PARASHAT NOACH

By Rav David Silverberg

            Toward the end of Parashat Noach we read the enigmatic story of Migdal Bavel, the people’s attempt to construct “a city with a tower whose top reaches the heavens” (11:4), and the punishment they suffered as a result.  A famous Midrashic tradition, cited by Rashi (11:1), explains that the people of the time sought to wage war against the Almighty.  The idea of the tower was to extend human dominion to the heavens, as opposed to leaving it confined to the earth.

            Among the questions that arise from this explanation is why God chose the particular punishment visited upon the people of this generation, namely, making the people speak different languages.  What made this the most appropriate response to the people’s attempt to conquer the heavens?

            The simplest answer, perhaps, is that this punishment shook the very foundations of this sinister project, the people’s joint and unified sense of mission.  The endeavor was made possible by the “single language” (11:1) of that generation, their deep-seated feeling of unity.  (In this sense, the generation of Migdal Bavel represents the polar opposite of the generation of the flood, which was plagued by crime and violence.)  God disrupted this project by shattering the foundation of social harmony upon which it rested, by seeing to it that the people would be unable to understand one another.

            We may, however, add another explanation for the significance and purpose of this specific punishment.  The result of the multiple languages was the people’s dispersion throughout the world: “The Lord dispersed them from there across the entire earth, and they ceased building the city” (11:8).  Rather than continuing their attempts to conquer the heavens, the people were compelled to scatter about the earth and build new cities and countries.  In other words, God responded to Migdal Bavel by forcing the people to conquer the earth, rather than trying to conquer the heavens.  They had assembled with the intent of concentrating the world’s population in a single city from which they would ascend and take possession of the heavens.  In response, God had them go down from the heavens and leave the confines of their city to conquer and develop the entire earth.

            Symbolically, the story of Migdal Bavel perhaps conveys a meaningful lesson regarding the prioritization of our aspirations.  We must focus our efforts on conquering the earth, not the heavens.  Our pursuit of lofty goals must never come at the expense of our basic, primary responsibilities.  The generation of Migdal Bavel neglected the charge to Noach to populate the earth (9:7), preferring instead to embark on the more ambitious endeavor of populating the heavens.  We, too, must ensure to work toward our responsibilities on “earth” before trying to reach the “heavens,” to first meet our basic obligations and commitments before undertaking more ambitious and lofty goals.

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            In his commentary to the Migdal Bavel narrative, Rashi (11:1) cites a number of different explanations from the Midrash Bereishit Rabba (38:6).  One view claims that the people of the time sought to ascend to the heavens and wage war against God.  As we discussed yesterday, it appears that they resented being confined to the earth, and endeavored to conquer the heavens.  Another famous interpretation that Rashi cites from the Midrash explains that this generation feared the possibility of another deluge.  They therefore planned to rise to the heavens and build “supports” to prevent a flood.

            Upon analyzing these two views regarding the nature of this generation’s sin, one notices that they essentially reflect two very different forms of heresy.  Entertaining the possibility of waging war against the Almighty demonstrates a denial of divine omnipotence.  According to this view in the Midrash, the people of the time failed to recognize God’s unlimited might, and instead perceived Him as simply a more impressive form of the human being, who could be overpowered.  The people thought they could extend their dominion to the heavens, because they did not acknowledge the vast difference between heaven and earth, between God and mortals, between the infinite and the finite.  It was this blurring of the lines between the heavenly and earthly realms that allowed this generation to believe in their ability to conquer the heavens.

            The second view seems to reflect a much different perspective, namely, that heaven and earth can be separated from one another.  According to this view, the people built the tower not to possess the heavens, but rather, to the contrary, to disconnect themselves from the heavens.  Instead of trying to defeat God, they endeavored to hide themselves from God, to construct an impenetrable wall between themselves and the divine being.  They waged war not against God, but against providence; they sought to create a situation whereby the Supreme Being would no longer govern earthly affairs, and would instead remain in His heavenly chamber and leave mankind to supervise itself independently.

            To some extent, these two approaches to the Migdal Bavel heresy correspond to the two primary mistakes that have been made concerning God.  Some pagans erred by reducing God to a type of human being, by attributing to Him the same frailties and limitations to which people are subjected.  On the opposite extreme, others claimed that God is too great to concern Himself in any way with human affairs.  They held that an all-powerful God could not possibly relate to such flawed creatures as the human being.  Similarly, the enterprise of Migdal Bavel could be understood as either trying to combine heaven and earth, by lowering God to the level of the human being, or as trying to drive a wedge between heaven and earth, such that God yields no authority or control over the world.

            The Torah, of course, sees no contradiction between divine omnipotence and divine providence.  God can be, and is, both all-powerful and intimately involved in human affairs.  And we are to follow His example by concerning ourselves with the needs and concerns of even those whom we perceive as “lower,” as less accomplished or less virtuous than ourselves.  Just as God involves Himself in the world despite His greatness, so must we show concern for others even if they seem “inferior” and unworthy of our attention or assistance.

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            We read toward the end of Parashat Noach of God’s promise to never again flood the earth, as He did in Noach’s time.  God proclaims this covenant to Noach and then designates the rainbow as the eternal symbol of His promise: “I have placed My rainbow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and the earth.  It shall be, when I place clouds over the earth, the rainbow will be seen in the cloud.  And I shall [then] remember My covenant between Me and you…” (9:13-15).

            A number of different approaches have been taken to explain the symbolic significance of the rainbow, why it, specifically, was chosen as the symbol of God’s covenant with the earth.  One particularly insightful explanation (cited in the Yalkut Yehuda) takes note of the fact that God emphasizes the rainbow’s appearance through a cloud.  A careful reading of God’s words in these verses reveals that the rainbow itself does not, independently, serve as the sign of the covenant.  Rather, the sign is the rainbow’s appearance within the cloud: “I have placed My rainbow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and the earth…”  The sun’s light will penetrate the cloud, and its refraction results in the colorful appearance of the rainbow, thereby announcing God’s promise to all mankind.  Until the flood, it seems, the clouds formed too thick a barrier between the sun and the earth to allow for the penetration of any light.  The change that God brought about after the flood diminished the strength, so-to-speak, of the clouds, such that they could allow the infiltration of some rays of light, and were unable to produce the kind of rain that fell during the time of the flood.

The phenomenon of the rainbow was symbolic of the ability granted to the “light” of ethical and moral conduct to penetrate even the darkest, thickest “cloud cover,” in times when the forces of evil and corruption prevail.  God guaranteed Noach that He will never again allow mankind to degenerate to the point of depravity as they did in that generation, that even the thickest “clouds” would not succeed in obstructing all rays of light.  Even when the “clouds” of cruelty, barbarism or decadence cover the sky, when society is overrun by impiety, the “light” of morality will still manage to surface.  God gave us His word that even in the world’s darkest periods, it will still be possible to shine the light of faith and sanctity through the dark cloud, and illuminate even the darkest, stormiest skies.

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            After Noach and his family’s departure from the ark following the flood, God speaks to Noach, issuing a number of directives relevant to the process of rebuilding upon which he is to now embark.  Included in this series of instructions is the prohibition against murder: “He who spills human blood – by witnesses shall his blood be spilt, for He made man in the image of God” (9:6).  Immediately thereafter, God commands, “And you – be fruitful and multiply; propagate in the earth and multiply in it.”

            A number of different approaches have been taken to explain the connection between these two commands – the prohibition of murder, and the obligation to procreate.  The Radak (see also Chizkuni and Seforno) suggests, quite simply, that God’s intent is to lay the groundwork for the repopulation of the earth.  To that end, He strictly warns against murder and issues a command to reproduce.  Chazal (Bereishit Rabba 34:14; Yevamot 63), as cited by Rashi, extend this notion one step further, suggesting that this juxtaposition reflects the gravity of the obligation to procreate.  By introducing this command in association with the prohibition against murder, God indicates that willfully refraining from procreation is equivalent to murder, as in both instances one fails to further the goal of populating the earth.

            The Meshekh Chokhma offers a much different explanation, citing a famous passage from Masekhet Bava Batra (60b).  The Gemara there tells that in response to the ruthless persecution suffered under the Roman Empire, the Jews considered the idea of ceasing to beget children, and allowing the Jewish nation to naturally disappear.  Rather than beget children who will suffer religious persecution and be unable to properly observe the Torah, it would perhaps be preferable, they initially thought, to simply bring an end to Am Yisrael through nationwide celibacy.

            The Meshekh Chokhma suggests that the Torah perhaps seeks to dispel such a notion by juxtaposing its discussion of murder with the obligation to procreate.  The Torah alludes to the fact that even during times of rampant persecution and bloodshed, when tyranny and violence run rampant, people must still marry and beget children in an effort to populate God’s earth.  The question of whether or not this earth is an inviting place for these children to inhabit is one which only God Himself must answer; as far as the people are concerned, they bear the obligation to reproduce even during times of hardship and oppression.

            The Meshekh Chokhma concludes his discussion by noting that the She’iltot, in Parashat Vezot Haberakha, does not cite a verse from the Torah as the Biblical source of procreation.  Instead, he cites a verse from Sefer Yirmiyahu (29:6), in which Yirmiyahu instructs the Jewish exiles in Babylonia to marry and beget children.  Possibly, the Meshekh Chokhma suggests, the She’iltot chose this verse in order to emphasize the point mentioned above.  Yirmiyahu exhorts the despondent Jews in exile that despite all they have endured, and although they live under foreign rule in a foreign land, they must not despair from establishing future generations of Am Yisrael.  The She’iltot may have seen within this admonition a critical element of the obligation of peru u-revu (procreation), namely, that it applies regardless of the conditions to which we are subject.  The nation’s responsibility is to build the next generation, and trust in God’s ability to protect and nurture that generation even amid hostility and persecution.

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            We read in Parashat Noach that after the flood, Noach planted a vineyard from which he produced wine.  He then partook of the wine and became intoxicated, to the point where he exposed himself in his tent, in full view of his son Cham (9:20-21).

            Chazal, in a famous Midrashic passage (Bereishit Rabba 36), sharply criticize Noach for choosing the particular endeavor of planting a vineyard: “…he was desecrated, and became profane – why?  [Because] ‘he planted a vineyard.’  Should he not have planted something beneficial, [such as] a shoot of a fig tree…?”

            Clearly, Chazal do not frown upon grapes and wine generally; in fact, drinking wine is even deemed a mitzva on certain occasions.  Their condemnation of Noach’s choice no doubt relates to the particular context of his recent emergence from the ark.  Noach was assigned the responsibility of rebuilding the earth, restarting the process of the world’s development after the floodwaters destroyed all that had been accomplished before Noach’s time.  This specific circumstance mandated careful prioritization, that Noach first concern himself with the most pressing and immediate needs of himself, his family, and the offspring they would soon beget.  Off this backdrop, wine production was a poor choice.  It reflected the priority Noach afforded to his personal gratification, over the more basic needs of mankind.

            This perspective on Noach’s failure might explain the introductory clause to this passage: “nitchalel ve-na’asa chulin” (“he was desecrated, and became profane”).  Chazal see within the word va-yachel (literally, “he began”) in this verse an allusion to a process of chilul – “desecration” – and the status of chulin – “profane.”  The term chilul is used to describe an object of sanctity that has been misused or misappropriated, in a manner that undermines its sacred quality.  A consecrated article becomes chulin when a person uses it as something mundane.  The term chilul Hashem refers to a situation that causes God’s Name to be looked upon with ridicule and contempt, as opposed to the sense of awe and reverence that it ought to evoke.  Noach became chulin in that he betrayed the unique role and stature assigned to him.  He was chosen to be the new builder of the world and of mankind, but he instead focused on personal indulgence, at the expense of the earth’s restoration.  (Rabbenu Bechayei offers a different explanation of Noach’s “desecration,” noting that as the tenth generation from Adam, he was invested with a unique stature of kedusha which he betrayed by involving himself in planting a vineyard.)

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, draws our attention in this context to the famous story of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s emergence from the cave where he had hid for over two decades.  Rabbi Shimon and his son were miraculously sustained during this period, and upon emerging from the cave, Rabbi Shimon said, “Since a miracle occurred, I shall go and help in some way” (Masekhet Shabbat 33b).  His miraculous survival impelled him to search for a way to serve the people, to help benefit the world.  The Gemara relates that Rabbi Shimon took example from Yaakov, who, upon returning to Canaan unscathed after his confrontations with Lavan and Esav, helped the city of Shekhem by either establishing a new currency, or building new marketplaces or bathhouses (different views exist in this regard).  Similarly, Rabbi Shimon saw it as his duty to provide some community service in response to the miracle he had just experienced.  He decided to work to confirm the status of certain areas where there was a suspicion of tum’a (ritual impurity), so that kohanim could walk there without concern.

            The Midrash’s criticism of Noach addresses his failure to respond appropriately to the extraordinary miracle of his survival.  His situation called for leadership and a sense of mission, a calling to which he neglected to respond.  As Chazal commented, Noach was thus “desecrated,” he betrayed his status and mission, and as a result lost his dignity, as well, in the form of the humiliation he suffered.

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            The Torah tells that following the flood that destroyed the earth in Noach’s time, God made the decision to never again undertake so drastic a measure in response to man’s sinfulness: “I shall never again curse the ground on account of man, for the inclination of the heart of man is evil from his youth, and I shall never again smite all living things as I have done” (8:21).

            The description in this verse of the yetzer ha-ra (evil inclination) was the subject of a curious exchange between Rabbi Yehuda Ha-nasi and the Roman emperor Antoninus, as related in Bereishit Rabba (34; see also Sanhedrin 91b).  Antoninus posed to Rabbi Yehuda the question of whether the evil inclination enters a person already during the fetal stage, in the mother’s womb, or if it surfaces only at the time of birth.  Rebbe (Rabbi Yehuda) initially replied that the yetzer ha-ra descends upon a child already in the womb, but Antoninus disagreed, arguing that if so, “he would pick at her stomach and leave.”  Meaning, if a child possessed an evil inclination in the mother’s womb, he would push his way out of the womb.

Rebbe conceded to Antoninus’ objection, and even drew proof from the verse here in Parashat Noach: “for the inclination of the heart of man is evil from his youth.”  The word mi-ne’urav (“from his youth”) may be read to mean “from the time he is shaken,” referring to the infant’s displacement from his position in the womb during childbirth.  This reading would suggest that, as Antoninus claimed, the yetzer ha-ra does not surface within a child during gestation, and surfaces only at the time of birth.

How might we understand this seemingly peculiar exchange?  Why would it matter whether or not the evil inclination affects a child in the womb, and why would we assume that the infant would “escape” from the womb had he possessed a yetzer ha-ra?

Rav Yitzchak Goldwasser, in his work Yitzpon La-yesharim Tushiya (Bnei-Brak, 5744), explains this conversation by distinguishing between two different kinds of negative tendencies, which he terms ta’avot (physical drives) and middot ra’ot (negative character traits).  The drive for physical gratification is undoubtedly an intrinsic part of a person’s physical existence, and therefore a fetus desires nourishment and comfort no less than an adult.  Antoninus’ question clearly did not relate to this form of “inclination.”  Rather, it pertained to negative qualities such as arrogance, selfishness, greed, anger and envy.  These tendencies stem not from the innate drive for survival and self-preservation, but rather from an inflated sense of self, attributing too much importance to oneself and placing oneself in the center, while relegating others to the periphery.  A fetus does not experience this feeling, Rav Goldwasser asserts, because he has no independent identity.  As reflected in the halakhic principle of “ubar yerekh imo,” a fetus is perceived as part of the mother.  The very nature of gestation, during which the fetus is simply part of the mother’s body, precludes the possibility of his feeling envious or arrogant.  These emotions set in only later, once an infant exits the womb and gradually individuates and forms its own, independent identity and sense of self.

This, Rav Goldwasser suggests, is what Antoninus meant when he said, “he would pick at her stomach and leave.”  He did not intend to say that a fetus with a yetzer ha-ra would actually seek to leave the womb prematurely.  Rather, he meant that the fetus’ condition inside the womb inherently negates the possibility of its possessing a yetzer ha-ra, an inflated ego.  As it is merely a part of somebody else, without a separate identity, it cannot feel the desire for honor or experience the drive for competition.  It is only once a person forms his independent sense of self that he begins to feel the need to compete with others, which in turn gives rise to negative character traits such as arrogance and jealousy.

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            Rav Yair Bachrach (Germany, 1638-1702), in his work of responsa Chavot Yair (163), addresses the case of a group of merchants who all dealt in the clothing industry.  Often, they would find themselves entangled in legal disputes with one another, usually involving issues of hasagat gevul – infringing upon each other’s client base and the like.  They would bring their disputes to a certain rabbi for arbitration, a service for which the rabbi would charge a fee.  With time, the merchants determined that their legal costs began to exceed the losses incurred by what each perceived as the others’ unethical practices.  They therefore entered into an agreement granting each other unrestrained commercial freedom.  The terms of the agreement established that “anything goes,” and the merchants promised not to sue one another for overaggressive marketing or expansion.

            The question was posed to the Chavot Yair as to the legal and religious propriety of this agreement, and he responded by issuing a harsh condemnation.  He asserted that giving each other license to ignore the Torah’s commercial laws constitutes a more grievous transgression than actually violating those laws.  This agreement, he warned, would assuredly result in their growing accustomed to improper business practice, and, besides, others will likely take example from their conduct and run their businesses without any regard for halakhic restrictions.

            Amidst his response, the Chavot Yair draws a parallel between these merchants’ proposed agreement and the sin of the generation of the flood.  During the time of Noach, he claims, corruption became so rampant that people ceased to object to each other’s crimes.  Later in Sefer Bereishit (18:20), the Torah describes the “cries” that arose due to the crimes perpetrated in the city of Sedom, which Chazal interpreted as referring to the cries of the victims.  The Chavot Yair notes that no mention of the victims’ cries is made in the Torah’s description of Noach’s generation.  Quite possibly, he writes, this is due to the fact that people stopped caring.  They simply accepted lawlessness as a way of life, and resigned themselves to the fact that only the strongest, wiliest, and luckiest people would survive and succeed.

            This, the Chavot Yair writes, demonstrates that lawlessness is not an acceptable solution for excessive legal disputes.  It is far preferable for quarreling parties to reconcile their disputes in court – regardless of the expense and inconvenience entailed – than to simply fight it out in the battle of the marketplace.  When God saw that lawlessness prevailed, that human beings fought for wealth just as animals fight over prey, He decided to bring the flood.  If the world cannot operate on the basis of a civilized system of law, then it simply could not exist at all.