No, this isn't Parashas Mishpatim, and no, this is NOT a complete dvar Torah. I've been working on this question for two weeks, and I decided to present it, even though I don't yet have the answers.
The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."
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Mishpatim: The Sanctuary-Altar Sanctuary (or Mizbeach as Refuge for Killers)
Parashas Mishpatim presents an encapsulation of the laws of homicide in three short verses:
He who strikes a man so that he dies shall be put to death. He who did not act with premeditation, but God caused it to come about by his hand, I will make for you a place to which he might flee. But if a man will act willfully against his fellow to kill him with cunning, from My altar you shall take him to die. (Shemos 21:12-14)
Murder (i.e. intentional killing) is liable for the death penalty. Manslaughter (i.e. negligent unintentional killing) is liable for galus – exile into one of the Arei Miklat (Sanctuary Cities) until the death of Kohen Gadol. The goel ha’dam (the “blood redeemer” who is a family member of the slain) may kill the unintentional murderer outside his sanctuary without penalty, but if he kills him within the sanctuary, the goel ha’dam himself is liable for murder.
What about “from My altar you shall take him to die”? According to the straightforward reading, the Written Torah states that if a person commits premeditated murder, the Mizbeach (altar) will not provide sanctuary. The implication is that if a person killed unintentionally, then the Mizbeachwill provide sanctuary in the same way as the Arei Miklat. However, the Oral Torah supplies three important qualifications, as the Rambam codifies:
The Mizbeach provides sanctuary ... but only the top of the Mizbeach in the Eternal Temple, and it only provides sanctuary for a Kohen who is engaged in avodah (divine service). But if he is a non-Kohen, or a Kohen who is not engaged in avodah at the time he is killed [by the goel ha'dam], or he is engaged in avodah and is not on top of the Mizbeach but near it or grasping its horns, then [the Mizbeach] does not provide sanctuary. (Rotzeach u’Shmiras ha’Nefesh 5:12-13)
R’ Avraham ben ha’Rambam (Shemos 21:14) maintains that the Torah is alluding to the fatal errors made by Yoav who unsuccessfully sought sanctuary upon hearing that Shlomo ha’Melech ordered his execution: “Yoav fled to the Tent of Hashem and grabbed onto the corners of the altar” (I Melachim 2:28). Yoav was mistaken on four counts: (a) the Mizbeach only provides sanctuary for manslaughter – but he killed intentionally; (b) only the top of the Mizbeach provides sanctuary – but he grabbed the corners; (c) only the Mizbeach in the Beis ha’Mikdash provides sanctuary – but he fled to the Mizbeach in “the Tent of Hashem”; and (d) the Mizbeach only provides sanctuary for a Kohen doing avodah – but Yoav wasn’t a Kohen, and wasn’t doing avodah.
The main question is: What is the deal with this halacha? The institution of Arei Miklat was designed with practicality in mind. The six cities designated as Arei Miklat were equidistantly spaced throughout the Land of Israel, with clear signage pointing the way for those seeking refuge. Not only these six, but all 48 Levite cities provided sanctuary, making it relatively easy for the unintentional killer to find a haven. In contrast, the institution of Mizbeach as sanctuary has such narrow parameters that one can’t help but wonder whether this halacha was ever implemented in practice. It seems more akin to the mitzvah of ben sorer u’moreh (the wayward and rebellious son), which the Sages teach us “never happened and never will happen” but “was written that we may expound and receive reward” (Sanhedrin 71a) – that is, it was written primarily to teach us Torah ideas and values.
Moreover, the Mizbeach halacha is in Parashas Mishpatim, which was given to Israel at Sinai. The details laws of homicide and Arei Miklat aren’t presented until Parashas Masei at the end of Bamidbar and Parashas Shoftim in Devarim, 40 years later. It makes sense for those laws to be deferred until the conquest of the Land, and for Misphatim to feature only the headings. Yet, upon consideration, we realize that the law of the Mizbeach as sanctuarydidn’t apply in the Wilderness at all! The Mizbeach in the Mishkan can’t provide sanctuary, nor did it need to, since the entire Levite camp had the status of the Arei Miklat. Thus, it would seem that this halacha was included primarily to teach us some other lesson. The question is: What do we learn from this vexing halacha?
If you’re interested in a full-length shiur on this topic, in which I attempt to develop several approaches, check out the video version or the audio version of the shiur I gave on 2/23/23 entitled: “Mishpatim: The Sanctuary-Altar Sanctuary.”
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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.
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Rambam maintains that the notion of Divine reward and punishment for animals is a non-Jewish concept. What are we to do when we encounter statements of Chazal which talk about God rewarding animals?
The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."
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Artwork: Release the Dogs, by Jason Kang
Mishpatim: Does Hashem Reward Good Dogs?
“People of holiness shall you be to Me; you shall not eat flesh of an animal that was torn (treifah) in the field; to the dog shall you throw it” (Shemos 22:30). Although “treif” in the vernacular has come to refer to any non-kosher food, the technical definition is meat from an animal with a life-threatening physical defect, such as a mortal wound or a terminal illness. The question is: Why does the Torah tell us to throw our treifah to the dogs? The simple answer is that this was the most common way to dispose of treifah. However, Rashi (citing Mechilta) writes:
This teaches us that Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu doesn't deprive any creature of its reward, as it is stated [in the narrative about the Plague of the Firstborn]: “But against all the Children of Israel, no dog shall whet its tongue (i.e. the dogs will not bark)” (ibid. 11:7).Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu said, “Give [the dog] its reward.”
This explanation raises several difficulties, the first and foremost of which is stated by the Rambam (Moreh 3:17):
The notion of reward [and punishment] for animals has never been heard in our nation at all and was not mentioned by any one of the [Talmudic] Sages. However, the latter [sages] among the Geonim heard this [view] from the [Islamic philosophical sect of the] Mutazilites and approved of it and accepted it.
Reward and punishment are only relevant to human beings, who possess intellect and free will. Moreover, the dogs that refrained from barking in Egypt aren’t the same dogs we “reward” with treif. Seemingly, those Egyptian dogs were deprived of their reward! Lastly, this seems like a poorly structured reward. It would be one thing if we were obligated to give our treif to the dogs, but halachically, it’s optional, and therefore, not guaranteed.
Radak weighs in on the question of Divine recompense for animals in his commentary on Ashrei (Tehilim 145:17):
We say that there is reward and punishment for other species of animals b'eisek ha'adam (in human involvement). We find: “I [Hashem] will exact [punishment] from every wild animal [that kills a man]” (Bereishis 9:5) ... and it was said by way of reward: “[the lion had not eaten the corpse] nor had it torn the donkey” (I Melachim 13:28). Our Sages explain such reward for animals as the donkey and the dog, saying: “Why are firstborn donkeys differentiated from other firstborn animals, such that they may be redeemed (in exchange for a lamb or kid)?” (Bechoros 5b). They explain: “Because they carried the [Egyptian] spoils for Israel.” And it was said that "to the dog shall you throw it" is in merit of “no dog shall whet its tongue” which teaches that Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu doesn't deprive any creature of its reward.
Radak maintains that “there is reward and punishment for other species of animals in human involvement.” This phrase is somewhat vague. Thankfully, he provides us with a clue in his commentary on the case in Sefer Melachim mentioned above. Hashem prevented the lion from eating the donkey to “reward” it for providing transportation for the prophet. There Radak writes: “the reward for the donkey in this world was for the sake of kavod ha’navi (the honor of the prophet) who rode on him, for there is reward and punishment for other species of animals in this world b’inyan ha’adam (in the affairs of man).” In other words, God rewards and punishes animals not for their own sake, but because of the impact of this reward and punishment on humans. He protected the donkey not as a reward for the donkey’s sake, but because protecting the navi’s donkey preserved the navi’skavod.
The same is true in our case. Hashem does not “reward” dogs with treif for their sake, but for our sake. The silence of the dogs in Egypt resulted in a more tranquil exodus. To commemorate this, Hashem incorporated dogs into the Torah’s presentation of the laws of treif. Now, whenever we encounter treif, we will be prompted to feed it to our dogs, which will lead us to reflect on the kindness shown to us by Hashem when He took us out from Egypt. The same is true for donkeys: whenever we redeem a donkey, we will recall the beneficence of Hashem in allowing us to take the spoils of Egypt which we transported on our donkeys.
The take-away is not these particular ideas, but the methodology: we interpret midrashim in light of fundamentals – not the other way around.
------------------------------------- If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.
If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.
Instead of writing a 1-page article on the parashah, I decided to write a lengthier reflection on my grieving process over the course of these past seven days. You can decide if it counts as Torah.
The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."
The Torah content for this week has also been sponsored by Nava, in memory of Adira Koffsky z"l, who loved learning and philosophy and was a real seeker of truth.
Click here for a PDF version of this article, and click here for the podcast version.
Artwork: DALL-E’s response to the prompt, “thick oil painting of a thin preacher preaching a sermon in the foreground. preacher’s face is obscured by darkness. behind him is a large window showing heavy snowfall“ (variation 2b)
How I Have Chosen to Grieve
I’ll begin by summarizing my experience on Thursday, February 2, 2023.
At 7:15am I received a call from my mom that Popo – my beloved grandmother, Helen Chang – passed away peacefully in her sleep at the ripe old age of 98.
At 10:15am that same day, I received news that Adira Koffsky, one of the last high school students I taught at Midreshet Shalhevet, was killed in a car accident at the tender age of 18.
Yehoshua, one of my talmidim in yeshiva, kindly offered to use our afternoon chavrusa time to let me to tell him about these two people and what they meant to me, but at 12:15pm he informed me that his mother, Julie Bass, just died.
And towards the end of the day I learned that Martin Pepper – the father-in-law of my friend and teacher, Rabbi Joshua Maroof – was killed in the same car accident that took the life of Adira.
These four deaths impacted me in different ways. I have known and loved Popo for my entire life; without her, I would not be who I am - and I would not even be. I taught Adira for hundreds of hours in seven courses during her first two years of high school, helping her develop into who she became. I never got a chance to meet Yehoshua’s mother, but Yehoshua is a beloved student of mine and my heart goes out to him in his pain. And while I didn't have any connection to Rabbi Maroof's father-in-law, the fact that he and Adira lost their lives in the same tragedy causes me to see his death as related to the others. The news of these four deaths reaching me within a span of 12 hours resulted in a cumulative impact that was as overwhelming as it was surreal. That day it felt like it was raining death.
A few months ago, in preparation for Popo’s imminent passing, I began reading On Grief and Grieving (2005), by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler. If there’s one overarching message, it’s that people grieve in different ways, and that the important thing is to allow grief to take its course. They write:
Be aware that when grief hits in all of its power, we instinctually try to resist the sense of overwhelm. But resistance to pain only serves to amplify it. Try sinking into it and feel it become more spacious. Allow it to wash over you and feel the strength return to your body and your mind. When you surrender to grief, you will discover that you are so much stronger than you ever imagined. Peace lies at the center of the pain, and although it will hurt, you will move through it a lot faster than if you distracted yourself with external outings.
I have done my best to allow the grieving process to run its course. Because I am a writer and a teacher, it is not surprising that my grieving has taken the form of writing and teaching. I have poured out my grief in the form of posts and articles in which I have expressed my personal feelings interlaced with Torah thoughts. I’ve delved into the laws of mourning and other death-related topics with my students in lieu of my regularly scheduled shiur programming. I composed a eulogy in which I attempted to convey what was like for me, as a teacher of Torah, to lose a dear student like Adira. I shared reflections about the two shivah calls I made and the realizations and insights they triggered. I plan to give a shiur in a few of hours on the philosophical question of whether it is possible to die before one’s time, and on the weighty matter of how such tragedies are consistent with Divine justice. All these thoughts I have shared with my friends, students, and peers across different social media platforms.
I am well aware that some might disapprove of the public form my grieving process has taken. They might consider this type of outpouring to be acceptable if kept to oneself and one’s inner circle but deem it inappropriate to talk about in a public forum, especially on social media. Some might look down on my intermingling of Torah teachings with expressions of my own emotions, or my decision to deviate from my curriculum in order to explore subject matter which caters to my present frame of mind, or how I have expressed my feelings about my talmidim. I have no doubt that some will frown on this article, finding it to be self-indulgent, immodest, and unbecoming of a Torah educator.
All these objections have merit. In fact, I was in conflict as to whether to take this course at all, or whether it would be better to just keep these all these thoughts to myself. But in the end, I made the decision to follow this course on the basis of three considerations: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Popo & Adira (their common denominator), and the awareness of my own mortality.
Emerson and the Soloveitchiks
Last Friday I had planned to give a shiur to my women’s “Machshavah Lab” group entitled “Emerson’s Advice for Clergy and Religious Educators.” I intended to focus on an excerpt from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s 1838 address to the senior class of the Harvard Divinity School. Towards the end of the speech, he identifies two defects in Christianity which he believes to be responsible for the “universal decay and now almost death of faith in society.” My plan was to conduct a “close reading” of this excerpt in shiur and to consider the relevance of Emerson’s remarks as applied to Jewish clergy and educators, in light of Torah sources. Unfortunately, I had to cancel this shiur so that I could attend Adira’s funeral.
One of the excerpts I hoped to discuss has been the primary impetus for the way I’ve been grieving. Emerson bemoans the phenomenon of the preacher who is a “formalist” – one who presents the teachings of his religion to his congregants as dead formulas rather than as the living words of the living God:
Whenever the pulpit is usurped by a formalist, then is the worshipper defrauded and disconsolate. We shrink as soon as the prayers begin, which do not uplift, but smite and offend us … I once heard a preacher who sorely tempted me to say I would go to church no more. Men go, thought I, where they are wont to go, else had no soul entered the temple in the afternoon. A snow-storm was falling around us.The snow-storm was real, the preacher merely spectral, and the eye felt the sad contrast in looking at him, and then out of the window behind him into the beautiful meteor of the snow. He had lived in vain. He had no one word intimating that he had laughed or wept, was married or in love, had been commended, or cheated, or chagrined. If he had ever lived and acted, we were none the wiser for it.
It is not enough for the clergyman or the religious educator merely to convey the teachings as they are written, nor is it sufficient to expound on their meaning. In addition, he must imprint them with his own soul – by living and breathing the truth as he sees it and experiences it in his very person, and must do so in a manner readily discernible to all. As Emerson puts it:
The spirit only can teach. Not any profane man, not any sensual, not any liar, not any slave can teach, but only he can give, who has; he only can create, who is. The man on whom the soul descends, through whom the soul speaks, alone can teach. Courage, piety, love, wisdom, can teach; and every man can open his door to these angels, and they shall bring him the gift of tongues. But the man who aims to speak as books enable, as synods use, as the fashion guides, and as interest commands, babbles. Let him hush.
Judaism has never been open about sharing its own personal experiences, preferring to hide under layers of abstractions … As a result, it is perceived by the masses as being cold and intellectual, when in fact it possesses a strongly beating heart. Behind the tough exterior, a tender soul hides. This was a historical mistake on the part of the Jew, one which I hope to correct now.
But it is a trait of our character. I know many rabbis of the “old school” who were like that. I know my father. I was very close to my father, and my father was close to me. I suffered from a “father complex” – in a positive sense, of course. [Yet] he never kissed me. I would have never heard from him any endearing word. He never embraced me. Everything was so rigid, so cold.
I remember once I left Warsaw, no one knew when I would come back, or whether I would. When I met my father in New York, he shook my hand and said “all right.” He just shook my hand and said, “Bon voyage”, "לך לשלום", [when leaving Warsaw].
If a stranger had observed this scene, he would say there is no feeling in this person. But I know there was a volcano in him, covered up, though no eruption has ever taken place. Good or bad, this is indicative of the Jewish community.
Those who are familiar with the broad spectrum of the Rav’s teachings know that he made good on his promise to correct this “historical mistake on the part of the Jew.” His lectures and his writings are replete with words of the heart alongside words of the intellect, and equally permeated by his inimitable Torah spirit. And despite what the Rav related about the “old school” approach of his father, he mentions elsewhere (Halakhic Man 1:12) that his grandfather – Rav Hayyim, founder of the Brisker method of Talmudic analysis – utilized his Torah study as a vehicle for coping with his own emotional turmoil and existential dread:
My father related to me that when the fear of death would seize hold of R. Hayyim, he would throw himself, with his entire heart and mind, into the study of the laws of tents and corpse defilement. And these laws, which revolve about such difficult and complex problems as defilement of a grave, defilement of a tent, blocked-up defilement, interposition before defilement, a vessel with a tight fitting cover upon it in a tent in which a corpse lies, etc., etc., would calm the turbulence of his soul and would imbue it with a spirit of joy and gladness.
I know there are Briskers out there who prefer to imagine Rav Hayyim as a lofty genius who coldly gazed upon everything and everyone through the stony lens of clinical halachic categories – but that’s not how the Rav describes him. I prefer to believe that when Rav Hayyim spoke about halacha’s treatment of death, he did not do so in the “spectral” manner condemned by Emerson, but as a radiant angel whose words dripped with deep wisdom and deep feeling.
As I debated whether or not to write what I’ve written this week, Emerson’s words continued to echo in my mind: “A snow-storm was falling around us. The snow-storm was real, the preacher merely spectral.” I have chosen to publicly share my grieving process through my teaching because I want to be real – not merely spectral. If I were to only teach abstract ideas disconnected from my life, or if I were to conceal how my Torah forms and is informed by my inner world, then I would be doing a terrible disservice to my students. “You shall keep My statutes and My judgments, that a person shall do and live by them” (Vayikra 18:5). Hashem didn’t give us His Torah merely to think about, but to live by. How can I call myself a teacher of Torah if I only elucidate His word but fail to model how it shapes my life? I want to be as real as the “snow and vapor, stormy wind fulfilling His word” (Tehilim 148:8).
The Common Quality of Popo and Adira
The second impetus for my decision to publicly share my grieving process in this manner emerged from my thinking about what Popo and Adira had in common. To my mind, the quality they shared is that they were both unapologetically themselves. Both cared deeply about other people but neither particularly cared what others thought of them. Both embraced the things in life that gave them joy, even when doing so was not conventional.
In Popo’s case, this expressed itself most visibly in her fashion. She always dressed in colorful clothing that made her happy. When asked why she wore matching outfits and jewelry when it wasn’t a special occasion, she explained that she bought these adornments because she likes them, and it would be a waste not to wear them. More importantly, Popo was one of the two most open, unpretentious, and unabashedly loving people I have ever known. (The other one is my mom.)
In Adira’s case, this quality expressed itself both in her intellectual independence and in her default mode of “letting her geek flag fly.” It didn’t matter to her that others would see her as “weird” for the opinions she held, or for liking fantasy, writing imaginative stories, and playing Dungeons & Dragons. Like Popo, Adira was perfectly content to be herself and let others think what they may.
Taking a cue from Adira, I am going to let MY geek flag fly by declaring myself a member of the Izzet League. What? You’re not familiar with Izzet? Well, let me tell you. In the ecumenopolis of Ravnica, there are ten guilds – one for each two-color combination of the five colors of magic (white, blue, black, red, and green). Each guild has its own philosophy and profile which are manifest in myriad ways. I will indulge myself by letting head designer Mark Rosewater explain the significance of the red/blue color pairing, and what it means to be in Izzet:
For Red and Blue, it's a classic conflict: emotion vs. intellect (a.k.a. the head vs. the heart, thinking vs. feeling, speculative vs. intuitive, the mind vs. the gut). On one side we have Red. Red is the color of impulse. It follows its heart. It does what feels right. It lets its emotions be its guide. Blue, on the other hand, is the color of the intellect. Blue likes to think. A lot. About everything. Blue makes its decisions on logic and forethought.
Their styles could not be more different. Red acts impulsively in the moment. Blue waits until it has examined every side of the issue before it gets involved. Red comes out swinging. Blue avoids conflict, if it can. Red acts. Blue reacts. Red is focused on the present. Blue is focused on the future. Each color acts in a way that is the antithesis of the other.
So how does a guild encompass both sides? Easy. By taking aspects of each. Red/Blue is a thinking guild, but unlike other guilds with a Blue element, Red/Blue embraces the tools of emotion. They think, but they think passionately. Their emotion allows them to leap to ideas and thoughts that their logical cousins would never encounter. They find rationality in the heart of irrationality. They make intuitive leaps. They slay sacred cows. They connect things that no one else would think to connect. In short, they embrace creativity.
You see, creativity mixes elements of logic and emotion. It finds connections in things that most people wouldn't have given a second look. But Red/Blue lives to find those connections. To them, life is about seeking knowledge and freedom. And how better than by examining the knowledge that no one else will explore. Thinking things that no one else would dare think. They search for the knowledge that cannot rationally be discovered.
My students and those who know me will understand why I identify with this guild, and why I am drawn to the Rav’s brand of intellectualism over the “old school” approach of his father. (I can’t help but chuckle at just how “Izzet” this article is: an intellectual analysis of my emotional relationship to intellectualism’s stance on emotions, and how I feel about all that!) But while I have always had these Izzet tendencies, I haven’t always trusted myself to follow them wherever they lead.
The changes in my professional trajectory brought about by the pandemic afforded me more freedom to explore and expand my own style of teaching and learning beyond what I was able to do as a high school rebbi. A couple of years ago I saw a fantastic quotation from Dolly Parton: “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” This is an accurate description of what I’ve been trying to do over the course of these past two and a half years.
Likewise, the advice given by Rainer Maria Rilke about poetry in Letters to a Young Poetresonates with me regarding the quest to blaze my own path in my learning, teaching, and writing:
You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way.Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all – ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must," then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it.
Whenever I have grappled with the decision whether to write or share any part of my grieving process this week, I’ve asked myself: “Is this something I must do?” and the answer has always been a strong and simple: “I must.” And so I have.
The Shortness of Life
The third factor which clinched my decision to embrace this course of public grieving-teaching-writing is a truth that was underscored four times last Thursday and can be expressed in as many words: life is too short.
Life is too short for me to hold back my thoughts and feelings out of fear of how I will be judged.
Life is too short for me to not take risks in my teaching.
Life is too short not to experiment by pushing the boundaries of my intuition in search of my authentic voice.
Life is too short not to share how I felt about Adira, and how I feel about all of my students.
Life is too short for me to refrain from showing my students, through my words and my actions, how much I care about each and every one of them.
Life is too short to stifle personal epiphanies and transformational insights which might benefit others, simply because I’m afraid of being vulnerable.
Life is too short to be spectral.
Life is too short to not be real.
I will conclude with one of my favorite excerpts from Emerson’s Self-Reliance (hat tip to Amor Towles for introducing me to this excerpt in The Lincoln Highway: A Novel). This passage articulates the stage of development I am currently working on in my personal and professional life:
There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried.
Rambam (Hilchos Avel 13:12) writes that the death of a person in your social group should be an impetus for teshuvah. The standard editions of the Mishneh Torah state that this encounter with mortality should cause a person “to prepare himself (le’hachin atzmo), to return [in teshuvah], and to wake up from his sleep.” However, the critical editions of the Mishneh Torah say otherwise: that this brush with death should cause a person “to understand his own mind (le’havin da’ato), to return [in teshuvah], and to wake up from his sleep.” My brush with death has left me with a greater understanding of my own mind, which has led to teshuvah and awakening.
My hope is that the four deaths of last week – and particularly, the deaths of Popo and Adira – will mark a turning point in my development as a writer, a teacher, and a person. I have attempted to capture in writing here the “waking up from my sleep” and the nature of the teshuvah I hope to do in response to these deaths.
To those who have provided consolation and feedback to what I’ve shared this week – thank you. Although I’ve written what I’ve written primarily for myself, it means a lot to me that my words have been meaningful to others, and this has reinforced my judgment that this was the right course to take.
May Hashem provide comfort to all the mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim, and may He help me to better serve Him in my own, unique way.
If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.
If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.
originally published as a Facebook note on the morning of 2/9/23
The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."
The Torah content for this week has also been sponsored by Nava, in memory of Adira Koffsky z"l, who loved learning and philosophy and was a real seeker of truth.
Thoughts on the Seventh Morning
Shivah for the grieving families ends today. (I say this somewhat loosely. It is true for the Koffsky and Bass families. The shivah for Martin Pepper's family has already ended in Israel. Shivah for Popo hasn't ended because it never started, since (a) she's not Jewish, and (b) we don't even know when the funeral will take place yet because of Hawaii's crazy mortuary delays.) Since halacha dictates that we limit our formal eulogizing of the deceased to the seven days of shivah (see Shulchan Aruch Yoreh Deah 394:1), I wanted to take this last opportunity to express some additional thoughts I had about Adira this morning. (click here for my eulogy of Adira)
Two passages jumped out at me this morning as I said my daily prayers. The first was the opening verses of Psalm 146: הַלְלוּ יָהּ הַלְלִי נַפְשִׁי אֶת י"י. אֲהַלְלָה י"י בְּחַיָּי אֲזַמְּרָה לֵאלֹהַי בְּעוֹדִי, which translates to: "Praise God, O my soul, praise Hashem. I will praise Hashem during my life; I will sing to my God while I am still alive." Alternative translations of the word בְּעוֹדִי in that second verse flitted through my mind: "I will sing to my God while I am still," "I will sing to my God in my stillness," "I will sing to my God in my evermore."
Adira sang to God while she was still alive, both literally and figuratively. I was reminded of a poem Adira's mother showed me at the shivah house. To my recollection, is the only personal statement I've ever read from Adira about her relationship with Hashem and her personal feelings about prayer. An excerpt of this poem was quoted in Dr. Goldstein's eulogy. Here is the poem in its entirety. I am told was written somewhat spontaneously - not in response to any prompt:
Why should I tell You anything when You already know it? When You can see my hopes and dreams, my fears and anxieties. When no truth can hide and no lies can live. Why talk when You know what I'm going to say. So I don't. I don't pick up a siddur. I don't recite prayers written ages ago in a language I can barely understand. I don't talk. There's no point in talking. But as the phrase goes, actions speak louder than words. So I show. I write, I create, I perform. Each word, every act is proof. Proof that the passions and skills that You have granted me has not gone to waste. My pen is my siddur and my stories are my davening, my thanks for this gift, this ability to show the world what I see and feel. None of it mentions You by name, but it doesn't have to. You're already there. Pen on paper, text on a screen, it's a manifestation of the creativity of mankind, the mankind I am a part of, the mankind You created. What You wrote is a beautiful story, so don't [blame] me for wanting to make my own. And don't blame me, for when I try to connect I pick up a pen instead of a siddur. Because I guess, in a way, I am talking to You, just in my own way.
Phrases from Adira's poem bring to mind verses from King David, our greatest poet. Adira's "Why should I tell You anything when You already know it?" recalls David's "O Hashem, You have scrutinized Me and You know. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You understand my thought from afar. You encompass my path and my repose, You are familiar with all my ways. For the word is not yet on my tongue - behold! Hashem, You knew it all" (Psalms 139:1-4).
Adira's "When no truth can hide and no lies can live" expresses the same sentiment as David's "Where can I go from Your spirit? And where can I flee from Your Presence? .... Would I say, 'Surely darkness will shadow me,' then the night would become as light around me. Even darkness obscures not from You; and night shines like the day; darkness and light are the same. For You have created my mind; You have covered me in my mother's womb" (ibid. 139:11-13).
Adira's "I don't talk. There's no point in talking" echoes David's "To You, O God, silence is praise" (ibid. 65:2). Adira's solution, "So I show. I write, I create, I perform. Each word, every act is proof" follows David's description of how the mute creation praises Hashem without speech: "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament tells of His handiwork. Day following day utters speech, and night following night declares knowledge - [but] there is no speech and there are no words; their sound is not heard" (ibid. 19:2-4). The commentators (Radak, Meiri, and others) explain this in the same terms Adira used about herself: although none of the heavenly bodies "mention You by name," they "manifest [Your] creativity" through their actions, which "speak louder than words." Adira might have thought she was talking to Hashem in her own idiosyncratic way, but in truth, she was singing to Hashem like the stars in the sky.
Adira's statement, "None of it mentions You by name, but it doesn't have to. You're already there" bespeaks her recognition of Hashem's inescapable presence, as David wrote: "Where can I go from Your spirit? And where can I flee from Your Presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there; were I to take up wings of dawn, were I to dwell in the distant west, there, too, Your hand would guide me, and Your right hand would grasp me" (ibid. 139:7-10).
Alas, Adira wrote "You can see my hopes and dreams, my fears and anxieties," and David declared: "When man's spirit departs, he returns to his earth; on that day his plans all perish" (ibid. 146:4). Seven days ago, Adira's spirit departed, and all her plans perished.
But she sang to God while she was still alive. She continues to sing to God in her stillness, forevermore.
The second passage that stood out to my mind this morning, as I gazed upon the pink and orange hue of the rising sun (and snapped a photo because it was just too beautiful not to capture), was the opening line of the first blessing of the Shema: "You, Hashem, are the Source of blessing, Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates all." This sentence, like the vast majority of the text of our prayers, was lifted from Scripture. In this case, however, the quotation is not verbatim. The original verse reads: "[Hashem said: I am the One] Who forms light and creates darkness; Who makes peace and creates evil; I am Hashem Who does all these things" (Isaiah 45:7). The Men of the Great Assembly, who formulated our prayers, opted for the lighter language of "creates ALL" rather than "creates EVIL." Perhaps - and this is pure speculation on my part - they did this because an explicit mention of God's relationship to the bad things that happen in the world would raise too many questions which the masses aren't ready to handle.
Admittedly, my mind went in that direction because I, myself, have been thinking for the past seven days about good and bad and God in relation to Adira's tragic death. In fact, I am planning to do what rabbis aren't supposed to do in situations like this: I'm planning to devote my Friday morning women's Jewish philosophy class to the topic of "dying before one's time" as explained by the Rambam and Ralbag.
I debated whether or not to give a class on such a sensitive topic, but I decided to go through it with for three reasons: (1) first and foremost, I am a teacher, and I need to teach this as part of my own grieving process; (2) these questions and problems exist, and will not go away just because we ignore them or avoid them; and (3) when I was at the shivah house of my student, Yehoshua, in Detroit this past Tuesday, I heard a rabbi give the grieving siblings the most inane explanations for how they should view the death of their mother - in the name of Torah, no less! - and although I held my tongue at the time, I feel like I need to do my part to "rebalance the universe" by putting some NON-inane ideas out there.
I'm not going to pretend that I have all the answers. As I would remind my students at the outset of my course on Sefer Iyov (the Book of Job), the Sages teach us that when Moshe spoke with Hashem "face to face," He asked the question of tzadik v'ra lo (a.k.a. "Why do bad things happen to good people?") If Moshe, the most perfected human being who ever lived, still asked this question at the height of his prophetic powers - and if he wrote the 42-chapter book of Iyov, which is one of the deepest and most difficult books in all of Tanach, to address this topic - then if anyone ever gives you a simplistic answer to the question of tzadik v'ra lo, then you can be 100% certain that it is wrong.
At the same time, if we withdraw our minds and avoid these difficult questions, then we are equally guilty. The Ramban discusses this attitude in Shaar ha'Gemul (3:41). After delving at length into the problem of tzadik v'ra lo, the Ramban concludes that although certain aspects of God's justice are concealed from us, we can be certain that everything He does is in accordance with righteousness, justice, kindness, and mercy. After arriving at this conclusion through the method of rational inquiry, Ramban anticipates his reader's objection:
And if you will object, saying: “Since certain aspects of God's justice are hidden from us, and since we are required to believe in His righteousness as the True Judge, why do you trouble us and exhort us to learn the rational arguments that you have explained and the abstract ideas to which you have alluded? Why can't we throw all of this behind us and rely, as we ultimately must, on the belief that there is no iniquity or forgetfulness before Him, but that all of His ways are Just?"
Ramban's response is harsh:
This is an objection of fools who despise wisdom (ksilim moasei chochmah). The answer is that we benefit ourselves through the aforementioned learning and become wise individuals who know God by way of His conduct and actions. Furthermore, we will have even more conviction (emunah) and trust in God (bitachon) than those who do not pursue rational inquiry, in both the known and the hidden aspects of God's justice. It is the obligation of every created being, who serves [God] out of love and awe, to investigate with his mind to confirm the righteousness of His justice and to verify His judgment according to one's ability. The approach we have taken is the approach of those who are wise: to bring our minds in line with ideas and to rationally verify the Creator's judgments.
That is the spirit with which I intend to take up these questions in my classes on such topics - not in the vain attempt to arrive at complete answers, but in order to understand God's justice to the extent that I can, and to avoid falling prey to the malady characteristic of "fools who despise wisdom."
Sadly, Adira never had the opportunity to learn Iyov with me. I know she would have reveled in the discussions and relished the ideas. Tragic as her death was, I am happy that she spent these last months of her life at Midreshet Amudim - an environment that allowed her to search for answers and provided her with the tools and personal development to discover such answers on her own.
I am going to dedicate Friday's shiur to Adira's memory - NOT to "give her neshamah an aliyah" (which, as I taught Adira myself, is a notion that the Rambam would reject as wishful thinking), but because she, like Ramban, had no pity for fools who despite wisdom or give childish answers to weighty philosophical conundrums. She would have pursued rational answers to these questions with single-minded zeal, rejecting foolishness and fluff in all its forms.
At the very end of Sefer Iyov, after Iyov acknowledges the truth, repents, and renounces his words of blasphemy, what does Hashem do? He blesses Iyov and rebukes Iyov's friends - Eliphaz, Bildad, and Tzofar, who gave "religious" answers to the question of tzadik v'ra lo. Hashem tells Eliphaz: "My wrath blazes against you and against your two friends, for you did not speak properly about Me as My servant Iyov did" (Iyov 42:7). In other words, while Iyov is the one who said and believed heretical notions on account of his suffering, he was honest in his inquiry and refused to accept the stupidity espoused by his religious friends. That is the type of person who truly serves Hashem: the one who seeks truth with an honest mind - not those who suppress their doubts and paper them over with trite dogmas.
Adira, like Iyov, may have held or uttered beliefs which did not conform with traditional Jewish doctrines. But it was clear to everyone who knew her that her mind searched for truth and clarity, and that is what is considered "speaking properly about Hashem." Adira was still at an early stage of the process of trying to figure out her Judaism, her relationship with Hashem, and herself. But I am absolutely convinced that she was on the right path. Last night I gave a shiur on the Sefer ha'Ikkarim (4:17) who said that Hashem only listens to the prayers of those whose emotions are in line with their rational faculty. Even though Adira spoke with Hashem in her own way, He most definitely listened.
May Adira's soul - and as well as the souls of Popo, Julie Bass, and Martin Pepper - be bound up in the bundle of life, in the World to Come.
------------------------------------- If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.
If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.
The Torah content for this week has been sponsored by Sarah and Moshe Eisen, with the following message: "Dedicated in honor of Popo, who shined bright and brought joy to so many of us. And to Rabbi Matt Schneeweiss who shared her with us and continues to share thoughts, insights, and Torah."
The Torah content for this week has also been sponsored by Nava, in memory of Adira Koffsky z"l, who loved learning and philosophy and was a real seeker of truth.
Thoughts on Yesterday’s Shivah Call in Detroit
There's one more thing I debated about including in the Facebook status about my Muslim Uber driver last night. I initially chose not to share this because I didn't want to draw attention to why I went to Detroit, but since one of my talmidim told me last night that my decision inspired him to do the same, I figured that that was a good enough reason for me to share these thoughts.
One of the four people who died in the same 24-hour period last week was the mother of my talmid, Yehoshua. The shivah is taking place in Detroit. Yehoshua wasn't sure whether he was going to spend all of shivah there or whether he'd fly back to Far Rockaway to finish shivah here, so that his friends and rabbeim could offer their condolences in person. On Monday, he decided to remain in Detroit so he could be with his family.
As soon as I learned of his decision, I booked a round-trip ticket to Detroit for Tuesday. When Yehoshua first told me his mother died, I told him that I'd be there for him, and I meant it. And I'm not the only one. A good friend of his had already flown there, and several more of his friends and another one of his rabbeim from yeshiva flew there today - again, just for the afternoon - to be with him.
What does this have to do with my Uber ride? Well, at one point in the conversation, Ali pointed to my backpack and said, "Traveling light, eh?" When I explained to him the reason for my brief trip, he was visibly impressed, and exclaimed: "Wow. God will definitely remember that you did this!" We use the metaphor of God "remembering" quite a lot in our prayers, but I believe this is the first time I've ever heard someone say it in natural speech. My rebbi (Rabbi Pesach Chait) explained that when we ask God to "remember" the good actions we do, we are essentially saying, "I've done lots of actions in my life, both good and bad, but these are the actions that define who I am and reflect my true values. I ask that You judge me on the basis of those actions, and not the many times and ways in which I have fallen short and deviated from my real values."
Ali and I then discussed the implications of such deaths on how we live our lives. Ali remarked, "You can't take anything with you," which led to another realization on my part. I know that there are many others who would have wanted to pay a shivah call to Yeshoshua in person, but were unable to do so for a variety of legitimate reasons. One of those reasons is money. It was expensive to buy a round-trip ticket less than 24 hours in advance, and to pay for all the Ubers. These were expenses that I was willing to pay, but they were expenses nonetheless. When Ali said, "You can't take anything with you," it reminded me that this is what money is for. What good does money do if it isn't used for the most important things in life, like being there for a dear friend in his time of need?
I had a similar realization from another conversation that happened yesterday. Yehoshua's family needed a break during shivah, so my other talmid (who was already there) took me to his parents' workplace. My talmid was on a phone chavrusa with one of my friends, Rabbi Trachtman, when Yehoshua texted him to say we could come back to the shivah house. My talmid wasn't sure whether he should wait until his chavrusa was finished or whether he should stop learning and immediately return to the shivah house. He asked Rabbi Trachtman who said, "The nechamah (consolation) you provide to Yehoshua is a mitzvah that can only be done by you and nobody else. You have to stop learning to go and be with him now." And so we left.
While we were in the car, my talmid told me that he was reminded of the Gemara in Kiddushin 40b which raises the question: "Which is greater: Torah study or action?" The Gemara answers: "Torah study, because Torah study leads to action." He said that stopping his learning to return to the shivah house was a good reminder that this is why we learn - not merely so that we can think about the mitzvos, but so that we can do them and live by them. This was a good reminder for me as well, and made me even more convinced that I made the right decision to fly to Detroit, even though I had to cancel my teaching for the day.
Lastly, I couldn't help but think of Act III of Our Town, by Thornton Wilder (click here for my favorite performance available online). Against the advice of the community of the dead, the recently-deceased Emily travels back in time to relive her twelfth birthday, but from her new perspective - the perspective of someone who has died. At first, she enjoys seeing her mother and father and watching them live through that day. But with each minute that goes by, she realizes how fleeting life is and how few human beings "ever realize life while they live it." Finally she breaks down and cries: "I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another."
I have never sat shivah before. I imagine that one of the many benefits of sitting shivah is that you are forced to have time to really "look at one another" - to be there with the rest of your family who are mourning, and to be there with all those who have come to comfort you. This was the first time that I've made a shivah call in which nechamah was the only thing on my agenda for the entire day. I was only in Detroit for Yehoshua, and there was nowhere else for me to be. I think this really helped me to be present in a way that I had never been able to be during any other shivah call. And watching Yehoshua and his siblings be there for each other made me wonder whether part of the shivah process is geared towards enabling the mourners to have Emily's realization while they are still alive, and to really appreciate the people and relationships in their lives going forward.
The day before yesterday, I paid a shivah call to the family of my talmidah, Adira Koffsky z"l. One of Adira's friends had no way to get there, so I gave her a ride. On the way back I shared with her an insight, the source of which I can't remember. There are two types of virtues: résumé virtues and epitaph virtues. The résumé virtues are the professional accomplishments you've made: the titles you achieved, the salary you earned, the awards you won, and all the other material successes you enjoyed. The epitaph virtues reflect who you were as a person - what you stood for and what you really lived for. The example that comes to mind is Rabbi Chaim Soloveitchik (1853-1918), the towering genius who invented the Brisker methodology of analysis which revolutionized Talmud Study and who authored the unparalleled Chiddushei Rabbeinu Chaim on the Rambam's Mishneh Torah. Yet, he wrote in his will that his epitaph should mention none of these intellectual accomplishments, but should instead say only "he was a man of kindness."
At the end of our lives, what will we have wanted to have live for? To what extent are the decisions we make today in line with that life we will wish to have lived? And, as Hillel asked, "if not now, when?"
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If you've gained from what you've learned here, please consider contributing to my Patreon at www.patreon.com/rabbischneeweiss. Alternatively, if you would like to make a direct contribution to the "Rabbi Schneeweiss Torah Content Fund," my Venmo is @Matt-Schneeweiss, and my Zelle and PayPal are mattschneeweiss at gmail.com. Even a small contribution goes a long way to covering the costs of my podcasts, and will provide me with the financial freedom to produce even more Torah content for you.
If you would like to sponsor a day's or a week's worth of content, or if you are interested in enlisting my services as a teacher or tutor, you can reach me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com. Thank you to my listeners for listening, thank you to my readers for reading, and thank you to my supporters for supporting my efforts to make Torah ideas available and accessible to everyone.
