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Yeshivat Har Etzion

PARASHAT DEVARIM

By Rav David Silverberg

Sefer Devarim consists almost entirely of Moshe's addresses to Benei Yisrael prior to his death, as the nation prepares for its long-anticipated entry into Canaan. The Ramban, in his introduction to Sefer Devarim, attempts to explain why Moshe chooses to mention certain mitzvot and not others. The basic theory he advances is that Moshe presents in this sefer those mitzvot which warranted particular emphasis at this point, as Benei Yisrael prepare for entry into the Land. On this basis the Ramban explains why Moshe makes no mention whatsoever of any laws concerning korbanot and the like. Invoking the rabbinic adage, "Kohanim zerizim heim" – that the kohanim were particular zealous and meticulous in their observance – the Ramban claims that they did not need any reminders or exhortations. The masses, however, indeed required reiteration of certain laws and principles, and Moshe therefore reminds them of the mitzvot which he felt deserved emphasis. We also find considerable focus on the topic of avoda zara (idolatry); given the strong pagan influence the nation would encounter in Canaan, Moshe found it necessary to stress the grave dangers of foreign worship.

In this discussion, the Ramban also discusses the question of why certain mitzvot, such as yibum (levirate marriages), divorce laws and others, are never mentioned earlier in the Torah. Why did Moshe wait until now, just prior to Benei Yisrael's entry into Canaan, nearly forty years after Matan Torah, to present these laws? The Ramban suggests two possible reasons why Moshe would have delayed his presentation of these mitzvot. First, the Ramban boldly suggests that these laws perhaps took effect only after Benei Yisrael's crossing of the Jordan River into Eretz Yisrael. Although there is seemingly no reason why obligations such as yibum should not have applied during the forty years of travel in the wilderness, the Ramban nevertheless advances such a theory. Secondly, he suggests, the situations to which these laws apply arise less frequently than other mitzvot, and for this reason, perhaps, Moshe felt no rush in presenting them to the people, until this point.

The Radbaz (as cited in Rav Chavel's notes to the Ramban's commentary in the Torat Chayim edition of the Chumash) challenges both theories suggested by the Ramban. Firstly, as mentioned, there is no apparent reason why laws such as yibum and the halakhot of divorce would not have taken effect immediately once the Torah was given. And even should we concede that they did not apply in the wilderness, Moshe should have nevertheless conveyed this information to the people earlier, just as other Eretz Yisrael-dependent laws – such as shemita, yovel and orla – are presented already in Sefer Vayikra. And as for the Ramban's second possibility, that Moshe did not immediately instruct the people with regard to less-frequently relevant mitzvot, the Radbaz notes that issues such as divorce law would seem not to fall into this category. What more, in Sefer Devarim we read for the first time of the obligation of birkat ha-mazon, which clearly cannot be considered a "less frequent" obligation.

The Sefer Ha-chinukh, in his introduction to Sefer Devarim, handles this question much less ambitiously, opting instead to simply invoke the famous principle of ein mukdam u-me'uchar ba-Torah (Pesachim 6b). This rule establishes that the Torah's structure does not necessarily follow chronological sequence; it should therefore not surprise us that certain sections appear earlier or later than the point at which they actually occurred. The Sefer Ha-chinukh seemingly understood that some of the information conveyed by Moshe in Sefer Devarim was actually presented earlier during the forty years, even though it is recorded only here in Sefer Devarim.

In the notes to the Machon Yerushalayim edition of the Minchat Chinukh, the point is made that the Ramban could not possibly have embraced this explanation of the Sefer Ha-chinukh. In several places in his commentary to the Torah (e.g. Bamidbar 16:1), the Ramban asserts that generally speaking, the Torah's presentation in fact does follow chronological sequence. The few instances where the Torah explicitly mentions that a certain event occurred earlier than the point at which it appears in the narrative, the Ramban claims, mark the exceptions that prove the rule. In all other instances, when no such indication is given, we must, in the Ramban's view, assume chronological sequence. The Ramban understood the concept of ein mukdam u-me'uchar to mean that at times the Torah will explicitly deviate from chronological sequence. Generally, however, the Torah's presentation indeed follows the actual sequence of events.

Accordingly, the Ramban could not accept the Chinukh's theory that several presentations of mitzvot in Sefer Devarim in fact occurred earlier in Chumash, and he was therefore compelled to raise his two theories to justify the delay in the introduction of these commandments.

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The opening verse of Parashat Devarim introduces the subsequent verses by identifying them as Moshe's remarks to Benei Yisrael's in numerous locations. Rashi, citing the Sifrei, notes that the verse does not actually refer to geographic locations. The names in this verse which appear to refer to places in truth are subtle references to incidents. Each name hints to one of the sins committed by Benei Yisrael in the wilderness. As Rashi explains, the Torah sought to preserve Benei Yisrael's honor, and therefore decided to enumerate their sins through subtle allusion, rather than opening Sefer Devarim with an explicit record of their wrongdoing.

The Sifrei records a debate concerning the final location/incident mentioned in this opening verse – di zahav. All opinions agree that the Torah refers here to the sin of the golden calf, as indicated by the term zahav (gold). But the prefix-word di seems to suggest an element of emphasis, and the Tanna'im disagree in identifying the particular point the Torah seeks to convey. According to Rabbi Yehuda, the word di indicates that the incident of golden calf exceeded all of Benei Yisrael's other sins in gravity. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, however, suggests a different explanation, claiming that the term di zahav refers to Benei Yisrael's generous contribution of gold to both the fashioning of the calf and the construction of the Mishkan. Moshe chastises Benei Yisrael not simply for the sin of the golden calf per se, but for the fact that they donated gold to both these projects. To explain this point, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai draws an analogy to a person who graciously welcomes and hosts distinguished scholars and students, earning the respect and admiration of everyone around him, but then extends the same enthusiastic hospitality to hostile gentiles. Observers commented, "This is this person's routine – to welcome everybody." In other words, his generosity to the righteous scholars is approached much differently in light of his similar treatment of less noble guests. His conduct is perceived as simply habitual conduct, rather than a reflection of pious conviction.

It is in this vein, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai claims, that Moshe makes reference to the sin of "di zahav." Moshe's reproach involved not merely the actual sin of the calf, but an even more serious factor – the implications of this sin for Benei Yisrael's generous contribution of materials towards the construction of the Mishkan. Their enthusiasm and selflessness in donating gold for the calf casts a dark shadow on all other demonstrations of devotion; it undermines – at least to some degree – the nobility of their other contributions.

What this idea emphasizes, of course, is the importance of consistency in Torah observance. Wrongdoing is not neutralized or counterbalanced by noble deeds. To the contrary, at least in Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai's view, the nobility of one's conduct is undermined by inconsistency. Deviant behavior often reveals that one's admirable conduct did not stem from firm conviction and was not necessarily the result of sincere devotion to ideals and principles. Rabbi Shimon here urges us to thoroughly examine not only the practical results of our conduct, but also the motivation and drives underlying the way we act.

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In Parashat Devarim, Moshe recounts several incidents that transpired during Benei Yisrael's forty-year journey through the wilderness, including the tragedy of chet ha-meragelim – the sin of the spies. He recalls Benei Yisrael's refusal to proceed to Eretz Yisrael upon hearing the spies' report of the Canaanites' military power, and God's harsh decree that the parent generation would perish in the wilderness. In response to God's decree, many among Benei Yisrael decided to nevertheless attempt to go and capture the Land: "You replied to me and said: ‘We have sinned to the Lord. We will go up now and fight, just as the Lord our God commanded us.' And you girded yourselves with war gear…" (1:41). Benei Yisrael attempted to reverse the decree by reversing the sin: if they betrayed the Almighty by mistrusting Him and refusing to wage war against the Canaanites, they now courageously took up arms and headed towards the hills of Canaan. God, however, warned against undertaking this campaign: "But the Lord said to me, ‘Warn them: Do not go up and do not fight, since I am not in your midst; else you will be routed by your enemies'" (1:42). The people ignored the divine warning, and were indeed defeated and killed by the Amorites in southern Canaan.

Many writers have addressed the question of why the process of teshuva was suddenly ineffective in this instance. At first glance, it appears that the ma'apilim (as this group has since been called) did exactly what the situation demanded. After having been admonished and sentenced by the Heavenly tribunal, they identified the source of their wrongdoing and sought to rectify their error. Why was their teshuva not accepted?

One answer might be that their brazen insistence on proceeding to fight the Canaanites revealed that in truth, they had not corrected the basic flaw of chet ha-meragelim. The people had sinned by perceiving the intended battle in Canaan as an ordinary military conflict, where the outcome can be predicted based on objective assessments of manpower and ammunition. Their fear of defeat, in spite of God's promise to capture the Land for them, revealed that they questioned God's ability, that they saw this battle as theirs to win or lose, rather than God's. Rather than acknowledging the Almighty's indispensable role in this campaign, they saw themselves as the sole participants in the upcoming war, and thus naturally concluded that it was doomed to failure. Now, after hearing God's decree, they commit the same offense, only in the converse. God tells them not to fight, to continue traveling through the wilderness, and yet they insist on their independent ability to successfully dispossess the peoples of Canaan. Once again, they fail to recognize God as the exclusive force determining their fate, and decide that they can capture the Land even when He explicitly orders against waging battle.

Rav Yaakov Mecklenberg, in his Ha-ketav Ve-ha-kabbala, suggests a different explanation for why the people's teshuva was ineffective, one which touches upon a fundamental principle concerning the nature of teshuva in general. Rav Mecklenberg points to the fact that the people never turned to God directly, but rather addressed Moshe. It was to him that they spoke when they declared, "We have sinned to the Lord." Significantly, they never addressed God Himself. This "confession," which the people declared only to Moshe, signified a lack of sincerity and humble submission, and indicates that they thought they could somehow brush themselves clean of guilt simply by stating the words, "We have sinned to the Lord."

Rav Soloveitchik and others have developed a similar concept based on a careful reading of the Rambam's description of the mitzva of teshuva. In Sefer Ha-mitzvot (asei 73), the Rambam writes, "He commanded us to confess the iniquities and sins that we committed before the Almighty." Likewise, in his introduction to Hilkhot Teshuva, the Rambam describes the mitzva of teshuva as follows: "that a sinner must return from his sin before God and confess." The Rambam clearly focuses on the importance of performing teshuva "before God," indicating that the teshuva obligation requires addressing the Almighty directly and confessing guilt. This element is an indispensable component of the teshuva experience, as it requires a genuine feeling of humiliation and inadequacy. Beyond the cognizant awareness of wrongdoing, the mitzva of teshuva demands that one feel ashamed by his conduct, and thus requires that the individual stand directly before God, as it were, and admit to Him his failing.

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Among the first events which Moshe recounts in Parashat Devarim is his appointment of judges to tend to the nation’s legal needs. He recalls issuing a number of exhortations to the new appointees, generally involving honesty and determined and even courageous impartiality in the judicial process. Included in this series of admonitions is, “Lo takiru panim ba-mishpat” – literally, “Do not recognize a face in judgment” (1:17). On the surface, this means that judges should not show favor to friends or acquaintances, or to people of stature. Judgment must be rendered impartially, based on the raw data of the given case and the halakhic regulations involved, without any consideration given to a litigant’s connection to the judge or prominent social or economic standing.

Rashi, however, based on the Sifrei, interprets this verse differently, such that Moshe here addresses not the judges themselves, but rather those empowered to assign judges. These authorities are enjoined to make judicial appointments based purely on the candidates’ objective credentials, and not on other factors such as wealth and social status. As Rashi writes, one should not say, “So-and-so is handsome, or strong, so I will appoint him judge,” or “So-and-so is my relative, so I will appoint him judge in town” despite the individual’s lack of proficiency in Jewish law. The Rambam, too, adopts this reading, citing this verse as the source for a Torah prohibition against appointing a judge without the necessary credentials (Sefer Ha-mitzvot, lo ta’aseh 284; Hilkhot Sanhedrin 3:8).

A number of writers wondered what prompted the Sifrei to advocate this reading. After all, this verse appears amidst a series of exhortations which, as mentioned, Moshe issues to his newly-appointed team of magistrates. It is only to be expected that in “training” them for their job Moshe would impress upon them the importance of objective decision-making, and warn against prejudice. Why would the Sifrei opt for a different interpretation?

Malbim suggests a simple explanation, noting that a similar verse appears later in Sefer Devarim (16:19 – “lo takir panim”). Chazal found it necessary to differentiate between these two seemingly identical warnings, and therefore interpreted one of them as referring to judicial appointments, rather than the judicial process itself.

However, the Maharal of Prague, in his Gur Aryeh, suggests a different approach. He argues, very simply, that the establishment of a judicial process itself dictates objective decision-making. For what other reason are judges appointed, than to settle disputes in a fair, equitable fashion? Favoring one litigant over the other due to personal or economic considerations constitutes more than just a flaw in the judicial system; it undermines the system entirely. Moshe had no need to warn against partiality, because this requirement is naturally implied by the very title “judge” and the very concept of litigation. Once he announces the establishment of a judicial network, it goes without saying that cases must be handled and decided with perfect objectivity.

Therefore, Chazal found it necessary to suggest a different interpretation of this admonition, such that it refers to the process of judicial appointment, rather than the actual court hearings.

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In Parashat Devarim, Moshe recounts several events that transpired during Benei Yisrael’s journey in the wilderness, including chet ha-meraglim (the sin of the scouts). He recalls dispatching “sheneim asar anashim” – “twelve men” – to scout Eretz Yisrael and report back to the nation (1:23). As the Ramban notes, this plain description of the twelve spies stands in stark contrast to the original narrative of chet ha-meraglim, back in Sefer Bamidbar, which emphasizes these men’s stature as “rashei Benei Yisrael” – the nation’s leaders (Bamidbar 13:3). Why does Moshe drop this title of distinction when retelling the story of the scouts here in Parashat Devarim?

The Ramban suggests perhaps the most obvious answer, that in retrospect, these men were undeserving of any titles of distinction. The incident of chet ha-meraglim condemned the twelve spies to eternal infamy, and Moshe therefore refuses to afford them the honor of making mention of the noble stature they once enjoyed.

However, one might question whether or not a leadership title would constitute an inappropriate compliment in this instance. To the contrary, one could argue, their position of authority only underscores the gravity of their wrongdoing. The twelve leaders were selected precisely because they were presumed to be best suited for the job of endearing Eretz Yisrael to the people. Moshe had expected these men to return to the Israelite camp with an enthusiastic report of the beauty and grandeur awaiting Benei Yisrael in Canaan. It was precisely their perceived piety and positions of influence that resulted in the grave consequence of Benei Yisrael’s mass refusal to proceed to their national destiny in their ancestral homeland. Seemingly, then, making note of their initial leadership position would only add to the severity of the sin they committed.

Rav David Tzvi Hoffman, in his commentary to Sefer Devarim, resolves this and other discrepancies between the two accounts of chet ha-meraglim by distinguishing between the different aims of the two narratives. In Sefer Bamidbar, the Torah provides a historical account of the incident, whereas in Devarim, Moshe speaks of this event as part of his admonition to the people, urging them not to make the same mistake. As the nation stands along the banks of the Jordan River, preparing for their imminent entry into Canaan, Moshe realizes that he has been in this position once before, some thirty-eight years earlier. Then, too, he led Benei Yisrael to a point just across the border from the Promised Land, but they panicked and refused to continue. He therefore warns the current generation against repeating their parents’ tragic mistake, and to this end recounts the unfortunate events of chet ha-egel.

Understandably, then, Moshe makes no mention of the scouts’ leadership positions. The people could potentially attempt absolving themselves of culpability for this tragedy – or at least mitigating their guilt – by casting the blame on their leadership. After all, if the twelve tribal leaders saw Canaan with their own eyes and concluded that Benei Yisrael could not conquer it, what could Moshe expect from the masses? Moshe wanted to impress upon his audience the nation’s personal responsibility for the debacle, and therefore described the twelve spies as simply “men,” without mentioning the title of rashei Benei Yisrael. Seeking to downplay the prominent stature and influence of the scouts, Moshe spoke of them as anashim, rather than as the people’s leaders.

There is a limit to how much we can blame leaders for our failings. Ultimately, we must take full responsibility for our conduct, rather than pointing our finger at those in positions of power.

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Much of the opening chapters of Sefer Devarim consist of what the Sages described as tokhecha – “rebuke.” In these chapters, Moshe reprimands the people for their failings during the forty years of travel in the wilderness, urging them not to repeat these errors in the future.

A passage in the Midrash (Devarim Rabba) emphasizes that only Moshe was qualified to administer tokhecha: “Had someone else reprimanded them, they would have said, ‘He reprimands us?’ But Moshe, regarding whom it says, ‘Not a single donkey of theirs have I seized’ – he is worthy of reprimanding Israel.”

Seemingly, the Midrash here considers Moshe worthy of administering rebuke solely due to the fact that he did not embezzle the people or otherwise abuse his power for financial gain. The obvious question arises, isn’t Moshe’s unparalleled stature sufficient to grant him license to reprimand the people? And besides, having led Benei Yisrael for forty years, who is more keenly aware of their failings and weaknesses than he? Why is it specifically the quality of “Not a single donkey of theirs have I seized” that makes him suitable for the task of offering words of tokhecha?

Rav Yaakov Moshe Lessin, in his Derekh Chayim (Parashat Devarim), provides a simple – yet profoundly meaningful – answer. Tokhecha is a delicate art that is fraught with danger. The human being has a natural tendency to look for faults in others, which helps divert his attention from his own shortcomings and find comfort in his superiority over someone else in a given area. The value and importance of constructive criticism allows people the opportunity to offer condescending criticism and bask in the failings of others, all in the name of tokhecha, under the self-righteous pretense of genuine concern for their moral and spiritual well being. It is all too easy for someone to hurl harsh criticism and degrading insults at others and claim that he does so out of a sincere desire to help them improve.

Therefore, tokhecha privileges are reserved for people like Moshe, who can honestly testify, “Not a single donkey of theirs have I seized.” Moshe led the nation honestly and selflessly, not for his personal gain and aggrandizement, but rather out of a sense of duty. Only such a person is licensed to offer criticism and rebuke, as his audience can rest assured that he speaks to them not to satisfy the human urge to pass judgment on others while affirming one’s own piety, but rather out of genuine love and concern.

Indeed, criticizing others can be very therapeutic. The easiest way to soothe one’s own insecurities is to find fault in other people, be it political leaders, community leaders, family members or friends. But the far more effective – not to mention admirable – way of achieving a sense of personal achievement is to improve oneself, rather than denigrate others.

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In the final section of Parashat Devarim, Moshe recalls Benei Yisrael’s recent triumph over the two mighty kings of the East Bank of the Jordan River, Sichon and Og. Amidst his recounting of the battle against Og, king of the Bashan, Moshe digresses onto a brief discussion of Og’s origins and size, noting that Og was the final survivor of the Refaim race of giants. He adds, “In fact, his bed is an iron bed; is it actually in Rabbat Bnei Amon [capital city of the Amonite kingdom] – it is nine cubits long and four cubits wide…” (3:11). Why are we informed of the site of Og’s bed?

The Ramban explains that the Amonites put Og’s bed on display as a permanent symbol and commemoration of their triumph over the Refaim. As Moshe told earlier (2:21), the region of Amon had been previously occupied by the imposing, gargantuan Refaim, and Amon managed to banish and dispossess them. Og survived, fleeing northward to the Bashan region and establishing a kingdom there. But the Amonites celebrated their stunning victory by publicly displaying Og’s bedstead in their capital city, demonstrating the size of the inhabitants they successfully destroyed. Moshe mentions all this to emphasize the size and might of Og, in spite of which Benei Yisrael easily defeated him.

The Meshekh Chokhma suggests a different explanation for this diversion. Pointing to Greek epic literature as an example, the Meshekh Chokhma writes that the ancients would often deify their military heroes and afford sacred status to their personal belongings. In his view, the Amonites preserved Og’s bed because they considered it an object of sanctity, having belonged to such a successful warrior. Moshe here impresses upon his audience the extent to which Og’s power was revered in the ancient world, to the point where even his bed was hallowed.

The basic idea that emerges from the Meshekh Chokhma’s comments can be easily extended to many different types of “consecration,” even those that have nothing to do with religion or religious worship. Every culture features its own system of “sanctity,” whereby individuals or groups of individuals are afforded honor and glory for certain achievements. In contemporary society, sports figures, entertainers and television personalities are looked upon with a degree of reverence that closely parallels the hallowing of ancient military heroes. And the price-tags on these celebrities’ personal belongings certainly brings to mind the Meshekh Chokhma’s understanding of the preservation of Og’s bed in Amon. As Torah Jews, we must ensure to assess achievement and value based on the standards established by the Torah, and not in accordance with contemporary fads. While in Amon awe and reverence is shown to Og, and in today’s culture this status is afforded to accomplished athletes, we must remember to reserve our reverence to those who excel in the areas of Torah study and mitzva performance.