S.A.L.T. – PESACH

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei Shabbat

            The Mishna in Masekhet Pesachim (114a) cites a debate among the Tanna’im as to the status of charoset at the seder on Pesach.  The first view cited in the Mishna maintains that eating charoset does not constitute a mitzva, while Rabbi Elazar ben Rabbi Tzadok maintained that there is, indeed, a mitzva to eat charoset at the seder.  The Gemara (116a) explains that according to the first view, we eat charoset at the seder simply to counteract the harmful digestive effects of the marror.  As such, it is eaten for medical concerns, and not as an actual mitzva.  According to Rabbi Elazar, however, we eat charoset at the seder as part of the commemoration and celebration of the Exodus.  The Gemara cites Rabbi Levi as explaining the charoset as commemorative of the apple orchards where, according to a Midrashic tradition, the Israelite women would deliver their infants, out of view of the Egyptian officials who were commanded to kill newborn Israelite males.  According to Rabbi Yochanan, the charoset is symbolic of the cement with which Benei Yisrael were forced to build during the period of bondage.

            The Rambam, in his commentary to the Mishna, writes that the debate surrounding the status of the charoset relates to the issue of whether one recites a berakha before eating charoset.  According to the first view in the Mishna, charoset is eaten simply to help digest the marror, and thus does not warrant a berakha.  According to Rabbi Elazar, who understood the charoset as a commemoration of the Exodus, one must, indeed, recite a beracha over this mitzva of charoset.

            Interestingly enough, in his Mishneh Torah, the Rambam does not appear to follow his remarks in his commentary to the Mishna.  In Hilkhot Chametz U-matza (7:11), the Rambam explicitly describes the charoset as a “mitzva mi-divrei Soferim” (an obligation enacted by the Sages), and adopts Rabbi Yochanan’s position, that the charoset commemorates the cement used by the slaves for building.  Clearly, he follows the opinion viewing the charoset as an obligatory commemoration, and not as a medical necessity.  According to his remarks in his commentary to the Mishna, then, we would expect the Rambam to require reciting a berakha at the seder over the charoset – yet he makes no mention of such a requirement.  Apparently, he retracted his original comments, and maintained that even Rabbi Elazar did not require reciting a berakha over the charoset, despite its status as a mitzva.

            The question then arises, why, in fact, do we not recite a berakha over the charoset, just as we recite berakhot over the matza and the marror?

            This question is addressed in the commentary of Rabbeinu Mano’ach to Hilkhot Chametz U-matza.  He writes:

Because it is not eaten alone, and is [rather] subordinate to that which the person dips in it.  And do not be surprised, for we see something similar regarding the lulav, that one does not recite a berakha over all the four species even though there are all [required] by the Torah like the lulav, because they are subordinate to it and they are called by its name and it is primary…

Rabbeinu Mano’ach explains that the relationship between the charoset and the marror resembles the relationship that exists between the four species on Sukkot.  The primary mitzva, he claims, is to take the lulav, and taking the other three species is a secondary aspect of the mitzva.  We therefore recite a berakha over the lulav (“al netilat lulav”), and this bereakha covers all four species.  Similarly, the Sages instituted the charoset not as an independent obligation, but rather as an additional requirement within the mitzva of marror.  Therefore, the charoset does not warrant an independent berakha, as it is covered by the berakha recited over the marror.

            As Rav Simcha Mordechai Ziskind Broyde noted in his Sam Derekh, Rabbeinu Mano’ach’s contention may likely depend on the two explanations given in the Gemara for the commemorative function of the charoset.  If we view the charoset as part of the mitzva of marror, then we likely must presume that the charoset, like the marror, symbolizes the harsh labor to which the slaves were subjected.  This perspective would thus follow Rabbi Yochanan’s position, which the Rambam accepts, viewing the charoset as commemorating the mudpits of Egypt.  If, however, we accept the view of Rabbi Levi, that the charoset symbolizes the apple orchards where the Israelite women miraculously gave birth and hid their infants from the Egyptian officials, then the charoset relates to the theme of redemption, and not that of bitter bondage.  It would thus seem difficult to view the charoset as part of the mitzva of marror, given that they reflect two opposite themes – the theme of bitter slavery and the theme of miraculous salvation.  Presumably, then, we do not require a berakha over the charoset because we follow the view of Rabbi Yochanan, that the charoset symbolizes the backbreaking labor and is thus a subordinate aspect of the mitzva of marror.

David Silverberg

Sunday

            The main body of the maggid section of the Haggada is the discussion surrounding a series of verses in Sefer Devarim – “Arami oveid avi ve-yareid Mitzrayema…u-ve’otot u-ve’mofetim” (Devarim 26:5-8).  These verses comprise (most of) the mikra bikkurim declaration which a farmer must recite upon bringing his bikkurim (first fruits) to the Beit Ha-mikdash.  In this declaration, the farmer briefly reviews the history of the Egyptian exile and the Exodus.  The Haggada goes through this declaration, one phrase or (in some instances) one word at a time, and cites the corresponding verse from the original narrative of the Exodus story in Sefer Shemot.  In other words, we fulfill the obligation of sippur yetzi’at Mitzrayim (telling the story of the Exodus) at the seder through the careful study of mikra bikkurim, identifying the origin of each word or phrase in the original Exodus narrative.  This is the required method of telling about the Exodus, as the Rambam explicitly codifies in Hilkhot Chametz U-matza (8:3).

            Why did Chazal choose specifically the section of mikra bikkurim as the text through which we fulfill the obligation of sippur yetzi’at Mitzrayim?

            One answer relates to the reason why the Torah required a farmer to recite this text upon bringing his bikkurim to the Temple.  It seems likely that the Torah wanted the farmer to acknowledge that the same God which delivered his ancestors from bondage has blessed him with a successful yield.  He must proclaim that the natural processes which, through his efforts, produced fruits in his orchards are under the exclusive control of the Almighty.  God’s power and His kindness are not expressed only through supernatural displays such as the miracles of the Exodus.  Rather, even the natural, day-to-day events of our lives are under the governance and control of God.  Indeed, the farmer concludes his declaration by announcing that he brings the first fruits “which You, O Lord, has given me” (“asher natata li Hashem” – Devarim 26:10; we should note, however, that it is unclear whether this phrase refers to the fruits, or to the land which produced the fruits).  The purpose of recalling the Exodus on this occasion is to recognize that it is God who enables us to work, to produce, and to succeed in earning a livelihood.

            Celebrating and commemorating the Exodus is critical for several reasons, but it also runs the risk of misleading us into thinking that God’s authority is manifest only through events such as yetzi’at Mitzrayim.  Observing a special festival to celebrate this miracle, and dedicating an entire night to discussing the supernatural events and their significance, might leave one with the impression that God governs the world only through supernatural means.  At all other times, one might think, God does not relate to the earth and leaves it entirely to the course of nature.  For this reason, perhaps, the Sages instructed us to approach the Exodus through the lenses of the farmer bringing his first fruits to the Mikdash and declaring that these fruits have been given to him by the Almighty.  This reminds us that the lesson of the miracles of yetzi’at Mitzrayim is that God controls and governs the earth at all times, even when nature proceeds along its normal course.  We must view the Exodus as the farmer does when bringing his bikkurim – as demonstrating God’s unlimited control over the earth at all times and under all circumstances.

David Silverberg

Monday

            It is commonly understood that the tzefardei’a, the creatures which God brought upon Egypt as the second of the ten plagues, were frogs.  This appears to be the view of the Midrash cited by Rashi in his commentary to Sefer Shemot (7:29), where he writes that the tzefardei’a entered the Egyptians’ stomachs and were “mekarkerin,” which likely refers to the croaking sound made by frogs.

            Abarbanel, however, in a lengthy passage in his Torah commentary, takes issue with the conventional translation of the word “tzefardei’a.”  He cites the view of Rabbenu Chananel identifying the tzefardei’a as crocodiles, not as frogs, and sets out to advocate for this definition.  His primary argument surrounds the word “nogeif” (“smite” or “plague”) with which God formulates his warning to Pharaoh prior to the second plague: “Hinei anokhi nogeif et kol gevulkha ba-tzfarde’im” (“I will hereby plague your entire territory with tzefarde’im” – Shemot 7:27).  The verb n.g.f., Abarbanel contends, as well as the derivative noun mageifa (“plague”), denote specifically a deathly phenomenon.  Swarms of frogs might be disruptive, uncomfortable and even painful, but not deadly.  If the Torah describes the plague of tzefardei’a with the verb “n.g.f.,” then we must conclude that these were deadly creatures.

            Abarbanel supports his narrow definition of the term “nogeif” from Moshe’s announcement prior to the plague of the firstborn: “Ve-avar Hashem li-ngof et Mitzrayim” (“The Lord shall pass through to plague Egypt” – Shemot 12:23).  This plague, quite obviously, was a deadly one, and we might therefore conclude that the verb n.g.f. refers specifically to death.

Rashi was sensitive to this question regarding the term “nogeif,” and claimed that this word does not necessarily indicate a deadly phenomenon.  He brings several proof texts in support of his claim, including a verse later in Sefer Shemot (21:22) concerning the reparations one must pay for hurting a pregnant woman, causing a miscarriage.  The Torah explicitly states that it refers to a case where “lo yiheyeh ason” (“there is not a tragedy”), meaning, the woman is not fatally wounded.  Yet, it describes the beating with the term “ve-nagefu,” indicating that this verb is not restricted to mortal beatings.  Abarbanel easily refutes Rashi’s claim, noting that the case involves the death of the fetus, and thus the term “ve-nagefu” is indeed used there in reference to a deadly incident.

Rashi also attempts to draw proof to his position from several verses that employ the term negef (or derivatives thereof) in the context of a stumbling block that “smites” a person’s leg (such as the well-known verse in Tehillim, “pen tigof ba-even raglekha” – 91:12).  Obviously, these verses refer to stumbling and falling, but not to the loss of life.  In response, Abarbanel claims that in these contexts, the term is used to describe the effects of the stone on the individual’s leg, not on the individual’s life.  Indeed, the stone “kills” the leg by injuring it so it cannot function properly.  Poetically, the verb “n.g.f.,” which refers specifically to death, can be used to describe a debilitating injury to a limb.

Abarbanel brings further proof to Rabbenu Chananel’s position from a verse in Sefer Tehillim (78:45) that says about the tzefardei’a, “va-tashchiteim” (literally, “it destroyed them”).  The verb sh.ch.t. is used almost exclusively in reference to deadly carnage, as in the context of the destruction of mankind during the time of Noach (“ve-hineni mashchitam et ha-aretz” – Bereishit 6:13).  The word “va-tashchiteim,” Abarbanel contends, would hardly seem appropriate in describing an onslaught of frogs.  It seems more likely that the creatures which ascended from the river to “destroy” Egypt were deadly creatures, as Rabbenu Chananel maintained.

Abarbanel also notes that when Moshe brings an end to the tzefardei’a, the tzefardei’a remained “only in the river” (“rak ba-ye’or tisha’arna” – Shemot 8:5,7).  This phrase implies that after the cessation of the plague, there were no tzefardei’a to be found anywhere throughout Egypt, except in the Nile River.  It is hard to imagine, Abarbanel argues, that there would be no frogs anywhere throughout the country other than in the Nile River.  This description would be accurate only if we identify the tzefardei’a as creatures that reside only in large bodies of water, such as the Nile River.  Abarbanel then embarks on a lengthy geographic and historic discussion of the Mediterranean region to explain why and how crocodiles would swim in the Nile River.  Interestingly enough, he also poses the theory that the plague of tzefardei’a ensued as a natural result of the plague of blood, which preceded it.  According to his theory, crocodiles would occasionally make their way to the Nile River in search of food.  The plague of blood killed all the fish in the Nile (Shemot 7:21), and the hungry crocodiles therefore left the river to find food, and preyed on the Egyptian population.

            This view, of course, is a minority view, and it has become accepted that the term tzefardei’a refers to frogs.  In modern Hebrew, too, the word for frogs is “tzefardei’a.”

David Silverberg

Tuesday

            The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (11a) lists as one of the reasons that warrant ibur shana (adding a thirteenth month to the Hebrew year) the concern of “tanurei pesachim” (“the ovens for the paschal sacrifice”).  As Rashi explains, the outdoor ovens in Jerusalem that were used for roasting the meat of the korban pesach needed time to dry or be repaired after the winter rains.  If the Sanhedrin forecasted that the ovens would not be ready in time for the fifteenth of Nissan, this was legitimate grounds for them to add an extra month of Adar, to delay Pesach for a month.

            Netziv, in his Ha’amek Davar commentary to Sefer Vayikra (26:31), notes that the Gemara’s discussion appears to refer even to the period following the destruction of the Second Temple.  Meaning, the concern for the “tanurei pesachim” applied not only in the time of the Beit Ha-mikdash, but even after the Temple’s destruction.  Apparently, Netziv notes, the korban pesach was offered each year even in the Temple’s absence.  He claims that this continued until the fall of Beitar several decades later, when the altar on the Temple Mount was dismantled.

            It appears, Netziv writes, that after the fall of the Mikdash the Jews continued offering the korban pesach, but not other sacrifices.  The reason, he explains, relates to God’s warning to Benei Yisrael in Parashat Bechukotai that if they disobey the Torah, “I shall make Your Temple desolate, and I shall not smell the fragrance of Your fragrant offerings.”  At first glance, God here warns that He will destroy the Temple, and, as a result of the Temple’s loss, Benei Yisrael will be unable to offer sacrifices for Him to accept.  Netziv, however, explains differently, claiming that after the Temple’s destruction, God will not “smell” the sacrifices, but sacrifices that do not require God’s “smelling” may still be offered.  Insightfully, Netziv draws our attention to the fact that throughout the Torah, we find the term “rei’ach nicho’ach” (“a pleasant fragrance”) used to describe all the sacrifices – except for the korban pesach.  Nowhere, Netziv observes, does the Torah use this expression in the context of the korban pesach – as opposed to all other sacrifices, regarding which this expression appears in one context or another.  When God warns that after the Temple’s destruction He will not “smell the fragrance of Your fragrant offerings” (“ve-lo ari’ach be-rei’ach nichochakhem”), He means that He will not accept sacrifices offered for the purpose of “rei’ach nicho’ach.”  The paschal sacrifice, however, which is not offered as a “rei’ach nicho’ach,” may be brought upon the altar even in the absence of the Beit Ha-mikdash.

            How might we understand this distinction between the korban pesach and other sacrifices?  What does it say about the korban pesach that it is never described as a “rei’ach nicho’ach”?

            Rav Yehuda Kuperman, in his annotation to the Ha’amek Davar (published in Jerusalem, 5769), explains based on the Ramban’s famous comments concerning the underlying purpose and significance of the korbanot.  In his commentary to Parashat Vayikra (1:9), the Ramban cites and strongly rejects the Rambam’s assertion that the korbanot are not inherently significant, but are rather a necessity borne out of Benei Yisrael’s prolonged exposure to pagan sacrificial ritual.  The Ramban argues that the korbanot have inherent importance as a means of connecting the human being with the Creator.  Rav Kuperman notes that the Ramban presents this discussion on the verse which contains the first instance in Sefer Vayikra of the phrase, “rei’ach nicho’ach le-Hashem.”  The Ramban apparently felt that this expression, which speaks of the value of the korbanot as a means of enhancing our relationship with God, demonstrates the inherent significance of the sacrifices, and thus disproves the Rambam’s theory.

            However, as Netziv noted, the term “rei’ach nicho’ach le-Hashem” is not used in reference to the korban pesach.  What this might indicate, Rav Kuperman writes, is that the korban pesach, unlike other sacrifices, is offered for the purpose mentioned by the Rambam – as a means of dissociating ourselves from idolatrous rites.  Indeed, when Moshe issued the commands to Benei Yisrael concerning the first paschal offering before the Exodus, he introduced the command with the word “mishkhu” (“withdraw” – Shemot 12:21), which the Mekhilta understood to mean “withdraw from idolatry.”  As many writers have noted, the purpose of the korban pesach was to establish a formal break from the idolatrous practices to which Benei Yisrael had grown accustomed in Egypt, an event that is commemorated each year henceforth through the offering of the paschal sacrifice.  Thus, the korban pesach serves not as a “rei’ach nicho’ach le-Hashem” – an offering brought to enhance one’s relationship with God, as described by the Ramban – but rather as a means of dissociating ourselves from foreign worship, as described by the Rambam.  (Rav Avraham Yitzchak Sorotzkin, in his Rinat Yitzchak commentary to the Haggada, explains Netziv’s comments similarly.)

David Silverberg

Wednesday

            The Torah in Parashat Emor (Vayikra 23:9-14) presents the mitzva of the korban ha-omer, the special sacrifice brought during Pesach that included the first gleanings of the season’s grain.  This offering is to be brought “mi-machorat ha-Shabbat,” which literally means, “on the day following the Shabbat” (23:11).  Chazal famously explained that this refers to the 16^th of Nissan, the day following the first day of Pesach.  The Torah refers to the first day of Pesach as “Shabbat” because, like on Shabbat, one may not engage in melakha (forbidden activity) on this day.  The day following “the Shabbat,” then, is the 16^th of Nissan, and according to our oral tradition it is on this day when the korban ha-omer is to be offered.  The Torah also requires beginning the sefirat ha-omer count on the day of “machorat ha-Shabbat,” and for this reason we begin counting on the second night of Pesach, the 16^th of Nissan.

            As the Talmud relates, the interpretation of the phrase “mi-machorat ha-Shabbat” was the subject of bitter controversy between traditional Jews and the heretical Sadducee sect, which rejected the oral tradition.  The Sadducees claimed that “ha-Shabbat” refers to the day of Shabbat, and they therefore maintained that the korban ha-omer must be offered on the first Sunday following the first day of Pesach, regardless of the calendar date.  They advocated beginning sefirat ha-omer on that day, as well.

            While we obviously accept the tradition of Chazal, this unconditional acceptance does not absolve us from addressing the question of why the Torah refers to the first day of Pesach with the term “ha-Shabbat.”  Why did the Torah describe this Yom Tov as “the Shabbat”?

            Among the numerous answers that have been offered is the fairly simple explanation suggested by Netziv, in his Ha’amek Davar commentary.  Netziv explains that although the Torah generally refers to Yom Tov with the term “shabbaton,” to distinguish it from Shabbat, in the context of the Beit Ha-mikdash Yom Tov is also called “Shabbat.”  The reason, quite simply, is that there is no difference at all between the observances of Shabbat and Yom Tov in the Beit Ha-mikdash.  Outside the Temple, Yom Tov differs from Shabbat in that melakha is permissible on Yom Tov for the purpose of food preparation.  The Torah expresses this difference by using a different term in reference to Yom Tov.  In the Beit Ha-mikdash, however, the laws of Shabbat and Yom Tov are the same.  On both occasions, the kohanim offer the mandatory sacrifices, despite the melakhot entailed, but may not offer voluntary sacrifices.  As far as the Beit Ha-mikdash is concerned, then, Yom Tov may indeed be accurately called “Shabbat,” since the difference between the sacred natures of these two occasions exists only outside the framework of the Mikdash.

            This, Netziv explains, is why the Torah employs the term “Shabbat” to refer to the first day of Pesach in the context of the korban ha-omer.  Since these laws pertain specifically to the Beit Ha-mikdash, in this context the observance of Yom Tov is identical to the observance of Shabbat.

David Silverberg

Thursday

            The mitzva of sefirat ha-omer requires counting forty-nine nights, starting from the second night of Pesach, the sixteenth of Nissan.  One recites a berakha before performing this mitzva on each of the forty-nine nights.

            The Ba’al Ha-ma’or (end of Masekhet Pesachim) raises an interesting question concerning the recitation of a berakha before counting on the first night of the omer.  Jews in the Diaspora observe two days of Yom Tov, in commemoration of the times when remote communities did not know which day had been designated as the first of the month, and were thus compelled to observe two days of Yom Tov.  Even though we have since adopted the fixed-calendar system, such that we know the date with certainty, Diaspora communities nevertheless observe two days of Yom Tov to commemorate the practice observed by the Diaspora communities of yesteryear.  This observance gives rise to a somewhat complex situation with regard to sefirat ha-omer on the second night of Pesach.  Jews in the Diaspora observe this night as the first night of Pesach, fulfilling all the mitzvot that apply on the first night, yet, they also observe the mitzva of sefirat ha-omer, which does not apply until the second night of Pesach.  In other words, although they observe the laws of Pesach as though it was the fifteenth of Nissan, they also count the omer, because it is the sixteenth of Nissan.

            This situation, the Ba’al Ha-ma’or insightfully notes, is analogous to the requirement to eat and sleep in the sukka on Shemini Atzeret in the Diaspora.  In ancient times, the remote communities had to eat and sleep in the sukka on Shemini Atzeret because they were unsure whether that day was indeed Shemini Atzeret, or if it was actually the seventh day of Sukkot.  Given the possibility that it was still Sukkot, they would eat and sleep in the sukka.  The Gemara, in a famous passage in Masekhet Sukka (47a), rules that even though Diaspora communities nowadays know the date with confidence, they must nevertheless eat and sleep in the sukka on Shemini Atzeret, in commemoration of the ancient practice.  However, the Gemara adds, they do not recite a berakha before eating in the sukka, in order to preserve the sanctity of the holiday.  If people would eat in the sukka with the berakha, treating the day as the seventh day of Sukkot, they might not properly observe the Yom Tov of Shemini Atzeret.  The Gemara therefore rules that Jews in the Diaspora should not recite a berakha before eating in the sukka on Shemini Atzeret, in order to ensure that they fully observe the day as Shemini Atzeret.

            The Ba’al Ha-ma’or questions why we do not find a similar halakha with regard to sefirat ha-omer on the second night of Pesach.  As in the case of Shemini Atzeret, performing the mitzva of sefirat ha-omer with a berakha indicates that it is the second day of Pesach, not the first day, and people might therefore fail to observe the day as Yom Tov.  Why, then, do Diaspora communities recite a berakha over sefirat ha-omer on the second night of Pesach?

            The Kesef Mishneh (Hilkhot Sukka 6:13) answers this question by noting two important distinctions between the two cases.  First, on Sukkot we recite the berakha over the sukka as part of the recitation of kiddush.  If the Diaspora communities would be required to recite the berakha over the sukka on Shemini Atzeret, they would have to recite this berakha in the context of kiddush which makes explicit reference to Shemini Atzeret, a day when sitting in the sukka is not required.  This absurd situation would certainly undermine people’s respect for the observance of Shemini Atzeret, and Chazal therefore required sitting in the sukka without a berakha.  On the second night of Pesach, however, sefirat ha-omer is performed after the arvit service, and not in a “Pesach-specific” context.  It therefore does not undermine the observance of the Yom Tov of Pesach.  Secondly, the Kesef Mishneh explains, these two cases are, in truth, opposites of each other.  In the case of Shemini Atzeret, we know for certain that the day is Shemini Atzeret, and eating in the sukka is required merely as a commemoration.  The Sages thus suspended the berakha to ensure proper respect for the holiday of Shemini Atzeret, which is observed with certainty on that day.  On the second night of Pesach, however, we know for certainty that it is the sixteenth of Nissan, and not the fifteenth.  Sefirat ha-omer is observed on this night with certainty, and it is the observance of Yom Tov which is done merely as a commemoration.  Therefore, Chazal did not suspend the berakha recitation before sefirat ha-omer, as this mitzva is being performed in fulfillment of the actual command, as not as a rabbinically-ordained commemoration of an ancient observance.

            Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik (cited by Rav Herschel Schachter in Mi-peninei Ha-Rav, p. 244) suggested that this issue raised by the Ba’al Ha-ma’or could serve as the halakhic basis for the otherwise questionable custom of many Chasidim in the Diaspora to count the omer after the seder on the second night of Pesach.  Many halakhic authorities objected to this custom, noting the prohibition against eating a meal before counting the omer, as well as the concept of “temimut” which requires counting as early in the night as possible.  Possibly, Rav Soloveitchik commented, the Chassidim adopted this custom to avoid the problem raised by the Ba’al Ha-ma’or.  Delaying sefirat ha-omer until after the seder essentially means counting the omer after one has completed all the Pesach observances.  In this way, one ensures to count the omer outside the context of his observance of Pesach, such that he avoids the absurdity of combining the observance of the fifteenth of Nissan with the observance of the sixteenth of Nissan.

David Silverberg

Friday

            Yesterday, we discussed the question raised by the Ba’al Ha-ma’or (end of Masekhet Pesachim) concerning the counting of the omer on the second night of Pesach in the Diaspora.  Jews in the Diaspora observe the second day of Pesach as a Yom Tov, in commemoration of the practice observed by Diaspora communities during ancient times who did not know which day had been declared the first of the month.  Since Diaspora communities observe this day as a Yom Tov, the Ba’al Ha-ma’or noted, we might have expected Chazal to suspend the recitation of the berakha over sefirat ha-omer.  Performing the mitzva of sefirat ha-omer – an obligation which takes effect only on the sixteenth of Nissan – is incongruent with the observance of Yom Tov, an obligation that applies on the fifteenth.  A similar paradox exists on Shemini Atzeret, when Diaspora Jews must eat in the sukka, since ancient Diaspora communities were unsure whether the day was Shemini Atzeret or the seventh day of Sukkot.  In that circumstance, Chazal resolved the dilemma by suspending the recitation of the berakha over the sukka on Shemini Atzeret, such that the mitzva of sukka is not observed in its classic form and thus does not “clash” with the observance of Shemini Atzeret.  Seemingly, we should expect this halakha to apply on the second night of Pesach, as well.  Here, too, Diaspora Jews should omit the berakha over sefirat ha-omer so that this mitzva would not clash with the observance of the first Yom Tov of Pesach.  Yet, nowhere do we find any mention of such a halakha.

            One possible answer to the Ba’al Ha-ma’or’s question relates to the unique status of the berakha recited over sefirat ha-omer.  Although we recite a berakha before the performance of many mitzvot, there are a number of indications that the berakha recited before the mitzva of sefirat ha-omer differs from other berakhot.  For example, the Rosh in Masekhet Pesachim (10:41) cites the Gemara’s comment that one must stand for the counting of the omer, and writes that one must also recite the berakha while standing.  Some writers inferred from the Rosh’s remark that the berakha is considered part of the actual counting.  While with regard to other mitzvot the Sages enacted the recitation of a berakha preceding the mitzva, here Chazal required counting in the context of a berakha; meaning, the berakha is recited as part of the performance of the actual mitzva.  This perspective on the berakha would explain why the Rosh assumed that the requirement to stand for sefirat ha-omer also requires standing for the berakha recited before sefirat ha-omer.  Since the berakha constitutes part of the mitzva, the requirements that apply to the sefira apply equally to the berakha.

            Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik (cited in Rav Herschel Schachter’s Mi-peninei Ha-Rav, pp.233-4) inferred this theory from the discussion of the Re’avya (cited in the Tur O.C. 489) concerning a person who recited the berakha with the wrong number day in mind, but then counted the correct number.  The Re’avya compares this case to the situation addressed in the Gemara (Berakhot 12a) of a person who recited the words “Barukh Ata Hashem Elokenu Melech ha-olam” with the intention of reciting the wrong berakha, but then recited the correct berakha.  The Re’avya’s discussion works on the premise that the halakha in the case of sefirat ha-omer depends on the halakha in the case of berakhot.  At first glance, this comparison seems very difficult to understand.  In the case discussed in Masekhet Berakhot, the individual recited part of the berakha with the intention of reciting the wrong conclusion of the berakha.  The question thus arises as to whether the first half of the berakha is valid.  But when it comes to sefirat ha-omer, the text of the berakha is identical on every night, and it thus should make no difference which day the individual had in mind when he recited the berakha.  Rav Soloveitchik drew proof from the Re’avya’s comparison that the berakha over the counting and the counting itself constitute two parts of a single recitation.  Thus, having the wrong intention during the berakha may, indeed, affect the validity of the counting.

            Rav Soloveitchik further noted the Rambam’s comment in Hilkhot Temidin U-musafin (end of chapter 7) that one who counts sefirat ha-omer without reciting the berakha has nevertheless fulfilled his obligation.  This ruling might, at first glance, seem superfluous, in light of the general rule established by the Rambam in Hilkhot Berakhot (chapter 11) that one fulfills a mitzva even if he neglected to recite the berakha.  Rav Soloveitchik explained that the Rambam found it necessary to reiterate this ruling in the context of sefirat ha-omer due to the unique status of the berakha recited over sefirat ha-omer.  Since the berakha was enacted as part of the mitzva, and not merely as an introduction to the mitzva, one might have concluded that the recitation of the berakha is indispensable to the fulfillment of the mitzva.  The Rambam therefore clarified that one who does not recite the berakha nevertheless fulfills the mitzva, even though he did not fulfill the mitzva in the ideal manner prescribed by Chazal.

            The most glaring expression of this berakha’s unique stature emerges from the view taken by some Rishonim (see Bei’ur Ha-Gra, 489:15) to begin the counting of the omer with the prefix “she-“ (“that…”).  According to this view, the berakha over the counting and the counting itself are said as part of once sentence (e.g. “Barukh Ata Hashem…asher kideshanu be-mitzvot ve-tzivanu al sefirat ha-omer she-hayom yom echad la-omer”).  This would certainly indicate that the berakha was established as part of the sefira, and not as the introduction to the sefira.

If so, then we can easily understand why Chazal did not want to suspend the recitation of the berakha over sefirat ha-omer on the first night of counting in the Diaspora.  Since the berakha was enacted as part of the counting, it is given greater halakhic weight than ordinary birkot ha-mitzva.  Therefore, even though Chazal suspended the berakha over the sukka on Shemini Atzeret to preserve the sanctity of the Yom Tov, they did not suspend the berakha over sefirat ha-omer on the second Yom Tov of Pesach.

David Silverberg

S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT TZAV

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei Shabbat

            The first section of Parashat Tzav discusses the mitzva known as terumat ha-deshen, which requires removing ashes from the altar each morning.  The Mishna in Masekhet Yoma (22a) describes the procedure by which it was decided which kohen would perform this ritual each day.  Originally, the Mishna relates, any kohen who wished to perform the terumat ha-deshen was allowed to do so, and if several kohanim wanted to perform it, they would race each other up the ramp to the altar.  The first kohen who reached the top of the altar won the privilege of performing this ritual.  This procedure continued, the Mishna relates, until one time a kohen knocked another kohen off the ramp, and that other kohen fell to the ground and suffered a broken leg.  It was then decided that a lottery would be conducted each morning to determine who would perform the terumat ha-deshen, rather than the run the risk of another injury.

            This unfortunate incident reflects the dangers of affording disproportionate emphasis to ritual at the expense of basic ethical behavior.  In several contexts the prophets condemn those people who were passionate about offering sacrifices in the Mikdash, but failed to show concern for others.  The kohen described in the Mishna quite obviously recognized the importance of the service in the Temple, and desired the privilege of performing the terumat ha-deshen ritual.  Unfortunately, he failed to afford this same level of importance to the far more basic value of care and concern for his fellow.  This disproportionate focus on ritual over ethics led him to commit a serious crime even as he sought to serve God in the Mikdash.

            This story should perhaps also serve as a warning about the potential dangers of religious zeal and passion.  Many sources point to the importance of serving God with enthusiasm, excitement and fervor, rather than serving robotically and without feeling.  However, this passion must be accompanied by careful thought and sound decision-making.  It is likely that the kohen described in the Mishna was so caught up in the excitement surrounding the Temple rituals that he did not exercise proper judgment.  His zeal led him to impulsivity and rash, uncalculated behavior.  We may assume that he did not make a conscious, calculated decision to shove his fellow kohen off the ramp so that he could reach the top first.  Rather, he acted on impulse, his rational faculties dulled by the intoxication of religious fervor.

            Exercising one’s emotions in the service of God is critical – but this must not entail the disabling of the intellect.  As in the tragic story told in the Mishna, thoughtless religious zeal can lead to very irreligious behavior.  The emotions must work in close cooperation with the mind as we endeavor to serve our Creator with excitement, fervor and sincere devotion.

Sunday

            After the Torah’s discussion in Parashat Tzav of the voluntary mincha offering, it writes, “This is the sacrifice of Aharon and his sons that they shall offer to the Lord on the day he is anointed: one-tenth an efa of flour, an eternal meal offering – half in the morning, and half in the evening” (6:13).  Rashi, based on the Gemara in Masekhet Menachot (51b), explains that the Torah refers here to two different sacrifices.  First, every kohen was required to bring a mincha offering on “the day he is anointed,” the first time he comes to the Mikdash to perform the avoda (ritual service).  In addition, this verse speaks of “an eternal meal offering” (“minchat tamid”), referring to a daily mincha offering which the kohen gadol was required to bring each day during his tenure as high priest.  Half the sacrifice was offered on the altar in the morning, and the other half in the afternoon.

            Inferring these two sacrifices from this verse appears to entail a stretched reading of the text.  The straightforward reading of the verse indicates that it speaks of only a single offering, not two offerings.  It seems that Chazal arrived at this reading due to the seeming inherent contradiction in the verse.  On the one hand, it speaks of an offering brought on the day of a kohen’s consecration, but then it mentions a “mincha tamid” – a mincha brought each day.  Chazal resolve this contradiction by asserting that it refers to two different offerings.  Furthermore, this verse speaks of an offering brought by all kohanim (“Aharon and his sons”), whereas two verses later the Torah indicates that the offering was brought only by the kohen gadol.  Chazal therefore explain that the Torah here refers to two different sacrifices, one which every kohen had to bring the first time he served in the Mikdash, and another which was offered only by the kohen gadol, every day.

            Still, the question remains, how can Chazal’s understanding accommodate the construction of this verse?

            Malbim explains, quite simply, that Chazal read the words “mincha tamid” as if it were written, “u-mincha tamid” (“and a daily mincha”), such that the verse speaks of two different sacrifices.

            Rav Yaakov Mecklenberg, in his Ha-ketav Ve-ha’kabbala, suggests reading the entire first half of the verse as the subject, as follows: “This sacrifice of Aharon and his sons, which they shall offer to the Lord on the day he is anointed, shall be an eternal meal offering…”  Thus, two different mincha sacrifices are mentioned in this verse.  (Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch explains similarly.)

            Rav David Tzvi Hoffman, in his commentary, suggests that in truth, the Torah here refers only to the minchat chavitin, the daily offering brought by the kohen gadol.  Already Ibn Ezra cites a theory that when the Torah writes “on the day he is anointed,” it really means, “from the day he is anointed.”  In other words, the Torah simply clarifies that this mincha tamid shall be observed each day from the day Aharon is anointed as kohen gadol.  Once the institution of the high priesthood is in place, the kohen gadol must offer this mincha sacrifice each day.  According to this reading, the Torah here does not make any reference at all to the sacrifice offered by a kohen on his first day of service.  This requirement, Rav Hoffman suggests, was perhaps taught through the oral tradition of halakha le-Moshe mi-Sinai, and is not actually introduced in this verse.

            Rav Hoffman’s reading gives rise to the question of how to explain the phrase, “Aharon and his sons” in this verse.  If, indeed, this verse speaks only of the daily offering brought by the kohen gadol, then it should mention only Aharon, and not his children, who served as ordinary kohanim and not as high priest.  Rav Hoffman suggests resolving this question by comparing this verse to the Torah’s description of the kohen gadol’s sin-offering on Yom Kippur, which atones for the kohen gadol and for his household (“ve-khiper ba’ado u-ve’ad beito” – Vayikra 16:6).  Perhaps, Rav Hoffman writes, the kohen gadol’s daily mincha offering similarly was brought also on behalf of the kohen gadol’s family, thus accounting for the mention of Aharon’s sons in the context of this offering.

Monday

            The first section of Parashat Tzav introduces the mitzva of terumat ha-deshen, which requires that a kohen go the altar each morning to remove some of the ashes that had collected since the previous morning.

            Several different insights have been suggested into the symbolic meaning and significance of this daily ritual.  One explanation, perhaps, is that the terumat ha-deshen symbolizes the responsibility that rests upon the nation’s leadership to address the difficult and unpleasant problems that arise over the course of Torah life.  This mitzva might serve as a reminder that as beautiful and fulfilling as Torah life generally is, we must recognize that it is not utopian.  Just as ashes collect on the altar, similarly, every Torah community has its share of “ashes,” difficult situations, challenges and controversies that need to be resolved.  Like the kohanim serving in the Mikdash, the nation’s leaders are frequently called upon to “clean up,” to get involved in messy and disturbing issues in order to maintain the beauty, serenity and vitality of Torah life.  Just as the kohanim must regularly sweep the altar to keep it clean, so must Am Yisrael’s leaders work to keep our nation “clean” by removing the “ashes,” by resolving the difficult problems that often arise, as unpleasant as this job often is.

            In the context of this mitzva, the Torah issues the command of “eish tamid,” the obligation upon the kohanim to ensure the constant presence of fire on the altar (6:5-6).  Why is this mitzva introduced specifically in the context of the terumat ha-deshen ritual?  What connection is there between the daily removal of ashes from the altar, and the obligation to ensure that the fire on the altar burns continuously?

            Rav Zalman Sorotzkin, in his Oznayim La-Torah, writes that the Torah here warns the kohanim to exercise care as they sweep the ashes off the altar, not to extinguish the flame in the process.  If they sweep too thoroughly, or carelessly, they may put out the fire as they clean.  The Torah therefore issued the command of “eish tamid” in this context, as a warning not to extinguish the fire while cleaning the altar.

            The Zohar comments that the command to maintain a constant presence of fire on the altar is symbolic of Am Yisrael’s obligation to always maintain the “fire” of Torah, and never allow it to be extinguished.  In light of Rav Sorotzkin’s comments, we might add that this command assumes particular importance while we’re busy “clearing away the ashes,” working to address the unsettling problems that arise over the course of Jewish life.  In the attempt to eliminate the “ashes” from our midst, some might be tempted to “extinguish the flame,” to reject the Torah altogether.  The “ashes” might disgust and disillusion some people to the point where they decide to simply “extinguish the flame” rather than allow the flame to continue burning and produce more ashes.  The Torah requires the kohanim to clear away the ashes each morning while leaving the fire intact.  We, too, must work to keep the fire of Torah burning despite the complications and challenges that this entails, despite the need to “remove the ashes” that collect as a result.  Although Torah life is not always smooth and easy, we nevertheless bear the obligation to keep the flame burning, and work to remove the “ashes” that inevitably, over the course of time, collect.

Tuesday

            The first half of Parashat Tzav reviews the various categories of sacrifices, which had already been introduced in Parashat Vayikra.  The difference between the two presentations, as noted by Rav David Tzvi Hoffman and others, is that in Parashat Vayikra the Torah speaks to the people offering the sacrifices, while in Parashat Tzav the Torah addresses the kohanim.  In Parashat Vayikra, God tells Moshe to speak to Benei Yisrael and tell them which sacrifices they have the option of offering, and which they are obligated to bring in different situations of wrongdoing.  Here, in Parashat Tzav, God tells Moshe to instruct the kohanim with regard to the different procedures required for the different kinds of sacrifices.

            This explains the different sequences in which the korbanot are arranged in the two sections.  In Parashat Vayikra, the Torah presents the different kinds of sacrifices based upon the circumstances in which they are brought.  It begins with the voluntary sacrifices (ola, mincha and shelamim) and then proceeds to the sacrifices that individuals must bring under certain circumstances (chatat, asham, oleh ve-yoreid).  From the perspective of the people, the sacrifices are divided according to the circumstances in which they are warranted.  In Parashat Tzav, by contrast, the korbanot are divided among the kodashei kodashim – the sacrifices of which the person bringing the offering does not partake – and the kodashei kalim – the shelamim sacrifice, most of whose meat is given to the individual offering the sacrifice.  Within the category of kodashei kodashim, the Torah begins with the ola, which is entirely burnt upon the altar, and then proceeds to the other sacrifices, most of whose meat was given to the kohanim.  This parasha is presented from the perspective of the kohanim, and the focus is thus on the procedure required once the offering is brought to the Mishkan, particularly what the kohen do with the meat of the sacrifice.

            It is interesting to note in this context that in discussing the korban ola here in Parashat Tzav, the Torah focuses specifically on the terumat ha-deshen, the obligation upon the kohanim to sweep the ashes from the altar.  When it comes to the other sacrifices, the Torah instructs which part of the sacrifice is placed on the altar, which is eaten by the kohanim and which is given to the person bringing the sacrifice.  Of course, this discussion would be irrelevant in the context of the ola, as the entire animal is burned on the altar.  It is revealing, however, that the corresponding ritual to the kohanim’s consumption of the meat when dealing with the ola is the removal of the ashes.  When a person brings a mincha, shelamim, chatat or asham, the kohen (after the slaughtering and sprinkling of the blood) participates in the process by partaking of the sacrificial meat; when a person brings an ola, the kohen’s role is to clean up the ashes.

            As Rav Amnon Bazak noted, this contrasting parallel reflects the fundamental difference between the ola and other sacrifices.  When it comes to the other sacrifices, the kohen functions as a partner of the Almighty, as it were.  The altar – representing God – receives its portion of the sacrifice, and the kohen is also given a share.  But when an ola is offered, the kohanim serve the role of custodians.  In this context, the kohanim are not God’s partners, but rather His servants and butlers.  They do not sit down at the table to eat with the King, but rather come to clean up after the meal.

            In this sense, the contrast between the ola and the other sacrifices signifies the dual nature of our relationship with the Almighty.  On the one hand, God has assigned us the role of “partners,” those with whom He has chosen to share the earth and the responsibility for building and developing the earth.  At the same time, however, we must always remain cognizant of our subordinate status, as humble servants of the King.  Although He has elevated us to the stature of “partners,” we still remain continuously and unconditionally subservient to His will and His commands.

Wednesday

            The opening verses of Parashat Tzav discuss the terumat ha-deshen ritual, which required that a kohen walk up to the altar each morning to remove the ashes that had collected.  The Torah writes that when a kohen performs this ritual, he must wear “mido vad” (“his linen garment”) and the mikhnesayim, the undergarments which kohanim wore underneath the other priestly vestments (6:3).  Rashi, Rav Saadia Gaon and other commentators interpret the word “mido” (“his garment”) as referring specifically to the kutonet, the long tunic worn by the kohanim when they officiated.

            The straightforward reading of the verse suggests that the terumat ha-deshen ritual required only two of the four priestly garments.  Although generally the avoda (ritual service) in the Mikdash had to be performed with all four garments, it appears, at first glance, that the terumat ha-deshen required only the kutonet and mikhnesayim.  This is, indeed, the position of Reish Lakish, who, as cited by the Gemara (Yoma 23b), held that the terumat ha-deshen did not have the formal status of an avoda, and thus did not require all four priestly garments.  Likewise, Reish Lakish understood that according to one view among the Tanna’im (Rabbi Eliezer), a ba’al mum (kohen with a physical deformity) was allowed to perform the terumat ha-deshen ritual, even though a ba’al mum is disqualified from performing avoda.  Since the terumat ha-deshen is not formally classified as an avoda, Reish Lakish asserted, it is possible to allow a ba’al mum to perform this ritual.

            Rabbi Yochanan, however, disagreed, and maintained that the terumat ha-deshen constitutes a full-fledged avoda.  As such, it requires all four priestly vestments, and according to all views it may not be performed by a ba’al mum.  (Rabbi Yochanan understood that Rabbi Eliezer allowed a ba’al mum to perform hotza’at ha-deshen – removing the ashes from the Temple courtyard – but not terumat ha-deshen – removing ashes from the altar.)  Of course, the question then arises as to why, according to Rabbi Yochanan, the Torah mentions only the kutonet and mikhnesayim, if in truth the kohen must also wear the other two garments (the sash and the turban).  The Gemara explains that the Torah specified the kutonet and mikhnesayim to introduce two halakhot concerning these garments that are not clarified elsewhere in the Torah.  The phrase “mido” used in reference to the kutonet alludes to the word “midato” (“his size”), indicating that the kutonet must properly fit the kohen.  And the phrase, “he shall wear linen pants on his flesh” instructs that the mikhnesayim must be the first garments donned by the kohen when he prepares for the avoda. 

            In any event, whereas Reish Lakish held that the kohen wears only the kutonet and the mikhnesayim when performing the terumat ha-deshen, Rabbi Yochanan maintained that he must wear all four garments, just as he must when performing other rituals in the Temple.

            Interestingly, Targum Onkelos, in his translation of this verse, translates the word “mido” as “levushin” (“garments”).  He apparently understood this word as referring not to any one particular garment worn by the kohanim, but rather as a generic term that denotes all the priestly garments.  This interpretation follows neither the view of Rabbi Yochanan nor that of Reish Lakish.  Recall that they both interpreted “mido” as referring specifically to the kutonet, and their debate revolved around the question of whether the Torah’s specification of the kutonet and mikhnesayim meant that the kohen did not need to wear the other two garments.  According to Targum Onkelos, however, it seems that “mido” refers to all the priestly garments.  Malbim also presents this interpretation of the word “mido,” but he surprisingly attributes this reading to Rabbi Yochanan.  As Rav Eliezer Lipman Lichtenstein notes in his Sheim Olam (Warsaw, 1877), the Gemara clearly indicates that even Rabbi Yochanan interpreted “mido” as referring to the kutonet, as discussed.  It thus seems difficult to understand how the Malbim could ascribe to Rabbi Yochanan the interpretation of “mido” as a generic reference to the priestly garments.

Thursday

            We find in Parashat Tzav the mitzva of notar, which requires burning sacrificial meat once the final time for its consumption has passed.  The meat of standard shelamim sacrifices, for example, may be eaten until sundown on the day after it was offered.  If the sacrifice was offered upon the altar on Sunday, then its meat was permissible until sundown on Monday.  Any meat that was not eaten by that time had to be burned on Tuesday (“ba-yom ha-shelishi ba-eish yisareif” – 7:17).

            The Sefer Ha-chinukh (138) suggests two reasons underlying this obligation. First, he writes, the obligation to burn notar serves to preserve the dignity of the sacrificial meat.  Meat naturally decays over the course of time, and the Torah therefore commanded that leftover meat be burned before it becomes spoiled and undignified, which would be denigrating to the sacrifice.  The Sefer Ha-chinukh then adds that the obligation of notar teaches the importance of trusting in God’s ability to provide us with our needs:

This matter contains an allusion to trust in God…that a person should not "strangle himself" excessively with regard to food by putting it away for the following day, seeing that the Almighty commands that we utterly destroy the sacred meat once its time has passed, and He did not wish for any creature – neither human nor animal – to derive benefit from it after it [the final time] has passed.

While the Torah certainly urges us to take personal responsibility in securing a livelihood and planning for the future, this must be tempered by a sense of confidence in God.  The Torah commanded burning leftover sacrificial meat to convey the message of moderation in saving for the future.  We are certainly allowed to “strangle ourselves” by putting away some of our assets for later, but we are discouraged from doing so “excessively,” as we should instead trust in God’s ability to care for us and sustain us.

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests a different, and surprisingly simple, reason for the obligation to burn notar.  Namely, it is unbecoming to have something loathsome in one’s possession.  The Torah requires one to destroy sacrificial meat before it becomes repulsive as a courtesy and out of sensitivity to other people who might otherwise encounter it.  Chazal elsewhere speak of a prohibition against acting repulsively in the presence of others.  In a similar vein, perhaps, the Torah required destroying sacrificial meat before it spoils so as not to expose others to the unbecoming sight and odor of rotten meat.

            Of course, the Torah issued this prohibition only in the context of sacrifices; there is no specific prohibition against having spoiled food in one’s possession.  Perhaps, it is particularly when dealing with the realm of kedusha that the Torah raised the standard of sensitivity in this regard, to teach the importance of ensuring that religious observance appears becoming and dignified to others.  While one of course must always avoid acting in a manner that others may find repulsive, it is especially critical to avoid such conduct when involving oneself in spiritual matters.  We must endeavor to expose our fellow Jews to the beauty and serenity of Torah life, and must therefore ensure that none of our “sacrifices” appear “spoiled” and undignified.

Friday

            In the haftara for Shabbat Hagadol, we read God’s admonition through the prophet Malakhi exhorting the people of the time to fulfill the obligations of ma’aser – the mandatory tithes: “Bring all the tithes to the treasure house so that there is food in My home, and test Me through this…whether I will open for you the floodgates of the sky and pour down unlimited blessing for you” (Malakhi 3:10).

            It appears from this verse that God invites the Jews of the time to “challenge” Him through their payment of ma’aser.  They had been reluctant to pay their dues to the kohanim and Leviyim out of concern of squandering their limited resources.  God therefore invites them to “test” him by paying the ma’aser and seeing His response.  The Almighty guarantees to compensate and reward the people for their expenditure by opening the “floodgates” of blessing of prosperity.

            On the basis of this verse, the Gemara in Masekhet Ta’anit (9a) famously establishes that it is permissible to “test” God through the payment of ma’aser.  Ordinarily, it is forbidden to pose a “test” to the Almighty by performing a mitzva with the specific intent of seeing how one will be rewarded.  The Torah admonishes in Sefer Devarim (6:16), “Do not test the Lord your God,” a prohibition which includes checking to see whether our observance of mitzvot yields the rewards we desire (see, for example, Sefer Ha-chinukh 425).  We are to perform all mitzvot and abstain from wrongdoing with the firm belief and conviction that it is to our ultimate benefit, regardless of whether we actually see any tangible effects of our compliance with the Torah’s laws.  But when it comes to ma’aser, the Gemara writes, it is permissible to “test” God, as God Himself declared – “and test Me through this…whether I will open for you the floodgates of the sky.”  One may therefore give tithes with the intention of checking to see whether or not God will grant him financial reward.

            Why does the mitzva of ma’aser differ from all other mitzvot in this regard?

            The Perisha (Y.D. 247), based on the Maharshal (commentary to the Semag, lo ta’aseh 4), writes that, quite simply, God Himself gave His personal guarantee to financially reward those who are meticulous with regard to the laws of ma’aser.  When it comes to other mitzvot, we are not promised to be rewarded through financial prosperity, and we may therefore not “test” God to determine His ability to reward mitzva observance.  With regard to ma’aser, however, He made an explicit guarantee and even invited us to “put Him to the test.”

            The Tur, in his introduction to the laws of charity (Y.D. 247), extends the Gemara’s ruling to the mitzva of tzedaka.  In his view, it is permissible to “test” the Almighty through any charitable donation, and not merely through the specific mitzva of the mandatory tithing of agricultural produce.  The Rema cites this ruling of the Tur (Y.D. 247:4).  The Beit Yosef, however, disputes the Tur’s position, noting that the Gemara seems to restrict this extraordinary provision specifically to the area of ma’aser.  This is also the position of Rabbenu Yona, in his Sha’arei Teshuva.

            Interestingly, the Rambam makes no mention at all of a provision allowing one to “test” God any under circumstances, even with regard to the mitzva of ma’aser.  The Rambam’s omission of this halakha is likely what led the Meiri – a staunch and loyal adherent of the Rambam’s rulings – to suggest a different interpretation of the Gemara’s comments.  In his commentary to Masekhet Ta’anit, the Meiri writes that it is forbidden to “test” the Almighty even with regard to ma’aser.  What the Gemara meant, he claims, is simply that a person can feel confident when giving the required tithes that he will be repaid in full.  Under no circumstances, however, may a person ever put God to the test and demand that he be repaid.  According to the Meiri, and presumably the Rambam, the verse in Malakhi and the Gemara’s comment express God’s guarantee to reward a person in full for his payment of ma’aser, but should not be taken literally as allowing a person to put God to the test.