Missionary Renegade: Chabad Magazine – Wednesday, 22 Tevet 5774

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Chabad Magazine – Wednesday, 22 Tevet 5774 · 25 December 2013

Editor's Note:

Dear Friend,

Egypt is on my mind this week. Reading the Torah portion of Va’eira transports us right back to Egypt, where the story of the Exodus unfolded over 3,000 years ago.

Interestingly, it was in Egypt, millennia after the Exodus, that Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, the great codifier and philosopher known as the Rambam, studied and taught Torah, philosophy, medicine and more. This Monday we marked the anniversary of his passing.

Then, on Friday, we mark the passing of another great leader and Torah teacher: Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi.

You can perpetuate their legacies (and deepen your own Jewish experience) by studying their writings here and here. You can even sign up here to have a daily portion of Maimonides’ Code of Jewish Law and Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s Tanya delivered to your inbox every day.

Rochel Chein,

Responder for Ask the Rabbi @ Chabad.org

Daily Thought:

Understanding Wonder

That there are matters we don’t understand is obvious

—how could a finite mind,

bound within the confines of time and space,

fathom the infinite knowledge of its Creator?

The great wonder is that there are matters we can understand.

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This Week's Features:

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745–1812)

Founder of Chabad

A mystic, a communal activist, a philosopher, a halachic authority, a composer, a talmudist—Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi was all of these. But he was primarily a spiritual guide, who created a practical path that allows anyone to approach divinity. Rabbi Schneur Zalman lived in an era of change and unrest on a global scale. Yet his life continues to inspire, and his works and teachings have long withstood the test of time.© Copyright 2013, all rights reserved.

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PARSHAH

Turning Up the Heat

The very concept of Egypt denotes limitation, a sense of entrapment, blockage and slavery. And we have a directive to escape this reality every day. We don’t need to physically live in the land of Egypt under Pharaoh’s rule to feel enslaved . . .

By Sarah Zadok

Tonight, before bed, I read about blood and frogs. I read about the spiritual nature of these divine plagues, and their message for the modern man or woman. I was feeling pleased with myself for having learned a bit of Torah before going to sleep. I felt I had accomplished a worthy intellectual pursuit that probably had some positive implications for my soul, too. Two points for me in the spirituality department. Check. Then I got up to brush my teeth. Except that when I stood up, I knocked over a full pitcher of water that was sitting next to me. In an instant, my socks were soaked and the rug was drenched. I was a cold, wet mess from the calves down.

And that’s when I began to internalize the lesson of the blood and frogs. Allow me to explain…

Mitzrayim is not just a place, but a state of being

We have a Torah imperative that says, “In every generation one must look upon himself as if he personally had gone out of Egypt” (Talmud, Pesachim 116b). The Hebrew language is saturated with depth and meaning. In Hebrew, the word for “Egypt” is Mitzrayim, and it comes from the word meitzar, “limitation.” It is related to the words tzar, “narrow,” and tzarah, “suffering.” Mitzrayim, in other words, is not just a place, but a state of being.

We all have areas of our lives where we struggle with limitations that impede our spiritual growth. For some, the struggle may be over a cheeseburger or the impulse to drive to a rock concert on Shabbat. For others, it might be admitting when we are wrong, or offering to lend a hand to a friend when we really have other things we would rather be doing. Whatever guise our Mitzrayim takes, it creates a barrier to our spiritual growth and development.

G‑d sent ten plagues to the land of Egypt. This week’s Torah portion begins with the first two: blood and frogs. The Lubavitcher Rebbe explains that these plagues serve as instructions to help us free ourselves from our own personal barriers and limitations—our own personal Egypt.

G‑d turned the Nile into blood. Blood is described as the vitality (the nefesh) of a living thing. Blood is warm; and warmth, in general, is associated with things of a holy nature. Blood is very much connected with life.

Water, on the other hand, is cold and wet. Coolness, in general, is associated with impurity and death. If a living body becomes cold for too long, it is no longer alive. In some ways, water is the opposite of blood. Blood is warm and easily excitable, while the nature of water is generally cool and calm. Water can also be frozen and stop moving altogether, at which point it loses its vitality completely. The very concept of coldness opposes holiness. However, water is also necessary for life.

Torah is alive only when we allow it to heat us up

The same is true of Torah. In fact, our sages compare the Torah—our spiritual lifeline—to water. Like water, Torah is alive only when we allow it to heat us up. When we imbue our Jewish lives with vitality and enthusiasm, warmth and joy, then the Torah becomes a life-sustaining, living wellspring. But if we allow our Judaism to be routine and stagnant, it becomes like a block of ice: cold and lifeless.

I remember floating into synagogue one Friday night, dressed in white, the glow of Shabbat candles still alight in my eyes, totally “high” on Shabbat. I saw a friend of mine as I walked in, and I wished him a wholehearted, wide-smiled and soulful “Good Shabbos!” He just stared at me blankly and finally said, “What are you all fired up about? It’s just Shabbos. This happens every Friday night.” Talk about a buzzkill. I felt so deflated, as if there was something wrong with me for being so excited by Shabbat.

That’s the inherent lesson in the plague of blood. It’s like G‑d is saying: “Wake up, people! Ivdu et Hashem be-simchah! Serve G‑d with joy!” That’s what we’re supposed to do; it’s kind of a rule. We’re expected to have vitality in our spiritual lives. The truth is that in our path there will always be obstacles that will try to “cool us off” to our spiritual pursuits. But the plague of blood teaches us that in spite of the killjoys in our lives, we need to maintain heat and movement within ourselves.

Now for the frog lesson. There are two general types of critters: warm-blooded and cold-blooded. Frogs are the latter. Not only are they cold-blooded, but interestingly they are also water creatures.

The frogs infiltrated every part of Egypt, and the Torah tells us that they even jumped into the ovens. If they were everywhere, then one might assume that they were also in the ovens . . . Why does the Torah make a special point of telling us about the ovens?

The Talmud explains that it was in order to show us that the frogs martyred themselves for G‑d’s cause. The Rebbe points out that the frogs went completely against their nature. They are cold-blooded creatures, and they entered flaming hot ovens. This demonstrates the level of their self-sacrifice. It’s as if the frogs were saying, “Hey, you Egyptians, you’re fired up about all the wrong stuff. Don’t serve idols—serve the One and Only G‑d!” In essence, the frogs went into the ovens to “cool down” the passion for negative and forbidden behaviors (symbolized by the ovens).

I realized my good fortune of spilling the pitcher

When I stood up to brush my teeth after reading these insights into the Torah portion, I had done just that. I read about a historical event, thought it was interesting, gave myself a pat on the back and closed the book. But then I found myself drenched in water. And it was as if G‑d was saying to me, “Wake up! Don’t just read it. Live it, absorb it, soak yourself in it.”

Once I realized my good fortune of spilling the pitcher, I did a little impromptu jig right there in the water, just to remind myself about the importance of having joy and enthusiasm in how I live my life as a Jew. My feet warmed right up . . . I imagine my soul did, too.

Sarah Zadok is a Jewish educator and lecturer, a childbirth professional and a freelance writer. She lives in the Golan Heights with her husband and five children.© Copyright 2013, all rights reserved.

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More in Women:

• Learning to Face Rejection (By Menucha Chana Levin)

Two sweet-looking little girls, about four years old, are running along beside a playground, ponytails bobbing in the sunlight. They are clasping hands, a symbol of their friendship. Tagging along right behind them is another little girl, whose longing to join the duo is clear. She catches up to them, grabbing the free hand of one girl, who quickly shakes it off.

Instantly the two children turn on the third, one glaring furiously, the other making a nasty face. Neither says a word, but their message is clear, their rejection of the third child painfully obvious.

The two children turn on the third, glaring furiously

Bewildered, she stares at them, shocked by their cruel rebuff, uncomprehending sadness in her brown eyes. The two girls scamper off, still clutching each other’s hands, their smug silence louder than any scalding words they might have tossed at her.

Looking at the child’s dejected little face, I share her hurt. Though it happened decades ago, I still vividly remember the pain of rejection by my mean classmates, like a shard of glass in my heart.

Part of me wants to scoop up this little child and gently wipe away her painful tears.

“Those girls have a lot to learn about kindness,” I want to tell her. “They don’t appreciate how sweet you are. Soon you’ll find some real friends, much nicer girls than those.”

I realize this is just her first taste of the bitterness of rejection. Unfortunately, as she grows through her life’s journey, she will have to face many other painful moments of rejection.

When she sits there, anxiously waiting, and isn’t chosen for the softball team after all.

When she tries out for, but doesn’t get, a part in the school play, while her less-talented classmate is given a starring role.

When she receives a brief, polite letter from the college she was longing to attend, disappointingly turning her down.

Later, when the hoped-for engagement doesn't happen after all, though the two of them had so much in common and communicated so well, and she felt sure this time that he was the one. Her bubble of happiness bursting in her face, she is left devastated.

The job interview that went so smoothly—she handled the challenging questions easily, possessing all the required knowledge and experience—but in the end, she doesn’t get the position she knew would have been ideal for her career.

Yes, little girl, I can relate all too well. Like all writers, I have to face rejection on a regular basis, each time the story or I can relate all too wellarticle in which I invested so much time and effort turns out to be “not suitable” for the publication’s current needs. Yet I have come to realize over the years that achievement and acceptance are hard work, acknowledging there is more work to do before we are as polished as we need to be. I’ve become realistic that more learning and experience are often needed.

Rejection, though often painful, is a part of life, and we need to find a way to recoup and try again. Of course, it’s completely normal to feel upset after a disappointment. However, if you permit yourself to feel frustrated for too long, then you risk negatively affecting future events. You should view this experience as an opportunity to learn and approach the future with more resilience.

Sometimes you realize later on that the situation actually turned out to be for the best.

I recall a saying I once read: “After a rejection, you could get bitter. Or you could get better.”

Sweet little girl, still standing there in dazed puzzlement, what can I say to you now to comfort you?

You must remember there is Someone who will never reject you, no matter what happens. Your Father in heaven will never turn you away, and you can turn to Him always.

As King David, personally familiar with the bitterness of rejection, says in Psalms: “For my father and my mother have forsaken me, but G‑d gathers me in.”

May He always watch over you, little girl, as you set forth on your own journey through life, with all of the challenges that lie in store.

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• Solace During Divorce - Messages Through Tehillim (By Karen Rapaport)

It was the day I was to receive my get (Jewish divorce contract). I sat with a friend, waiting at the beit din (Jewish court) for the rabbis to call me. No words could describe my sadness, so silence had to suffice. I felt scattered, and I knew I needed support. But, like so many times in my life, I found that the only voice or words or comfort that could contain my reality were those of King David.

I had tried so hard to save my marriage. Like many marriages, the stories of my marriage were complex and rich. From the mundane to the profound, they covered the expansive ground that is intimacy. Can one really describe a marriage in I had tried so hard to save my marriageits entirety? I think not, but there are pieces and memories and themes that one can unravel with words. My marriage had the triumphs and the kindnesses and the incredible gifts that one can obtain only through the experience of marriage. But so, too, there were the challenges. Those revealed and those concealed. And then there was the pain. Intense pain.

When I began my marriage, reading tehillim (Psalms) was but an “exercise” that I knew was important. As someone somewhat new to observant Judaism, I knew there was much to learn. My knowledge base was shaky. Even with my deeply rooted “spiritual” proclivities, there was no way I could truly understand the meaning of all that I was being exposed to, often for the first time. I waded my way through—always curious, generally passionate. But my heart and mind were not always in tune.

As the profound losses, difficult moves, and complicated pregnancies appeared in my life, I often felt very alone . . . emotionally and physically alone. When I felt alone, I was motivated to read more Torah, do more mitzvahs and wrestle with my struggles. This was an attempt to make sense of my life through G‑d’s lenses. It was an evolving process with a very personal outcome: Through this, the wisdom of Torah became more alive. King David’s words became more alive. I became more alive. I became a stronger, more resilient, more accepting person.

As I I became a stronger, more resilient, more accepting personbecame more alive, I found the universe filled with messages. In the past, I was often able to pick up on the feelings of people. I was able to hear what resonated, and assess situations at an intuitive level. But having the ability to listen to the messages of the universe did not necessarily mean that I was able to respond appropriately. Now I felt more in tune with G‑d’s will and desire, which helped me help others. I felt more compassionate and authentic. I was more open to give of myself and give of my heart, in ways I could not do before.

The end of my marriage was a slow process. Like before, I felt alone. I knew I had to use all the spiritual tools and growth I had already learned through these years in order to survive and ultimately thrive. My tehillim became a central part of this goal. I took it upon myself to say the psalms that spoke to me. The words felt real. They felt vibrant. They felt alive, and they were mine.

Back to the day of my divorce. Throughout the hour-long journey to the beit din, King David’s words helped connect my mind and heart: “G‑d is the portion of my inheritance and of my cup; You guide my fate. The portions that have fallen to me are in pleasant places; a beautiful inheritance is mine . . .” (Psalm 16).

After the first proceeding, I opened my purse and reached for my tehillim. I could not find it. I searched through every nook, every fold, and every cranny. I found my siddur (prayerbook), I found the notes that I had tucked in the tehillim, but not the tehillim itself. How I needed it so! Then I had a sudden revelation.

This was the tehillim I had received on my wedding day. It was a tehillim that had I searched through every nook, every fold, and every crannyseen many tears, and some happiness, too. I sat with the realization that I had just lost that very same tehillim right before my divorce.

A part of Psalm 32, a psalm I had come to know so intimately over the last few years, came to mind: “I will instruct you and teach you in the way in which you should go; I will signal you with the winking of my eye . . .”

The tehillim that had been so integral to my marriage, that had seen me through so much, had disappeared. The tehillim that had supported me, uplifted me and clarified for me was no longer there. Perhaps it had served its purpose. Perhaps I needed to buy a different tehillim. Perhaps I was embarking on a different kind of life. Perhaps a sweeter one.

Karen Wolfers Rapaport is a psychotherapist and workshop leader specializing in Narrative Therapy. A proud mother, she is blessed to live in Israel. She is inspired by people's stories. She is equally inspired by how they gain strength through them.© Copyright 2013, all rights reserved.

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FEATURE ARTICLES

Midrash Is for Lovers

The Zohar tells a parable of a beautiful woman who peeks out to her beloved through a small window. Those who love her, find her. Those who don’t, must have patience.

By Tzvi Freeman and Yehuda Shurpin

A Jewish soul does not live on literalisms alone. All of us need a healthy serving of allusions, parables and mysteries in our lives. That pretty much sums up our first installment of this series—the value of a mixed diet.

To explain the value of allusions, parables and riddles, we told a parable of the Zohar, a story of a beautiful woman who peeks out to her beloved through a small window. Those who love her, find her. Those who don’t, remain clueless. They don’t even notice she was there. So, too, those who love Torah will find the meaning they are meant to find.

For those of us somewhere in between—those who have some of the love to seek, but lack much of the wisdom to decipher the code—the Torah still has patience. We can work our way up through midrash and aggadah to eventually fathom Torah’s most hidden treasures. And we also have guidance from the wisest teachers, those who have recorded for us at least a small part of the code.

Does the Biblical Text Mean What It Says?

Let’s start with laying down some boundaries. When are we to take something literally, and when is it open to interpretation?

Maybe pork is really okay, because that’s a metaphor too. Where do we stop?

Once you realize the depth of meaning that lies within each verse, you might begin to read the entire Hebrew Bible as a set of metaphors. Perhaps Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sarah, Mount Sinai and G‑d too are all just metaphor. Maybe pork is really okay, because that’s a metaphor too. Where do we stop?

Historically, we’ve been there. Before Maimonides’ time and after, preachers flourished who expounded the entire written Torah exclusively as metaphor. Cain and Abel were representative of the struggle between matter and form. Moses and Pharaoh were really the good inclination versus the evil inclination. All the mitzvahs were interpreted similarly. Tefillin became passé for many, because that too was a metaphor. Jewish men saw nothing wrong with taking a non-Jewish wife, because the prohibition against such was also a metaphor.1

That’s something like applying psychology to a problem in mathematics, or attempting a biopsy on quarks. You’re mixing up your departments.2

The Talmud provides us a simple principle: “A biblical text does not depart from its simple meaning.” The Talmud provides us a simple principle: “A biblical text does not depart from its simple meaning.”Learn your midrash; find the secret meaning—but leave the simple meaning intact. Adam, Eve, Abraham and Sarah are all real people; Moses really did split the Sea of Reeds; and we all heard the voice of G‑d at Mount Sinai. Pork is off limits. Because that’s what it says. The first department, with any text of the Hebrew Bible, is the simple meaning.

That the text literally means what it says should be eminently clear from both the context and content of the text. The context of most of the Hebrew Bible is unmistakable: Real-life narrative with a lesson.

That it’s about real life is blindingly apparent from its concern with questions that only a nudnik would ask about a parable or a legend: Just how many people were there? Exactly how many died in the plague, and how many were left after? What were their names and parents’ names? What was the name of the place where it happened? What were the sizes, shapes and weights of the things they made?

There are no anachronisms. As the granddaddy of Egyptian chronology, K. A. Kitchen, points out,3 Joseph is sold for 20 silver pieces. A review of ancient Near Eastern documents demonstrates that this was just the price for which slaves were sold in those days (see How Much Can I Get For My Brother?). By the times of Moses, slaves were already selling at an average of 30 silver pieces, and by the times of the kings of Israel the price had reached 50 silver pieces. The narrative here is clearly concerned with providing true-to-life details.

Moses’s mother was his father’s aunt—a marriage that became forbidden in his own time. Certainly, a legend-narrative would modify that information. But the Hebrew Bible is concerned with the details, however inconvenient they may be.

The Tabernacle is a structure that could have been built only in the particular era in which it was built. Every detail is provided and counted. It’s difficult to imagine why a myth-teller would iterate such detail. There’s nothing grandiose or particularly wondrous about the structure—far larger structures were built by the nations surrounding the Israelites. Again, the concern here is to tell the story right, as it happened.

And it’s a very linear story, which relies heavily on the sequence of events. The sale of Joseph, for example, can be understood only within the context of G‑d’s covenant to Abraham, in which he was foretold the descent of his children to a foreign land and their subsequent oppression there. The Exodus must be understood in the context of the stories of both Joseph and Abraham. And so it continues with every story until Ezra and Nehemiah, each building accumulatively upon the events that have unfolded thus far. It may not be a history as we understood such today—it is still principally concerned with the lessons and morals to be learned. But it certainly does not have the flavor of parable in any sense or form. It’s screaming loud and clear, “First get the story straight; then you can look deeper.”

In a much-acclaimed lecture and essay,4 Yosef Yerushalmi pointed out that the Hebrew Bible is the very first history of a people, as opposed to a collection of legends. It is the oldest story we have that was written in a linear, phonetic alphabet, as opposed to nonlinear, representational glyphs—and so, the first that represents a linear, sequence-oriented mind. It is literature in the truest sense of the word: concerned with everything that oratory and pictographs are permitted to ignore, sticking to details, and getting the facts straight.

For almost thirty years, the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, performed frequent public surgery on Rashi’s commentary to the Five Books of Moses. He revealed a wealth of profound meaning, hidden secrets and practical lessons ripe for the picking if you would look between the lines. But all this only after first laying out as simply as possible what exactly Rashi meant to the five-year-old who just wants to know what the text is saying. And that usually took up most of the lecture—sometimes almost the whole thing.

Simple Rules for Simple Meaning

And yet, there’s a crucial caveat: Simple meaning is not synonymous with literal meaning.

If I tell you I’m going to take a bath, that doesn’t mean I’ll be ripping out the plumbing and carrying the tub somewhere.

This is true with all human language. If I tell you I’m going to take a bath, that doesn’t mean I’ll be ripping out the plumbing and carrying the tub somewhere. If I tell you, “We gave the other team a beating!” don’t expect to find them bruised and bloody in the emergency ward. A dictionary does not a language make. There are idioms of speech.

So too, “an eye for an eye” is not talking about eyeballs—that’s an idiom of speech that refers to equitable monetary compensation.5 G‑d is real, but His hand is not a hand like your hand.

How do we know? What are the factors that determine what is literal and what is figurative? The first, simplest and best answer to that question was provided by Rabbi Saadia Gaon of 10th-century Baghdad.

Rabbi Saadia was a great believer in the power of reason, but also a strong traditionalist. He wrote what is generally considered the first systematic guide to Jewish beliefs, The Book of Doctrines and Beliefs.

In his time there were those who disputed the traditional literal interpretation of Ezekiel 37:5, a passage that describes the resurrection of the dead souls of Israel in a time to come. When the Mishnah lists those who have forfeited their share in the world to come, it includes those who deny the literalness of this prophecy. But these people argued that a literal reading is irrational and unnecessary, and read it as a metaphor for the resurrection of the spirit of the nation.

R. Saadia first countered that once you’ve accepted that the Creator created everything to begin with, resurrection is a perfectly rational belief. Why can’t the Creator recreate that which He has already created? But then he also argues that in this case the literal interpretation of the text is the most elegant.

To make that last point, R. Saadia found it necessary to provide some ground rules for literal interpretation. When do we read a text literally, and when does it demand a figurative interpretation? After all, there are plenty of instances where the traditional interpretation veers from the literal meaning of the words.

Ingeniously, R. Saadia does this with only four simple principles. Here is a loose translation of that passage:

It is a well-known first principle that anything found in scripture is to be understood according to its simple meaning, with the exception of those cases where such is impossible, due to one of four possible causes:

Our perceived reality dismisses it.

An example would be the verse, “And Adam called his wife Chavah, because she was the mother of all life.”

Now, we see that the ox and the lion are not born from a human woman. So we know that these words refer not to all living beings, but only to human life.

Our sense of reason dismisses it.

For example, the verse, “For G‑d, your G‑d, is a consuming fire, a G‑d of vengeance.”

Now, fire is a creation, and it requires some sort of material to burn. At times it is extinguished. Our sense of reason cannot accept that G‑d could be such. So, we are forced to say that there is some idea hidden within the usage of fire to describe G‑d’s vengeance. Indeed, there is a verse, “For in the fire of My vengeance the entire earth will be consumed.”

Another verse explicitly negates it. In such a case, we must provide a resolution that is not explicitly stated.

For example, one verse says, “Do not test G‑d your G‑d, as you tested Him at Massah.” Yet another verse says, “Please test me in this, says G‑d, the G‑d of Hosts: If I will not open for you the portals of heaven . . .”

The resolution that arises from between the two verses is that we should not test G‑d to determine whether He is capable or not, like those about whom it was said, “They tested G‑d in their hearts, asking food for themselves, and they spoke about G‑d, saying, ‘Is G‑d capable of setting a table in the desert?” It is in reference to those people that it is said, “as you tested Him at Massah.”

But when a person tests his own worth to G‑d, to know whether he is fit for a wondrous sign or not, as Gideon asked, “I will test just this time with the fleece.” or as Hezekiah asked, or others like them—this is permissible.

We have a tradition that compromises the text in some way. In this case, we must reinterpret the text to fit the authentic tradition.

For example, we have been told that corporal punishment consists of no more than thirty-nine lashes. Yet the verse says, “You shall strike him forty lashes.”

In this case, we understand that the verse really means thirty-nine, only that it has rounded off the number—just as it has done in another verse: “As the number of days that you toured the land, which were forty days, so you will wander one year for each day, forty years . . .”—even though there were only thirty-nine, since the first year was not included in that punishment.

Following this, R. Saadia goes on to demonstrate that none of these conditions apply to the verses describing the resurrection of the dead, which therefore must be taken literally.

The Book Maimonides Never Wrote

Midrash, in many ways, is the opposite of peshat. Midrash screams out, “I am not what I appear to be!” Midrash purposely sets the foreground fuzzy so that the wise person will focus on the background—where the secrets lie.

Midrash screams out, “I am not what I appear to be!”

Yet midrash, too, must have its boundaries. Yes, the sages speak in riddles. But they also often speak in normal, everyday language, telling you anecdotes that mean just what they mean. To complicate matters, sometimes they do both at once—telling you an anecdote through riddles. How are we supposed to know? And once we do know, how do we unlock the code?

When it comes to code, Maimonides was the great codifier. Not only did he codify Jewish law, he provided keys to decode midrash. But not before he first categorized three groups of those who read midrashic tales: Fools, bigger fools, and a handful of intelligent people.

As you might expect, the fools comprise the largest group. They are those who

accept the teachings of the sages in their simple literal sense, and do not think that these teachings contain any hidden meaning at all. They believe that all sorts of impossible things must be.

Maimonides characterizes the members of this group as people “poor in knowledge.” He doesn’t show much sympathy for this form of poverty:

In their very effort to honor and to exalt the sages, they sin in accordance with their own meager understanding, and actually humiliate themselves. G‑d says, “This nation is a wise and understanding people.” But this group expounds the teachings of the sages in a way that, when the other peoples hear them, they say that this little people is foolish and ignoble.

The second group is also quite large, and they also take these stories literally. But they earn yet greater disapproval from Maimonides, because

they believe that the sages intended nothing else than what may be learned from their literal interpretation. Inevitably, they ultimately declare the sages to be fools, hold them up to contempt, and slander what does not deserve to be slandered. They imagine that their own intelligence is of a higher order than that of the sages, and that the sages were simpletons who suffered from inferior intelligence.

Maimonides refers to this group as even more boorish and foolish than the first group. He goes so far as to call them accursed, since they attempt to “refute men of established wisdom and greatness.”

Then there’s the third group, which Maimonides says is small in number. It consists of people who ponder the words of the sages and detect that there is something deep going on here:

They realize that the sages did not speak nonsense, and it is clear to them that the words of the sages contain both an obvious and a hidden meaning. Thus, whenever the sages spoke of things that seem impossible, they were employing the style of riddle and parable, which is the method of truly great thinkers. Why do they do this? Because they are dealing with supernal matters which can be expressed only in riddles and analogies.

Maimonides obviously approves of this Some things become apparent only when hidden, because then the wise person must dig deeper, and the toil itself makes him fit to receive these truths.third group. The wisdom the sages are intending to transmit can be transmitted only through concealment. Some things become apparent only when hidden, because then the wise person must dig deeper, and the toil itself makes him fit to receive these truths.

Maimonides even embarked on an ambitious project to explain the allegorical meanings behind all these midrashic stories.6 Yet he had to abandon the project, as he found himself in an irresolvable bind.

The work, he later wrote, placed before him one of two choices: Reveal in simple language that which was never meant for the simple people, and which they will certainly misunderstand and abuse. Or, stick to the path of the sages and clothe the wisdom inherent in these stories in other clothing and parables—which would not solve anything, only “replacing one parable with another.”7

His son, Rabbi Avraham, himself began such a project, providing a framework for the study of aggadah within his father’s approach. But, as he admits, it was not commensurate to the breadth and depth his father had originally intended.

Nevertheless, Maimonides did provide many keys and clues for those bright enough to do their own decoding. In his Guide For the Perplexed he provided a kind of “manual for abstraction,” listing the broader import of many key words, and taking us on a tour of his incisive approach to abstract ideas from their concrete metaphor.

Many of the interpretations and much of the philosophy of the Guide met with fierce controversy and opposition, but the approach that Maimonides taught to us has proven invaluable—not only in the aggadah and philosophy departments, but in the legal department of Torah as well. Yet it would wait four hundred years for Rabbi Yehudah Loewe, “the Maharal of Prague,” to pick up the ball and run with it. And, when he did, he went much further than Maimonides may have imagined.

Which is what we will be dealing with in the next installment.

Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, a senior editor at Chabad.org, also heads our Ask The Rabbi team. He is the author of Bringing Heaven Down to Earth. To subscribe to regular updates of Rabbi Freeman's writing, visit Freeman Files subscription.

Rabbi Yehuda Shurpin responds to questions for Chabad.org's Ask the Rabbi service.

Chaim Leib (Leon) Zernitsky has created fine art and illustrations for international magazines, book publishers and major corporations for over 25 years. He has published over 30 books for children and young adults and won numerous awards. Chaim Leib feels that creating Jewish art is an important part of being a Jewish artist, and his paintings can be found in private collections worldwide.

FOOTNOTES

1. See Israel Zinberg, A History of Jewish Literature, translated and edited by Bernard Martin (Case Western Reserve University, 1972), vol. 2, p. 110. This was one of the principal reasons given by Rabbi Shlomo ben Aderet (Rashba) and his cosignatories for their famous ban on studying philosophy before the age of 25. See Teshuvot ha-Rashba 147.

2. Philosophers have a name for this (very common) error: They call it “confusing levels of abstraction.”

3. K. A. Kitchen, On the Reliablity of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids and Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2003).

4. Yosef Haim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (University of Washington Press, 1982).

5. Talmud, Bava Kamma 83b–84a.

6. He mentions this project in his Commentary to the Mishnah, Sanhedrin, introduction to Perek Chelek, chapter 4.

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Missionary Renegade

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Chabad Magazine – Wednesday, 22 Tevet 5774 · 25 December 2013

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