וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם

These are the rules that you shall place before them. (Exodus 21:1)

So begins this week’s parashah, Mishpatim. It is here that the Jewish legal tradition begins, where Torah (i.e. “Instruction”) becomes Nomos or Law.

Immediately after that opening sentence, the text continues with rules concerning masters and servants.  This commentary will be applying the theme of masters and servants to that of our relationship to law in the Jewish tradition, in ways that open alternative understandings of that relationship.

There is certainly good reason to take pride in our legal tradition.  It helped to crystallize a society, and later kept it together when sovereignty and a national center were lost. And one of the reasons it was able to do that was that it contains so many ennobling, uplifting exhortations and practices:

Be kind and extending to the person who is in need and borrows from you to subsist (22:24–26). Don’t even think of oppressing an orphan or a widow, for the merciful God will in turn call you to account for not being merciful (22:21–23). Do not automatically follow a majority bent on evil, just because they are the majority (23:2). Create moments that transcend mundane living and remind you of your spiritual core—Shabbat and pilgrim festivals, accompanied by various sacrifices of time and fortune (23:12–19).

These are rules and practices of which we could say, to borrow a line from our American culture, that they lead us to the formation of a more perfect union, a better society, a more compassionate and humane community. 

But Parashat Mishpatim contains other elements as well:

About a father selling his daughter into servitude, and into marriage as a child to someone she cannot refuse to be married to (21:7–11). About slaves from outside the Israelite community who could be beaten because they are described in our Torah as “the master’s property” (21:20–21). About the uprooting and destruction not only of idolatry but of the idolaters themselves (22:23–24). And about the execution of witches (22:17).

What are we to do with these less than ennobling and uplifting laws that live side by side with the sublime blueprint for a better, more humane society? It is an age-old question. Its answer will depend entirely on the view that we adopt about the true nature of what is written in our sacred scroll, and why that scroll, and others, are so sacred to us.

The great Hasidic preacher Simhah Bunim of Przysucha understood the opening line cited above (“that you shall place before �ٳ��”) to mean that the laws precede us, i.e., they take precedence over us. In his view, they have a meaning and a validity that is independent of the moral assessments that we may be driven to make of them. We must recognize that and subjugate ourselves to them, for there is a truth and a wisdom here that precedes and transcends human wisdom. Submission is religious authenticity, and the law is our master.

This is, however, not the only way, and certainly not the best or most canonical way, to understand Torah and what makes its words sacred. The late David Hartman ��”l wrote these stark words in his last book,The God Who Hates Lies (2011):

Halakha should be engaged as an open-ended educational framework rather than a binding normative one.  Anyone repelled, perhaps, by those who seek to justify and sustain some of the tradition’s systematic immoralities – who smugly deny expression to any doubt or uncertainty, claiming a monopoly on absolute truth—is invited to join me on this pilgrimage.

Similarly, Barry Wimpfheimer (Narrating the Law, 2011) wrote about Jewish law that it ought to be seen as “a cultural discourse or language rather than a systemic code”. By seeing it that way, we get “a richer description of life within a Jewish legal culture,” and it becomes about “Jewish law as it might be lived, rather than how it is codified.”

This was the vision of Hartman and the many others who shared it: Torah should be seen as a means, and not as an imposed end. This is the alternative understanding of אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם. The laws are placed “before us” in the sense of being offered to us, where we are, and not from some eternally valid place beyond us, take it or leave it. It is, in this view, always on our table, in our surroundings, trying to speak and relate to who and where we are. It is hoping and expecting that we will use our minds, our hearts, our intuitions, our spiritual insights, to develop a culture of Jewish living that will modify the texts, but in doing so, fulfill what Torah is all about: creating that more perfect union, that better society, the more compassionate and humane community. It is a project in which the law is a servant to the people to whom it was given.

Particularly today, with so much cruelty and immorality evident in our society and in too many of its actors, we need the courage to challenge those inhumanities with the powerful voice of this more humane view of what Torah is, of what all law should be. This parashah is not to be taken as a paradigm of a legal system that demands the subjugation of our minds and hearts. It was placed before us in order to launch a legal culture that each succeeding generation must take responsibility for, lest indefensible understandings of it succeed in thwarting the sacred and humane goals of its Author.

And you shall cover it with pure gold, inside and outside you shall cover it,
and you shall make for it a crown of gold surrounding it. ()

These are architectural details of the Ark of the Covenant, the central element of the Holy of Holies, where the tablets of the Ten Commandments will be held and carried. The Ark has a covering of gold, inside and out, and a crown of gold. Four gold rings are attached to it, two to each side wall, and through these rings poles of acacia wood are inserted, which remain in place, even when the Ark is at rest. To what may this Ark be compared? To parents. How so?

The Ark provides a home for the precious items inside it. So too, parents provide a home for the central precious ones in their lives: their children.

The Ark provides protection for these items. So too, parents provide protection for their children, at least when they are young.

And the Ark is clad in gold, inside and out. How might this compare to parents?

The Talmud teaches, in the name of Rabbi Yohanan () that the detail of gold inside and out is analogous to the good student of Torah, who must be the same kind of person inside and out. In , Rabban Gamliel declares the importance of integrity to the serious student of Torah, that one’s inner life and outer life must be consistent (תוכו כבורו). Just as the Ark was covered, inside and out, with the same precious material, the good student of Torah must have integrity, and may not practice hypocrisy. As parents know only too well, children see through parental inconsistency, lack of clarity, and lack of honesty with laser-like focus.

And what about the acacia poles? The Ark was designed to travel. Even at rest, it must always be ready to go. So too, parents are instrumental in helping their children move forward, giving them the training to one day make an independent life for themselves. Parents offer a home, protection, and a way forward. They do so most credibly when they are honest with their children and pure in their intentions, “golden” inside and out.

The Ark of the Covenant is also said by the Rabbis (in�����Ի���) to represent one of the three crowns of Judaism: the crown of Torah. The Ark is described in Terumah as having a זֵר זָהָב, a gold crown��(), which was most likely a design feature of gold molding at the top. The other two crowns are also mentioned in this week’s parashah: the מזבח(the altar, depicted with a gold crown in 30:3) and the שולחן (the table) where offerings were placed in the Holy of Holies (depicted with a gold crown in 25:24). Rabbi Shimon (inPirkei Avot) analogized these three crowns to represent the crown of kingship (the table), the crown of priesthood (the altar), and the crown of Torah (the Ark).

The dimensions of these three sacred objects catch the attention of the Keli Yakar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, 1550-1619): The altar’s specifications are given in whole numbers; the table in a mix of whole numbers and fractions; and the Ark in fractions.

The Keli Yakar (commenting on 25:10) interprets whole and broken measurements symbolically, calling fractions “אמות שבורות” (broken measurements). The altar, which is measured in whole numbers, possesses inherent wholeness or perfection, which finds its most elaborate ritual expression in Judaism in the service of God through the priesthood. The table has both whole and broken measurements, representing a mixture of wholeness and brokenness, of successes and failures, which the kings of Israel reflect. But what could it mean that the Ark, symbolizing the crown of Torah, is composed entirely of broken numbers? He answers this way:

שכל אדם ידמה בנפשו
כאילו הוא חסר מן שלימות החכמה
וצריך למדוד עדיין למלאת חסרונו

“Every person should imagine himself
as if he is lacking some element of wholeness of wisdom
and he must still measure out some more, to fill in his deficiencies . . .”

Even the wisest among us, in the view of the Keli Yakar, is an imperfect vessel seeking wholeness. His own nom de plume, Keli Yakar, means “precious vessel”. Precious does not necessarily mean perfect. He reminds us to regard our tradition with the important attitude of humility.

A person who is truly suited to acquire Torah is a person without pretense or guile, whose inside is like their outside: that person is a truly capable recipient of important teaching. The person best suited to preserve Torah is the person of humility: that person upholds the process of learning because they know there is much yet to learn. The person who combines integrity and humility is truly “golden,” inside and out.

Another feature of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle) is essential to all who would pass on this tradition: namely, tender, devoted care. In parshiyot Terumah, Tetzavveh, Vayak-hel and Pekudei, we see how much meticulous attention is lavished on every detail of the sacred space. Why? Because of its intrinsic value as an object of worship?

No! Terumah is an architectural poetics of the inner life. When we are building something as important and sacred as the place where God and people will meet, or as wondrous as the inner spiritual life of a child, care must be taken, quality cannot be short-changed, time must be spent. When God says in Terumah, וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם, “Make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within�ٳ��”��(), we can think of this verse as referring to parents and children this way:

[Parents!] Make for Me a sanctuary [in your home],
and I will dwell within them [in your children].

This commentary was originally published in 2020.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

But to truly appreciate some of the implications of this narrative, let us go back and unpack several of the key verses. Exodus 35 begins with Moses convoking “the whole Israelite community” and passing on the detailed instructions to build the Tabernacle he had received from God. At this point the Torah records the response of the people to these commands:

וַיֵּצְאוּ כָּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵל מִלִּפְנֵי מֹשֶׁה׃  וַיָּבֹאוּ כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר־נְשָׂאוֹ לִבּוֹ וְכֹל אֲשֶׁר נָדְבָה רוּחוֹ אֹתוֹ הֵבִיאוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמַת ה’ לִמְלֶאכֶת אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד

So the whole community of the Israelites left Moses’ presence. And everyone who excelled in ability and everyone whose spirit moved him came, bringing to the LORD his offering for the work of the Tent of Meeting.

(Exod. 35:20–21)

The Torah goes on to relate the many gifts that the people brought with great enthusiasm, and generosity both of spirit and of material. Pausing to introduce the two “project managers,” Bezalel and Oholiab, the Torah next narrates how these two led the people in actually building the Tabernacle, “to perform expertly all the tasks connected with the service of the sanctuary,” a process that begins at Exodus 36:3 and continues to the end of this parashah and the next.

However, there is an important episode that I have left out in this account, so let us focus our attention on it:

‏וְהֵם הֵבִיאוּ אֵלָיו עוֹד נְדָבָה בַּבֹּקֶר בַּבֹּקֶר׃ ‎וַיָּבֹאוּ כָּל־הַחֲכָמִים הָעֹשִׂים אֵת כָּל־מְלֶאכֶת הַקֹּדֶשׁ אִישׁ־אִישׁ מִמְּלַאכְתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר־הֵמָּה עֹשִׂים׃ ‎‏ וַיֹּאמְרוּ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר מַרְבִּים הָעָם לְהָבִיא מִדֵּי הָעֲבֹדָה לַמְּלָאכָה אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשֹׂת אֹתָהּ׃ ‎‏ וַיְצַו מֹשֶׁה וַיַּעֲבִירוּ קוֹל בַּמַּחֲנֶה לֵאמֹר אִישׁ וְאִשָּׁה אַל־יַעֲשׂוּ־עוֹד מְלָאכָה לִתְרוּמַת

הַקֹּדֶשׁ וַיִּכָּלֵא הָעָם מֵהָבִיא׃ ‎‏ וְהַמְּלָאכָה הָיְתָה דַיָּם לְכָל־הַמְּלָאכָה לַעֲשׂוֹת אֹתָהּ וְהוֹתֵר׃

But when these continued to bring freewill offerings to him morning after morning, all the artisans who were engaged in the tasks of the sanctuary came, each from the task upon which he was engaged, and said to Moses, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the LORD has commanded to be done.” Moses thereupon had this proclamation made throughout the camp: “Let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!” So the people stopped bringing: their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.

(Exod. 36:3–7)

The people’s exuberance is an important detail in a narrative already replete with them.  Whereas in the narrative of the Golden Calf in last week’s portion, it was Aaron who proposed the donation of the gold, and that and the people’s acquiescence took all of two verses (Exod. 32:2–3), in this week’s portion the people seem to be spectacularly engaged and eager participants—so much so that their energy has to be restrained. As Nahmanides comments:

והזכיר הכתוב: מרבים העם להביא–לשבח את העם המביאים בנדבתם, ולפאר החכמים בנאמנותם

 “Scripture mentions, the people bring much more than enough, in order to praise the people who brought with such generosity, and to glorify the wise men for their honesty.”

Yet if we read the entire sequence that leads to this result, a curious question arises:  The Torah showers such praise in detailing the dedication of the people and the way in which they take the initiative, but . . . Where were their tribal leaders? Where were the princes of the people? We know that when the Torah narrates the dedication of the Sanctuary (Num. 7), it goes out of its way to narrate the contribution of the princes in exceeding detail. But here in the construction of the Sanctuary itself, could they not have been mentioned?

Attentive close readers of course know that the princes were, indeed, mentioned, albeit in a somewhat offhand measure (Exod. 35:27):

…וְהַנְּשִׂאִ֣ם הֵבִ֔יאוּ אֵ֚ת אַבְנֵ֣י הַשֹּׁ֔הַם וְאֵ֖ת אַבְנֵ֣י הַמִּלֻּאִ֑ים לָאֵפ֖וֹד וְלַחֹֽשֶׁן

And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece . . .

Rashi, always a fine reader and never one to overlook a detail, notices that the word for “princes” in this verse נְּשִׂאִ֣ם is spelled with what grammarians call “defective orthography,” that is, it does not contain the letter yod that usually indicates a plural (thus, we would expect the word to be spelled either נְּשִׂאִים or נְּשִׂיאִם, if not completely fully, נשיאים). In this case, Rashi reads the Torah with an incorporation of a midrashic insight from Sifrei Bemidbar (7:3):

והנשאם הביאו: אמר ר’ נתן: מה ראו הנשיאים להתנדב בחנוכת המשכן בתחילה, ובמלאכת המשכן לא התנדבו בתחילה? אלא כה אמרו נשיאים: יתנדבו ציבור מה שמתנדבין, ומה שמחסרין אנו משלימין. כיון שהשלימו ציבור את הכל, שנאמר: והמלאכה היתה דים, אמרו נשיאים: מה עלינו לעשות? הביאו את אבני השהם. לכך התנדבו בחנוכתו תחילה.

R. Nathan asked, “What reason had the princes to volunteer their contributions at the dedication of the Tabernacle (in Num. 7) at the beginning, whereas at the construction of the Tabernacle (here in Exod. 35–36) they were not the first?” (in fact they were the last to contribute!). Rather, this was how the princes reasoned: “Let the community donate what they would donate, and what will then be lacking we shall complete.” But when the community gave everything needed in its entirety (and then some!)—as it is said, their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done (Exod. 36:7), the princes asked, “What can we now do?” therefore:  And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece . . . (Exod. 35:27). That is why they were the first to contribute at the dedication of the Tabernacle (in Num. 7). 

Up to this point, Rashi narrates the midrash as it has come down to us. However, he perspicaciously adds a detail on his own:

ולפי שנתעצלו תחלה נחסרה אות משמם והנשיאם כתוב

“Because, however, they were lazy (or if you prefer, dilatory) at the beginning, a letter is missing here from their title: for it is written והנשאם (instead of נְּשִׂאִים or נְּשִׂיאִם, i.e., as related earlier, it is normally spelled with at least one yod in the Hebrew Bible).”

Now, the great medieval exegete R. Abraham Ibn Ezra famously dismissed any effort to draw conclusions from the orthography of the Hebrew Bible and regarded all such efforts as “an affair for children” (from Ibn Ezra’s Introduction to the Torah). But Rashi’s comment is rooted in much more than mere orthography; rather I think he correctly intuits that the princes’ reasoning, as the midrash relates it, is faulty and self-serving. They might comfort themselves that they are acting altruistically, but what they were really doing was not functioning in the way that leaders are supposed to function—by leading, and not by following. The ostensible “leaders” hesitated in this instance from performing their true and obligatory role. And the people, whether noticing the leaders’ hesitation or not, effectively bypass the leadership to accomplish the task at hand.

In fact, these past months we have seen this very social phenomenon—of leaders failing to act as leaders, and the people picking up the slack to get the job done—in the State of Israel. Leading up to and following the catastrophes and horrors of October 7, the political leadership failed miserably to live up to its obligations, mainly to protect the citizenry against attacks like the one Israel experienced from the outset, but also in failing to take responsibility for what in Hebrew is termed a מחדל, a “default” in carrying out the fundamental, contractual obligations of a government to protect its people from harm. And what followed the initial attack was that the people took over the responsibilities of government in virtually every sense of the word. “Start up Israel” kicked into gear at every level of society, healing the wounded, sheltering and comforting the refugees, clothing and feeding the soldiers who were belatedly protecting the nation. The energy and effectiveness of Israeli citizens in “making up” the deficiencies of their political leadership has been nothing less than inspiring. And while by no means have we arrived at the point where someone needs to tell the citizenry די והותר, “you have done enough and do not need to do more,” we may take inspiration from the reaction of Israelis to make up for the deficiencies in their leaders and accomplish what they have accomplished in these most difficult of times.

Let us hope and pray that this ingenuity will help lead ultimately to making a peace with strength, and may it bring safety for all innocents.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

“When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back.”

(Exod. 23:4)

There is no obligation in the common law to retrieve someone’s lost property and return it. So why does the Torah make a point of establishing such a requirement? Why does the Torah specify that the owner of the lost animal is the finder’s enemy, and what is the scope of the finder’s responsibilities?

The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael connects Exodus 23:4 with the lost property law of Deuteronomy 22:1–3, which adds more details about what to do upon finding lost property and relates not only to animals but to other inanimate, movable objects. According to Deuteronomy, the finder should not ignore the lost property, but rather return it to its owner (who is called “your brother” rather than “your enemy”). But what if the owner lives far away, or if the finder does not know who owns the property? In that case, the finder must bring the property home and wait for its owner to come and claim it (“until your brother seeks it”; Deut. 32:2). The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael elaborates upon these words, “until your brother seeks it” (עַד דְּרֹשׁ אָחִיךָ אֹתוֹ), with three statements:

Until your brother seeks: Until you seek out your brother.

Until your brother seeks: Until the public crier has gone around [announcing the discovery of the lost property].

Until your brother seeks it: You must investigate whether “your brother” is a deceiver or not a deceiver.

The most obvious interpretation of the words “until your brother seeks it” would take “your brother” as the subject of the action signified by “seeks,” so that the person doing the seeking is “your brother,” i.e., the owner. In this plain-sense reading of the text, the finder should keep the lost property in their home until the owner comes to seek it. The �ѱ��󾱱��ٲ�’s first statement, however, instead reads “your brother” as the object of seeking, and understands the finder as the subject: “until you (the finder) seek out your brother.” This reading becomes difficult when one tries to include the next word—“it”— – in the translation, but the Mekhilta brackets that word for the purpose of this particular derash. Instead, the Mekhilta makes a point, insisting that the finder actively seek out the owner. What is the scope of this requirement? The Mekhilta elaborates further in its second and third comments: the finder must arrange for a public proclamation about the property, and once someone comes and alleges to be the owner, the finder is obligated to verify that that person is truly the owner and not a fraud. These obligations, which the Mekhilta states rather concisely, receive ample elaboration in the Mishnah and Tosefta, and even more in the Talmud, addressing details such as where, when, and how a finder ought to fulfill the obligation of public proclamation, and under what circumstances a person is considered a “deceiver.” 

When compared to the Mekhilta and other rabbinic literature, the Torah’s laws of lost property place a relatively small burden of responsibility on the finder. According to Deuteronomy, the finder should either return the property directly, or hold onto it until the owner comes. The law in Parashat Mishpatim is even more succinct and specific: The finder must return their enemy’s lost property, with no further elaboration. There is no mention whatsoever in the Torah of public proclamation, nor does the Torah demand that the finder assess the credentials of a person claiming to be the owner. Rabbinic law gives the finder a good deal of work to do, well beyond what the Torah appears to envision. And beyond this, rabbinic law addresses a whole host of other questions that the Torah does not entertain: What kind of property should be returned? Can the finder ever keep the property? How long does the obligation to return lost property apply?

In order to arrive at a workable system for dealing with lost property, it is clear that one must look to halakhah, and not only at the law of the Torah. What, then, is the point of the Torah’s law here, if it is so incomprehensive with regard to details of how one might carry out its obligations in practice?

The very brevity of the lost property laws in the Torah, which the detailed character of our rabbinic sources throws into relief, may help us focus our attention on what the Torah does emphasize. Exodus 23:4 establishes a requirement to return property, specifically the property of one’s enemy (which one might be inclined not to return), amid a series of laws relating to the theme of justice; Deuteronomy states twice within three verses that one may not ignore the lost property, capping off the law with the statement that “you must not remain indifferent” (לֹא תוּכַל לְהִתְעַלֵּם; Deut. 22:3). This, ultimately, is the Torah’s warning and plea: Even when it’s hard, whether because the owner of lost property is the finder’s enemy (as in Exodus) or because the owner lives far away (as in Deuteronomy), there is a right thing to do, and we are charged to do it.  

It is easy to ignore lost property; after all, no one would ever know. But the Torah and Jewish law require a finder to go out of their way, even if it is difficult or inconvenient, and even if no one would ever know the difference. This is perhaps the crux of the Torah’s lost property law: though it would be easy to do nothing, we must not remain indifferent.

Shabbat shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

The parashah begins with three commands that God wants Moshe to convey to the Israelites. The first is a recapitulation of the command to keep the Shabbat holy: “Six days shall tasks be done and on the seventh day there shall be holiness for you, an absolute shabbat for the Lord” (Exod. 35:2). The second is to collect donations from each member of the community, “whose heart urges him, let him bring it, a donation to the Lord” (35:5). The third command, to build the Tabernacle, echoes one given earlier that was interrupted by the story of the Golden Calf and the shattering of the tablets of law.  Here, with the divine order reestablished, the command emphasizes the generosity of the people and the abilities and qualities of the mission’s leaders. “And every wise-hearted man among you shall come and do all that the Lord has charged: the tabernacle and its tent and its cover and its clasps and its boards, its bolts, its posts and its sockets” (35:10–11). In great detail, the narrative underscores the essential materials needed for the construction of the Mishkan, and two leaders nominated to spearhead the task: Bezalel and Oholiab. As I was reading the portion, I wondered about the proximity of the three commands to each other in the beginning of the portion: keep Shabbat, collaborate as a community, and build a beautiful home for God. Why do we encounter a repetition of the Shabbat commandment as well as a call for the whole community to participate in this undertaking?

Rashi suggests that the command to keep Shabbat precedes the commandment to build the Mishkan to clarify to the Israelites that the construction of the house of God does not override the Shabbat even if keeping Shabbat delays construction. I wonder if the juxtaposition of the commands also points to the sanctity of place following the command of sanctity of time. As Rabbi Yitz Greenberg proposes, Shabbat represents sacred time, while the Mishkan represents sacred space. These two phenomena are closely related. They are parallel to each other, and they play an identical role in the ecology of Judaism. Every Friday here in New York, I recall how in Israel we brought fresh flowers into the house each week before Shabbat. We strive to make Shabbat beautiful and sacred in our practice and behavior, as well as in the way we prepare for it in our dwellings and in our houses of worship.

Why the emphasis on communal participation, under the leadership of Bezalel and Oholiab? Looking at the narrative from the perspective of an educator, I would like to highlight the importance of aesthetically pleasing, well-designed space not only for worship but also for learning. The aesthetics of a learning space not only impact brain function, they also positively influence how students feel at school and cultivate an environment that supports students’ success. John Seely Brown, a scientist and innovator, posits in his book (coauthored with Douglas Thomas), A New Culture of Learning: Cultivating the Imagination for a World of Constant Change, that if we can design physical space, social space, and information space to enhance collaboration, the whole environment turns into a learning laboratory— one in which people will love working, and where they will start learning with and from each other. Interior design for the learning space should take students’ needs into consideration in order to provide the optimal setting not just for academic achievement, but for social edification as well. The classrooms that follow the “sage on the stage” model—that is, a layout with a central platform where the teacher stands and chairs facing it—no longer work.

Additionally, let’s recall the collaboration of Bezalel, Oholiab, and the people of Israel who generously donated to build the Mishkan.   According to Robert Alter, God not only endowed Bezalel with the wisdom and skill to execute the required tasks and construct the Mishkan, but also allowed Bezalel to appoint Oholiab as his chosen assistant. God recognized Bezalel’s ability to instruct the people of Israel, the craftsmen who will carry out the work.  This biblical story introduces the idea of collaboration. A person does not need to be expert in everything and work alone. Far from it, collaboration is productive and creates a better work environment and greater prospects for success.

It is our responsibility to care for the next generation as a collective and not only as individuals; to educate them and care for them not just in houses of prayer but also in houses of learning. What would happen if we took this commandment to build beautiful structures and implemented it for schools? How would it change the face of education? Would it allow for more experiential education? Would it enhance learners’ spirituality, their quest for beauty?  We have a glimpse of the answer in 91�첥’s own recent initiative to provide students with new learning spaces.  These spaces were designed by esteemed architects Tod Williams and Billie Tsien with a clear eye toward the aesthetic, the inclusion of private and public space, the infusion of nature and light indoors, and for the goals of personal contemplation and artistic exploration. We as a community are fortunate to have these new spaces. This morning, as I stepped into the light court, I was pleased to see small groups of students sitting around tables with their professors learning texts. Being able to see the garden, slowly beginning to turn green and bloom, encourages all of us to look ahead to the new season and the return to our old ways of being together.  Let’s welcome the spring with new hope for joyful learnings in a healthy, beautiful, welcoming and safe space.  Shabbat Shalom.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

The brief special reading for Shekalim (Exod. 30:11–16) sets forth the obligation that was imposed on the recently freed Israelite slaves to contribute one-half of a shekel to the Mishkan (Sanctuary) that was going to be built. But the reason we re-read this passage annually is not so much because of the biblical passage from Exodus (in which there is no suggestion that this was meant to be a repeated levy), but rather is owing to the opening words of the Mishnaic tractate entitled Shekalim:

“On Rosh Hodesh Adar they make a public announcement about the shekels.” (M. Shekalim 1:1)

That is, in the same way that we often get bills telling us that payment is due in 30 days, so it was in the time of the Second Temple: the fiscal year of the Temple began on Rosh Hodesh Nisan, and so a month earlier, the beginning of Adar, notice would go out that the half–shekel—the per capita tax that supported the public sacrifices—was about to come due.

Although in the Torah the shekel was a unit of weight, by the time of the Mishnah, there had already been hundreds of years during which coins were struck with images, which were often those of the realms’ rulers. And thus begins our story of minted coins.

One of the most famous passages referring to images of rulers on coins occurs in the Gospels Matthew, Mark, and Luke. In those narratives, it is said that some adversaries tried to trap Jesus, by asking him whether it was proper, in Jewish religious law, to pay the tax imposed by the Roman government. If he said “No,” there would be grounds for informing on him to the Romans, while if he said “Yes,” he would lose all authority among his fellow Jews, all of whom hated that tax. But he evaded the trap by pointing out that, since the emperor’s image was on the coin used to pay the tax, the coin might as well go to its ultimate owner (“render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”). But crucially, he then added: “and to God the things that are God’s,” thus avoiding the trap.

But what was the meaning of that last phrase? I owe the following insight to the late 91�첥 professor Fritz Rothschild. He pointed to an oft-quoted mishnah in the fourth chapter of Tractate Sanhedrin, in which God’s supernatural power is proven in this way: “When a person stamps coins with a single seal (Hebrew: hotam, and remember this word!), they all appear identical to one another. But the supreme King of kings of kings, the Blessed Holy One, stamped all people with the seal that was given to Adam, and not one of them is similar to another” (M. Sanhedrin 4:5). What this mishnah testifies to is that in late antiquity, there was a Jewish cultural meme that we are, metaphorically, God’s coins, stamped with the image of the divine. And thus, Jesus appears to have assumed that his listeners were aware of that metaphor, and would understand that while the emperor could claim possession of his (literal) coin, only God could claim the ultimate allegiance of God’s human servants.

So when the Torah enigmatically described the payment of the half-shekel weight as “expiation for your persons” (Exod. 30:15–16), it seems that later tradition understood the physical coin given to the Temple to be a metonym (a surrogate) for the human giving it, an act that signified devotion to the One whose Temple it was, and whose image was stamped on each person.

Coins, of course, can get tarnished, and the image on it blurred. And this leads us, finally, to a beautiful teaching of the early Hasidic preacher Ze’ev Wolf of Zhitomir, found in his work Or Hameir.

He draws our attention to a later mishnah in Tractate Shekalim (5:4), which is no longer dealing with the shekel but with other financial transactions in the Temple. Pilgrims bringing sacrifices to the altar would need to purchase flour and wine to accompany the animals being offered. In order to avoid having monetary dealings go through a single person, procuring those sacrificial adjuncts was a two-step process. The money would be given to a man named Yohanan, who would give the purchaser a stamp (the word hotam again), which would then be taken to Ahiyah, who would redeem that stamp with the flour and wine needed. At the end of the day, Yohanan and Ahiyah would go through a reconciliation, making sure that the number of stamps and the amount of money matched. But what, the following mishnah asks, would happen if someone lost his hotam? The text says that “we wait until evening comes,” and if there was indeed excess money, it would be certain that the person who had lost his stamp was truthful and he would be made whole again.

You can now see where Ze’ev Wolf was going. What if we lose our stamp? That is, what if the divine image imprinted on us “coins” gets so tarnished that it is, effectively, lost? Is there any hope, any way to be restored to wholeness? For this teacher, the seemingly defunct details of Temple transactions involving figures long since deceased were vibrantly alive as a message of penitence and hopeful restoration. If a person loses their stamp, we wait for them, suspending judgment until the end of the day. If we have lost our way, there is always hope of its being found again. What is the “end of the day”? Ze’ev Wolf tells us that if it is not the end of a single day, it might be the end of the week, or the month, or the year. However long it takes, the outstanding hotam can be restored. And it must be, for we alone are God’s currency in the world.

It is not just individuals whose stamp can be misplaced. So many in our nation have felt that America was progressively losing its hotam in the years just past. (Especially since it is said that God’s hotam is truth.) And that is no doubt why there is now such a broad feeling that perhaps the promised “end of the day” has arrived, and that there is hope for retrieving the lost stamp. But the one who lost the stamp must go looking for it, and show up at the reconciliation. May we all be part of a widespread will among all citizens to return to wholeness, and to become a truthful and compassionate society once again, God’s currency in the world.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

It is a sweeping and reassuring judgment that orders our knowledge of antiquity with a tinge of superiority. Surely a religion based on experiencing the transcendent through sound rather than sight has registered a significant advance.

But does the biblical evidence accord with the generalization? Is it in fact the case that the Torah speaks with a single voice in favor of the auditory experience of God? The midrash is not hesitant about speculating that the Israelites themselves were divided about how they wished to meet God at Sinai. The occasion is the narrative describing what God asked of Israel prior to the moment of revelation. At one point the Torah states that “Moses reported the people’s words to the Lord,” without any indication of what Moses might have transmitted (19:9). Rabbinic imagination fills in the gap.

One opinion has the people telling God: “Our wish is to hear directly from our King, for hearing through an intermediary is not the same as hearing from the King himself.” And God obliges them and that is why Scripture has God saying to Moses: “I will come to you in a thick cloud, in order that the people may hear when I speak with you (19:9).”

Another opinion has the people declaring: “Our wish is to see our King, for hearing is not the same as seeing.” Again God defers to them, instructing Moses to tell them: “Let them be ready for the third day; for on the third day the Lord will come down in sight of all the people, on Mount Sinai (19:11) (Mechilta, ed. by H.S. Horovitz, pp. 210-11).”

This midrash is not a case of imagination run wild. The divergence of opinion is not imputed into the biblical text but extracted and elaborated. With great sensitivity, the Rabbis noticed that in the space of a few verses the Torah switches its vocabulary from sound to sight. The linguistic hints seem to suggest a swirl of conflicting emotions just beneath the surface of the text. What human organ is suited to perceive the imperceptible? The midrash is untroubled by the lack of consensus.

Still, I would argue that in chapter 19 of Exodus the prevailing sensory image is one of sound. “On the third day, as morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a very loud blast of the horn (19:16).” Fire and smoke engulfed the mountain as the blare of the horn grew ever louder, signifying God’s presence. But the people kept their distance. To see God would be to perish.

In chapter 24 of Exodus, however, we have the description of a divine/human encounter (whether the same or another is irrelevant for the moment) in which the prevailing sensory image is visual rather than auditory. “Then Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel ascended; and they saw the God of Israel: under His feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity. Yet He did not raise His hand against the leaders of the Israelites; they beheld God, and they ate and drank (24:9-11).” There is no hint here of the harm that might befall one who beholds God. Nor is the sight of God restricted to Moses alone. Indeed, God is depicted as having feet and even joining in a festive meal to celebrate the sealing of the covenant.

My point is that seeing God is not quite the aberration Graetz would have us believe. The Bible is not a book but a library. It abounds with a spectrum of complementary, contrasting and conflicting views as preserved by different sources and traditions. Diversity is not anathema. The Talmud records that books like Ezekiel, Proverbs, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes and Esther made it into the canon of Hebrew Scripture after much dispute, because they often contain often large chunks of theologically objectionable material. The editors did not put a premium on consistency and uniformity, but rather on a multiplicity of clashing voices driven by a hunger for the holy. A tolerance for diverse opinion and practice is imbedded in the foundation text of Judaism and in the vast exegetical literature which it inspired.

As for our example, the human experience of an incorporeal and transcendent God, the issue is left unresolved. Implicitly the Bible acknowledges the existence of different human typologies. After the incident of the Golden Calf (Exodus 33:18-23), God grants Moses the chance to see God’s back, but not God’s face, “for no man may see Me and live.” And still later in the wilderness narrative, God affirms to a disdainful Miriam and Aaron: “With him [Moses] I speak mouth to mouth, plainly and not in riddles, and he beholds the likeness of the Lord (Numbers 12:8).”

On the other hand, Deuteronomy in recounting the revelation at Sinai repudiates any semblance of a visual experience: “The Lord spoke to you out of the fire; you heard the sound of words but perceived no shape -nothing but a voice (4:12).” Yet the ambiguity of the matter is still not settled, for prophets like Isaiah and Ezekiel unabashedly claim to see God. In last week’s haftara we read of Isaiah’s inaugural moment: “In the year that King Uzziah died, I beheld my Lord seated on a high and lofty throne; and the skirts of His robe filled the Temple (6:11).” While Isaiah’s impure lips are cleansed by the touch of an angel (6:6), for Jeremiah, who is elected in a similar encounter with the divine, it is God and not an angel who puts forth a hand to touch the prophet’s unclean mouth (Jeremiah 1:9).

In truth, Judaism comes to embrace both modes of experience —hearing and seeing — because neither alone can begin to mediate the incomprehensibility of God’s awesome presence. A magnificent 12th century poem titled “Hymn of Glory,” recited at the conclusion of services on Shabbat and holidays, gives vivid expression to the tension inherent in our human predicament. Our intense yearning for God overwhelms our deep awareness that we can never come close to fathoming God. In the philosophic disclaimer that introduces the poem, the poet acknowledges that we know nothing of what we speak when it comes to God: “Never have I seen You, yet I state Your praise; Never having known You, I laud You and Your ways…. The faithful ones portrayed You, but never as You are; They told of all Your deeds, imagined from afar (Siddur Sim Shalom, 1998 ed., p. 185).”

What follows in the second half of the poem is a remarkable profusion of visual images of God drawn from the great reservoir of biblical and rabbinic literature. The heart triumphs and all constraints are thrown to the wind. The infinite gap that separates us from God is bridged by metaphor. Yet the polarities of the poem provide its balance. As long as we are mindful of our ignorance, that our metaphors are no more than pointers, we are free and able to reach for the infinite.

Shabbat shalom u-mevorach,

Ismar Schorsch

The verse in question seems straightforward enough: “When a man’s ox injures his neighbor’s ox and it dies, they shall sell the live ox and divide its price; they shall also divide the dead animal (Exodus 21:35).” But how are we to understand the term neighbor, broadly or narrowly? Does this law protect only the property of a fellow Israelite or also that of a non-Israelite? Taking the word re’ehu [his neighbor] narrowly, the Mishnah determines liability in four cases related to this biblical statute: “If an ox of an Israelite gored a Temple ox or a Temple ox gored an ox of an Israelite, the owner is not liable, because Scripture says, ‘the ox of his neighbor’ and not an ox belonging to the Temple. If an ox of an Israelite gored an ox of a gentile [nokhri], the owner is not liable. But, if an ox of a gentile gored an ox of an Israelite, whether the ox [doing the damage] has a history of goring or not, the gentile must pay full damages (Bava Kama 4:3).”

The arbitrariness of the Mishnah is undisguised. A gentile at fault must always reimburse his Jewish victim fully, as if he were negligent, while a Jew at fault against a gentile goes scot-free. Indeed, guilt seems to depend entirely on whose ox is being gored! The blatant inequity would draw the ire of anti-semites down through the ages. It is worthy of note, however, that the talmudic discussion on this passage of the Mishnah does not gloss over the problem. In fact, it zeroes right in on the inconsistent application of the narrow definition of “neighbor.” If you interpret the word exclusively, then the Mishnah should also exonerate a gentile who damages a Jew. And if not, a Jew damaging a gentile should likewise be held liable.

To refute the challenge, the Talmud shifts ground. A theological consideration is introduced to account for the inequity. Long before the revelation to Israel at Sinai, God had imposed on the descendants of No·ah-that is to say, all humanity–a minimum standard of civilization. These seven norms included creating a judicial system and outlawing blasphemy, idolatry, sexual immorality, murder, robbery and the consumption of a limb from a living animal. But when these norms proved of no avail, God permitted Israel to strip gentiles of their wealth. In other words, gentile depravity justified Jewish discrimination.

And yet the Talmud is uncomfortable with this vindication and adds a remarkable story whose historicity is immaterial. The Roman government on one occasion sent a commission to the Rabbis in Palestine to examine the teachings of Judaism. After many months of study, the commissioners reported to the Rabbis that they found the teachings of Torah full of truth except for our Mishnah passage which turns on the definition of re’ehu. They too questioned the inconsistency which made it so unpalatable, but promised not to report the matter to their superiors in Rome (B.T. Bava Kama 37b-38a). To bring the talmudic discussion to a close on this self-critical note betrays a rare ability to see oneself through the lens of the other. The recourse to theology rings hollow to everyone but the insider.

The above is but one instance of many rabbinic regulations that delineate how Jews ought to interact with the non-Jew. According to Prof. Moshe Halbertal of the Hebrew University, the corpus breaks down into three types: The first deals with distancing Jews from contact with any aspect of a religious cult deemed to be idolatrous, the basic reason being a deep reluctance to promote a form of worship abhorrent to the Torah and forbidden even to the descendants of No·ah. The second consists of obligations a Jew may or may not have toward a non-Jew on the basis of the latter’s status as defined by the Rabbis. As in the case of the goring ox, the double standard often derives from a narrow, formalistic reading of an underlying scriptural verse. The third and final category is composed of social strictures designed to minimize the possibility of intermarriage. The best known of these is the prohibition against drinking gentile wine, which is intended to deter socializing.

In the course of the Middle Ages, as Jews in the diaspora became an ever smaller minority within a Moslem or Christian society, categories one and two proved to be increasingly onerous economically and counterproductive politically. Law and practice steadily diverged. The Mishnah had forbidden Jews to trade with gentiles three days before any of their religious festivals and in 12^th-Century France, Jews were doing business with Christians on Sunday. The preference of the halakhists was to give ground piecemeal, that is pragmatically, case by case.

What set Rabbi Menachem ha-Meiri, the subject of Halbertal’s brilliant new Hebrew biography (Between Torah and Wisdom), apart was his readiness to elevate the discourse to the level of principle. A follower and defender of Maimonides, the Meiri lived in Provence in the second half of the 13^th century. Like the master, he integrated Torah with philosophy into a harmonious synthesis which expressed itself primarily in a highly original commentary on the Talmud. Throughout he articulated a bold theory which effectively relegated categories one and two to ancient Palestine.

As for the first, which proscribed all contact with idolatry, the Meiri argued that neither Christianity nor Islam could be classified as such. Both were a form of pure monotheism, infinitely removed from what the Rabbis excoriated as idolatry in the Greco-Roman world. As for the second, which rendered gentiles legally inferior to Jews, the Meiri claimed that these statutes pertained solely to barbarians who subscribed to no religious norms, not even the seven commandments of No·ah’s progeny. Again both Christians and Moslems were not to be confused with their pagan ancestors. Their lives were bounded by religious constraint and blessed by the unmediated providence of God. In short, the Halakha required of Jews to violate Shabbat to rescue them, to return their lost belongings and not to treat them duplicitously.

Only in the social realm did the Meiri leave the old barriers in place. These did not derive from any outdated ontological or religious premises but rather from a legitimate desire to protect the coherence, vitality and integrity of Judaism.

In time the Meiri’s views and those of like-minded halakhists prevailed. By a process of historicization, many an ordinance of rabbinic law was set aside, even though the codes still carried them on the books. Partly because circumstances had changed, partly because of recurring external denunciation and partly out of a heightened sense of justice, rabbinic leadership dared to modify a part of the system to preserve the viability of the whole.

Shabbat Shalom,

Ismar Schorsch