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Yeshivat Har Etzion

PARASHAT EIKEV

By Rav David Silverberg

            In one of the more famous verses in Parashat Eikev, Moshe declares to Benei Yisrael, “And now, O Israel, what does the Lord your God demand of you?  Only to fear the Lord your God, to walk only in His ways, to love Him, and to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and soul” (10:12).  The Gemara in Masekhet Berakhot (33b) notes that Moshe here downplays the difficulty involved in attaining yir’at Shamayim.  In this verse he essentially tells the people that all God expects is that they fear Him and obey the mitzvot.  The Gemara naturally asks, “Ve-khi yir’a milta zutreta hi” – “Is fear [of God] such a small matter?”  Genuine yir’at Shamayim does not come easily.  How, then, could Moshe tell the people, “Look, all God demands of you is yir’at Shamayim!”?  The Gemara responds, “Yes – for Moshe, it is a small matter.”  True, the vast majority of people find it difficult to experience fear of God and live their lives with this sense of intimidation on a regular basis.  But for Moshe, this existential awareness was all but second nature.

            Many writers have struggled with this passage, as it appears to reflect an inability on Moshe’s part to speak to his audience.  At first glance, the Gemara indicates that Moshe mistook Benei Yisrael for a nation of Moshe’s, as a people for whom yirat Shamayim comes as naturally as it did for him.  Was Moshe indeed oblivious to the spiritual struggles confronted by ordinary people, of the difficulties the average Jew experiences in trying to live up to his religious expectations?  Had indeed such a large gap grown between leader and nation, that Moshe could say to the people, “All you need is some fear of Heaven!”?

            To be sure, some scholars have answered in the affirmative, claiming that the Gemara in fact points to an unbridgeable gap in perspective and orientation between Moshe and the people, such that he was unable – on one level – to relate to their challenges.

            Others, however, have attempted to explain this Gemara differently.  Rav Aryeh Leib Baron, in his Dat Yehudit (Montreal, 2005), suggests a reading based on a story told earlier in Masekhet Berakhot (28b) of Rabban Yochanan Ben Zakai.  Just prior to his death, as his disciples surrounded his bed to hear his final words of counsel, the rabbi wished them, “May the fear of Heaven be upon you like the fear of mortals.”  In other words, Rabban Yochanan’s final testament to his followers was that they should sense fear of the Almighty just as they fear other human beings.  The startled students exclaimed, “That is all?”  Surely, they wondered, our fear of the Almighty must far exceed our trepidation of mere mortals!  The rabbi explained that indeed, sadly enough, before acting wrongly we often ensure that the deed is not seen by other people, without realizing that the Almighty watches even when people do not.

            In this vein, Rav Baron suggests, we might understand Moshe’s exhortation to the people as interpreted by the Gemara.  Moshe, like Rabban Yochanan Ben Zakai many centuries later, warns his students (in this case, all of Benei Yisrael) just prior to his death that all they must do is remind themselves of God’s omniscience and full view of our every step.  Once we remember that God stands aside us and watches whatever we do, yir’at Shamayim should come naturally.  No profound philosophical insight is necessary to attain this basic awareness.  For Moshe, of course, this was hardly a challenge, given the sheer frequency of his prophetic encounters.  He needed no reminders that God hovered over him at all times and took note of his conduct.  Moshe insists that we, too, can experience yir’at Shamayim very easily by imagining ourselves in a similar position, by reinforcing our awareness of God’s constant presence and watchful eyes.

            In essence, then, yes – it is a small matter.  By reminding oneself of God’s presence, he, too, can attain yir’at Shamayim in a manner resembling that of Moshe Rabbenu.

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            Parashat Eikev begins, “It shall be, as a result of your obeying these statutes, and your observing and performing them – the Lord your God shall keep for you the covenant and kindness that He made to your forefathers.”  Moshe then proceeds to elaborate in greater detail the blessings God promises to bestow upon Benei Yisrael in reward for their obedience.  Rashi, based on the Midrash Tanchuma, famously comments that the unusual word eikev (“as a result of”), which relates to the word akev, heel, alludes to “the light mitzvot upon which one tramples with his heel.”  The blessings promised here are contingent upon specifically Benei Yisrael’s compliance with the mitzvot kalot – the “light” commandments, those which people would ordinarily disregard, focusing instead on the chamurot – the more “serious” or “weighty” Biblical commands.

            To what exactly does the Midrash refer when it speaks of mitzvot kalot, and wherein lies the particular importance of the observance of specifically this category of mitzvot?

            The Keli Yakar explains that mitzvot kalot here actually refers to chukim – those commands whose underlying rationale eludes human comprehension.  Chazal describe these laws as kalot because they are more likely to be overlooked.  As the Gemara discusses in a separate context (Yoma 67b), chukim are often subject to ridicule, making it more difficult for the Jew to steadfastly observe them.  The Torah’s rewards are dependent upon the observance of chukim because only the performance of these laws demonstrates one’s devotion to God.  Abiding by mishpatim – laws with accessible rationales – might stem from one’s personal intuition or rational thinking.  Only by scrupulously adhering to chukim does one affirm his loyalty to the Almighty and the subjection of his own will to God’s.

            Rav Michael Rosensweig (http://torahweb.org/torah/2004/parsha/rros_eikev.html) suggested that this same message perhaps emerges even more powerfully when we maintain the straightforward reading of the Midrash, and interpret kalot as the less weighty of the Torah’s commands.  These mitzvot in particular serve as a litmus test of one’s sense of devotion.  As Rav Rosensweig writes:

A frivolous attitude toward “kallot” demonstrates that one is dedicated to individual mitzvot or halachic institutions on their own merit, but not simply as an expression of Divine will. By picking and choosing and assigning relative values, one projects himself rather than Hashem as the arbiter of conduct and values. The ramifications of such an approach clearly transcend the omission or neglect of particular mitzvot.

Determining through personal intuition which mitzvot are worthy of observance and which are not reflects the flawed nature of one’s entire outlook on Torah generally.  It demonstrates the individual’s insistence on his own authority to distinguish right from wrong, permissible from forbidden, and denial of God’s exclusive right to such decisions.

            Understandably, then, only by faithfully observing the mitzvot kalot, which reflects Benei Yisrael’s awareness of God’s supreme authority, do they became worthy of the blessings described towards the beginning of Parashat Eikev.

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            Parashat Eikev presents the mitzva of birkat ha-mazon: “You will eat and be satiated, and you shall [then] bless the Lord your God for the good land He has given you” (8:10).  This mitzva obligates one to recite birkat ha-mazon upon eating a sizeable amount of bread.

            The Talmud Yerushalmi in Masekhet Terumot (1:4) raises the question of whether a person who became inebriated during his meal may/must recite birkat ha-mazon afterward.  The Yerushalmi rules that the verse’s reference to a birkat ha-mazon obligation after becoming “satiated” suggests that this obligation applies even if one is “medumdam,” a reference to some degree of intoxication.  After allowing (and, by extension, requiring) the birkat ha-mazon recitation even in a state of intoxication, the Yerushalmi proceeds to distinguish between birkat ha-mazon and tefila.  Although the effects of alcoholic beverages do not forbid one from reciting birkat ha-mazon, one is not permitted to pray under such conditions, because, as the Yerushalmi comments, “he cannot speak in the presence of the King.”  According to the Yerushalmi, then, someone who is drunk is nevertheless permitted to recite birkat ha-mazon after his meal, but is forbidden from reciting tefila, which is defined by Halakha as standing and speaking in the presence of the Almighty, which requires a level of clarity of mind and speech.

            Tosefot, in Masekhet Eiruvin (64a), appear to have had a very different text of the Talmud Yerushalmi.  For one thing, they cite the Yerushalmi’s discussion from Masekhet Berakhot, not from Terumot, where it appears in contemporary versions of the Yerushalmi.  In addition, the passage as cited by Tosefot refers only to shatui, a term generally used to describe someone who has ingested alcohol but not to the point of intoxication.  According to Tosefot, the Yerushalmi allows only this kind of person to recite a birkat ha-mazon, and Tosefot are unsure whether this permission can be extended to a shikor – someone who actually became inebriated.

            It emerges, then, that the Yerushalmi in Terumot, as it appears in conventional editions, allows reciting birkat ha-mazon even in a state of alcoholic intoxication.  Tosefot, however, permit reciting birkat ha-mazon after drinking alcoholic beverages, but remain uncertain as to whether this may be extended to a person who drank to the point of intoxication.

            As the Arukh Ha-shulchan and others have noted, the Shulchan Arukh appears to present conflicting rulings.  In discussing the laws of birkat ha-mazon, the Shulchan Arukh explicitly rules that a person who drank to the point where he cannot speak properly may nevertheless recite birkat ha-mazon (O.C. 185:4).  This follows the definition of the term medumdam cited in other sources in the name of Semag, who associates this word with the Hebrew word for silence (domem), and thus explains that it refers to the inability to properly speak.  Clearly, this ruling of the Shulchan Arukh is based upon the Yerushalmi’s position, allowing one to recite birkat ha-mazon in a state of inebriation.  In the very next halakha, however, the Shulchan Arukh cites Tosefot’s uncertainty as to whether someone who is drunk may recite birkat ha-mazon.  The Mishna Berura suggests reconciling the two rulings, by claiming that in the second halakha, the Shulchan Arukh refers to someone who is incapable of speaking in the presence of the Almighty, and for this reason is unsure when such a person may recite birkat ha-mazon.  As the Mishna Berura notes, however, it would thus follow that in the previous halakha, when the Shulchan Arukh permits one who cannot speak properly to recite birkat ha-mazon, he refers to an individual who is capable of speaking in the presence of God.  How, the Mishna Berura asks, can we consider a person capable of speaking to God if he is described as a person “who cannot speak properly”?

            The Mishna Berura does not provide an answer, and simply cites the consensus among the authorities allowing one to recite birkat ha-mazon even in a state of intoxication.  Nevertheless, he adds, one should optimally endeavor to recite birkat ha-mazon before this point.

            Needless to say, this discussion does not touch upon the broader issue of alcoholic drinking, whether and under which circumstances Judaism allows or frowns upon (or, in the case of Purim, perhaps encourages or even requires) drinking, a topic which we will leave for a separate discussion.

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            In Parashat Eikev, Moshe recounts at length the unfortunate incident of chet ha-egel, the sin of the golden calf.  He recalls how he, upon descending Mount Sinai and seeing Benei Yisrael worshipping the calf, grabbed hold of the two tablets and cast them to the ground, shattering them (9:17).

            The Gemara in Masekhet Nedarim (38a) cites this verse as the Biblical source for Moshe’s extraordinary physical strength.  The stone tablets he carried from the mountain were large and heavy.  That Moshe was able to throw them with force, rather than simply dropping them, is testament to his phenomenal strength.  The Gemara makes this comment amidst its discussion of the principle that “God bestows His Shekhina [i.e. prophetic power] upon only someone who is strong, wealthy, wise and humble.”  Verses are cited to demonstrate that Moshe possessed all these qualities, thus setting the precedent for all future prophets.

            The obvious question arises, why must a prophet be strong and wealthy?  Humility is clearly an important spiritual virtue, and wisdom is understandably necessary for the leadership and teaching role a prophet assumes, not to mention to attain a knowledge of God which, as the Rambam emphasizes, is a prerequisite for prophecy.  But why does God restrict prophecy to those who are also wealthy and physically strong?  How do these qualities contribute to the role of the prophet?

            Instinctively, we might answer that wealth and strength are necessary credentials not insofar as the prophet’s own spiritual stature is concerned, but rather with respect to his image among the people.  Prophecy in Jewish tradition involves bringing God’s message to the people as effectively and meaningfully as possible.  It stands to reason that the Almighty will assign this responsibility only to a person who has achieved a certain reputation or degree of respect among the people.  Generally speaking, people of physical strength and wealth by nature exert more influence and command more respect.  For this reason, perhaps, these qualities are necessary prerequisites for prophecy.

            The Torah Temima (to Bamidbar 12:3), however, takes a much different approach, effectively denying the intrinsic importance of wealth and strength with regard to prophecy.  In his view, the prophet actually requires only a single quality – humility.  Only a person who appreciates his lowly stature with respect to the Almighty is deserving of such an intense encounter with Him.  The other three virtues – wisdom, strength and wealth – are necessary, the Torah Temima writes, only to confirm the individual’s humility.  A person who in any event does not excel in any particular area and conducts himself humbly is not necessarily humble by nature.  He very possibly expects no honor simply because nothing about him deserves the esteem and admiration of others.  Humility is confirmed only when a person is indeed accomplished and possesses qualities which normally earn one honor and respect.  If such an individual, who is graced with wisdom, strength and wealth, nevertheless lives his life humbly and unassumingly, he may, indeed, be deemed truly humble.  Only for this reason, the Torah Temima contends, does God demand wisdom, wealth and strength, in addition to humility, before granting an individual prophecy.

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            Towards the end of Parashat Eikev we find the second of the three paragraphs of the daily shema prayer, which warns that God will drive Benei Yisrael out of their land should they breach the covenant and resort to idolatry (11:17).  Immediately after issuing this warning, Moshe admonishes the people, “You shall place these words of mine upon your hearts and upon your souls; you shall tie them as a sign upon your arms, and they shall be totafot in between your eyes.”  The concluding clause of this verse, of course, refers to the mitzva of tefillin, by which we place upon our arms and heads this and other passages of the Torah.  But what does Moshe mean when he instructs placing these words “upon your hearts and upon your souls,” and how does this relate to the previous verse, which warns of exile as punishment for idolatry?

            Rashi explains (citing from the Sifrei), “Even after you are exiled, excel in mitzvot – place tefillin and make mezuzot, so that they will not be new to you when you return.”  In other words, Moshe here orders Benei Yisrael to maintain their observance of the mitzvot even after being exiled from their homeland.  Placing Moshe’s instructions “upon your hearts and upon your souls” means sustaining and perpetuating the legacy of these commands even in exile, so that they will survive the years or centuries of the Jewish people’s displacement.

            The Ramban cites Rashi’s comments and emphasizes that we must not misunderstand these remarks to mean that mitzvot do not apply on the level of Torah obligation in exile.  In truth, the Ramban writes, the Torah demands mitzva observance in exile just as it does within the borders of Eretz Yisrael.  Rashi means simply that the mitzvot are intended primarily to be performed in the Land of Israel; the Torah requires observing them elsewhere only as “practice” for when the nation returns to its homeland.

            The question arises as to how this theory explains the phenomenon of mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-aretz – those obligations and prohibitions which are, in fact, limited to the Land of Israel.  There indeed exists a group of mitzvot – primarily those involving agriculture and agricultural produce – that are halakhically applicable only in Eretz Yisrael.  If the Torah is indeed so insistent that we observe the mitzvot even outside the Land so as to ensure their survival through the vicissitudes of exile and persecution, why does it not demand that we observe the laws of tithing, shemita, and other Eretz Yisrael-dependent laws in exile?  Shouldn’t we be concerned about sustaining the legacy of these commandments, as well?

            Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests that the mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-aretz are necessary to retain the nation’s awareness of the singular spiritual quality of the Land of Israel.  As much as the Torah sought to preserve the mitzvot and ensure that they would remain with the Jewish people during its years of exile, the applicability of the mitzvot in exile gave rise to the concern that the nation would, over the years, lose sight of the religious importance of its homeland.  If the Jewish rituals and practices are observed throughout the four corners of the earth, as the Torah indeed demands, many Jews might begin wondering whether we should aspire to return to our ancient soil.  If Judaism can be practiced elsewhere, why should we pray, hope and work towards the ingathering of the exiles?  The concept of mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-aretz, the group of mitzvot that apply only within the borders of Eretz Yisrael, serves to preclude such a dangerous misconception.  These mitzvot, which remain an integral part of Torah scholarship even in exile while being practically relevant only in the Land of Israel, have helped preserve an awareness of the central importance of Eretz Yisrael for the Jewish people.  They have reminded us that despite our ability and obligation to serve God and observe His commands anywhere in the world, the only place where His Torah can be practiced in full is our ancestral homeland of Eretz Yisrael.

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            Parashat Eikev mentions – for the second time in the Torah – the mitzva of mezuza (11:20).  This mitzva requires placing on our doorways a parchment inscription of the first two paragraphs of shema.  The first is taken from a section earlier in Sefer Devarim (6:4-9), while the second paragraph appears here in Parashat Eikev (11:13-21).

            The Rambam, in concluding his discussion of the halakhot of mezuza (Hilkhot Mezuza 7:13), presents his view concerning the purpose and function of placing a mezuza on one’s doorframe.  He writes that “whenever one enters or leaves he encounters the oneness of Hashem, the Name of the Almighty, and will recall the love for Him and will awaken from his slumber and preoccupation with the vanities of the time.”  People have the tendency to fall into a “slumber,” to occupy themselves blindly and indulgently with “the vanities of the time,” the pursuit of gratification, wealth and honor, rather than devoting their time and energies to their religious duties.  The mezuza on the door helps call one’s attention back to the tenets and values of the Torah.  When a person looks upon the mezuza, he is to remember what is written inside – the concept of God’s oneness, the obligation to love the Almighty, and the doctrine of reward and punishment.  The mezuza is thus to function as a “wakeup call” to the Jew, reminding him of his priorities and of his primary responsibilities in life.

            Rav Shimon Schwab (see www.queensvaad.org/divrei_torah/torah.cfm?Torah_ID=57) observed that, ironically enough, the Rambam speaks of a much different mitzva in very similar terms.  In Hilkhot Teshuva (3:4), the Rambam famously describes the shofar obligation as announcing, “Awaken, those who slumber, from your slumber.”  The blast of the shofar, according to the Rambam, is intended to awaken us from our state of spiritual lethargy and indifference, our unrelenting pursuit of worldly delights, and alert us to the reality of divine judgment.  As Rabbi Schwab noted, these two “wake-up calls,” the shofar and the mezuza, operate in precisely opposite ways.  The shofar blowing on Rosh Hashanah is among the most dramatic and emotionally stirring Jewish rituals, which can be very clearly seen as a call to action and urgent warning.  The mezuza, by contrast, sits silently on the doorframe day after day, without any fanfare or drama.

            How could the Rambam compare two such two different mitzvot?  Perhaps more specifically, how could he speak of mezuza as a “wake-up call” in similar terms to his description of the mitzva of shofar?

            What this demonstrates is that inspiration and guidance does not always require a dramatic display or emotional drama.  A person is affected and influenced by his surroundings in a variety of ways, sometimes through intense, dramatic experiences, and on other occasions, through an otherwise innocuous encounter.  Very often, ongoing, long-term exposure to Torah study and practice can influence an individual far more meaningfully than an intense spiritual experience.

            Indeed, the silent mezuza can, over the course of many years, yield the same impact upon a person as the resonating blast of the shofar shaking the synagogue’s foundations on the Day of Judgment.  We can learn so much from what we see and hear around us, so long as we say attuned and commit ourselves to continually search for ways to grow and improve.

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            Two days ago, we discussed the comment of the Sifrei, cited by Rashi, regarding the verse in Parashat Eikev (which we recite in the daily shema prayer), “You shall place these words of mine upon your hearts and upon your souls; you shall tie them as a sign upon your arms, and they shall be totafot in between your eyes.”  The Sifrei associates this exhortation with the immediately preceding verse, which warns Benei Yisrael of their exile from their Land should they disobey God.  According to the Sifrei, “You shall place these words of mine upon your hearts and upon your souls” means that Benei Yisrael must continue to observe the Torah’s commands even in exile.  As Rashi writes, “Even after you are exiled, excel in mitzvot – place tefillin and make mezuzot, so that they will not be new to you when you return.”  The instruction in this and the subsequent verse to wear tefillin and place mezuzot on doorposts refers specifically to the period of exile, when Benei Yisrael must preserve their traditions despite their national displacement.

            Several writers have attempted to explain why, according to the Sifrei’s reading, Moshe points specifically to these mitzvot – tefillin and mezuza – in reminding Benei Yisrael to observe the commandments even in exile.  Moshe obviously wants Benei Yisrael to continue performing all the mitzvot (except the mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-aretz, as we discussed two days ago), and not merely tefillin and mezuza.  Why, then, does he emphasize these two mitzvot in particular?

            Rabbi Chayim Elazari, in his work Shevilei Chayim (Canton, Ohio, 1947), suggests that these two mitzvot involve outward demonstrations of Jewish identity.  The mezuza is placed on the doorframe outside one’s home, and tefillin is obviously a very visible sign of religious affiliation.  Moshe here anticipates the concern that will nag at the Jewish people’s minds during exile, namely, the fear and discomfort of standing out and publicly identifying themselves as members of a different religious sect.  He therefore emphasizes the importance of continuing to practice even those traditions which require demonstrative differentiation, that necessitate separating themselves – to one extent or another – from their gentile neighbors.

            This understanding of the Sifrei helps explain the peculiar terminology employed in this passage: “heyu metzuyanim be-mitzvot.”  In our initial citation, we translated heyu metzuyanim as “excel.”  In truth, however, the term metzuyan denotes outward, discernible distinction.  In the Haggada, for example, we read, “she-hayu Yisrael metzuyanim sham” – that Benei Yisrael lived in Egypt as a discernible and easily identifiable group, separate and apart from mainstream Egyptian society.  According to the Sifrei, this is precisely the message Moshe seeks to impress upon Benei Yisrael in these verses.  We mustn’t let our minority status in the Diaspora deter us from preserving our tradition and remaining loyal to our faith.  We are bidden to observe and perform even if doing so overtly identifies us as Jews, for only then are we assured that the mitzvot will survive the turbulent generations of exile and return with us to Eretz Yisrael.