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.

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.

How does the religious Jew merit entry into the World to Come? I do not raise this question because this motivation should animate our religious life. Ideally, religious and moral demands call for our attention without thoughts of compensation. However, varying conceptions on how to achieve Olam Haba reveal assumptions about what truly matters in life. From this perspective, we can investigate this question as a means of evaluating life’s most important goals.

Rambam paints a very intellectual portrait of the route to immortality in his philosophic and halachic works. Moreh Nevuchim (3:27, 54) clearly states that apprehending cognitive truths leads to eternal existence. One passage (3:27) emphasizes that intellectual perfection, “and nothing else,” causes eternal life. The same position appears in Rambma’s Mishne Torah (Hilchot Yesodei Hatorah 4:9, Hilchot Teshuva 8:2). Chazal (Brachot 17a) depict Olam Haba as a time when the righteous sit with crowns on their heads. According to Rambam, this image refers to the cognition of truths which enables immortality. The political peace of the messianic era allows for the growth in Torah and wisdom that paves the route to Olam Haba (Hilchot Melachim 12:4). Rambam’s majestic introduction to Perek HaChelek conveys the same position (see page 138 of R. Kapa’s edition of Perush Hamishnayot).

Some other Rambam sources do give a different impression. Mitzva observance (Hilchot Teshuva 9:1) or martyrdom (Iggeret Hashmad, p. 51 in R. Shilat’s edition of Iggerot haRambam) leads to immortality. However, even some of the sources stressing mitzva observance insert an intellectual component. In context of the discussion of our informing the prospective convert that halachic adherence will enable Olam Haba, Rambam adds, “and that no one is fully righteous except the wise man who does the mitzvot and comprehends them” (Hilchot Issurei Bia 14:3). That added line returns the focus to the cognitive sphere.

Let us be accurate. Rambam certainly thinks that mitzvot obligate us. Not only that, mitzvot play a crucial role in providing a personal and societal context that makes intellectual achievement possible. Nonetheless, the essential thrust of Rambam’s writings implies that an intellectual key opens the gates of heaven.

The overwhelming majority of later authorities reject Rambam’s position. R. Meir Halevi Abulafia critiques Rambam in his Yad Rama commentary in the beginning of the tenth chapter of Sanhedrin. He notes that Rambam implies that immortality is a natural process rather than a reward bestowed by God. The matter of the body naturally decays but the form of the understanding soul lives on since the truths are eternal. Rama points out that this maneuver makes immortality solely dependent on cognitive understanding and negates the import of a life of mitzva observance. Intellectual success achieves dominance whereas good behavior essentially recedes from the picture.

R. Chasdai Crescas adds a sharp critique of philosophic immortality in his Or Hashem (2:6:1, see also 2:5:1). He views it as against our tradition and philosophically problematic as well. Negating the eternal impact of mitzvot contradicts sources throughout Tanach and Chazal. Furthermore, philosophic immortality does not provide for continuity of the individual. The truths live on forever but does the person still exist? Finally, if truths enable eternality, what about the truths of geometry? Would internalizing the Pythagorean Theorem provide for continuous existence?

These complex issues require a more thorough investigation than provided here but some preliminary points emerge. Judaism certainly incorporates intellectual components to a greater degree than many other religions. The overwhelming emphasis on Torah study and the inclusion of ikarei emuna assume strong intellectual elements. At the same time, the ultimate religious goal extends far beyond the intellectual. Our view of eternity should not minimize the importance of benevolent acts, mitzva performance, and passionate love of God.

Rambam begins his listing of positive commandments with the mitzva to believe in God. He cites Talmudic support for this idea from the end of Makkot (23b) where the gemara says that Moshe taught the Jewish people six hundred and eleven mitzvot. The two exceptions, “Anochi” and “Lo Yihiye Lecha,” were instructed directly by God. The inclusion of “Anochi” indicates that belief belongs on the list of six hundred and thirteen commandments.

Two strong critiques can be leveled against Rambam. Ramban points out in his glosses on Rambam’s Sefer HaMitzvot that the very concept of a commandment presupposes a commander. Belief serves as the bedrock and basis of mitzvot but cannot itself be a mitzva. This explains why BaHaG did not enumerate belief among the commandments. In support, Ramban cites a Mechilta (Yitro) which compares God to a king who says “how can I issue edicts until they have accepted my authority.” [Ramban takes a different approach in his comments on Lo Ta’aseh 5].

Many later authorities defended Rambam from this argument. One can posit the existence of a commander and still remain unclear about details regarding that commander. The mitzva of belief demands that we clarify and purify our conceptions of God. Versions of this argument appear in Abravanel’s Rosh Amana (chapter 17) and Malbim’s commentary on Shmot 20:2.

R. Hasdai Crescas echoes Ramban’s criticism and adds another one of his own (see his introduction to Or Hashem as well as Or Hashem 2:5:5). Beliefs are not the products of willful choices so how can they be legislated? God can command that we perform actions but not beliefs since our will does not control our cognitive commitments.

Of course, R. Crescas has to address the Talmudic category of the kofer. How could the heretic deserve punishment if human choice plays no role in a person’s belief system? He explains that people are not responsible for their beliefs but are responsible for their attitude to those beliefs and for their diligence in acquiring those beliefs. The believer deserves credit for joyful acknowledgment of his beliefs. Conversely, the heretic is responsible for undue enthusiasm about his heresy. In addition, the lazy or hedonistic heretic bears responsibility in a way that the heretic desperately struggling to find meaning in life does not.

These two critiques might mislead one to think that rabbinic authorities debate whether belief truly matters. A more careful analysis reveals that all agree about the importance of belief in God as the basis for Judaism. Ramban only denies its formal status as a mitzva because he thinks that all of Judaism depends upon that belief. If anything, this makes belief more central. Even R. Hasdai Crescas’ critique assumes that a person should understand that having such belief is a good worth rejoicing in and striving for.