His son, Shimon, would say: All my life I have been raised among the wise, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence. The essential thing is not study, but deed. And one who speaks excessively brings on sin. (Avot 1:16)

Shimon, the son of Rabban Gamliel, conveys the perils of speech. Rambam (commentary on the mishna) takes this interpretive opportunity to outline a broad theory of verbal communication, dividing it into five categories. Human speech includes the obligatory, the prohibited, that we should distance, the recommended, and the permissible.

The commandment to study Torah provides the best example of the first category. Forbidden speech, the second class, includes tale bearing, false testimony, blasphemy and profanity. The third category consists of pointless banter such as discussing the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Hazal referred to this as siha beteila, idle chatter, and they praise those sages who avoided it (Sukka 28a). The fourth category of speech encourages good intellectual and moral qualities. Though not formally a mizva, this type of communication is obviously positive. Finally, the final group refers to the totally neutral area of conversation about livelihood and basic needs. Concerning such speech, Rambam leaves the proper amount an open question, although he does advise minimization.

Regarding the obligatory and the recommended, “if a person could talk about them all the days of his life, that would be the ultimate goal.” However, Rambam adds two caveats. A person’s talk should not surpass his deeds. Rambam worries about the dangers of hypocrisy and of using high minded conversation to cover up a rotten core. Shimon tried to counter this when he taught: “The essential thing is not study, but deed.” Secondly, we should learn to express ourselves in a concise fashion. Even when engaged in constructive discourse, long windedness contributes little to personal growth.

Rambam forcefully argues that we should evaluate songs based on their content rather than on the language of composition. He mentions the absurdity of Jews who will object to as song in Arabic even if the song praises important moral traits whereas they will applaud a song in Hebrew even if that song consists of prohibited material. “Speech is not prohibited, permissible, recommended, distanced or obligatory due to its language but due to its content.”

Interestingly, Rambam thinks it worse to sing a sensual song in Hebrew than in Arabic or Persian because the former desecrates the sanctity of the holy tongue. Here, Rambam depicts a nuanced position regarding Hebrew. Our traditional tongue has a special status that demands particular care. At the same time, the most important aspect of speech is the content of what we say rather than the language in which we say it.

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.]

Lest when you have eaten and are satisfied, and have built good houses, and dwelled therein; and when your herds and your flocks multiply, and your silver and your gold is multiplied, and all that you have is multiplied; then your heart become lifted up, and you forget the Lord your God, who brought you forth out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage (Devarim 8:12-14)
And you say in your heart: ‘My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.’ But you shall remember the Lord your God, for it is He that gives you power to get wealth that He may establish His covenant which He swore to your fathers, as it is this day. (Devarim 8:17-18)

Sefer Devarim warns that great bounty may lead to arrogantly attributing all success to our own efforts while neglecting the role that God plays. R. Hirsch sharply points out that building houses can generate this feeling even more profoundly than a good crop. Farming depends upon factors such as rain which humanity cannot control. Building a house seems to be an endeavor fully under human control, thus more conducive to smug self – congratulation.

Some Jewish thinkers derive a broader theological position from these verses. From their perspective, this section conveys that human effort does not truly bring about worldly success. In fact, God controls all of that. God demands that we try but our efforts do not actually bring about the desired result in a direct fashion. To use classic terminology, this passage stands for the doctrine of bitachon and hishtadlut.

Other Jewish thinkers disagree with the above and contend that our efforts do play a directly causal role. Before taking note of how these thinkers read Devarim 8, I want to make a point relevant to this religious debate. Some argue that emphasizing God’s role curtails human hubris whereas asserting human influence potentially exacerbates such pride. If so, attributing all worldly achievements to God represents a religiously safer position. A cogent reply emerges from a passage the Torah’s following chapter

Hear, O Israel: you art to pass over the Jordan this day, to go in to dispossess nations greater and mightier than you, cities great and fortified up to heaven, a people great and tall, the sons of the Anakim, whom you know, and of whom you have heard say: ‘Who can stand before the sons of Anak?’ Know therefore this day, that the Lord your God is He who goes over before you as a devouring fire; He will destroy them, and He will bring them down before you; so shall you drive them out, and make them perish quickly, as the Lord has told you. Do not say in your heart, after that the Lord your God has thrust them out from before you, saying: ‘due to my righteousness the Lord has brought me in to possess this land’; whereas due to the wickedness of these nations the Lord does drive them out from before you.
(Devarim 9:1-4)

The Torah warns of a parallel danger. Having accepted the fact that we must avoid arrogantly attributing success to our physical might, we face the temptation of attributing conquests to our spiritual greatness. The people of Israel understand the great difficulties in defeating the giants of Canaan based on their own prowess but they could still view divine help as a product of their overwhelming righteousness. Rabbenu Nissim points out (Derashot haRan 10) that both dangers stem from the same source – man’s need to assert himself. In other words, the lure of arrogance always beckons, be it on a material or spiritual plane, and no theological position negates this potential pitfall.

Let us return to Devarim 8. Rabbenu Nissim explains that different human beings exhibit diverse strengths that influence things in a naturalistic way. Some people are smarter and others are stronger. God created humanity with various talents and the ability to utilize those talents to achieve great things. We can remember God’s role with gratitude without denying direct human causality. Rabbenu NIssim notes that the verse does not say “He gives you wealth” but rather “He gives you power to get wealth.” God created humanity with tremendous capabilities. Our responsibility is to use those capabilities in the most productive manner.

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.

`

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/