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Surf A Little Torah PARASHAT MISHPATIM
Yediat Hashem - Knowing God In Shemot (6:2) "VeShemi Hashem loh NODATI lahem" "but by my name, The Lord, I was not known to them" The words of Rashi on this pasuk explain that the word "nodati" was specifically used opposed to the regular form of "hodati" to convey that Hashem hadn’t allowed himself to be sufficiently perceived up to this point. Rav Aharon Lichtenstein shlita expounded this point in his sermon (5650), explaining the difference between the terms "hodati" and "nodati." The Avot were not meritorious enough to know Hashem in any other way other than "yodea" - this was an intellectual level to which they reached. But the actual level of knowing Hashem beyond an intellectual level (ie."nodea") was only revealed to The Jewish Nation as a whole. Nowadays, this problem exists to such extent that people are able to reach a cold intellectual understanding of a divine entity, but true closeness is not attained .The Baal HaTanya states that the only way to reach this level of closeness is through the study of Torah. Since Torah is the "mind" of Hashem, and despite the fact that we can’t attain a full understanding of His supreme logic, the only way to attain a closeness is through delving within and performing the divine will. At the same time as we are learning Torah, it is vital to realize that what we are learning is not merely an intellectual exercise that stimulates us mentally; rather we have to realize that it is an ultimate Supreme Being that we are attaining a closeness to and Whose will we are fulfilling and through this, and only this, can we attain the level of "NODATI." [Prepared by Jarred Myers.]
THE BLASPHEMERS After mentioning the prohibition of killing last week in Parashat Yitro, God explains in the beginning of Parashat Mishpatim the penalties, physical and pecuniary, of attacking a human being. Yet, halfway through these laws, between the laws of murder and those of assault, we find three short verses (21:15-17) that seem to relate, at best, tangentially. And one who strikes his father or mother must be put to death. And one who steals a person and sells him, if he be found in his hand, must be put to death. And one who curses his father or mother must be put to death. What do these three death penalties have to do with murder? Furthermore, why is kidnapping placed between the two capital offenses for parental abuse? To answer this question, we must first understand why a murderer must, by Torah law, be executed. It is not simply because the killer has taken the life of another; rather, "One who spills the blood of a human, by a human his blood shall be spilled, for in the image of God He made the man" (Bereishit 9:6). It is not simply the act of murder itself that incurs a death penalty, but rather the inherent infringement on the sanctity of the entire human species, which was created in the image of God. The same principle exists - if not at precisely the same level - by one who disrespects his or her parents or a kidnapper. An individual who curses or strikes his or her parents because the child does not see them as obligating honor and regard; it was, the child believes, an act of lust that, by chance, brought him or her into the world, and this is a purely biochemical affair. This, however, is in total opposition to the Jewish view of the miracle of childbirth, that "there are three partners in [the creation] of a human: the Holy One, Blessed be He, the father, and the mother" (Kiddushin 30b, Niddah 31b), by eliminating the spiritual aspect of conception - and life itself. A kidnapper, one who abducts another human and sells the unfortunate into slavery, impinges on the divine destiny of each human: "We shall make man in Our image, after Our form, and they will rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the heavens and the whole land and all the crawlers which crawl upon the land" (B'Reishit 1:26). Man was created to subdue, not to be subdued; not be like a servile animal, but to rule over them. Thus, as these three offenses are very close to murder, the Torah throws in their penalties immediately after the murderer's—and weaves them together internally to show that they are equal, in that they all impinge on the divine aspect of every human being. [Prepared by Yoseif Bloch.]
There's an old joke that takes place in a synagogue in Europe. Important figure after important figure in the town stands up at the pedestal - the bimah - before the congregation. After ascending the bimah, each man proclaims in a loud voice, "Master of the Universe, before You I am nothing!" The town's richest man does this, then the cantor, and finally the rebbe himself. Moved by the spectacle, a very poor man, literally dressed in rags, also ascends the bimah. "Master of the Universe," he shouts, his eyes filled with tears, "I, too, am nothing!" The man remains on the pedestal, sobbing. Now the crowd is silenced, appalled that such a pauper - dressed so poorly at that - should ascend the bimah. The silence lasts a very long time, and still the pauper remains, crying: "I am nothing, I am nothing!" Unable to contain himself, a man in the back of the room stands up and shouts back at him. "Eh!" the enraged man cries, shaking his fist, "look who thinks he's nothing!" [1] * * * The first halakha (law) of Parashat Mishpatim is that all Jewish slaves have a limited time of service. The Torah states: "..he will work for six years and in the seventh he will go free" (Ex. 21:2). If the slave prefers to remain a slave to his master, then "his master will bring him to...the door or to the door post and his master will pierce his ear with an awl: and he will serve him forever" (ibid. 6). Rashi on verse 21:6, citing the Midrash, explains that the act of boring the ear at the door is, if not a chastisement of the slave himself, then at least a denunciation of the slave's decision to remain a slave. The door or door post recalls the doorposts of Jewish houses during the Slaying of the Firstborn in Egypt, just before the Exodus; the ear recalls the message from God which the slave should have heeded: "'They are my slaves' - and not the slaves of slaves (i.e., and not slaves of humans, who are slaves to God)." The very symbols of God's wish that the Jews be free from other humans to serve Him are used to injure the slave. God has called for Jews to be free - both from other nations (Egypt) and from other individuals (the master) - and this slave has taken a step backwards. We can generalize from this idea: Jews must treat one another with the respect due to God's servants, but they also must give themselves same respect. In the halakha we have been discussing, it is forbidden to keep another Jew enslaved longer than his stay, because ultimately he does not belong to his human "master." But it is also wrong for the slave to keep himself enslaved, also because his "master" is not his ultimate owner. This halakha is not a lone example. There is a prohibition against harming others bodily and there is a prohibition against harming oneself bodily; there is a prohibition against slandering others and a prohibition against slandering oneself. And so God wants us to respect others and to treat them well, which is not a surprise. What may be surprising, though, is that self-respect (but not egocentrism) is also ratzon Hashem - the will of God. Self-respect is a part of honoring the Jewish relationship with God, and can actually be part of humbling oneself before God, as in the case of the slave. Which gives us a new spin on the joke above: every Jew is nothing because he is something. [1] I heard the joke from my teacher from high school (slightly altered). [Prepared by Abraham Mezrich.] Parashat Mishpatim focuses primarily on civil laws, covering a wide array of areas concerning interpersonal relationships and the individual's responsibility towards the societal good. Beyond their narrow, specific , many of the laws reflect more general principles relevant to day-to-day conduct and attitude, which must draw our attention as we study this parasha. For example, one verse in the parasha establishes the prohibition against cursing a judge (22:27). Although at first glance we would attribute this form of disdain for authority to only the very weakest moral exemplars of society, the Midrash brings this prohibition somewhat closer to home. It depicts a case of a litigant convinced of his innocence who was found guilty by the Jewish tribunal. Outraged over what he perceives as an outright perversion of justice, the convicted defendant will likely maledict the judge, who has now become his judicial nemesis. The Seforno explains this prohibition based on the human tendency to overlook his own error and insist upon his correctness. We are admonished to overcome this human inclination and humbly submit to the authority of the court. And so, a prohibition regarding an act unthinkable for most of us has become a lesson in day-to-day living. When was the last time any of us acknowledged having been wrong? How often does an argument end with the confession, "You are right; I am wrong"? Call it stubbornness, arrogance, or simple intellectual inertia, people often lack the ability to admit to having been in error. This human tendency underlies the Torah's exhortation against blaspheming a judiciary body. One must recognize his own fallibility and seriously entertain the possibility of his having been mistaken. We may relate this issue to the highlight of Parashat Mishpatim, perhaps the most triumphant moment in Jewish history: "And they said, 'All that God has spoken we will do and obey'" ('na'aseh v'nishma'). Chazal laud Benei Yisrael for their a priori, unconditional acceptance of the strictures of the Torah even before they learn of what such a commitment entails or the underlying rationale of the countless rules and regulations contained therein. Recognizing the shortcomings of their own intellect and the infinite superiority of Divine Wisdom to their own, Benei Yisrael readily submitted themselves to God's Will, whatever it may be. They blindly accepted the Torah because they realized the absurdity of challenging the reasoning or relevance of God's law. Should a contradiction arise between their own rational thinking and a Divine imperative, the former is immediately dismissed. Indeed, when prohibiting the cursing of judges, the Torah refers to them as "elohim," the word generally used to describe the Almighty Himself. One who refuses to accept the court's ruling - insofar as he refuses to accept his own imperfection - approaches the level of arrogance of one who blasphemes God, Heaven forbid. One so convinced of his own ideas to the extent that he curses those who insist otherwise will find it difficult to submit himself unconditionally to the mandate of the Torah. As soon as the Torah contradicts his own intuition or line of reasoning, he will reject the mitzvah at hand, affording greater authority to his own, limited intellect. Just as the declaration of "na'aseh v'nishma" requires our dismissal of our own ideological preferences when they oppose those of the Torah, so does this prohibition similarly demand that we think twice before rejecting someone else's argument. As we may realize only all too rarely, sometimes even we make mistakes. [Prepared by David Silverberg.] Would we really like to "meet" God? Have all of us thought at one time that if only I were to see God, I would only do good? Let us ask this question slightly differently; does God really want us to "meet" Him? This parasha centers around this question. God intends to reveal Himself at Sinai. This is to be the moment at which the people will forever have faith in the Mosaic prophecy and the divinity of the law. This should be one of the greatest moments in human history! When we read this section, we find that twice God commands Moses to cordon off the mountain in fear of anyone coming too close. Even after Moses tells God that He had already commanded this, God still insists in His command. After the revelation, God immediately commands that the people create no image in the likeness of what they thought they may have seen. Amongst the people, we also find trembling, fear, and absolute refusal to have any direct contact with the Almighty. What are these fears? Why at the moment of most profound revelation do both sides back away in trepidation? Within the story of Sinai, we find two interesting descriptions of who actually went out to meet whom. Chapter 19, verse 20 reads: "And God descended upon Har Sinai, to the top of the mountain, and God called Moshe to the top of the mountain and Moshe ascended." The Rabbis were bothered: who actually was the catalyst of contact? Did God come down or did Moses go up? To answer this question, the Rabbis suggest that neither fully went up or down, but rather, there was a gap between the two of ten "tephachim" or handbreadths (a Biblical/Rabbinic measure of distance). To understand this, we must understand that this measurement delineates between property in Jewish law: a fence that is at least ten tephachim high serves to divide between two distinct domains. So, too in our instance. In order for man to receive the Torah and to have control over it, man must possess the Torah in his own domain. (Of course, man must be aware of its Ultimate source.) Moshe could not have entered within the ten tephachim of the divine or the passage of the Torah would not have fully been into the domain of man. Likewise, yet even more profoundly, God could not have entered within the ten tephachim of the mortal for fear that the Torah would never connect to man. In creation of the world, God had no necessarily allow for the physical to exist (God, after all is not physical) and even gave man the power to create further. So, too, in Torah, God desired to allow room for growth. Therefore, clear boundaries were set as to how close one could come to the divine (lest the physical cease to exist entirely). Likewise, a space was left between God and man to allow for creative expression and growth in Torah. To answer our original question: Yes, we would all love to "meet" God, but if we did, we would be stripped of our humanity and our individual, unique, creativeness. Are we willing to sacrifice these? [Prepared by Aytan Kadden.]
The three pilgrimage festivals of the Jewish calendar - Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot - bear dual significance. We tend to focus on their historical commemoration: the Exodus, Matan Torah, and the miraculous journey through the wilderness, respectively. Beyond that, however, these three holidays also mark the three basic agricultural periods of the solar year. Pesach marks the onset of spring, and hence the beginning of the harvest; Shavuot is when the harvest of the first fruits is completed; and Sukkot celebrates the completion of the entire harvest. In Parashat Mishpatim, it is the agricultural element that comes into focus: "… the Feast of the Unleavened Bread… the month of spring… and the Feast of the Harvest, of the first fruits of your work, of what you sow in the field; and the Feast of Ingathering at the end of the year, when you gather in the results of your work from the field" (23:14-16). These two components - the historical and the agricultural - do not necessarily constitute two independent systems; the two are very much related, as each sheds light upon the other. Specifically, it has been suggested that the seasonal progression from Pesach to Shavuot symbolizes the historical progression from the Exodus to Matan Torah. Pesach is the holiday of springtime; the flowers begin blossoming, the winter rains subside, and sunshine dominates the weather pattern. These external markings, however, only begin the process whose significance lies primarily in what arrives on Shavuot - the first harvest. As beautiful as springtime is in and of itself, it contributes relatively little when viewed in isolation of the fruits it ought to produce several months l. Similarly, some suggest, Pesach signifies the beauty and splendor of Am Yisrael. In essence, it commemorates Jewish nationalism and pride, our singularity and election as God's Nation. However, this pride loses much of its importance when considered in the absence of Shavuot - the giving of the Torah. Just as spring marks the beginning of a development that reaches fruition - literally - only with the first harvest, so does Pesach trigger a progression that culminates with God's revelation on Sinai seven weeks later. Just as flowers that don't yield produce are mere external trappings bereft of meaning and substantive content, so does our sense of nationalism lose much of its meaning without our acceptance of the Torah. A Jew cannot "have his cake and eat it too," so-to-speak. He cannot lay claim to the exalted status granted us by the Exodus, the freedom, royalty and pride we achieved upon leaving Egypt, without committing ourselves unconditionally to the rigorous obligations and strictures of the Torah. The contemporary phenomenon of widespread observance of Pesach but overwhelming neglect of Shavuot sadly testifies, perhaps, to our failure in this regard. We often pick the beautiful flowers of springtime - the noble stature of Am Yisrael as represented by Pesach, but fail to reap the harvest of summertime - to submit ourselves to the demands of a Torah lifestyle, as we were commanded on Shavuot. May we merit both the splendor and glory of spring, as well as the concrete results of summer - Matan Torah. [Prepared by David Silverberg.]
Beginning in Parshat Yitro, Bnei Yisrael as a nation receive mitzvot. Having been slaves for their entire lives and barely knowing what it means to worship God, how are they expected to cope with the overwhelming responsibility now placed upon them? How can a nation suddenly conduct itself by the standards of 613 demanding commandments? Ibn Ezra on this week’s parsha makes an observation that can help us answer this question. He points out that the section of mitzvot immediately following the 10 Commandments, from Shemot chapters 20 through 23, forms one cohesive unit. It begins, in 20:20, with the command, “You shall not make [images of what is] with Me; gods of silver and gods of gold you shall not make for yourselves,” and ends slightly after 23:24 which directs, “Do not prostrate yourself to their gods, do not worship them, and do not act according to their practices; rather, you shall tear them apart, and you shall smash their pillars.” We see that this unit, which Ibn Ezra claims is the “Seifer Ha-Brit” (Book of the Convenant) referred to in 24:7, seems to be built within a framework that emphasizes the prohibition of worshipping idols, obviously a most significant restriction. However, perhaps more significant than what is prohibited is the way in which is it done. At the beginning of the Seifer Ha-Brit, the injunction is a very passive one. We are prohibited from using our own hands to physically make idols. That seems easy enough, and one would certainly expect that Bnei Yisrael should be capable of upholding it. Only at the end of the Seifer Ha-Brit are Bnei Yisrael expected to have worked their way up to a much higher level, that of not worshipping and of even actively destroying gods made by others. This framework seems to indicate that becoming a perfect Jew is not something that can be done all at once. Rather, we must train ourselves to be “sur meira” (stay away from evil) before we can fully be “asei tov” (do good). [Prepared by Reuven Weiser.]
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