Machshava

Why is Hebrew called “lashon hakodesh,” the holy tongue? Rambam (Moreh Nevuchim 3:8) explains that Hebrew lacks words for genital organs, for the reproductive act, for urine, and for excrement. When Hebrew needs to describe these things, it borrows terms with other meanings or employs allusions. This linguistic limitation makes the language sanctified.

Ramban critiques this position in his commentary on Chumash (Shmot 30:13). He argues that the keri u’ketiv in which we read the word “yishkevena” in place of the written “yishgelena” (Devarim 28:30) indicates that Hebrew has a real word for the reproductive act. Otherwise, why not read the verse as written? Furthermore, Chazal employ the term “lashon nekiya” (”clean speech”) for speech that avoids coarser formulations. According to Rambam’s rationale, we should refer to Hebrew as “lashon nekiya” rather than “lashon hakodesh.”

Ramban himself offers an alternative explanation fort he classic description of our language. Hebrew represents the original language of Torah, the language in which God communicates with his prophets and his people, and the language God used to crate the world. Surely, these factors provide sufficient grounds for the term “lashon hakodesh.”

As mentioned in an earlier blog, Ritva wrote a work entitled Sefer haZikaron, dedicated to defending Rambam from Ramban’s criticism. He defends Rambam’s ideas that the three angels appeared to Avraham in a prophetic dream and that the sacrificial order reflects a concession to the religious mindset of the ancient Near East. However, when it comes to Rambam’s theory regarding “lashon hakodesh,” Ritva refuses to offer a defense. “I do not want to address this because of my great desire to distance myself from his reason. It is an error which proceeds from a ruler.”

Ritva apparently views this position as the least defensible Maimonidean idea among all the ideas attacked by Ramban. Perhaps Ramban himself did not agree with this evaluation. Ramban uses much harsher language in his rejection of Rambam’s view regarding sacrifices (commentary on Vayikra 1:9) than he does when discussing Rambam’s explanation for the holiness of Hebrew. In our context, he thinks Rambam incorrect but does not express religious indignation about Rambam’s suggestion.

Does Rambam’s idea minimize the importance of Hebrew? It would be a mistake to say that Rambam reduces the special quality of Hebrew to the technicalities of vocabulary lists. The range of linguistic options in a given language reveals ideals and values embedded in that language. Given Moreh Nevuchim’s views on physicality and sexuality, the absence of these words help promote a nobler and more exalted mode of living. A critic can prefer Ramban’s explanation, disagree with Rambam regarding the linguistic reality, or quibble with the values Rambam thinks embedded in Hebrew’s vocabulary resources. However, that critic should not say that Rambam trivializes the qualities of Hebrew.

Polemics with the Karaites inspired many medieval discussions of the oral law. One classic rabbinic argument contends that the Chumash itself assumes an accompanying oral interpretation since it lacks adequate clarity absent such interpretation. Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his commentary on the Torah forcefully makes this point (see the second approach). The Torah does not explain how the Jewish calendar works; thus, absent an oral tradition, we could not practice the Jewish festivals. Ibn Ezra claims that we can not find a single Torah commandment fully explicated without need for an oral tradition.

A parallel argument appears in R. Yehuda haLevi’s Kuzari (3:35). He also mentions the calendar n addition to several other examples. Based solely on the biblical text, could we define forbidden work on Shabbat, know the proper way to slaughter an animal, or figure out which animal fat is prohibited? In fact, our very ability to pronounce the bible’s words and divide up its sentences depends upon oral tradition. How could anyone view the biblical text as self – sufficient?

The above arguments attempt to prove the existence of the oral law but do not address the question why God should have given us the Torah in this fashion. After all, He could have written everything down instead of relying on human transmission. R. Yosef Albo takes up this second challenge in his Sefer haIkkarim (3:23). He first argues that no written text resolves the problem of conflicting interpretations. Jews view the first verse of Shema (Devarim 6:4) as an extremely clear declaration of unadulterated monotheism. Yet the Christians still promote a Trinitarian reading of that verse. Apparently, no written text obviates the need for traditional interpretation.

R. Albo adds that new cases emerge in the ongoing generations of Jewish history. If human scholars lacked a method for adjudicating new cases, technological and societal changes would stymie the halakhic system. God wisely set up a system which grants humans a method for deriving new rulings. The Jews did not hear about electricity at Sinai but they received a methodology that ultimately helped their scholars determine the law regarding electricity on Shabbat.

Both of R. Albo’s reasons contend that the oral law solves a problem, either the ambiguity of textual interpretation or the need to confront new scenarios. Yet we can also suggest a more inherent advantage to oral transmission. R. Tzadok haKohen from Lublin points out two such advantages. Oral transmission utilizes a host of gestures and tones that illuminate meaning far more clearly than a written work (Likutei Ma’marim, p. 104). Moreover, oral transmission conveys the soul of the speaker. Rather than experiencing an inert text, human interaction enables the student to encounters the personality and vitality of the teacher (Resisei Layla, p. 156).
R. Tzadok’s insights help us appreciate why God had good reason to include an oral component of Torah, even without reference to problem solving of particular dilemmas. The R. Tzadok page numbers refer to the Bnei Brak 5727 editon.

R. Yosef Albo was involved in a disputation with Christians in Tortosa in 1414. Hs philosophical work, Sefer haIkkarim (3:25), mentions debates he had with Christians and enumerates several Christian critiques of Judaism including a critique based on the Torah allowing lending money to non - Jews with interest (Devarim 23:21). The Christian debater contends that this law reveals Judaism’s moral and legal shortcomings.

In his response, R. Albo notes that the Torah charges us to care for the convert, whether a full fledged convert or a ger toshav, a gentile who upholds the Noachide laws. He argues that we only charge interest to idol worshiping gentiles but not to those maintaining basic moral and religious decency. It must be admitted that this answer probably reflects an apologetic context. A mishna (Bava Metzia 70b) explicitly says that the interest prohibition does not apply when lending to a ger toshav.

Two other explanations seem more on target. R. Baruch Epstein (Torah Temima Devarim 23:21) view the prohibition on lending with interest to Jews as an internal agreement. Jews lend to each other without interest in a reciprocal accord that works in each direction. Since no such deal exists with non –Jews, they may lend us money with interest and so we can to them. Each relationship preserves equality between the two parties.

Ramban notes an important distinction that suggests a different answer (Devarim 23:21). Jewish law forbids theft of gentiles but allows lending them money with interest. The Torah does not permit immoral treatment of non –Jews; therefore, we cannot simply take their property or money. However, lending money with interest is not immoral. Rather, the Torah commands that we do an extra act of charity for our brethren and lend them money devoid of interest. Ramban compares this to canceling debts during the sabbatical year. Strict morality certainly does not demand that we relinquish debts but the Torah calls for heightened charitable responsibility with regard to fellow Jews.

What explains this evaluation of the morality of interest? Ramban emphasizes that both parties agree to the financial arrangement. Abravanel, who also heard criticism from gentile scholars about this issue, adds that having money for a period of time and thus enabling investments and business opportunities truly is worth money (Abravanel Devarim p. 216 in the Jerusalem 5744 edition). In fact, much of modern economics works with that assumption. If so, why shouldn’t a lender ask for some profit in return for his loan?

This approach can serve as a model for our thinking about Torah laws in reference to non –Jews. The Torah does not countenance immoral behavior towards the gentile population. At the same time, it makes greater charitable demands regarding our Jewish brethren.

Two titans of medieval Jewish philosophy debate this question. R. Sa’adia Gaon argues (Emunot veDeot introduction Ma’amar 4) that mankind represents the pinnacle of creation. Working with Ptolemaic geocentric assumptions, he contends that we always find the most important things in the middle. The pit that enables new growth lies in the middle of the fruit, the heart is located in the middle of the body, and the power of sight is found in the middle of the eye. In the same way, the earth lies in the middle of the universe; therefore the noblest creatures on earth, humanity, are the purpose of the entire created order.

Moderns who, following Copernicus, now think of the earth as revolving around the sun, will likely find this argument unappealing. However, this argument was not the sole basis for R. Sa’adia’s position. He thinks that it emerges from a careful reading of the first chapter in Chumash. God creates mankind last as the culmination of creation. Furthermore, only humanity’s creation is preceded by a declaration from above. “Let us make man” (Bereishit 1:26). R. Sa’adia compares the earlier stages of creation to building a palace before the owners enter.

Rambam disagrees in his Moreh Nevuchim (3:12-14). He contends that one of the reasons people mistakenly think that the world includes more bad than good is because they base those evaluations on the assumption that the entire purpose of creation is mankind. If they understood that other aspects of creation have inherent purpose, the evaluation would change.

The biblical account of creation leads Rambam to a different conclusion than that of R. Sa’adia. After each day of creation, God looks at his handiwork and declares it good. Rambam infers from this that each part of creation serves its own purpose. At the end of the day, we should say that God created the world because his will decided so or because his wisdom necessitated it but we need not determine a singular purpose.

Where does this leave us? R. Avraham Yitzchak haKohen Kook expresses an intriguing take on this debate (Ma’amarei haRa’aya pp. 110-111). He declares that we are not dealing with fundamental principles of faith; thus, both possibilities remain live options. At that point, we can ask how each position influences religious life. R. Kook notes that each position has the potential for positive impact. R. Sa’adia’s position inspires humanity to realize its potential whereas Rambam’s view helps humble mankind.

This balance remains quite relevant today. Some contemporary thinkers blur any distinction between mankind and the animal kingdom. They fail to acknowledge any special role for humanity. On the other hand, mankind’s hubris plays a role in creating ecological difficulties. Perhaps we need a view integrating R. Sa’adia and Rambam to arrive at a healthy equilibrium.

[For further discussion, see R. Norman Lamm, “Man’s Position in the Universe,” Faith and Doubt (Ktav: Jersey City, 2006), pp. 82-104.]

Rambam contends that the world to come lacks corporeality. In that future state of bliss, human beings will not have bodies but will eternally enjoy the contemplation of divinity (Hilchot Teshuva 8:2). This position raises the question of the place of bodily resurrection in his thought. Why should the soul reunite with the body after death if the ultimate destiny consists of non-corporeality? Due to this question, many assume that Rambam truly denies physical resurrection, notwithstanding his assertions to the contrary. Even some thinkers not prone to esoteric interpretations of Rambam are tempted to take this position.

On the other hand, Rambam provides us with considerable evidence for the contrary position. He lists belief in techiyat hametim as one of the thirteen fundamental principles of Jewish dogma. When challenged about his belief, he penned a famous essay on resurrection affirming his acceptance of this doctrine. In that essay, he endorses a temporary bodily resurrection to be followed by the final non-bodily state. Perhaps even more telling, Rambam affirms this belief in a letter to R. Yosef son of R. Yehuda, his favorite student (see page 310 of R. Shilat’s fine edition of Iggerot haRambam). If he believed otherwise, could he not have at least told his prized pupil the truth?

Why did Rambam not allegorize sources in favor of bodily resurrection the way he did with regard to verses about God’s corporeality? Rambam distinguishes between a violation of the natural order and a logical impossibility. It is philosophically erroneous to think that God has a body; verses implying physicality to God could not truly intend such a message. On the other hand, God can perform the miraculous, though the natural order remains highly stable in Rambam’s view; therefore, statements about physical resurrection allow for literal interpretation (page 536) adds a powerful point based on a text from Avicenna (980-1037), the great Muslim philosopher. Avicenna denies resurrection while praising Muhammad for hiding this truth and portraying the future bliss as full of physical delights. Only a robust image of corporeal pleasure motivates the masses. Avicenna contrasts Islam with Christianity on this point. Christianity’s depiction of a futuristic angelic existence does not strike the common people as something worth striving for.

As Davidson points out, the difference between Rambam and Avicenna speaks volumes. Rambam made no effort to hide the fact that the ultimate existence lacks food, drink, or any bodily component. He reiterates this point in his commentary on the mishna, in Mishneh Torah, and in Moreh Nevuchim. Whereas Avicenna shows little respect for the average religious individual, Rambam boldly taught his truth assuming that this would not dissuade his readers’ religious efforts.

Any claim to the effect that Rambam only endorsed resurrection to please the masses must take this contrast into consideration. Rambam certainly did not utilize promises of good corned beef sandwiches to entice his readers towards greater observance. On the contrary! He explicitly taught them about spiritual and intellectual delights. At the same time, he affirmed belief in the resurrection.

Rambam identifies three different approaches to understanding aggadot and midrashim (see his introduction to Perek haChelek and Moreh Nevuchim 3:43). One group insists on reading every aggada literally and on understanding Chazal’s drashot as the basic meaning of the biblical verses. This group thinks that their dogged loyalty preserves the honor of the sages. In reality, they tarnish the sages’ reputation by attributing all kinds of wild ideas to our rabbinic predecessors.

The second group agrees with the exclusively literal interpretations of the first. However, this leads them to scorn and reject Chazal. They view the classical rabbinic giants as fools promulgating vanity and falsehood. Rambam has harsh things to say about this group for insulting noble individuals worthy of exaltation. He notes that the wisdom and insight we find in other citations from Chazal motivates us to reinterpret aggadic statements that appear outlandish.

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Rambam contends that the method of conveying profound truths in a parable has deep roots in our tradition. Solomon, the wisest of men, uses parables in several of his biblical books. Chazal themselves suggested that other parts of Tanach were parables. One opinion states that the entire story of Iyov (Job) is a parable (Bava Batra 15a). Another view claims that the famous dry bones passage in Yechezkel is a parable. If the sages thought that holy scripture teaches through this medium, we can safely assume that they would utilize the same vehicle themselves.

It would be a mistake to frame this issue in the context of the debate between rationalists and mystics. Even more moderate rationalists engaged in metaphorical interpretation of aggadot (see Bernard Septimus’ excellent study of R. Meir haLevi Abulafia, Hispano Jewish Culture in Transition, pp. 76-85). Maharal did not adhere to Maimonidean rationalism but he did engage in non–literal interpretation of aggada. An earlier blog post this year discussed his metaphorical reading of the aggadic notion that God puts on tefillin. The kabbalists themselves offered metaphoric explanations albeit with different content than those of the rationalists.

Where does this leave us? On the one hand, we should avoid quickly resorting to figurative explanations each time we struggle to understand an aggada. Sometimes, ongoing effort elucidates a tricky aggada without resort to parable and metaphor. On the other hand, we should take Rambam’s caution to heart. Sometimes, those that claim to defend Chazal, either by accepting every wild aggada in a literal fashion or by adamantly maintaining that Chazal’s interpretations always reflect the simple meaning of the verse, truly do them a disservice.

The Torah includes three commandments to love. We are to love our neighbor (Vayikra 19:18), love God (Devarim 6:5), and love the convert (Devarim 10:19). Regarding parents, the Torah does not explicitly command love but does obligate honor and reverence (Shemot 20: 11, Vayikra 19:3). How should we understand the absence of a clear directive to love parents? Why, in contrast, does the Torah command loving the convert?

R. Avraham Danzig (Chayei Adam, kellal 69) argues that it is obvious that a person should love his or her parents. First of all, the command to love neighbors includes parents as well. Moreover, the Zohar (parshat Ki Tetze) compares loving parents with loving God. From this perspective the need for such love is self–understood even without an explicit command. Granting the logical cogency of this position, we can still ask why the Torah did not formulate an unambiguous demand.

Rambam offers a different perspective in his letter to Ovadia the convert in which Rambam attempts to console Ovadia after a teacher had insulted the convert. Rambam emphasizes the greatness of someone who joined a persecuted and downtrodden people in the pursuit of truth and idealism. To illustrate the point, Rambam notes that that the Torah commands love of the convert but not love of the prophet or parents. He states that we must listen to the prophet and honor our parents but not necessarily love them (see page 240 of the Shilat edition of Rambam’s letters).

Of course, we should see this letter in context. Rambam wants to bolster Ovadia’s feelings so he does not add that, of course, a person should love parents as well. At the same time, his point is well taken. Accept the logic of Rambam’s presentation returns us to our opening questions.

Let us begin with love for the convert. R. Yitzhak Hutner (Pachad Yitzhak Pesach 8, 29) raises two possible sources for this love. Perhaps the love stems from sympathy for the convert’s plight. Leaving one’s family and culture to join another religion certainly presents significant difficulties. We express love for the convert because we pity him. Conversely, our love may reflect admiration for the convert’s magnificent achievement. Rav Hutner infers this position from Rambam’s parallel between love of God and love of the convert (Hilchot Deot 6:4). We love God for His greatness, not out of sympathetic pity. In analogous fashion, we love the convert for his idealistic heroism.

From either perspective, we might understand why this love does not apply to parents. The pity theme does not apply nor have parents necessarily done anything resembling the dramatic act of conversion. The reasons to especially love the convert do not mandate love of parents. Additionally, one cannot help but wonder whether the Torah takes into consideration the occasional rocky relationship between parents and children. The Torah does not demand constant love for parents but it does require respect and reverence. Even during the rougher times in the relationship, children must relate to their parents respectfully.

As mentioned, a normal and healthy parent child relationship includes mutual love. Perhaps we can conclude by noting a range of reasons to love another. Rav Hutner’s analysis points out how we can love out of sympathy or out of admiration. Love for parents brings a third love to the fore – love that stems from gratitude. Morally decent people must manifest all three types of love.

For discussion of a different angle in the letter to Ovadia, see my earlier blog post: http://blog.webyeshiva.org/machshava/biology-ideology-and-conversion/

Rambam vigorously argues that every mitzva in the Torah has a rationale; the commandments reflect divine wisdom, not just divine will (Moreh Nevuchim 3:25). God surely acts motivated by reason and not based on capricious whim. However, Rambam strikes a different note regarding details of the mitzvot. There, he argues that wisdom and necessity demand some arbitrary details. If you ask why a particular sacrifice is a sheep and not a ram, the identical question remains if the offering had indeed been a ram. The same logic applies to the number of sheep as well (Moreh Nevuchim 3:26). Apparently, Rambam assumes that details are crucial because they give mitzva acts concrete identity but the specific details chosen lack a rationale.

Other authorities disagree. A significant portion of R. Hirsch’s commentary on the Torah attempts to find meaning in each commandment’s every detail. In fact, Rambam himself may have held a more nuanced position regarding this matter. A careful look at Rambam’ chapter elucidating the reasons for the festivals (Moreh Nevuchim 3:43) leads us to a deeper understanding. Some of Rambam’s rationales are more pragmatically technical than spiritually meaningful but we shall leave that point for another time and focus on the reasons for the details.

If Rambam’s took his theory outlined in 3:26 to an extreme, he would offer reasons for the general concepts of each holiday without touching upon specifics. Rambam does not do so; rather, he explains several details (Moreh Nevuchim 3:43). Why do the festivals differ from each other in their length? Rambam explains that revelation was a one day event so the annual Shavuot commemoration lasts one day. In contrast, the exodus from Egypt and the survival in the desert took place over an extended period of time. Furthermore, replacing chametz with matza for one day leaves no impression; people often diverge from their normal diet for a single day. A full week of maza, on the other hand, makes an impact. Sukkot also demands longer duration to promote the more robust joy on this festival.

Rambam addresses the famous question of why Sukkot is in the autumn. Instead of saying that Jewish law arbitrary selected a date, he provides two reasons. Following the harvest, people have the leisure for such a celebration. Additionally, autumn presents the best possible weather for a festival experienced in outdoor booths. Fall in the land of Israel avoids both rain and excessive heat.

The same pattern emerges from Rambam’s discussion of the four species. Rambam explains that that we take these species to indicate our joy and gratitude in recalling our ancestors making it through an arid desert to a land of lush bounty. Once again, he does not stop here but continues to explain the specific species chosen. On a pragmatic level, these four items are commonly found in the land of Israel and can maintain their appearance for a seven day period. Moreover, they represent the best of four different categories: the best smelling fruit, the prettiest fruit, the nicest leaves, and the finest grass.

Should these examples force us to modify our understanding of Rambam’s position? One difficulty is determining what counts as the general mitzva and what counts as a detail. For example, is the date selected for circumcision, the eight day, a detail or the essence of the commandment? Perhaps Rambam contends that these specific species reflect part of the essential mitzva. Alternatively, he might say that some details have inherent meaning while others reflect arbitrary choice.

It may be no accident that Rambam’s examples of arbitrariness all come from the world of sacrifices. Rambam famously argues that the Torah includes sacrifices as a way of weaning the people away from their pagan beliefs (for discussion, see my blog post from a few months back: here). Perhaps Rambam was more inclined to view details as arbitrary in the context of the sacrificial order.

According to all of the above possibilities, Rambam’s position becomes more nuanced. Not all details merit the same treatment and some details form the essential character of particular mizvot. The Torah manifest divine wisdom in the details of its law, be they reasoned or arbitrary.

Let us leave aside the many philosophical questions involved in making requests of God in prayer and focus on the content of these requests. Petition allows for varying degrees of specificity. One approach, simply asking “thy will be done” (to borrow a phrase from Christian scriptures), has several advantages. We do not brazenly tell God what to do or ask for things that might conflict with the divine plan. Instead, we only ask God to carry out his purpose. On the other hand, such a general prayer seems lacking and bland. Moreover, our amida apparently endorses more specific requests.

In Sefer Shoftim, the Jews pray to God during a military conflict with Amon. They say: “Do to us as is good in your eyes” but they immediately follow that with “but please save us today.” A concrete request follows the general petition for God to do as He sees fit. Furthermore, Malbim’s reading of the verse nullifies any parallel to “thy will be done.” According to Malbim, the Jews admit their sin and ask for God to chastise them Himself rather than leave them in human hands for punishment. They do not ask God to do his will; they want Him to replace the Amonites as the agent of punishment.

One Talmudic source might also tend in the direction of very general petition. The gemara in Brachot (29b) states that someone walking in a dangerous area should pray a shortened prayer. R. Eliezar offers the following text for this abridged service. “Do your will in heaven above, and grant contentment to those that fear you below, and do what is good in your eyes. Blessed are you God who hears prayer.” Yet here too the middle section of the prayer includes a specific request. Additionally, halacha only endorses this prayer for someone in need of a quick service due to danger. Arguably, it does not reflect our normal notion of proper prayer.

R. Yosef Albo discusses this question in his Sefer haIkarim (4:24). He begins by noting various reasons why God does not always answer our requests in the affirmative. We may not be worthy of receiving a particular good. An affirmative answer may infringe upon someone else’s good. Finally, the good we envision may actually be bad for us. Due to this last possibility, R. Albo exhibits some sympathy for the more general kind of request. If only God knows what is good for us, we should make requests from Him in a more general fashion.

Some philosophic conceptions of petition lead us in a different direction. Rav Soloveitchik famously contends that petitions help those praying realize their most authentic needs. Form that perspective, a general “thy will be done” would fail to generate the proper understanding. R. Soloveitchik also argues that those who do not pray to relieve their own suffering will ultimately grow indifferent to the sufferings of others (see “Redemption, Prayer, Talmud Torah,” Tradition Spring 1978). That line of reasoning also creates a need to explicitly articulate our requests for salvation.

Perhaps the petitions in our amida lie somewhere in the middle of the potential continuum. We itemize certain things we want and do not merely say “thy will be done.” On the other hand, we do so in a general fashion. We ask God for sustenance without telling Him which particular business deal should go through. In this way, we maintain some balance between our need to ask and humble acknowledgment of God’s governance.