Kol ha'Seridim: July 2022

Friday, July 29, 2022

Masei: How to Read the Travels of Bnei Yisrael

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Ellis and Janice Cohen in memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt"l.

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I can't vouch for the accuracy of this map, but it's from Bible-History.com which is linked from AlHaTorah's Olam ha'Mikra

Masei: How to Read the Travels of Bnei Yisrael

Parashas Masei opens with a comprehensive list of the destinations where Bnei Yisrael encamped during their 40-year sojourn in the Wilderness. The commentators are bothered by these seemingly superfluous pesukim. Was it really necessary to “waste” 49 pesukim by listing all 42 destinations? Aren’t the earlier narratives in the Chumash sufficient?

The Rambam (Guide 3:50) takes up this question. He prefaces his comments with an observation about knowledge:

You should also understand that the status of things that are set down in writing is not the same as the status of happenings that one sees. For in happenings that one sees, there are particulars that bring about necessary consequences of great importance, which cannot be mentioned except in a prolix manner. Accordingly, when narrations concerning these happenings are considered, the individual who reflects thinks that such narrations are too long or repetitious. If, however, he had seen what is narrated, he would know the necessity of what is recounted. Hence when you see narrations in the Torah that are not in the framework of commandments and think it was not necessary to set down such and such a narration or that it is too long or repetitious, the reason for this is that you have not seen the particulars that necessitated that the story be told in the manner it is.

The Rambam then notes an inherent difficulty in passing down a miraculous historical narrative from generation to generation, and then utilizes these two points to answer our question:

The need for [writing down these 42 encampments] was very great, for all miracles are certain in the opinion of one who has seen them; however, at a future time their narrative becomes a mere traditional story, and there is a possibility for the hearer to consider it untrue. It is well known that it is impossible and inconceivable that a miracle lasts permanently throughout the succession of generations so that all men can see it. One of the miracles of the Torah, and one of the greatest among them, is the sojourn of Israel for forty years in the desert and the finding of the mahn there every day. For that desert was, as is stated in Scripture, a place … very remote from cultivated land and unnatural for man … God, may He be exalted, knew that in the future what happens to traditional narratives would happen to those miracles: people would think that [the Children of Israel] sojourned in a desert that was near to cultivated land and in which man can live, like the deserts inhabited at present by the Arabs, or that it consisted of places in which it was possible to till and to reap or to feed on plants that were to be found there, or that it was natural for the mahn always to come down in those places, or that there were wells of water in those places. Therefore, all these fancies are rebutted and the traditional relation of all these miracles is confirmed through the enumeration of those stations, so that people in the future would see them and thus know how great was the miracle constituted by the sojourn of the human species in those places for forty years.

The reason for the specification of the 42 encampments is now clear. Had the Torah omitted the names of these locations, and only provided a general description or a partial list, the aforementioned false narratives would have had ample room to flourish. By specifying the names of every single destination for the duration of the 40 years, the Torah is, in effect, challenging the purveyor of these alternative narratives by saying: “Oh, you think they camped at a place where they could raise crops, or near an oasis, or where mahn naturally forms? By all means, take a trip out to those locations and see for yourself whether an entire nation could survive there for more than few days!”

An important ramification emerges from the Rambam’s answer. We might have asked our question expecting a purely intellectual exegetical answer: “The Torah names the encampments because of XYZ.” But according to the Rambam, Hashem named these locations “so that people in the future would see them” and know the greatness of the miracle. In other words, Eleh Masei is a call to action. Ideally, we should go and see these places for ourselves in order to attain firsthand knowledge – if not of the miracle itself, then at least of the conditions which warranted such a miracle. If that is not possible, then we should know that these places can be seen, which will strengthen our conviction in the miracle. And we in the Information Age should use all the tools at our disposal (Google Earth, YouTube, MapFight) to learn about these locations and make them as real as possible to our minds. If we simply breeze through the list, we’ve missed the point.

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Thursday, July 28, 2022

Why Talk About Other Religions?

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Ellis and Janice Cohen in memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt"l.

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Artwork: Shatter Assumptions, by Chuck Lukacs

Why Talk About Other Religions?

Last week I wrote an article which concluded with the following paragraph:

One of the many aspects of Judaism I appreciate is the ability to conduct “halachic archaeology.” In other religions and cultures, asking, “Why do we do XYZ?” will often be met with a shrug – or worse, with the non-answer of “TRADITION!” In Judaism, there are always answers, and it is always possible to conduct research to find them.

A friend of mine posed the following questions, in a series of sequential Facebook comments (abbreviated here):

Why do you think this is a difference between Judaism and other religions and cultures, rather than a difference between thoughtful people and the masses in many religions and cultures? … At least speaking for myself, I am more confident in my knowledge of the good of Torah, than in the things other cultures/religions are missing. How do you know that they lack that value (at least as an ideal)? Even if other cultures had a similar value, how likely would you have heard of it? Flipping the question, how likely would an outsider be to know Torah is chachma (wisdom) based? …

More importantly, what is the need to look outside and make the comparison? What is lacking if we “merely” had gratitude for being part of a system which values this, without raising the question if others have the value too? … I guess this is a special case of a broader question. Why do we sometimes focus on the contrast (“shelo asani Goy” “for not making me a gentile,” “asher bachar banu mikol ha’amim” “Who chose us from among all the nations” etc.). What do we mean by it and what does it add? What would be lacking if we only reflected on the good that we have (“she’asani Yisrael” “Who made me a Jew”), without worrying about how it stacks up with other peoples’ good?

Strictly speaking, my friend is probably correct. Other religions and cultures may indeed have a contingent which can answer the types of questions I raised. Perhaps other religions and cultures do share this same value of chochmah that we have in Judaism. Perhaps there is no need to look outside of ourselves. Perhaps we should focus exclusively on our own good – yet, I am nevertheless compelled by my pedagogic experience and intuition to make such statements anyway.

When I was a high school teacher, I taught many students who were in conflict about their Judaism and/or their conviction in God. I was not at all bothered by such students. In fact, I often found that they were more intellectually honest in their quest for truth than many of their peers. But you know what really irked me? When they expressed their doubts and questions by saying things like, “I’m not so into religion” or “I have questions about religion” or “I don’t think I can accept religion.” This bothered me. A lot. I would ask them, “Is your question about ‘religion’ in general or is it about your religion of Judaism?” Sure enough, their question was always about Judaism in specific. Upon establishing this, I’d ask, “So why are you expressing your questions and doubts as if they are about ‘religion’ in general?” This was a rhetorical question. I knew the answer: in their minds, Judaism was basically no different than any other religion. And since they were raised in a secular and anti-religious culture, many of their objections to Judaism were raised in the framework of generic “religion.”

Because I taught so many kids like this, I got into the habit of emphasizing that Judaism is not an ordinary religion. Was this rhetoric on my part? Yes. But I felt that this rhetoric was necessary in our day and age. I did not want a single one of my students to waltz through their four years of high school making the mistake of lumping Judaism into the same category as other religions. I wanted to ensure that any time they felt an anti-religious impulse, they would ask themselves, “Is this a problem I have with religion or with Judaism? Does Judaism actually hold like this, or am I making assumptions?”

To answer my friend’s question: yes, I can only speak with any degree of authority about Judaism. Perhaps I would be better off only talking and writing about what I know, without making assumptions about other religions and cultures. And yet, even though I am currently not a high school teacher, I feel compelled to continue doing my part in this ongoing culture war by differentiating Judaism from other religions. If such distinctions prove to be inaccurate but lead readers to question their assumptions and delve deeper into Judaism, then I have done my job. And I have Hillel as my precedent.

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Wednesday, July 27, 2022

Sefer Mishlei’s Jargon-Filled Introduction (Mishlei 1:1-6)

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Ellis and Janice Cohen in memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt"l.

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Artwork: Secret Rendezvous, by Manuel Castañón

Sefer Mishlei’s Jargon-Filled Introduction (Mishlei 1:1-6)

The introduction of Sefer Mishlei (the Book of Proverbs) poses a unique difficulty for the beginner. To experience it yourself, read this:

The mashalim (proverbs, examples, allegories) of Shlomo, son of Dovid, king of Israel: la’daas (to know) chochmah (wisdom) and mussar (discipline), le’havin (to understand) statements of binah (understanding); lakachas (to take) mussar haskel (intelligent discipline), tzedek (righteousness), and mishpat (justice), and meisharim (uprightness); to give ormah (cunning) to pesaim (simpletons), to a naar (youth) daas (knowledge) and mezimah (scheming); a chacham (wise man) will hear and increase lekach (learning), and a navon (man of understanding) will acquire tachbulos (strategies); le’havin (to understand) mashal (parable) and melitzah (allegory), the words of the chachamim (wise) and their chidos (riddles).

The difficulty is that these pesukim are chock-full of Mishleic jargon! How is the beginner supposed to know what these terms mean? It is tempting to answer: “by making recourse to the commentators, who explain what each term means,” but that answer is problematic for several reasons. It is a stretch to assume that Shlomo ha’Melech intended for his words to only be understandable with the aid of commentaries, especially considering his explicit statement that this book is intended not only for a chacham (wise man) and a navon (man of understanding), but also for a pesi (simpleton) and a naar (youth). Furthermore, if you read through the commentaries, you’ll quickly see that there is no consensus on what these terms mean. Each commentator has his own set of definitions. How is the beginner to know on whom to rely? This also raises the question: How did the commentators, themselves, arrive at their own definitions? Presumably, by learning through the rest of the book to see how Shlomo uses these terms. But if these commentators were only able to decipher his terminology by learning through the entire book, then we’re back at square one: What does Shlomo expect the reader to do with this opening paragraph? Skip it, read the rest of the book, and then start from the beginning again? Unlikely.

Therefore, I would like to suggest that Shlomo’s intent was not for the novice to fully understand or precisely define these terms at this early stage of learning, but merely to identify them as desirable objectives and to be motivated on that basis to learn Mishlei as a means of achieving these objectives – despite not knowing exactly what they mean. For example, the average reader will not be able to define chochmah, but they’ll likely have an intuitive notion of what chochmah is and will know that it is a valuable asset. Tzedek and mishpat can be quite difficult to define – as Socrates demonstrated – yet, everyone knows that they are virtues. The beginner may not know exactly what type of tachbulos (strategies) are being promised, but he knows that having strategies is better than not having them, and if even a navon can learn strategies from this book, then it must be worth learning!

There is no other book of Tanach which explicitly states its goals from the get-go. Shlomo begins this way in order to convey to his readers that unlike the other books of Tanach, which contain a mix of theoretical and practical knowledge, Sefer Mishlei is primarily a practical book, and these are its practical objectives. As his readers make their way through the book, these explicitly stated objectives at the beginning will serve as beacons or goalposts which guide their learning, prompting them to search for chochmah, mussar, tzedek, ormah, etc. in every pasuk. Although they’ll begin with the most rudimentary grasp of these terms, their definitions will become clearer and clearer the more Mishlei they learn. Eventually, they’ll be able to develop working definitions of the terminology (as can be seen, for example, in my 2017 article The Mishleic Spectrum: A Glossary of Mishlei Personalities, which needs to be updated). Ultimately, they’ll formulate their own opinions, just as the commentators did.

And if this challenge proves too difficult, they may enlist the help of their teachers – whether living teachers or commentaries – and rely on their definitions as “training wheels” until they begin to form their own views.

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Tuesday, July 26, 2022

Ralbag on the Speculative Nature of Taamei ha'Mitzvos

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Ellis and Janice Cohen in memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt"l.

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Ralbag on the Speculative Nature of Taamei ha'Mitzvos

Throughout his Torah commentary, Ralbag provides numerous taamei ha’mitzvos (reasons for the commandments), endeavoring to show how each mitzvah perfects our middos (character traits) and deios (knowledge of the universe). Many of these explanations are “Aristotelian” in character. Ralbag takes no measures to conceal this. He often quotes Aristotle directly or refers the reader to his works.

What are we to make of these Aristotelian taamei ha’mitzvos explanations? Does Ralbag really believe that Hashem had these Aristotelian ideas “in mind” when He “designed” these mitzvos? How certain is Ralbag that his taamei ha’mitzvos theories are true? Thankfully, Ralbag addresses these questions in his introduction:

You should not overlook the fact that when giving causes (i.e. reasons, or as Aristotle would call them, “final causes”) in Torah matters such as these, it is impossible to provide causes which necessitate the existence of these mitzvos in an absolute manner, as it is in the deductive branches of wisdom. It is also impossible to provide the same types of causes as those given in the study of the natural world. This is not at all possible, since the nature of the subject matter of Torah does not lend itself to this degree of certainty, as Aristotle explained in the Sefer ha’Middos.

Ralbag is referring to the following passage in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics 1:3:

We must also remember what has been said before, and not look for precision in all things alike, but in each class of things such precision as accords with the subject matter, and so much as is appropriate to the inquiry. For a carpenter and a geometer investigate the right angle in different ways; the former does so insofar as the right angle is useful for his work, while the latter inquires what it is or what sort of thing it is; for he is a spectator of the truth.

In other words, it would be a methodological mistake to look for the same degree of certitude in the study of history as in math, the same level of precision in literary analysis as in physics, or the same degree of necessary conclusions in moral philosophy as in symbolic logic. Every intellectual discipline has its own methods and standards, and it would be wrong to expect one subject matter to comply with the conventions of another. Ralbag then goes on to explain why he felt compelled to include this point in his introduction:

We mentioned this so that the reader does not devalue the reasons we provided for the mitzvos of the Torah in our commentary for failing to meet the standards of other disciplines; the subject matter of those subjects lends itself to a greater degree of verification than these Torah matters and other things like them.

Ralbag was concerned that someone might read his speculative taamei ha’mitzvos and think to themselves, “How can he claim that this is the reason for this mitzvah? How does he know? Can he prove it? Can he explain why this middos/deios objective necessarily warrants this particular mitzvah-structure with these particular halachos?” Such questions stem from the methodological error of demanding that the study of taamei ha’mitzvos conform to the standards of other branches of knowledge. Such an error would be disastrous if it led the reader to make light of the taamei ha’mitzvos theories that Ralbag provides – or worse, to disregard the study of taamei ha’mitzvos altogether.

At the end of the day, how might Ralbag respond to the charge (leveled by some) that he has projected Aristotelian ideas onto Torah? I’d like to think he’d say something like this: “First, the study of taamei ha’mitzvos is not an exact science. Second, I do not regard Aristotle to be infallible. I have recorded what, to my mind, are the most compelling explanations for the taamei ha’mitzvos. Since I hold that Aristotle was right about a great many things, I have chosen to express my ideas by drawing upon his writings.”

What would Ralbag say about alternative explanations? I suspect he would say what he, in fact, writes in his introduction to Sefer Mishlei: “And if you will find another suitable way to explain a pasuk [which differs from our explanation], this does not constitute an argument against us, for we do not proclaim that the pasuk cannot tolerate any other explanation.”

For all his radical views, Ralbag was an intellectually humble thinker.

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Monday, July 25, 2022

Abandonment by Hashem as a Catalyst for Teshuvah

The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Ellis and Janice Cohen in memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt"l.

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Artwork: Forsaken Monument, by Piotr Dura
Abandonment by Hashem as a Catalyst for Teshuvah

The Torah states: “When you are in distress and all these things have befallen you, at the end of days, you will return to Hashem, your God, and hearken to His voice” (Devarim 4:30). Last summer I wrote a 1-page article entitled The Necessity of Metaphysical Trauma for National Teshuvah. I offered a theory which explained why this type of radical national teshuvah-transformation can only come about after a radical national catastrophe. However, I did not explain why or how such a tragedy would actually prompt us to engage in teshuvah instead of continuing to cling to our waywardness.

I used to think that a calamity of this scale would cause us to return to Hashem because it would force us to finally acknowledge His role in the tzarah (catastrophe), as the Rambam writes about in Hilchos Taaniyos 1:1-3:

This principle is one of the darchei teshuvah (ways of repentance), that at the onset of a tzarah, when the [people] cry out about it and sound the trumpets, everyone will know that it was because of their evil conduct that they were harmed … But if they do not cry out and do not sound the trumpets, but instead say, “This is a natural event which befell us” and “this tzarah is a chance occurrence” – behold, this is a derech achzarius (way of cruelty, or indifference) and will cause them to cling to their evil conduct, and [this] tzarah and others will increase.

I have a new theory, inspired by my recent rereading of The Lincoln Highway (2021), by Amor Towles. One of my many favorite scenes (no spoilers!) is when Ulysses explains to Billy what happens to a person when they are in truly dire straits:

If I learned anything in the war, it’s that the point of utter abandonment – that moment at which you realize no one will be coming to your aid, not even your Maker – is the very moment in which you may discover the strength required to carry on. The Good Lord does not call you to your feet with hymns from the cherubim and Gabriel blowing his horn. He calls you to your feet by making you feel alone and forgotten. For only when you have seen that you are truly forsaken will you embrace the fact that what happens next rests in your hands, and your hands alone. (p.330)

My new theory is as follows: it is not our recognition of Hashem’s role in the tzarah which will be the catalyst for our teshuvah. Rather, it is the feeling of utter abandonment by Hashem which will cause us to recognize our role in the tzarah. So long as we stubbornly refuse to acknowledge our own agency, whether by blaming the nations and circumstances around us or by childishly waiting for Hashem to intervene without any change on our part, we will not engage in teshuvah. Only when we accept that our fate is in our own hands will we save ourselves by doing teshuvah and returning to Hashem.

Here's another way of stating this insight. Chazal teach: “Everything is in the hands of heaven except for fear of heaven” (Berachos 33b). Rambam explains that “fear of heaven” in this context is a reference to free will (Shemoneh Perakim Ch8). I used to think that the teshuvah in Devarim 4:30 would be brought about by a recognition of the truth in the first half of Chazal’s statement: that everything – that is, all the calamities that befall the Jewish people – is in the hands of heaven. I am now suggesting that the teshuvah will be prompted by a realization of the truth in the second half of Chazal’s statement: that we, and we alone, are to blame for our suffering. Hashem will not do teshuvah for us.

Like most insights into teshuvah, this one was already been stated explicitly by the Rambam (Hilchos Teshuvah 5:2)

Yirmiyahu says: "The evils and the good do not come from the mouth of the Most High" (Eichah 3:38) - in other words, the Creator does not decree upon man to be good or evil. Since this is the case, the sinner is the one who harmed himself. Therefore, it is proper to bewail and lament the harm he caused to his own soul. This is what is written afterwards: "About what may a living man complain? A man about his own sins" (ibid. 3:39). [Yirmiyahu] then goes back and says: since we have control over our actions, and our own minds caused us to do all evils, it is proper for us to do teshuvah and to abandon our wickedness, for the agency is in our hands now. This is what is written afterwards: "Let us examine our ways and investigate and return to Hashem" (ibid. 3:40).

The Good Lord calls us to our feet by making us feel alone and forgotten so that we return to Him.

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Friday, July 22, 2022

Haftaras Parashas Pinchas: Goyishe Jews

The Torah content for these two weeks has been sponsored by Judah and Naomi Dardik in loving memory of Rabbi Moskowitz zt''l, who taught his students to pursue truth by asking questions, who modeled love of Torah and learning, and who exemplified living a life of the mind.

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Haftaras Parashas Pinchas: Goyishe Jews

Preface: I wasn't in the mood to write a dvar Torah article for this Friday. I almost didn't write anything at all, but I told myself, "I'll just start writing and see if I end up with anything good." Well, I ended up with something, but it ain't a dvar Torah! I don't even know if there are any "ideas" per se, other than some insight into prophetic rhetoric. Also, this was definitely influenced by a discussion I had with my students over the course of this week about Jewish racism. Anyway, think of this as more of an editorial or a rant inspired by the haftarah than an actual dvar Torah.

I didn’t encounter Jewish racism against non-Jews until I moved to the East Coast. That was the first time I heard derogatory statements made about “goyim” (to be pronounced not as “goh-YEEM,” but “GUH-yim,” as if one is spitting out a word with a bitter taste). Sometimes this racism is expressed as generic xenophobia. Other times it takes the form of specific racial stereotyping. Sometimes it’s muttered in undertones. Other times it’s expressed unabashedly, or even proudly. I am often tempted to respond to these comments by saying, “Hey, buddy, my grandma is a goy!” or “You do know that I used to be a goy, right?” On one occasion I might or might not have responded with an antisemitic slur against the offender.

As disgusting as I find this anti-gentile bigotry to be, I do think there’s a place for it: when rebuking Jews.

The haftarah for Parashas Pinchas is the opening chapter of Sefer Yirmiyahu, whose prophetic career begins with the following call-to-action from Hashem: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you left the womb, I sanctified you. I have appointed you as a navi la’goyim (prophet for the nations)” (1:5). The problem is that Yirmiyahu did not act as a prophet for the goyim, but only for Israel.

The simplest answer is to read “la’goyim” not as “for the nations” but as “regarding the nations.” Shadal (among others) explains: “navi la'goyim [means] for Israel and the nations – not that he will go and speak to the nations, but rather, in speaking to Israel, he will mention what will befall some of the nations.”

Rashi, however, takes a different approach:

navi la'goyim [means] to the Jews, who act like goyim. This is expounded in Sifrei: "‘A prophet from your midst ... I will raise up for you" (Devarim 18:15) – not for those who deny Torah. How, then, do I understand 'I will designate you as a prophet for the goyim'? This refers to the Jews who act like goyim.”

Yirmiyahu wasn’t the only navi to rebuke his brethren for acting like non-Jews. In one of the first prophecies about Churban Bayis Rishon, Yeshayahu says, “Hear the word of Hashem, O chiefs of Sedom; give ear to the Torah of our God, O people of Amorah” (Yeshayahu 1:10), comparing the Jewish residents of Jerusalem to the non-Jewish citizens of the two most notoriously evil cities on record. He then goes on to relay Hashem’s rejection of their divine service on account of their grievous interpersonal injustices:

[Hashem says:] I hate your Roshei Chodashim and your Moadim with My Being; they have become a bother to Me; I am weary of bearing [them]. When you spread your hands [in prayer], I will hide My eyes from you; even when you increase prayer, I will not listen; your hands are filled with blood. Wash yourselves, purify yourselves, remove the evil of your deeds from before My eyes; cease doing evil. Learn to do good, seek justice, vindicate the victim, render justice to the orphan; take up the grievance of the widow. (1:14-17)

Imagine if someone tried to pull a Yeshayahu move like this in a modern setting: a shul rav gets up in front of his frum congregation to give his Shabbos dvar Torah and says: “You’re all a bunch of GUHyim. Hashem hates your Shabbosos. Your Yomim Tovim disgust Him. Why do you even bother davening? He won’t listen to you. You’re like Hamas. You’re worse than Putin’s henchmen. You’re no better than the Nazis.”

“But wouldn’t this approach to rebuke perpetuate the same anti-gentile prejudices you condemn?” Yes, unfortunately, it would. But it’s a step in the right direction. If every instance of anti-goyim bigotry were met with an equal but opposite rebuke for “goyishe behavior” on the part of the offender, maybe they would think twice before speaking. Of course, I don’t really believe this would work. But it’s a nice fantasy.

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Thursday, July 21, 2022

My Rejected Kiruv Article on the Purpose of Life

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Artwork: Lifelink , by Terese Nielsen

My Rejected Kiruv Article on the Purpose of Life

Foreword

I was planning on just posting the article I wrote and leaving it at that. But the more I thought about it, the more I deemed it important to provide the background information about why and for whom I wrote this article, to tell you how it was received, and to share my thoughts on its rejection. I think it’s especially important to provide this context because I’d really like to hear your feedback on the article.

Here's the backstory. A few months ago, I was contacted by two editors from a kiruv (Jewish outreach) organization. After introducing themselves, they told me about their new project:

We are looking for credentialed philosophers to write one or two articles from the following seven themes (or another if you prefer):

Is there a God? Where did the Universe come from? What is the meaning of life? What happens to us after we die? What is consciousness? Is there free will? and What are good and evil?

They specified the following criteria, in this language:

Length: 800-1200 words
Audience: Mostly millennials but accessible to all who have never studied philosophy
Style: Deals directly with the issue in a universal way (no proofs from any scripture), must use examples from contemporary culture
Tone: Serious, but fun and a bit sassy (70/20/10)

Despite my personal stance on kiruv and my not being a “credentialed philosopher,” I told them with genuine excitement that this project sounds right up my alley, and that I’d be delighted to write an article or two in July.

I chose “What is the meaning of life?” as the subject for my first article because it's a topic I’ve addressed on many occasions throughout my high school teaching career, but I hadn’t yet written it up in any form. I welcomed the somewhat restrictive assignment specifications because it would be way too easy to let an article like this to get out of hand if I had the freedom to write it as I saw fit.

Below is the final draft of the article. The only difference between this and the version I submitted is the presence of a single paragraph in brackets towards the end – a paragraph which they liked but felt would be better saved for the sequel. I chose to include that paragraph here because, as you might have inferred from the title of this blog post, a sequel will not likely be forthcoming.

After you read the article, I’ll tell you how it was received. I'll share my own thoughts on the feedback I received and then I'll ask you for your feedback.

The Purpose of Life (According to Maimonides)

Introduction

All religions are expected to answer the question: “What is the purpose of life?” It should come as no surprise that this question is taken up by Maimonides (a.k.a. Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, or Rambam, 1138-1204 C.E.), in his Guide for the Perplexed. [1]

For those who have only heard the “traditional” Jewish answers to this question, Maimonides’s answer might come as a shock. Best to sit down and buckle up!

The Purpose of the Universe

Maimonides’s treatment of this topic takes place in the context of an even larger question: What is the purpose of the universe as a whole?

He begins by challenging the notion that the universe was created for the sake of human beings. He argues that the universe is far too vast to be necessary for the human species, which is like a mere drop in the sea. (See the recent images taken by the Webb telescope released by NASA in July 2022.) And if a person claimed that all the planets, stars, and galaxies in the universe aren’t necessary for humans but nonetheless benefit us, the burden of proof would be on that person to explain how. (If Maimonides were playing chess, this is the first place he’d say, “Check.”)

Next, he refutes the common religious answer to our initial question, namely, that the purpose of man is to serve God. He writes: “Even if the universe existed for man's sake and man existed for the purpose of serving God, as has been mentioned, the question remains: What is the purpose of serving God? God does not become more perfect if all His creatures serve Him and comprehend Him as far as possible, nor would He lose anything if nothing existed beside Him.” In other words, God is perfect and has no needs; therefore, the purpose of the universe and of man cannot possibly be for His sake. (“Check again.”)

At this point, it would seem there is only one move left for the religious individual to make: the universe exists for us, we exist to serve God, and our service of God is not for His sake, but for our sake. Maimonides serves this view up, then smacks it down: “It might perhaps be replied that the service of God is not intended for God's perfection, but for our own perfection; it is good for us and perfects us. But then the question might be repeated: What is the purpose of our perfection?” (“Check yet again.”)

And this is where he drops the M-bomb (short for “Maimonides bomb”). Ready for it? According to Maimonides, life has no purpose. (“Checkmate.” Mic drop.)

The Purpose of Life (or Lack Thereof)

Many of us were taught that each person was given a special mission to accomplish which is their purpose in life, but Maimonides doesn’t buy that. Nor does he buy the other common answers, such as “God created the universe because He wanted to bestow His kindness” or “God created us in order to reward our service,” both of which run into the problems mentioned above.

But before you tip over your king and careen into the nihilistic void, allow me to unpack Maimonides’s nuanced position.

Think about how we relate to the question, “What is the purpose of X?” We ask this question when the utility of an entity is not readily apparent. Consider the following scenario. You see me holding an unfamiliar gadget. You ask me, “What is that for?” and I answer: “Oh, this? This thing has no purpose.” You might reply, “Then what’s the point? What good is it?” In other words, you assume that if it has no purpose, then it is not good.

But that conclusion isn’t necessarily warranted. In truth, there are two possibilities for why (or how) something “has no purpose.” One possibility is that the entity is, indeed, useless. Its existence lacks justification. It is a means to no end whatsoever. The other possibility is that its existence is an end in and of itself. It doesn’t need any purpose outside of itself to justify its own existence because its existence is intrinsically good.

That is the sense in which Maimonides would say that life has no purpose: because existence is good, in and of itself.

The Basis in Torah

This view is borne out in the opening chapter of Genesis. The phrase “and God saw that it was good” appears six times in the account of creation. If the Torah had withheld this declaration of goodness until after the creation of man, one might be justified in concluding that man is the purpose of the universe. But that's not what the Torah says. God creates light and deems it "good." He separates the seas and dry land and deems this "good." He creates vegetation and trees and deems them "good." And the luminaries, and the fish, and the birds, and so on.

Maimonides understands this to mean that each and every component of the universe is good simply by virtue of its existence. And when the account of creation ends with “God saw everything that He had made and behold! it was exceedingly good” (Genesis 1:31), this means that the universe has no purpose outside of itself. According to Judaism, existence in accordance with the will and wisdom of the Creator is the only standard by which goodness is measured. [2]

Now we can rephrase the answer to our original question in a more uplifting way. What is the purpose of life? To exist! To live! Life is inherently good! You don’t need any special, personalized mission to imbue your life with value because your life has intrinsic value!

And that is the end of the story … almost.

The Anomaly of Humanity

On Day Six, God creates the land animals and declares them to be good. Then He creates man and woman but does not declare them to be good. Why not? The answer lies in the essential difference between humans and all other phenomena in the universe. What is that difference? Free will.

We are the only creations that have free will and who can choose to disobey God. The Sages express this in the Tamludic dictum: “Everything is in the hands of heaven except for the fear of heaven” (Berachos 33b), which Maimonides explains to be a reference to free will. All other creations in the universe are “programmed” to exist in line with the will and wisdom of the Creator, without any possibility of deviation, and are therefore good “by default.” We humans can deviate. We can choose to live like animals, neglecting our unique capacity for abstract intellection, or we can attempt to live like angels, neglecting our physical and psychological needs. Both paths run contrary to our design, and therefore lead to self-destruction.

Rather, we humans must choose to live in line with the will and wisdom of the Creator. God does not declare man and woman to be good because this goodness isn’t guaranteed. The sociologist, Eric Hoffer, wrote: “Animals can learn, but it is not by learning that they become dogs, cats, or horses. Only man has to learn to become what he is supposed to be.” We must learn what it means to be human, and to consciously align ourselves with that ideal to the greatest extent possible in order to thrive.

[This is where the Torah comes into the picture. Gersonides (a.k.a. Ralbag, 1288-1344 C.E.) defines Torah as “a God-given regimen that brings those who practice it properly to true success.” Perhaps it would be more accurate to translate “true success” as “true human flourishing” – to find fulfillment by living in line with our true nature as truth-seeking beings devoted to seeking knowledge and practicing kindness, righteousness, and justice on earth, in harmony with ourselves and our fellow human beings. How the Torah serves this function is a topic for another article …]

The Purpose of Your Life

And this is where the notion of individual purpose finds its place. According to Maimonides, there is no extrinsic purpose to any individual’s life as an individual. We all share a common mission: to live in a manner which actualizes the human potential inherent in our nature. However, this actualization will play out differently based on our strengths, weaknesses, and individual differences, as determined by nature and nurture.

For example, Moses, Rabbi Akiva, and I belong to the same species and aspire to the same standard of human “goodness,” but since each of us possesses a different set of potentialities and lives in a different set of circumstances, each of us will have a different path of “goodness” to follow.

Here the maxim “know thyself” takes on additional significance: to live a “good life” we must know ourselves as humans, but we must also know ourselves as individuals, so that we can actualize our individual potentialities in accordance with the blueprint of universal human nature.

Conclusion

Let us conclude with a summary of the main points. What is the purpose of life? According to Maimonides, life has no purpose – not because it is pointless, but because existence in line with the will and wisdom of the Creator is inherently good. This is true for everything in the universe, including for us, but unlike the other creations, we must learn what it means to be human and deliberately choose to live that way in order to live good lives. And because each of us is different, we must acquire enough self-knowledge to actualize our individual human potentialities, thereby making each of our lives worth living.

[1] Although the main ideas presented in this article can be found in Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed 3:13, I have incorporated insights and examples gleaned from various other texts and teachers.

[2] Some might object to this entire line of reasoning, saying: “The whole notion of ‘intrinsically good’ is a cop-out! You can’t just say that something is good for no purpose. If a thing is good, then it must be good for something – not in and of itself!” To this objection I would reply by pointing out that ALL value systems, Jewish and non-Jewish, religious and secular, right and wrong, must have at their foundation something which is regarded as an intrinsic good. The alternative is an infinite regression of desire: a series of means with no end. For example, if you ask the average person, “Why is it good to go to school?” they might say, “So I can get a job.” “Why is getting a job good?” “So I can make money.” “Why is money good?” “So I can buy things.” “Why is buying things good?” and so on, until eventually, you will reach something which is regarded as good in and of itself. In some societies, that intrinsic value might be pleasure. In others, it might be accomplishment. In others, it might be status. No one answers these “Why?” questions with infinite “so that”s all the way down; everyone’s answer will have a terminus, and that terminus will be conceived of as an intrinsic good. Mortimer J.Adler observed that one of the most common answers in our society is “happiness,” which is deemed to be intrinsically good. Adler supported this observation by pointing out that it is impossible to complete the sentence: “I want to be happy because _____.” To sum it up: this answer is not a cop-out because everyone will have something which occupies the slot of intrinsic value. According to Maimonides’s understanding of Judaism, that intrinsic value is “existence in line with the will and wisdom of the Creator.”

Afterword

After sending in my rough draft, I received an email from one of the editors (who is a rabbi) saying, “Thank you very much for this excellent article.” I asked a few questions about matters of style, which he answered. The only suggestion he had about the substance of the article was to omit the paragraph about the role of Torah, saying that “a separate piece on ‘What is Judaism?’ would do very well.” I made these cosmetic changes and then submitted my final draft.

After not hearing back from either of my contacts for a week, I emailed them to ask whether there are other changes I should make. The editor who initially contacted me apologized for the delay (explaining that her response had been sitting in her draft folder), and then went on to say:

Even though we personally enjoyed it, our editor in chief flagged it and shared the piece with the Rosh HaYeshiva and they got back to us and said that they feel the article is "confusing and misleading." Unfortunately the whole approach doesn't work for them. We do sincerely thank you for your time and effort and will of course be remunerating you for it.

I would have appreciated it if the editor in chief and/or the Rosh HaYeshiva had elaborated on what they meant by “confusing and misleading,” but I wouldn’t expect them to take the time to provide detailed feedback to a total stranger about a piece they decided not to use. Of course, this left me with two options: (1) to speculate about what they might have meant, and (2) to solicit feedback from other people.

My speculations are straightforward: I suspect they deemed the article “misleading” because they fundamentally disagree with what I wrote, and they called it “confusing” because since they couldn’t openly denounce the Rambam for his views, they instead placed the blame on my presentation of his views.

What, exactly, do I think they found so disagreeable? It could be any of several points: that the universe wasn’t created for man, that man doesn’t exist to serve God, that God doesn't need us for anything, that God did not create the universe in order to bestow His kindness to man, that the Torah is “merely” a means of making us good rather than the standard by which goodness is measured, that Olam ha’Ba isn’t mentioned anywhere in the article, that no distinction is made between Jews and non-Jews, that I say nothing about spirituality, etc.

But if I had to bet money on which sentence they found to be the most objectionable, it would be this: “Many of us were taught that each person was given a special mission to accomplish which is their purpose in life, but Maimonides doesn’t buy that.” Since I was writing for an audience of laypeople, I didn’t refer to this notion by its commonly used Hebrew term “tafkid” or by the related term “tikkun.” I cannot definitively say how, from where, or when this belief originated, but I do know that it was popularized by the Hasidic movement to the point where it can now be described as “mainstream.” For example, here’s an excerpt from the book “The Garden of Emunah” (2006) by Rabbi Shalom Arush, a Breslov Hasid, translated into English by Rabbi Lazer Brody:

Each of us comes to this earth for the express purpose of fulfilling a mission. Longevity depends on the task we have to complete. One’s death – even in a sudden tragedy or accident – is always the result of Hashem’s personal decision. Some live for twenty years and others for one hundred years, but we all eventually leave this earth at the precise moment that Hashem decides. A mind-boggling set of Divine considerations influences the circumstances of a person’s life and longevity – the person’s deeds, former lives, public edicts, and other criteria that defy our understanding.

Some souls come to this earth for a short and specific tikkun, and then return to the upper worlds. Such souls are usually remarkably special people, with little or no evil inclination, gentle, kind, and pleasant. Therefore, don’t be surprised when you hear of young upright people that die suddenly; they’ve simply completed their tikkun – their soul correction and mission on earth. (p.44)

As you can see from just this short excerpt – and certainly from the rest of the book – the notion of a Divinely ordained mission in life is inextricably bound up with many other fundamental doctrines: hashgachah pratis (individual Divine providence), sachar v’onesh (reward and punishment), tzadik v’ra lo (“Why do bad things happen to good people?”), bitachon (trust in God), and more. To question, challenge, or deny the notion of an individual purpose in life is to threaten these foundational beliefs. And that’s essentially what I did by presenting the Rambam’s view in the manner that I did.

Of course, I knew I was doing this when I wrote the article. I knew that their readership would be unlikely to hear this idea from anyone else, and I know how powerful this idea can be. In fact, the first time I heard this answer given in this exact way was at a Q&A with high school students held by my Rosh ha’Yeshiva. I still remember the feeling that reverberated through the room when he said, “life has no purpose,” and then went on to explain the ideas in this article. (You can listen to the recording by clicking here and skipping to 24 minutes; note that my Rosh ha’Yeshiva had laryngitis at the time.) I wanted to replicate that experience as much as I could in my article because I know that it will resonate with others the same way it resonated with me and with all the other students who were present at that Q&A.

This is also why I left the reader “an out” by underscoring that this is the view of Maimonides. I did not claim that this view is unanimous. I included the phrase “according to Maimonides” in the title. I repeatedly stressed throughout the article that this is all “according to Maimonides.” I did this so that if someone felt threatened, they could dismiss it by saying, “That’s just the Rambam's view.”

And this is why I think it is misleading to call my article “misleading.” It would be misleading if I misrepresented the Rambam’s view. To my knowledge, I didn’t do that. I could be wrong, though, which is why I’m sharing this article and the feedback publicly. If I’ve misunderstood the Rambam’s position, then I’d like to know how – especially on such a fundamental issue as the purpose of life.

To reiterate: I can see how a person might consider this article “misleading” if they felt it would lead the reader astray from (what they maintain is) the truth. But “confusing”? I thought I did a decent job of presenting this idea clearly, which is another reason I’d like feedback. I would especially like to hear feedback from someone who says: “I completely understand what you are saying and you presented these ideas very clearly, but I think you are 100% incorrect.” At least that way I’ll know that the reader isn’t biased by their agreement with what they've read.

And so, my readers and listeners, what do you think? Do you find this article to be confusing and/or misleading? If so, why? What other thoughts, questions, and critiques do you have? I'm all ears.

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