(Why Two Readings?)
As sometimes happens, the Torah portions read in synagogues within Israel and those read in synagogues outside of Israel are scheduled to be out of sync for a while. So, for the coming weeks, I’ll be including comments on both scheduled readings.
In Israel, Emor:
“Which You Proclaim”
Regular readers will recall that the procedure for determining the beginning of a month in the Hebrew calendar was somewhat involved (at least until the calendar was standardized, as it is today). Two reliable witnesses had to have spotted the new moon and testified to that effect before the rabbinic court. They were questioned separately to make sure that their testimony was correct, and the questioning could be difficult:
Rabban Gamliel used to keep diagrams depicting the [possible] shapes of the new moon on a writing-tablet and on the wall of his upper story. He would show them to non-experts [who came to testify] and ask: “Did it look like this, or like that?” Once it happened that two people came [to testify] and both said: “At daybreak we saw it in the east and in the evening in the west.” Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Nuri said: “They’re false witnesses!” But when they came to Yavneh, Rabban Gamliel accepted their testimony. (Mishnah, Rosh ha-Shanah, 2:8)
How could he? Their account of things was, on the face of it, an impossibility. But perhaps what they had seen at daybreak was merely a moon-shaped cloud, illuminated by the sun’s rays, whereas what they saw in the evening was indeed the new moon (where it should be). In any event, Rabban Gamliel accepted their testimony.
Another time, two witnesses came and said: “We saw it at the right time [that is, the evening of the 30th], but the next night [when it certainly should have been visible], it was not there,” yet Rabban Gamliel accepted their testimony. Rabbi Dosa ben Harkinas said, “They’re false witnesses. How can you testify about a woman that she has given birth, but then the next day, her belly is as swollen as ever?” Rabbi Joshua said: “I agree with you.” (Mishnah, Rosh ha-Shanah, 2:8-9)
Rabbi Joshua was certainly a great scholar, but Rabban Gamliel ruled the witnesses’ testimony valid. (The precise wording, and hence the order of these events, is disputed, but this need not detain us here.) Now, the month in question was Tishrei, the month in which Yom Kippur occurs, so a lot depended on who was right.
Rabban Gamliel sent word to Rabbi Joshua: “I hereby decree that you come to visit me carrying your walking-stick and money on the day on which Yom Kippur would have fallen according to your ruling.” Of course, carrying a walking stick or money on that most sacred day of the year was strictly forbidden. So Rabban Gamliel was saying, in effect, “Accept my ruling and demonstrate your acceptance by carrying these items on the day that would have been Yom Kippur if your ruling had been right.”
What should Rabbi Joshua do? Bow to Rabban Gamliel’s authority and accept his ruling, despite the logic of his own position? Or stick to his guns and say: “The truth is the truth, and I’m not changing my opinion for anyone, even you!” At this point, the Mishnah relates that Rabbi Akiva advised Rabbi Joshua to accept Rabban Gamliel’s ruling, since what he did was altogether proper. As proof, he cited a verse from this week’s Torah reading: “These are the [established] times of God, sacred convocations, which you shall announce” —since, Rabbi Akiva explained, “whether at the right time or not, these are the only festivals I have.”
This story is much discussed, since it involves important issues: rabbinic jurisprudence, the history of Judaism at a crucial moment in its development, subsequent relations between the various figures cited, and more. But it is also important to understand exactly what Rabbi Akiva was saying to to Rabbi Joshua. He cited that verse from this week’s reading, but stopped short of its last word, bemo‘adam “in their time.” Doesn’t the complete verse actually support the opposite argument, that the new moon—and any holy days that occur within it, such as Yom Kippur in Tishrei—must be marked bemo‘adam “in their proper time”? In fact, this same verse (in its complete form) had been cited a little bit earlier in the Mishnah (Rosh ha-Shanah 1:9) in precisely this sense.
It seems that that Rabbi Akiva was actually pointing to another feature of the biblical verse he was (partially) citing. Quite literally, the verse reads: “These are the [established] times of God, sacred convocations, which you shall announce them in their proper time”: Translators rightfully omit the “them” in this sentence—you don’t need it in English—but it’s right there in Hebrew, otam. But the same three letters used for the word otam, “them”—that is, the three Hebrew letters aleph, tav, and mem—could also be construed not as otam, but attem, “you.” In that case, Rabbi Akiva’s reading would be: “‘These are the [established] times of God, sacred convocations, which you shall announce’—whether you announce them at the proper time or not, I have no other [established] times but these.”
If so, here would be another, rather dramatic, instance of Judaism’s general principle of the “handoff” of authority from the divine to the human. In the same spirit, the declaration of Deut 30:12 to the effect that the Torah is not something inaccessible—it’s not “in heaven” (lo bashamayim hi)—should really be understood as “the Torah is no longer in heaven.” It certainly started out there, but it was subsequently brought down to earth in the interpretations and elaborations of Israel’s sages.
Shabbat shalom!
Outside Israel, Aḥarei Mot-Kedoshim
Loving Your Neighbor
No doubt the most famous verse in the portion of Kedoshim is Lev 19:18, “You shall love your neighbor like yourself.” Rabbi Akiva declared that this verse was nothing less than the “great general principle of the Torah” (Sifra Kedoshim 4), and even before him, Jewish scholars spoke of the two verses beginning with the words “And you shall love” as embodying the whole of the Torah: this verse and the one in the Shema that begins, “And you shall love the Lord your God…”
But what exactly is this verse asking us to do? Does loving your neighbor mean that if, for example, you win the lottery, you have to pick someone else, your “neighbor” or your “fellow,” and split the money 50-50? And who is your neighbor? Any fellow human being? Any fellow Jew? The Jews of the Dead Sea Scrolls community were told to hate everyone other than the members of their own community, in fact, they looked forward to the great “day of retribution,” when God would strike all other Jews down. But how could they reconcile this with our verse? Apparently, they interpreted it as meaning “You shall love your neighbor-who-is-like-yourself,” that is, anyone who was a member of their community was to be loved. Everyone else deserved eternal hatred.
If that’s not the right interpretation, then what is? The traditional rabbinic interpretation holds that this verse is intended in a rather limited sense: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” So you don’t have to split the money you won 50-50, but you can’t do anything to your neighbor that you wouldn’t want done to you. This sounds a bit less lofty than actually loving your neighbor—but the rabbis had a good exegetical reason for interpreting in this sense.
The words quoted from Lev 19:18 are only are only part of the verse. The whole verse reads, “You shall not take revenge or hold a grudge against your countrymen, and you shall love your neighbor like yourself: I am the Lord.” The rabbis apparently interpreted the “you you shall love your neighbor” part of the verse in light of the preceding “You shall not take revenge” part. How so?
Taking revenge or holding a grudge sounds pretty serious, like the blood feuds that still go on in the modern Middle East, sometimes lasting for generations. But the rabbis of Mishnaic times interpreted “revenge” here in a very down-to-earth way. Suppose, they said, you ask to borrow your neighbor’s scythe, but he says, “No, it’s a very delicate instrument, I’m afraid I can’t lend it out.” Then, sometime later he asks to borrow your shovel, and you say, “You didn’t lend me your scythe, I’m not going to lend you my shovel”—that’s taking revenge. No blood feud, just a little nasty pettiness.
But if that’s revenge, then what’s “holding a grudge”? It sounds like it’s the same thing, but the rabbis said: Not quite. Suppose he refuses to lend you his scythe, and later he asks to borrow your shovel. If you say, “Sure, take it! I’m not a cheapskate like you!”—you may not be taking revenge, but you’re still guilty of holding a grudge.
In light of these two examples, what do the words that follow them, “And you shall love your neighbor like yourself,” seem to imply? There is indeed a great general principle in human relations, but it doesn’t require you to do the impossible. Instead, what is demanded is that you take the high road and not do anything to your neighbor that you wouldn’t want done to you—even if your neighbor has already done it to you.
Shabbat shalom!
