Sun Tzu: On Long School Days

Originally posted in August 2012.

I've been Sun Tzu's The Art of War - one of the most ancient, and certainly the most famous treatise on military strategy - with the goal of applying its principles to classroom teaching. I don't know whether this will actually become a series, but if it does, I shall call it: "Sun Tzu: The Art of Classroom Teaching." 

Sun Tzu: The Art of Classroom Teaching - Long School Days

I have taught in three different Jewish high schools. These three schools had at least one thing in common: a very, very, very long school day. On the left you'll see the daily schedule for the school at which I currently teach. However, the times alone do not tell the full story. Let's start from the beginning.

Students who live locally can probably afford a reasonable 7:00am wake-up time. Students who live "across town" (who constitute a third of our student body) have to wake up at 6:00am or earlier in order to catch the bus, since the bus makes several dozen stops along the way. When students arrive at school, they are immediately herded into to a single room to endure a lengthy (usually 40 minute) shacharis. Davening is often followed by either announcements, a dvar Torah of sorts, or both. Students are subsequently released to their precious 10-15 minutes of breakfast and socializing time.

Then the morning classes begin. Students are shunted from class to class for the next three hours and twenty minutes. Each class is exactly 38 minutes long. Students are given 2 minutes to get from one classroom to the other, and there are no other breaks in between. This allows for just enough time for them to pack up their belongings, rush to their lockers to retrieve any books or materials they need, dash to their new class, and sit down before the teacher takes attendance. If they need to use the restroom (or take some time to breathe), they must leave in the middle of class, so as not to be marked tardy at the beginning of the period - unless, of course, they are unfortunate enough to have a teacher who prohibits students to leave during class time. (And yes, such teachers still exist.)

Then comes lunch time: the 40 minutes of freedom and redemption for which they yearn all morning long. Here they finally get a chance to unwind, to socialize, to relax, and to tend to their bodily functions.

Before they realize it, their prison sentence resumes with the onset of the dreaded Double Period. For the next hour and 16 minutes - which, to children whose waking life is divided into 40 minute chunks, must feel like an eternity - students are subjected to a double period of a class. The more merciful teachers (such as myself) give them a short break in the middle, but other teachers keep them in their seats for the entire period. The fact that this double-period occurs right after lunch makes it even more intolerable.

After the double-period, students are given a generous four minutes before their next class starts. They have one more 38-minute class, followed by a 16 minute "break" after each of them davens minchah on her own. This tefilah will necessarily be rushed, since the sooner they get done with minchah, the more free time they'll have. Then comes the home stretch: three more 38-minute class periods. The light is visible at the end of the tunnel (except in the dead of winter, when its dark by the time students leave).

Finally, at 5:15, the school day ends. The fortunate students who live locally arrive at home by 5:45 at the latest. The students from the other side of town must suffer on the long bus ride with its many stops. Some don't get home until 7:00pm. And that's on days when they don't have any after-school sports or activities. 

But it doesn't end there. School extends its pale and spindly arms into the privacy of students' homes in the form of homework and studying. By "studying" I don't mean "learning" or "Torah lishmah." I am referring to the dreadful task of "learning" (read: memorizing) material for The Big Test. If the student is efficient and/or hasty enough, he or she might still manage to find a few hours (often, the wee hours of the morning) to have some time for friends, hobbies, relaxation, and socializing. But these hours are few and far between. Inmates at correctional facilities have more time to reflect on their lives than high schoolers. It's no wonder so many of students appear bleary-eyed and soul-stricken at the beginning of the school day.

Oh, I forgot to mention: I've only been talking about the schedule for the all-girls school. The all-boys school I taught at last year had all of that, plus an extended Thursday evening learning schedule - which would last several hours into the night - AND a half day of school every other Sunday.

Now before you start quoting to me Gemaras about the intensive type of schooling system advocated by Chazal, I'm going to stop you right there. My rant in this post is based purely on my own observations. The guidelines, halachos, and ideals set forth in the Mesora must be understood and taken into account, but the first step is to recognize the reality that confronts us at the present.

General Sun Tzu: 544 B.C.E. - 496 B.C.E.

This brings us to The Art of War. Sun Tzu said:

2:2 - When you engage in actual fighting, if victory is long in coming, the men's weapons will grow dull and their ardor will be damped. If you lay siege to a town, you will exhaust your strength.  

2:3 - Again, if the campaign is protracted, the resources of the State will not be equal to the strain.  

2:4 - Now, when your weapons are dulled, your ardor damped, your strength exhausted, and your treasure spent, other chieftains will spring up to take advantage of your extremity. Then no man, however wise, will be able to avert the consequences that must ensue.

Like many of Sun Tzu's teachings, the truth of these statements is evident. If you exhaust your soldiers, whether physically or psychologically, then your chances of victory are severely diminished, and in your weakened state, you will be open to defeat from a multitude of causes, from within and without.

What is true for actual milchamah is also true in the Milchamta shel Torah (the War of Torah). In my few years of teaching experience, I have found that most students are alert and eager to learn for the first five periods of the day, but as the afternoon drags on, they become increasingly weary. They become restless and fidgety, they lose focus, their "misbehavior" increases tenfold, and the overall quality of their learning suffers. By the time they get to the final periods of the day (which, thankfully, I have never had to teach), their minds have already left the building.

And the students aren't the only ones who are affected by the length of the day. The teachers who teach full-time are also exhausted by the intense schedule. For example, in my second year of teaching there were some days of the week when I'd show up at 8:00, teach six back-to-back-classes (with a couple of short breaks thrown in), then drive off to another school and teach for two full periods. I was able to teach effectively for the first six periods, but by the time I got to the afternoon classes, I was spent. My own exhaustion, when combined with the post-lunch exhaustion of the students, made for a bad mix. Those were not my proudest teaching times. I don't know whether any objective comparison can be made between the exhaustion of the students and that of the teachers, but neither are pleasant, and each exacerbates the other.

Artwork: Diminishing Returns, by L.A. Williams

The lesson here can be summed up by borrowing a phrase from Chazal: "tafasta merubah, lo tafasta" (Chagigah 17a) which may be loosely rendered as “If you try to grab a lot, you'll end up not grabbing anything at all.” I understand that Jewish schools are under a lot of pressure to help their students achieve success in limudei kodesh and the so-called "secular studies," but I wonder how many administrators have stopped to seriously consider the question of whether their ambition has lead to a diminishing returns sort of effect. Are we trying to accomplish too much? And could we accomplish even more by doing less? 

In any endeavor one can only push a human being so far for so long before the productivity level begins to decrease. Has our Jewish day school system reached this point, with its 12-period dual-curriculum school days? And how much of the problem has to do with the educational approach we have been duped into adopting? Personally, I think that if the day were less structured, and students had the freedom to learn what interests them, they'd be able to increase the quality and the quantity of their learning.

The need for reform is dire, but the prospects are dim. In major Jewish centers, such as New York and Baltimore (and probably elsewhere), any Jewish school that attempted to cut its curriculum or shorten its school day would immediately lose students whose parents would be afraid that their kids were at a disadvantage compared to the more "traditional" schools (whose "tradition" is not rooted in our Mesora).

I don't know of a good solution, but recognizing the problem is an important first step.

Playing with Torah (Updated for 2015)

Apparently, I feel the need to repost this every few years - mostly because I need a good reminder. Each time I post it, it is for a slightly different reason, which I write about in the last section of the post. That time has come once again. Enjoy!

Feynman: Playing with Physics

I've been reading a lot of Richard Feynman stories lately. For those of you who aren't familiar, Feynman (1918-1988) was the fun-loving, Nobel Prize winning theoretical physicist who grew up in Far Rockaway, NY. The many anecdotes about him are chronicled in various books: Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! (1985), What Do You Care What Other People Think? (1988), No Ordinary Genius (1994), "The Pleasure of Finding Things Out (1999), and elsewhere. Not only are these stories insightful, but they are SO much fun to read! I recommend them to everyone - but only after watching some Feynman videos on YouTube to get a feel for the way he talks.

Anyway, there's one story I'd like to talk about today. It's rather long, but it is one of my absolute favorites. The story takes place in 1945, shortly after World War II. Now that Feynman was no longer needed for his work on the Manhattan Project, he accepted a professorship at Cornell. Feynman tells the story best, so I'll let him take over now. The story can be found in "Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!" on p.171-174 in the paperback edition, and p.66-67 in the PDF version. The italics are his, but the bold is mine:

At Cornell, I'd work on preparing my courses, and I'd go over to the library a lot and read through the Arabian Nights and ogle the girls that would go by. But when it came time to do some research, I couldn't get to work. I was a little tired; I was not interested; I couldn't do research! This went on for what I felt was a few years, but when I go back and calculate the timing, it couldn't have been that long. Perhaps nowadays I wouldn't think it was such a long time, but then, it seemed to go on for a very long time. I simply couldn't get started on any problem: I remember writing one or two sentences about some problem in gamma rays and then I couldn't go any further. I was convinced that from the war and everything else (the death of my wife) I had simply burned myself out ...

During this period I would get offers from different places -- universities and industry -- with salaries higher than my own. And each time I got something like that I would get a little more depressed. I would say to myself, "Look, they're giving me these wonderful offers, but they don't realize that I'm burned out! Of course I can't accept them. They expect me to accomplish something, and I can't accomplish anything! I have no ideas ..."

Finally there came in the mail an invitation from the Institute for Advanced Study: Einstein ... von Neumann ... Wyl ... all these great minds! They write to me, and invite me to be a professor there! And not just a regular professor. Somehow they knew my feelings about the Institute: how it's too theoretical; how there's not enough real activity and challenge. So they write, "We appreciate that you have a considerable interest in experiments and in teaching, so we have made arrangements to create a special type of professorship, if you wish: half professor at Princeton University, and half at the Institute."

Institute for Advanced Study! Special exception! A position better than Einstein, even! It was ideal; it was perfect; it was absurd!

It was absurd. The other offers had made me feel worse, up to a point. They were expecting me to accomplish something. But this offer was so ridiculous, so impossible for me ever to live up to, so ridiculously out of proportion. The other ones were just mistakes; this was an absurdity! I laughed at it while I was shaving, thinking about it.

And then I thought to myself, "You know, what they think of you is so fantastic, it's impossible to live up to it. You have no responsibility to live up to it!"

It was a brilliant idea: You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It's their mistake, not my failing.

It wasn't a failure on my part that the Institute for Advanced Study expected me to be that good; it was impossible. It was clearly a mistake-and the moment I appreciated the possibility that they might be wrong, I realized that it was also true of all the other places, including my own university. I am what I am, and if they expected me to be good and they're offering me some money for it, it's their hard luck.

Then, within the day, by some strange miracle -- perhaps he overheard me talking about it, or maybe he just understood me -- Bob Wilson, who was head of the laboratory there at Cornell, called me in to see him. He said, in a serious tone, "Feynman, you're teaching your classes well; you're doing a good job, and we're very satisfied. Any other expectations we might have are a matter of luck. When we hire a professor, we're taking all the risks. If it comes out good, all right. If it doesn't, too bad. But you shouldn't worry about what you're doing or not doing." He said it much better than that, and it released me from the feeling of guilt.

Then I had another thought: Physics disgusts me a little bit now, but I used to enjoy doing physics. Why did I enjoy it? I used to play with it. I used to do whatever I felt like doing -- it didn't have to do with whether it was important for the development of nuclear physics, but whether it was interesting and amusing for me to play with. When I was in high school, I'd see water running out of a faucet growing narrower, and wonder if I could figure out what determines that curve. I found it was rather easy to do. I didn't have to do it; it wasn't important for the future of science; somebody else had already done it. That didn't make any difference: I'd invent things and play with things for my own entertainment.

So I got this new attitude. Now that I am burned out and I'll never accomplish anything, I've got this nice position at the university teaching classes which I rather enjoy, and just like I read the Arabian Nights for pleasure, I'm going to play with physics, whenever I want to, without worrying about any importance whatsoever.

Within a week I was in the cafeteria and some guy, fooling around, throws a plate in the air. As the plate went up in the air I saw it wobble, and I noticed the red medallion of Cornell on the plate going around. It was pretty obvious to me that the medallion went around faster than the wobbling.

I had nothing to do, so I start to figure out the motion of the rotating plate. I discover that when the angle is very slight, the medallion rotates twice as fast as the wobble rate -- two to one. It came out of a complicated equation! Then I thought, "Is there some way I can see in a more fundamental way, by looking at the forces or the dynamics, why it's two to one?"

I don't remember how I did it, but I ultimately worked out what the motion of the mass particles is, and how all the accelerations balance to make it come out two to one.

I still remember going to Hans Bethe and saying, "Hey, Hans! I noticed something interesting. Here the plate goes around so, and the reason it's two to one is . . ." and I showed him the accelerations.

He says, "Feynman, that's pretty interesting, but what's the importance of it? Why are you doing it?"

"Hah!" I say. "There's no importance whatsoever. I'm just doing it for the fun of it." His reaction didn't discourage me; I had made up my mind I was going to enjoy physics and do whatever I liked.

I went on to work out equations of wobbles. Then I thought about how electron orbits start to move in relativity. Then there's the Dirac Equation in electrodynamics. And then quantum electrodynamics. And before I knew it (it was a very short time) I was "playing" --working, really -- with the same old problem that I loved so much, that I had stopped working on when I went to Los Alamos: my thesis-type problems; all those old-fashioned, wonderful things.

It was effortless. It was easy to play with these things. It was like uncorking a bottle: Everything flowed out effortlessly. I almost tried to resist it! There was no importance to what I was doing, but ultimately there was. The diagrams and the whole business that I got the Nobel Prize for came from that piddling around with the wobbling plate.

This isn't the only time that Feynman spoke of the importance of "playing." In No Ordinary Genius, pp.17-18, Feynman was asked by the author whether he ever wonders about where his great thinking ability came from. Feynman answers, "No." The author persists, saying, "Perhaps you just don't find it interesting, but when a mathematical prodigy like, say, Ramanujan turns up out of nowhere, surely one does wonder how he could have got hold of such extraordinary mathematical abilities?" Feynman answers:

I find in the world very many interesting questions such as this one, but I have no way to know the answer to it, and no way to find out. It's not that I am not interested, I simply don't know anything about it, and I don't like to speculate about things I don't know very much about. It's much more interesting for me (unless I'm working on it) to leave a mystery a mystery, rather than to make believe I know an answer to it. So I can't tell you where Ramanujan got his mathematical desires - I should call them desires, because that's what you really require first. Not so much the ability, but the desire to play around, and to notice. That's what he had to do - to find out funny things about numbers and to explore some more, play with the numbers until he had played enough to discover things that nobody else knew. He was playing, that's all. He had to have the desire to play, and I don't know where that came from.

I've always played around. It's hard to explain it very well. When I was a kid I had a laboratory. Although I'm now in theoretical work, I originally played experimentally. It's a bad term - I mean that I fooled about. I never did experiments in a scientific sense, to find out something. I would make radios, or try to make a photocell work. I had a spark plug from an old Ford car that I would set up and use to burn holes in paper, or see what would happen when I tried to put a spark through a vacuum tube. But I never kept a notebook of things I did every day, or made careful measurements. I wasn't that kind of "scientist," so to speak. I was just playing, like a child playing, but with different toys. 

So much for the anecdotes about the importance of "play" in knowledge. 

The Moral of the Story (and Support from Mesorah)

In my opinion, the moral of the story is pretty much what Feynman said: when it comes to learning, you should forget about all goals, objectives, and accomplishments; forget about distinctions of "important" and "not important"; forget about how much of a contribution you're making to your field, and whether you are going to justify your work to your peers; forget about all expectations and totally disregard the expectations of others; forget about achievement, forget about mastery, forget about what everyone else is doing or not doing, and just enjoy learning. Learn what you love to learn, be realistic and intellectually honest, and follow your mind wherever it takes you.

The irony is that the best way to achieve your goals is to not worry about achieving them! If you follow the path described by Feynman, you'll likely to be way more successful than you would have been any other way! Perhaps this is what the Rambam means in Hilchos Teshuvah 10:2 when he writes:

One who serves [God] out of love occupies himself with Torah and mitzvos and follows the paths of wisdom not because of anything in this world, neither out of fear of the bad nor in order to inherit the good. Rather, he does what is true because it is true - and ultimately, the good will come on its own.

Not surprisingly, Chazal preempted Feynman's realization by centuries. People usually quote Rava's formulation of the principle: "Le'olam yilmad adam Torah b'makom she'libo chafetz - a person should always learn Torah where his heart desires" (Avodah Zarah 19b), which is a prescriptive statement. Personally, I prefer R' Yehudah ha'Nasi's formulation: "Ein adam lomeid Torah ela mi'makom she'libo chafetz - a person does not learn Torah except from where his heart desires" (ibid.), which is a descriptive statement. In other words, this isn't just a rule that a person should follow in his learning, but rather, it is a description of reality. If your heart isn't into it then you won't really learn it, but if your heart is into it then you'll really learn!

A few days after I reading this story, I realized that we ask Hashem to enable us to reach Feynman's level each and every morning. We say:

Please, Hashem, our God, sweeten the words of Your Torah in our mouth and in the mouth of Your people, the family of Israel. May we and our offspring and the offspring of Your people, the House of Israel - all of us - know Your Name and learn Your Torah lishmah (for its own sake). Blessed are You, Hashem, Who teaches Torah to His people Israel.

We beseech Hashem to make our learning of Torah sweet and enjoyable, and to facilitate yedias Hashem (knowledge of God) and Torah lishmah (learning Torah for its own sake). To learn Torah lishmah means to learn it as an end in and of itself - not in order to accomplish, to achieve, or as a means toward some objective. This is exactly the type of learning that Feynman was describing. His mind was drawn to unraveling the mystery of the wobbling plate. He allowed himself to be totally guided by his natural curiosity and didn't feel any need to justify it or explain the importance of what he was doing. He was seeking knowledge of reality lishmah, and it was sweet.

There is even support in the Mesorah for Feynman's choice of the verb "play" to describe his involvement in physics. I don't think I need to define what he means by "playing." Everyone knows what it means to play. What I realized was that this is actually encouraged in Torah! Tehilim 119 is filled with references to David ha'Melech "playing with Torah" and regarding Torah as "a plaything" - at least, according to the translation of the root שעשע by Radak and Metzudos. Check it out:

"I play with Your statutes, I will not forget Your word" (Tehilim 119:16); "Indeed, Your testimonies are my plaything and my counselors" (ibid. 24); "I will play with Your mitzvos that I love" (ibid. 47); "Their heart grew thick as fat; but as for me, Your Torah is my plaything" (ibid. 70); "May Your mercies come upon me so that I may live, for Your Torah is my plaything" (ibid. 77); "Had Your Torah not been my plaything, then I would have perished in my affliction" (ibid. 92); "Distress and anguish have overtaken me, Your mitzvos are my plaything" (ibid. 143); "I crave Your salvation, O Hashem, and Your Torah is my plaything" (ibid. 174)

Shlomo ha'Melech utilizes this metaphor in Mishlei to depict the relationship between Hashem and chochmah:

Hashem made me [chochmah] as the beginning of His way, before His deeds of yore . . . I was then His nursling, I was then His delightful plaything every day, playing before Him at all times, playing in the inhabited areas of His earth, delightfully playing with the sons of man (Mishlei 8:22, 30-31).

I can't say that I experience this every time I learn, but thank God, I do have this experience on a consistent basis in one area of learning: Mishlei. I'd say that 95% of the times I sit down to learn Mishlei with my students, my friends, and my teachers, I experience the sweetness of Torah lishmah. I actually used the metaphor of "plaything" to describe my learning of Mishlei before I was aware of the pesukim in Tehilim. When I learn Mishlei, I see each pasuk as a puzzle that I get to work out. The experience is fun, challenging, and rewarding - and I get the benefit of learning useful techniques for living an enjoyable life! What could be better?

Relevance to the Blog: as of 2010

I founded my first blog in April of 2007. Over the next five months I wrote 96 blog posts. Over the course of the following academic year I wrote 77 posts, and in the next academic year I wrote 81. This year, however, [editor's note: 2010] I've only written ten posts, and only three of these contained any original content. The question is: What happened? Why the dip in prolificacy?

The simplest explanation is that this was my first year "outside" of yeshiva. For a period of seven wonderful years, from September '02 until June '09, I was blessed with the privilege of learning in yeshiva full-time, or part-time while going to college (which was practically full-time). But in September '09 I got my first teaching job, and since then, I've devoted a great deal of time to my students. Time that was once spent writing blog posts was now spent preparing lessons and responding to students' questions via email and text messaging.

This explanation, while true, is not the whole truth. After reading the story of the wobbling plate I realized that my relationship to my blog has changed over the years. When I first started blogging, I did it for my own enjoyment. I love writing! Actually, that's not entirely accurate. I love thinking through writing. By that I mean formulating and organizing my ideas in writing, and discussing them with others in writing. My blog was originally conceived of as a venue for me to do what I love, for essentially selfish reasons.

But over time, as more and more people started reading my blog, I started to feel obligated to write. This had several negative effects: 

1. I felt increasingly restricted in the writing topics I chose. Instead of writing what I wanted to write about, I felt like I had to write about what others would be interested in. And when someone asked me to take up a certain topic or answer a certain question, I felt responsible for following through on the request.
   
2. My perfectionist tendencies were horrendously exacerbated. In the good ole' days I felt comfortable posting whatever I was thinking about: musings, questions, observations, insights, partial ideas, ideas in development, my feelings about certain ideas, my feelings toward learning in general, and the like. But as time went on, I felt the need to only post "publishable" material - the type of stuff that I would feel comfortable submitting to a newsletter or online publication. That cut out a lot of potentially "post-worthy" posts.
   
3. Likewise, I started to spend a longer and longer time tweaking, editing, and rewriting posts - many of which have never seen the light of day because they haven't met my unrealistic perfectionist standards. (Fun fact: Did you know that I have 106 drafts in my draft folder? That's 106 blog posts in various stages of completion, which I have "put on hold" because my perfectionist tendencies prevented me from finishing them. Sickening, isn't it?) [Editor's note: Since 2010, this number has increased twofold - or perhaps even threefold.]
   
4. For the same reason, I began to feel pressured to write "comprehensive" treatments of whatever topic I chose to write about. This was another unrealistic obstacle which compounded all of the other problems.
   
5. I felt increasing pressure to be prolific. If I didn't post a certain number of posts per week, I'd feel guilty or remiss in my duty as a writer. And when I didn't meet that self-imposed quota, I would start to ignore the blog altogether. It was a vicious cycle.
   
6. I used to write as a learner, but I somehow allowed myself to get into the mode of trying to teach through my blog. In retrospect, this was a mistake. There is a place for teaching and a place for learning, and for me, this blog is the latter. All of my feelings of obligation and responsibility are built on the premise that I am writing in the capacity of teacher. But if I'm just a guy thinking out loud and talking ideas with other people, then why should I have any responsibilities towards others? "If you have become wise, you have become wise for yourself, and if you have scoffed, then you alone will bear responsibility" (Mishlei 9:12). 

There may have been more, but that's all I can think of right now. The point is that I stopped enjoying writing on my blog, and consequently, I stopped trying. Whenever I did try, I didn't get anywhere. I'd either become frustrated, or obsessed with "getting it perfect," or disinterested. It just wasn't fun anymore.

And so, freshly inspired by Feynman's example, I'm going to set one more goal for myself: NOT to be goal-oriented in writing for my blog. I want to rekindle the original spirit of the blog. Starting this week, I'm going to go back to writing for my own benefit and my own enjoyment. I'm going to (try to) forget about my own expectations and the expectations of others and just have fun thinking in writing.

If I succeed, then this will be good for me and for the blog. If I fail, then things will remain as they have been. Either way, I've got nothing to lose. Wish me luck!

Relevance to the Blog: as of 2015

I began this blog last summer. My goal then was the same goal I had during the previous summer: to publish one blog post each weekday of the summer. This summer was slightly different: instead of prioritizing new blog posts, I made it my goal to edit and republish posts from the old blog. Thankfully, it appears that this has been a success. 

This week I will begin preparing for the classes I will be teaching during the upcoming school year. Last year at this time, I decided it would be prudent to stop writing new posts for the blog. During the school year, I barely wrote anything. I had consciously decided - for a number of reasons - to invest all of my learning/teaching energy into the classes I was teaching. In retrospect, I believe this was a mistake. Rereading these Feynman anecdotes helped me to understand why this is the case. In short: I need an outlet for "playing" with Torah, and this blog is that outlet.

As much as I incorporate the "playing" attitude into the way I teach my students, and in my chavrusa learning, neither of these activities can substitute for my own need to play with Torah. I need a venue in which I can freely play with ideas, without the responsibility of "teaching" or of being viewed as authority or even of "being a good chavrusa." I need the freedom to think out loud and explore questions and ideas which interest me, and I need to do this by writing in a public format. 

Why can I only satisfy this need in this manner? Who knows! I only know that it is true, and that I must do it. During this past school year, my teaching and my learning suffered because I wasn't playing with Torah through writing. I see now how critical it is for me to continue playing with Torah even during the school year. 

And so I am pleased to announce on the record that although my daily blogging will discontinue for the summer, I definitely plan to continue writing and posting for the remainder of the month, and - God willing - for the remainder of the year. I hope and pray that I will be successful in this endeavor, and that my efforts will not be thwarted by forces from within or from without. Thank you for your support! 

Is Hashem "an Angry God"?

It wasn't until I was nearly done writing this dvar Torah that I realized it is more about Sefer Devarim than Parashas Eikev. Oh well. Since it's based on the Ralbag's commentary on Eikev, then I'm still counting it as a dvar Torah on the parashah. Enjoy!

 

Artwork: Wrath of God, by Kev Walker

Is Hashem "an Angry God"?

As a member of the nation charged with the mission of Kiddush Shemo ha'Gadol (Sanctifying the Great Name of God), I find myself perturbed whenever Hashem gets "a bad rap." One example of this is His portrayal as "the angry God of the Old Testament." 

Undoubtedly there are many factors which contribute to this stereotype, but let's face it: the Chumash does record quite a number of divine punishments - particularly in Sefer Bamidbar. One can certainly get the impression that Hashem is easily angered. Indeed, the first time I prepared to teach Sefer Bamidbar, I was advised by a veteran educator to make sure that students didn't walk away with an image of Hashem as a hot-tempered God Who is preoccupied with punishing His people. 

In his list of lessons at the end of the parashah, the Ralbag provides an interesting perspective on the divine wrath directed at Bnei Yisrael throughout their sojourn in the Midbar:

The seventh lesson [we learn from this parashah] teaches us the depth of Hashem's plans (exalted is He). Although Yisrael tarried in the Midbar for 40 years as a punishment, [Hashem] utilized this [time period for an additional] purpose, namely, to test whether [Bnei Yisrael] would keep the mitzvos of Hashem or not, so that they would be ready for the time when they would inherit the Land. For this reason, Hashem disciplined them immediately after they rebelled - in contrast to Hashem's minhag (customary practice) of being slow to anger. But He did this for the sake of hashgachah (providence) on all of Yisrael, so that they would refrain from sinning against Him. It is for this reason that He afflicted them and starved them in the Wilderness for 40 years, in order to demonstrate His wonders to Israel, in order to strengthen their observance of the mitzvos. 

According to the Ralbag, Hashem’s disciplinary approach during the 40 years in the Midbar was an anomaly. Ordinarily, Hashem is “slow to anger.” The Ralbag explains the term “slow to anger” in his commentary on Ki Tisa (Shemos 33-34):

The ra (“bad”) that occurs to existences will only occur infrequently and minutely, and is not intended for its own sake, due to the fact that Hashem is the One Who established the manner in which [the world] is governed. Hashem wisely arranged things so that only the smallest amount of ra occurs … and the ra which does occur is only a byproduct of the good, as is the case with [divine] rebuke via hashgachah pratis.*

Reading this Ralbag reminds us of an important lesson: one cannot simply infer universal principles from particular instances of hashgachas Hashem; it is entirely possible that Hashem utilized an anomalous mode of hashgachah, as warranted by those particular circumstances, and we would be mistake to assume that this was His general way of doing things.

This isn’t to say that we can never universalize from the cases of hashgachah in Tanach. Rather, it means that we must be sure that we are aware of all the factors at play in every case before we attempt to universalize. 

In short, it means that the task of understanding hashgachas Hashem is a whole lot harder than I once imagined. I used to think that you could just look at the facts from that story and infer a universal. This Ralbag reminded me that we can’t assume that all of the relevant facts (or factors) are spelled out explicitly in the story. There may be larger factors at play which the pesukim assume that we are aware of, and which must be taken into account when trying to understand the workings of the hashgachah.

I know this isn't a new idea or anything. I just think that we can always use an additional reminder of how difficult it is to grasp the ways of Hashem, and how arrogant we would be to assume that we can easily know how He operates. 

* If you’re interested in a detailed explanation of this, I refer you to Ralbag's commentary on Sefer Iyov and his magnum opus, Malchamos Hashem – both of which would take us far beyond the scope of this blog post. If you are interested in an overview of this idea from a different angle, see my post: Punishing Children for their Fathers' Sins.

Guilt, Halacha, and The Grapes of Wrath

Casy and Uncle John

Originally posted in August 2012.

Guilt, Halacha, and The Grapes of Wrath

This summer I reread John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath (1939). One of the main characters is John Joad, or "Uncle John," as he is called in the family. Uncle John as an extremely guilty fellow. He deeply believes that the sins of his past have condemned him to a life of unhappiness and continue to be a source of bad luck and misfortune for his family.

Uncle John feels especially guilty for the premature death of his wife. One night she developed a pain in her stomach. She told him that he'd better get a doctor, but he said, "Hell, you jus' et too much." She died the next afternoon of a burst appendix (or, as Tom Joad puts it, "somepin jus' bust in her. Ap—appendick or somepin").

Tom goes on to explain the impact that this event had on his uncle: "Well, Uncle John, he's always been a easy-goin' fella, an' he takes it hard. Takes it for a sin." Uncle John feels entirely responsible for her death, as though he killed her intentionally, and his guilt dominates his entire life.

At several points in the book Uncle John speaks with Reverend Casy (the ex-preacher) about the nature of sin. In the first instance, Casy speaks about the difficulty of identifying a sin:

Casy said gently, "Sure I got sins. Ever'body got sins. A sin is somepin you ain't sure about."

Uncle John brings up his feeling of culpability for the death of his wife. He asks Casy, "You think it was a sin to let my wife die like that?" Casy's response reveals his concept of sin:

"Well," said Casy, "for anybody else it was a mistake, but if you think it was a sin - then it's a sin. A fella builds his own sins right up from the groun'."

Later in the book, Uncle John reiterates Casy's definition:

Uncle John scratched the earth deeply with a long rusty nail. "He knowed about sin. I ast him about sin, an' he tol' me; but I don't know if he's right. He says a fella's sinned if he thinks he's sinned." 

Call me naive, but I was shocked and horrified by this notion of sin, in spite of the fact that it is probably the prevailing view of sin in the world. But this initial feeling of shock coalesced into a realization about several qualities of Halacha (Jewish Law) I hadn't fully appreciated beforehand, and it is this these qualities which I would like to briefly explore in this blog post.

Artwork: Burden of Guilt, by John Stanko

We humans are a guilty lot. Say what you will about guilt, but one thing is for certain: guilt is difficult to escape. Unless you are a sociopath or a true philosopher, chances are that you will experience guilt when you act contrary to the values and standards of right and wrong to which you subscribe.

Unfortunately, guilt has a way of dictating its own standards - and that is where all the trouble starts. These standards tend to be vague, obscure, and extremely difficult to pin down with any degree of precision. Additionally, they are erratic and inconsistent, making them highly unreliable. Perhaps the most insidious quality of guilt is its subjectivity. The conscience doesn't give a damn about objective reality, and it can punish you with the same degree of guilt for any and all "transgressions," real and imaginary alike.

Elusiveness, inconsistency, and subjectivity: these are the weapons which make guilt such a formidable tyrant, and it is these three qualities which are mitigated by the nature of Halacha.

Halacha, in its true form, is certainly not elusive, vague, and obscure. Any human action in any given situation can be classified under the halachic categories of mutar (permitted), assur (prohibited), chayav (obligated), patur (exempt), etc. Halacha is precise in its legal definitions on a practical and a conceptual level. Even in cases of doubt and uncertainty, Halacha prescribes a definitive course of action, such as safek de'oraisa l'chumra (when in doubt about a Biblical law, we are stringent), safek de'rabbanan l'kula (when in doubt about a Rabbinic law, we are lenient), and so on. Knowledge of Halacha is readily accessible, whether by firsthand investigation or by asking a posek (halachic adjudicator) and drawing upon his expertise. Especially in this day and age, even poskim on the other side of the world can be reached immediately. Suffice it to say, Halacha does not square with Reverend Casy's definition of sin as "somepin you ain't sure about." Halacha is sure about sin. Sure and exact.

Halacha is neither erratic nor inconsistent. True, at the present time there is a multiplicity of shitos (halachic opinions), chumros (stringencies), kulos (leniencies), and minhagim (customs) - some valid and some invalid. Nevertheless, within the framework of each shitah or each person's practice, Halacha is consistent and reliable. In 99% of the cases, what was assur yesterday will be assur today, and what is mutar now will be mutar in the future. Casy's statement, "A fella builds his own sins right up from the groun'" - is not true of Halacha. Halacha was given to us by Hashem at Sinai. The halachic system has been in place before we came onto the scene, and it will continue to be here after we have left. It is not "built up from the ground by individual human beings."

Last, and most importantly, Halacha is not subjective. Halacha is objective: it applies equally to you, to me, and to everybody else. Halacha is objective in that it is an independent system which operates by its own set of principles, regardless of the feelings and actions of its practitioners. Halacha is objective in that is a regimen designed by the Creator as a means of helping human beings attain perfection. Like the blueprint of a skyscraper, the formula for a chemical compound, and the recipe for a cake, the rules and guidelines of Halacha must be rooted in the objective reality of the human being's design in order to achieve its goals. Casy's statement "for anybody else it was a mistake, but if you think it was a sin - then it's a sin" might be true of other religious doctrines, but not Halacha.

Now, this certainly doesn't mean that the adherents of Halacha are immune to guilt. We noted at the very outset that it is extremely difficult to escape from guilt entirely. This is especially true in the modern age, due to the influence of Christianity which has saturated our culture and tainted our relationship to Torah. 

My intent is merely to bring to our attention the marvelous fact that halacha, by its very nature, undermines the foundations of religious guilt. I'm not claiming that halacha was designed this way for this specific purpose. All of the aforementioned qualities are inherent to the halachic system, and it would be a stretch to claim that Hashem "planned" it this way in order to counteract guilt. It's just that I had never really appreciated this aspect of halacha until I encountered Uncle John's character in The Grapes of Wrath. I never fully realized how all-consuming this guilt can be, and how halacha goes a long way in preventing us from getting bogged down in this type of guilt. (Yes, I realize that Uncle John might still feel guilty for the death of his wife, but much of the guilt he experiences from his amorphous sinfulness throughout the story; the same goes for Rosasharn and the guilt she feels after being lectured by the Christian woman in the camp.)

The more I learn, the more I realize and appreciate the manifold (and often subtle) characteristics of Torah which make it the uniquely beneficial system that it is. As the Rambam writes at the conclusion of Hilchos Megilah v'Chanukah 4:13: "How great is peace! For the entire Torah was given to make peace in the world, as it is stated, 'its ways are ways of pleasantness and all its paths are peace' (Mishlei 3:17)."

Midrash Methodology: Clash of the Titans (Og vs. Moshe)

Originally posted in January 2012.

Artwork: Bearer of the Heavens, by Ryan Alexander Lee

Introduction

There are certain aggados and midrashim which enjoy tremendous popularity, for better or for worse. One of these well-known aggados depicts an epic battle between a giant Og, King of Bashan, and Moshe Rabbeinu, who - according to the literal reading of the text - was also a giant. Here is the text of that aggadah in full, as stated in Berachos 54b:

[Og, the King of Bashan,] said: How large is the camp of Israel? Three parasangs (approximately eight miles). I will go and uproot a mountain of the size of three parasangs and cast it upon them and kill them. He went and uprooted a mountain of the size of three parasangs and carried it on his head. But Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu sent grasshoppers which bored a hole in it, so that it sank around his neck. He tried to pull it off, but his teeth projected on each side, and he could not pull it off. This is referred to in the text, “You have broken the teeth of the wicked” (Tehilim 3:8), as explained by Reish Lakish, for Reish Lakish said: What is the meaning of the text, “You have broken the teeth of the wicked”? Do not read, “shibarta” (“You have broken”) but “shirvavta” (“You have elongated”). Moses was ten cubits tall (approximately 18 feet). He took an axe ten cubits long, leapt ten cubits into the air, and struck him on his ankle and killed him.

Pretty wild-sounding, eh? Thankfully, we can enlist the aid of the Rashba - a preeminent Rishon who wrote an extensive commentary on dozens of Talmudic midreshei aggadah, including this one. Our goal in this post will be two-fold: (1) to understand the Rashba's explanation of this midrash, and (2) to glean several principles of methodology which we can apply when learning other aggados and midrashim.

Methodology Principle #1: Deceptively Simple Midrashim

The Rashba prefaces his explanation of our aggadah as follows:

First I will make a statement about the aggados which can be found in the Talmud and in the midrashim. Know that some aggados are written in a deep language for many reasons. Sometimes you will find that the Sages alluded to an exceedingly simple idea or unnecessary idea, but nevertheless expressed it in a strange and very deep language, causing the onlooker to think that it contains an esoteric concept or a matter that was necessary to conceal, when this is not the case. 

The Rashba then goes on to list three reasons why Chazal would go out of their way to express "exceedingly simple ideas" in such cryptic language. I would cite this portion of the Rashba, but I fear it would take us on a tangent. We'll save that discussion for another time.

The Rashba concludes by translating his point into practical terms:

Therefore, when you find me explaining the words of an aggadah and you think that it must be expressing an abstract idea - due to its subtle language and cryptic formulation - and yet, I explain that it comes to teach very simple concepts, do not dogmatically assert that it is impossible for Chazal to conceal such a simple idea in such language, for I have already shown you this feature of their style in aggados.

The methodology principle we gain from this may be stated as follows: Just because a midrash looks like it contains a deep idea doesn't necessarily mean that it actually contains a deep idea. It is entirely possible that a subtly or fantastically worded midrash contains nothing but "an exceedingly simple or unnecessary idea." 

(Note: This is a perfect example of why it is so important to learn midrashim under the guidance of the Rishonim. I would never be able to learn enough midrashim to arrive at such a conclusion._

Methodology Principle #2: Allegorical Fluency

The Rashba then explains that in order to "decode" our midrash, we need to be familiar with certain facts and mashalim (metaphors) from two other sources. The first is another midrash about Og, found in Niddah 61a (note that Rashba's version of the text is slightly different than ours): 

“And Hashem said to Moshe: ‘Do not fear him [i.e. Og, King of Bashan]!’” (Bamidbar 21:34). Considering the fact that Sihon and Og were brothers, why was it that Moshe feared Og while he did not fear Sichon? From the answer that was given by Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu, you may recognize what was in the mind of that tzadik (i.e. Moshe); this teaches that Moshe was afraid that perhaps the merit of Avraham would stand by for Og, as it is stated, “And there came the one that had escaped and told Avram the Hebrew” (Bereishis 14:13), and Mar said: “This refers to Og, who escaped from the Flood.” Hashem said to Moshe: “Do not fear him, for I have given him over to your hand.” 

Og earned a zechus (merit) for informing Avraham that Lot was being held captive. This, in turn, prompted Avraham to go on a rescue mission which proved successful. Moshe was afraid that the hashgachah (Divine providence) would protect Og on account of this zechus. Hashem reassured Moshe that there was nothing to fear.

The second source we need to be familiar with is the allegorical language used by the Neviim in reference to the Avos. For example, the Navi says, "Arise and contend before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice!" (Michah 6:1). According to the Rashba, the Navi is exhorting to Bnei Yisrael to learn from Avraham, as it is stated, "Look to the rock from which you were hewn, and at the hollow of the pit from which you were dug; look to Avraham your forefather and to Sarah who bore you" (Yishaya 51:1-2). According to the Rashba, the depiction of Avos as mountains is used throughout Tanach and the words of Chazal.

The methodology principle we gain from this may be stated as follows: Do not assume that a midrash or aggadah is "self-contained," for it may require familiarity with other sources in order to decode its meaning.

The Main Idea of Our Aggadah

With these two keys in hand, the Rashba commences his explanation of our aggadah:

Therefore, Moshe was afraid that the zechus of Avraham would stand by for Og - and this is the very thought that Og had. He said: "Since this nation - in spite of its massive camp which spans three parasangs - is only powerful on account of the zechus of their forefather [Avraham], and since I preceded them in [my] zechus of Avraham, therefore I will be able to uproot that 'mountain' (i.e. the zechus of Avraham which protected Bnei Yisrael) from them and I will be assisted [by the hashgachah] in overturning it upon them."

In other words, there was no actual mountain. Rather, the "mountain" Og sought to overturn is a mashal for the zechus of Avraham which protected Bnei Yisrael. Og believed he could overcome the zechus of Bnei Yisrael due to his own zechus of Avraham.

The Rashba continues his explanation:

The "grasshoppers" that came and bored a hole in the mountain is a mashal for the Jews, who - like grasshoppers - had their power in their tongues, as the midrash states: "'[Now the congregation will lick up our entire surroundings,] as an ox licks up the greenery of the field' (Bamidbar 22:4) - just as an ox's power is in its tongue, so too, the power of the Jews is in their tongue" (Tanchuma: Balak 3). This means to say that through the prayers and supplications of the Jews, the zechus of Avraham their forefather will remain with them and will not assist Og; instead, it will overturn his zechus upon him - as represented by the mountain falling around his neck and breaking his teeth.

As we know from the tefilos of Rosh ha'Shanah and Yom ha'Kippurim, "Teshuvah, tefilah, and tzedakah can tear up the bad decree." Even if Og had zechus from Avraham which would have aided him, the tefilos of the Jews would overturn his zechus and foil his plans. (Once again, we see that the decoding of this aggadah requires familiarity with the allegorical language from another source: the Midrash Tanchuma.)

The Rashba continues:

Due to the fact that Og was a powerful king and was naturally strong, the Jews would not have been able to withstand him - all the more so, since the zechus of Avraham would have made it impossible for the Jews to approach him. It was therefore necessary for Moshe [to invoke] in his tefilah his own zechus, and the zechus of the the Twelve Tribes, and the zechus of all the Avos - namely, Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. This is what was meant by the statement: "Moshe was ten cubits tall. He took a ten cubit axe and leapt ten cubits into the air." In other words, "Moshe was ten cubits tall" refers to his own zechus. The "axe" that he took is an allusion to the nation as a whole, who was there with him; since they were there with him, they are metaphorically depicted as a tool in his hand which he could use. "He leapt ten cubits into the air" refers to the zechus of the Avos (peace be upon them); therefore, Moshe is metaphorically depicted as someone who leaps upwards, since he needed to "jump up" to the zechus of the Avos, who lived at an earlier time in history. And afterwards it explains why all of this was necessary: "to strike Og on his ankle," namely, to nullify the zechus he had earned by taking steps - using his ankles - for the sake of Avraham.

Apparently, even though Og was not by any means a tzadik, his zechus from Avraham was sufficient to grant him hashgachic protection from Bnei Yisrael to the extent that Moshe needed to combine his own zechus with the zechus of Bnei Yisrael, the zechus of all the Avos, and the zechus of tefilah in order to nullify Og's zechus.

I sense that there is a lot to be learned from here about how hashgachah works. Many of us would probably feel safe placing our bets on Bnei Yisrael's zechus beating any zechus that Og might have earned - and yet, Moshe Rabbeinu was apprehensive, and he knew WAY more about hashgachah than we do. If there is one thing I have learned from this aggadah, it's that I know even less about the workings of hashgachah than I did before I learned this aggadah!

Methodology Principle #3: Detail for the Sake of Detail

Rashba then explains the significance of the "ten cubits":

They said "Moshe was ten cubits tall" because this was Moshe Rabbeinu's height, as mentioned in Shabbos (92a). For this reason, all of the measurements were listed as ten - not because all of the measurements were necessary, but only for the sake of the allegory, for Og is allegorically depicted as having an incredibly large stature to such a degree that he was able to uproot a mountain measuring three parasangs in length and to carry it on his head. Therefore, the height of his ankle is allegorically depicted as thirty cubits - for such is the style of allegories, to incorporate particulars which fit nicely into the allegory intended by the pesukim or the Sages. Likewise, "He went and uprooted a mountain of the size of three parasangs and carried it on his head" - all of these matters [were incorporated because they] nicely fit into the structure of the allegory, and not for any other reason.

Here the Rashba gives us another important methodology principle for interpreting midrashim: In some cases the nuances of a midrash have ideational content and significance, but in other cases, the details are just included for the sake of completing and beautifying the allegory.

The Rambam mentions the same principle in his introduction to the Moreh ha'Nevuchim:

You must well understand what I have said, for it is a principle of the utmost importance with respect to those things which I intend to expound. If you observe in one of the chapters that I explained the meaning of a certain allegory and pointed out to you its general scope, do not trouble yourself further in order to find an interpretation of each separate particular, for that would lead you to one of the two following erroneous courses: either you will miss the sense included in the metaphor, or you will be induced to explain certain things which require no explanation, and which are not introduced for that purpose. Through this unnecessary trouble you may fall into the great error which besets most modern sects in their foolish writings and discussions: they all endeavor to find some hidden meaning in expressions which were never uttered by the author in that sense. Your goal should be to discover in most of the allegories the general idea which the author wishes to express.

Presumably, the more one learns, the better intuition one develops for discerning whether an allegorical detail has ideational significance or whether it's just there as filler.

(Incidentally, I have a hard time believing that Moshe Rabbeinu was actually ten cubits tall, in spite of what the Gemara in Shabbos 92a says. That Gemara must either be another metaphor or it must be hyperbole.)

Summary

Thanks to the Rashba, we have learned three methodological principles from this aggadah: 

1. Do not assume that every aggadah contains a deep idea, despite its cryptic formulation; it may be that the idea is "simple or unnecessary," but Chazal nevertheless expressed it in a complex manner. 
2. Do not assume that every aggadah can be interpreted on its own; it may be that in order to decode an aggadah, one must be familiar with ideas, facts, or metaphors from other sources in Tanach or Chazal. 
3. Do not assume that every detail of the aggadah contains ideas; it may be that the details and nuances were included solely for the purpose of beautifying or completing the allegory. 

We also learned a valuable lesson about how zechus works, namely, a little zechus can go a long way. Og was not a tzadik like Moshe Rabbeinu, nor was he a member of Klal Yisrael - and yet, the zechus he earned by helping Avraham was so great that even Moshe was afraid that he wouldn't be able to defeat him.

Mussar without "Should"s and "Shouldn't"s

Mussar without "Should"s and "Shouldn't"s

"Don't should on me" is an aphorism which my Mishlei rebbi is fond of saying in response to people using the word "should." This saying is consistent with his general approach to Mishlei, to mussar, and to life. 

Unlike many approaches to mussar, which involve many "should"s and "shouldn't"s, there is only one "should" in my Mishlei rebbi's derech: "you should learn." His derech is built upon a simple but powerful premise: chochmah changes people. And not just any chochmah, but the type of chochmah that Chazal were referring to when they said, "Who is a chacham? One who sees the consequences of his actions" (Tamid 32b). The type of chochmah which is the subject of the book of Mishlei.

My rebbi's theory is that if you gain knowledge of consequences, and you keep reviewing that knowledge from as many angles as you can until it is crystal clear, that knowledge will eventually start to become real to you. And once it is real to the point where you not only "know" the consequences, but really "see" them, then that knowledge will begin to change your emotions, your behavior, and your decision-making. All you need to do is keep learning and keep reviewing. Over time, your chochmah will become real to you, and will transform you into a different person. 

In this derech, there is no need for "should"s and "shouldn't"s. To the contrary, "should"s and "shouldn't"s can be harmful, since they threaten to supplant chochmah with "authority" (i.e. "superego" or "conscience") as the motivating factor in one's behavior. 

My Mishlei rebbi always reminds us that he has a terrible memory when it comes to sources. Oftentimes, when we ask him about the source of an idea that he quoted, he'll just say, "I got it from learning Mishlei. I can't be more specific than that." I must admit that when I first started learning with him, these attributions to Mishlei didn't sit well with me. I couldn't help but wonder: "Is this really what Mishlei teaches, or is this just my rebbi's idea which he sees in Mishlei, but which I might not?" But the more I learned with him, the more I gradually came to realize how many of his ideas were explicitly stated right there in Mishlei and in its meforshim. 

My rebbi's approach to mussar which I described above made sense to me from an early age. The more I learned Mishlei, the more convinced I became that my rebbi was correct, and that this derech of mussar was, indeed, the derech of Shlomo ha'Melech himself. Still, it bothered me that I never saw this approach explicitly spelled out in Mishlei or its meforshim. 

That changed today. I had been learning Chapter 13 of Mishlei with my Mishlei rebbi, and we stumbled upon a little paragraph in the Meiri's commentary to Mishlei 13:5. The Meiri writes:

We have already explained above (Mishlei 6:12) that teaching someone that something bad is bad is half of the rebuke. Likewise, teaching someone that something good is good is half of the motivation [to improve oneself]. Therefore, the majority of Shlomo ha'Melech's statements do not contain any direct commands; rather, [his statements convey] knowledge about something good that it is good, in order to motivate a person to do it, and knowledge about something bad that it is bad, to motivate a person to refrain from it.

The Meiri referred us to an earlier place in his commentary, where he states this principle in different terms and explains how it works:

The wise man said, "Knowledge that a thing is bad is half of teshuvah, and teaching someone that a thing is bad is half of a rebuke." In other words, once a person knows that something is bad, it will be easier for him to subdue his emotions and to do teshuvah from it. That being said, once the chacham informs someone that it is bad, and is the action of scoundrels, that is like a rebuke and a warning not to do it.

The Meiri stated exactly what my Mishlei rebbi has been saying for all of these years. Shlomo ha'Melech's approach to mussar doesn't involve telling us "you should do such-and-such" or "you shouldn't do such-and-such." Rather, Shlomo ha'Melech merely teaches us the benefits and consequences of good and bad decisions, and that knowledge itself changes our emotions and decisions, without any need for explicit commands. 

It is important to note that Shlomo ha'Melech could have easily conveyed this knowledge and ALSO formulated his teachings as "should"s and "shouldn't"s -- but he didn't. Why not? Perhaps because of what I wrote earlier, that "should"s and "shouldn't"s are fueled by the superego, making it harder for the chochmah itself to influence our behavior. Or perhaps because he didn't want us to fall into the trap of labeling certain actions as inherently good or inherently bad. Or maybe it was because he didn't want to limit our application of his lessons to the particular case. 

Whatever the reason, the fact remains that Mishlei - despite its identity as a book of mussar - contains very few "should"s and "shouldn't"s. In my opinion, the Meiri and my Mishlei rebbi give a very compelling explanation for why this is the case. Should you accept this answer? That is something for you to decide yourself.

Parashas Eikev: Protection from Beasts

Originally posted in July 2013. Click here for a printer-friendly version of this article. 

Artwork: Beastmaster Ascension, by  Alex Horley-Orlandelli

Parashas Eikev: Protection from Beasts

Parashas Eikev begins with Moshe Rabbeinu preparing Bnei Yisrael for the conquest of Eretz Yisrael. He compares the imminent defeat of the Canaanite nations to the events of Yetzias Mitzrayim: 

Perhaps you will say in your heart, "These nations are more numerous than I; how will I be able to drive them out?" Do not fear them! You shall remember what Hashem, your God, did to Paroh and to all of Mitzrayim. The great tests that your eyes saw, and the signs, the wonders, the strong hand, and the outstretched arm with which Hashem, your God, took you out - so shall Hashem, your God, do to all the peoples before whom you fear. (Devarim 7:17-19) 

It is clear that the conquest of Eretz Yisrael will be aided by hashgachah pratis (personal Divine supervision). That being said, what are we to make of Moshe's next statement? 

Hashem, your God, will thrust these nations from before you little by little; you will not be able to annihilate them quickly, lest the beasts of the field increase against you. 

Wait, what? Hashem is going to help Bnei Yisrael to miraculously defeat the mighty and numerous Canaanite nations, but He's going to "take it slow" due to the threat of wild animals? Just a few sentences earlier, Moshe reminded Bnei Yisrael of the miracles and wonders of Yetzias Mitzrayim, in which Hashem summoned hordes of wild animals to descend upon the Egyptians - and yet, when it comes time to help Bnei Yisrael settle the Land, the wild animals are a problem? Why doesn't Hashem just miraculously ward off the beasts of the field so that the Land can be conquered and settled in the shortest time possible? 

The answer to this question is the subject of a machlokess between Rashi and the Ralbag. Rashi [1] writes: 

"lest the beasts of the field increase against you": But isn't it true that if they perform the will of Hashem they will not have cause to fear beasts, for it says: "And the beast of the field will be at peace with you" (Iyov 5:23)? Rather, it was revealed before Him that they were going to sin. 

According to Rashi, Bnei Yisrael should have been on the level of righteousness to warrant hashgachic protection from the beasts of the field. However, Hashem knew that Bnei Yisrael were going to sin, and would not be on a high enough level to merit such protection. 

Ralbag [2] takes a completely different approach. He explains that this pasuk is teaching us a fundamental principle about God's intervention. He writes: 

This teaches us that even though Hashem is in control and can do whatever He wills and desires, He will nevertheless seek out the most suitable [natural] causes possible, and He will not create a miracle unless necessity dictates it, for He doesn't hate nature, since He is the One Who set it up. Thus, He will only go against [nature] at a time when it is necessary, and He will only undermine [nature] it in the most minimal manner possible. It is for this reason that it was said, "Hashem, your God, will thrust these nations from before you little by little; you will not be able to annihilate them quickly, lest the beasts of the field increase against you." Even though Hashem is able to destroy them quickly and to protect Yisrael from the beasts who increase upon them, He prefers not to do this, since it is possible to enable Yisrael to reach their goal in another way (i.e. by defeating the nations little by little). 

According to the Ralbag, Hashem is "reluctant" (so to speak) to interfere with the laws of nature. The universe and its laws are Hashem's creations. They carry out His will and reflect His glory. Sefer Tehilim is replete with references to this idea: "The heavens proclaim the glory of God, and the firmament tells of His handiwork" (Tehilim 19:2), "For You have gladdened me, Hashem, with Your deeds; at Your handiwork I sing glad song. How great are Your deeds, Hashem; exceedingly profound are Your thoughts" (ibid. 92:5-6), "How great are Your works, Hashem; with wisdom You made them all!” (ibid. 104:24). For this reason, Hashem will only intervene in the laws of nature when absolutely necessary, and that is why He didn't intervene to protect Bnei Yisrael from the beasts. 

This machlokess between Rashi and Ralbag reveals different assumptions about Hashem's role in the conquest of Eretz Yisrael. Rashi maintains that Hashem would have protected Bnei Yisrael if they had been on a high enough level, whereas Ralbag maintains that He would not have protected them, no matter how righteous they were. 

What is the root of this machlokess? I have no idea. It might stem from their differing views on hashgachah pratis, or their different ideas about how miracles work, or their different theories of nevuah (prophecy), or their different ideas about the nature of the conquest of Eretz Yisrael, or their different premises about God's knowledge, or a number of other possibilities. I can only speculate. 

But even though we might not be able to understand the conceptual basis of this machlokess, we can gain a general insight from the existence of such a machlokess: knowing how Hashem operates is not a simple matter. Some people feel comfortable making statements about how God operates - in their own lives, or in the fate of the Jewish nation. Every time I encounter a machlokess like this one, I become more and more convinced of what Yeshayahu ha'Navi said: "For My thoughts are not your thoughts and your ways are not My ways - says Hashem. As high as the heavens over the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts” (Yeshayahu 55:7-8). 

If Rashi and Ralbag can disagree on whether Hashem would protect Bnei Yisrael wild from animals while simultaneously helping them to miraculously conquer the mighty Canaanite nations, then average Jews like ourselves need to do a lot more learning before we make confident statements about Hashem's role in our everyday lives. 

End Notes

[1[ Rabbeinu Shlomo ben Yitzchak (Rashi), Commentary on Sefer Devarim 7:22 

[2] Rabbeinu Levi ben Gershom (Ralbag / Gersonides), Commentary on Sefer Devarim: Parashas Eikev, 4th toeles