“And I pleaded”

When the Rabbis of Talmudic and medieval times interpret the narratives of the Torah, it is their practice to transform the characters into saints who did nothing wrong, or demons who did nothing right. 

For example, Esau, who gave away his birthright out of desperation and sought to make peace with his brother Jacob, kissed his brother Jacob upon their meeting. One rabbinical interpretation however states that the kiss was in fact, an attempted bite. This then falls in line with the idea that Esau is in fact Edom, and Edom is Rome, the ancestor spiritual or otherwise of the evil force that destroyed our Temple and keeps us in Exile.

On the other hand, there is an interpretation that scheming Jacob was innocent and simply taking what was rightfully his. Jacob became Israel, the ancestor to the Jewish people, the force of good in the world should it live up to its promise.

As of yet, I have not given a defense of this Rabbinic practice. Many others more learned than myself attack it as a method for making the virtues and vices of characters from the Tanakh and Talmud unrealistic, and in turn, creating unrealistic expectations for ourselves. Furthermore, as we see from the above examples, it divides the world into good and evil, the Jew and non-Jew, and appears to exempt us from critical examination of ourselves.

I want to however examine an assertion Moses gives about himself in our parshah Va’etchanan, the defence of the statement by commentator ibn Ezra, and look at the larger theology of making characters imperfect and perfect by examining what it does to our sense of agency — and in doing so, see what is valuable about this rabbinic method of interpretation.

—

Va’etchanan means “and I pleaded.” This refers to what Moses tells the people, that he pleaded to God to go to the Promised Land. He was allowed to see it, but not to enter it. The rest of the parshah is an explanation as to what happened that prevented him from entering the Promised Land, and what it was that God told the people when they came to Mt. Sinai, and a reminder that the people agreed to follow God’s Law.

Moses makes the claim that, despite his pleading, he was not allowed to enter the Promised Land because of their behavior. 
 

וַיִּתְעַבֵּ֨ר יְהֹוָ֥ה בִּי֙ לְמַ֣עַנְכֶ֔ם וְלֹ֥א שָׁמַ֖ע אֵלָ֑י וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהֹוָ֤ה אֵלַי֙ רַב־לָ֔ךְ אַל־תּ֗וֹסֶף דַּבֵּ֥ר אֵלַ֛י ע֖וֹד בַּדָּבָ֥ר הַזֶּֽה׃ 

“But God was wrathful with me on your account and would not listen to me. God said to me, “Enough! Never speak to Me of this matter again!” (3:26)

This is strange because the stated reason that Moses was not allowed to go to the Promised Land was because of his own behavior. 

“You and your brother Aaron take the rod and assemble the community, and before their very eyes order the rock to yield its water. Thus you shall produce water for them from the rock and provide drink for the congregation and their livestock.” Moses took the rod from before God, as he had been commanded. 

Moses and Aaron assembled the congregation in front of the rock; and he said to them, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?”  And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod. Out came copious water, and the community and their livestock drank. 

But God said to Moses and Aaron, “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” (Numbers 20:8-12)

Moses repeats this point in our parshah.
 

וַֽיהֹוָ֥ה הִתְאַנַּף־בִּ֖י עַל־דִּבְרֵיכֶ֑ם וַיִּשָּׁבַ֗ע לְבִלְתִּ֤י עבְרִי֙ אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֔ן וּלְבִלְתִּי־בֹא֙ אֶל־הָאָ֣רֶץ הַטּוֹבָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ נַחֲלָֽה׃

“Now God was angry with me on your account and swore that I should not cross the Jordan and enter the good land that the Eternal your God is assigning you as a heritage.” (Deut. 4:21)

It is here that Spanish medieval commentator Abraham ibn Ezra, whose interest in writing is more rationalistic and grammar focused than his colleagues, makes a quick note: 

“On your account: You were the cause of my not entering the land. I have already explained this.”

Ibn Ezra is referring to the lengthy comment he made on the verses in Numbers, at the incident of the rock.

In it, he lists the competing arguments rabbinical sources give as for what actually happened that Moses was punished for:

1. Moses called the Children of Israel “rebels.” (This violates Moses’ role to defend the Children of Israel to God.) Ibn Ezra counters by pointing out that Moses continued to call them rebels in Deuteronomy.

2. Moses was seemingly ordered by God to speak to the rock, but the word that was used could also be interpreted to mean “strike.” Why then was Moses punished? Because he hit the rock twice. (Presumably because the verb implies a one-time action.) Ibn Ezra counters by asking, why then was Aaron punished? Aaron did not strike the rock at all, and was not allowed into the Promised Land either, which is strange if striking in general is the permitted action, and Moses was punished for misapplying the strikes.

3. Moses was supposed to strike the rock, as he does in Exodus 17:6 — ‘I will be standing there before you on the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock and water will issue from it, and the people will drink.” And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel.’ However, he would speak so that the water would flow, as it is done in other parts of Tanakh. Moses explains this to the people in a way that was misleading because he was angry; he asked them sarcastically, “are we to bring you forth water from the rock?” What he meant to say was that the power of God brings the water out of the rock, not him. But people thought that God could not bring water out of the rock, which would have been the grave sin. 

However, Ibn Ezra points out that no matter what, Aaron was punished. If it was a mistake at the spur of the moment by Moses, how would Aaron have anything to do with that?

4. Moses was supposed to strike the rock because rocks cannot hear. However, as Ibn Ezra notes, why then was Moses punished?

5. Moses and Aaron were punished because they were supposed to sing songs of praise to God. Though Moses struck the rock, they were both punished because they didn’t fulfill this positive command.

6. Moses and Aaron were supposed to speak to the rock, but instead Moses struck it.

These last two points are where Ibn Ezra becomes unglued. Unlike the previous explanations, these last two imply direct disobedience from Moses against God, even though these, and especially point 6 are the most logical.

Ibn Ezra retorts, “Those who are guided by reason say that it is impossible that a messenger of God would alter God’s word. If Moses transformed God’s word, how can we believe his Torah?” 

In other words, it’s unimaginable that Moses would do something “bemayzid,” or purposeful with the intention to sin, because that would call the whole Torah’s truth into question. It has to be that Moses did it “beshogeg,” or unknowing, unintentional sin, which happened because Moses was angered by Israel, and was therefore in a state of distraction, not intention. Moses knowingly sinning would mean that Moses was capable or willing to do egregious, purposeful sin and not obey God’s command, which could mean that he may be willing to make up parts of God’s command.

Ibn Ezra continues: “If Moses had altered a commandment he would have been punished immediately. Moses was punished with regard to something which was not an eternal commandment and not a law given to Israel. Nor did he knowingly violate God’s command. He only did so inadvertently because Israel angered him. Moses clearly said, Also God was angry with me for your sakes (Deut. 1:37).”

This brings us back to Deuteronomy, though not necessarily our parshah. Ibn Ezra reconciles the passage in Numbers with what we have read in Deuteronomy by saying that when Moses puts the blame on Israel, it does not mean that he did not err, but rather that the root of the error was not him. 

Admittedly, this does not accord with our thoughts about responsibility; we think, it doesn’t matter if the children are crying, you can’t get distracted or react poorly. Why then does Moses have the right to blame Israel and relieve the blame from himself?

If Ibn Ezra is right, the purpose of Moses’ self-defence is not mere sour grapes, but rather an important clarification of his state of mind in Numbers. While what happened in Numbers may lead you to believe that Moses and Aaron made a deliberate decision, Deuteronomy stops this idea in its tracks and points out that if it truly could be classified as deliberate, Moses would have died right then and there.

Moreover, Moses is entreating the people of Israel to do what ibn Ezra and the many other rabbinic commentators are trying their very best to do: take responsibility. (Ibn Ezra does not disagree with their attempts, but rather their logical effectiveness.)

Why is it so important that Moses loses responsibility and the Children of Israel take it on, for Moses’ own failure? 

As Ibn Ezra says, the level of Moses’ sinfulness has the ability to call the whole Torah into question. But aside from that, if Moses is not seen as essentially perfect, then generations after will think that what goes wrong is not truly their problem.

Normally, when a people is destroyed, they don’t blame themselves — they blame fate, their gods, their destinies. The rabbinic ideology is to bring agency to the people, because their conduct is the only determinant of their survival, given that it is entirely up to God to decide their fate, a God who cares that His people follow His Law. If the people were not given this agency, they might determine that it is not important to stay a people, like many other peoples decided, since there is no chance that they can control their fate.

—

Here it is important to say that non-Jews, especially the ones who seek to destroy Jewish people, have no will of their own in rabbinic thought. They are, in the rabbinic ideology, descendants of people who are permanently enemies of Israel, who will destroy Israel at any chance, at any opportunity. Therefore, blaming the enemy is as helpful as blaming a rabid dog. 

It is also important to say in rabbinic thought that the Israelite ancestors were blameless. If they could be blamed, then the Children of Israel would believe that if something went wrong, it is because our ancestors lacked the merit they claimed. After all, in the Amidah prayer, we call upon the merit of the ancestors to claim any connection to God’s saving power. If that is defective, we have no reason to think that we did anything wrong.

Collapsing the world so that only the Children of Israel have agency, and everyone else does not, may not appear to reflect reality, but it is the only reality in which we are in control of our own destinies. As a human being, blaming everyone but yourself for things that go wrong may feel gratifying and be actually grounded in truth, but in doing so we immerse ourselves into a reality where we become nothing, useless, impotent and meaningless, surrendering to the ultimate of falsehoods.

Here we learn the difference between “actual” truth and “spiritual” truth, as I see it. 

Actual truth says that the world is complex, filled with doubt, causes and consequences that are hard to predict and hard to analyze, a source of despair. Actual truth is God’s domain, and rightfully so. Upon hearing of a death (God forbid) or other bad news, we are to say “Blessed is the Judge of Truth,” for in Truth, we all fail, and the world was never to be created, and when God reflects on this, we face the ultimate punishment.

Spiritual truth says that we are the center of our universe, not because we deserve everything or nothing by our inherent existence, but because we cannot relinquish the free will that was given to us nor the magnitude of its meaning.

It is for this reason that it is a common rabbinic teaching to keep in mind that we are both the reason for God’s Universe and totally irrelevant in God’s Universe, all at the same time. Hence the famous teaching of the Hasidic rabbi Simcha Bunem of Peshiskha as quoted by Martin Buber: “Everyone must have two pockets to reach into, according to their needs. In their left, a slip of paper reads: For my sake was the world created. In their right, a slip of paper reads: I am but dust and ashes.”

One is reflective of the God of Compassion who created this world and us, so that we may live to create, and deserve mercy even when we falter, and the other of the God of Truth, who created this universe out of God’s own will and no other purpose, which can and should be destroyed because of its inhabitants. God moves between these two selves, these two thrones, during the High Holidays, deciding what is more real in relationship to us based on how deeply we identify with one or the other.


—

Moses Cordovero, the medieval Kabbalist, wrote a book on ethics called “Tomer Devorah.” In it, he makes the claim that when Torah says that we are created in the image of God in Genesis, this does not mean that we have the right to be treated favorably. 

Instead, it means we must not disgrace the fact that we are made in the image of God, that we must live up to God’s standards.

“As behold, the essence of the Highest Image and Likeness is His actions. And what will it benefit him to have the structure of his limbs like the Highest Form, but not resemble his Creator in his actions? Therefore it is fitting that he should [make his actions] resemble the actions of the Crown (Keter), which are the thirteen highest traits of mercy.”

Cordovero then explains what extraordinary lengths we must take to become merciful and compassionate, and therefore be worthy of the body and face that is also God’s, structuring his teaching after the 13 attributes — those attributes we call upon during the High Holidays and during the weekday Torah service: 

“The Lord! The Lord! God, Compassionate and Gracious, Slow to anger and Abundant in Kindness and Truth, Preserver of kindness for thousands of generations, Forgiver of iniquity, willful sin, and error, and Who Cleanses” (Exodus 34:6-7). Famously, this does not include the parts of the verses where God does not forgive — we simply call upon and seek to model ourselves after the God who does. 

—

How is it that the rabbis have such authority to edit the Torah so that it reflects the spiritual truth that we are seeking and avoid the “actual” truth? There are many sources the rabbis quote, but one that has always struck my imagination is the way the rabbis parse the contradiction found in our parshah between how the Ten Commandments appear here versus how they appear in Exodus.
 

שָׁמ֛֣וֹר אֶת־י֥וֹם֩ הַשַּׁבָּ֖֨ת לְקַדְּשׁ֑֜וֹ כַּאֲשֶׁ֥ר צִוְּךָ֖֣ ׀ יְהֹוָ֥֣ה אֱלֹהֶֽ֗יךָ׃ 

Observe (Keep) the sabbath day and keep it holy, as God your God has commanded you.

In Exodus we read:

זָכ֛וֹר֩ אֶת־י֥֨וֹם הַשַּׁבָּ֖֜ת לְקַדְּשֽׁ֗וֹ׃ 

Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy.

While the Ten Commandments otherwise remain the same, the question arises, why the contradiction in this incredibly important and holy command?

Here, the rabbis do not do what ibn Ezra says, and claim that one is a commentary on the nature of the other. Instead, the common explanation is sourced from the Midrashic book called the Mekhilta d’Rebe Ishmael, which explains that both commandments here that are contradictory, like many other commandments that are contradictory to each other, were commanded by God at the same time, citing a verse from Psalm 62:
 

אַחַ֤ת ׀ דִּבֶּ֬ר אֱלֹהִ֗ים שְׁתַּֽיִם־ז֥וּ שָׁמָ֑עְתִּי 

One thing God has spoken; two things have I heard.

This is to say that God spoke both statements at the same time through Divine means, and that while they may be different and even contradictory to each other, they come from the same source — who meant both of them at the same time.

The rabbis therefore reject that these are two separate statements, and claim that they are one. In a sense, keeping Shabbat is commandment that in my paradigm, comes from the world of “actual” Truth, that it is a state of nature that must be respected, for if it is not, it will destroy you — hence the frequent mention of the death penalty as a consequence for violating Shabbat. It is merciless and does not consider you, so you should be on guard and “keep” it.

Remembering Shabbat on the other hand is an act that we do at Kiddush on Friday night, reciting the order of Creation that led to our Creation and our Shabbat. In an era before ours, the entirety of Creation would be recited — now it is just the passage containing the Creation of Shabbat. But nonetheless, connecting to this time is connected to God’s relationship to us, and it is reflected in the Halakhah, Jewish Law, which tells us that “remembering” is related to all the positive commandments that tell us to delight in Shabbat. It is about us.

Preserving this duality, but separating it nonetheless, is the rabbinic mission, and in doing so, it reminds us to take charge of our own destiny, and become like the God who Created us and keeps us in Mercy, by being merciful to others — and never lapsing into despair about the apparent permanent imperfection of our ancestors, dominance of our enemies or our own helplessness.

—

I am reminded of the infamous Midrash concerning Elazar ben Durdurya in Tractate Avodah Zarah. Elazar consorts with prostitutes around the world, going at lengths to be with every one of them. One day he meets one who farts, and she makes the sardonic comment that just as the fart passes into the wind becoming nothing, so too would Elazar’s chances of being accepted in repentance, in Teshuvah, come to nothing.

Elazar is haunted by this idea. He pleads for the sun, moon, stars and mountains to defend him before God. But they all tell him they are inadequate to the cause, because they are temporal and God is Eternal. Only Elazar and his eternal soul is capable of repenting. It is only, ultimately, he who can do right by himself and by God.

I think of the excuses people can make to not do Teshuvah, to not examine ourselves: that our ancestors are also imperfect, that we should blame our fates on our enemies and not ourselves, that we are too imperfect to try and elevate ourselves. I imagine the rabbis watching us plead to the sun, moon and stars to protect us; I imagine Moses our Teacher, incensed as we abandon our self-control. They turn to us and say, your ancestors are perfect, your enemies are entirely in the hands of God, and you are made in the Image of God. 

Please, no excuses.