20 Years of Peace

Tel Aviv sits in Gush Dan, the Dan bloc. Israel has no states, provinces or counties per se, but it does have millennia of history. The name of the region goes all the way back to the Bible, in which the tribe of Dan receives territory from Zorah in the lowlands to Joppa on the coast (Josh. 19:40-46). In fact, tomorrow we will read from the thirteenth chapter of Judges, the origin story of Samson, which begins: "And there was a certain man of Zorah, of the family of the Danites," and concludes: "And the spirit of the LORD began to move him in Dan's camp, between Zorah and Eshtaol."
So why do we read this prophetic passage this weekend? It has two links to the Torah portion, Naso. Num. 6 explains what it means to be a Nazirite, which Samson is ordered to be from birth, while Num. 7 tells us about the dedication offerings of the tribal princes, including Ahiezer, Prince of Dan, on the tenth day. The Midrash (Num. Rabbah) explains that "He brought his offering to correspond to Samson, as Jacob's blessing to Dan focuses solely on Samson."
(If you're wondering how Ahiezer knew the details of his latter-day tribesman's life -- forget it, Jake, it's Midrash Rabbah.)
Consider, for example, how it tackles the final element of the dedication offering: "And for the sacrifice of peace-offerings, two oxen..."

This corresponds to the two times it is written of him that he judged Israel for 20 years, and these are they: "And he judged Israel in the days of the Philistines 20 years" (Jud. 15:20); "And he judged Israel 20 years" (Jud. 16:31). This teaches you that the judged Israel for 20 years of his life; then, for 20 years after his death, the reverence of Samson was upon the Philistines, and they dwelled in tranquility.

This is intriguing, as it means that Samson, like so many other early Jewish leaders -- from Moses; to fellow Judges Othniel, Deborah and Gideon; to Kings David and Solomon -- had a tenure of forty years. However, unlike his colleagues, half of his was after his death!
The Midrash here distinguishes between two types of peace: one based on mishpat, and one based on mora. Mishpat is usually translated as justice, but as amusing as it is to imagine Samson's confirmation hearings for the Supreme Court, that's not the sort of Judge we find ruling over Israel and leading it in war during the pre-monarchial period. Perhaps Judge Doom. Or Judge Dredd.
Dread is one of the translations of mora, but I translated it above as "reverence," describing what the Philistines felt once Samson was dead. It certainly was not the worry of what Samson might do--the Philistines did not fear a zombie strongman. Mora is a term which parallels kavod, honor or respect. The Talmud (Kiddushin 31b) explains: "Mora -- neither stand in his place nor sit in his place, nor contradict his words, nor tip the scales against him." Mora, on the national level, means not seeking to dispossess or disinherit another people.
Thus, Pax Samsonia had two distinct periods: that of reactive mishpat in his life and that of preemptive mora in his death. The former involved a lot of smiting, as the Midrash notes; but what's truly wondrous is the latter, two decades of peace based on the final sacrifice of Samson.
As we consider the horrific terror attack this week in Tel Aviv's Sarona market, in the heart of ancient Dan, we have to ask ourselves: how do we get to the era of mora? How do we reach a place of mutual respect in which we say that the slaughter must end, in which killing is decried by all people of good conscience? How do we find the period of peace that lies beyond awful tragedy? When, at last, will we all dwell in tranquility?
It is high time for our 20 years of peace to begin.

The Big Five-Oh

We Jews love our numbers, but we're a bit so-so on Numbers.
The fourth of the Five Books of Moses, which we begin this week, is a testament to truth in advertising, as its first portion at least is full of detailed census results. Sure, those numbers are round, firm and plump, but what do they mean? Does how many thousands and how many hundreds Reuben and Judah had really resonate millennia after all those folks died?
There is one tribe which breaks the double-oh pattern, however:

Those that were numbered of them, of the tribe of Gad, were forty and five thousand six hundred and fifty.

The Gaddites have an extra fifty, which naturally means that the total of the Israelites, a number we've been hearing about since the Book of Exodus, also ends in 50. But did every other tribe randomly have perfect hundreds with zero remainders? That seems actuarially unlikely. Rabbi A.D. Goldberg, citing Imrei Noam, offers a different take:

Certainly the intent is that the Torah rounds to the nearest hundred, not the nearest ten, for if so we would still be challenged by the unreasonable proposition that no tribe other than Gad happened to have an exact multiple of ten. The reason the tribe of Gad was not rounded is that its count was exactly fifty, which cannot be rounded to the nearest hundred; for which of them would you exclude?

In other words, it's easy enough to add or subtract 49 to bring a total to the closest hundred. But if it's 50 on the nose, why is it more valid to add 50 and bring it to 45,700 then subtract 50 and bring it to 45,600? Thus, an even fifty at the end stays put, indelible.
The Gaddite census is hardly the first time we come across an ineffaceable fifty. At Sinai, Moses is advised by his father-in-law to appoint judges in an almost perfectly decimalized system: over tens, hundreds and thousands. But in between the first two are "officers over fifty." Indeed, the officer over fifty (pentecoster, to be technical) is a position of unique authority and regard during the First Commonwealth (I Samuel 8:12, II Kings 1, Isaiah 3:3). A unit of fifty people has special significance which cannot be ignored.
Nor can we overlook the monetary value of fifty. At the peak of physical ability, one's valuation is fifty shekels (Lev. 27:3), The value of land is also determined by a fifty-shekel standard (ibid. v. 16). This is even the standard bridal payment (Exod. 22:17, Deut. 22:29).
Most striking, however, is the use of fifty in units of time. After all, we are currently "counting the omer," marking the days and weeks until we arrive at the fiftieth day after Passover, commemorating the Giving of the Torah on Shavuot (AKA Pentecost--yeah, that's where it comes from). The date is immaterial; we are commanded to sanctify the fiftieth day after leaving Egypt.
Fifty weeks is the length of a standard year on the Hebrew calendar.
And fifty years? That once again brings us to the end of Leviticus (25:10-13):

Consecrate the fiftieth year and proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you; each of you is to return to your family property and to your own clan. The fiftieth year shall be a jubilee for you; do not sow and do not reap what grows of itself or harvest the untended vines. For it is a jubilee and is to be holy for you; eat only what is taken directly from the fields. In this year of jubilee, everyone is to return to their own property.

The fiftieth year is (usually) a once-in-a-lifetime event, an occasion to restore and return, of reuniting families and proclaiming liberty. It is sacred and inviolable. It is not to be ignored.
And so we enter the fiftieth year, the jubilee of united Jerusalem. Perhaps this year we will finally find the courage to answer the questions that Jerusalem demands of us, or at least to ask them. Instead of hiding behind slogans and cliches, we may finally confront the challenges of David's capital. What is our vision for Jerusalem? What does unity mean? How do we proclaim liberty not in theory, but in practice? How, ultimately, do we make the Holy City whole?

Uncensered

Leviticus, the middle child of the Pentateuch, is often overlooked as we prepare for the spring and its bevy of colorful holidays. However, the Book does offer some pyrotechnics in this week's portion, Shemini (9:1-3):

Then Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, each took his censer and put fire in it, put incense on it, and offered foreign fire before the Lord, which He had not commanded them. ² So fire went out from the Lord and devoured them, and they died before the Lord. ³ And Moses said to Aaron, “This is what the Lord spoke, saying: ‘By those who come near Me, I must be regarded as holy; And before all the people, I must be glorified.’” So Aaron held his peace.

This is not only a personal tragedy, but a national one as well. For 25 chapters--the last 16 of Exodus and the first 9 of Leviticus--the Israelites are dedicated to one purpose: constructing and consecrating the Tabernacle and its vessels, including the human ones, Aaron and his four sons. Now, the elder two--already designated for greatness at Sinai (Exod. 24:1-9)--are dead, precisely at the height of the celebration, the eighth (shemini) day, following a week-long initiation process.

So what did they do wrong? The Baal Haturim, famous for his love of mnemonics and gematria, here hews closely to the simple meaning of the words.

"Which He had not commanded them"--now, we cannot say that he neither commanded them to do so nor commanded them not to do so! Rather, it means "which he commanded them not to." The same is true of "or any of the host of heaven, which I have not commanded" (Deut. 17:3) [that God commanded not to worship the stars].

What law did they violate? Apparently, Baal Haturim alludes to Exod. 30:9: "You shall not offer foreign incense on it." But if the prohibition is foreign incense, why speak of "foreign fire," both here and in Numbers 3:4?

The fact is that fire is a leitmotif in Shemini, appearing no less than--what else?--eight times in the story of the eighth day. At first, the fire is outside the camp, for the incineration of a special type of sin-offering. At the completion of the ceremony, Aaron blesses the people and a fire comes down from heaven to light up the altar, at the center of the camp. By then kindling their own fire, Nadab and Abihu defile the Tabernacle and defy God, for which they end up paying the ultimate price, as a divine fire comes forth to devour them. To set matters straight, Moshe stresses three times that the survivors, Aaron, Eleazar and Ithamar, must eat their portions from "the fires of the Lord." Procedure must be followed, even in their bereavement.
All of this seems esoteric to the modern reader. Divine fire, profane fire--what does it all mean? However, the power of our fire is far from a moot point. The idioms are the same in English and Hebrew: opening fire, ceasefire, under fire. When we hold our fire and when we fire away are questions of morality. The stakes are so high that we as a society must be exacting in determining when such fire is justified and when it is not. Nadab and Abihu, after all, were righteous men, destined for positions of prominence, but their momentary error in judgment doomed them. God knew what was in their heart; all we have is a system of laws to try to uncover the truth of the matter. In the meantime, we must reaffirm our commitment to never profane the awesome power of our fire.

Cruel Intentions

"Whoever is made compassionate to the cruel will ultimately be made cruel to the compassionate" is a refrain so often voiced by hardliners, you might think it's a verse in the Torah. Not quite.

Rabbi Elazar said: Whoever is made compassionate to the cruel will ultimately be made cruel to the compassionate, as it is written, “And Saul and the nation spared Agag and the best sheep and cattle” (I Sam. 15:9), and it is written (Ibid. 22:19) “And Nob, the city of priests, he smote with the edge of a sword.” (Midrash Tanhuma, Metzora 1)

Jews worldwide will read the story this weekend. King Saul is commanded by the Prophet Samuel to eradicate the nation of Amalek, as you may have seen horribly portrayed in Of Kings and Prophets. (They missed this part, 14:48: "And he gathered an army and attacked the Amalekites, and delivered Israel from the hands of those who plundered them.")
Regardless, people seem to forget that this line is a criticism of Saul's decision not to execute Agag, king of Amalek, whose crimes are many and, of course, cruel -- as Samuel declares, “As your sword has made women childless, so shall your mother be childless among women” (15:33). Indeed, some versions of the Tanhuma make this even clearer by speaking of "the cruel one," putting it in singular, unlike the plural "compassionate ones," a reference to the people of the priestly city of Nob, wiped out decades later for aiding David in his flight from the by-then mad king.

So was Saul bothered by the initial command? The Talmud (Yoma 22b) explains that Saul was bothered by the fact that the Torah requires that in the case of a unsolved murder, a heifer must be taken to make atonement for the nearest city:

And he strove in the valley” (I Sam. 15:5)--R. Mani said: Because of what happens ‘in the valley’: When the Holy One, blessed be He, said to Saul: Now go and smite Amalek, he said: If on account of one person the Torah said: Perform the ceremony of the heifer whose neck is to be broken, how much more so for all these persons! And if humans sinned, what has the cattle committed; and if the adults have sinned, what have the little ones done? A divine voice came forth and said: Be not righteous overmuch. And when Saul said to Doeg: Turn you and fall upon the priests, a heavenly voice came forth to say: Be not overmuch wicked.

Now, this is a bit perplexing. If Saul is such a bleeding heart, we would expect him to spare the innocents; instead he (and the people) spare the finest of the animals and the cruelest of the men!
Rabbeinu Hananel (ad loc.) offers an explanation:

This means that the decree of heaven bore heavily upon him, as he said, "A corpse found in the camp requires a broken heifer--all of these souls we kill, all the more so we must bring offerings to atone for ourselves!" That is why he left the finest animals.

In other words, Saul was not troubled by the bloodshed, but by the bloodguilt. It may seem strange to us, but tribal societies in the Middle East have for millennia believed in this concept. Even the Torah speaks of the blood-redeemer. Saul is clearly adopting a mechanistic view of sacrifices: it's fine to spill the blood of Amalek, but atonement must be made, by offering the finest animals. But more than that, there needs to be a party to whom this blood-ransom is paid--and none is more fitting for this role than King Agag himself. This is why Samuel, to whom altars are not exactly foreign, denounces the choice of sacrifice over justice in the strongest terms (Ibid. 22): "Has the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, to heed than the fat of rams."

Saul is an intriguing figure: powerful enough to unite the tribes of Israel, but constantly beset by depression and doubt. On the one hand, he carefully tells the Kenites to evacuate before waging war against their Amalekite neighbors. On the other hand, his genocide of the Gibeonites -- collateral damage of the Nob massacre according to Talmud Yevamot 78b -- leads to a devastating three-year famine "because of Saul and the House of Blood, because he killed the Gibeonites.” Indeed, the awkward phrasing "made compassionate" and "made cruel" may indicate that Saul himself was not motivated by these emotions, but by the need to appear empathetic or emphatic in the eyes of the people.

Israel cannot afford to be motivated by insecurity and crises of confidence. The stakes are too high to sacrifice justice on the altar of avarice and tribalism.

In self-defense of Purim

I eagerly dread this time of year.
On the one hand, Purim, now just two weeks away, is a carnival of costumes, comedy and conviviality. Oh, and cocktails. So, fun for kids and adults.
On the other hand, its central text becomes more troubling the more you hear it. And we read Esther a lot: two times, four times, infinite times if your son happens to celebrate his bar mitzva on Purim.
Now, I hear you shaking your head (yes, I bugged your house). After all, isn't the story of Esther one of of self-defense? Haman's decree allows Jews to be attacked; Mordecai's decree allows them to defend themselves, right? We assume so, but even at its inception the second decree seems a little ominous, echoing Haman's language of killing, annihilating and destroying, including women and children. Does this sound like self-defense? "A copy of the text of the edict was to be issued as law in every province and made known to the people of every nationality so that the Jews would be ready on that day to avenge themselves on their enemies" (Book of Esther, 8:13).
Perhaps it's all just a scare tactic? If so, it works:

And many people of other nationalities became Jews because fear of the Jews had seized them. (8:17)
No one could stand against them, because the people of all the other nationalities were afraid of them. And all the nobles of the provinces, the satraps, the governors and the king’s administrators helped the Jews, because fear of Mordecai had seized them. Mordecai was prominent in the palace; his reputation spread throughout the provinces, and he became more and more powerful. (9:2-4)

Aye, there's the rub. If it was all about self-defense, and everyone was terrified of them, all those "other nationalities" needed to do was NOT stride into the Jewish Quarter brandishing axes on the 13th of Adar. Just go to work or school or the movies (Iranian cinema is delightful) on that day! Instead, they circumcised themselves and jumped in the mikveh?
Now, let's turn to Shushan, center of the action. On the 13th of Adar, 500 people are killed in the citadel, as well as Haman's ten sons (75,000 empire-wide), without any mention of self-defense. And then (9:13):

“If it pleases the king,” Esther answered, “give the Jews in Shushan permission to carry out this day’s edict tomorrow also, and let Haman’s ten sons be impaled on poles.”

That would be the 14th of Adar. A day on which no one is allowed to attack Jews. And, as per another decree from Xerxes, "The Jews in Shushan came together on the fourteenth day of the month of Adar, and they put to death in Shushan three hundred people" (9:15). And that is why we have Shushan Purim.
So if it wasn't self-defense, what makes these people the enemies, haters, ill-wishers and adversaries of the Jews? It's not like they were writing nasty posts in which they spun conspiracy theories of Jews bent on taking over the Holy Land, inducing government officials to adopt antisemitic policies!
Actually, it's exactly that, as we learn from The Book of Ezra, which is set during the return to Zion following the horrors of Babylonian captivity:

Then the peoples around them set out to discourage the people of Judah and make them afraid to go on building. They bribed officials to work against them and frustrate their plans during the entire reign of Cyrus king of Persia and down to the reign of Darius king of Persia. At the beginning of the reign of Xerxes, they lodged an accusation against the people of Judah and Jerusalem. And in the days of Artaxerxes... wrote a letter to Artaxerxes... "The king should know that the people who came up to us from you have gone to Jerusalem and are rebuilding that rebellious and wicked city." (4:4-7, 12)

Esther is, essentially, a revenge epic. It's a story of the powerless Jews in exile finally getting a chance to turn the tables on their tormentors. It is the Persian version of Inglourious Basterds.
There seems to be quite a hunger in the Jewish community for that sort of material right now. After all, we do face legions of haters and ill-wishers. But the question we have to ask is whether we think transferring this revenge epic from parchment to pavement is really the way to go. This time, there are actual attackers with blades in their hands. Isn't it time we focus on that reality, not the fantasy of eradicating all the haters?
At the very least, it's a sobering thought for Purim.

Parashat Trump

Truth be told, we didn't read Parashat Trump, but rather Parashat Truma, though only an errant pen-stroke separates them. The term parasha can mean passage, but it can also mean issue, affair, even scandal.
Truma and Trump share more than a nominal connection; both have a penchant for making things out of and covering things with gold or bronze. But it's not the aurumphilia of Trump that is so concerning, but rather his veriphobia -- not his love of gold, but his antipathy towards truth.
Now, the concept of the lying poltiican is hardly novel; indeed, some may consider it a fundamental job requirement. But pre-Trump, the life-cycle of a politician's lie followed a predictable pattern:

1. Politician lies.
2. Opponents and/ or the media present evidence of the truth.
3. Politician faces the music.

Now, depending on the nature and degree of the lie, the politician might be embarrassed, deposed or prosecuted. But at least he or she had to admit the truth.
Not anymore. Let us recall that Trump's political career (at least the current act) began with his declaration that he was getting to the bottom of President Obama's birth certificate. The news would be earth-shattering, he promised us, praising the investigative team he'd sent to Hawaii to uncover the truth. Which turned out to be... nothing at all.
You might have expected Trump to retreat from the public spotlight, or at least the political arena, but no--he doubled down. After all, he is a reality-television star, a genre wholly built on the lie that viewers are watching "real life," as opposed to footage which is scripted, manipulated and edited to tell a specific story.
And so, Trump, fueled by egocentrism and casual misogyny/ racism/ antisemitism/ Islamophobia, has built his political persona on "telling it like it is," which in this case means constructing his own reality. The hard truth that he tells his cheering crowds? That they are right and everyone else is wrong. And in the week of Parashat Truma, Parashat Trump stopped being a theoretical exercise as the Donald won the first Republican primary in New Hampshire, allegedly one of the last bastions of Northeastern moderation.
Why is his brand so attractive? Because he speaks to the reality that his supporters perceive, of an America flooded with criminal illegals, a floundering economy and a spineless foreign policy. You may try to bring facts into the conversation, but that doesn't change what the Trumpeters feel, what they know in their bones to be true. Being accurate or considerate has been redefined as political correctness, and we know whom to blame for that. Everyone knows the facts are biased.
But why is this an issue for the Jews, beyond the fact that America hosts the largest Diaspora community? The problem is that the Dawn of the Donald is not an isolated phenomenon; it has spread far and wide, and now it seems to be taking over mainstream American Orthodoxy.
I hail from the world of American Orthodox Judaism, and its direction concerns me. For decades, OJ prided itself on its scholarship, subjecting all manner of modern dilemmas to the classical sources of Halakha (Jewish law): Talmud, Codes, Responsa. However, over the past few years, as its has grappled with contemporary issues, mainstream Orthodox Judaism has eschewed halakhic reasoning for appeals to Authority, Tradition and old-fashioned Yiddishkeit (whatever that means). From marriage equality to nuclear diplomacy, from halakhic prenups to conversion courts, from women's public prayer and ordination to biblical criticism, it is shockingly rare to see sources actually cited in the articles, essays and blogs coming from the right. On those rare occasions when classical sources are cited, follow-up questions are a sure way to get yourself censored, blocked or ignored.
At this very moment, more Jews are sitting in yeshiva than ever before. You might think that this would lead to a higher level of scholarship and erudition, but I've yet to see the evidence for that. The paucity of source-based halakhic reasoning shows us that this generation is getting a pretty pathetic return on investment. Any businessman could tell you that's unacceptable. Especially a yoogel-ly successful one like Donald Trump.

On Wings of Camels

So, how long till the heresy-hunters come for my rebbe?
The controversy over Open Orthodoxy; its flagship institution, Yeshivat Chovevei Torah; and its most controversial graduate, Rabbi Dr. Zev Farber has not yielded much in the arena of Jewish law. Opponents to its right continue to push OO out of the observant community, but the halakhic arguments always seem to fall short. That's why the strategy of hashkafic (philosophical) attack has been embraced. Forget orthopraxy, the correct practice; it's called orthodoxy, right thinking! (You know, by 19th-century Germans, the arbiters of all things Jewish.)
The play goes like this:

1. Maimonides' Thirteen Principles are universally and axiomatically accepted. There is no need to prove this, because, y'know, axiomatic. (But the text most people refer to is a poem written three centuries later--SHH!)
2. Anyone who challenges one of these principles in any way is, by definition, a heretic and to be banished from the observant community. There is no need to prove this, because, y'know, by definition. (But many medieval authorities, including Maimonides himself--SHA!)
3. Any institution whose graduates or movement whose adherents express such challenges without being immediately defrocked and disowned by said body is therefore itself heretical. There is no need to prove this, because, y' know, therefore. (But every yeshiva has had graduates who--ZAY SHTIL!)

You might think that my rebbe, HaRav Dr. Aharon Lichtenstein of blessed memory, who passed away less than ten months ago, would be safe from such accusations, but consider what was published 15 years ago by one of his foremost students, Rav Haim Navon:

According to the position presented here, there is no conflict between Torah and science, for the Torah does not pretend to provide us with scientific information. This position is relevant not only to the apparent contradictions between the Torah and the natural sciences, but also to the contradictions between the plain sense of Scripture and our knowledge of history, in the spirit of what Chazal said: "Iyyov never existed and had never been created." Much ink has been spilled over the camels that are mentioned in Scripture. The book of Bereshit describes our patriarchs riding camels. Scholars and Rabbis have been arguing for decades whether or not camels had already been domesticated in the patriarchal period. According to the position presented here, the question is totally irrelevant. Perhaps the patriarchs never really rode on camels, but on donkeys or on oxen or on winged horses, or perhaps they traveled on foot. Who cares? God, for various reasons connected to the Torah's influence upon the generation in which it had been given and upon later generations, preferred to write that the patriarchs rode on camels. Within Scripture's internal historical system, this is not an anachronistic failing. The comparison with real history is out of place, for we are talking about two entirely different systems, which do not presume to parallel each other.

That's the English version of the article which he published in the Summer 2001 edition of Alon Shevut (159). http://etzion.org.il/…/en…/archive/bereishit/03bereishit.htm
Now consider this line from the Hebrew original (http://asif.co.il/?wpfb_dl=1316):

It is clear that we, as believing Jews, must stake out some boundaries for this position. As servants of God, our faith demands that we believe in certain historical events. The most minimalistic definition would include the Convocation at Mt. Sinai, which is a concrete historical event, without which our bedrock faith in Torah from heaven has no standing. But aside from a few critical junctures such as this, there is no great significance to the question of historical details in Scripture. This approach has tremendously significant ramifications for the study of Scripture.

Rav Navon was not banned, banished or excommunicated. He co-edited many of Rav Aharon's books. He remains one of Yeshivat Har Etzion's most prominent graduates and continues to teach there. Yes, there was a furor in the yeshiva when it was published; Rav Yaakov Medan wrote a fiery response. But that was the end of it.
What got everyone mad at Rabbi Dr. Farber was saying “Abraham and Sarah are folkloristic characters; factually speaking, they are not my ancestors or anyone else’s” in a passage entitled "Avraham Avinu Is My Father," which they attack because it undermines "a letter in the Torah." So what's the difference? Believing the camels are folkloristic, not the the people? Even if Rabbi Navon were saying that, it would not resolve their objections--that is, assuming they are principled objections.
So what is the distinction here? Hate the camel, not the rider? Because if we apply the YCT/ OO standard as conceived by so many of its critics, I know who's next.