Joseph and his brother

When you read “Vayeshev’’ enough times, the story starts sounding rather melodramatic and almost day-time-television-like: there’s sibling rivalry and betrayal, sexual harassment, false accusations and undue imprisonment, heart-broken fathers and in-laws who don’t keep their word, a woman who dresses like a prostitute—you name it. There is also a good brother and an evil one, although they are not twins separated at birth. The leading role, of course, belongs to Joseph if only because this portion is the beginning of a four-part arc leading up to the next book, Exodus.

The story of Joseph’s trials and tribulations in Egypt is suddenly interrupted by a seemingly unrelated account of the life story of Judah, one of his brothers, the one who, in fact, played the most instrumental role in selling Joseph into Egyptian slavery. So, why do we need to know how many sons Judah had and how he mistreated his daughter-in-law and how she bore him twins after entrapping him under the guise of a prostitute?

I think, Judah is a more human character, compared to Joseph. Among his twelve siblings, Joseph is the most beloved and spoiled by his father. He is handsome, dresses in chic clothes distinct from his brothers’, and gets attention and favors from powerful women and men. Good things, even in the worst of circumstances, happen to him without much effort on his part: as the portion states on several occasions, “the Lord lent success to everything Joseph undertook.” He is even quite arrogant: without hesitation or an afterthought he tells his parents and brothers his dreams where they all bow to him as their ruler. He comes off almost superhuman.

Judah, on the other hand, appears to be a deeply flawed man. It was his idea to sell Joseph to the Egyptians. He does not keep his promise to his daughter-in-law to let her marry his youngest son when she is widowed twice. He is not in big favor with the Lord, who takes lives of Judah’s two sons, presumably as a punishment for their father’s transgressions. On the other hand, we see him recognize his flaws and his mistakes: when the brothers want to kill Joseph, he dissuades them saying “after all he is our brother, our own flesh”; when Tamar gets pregnant from him, Judah acknowledges that she is more in the right than he is because he did not keep his word. And as such, to me Judah is not only more human but more sympathetic. As all of us, he struggles with his demons and often, although not always, overcomes his shortcoming. He ends up a righteous man but after years of inner struggles and blunders.

What is even more significant is the fact that he is the ancestor of the messiah. Emancipation of the Jews and entire humanity comes not so much from the perfect Joseph but from his brother Judah—despite or maybe precisely because of all his faults and imperfections and his efforts to overcome them.

Blessings for Wells (פרשת תולדות)

In פרשת תולדות (Gen. 25:19 to 28:9) both Isaac and Jacob receive blessings. Although in both instances others call their deservingness into question, the Torah suggests that the blessings are neither arbitrary nor unconditional, but tied to the fulfillment of spiritual responsibilities.

Despite a famine in Canaan, Hashem tells Isaac: "Sojourn in this land and I will be with you and bless you; for to you and to your offspring will I give all these lands, and I will establish the oath that I swore to Abraham your father: 'I will increase your offspring like the stars of the heavens; and will give to your offspring all these lands'; and all the nations of the earth shall bless themselves by your offspring" (Gen. 26:2-4). The blessing includes both possession of the Land and fertility for Abraham and his descendants. Moreover, the fertility seems to extend to the land as well. "Isaac sowed in that land, and in that year he reaped a hundredfold" (Gen. 26:12-14). While this blessing may seem to be unconditional, a closer reading suggests it is tied to spiritual responsibilities. Hashem prefaces the blessing by telling Isaac, "Do not descend to Egypt" (Gen. 26:2). This warning carries a symbolic meaning as well as a literal meaning, i.e., do not descend spiritually to Egypt and all it represents. Hashem also reminds Isaac of his spiritual responsibilities at the end of the blessing: "Because Abraham obeyed My voice, and observed My safeguards, My commandments, My edicts, and My Torahs" (Gen. 26: 5).

The Philistines are envious of the blessing bestowed upon Isaac (Gen. 26:14). They also dwell in the Land, but--as evidenced by the famine--it doesn't bloom for them the way it does for him. Moreover, they see Isaac's prosperity as both a threat and a usurpation. Abimelech, the Philistine king, tells Isaac: לך מעמנו כי–עצמת ממנו מאר (Gen. 26:16). He expels Isaac ("go away from us"), and in Hebrew the reason for the expulsion can be rendered in two ways: "because you have become mightier than us" or "because you have become mighty from us." The first reading indicates fear of Isaac's power, the second the notion that Isaac has dispossessed the Philistines of what is rightfully theirs.

The Torah suggests that if the Land blooms for Isaac and not for the Philistines, it is because Isaac has shown himself to be spiritually fit. In contrast to the Philistines, who make the land desolate by stopping up the wells that Abraham dug in the Negev desert, Isaac re-digs them (Gen. 26:15-18). If the well symbolizes the womb and if (as Nehama Leibowitz says) "water means life," then to stop up the wells is to stifle fertility. (The fact that Isaac is redigging his father's wells suggests an additional Freudian interpretation, but I'll leave that aside for now.) Moreover, according to some readings, re-digging the wells is not only an act of physical reclamation but a fulfillment of spiritual responsibilities as well. One rabbinical commentator emphasizes that Isaac called the wells "by the same names that his father had called them" (Gen. 26:18). Like Abraham, Isaac called the wells "by the name of the Lord" to remind all who used the wells that Hashem was the source of the water and thus of life and thus of blessings. In this way, both Abraham and Isaac were public educators who used the wells for pedagogical purposes. In contrast, according to this midrash, the Philistines "reverted to idolatry" after Abraham's death "and in order to erase from their memory the names of these wells, which recalled the very opposite of their false opinions, they stopped up the wells."

We find a parallel in the story of Isaac's sons, Jacob and Esau. Just as Isaac appeared to the Philistines as an illegitimate usurper and dispossesser, so Jacob appears to Esau when he acquires his older brother's birthright for a mess of pottage (Gen. 25:29-34) and, by means of trickery and deception, their father's blessing (Gen. 27:1-40). In fact, the Hebrew root (עקב) of Jacob's name (יעקב) means "to overreach" or "to supplant."

But here too the Torah suggests that Jacob's usurpation is only apparent. If Jacob receives the blessing, it is because his brother Esau shows himself to be spiritually unfit. Esau married two Hittite women, who "were a provocation of the spirit to Isaac and Rebecca" (Gen. 26:34). Rashi comments: "All of the actions of [Esau's wives] were a cause of anguish to Isaac and Rebecca because they worshipped idols." According to the Talmud, Esau himself became an idolator, presumably through the influence of his wives. Rather than teaching them the ways of Hashem, as Abraham and Isaac endeavored to do with the wells, Esau learns their idolatrous ways. For this reason Rebecca tells Isaac "I am disgusted with my life on account of the daughters of Heth" (i.e., the Hittite daughters-in-law) and why they take great pains to ensure that Jacob will not follow in his older brother's footsteps (Gen. 27:46, 28:1-8). What's more, when Esau complains to his father that Jacob deprived him of the paternal blessing that Esau expected, Isaac answers him this way: "Your brother you shall serve; yet it shall be that when you will be aggrieved, you may remove his yoke from upon your neck" (Gen. 27:40). What Isaac means, Rashi explains, is that "when Israel will transgress the Torah, and you will have a claim to be aggrieved over the blessings that [Jacob] took, 'You may remove his yoke, etc.'" Once again, we find that blessings come with spiritual responsibilities and depend upon their fulfillment.

Morals and Manners

If blessings warrant spiritual commitments, one would expect them also to be contingent on moral and ethical standing of the person receiving them. But “Toldot,” this week’s portion, and its later rabbinical readings send mixed messages in this regard.

In the portion, Jacob appears at best as a clever trickster when he barters his twin-brother’s primogeniture for a plate of lentil soup and at worst as a con artist scheming Esau not only out of their father’s blessing but also out of a significant chunk of inheritance (according to tradition, firstborn got twice as much as other sons). In the latter instance he also deceives their elderly, blind, dying father by pretending—with the help of elaborate costume—to be Esau and be named as the ruler of their people. And when Jacob is discovered to have lied to his father and cheated his brother, he happily allows his mother to send him away under false pretenses. This behavior is hardly suited one of the patriarchs of the Jewish people. Deception, fraud, evading responsibility for one’s actions are by no means markers of high morality. So does this mean that Jacob, the future forebear of the twelve tribes and arguably the most important of the patriarchs, is undeserving of his father’s blessing or that morality is not a necessary condition for paternal and divine sanctification?

According to traditional rabbinical interpretations, Jacob’s attainment of the privileges of the firstborn is not only not reprehensible, but right and fair because Esau is not worthy to offer sacrifices (the prerogative of the firstborn) and be the heir to the covenant of Abraham and Isaac. While the portion describes Esau as a hunter and an outdoorsman, Jacob is portrayed as a gentle man who stays in camp where he presumably studies Torah. To emphasize the purported difference between uncivilized Esau and cultivated Jacob, the former is said to be hairy while his brother—“smooth;” the Talmud makes physical distinctions between the two brothers even more obvious: Jacob was born clean, handsome, and circumcised and Esau—covered with hair all over, red in color, and with all his teeth developed. Talmud’s retrospective description of the twins is supposed to symbolize spiritual differences between Jews (offspring of Jacob) and pagans—descendants of Esau who married two Hittite women and, supposedly, through them becomes an idolater himself. Therefore, it is Jacob who is presented as a more virtuous successor to Abraham and Isaac and hence a more suitable beneficiary of the privileges of primogeniture. In short, he is a better Jew (to use an anachronism) and this makes him entitled to Isaac’s blessing even though he obtains it dishonestly. Thus, ethics trumps morality: particularistic religious commandments supersede universal principles of truth.

To me, this raises two problems. First, it makes me wonder whether immoral means can really justify ethical ends. I believe that such interpretation of Jacob’s transgressions suggests that misdeeds against fellow human beings—compatriots, co-religionists, comrades, as well as “the others”—can be absolved if they are committed in the name of god. But what about offenses that are explicitly proscribed by one’s religion, which in Jacob’s case would be, for example, disrespecting for one’s parents, telling lies, thievery, or envy (see Ten Commandments for more precise formulation)? Here morality encoded in particular religious laws contradicts other ethical behaviors mandated by the same doctrine.

Secondly, Talmud’s whitewashing of Jacob’s actions aims at presenting him as an ever-righteous, unswerving, loyal man who from birth was predestined to greatness and never faltered in his mission. However, this also makes him one-dimensional and precludes any possibility of personal, spiritual, or moral growth, which is not only uninteresting dramaturgically but also narratively incorrect since after many years of living away from home and being deceived himself Jacob returns to ask for Esau’s forgiveness.

Furthermore, it is precisely this overcoming of one’s moral and spiritual failings—as we will also see in the story of Jacob’s son Judah (the progenitor of the messiah) in “Vayeishev” in several weeks—that is rewarded with eminence and renown for himself and his successors.

Who Speaks for the Trees? (פרשת שפטים)

Last week's portion (שפטים or "Judges," Deuteronomy 16:18 to 21:9) begins with the stirring injunction: "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (Deuteronomy 16:20). The rest of the portion elaborates what it means to pursue justice, including justice in war. Among other things, justice in war requires us to exempt from battle a man who has just married, built a home, planted a vineyard, or is "afraid and disheartened"; obligates us to offer terms of peace before attacking a city; and prevents us from cutting down a fruit tree when laying siege:

When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the axe against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down (Deuteronomy 20:19).

Following these lines, at the end of the verse, is an ambiguous statement:

כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה, לָבֹא מִפָּנֶיךָ בַּמָּצוֹר

At first glance, I would translate it this way:

Because the man is a tree of the field to come before you in the siege.

Others translate it differently:

Robert Alter: "For is the tree of the field a human, to come away from you in the siege?"

JPS: "Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city?"

My grandmother's 1960 Menorah Press translation: "For is the tree of the field man, that it should be besieged of thee?"

Sapirstein/ArtScroll with Rashi's commentary: "Is, then, the tree of the field a man, that it should enter the siege before you?"

All the translations except my own read the sentence as a rhetorical question. In this respect, they all follow Rashi and therefore rest on good authority. Even so, this is an inference on the part of Rashi and other translators; it's not self-evident, because the original Hebrew text has no question marks.

Turns out I'm not entirely alone in my idiosyncratic reading. Apparently Ibn Ezra also refused to see in this sentence an interrogatory statement. And as Nehama Leibowitz points out, these alternative readings "reflect not only divergent grammatical approaches to the text. They inevitably lead to actual differences in meaning and implication." According to Rashi's interpretation, "the ordinance is inspired by compassion for whatever G-d has created." (What did that poor tree ever do to you?) But according to Ibn Ezra's interpretation, "the ordinance is motivated by considerations of human welfare." He understands "man is a tree of the field" to mean that man depends on the tree to sustain himself, or (as a rabbinic midrash puts it) the life of man is only from the tree. This is also consistent with the King James translation: "thou shalt not cut them down (for the tree of the field is man's life) to employ them in the siege." From this perspective, the ordinance is "designed to protect man from the wilful destruction of things from which he derives benefit" and--according to some rabbinical interpretations--prohibits any such destruction (not just fruit trees).

Interestingly, both interpretations provide some basis for the eco-kosher movement, though Ibn Ezra's reading admittedly provides a narrower one that rests on (enlightened) self-interest rather than the intrinsic value of nature. But even Ibn Ezra's reading subverts the worldview that C. B. Macpherson called possessive individualism. Nehama Leibowitz notes that the Torah's prohibition against the willful destruction of anything that benefits humanity trumps property rights: "it does not matter whether the object of our destructive efforts belongs to us.... Once man is allowed to rule himself and his property without let or hindrance, there is no knowing where it will lead him." (Actually, I think we know all too well.) And for Chabad rabbi Tzvi Freeman, "man is a tree of the field" emphasizes connectedness and mutual interdependence rather than (in Karl Marx's words) the "separation of man from man," the "individual withdrawn into himself, into the confines of his private interests and private caprice, and separated from the community." For me, all of this gives new meaning to the maxim that the Torah is a tree of life.

(Naso) פרשת נשא

פרשת נשא includes the laws of the נזיר or nazirite: a person who vows for a specified time to abstain from consuming grapes or grape products, cutting his hair, or touching a corpse (Num. 6:3–9). In one of her commentaries on נשא, Nehama Leibowitz raises the question, "What is the significance of the Nazirite vow in the Torah?" On the one hand, the nazirite is said to be קדש (holy) "for the entire duration of his abstinence" (Num. 6:8). On the other hand, the Torah requires the nazirite to make a sin-offering (קרבן חטאת) "on the day his period of naziriteship is completed" (Num. 6:14).

The nazirite's holiness is not hard to understand. His vows set him apart (in keeping with the literal meaning of קדש) from ordinary people; the laws of the nazirite are similar to the laws of the high priest (Lev. 21:10-12); and, as Nehama Leibowitz points out, "the Nazirite is here regarded as being on a higher spiritual plane." But "what constitutes then his sin?" To this question, Nehama Leibowitz explains, the rabbis offered different opinions.

(1) According to an anti-ascetic answer stemming from R. Eliezer Hakappar, the sin for which the nazirite had to atone was denying himself the enjoyment of wine. "If then he that merely denied himself the enjoyment of wine is dubbed a sinner," the rabbi reasoned, "all the more so does this apply to the person who denies himself the enjoyment of other pleasures of life!" Maimonides also considered the nazirite's asceticism a sin; he argued (influenced by Aristotle) that the Torah "advocates no mortification," but rather "the middle road" of eating and drinking in moderation. This interpretation seems to explain the nazirite's sin, but not his holiness: if his vows were sinful, why is he described as holy?

(2) According to a second answer, the sin did not lie in the nazirite's ascetic vows but in forsaking them. The nazirite, wrote Nahmanides, "had separated himself to be holy unto the Lord and by rights he should always continue to live a life of holiness and separation to G-d." But when "the days of his separation are fulfilled," he "returns to defile himself with worldly passions, [and] he requires atonement." This interpretation explains both the nazirite's holiness and his sin, but it raises the bar of קדושה (holiness) extremely high--probably too high for most people. Surely that can't be what the Torah intends. After all, "[this] thing is very close to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can fulfill it" (Deuteronomy 30:14). In the same spirit, R. Ishmael b. Elisha said "it is a principle not to impose on the community a decree to which the majority of the community cannot adhere" (Hor. 3b; Av. Zar. 36a).

(3) A third answer, which is in my view the most convincing, comes from R. Solomon Astruc and R. Moses Isserles. They seem to agree with Maimonides that the Torah advocates a "middle way" of moderation. However, they see the nazirite's extreme abstinence not as a sinful departure from the middle way but as a necessary corrective for a person who was previously incapable of moderation. In the words of R. Isserles, "man must divert his evil inclinations from the extreme to the middle way. This is the basic idea of the Nazirite, when he abstains, because he observes that he has a weakness for worldly pleasures. He must go to the other extreme, in order to attain the middle way." This interpretation explains both the nazirite's sin and his holiness: the sin is his previous immoderation and inability to attain the middle way, while his holiness "will only really be in evidence, later on, after he has completed the days of his Naziriteship." This interpretation is also more in keeping with the meaning of "sin" in Hebrew (חטא), which comes from the verb להחטיא, to miss an aim or a target.

While this last answer--that of R. Astruc and R. Isserles--seems most convincing to me, I would want to amend it in two ways.

First, this answer seems too individualistic to me, in the sense that R. Astruc and R. Isserles focus exclusively on how the nazirite's vows affect him, without considering how his vows might affect others in the community. Here, I think the work of the sociologist Émile Durkheim is helpful. Durkheim argued that "the whole religious life," and indeed "society itself," suppose asceticism: "In order to serve his gods, [the believer] must forget himself" and "sacrifice his profane interests." Hence, asceticism is "a necessary school, where men form and temper themselves, and acquire the qualities of disinterestedness and endurance without which there would be no religion." Moreover, Durkheim adds, "if this result is to be obtained, it is even a good thing that the ascetic ideal be incarnated eminently in certain persons, whose speciality, so to speak, it is to represent, almost with excess, this aspect of ritual life; for they are like so many living models, inciting to effort. Such is the historic role of the great ascetics.... [T]here is something excessive in the disdain they profess for all that ordinarily impassions men. But these exaggerations are necessary to sustain among the believers a sufficient disgust for an easy life and common pleasures. It is necessary that an elite put the end too high, if the crowd is not to put it too low. It is necessary that some exaggerate, if the average is to remain at a fitting level" (my emphasis). These consequences, I would suggest, are an essential part of what makes the nazirite holy: his vows help not only him but also others to attain the middle way. Even if most ordinary people cannot and will not reach the excessively high bar set by the nazirite, his exaggerated example incites them to maintain at least a moderate level of discipline sufficient to remain within the bounds imposed by the Torah.

Second, it seems to me that these rabbis and Durkheim alike err in assuming that the only way to manage "evil inclinations" (יצר הרע) is to control, discipline, or moderate them. As I have suggested elsewhere, I think the Hasidim took a wiser view. They encouraged people not to silence or suppress their desires, but to sublimate them. Perhaps the sin of the nazirite lies in the fact that he merely moderates his desires (and incites others to do so) without elevating and redeeming those desires by connecting them to a higher purpose.

(Bamidbar) פרשת במדבר

I find פרשת במדבר (Numbers 1:1–4:20) interesting for a variety of reasons: it begins with a census, which naturally appeals to a social scientist like me; it describes in detail the organization of the camp that the Jews kept in the wilderness, which may explain a lot if, as Emile Durkheim argued in Primitive Classification, the organization of things follows from the form of social organization (e.g., Australian aborigines conceived space as a circle because their camps had a circular form); and finally, the theme of usurpation of the firstborn reappears in this portion. (That would fascinate a younger brother like me, wouldn't it?)

In the Torah there is a repeated pattern of the firstborn getting usurped: most notably, Isaac is favored over Ishmael, and Jacob tricks Esau out of his birthright. In במדבר, the pattern reappears. The first-born of every Jewish family was supposed to represent the family in religious service (Exodus 13:2, Exodus 24:5), but the firstborn disqualified themselves by participating in the Golden Calf incident, while the Levites remained loyal to השם (Exodus 32:26). Consequently, in במדבר, the Levites are given the role of serving in the משכן (Numbers 1:50), replacing the firstborn (Numbers 3:12).

What are we to make of this pattern? Of course, the traditional Christian interpretation, going back to Paul (Galatians 4:21–31), is that these episodes foreshadowed the supersession of the Jewish people by the Church. But how else might it be interpreted? To use a bit of sociological jargon, it seems to me that it represents a rejection of a social order based on ascription (i.e., where social position is determined by birth) in favor of a social order based on achievement. In במדבר, this seems clear enough: the Levites, through their actions, proved themselves to be more deserving of the honor and responsibilities bestowed upon them. But what about Ishmael and Esau? How is the loss of their favored position determined by their actions and/or the actions of their rivals? In the Torah it isn't altogether clear, but the rabbis in their midrashim take pains to establish that both Ishmael and Esau were bad people. Ishmael is said to have dishonored women, worshiped idols, and tried to kill Isaac, which is why Sarah insisted on his banishment. Similarly, Esau was said to have committed idolatry, adultery, and bloodshed (not to mention that after the the Bar Kokhba revolt Esau was identified with Rome). Granted, these are later rabbinical interpretations--some might even say rationalizations--of the stories, but they are very much in keeping with the notion that social order--even a divinely ordained one--ought to be based on merit rather than birth. La carrière ouverte aux talents, avant la lettre.

Tedium, irrelevance and weirdness: a guide for the perplexed (פרשת ויקרא)

If it's almost April, it must be time to start ויקרא. In an interview published two weeks ago in The Forward, Slate editor David Plotz says: "Leviticus is mocked and derided because the first 13 chapters are a combination of tedium, irrelevance and weirdness." So it's always a challenge to find something interesting and meaningful here. Well, this is what I learned last week.

Last week's portion outlined the five types of קרבנות (sacrifices). The word קרבן (sacrifice) is derived from the root ק–ר–ב, from which we also get the word קרוב (close)-- I should have seen that one, since I learned קרוב last year in Israel and found it a very handy word, especially when explaining to taxi drivers where I lived. Hence, קרבן literally means coming closer (to השם, not to הדירה שלי).

I also learned that there is a Great Debate between the medieval rabbis Maimonides and Nahmanides about the rationale of the קרבנות: are they a means of weaning the people from idolatry and pushing them along the path to a higher stage of spiritual development (namely, prayer), as Maimonides would have it, or did the קרבנות have some intrinsic value, as Nahmanides argues? Each view has its own problems, but I wonder whether Nahmanides isn't guilty of what sociologists call goal displacement, a process in which means become ends in themselves. If so, I'm sure there's a קרבן to atone for that.

פרשת משפטים

This is what I learned last week: The מצווה not to wrong a stranger (גר) appears 36 times in the Torah, more than any other מצווה. Just so happens that 36 is also the number of the ל"ו צדיקים. According to Jewish tradition, were it not for these 36 righteous people in the world, the world would come to an end. Not sure what to make of that, but I find it very interesting.

פרשת יתרו

I am intrigued by many things in last week’s פרשה, including Buber's suggestion that in the beautiful metaphor of eagles' wings (Exodus 19:4) "we have election, deliverance, and education, all in one"; the debate among the rabbis about whether Exodus 20:2 (... אנכי) is itself a מצווה or just a bit of prefatory throat-clearing; the possibility of reading Exodus 20:2 literally as "you will not have other gods to my Face" (לא–יהיה לך ... על–פני); and Ibn Ezra's division of the מצוות into three categories: those of the heart ("feeling rules," in the sociology of emotions), speech, and doing.