those that bring them. This interpretation (which is also cited by Rashi to the verse) seems to imply that the children who attend were unlikely to learn anything, but their parents would score extra points in their mitzvah account for the extra work involved in bringing them.

Some rabbis in the Talmud were so impressed with this explanation that they were moved to declare that it was a precious jewel.

Some of our commentators were not so impressed with Rabbi Eleazar’s discourse. For one thing, it seems to contradict the words of the Torah itself, which states clearly (in verse 13) the expectation that their children, who have not known, may hear, and learn to fear the Lord your God. According to this, the reason for bringing children to the Hakhel gathering is because they themselves are capable of benefiting from the experience. It will, in some way, enhance their religious characters and their spirituality.

Don Isaac Abravanel was utterly indignant at the suggestion that children could not derive direct benefit from the hakhel experience. He therefore suggests that we may have misunderstood Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah’s comment about granting a reward for those who bring the children to Jerusalem. This is not some simplistic scoring of brownie points, extra credits or celestial air miles for performing actions that have no inherent usefulness. Quite the contrary: The Torah assumes that young children are perceptive enough to be influenced by their participation in the momentous occasion of the Hakhel. What Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah is pointing out is that the parents, who are responsible for the proper education of their offspring, will thereby be benefiting from the profound pedagogic advantages that their children receive by attending the Hakhel.

In this crucial way, they enjoy a reward for bringing their children. 

I myself attach great value to the traditional childhood as a time for play, and do not think that we should be grooming our two-year-olds for a scholarly careers, whether at Harvard or at a prestigious Yeshivah. Nevertheless, it is clear that they are capable of considerably more intelligence and responsibility than we often give them credit for.

The special mystique of the Hakhel ceremony goes beyond the recitation of the words of the Torah. This dimensions was astutely noted by the author of the Sefer Ha-Hinnukh. It was the immensity and the momentousness of the occasion that created an indelible impression on all its participants. Being part of an event in which the entire nation–men, women and children–were united in one place for the sake of hearing the words of the Torah was a fundamental experience that would remain with them for the rest of their lives, even for those who could not appreciate its full significance at the time.

I belong to a generation that was deeply shaped–maybe even defined–by various mass gatherings and demonstrations in which it participated: events like Martin Luther King’s march on Washington, Woodstock, rallies in support of Israel Soviet Jewry, and others, have become inseparable parts of who we are. I know people who were decisively affected by their participation in the funeral of a great Torah scholar, or in the celebration of the conclusion of the Daf Yomi cycle. The lasting effects that these events exert on our spirits transcend the specific words of the speeches and songs that are heard there. The impact of such a gathering is not lost on children–sometimes even more powerfully than adults.

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, October 8, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

How Not to Be Indispensable

by Eliezer Segal

Numbers 30 1 And Moses spake unto the heads of the tribes concerning the children of Israel, saying, This is the thing which the Lord hath commanded. 2 If a man vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth. .. 16 These are the statutes, which the Lord commanded Moses, between a man and his wife, between the father and his daughter, being yet in her youth in her father’ house.

Let’s all jump into the wayback machine and whisk ourselves back to the twelfth-century. Rabbi Solomon ben Meir— the Rashbam— was visiting the city of Loudon in the Anjou region of France, where he was challenged to explain an apparent anomaly in the Bible. The section at the beginning Numbers 30 is a rarity in the Torah, in that it does not introduce its message with an invocation of the divine source for the precepts contained therein, which consist of various aspects of the laws of vows. Here, however, the wording is decidedly different, and Rashbam’s interlocutors challenged him to account for the phenomenon:

Where have we ever seen a section of the Torah that begins in this manner? It does not say anywhere above that The Lord spoke to Moses saying, If a man make a vow…’. Why then does this section begin with Moses’ speech, which is not explicitly described as originating from God?

Rabbi Samuel was a well-known advocate of the p’shat approach to exegesis–of explaining Scripture on its own terms without recourse to the traditional interpretations of the Talmud and Midrash. Would he be able to use his literalistic approach to resolve the difficulty?

Rashbam’s answer, though expressed in a somewhat roundabout manner, is that the timing of this section was initiated by Moses himself–though the content, of course, was of divine origin, like the rest of the teachings of the Torah, and as is stated explicitly at the conclusion of the section, These are the statutes, which the Lord commanded Moses (30:16).

According to Rabbi Samuel’s reconstruction, Moses felt himself impelled to deal with the topic of vows after having set out the sequence of festival sacrifices in the previous chapter. At the conclusion of that discourse, he had stated These things ye shall do unto the Lord in your set feasts, beside your vows, and your freewill offerings, etc. (29:39). This casual mention of vows and freewill obligation set Moses to thinking that there was an important aspect of these laws that had not been stressed sufficiently: that Once a person has accepted the obligation in the form of a vow or freewill offering, then there were time-limits that went into effect. It was particularly advisable to bring the promised offerings on one of the three pilgrimage festivals. If the person delays the fulfillment of the obligation beyond that time, then they will become guilty of a transgression. With this in mind, Moses decided that he immediately had to instruct the Israelites about this important principle. He turned to the tribal chiefs, and recited to them the passage about vows that included the verse If a man vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth (30:2).

Certainly, there is a lot to be said in favour of Rashbam’s explanation. Nevertheless, I do not find it entirely satisfying. For one thing, the matter of time limits occupies only a verse or two in a sixteen-verse section. 

More important, to my mind, is the fact that it does not provide an adequate explanation for another of the section’s glaring anomalies, the fact that it is the only set of laws in the Torah that is addressed to the heads of the tribes.¹ Why could this section not have been directed, like the rest of the Torah, to the Israelites as a whole?

Don Isaac Abravanel took a similar approach in explaining the peculiar features of the passage. He accepted some of the same basic premises:

1. The decision to deal with the topic of vows at this time was Moses’ initiative. 
2. The timing, and the passage’s place in the sequence of the Torah narrative, are significant.

Nevertheless, Abravanel understands our passage in light of one overwhelming reality that defines the rest of the Torah: Moses’ awareness of his impending death.

In Numbers 25:16-18, Moses was commanded to go to war against the Midianites for their treachery. In 27:12-23, he was informed that that he would die soon, which prompted him to make arrangements for appointing Joshua as his successor. In 31:2 the connection between these developments is spelled out explicitly: Moses is informed after waging the war against Midian, he will die.

Although the laws of vows were given previously (for example, in Leviticus 22), they took on a very different perspective in light of Moses’ awareness of his approaching death. 

Talmudic tradition states that what Moses was teaching to the heads of the tribes–that is to say, the chief judges of his generation–was the institution of absolution from vows. This procedure can be performed by a qualified sage. It is a very complicated process, requiring that the sage conduct an interview the person who made the vow. On the basis of this interview, he must determine whether that individual was fully aware of its consequences at the time that the vow was taken.

As understood by Abravanel, up until this moment, Moses had handled all such cases by himself. We may recall that Moses was notoriously poor at delegating his administrative and judicial functions. Fortunately, he had a wise father-in-law who saved him from burn-out by teaching him how to organize a hierarchical judicial structure. Nevertheless, when it came to absolution of vows, Moses recognized that he was the supreme expert on the topic; and therefore he just assumed that he should handle all the cases personally.

As the immanence of his death became clearer to him, he came to the realization that, by taking on all the responsibilities for so many years, he had left a gaping vacuum in the leadership of his people. After he was removed from the scene, there might be no one left who would know how to perform those functions properly. 

No doubt, Moses was the best and wisest person to adjudicate vows. And yet, by not distributing the responsibility, he had endangered the long-term viability of the community, and of the Torah itself. 

Now Moses was suddenly awakened to the urgency of the matter. Perhaps it was, as Rashbam suggested, when he happened to mention the vows and freewill offerings in Numbers 29:39, that the light bulb suddenly lit up over his head, and he declared to himself: Hey! After I die, there won’t be anyone around who will be qualified to absolve people of their vows. 

For this reason, he reminded himself that, according to the Hebrew oral tradition, the absolution of vows can be performed by any qualified sage. So he now addressed the heads of the tribes in order to instruct them on that point.

In our congregations and communities, we are all familiar with such situations. We know of rabbis and leaders who are such perfectionists that they insist on doing everything by themselves, rather than have the tasks done in a less than perfect way. When they not around–whether they have gone on vacation, a sabbatical, a permanent relocation to another city, or when they have actually died–we find ourselves left without anybody who with the training and experience to take on those jobs. 

Moses. at least, had enough foresight to scramble to train the new leadership in the last remaining days of his life. We have often avoided doing any preparation at all.

It is of course a two-way street. Those of us who have the experience and skills should make the effort to training substitutes and successors–even if this occasionally means having to wince at the imperfections of the amateurs as they struggle up the learning curve. 

By the same token, the rest of us should start thinking seriously about broadening our potentials–learn to chant from the Torah, lead the congregational prayers, or set up refreshments for the Kiddush. Yes, at this point, you might not be able to do it as well as the person who is doing the job now–but if everybody thought that way, then our people would be in grave trouble. 

It is a nice feeling to feel indispensable or irreplaceable. Though such feelings might be very salutary for our self-esteem, in the long run, it is not healthy for the societies or religious communities when crucial roles are restricted to small numbers of individuals. 

Evidently, Moses originally thought that by appointing a new leader he would solve the problems of transition to the next generation. Perhaps what we are witnessing here is the great prophet’s realization that it is not enough to make changes at the top; what is required is a constant renewal of resources at all levels. Only in this way can we insure continued vitality.

It is a lesson that Moses did not learn until it was almost too late. We have the opportunity to act with due deliberation and planning.

And anyhow, how often are we given an opportunity to do something better than Moses?

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, July 30, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Flag-Waving

by Eliezer Segal

Numbers 1 52 The people of Israel shall pitch their tents by their companies, every man by his own camp and every man by his own standard;  53 but the Levites shall encamp around the tabernacle of the testimony, that there may be no wrath upon the congregation of the people of Israel; and the Levites shall keep charge of the tabernacle of the testimony.  54 Thus did the people of Israel; they did according to all that the Lord commanded Moses. Numbers 2 1The Lord said to Moses and Aaron,  2 The people of Israel shall encamp each by his own standard, with the ensigns of their fathers’ houses; they shall encamp facing the tent of meeting on every side…… 34 Thus did the people of Israel. According to all that the Lord commanded Moses, so they encamped by their standards, and so they set out, every one in his family, according to his fathers’ house.

I must confess that I have a problem with flags.

In part, this is a by-product of my Canadian upbringing. Indifference–or even hostility—to displays of nationalism is, I suppose, a central feature of the Canadian value system. If nothing else, it provides us with a pretext for feeling superior to those flag-waving yahoos to the south. In contrast to them, we are taught to believe that quintessential expression of Canadian patriotism is…lack of patriotism.

The syndrome is compounded by the fact that I am one of those baby-boomers whose values were shaped decisively against the background of the 60 s, and especially of the Vietnam War, a conflict that contributed its share to bringing flags and flag-wavers into disrepute. 

You may therefore imagine my consternation at reading the instructions for the encampment of the Israelites in the desert (Numbers 1:52, etc.): The people of Israel shall pitch their tents by their companies, every man by his own camp and every man by his own flag. I have translated the rare Hebrew word degel here as flag in keeping with the views of Rabbi Moses ha-Darshan (in Bemidbar Rabbah) and Rashi, who understood that the Israelites carried standards decorated with symbols of their respective tribes. I recognize that other exegetes interpreted the word differently, as referring to the orderly military-style arrangements into which the people were organized. Even according to those readings, the allusion appears to be to elements of pomp, circumstance and pageantry that emanate from the same motives as conventional flag-waving.

This interpretation is supported by a midrashic tradition that is cited by several of the traditional Jewish commentators (as found in Midrash Tanhuma and elsewhere):

…Each by his own standard, with the ensigns (Deuteronomy 2:2)–

This is what Scripture stated: He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love (Song of Songs 2:4).

What is the meaning of He brought me to the banqueting house ? –When the Holy One revealed himself at Mount Sinai, there descended with him 22,000 chariots of angels, as it says: With mighty chariotry, twice ten thousand, thousands upon thousands, the Lord came from Sinai into the holy place (Psalms 68:18); and they were each arrayed with banners.

For this reason it is written My beloved is all radiant and ruddy, distinguished [Hebrew: dagul] among ten thousand (Song of Songs 5:10).

As soon as Israel saw how they were each arrayed with banners, they were overcome with a desire for banners. They said: If only we could have banners like them.

For this reason it says He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. 

He brought me to the banqueting house –This refers to Sinai, where the Torah was given, which is compared to wine, as it says: Come, eat of my bread and drink of the wine I have mixed (Proverbs 9:5). Hence: The banqueting house refers to Sinai.

and his banner over me was love –They said: If only he would express his love for me through banners. And thus does it state: May we shout for joy over your victory, and in the name of our God set up our banner! (Psalms 20:6). 

Then the Holy One said to them: You have a desire for banners. So by your lives! I shall grant your desire; as it says (ibid. 5): May he grant you your heart’s desire, and fulfil all your plans! 

Immediately the Holy One made known his love for Israel by instructing Moses to array them under banners, according to their desire.

This touching legend is not without its difficulties. Yes, God is portrayed as an indulgent parent eager to satisfy the whims of his children. But really! Is this the sort of childish whim that ought to be encouraged? It sounds as if the kids have just passed by a circus or a toy shop and are nagging their parents to buy them the flashiest and gaudiest items that captured their immature imaginations. As a parent, I would probably have resisted such shallow desires, and would not have been particularly proud if I had given in to their begging.

Even the long-suffering God could lose his patience in the face of inappropriate requests from the children of Israel, as we will read later (Numbers Chapter 11) on when they start whining to Moses that they are dissatisfied with their diet of mannah, and want to feast on meat instead. To this, the Lord retorts that he will give them meat, but that they will regret it: You shall not eat one day, or two days, or five days, or ten days, or twenty days, but a whole month, until it comes out at your nostrils and becomes loathsome to you. Frankly, the request for meat strikes me as more reasonable than the desire to wave around some shiny strips of coloured cloth.

And yes, I realize that the Israelites were merely trying to emulate the angelic hosts at Sinai who were the first to brandish their flags. But that just makes the story more disturbing to me. I can understand how imperfect mortals can be impressed by pomp and pageantry (the entire advertising industry is built on that assumption)–but I expected better from angels! And for that matter, why choose the revelation of the Torah–the most sublime event in Israel s sacred history–as the occasion for this garish military parade?

Clearly, the words of the Torah, as well as their midrashic interpretations, cannot be taken at face value here; and we must reflect on the more profound implications of this symbolic story.

What, after all, does a flag represent?

Ultimately, it is a sign of recognition, intended to to indicate the power to which the citizens or soldiers give their allegiance.

Seen this way, when the Midrash portrays the hosts of angels arrayed under banners, it intends to symbolize that the very essence of their being is to serve as the agents of God in the world.

When the Almighty revealed the Torah to Israel, they were elevated to a unique and unprecedented spiritual state. Israel wanted to achieve that same level of spiritual consciousness and purity that they were now capable of discerning in the celestial realms. They aspired to reach the state in which everything they do is, as it were, stamped with the banner of God. Because we are all agents of the Almighty who responsible for bringing holiness into the world, ideally that fact should be as obvious to us, and to others, as if we were carrying banners advertising our mission. 

Until the momentous experience at Mount Sinai, when the Israelites were given their unique opportunity to see the world from an angel s-eye perspective, it had not been clear to them that humble creatures have a role to play in the divine plan. In Egypt, matters of religion were the exclusive prerogative of a small priestly elite, while normal individuals were expected to lead their earthly lives without directly concerning themselves with spiritual pursuits. At Sinai, the exquisite vision that they had of myriads of angels marching in formation under God s banner provided the children of Israel with a sublime ideal to strive for on earth. After witnessing the possibilities that exist for humans in acting as God s agents in the world, they were overcome by a restlessness that could not be assuaged until they were, as a people, allowed to take up the divine banner that made it unmistakable to themselves and to the world that they were sanctified for a divine task.

This was no impulsive childish fascination with ostentatious glitter. Quite the contrary–it was a mature commitment to a sacred religious mission. 

In modern nation states, it is normally assumed that all citizens and institutions are subsumed under a single flag. This is not not quite the situation that is described in the Torah. Although the people marched and encamped with an elaborate co-ordination that expressed their unity of purpose, their flags were not identical. According to the tradition adopted by Rashi, each tribe had its own distinct flag, decorated to reflect its special characteristics. This is in keeping with the military model, where each division has its own insignia, to distinguish it from the other divisions who are fighting on behalf of the same authority.

The diversity of the banners comes to teach us that there are many different ways of carrying out our holy tasks in the world. Each person has different opportunities, different talents and unique personal characteristics. All of those myriads differences can be channelled to the performance of mizvot, acts of kindness and justice. It is through the mobilization of all those diverse human qualities that the world will be redeemed.

According to the standard Jewish practice, the Torah section of Bemidbar is normally read shortly before the holiday of Shavu ot, when we commemorate the great revelation of the Torah at Mount Sinai. There is no more suitable time to relive the experience of our ancestors who strove to emulate the heavenly hosts in their single-minded determination to carry their divine mission. 

May we also prove worthy, as we encamp in the world or march through its spiritual wilderness–to serve our sovereign under banners of holiness and purity.

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, June 4, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

A Chip off the Old Balak

by Eliezer Segal

Numbers 21

21 And Israel sent messengers unto Sihon king of the Amorites, saying, 22 Let me pass through thy land: we will not turn into the fields, or into the vineyards; we will not drink of the waters of the well: but we will go along by the king’s high way, until we be past thy borders. 23 And Sihon would not suffer Israel to pass through his border: but Sihon gathered all his people together, and went out against Israel into the wilderness: and he came to Jahaz, and fought against Israel. 24 And Israel smote him with the edge of the sword, and possessed his land from Arnon unto Jabbok, even unto the children of Ammon: for the border of the children of Ammon was strong. 25 And Israel took all these cities: and Israel dwelt in all the cities of the Amorites, in Heshbon, and in all the villages thereof. Numbers 22 2 And Balak the son of Zippor saw all that Israel had done to the Amorites. 3 And Moab was sore afraid of the people, because they were many: and Moab was distressed because of the children of Israel.

“And Balak the son of Zippor saw all that Israel had done to the Amorites.”

We read this with our mouths agape in shocked amazement. “What Israel had done to the Amorites”!? Barely a dozen verses before, the Torah related explicitly what the Amorites had done to Israel. The Hebrews had approached the Amorites with sincere assurances of their peaceful intentions, pledging not to cause any damage to their land.

Sihon’s response had taken the form of an unprovoked attack against the non-belligerent Hebrews. Unfortunately, the Hebrews had the bad taste to defeat the aggressors and take possession of the territories from which they had launched their hostile assault.

And of course, Balak summarized this entire process as “all that Israel had done to the Amorites.” The event has been removed from its historical and political context, and the victim has been portrayed as the aggressor. Major atrocities of others are overlooked or minimized, while rare and minor crimes of Israel are blown up into international scandals.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Balak, the spiritual progenitor of the CBC News, Reuters, and a long tradition of malicious liars and manipulators of information whose selective version of reality has been utterly distorted by their determination to villify Israel. 

Although we might feel much justified indignation about the persistent Israel-bashing in the United Nations, the press and the news media, perhaps we ourselves are not entirely free from Balak’s brand of unbalanced judgment in our own day-to-day affairs.

I have encountered examples of this pattern in several different areas of life: Upon being confronted with a real or perceived instance of inconsiderate or unfair treatment, we automatically begin to view the other person as wholly malicious and incapable of decency.

In this way, indiscretions by politicians expand into elaborate conspiracies, employers and employees come to regard each others as implacable antagonists who are determined to advance their selfish agendas at the expense of all other interests. 

Perhaps the most familiar arena for the playing out of this destructive dynamic is the family. When a spouse, parent or child does wrong, forgets a birthday or acts inconsiderately, it is common for the opposite number to produce a detailed mental list of remembered misbehaviour, character flaws and faux pas dating back decades. Ultimately, the wronged parties can become persuaded that their partners are nothing more than inconsiderate louts who have contributed nothing of value to the relationship.

A more objective assessment of the situation would probably conclude that more than ninety percent of the time, family members are conducting themselves dutifully and appropriately. The human genius for selective memory, as it recalls the bad times and obscures the good, draws us into a spiral of increasing resentment that can lead to disastrous consequences.

Unfortunately, the same pattern makes itself felt in our relationships with religous and communal institutions. These organizations, often staffed by harried volunteers, try to deal with their members and congregants to the best of their limited abilities, but it is inevitable that mistakes and omissions will occur. Here too, we see all too often that a person will selectively erase all their memories of the years of devoted and conscientious treatment that they have received from the organization, and remember only the one or two mishaps that have marred an otherwise exemplary record. This can lead to indignant resignations from the organizations, pulling children from religious schools, and other forms of overreaction that can cause irreparable damage to essential institutions in the community.

This tendency, no less than the more public or political manifestations of misrepresentation and selective reporting, can be regarded as part of the spiritual heritage of Balak. It is a pernicious habit for which we must maintain constant vigilance.

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Sermon delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, July 12, 2003.

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My email address is: [email protected]

The CEO of Egypt Inc.

by Eliezer Segal

Exodus 5:

1 And afterward Moses and Aaron came, and said unto Pharaoh: ‘Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel: Let My people go, that they may hold a feast unto Me in the wilderness.’ 2 And Pharaoh said: ‘Who is the Lord, that I should hearken unto His voice to let Israel go? I know not the Lord, and moreover I will not let Israel go.’ 3 And they said: ‘The God of the Hebrews hath met with us. Let us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice unto the Lord our God; lest He fall upon us with pestilence, or with the sword.’ 4 And the king of Egypt said unto them: ‘Wherefore do ye, Moses and Aaron, cause the people to break loose from their work? get you unto your burdens.’ 5 And Pharaoh said: ‘Behold, the people of the land are now many, and will ye make them rest from their burdens?’ 6 And the same day Pharaoh commanded the taskmasters of the people, and their officers, saying: 7 ‘Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore. Let them go and gather straw for themselves. 8 And the tale of the bricks, which they did make heretofore, ye shall lay upon them; ye shall not diminish aught thereof; for they are idle; therefore they cry, saying: Let us go and sacrifice to our God.  9 Let heavier work be laid upon the men, that they may labour therein; and let them not regard lying words.’

A prominent Jewish Bible scholar described a peculiar situation that he encountered when he was asked to address an Orthodox congregation in Montreal while it was temporarily without a rabbi. The members called him to an interview, where they indicated their trepidations that a professor might bring the synagogue into disrepute by uttering heretical ideas from the pulpit. The scholar, while assuring them that he would not spout outright heresy, added that he might nevertheless make some claims that could be taken as controversial.

As an example of such a controversial statement, he cited the historical fact that the Hebrew slaves could not have built the Egyptian pyramids, since those structures originated many centuries before the time of the biblical story. In spite of the fact that the Torah makes no mention at all of pyramids, and states clearly that the Hebrew slaves were building “store cities,” the synagogue officials insisted nevertheless that that the professor not challenge his audience’s beliefs by making this contentioujs claim in a house of sacred worship. 

The author concluded that “The notion that our ancestors built the pyramids is complete fiction with no religious concern underlying it, and yet here was a well meaning Orthodox synagogue whose leaders worried that my saying this in public on Pesah of all times would be a scandal and somehow weaken people’s faith.”^[1]

In pondering the fateful exchange between Moses and Pharaoh at the beginning of Exodus, I was reminded not so much of the fragile relationships between academic scholarship and Orthodox Judaism as I was of the character of this Pharaoh, insofar as his values are revealed through his choice of construction projects. While other eras in Egyptian history might have been remarkable for their veritable obsession with otherworldly spirituality–as indicated by their diversion of immense material and human resources towards the provision of abodes for the afterlife–the new Pharaoh who confronted Moses was of a more practical orientation. After all, he built storehouses and treasure cities, rather than huge imperishable tombs.

Moses was evidently not equipped to deal with such a monarch. The Torah’s narrative shows us that the Hebrew spokesman entered into negotiations with the sincere expectation that he could engage his interlocutor in a legitimate dialogue that could focus on issues of religious belief and human dignity. 

We may recognize Moses’ openness to a rational exchange of ideas in his initial readiness to change his position to accommodate Pharaoh’s concerns. Thus, after presenting his credentials as the representative of “the Lord God of Israel”–employing the unique and ineffable name of the omnipotent sovereign of the universe–and demanding freedom for his people, Pharaoh retorted that he was unfamiliar with this obscure deity. So Moses demonstrated his flexibility by taking Pharaoh at his word, and rephrasing his argument in words that would be more readily understood by an Egyptian: He was referring to “the God of the Hebrews,” and he was willing to reduce theer demands to a three-day celebration in the wilderness, in order to protect them from being smitten by divine wrath. Presumably, all these concepts could be understood and accepted by your average pagan ruler, if only to serve as a basis for additional horse-trading.

However, it quickly became clear that this was not a serious conversation. The Chief Executive Officer of Egypt. Inc. did not respond seriously to any of the issues raised by Moses, but instead turned the conversation to a completely different topic: the loss of man-hours that would be occasioned by allowing time off from work to hundreds of thousands of slaves.

For the Pharaoh who needed new store cities to contain his immeasurable wealth, there was nothing to be considered beyond the economic bottom-line.

Against such one-dimensional number crunching, the naive Moses found himself speechless. From this point on, the conversation is transformed into a monologue: “And the king of Egypt said unto them… And Pharaoh said… Pharaoh commanded… Since all these consecutive quotations were spoken by the same person, there was no apparent reason to identify him repeatedly. It therefore sees that the narrator was trying to indicate that there were pauses in the conversation, when Moses and Aaron should have inserted their replies; and we can only imagine them standing there in openmouthed shock, unable to think of an appropriate answer to Pharaoh. They had come prepared to debate religion and ethics; but were paralyzed when they realized that none of this was of any relevance to a tyrant who held nothing sacred except his gross national product. What does one say to a person for whom the worth of human beings is reduced to the contributions they make to the enrichment of the economy?

The negotiations had now broken down, never to resume. From this point on, all communication between Moses and Pharaoh was in the form of ultimatums and the infliction of plagues. There was no basis for further exchange of arguments or ideas.^[2]

Sad to say, the mentality that cannot see beyond the fiscal bottom line did not disappear with the demise of Pharaonic Egypt. Quite the opposite, it has never been as prevalent as it is in our own generation, when global mega-corporations have not the slightest hesitation about brutalizing their labour forces in order to produce a more competitive product; and we consumers are pleased to turn a blind eye to the sweatshop conditions that allow us to purchase sneakers or clothing at bargain prices

It is the same doctrine that leads so many social scientists and journalists to regard all human motivations as mere pretexts for economic conflicts. We witness this kind of idiocy daily in the pages of our newspapers, when commentators insist that terrorism arises from the frustration of poverty and oppression, in spite of the overwhelming evidence that the most virulent of them, including figures such as Osama bin Laden and the 9/11 perpetrators, came from privileged backgrounds or enjoyed the comforts of western democracies, and yet are driven to their self-destructive crimes by their bizarre ideologies. Nevertheless, the academic and media orthodoxies still insist on trivializing motives that emanate from deep religious convictions, by reducing them uniformly to simplistic economic formulas. The British Mandatory authorities thought that they could squelch the will of the Jewish populace by retaliating against their economic institutions. The ineffective policy was no less stupid than the later assumption of Israeli governments that the nationalist aspirations of Palestinian Arabs would disappear once they had tasted the luxuries of Israeli affluence.

The nefarious effects of the Pharaonic mentality are not confined to the realms of global politics and world history. They often insinuate themselves into the modest details of our personal and communal lives. We see it in the shortsightedneess politicians and administrators who dismiss art, music and literature as self-indulgent frivolities, and try to reduce our universities into vocational schools. As individuals, we are not immune from manifestations of the same dismal outlook: how often are we inspired by the prospect of a wonderful project that will bring benefits of a cultural, spiritual or moral kind; but, in the end, we refrain from realizing the dream because we of our inability to justify it on economic grounds, or because of fear of the financial risks that will be involved. 

While I would be the last person to urge irresponsible recklessness in the disbursement of our hard-earned money, we should recognize that some enterprises are noble enough to warrant some risk. And if we are truly committed to such causes, our enthusiasm has a tendency to inspire others, and to lead to their successful conclusion, against all rational odds

If we just look around us, at the institutions that we most admire and value in our communities, it is more than likely that their founders were originally discouraged from going ahead with their plans, by individuals who could not see beyond the soulless numbers. Fortunately for all of us, those pioneers did not accept those assessments as the final word, and went on to accomplish their impractical and far-fetched pipe-dreams

Like Moses, we might find ourselves unable to refute those nay-sayers in terms that make any sense to their stunted perspective on life. Nevertheless, we must recognize that to be fully human demands that we occasionally devote ourselves to dreams of a sort that cannot be gathered into storehouses and treasure cities

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Delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, Calgary, January 1, 2005.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Making a Name for Yourself

by Eliezer Segal

Numbers 1

1 And the LORD spake unto Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, in the tabernacle of the congregation, on the first day of the second month, in the second year after they were come out of the land of Egypt, saying, 2 Take ye the sum of all the congregation of the children of Israel, after their families, by the house of their fathers, with the number of their names, every male by their polls; 3 From twenty years old and upward, all that are able to go forth to war in Israel: thou and Aaron shall number them by their armies. 4 And with you there shall be a man of every tribe; every one head of the house of his fathers. 5 And these are the names of the men that shall stand with you: of the tribe of Reuben; Elizur the son of Shedeur. 6 Of Simeon; Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai. 7 Of Judah; Nahshon the son of Amminadab. 8 Of Issachar; Nethaneel the son of Zuar. 9 Of Zebulun; Eliab the son of Helon. 10 Of the children of Joseph: of Ephraim; Elishama the son of Ammihud: of Manasseh; Gamaliel the son of Pedahzur. 11 Of Benjamin; Abidan the son of Gideoni. 12 Of Dan; Ahiezer the son of Ammishaddai. 13 Of Asher; Pagiel the son of Ocran. 14 Of Gad; Eliasaph the son of Deuel. 15 Of Naphtali; Ahira the son of Enan. 16 These were the renowned of the congregation, princes of the tribes of their fathers, heads of thousands in Israel.

The story is told of three enterprising Jewish brothers who approached Henry Ford at his manufacturing plant in Dearborn, Michigan, on the hottest day in the summer of 1937. They demonstrated for him their new invention, a mechanical system that could be installed in every automobile to regulate the temperature, and produce a cool, comfortable ride for all the passengers in the vehicle. The astute Ford recognized the marketing potential of this brilliant discovery, and came to an agreement with the brothers that he would have exclusive rights to introduce the air-conditioning systems into the products of his assembly line.

After the financial arrangements had been agreed upon, there remained one point of contention: The brothers insisted that their contribution to the product be duly acknowledged with a small label reading “Cohen Brothers Cooling System.” Needless to say, this proposal was anathema to Henry Ford, the unabashed anti-Semite who had been responsible for the distribution of that infamous forgery the “Protocols of the Elders of Zion” in the pages of his Dearborn Independent. 

After several hours of additional haggling, they arrived at a compromise, and agreed that only the first names of the three brothers would appear on the label, but not their blatantly Jewish surname. 

And that, says the story, is why from that day onwards, every automobile that issued from the Ford plant has the names of the three Cohen brothers neatly displayed beneath the air conditioner controls: NORM, HI and MAX 

From this apocryphal tale, we learn something of the importance of names and the ways in which they are presented to the world.

The opening verses of the Book of Numbers devote a great deal of attention to lists of names, as the Torah enumerates the nesi’im, princes of the tribes and describes the positioning of the various tribes and clans in the Israelite encampment in the wilderness.

Almost all of the princes’ names include one or more divine names or epithets, whether in the person’s own name or in that of his father, by means of which they are all identified. The most frequent is “E-l,” but we also encounter such godly attributes as “Zur” (Rock), “Shalom” (Peace), “Sha-ddai” (Almighty) and others.

The thirteenth-century Spanish exegete Rabbi Bahya ben Asher placed special mystical significance on the fact that the Tabernacle was flanked on each of its four sides by a tribe whose prince’s name contained the theophoric “E-l.” 

• Nethaneel the son Zuar of Issacher to the east.
• Shelumiel the son of Zurishadddai of Simeon to the south.
• Gamaliel son of Pedah zur of Manasseh to the west.
• Pagiel the son of Ochran of Asher to the north.

The abode of the divine presence thereby came to be surrounded by individuals who symbolically bore the name of the God, like a great king encompassed by a uniformed honour guard. 

A radically different conclusion seems to emerge when focus on the less etherial implications of the story. 

As we examine the names of the twelve princes, we come to realize that they are, for the most part, a very obscure bunch, who appear collectively in ceremonial roles, but have no real distinctive identities or accomplishments by which they can be recognized as individuals.

There are, according to Jewish tradition, two exceptions to this generalization, representing contrasting moral extremes:

1. Nahshon son of Aminidab of the tribe of Judah. According to a Talmudic legend, he was the first Israelite to wade up to his neck into depths of the Red Sea, confident that the Lord would perform a miracle to rescue the people from approaching Egyptian armies.
2. Another rabbinic tradition identified Shelumiel the son of Zurishaddai with the evil Zimri, the prince of Reuben who would later provoke God’s wrath by consorting with a Midianite princess.

Note that Shelumiel holds the record for theophoric elements in his name: Shalom, E-l, Zur and Sh-ddai are all squeezed into his name and patronymic. Somehow, all of this nominal holiness could not provide foolproof safeguards that he would conduct himself in an appropriately godly manner.

On the other hand, the heroic Nahshon bears not a single divine name or attribute. Quite the contrary, the most conspicuous component in his name is the word nahash, “serpent,” an image whose biblical associations are hardly flattering.

At the most fundamental level, this provides us with an instructive cautionary example of the perils of labeling people based on external criteria. I presume that none of us is entirely immune from this temptation, which seems particularly pervasive in the domain of Jewish religious and communal life. How often do we facilely pass judgment on people based on superficial classifications, denominational affiliations, dress codes or head coverings! It is so much easier going through the difficult work of familiarizing ourselves with their characters and values.

The sages of the Talmud and Midrash liked to identify obscure biblical names with more prominent figures. When they indulged in this interpretative exercise, they employed a standardized formula: “X was the person’s real name, and why was he / she also referred to as Y?”; and then they proceed to demonstrate (often by means of audacious puns and word-plays) that the “Y” name is a descriptive title that comes to designate the person’s deeds or character traits. 

This formula is applied to Shelumiel-Zimri, in order to show that the name Zimri was, in a sense, an epithet that was acquired by the prince as the result of his immoral and blasphemous actions.

Reflecting on these facts, we realize that in most cases, people do not name themselves, but are assigned names by their parents. As such, the names often reflect the hopes and dreams that the parents hold out for their children, or the moral qualities of revered ancestors or teachers. 

The ideals that are embodied in a person’s given names can provide precious guidance in setting appropriate goals for one’s life. However, as we learn from the precedents of Shelumiel and Nahshon, a person’s name is not an irreversible destiny. 

Father Zurishaddai’s dreams that his offspring would live up to the godliness of his name were ultimately brought to naught by Shelumiel’s own bad choices. 

On the other hand, though Aminadab may have expected no more of his son than that he would develop an interest in herpetology, Nahshon was able to transcend the limits of his name and, through his profound courage and faith, make a name for himself.

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Sermon delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, May 31 2003.

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My email address is: [email protected]

Holy Days and Week Days

by Eliezer Segal

Leviticus 23

1 And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Speak unto the children of Israel, and say unto them, Concerning the feasts of the Lord, which ye shall proclaim to be holy convocations, even these are my feasts. 3 Six days shall work be done: but the seventh day is the sabbath of rest, an holy convocation; ye shall do no work therein: it is the sabbath of the Lord in all your dwellings. 4 These are the feasts of the Lord, even holy convocations, which ye shall proclaim in their seasons…. 21 And ye shall proclaim on the selfsame day, that it may be an holy convocation unto you: ye shall do no servile work therein: it shall be a statute for ever in all your dwellings throughout your generations. 22 And when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not make clean riddance of the corners of thy field when thou reapest, neither shalt thou gather any gleaning of thy harvest: thou shalt leave them unto the poor, and to the stranger: I am the Lord your God…. 44 And Moses declared unto the children of Israel the feasts of the Lord.

The sequence of commandments in the Torah is often puzzling, to say the least. There are passages in which the logic underlying the order of the laws is so elusive that it has engendered special methods of midrashic exposition in order to explain why one verse was placed after another. Collections of this sort are found, for example, in the parashotQ’doshim [Leviticus 19], R’eh [Deuteronomy 12], and elsewhere.

Compared to such baffling Torah sections, Leviticus 23 is a model of coherent organization. It consists of an enumeration of the “appointed seasons of the Lord” — that is to say, the annual festival cycle — commencing with Passover, in the first month, and continuing chronologically through to the Feast of Tabernacles in the seventh month.

There are however two items that obstruct the logical flow of the presentation:

1. After declaring that it will describe the “feasts of the Lord, which ye shall proclaim to be holy,” the Torah proceeds to discuss the Sabbath: “Six days shall work be done: but the seventh day is the sabbath of rest”
   Now, it is true that the people of Israel play a decisive role in proclaiming the holiness of the annual holidays. We do this by means of the authority given to the Jewish courts to determine the exact dates of the New Moons (the first days of the Hebrew months), and to insert an occasional thirteenth month into the calendar. Although at present we determine these times using a permanent calendar, the ideal situation set out in the Bible and rabbinic literature requires that they be declared by a duly constituted religious court, based on the testimony of witnesses who testify to the astronomical and agricultural facts. No such deliberations would affect the declaration of the Sabbath, which falls inevitably one week after the previous one.
   It is almost as if the Torah realized its mistake when, after speaking briefly about the Sabbath, it seems to begin its presentation anew in verse 4 with the introductory heading: “These are the feasts of the Lord, even holy convocations, which ye shall proclaim in their seasons.”
2. The second interruption occurs in verse 22. After proceeding sequentially through Passover, the counting of the Omer, and the Feast of Weeks (Shavu’ot‘), the Torah detours to what appears to be a completely unrelated topic: the portions of the agricultural produce that must be assigned to the poor and the stranger. After this brief excursus, the Torah resumes its main topic and carries on with Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot.

As if to compound the difficulty, we note that the insertion of verses dealing with the Sabbath and with the gifts to the poor are not merely interruptions, but they are also redundant. Both these topics are dealt with elsewhere in the Torah. The obligation to refrain from creative labour on the Sabbath is reitereated dozens of times in the Bible. As for the regulations about leaving produce for the poor, these were set out only a few chapters earlier in Leviticus 19:9-10; and will be repeated in Deuteronomy 24:19-22. Our sages have often stressed that the holy words of Scripture are used with the utmost economy, and are never wasted with unnecessary repetition or verbosity. How, then, are we to explain these two ostensible instances of redundancy in our chapter?

With respect to the laws of charity, several commentators suggest plausible reasons for the inclusion here. Rabbis Abraham Ibn Ezra and Joseph B’khor Shor point out that the harvest season, which commences around the date of Shavu’ot, is the appropriate time to be thinking about leaving grain or fruit for our less fortunate neighbours. 

To my mind, however, the most insightful solution is the one proposed by Rabbi Moses Nahmanides, the Ramban. He states that the duty to leave a portions of the crop for the poor was inserted at this point in the Torah, following the description of the Omer offering, in order to stress that the ritual harvesting of the Omer should not come at the expense of caring for the needs of the underprivileged. 

On first hearing, this would appear rather farfetched. Given that the Omer designates a finite measure of barley — actually a single sheaf — what sort of person would think of giving so much of it that there would be nothing remaining for the sustenance of the poor and the stranger?

When you think about it, and ponder the complexities of the religious personality, Nahmanides’ scenario does seem all that remote after all.

The Omer is offered directly to the Almighty, whereas the gleanings and the corner of the field are left for mere mortals. For many people, this fact would lead to the conclusion that it is more virtuous to designate produce for ritual purposes than to the needy. This would certainly be in keeping with the widespread tendency treat “religious” rituals as more spiritually significant than our workaday routine.

This type of misunderstanding is particularly likely to rear its head in the present chapter, which deals with the sacred calendar. There are individuals who might draw the erroneous conclusion that holy days are more “religious” than weekdays, and that what happens during the rest of the year lies outside the scope of our spiritual lives. 

Indeed, there have always been pious types who have dismissed their activities in the material world as so many unpleasant intervals between holy days.

I have personally known people who approached life in this manner. Somehow, they seem particularly abundant in Jerusalem. Salespeople and professionals show up late for appointments after prolonging their prayers or Talmud classes. They do their work half-heartedly and grudgingly, determined to rush off as quickly as possible to resume their Torah studies. Such characters are held up as models of piety by many preachers. 

I have no doubt that that attitude runs contrary to Jewish tradition. Clearly, the Torah would not have devoted so much loving attention to ethical rules that guide our conduct in the workplace, family or schoolyard, if we were not expected to take them absolutely seriously. 

The Sabbath and festivals were given to us in order us to deepen the spiritual significance of our weekday activities. They were not intended to replace them or trivialize their importance.

What we do during the week is the essence of a complete Torah life. Removed from the sheltering aura of the Sabbath, we are challenged to apply our Jewish values to the real world, and to carry out our moral responsibilities to employers, co-workers and clients.

In light of the above arguments, it is perfectly understandable why the Torah felt it necessary to interrupt the flow of sacred time by inserting a simple law of charity, even if it is a law that is repeated elsewhere. We might have been tempted to belittle this law. It is one that is only observed by farmers and peasents in the course of their manual labours in the fields. In fact, these precepts are observed not by the performance of specific actions, but by refraining from activity. We might have concluded that they rank lower in the scale of religious values. 

Several traditional commentators have drawn our attention to the thematic links between the law of the Omer offering and the story of the mannah that sustained the Israelites in the wilderness during their wanderings. That story (found in Exodus 16) is the only other place in the Torah where the word “omer” appears, designating the amount of mannah to be consumed by an average person.

At least two features of the mannah story make it especially appropriate as a counterbalance to the excessive emphasis on the Sabbath and festivals. 

1. For one thing, the mannah had to be collect anew each morning. It was forbidden to stockpile a week’s worth at a time. In this way, it might be inferred, the Torah is requiring us to labour seriously on a daily basis, to involve ourselves genuinely in our weekday activities. Fittingly, mannah was not given at all on the Sabbath.
2. Furthermore, the Torah admonished the Israelites to gather only as much mannah as they would actually consume. In this way, they were compelled to have consideration for the needs of others. This sentiment lies at the root of the of charitable benevolence.

This is why the Sabbath is mentioned here. The emphasis is not on resting on Shabbat, but on working for six days. Working six days is as important as the seventh.

I would suggest that a similar approach might help us explain the other incongruity in our parashah, namely the inclusion of the weekly Sabbath in a listing of annual holidays. 

Perhaps the intention was not to emphasize the prohibition of working on the seventh day, but rather the first part of the verse: “Six days shall work be done.”

In this way, before commencing its detailed enumeration of days on which we are to refrain from labour, the Torah is reminding us that those special days have no value unless their holiness is allowed to enrich our life through the rest of the week and the year.

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Sermon delivered at Congregation House of Jacob – Mikveh Israel, April 27 2002.

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My email address is: [email protected]