This week, Yaakov flees from his murderous brother, Esav, who wants to do him in for stealing the blessing of their father, Yitzchak. Yaakov, at the urging of his parents, sets our to leave Israel for his ancestral homeland, the birthplace of his grandfather Avraham and his mother Rivka - Charan, located in modern-day Iraq.

Our parsha begins like this:

And Yaakov went out from Beersheva and traveled to Charan. And he came upon the place, and he slept there, for the sun had set; and he took from the stones of the place and put them at his head, and he slept at that place. And he dreamed, and behold, a ladder stood on the ground, and its top reached heavenward, and behold, angels of God were ascending and descending it. And behold, God was standing above it, and he said: I am the Lord, the God of Avraham your father and the God of Yitzchak; the land upon which you lie I will give to you and your descendants. And your descendants will be like the dust of the earth and you will spread out to the west and to the east, and to the north and to the south, and all the families of the earth shall be blessed through you and your descendants. And behold, I am with you, and will protect you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land, for I will not forsake you until I have done that which I have said to you.

This story seems to contain two contradictory dynamics. On the one hand, the unique and awe-inspiring sanctity of the Land of Israel, and Jerusalem (where this incident is traditionally understood to have taken place) is clearly underscored. God’s promise of the land to Yaakov and his descendants, the awe which Yaakov expresses when he realizes that this is the ‘House of God’ and the ‘Gateway to Heaven’, all bespeak a specific sanctity of place - the word place, makom, is mentioned no less than six times in this short section.

In addition, there are the angels. The angels are often understood by Rabbinic commentators as the guardian angels of the Land of Israel and the rest of the world, respectively going up the ladder and taking their leave of Yaakov as he leaves the Holy Land, and going down the ladder to accompany him on his journey to Charan. The fact that there are different angels (representing, I assume, God’s different levels of interest in and commitment to a place and its people, which would parallel those people’s role in human history) would seem to underscore the fact that Israel is unique, and, just as it has its own angels, has its own role, mission, and destiny, in comparison to the rest of the world.

On the other hand, there are also many indications of the importance of, and God’s interest in, the land outside of Israel. Yaakov is told that his descendants, who will be ‘like the dust of the earth’ - not only numerous, but also all over the place - will, in fact spread to the four corners of the earth: ‘west and east, and north and south’, and that ‘all the families of the earth shall be blessed through you and your descendants’. This sentence, in fact, immediately follows the sentence which promised the land to Yaakov and his descendants: they inherit it and spread out from it in almost the same breath!

In addition, the fact that the land outside of Israel has angels of its own would seem to indicate that, although God may have a different interest and investment in Israel, he does in fact have an interest and investment in the rest of the world as well. I think that what we have here is an attempt to deal with a problem which continues to perplex the Jewish people: how does one live with the belief that Israel is central and unique for the Jewish people, while also thinking that life outside of Israel can be meaningful, Jewishly rich, and ‘matters’ from a Jewish perspective?

Yaakov, as he is about to leave the land of his birth and of God’s promise for a very long time - over two decades - during which he will do all those things which people see as life’s basic activities: get married, have children, and earn his fortune, is told by God how to live with the apparent contradiction of being in two places at once; living a full, active Jewish life outside of Israel, and remaining a ‘Zionist’. To do this, Yaakov, more than his father Yitzchak, who actually never left Israel, and his grandfather Avraham, who only came to it very late in life, must first fully understand the sanctity of Israel. That is why this vision of God standing above the site of the Temple is shown to him. On his way to a life outside of Israel, he must first fully understand how special Israel is, and must hear and accept God’s promise that ‘I will bring you back to this land’. Only once he understands the truly awesome sanctity of Israel, will it be safe for him to leave it.

At the same time, Yaakov is shown that there are angels of chutz la’aretz (outside of the Land); there is divine presence there. He also is told that his own children, spreading to the four corners of the earth, will have a role to play there, and will, in fact, be crucial in the bringing of God’s blessing to ‘all the families of the earth. Yaakov is shown that chutz la’aretz also matters, and is, in fact, part of God’s interaction with the world and with the Jewish people. Leaving Israel and going abroad is not a total disengagement from God’s plans, providence, and blessing; it may in fact serve in some way to spread those blessings around. I think that the fact that Yaakov, even after seeing just what an awesome place Israel is, does not change his plans about leaving, but, instead, dedicates himself ritually to returning to it and then continues on his way, shows us that he has got the message: while fully understanding and committing himself to Israel’s unique and central role for the Jewish people and the world, he also recognizes that there are other places, with other roles to play, in God’s plans, in his personal journey, and in ours.

Discussions of US public policy which include Jews who care about Jewish law often operate under one of two false premises. Some Jews assume the privilege of advocating for whatever policies appeal to their own sense of morality, independent of what Judaism may say. Such Jews might add that the religion speaks to them, but need not color their recommendations for an America populated largely by non-Jews.

The problem with this stance is that Jewish law in fact legislates for non-Jews as well as Jews, although in fewer areas. Actively promoting or encouraging others’ flouting laws that the religion thinks applies to them does not seem internally consistent with such Jews’ personal adherence to the religion. To take a fairly simple example, since Judaism is opposed to idol worship by any humans, there is no clear or obvious way that a Jew might feel comfortable promoting a public policy that approved of worshiping idols even by non-Jews.

Let me hasten to add that Judaism’s opposition to a practice does not necessarily obligate Jews to work to prohibit that practice. When a society decides not to police or prosecute a certain type of wrong, there is room for Jews to accede to that (although some authorities, such as Maimonides, would seem to think that such a decision is illegitimate for the non-Jewish society itself). The questions of when Jewish law requires eradicating wrongful practices from our midst is a complex one, but is not our question here. We are focused on what is more problematic, Jews’ agreeing that an act that runs counter to Jewish law and values is actually an absolute right of members of our society.

If that first camp wrongly or mistakenly allows themselves too much latitude to shape their views of public policy, a second camp errs the other way, assuming that all Jewish values should ideally be incorporated in American life. We can imagine Jews taking political positions in favor of what is called “family values,” for example, because Jewish law promotes such values for Jews. The hole in the thinking, however, is that Jewish law does not legislate such values and practices for non-Jews. It might be a good idea, but a proponent of such a view would have to prove it independent of Jewish values, since those were stated for Jews, not for all of humanity.

For another example, were there to be an anti-usury movement in this country, there would be no need for Jews to join, since Jewish law’s opposition to taking interest is an internecine matter, a question of how Jews treat each other, not of the morality of lending at interest.

With this background, I think it is easier to understand why I had always assumed that Jewish law required Jews to oppose the impression that abortion was an acceptable alternative, a legitimate choice. Since the Talmud clearly reads the Torah as proscribing abortion for non-Jews as much as for Jews (indeed, the laws for non-Jews are more restrictive), the most liberal a Jew could be on this issue was to accept the need to refrain from prosecuting such acts. Certainly, I thought, any Jew sensitive to Jewish law or values could not be in favor of abortion rights.

It was with surprise, then, that I came across a comment in Minchat Chinuch (a nineteenth-century elucidation of the Torah’s commandments by R. Joseph Babad) that opens the door to exactly such a position. In discussing the laws of murder (Mitsvah 34; p. 186 in vol. 1 of the Machon Yerushalayim edition), he assumes that a nefel, a baby born so prematurely or with such defects that it cannot live, would not be included in the Torah’s prohibition of murder by non-Jews.

In introducing that comment, he writes; “And it seems to me that specifically for a fetus is [a non-Jew] killed, for it is able to go out into the world and live, but if it was born as a nefel, and cannot live…”

Minchat Chinuch does not clarify his comment, but it is at least plausible to argue that he understood the abortion prohibition to apply only to those fetuses that are already viable. If so, the American standard might fall within the parameters he assumes, and not violate Jewish law.

I grant there are at least three grounds upon which to disagree. First, Minchat Chinuch might have meant only to exclude a nefel from the prohibition, since it will never be viable. A fetus, which will likely become viable if we do not interfere with its gestation, might not be included in that exception. It would, however, allow abortion of any fetus with such significant issues that the doctors can be sure the fetus will never come to viability.

Second, Minchat Chinuch is only one authority, and others clearly extend the Talmudic prohibition of abortion to all fetuses. R. Moses Feinstein, for example, assumed that abortion was murder, and that the Jewish right to abort babies to save the mother was a leniency granted by Jewish law. That, too, is not the majority position, but it counterbalances this comment of Minchat Chinuch’s.

Third, Jews might oppose Roe v. Wade for other policy reasons, such as the impact they see it having on society and its sense of the sanctity of human life. Even if Jewish law does not oppose the types of abortions US law currently condones, reasonable people might see it as wrong or damaging to society.

I am not writing, then, to claim that Jews should have no problems with Roe. Rather, I am pointing out a source that might open up the option of not opposing Roe, as had seemed to me required until now. This comment of the Minchat Chinuch seems useful and interesting because it opens up room to allow that, at least in its most obvious aspects, Roe is not an example of American society parting company with the value system of Judaism.

Many students wonder about the apparent impracticality of halacha’s criminal justice system. We can only punish transgressors who receive an explicit warning and verbally affirm their understanding of that warning with two valid witnesses reporting on the crime. Such criteria make it almost impossible to ever administer punishment. If we think that punishments deter criminals and help maintain the social order, then the halachic system seems deficient.

Ran offers an important approach in the very beginning of his eleventh derasha. He argues that judges were never meant to maintain social order but rather to bring down the Divine overflow that stems from considerations of pure justice. According to Ran, corporeal punishment can only be justified by an assurance that the criminal understood the implication of his actions. When the Torah says “You shall judge the people with a just judgment” (Devarim 16:18), it not only tells the judges to act with integrity but also expresses the essence of the Jewish judiciary. Principles of justice motivate them rather than pragmatic considerations.

This does not mean that Torah is indifferent to the needs of social order. Ran argues that the king has the power to punish when necessary even if the legal requirements for punishment are lacking. One gemara (Sanhedrin 4a) actually talks about beit din’s ability to punish in order to bolster a society weak in religious character but Ran views this gemara as a response to the absence of monarchy. In the absence of a king, the courts had to don both mantles, trying both to bring down the divine overflow and to keep society running smoothly. Alternatively, Ran suggests that beit din had jurisdiction of extra legal punishments pertaining to mizvot but that the king was in charge of punishments relevant to other societal issues.

A sharp division of responsibility enables the court system to stand for justice without the admixture of pragmatic considerations. However, it also creates the danger of the king misusing his freedom to punish. Ran seems to imagine the king using this power sparingly but it remains unclear how the rest of the polity could enforce this limitation. Ran does mention the need for the king to constantly have with him a sefer Torah as a reminder not to abuse this power.

Ran’s approach opens up new insight into an important biblical story. Many commentators wonder why Shmuel haNavi reacts negatively to the people’s request for a king. The Torah either commands monarchy or, at the very least, sets it up as an option. Why is the prophet so upset? The people say “Give us a king to judge us like all the nations” (I Shmuel 8:5). While many think that “like all the nations” is the problematic phrase, Ran argues that “to judge us” is the problem. The people want only the king’s justice because they care solely about a well running society and not about principles of abstract justice. To this, the prophet objects.

Two verses before the popular request for a king, the book of Shmuel reports that Shmuel’s children were corrupt judges who took bribes. I would like to explain (and here I differ from Ran’s understanding of this episode) that the effectiveness of a message emphasizing the importance of ideals beyond pragmatic considerations depends upon leaders who truly represent models of integrity and decency. Once leaders turn corrupt, the people will naturally restrict their focus to practical goals. Sadly for Shmuel, the behavior of his own sons brought about the very request that so incensed him.

[For further discussion of Ran’s theory, see the excellent article by Warren Zev Harvey entitled “Liberal Democratic Themes in Nissim of Gerona” that appeared in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature Volume 3.]

You have to keep lost objects a while, but not forever.

Question: I put up a notice regarding the lost coats I found, but nobody came to pick them up. What do I do now?

Answer: Last week we discussed what efforts need to be made to seek the owner of a lost object. This week we will examine what needs to be done if those efforts don’t bear fruit.

As we saw last week, the Torah commands (Deuteronomy 22:2): “And if your brother is not close by, or you don’t know who it is, gather it into your house and it shall be with you until your brother demands it; then return it to him.”

Unfortunately, “until your brother demands it” could be a very long time. Furthermore, it is evident that not only do we have to take the lost object in; we also have to take care of it. After all, the above verse is talking about an ox or a sheep, which can hardly be stuffed in the attic and conveniently forgotten. Indeed, the mishna gives detailed instructions on what kind of maintenance is needed for each kind of object:

If he found books, he should read them once in 30 days. [Parchment needs to be aired every so often.] . . . If he found a garment, he should shake it out once every 30 days. And he can display it for its own benefit, but not for his use. Silver and copper utensils [which tarnish if not used] may be used for their benefit, but not [to the extent] they become worn. Gold and glass utensils [which do not tarnish]: he shouldn’t touch them until the coming of Elijah [the prophet, who will come at the time of redemption and resolve our legal uncertainties]. (Bava Metzia 29b)

It’s beginning to sound like you are mortgaged for life to your lost coats. But from the previous mishna we see that things are not so bad:

Anything that both produces and eats – let it produce and eat. And if it eats but doesn’t produce, let it be sold. As it is written, “And return it to him” – examine how best to return it to him. What should he do with the money? Rabbi Tarfon says, he may use it. (Bava Metzia 28b)

The inference from the verse seems to be from the word return it “to him” – the owner has to benefit from the return. If he has to pay for months of board for his animal there is nothing to return, so it would be better to just sell the animal and save the cost of keeping it. It also follows that anything easily replaceable may be sold right away, since there is no loss in getting the money instead of the object. (Bava Metzia 29b)

The coats in your coatroom don’t eat, but they do have some cost of storage, which you have the right to collect from the owner. Today it is not so common to ask the owner for money, but if watching the object becomes burdensome you can certainly sell them (for example to a second-hand shop) and keep the money in trust for the owner. If you can’t sell them and you don’t think the owner will pay the valuation you place on the storage, it is best to just give the clothing to charity.

To summarize: you should keep the coats for the few weeks when you are most likely to get in touch with the owner. Afterwards, it is praiseworthy to hold on to them longer on the chance that you will later find the owner; the Talmud tells a number of stories of sages who went beyond the letter of the law in keeping lost objects. (Bava Metzia 24b) But if storage is a burden for you it is also permissible to sell the objects. If the owner is ever found, you can give him (or her) the money.

The Rabbis taught: “God cries over three things daily: about the one who could study Torah but does not, about the one who cannot study Torah but does, and about the leader who is arrogant towards the community.” (Hagiga 5b)

Rabbenu Hananel interprets God’s tears to mean that these are things worthy of crying about. He thus avoids the anthropomorphic implications of a more literal reading. No tears stream down a divine cheek. Rather, God serves as the ultimate judge of what is worth crying over.

The first and third causes of divine tears are clearly negative but what about the second? Surely, someone with limited time and resources who heroically manages to study should be applauded. Indeed, R. Menahem Meiri evaluates this middle case positively. He says that someone who finds time to study Torah despite significant difficulties will receive great reward. Apparently, God’s tears for this person are tears of joy.

The Alter from Slabodka, R. Nosson Zvi Finkel, also thinks that the middle case refers to a positive performance although the tears still reflect sadness. According to the Alter, this gemara indicates the extent of God’s compassion. Hashem is saddened by the struggles and pains of someone working with difficulties even when that person succeeds. The success engenders joy but the pains cause sadness (Ohr haZafun 2:112).

Both of the above readings suffer from a difficulty. They insert a positive scenario in between two negative performances. The context enveloping this middle case makes us think that it too somehow refers to doing the wrong thing. Indeed, this point motivates Maharsha to offer a novel reading. He explains the middle case as someone who gets distracted from Torah study by other pursuits. In his reading, the word “ve’osek” refers not to involvement in Torah study but to involvement in other endeavors. This person truly could learn but finds himself without time due to the distractions of competing pursuits. According to Maharsha’s interpretation, God cries over two different people who do not learn. One sits around doing nothing and the other allows less worthy pursuits to dominate his schedule until no time remains for learning.

Maharsha’s interpretation does render the middle case parallel to the other two but it deviates from the simplest reading of the gemara’s words which indicate that this person is engaged in Torah. R. Yaakov Reisher (Iyyun Yaakov, found in the Ein Yaakov) finds a different fault described in this case that adheres more to the straightforward meaning. R. Reisher posits that involvement in Torah includes both learning and teaching. The middle case refers to someone not truly knowledgeable enough to teach or lacking pedagogic capability who insists on teaching anyway. The ensuing educational disaster inspires divine tears.

An important point emerges. We rightly emphasize the democratic and egalitarian aspects of Torah study in Judaism. Learning is not restricted to a priestly class but is important for all Jews. However, this democratic tendency does not apply to the question of which should give the shiur. Educational flourishing depends upon the most erudite and the best educators standing in the front of the room and spreading Torah. Everyone studies Torah but not everyone engages in public teaching.