Sefer Bereishit, the Torah, and the Land of Israel – Understanding an Important Rashi

By: Levi Morrow

DISCLAIMER: I’d like to start out by saying that I do believe that the Jewish People were given the Land of Israel, as per ‘א’s Word, as stated in the Torah. This essay is not about politics, but about a text that has been distorted for political purposes.

Jacques Derrida said that all interpretation is a political action. This has been debated, but there are texts for which this is certainly true. Interpreting a constitution, or any governmental document, is certainly a political action. Interpreting primary religious texts probably is too. One text that would fall into this category is the first comment by Rav Shlomo Yitzhaki (רש״י) on the Torah. It likely was not political a few centuries ago, but the last 70 years of political development in the Middle East have put it in center stage in more than a few political discussions, and thus its interpretation is an action of political importance.

This Rashi is generally used to argue that the Land of Israel, the ownership of which is currently hotly contested on the world stage, was given to the Nation of Israel by the Creator, and thus all a Jew has to do when challenged regarding the right of the Jewish People to the land, is to point to the first line of the Torah, the one that says, “In the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth,” and then that’s the end of the discussion. Rashi is understood as saying that the Jewish people’s right to the Land comes from ‘א’s position as Creator of said land, that because it was given to the Jews by its Creator, the political discussion is irrelevant. This is, at the very least, a mistaken interpretation of Rashi, and at worst, a maliciously false one. The purpose of this paper is to examine Rashi’s comment step by step and understand its proper, religious, meaning.

בראשית: אמר רבי יצחק לא היה צריך להתחיל [את] התורה אלא (שמות יב ב) מהחודש הזה לכם, שהיא מצוה ראשונה שנצטוו [בה] ישראל. ומה טעם פתח בבראשית? משום (תהלים קיא ו) כח מעשיו הגיד לעמו לתת להם נחלת גוים, שאם יאמרו אומות העולם לישראל לסטים אתם, שכבשתם ארצות שבעה גוים, הם אומרים להם כל הארץ של הקב”ה היא, הוא בראה ונתנה לאשר ישר בעיניו, ברצונו נתנה להם וברצונו נטלה מהם ונתנה לנו:

In the beginning: Rabbi Yitzhak said: It was not necessary to begin the Torah except from “This month is to you,” (Shemot 12:2) which is the first commandment that Israel was commanded. Now for what reason did He commence with “In the beginning?” Because “The strength of His works He declared to His people, to give them the inheritance of the nations” (Tehillim 111:6). For if the nations of the world should say to Israel, “You are robbers, for you conquered the lands of the seven nations,” they will reply, “The entire earth belongs to the Holy One, blessed be He; He created it, and gave it to whomever He deemed proper. When He wished He gave it to them and, when He wished, He took it away from them and gave it to us.

 

Now to break it down.

In the beginning: Rabbi Yitzhak said: It was not necessary to begin the Torah except from “This month is to you,” (Shemot 12:2) which is the first commandment that Israel was commanded.

Rashi’s question, which originates in his midrashic sources[1], is about the fact that the Torah does not begin with the first Law ever received by the Israelites. This is based on the assumption that the Torah is essentially a book of laws, and so, the fact that it includes non-legal material, not to mention that it starts with them, is bizarre and demands explanation.

The specific law that Rashi references is the Sanctification of the New Moon, the official declaration of the beginning of the new month by the Sanhedrin, the High Court. This command is given to the Israelites as they were being taken out of Egypt, before the revelation at Sinai. This question is often critiqued based on the fact that this was not the first God-given law in the Torah, as the Patriarchs received as well the laws of circumcision (Bereishit 17) and Gid HaNasheh (Bereishit 32). However, Rashi seems to have anticipated this and added a line not found in his midrashic sources, “which is the first commandment that Israel was commanded.” While Circumcision and Gid HaNasheh are indeed Torah laws that are incumbent on all of Israel, the actual commands themselves were not given to the Nation of Israel but to the individual patriarchs. The first command given to the Nation of Israel as an entity was the Sanctification of the New Moon, and therefore if the Torah is the legal code of the Nation of Israel it should logically have started from there.[2]

Now for what reason did He commence with “In the beginning?” Because “The strength of His works He declared to His people, to give them the inheritance of the nations” (Tehillim 111:6).

Now, Rashi brings an answer to this question in the form of a quotation from Tehillim (111:6). According to this, the laws of the Torah are preceded by Bereishit in order to show Israel ‘א’s power in creation, which is somehow related to having given them the land of Canaan, a land which had once belonged to the Seven Nations of Canaan. Rashi explains:

For if the nations of the world should say to Israel, “You are robbers, for you conquered the lands of the seven nations,” they will reply, “The entire earth belongs to the Holy One, blessed be He; He created it, and gave it to whomever He deemed proper.

Rashi explains that the value of ‘א “declaring his works” to the People of Israel is not just theoretical, it actually has a practical application. If the nations of the world come to Israel and claim that Israel stole the land of Israel, then Israel can reply by pointing to the beginning of the Torah, where it says that ‘א created the land, by virtue of which He can give it to whomever He desires.

It is from here that the political interpretation of this comment by Rashi flows. Based on this, some people have used Rashi as a source for treating the Torah as a deed to the land of Israel. However, this interpretation suffers from two obvious flaws. Firstly, in order for Rashi’s comment to make sense as an answer to the question of “Why didn’t the Torah start with the first law?” it has to suffice as an explanation for not just the first chapter of Sefer Bereishit but for all of it (and more). This simplistic interpretation of “ ‘א made it so he can give it to whomever he wants” fails to meet that criteria. More critically, this interpretation fails to fit with an attentive reading of the last line of Rashi’s comment.

When He wished He gave it to them and, when He wished, He took it away from them and gave it to us.

This comment would, at first glance, seem to add nothing new to, nor deviate in any way from, the previous interpretation. However, it adds a very important, if subtle, idea to the picture of ‘א as Creator and Grantor of Land. It adds the idea that ‘א gave the land to Israel exactly the same way He gave it to the nations of Canaan, in other words, contingent upon His Will. At first it was His Will that it belong to the nations of Canaan, and so they had ownership, and then they ceased to deserve the land and so He took it away and gave it to the descendants of Avraham. This is attested to by the Torah itself. In the Covenant Between The Parts (Bereishit 15), ‘א tells Avraham that his descendants will inherit the land, but only after first being oppressed in a foreign land. “And the fourth generation shall return here, for the iniquity of the Amorites is not yet complete” (Bereishit 15:16). While the Amorites were not yet so sinful and depraved as to cut them their ownership of the land, that day was coming, and on that day, Avraham’s descendants would return to inherit their birthright.

This, however, adds a new wrinkle to the picture. If ownership of the land is not something intrinsic to a people, if it is dependent upon ‘א’s Will and the merit of the people, then the Nation of Israel can lose the land just like the nations of Canaan did. This too is attested to in the Torah itself.

You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws… Do not defile yourselves in any of those ways, for it is by such that the nations that I am casting out before you defiled themselves. Thus the land became defiled; and I called it to account for its iniquity and the land spewed out its inhabitants. But you must keep My laws and My rules, and you must not do any of those abhorrent things, neither the citizen nor the stranger who resides among you; for all those abhorrent things were done by the people who were in the land before you, and the land became defiled. So let not the land spew you out for defiling it, as it spewed out the nation that came before you. (Vayikra 18:3, 24-28)

Thus the final line of Rashi’s comment, “when He wished, He took it away from them and gave it to us,” tells us that ‘א gave us the land, but it also tells us that this gift is dependent on good behavior.

This understanding of Rashi’s comment allows us also to understand it as a proper answer to the question of why the Torah does not start with the first law that the Nation of Israel is given. The idea that, because ‘א created the land, He can give it to whomever he wants, only allows us to understand why the Torah has the story of Creation before the laws. It does not allow us to explain the stories of Adam and Hava, the Flood, the Tower of Bavel, or the many stories of the Patriarchs. However, if we understand Rashi as saying that ‘א created the land, and that He gives it to whomever He feels is most deserving, than it makes perfect sense that all of these stories would precede the laws of the Torah. The basic assumption of Rashi’s question is that the Torah is a book of laws. These stories make it clear that it is a book of laws that ‘א cares about people following, and whose fulfillment ‘א enforces. This enforcement takes the form of rewarding people with land and punishing them with exile (among other things). This is seen in the stories of Sefer Bereishit, where Avraham is rewarded with the land and the Canaanites’ exile is foretold, and in the various exhortations that Moshe gives to the people (Vayikra 27 & Devarim 26-28).

The idea communicated by Rashi’s first comment on the Torah is incredibly important, but in the religious and theological sphere, not the political one.[3] Rashi is giving us a way of understanding the Torah, telling us that as a book of laws it also comes along with stories demonstrating how important it is that we follow the laws. He is not saying that ‘א’s status as creator makes our ownership of the land absolute. In fact, he would seem to be saying the opposite. The land is not ours, but ‘א’s,[4] and He can give it to whomever He sees as most deserving. This is an incredibly important idea on the theoretical level, but it is difficult to translate to practical application as we cannot really know who is more deserving in the eyes of HaShem [5]. However, if one were to try and apply this idea to the practical realm, it would lead to two conclusions. First, if ‘א gives the land to whichever nation he feels is most deserving, and if ‘א is actively involved in history, then that would seem to suggest that whoever currently has the land is whoever ‘א wants to have it, whoever He feels is most deserving. This is obviously politically and practically problematic, as it would seem to suggest that the status quo is what ‘א wants, and no future course of action can be decided based on that. Secondly, this idea would seem to say that if any one group wants to own the land, then at the end of the day what they should be focusing on is not possessing the land, but deserving it in the eyes of ‘א.

[1] Rashi appears to base his comment off of both Midrash Tanhuma Bereishit 11 (which appears with slight variations in Yalkut Shimoni Bo 187) and Bereishit Rabba 1:2 (my thanks to Ira Tick for directing me to this source). Fascinatingly, the first midrash asks a question which it answers by quoting 111:6, and the second midrash opens with the same quote based upon which it asks a question. Rashi joins them around this quote, moving from one question into the next.

[2]  It’s also possible to answer that the narrative context is not really necessary for those laws and that they could simply have been placed amongst the other laws in the law code, but the way Rashi adds that extra line makes it seem like thats not how he would answer.

[3]  It is possible, perhaps even likely, that one of Rashi’s midrashic sources really did mean to be political. The midrash from which Rashi adapts the argument in the second half of his comment, Bereshit Rabbah 1:2, lacks Rashi’s question about why all of Sefer Bereishit and a quarter of Sefer Shemot came before the first law of the Torah, and thus is could be read to be just about the land. However, even in that context it makes a different point about the Jews’ right to the land in relation to that of the seven Canaanite nations. That midrash puts a strong emphasis on the fact that just as the Israelites took the land from the nations of Canaan, so too the nations of Canaan had taken it from someone else. Thus the midrash creates a picture wherein anyone who took the land from someone else probably shouldn’t be complaining about losing the land. However, none of this has anything to do with Rashi’s comment, which lacks the line about the seven nations stealing the land and has the question about the purpose of the first section of the Torah.

[4] For more on this, see Sefer Vayikra 25.

[5] Rambam, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuva, 3:2.

In Defense of Halakha: Jewish Law’s Faith in the Majesty of Man

By: Jason Avigan

The most common critique of the Jewish legal code known as Halakha is its restrictiveness.  Halakha dictates every aspect of life—it tells man how to eat, how to speak, how to do business, how to have sex, how to manage time, and, to some extent, how to think.  Its all-encompassing nature stems from an attempt to elevate the whole world and man’s whole life to the level commanded by the verse, “You shall be holy, because I, the Lord, your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:2).  This aspiration leads to an effective hold on man’s every-day life which in the past I found disturbing.  Over the course of high school I began to identify with an alternative approach whose source I now see in basic foundations of Christian scripture.  The Christian Bible claims that Jewish law focuses too much on trivial details, turning the focus away from more important, broader values.  I have since come to understand, however, that Halakha’s attention to detail actually stems not from blindness to what is important, but rather from a profound faith in man and his ability impact the world.

In Halakhic Man, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik writes of Halakha’s most ambitious claim: that there exists a vision of the perfect world and that the exact parameters of such a world can be quantified.  If the perfect world can be envisioned exactly, then so can the road to such a world, and Halakha claims to be that road.  Every decision that Halakha dictates, then, claims to be the decision that best leads to the actualization of the perfect world in our own.  In this approach sins and good deeds have no metaphysical character.  A sin is such because it moves the world farther from perfection, a good deed closer to it.  The philosophy of Halakha, then, has little to do with reward and punishment or even with God.  Halakha deals with natural consequences as opposed to the miraculous, which is precisely where it diverges from most Christian thought.

There was a time when the notions of unconditional love found in the Christian Bible very much appealed to me.  The God of the Five Books of Moses seems too wrathful, too reactive.  But God’s reacting to human action means that those actions matter, and his anger with mistakes means that those mistakes are avoidable.  The Torah’s focus on law actually reflects tremendous faith in man’s ability to uphold that law—to bring about the perfect world that the law is designed to achieve.  What, then, of the concept of miracles and love?  In the Jewish tradition both of these ideas exist in one moment—the revelation of the law on Mount Sinai.  The ultimate act of love is not, as it is in Christianity, the miraculous annulment of human action through the death of God’s son, but rather the empowerment of human action through instruction.  The Torah, literally, “instruction,” claims to be a comprehensive guide to the perfect world, but it is up to man to encounter the Torah and to take responsibility for himself, for his actions, and for the way he impacts the world.  This is highlighted in the Jewish concept of forgiveness which has little to do with the miraculous erasure of sins as metaphysical constructs, but instead with the revisability of the past.  The Talmud in tractate Yoma 86b states that repentance turns sins into merits.  Sins only exist insofar as they affect the world, so by reversing the effects of a past action one reverses the very essence of the action itself.  Moreover, in order to achieve forgiveness for interpersonal sins Halakha requires one to ask forgiveness from his friend.  This friend has the ability simply to decide that the negative effects of a sin no longer matter—that these effects won’t continue to strain a friendship—and therefore to turn it from a sin into a struggle which two friends overcame together.  This emphasis on the effects of actions rather than metaphysics tells man that his presence in the world truly matters.

Halakha takes very seriously man’s ability to impact the world and does not wish to take that away from him.  I find this emphasis on our own responsibility quite inspiring—I would rather attain salvation through my own merit than through miraculous intervention on my behalf.  And if I’m to reach my true potential, of course every decision, no matter how minute, must be important.  To question individual commandments is an important part of a mature engagement with Halakha and morality, but even one’s recognition that there is something to be argued about—that individual decisions matter—demonstrates tremendous faith in the worth of all people.

Jason Avigan is a First Year at Columbia University, studying Philosophy and on the Pre-Medical track. He spent a gap year between high school and college studying at Yeshivat Orayta. 

It is Time to Cry — Devarim 5774, Shabbat Hazon

By: Yossi Quint 

            It’s time to cry. It’s time to cry for a civilization that is filled with so much hate, for people who cannot get along, for a country in so much pain, for a connection that seems lost. There are so many reasons to cry. There is so much pain in our personal lives, in our local communities and in our global community. As we enter into the week of Tisha B’Av, we need to remember what is it we have lost, why we lost it, and why we are still in an exile.

            Our sages explain, “Five calamities befell our ancestors on the Ninth of Av… It was decreed upon our ancestors that they should not enter the Land of Israel; the First Temple was destroyed; so too the Second; The city of Beitar was seized; and the City of Jerusalem was ploughed over” (m. Ta’anit 4:6). The sorrows of Jewish history did not end with the destruction of Jerusalem. In 1492, the Spanish Inquisition culminated with the expulsion of the Jews from Spain on the 9^th of Av. In 1942, on the eve of Tisha B’Ab, the mass deportation of the Warsaw Ghetto began.

            The book of Deuteronomy consists Moshe’s final three sermons. Moshe is well aware that these speeches would be his last as well as the final words the Nation of Israel would hear before they entered into Israel. The content of Moshe’s addresses reflect the most salient ideas in the Biblical tradition. One of which is “the importance of history as the basis of biblical religion. Religious belief in the Bible is based mostly on Israel’s experience of God rather than on theological speculation” (Tigay, JPS Deuteronomy 7). God acts through history, which means that history reflects God’s will. Moshe repeatedly encourages Israel to fear not, for God has promised that She will take you into the land  (Exod. 3:8, 17, 6:8, Deut. 1:21, 29-31).

            Moshe reminds the people of their own experiences, their encounters with the Divine. Moshe reminds them that God is able to and has provided for their needs and that their fear and lack of trust is only because they are ignoring their own experience. Moshe presents experience as “the basis of Israelite faith in God. Wherever the Bible presents a credo explaining Israelite belief or practice, it consists of a summary of what God did for Israel rather than affirmations about His nature” (Tigay, 17).

            Heschel explains that the prophet, the one most attune to God, “is sensitive to divine aspects of events” (The Prophets, 398). The manifold destruction that has occurred on Tisha B’Av reminds us that God is involved. The earlier destructions are presented within Jewish sources stemming from God’s anger with the Nation of Israel, while the latter are a mystery. The earlier tragedies that occurred on the ninth of Av were results of God’s anger. They were not “spontaneous outburst[s], but a reaction occasioned by the conduct of man . . . God is not a blind, explosive force, operating without reference to the behavior of man, bur rather voluntary and purposeful, motivated by concern for right and wrong . . . The anger of God must not be treated in isolation, but as an aspect of the divine pathos, as one of the modes of God’s responsiveness to man” (Heschel, The Prophets 362).  

            In exile, the Jews exiled God. Today God has been moved to the periphery of Jewish life. To bring God back we should remind ourselves that the Divine is involved in history. God still cares about what we do and we in turn should try to live a life in which we deserve God’s grace. This Tisha B’Av I will mourn over the loss of God in our life as well as our current state. We have created a world that is not fit for God to dwell. 

Cleansing Ourselves to Encounter God– Beha’alotekha 5774

By Yossi Quint

          “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat’” (Num. 11:4, JPS). God heard the people and tells Moshe to “say to the people: Purify yourselves fortomorrow and you shall eat meat, for you have kept whining before the Lord” (Num. 11:18, JPS). God is planning to fulfill the Israelites request, but they first must purify (hitkaddeshu) themselves “by a rite of launder and bathing that precedes a sacrifice” (Jacob Milgrom, JPS Torah Commentary: Numbers, p. 88).

           Milgrom explains hitkaddesh “is a technical term used by the nonpriestly texts for the process of purification through bathing in order to receive the Presence of the Lord the following day either in the sanctuary or in a theophany” (Ibid 384). The locus classicus for hitkaddesh occurs at Sinai when the people are told to wash their clothes to prepare for the theophany (Exod. 19:10-15). While the Exodus text only mentions laundering of clothing, elsewhere laundering is paired with washing oneself, suggesting that in Numbers both purifications are implied (Num. 19:19; Lev. 15:5-11, 21-22, 27).

          To encounter the divine one must prepare him or herself. They must remove their garments and immerse themselves in water but then they need to get dressed again. Only after they undressed, immersed, and redressed can they experience the divine. The first letter of the Hebrew alphabet is Alef, which has a numerical value of one. The kabbalists explain that Alef represents the One, the Divine, the primal unity embedded in the world. However, the Torah starts with a Bet, which is the second letter in the Hebrew alphabet and has a numerical equivalent of two. Rabbi David Ingber in his sermon on Chayyei Sarah explains that two represents duality, an idea that we are separate from God and in this world not everything is a clear as the primal world of God.

            Rabbi Ingber brings down a teaching from the Baal Shem Tov. After Alef, the next three letters are Bet-Gimmel-Dalet, which can spell beged (garment/clothing). Rabbi Ingber in the name of the Baal Shem Tov explains, “After theAlef of Primal unity . . . we fell into a world of good and evil and the immediate consequence . . . [in which] we have to be clothed . . . beged is a direct result of leaving Alef . . . [it can also spell] boged, to betray . . . clothing or the things we wear can betray who we really are or can express who we really are.”

            Before the Israelites have some of their most intimate encounters with the One, they need to strip themselves from all that distances them from God. They need to remove that which makes them impure. Once bare, they wash themselves and are born again. Yet, they must get dressed and return to the post-Edenic world. There is a way to be holy in this world too. As the Baal Shem Tov taught our clothing, or they way we interact with the world, can express our inner essence. However, sometimes the journey of life wears us down and we forget who we really are. Therefore, we must remove our garments and launder them. We must remove the stains of our past and realizing that no matter how much we muddled ourselves we can still experience God in this world.

The Role of a Tzaddik– Naso 5774

by Yossi Quint

 

Moshe gave two carts and four oxen to the Gershonites and four carts and eight oxen to the Merarites as required for their service, “but to the Kohathites he did not give any; since theirs was the service of the sacred objects, their porterage was by shoulder” (Numbers 7:9). Reb Elimelekh of Lizhensk, an 18^th cenutry Polish rebbe, writes in the No’am Eliimelekh, “The children of Kehat are the tzaddikim, and they must do their holy work. They must bring down the flow of blessings, bearing it on their shoulders.” It is up to the leadership to bear the burden, therby bringing God into this world.

            R. Elimelekh of Lizhensk is one of the leading disciples of the Maggid of Mezritch, and his book, the No’am Elimelkh, presents the new Hasidic model of leadership, the Tzaddik. The tzaddik is a righteous person who in the Hasisdic context can reach mystical places. The term also descibres a person who serves as aspiritual leader who is resonsible for his communities spritiual and corporeal wellbeing. The above teaching seems to bring the two roles of a tzaddik together. The children of Kehat are doing God’s work when they carry the burdens of this world.

            A tzaddik is not someone who is detached from the world but a person who is involved in the community and shouldering the brunt of the load. The children of Kehat are charged with carrying the Holy of Holies, the Inner Table, the Menorah, the Inner Altar, and the Outer Altar. The holiest vessals that are the foci of the Kohanim’s service in the Tabernacle needed to be transported without any intermediary. Do not think that everyone is able to take on such holy burderns for only the Kohathites can. Similarly, we are all not tzaddikim who can carry such heavy loads for the community. Some of us may be capable but most of us are not.

          The Tabernacle cannot exist if there are only holy vessals. An infastracuture is required to house the vessals and it is the job of the the family of Gershon and Merari to carry the strucutre. Furthermore, it is not enough to have a building there needs to be a nation. Each of us has our own role within our smaller nad larger spiritual communities. Sometimes we need to carry the burden, but we also need to know when the burden is too heavy. We all need fellow travelers on our journey.

            Scott Peck in The Road Less Traveled distinguishes between aloness and loniliness. “Lonieliness is the unavailability of people to communicate with on any level . . .  Aloneness, however, is the unavailibility of someone to communicate with at your level of awareness” (288). Tzaddikim may not be lonley but they are often alone. In Kabbalah, the ultimate Tzaddik is Yosef. In the Zohar Rabbi Shimon explaisn that only after Yosef met Potiphar’s wife did he gain the title tzaddik, which in Kabbalah corresponds to Yesod (covenant) (Zohar I:194b). Yosef had the ability to express himself fully to Potiphar’s wife but resisted. He chose God over his impulses, aloness over companionship. When one comes close to God and has an enhanced understanding of the world, it becomes harder to be understood by others. The question is can one expand his or her consciousness and share that conscinousness with those around them. This is the job of a tzaddik.

The Complexity of Jerusalem — Then and For All Time

By: Levi Morrow

The picture of Jerusalem in Tanakh is a complex one. Beyond the fact that its name is not mentioned until Sefer Yehoshua (in the Torah it’s just called “the place that ‘א will choose” [2]), it is also the city whose destruction is probably most often prophesied. And yet it is ‘א’s [1] City, which Yeshayahu depicts as the center of a new age based on the knowledge of ‘א. This complexity becomes clearer when one takes a look at the origins of the city as depicted in Tanakh. The conquest of Jerusalem is described multiple times, in the books of Yehoshua, Shoftim, and Shmuel. A closer analysis of these descriptions, and the interplay between them, demonstrates that Jerusalem’s complexity is a feature which goes back to its very origin.

The 15th chapter of Sefer Yehoshua depicts the conquest of the borders and cities of the territory given to the tribe of Yehudah, with a brief interlude detailing the experiences of Caleb Ben Yephuneh and Otniel Ben Knaz (Yehoshua 15:13-19). Verse 63, the last line in the chapter, describes Yehuda’s attempt to conquer Jesrusalem. “ And as for the Jebusites, the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the children of Yehudah could not drive them out; but the Jebusites dwelt with the children of Yehudah in Jerusalem until this day.[3]” This is not a promising start to the city, but its real importance comes in its contrast to the description found in the first chapter of Sefer Shoftim.

The first chapter of Sefer Shoftim both agrees and disagrees with Yehoshua 15 [4]. Verse 8 describes the Tribe of Yehuda conquering the city. “And the children of Yehudah fought against Jerusalem, and took it, and smote it with the edge of the sword, and set the city on fire.” This fits with the verse from Yehoshua 15 only in the broadest sense. It completely lacks the sense of difficulty in conquering the city expressed in Sefer Yehoshua. However, Verse 21 reads almost exactly the same as Yehoshua 15:63, with the notable exception of Yehudah being replaced by Binyamin. “And the children of Binyamin did not drive out the Jebusites that inhabited Jerusalem; but the Jebusites dwelt with the children of Binyamin in Jerusalem until this day.” This is an outright contradiction to both the verse in Yehoshua 15 and verse 8 in this very same chapter of Shoftim, which describe Yehudah, not Binyamin, conquering Jerusalem.

There are various ways to resolve this contradiction. Professor Elitsur, in the Da’at Mikra Commentary on Sefer Shoftim, suggests that some of the verses refer to the city of Jerusalem itself, while some of them refer only to the area surrounding the city. According to this conception, Yehoshua 15:63 is referring to Yehudah conquering the land around the city, while Shoftim 1:21 refers to Binyamin conquering the city itself. Shoftim 1:5 speaks of the city itself, but not of Yehuda conquering it, only burning it. In the Daat Mikra Commentary to Sefer Shemuel, Professor Kiel suggests that the area of Jerusalem can be divided into two parts: the City of David, down in the valley, and the area of the Old City and Har Tsion, on the hill above. Thus he says that Binyamin conquered the City of David and Yehudah conquered the Old City and Har Tsion. These solutions each have their own pros and cons, but they do resolve the contradiction. They do not, however, answer the question of why it was written in this manner.

No matter which method one uses for resolving the contradiction, the glaring question remains: Why was the conquering of Jerusalem written in such a confusing manner? Either of the above solutions could have been written much more plainly, without any of the confusion and contradiction. Yehoshua 15:63 and Shoftim 1:21 use exactly the same words, but with a different name for the conquering tribe. However, this parallel is so exact as to imply conscious intent, which warrants assuming a greater degree of intent. Once the paralleling in the verses is recognized, there is a greater intent understood, that of specifically comlpicating the story of Jerusalem. Jerusalem does not belong to any one tribe, but to all of them. While it cannot physically be in the land of all of the tribes at once, it is right on the border of the lands of Yehudah and Binyamin. Therefore, its conquest is one which cannot be attributed to any one tribe.

It is important to note that at the time of Sefer Shoftim, Jerusalem was not yet the official capital of Israel. Then it was just a city with a complex ownership situation. It didn’t become the capital of Israel until Dovid took it in Shemuel Bet 5:4-10.

David was thirty years old when he began to reign, and he reigned forty years. In Hebron he reigned over Judah seven years and six months; and in Jerusalem he reigned thirty and three years over all Israel and Judah. And the king and his men went to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who spoke unto David, saying: ‘Unless you take away the blind and the lame, thou shalt not come in hither’; thinking: ‘David cannot come in hither.’ Nevertheless David took the stronghold of Zion; the same is the city of David. And David said on that day: ‘Whoever smites the Jebusites, and gets up to the water channel, and [takes away] the lame and the blind, that are hateful of David–.’ Therefore they say: ‘There are the blind and the lame; he cannot come into the house.’ And David dwelt in the stronghold, and called it the city of David. And David built round about from Millo and inward. And David waxed greater and greater; for the LORD, the God of hosts, was with him.

 

This depiction, mirrored in Divrei HaYamim Alef 11:4-9, is most notable for its total lack of a mention of ‘א. When it comes to choosing and taking the city that will be the seat of Israel’s Kingship, theoretically until the end of time, the choice is not made by ‘א, but by David. Similarly, when the site of the Bet HaMikdash is chosen (Shemuel Bet 24:17-25), it is chosen by David, not ‘א, as is made clear by Divrei HaYamim Bet 3:1. “Then Solomon began to build the house of the Lord in Jerusalem in mount Moriah, where [the Lord] appeared to his father David; At the place which David had designated, at the threshing floor of Ornan the Jebusite.” Once again, the choice is made not by ‘א, but by David.

Jerusalem has two different aspects: its function in terms of the nation and its function in terms of ‘א, and neither of which is as we would expect. While we normally expect a city to fall under one domain, Jerusalem falls under two, and is further considered to not really be their property anyway, rather being a place for all the tribes. It’s not so much a city as a national center. Meanwhile, one would expect the site of national encounter with ‘א to be at a place of His choosing, not some place chosen by Man. And yet, David’s choice designated not just the city but also the very place where ‘א would choose to make his name dwell. Both of these factors lead directly to Jerusalem as a city that could be the center of the universal service of ‘א, and also has its destruction prophesied with terrifying regularity. The city is founded on the unity of diverse groups of people and it is either good or bad based on their choices. Jerusalem represents all the good that Bnei Yisrael can possibly achieve when we are united, but also all the bad we can fall into when we are not. It is on us, not ‘א, to make sure that the city and the nation become all that they can be, and that they lead the rest of the world in living up to all the potential that ‘א has given us.

“And many peoples shall go and say: ‘Come, let us go up to the Mount of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob, that He may instruct us in His ways, and we will walk in His paths.’ For Law shall go forth from Zion, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.” (Yeshayahu 2:3)

[1] The letter א will be used throughout the article in place of God or HaShem

[2] Devarim 12:5, 11, 18, 21, 26, and others.

[3] Translations from www.mechon-mamre.org, with some emendations for clarity.

[4] The discussion of the interplay of the verses form Shoftim 1 and Yehoshua 15 and the conclusion drawn from it are based on a class from Rav Amnon Bazak’s year-long “Studies in Sefer Shotfim” (HEB) course, given at Mikhlelet Herzog.

 

In Defense of Peshat – Unpacking an Important Ramban

By: Levi Morrow

There is often a great deal of opposition to the simple understanding of the Torah, known commonly and here forward as peshat, taken by many modern readers of Tanakh, such as those coming out of Yeshivat Har Etzion. However, there are many mainstream Orthodox sources, especially from the Rishonim, that support such an approach. Many of the critics tend to be astonished that any reader might disagree with Rashi, and so a comment of Ramban on Bereishit 8:4 deserves particular attention. In a few short lines he critiques many fundamental issues of the opposition to the peshat approach, as a brief dissection and analysis will show.

The Text of the Ramban:

כתב רש”י מכאן אתה למד שהיתה משוקעת במים י”א אמה כפי החשבון הכתוב בפירושיו והוא כן בבראשית רבה (לג ז) אבל כיון שרש”י מדקדק במקומות אחרי מדרשי ההגדות וטורח לבאר פשטי המקרא הרשה אותנו לעשות כן כי שבעים פנים לתורה ומדרשים רבים חלוקים בדברי החכמים

Rashi wrote that from here it is learned that the Ark sank 11 amot into the water, according to the calculations that are written in his commentary and in Bereishit Rabbah. However, since Rashi is in some places critical [in his reading] of narrative midrashim, and exerts himself to clarify the plain sense of the text, he permitted us to do so, for there are seventy facets to the Torah, and there are many contradictory midrashim in the words of the Sages.

The Breakdown:

Rashi wrote that from here it is learned that the Ark sank 11 amot into the water, according to the calculations that are written in his commentary and in Bereishit Rabbah (33:7).

That is the beginning of a long comment discussing the dating and chronicling of the flood, wherein Ramban takes a strong stance against the view of Rashi and Bereishit Rabbah (33:7). Before he does so, however, he gives four reasons why it is permitted for him to argue with Rashi and the midrash from Bereishit Rabbah. It is notable that while many of Ramban’s comments on the Torah take the form of arguments with Rashi, there are also many that argue with Ibn Ezra. Ibn Ezra spends much of his commentary arguing with midrashim, and thus Ramban’s sense of needing permission to argue with Rashi/midrashim is not a matter of lacking precedent in doing so. He must have faced active opposition to doing so even in his own day, and it would be to this opposition that the following comments were directed.

However, since Rashi is in some places critical of narrative midrashim,

This addresses a mistake of incredible importance in the popular understanding of Rashi. People tend to assume that “Rashi” and “Midrash” are synonymous terms. This is incorrect. While Rashi often used midrashim in his attempt to find peshat, he certainly did not always do so. A perfect example of this is his comment to Bereishit 12:5. The pasuk, speaking about Avraham and Sarah’s journey from Haran, mentions the “nefesh asher asu” (The souls that they had made). Everyone knows the midrash that Rashi quotes, that this refers to the people they converted. However, Rashi follows the midrash by saying that the plain reading of the text is that it means slaves. One could debate what Rashi thinks about the historical reality of the departure from Haran, whether it is like peshat or like the midrash. What is clear though is that Rashi felt this midrash was not the proper understanding of the text, and that he had no problem saying so.

and exerts himself to clarify the plain sense of the text,

This brings up an interesting point. Rashi himself describes the goal of his commentary as a “peshat” understanding of the text, famously in his comments to Bereishit 3:8, “יש מדרשי אגדה רבים… ואני לא באתי אלא לפשוטו של מקרא,” “There are many Aggadic midrashim… but I have come only [to teach] the simple meaning of the Scripture,” and 3:24, “ומדרש אגדה יש, ואני איני בא אלא לפשוטו,” “There are Aggadic midrashim, but I have come only to interpret its simple meaning”. Based on this many have stated that when Rashi brings a midrash it is in fact peshat, and anyone who really looked into it would see this. The problem with that statement is that the quote from Bereishit 3:8 is truncated. The statement continues with a really important clause, “ולאגדה המישבת דברי המקרא דבר דבור על אופניו,” “and such Aggadah that settles [the issues in] the words of the verses, each word in its proper way”. The problem with this phrase is that it could be an expansion of the previous clause, or a new statement.  If it is an expansion, then Rashi is saying that he brings midrashim that fit well with the text as part of his search for a peshat understanding, meaning he thinks the midrash is peshat. If it’s a new statement, then Rashi is saying that in addition to his goal of finding a peshat understanding of the text, he also has a goal of bringing midrashim that fit with the text, for whatever purpose. The exact nature and purpose of Rashi’s commentary therefore remains unclear and a continued point of contention.

What is clear is that Rashi is interested, to whatever degree, in finding the peshat reading of the Torah, and that when Rashi brings a midrash, it is a midrash that Rashi believes will resolve problems in the text itself. Therefore midrashim are not self-justifying. A midrash must adequately address the textual issues in order to be of relevance to understanding the text, like Ramban obviously thought it did by Bereishit 8:4, or Rashi by Bereishit 12:5. In such cases a more text-based approach is needed.

he permitted us to do so,

This is an important point. Ramban is stating that because Rashi disagreed with some midrash, we can too. Neither Rashi nor Ramban thought of themselves as being part of an elite class of people qualified to analyze the biblical text. They likely saw themselves as part of a long chain of readers of the Torah, all of whom have read the biblical text with a critical eye, and then tried to solve the issues they found with various techniques, text-based and otherwise.

for there are seventy facets to the Torah,

This old Rabbinic idiom is meant to convey that a text can have meaning on many levels or to many people, without any single one being the “correct” meaning. Thus Ramban can have his understanding of the text and Rashi can have his,and each would say that the other is wrong, but that doesn’t make anybody a heretic or necessarily more correct.

and there are many contradictory midrashim in the words of the Sages.

Many argue that midrashim cannot be challenged on the grounds that the Sages were recording the words of traditions that had been passed down to them from Har Sinai, or that they had received through Ruach HaKodesh. The problem with either of these approaches is that it ignores the facts as they are. Any quick look at midrashim will reveal that they are not of one voice or opinion in most matters. This creates an issue with the supposedly divine origin of midrashim, as then either the tradition would have to be mistaken, significantly reducing its value anyway, or multiple views were all received through Ruach HaKodesh, in which case they are probably not meant to convey the literal understanding of the Torah.

A secondary issue this introduces is that midrashim cannot simply be transposed to the biblical text. Midrashim were never meant to be a fleshed-out commentary on the text of the Torah[2]. Thus there’s no uniform density of midrashic comments on the Torah. There are many pesukim with no midrashim on them at all, and many with a huge number of related midrashim. Anyone attempting to create an understanding of the Torah text based on midrashim would not only find large gaps in their commentary, but they would also be forced to pick between differing midrashim or midrashic opinions when commenting on a pasuk.

A perfect example of this fact is found in Rashi’s comment on Shemot 13:19, on the phrase, “וחמשים”, wherein he quotes a midrash that this phrase, which in a plain-sense means “armed”, can also be understood to mean “one out of five”. The midrash (Tanhuma Beshalah 1), working off the similarity between the Hebrew words for “five” and “armed”, suggests that Shemot 13:18 is really saying that only one out of every five members of Bnei Yisrael left Egypt. Or rather, that is the midrash as portrayed in Rashi’s comment. The problem with this is that an examination of the midrash in question reveals that this is not all it says. The midrash brings not one but four different opinions about how much of Bnei Yisrael left Egypt: one out of five, one out of fifty, one out five hundred, and one out of five thousand. Yet Rashi only quotes one out of these four opinions. Rashi quotes the first, and least extreme, of the four opinions in the midrash. He had to select the one that made the most sense to him. Any time anyone quotes a midrash they are not giving “the opinion of the midrash”, but their own opinion, selected from the plethora of midrashic opinions available. Thus when Rashi quotes a midrash it is no more or less his opinion than when he simply gives his own non-midrashic opinion.

It’s worth noting that in this comment, the Ramban in no way attempts to say that midrashim are illegitimate in their understandings of the Torah. Instead, he takes midrashim, and Rashi’s commentary, and puts them on the same level as the text-based approach. The Ramban does quote midrashim in his commentary, when he finds them compelling, much as he doesn’t always argue with the midrashim that Rashi quotes, when he finds them compelling. Many midrashim are actually based on very close readings of the text. All that separates such midrashim from “peshat” is what methods of interpretation are used once the text has been read. Thus for everyone from Rashi to Ramban to modern Bible critics, midrashic opinions are totally valid, but only as long a they’re compelling, and not necessarily more than more text-based opinions.

Levi Morrow made Aliyah from L.A. after four years of learning and working at Yeshivat Orayta. This year, Levi studies at Yeshivat HaGush and Michlelet Herzog. His passionate interest and vast knowledge in the fields of Jewish Philosophy and Tanakh constantly motivate him to teach, learn, and take part in the global Jewish conversation.

Do you want to write for HavaAmina? Send us anything at HavaAminaBlog@gmail.com!

[1]Translation of Ramban is from the author, as is the translation of the midrash. Translations of Rashi are from http://www.chabad.org/library/bible_cdo/aid/63255/jewish/The-Bible-with-Rashi.htm, with occasional modifications from the author for accuracy or clarity.

[2]The ideas of this paragraph are heavily based on essays on “Omnisignificance” by R’ Yaakov Elman.

[3]Or at least, Rashi’s commentary as it’s popularly thought of, as more or less equivalent with midrashim. See our explanation of the line, “However… midrashim”.

A longer version of this essay can be found at: http://tomorrowminded.wordpress.com/2014/04/18/in-defense-of-peshat-unpacking-an-important-ramban

Listening to Our Song — Behar 5774

By: Yossi Quint 

       God spoke to Moshe and tells him to speak to the Israelites and tell them: “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a Sabbath of the Lord” (Lev 25:2). The next verses explain that every seventh year the land shall have a Sabbath of complete rest. Each seventh year, the Israelites are told not to work the land because the land needs to rest. Every 50th year, the Sabbath of Sabbath, servants are freed from their masters and land goes back to its ancestral masters: “proclaim liberty in the land unto all the inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to his holdings and each of you shall return to his family” (Lev 25:10). Rabbi David Fohrman explains that the liberty of the land is so overflowing that it affects its inhabitants. The land is not returning to its masters, but the masters are hearing the call of the land and returning to it.

       The earth may have its own voice, its own melody, and it has this voice because God created it. It is a part of God and when we are in touch with nature, when we are one with nature, we are encountering God. Rav Nachman of Breslov writes:

You should know that each and every shepherd has his own melody.

You should know that every herb and grass has its own melody . . .

And from the song of the grasses is created the melody of the heart. (Likutei Moharan II:63)

The earth is Godly and we are Godly and when we are able to attune ourselves to the sound of nature we can hear things, which we usually miss. We can access parts of God, parts of ourselves, which are too often hidden from us.

       Over the past few months, I have spent a lot of time looking at and thinking about trees. At first I thought it must be lonely being a tree. Every tree in a forest is surrounded by many other trees, but they can never move closer. They live in a world surrounded by people and yet are so lonely. I was sharing this thought with my friend Çan, and he told me something incredibly wise. The roots are touching you just can’t see it. In The Little Prince, the prince explains to the pilot “One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.” Once in a while, we see trees that have exposed roots. R. Shmuly Yanklowitz has an essay about these trees in The Soul of Jewish Social Justice. Upon reflecting on this exposed trees he “realized that this tree was strong and beautiful enough that it could expose its roots to the world” (48).

       I am not sure how many of us are ready to expose our roots to the world. I am not even sure if many of us know what are our roots. The journey into the self is not easy, but one step in the journey may be to become one with the world around us and realize just how much there is to learn from God’s other creations. As George Santayana said, “The earth has music for those who listen”, and I believe each one of us does as well. Each one of us is filled with a song the question is will we ever be able to hear it.

How Orthodox is Open-Orthodoxy?

By: Gabriel Goldstein

Three days into his attendance at the Reform Rabbinical Conference at Frankfurt in 1845, Rabbi Zecharias Frankel found himself disturbed by the newly conceived Reform movement’s willingness to depart from the past, to carry progress to the limit, and to reject religious practices in order to return to merely the simple, original ideas and values of Judaism[1]. Though “the innermost core” of his life was the “preservation of Judaism,” he refused to lend his efforts to a movement that took such a radical approach to reformation — even if that seemed to offer the best way to maintain the Jewish tradition[1]. Still determined to solve the crisis that was the decreasing affiliation and Halachic practice of European Jewry, Frankel sought a middle ground between the radical Reform movement and, what he believed to be, the stagnant Orthodox movement. And thus, Conservative Judaism was born. Frankel envisioned a movement rooted in Halacha and dedicated to tradition, yet still willing to make concessions for the sake of making Judaism more adaptable to the challenges that come with the progression of time. Frankel, along with his Conservative contemporaries, sought inclusiveness and progress within the bounds of the Halakhic system. But, as has become evident today, Conservative Jews have swayed considerably from Frankel’s initial vision, giving up a significant amount of both practice and ideology, placing them in the same realm as Reform Judaism and far, far from Orthodoxy with regard to their connection to tradition. Though this gradual shift has led to the misconstruing of Conservative Judaism’s original aim, there is a new faction on the rise that is, though they claim not to be[2], recapturing the values that once drove Frankel and his followers to the creation of a middle ground and, consequently, reviving the spirit of original Conservatism. This faction, the self-proclaimed ‘Open Orthodox’, dispel the notion that they are merely a revival of what once was Conservative Judaism, but I firmly disagree.

Just as original Conservatism strove for the integration of women in public roles in synagogues, more lenient standards when it comes to conversion, and certain ideological departures for the sake of adaptability to modern times, so too does the Open Orthodox movement[3]. Just as original Conservatism sought to alter law within the bounds of Halacha, so too does the Open Orthodox movement. And just as original Conservatism was comfortable adopting minority opinions to suit the demands and ideals of the contemporary Western world, so too does the Open Orthodox movement.

If it walks like a duck, looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it is, in all likelihood, a duck.

To an objective observer, it would appear as though Open Orthodoxy is not Orthodoxy at all; rather, it is a second coming of the Conservative movement, its members being appropriately dubbed by Rabbi Steven Pruzansky “Neo-Conservatives” [3]. Rabbi Pruzansky, the spiritual leader of Congregation Bnai Yeshurun in Teaneck, New Jersey, has written extensively on his objection to the claim that Open Orthodoxy is still within the realm of Orthodoxy. Pruzansky claims that what these Neo-Conservatives in the Open Orthodox movement are doing is not original in the slightest and that “they’re going down a path that the Conservative Movement started a little over 100 years ago.” He pinpoints the fundamental error of Open Orthodoxy that, he believes, discredits its claim to Orthodoxy, stating that its “willingness to adapt and rewrite Torah values to suit every demand or ideal of” modern Jewry contradicts the traditionalist nature of true Orthodoxy [3].

He contests that the “ordination of women as Jewish clergy (maharat), denigration and reluctant acceptance of the mechitza, relaxed conversion standards, search for lenient Halachic opinion that will rationalize desire regardless of precedent or tradition, and a more academic approach to learning” are the core factors that distinguish these Neo-Conservative movements from age-old Orthodoxy. Rabbi Pruzanky furthers his comparison of Open Orthodoxy and original Conservatism by pointing out that many of the founders of Conservative Judaism and the Jewish Theological Seminary, Conservative Judaism’s central rabbinical school, were Orthodox in practice. Pruzansky references Rabbi Henry Mendendes, a founder of JTS who also served as the president of the Orthodox Union, to illustrate the fact that Conservatism began as being rooted in Orthodox values but gradually moved left, in a sense foreshadowing the potential disasters that could befall this new Neo-Conservative movement. Pruzansky, as most other Orthodox rabbis, is uncompromising in his belief that Open Orthodoxy is, in actuality, our generation’s Neo-Conservatism.

On the surface, it appears as though the Neo-Conservative movement enacts reforms within the bounds of Halacha, but the issue is far deeper than tedious technicalities. The way in which Neo-Conservatism justifies these reforms is one that is inherently un-Orthodox. When making Halachic changes, there’s a specific process that’s been accepted as legitimate in the Orthodox world for generations.  Following extensive debate, a change in practice comes if, and only if, it is agreed upon by the majority of credible commentators and justifiable by Halacha. To seek out a minority opinion as a means of confirmation bias is to rebuff the traditional model of Halachic change within Orthodoxy and, therefore, enter into a world of something undeniably un-Orthodox. To desperately push for immediate change for the sake of the few is contradictory to the gradual process of Halachic change within Orthodoxy and is akin to original Conservative methodology as opposed to that of traditional Orthodoxy. Therefore, though the reforms may technically have some support within Halacha, it’s undeniable that the process by which they are enacted is in clear contradiction to the traditional Halakhic approach of Orthodox Judaism.

According to Frankel,  “Orthodox … has grown up in pious activity; to it, the performance of precepts is inseparable from faith, for to it, the two are closely and inwardly connected. Were it to tear itself away from observance and give up the precepts, then it would find itself estranged from its own self and feel as though plunged into an abyss.” Open Orthodoxy, or Neo-Conservatism, is slowly tearing itself away from observance and justifying its actions by using an unaccepted model of change. Much like Frankel’s initial vision of Conservative Judaism, Open Orthodoxy is striving for inclusiveness, introducing seemingly groundbreaking practices and attempting to change the status quoe of Modern Orthodoxy by finding a middle ground. I do not disagree with the ideals of the Neo-Conservatives, for I feel inclusiveness is key in ensuring a long-lasting fervor for Judaism, but I do disagree with their claim that they are still, despite the overwhelming evidence indicating otherwise, traditionally Orthodox. It’s time to acknowledge the obvious truth, to confront the duck. Open Orthodoxy is but an illusion; Neo-Conservatism is its true identity, and it’s heading toward the abyss.

Sources:

[1] “On Changes in Judaism,” Rabbi Zecharias Frankel, 1845, http://people.ucalgary.ca/~elsegal/363_Transp/ZFrankel.html

[2] “Open Orthodoxy! A Modern Orthodox Rabbi’s Creed,”Rabbi Avi Weiss, 1997, http://www.yctorah.org/component/option,com_docman/task,doc_view/gid,143/

[3] “Rise of the Neo-Cons,” Rabbi Seven Pruzansky, June 14, 2013, http://rabbipruzansky.com/2013/06/14/the-rise-of-the-neo-cons/

Yom HaAtsmaut — A Call which Demands a Response

By: Levi Morrow

Yom HaAtsma’ut commemorates the founding of the modern State of Israel in 1948. It marks a moment in history, a turning point at which everything changed. The world was not the same place on the 15th of May, 1948, as it had been at the start of the 14th. In remembering this, in marking this day, we are presented with a challenge from both ‘א and the Nation of Israel, asking us if we are living up to our potential.

History is guided by ‘א’s hand. From the first spark of Creation through the Messianic Era, history moves according to the Will of ‘א. Great events like the Exodus from Egypt and the founding of the State of Israel are how ‘א reveals His will. Moments like the Revelation at Sinai are calls for a response from mankind. How will we respond to the will of ‘א?

The problem with this concept is that it is difficult to ever say that we know why ‘א did something. He controls history, but we do not know the specific reason why any one event happened. Thinking that we do is the kind of thing that leads to giving reasons for the Holocaust and other tragedies, which is irresponsible and unthinkable. Unfortunately, once we say that we cannot give a reason for tragedies, we can’t honestly give a reason for any historical event. Once upon a time, Bnei Yisrael had prophets, messengers of ‘א, to tell us what ‘א intended by any event, what He wanted from us at any given nexus in history. Nowadays, all we have is the words of the prophets recorded in Tanakh and the words of HaZaL, the Rabbinic leadership, to tell us what we ought to be doing and what our goals ought to be. But in spite of this difficulty, Yom HaAtsma’ut still stands as ‘א’s challenge to us, asking us if now, in the new era of the State of Israel, we will live up to who we are supposed to be.

We face a similar challenge, perhaps even stronger, from the Nation of Israel, specifically from our fallen soldiers. Yom HaAtsma’ut follows on the heels of Yom HaZikaron, the Day of Remembrance. In cities across Israel there are transitional ceremonies that start as mournful remembrances and end as joyful celebrations. This contrast colors the experience of Yom HaAtsma’ut. The happiness of the day is diluted, tinged with a strong sense of the sacrifice required to make that joy possible.

The juxtaposition of these two days creates a strong sense of  purpose for the deaths we remember on Yom HaZikaron. Far be it for us to say why they died, but we do know that their deaths helped create the State of Israel that we know and love today. However, this sense of purpose should color not just the past, but also the future; not just how we see their deaths, but also how we see ourselves, our lives, our goals. The purpose that their holy blood has served, the reason they gave their lives, cannot be ignored.

We don’t get to live our lives passively. We have to have the future in mind. This is true on the both the religious and moral levels. We have to respond to ‘א’s challenge, the challenge of history. We need to find our place in ‘א’s plan, to live up to his Torah. And we need to make sure we honor those who gave their lives for the State of Israel. This doesn’t mean that everyone should move to Israel tomorrow. Making hasty and reckless decisions honors neither the holy dead nor ‘א. But we can not pretend that the State of Israel is inconsequential or that those who died for it never existed. We have to feel the challenge. And we have to respond to it.