National Scholar Updates

Searching for Holiness: The Song of the Sea in Tanakh and Tefillah

Rachel Friedman^[1]

In the past several generations, a literary approach to Tanakh study has engaged both lay and academic Jewish learners; indeed, it is a significant subject in this volume. The thesis of this article is that a literary reading of biblical material found in the daily liturgy can similarly infuse our prayers with new levels of meaning and connect these specific prayers to the larger themes and messages of the Siddur.

In this article, I will focus on the prayer of Az Yashir, also known as Shirat ha-Yam (The Song of the Sea, or simply, the Song), to demonstrate this methodology.^[2] It is hoped that a literary-theological analysis of the Song in its biblical and liturgical settings will inspire a personal connection between this ancient poem and its modern daily readers.

The Verses of Praise and the Daily Prayer Service

The Song of the Sea is part of the section of the liturgy known as Pesukei de-Zimra, or verses of praise. The Talmud teaches (Berakhot 32b) that “a person should first recount the praise of God, and then pray.” The Rabbis instituted Pesukei de-Zimra to prepare the individual for the recitation of the central elements of the daily prayer service—the Shema and the Amidah—by focusing one’s thoughts on God and contemplation of His glory. Before we can ask God to grant our needs and requests, we enter the proper state of mind by thinking about Him and praising Him.

            The broad theme of these selections is praise of God for creation of the splendid and orderly natural universe. Pesukei de-Zimra begins with the introductory blessing of Barukh she-Amar, which includes 10 praises of God, beginning with the word “Barukh” —blessed is He—and explains its goal:^[3] “U-ve-shirei David avdekha, nehallelekha Hashem Elokenu” —we intend to praise God through the songs of David. Indeed, the core passages that follow are the six final chapters of Sefer Tehillim (Book of Psalms) —Psalm 145, commonly known as “Ashrei,” (Praiseworthy are those...)[4] and Psalms 146–150, the “Hallelukahs” —corresponding to the six days of creation that we praise.^[5] The majority of the remainder of Pesukei de-Zimra is also composed of passages from the Bible traditionally attributed to David, from Tehillim and elsewhere. Pesukei de-Zimra then concludes with the blessing of Yishtabah (May Your name be praised), which enumerates 15 words of praise and 15 expressions of glorification of God.

            The Song of the Sea stands out from most other selections in Pesukei de-Zimra because it is not attributed to David.^[6] It is a song found in the biblical book of Shemot, a song recited by the Israelites after they crossed the Red Sea and their Egyptian pursuers were defeated. Why is this song, which begins with the words “Then Moses and Israel sang,” included in the category of the songs of David? What was the motivation for including this passage, and the verses that precede and follow it, in the Pesukei de-Zimra?

            In order to answer these questions we must consider the significance of the Song of the Sea in its biblical context.

Biblical Significance of the Song

            The chart below describes the structure and themes of the book of Shemot based on a plain-sense reading of the biblical account.

Book of Exodus

Part I

1–14                Oppression and Exodus

15:1–21           Song of the Sea

Part 2

15:22–ch. 17    Journey begins

18–24              Revelation at Mt. Sinai

25–31              Commandment to build Mishkan (Tabernacle)

32–34              Sin of the Golden Calf

35–40              Construction of the Mishkan

            On the simplest level, Shirat ha-Yam marks a turning point, the end of the period of the exodus. The time of oppression and miraculous salvation are over (chapters 1–15:21), and the journey through the wilderness toward the land of Canaan has begun (chapters 15:22–40). Thus, Shirat ha-Yam is the demarcation line between Part 1 and Part 2 of the book of Exodus. In this sense, it is similar to Song of Deborah (Judges 5), which marks the completion of the conquest of Canaan.

            On a deeper, level, however, Shirat ha-Yam is the key to understanding the entire structure of Sefer Shemot. Analysis of the Song helps clarify the very nature of this book.  

            A disagreement regarding the overall theme and purpose of Sefer Shemot dates back to the rabbinic period. Is Shemot a book that tells the story of a nation of slaves who are liberated, enter a covenant with God, and, in a culminating crescendo, build a Sanctuary in which to serve Him? Or is it the story of a nation liberated by God and blessed with divine revelation that then falters in idol worship, so that God must command the construction of a Sanctuary to fulfill their need for physical worship?        

            This divergence in opinion reflects two different views as to the actual chronology of events in the narrative. According to the sequence described in the book, and assumed inter alia by the thirteenth-century Spanish exegete Rabbi Moses Nahmanides (Ramban), God commanded Moshe regarding the construction of the Mishkan immediately following the revelation at Sinai. It had always been God’s intention to have a Tabernacle at Sinai and to dwell among the people.^[7] The people then sinned with the Golden Calf, and the Torah therefore reiterates that the command to build the Mishkan was nonetheless fulfilled.

            The Midrash, however, as well as many of the classical commentators such as the sixteenth century Italian exegete R. Obadiah Sforno,^[8] assumes that this is one example of the principle “en mukdam u-me’uhar ba-Torah” —the Torah is not necessarily written in chronological order. In fact, the Sages argued, the command to build the Mishkan followed the sin of the Golden Calf; it was only in response to the sin that the concept of the Mishkan was introduced at all.^[9]

            There is an indication in the text that the book of Exodus records events in their actual sequence—and we can appreciate this through careful study of Shirat ha-Yam. Immediately after the liberation from Egypt, after witnessing their salvation from the Egyptians at the Red Sea, Moses and the people pause to reflect on the new era of history unfolding before them. At this juncture, the Israelites express their heartfelt desire to embrace God in sacred space: “zeh E-li ve-anvehu.” Targum Onkelos explains the word ve-anvehu as deriving from the word naveh, habitation: “This is my God, and I will build a Sanctuary for Him.” The twelfth-century Spanish exegete Abraham Ibn Ezra elaborates: “This is my God, and I wish to make Him a habitation wherein He can dwell with me forever.”^[10]

            At the conclusion of the Song, the nation lodges the same request: “You will bring them and plant them in the mountain of Your inheritance, The place You made to dwell in, O Lord, The Sanctuary, my Sovereign, that Your hands established.” When the Israelites are finally planted in the land of Israel,^[11] they will build a permanent structure in His honor. Shirat ha-Yam thus begins and ends with the same theme: The children of Israel desire a physical location at which they can experience God’s presence on earth. Scholars have noted that this theme is prominent in ancient Near Eastern texts as well, where songs often express a desire to build temples to the gods. For example, the Babylonian creation epic Enuma Elish culminates with the building of a temple for Marduk, and the Ugaritic Baal-Yam texts describe the construction of a palace for Baal following his victory over Yam. Thus, Shirat ha-Yam, which proclaims the sovereignty of the God of Israel, asks that a Temple be built to His name.

            This desire to build a shrine for God is implicit elsewhere in the Song as well. Whereas the first 11 verses of the Song celebrate God’s salvation of Israel at the Red Sea, verse 12 introduces the theme of God’s holiness in addition to that of His power. “Who is like You among the heavenly powers, Lord! Who is like You, mighty in holiness!…” Similarly, in verse 13 God is not only the victorious warrior, but also the redeemer who guides Israel to His destination of holiness: “You have led with might to Your holy abode.” Ibn Ezra asserts that the “holy abode” referred to here is Mount Sinai; the Israelites praise God for leading them to the site of Revelation. This explanation is in fact quite logical given the location of this praise in the Song—after the description of the events at the Sea and before the description of the Canaanite nations’ fear of conquest.^[12] If the nation’s desire of ve-anvehu is their wish to enshrine God on earth, we might argue that the hope expressed in the Song is similarly to build the Mishkan at Mount Sinai.

            Israel desired a Sanctuary, a sacred place, and God responded by commanding the building of the Mishkan—not as a concession to human frailty, but as a response to the Jewish people’s desire for nearness to Him as expressed in Shirat ha-Yam. This indicates that the final 16 chapters of Sefer Shemot, the complex and detailed enterprise of building the Mishkan, were always part of the plan to create an abode for God’s Presence in the wilderness. Perhaps the Mishkan was a response to the desire for a physical mode of worship, but that desire is not negative. On the contrary—it is the lofty desire to continue to glorify God in a sacred space long after we conclude singing the song glorifying His miracles.

The Liturgical Context of the Song of the Sea

            With this background in mind, we can understand the function of Shirat ha-Yam as part of Pesukei de-Zimra, which are predominantly the songs of David. Shirat ha-Yam, the Torah paradigm for the praise of God as Savior, culminates with a request that He invest His glory on earth, that He create a sacred space in which we can worship Him. This is, in fact, the subtext of all of the Pesukei de-Zimra.

            In the Ashkenazi liturgy,^[13] we precede Barukh she-Amar, the beginning of Pesukei de-Zimra, with Mizmor Shir Hanukkat ha-Bayit le-David (Psalm 30); according to a prominent rabbinic tradition this Psalm was intended by David to be sung at the inauguration of the Temple.[14] In fact, although it was David’s son Solomon who would actually build the Temple, one of our primary associations with David is his desire to build it. He pleaded with God for the opportunity to build a house for Him, and when he was turned down, he prepared blueprints and materials for the eventual construction.^[15]

            The Pesukei de-Zimra continue to praise God particularly in connection with His sanctuary on earth. Hodu, the first passage that follows Barukh she-Amar, is a song of thanksgiving composed by David when the ark was brought to Jerusalem, in preparation for the ultimate construction of a Mikdash.^[16] Mizmor le-Todah (Psalm 100) was recited when one brought a thanksgiving offering in the Temple[17] upon salvation from a hazardous situation. Psalm 145 or Tehillah le-David, the most important passage in Pesukei de-Zimra, is introduced with the words, “Ashrei yoshevei vetekha” —“Happy are those who dwell in Your House,”[18] although these words are not part of the biblical psalm. The final “Hallelukah,” the magnificent culminating song of Tehillim, Psalm 150, was recited by pilgrims bringing their first fruits to Jerusalem[19]. It begins, “Praise God in His holy place.”

            Following this psalm, we recite three verses from Tehillim that begin with the word “barukh” —“blessed,”^[20] which would seem to bring closure to the praise begun in Barukh she-Amar, where that word is the central theme. We would expect Pesukei de-Zimra to end here, but instead, we move on to the passages of “va-Yevarekh David”—“David blessed the Lord,” “Attah hu Hashem levadekha,”^[21] —“You alone are the Lord,” and Shirat ha-Yam. What are these sections doing here? I suggest that they continue the theme that we have begun through the excerpts from shirei David; they mark the historical moments when Israel asked God for sacred space on earth.

            At the end of his life, David made Jerusalem the capital and brought the ark there. Denied the chance to build the Temple himself, he assembled the people and charged them with the task. In “va-Yevarekh David,”^[22] he recites a prayer of thanksgiving after concluding his preparations for the Temple that would be built by his son Solomon.

            The next section, “Attah hu Hashem levadekha,”^[23] — “You alone are the Lord” —is an excerpt from a prayer recited by Ezra, Nehemiah, and their community after the Return to Zion. Ezra and Nehemiah summon the people to reaffirm their covenant with God and ask God to help them as they rebuild Jerusalem, with the intent of rebuilding the Temple. Indeed, this gathering culminates with the people’s affirming their commitment to the Temple service (Nehemiah 10:40) —“We will not leave the house of our God.”

            We then continue with “va-Yosha” and Shirat ha-Yam, which describe, as we have said, the very first request for a Sanctuary. The Song glorifies God as Israel’s Savior and asks Him to invest his Presence in a sacred space on earth—a Mishkan or Mikdash.         

            The opening words of Shirat ha-Yam indicate that this composition was recited in immediate response to the miracles that Israel witnessed at the sea—“Az yashir,” “Then they sang.” The rabbis of the Midrash note that these words are actually written in future tense and, taken out of context, would be translated literally as, “Then they will sing.”^[24] According to this Midrash, this is the song that Moses and the Israelites will sing in messianic times. Similarly, Rashi writes, “This is a hint in the Torah to the Resurrection” (Rashi, Exodus 15:1).

            Thus, to the rabbis, the significance of The Song of the Sea is not limited exclusively to the episode of the splitting of the sea. Similarly, to the compilers of Pesukei de-Zimra the recitation of Shirat ha-Yam did not simply recall a song of praise that was sung once upon a time or a request for God’s presence that was lodged ages ago. Shirat ha-Yam anticipated messianic times and the Third Temple; it constitutes our own praise of God and our own request for Mikkedash A-donai konenu yadekha, The sanctuary, O Lord, which Your hands established.

            Because of these messianic implications, we conclude our recitation of the Shirat ha--Yam with other verses that refer to the ultimate redemption and God’s universal sovereignty: For kingship is the Lord’s and He rules over the nations” (Tehillim 22:29); “Saviors shall go up to Mount Zion to judge Mount Esau, and the kingship shall be the Lord’s” (Obadiah 1:21); “Then the Lord shall be King over the whole earth; on that day, the Lord shall be one and His name will be one” (Zechariah 14:9).

            According to our understanding of the thrust of Shirat ha-Yam, it serves as an appropriate capstone to Pesukei de-Zimra, for it declares the glory of God, crowns Him as our King, and asks Him to create sacred space for us on earth.

Praise and Presence: The Song of the Sea in Bible and Prayer

            This article has sought to demonstrate that an appreciation of the significance of Shirat ha-Yam in its Torah context sheds light on its role in Pesukei de-Zimra as well. Indeed, we may go a step further; the narratives of Sefer Shemot complete the story of creation in Sefer Bereshit. The ultimate goal of all of creation is the creation of a space on earth in which God can dwell and we can worship Him. In the Song of the Sea, the nation of Israel—for the first time in its history—sings a song of praise and thanksgiving to God and asks Him for a naveh, a mishkan, a mikdash.

             Thus, The Song of the Sea is the biblical paradigm for the praise of God and provides a literary model for the organization of Pesukei de-Zimra. Like Shirat ha-Yam, Pesukei de-Zimra begins with an appreciation of God’s greatness and concludes with the contemplation of His holiness. While Barukh she-Amar praises God as the creator and sustainer of the universe and all of humanity, Yishtabah praises not only God’s greatness, but also His “holiness in heaven and earth.”

            It has been suggested that the 10 words of praise in Barukh she-Amar are meant by its composers to evoke the 10 times that God “spoke” (“va-yomer”) in the course of Creation (Avot 5:1).^[25] It has also been suggested that the 15 words of praise in Yishtabah correspond to the 15 steps leading to the entrance of the Temple, the steps on which the Levites stood as they sang their hymns—Shirei ha-Ma’a lot (Psalms 120–134).^[26] Pesukei de-Zimra can thus be understood as beginning with the praise of God of Creation and concluding with the praise of God who answers our request for Him to dwell on earth.

            In sum, Shirat ha-Yam and the passages that precede and follow it invoke our desire for a House of God—the Mishkan of the wilderness, the First and Second Temples, the Temple in messianic times—and are therefore a most fitting conclusion for the Pesukei de-Zimra. As we move from Pesukei de-Zimra to the Shema and Amidah, we move from individual to communal prayer. At this point, it is appropriate to invoke these historical moments—past and future—in which the nation of Israel prays as a community, seeking to create sacred space on earth. The nature of the sacred space may change, as in the transition from Temple to synagogue, but its significance for Jewish life endures as the culmination of our people’s search for holiness.

Notes

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Terumah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

This week’s Torah reading includes very specific instructions for building the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that served as the religious center of the Israelites during their time in the wilderness. Was this construction something absolutely new for the Israelites, or did they already have an idea of what a sanctuary should look like based on their experience in Egypt?

Professor Joshua Berman of Bar Ilan University, in his excellent book Ani Maamin, offers a fascinating insight into the design of the Mishkan. He provides a historical model that likely was familiar to the ancient Israelites.

In 1274 BCE, Rameses II—Pharaoh of Egypt—won a great victory against Egypt’s archrival, the Hittite empire, in the battle of Kadesh. The event was so impressive that battle monuments were erected across the Egyptian empire. Ten copies of the inscriptions exist to this day, and there is good reason to believe that the contents of these inscriptions were widely circulated throughout the Egyptian population, including the Israelites. Several of the bas-reliefs include an image of Rameses’s camp at Kadesh.

Scholars have noted the following facts about the battle compound of Rameses II. “The camp is twice as long as it is wide. The entrance to it is in the middle of the eastern wall….At the center of the camp, down a long corridor, lies the entrance to a 3:1 rectangular tent. This tent contains two sections: a 2:1 reception tent, with figures kneeling in adoration, and leading westward (right) from it, a domed square space that is the throne tent of the pharaoh….In the throne tent…the emblem bearing the pharaoh’s name and symbolizing his power is flanked by falcons….with their wings spread in protection over him” (Ani Maamin, pp. 57-58).

The structure of Rameses’s battle compound is remarkably similar to the structure of the Mishkan, in terms of layout, proportions, separation of reception tent and an inner sanctum where the central figure is flanked by beings with wings spread over. Was this simply a coincidence?

Aside from the visual similarities of the Rameses compound and the Mishkan, Dr. Berman demonstrates how the “Kadesh poem,” composed to celebrate Rameses’s victory, has a number of singular similarities to the Az Yashir poem sung by the Israelites upon their redemption from Egypt. Could there be a connection between these two works?

Dr. Berman suggests that the Israelites were aware of the depiction of Rameses’s battle compound…and the Mishkan’s design was influenced by this. The Israelites were aware of the “Kadesh poem,” and the Az Yashir’s use of language and imagery was influenced by this.

While some may find this problematic as undermining the originality of the Torah, Dr. Berman draws the opposite conclusion. The Torah employed images and language that were familiar to the Israelites…but then directed these factors into a new religious context. Yes, the Mishkan was structured like Rameses’s battle compound, but at the center was the holy ark of Israel…not an image of Pharaoh. Whereas the battle compound glorified Pharaoh and treated him as a deity, the Israelite Mishkan glorified the one true God and was dedicated to the worship of God…not Pharaoh.  Likewise, in the Az Yashir, the Torah utilized phrases and images that the Egyptians had used to glorify Pharaoh…but the Torah directed these phrases and images only to God, not to any human being, not to Pharaoh.

Thus, the Torah broke new religious ground by taking existing Egyptian images and symbols and transforming them into an entirely new religious worldview that fostered worship of one God of supreme power. It used images and language that would have resonated with the Israelites of ancient Egypt, but used them in such a way as to lead them away from idolatry and toward monotheism.

Dr. Berman notes that the Torah should be studied with an awareness of the historical context in which its narratives took place. By doing so, we not only understand the Torah more accurately, but we also better appreciate the Torah’s revolutionary advances in religious thought.

It is with great sadness that we record the untimely passing of Stephen Neuwirth, board member and major supporter of our Institute since its inception in 2007. Stephen was a well-respected attorney, a community leader, philanthropist…a really fine human being. We extend condolences to his wife, Nataly, and their four sons; to Stephen’s father, siblings and extended family.

Within the Jewish tradition, we find insights on how to confront and cope with tragedies.

The Psalmist cries: “Min haMetsar Karati Y-ah,” I call out to God from distress. When in pain, it is natural to cry out to God, to shed tears, to lament our sufferings and our losses. To cry out when we are in distress is a first step in the grieving process. 

“Tefillah leHabakuk haNavi al Shigyonoth.” Dr. David de Sola Pool has translated this passage: “A prayer of Habakuk the prophet, in perplexity.” After crying out at our initial grief, we move to another level of mourning. We are perplexed. We want to know why this tragedy has happened? We want to understand how to reconcile this disaster with our belief in God’s goodness. We are in a state of emotional and spiritual confusion.

“Mima-amakim keratikha Ado-nai.” I call out to God from the depths of my being. This statement of the Psalmist introduces the next stage in confronting tragedy. It is a profound recognition, from the deepest recesses of our being, that we turn to—and depend upon—God. It is a depth of understanding that transcends tears, words, perplexity. It is a depth of understanding and acceptance that places our lives in complete context with the Almighty. We may be heart-broken; we may be perplexed; we may be angry—but at the very root of who we are, we feel the solace of being in God’s presence. When we reach this deepest level of understanding, we find that we don’t have words or sounds that can articulate this inner clarity. We fall silent.

During his bout with pancreatic cancer, Stephen Neuwirth demonstrated profound faith and immense courage. He maintained a spiritual composure. He went beyond feelings of sadness and despair, beyond perplexity at his situation: he reached to the Almighty “mima-amakim”, from the very depths of who he was. His faith and strength of character inspired everyone who came into contact with him during his illness.

It is said that when a loved one dies, part of us dies too. But it is also said that when a beloved person dies, part of his life continues through us…through family, friends, associates, all who benefited from the person’s life energy. 

May Stephen’s memory be a source of strength, blessing and happiness to his family and to all who mourn his passing.

Book Review

Rabbi Yitzhak Berdugo, Understanding Hazal: A Translation and Annotation of Rabbenu Avraham ben HaRambam’s Ma’amar Al HaDerashot Ve-al HaAggadot

(Da’at Press, 2022), 169 pages

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

          Rabbi Yitzhak Berdugo recently has published an annotated translation and commentary on Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam’s seminal essay on rabbinic aggadot (non-legal texts).

          The primary purpose of this volume is to make Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam’s important essay on midrashic methodology accessible to the English-speaking world. Rabbi Avraham (1186-1237, Egypt) was Rambam’s only child, and was a towering rabbinic figure who succeeded his father as the leader of the Jewish community of Egypt. He mastered his illustrious father’s teachings, and was a prolific author in his own right.

Rabbi Yitzhak Berdugo has written a fine translation of the excellent 2019 Hebrew edition of the essay by Rabbi Moshe Maimon. Rabbi Berdugo also provides learned footnotes with further references and clarifications.

          Beyond that purpose, however, Rabbi Berdugo also demonstrates that Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam’s work is perfectly consistent with the teachings of leading Geonim such as Rabbi Hai, Sherira, Saadyah, Shemuel ben Hofni, and others. The great rabbinic interpreters from the Spanish Andalusian school who became the heirs to the Geonic tradition, such as Rabbi Avraham ibn Ezra and Rambam, adopted the interpretive position of the Geonim.

Briefly stated, aggadot (non-legal texts in the Talmud and other midrashic collections) are not generally to be viewed as binding received traditions, nor are they all intended as literal. We must examine each aggadah carefully to learn the lessons of our Sages, but aggadot must not replace a careful study of the biblical text.

Because Tanakh and aggadah are studied for their truth, we hear the truth from the one who says it, rather than being bound by an authority-based system. In the words of Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam in chapter 2 of his article:

Know, for it is your duty to know, that anyone who wishes to uphold a known theory and admire its author by [blindly] accepting it without proper analysis or verification of its truth, is [considered to possess] a deficient character trait. This [mode of conduct] is forbidden according to the way of the Torah, and is not an intelligent approach. It is intellectually dishonest because it entails deficiency and inadequacy in the contemplation of essential convictions, and it is forbidden according to the ways of the Torah because it deviates from the way of truth… (Berdugo translation, p. 68).

          On one level, Rabbi Berdugo’s thesis is so obvious that there should not be any need to demonstrate its cogency. However, there are always learned detractors within the Orthodox rabbinic world who falsely claim that Judaism universally embraces aggadot as more literal and as binding tradition.

In his footnotes, Rabbi Berdugo cites a recent book by Rabbi Moshe Meiselman (Torah, Chazal, and Science, 2013), who claims that this essay of Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam is a forgery. Among other things, Rabbi Meiselman bases this determination on the (incorrect) assertion that if it were authentic, it would be at odds with the worldview of all the other classical commentators. As Rabbi Berdugo amply demonstrates, many classical commentators—including Rabbi Avraham’s father Rambam—are fully in sync with Rabbi Avraham’s methodology.

          Rabbi Yom Tov Lipmann Heller (1579-1654), the author of the celebrated Tosafot Yom Tov commentary on the Mishnah, understood the self-evident freedom of interpretation in non-legal matters in Jewish tradition:

Regarding Scripture, permission is granted to interpret [differently from how the Gemara interprets] as our own eyes see in the commentaries written since the time of the Gemara. However, we must not make any halakhic ruling that contradicts the Gemara (commentary on Mishnah Nazir 5:5).

          Despite the preponderance of evidence from our classical commentators, many religious educators continue to misrepresent their methodology. Rabbi Marc D. Angel needed to pen an article, “Reflections on Torah Education and Mis-Education” (Tradition 41:2, 2008, pp. 10-23), in which he criticized trends of rabbinic fundamentalism within the Yeshiva Day School system. When teachers explain Midrashim as literal and as binding traditions, they misinterpret the biblical text, the intent of the rabbis’ statements, and the breathtaking diversity of rabbinic interpretations.

          The voices of the Geonim, the classical commentators, and Rabbi Avraham ben HaRambam, among many others, need to be heard and taught. Rabbi Berdugo’s translation and explanation of Rabbi Avraham’s work contributes further to an understanding of the Geonic and Andalusian methodology of how to approach the eternal treasures of our rabbinic aggadot.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Mishpatim

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Ralph Waldo Emerson, in his address “The American Scholar,” spoke of Man Thinking. Ideally, people should think carefully, analyze issues, make reasoned judgments.  Man Thinking is self-reliant and original. By contrast, in the degenerate state a person “tends to become a mere thinker, or, still worse, the parrot of other men’s thinking.”  In his essay, “Self-Reliance,” Emerson complains that “man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage.”

Although it surely is important to have a proper base of knowledge, a person should not forego the right and responsibility of making individual evaluations and decisions. After careful thought and study, one has the right—and responsibility—to express a personal opinion.

Some years ago, I gave a lecture on my book “The Orphaned Adult” in which I discussed my feelings upon the passing of my mother. In the question and answer period following my talk, an Orthodox rabbi asked for the halakhic sources for my comments. I was taken aback. I was describing my experiences and offering my reactions to the death of a parent: why would I need halakhic sources to justify my thoughts?

Yet, for this rabbi (and for so many others) one is expected to have authoritative sources for one’s words. One’s own opinion is not valid in and of itself. Too often, especially in religious life, we don’t trust Man Thinking but demand validation from an earlier authority. Our own opinions don’t count unless they are bolstered by quoting “some saint or sage.” We don’t take into consideration that the earlier sage/authority was expressing an original opinion, was a Man Thinking.

Judaism is sometimes portrayed—and sometimes experienced—as a system of laws, rituals, customs. As a tradition-based way of life, we seek wisdom and direction from the sages and saints of earlier generations. Yet, Judaism in actuality is geared for thinking people, those who not only adhere to the mitzvoth but who seek inner meanings. We don’t only want to know what to do, but why we do it, what is expected, what are the goals. Yes, we do want to learn from the earlier saints and sages…but we then also want to think on our own.

This week's Torah portion begins with God commanding Moses: "And these are the ordinances that you shall set before them." Rashi comments that God instructed Moses not to teach the Israelites by rote but to explain the reasons for the laws. If the people had the opportunity to study the reasons behind the laws, they would more likely internalize and fulfill them.

Rashi's comments relate to "mishpatim", those ordinances that are apparent to reason and common sense. But what about "hukkim", laws whose reasons are not readily apparent? Was Moses expected to offer reasons and explanations for these ceremonial, ritual laws? Or was he to state the commandments and have the Israelites obey them even if they did not understand the underlying reasons for them?

In his "Guide for the Perplexed," Rambam devoted serious discussion to the reasons for mitzvoth. He believed that since God is all-wise, all of the mitzvoth—including “hukim”-- contain divine wisdom.  Rambam refers to the sickness in the souls of people who prefer to observe commandments blindly rather than to imagine that God had reasons for giving these commandments. He was displeased with those who thought that the Torah's teachings should be accepted blindly and unthinkingly. This tendency of mind leads inexorably to a superficial view of religion, even to superstition. A mind that is trained to accept information without analyzing and questioning it, is a mind that can be controlled by demagogues.

Albert Einstein offered his view on the vitality of Jewish tradition: “The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice, and the desire for personal independence—these are the features of the Jewish tradition which make me thank my stars that I belong to it” (The World as I See It, p. 103)

We should all feel grateful for belonging to a religious tradition that is deep, wise, idealistic—and that encourages us to think for ourselves.

Mordechai is universally recognized as a hero, but it wasn’t always that way. Like many heroes, his acts of greatness were extremely controversial at the time. Were it not for the benefit of hindsight, many of those who admire Mordechai today would have opposed him.

            Mordechai was an eccentric figure long before he encountered Haman. Megillat Esther 2:6 introduces Mordechai as follows: “He was exiled from Jerusalem with the group of exiles that were exiled with Yechonya, king of Judah, whom Nevuchadnezzar, king of Babel, exiled.” The Vilna Gaon makes an astonishing comment based on the repetitive mentions of Mordechai’s exile in this single verse: “[This is] to inform us of his love for the Land of Israel, for each time [he was exiled], he returned to Jerusalem, and he was exiled three times.”

            How many Jews today would make aliya, be forced to return to the Diaspora, then try again two more times in short succession? How many rabbis would even encourage such behavior? This is despite knowing that there is a real future in Israel as the final prophecies unfold.

            Mordechai faced the exact opposite scenario. The ten tribes were exiled, much of Israel was in ruins, and the little that remained was a vassal state. Everyone was aware of the prophecies that the Temple was going to be destroyed, the inhabitants of Israel would be slaughtered, and the survivors would be exiled. What was Mordechai going back for? His contemporaries probably thought he was insane.

            Then again, others would have viewed Mordechai as an idealist with a can-do attitude that put his detractors to shame.

            It’s no surprise that someone who refused to abandon the sinking ship that was Israel at the time, no doubt suffering great personal hardship as a result, would be the hero of the Purim story. Mordechai was the one who urged the Jews not to attend Achashverosh’s party, with its debauchery and implicit acceptance of an exile mentality, and Mordechai was the one who refused to submit to Haman.         

            These were not popular decisions at the time. If today’s media and (God help us) social media existed back then, we can imagine how Mordechai’s fellow Jews would have mercilessly attacked him, without regard for his status as a “leading rabbi.” They would have accused Mordechai of endangering them with his reckless behavior, his unwillingness to be practical and accept reality. The Jews were in the Diaspora now and were fortunate to live in a “tolerant” society. Quiet diplomacy was the call of the hour, if not ingratiation and even assimilation. The last thing most Jews wanted was a religious extremist like Mordechai rocking the boat.

            Contemplate this for a moment and be brutally honest. If you were there, would you have reacted any differently?

            And there’s the rub when it comes to heroes. Everyone points to them as role models long after they are gone, but the very qualities we admire in dead people we loathe among the living. Mordechai would be hard-pressed to land a pulpit today, or even a shidduch. Even those who admired his integrity and idealism would be leery of throwing their hat in with him. Practical considerations, after all.

            We teach our children to admire people like Mordechai, but in a purely theoretical sense. Do we encourage them to emulate his behavior in real life? Does our society? No. We reward contemporary Mordechais with swift backlash and cold-blooded cancellation if they persist.

            Children learn very quickly not to take stories of biblical heroes as an actual path to follow. The first time they point out an egregious hypocrisy in the community, an outrage that needs to be addressed, they might be met with amusement. Little Moshe wants people to stop talking during synagogue services! How cute!

            If they don’t get the message, though, they will get their first taste of retribution. If they are smart, they will learn to just be quiet and go along with it like everyone else. If they are clever, they too will reap the rewards of degeneracy, instead of being a pious fool. If they are geniuses, their idealism will be destroyed, their souls will be crushed, and they will go “off the derech.” In the unlikely event that they return, their rebellious past will be a permanent stain.

            If they remain religiously committed and somehow maintain their idealism, they will be social outcasts (unless they become extremely rich, in which case even worse crimes than idealism can be overlooked). Even those who agree with them and admire them will be afraid to publicly support them. If you want to take on problems in the Jewish world—really take them on—be prepared to do it alone, and be prepared to suffer mightily for it.

            Mordechai’s story is not so much a celebration as a cautionary tale.

            Then again, it’s understandable that heroes are doomed to be unpopular, at least until they are victorious. The reasons are not entirely without merit. Consider the following:

• Heroes rock the boat. Their behavior is by definition threatening to people’s sensibilities, and often carries real dangers to the people they are trying to help. Mordechai took it upon himself to stand up to Haman, but that very plausibly could have backfired. He might have been “right” (well, he was definitely right), but is it always right to spit in the eye of powerful, impulsive rulers who don’t especially like the Jews to begin with? Granted, not standing up to Haman carried its own dangers, but apathy is always the convenient choice. Heroes make inconvenient choices and demand the same of others.
             
• Idealists are never satisfied, and they make those around them uncomfortable. We need idealists to push us to greater heights, but they don’t always make the best dinner guests.        
             
• Not every underdog with a cause is a hero. It is natural to be suspicious of people who not only go against the consensus, but try to change the direction of the community. We’ve had more than enough agitators, moles, opportunists, reformers, false Messiahs, and downright traitors to be leery of those who promote changes of any kind. Just because Mordechai decided that he should stand up to Haman, why were Jews wrong to doubt him?
   

            So how do we know? How do we know who is a hero worth supporting—in the moment—and who is just a troublemaker?

            There might not be an exact formula, but we have plenty of examples of both in the Torah from which to derive pointers.

            Consider the various Jews in the desert who were “left out.” There was the unnamed son of Shlomit the daughter of Divri and an Egyptian man (see Leviticus chapter 24). He had no tribe and no share in the Land of Israel, through no fault of his own. Wherever he tried to pitch his tent he was told he didn’t belong. He was a true underdog.

            What did he do? He blasphemed God.

            Then we have the daughters of Tzelafchad (see Numbers chapter 27). They too were excluded from a share in the Land of Israel, through no fault of their own. It didn’t seem fair. What did they do? They approached Moses and the other leaders and explained their predicament. They respectfully asked to receive a portion of the land in place of their deceased father. Most of all: they were willing to accept no for an answer if that were God’s will.

            Hazal refer to these women as righteous and wise. God accommodated these underdogs, whereas the blasphemer, tragic figure though he was, was executed.

            We can derive from here that an idealist worth supporting is one who is fundamentally loyal to the community, not an adversary.

            Today there are many, many people who are dissatisfied with the Orthodox world. There is not enough ink to list all their complaints and debate their validity. But we must clarify the following before deciding how to address those bringing the complaints:

            Are they friends or foes? Do they seek to build, or to tear down? Are they respectful, or do they blaspheme? Do they keep their criticisms in house, or do they malign the Orthodox world to our worst enemies and even partner with them? Are they willing to take no for an answer if that’s how it must be? Do they truly love their fellow Jews, imperfect and downright maddening as they often are, or is their “constructive criticism” a fig leaf for seething hatred?

            Another point to consider is the agenda of the hero-in-question. A genuine idealist is one who has no personal agenda in mind. Mordechai never took the convenient path. Whether it was chastising the Jews or publicly defying Amalek, he risked his life for what was right. If he had to pay a price, even the ultimate price, so be it. Although God miraculously saved Mordechai and elevated him, he had no reason to expect that to happen.

            Compare to faux idealists, such as Korah and Absalom. These rebels curried favor with the people with grandiose speeches about equality and justice, but it was just a ruse to achieve power for themselves. That’s the default playbook in our times as well. Once again, we need to consider whether we really want leaders like Mordechai, who stand for truth and make us uncomfortable, or if we prefer to play the game with corrupt leaders. Societies tend to get the leaders they deserve.

            Finally, what separates true heroes from impostors is genuine fear of God. A true hero lives to serve God and bring others closer to the Torah. True heroes are humble even in greatness. Most of all, heroes refuse to negotiate away their principles, for those principles are real. Mordechai understood that the political conveniences of attending Achashverosh’s party or bowing to Haman were not a fair exchange for his identity as a God-fearing Jew.

            This is the ultimate clue that we are dealing with a real hero, not a phony. A real hero places God’s will above all else and makes no attempt to rationalize going against the Torah.

            It was clear that Mordechai had all the above qualities, and so many more. It is tragic that he was not fully appreciated by the people during his lifetime, even after being vindicated. But the fact that he was vindicated should not be necessary; after all, not every hero will be fortunate to achieve victory. We should not view Mordechai as a hero because he won, but because he was the real thing.

            When we teach about heroes, we should emphasize this point. It is not about the glory of victory, but the sacrifice for the sake of heaven, regardless of the immediate result.

            Most of all, we should help create a society in which heroic behavior is appreciated and supported. After all, the Torah requires all of us to be heroes, each in our own way.

            Megillat Esther concludes with the tragic statement that Mordechai was pleasing to “most of his brethren.” Today Mordechai is universally loved, mainly because he is no longer here to admonish us. When we learn to appreciate and support those who follow in his ways, we will surely merit such people to be our leaders.

            May it be soon in our days.

Thoughts on Tu B'Shvat

(excerpted from The Rhythms of Jewish Living, by Rabbi Marc D. Angel"

twelve fruits on Tu B’Shvat. Moroccan Jews customarily eat a minimum of fifteen different fruits. Iraqi celebrations called for serving at least one hundred kinds of fruits, nuts and vegetables. The text for the occasion includes readings from the Bible, Zohar, and rabbinic writings. A festive meal follows the readings.

The four cups of wine drunk during the service each have their own significance. The first cup is pale white wine. This symbolizes winter and the dormant earth awaiting the planting season. The second cup is more golden in color and represents the time when the earth comes alive and sap starts to flow from the trees. The third cup of wine is a rose, symbolizing the blossoming of the trees. (In Israel, Tu B’shvat is associated with the flowering of almond trees.) The final cup of wine is a deep red, symbolizing the land’s ripening fruit and its overall fertility.

(In modern times, Tu B'Shvat has been revitalized as a time to celebrate the fruitfulness of the land of Israel, the remarkable achievements of modern Israeli agriculture and environmentalism, and the re-foresting of the land. The day is marked by eating fruits grown in Israel.)

New York Daily News, September 18, 2020

Jews won’t be your scapegoat any longer

By MARC D. ANGEL

NEW YORK DAILY NEWS |

SEP 18, 2020 AT 5:00 AM

For centuries, Jews have been the world’s scapegoat. No matter how absurd the charge, haters have attributed all sorts of evils to this one tiny group of humanity. The great Tunisian/French writer, Albert Memmi, described the predicament: “To be a Jew is first and foremost to find oneself called to account, to feel oneself continuously accused, explicitly or implicitly, clearly or obscurely…There is that constant hostility, that noxious haze in which the Jew is born, lives and dies.”

The haters do not relate to Jews as fellow human beings, but as stereotypes. Their hatred is not aimed at this Jew or that Jew but at “the Jews.” In their warped fantasies, “the Jews” are responsible for all sorts of terrible things; they accuse the entire group, they spread lies and slanders, and ultimately they too often resort to violence.

In a world of over 7 billion people, the Jewish population is less than 15 million — an infinitesimal fraction of humanity. Yet the haters somehow think that this very diverse group of Jews constitute a threat to the world’s wellbeing. Conspiracy theories against Jews would be laughable if they weren’t so dangerous. The haters will readily believe any and every malicious motive and action of “the Jews.”

Jews, in all their diversity, share some common values: the importance of education; the centrality of family; the responsibility for social justice. Although they are such a tiny segment of humanity, Jews — as individuals and as a group — have contributed mightily to the advancement of humanity.

The haters have deep problems. They project their own evil intentions on their scapegoat victims. They think that they are stronger if they can oppress those who they perceive as being an easy target. They want to prove their own worth by tearing down others, rather than by actually raising themselves.

Jews have been the world’s scapegoats for many centuries. We have suffered scorn, ghettoization, violence and murder. We want to notify the world: We resign, we no longer will serve as your scapegoat. From now on, please take your fears and feelings of inferiority to your mirror. Instead of projecting evil on Jews — or any other group — heal yourself. Instead of seeking a scapegoat to relieve your frustrations, think of how you can be the best person you can be.

The Hebrew prophets of the Bible foresaw a time when people will no longer devote their energies to war and destructive hatred. We are, unfortunately, not yet living in such an ideal world.

But each person can either bring us closer to the goal, or drag us further from it.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Beshallah

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

"And Moses said to the people, fear not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will show you today. For as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again any more forever. The Lord shall fight for you and you shall hold your peace. And the Lord said to Moses: Why do you cry out to me? Speak to the children of Israel that they go forward."   (Shemot 14:13-15)

The people of Israel were in a terrible position. The Egyptian troops were coming toward them from behind. The sea was in front of them. Being trapped, they blamed Moses for bringing them out of Egypt only to die here. Moses offered words of reassurance. The Lord will fight for you, all will be well.

But apparently Moses himself was not convinced of his own words. The very next verse has God chastising him: Why do you cry out to me?  

Moses, realizing the magnitude of the dilemma, tried to calm the people; but he himself was uncertain of what to do. In desperation, he cried out to God for help.

God could have told Moses: You are the leader, set the example, walk into the sea as an act of faith and courage. But instead, God told Moses to instruct the Israelites to go forward. Whereas Moses had told the people to hold their peace and wait for God’s salvation, God instructed otherwise. The Israelites first had to take initiative on their own. They had been passive throughout the period of plagues in Egypt, but now that they were on the road to freedom they had to take on responsibility.

Rabbi Meir Simha HaKohen of Dvinsk (1875-1926), in his commentary Meshekh Hokhma, suggested that God wanted the people of Israel to demonstrate faith by plunging into the water first. Moses was to follow the Israelites rather than lead them. The Midrash credits Nachshon ben Aminadav for being the first to enter the water. Once he took the initiative, the Lord split the waters of the sea and the Israelites were miraculously saved.

But the question remains: why did Moses cry out to the Lord in a seeming panic? Why didn’t Moses himself march into the sea to set an example of faith and leadership? Why was it Nachshon, according to the Midrash, who took the initiative?

Perhaps the Torah is indicating that even Moses, the greatest of all prophets, had a moment of doubt. At a critical time, he froze. He could not understand why God had brought the Israelites into such an impossible trap and he could not muster the courage to lead the people into the sea. But while Moses hesitated, Nachshon took the lead.  Sometimes even the best of leaders falls short. It takes the courage and initiative of others to save the situation.

Once Nachshon took the lead, the Israelites themselves realized that it was time for them to move forward. Moses and the people learned that at a time of national crisis, courageous action is required. The price of freedom is: increased responsibility.