Sin and Sin-Offering - The Duality of "Chatat"

 

"God created the possibility of repentance before He created the human capacity to sin." – Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks

 

Parashat Vayikra (Leviticus 1:1–5:26) introduces the sacrificial system known as korbanot, which means "bringing close." The Parashah lays the foundation for how humans relate to G-d through ritual, responsibility, and moral awareness.

The chatat (sin-offering) in Parashat Vayikra is one of the most conceptually rich korbanot because it deals not with deliberate rebellion, but with the quieter, more complex realm of unintentional wrongdoing.

Chatat first appears in Bresheet (Genesis 4:7). There, G-d says to Cain "lapetach chatat rovetz - sin crouches at the door; its desire is toward you, but you can rule over it."

In his most striking commentary on this verse, Rash”i explains that chatat has a dual meaning which can be understood in two interconnected ways. One is sin. The other, sin-offering.

On the simple level (peshat), chatat, in this verse means, "sin." Its portrayal, in a personified manner, suggests the image of a lurking, predatory animal, ready to pounce. It is an active, persistent force, always nearby, lying in wait, which, according to our sages reflects the human evil inclination.

Drawing on Beresheet Rabbah (22:6), Rash”i offers another, deeper, midrashic tier to the term. There, the sages interpret the words "at the door" as a sin-offering that is waiting at the threshold. In other words, G-d is telling Cain that even if he sins, he is not doomed, as an offering, an atonement is already available, accessible and is ever present. The threat of sin and the possibility of repair exist side by side.

While not directly commenting on this verse, the Talmud (tractate Yoma 86b) resonates a similar theological principle that Rash”i conjures which is, also, succinctly articulated in Rabbi Sacks’s words above, atonement is built into the structure of creation.

Rash”i’s reading of Beresheet becomes clearer when we reach the chatat offering in Parashat Vayikra. The “crouching sin,” especially the unintentional one, is defined as wrongdoing. The "chatat at the door" in Beresheet is transformed, here, into an actual sacrifice, giving humanity a structured and practical system of repair, thus enabling it to live with imperfection and still thrive.

In Beresheet, G-d says to Cain, "you can rule over it." Unfortunately for Cain, even though, as both Rash”i and Sacks assert, atonement is already in place, there is no structured path leading to it. In Cain’s world, human vulnerability and moral struggle exist, but the mechanisms of atonement are still undeveloped.  

Vayikra, as we can see, forges, for the first time, the "ruling over sin" into a concrete form. It transforms the chatat of Beresheet into a pathway for accountability, and a renewed closeness to G-d, via three stages. The first is recognition of the wrongdoing, the second is bringing chatat (sin-offering) and the final one is engaging in confession and atonement. Whereas in Beresheet, chatat is "lurking" and threatening, in Vayikra, it is institutionalized as a ritual of repair.

There remains, however, one key tension, was Cain’s sin eligible for what Vayikra defines as chatat?

In Vayikra, a chatat is brought for unintentional sin. Since Cain’s act of murder was intentional and premeditated, as Beresheet (4:8) suggests, then even within the later system, his sin would not qualify for a standard chatat. Rash”i, naturally, grapples with this dilemma. According to his framework, the answer is in a twofold message to Cain. The first which suggests that one can master his sin and hints that the path of repair is already available, is delivered to him before the act (4:7). The second focuses on what happens after the act where there is absence of repent when the Torah clearly shows that Cain is speaking to G-d (4:9) but fails to fully repent when no clear confession or transformation is evident.

Whatever interpretation one wishes to accept, one message is clear, the concept of chatat draws a poetic arc across the Torah, one that connects what is hinted in Beresheet and what becomes institutionalized in last week’s Parashah fusing the two into a beautiful symmetry. The Torah transforms sin from something that ambushes a person into something that can be confronted, processed, and corrected.

When Impatience and Spiritual Insecurity Take Over

 

                                   Exodus 32:1-35, illustration from a Bible card published in 1901 by the Providence Lithograph Company 

    "Faith is not certainty; it is the courage to live with uncertainty." – Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

Last week’s Parashah, Ki Tisa covers chapters 30:11 through 34:35, in the Book of Shemot (Exodus). It narrates one of the most dramatic and troubling, yet constitutive, moments in Am Yisrael’s history. I am referring to the episode of The Golden Calf which occurs shortly after the revelation at Mount Sinai.

 Fearing that Moshe may not comeback after his ascent to Mount Sinai, Am Yisrael demands that Aaron, his brother, erect a tangible image that would "go before them.“  The affair provokes a severe crisis between Am Yisrael and G-d, threatening the Covenant they entered with Him, merely a short time earlier. Enraged by this idolatry, Moshe breaks the two stone tablets engraved with the ten commandments, destroys the idol, and punishes the people.

Our sages have grappled with the meaning of this sin, what prompted it and the lessons one may draw from it. Many see it not merely as an act of idolatry but as a psychological and spiritual crisis when Am Yisrael felt abandoned, as expressed in verse 32:1 where the Torah emphasizes the anxiety of Am Yisrael when they believe that Moshe is not going to return,  “When the People saw that Moshe delayed his coming down from the mountain.... For this man Moshe....who brought us up from the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.”

Rash"i, more so than other commentators, tends to present the sin of the Golden Calf with a dose of sympathy and frequently stresses the circumstances and confusion that led to it. Though Rash"i does not excuse the gravity of the sin, he reads this verse as describing a crisis of patience. He explains that the Yisraelites expected Moshe to return after forty days but miscounted the days. In his commentary on this verse, Rash"i states that the people included the day Moshe ascended Mount Sinai, while the correct count began the following day causing fear and panic. 

Rash"i cites a related passage inTalmud Shabbat 89a which describes how Satan created the illusion that Moshe died, thus intensifying the People’s fear and impatience. It is important to note, at this point, that in Judaism, Satan refers to the Prosecutor in the Heavenly Court who functions as a prosecuting attorney, testing that faithfulness is genuine, as is the case in the Book of Job. Midrash Tanchuma (Ki Tisa 19) takes this test even farther when it describes how Satan creates a physical, magical illusion of the calf to lead them astray. This symbolic midrash proposes that Am Yisrael’s doubt and confusion were emotionally manipulated causing them to lose patience.

Rash"i further suggests that the People were utterly dependent on Moshe and interprets their request of “make us gods that will go before us,” as seeking a replacement for Moshe as a leader, not a replacement for G-d. Their reference to Moshe as “This man....” signals a moment of psychological distancing and their inability to sustain faith without a mediator between them and G-d.

Like Rash"i, Ramba"n also dwells on the emotional context.  He asserts that since the Yisraelites have only recently left Egypt, after hundreds of years of slavery, their faith is still fragile and is still influenced by Egyptian culture with its visible religious symbols. When Moshe did not return as they expected, their insecurity pushed them to seek something tangible.

However, while Rash"i focuses mostly on the circumstances that led to the sin, Ramba"n analyzes its theological implications. According to him, the Yisraelites did not wish to replace G-d. They intended to replace Moshe with a substitute leader who would mediate between them and G-d, as did Moshe. Through his broader theory of the origin of idolatry, Ramba"n asserts that people who believe in G-d often introduce intermediaries to make divine worship more tangible (Ramba"n Commentary on Torah, Exodus 32:1). This interpretation shows Am Yisrael’s spiritual insecurity and inability to maintain faith without a physical mediator. Mostly, it points out that the nascent Nation, has not yet internalized faith and that when the mediator disappears, faith collapses into insecurity.

The Golden Calf narrative is often understood not only as a prohibition against idolatry but also as a profound exploration of faith, leadership, and the challenges of maintaining trust in an invisible G-d. The story therefore serves as a timeless cautionary lesson about the dangers of substituting immediate comfort for enduring faith. In every generation, the challenge remains the same: whether to succumb to the allure of the “golden calf” in its various forms, or to remain steadfast in the covenantal values and spiritual trust that define the Jewish tradition.

With your permission, dear readers, I would like to conclude with the thoughtful words of my learned friend, Sara Marciano. She draws a compelling analogy between the biblical episode of the Golden Calf and the challenges facing modern-day Yisrael. Marciano suggests that certain sectors of the Israeli elite have amassed considerable power while, in her view, continuing to worship the "golden calf” and embrace values that distance us from our Jewish roots and from our eternal covenant with G-d. “It is worth reflecting carefully,” she writes, “on whether one should continue to bow before the "golden calf," thus aligning with the darker side of history and ultimately being shattered by it, or instead, rise with valour and oppose it.”

I choose the latter. What about you?

Shavua tov and blessings to all.

The Rainbow in the Clouds

 

“My rainbow I have placed in the cloud, and it shall be for a sign of a covenant between Myself and the earth.”  - Genesis 9:13

“The rainbow is the symbol of a world safe for diversity - many colours, one light.” - Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks.

This week’s Parasha, “Noach,” focuses on The Flood which G-d brings upon humanity for its pernicious conduct, His decision to salvage Noach drives Him to enter a covenant with him and all living creatures culminating with the promise to never again destroy the world by water. This act, suggests Lord Rabbi Sacks, is when “morality was born.”

The sign of the Noachide Covenant, as the verse above mentions, is the “Rainbow in the Cloud." 

The rainbow, as many of us know, is not the result of any wonderous miracle but rather a natural phenomenon with a simple scientific explanation. Science tells us that a rainbow is the result of the burst of the sun rays against the raindrops.                                             

However, in this Parashah, the choice of the image of the rainbow carries a deep symbolic moral and theological meaning and has been the topic of interpretation by many of our Jewish sages.

Rash”i, for instance, explains that the rainbow is a reminder of Divine Mercy. Whenever the world’s sins might justify destruction, G-d “sees the bow” and remembers His promise not to destroy humanity.

Ramba”n (Nachmanides) notes that the bow, symbolizing G-d’s weapon, points upward, curving away from the earth.

Midrash Rabba (Beresheet Rabbah 35:3), likewise, interprets the rainbow as a bow of Peace. Just as the warrior hangs up his weapon, G-d has “hung” His bow in the sky.” It serves as a gesture of reconciliation.

The Talmud, in Chagigah 16a, proposes that seeing the rainbow is a serious spiritual moment where one is expected to recite the following blessing, “Blessed are You, Lord our G-d, King of the universe who remembers the covenant, and is faithful to His covenant, and keeps His promise.”

The covenant of the rainbow, as mentioned above, is not limited to the Jewish People but extends to “every living creature.” Its universality is what prompts Lord Rabbi Sacks to focus his beautiful interpretation on the symbolism embedded in the rainbow's many colours. 

For Sacks, the rainbow's spectrum of colours symbolizes unity in diversity. Each colour, he notes, is distinct, yet together, they form one congenial whole. Just as the colours remain distinct yet form one harmonious arc, humanity too is meant to preserve difference within unity.

May the light of the Noachide rainbow, the sign of the covenant that celebrates moral responsibility and human diversity continue to shine upon us and be a constant reminder that even after the storm and after judgement, there is Hope, Renewal and a prospect for Peace.

Shabbat Shalom, fellow Jews and every blessing to all

Hester Panim - The Concealment of G-d’s Face

 

            “And I will hide my face because of all the evil they have committed” -       Deuteronomy 31:17 

The above verse is taken from this week’s parashah, “Vayelech,” one of the last parashot of the Torah and the shortest one. The term “hester panim” (hiding of the face), which the verse mentions, is paramount in Jewish religious philosophy. It describes times when G-d withdraws His visible presence and protection, allowing suffering, exile, or tragedy to befall the Jewish People.

Many find this verse problematic for both theological and existential reasons.  In my view, it challenges core beliefs in G-d’s justice, providence, mercy and covenantal faithfulness. It implies, so it may seem, that G-d hides His face in response to Yisrael’s sins, then tragedies are punishment.

As an offspring of generations of Jews who suffered persecution, slaughter and banishment (tracing back to the Spanish Inquisition and the 1492 Expulsion), and pogroms in Eastern Europe, the thought of these being the result of “hester panim” following their sins, is unsettling. Moreover, being a daughter, a “second generation,” to the Shoah, who glumly witnessed its effects on her parents, I find it hard to grasp such implications. Can we view those horrors where innocent souls, such as my four young cousins and many more, as simply the result of Divine “hiding?”

Divine absence, as the above verse may suggest, forced Jewish thinkers, over the ages, to grapple with their perception of it.  

The Talmud (Chagigah 5b) interprets hester panim as a state when G-d seems absent from Yisrael’s troubles, yet still suffers with them, “Even though I hide my face, I speak through dreams.” In other words, G-d’s withdrawal is never total; some divine communication remains.

Though it might seem that Rash”i suggests that the term implies that G-d will appear to withdraw his protection, leaving Am Yisrael vulnerable to its enemies, he mitigates its gravity. He believes that it is not abandonment. According to him, G-d is still present, but hidden. The purpose of the troubles that befall our People is to bring teshuvah (repentance).

Another Medieval scholar, Ramba”n sees hester panim as accounting for prolonged exile (Deuteronomy 28:64-65). Yisrael’s suffering, he believes, is merely a temporary concealment that preserves His covenantal promise for the future

Early modern scholars, like Rabbi Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl (Me’or Einayim, 1730-1797),  offer a more mystical interpretation. Rabbi Nachum teaches that G-d is within the concealment. The challenge of Jewish history, he notes, is to “see” G-d even when He seems absent.

The Hasidic view, as expressed by Rabbe Nachman of Breslov (1772-1811), a great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, speaks of “hester she-betoch hester” (a concealment within a concealment). Rabbe Nachman preaches that keeping faith at times of persecution and exile is the highest spiritual achievement. 

Unlike classical commentators who see hester panim as punishment for Am Yisrael’s transgressions, modern scholars, particularly post-Shoah ones, move away from the notion that tragedies are punishments. They shift the focus to G-d, allowing human freedom, even when it leads to horrific evil.

In his book, Faith After the Holocaust, Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits argues that hester panim is G-d’s way of safeguarding human free will. The Shoah, he believes, is not Divine retribution but the consequence of G-d allowing history to unfold without miraculous intervention. 

Similarly, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that the term does not mean that G-d has abandoned Am Yisrael or broken the covenant. Rather, he asserts, it means that G-d is no longer visibly and miraculously intervening in history. Sacks further suggests that after the biblical era of prophecy and open miracles, G-d chose to be present in hidden ways, through human choice, covenantal responsibility and moral action.

Personally, as a non observant Jewish woman that feels a strong bond with G-d and who believes that He is good, I lean towards accepting the view of modern interpreters who often stress the existential meaning of hester panim, which tests faith when G-d’s guiding hand seems hidden. Rather than proof of G-d’s abandonment, I see the term as a paradoxical part of the Covenant entered with our forefathers, where even in covertness, G-d remains present, still affirming His ongoing relationship with His People.

Ktivah V’Chatima tova to my fellow Jews and Am Yisrael, and a good year to all.

Covenantal Accountability and Free Will

 

 

              “It is not with you alone that I am making this sworn covenant,   but with whoever is standing here with us today before the Lord our G-d, and with whoever is not here with us today” (Deuteronomy 29:13-14).

              “Life and death I have set before you, blessing and curse. And you shall choose life.” (Deuteronomy 30:19)

  

On his final day, Moshe gathers Am Yisrael for the purpose of renewing their Brit (Covenant) with G-d. The name of the parashah, “Nitzavin,” hints at the solemnity of the occasion. “Nitzav” means “standing” in Hebrew. However, as commentators like Rash”i and Sforno suggest, it means more than just “standing.” It carries the sense of standing firmly, uprightly, with presence, and resolve to honour this important milestone in Jewish history

Parashat Nitzavim includes some of the most fundamental principles of the Jewish faith. This essay will focus on two of them.

The first stresses collective accountability, as the words “whoever is not with us today,” in the first quote above (Deuteronomy 29:13-14) alludes to. The Torah, it tells us, applies to every Jew at all times and is binding on every Jew even those not born yet. All members of Am Yisrael are original covenant partners. In other words, Our Covenant with G-d is not just historical but eternal.

“The phrase, ‘whoever is not here,’ explains Lord Rabbi Sacks, “cannot refer to Yisraelites alive at the time who happened to be somewhere else……since the entire nation was assembled there. Moshe can only mean ‘generations not yet born’…..By agreeing to be G-d’s People,” concludes Sacks, “subject to G-d’s laws, our ancestors obligated us all.”

Midrash Tanchuma (Nitzavim 3) and Talmud (Shavuot 39a) interpret the phrase, which has been central in Jewish thought, “all Jewish souls, past, present, and future, were spiritually present.” 

Ramba”n (Nachmanides) goes even further and asserts that this phrase also includes gerim (further converts to Judaism). Even those who would one day join Yisrael were foreseen and included (proving that Torah’s reach is beyond biological descent).

Sforno highlights the  responsibility and solidarity facet of our Jewish faith suggesting that the covenant is binding on every individual because Yisrael functions as a community where all are responsible for one another.

What these verses establish is that Judaism is a timeless, transgenerational commitment.

The second paramount principle of the parashah that this article wishes to address is Free Will. It is reflected in the second verse above (Deuteronomy 30:19).  There, Moshe, in a stirring declaration, calls upon the People to “choose life,” a declaration that is often cited as the clearest statement of human Free Will.

It seems that at the heart of Parashat Nitzavim lies a profound tension between destiny and free will. It stems from the paradox it echoes. On the one hand, how can unborn generations be forced into a covenant that they never chose, if individuals truly have free will? On the other hand, if a nation as a whole is accountable for each member’s conduct, does that diminish the individual’s authority?

This tension did not escape Jewish thinkers and commentators who were trying to reconcile the two conflicting themes.

Ramba”n and Abrabanel teach us that just as any child is born into a family without choosing it, so too, every Jew is born into the Covenant. The Covenant in their view is a national identity contract which defines our Peoplehood. Ramba”m (Hilchot Teshuvah 5) stresses that though the Covenant is permanent, every human being is fully free to choose obedience or disobedience. How one lives in that Covenant is left to each person’s free choice.

Midrash (Shabbat 88a) contends that though the Covenant binds us objectively, every generation must subjectively re-embrace it by choice.

Modern Jewish thinkers also address this tension between the binding covenant and free choice in Nitzavim.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (1903-1993) distinguishes between Covenant of Fate (Brit Goral) which “coerced”  future generations into a Covenant of Fate since they were born into it and Covenant of Destiny (Brit Yi’ud) in which every individual must freely choose to live out the covenant of destiny (Kol Dodi Dofek...The Lonely Man of Faith).

In Covenant and Conversation on Nitzavim, Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains that Covenant is not tyranny but rather a partnership. G-d gives people freedom to choose how to respond, including the possibility of failure, exile and redemption. For Sacks, the phrase “choose life” demonstrates that while we inherit the Covenant, its fulfillment depends on moral freedom.

Rav Kook (1865-1935) asserts that the eternal Covenant means that every Jew, even if they reject it consciously, retains a spark of connection. The manner in which that spark of connection is expressed is left to the individual’s free will.

The lesson that Parashat Nitzavim teaches us is that the Covenant is inescapable as collective identity. Every Jew past, present or future is born into it. However, within that, it points out that every person retains absolute Free Will in how to live, respond, or rebel. The Covenant gives the framework, Free Will determines the journey.

Cities of Refuge

“You shall designate cities for yourselves; they shall be Cities of Refuge for you, and a murderer who killed a person unintentionally shall flee there” Bamidbar  (Numbers) 35:11

As Am Yisrael is about to enter the Promised Land, Moshe is instructed to designate six “cities of refuge,” three on each side of the Jordan river, to which anyone who accidentally kills a person can escape.  The purpose of such cities is to provide refuge, where the killer will be safe from being killed by a blood relative of the dead.

 

The vengeance of blood (or blood revenge) was a central concept in justice systems across the Ancient Near East. It refers to the right or duty of a family member to avenge the killing of a relative—usually through killing the murderer. This practice shaped legal codes, tribal customs, and religious thought in many ancient cultures. 

The Code of Hammurabi (18th century BCE), for instance, includes provisions for blood vengeance. In case someone kills another, the victim’s family could put that person to death. Retribution, in this Code, was based on lex talionis, “an eye for an eye.” Blood vengeance was also present in Hittite, Ugarit and Canaanite as well as in the ancient Hebrew laws.

However, as Lord Rabbi Sacks explains, in early societies, where blood vengeance was practiced, “there was a concern that people would take the law into their own hands,” which “would begin a cycle of vengeance and retaliation,” where, “one revenge-killing leading to another and another, until the community had been decimated.” 

In order to prevent unjust violence, it was, therefore, important to distinguish between murder, a deliberate killing and manslaughter, unintentional death. 

Over time, Ancient Near Eastern Societies, such as those mentioned above, moved toward a centralized legal system which distinguished between these two forms of killings. It gradually restricted blood vengeance as well as allowing kings and temples to assume more authority in criminal justice. Additionally, legal codes ( e.g.,Hammurabi, Mosaic law) attempted to channel vengeance through regulated procedures or sanctuary laws and permitted compensation in the form of monetary payment in place of blood revenge. 

While the notion of sanctuary or places of refuge which are one of the themes in this week’s Parasha, Masei, also existed in Mesopotamian societies, these were mostly confined to religious sites. The formalized, legalistic system of the Mosaic Cities of Refuge, though, is a distinct development. They did not have solely religious and legal importance; they also had moral and symbolic significance. 

Firstly, these cities did not only provide protection from vengeance, mostly for the accidental killer from the blood avenger who could seek retribution. They also prevented further bloodshed and more killings. 

Secondly, legally, the Mosaic concept provided due process. Although the main purpose of cities of refuge was to protect the accidental killer, in practice, murderers who killed intentionally went there as well (Talmud, Makkot 9b and 12a). Upon arriving in the City of Refuge, the court sent messengers to escort that person while, also, acting as his bodyguards and bring him in for a hearing. If the judges decreed that the murder was intentional, the verdict would be accordingly. However, if the judges ruled that his act of killing was unintentional, the messengers would accompany him back to the city of refuge for a mandatory stay. So long as the killers remained within the city limits, they were protected by law. They had to remain there until the death of the High Priest.

The mandatory stay in the City of Refuge is aimed at teaching a symbolic and spiritual lesson. The symbolic exile to a City of Refuge suggests a form of penance and moral reflection. It is aimed to tell us that even unintentional death is serious and requires atonement and rehabilitation. According to Ramba”n, it is a means to carry out Divine justice.Taking a life, he suggests, whether intentional or not, upsets the moral balance of the world.

The spirtual lesson relates to the revered status of the High Priest who represented the collective soul of the People. His death, which provided communal atonement and allowed the killer to leave the city, stressed the High Priest’s spiritual role for the nation. 

Midrash takes the importance of the role of the City of Refuge even one step higher. It explicitly compares the City of Refuge to Torah. “Just as the Cities of Refuge save lives, so, too, does Torah.”Midrash Tanhuma Buber (Appendix to Va’Etchanan,4).  In other words, just as someone, who accidentally killed someone, could find safety in a City of Refuge, engaging with Torah provides spiritual refuge, protection and healing.

It is noteworthy to mention that to ensure the clear and open access to justice, Talmud stresses the importance of precise and well marked signage to cities of refuge. “The roads to the Cities of Refuge were to be well-maintained and signposted….” (Makkot, 9b-10a). Likewise, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Rotzeach u’Shmirat Nefesh (law of Murder and Protection of Life) where Ramba”m codifies the laws of the cities of refuge, he writes: “The court must prepare and repair the roads leading to the Cities of Refuge…They must build bridges, remove obstacles, and post signs: ‘Miklat (refuge)! Miklat!’ so that no one errs on the way. (Hilchot Rotzeach 8:5).

The sanctity of life is of utmost importance in the Torah and Jewish tradition. The Cities of Refuge reflect this value. They highlight the Torah’s underlying view of justice, combining accountability, compassion and restorative principles. They offer a deeply humane approach to dealing with bloodshed, tragedy, moral responsibility, spiritual growth and societal healing.

The Balance Sheet of Moshe's Sin and Its Punishment

 

“.........therefore, you will not bring this congregation into the land that I have given them.” – Numbers 20:12

Over three decades ago, I visited Jordan for the first time. One of the points of our tour was the site of the Biblical Mount Nevo, part of the Abarim mountain range. As I was standing there, inhaling the breathtaking view of “The Promised Land,” I could not help but think of Moshe, the greatest leader of Am Yisrael. The words of G-d’s decree to him, as expressed in Deuteronomy 32:52, “For from afar you will see the land, but you will not come there, to the land I am giving the children of Yisrael” were echoing against my Jewish essence and aching my heart. In my mind’s eye, I could picture Moshe standing there seeing his life’s goal his dissolving into dust. G-d delivered the punishment He had decreed, as stated in the verse above from this week’s Parasha, Chukat.

Many Jewish scholars have deliberated and discussed the incident related to the verse above. There are two questions concerning Moshe’s action and its ensuing punishment that I would like to address here.

The first focuses on the sin itself. The Parasha tells us that Bnei Yisrael are thirsty. G-d commands Moshe and Aharon to speak to the rock so that water will come forth. Instead, Moshe hits the rock, twice. The question that is begging to be asked is, if the directive given by G-d mentions speaking to the rock, why would hitting it turn Moshe's act from what might be regarded a minor form of disobedience into a sin, especially in light of past experience where G-d orders him to hit a rock, at Horev, in order to draw water (Exodus 17:1-7)?  

Rash”i bases his answer on Midrash. He believes that speaking would have been a greater Kiddush Hashem (sanctification of G-d’s name), indicating that even a rock obeys G-d’s word.

Ramba”m suggests that Moshe’s sin was losing his temper and calling the people “rebels.” It was a failure of leadership by displaying anger thus setting a poor example.

I would like to take Ramba"m’s interpretation one step further, one that is not a traditional theological one. I would suggest a psychological perspective where the act of hitting the rock might be perceived as “projection.” In psychoanalytical terms, “projection” is a defense mechanism where  internal frustration, anger or impatience, in this case with Am Yisrael, manifests itself physically by hitting the rock instead of speaking to it.

The second question has, likewise, been preoccupying our sages over time. It centers on balancing between the sin and its punishment.

Jewish tradition emphasizes that sin has consequences. The Babylonian Talmud clarifies that punishment should be proportionate. It was Rabbi Shmuel Bar Nachmani, speaking for Rabbi Yonatan, who coined the Hebrew phrase, “Mida Keneged Mida” meaning “measure for measure.” (Sanhedrin, p.90, column a). The phrase refers to the concept of Divine retribution, where deeds are met with a corresponding consequence, negative or positive, suggesting that G-d’s judgment is not arbitrary but rather reflects the nature of the action performed.

Moreover, the Talmud clarifies that warnings are necessary before melting out punitive action. “Ein onshin elah im kein mazhirim” is a Talmudic dictum which means that a punitive action is not meted out for the transgression of a prohibition unless there is a prior scriptural warning. (Makkot 17b).

It is obvious that Moshe was not forewarned about any consequences that his actions might carry. However, the more important part of this question, as crystallized by Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, is what "offence could warrant so great a punishment as not to be privileged to see the conclusion of the mission he had been set by G-d?" A just question. Sacks is not the only one who addresses the disproportionality between Moshe's sin and its punishment.

The commentaries and debates on this issue are as numerous as those who dwelled on it in search of an answer.

In his commentary on the Torah, Rabbi Don Isaac Abravanel (15th-century Spanish-Portuguese commentator) suggests that Moshe's and Aaron's punishment for not entering the Promised Land was not solely due to the incident of striking the rock instead of speaking to it.  Abravanel proposes that their actions were the proximate cause and not the sole cause for their exclusion. 

According to Abravanel, their punishment is the result of past transgressions. Moshe's punishment was connected to his role in the Sin of the Spies, resulting in forty years of wandering. Aaron's punishment, on the other hand, was attributed, by Abravanel, to his participation in the Golden Calf incident. 

Abravanel argues that to protect their honour, these previous sins were not explicitly stated as the reason for their punishment in the biblical text. Their failure to enter the Promised Land was not the consequence of that single mishap but rather a culmination of earlier transgressions. It merely served as the trigger, allowing G-d to administer the punishment for those earlier, more significant sins (Perush Abravanel al HaTorah)

Today, thirty-some years after my visit to Mount Nevo, my heart still throbs at the recollection of the experience. Perhaps G-d held him to a stricter standard, I often wander and he was, therefore, decreed to die in the wilderness, I keep repeating to myself. 

There is no doubt, though, that Moshe was a great leader and a supreme teacher. If not for his great leadership, we would have never left Egypt. His leadership, as we know, was short-lived. His legacy as a teacher, on the other hand, has lasted for over several millennia, and will forever continue to light the path not only for our Jewish People but for humanity as a whole.

Remembering Forward

 

“Without memory, there is no culture. Without memory, there would be no civilization, no society, no future” - Elie Wiesel

“Memory is deceptive because it is coloured by today’s events.” – Albert Einstein

“To be a Jew is to know that over an above history is the task of memory” – Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

 

The command to remember is an important pillar in our Jewish tradition. “The imperative of the Hebrew word zachor,” asserts David Pillegi, “is mentioned more than twenty-five times” in the Tanach (Jerusalem Post, March 29,2012). The Jewish year, accordingly, is mottled with many memorial days, national and private.

One of my favourite modern Yisraeli poets, Yehudah Amichai (May 3, 1924 – September 22, 2000), also, dwells on the notion of memory. “The world is filled with remembering and forgetting,” he writes. Amichai likens memory and forgetfulness to “dry land” and “sea” as metaphors to our duplicate realities which, he believes, are elements of our existence. “Dry land,” he suggests, is the memory of our starting point, our past, the anchor that keeps our feet secure on the ground. The “sea” is a metaphor for the unknown that awaits us in the days ahead. It is an unpredictable zone where we sail into the future in our desperate effort to hold on to forgetting memories, the ones that threaten to overwhelm, drown our essence in their torrent and prevent us from forming a future. Only those who have a stable dock on dry land, suggests Amichai, have some firm fulcrum, to which they can return to and safely resume their daily routine.  

Though our Jewish heritage prizes memory, I must admit that in my many years of interaction with Jewish communities around the world, I have encountered, on more than one occasion, the desire to forget and consciously erase our bad memories. Many Jewish parents want to spare their children the exposure to dark chapters in our history for fear that such a disclosure might affect them emotionally.

One example that comes to mind is during the time that I lived in New Zealand. I was once asked to conduct the Passover Seder at some friend’s house. All went well until I got to the part where the ten plagues were mentioned. When I reached the tenth one, where the first-born son of every Egyptian family was smitten, the father stopped me and said, “we don’t talk about death to our children…..” I was dumbfounded. Though I understood that the father’s silence and the temptation to forget, stemmed from concern, at the same time, I felt that it created a distortion. How could anyone not mention this very constitutive and cardinal act in our Jewish history? Can we raise a new generation without exposing it to the painful segments of the story?

This, however, is not merely a matter of a private case. Throughout history, many Jews elected to forget. That choice was the product of the yearning to prevent trauma and the wish to enable a future for their children.  Regrettably, though, it has always been at the cost of sacrificing the vital role of memory.

Jewish culture puts memory at the center of our collective identity. The Talmud (Yoma 56,1) teaches us that authentic remembering of events, good and bad, is the first move towards tikkun, improvement. Rabbi Nachman Bar Yitzchak, similarly, suggests that genuine memory leads towards action and change (Kiddushin 40, 2)

The horrors of the Shoah, a more recent sad episode in our People’s history, which happened eighty years ago, is another example of such a tendency. Sadly, quite a few Jews, both in Yisrael and elsewhere, spare details of that chapter from their children again, for fear of the impact it might have on their emotional well-being.

More recently, Yisrael has experienced one of the most horrific pogroms since the Shoah. I am referring to the massacre that took place close to two years ago on the Holy Day of Simchat Torah, which is better known by its Gregorian calendar date as, October 7^th, 2023. Despite the fresh memories of this bloodbath, many, including adults my age, refuse to see footage of the carnage or listen to the testimonies of its survivors.

This discrepancy between the necessity to remember and the wish to forget, between the “dry land” and the “sea,” as we have witnessed, engaged Amichai. In another poem, he offers yet another metaphor. This one is in the form of a “dam.”  This “dam,” implies Amichai, stands for the present tense, the stage in which we are. Just like a dam which controls the flow of water, Amichai’s “dam” allows us to release or block the flow of memory between the “dry land” and the “sea.”

It is at this point that the quote by Einstein, above, is brought into play. If the control over this “dam” is subject to our emotional and political agenda or is “coloured by today’s events,” in Einstein’s words, it might reshape the past not in accordance with historical facts, but by the demands of the present. Should we redraw our past? Should our “coloured” present determine which parts of our past be remembered or perhaps suppressed? What should be the fate of painful, yet essential and identity defining chapters in our history?

Memory is not merely what we choose to remember. Rather, it is the courage not to forget. Remembering forward requires of us, as Jews, to preserve the past, the good and the bad, without granting us the permission to rewrite it.

Ner Tamid (Perpetual Light)

 

                                      “Command the Yisraelites to bring you clear oil of pressed olives for the                                             illumination of the perpetual light.”  - Exodus 27:2

Throughout history and across cultures, the notion of Light is one of the most universal and central symbols. Unlike darkness, which is associated with evil, suffering and the unknown, Light, conveys goodness, hope and spirituality.

The concept of Light runs like a golden thread in Judaism, its tradition and commandments and captures an immense role and significance in our Jewish culture. It is almost impossible to fathom Judaism without the notion of Light and candles which are used for various functions such as holy days celebrations and as commemoration and other special occasions.

G-d’s directive regarding Ner Tamid, above, was given to Moshe as part of the commandment to construct the Tabernacle, the portable earthly dwelling of G-d which was used by Am Yisrael throughout their wanderings in the desert until the conquest of Canaan. The instructions to assemble the Tabernacle such as its measurements, listing the vessels and their roles, the garb of the priests or the performance of the rituals, also include detailed guidelines surrounding the precepts and affiliated role and purpose of Ner Tamid (Leviticus 6:5-6).

Upon the erection of Solomon’s Temple, all rituals and religious duties, including those surrounding Ner Tamid, were relocated and placed in it. After the destruction of the Temple, the tradition of Ner Tamid was shifted to the synagogue where it is placed in front of Aron haKodesh, Ark of the Holy, where the Torah scrolls are kept.

The theme of Light can be spotted in various places along our Tana”ch and symbolizes different quality. For instance, the term is an important component of the constitutive and well-known idiomatic phrases concerning our calling as a People. Our destiny to be a “Light unto the Nations” is proclaimed by the prophet Isaiah (42:6). The role that G-d has fated for us, as a “Nation of Priests,” according to Isaiah, was to represent Him to the world by our meritorious lifestyle and by becoming a beau ideal to humanity.

For King Solomon, though, Light symbolizes the Spirit of Man as he suggests in Proverbs 20:27: “The human spirit is the lamp of G-d that sheds light on one’s inmost being.” For others, such as Erica Brown, the light of the Ner Tamid is a reminder of “the flame that burned but did not consume the burning bush where Moses received his calling.” (“The perpetual flame: Thoughts on Parashat Tzav”. The Torah Leadership, March 30, 2023).

The absence of Light, on the other hand, is used as a form of punishment, in our Jewish scriptures. In the Babylonian Talmud, Megillah tractate, for instance, Rabbi Yosi (1st century) quotes one of the curses that Moshe warned Am Yisrael against, lest they move away from their Covenant with G-d, “At midday you will grope about like a blind person in the dark” (Deuteronomy 28:29). In its literal meaning, this curse denotes that even at noon, when it is expected to be light, darkness shall prevail.

Rabbi Yossi, however, recounts the following story which helps us understand this verse differently and in a more positive, uplifting and optimistic manner. As he was leaving the prayer house, one evening, shares with us Rabbi Yosi, he met a blind man. The blind man held a burning torch which spread a bright light.

Rather surprised, Rabbi Yosi stopped and asked the man for the purpose of holding the torch. After all, if the man is blind, then day and night should look the same as far as his blindness was concerned.

The blind man explained that so long as he was holding the burning torch, people could see him and save him from getting hurt. The torch, asserted the blind and wise man, was not to show him the way, but rather to ensure that others noticed him and came to his rescue. For him the burning flame of the torch provided Faith and Trust. It was a holy fire.

It is this kind of “holy fires” that Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, ZT”L is referring to in his column in The Times, “Somehow faith outlives every attempt to destroy it. Its symbol is not the fierce fire that burned synagogues and sacred scrolls and murdered lives. It is the fragile flame we, together with our children and grandchildren, light in our homes, singing G-d’s story, sustained by our hope.” (“The Flame of Faith that has Survived all Tyranny,” The Times, December 19, 2008).

May the Perpetual Light of the Ner Tamid continue to shine over us all and point us in the right direction where we can bind with our fellow men and women and, together, continue to bask in the glory of Hope and Wisdom that it spreads for the benefit of us all.

 

Happy Purim, dear Am Yisrael