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Monday, August 9, 2021

King Kamehameha III and Moshiach

This week's Torah content has been sponsored by Joey and Estee Lichter in honor of the marriage of Isaac and Aviva.

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King Kamehameha III and Moshiach

“The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness” might sound like a proverb from Sefer Mishlei (The Book of Proverbs), but it’s not. This proverb was not authored by King Solomon, but by King Kamehameha III, who ruled the Kingdom of Hawaii from 1825-1854. The original Hawaiian saying, “Ua Mau ke Ea o ka ʻĀina i ka Pono,” was first uttered by the king in 1843 and adopted as the state motto of Hawaii in 1959.

I found myself pondering the meaning of this statement during our recent trip to Hawaii. As per my Mishlei methodology, I decided to attempt to understand it using my own mind before consulting any commentaries. If we assume that the Hawaiian word “ʻāina” (land) refers to society, and that “pono” (righteousness) is the equivalent of the Hebrew word “tzedek” or “tzedakah,” and we rely on the Rambam’s definition of “tzedek” as “bringing every lawfully governed being in line with its lawful principle, and to give to every existing thing that which is proper for its existence” (Moreh ha’Nevuchim 3:53) then the proverb makes sense. No system can perpetuate its existence indefinitely unless the needs of all its constituents are met. If tzedek is withheld from any part of the system, then it will only be a matter of time before the detrimental effects spread and threaten the stability of the system as a whole. It may take a while for the system to fail, but its collapse is inevitable. According to this reading, this proverb is directed at those who hold positions of power within the society, and who are the most capable of providing or depriving the land and its people of tzedek.

After coming up with this interpretation, I looked into the historical context. According to Wikipedia:

This phrase was first spoken by Kamehameha III, the King of Hawaii, on July 31, 1843, on Thomas Square, Oʻahu, when the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Hawaii was returned by the British through the restorative actions of Admiral Richard Darton Thomas, following the brief takeover by Lord George Paulet.

Some of the words contained in this phrase have greater, more difficult to define meaning than is commonly ascribed. Mau, for example, implies an unending continuation; Ea means not only "life," but "breath" and, more importantly, "sovereignty." Pono is a well-used Hawaiian word that cannot be concisely translated. It includes aspects of goodness, excellence, fairness, order, propriety, completeness, care, value, organization, purpose, and hope. It is disputed that the word ea in this pronouncement refers to "life." Many now insist strongly that ea refers specifically to sovereignty because of the circumstances at the time Kamehameha III uttered it.

Thus, a possibly more accurate translation would be: "The sovereignty of the land is perpetuated in righteousness." Admiral Thomas did what was righteous (pono) by returning on that day the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi to its people through handing it back to their king.

The ambiguity of “ea” as meaning “life” or “sovereignty” is interesting: depending on which translation is used, the proverb is either the expression of an ideal monarchy or a justification of a corrupt one.

However, it seems that there are solid grounds to maintain that King Kamehameha III was a genuine proponent of righteousness. According to Wikipedia: “Under his reign, Hawaii evolved from an absolute monarchy to a constitutional monarchy with the signing of both the 1840 Constitution, which was the first Hawaiian Language Constitution, and the 1852 Constitution.” This got me curious. I decided to check out the text of the 1840 constitution. Here is the preamble:

“God hath made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on the earth,” in unity and blessedness. God has also bestowed certain rights alike on all men and all chiefs, and all people of all lands.

These are some of the rights which He has given alike to every man and every chief of correct deportment; life, limb, liberty, freedom from oppression; the earnings of his hands and the productions of his mind, not however to those who act in violation of the laws.

God has also established government, and rule, for the purpose of peace; but in making laws for the nation it is by no means proper to enact laws for the protection of the rulers only, without also providing protection for their subjects; neither is it proper to enact laws to enrich the chiefs only, without regard to enriching their subjects also, and hereafter there shall by no means be any laws enacted which are at variance with what is above expressed, neither shall any tax be assessed, nor any service or labor required of any man, in a manner which is at variance with the above sentiments.

PROTECTION FOR THE PEOPLE DECLARED. The above sentiments are hereby published for the purpose of protecting alike, both the people and the chiefs of all these islands, while they maintain a correct deportment; that no chief may be able to oppress any subject, but that chiefs and people may enjoy the same protection, under one and the same law.

The body of the Constitution continues:

It is our design to regulate our kingdom according to the above principles and thus seek the greatest prosperity both of all the chiefs and all of the people of these Hawaiian Islands. But we are aware that we cannot ourselves alone accomplish such an object – God must be our aid, for it is His province alone to give perfect protection and prosperity. Wherefore we first present our supplication to HIM, that he will guide us to right measures and sustain us in our work.

It is therefore our fixed decree, (1) That no law shall be enacted which is at variance with the word of the Lord Jehovah, or at variance with the general spirit of His word. All laws of the Islands shall be in consistency with the general spirit of God’s law. (2) All men of every religion shall be protected in worshipping Jehovah, and serving Him, according to their own understanding, but no man shall ever be punished for neglect of God unless he injures his neighbor, or brings evil on the kingdom.

King Kamehameha III advocated for a government of righteousness, justice, and equality under God’s law. It is reasonable to assume that these are the values underlying the state motto. While we can’t know what he intended by “The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness,” the proof is in the pudding.

It was then that it hit me: Kamehameha III, his proverb, and his constitution are all part of the unfolding of the path to Yemos ha’Moshiach (the messianic era). The Rambam introduces the topic of Melech ha’Moshiach (the King Messiah) in Chapter 11 of Hilchos Melachim u’Milchamos (the Laws of Kings and Wars). After detailing the various requirements which must be met for a person to qualify as Melech ha’Moshiach, he launches into a polemic against Jesus, referring to him as “the greatest stumbling block” who “caused Israel to be annihilated by the sword and the remnant to be scattered and lowered” and who “caused the Torah to be exchanged and the led the majority of the world to erroneously worship a god other than Hashem.” It is at this point that the Rambam takes a surprising turn:

But the plans of the Creator of the universe are not within the capacity of man to grasp, for our ways are not His ways and our thoughts are not His thoughts. All these matters of Jesus of Nzareth and the Ishmaelite who arose after him – all these have only straightened the pathway for the Melech ha'Moshiach, and prepared the world to serve Hashem together, as it is stated: "then I will transform all the peoples, that they all will call upon the name of Hashem and serve Him with one purpose" (Tzephania 3:9).

How so? The entire world has already been filled with statements about the Moshiach, about the Torah, and about the mitzvos. These matters have spread to the far-off islands and many peoples of uncircumcised hearts. They have debated these matters: these say that the mitzvos are true but they were only in effect for a set number of generations and are nullified in the present era, and these say that there are hidden matters in [the mitzvos] and they are not to be taken at face value, and the Moshiach has already come and revealed their secrets.

And when the true Melech ha'Moshiach will arise, and he will succeed, be exalted, and be venerated, immediately all of them will return, knowing that they were bequeathed falsehood by their fathers, and that their prophets and ancestors caused them to err.

According to the Rambam, even Christianity – with all its evils and harms – has nevertheless paved the way for Yemos ha’Moshiach (the Messianic Era) by spreading awareness of Torah and mitzvos throughout the world. What better example is there of “these matters spreading to the far-off islands” than King Kamehameha III establishing a constitution promoting a righteous society, in the name of God, in which all people are equal under the law? And in case one needs a reminder of just how “Jewish” Hawaii’s first constitution was, here is a passage from Paul Johnson in History of the Jews:

All the great conceptual discoveries of the intellect seem obvious and inescapable once they have been revealed, but it requires a special genius to formulate them for the first time. The Jews had this gift. To them we owe the idea of equality before the law, both divine and human; of the sanctity of life and the dignity of the human person; of the individual conscience and so of personal redemption; of the collective conscience and so of social responsibility; of peace as an abstract ideal and love as the foundation of justice, and many other items which constitute the basic moral furniture of the human mind. Without the Jews it might have been a much emptier place.

It turns out that “The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness” is not just “Solomonic” in style, but also in substance. Kamehameha III’s proverb and constitution share the same Torah foundation as Shlomo ha’Melech’s kingdom. That the Torah’s ripple effects were so far reaching provides hope for the fulfillment of Tzephania’s prophecy: “I will transform all the peoples, that they all will call upon the name of Hashem and serve Him with one purpose." May we all merit to see that day.

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Friday, August 6, 2021

Haftaras Re'eh: Torah as Water, Wine, and Milk

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Haftaras Re'eh: Torah as Water, Wine, and Milk

In the haftarah of Re’eh, the navi proclaims: “Ho! Everyone who is thirsty, go to water, even one with no money, go, buy and eat; go and buy wine and milk without money and without price” (Yeshayahu 55:1). Radak (ad loc) explains that water, wine, and milk are all metaphors for Torah and chochmah:

Water is a metaphor for Torah and for chochmah: just as it is impossible for the world [to survive] without water, so too, it is impossible for the world [to survive] without chochmah; and just as one who is thirsty yearns for water, so too, the rational soul yearns for Torah and for chochmah, as it is stated in the prophecy of Amos: "not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the word of Hashem” (Amos 8:11) ...

Torah is compared to wine, for just as wine gladdens the heart – as it is stated: “wine gladdens the heart of man” (Tehilim 104:15) – so too, words of Torah, as it is stated: "the statutes of Hashem are upright, gladdening the heart" (ibid. 19:9).

[Torah is compared] to milk, for just as milk sustains the nursing baby and enables it to grow, so too, words of Torah sustain the soul and enable it to grow, for it continues to grow through learning on the level it is at.

To summarize: Torah is like water because it is necessary for survival; Torah is like wine because it gladdens the heart; and Torah is like milk because it promotes growth and development.

According to this interpretation, it follows that there are three different desires that are satisfied through Torah and chochmah. The desire corresponding to water is stated explicitly by the Radak: “just as one who is thirsty yearns for water, so too, the rational soul yearns for Torah and for chochmah.” Aristotle’s Metaphysics opens with the statement: “All men, by nature, desire to know.” This innate desire expresses itself in a number of ways: curiosity, the seeking out of the underlying lawfulness in nature, the need for things to make sense and the irritation or repugnance when things don’t make sense, the drive to ask and answer “What?” and “Why?” When this thirst for chochmah is frustrated, the rational soul suffers. And if the thirst persists for too long without being quenched, there is a risk that the soul will wither and die.

The desire corresponding to wine is evident: the rational soul yearns for that which brings it enjoyment, and chochmah is inherently enjoyable. Rambam explains that ahavas Hashem (love of God) is attained “by comprehending and contemplating His commandments, His creations, and His actions, thereby attaining the ultimate enjoyment through our intellectual apprehension” (Sefer ha’Mitzvos: Aseh #3).

The desire corresponding to milk is the most nuanced of the three: it is the desire for development, or self-actualization. Marcus Aurelius wrote that “Every living organism is fulfilled when it follows the right path for its own nature.” Just as the body is programmed to engage in behaviors which promote its own growth, so too, the rational soul seeks that which promotes its own development and flourishing.

The navi’s mashal doesn’t only pertain to the substance of Torah and chochmah, but also the cost. “Ho! Everyone who is thirsty, go to the water, even one with no money, go, buy and eat; go and buy wine and milk without money and without price” (Yeshayahu 55:1). Not only do Torah and chochmah satisfy these three desires, but they have been given to us for free. The practical implications of this pasuk are clear. When we say our birchos ha’Torah in the morning, it behooves us to pause and feel genuine gratitude to Hashem for making His Torah and His chochmah freely available and accessible to everyone.

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Thursday, August 5, 2021

Musings on Unrecorded Shiurim

Today's Torah content was sponsored by someone who wishes to remain anonymous for someone else whom they wish to remain anonymous for an occasion that I'm told should not be mentioned. I would have found some sneaky way to show honor and gratitude to those involved, but I must respect true tznius when I see it.

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Artwork: Musician, by Drew Tucker

Musings on Unrecorded Shiurim

One of the many changes in my teaching norms this past year (2020-2021) was the fact that I recorded the vast majority of my shiurim and classes. Between September and June I recorded and uploaded 615 shiurim as videos and/or podcasts. By my estimation, somewhere between 100-200 of my other shiurim were not recorded. The decision not to record these was intentional. In some cases, it was because I didn’t want students to feel self-conscious when speaking up (e.g. in Q&A sessions, discussions about doubts or struggles, etc.). In other cases, it was because of the exploratory unscripted nature of that particular shiur.

Recording has become the norm, which is strange, considering that I never recorded any of my shiurim for my eleven years as a high school teacher! It’s gotten to the point where I now feel like it’s a pedagogical transgression to not record a shiur. Occasionally, I’ll give a shiur I choose not to record which turns out to be great, and afterwards I’ll be filled with regret. The most recent time this happened was on Tishah b’Av, when I gave shiur to the members of my family’s shul in Seattle. Judging by the response, it was an enjoyable and eye-opening shiur, but one which nobody will ever be able to hear again.

This morning, however, I read a poem by Rumi which altered my perspective.

Don’t worry about saving these songs!

And if one of our instruments breaks,

it doesn’t matter.

We have fallen into the place

where everything is music.

To my mind, one of the many purposes of a shiur is to produce a thing of beauty; therefore, when a good shiur goes unrecorded, this uniquely beautiful thing has been lost forever. My first thought upon realizing this was to recognize the absurdity of this feeling of loss. None of my shiurim were recorded until this year, and I didn’t feel sad! And before the invention of recording, none of the shiurim given by anyone was ever recorded! If I’m going to feel sad about an unrecorded shiur, my sadness should be for the millions of great shiurim that were lost throughout history. Moreover, in all likelihood, even the shiurim that are recorded will be lost forever at some point. So what is there to be upset about?

But setting these Koheles/Stoic thoughts aside, Rumi’s poem helped me recognize that I’ve begun to relate to my own shiurim in a new way. I’m beginning to realize that it’s not as much about the beauty of the product as it is about the beauty of the process. And the process doesn’t go away when the shiur ends.

I feel this most strongly in my Mishlei shiurim as compared to, say, my Sunday (i.e. community-wide) shiurim. This past Erev Yom ha’Kippurim I gave a Sunday shiur on the Middos ha’Rachamim. It was one of the best shiurim I had given to date, but due to a Zoom settings issue, the video wasn’t recorded. I felt crushed – so much so, that I decided to give the entire shiur over again that very afternoon, on my own, just to get the video. In contrast, if the same thing happened to a Mishlei shiur, I might be mildly annoyed, but I wouldn’t be upset. Why not? Because in Mishlei I’ve “fallen into the place where everything is music.” I am secure enough in my Mishlei teaching to perceive that the music inside of me is always playing.

This gives me hope. The more Torah I learn, the more music I hear. The more music I hear, the less sorrow I will feel when songs are lost and instruments are broken. One day, God willing, everything will be music.

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Wednesday, August 4, 2021

Sitting Bull’s Ghost Dance and Moshiach

Today’s Torah content is sponsored by Naomi Mann, in honor of Yeshiva Bnei Torah's 50th year. May Hashem grant YBT continued success!

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Sitting Bull (1831-1890)

Sitting Bull's Ghost Dance and Moshiach

The final section of Jonathan Lear’s Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation examines how Plenty Coups, the last chief of the Crow Nation, saved his people by adapting to the new world after the devastation of the world of the Crow. Although his leadership decisions were influenced by dream-visions, Lear argues that Plenty Coups possessed “imaginative excellence” which allowed him to “facilitate a creative and appropriate response to the world’s challenges” in a pragmatic, non-mystical manner.

Lear contrasts Plenty Coups’s success in this regard with the failure of Sitting Bull, chief of the Sioux. In 1889, rumors arose of a messianic figure who would arise and save the Sioux. It was claimed “he would wipe out all whites in a catastrophe, bring back their ancestors from the dead, restore all the buffalo.”

The messiah was teaching that the current task of the Indian was to perform a Ghost Dance, which would help usher in the apocalypse. The dance spread like wildfire across the reservation, but nowhere did it take greater hold than at Sitting Bull's camp at Standing Rock. The dance was ecstatic: participants would dance into a frenzy and continue until they dropped of exhaustion; they wore ghost shirts that would protect them from bullets; they abandoned all other activities in order to bring about this cataclysm … The dance continued through October and November and into December, when it was forcibly ended. As is well documented, U.S. authorities were greatly disturbed by the Ghost Dance – they were concerned it might lead to an uprising or, at least, the breakdown of civil order – and they sought to suppress it.

Lear writes: “There is no evidence that Sitting Bull actually participated in the Ghost Dance, but he did support it.” The following is Lear’s analysis of Sitting Bull’s fatal error:

Sitting Bull used a dream-vision to short-circuit reality rather than to engage with it … It is a hallmark of the wishful that the world will be magically transformed – into conformity with how one would like it to be – without having to take any realistic practical steps to bring it about. The only activity in which one is enjoined to partake in is a ritual, in this case a dance. But when the ritual comes to take over one’s entire life, as it did for the Sioux of Standing Rock in the fall of 1890, this is a case of what Freud called “turning away from reality.” Symbolic rituals take over life – whether in an individual’s private life or in the group activity of a culture – and they become a way of avoiding the real-life demands that confront one in the every day. And it led to a disaster for the Sioux.

The Rambam, in his Letter on Astrology, blames the destruction of the Second Temple on such a mistake:

This is why our kingdom was lost and our Temple was destroyed and why we were brought to this, for our fathers sinned and are no more because they found many books dealing with the matters of the star gazers, which are the root of idolatry ... they erred and were drawn after them, imagining them to be glorious science and to be of great utility. They did not busy themselves with the art of war or with the conquest of lands, but imagined that those studies would help them. Therefore, the prophets called them "foolish children" (Yirmiyahu 4:22) – and truly fools they were, for "they followed after that which does not benefit" (ibid. 2:8).

We, too, believe in the coming of a moshiach (messiah). However, our messianic era will involve no changes in the natural order (see Hilchos Tehsuvah 9:2, and Hilchos Melachim u’Milchamos 12:1). The process of bringing about the messianic era is eminently practical and political, and neither supernatural nor miraculous (ibid. Ch11). What remains to be seen is whether the “imaginative excellence” of the Jewish nation and its leaders at the critical junctures in the future will follow the model of Plenty Coups, enabling us to courageously engage with reality, or whether we will follow the model of Sitting Bull, to our peril.

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Tuesday, August 3, 2021

The Madness of Lishmah

Today’s Torah content is sponsored by Avygayl Zucker in honor of the 90th birthday of her grandfather, Yedidyah Halimi, whose dedication to Torah and mitzvos continues to be an inspiration. May Hashem grant him many more years of health and happiness!

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Artwork: Infuriate, by Benjamin Ee

The Madness of Lishmah

From time to time, I am asked whether I have any interest in pursuing a PhD, an Ed. D, or any other professional achievements beyond simply teaching. The earliest conversation of this nature I can remember took place years ago, while I was still learning in yeshiva and hadn’t even started grad school yet. I was speaking with a highly successful professional who also happened to have the credentials of a professional philosopher. He asked me what I was up to, and I said, “I’m learning in yeshiva and earning my bachelor’s degree in psychology.” He asked, “To what end?” I said, “The only reason I’m getting a bachelor’s degree is so that I can apply to grad school.” He asked, “To what end?” I said, “I’m only getting a master’s degree in Jewish Education because I’ve been told it’s necessary to get a good job as a high school teacher. I just want to teach high school.” He asked, “To what end?” I repeated my answer: “I just want to teach high school.” “Nothing more?” “Nothing more.” He then shot me a look of horrified disbelief, which he followed with a rather audacious question. I don’t remember his words, but his sentiment was something like, “And you’re just going to let all of that intelligence go to waste?” Clearly, this man and I differed in our views about learning and teaching.

This weekend I read a poem by Rumi entitled, The Sheikh Who Played With Children, which reminded me of that conversation. The poem opens with a young seeker looking for wisdom: “I need to find a wise person. I have a problem.” A bystander says, “There’s no one with intelligence in our town except that man over there playing with the children, the one riding the stick-horse. He has a keen, fiery insight and vast dignity like the night sky, but he conceals it in the madness of child’s play.” (I was amused by the parallels to Rav Chaim Soloveitchik – a real-life genius who was also known for playing horsey with the local schoolchildren.) The young man approaches the sheikh and presses him for relationship advice, which he reluctantly gives. As the sheikh is about to gallop away, the seeker asks him about the life he has chosen: "What is this playing that you do? Why do you hide your intelligence so?" The sheikh responds:

"The people here want to put me in charge. They want me to be judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all the texts. The knowing I have doesn't want that. It wants to enjoy itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time I'm eating the sweetness."

Knowledge that is acquired is not like this. Those who have it worry if audiences like it or not. It's a bait for popularity. Disputational knowing wants customers. It has no soul. Robust and energetic before a responsive crowd, it slumps when no one is there. The only real customer is God.

Chew quietly your sweet sugarcane God-Love, and stay playfully childish.
Your face will turn rosy with illumination like the redbud flowers.

In his introduction to Perek Chelek the Rambam says about learning lishmah (lit. “for its own sake”): “ein tachlis ha’emes ela l’daas she’hu emes – the only purpose of the truth is to know that it is true.” Rambam mentions that most people will not be able to grasp the concept of lishmah. To them, learning is only a means to other ends. They cannot grasp what it means to seek knowledge for its own sake. They view any pursuit of something as an end in and of itself as foolish. They will never stop asking, “To what end?”

Perhaps this is why Rumi depicted the true sage in this manner. In the eyes of the world, those who learn lishmah appear as mad as a sheikh playing horsey.

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Monday, August 2, 2021

On Seeing the Hearts of Human Beings

Today’s Torah content is dedicated to the joyous occasion of the marriage of Jon Deutsch and Avigayil Lev. Jon has "graduated" from student, to coworker, to chavrusa and friend. Avigayil, another former student and fellow Slytherin, remains a daily presence in my virtual beis midrash. I am happy for them and I'm excited to see where their life leads them.

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Artwork: Dack Fayden, by Terese Nielsen

On Seeing the Hearts of Human Beings

Seeing the Heart of David

With few exceptions, Tanach tends to eschew descriptions of the physical appearances of its characters. Two of those exceptions can be found in Sefer Shmuel. The first is Shaul: “And [Kish] had a son, whose name was Shaul, young and handsome [1], and there was not among the children of Israel a more handsome person than he: from his shoulders and upward he was taller than any of the people” (I Shmuel 9:2)

The second notable exception is David, about whom it is said: “Now he was ruddy (admoni) with beautiful eyes (yafeh einayim) and a goodly appearance (tov ro’ee)” (ibid. 16:12).

In context it is easy to see why these physical descriptions are relevant to the narrative. Shmuel ha’Navi is sent by Hashem to anoint a new king to replace Shaul. He is told that the new king will be one of the sons of Yishai. He makes the journey to Yishai’s house, and the sons are summoned:

And it was upon their arrival that Shmuel saw Eliav and said: “Surely Hashem’s anointed is before Him.” But Hashem said unto Samuel: “Do not look at his appearance or at his tall stature, for I have rejected him; for it is not as man sees – for man looks at the outward appearance, but Hashem sees the heart” (ibid. 16:6-7)

Shmuel then cycles through the rest of Yishai’s sons, before finally settling on David:

Yishai then called Avinadav and brought him before Shmuel, but he said, “Hashem has not chosen this one either.” Then Yishai brought Shammah, but [Shmuel] said, “Hashem has not chosen this one either.” Yishai presented his seven sons before Shmuel, but Shmuel said to Yishai, “Hashem has not chosen these.” Shmuel said, “Are these all the boys?” and he said, “The youngest one is still left; he is tending the sheep now.” So Shmuel said to Yishai: “Send and bring him, for we will not sit [to dine] until he arrives here.” He sent and brought him. He was ruddy with beautiful eyes and a goodly appearance. Hashem then said, “Arise and anoint him, for this is he!” (ibid. 16:8-12)

The question is: What was Shmuel’s mistake? The fact that Hashem had to correct him, saying, “Do not look at his appearance or at his tall stature … for man looks at the outward appearance, but Hashem sees the heart” implies that Shmuel erroneously focused on David’s outward appearance. How are we to understand Shmuel’s error? Are we to think that such a great prophet as Shmuel got caught up in appearance-based superficialities? And if Shmuel was merely concerned about how the new king would be perceived in the eyes of his people, did he really think that such considerations outweighed the quality of the king’s heart?

The Malbim [2] provides a conceptually and textually sound answer:

“he was ruddy”: Here is shown to us the truth of what was written earlier: “for it is not as man sees – for man looks at the outward appearance, but Hashem sees the heart.” For David was ruddy, [indicating] that “redness” was dominant in him [3], and he was [therefore] genetically disposed to [commit acts of] bloodshed. At the same time, good qualities were also indicated in him, for he “had beautiful eyes and a goodly appearance,” which indicated that he was analytically sharp-minded and had a healthy constitution …

If Shmuel had only relied on his human perception, he would have concluded that [David] was not worthy [of being king,] but Hashem “sees hearts” and knew that out of his good free-will decisions he would do only justice and righteousness, and that he would use the nature of “redness” implanted within him to wage the wars of Hashem and to annihilate the doers of iniquity from [every] city. This is what is desirable in the eyes of Hashem, that even though a person has a natural inclination towards evil, he should rule over it with righteousness and good free-will decisions. This is [the intent of] that which was written: “Arise and anoint him, for this is he” – [namely, this is the one] who is desirable before Me.

According to the Malbim, Shmuel’s mistake did not stem from a misguided overvaluation of appearances. Rather, he was legitimately concerned that David’s natural disposition towards violence, as indicated by his ruddy appearance, would render him unfit to be king over Israel. Indeed, this was a legitimate concern. This is precisely why Hashem needed to step in and provide assurance from the perspective of Divine omniscience, saying: “It is true that such a disposition could render a man unfit to be king, but this man will harness his aggressive nature and channel it towards the good.” “He was ruddy with beautiful eyes and a goodly appearance.” His potentially destructive nature will be actualized, but for the good.

Seeing the Hearts of Our Fellow Human Beings

One of the central ethical mitzvos of the Torah is ve’halachta bi’drachav (“you shall walk in His ways”). The Rambam [4] defines this mitzvah as follows:

We are commanded to make ourselves resemble Him (exalted is He) in accordance with our ability, as it is stated: "you shall walk in His ways" (Devarim 28:9). This commandment has been repeated in the statement: "to walk in all of His ways" (ibid. 11:24). The [Oral Torah's] explanation of this matter is as follows:

"Just as Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu is called 'merciful,' so shall you be merciful. Just as Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu is called 'gracious,' so shall you be gracious. Just as Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu is called 'righteous,' so shall you be righteous. Just as Ha'Kadosh Baruch Hu is called 'kind,' so shall you be kind" (Sifre).

And this commandment has been repeated in different words: "you shall follow after Hashem, your God" (ibid. 13:5), and its explanation is also that we should make our good actions and lofty character traits resemble those which are ascribed to Him (may He be exalted) by way of allegory. May He be exceedingly exalted over everything.

The core of this mitzvah is that we should model our own actions and characteristics after the allegorical descriptions of Hashem’s actions and characteristics. If so, then Hashem’s statement to Shmuel, “for it is not as man sees – for man looks at the outward appearance, but Hashem sees the heart” is not to be understood merely as a particular correction of a particular man’s mistake, but as a universal ethical imperative. Accordingly, we must ask ourselves: What can we do to emulate the Divine attribute of looking past outward appearances of our fellow human beings, and instead, to “see their hearts”?

I recently finished reading Dr. Tara Brach’s book Radical Compassion. In Chapter 9, “Seeing the Goodness,” Tara writes about techniques for remembering to see the basic goodness in all human beings. Rather than attempt to summarize the main ideas of the chapter, which are built upon the previous chapters, I’d like to relate a story the author heard read at a Christmas Eve church service. When combined with the Malbim’s commentary, I believe this provides us with an approach to answering our question:

One Christmas Day, a woman, her husband, and their year-old son had driven a long way before they found an open diner by the side of the road.

It was quiet and almost empty, and they were waiting gratefully for their food when the little boy began waving from his high chair and calling, "Hi there!" to someone behind them. To the mother's dismay, it turned out to be a wreck of a man, unkempt and unwashed, obviously a homeless drunk. Now he was waving back at her boy and calling, "Hi there, baby, hi there, big boy ... I see ya, buster."

The woman and her husband exchanged looks, and the few other people in the diner were shooting disapproving glances their way. And the old guy went on, even after their food came. "Do you know patty-cake? Attaboy ... Do you know peeka boo? Hey, look, he knows peekaboo." The mother tried turning the high chair around, but her son shrieked and twisted to face his new buddy.

Finally, giving up on their meal, her husband got up to pay the bill, and the mother took the baby in her arms, praying that she could quickly get past the old drunk, who was seated by the door. But as they approached, her son reached out with both arms – his pick-me-up signal – and propelled himself into the man's open arms.

But now the mother could see tears in the man's eyes as her son laid his head on his shoulder. He gently held and rocked the boy, and then he looked straight into her eyes. "You take care of this baby," he said firmly. And as he slowly handed him back, "God bless you, ma'am. You've given me my Christmas gift."

She must have mumbled something in return, but as she rushed to the car, tears streaming down her face, she could only think, "My God, my God, forgive me."

This woman underwent a shift in her perspective akin to what Shmuel ha’Navi experienced. At first she could only see this man’s outward appearance. He was homeless. He was drunk. He was dirty. He was what Tara calls “an Unreal Other” – a person who happens to belong to the same species as ourselves, but is somehow “less real” than ourselves and those with whom we identify. And this man’s homelessness, drunkenness, and dirtiness served as evidence to expand his Unreal Otherness by generating a complete past, present, and future of him in her mind. On that basis, whether consciously or unconsciously, this man was written off as being intrinsically worth less than she, her husband, and her baby, and was destined to remain as such.

It was only when she saw the man’s reaction to her baby – to her baby’s natural and unbiased reaction to another human being – that she was able to “see the heart” of this man. And when he looked into her eyes and expressed gratitude, he became a Real Person, just like her.

Now, one might object to this line of reasoning, saying that seeing an Unreal Other as a Real Person has nothing to do with emulating Hashem’s “seeing the heart” mentioned in Sefer Shmuel. After all, according to the Malbim, Hashem’s proclamation of David’s worthiness to be king was predicated on the knowledge that he would make good free will decisions, choosing to channel his natural tendencies to his service of God. Such knowledge can only come from Divine omniscience, which – by definition – is impossible for finite human beings to emulate, and wouldn’t even fall under the purview of ve’halachta bi’drachav.

I disagree. When the Rambam introduces the mitzvah by saying, “We are commanded to make ourselves resemble Him … in accordance with our ability,” and “we should make our good actions and lofty character traits resemble those which are ascribed to Him … by way of allegory” he is acknowledging the fact that the Divine attributes are intrinsically different from our human emulations of them. Indeed, the entire first section of the Moreh ha’Nevuchim substantiates this reading. Moreover, as my Rosh ha’Yeshiva pointed out, the Sifre cited by the Rambam bears out this point. Chazal don’t say: “Just as Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu is merciful, so shall you be merciful” but rather, “Just as Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu is called merciful, so shall you be merciful.” In other words, Hashem’s mercy is of a fundamentally different nature than human mercy, and there is absolutely no way we can emulate it. Rather, we must study Hashem’s modes of action as presented in Tanach and translate them into human ethical standards.

Such is the approach I am suggesting here. Unlike Hashem, we lack the ability to see into the hearts of our fellow human beings to know what choices they will make. But like Hashem, we can take active steps to look past their outward appearances, to refrain from making definitive judgments and predictions of future behavior on the basis of what our eyes see – as if we were as omniscient as God – and instead, to see them as a fellow tzelem Elokim (“created in with a divine form”), with the same humanity as ourselves.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that we ought to be naïve or unrealistically optimistic in our dealings with other people. If, for example, an actual mugger approaches us on the street, we should take whatever precautions are necessary. But at the same time, we can still see that person as a fellow human being.

Seeing Our Own Hearts

Most importantly, this perspective must be applied to our own hearts. When we look in the mirror, we must see past the misplaced feelings of certainty we have about our “destiny” based on our dispositions and the lot we were dealt in life. There is no such thing as destiny. "See, I have placed before you today the life and the good, and the death and the bad … Choose life, that you and your offspring may live" (Devarim 30:15,19). We cannot choose our genetics or our circumstances, but we can choose what to do with them. By seeing our own heart through Divine eyes, we unlock our ability to “choose life.”

[1] The pasuk uses the phrase “tov” (“goodly”), but the Targum translates this as “shapir” (“beautiful” or “handsome”), and the end of the pasuk supports this translation.

[2] Rav Meir Leibush ben Yechiel Michel (Malbim), Commentary on Sefer I Shmuel 6:12

[3] I don’t fully understand what he means, but my guess is that it reflects some sort of theory of humourism. I don’t think it matters much, as long as we take it as his factual premise and then see how he applies it.

[4] Rabbeinu Moshe ben Maimon (Rambam / Maimonides), Sefer ha’Mitzvos: Mitzvas Aseh #8

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Friday, July 30, 2021

Simone Biles is My Hero

This week's Torah content has been sponsored by Sol and Chummie Azose, in honor of the upcoming 81st birthday of the Rosh ha'Yeshiva, Rabbi Yisroel Chait, and the 91st birthday of Sol's father, Hazzan Isaac Azose. If you're interested in sponsoring a day's or a week's worth of Torah content, you can contact me at rabbischneeweiss at gmail.com.

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Simone Biles is My Hero

On July 28, 2021, Simone Biles – one of the most accomplished gymnasts of our era – withdrew from the Tokyo Olympics. She alluded to her struggles on Instagram by posting: "I truly do feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders at times. I know I brush it off and make it seem like pressure doesn't affect me but damn sometimes it's hard hahaha!" That “hahaha” might make it sound like it was no big deal, but later interviews revealed that there were darker forces afoot. It was soon revealed that she withdrew for mental health reasons. The straw that broke the camels back was her experiencing of "the twisties," a psychological phenomenon which causes a gymnast to lose in-air awareness while performing twisting elements which could prove fatal. Simone’s attitude was humble, yet realistic. “At the end of the day, I have to do what was right for me … It just sucks that it happened at the Olympic Games.” You can’t control when these things happen, but you can always make the decision to pause, no matter what people say.

To my mind, Simone exemplifies true gevurah (courage). Chazal teach: “Who is a gibor (courageous person)? One who conquers their inclination” (Avos 4:1). I’ve read a number of articles about the pressure Biles felt to perform while the spotlight of the world was on her. I don’t know what was actually going on in her mind, but as a fellow Type A personality, I suspect that the popular assessment is off base. Her courage was not expressed in standing up to the world, but in standing up to herself. Those who don’t share this type of personality imagine that the pressure comes from the outside world. I can assure you, it comes from within. And as Anne Lamott says, the task of dealing with this pressure “is an inside job.”

I saw a chilling quotation from another interview with her. "This Olympic Games, I wanted it to be for myself when I came in — and I felt like I was still doing it for other people … So that just, like, hurts my heart because doing what I love has been kind of taken away from me to please other people." When I heard this, it terrified me. I love what I do, day in and day out. I live for teaching. I have always been excited to go work every day. And yet, I have recently come to realize how much pressure I put on myself. This pressure manifests as a need to please others, even if it’s driven by internal forces and inner critics. It terrifies me to think what would happen if I somehow slipped into a mode where I felt the need to teach in order to please other people. Such a life would be no life.

Simone’s withdrawal from the Olympics serves as a wake-up call for all personalities that are driven to go, go, go. She reminds us of a truth I made into a mantra for myself: “You don’t have to do anything, but you can’t do everything.” She reminds us that it doesn’t matter what the stakes are, or how many people are expecting you to perform, or how much you, yourself, are invested in “being the best.” What matters most is you.

I’ve been reading Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less, by Greg McKeown. He writes:

Your obligation is to the highest point of contribution you can make. I think what happens a lot is that people get caught up in the idea that, “Can I do this thing?” They pretend there’s nothing else going on in their life. The request comes in and they go, “Can I do this? Well, yes, I can do this. I know how to do this. I can make this happen.” That’s not life. That’s non-essentialist junk. That’s just rubbish. The question is, “If I do this thing, what doesn’t get done? What else gets pushed out?”

In Simone’s case, what might have gotten pushed out was her life. In other cases, it is the ability to live our lives, which is nearly as important. The moral of the story is: don’t push yourself out of your own life.

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Wednesday, July 28, 2021

Help! I've Fallen Into Sufi Poetry and I Have No Idea What I'm Doing!

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a haiku by 12th grade Matt Schneeweiss

Help! I've Fallen Into Sufi Poetry and I Have No Idea What I'm Doing!

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I hated poetry. I hated reading it, I hated discussing it, I hated writing it. I recently stumbled upon a trove of poetry assignments that I was “forced” to write in high school, and this haiku (or “haiku”) perfectly captures my stubbornly resentful attitude at the time:

“I hate poetry,”

he said. “No, you really don’t.”

“Yes, I really do.”

This attitude remained staunchly in place for many years after high school. Then I discovered Thoreau. This was the first time I encountered a thinker writing in poetry in prose. That blew my mind. I was reading ideas, but they weren’t expressed in the way I thought ideas had to be expressed. At first, I thought this was just Thoreau, but after seeing examples of this in Bruce Lee, Emerson, Rav Soloveitchik, and others, I identified the quality I enjoyed: being immersed in the world of ideas as perceived by the mind of a poet.

Fast forward to May 2021, when I started reading Tara Brach’s books, and June 2021 when I started listening to her lectures and meditations – all of which are interwoven with excerpts of poetry. Of the several poets whose works are quoted more frequently than others, one has stood out to me: Rumi.

Jalāl ad-Dīn Mohammad Rūmī (1207 – 1273 C.E.) was a Persian Islamic teacher, scholar, and philosopher-poet. He was also a Sufi mystic. What does that mean? I have very little idea, other than what I’ve gleaned from the internet (against my own better judgment). But as the Rambam said, “accept the truth from whoever says it,” and I have found truths in these poems. There’s a lot of other stuff in these poems as well – non-truths, mystical flights of fancy, lexical paroxysms – but it’s the truths which interest me.

I am fascinated by Rumi’s cryptic style. Take, for example, such stanzas as “Be empty of worrying. Think of Who created thought!” “Why do you stay in prison when the door is wide open?” “Darkness is your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.” “Your old life was a frantic running from silence.” Such lines strike me in an entirely different way than the prose I typically read. They stay with me throughout the day, repeatedly calling back my thoughts. The feeling is akin to what Morpheus said to Neo:

What you know, you can’t explain, but you feel it. You’ve felt it your entire life … You don’t know what it is, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.

What do I hope to get out of my Rumi reading other than truth? Well, for years I’ve learned and taught Tehilim (Psalms), Kinnos (liturgical lamentations), and Selichos (supplicatory penitential prayers). I’ve become more and more in touch with the poetry of these texts, but I often feel like I’m missing something essential. But when I read Rumi’s poetry, I feel like I’m expanding my intellectual imagination. I’m not entirely sure what I mean by that, but that’s what it feels like. My hope is that reading such poetry not in the context of learning will help me unlock the poetry in learning.

I also sense that by exploring these new and unusual forms of thought-in-language, I am familiarizing myself with the boundaries and limitations of language as a medium of thought. Rumi would conclude his poems with statements like: “Let that musician finish this poem.” David ha’Melech ended Tehilim with a chapter about praising Hashem with musical instruments, alluding to the inadequacy of praising Hashem with words. Language is limited, but perhaps by recognizing and striving to transcend these limitations through poetry, we can catch just a fleeting glimpse of the sublime. "Your boundaries are your quest."

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