Thursday, June 22, 2017

Disarming the Character Assassin Within - Torah portion Korach

I had the privilege of participating in a "Bibliodrama" this week, led by Yael Unterman. Bibliodrama is an interactive, group role-playing activity involving a Biblical (or other) narrative. Participants take on the perspective of specific people/characters (or even, occasionally, objects) in the text, and in the process they illuminate aspects of the story, and aspects of themselves as projected into the narrative. The result is a sort of improvisational "modern Midrash."

The topic of the Bibliodrama this week was Korach and his rebellion against Moses and Aaron (Numbers 16-17). One of the questions posed toward the end was whether we resonated more with Moses' perspective or with Korach's perspective. Well, any "good" villain in a story will have motivations to which we can relate. And I do relate to Korach's vision of more of a "democratic" system of governance, as he says to Moses and Aaron regarding their leadership:
רַב לָכֶם כִּי כָל הָעֵדָה כֻּלָּם קְדֹשִׁים וּבְתוֹכָם יְ-הוָה
It is excessive for you, because all of the community - all of them - are holy, and YHVH is among them... (Num 16:3)
In other words, why should Moses and Aaron be the ones who lead the people, preside over sacrificial rites, and lord over them with laws? The people of Israel are all equal under YHVH, who is among the entire nation, not just a few privileged individuals. I can hear that argument. I also resonate with the idea of democracy - rule by the people - over aristocratic or dynastic rule. And it is easy to see how rulers throughout the ancient world, claiming their leadership to have divine sponsorship, could exploit that belief in order to exercise absolute control over the people.

That said, I found myself sympathizing even more so with Moses. The reason relates to the remaining words of the above verse:
וּמַדּוּעַ תִּתְנַשְּׂאוּ עַל קְהַל יְ-הוָה
...and why should you lift yourselves above the congregation of YHVH?
This is an accusation. Korach believes that Moses and Aaron made themselves rulers, as opposed to having been selected by YHVH. As I said above, given the Ancient Near Eastern context, where every ruler and his brother considered themselves emissaries of the gods, it would be reasonable, even prudent, to maintain some cynicism about claims of divine appointment. 

What's more, Korach didn't have the benefit of the Torah text in front of him. Yes, we know, from having read the narratives of Exodus, that Moses was approached by YHVH, that he did not want the job, that he came up with one reason after another for why he shouldn't do it, to the point that YHVH became downright angry with him (Ex 4:14). We know the formula repeated countless times, "YHVH spoke to Moses, saying..." We know Moses' frustrations with the people and his misgivings about being their leader. But we are in the privileged position of sitting behind the scenes and having an omniscient, God's-eye-view of the narratives - words, emotions, and interactions to which other people in the story, including Korach, were not privy.

So again, that is another vote of sympathy for Korach. However, it's also one for Moses, whom we know - from our God's-eye-view - is being falsely accused. He and his brother did not "lift themselves" above anyone. Moses took on the job as leader with extreme reluctance, and every step of the way since then has been difficult, fraught with tough decisions, hardships and quarrels. He's had to intervene with YHVH on behalf of the people to keep them from being destroyed. His marital life has suffered for it. And if he had a silver shekel for every gray hair on his head he'd sprouted on account of the supposed "privilege" of being their leader... To then be accused of taking the leadership for his own benefit??

So I very much relate to Moses' exasperation. Not only is he falsely accused, but Korach is clearly a charismatic figure and manages to touch a nerve with people who are likewise unhappy with the status quo. And the fact is, it hasn't exactly been rosy in the desert. Yes, the Sinai theophany was pretty spectacular, but even there the people couldn't bear to hear God's voice. Building the Tabernacle was a positive, feel-good project, but then of course Nadav and Avihu got burnt alive on the day of the inauguration. From hunger to hopelessness to idolatry to rebellion to death by sword, fire and plague, it's been one miserable experience after the next. That also has to be part of Moses' frustration. All these trials and tragedies happened under his watch.

If Korach had simply said that the wilderness journey could be going better, that would be one thing. If he even went so far as to suggest that Moses and Aaron's leadership strategies need fine-tuning, or to disagree with the structure of governance, that too would be within the bounds of reasonable criticism. But to impugn their very character, their motivation as leaders, to suggest that they "lifted themselves" above the nation presumably for no reason other than their desire for power, that they were in the business of taking for themselves rather than tirelessly giving, looking out for the well-being of the people at the expense of their own families, their lives, probably their very sanity at times - that is an entirely different type of criticism. It's not strategic differences. It's not an accusation of error or even negligence. It's the presumption of maleficence, corruption, deliberate self-aggrandizement at others' expense.

My takeaway message is this: There is unfortunately no shortage of corruption in this world. But unless we have actual inside, first-hand knowledge, unless we know for certain, we should not be in the business of accusing people of possessing nefarious motives, of covertly planning to harm others, or even being involved in whatever they do solely for purposes of self-enrichment. Because it's a form of blood libel, character assassination.

To criticize a person for poor judgment, ignorance or incompetence - that is fair game (though preferably done tactfully as opposed to abrasively). But to question someone's character simply because it "appears" or "feels" intuitively right to do so, or because it's "convenient," e.g. it serves a political or ideological agenda - that itself is morally corrupt. Accusing someone of "taking" is itself an act of taking. (Indeed the Torah portion opens, "And Korach took...") It is stealing a person's honor, their good name. I say "stealing" because it is something that rightfully belongs to them and was unjustly wrested away. And yet we do it so casually, so freely.

I'll give a mundane example. I was stuck in traffic one day and noticed the source of the pileup - a man was standing by a car, right there in the middle of the road, engaged in a conversation with the driver for what must have been a full two minutes, with all the other cars just sitting there waiting. How utterly self-centered and inconsiderate! I was nearly at the point of getting out of my car and giving him a piece of my mind... And am I so deeply glad I didn't, because a moment later the man walked around to the back of the car and began pushing it.

I had, in my mind - and nearly to his face - impugned this man's character. It "looked" as if he was completely thoughtless and self-absorbed. But of course the very opposite was true. He was going out of his way to offer another person help. He was actually giving, not taking.

Clearly, the main principle that needs to operate here is dan lechaf zechut, judging people favorably. This is not just a religious platitude. Not knowing how to engage in favorable judgment is in fact the source of so many harmful, unjust accusations - from day-to-day experiences like the above example, to outright conspiracy theorizing and blood libels. To neglect favorable judgment is to ascribe guilt and questionable motives without real evidence, stealing a person's good name. If we think of ourselves as critical thinkers and seekers of justice, if we want to prevent misrepresentations and wrongful accusations from snowballing into intense, prolonged disputes, then the issue of judging favorably and not impugning the character of others ought to be something we make serious efforts at putting into practice.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Tzitzit and the Reminder of Responsibility - Torah portion Shelach

Numbers 15:37-41 presents the commandment of making tzitzit (tassels) on the edges of one's garment. The Torah uses the word "kanaf" to describe the location on the garment the tzitzit is to be made. Many translate kanaf as corner [1], though lexicons also suggest edge, extremity, extension, hem, wing or skirt. [2]

As Jacob Milgrom points out, there are numerous ancient Near Eastern reliefs in which certain people are depicted with tassels on the hems of their garments. These hems are displayed as scalloped, cut like an umbrella, where arches meet at points around the circumference. That meeting point is where the tassels project, and the tassels are in fact extensions of the embroidery of the hem, rather than strings added as attachments. The tassels would either hang by themselves or have flowers or bells embroidered at the tips. [3]

The below relief found at the Medinet Habu mortuary temple of Ramesses III depicts what might have been the original tzitzit.

Egyptian Relief c. 1190 BCE in the burial complex of Ramesses III

The relief shows representatives of various peoples conquered by Ramesses III. Among them, second to left, is a Semite with tassels, and at the far right is a Philistine with tassels. Each of the tassels hang from a kanaf, i.e. the downward, "wing-like" projections of the hem.

Which begs a couple of questions: If this is the sort of tzitzit the Torah had in mind, clearly this was a fashion style of the day. Why should it be made into a "commandment"? And if indeed other peoples wore tzitzit, why would the Torah say: "See it and remember all the commandments and do them" (Num 15:39)? I would expect the "reminder" object to be distinct to Israel, something which specifically evoked the commandments, as opposed to tassels which the Philistines and other peoples also wore.

Milgrom speaks about hems and tassels being highly significant in Ancient Near Eastern cultures:
The more important the individual, the more elaborate and the more ornate was the embroidery on the hem of his or her outer robe. The tassel must be understood as an extension of such a hem.
He goes on to cite Akkadian texts where people's hems being cut off signify the removal of a part of the person's essence. This applied to exorcism, wherein cutting off the hem was done in order to purge an evil spirit. Likewise, divorces were effected by the husband cutting off the hem of his wife's robe. A prophet would "sign" his report to the king by enclosing a lock of his hair and a piece of his hem, or an impression of his hem would be made on a clay tablet.

In the Bible too, David famously cuts off the hem (kanaf) of Saul's robe. (I Sam 24:4) This was significant not simply because it meant that David could have killed Saul, but also because the hem itself symbolized Saul's position of authority - which was "cut off." And indeed Saul later responds, "Now I know that you will become king." (v. 20)

An additional feature of the Israelite tassel is the explicit command to add a string dyed with tekhelet (sky-blue). Tekhelet dye, being prohibitively expensive at the time, was primarily reserved for the noble classes, royalty, and priests.

Being commanded to wear decorative tassels containing tekhelet on the hem of one's garment might thus be understood to convey the Israelite self-concept of being a "kingdom of priests" (Ex 19:6). It was part of the Israelite democratization of religion and priesthood, whereby holiness and elevated conduct were not reserved for a small and elite priestly class, but things to which every Israelite individual was enjoined to aspire. A person would gaze at the tzitzit and be reminded that whatever their socioeconomic status, they were a part of a larger project, a higher calling, a covenant.

Which in effect answers the question as to why a specific Israelite reminder - the tzitzit - should be something worn in other societies. To use another example, if I have a wedding band on, the fact that other couples or people of other religions wear them does not diminish its personal significance to me. Just the opposite - the fact that a wedding band has a universal meaning enhances its personal significance. Likewise, the meaning in ancient Israel of such a hem + tassle + tekhelet configuration would have been readily recognized and understood. It symbolized elevated status and significance, and also responsibility.

Kings, prophets and other people of authority were not simply "privileged" classes - they had a great sense of weight upon them as being responsible for the welfare of the people, a responsibility which they saw as stemming from the divine. For the Israelites, the status of being "holy" is contingent upon accepting the responsibility of the commandments:
לְמַעַן תִּזְכְּרוּ וַעֲשִׂיתֶם אֶת כָּל מִצְו‍ֹתָי וִהְיִיתֶם קְדֹשִׁים לֵא-לֹהֵיכֶם
In order that you remember and fulfill all my commandments, so that you will be holy to your God. (Num 15:40)
Which is of course the proper way to understand leadership in general. The mindset should not be a desire to wield power and control, to attain high personal status and honor, or think of oneself as "better" than anyone else. Instead, it should come with a profound sense of awe and responsibility - weightiness and commitment, determination and compassion - carried out in the spirit of humility and joy. All this pertains to the attitude we ought to have toward the mitzvot.

Yes, observing the mitzvot should bring personal enjoyment and fulfillment. But part of the meaning we derive from the mitzvot is the greater calling that they evoke, where it's not about what we "get" out of them, in this world or any other. And it's certainly not the perverse notion that the mitzvot - or being Jewish - makes us inherently "higher" or "better" or "holier" than anyone else. It's about embracing our responsibility to lead by example with ethical scrupulousness, interpersonal grace, and to elevate the world around us with compassion, creativity and joy. That level of deep caring and refinement is what it means to be a "priest." It is a weight of responsibility that we lovingly and eagerly accept, and for which tzitzit is meant to serve as a reminder.


1. See Baruch Levine, Anchor Yale Bible, Numbers Vol. 1, p. 388; R. E. Friedman, Commentary on the Torah, p. 479; J. Milgrom, Of Hems and Tassels, Biblical Archaology Review, Vol. IX, No 3, May/June 1983.
2. Brown-Driver-Briggs, edge, extremity; Hebrew Aramaic Lexicon, skirt of a garment.
3. J. Milgrom, Of Hems and Tassels.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Switching off the Blame Machine - Torah portion Beha'alot'kha

Numbers 11 begins with a brief yet violent episode:
וַיְהִי הָעָם כְּמִתְאֹנְנִים רַע בְּאָזְנֵי יְ-הוָה וַיִּשְׁמַע יְ-הוָה וַיִּחַר אַפּוֹ וַתִּבְעַר בָּם אֵשׁ יְ-הוָה וַתֹּאכַל בִּקְצֵה הַמַּחֲנֶה
And the people became as evilly self-aggrieved in YHVH's earshot, and YHVH heard and he flared his anger, and a fire of YHVH burned upon them, and it consumed at the edge of the camp.
Ravaged by fire, the people cry out to Moses, who entreats YHVH on their behalf and the flames subside. The place is then called Tav'era for the "burning" that took place. The whole incident takes up a mere three verses (Num 11:1-3), and we never hear about the reason the people were upset to begin with.

Mit'onenim as "self-aggrieved"

What did the people do which caused YHVH's anger to flare? They are described as "mit'onenim ra." The verb hit'onen (התאנן) occurs one other time in the Bible, in Lamentations 3:39: "Why should a living human yit'onen, a man regarding his sin?" Both cases are typically understood to mean complain, grumble or murmur. [1] However, the verb is widely thought to stem from anan (אנן), which means to mourn or sigh [2], leading some to employ the translation "grieve." [3]

My above translation is based on the reflexive hit'onen, rendering it "make oneself aggrieved," or simply "self-aggrieved." Meaning, even if the people's distress was linked to an external issue [4], that sense of being aggrieved took on a life of its own. I chose the translation "evilly" for ra, as opposed to "bitterly," wanting to convey how it must have been perceived to YHVH to warrant such a severe and violent reaction. (Though I cannot possibly see anyone's complaint or aggravation being so "evil" as to merit being burned alive. Or more precisely, I can understand it from an Iron Age perspective, just not according to modern ethical sensibilities.)

Seeking a pretext

But I want to focus on this idea of being "self-aggrieved," where the self-generation or perpetuation of the aggrieved state is the primary interest of the story, as opposed to any external causes of distress. The Midrash Sifrei on this episode views the word mit'onenim as stemming from ta'ana (תאנה), which means "occasion" or "pretext." According to the Midrash, the people involved sought any pretext to distance themselves from YHVH. [5] To what end? Judging from other instances in the Torah, it's a reasonable bet that they wanted to abort YHVH's mission and return to Egypt. [6]

The advantage of this interpretation is that it explains why the story offers no explanation for the complaint - because it wasn't really about any one issue or problem. The people were ready to point to anything as the alleged reason for being aggrieved, as long as it presented something concrete to latch onto, an anchor to place blame.

Psychological takeaways: More self-awareness, less blame-fixation

The self-perpetuating, blame-seeking connotation of the word mit'onenim is something we all engage in to a degree. We have a certain feeling, mood or emotion ("A"), then point the finger at what we determine to be the reason ("B"), and then the conversation ends up focusing exclusively on the alleged reason, even when the causality of B leading to A is dubious at best.

For instance, when I'm feeling down and someone asks me, "What's wrong?" my first instinct is to pick out one or two things that aren't going well, or else enter into a litany of all the various problems I'm currently dealing with. But did any of these things "produce" the mood I'm experiencing? Is my feeling really the "result" of these things? After all, some of the supposed "reasons" I'd point to are no doubt chronic issues, and it's not as if I'm in a bad mood perpetually.

Yes, there are times when a specific event precipitates a feeling of distress. But even then, I wouldn't call it a "causal" relationship, since the meaning we attach to the events in our lives is really up to us. We don't have to react in one particular way. And much of the time, it's not even a question of a specific event. We start with "A," the feeling or mood, and "B" is simply something we latch onto, point to, place the blame on, because it's the lowest hanging fruit, the first issue that comes to mind. And then all the energy goes into how to deal with "B," which may in fact blow the issue of B out of proportion, in addition to it not being the true "cause" of the mood.

Moods and feelings arise for any number of complex reasons, from subconscious memories triggered, to physical sensations like hunger or exhaustion, to minor interpersonal exchanges or things we've watched or read which leave us with a certain feeling. It's a confluence of factors which are often difficult to trace or articulate.

So what can we do when we feel ourselves upset or aggrieved? Several things: We can be aware, wiser, about not automatically falling into the trap of reacting to the mood by attaching it to "things" in our lives - or people - which aren't really the cause. In other words, switch off the blame machine. We can recognize that a mood isn't "caused" and outside our control. It is ours to shape, to change as we wish, and to utilize constructively. And last, which I find particularly useful, we can simply take note of the feeling, experience it without "self-aggrieving" and giving it a life of its own, and keep in mind that this too shall pass.

1. JPS Tanakh, Num 1:11, Lam 3:39; R. E. Friedman's Commentary on the Torah, Num 11:1
2. Brown-Driver-Briggs; Hebrew-Aramaic Lexicon
3. E.g. Baruch Levine, Anchor Yale Bible, Numbers Vol. 1, p. 312
4. E.g. suffering from their journey in the desert as a whole, see Rashbam on Num 11:1.
5. Sifrei Bamidbar 85, cited by Rashi on Num 1:11
6. E.g. Ex 16:3, 17:3; Num 14:3, 16:13

Thursday, June 1, 2017

The "Power" of the Priestly Blessing - Torah portion Naso

Ketef Hinnom "Priestly Blessing" amulet, c. 600 BCE
In 1979, a pair of silver amulets were found in Ketef Hinom, a series of burial chambers southwest of Jerusalem's Old City. On them is etched, in Paleo-Hebrew script, a version of the Priestly Blessing of Numbers 6:23-27. Putting aside the textual discrepancies between the amulets and the Masoretic Text, these etchings represent the oldest surviving Torah verses ever discovered, dating to roughly 600 BCE, before the Babylonian exile. Which is significant, being that we have hundreds of examples of pre-exilic writing, most of them ostraca (potsherds with ink inscriptions) and none, other than these amulets, contain verses from the Torah.

It's also significant that the blessing was used as an amulet, and that it was found in a burial chamber. Biblical scholar Baruch Levine writes about this in his commentary on Numbers:
It was a widespread ancient custom to bury valuable or useful possessions with the dead, on the notion that the deceased would require them or enjoy them in the afterlife, as biblical concepts would have it, in Sheol. The precise text of the benediction inscribed on the amulets, if we may call the plaques by that name, might indicate further that the benediction was interpreted as being particularly relevant to the dead, as expressing the wish that the dead be protected in death and on their way to Sheol. There was also the wish that the Deity would deal benevolently with the dead in the netherworld. (Anchor Yale Bible, Numbers Vol. I, p. 242.)
Levine continues that the words "yishmor" and "shalom" both represent the desire for safety when traveling or facing the unknown, and that in fact Midrashic sources on the Priestly Blessing offer the interpretation of shalom as referring to the afterlife:
Shalom is of great importance, for even the dead require shalom... "May he protect you" - May he protect your nefesh at the time of death; may he protect your footsteps from Gehinnom. (Sifre, Naso)
"May he protect you" - for the world to come. (Yalqut Shimoni, Naso)
As Levine noted, the amulet was one of a number of possessions buried with a person, meaning it was most likely not made for the express purpose of use with the dead. Rather, it was an amulet used by the living, something people would keep on their person for apotropaic purposes, i.e. to ward off evil.

Was the original purpose of the blessing apotropaic? This goes to the question of how the Torah regards the efficacy of magic, incantations, blessings and curses. Did it view these things as having real "power"? (Perhaps it's something like the question of whether the Torah, when it mentions "other gods," is coming from purely a monotheistic perspective, or perhaps it is expressing something of a monolotrous point of view.) But regardless of how the Torah itself regards magic, it is certain that a popular belief in magic existed in Biblical times, and indeed persists to this day, including among religious Jews. This is where we encounter the difference between "rationalist" and "mystical" perspectives.

For instance, what "happens" when a kohen recites the Priestly Blessing? Does this "cause" a bounty of goodness to rain upon the receivers? Does it act as a God-sanctioned "incantation" for protection and peace? Many would view it that way. In fact a number of years back I spoke with a kabbalist who claimed that it was the Ashkenazic tradition of not reciting the daily Priestly Blessing in the diaspora which allowed the Holocaust in Europe to occur. The "shield of protection" was lifted.

According to the rationalist approach, the recitation of the Priestly Blessing does not itself "do" anything. No "levers" are pulled in the heavenly realm. Instead, it communicates the desire for well-being and peace. It is closer to a prayer. And I believe that in this approach lies no less great of a "power."

When we sincerely wish for the shalom of others, not only does it arouse and reinforce our own feelings of compassion, it means they - our friends and neighbors - don't have to feel alone. We're in this world together, facing challenges together, being there and rooting for one another's success. That sense of being part of team, of knowing there is love and support around us - that, I believe is the true "power" of the Priestly Blessing, among other wishes for one another's well-being. Not that the words themselves "do" anything for us, nor even that it "convinces" God to do anything for us. Rather, it is an expression, and perhaps a fulfillment, of the commandment to "love your neighbor as yourself."

Friday, May 26, 2017

A God of No Self-Control? - Torah portion Bamidbar

The first chapter of Numbers begins with the national census (vv 1-46). The tribe of Levi is noted as not being included in the census (v 47, 49), which allows the Torah a segue into discussing the task of the Levites. They are charged with carrying the Tabernacle, setting it up and taking it down (vv. 50-51), as well as an additional task:
 וְהַלְוִיִּם יַחֲנוּ סָבִיב לְמִשְׁכַּן הָעֵדֻת וְלֹא יִהְיֶה קֶצֶף עַל עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל
And the Levites shall camp around the Tabernacle of the Testimony, so that there will not be frothing-anger at the Children of Israel (Num 1:53, see also v. 50b)

Frothing at the Mouth

First, a word about the translation "frothing-anger." (If technical linguistic details bore you, feel free to skip to the next section.) As we discussed in an earlier post on Biblical metaphor, the literal meaning of Hebrew words can shed light on their metaphorical connotations. The word qetseph (קצף) generally means "anger" in the metaphorical sense, but the word does appear once in the Bible in its literal use:
נִדְמֶה שֹׁמְרוֹן מַלְכָּהּ כְּקֶצֶף עַל פְּנֵי מָיִם
Samaria is likened - its king - as foam on the surface of water. (Hosea 10:7)
The word qetseph here might mean a "snapped off twig," or it may mean "foam" (see HAL). Twig is the view of the Septuagint, possibly seen as related to qatsats (קצץ, clip, cut off) as well as qetsapha (קצפה) used in Joel 1:7, which in context refers to a type of destruction (poss. splintering) done to a fig tree. Ibn Ezra on Hosea 10:7 connects the words qetseph and qetsapha. Foam is the view of the Vulgate. Also, Metzudat David explains qetseph here as short-lived bubbles on the surface of the water, and Malbim and Metzudat Tzion speak about qetseph in terms of "boiling," wherein bubbles come up to the surface. Rashi refers to qetseph as escume, which is Old French for "froth" or "scum" (אישקומ"א, see Otzar Lo'azei Rashi, M. Catane).

(A couple of word-related factoids: The word "skim" comes from taking the frothy "scum" off the surface of a liquid. The word קצפת in Modern Hebrew means whipped cream, which of course is foam-like.)

In terms of the context of qetseph in Hosea, the deposed king of Samaria could certainly be likened to a twig that was snapped off and now floats away. The metaphor of anger could then be related to "snapping" or "cracking." My preference is to say that the king is likened to foam on the water, which is there one moment and gone the next, and where the anger of qetseph connotes "frothing" or "foaming" at the mouth with rage.

Divine Potentate or Potency?

But I'd like to now consider the theological implications of our original verse in Numbers, about the Levites guarding against "frothing-anger." Let's put aside the connotation of "frothing at the mouth," which connotes a crazed, rabid state. The intent here is most likely "fierce wrath" or "violence." What I want to point out is that the verse is voiced by YHVH, as a command (v. 48), and YHVH refers to his own anger in the third person, as if it is some sort of natural phenomenon that cannot be changed.

"Camp around the Tabernacle, so that there will be no anger" has a similar structure as if I were to say, "Use an umbrella, so that you don't get wet." Now, if I had the power to prevent the rain from falling, why would I tell you to use an umbrella? I should simply keep it from raining, at least on you. I only tell you to use an umbrella because there is nothing I can do about the rain. Likewise, if YHVH can prevent his own anger from flaring, why would he tell the Levites to camp around the Tabernacle? It sounds as if there is nothing YHVH can do about his own anger. If triggered, YHVH's wrath will flare and people will be struck down. It is simply a matter of fact. All the Israelites can do is take safety precautions so that hopefully no one will come into harm's way.

Suffice it to say, it does not sound like the idea of God typically advanced in theological discussions. God is supposed to be "merciful" and "omnipotent." In the above verse, God sounds like neither.

The angle to approach a verse like this, I would suggest, is to consider what it might convey about the view of God from the perspective of the ancient Israelites. To say, "Do X, so that I not kill you," sounds rather like a dispassionate potentate, an autocrat who sets up absolute, nonnegotiable rules, which when broken automatically result in the death penalty. Not that the potentate wants the people to die - he doesn't, which is why he issues the warning - but rather there is simply zero tolerance for infractions. Perhaps that is the model for monarchs in the Ancient Near East.

However, I think there is another way one might approach the view of the Israelites (or at least that of the priestly school, to whom the scholarship literature identifies as the source of most of the Book of Numbers, including the first ten chapters). That is, rather than envision God as a divine potentate, God is viewed as a locus of divine potency - i.e. power. Having God's presence (kavod) in one's midst is akin to hosting a power plant in the middle of town. In order to harness and gain benefit from this power (in the form of blessing, protection, well-being, etc.), a set of strict guidelines must be followed. This includes guidelines for the people at large, as well as even more complex rules for those who work in and around the plant - i.e. the Levites and Priests. The Torah is essentially putting up signs: Authorized personnel only! Stay clear - danger of death! Safety warning - personnel may enter only at X times, equipped with Y uniform, and may under no circumstances touch Z!

Danger of Death - the verses

To substantiate the "potency" approach to the concept of God, I think it is helpful to see just how many verses in the Torah there are which present God in this way.

Below is a list of the verses in the Torah which warn about the danger of YHVH-related death, or speaking about actual deaths. Note that the list does not include: A) verses relating to people put to death by human hands, on YHVH's command, or B) verses clearly speaking about punishments for rebellion and idolatry. (And there are numerous examples of both A and B.) The verses below instead reflect the inherent mortal danger of being in proximity to YHVH.
Beware of ascending the mountain or touching its edge; whoever touches the mountain will surely die. (Ex 19:12)

Descend, warn the people, lest they break through to YHVH to see, and a multitude of them will fall. (Ex 19:21)

Even the priests who approach YHVH should be prepared, lest YHVH burst forth against them. (Ex 19:22)

[The robe’s bells’] sound shall be heard when he enters the sanctum before YHVH and when he leaves, so that he will not die. (Ex 28:35)

Every man will give YHVH a ransom for his person when counting them, so there will not be a plague among them when counting them. (Ex 30:12)

Whenever they come to the Tent of Meeting, they shall wash with water so they will not die. (Ex 28:35)

I will not ascend among you, because you are a stiff-necked people, lest I consume you along the way. (Ex 33:3)

A fire came forth from before YHVH and consumed [Nadav and Avihu], and they died before YHVH. (Lev 10:2)

Do not leave your heads unshorn and do not rend your garments, so you will not die and He become wrathful with the entire assembly. (Lev 10:6)

Do not leave the Tent of Meeting, lest you die. (Lev 10:7)

Do not drink intoxicating wine... when you come into the Tent of Meeting, so that you do not die. (Lev 10:9)

[Aaron] should not come at all times into the sanctum... so he will not die. (Lev 16:2)

And the cloud of the incense should cover the ark-cover, which is above the testimony, so he will not die. (Lev 16:13)

But [the Kohatites] should not come and look as the sancta is inserted and die. (Num 4:20)

So there will not be a plague among the Children of Israel, when the Children of Israel approach the sanctuary. (Num 8:19)

Each and every one who approaches the Tabernacle of YHVH dies – will we ever stop perishing! (Num 17:28)

They will guard the safeguard of the sancta and the altar, and there will not be more frothing-anger against the Children of Israel. (Num 18:5)

So that the Children of Israel will not again approach the Tent of Meeting to bear a sin to die. (Num 18:22)

And the [sanctified tithes] of the Children of Israel you should not desecrate, so that you will not die. (Num 18:32)

A "Natural God" of Laws 

What I extract from these verses is not an "angry God," nor an "uncompromising monarch." It is the concept of God's presence as presenting a power that one had to be exceedingly careful around, and which required a great deal of precautions and detailed procedures in order to protect the Priests, Levites, and the public at large from harm.

As for the theological implications of verses wherein YHVH speaks so matter-of-factly about people getting killed if they do not follow the rules, I view this not as offering information about God but rather as indicating a view of the world, and of sancta, that the Israelite priests projected onto God. It is a sense of the divine not characterized by the whims of capricious monarchs, nor of balancing judgment and mercy. Rather, the divine realm was one of natural/created order, rules, and severe danger when borders are breached, when rules are compromised. "Wrath" is purely metaphorical here. "Anger" is a term merely used to express the violence people would face if they stepped over the line - like stepping out into a violent storm.

In a sense, it is a proto-scientific worldview, wherein the framework in which the world exists is founded on laws, and there is cause and effect. In the same way that the ancient mindset did not distinguish the way we do between fact and fiction, or between physical health and morality, in the priestly view (and perhaps elsewhere) it also conflated the natural realm and the divine realm, wherein there is order, law, the occasion for great awe, as well as great caution. So it is not that God "can't help himself" from lashing out against those who do not follow the rules. Rather, God - in the form of a powerful and volatile presence - is envisioned both as the rule-maker and as part of the rules themselves. God creates nature, creates the law, and God is also a potent force within it.

Friday, May 19, 2017

Values and Valuations: Embracing Derash and Peshat - Torah Portion Behar-Beẖukotai

Leviticus 27 discusses votive offerings to the Sanctuary: animals, houses, land, crops, possessions and people - a person could even offer him or herself, that is to say, their market value based on age and gender. The Torah (vv. 3-7) offers the following monetary assessments for persons:

value in shekels
value in shekels
1 month - 5 years53
5-20 years2010
20-60 years5030
60+ years1510

So for instance, if I make a vow to offer my 9-year-old son, I am pledging 20 shekels to the Sanctuary. If I vow to offer myself, I am pledging 50 shekels. What is the basis for these valuations?

Jacob Milgrom (Anchor Leviticus, Vol. III, pp. 2,370-2) cites the explanation that the amounts reflect the average that various individuals (based on age and gender) would fetch in the slave market. These figures are reflected in Assyria's tax of 50 shekel per Israelite landowner (2 Kings 15:20), and the 20 shekel price for which Joseph is sold (Gen 37:28) (G. J. Wenham, 1978). Milgrom rejects this view and suggests (accd. to Abravanel) that "these sums distinguish Israelite persons from slaves: all, regardless of productive capacity, bear a fixed price" (emphasis Milgrom's). He cites the Mishna (Arakhin 3:1) which states, "Whether a man vowed the valuation of the fairest (adult) in Israel or of the most unseemly in Israel, he must pay 50 selas." In other words, the valuations if anything attest to an ethos of equality.

What about the amount that women are valued at, as opposed to men? Milgrom likewise rejects the interpretation that women being valued less demonstrates their lower productive capacity (B. Levine, 1989), saying instead that "the relatively high value for female valuations indicates the reverse, that the woman was an indispensable part of the labor force, nearly equivalent to that of the male."

So I want to stop for a moment and make an observation about myself. When I read these explanations of Milgrom's, what I notice is that I like them.

Why is that? Well for one, I don't much care for the idea of people being assigned a monetary value, much less a value based on the slave market. And I can't say I'm partial to the idea that males are valued more than females, or that people become devalued once they've reached the age of sixty. Milgrom's explanations bring out a "softer" view of some of these distinctions. The figures the Torah gives in fact distinguish us from slaves. They show how highly valued women were in the society.

But here's my question: What do I do with this observation, the fact that I'm partial to these explanations? Should I embrace it, run with it, or should I be wary of it hampering my objectivity? My answer, at least at this point, is both.

On a religious level, it is critical, of utmost communal and spiritual importance, that we extract meaningful, relevant interpretations out of the text, so that Judaism should embody and promote our highest values (e.g. the idea that all human life is equally valuable regardless of age or gender). The Torah needs to be a place where we see these values reflected. So absolutely yes, run with it.

However on a scientific level, from a scholarly perspective, such a preference is arguably the occasion for added caution. "Wanting" something to be true, "liking" it because it comports with our way of thinking, can very easily cloud our judgment and prevent us from approaching the text with a focus on the most probable meaning. In addition to values inclining us toward certain explanations and not others, the process of devising original interpretations (ẖidushim) can itself be exciting, to the point where we can develop a "blind spot" and not see that in fact the explanation - creative though it is - lacks plausibility. So yes, be wary as well.

How do we accomplish both? I would say, by distinguishing between the two very distinct endeavors of peshat and derash. Here is how I view them at present (meaning that I see this conceptualization as a work in progress):

Peshat is the work of ascertaining - to the best of our abilities - the plain meaning of the text. It is an attempt to recreate the mind of the author/editor and understand their words from their perspective. It is by no means an exact science, but it is "scientific" in the sense that we expect our tentative conclusions to be based on the preponderance of evidence. It is detective work, much of it tedious, collecting clues and "fingerprints" which will lead us to an informed conclusion - rarely a "proof," but optimally with a convincingly high level of substantiation. Theoretically, it should not matter where the data points us, whether it affirms our values or contravenes them, whether it bolsters our hypothesis going in, or overturns it. True, there is no such thing as total objectivity. But we can take measures, apply academic standards to minimize our blind spots, remain vigilantly self-aware, humble and scrupulous, and "dust" for clues and evidence as thoroughly and carefully as we can.

Derash is a different realm altogether. It is the work of utilizing a sacred text to voice our values, our traditions, and achieve a pedagogical goal. It is a religious act, focusing not on the meaning of the text per se but rather on meaningfulness. A good drash in the "religious" sense is one that speaks to our spiritual needs, inclinations and aspirations. A good derash in the "technical" sense is one which makes creative use of any number of elements within the text in order to anchor the teaching, so that when we read the text, we almost cannot help but be reminded of the derash. To construct an effective drash on both counts requires creativity, artistry, associative thinking, and a combination of emotional, spiritual and intellectual sensitivity as to the needs of the intended audience. Not only are subjectivity, bias and preference not things to be wary of - they are openly embraced as part of the process of derash!

In a "clean" intellectual world, peshat and derash would be "non-overlapping magisteria," to borrow a term from the late scientist Stephen Jay Gould. Simply let peshat reside in the realm of science and facts, and derash in the realm of religion and values - and don't allow these worlds to encroach upon one another. Don't let values or religious sensitivities disturb our work of reconstructing the meanings and worldviews behind the text. And don't let the plain meaning of the text "force" us into adopting religious positions that we would otherwise find reprehensible.

Of course, real life is a good deal "messier" than that. I mentioned my reactions to Milgrom's peshat on the text. But what about Milgrom himself? Were his conclusions influenced by a desire for the Torah to say the "right" thing, to reflect the kind of Judaism he would be proud of? Did values seep into his thoughts on valuations? I think it's very likely.

But is that necessarily a bad thing? My inclination at the moment is to say that even if such seepage is inevitable, strictly speaking it is poor science. Not that scientists should seek to be robots, not that intuition, values and individual proclivities don't have their place in the investigative process (I think they surely do!), but that the conclusions we draw should come with a certain level of personal detachment, and that we need to minimize cognitive bias, so that evidence serves to derive our explanations, not justify our a priori views.

In order to aid that, I suggest that we also engage in derash. Rather than suppress our values, we should express them, give them a space to breathe - the circumscribed space of homiletics. And we ought to do so knowingly, explicitly, and confidently. We need to dispel the notion that it's "just a derash," that unfortunately what we want to say is not in the peshat, so we present it as a derash, a consolation prize of sorts. That thinking undermines both peshat and derash! It is a problem for peshat because again it implies "wanting" the text to carry a certain meaning. And it is a problem for derash because it "devalues" our values.

What this comes down to is the deep need for external justification. We're not comfortable "declaring" what our values are. What we desperately want is for our values to be "sourced" elsewhere - in a sacred text, in the will of God. Which I believe is why we talk about the derash (Midrash, Aggadah) of the Talmudic sages as hailing "from Sinai." It's why we - knowingly and unknowingly - remake the peshat in our own image by asserting that the text per se carries our values. In effect, we make derash masquerade as peshat.

I suggest instead that we take ownership of our values. Be honest and self-assured when making a derash. Don't fear the internal voice. Don't apologize for our conscience, our higher moral and spiritual sensibility. Be aware of it, embrace it, and use the Torah - deliberately, explicitly - as a means of speaking that voice. Earlier, I said, "The Torah needs to be a place where we see these values reflected." I worded that precisely, meaning that the Torah should be where we see our values "reflected," not externally "sourced."

I'll end with a derash of my own. The Talmud (Bava Kama 82a) cites the verse, "And [the Israelites] walked three days in the wilderness, and they did not find water" (Ex 15:22), and interprets it metaphorically to mean, "[The word] 'water' can only be referring to Torah" (אין מים אלא תורה). In the plain sense, the sages are expressing the view that the Torah is as vital as water, that we would die of thirst without it. But I will offer another interpretation, a "derash on the derash" if you will, and that is this:

In the stillest, calmest, clearest, most peaceful pool of water, when we look down at it, what we see is not the water, but rather our own faces reflected back up at us.

We have been looking at our reflections in the waters of Torah for thousands of years, in the form of derash. It's what makes the Torah "the Torah," a sacred, religious text. However, water is also water. The Torah is also an Ancient Near Eastern text, and those who wish to discover the peshat, understand it for what it is (out of pure curiosity, without an ideological agenda) will endeavor to the best of their ability to see through their own reflections and examine the text on its own terms.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

A Curse By Any Other Name - Torah portion Emor

The Torah employs a number of terms meaning "to curse," primary among them: qilel (קלל), arar (אראר), alah (אלה), and naqab/qabab (נקב/קבב). Two of these appear in this week's Torah portion, in a single verse:
וַיִּקֹּב בֶּן הָאִשָּׁה הַיִּשְׂרְאֵלִית אֶת הַשֵּׁם וַיְקַלֵּל וַיָּבִיאוּ אֹתוֹ אֶל מֹשֶׁה
"And the son of the Israelite woman cursed (or blasphemed, pronounced) the Name, and he cursed, and they brought him to Moses" (Lev 24:11)
The context is two men in an altercation, one of whom is said to have an Egyptian father and an Israelite mother (v. 10). In the course of the fight, this individual utters a curse involving "the name" (probably the name YHVH, see Rashi). Did he actually curse God, or did he merely use God's name in a curse? There are in fact strikingly similar Mesopotamian laws against pronouncing a deity's name in a curse against another person, specifically in the context of an altercation (see Milgrom, Anchor Leviticus Vol. III, pp. 2108-9). Our case however clearly refers to cursing God, as evidenced a few verses later:
אִישׁ אִישׁ כִּי יְקַלֵּל אֱ-לֹהָיו וְנָשָׂא חֶטְאוֹ
"Any man, if he curses his God, he will bear his sin" (Lev 24:15)
How do we understand the "curse" implied by the two verbs va-yiqov and vayqalel? First off, it should be said that there is disagreement as to whether va-yiqov in our verse even means "curse," and which root it stems from, naqab (נקב) or qabab (קבב). Whereas the root qabab always connotes cursing, naqab can mean 1) pierce/bore a hole, 2) designate/appoint, or 3) curse/blaspheme (see BDB Lexicon).

A note about Milgrom's translation

Jacob Milgrom assumes the root of va-yiqov to be naqab and translates it here as "pronounced," i.e. an act of verbal designation (Anchor Leviticus, Vol. III, pp. 2107-8). That is to say, the man in our verse pronounced the name YHVH (va-yiqov... et ha-shem) and subsequently cursed that name (vayqalel). Milgrom's reasoning is that when naqab is coupled with the word shem in the Bible (on six other occasions, Nu 1:17; 1 Chr 12:32, 16:41; 2 Chr 28:15, 31:19; Ez 8:20), it invariably means "designate." Plus, a similar Nabatean expression exists which also means designate. So the same meaning - verbally designate/pronounce - should hold true in our verse as well. Therefore va-yiqov here cannot mean curse.

However, Milgrom's reasoning can be contested on the following grounds:

1) Without exception, all other instances of naqab + shem use the same precise expression, niqvu be-shemot, which is not the case in our verse.

     a) The other instances have the formulation "naqab + be-shem," pronouncing or designating "in the name." (Even the Nabatean expression uses the "b" prefix.) Our verse however has "naqab + et ha-shem," and whether we wish to translate et as "to" or "with," it is a different formulation.

     b) In addition to the difference in prepositions, the verb itself, va-yiqov, is conjugated differently than niqvu, the form used in all six biblical verses containing the expression.

     c) The phrase niqvu be-shemot is always presented as a single unit; in our verse the two words naqab and shem are separated by four intervening words.

2) V. 16 states that the "noqev shem YHVH" shall be put to death. If noqev indicates one who "pronounces," there should be no death penalty for merely uttering the name. Rather, the verse should have referred to the "meqalel shem YHVH," the one who "curses" the name, as being deserving of such a punishment.

So it seems to me entirely reasonable to dissociate the instance of naqab + shem found in our verse from other instances in the Bible, counter to Milgrom's proposal, and therefore to maintain that va-yiqov can in fact mean "curse." But what sort of curse does it convey?

Examining the literal to understand the metaphor

The one other instance of va-yiqov in the Bible (2 Ki 12:9) refers to boring a hole, i.e. the root naqab. So it is arguable that va-yiqov in our verse also stems from naqab. Again, naqab sometimes means to physically pierce, in the literal sense, and at other times it means to designate or to curse, employing the act of piercing as a metaphor.

Could va-yiqov here possibly be speaking literally? That seems unlikely. Unless we were to believe that the man in our verse had a piece of parchment with the name YHVH written on it and literally "pierced the name," we need to understand "va-yiqov... et ha-shem" in the idiomatic, metaphorical sense. In that case, we might ask: What characteristics of "piercing" are being borrowed in order to understand va-yiqov metaphorically as a curse? When the verb naqab is used in the Bible to convey physically piercing something, it can refer to:
  1. An act of destruction or injury, as in piercing the hand (2 Ki 18:21, Is 36:6) or impaling the enemy (Hab 3:13, parallel to מחץ, to strike).
  2. Having/creating holes, either for use (2 Ki 12:9) or implying lack of physical integrity (Hag 1:6); this is also arguably the anatomical connotation of נקבה, female.
  3. Subjugating or subduing an animal, by piercing it through the nose (Job 40:24) or piercing a fish with a hook (Job 41:2).
So even within the literal sense of piercing, we can identify at least three different aspects of that act onto which to hang a metaphor. Let's consider each of these individually.

To destroy someone by impaling them, running them through, certainly sounds like an apt metaphor for cursing. It would be something like our metaphorical use of the term "eviscerate" to imply destroying someone with a particularly forceful argument. Then again, would not ḥarav (חרב, "slay") have afforded an equally suitable metaphor? Why naqab over ḥarav?

Putting a hole in something so as to weaken its integrity, induce leakage, might also work as a metaphor for cursing. The verb va-yiqov could imply puncturing something and draining its life force. However, the verb ḥilel (חלל, "profane," related to ḥalal, "corpse") also implies draining the life force, and in fact the Torah uses ḥilel specifically when it comes to damaging the name YHVH (e.g. Lev 21:6). So why naqab and not ḥilel?

How about subjugating or subduing an animal as a metaphor for cursing? In biblical use, it turns out that piercing an animal's nose, and idea of "tagging" an animal, has an overwhelmingly positive (or at the very least, neutral) connotation when applied as a metaphor. It conveys not subjugation but rather selection or designation, as in:
  • Designating a salary (Gen 30:28)
  • The appointment of people to positions of importance and responsibility (Is 62:2, and the six instances of niqvu be-shemot)
  • A person of distinction/designation (Am 6:1)
(The "designation" or "marking" connotation of naqab makes for an interesting parallel to the words hiqdish and qodesh, which also imply earmarking or designating; a subject for a separate inquiry.)

To be clear, the above caveats do not necessarily rule out destruction, draining, or subjugation as the characteristic of piercing being borrowed by va-yiqov when connoting a curse. But I would like to offer another possibility for understanding the metaphor, one which also connects naqab with qilel.

Curse as diminution, blessing as expanse

A device used to lance or pierce is necessarily wider along the shaft and narrower at the tip. This is for reasons of simple physics: The moderate force one applies across the wide end of the shaft becomes concentrated at the narrow tip, making the force sufficient to impale. Similarly, the act of impaling involves taking a wide potential target area and narrowing in, choosing a specific point of impact. This relates to the metaphor "designate," which is a movement from wide to narrow, from the set of all possibilities to the specific choice made. When narrowing down is thought of in terms of "designation," the biblical connotation is positive. However, narrowing by definition also implies limiting, confining, closing in, closing off possibility, and perhaps that is the aspect of piercing to which naqab as a "curse" refers.

Indeed the other term for "curse" in our verse, qilel, has a similar connotation. The root quf-lamed-lamed also has a literal meaning, namely: "diminishing," "lessening," "abating," as in flood waters physically withdrawing (Gen 8:8, 8:11), and similarly "lightening," "easing up" of weight or force (1 Sam 17:43, 1 Ki 12:10). That then feeds into the metaphorical usage of being "light" on one's feet (i.e. fast, 2 Sam 1:23), or treating a person or matter "lightly" (dishonorably, Gen 16:4-5, 2 Sam 19:43; trivially, 1 Ki 16:31, 2 Ki 3:18). Then of course we have qilel, which means curse in the sense of causing intense dishonor. But if we go back to the literal meaning, the curse implied by qilel is one of lessening, atrophying, growing smaller. The large-to-small movement of qilel then parallels the wide-to-narrow movement of naqab.

To be cursed is to become diminished - in size, stature or power. To bless is precisely the opposite. The verb barakh connotes expansion, proliferation, widening, becoming greater, larger, as in multiplying and filling the earth (Gen 1:22, 28), or becoming as numerous as the stars in the heavens (Gen 15:5, Gen 22:17, 26:4; Ex 32:13). The movement of barakh, in contradistinction to naqab and qilel, is narrow-to-wide, small-to-large.

Going back once again to our original verse, we can perhaps understand va-yiqov... et ha-shem, "cursing the name," as carrying both the destructive connotation of impaling, as well as the diminutive connotation of narrowing, confining. To curse the "name" of YHVH is to attempt to destroy God's reputation and legacy by diminishing it, as if to say, "May YHVH's power and influence atrophy." To say "barukh ha-shem," by contrast, is to amplify God's legacy, to wish for it to expand, proliferate, and thereby exert a greater influence in the world.

Special thanks to Professor Ed Greenstein of Bar-Ilan University, whose online lecture on metaphor in the Bible contributed greatly to this post.