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Narratives are told from a particular point of view, a focalization, and a center of consciousness. It is impossible to tell a story from a completely detached vantage point, just as no historian is objective. Therefore, in reading, we enter into the mind of the author, and appreciate his value system. The Torah is the word of God. In studying Torah we gain more than the knowledge we gather; we enter into the 'mind' of God. The more one learns in quality and quantity, the more one attunes oneself to the ultimate meaning of existence. This attuning is enabled by many aspects of Torah, on many levels. One may probe the depths of the meaning of a halakha, or develop a sensitivity to the way in which verses of the Torah are worded. When learning Torah, it is essential to keep in mind that it is God's message. While He worded it in human linguistic forms ("dibra Torah kelashon benei adam"), the choice of all content is divine.

This week we begin the book of Devarim. Almost the whole book is an unbroken relation of speeches made by Moshe in the last month of his life. While God later dictated to him that which would enter into the Torah, Moshe originally delivered the speeches on specific occasions, in particular places, and to distinct groups of people. This makes the narrative of the book of Devarim different to that of the rest of the Torah. If we wish to enter into God's 'mind' in the study of Torah, we must notice the differences between that which is worded by God, and that which is presented by man to man. (This distinction is relevant to all quotations of human speech in the Torah.)

Chapters 2 and 3 of Devarim include Moshe's recounting of the wars waged against the two Emori kings, Sichon and Og. The original narrative appears only a few chapters previously, in Bamidbar 21. The difference is phenomenal. While not one particular contradicts the previous description, the emphasis is so altered that the incidents described seem of a completely different nature. To do justice to the text a close reading would be necessary; in this small space we shall permit ourselves a short review.

In Bamidbar 21:21-35 we read the description of the wars against the two kings, their defeat, and the Jewish settling of their land on the eastern bank of the Jordan river. The whole narrative includes only fifteen verses, of which the first two describe the call to peace, five are taken up with a clarification of who exactly the enemy was, and one tells of the settling. Only seven verses (23-25, 32-35) actually describe the wars! In contradistinction, the very same story is told by Moshe to the people, in Devarim 2:24-3:11, over twenty-four verses, of which at least fourteen (2:31-36, 3:1-8) are unquestionably a description of the wars.

We may illustrate the difference by comparing a single verse from Bamidbar, describing the defeat of Og, with its parallel in Devarim, spanning five verses. Bamidbar 21:25 reads, "And they smote him, and his sons, and all his people, until there remained no remnant of him, and they possessed his land." The very same war is described by Moshe, in Devarim 3:3-7, thus, "And the Lord our God gave into our hands Og also, the king of the Bashan, and all his people, and we smote them until there remained no remnant of him. And we conquered all his cities at that time; there was not one town that we did not take from them, sixty cities, all the line of Argov etc… All these cities were fortified with high walls, doors and bolts, besides unwalled cities a great many. And we destroyed them etc… And all the cattle, and the spoil of the cities etc…" God's description of the wars in Bamidbar provides us with no military, or historically interesting, information; it is both incidental and succinct. However, Moshe retells the story at great length, and is generously informative.

Moshe had good reason to describe the wars in such a manner. His speech was delivered to the generation that would enter the land of Israel. They must be brave, and must trust in God. Moshe encouraged these feelings by reminding the people how God had saved them, and had made them victorious, in the past. But for this particular object, the Torah sees no value in an informative account of wars, however interesting historically. Thus, the very same incident is described in two places from such varying vantage points that it is barely recognizable. By delving into the nuances found by such comparisons we are able to tap into the system of values that the Torah wishes to teach us.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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When Og, the king of the Bashan, advanced towards the Jewish People to challenge them to war, God told Moshe not to fear him (Devarim 3:2). After the war, Moshe turned to Joshua and commanded him not to fear the kingdoms that they would come to in the Land of Israel, for God would make the people similarly victorious (Devarim 3:21-22). It is hard to understand why these instructions were necessary. The Medrash (Bereishit Raba 76:1) points out that God's telling Moshe not to be afraid is an indication that he had actually been frightened; why was Moshe frightened? While the people as a whole include those that are weak of heart, neither Moses nor Joshua are suspect of such failings.

The Mishna (Sota 8:5) records a disagreement between Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Yosi in explanation of the mitzva to send the fearful and faint-hearted home from the front before fighting a war (Devarim 20:8). Rabbi Akiva understands the verse to relate to one that is simply frightened of battle: "As in its literal sense (kemashmao), that he cannot withstand battle and see a drawn sword". However, Rabbi Yosi understands that it relates to one that is frightened because of sins that he has committed. When in life-threatening danger, at the commencement of a war, one trusts on God's providential protection. One that has sinned feels weak, apprehensive that such a trust may, in his case, be unfounded. If we introduce this Mishna into our discussion of the reason for Moshe's fear, both possibilities theoretically are open. He may have been frightened because of Og's surprise attack, and his particularly great strength (described by Moshe in Devarim 3:11.) Alternatively, he may have suspected that God would no longer protect him because of a sin that he had committed.

The Medrash (Bereishit Raba 76:1) tells us that two great people feared danger, while both had received prior guarantees of divine protection. The first was Jacob, the second, Moses. Why did Jacob become afraid? The Gemara (Berakhot 4a) tells us that he feared lest a sin that he may have committed subsequent to the guarantee he received may make God withdraw it. If Jacob was frightened because he suspected that he may have committed a sin, this may be the rationale behind Moshe's fear also. He feared lest a sin that he had committed may cause a withdrawal of the guarantee of divine protection that he received in Shemot 3:12, "For I shall be with you." This would explain why specifically here, after forty years, Moses becomes frightened. He had recently sinned (by smiting the rock and not talking to it, according to Rashi.)

But then, why did Moses become frightened at Og's attack, and not in the war against Sichon immediately prior? Perhaps the two reasons brought by the Mishna, for leaving the front because of fear, may work together. At times of danger one is especially needy of God's protection. Moshe's sin was not great, and for any other person would not have been so drastic. It did not make him feel, under normal circumstances, that God had withdrawn His protection. But when in extreme danger, Moshe became frightened. He needed close and immediate support, and he suspected that God may have withdrawn it. After God told him not to fear, and the war was won, Moses turned to Joshua and told him that he never need be frightened either. Just as God had saved them then, so he would savethem in the future.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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Yesterday, we discussed the reason for Moshe's fear of Og. We quoted the disagreement in the Mishna (Sota 8:5) whether the mitzva to send home from the front one that is frightened refers to normal and natural fear, or fear resulting from a sin that the person had committed. The second possibility is developed further.

The Mishna records a dispute between Rabbi Yosi Haglili and Rabbi Yosi, as to the nature of the sin on account of which one would leave the front. The Gemara (Sota 44b) explains that the former understands that one leaves the front on account of any transgression, even of a Rabbinic mitzva. The latter is of the opinion that one only leaves the front on account of a sin that one had performed against a mitzva in the Torah itself.

The Gemara tells us that according to Rabbi Yosi Haglili one would leave the front on account of the smallest transgression. The example brought is one who talks between putting Tefilin on his arm and on his head. Even this seemingly small fault is sufficient for one to become concerned that God may not save one in war. The tiniest transgression is reason enough to become frightened of the loss of providential protection. However, in elucidation of the position of Rabbi Yosi, that the law only applies to one that has committed a sin explicit in the Torah, all the examples brought are of forbidden marriages. Why are only these examples mentioned?

Rabbi Yosi Haglili understands that any sin, even against a Rabbinic ruling, is reason enough for one to become fearful, and be sent home from the front; therefore, any level or type of sin is sufficient. But the question is obvious: Why does one not simply repent on the spot? Often, at times of danger, people are able to change their lives for the better. Dangerous circumstances contain the positive aspect of being able to bring people to their senses; they give one a feeling of seriousness, which may have a positive and constructive effect on one's character. So why should the awareness of a sin in one's past be reason to leave battle? The experience of standing at the front itself should become a catalyst for repentance!

This is why Rabbi Yosi speaks of forbidden marriages. He touches upon a painful issue in repentance: an issue that troubles many of us every Yom Kippur. Some sins are hard to repent in the mind, not because of their weight, but because one knows that it is extremely hard to change one's life. While the obligation to change one's life for the better is no less because of how hard it may be, it makes immediate mental repentance incredibly tough. The soldier standing at the front may decide to repent, but he may not feel convinced that he has cleared his sin. He knows that he may not live up to his new resolution, and this weakness in his repentance makes his trust in divine protection fickle. His own lack of resolution creates a weakness in his trust in God.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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Moshe recalls the journey the people made past hostile neighbors and their wars against Sichon and Og who attacked them. Between describing these episodes of comparative peace and war Moshe says, "And it was when all the people of war had died out of the nation" (Devarim 2:16). This refers to the generation that left Egypt, those who had originally refused to enter the land on account of the rebellious speeches that the spies made. When that whole generation had passed away, the people moved into the areas of hostility, where they would be forced into conflict. Why did Moshe refer to the people that died as people of war? They had barely fought; most of the fighting was to take place immediately after their death! If anything, they could have been branded cowards, because of their lack of trust in God, and resulting refusal to enter the land.

Rashi explains this term to refer to the fact that the generation that died was defined as those between the ages of twenty and sixty: people who are eligible to be drafted into the army (hayotzim batzava). But then, why were they called "people of war", and not people of the army? The Chizkuni explains that they were given this name because they had shown their tendency to battle in their refusal to accept the decree that they would die in the desert, and their resultant unsuccessful attempt to break into the land. This battle, which was lost, was explicitly against God's command. However, it is still peculiar that this should make Moshe consider them people of war. Their children would have to fight all the nations in the land. It is hard to understand why in comparison they should be the one's to be branded thus.

We cannot ignore the paradoxical aspect of this phrase's appearance in this context. Moshe tells us here that even the wars fought on the eastern bank of the Jordan River were fought only when "the people of war had died." Moshe is intentionally speaking in a paradoxical manner. His terminology is purposely directed to teach us a moral: What makes people "people of war" is not whether they fight battles, but rather, their attitude and character. The question is not what you do in reality; often people are forced into conflict against their will. One must ask whether a person's attitude is one of conflict or peace. If a person is antagonistic and prone to hostility, he should not be the one to fight; he may fight more than was required, or become cruel.

The generation of the Exodus easily became agitated, and repetitively found itself in conflict: complaining, refusing and rebelling. The fact that they fought an unsuccessful battle against God's orders is the proof of their tendency for conflict and war. An agitated and rebellious nature does not contradict a cowardly refusal to fight. On the contrary, a combative and aggressive character is likely to be eager to fight without divine consent, but rebel when commanded to trust in God and march forward. Moshe tells us that they could advance and fight the wars that they had to fight only because the "people of war", those who had behaved in a hostile and aggressive manner, had passed away. The people must know that a warring nature is incompatible with the mission at hand. And they should also understand that fighting wars is not what makes people "people of war", but rather their characters, and attitude to aggression.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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In explaining how he was unable to care for the people alone, Moshe says that they were many; God's blessing had become fulfilled, the people had become numerous as the stars of the heavens (Devarim1:10). Since Moshe had mentioned their abundance as a reason for apprehension he was eager to bless them so that it would not seem as if he saw this fact negatively. The next verse reads: "May the Lord, the God of your fathers, add to you a thousand times so many more as you are, and bless you, as he has spoken to you." Rashi quotes the Sifri, explaining the meaning of the two parts of this verse. After Moshe blessed the people that they should be multiplied a thousand times, they complained that God had already blessed them to be beyond the possibility of any calculation (Bereishit 13:16). Therefore, whatever amount Moshe would say would represent a decrease of good. To this Moshe responded: "This is of mine [my blessing], but He shall bless you as he has spoken to you."

The people probably did not actually interrupt Moshe in the middle of his sentence. Rather, the additional aspect to Moshe's blessing emanated from an apprehension on his part that his blessing was a diminished version of the divine blessing that they had already received. Why then did Moshe give a reduced version of the divine blessing? And why, if he felt his blessing would be smaller, did Moshe give a blessing at all? Why was he not satisfied with the second part of his blessing, but felt that he must add his own aspect to it, when it was nothing but a shrunken version of the divine part?

There is meaning in giving blessings of one's own; and blessings which are your own reflect your nature, as the one blessing. Whatever the meaning of a blessing is, must be personal. Moshe wanted to give a blessing of his own and he knew that it would necessarily be limited by his personality and nature. God gave an infinite blessing: that they would multiply beyond the possibility of a calculation; God is infinite. But a finite being blesses with a finite blessing. We cannot even comprehend what infinity is, never mind bless someone with it.

Blessing is a way to give of oneself to another. It is a personal expression of giving. It must, therefore, relate both to the one speaking and to the one receiving the blessing. In this sense blessing is very similar to prayer; and there is nothing surprising in that our prayers are formulated as blessings. There is an obvious paradox in the very concept of praying by the use of blessings. But using the formulation of a blessing in prayer is fitting because it is a way to express something of oneself to another. Because of the similarity between the concepts, there are aspects of prayer that exhibit some of the problems that we have just discussed in relation to blessings. We will discuss these tomorrow.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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Verse 1:11 of Devarim reads as follows: "May the Lord, the God of your fathers, add to you a thousand times so many more as you are, and bless you, as He has spoken to you." Yesterday, we discussed how this blessing, given to the people by Moses, is a shrunken version of the blessing that God had already given them. "And I shall make your seed as the dust of the earth, that [only] if a man be able to count the dust of the earth, so your seed shall be counted" (Bereishit 13: 16). Rashi quotes the Sifri in explaining that Moshe wished to bless the people, but then added the clause, that God should bless them as he has already spoken, in order not to diminish the blessing. We discussed how a blessing is related to the nature of both the giver and receiver, and that because of this Moshe was unable to bless infinitely. We noted that blessings are similar to prayer in this respect, and that it is not surprising that our prayers use the form and format of blessings.

Blessings and prayers relate to the personality and nature of the speaker, as well as the one to whom they are addressed. In prayer this causes a real problem: How can one praise God, seeing as he is infinite, and we, being finite, have no way to grasp such a concept? Will not whatever we say be an understatement, similar in this respect to Moshe's blessing? If so, is it not actually an affront to God to be praised by mortals? This issue is addressed by the Gemara (Berakhot 33b, Megila 25a) in the following story. Someone prayed aloud before Rabbi Chanina, and after he said "the Lord who is great, mighty, and awesome" (at the beginning of the daily prayer, the "amida") he continued praising by adding more and more descriptive terminology. Rabbi Chanina waited until the gentleman had come to the end of his list of praises. He then asked him if he had completed the account of his master's praise. Had he quite finished a description of the infinite greatness of God? Rabbi Chanina continued with a parable: "It is comparable to a king of flesh and blood, who owned many thousands of gold coins, and people praised him that he had silver - would it not be a dishonor to him?" The three words that we say at the outset of our prayers ("the Lord who is great, mighty, and awesome") were said by Moses; otherwise we would not be able to say even them. The Rambam takes this Gemara very literally. He explains that, philosophically speaking, we should really not say anything. However, since Moses said something, we may use his words of praise, and his words only.

This story, and the parable it includes, deals with the problem of finite mortals praising God. Whatever we say, will be a rude understatement. But is this not true of anything that we do? Is there no value to praise from mortals? We say in the Rosh Hashana piyut "Asher Ematkha", that the fear of God is upon all the higher spiritual entities, and yet, it is from human beings, mortal and finite, that God desires praise. In this week's parasha, Moses blesses the people with a finite blessing because he wanted to praise them. He did not silence himself in light of his humanity; rather his humanity begged for expression, even in blessing people that were already blessed by the Infinite!

We notice that Moshe did praise God in the Chumash, and it is in his words that we praise God. Rabbi Chanina did not stop the man praising God. What he tried to convey to him was that continuing by adding more terms is meaningless. Moshe praised God, and we should suffice with quoting his words; this helps us to a degree. Yet, the human being craves to express his or her praise of God. How can praising in another's words fulfil such yearnings for admiration and closeness?

There is another Gemara (Megila 18a) which deals with this issue. After we are told what blessings are included in our daily prayers, and their order, we are told: "From here on, it is forbidden to express the praise of God, as Rabbi Elazar said, what is the explanation of the verse, 'Who shall utter the greatness of God, pronounce all His praise!'? For whom is it fitting to utter the greatness of God? One who can pronounce all His praise! Rabbi Yochanan said, one that expresses the praise of God too much is taken from this world." The Gemara continues by praising silence; with that, discussion of the subject ends.

What is novel to this Gemara is that the idea of not continuing to praise follows an account of Rabbinically instituted prayer. Rashi explains that the Gemara means to say: since no one is able to pronounce all of God's praise, one should not say anything beyond what our Rabbi's instituted, in order not to say anything of one's own. By this explanation, all personal expression is delegitimized by definition, and for the same reasons as in the first Gemara. However, the Meiri explains the intention of the Gemara differently. One should not say more because one may make a mistake, and say something that should not be said. The problem with personal expression is not that it is inherently meaningless, or even rude, but that it may get out of hand. Therefore, he concludes, an addition of any authoritative form of litany is not just permitted, but even praiseworthy.

As for the first Gemara that we discussed, the Meiri distinguishes (in his commentary on Berakhot 33b) between the fixed daily prayer (the amida) and all other forms of litany and prayer. There, one may say as much as one wishes, on condition that one does not err. This distinction is cited in the Rashba also, in the name of Rav Hai Gaon.

There is a fundamental difference between standing before God in official prayer, and one's general spiritual expression. In the context of the first we may describe God only with words that Moses used, and generally pray only in the words of our Rabbis. Any addition would seem degrading, as we cannot encompass that which we profess to describe and praise. However, outside of any official context, we need not worry about the significance of our expression. We are obviously mortal, and it is the spiritual expression of such a finite being that is meaningful. We must be mindful that we do not say anything improper; but the spiritual expression itself holds its own beauty.

We will continue this subject tomorrow.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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Yesterday, we discussed the inherent problem with praising God. The Gemara tells the following story: Someone prayed aloud before Rabbi Chanina, and after he said "the Lord who is great, mighty, and awesome" (at the beginning of the daily prayer, the "amida") he simply continued praising. Rabbi Chanina waited until the gentleman had come to the end of his list of praises. He then asked him if he had completed the account of his master's praise. Had he quite finished a description of the infinite greatness of God? Rabbi Chanina continued with a parable: "It is comparable to a king of flesh and blood, who owned many thousands of gold coins, and people praised him that he had silver - would it not be a dishto him?" The three words that we say at the outset of our prayers ("the Lord who is great, mighty, and awesome") were said by Moses; otherwise we would not be able to say even them. While the Rambam takes this very literally, and considers any additional praising incorrect, Rav Hai Gaon, and many others after him, understood that this Gemara deals only with the official daily prayer, in which one stands before God.

Mahari Abuhav explains the distinction differently (see Beit Yosef, Orakh Chaim 113:9). When one prays alone, one's own individual prayer, any description of God employed seems necessary for some plea or request, in relation to which one praises God in a certain way. But in the first blessing of the Amida, nothing is requested. Praise per se is problematic; it seems to suppose a conclusive apprehension, or description. But within prayer it seems functional, or given a specifying context. Therefore, personal expression is not a problem, as anything one says about God is said in relation to a request. One may, therefore, speak about Him. However, even this idea does not open the possibility for praise per se, as spiritual expression is not given legitimacy in itself. For many this still poses a problem.

Rabbeinu Yona and the Re'a look at the issue differently. They distinguish between praise by description and praise of what God does in the world. We cannot pretend to comprehend, and therefore do justice, to what God is. But praise is not a philosophical enterprise. We know God through His effects in the world, and it is these that we may speak of. Praise of God's wonders in the world is positive, and does not pose a problem. According to Rabbeinu Yona, one should still not say too much, but even he agrees that by the use of verses from Tanakh there is no problem at all.

If we return to the three terms that we say at the opening of the daily amida prayer, we are reminded that their legitimacy is derived from their origin, as words said by Moses. They were woven into our prayers by Chazal, and are therefore authoritative. But Moses actually said quite a bit more: "For the Lord, your God, is God of the gods, and Lord of the lords, the God who is great, mighty, and awesome, who does not favor people, nor takes bribes. He does the judgement of the fatherless and widow, and loves the stranger, giving him bread and clothing." (Devarim 10:17-18) Why are only these three selected?

One possibility is that while Moses said more, our Rabbis chose these only, for their own reasons. However, since they did not continue, if we do so, it is without authority. Another possibility continues the logic of Rabbeinu Yona and the Re'a. "Great, mighty and awesome" are terms that describe God Himself; not taking bribes, and caring for orphans, is part of His acting in the world. Moses, in description of God, said only these three words, and so we keep to them. However, in expressing God's acting in the world Moses said more, and we do too, in relation to our own experience.

I would like to suggest a third possibility. Rabbi Avraham, son of the Rambam, talks of the importance of investing our lives with spirituality, beyond the halakhic demands of the mitzvot. If, however, this comes at the expense of keeping the halakha, it is like a bribe, and God does not take bribes (Hamaspik Le'ovdei Hashem, chapter 1). When Moses, after describing God with three terms, "great, mighty, and awesome", immediately says, "who does not favor people, nor take bribes", he explains the reason for his abrupt cessation of description of God. God does not take bribes; He is not interested in mere praise which says nothing, since we understand nothing. When we speak of God's actions in the world, we speak of something we can relate to; and praising God thus helps us develop ourselves in imitation of Him. But merely praising, when it has no real accuracy, nor is intelligible to us, is a bribe. We should not speak about what He is, but what he does.

Shlomo Dov Rosen

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