Rashi on Chumash: Pshat or Not?

In the comments section of my Pshat vs. Drash post, I was asked a question about Rashi and the place of pshat in his Chumash commentary. I responded there, but I decided that this topic deserves its own post. 

Rashi on Chumash: Pshat or Not?

There appears to be a widespread belief that Rashi comes to explain the pshat, whole pshat, and nothing but the pshat. "Chumash with Rashi" is used interchangeably with "pshat of Chumash." The question is: Does Rashi come to explain the pshat alone, or does Rashi's commentary include non-pshat explanations as well?

Thankfully, Rashi wrote his "mission statement" in his commentary on Bereishis 3:8:

There are many Aggadic midrashim and our Rabbis have already organized them in their proper order in Bereishis Rabbah and in other midrashim. But I have come only to give the pshat of Scripture and the aggadah which "settles" the words of Scripture in a manner which fits them.

As you can see, Rashi doesn't simply say "I have come only to give the pshat of Scripture," but continues, "and the aggadah which 'settles' the words of Scripture in a manner which fits them." Unfortunately, this additional phrase lends itself to several different readings. In the Vayikra volume of What's Bothering Rashi? Rabbi Avigdor Bonchek spells out the three different ways to understand Rashi's statement:

Rashi is saying, in effect, that his purpose is to explain the Torah according to pshat, but that he will also turn to mirdashim if they can be seen to accord with the words of the text. It is this second half of his comment that interests us here. He clearly says that he will use midrash in his commentary. Are his comments which are based on midrash also to be considered pshat interpretation? This is an open question. There are three main views on this question. We will list them without entering into the debate in depth.

(1) One view is that all midrashim in Rashi's commentary are in the service of pshat. All of Rashi's comments, midrashim and others, are thus considered to be pshat.

(2) Another opinion is that many, perhaps most, midrashim cited by Rashi, while not literally pshat, are nevertheless grounded in the words of the verse. In these cases the text has certain "irregularities," anomalies or nuances that raise questions which need to be explained. The midrashic interpretation serves to give meaning to these "irregularities." But this does not necessarily mean that such interpretations are pshat. Perhaps they fall somewhere between pure pshat and outright drash. This view would seem to be closest to what Rashi says above when he adds: "Aggados that explain the words of the Scriptures in a manner that fits in with them."

(3) One last view is that Rashi may cite a midrash for its educational/moral/religious lesson without it necessarily being in any way part and parcel of a pshat interpretation; it may not even have any "anchor" in the words of the Torah (as do those in #2 above).

Rabbi Bonchek goes on to say: "My personal view is that the vast majority of Rashi's comments follow #2 above, though some may fall into category #3." I agree with Rabbi Bonchek: most of Rashi's use of midrash is not intended to elucidate the pshat, but is cited in order to find meaning in textual anomalies. While I certainly do not consider myself as an authority on Rashi, Rabbi Bonchek's opinion accords with my own experience learning Rashi. 

Rabbi Bonchek adds:

One other point should be made. The term pshat itself is not a clearly defined concept. It would seem that Rashi's view of pshat differs from that of the Rashbam, Joseph Bechor Shor, or the Ramban, to name a few of the classical commentators. These Rishonim view pshat in a way similar to the way we ordinarily do, i.e., interpretations based on grammar, syntax, and context. While Rashi's view of pshat is highly influenced by the Sages' view, over context. 

I do not consider myself qualified to weigh in on this issue, but it seems important to keep in mind. Perhaps this sheds light on the Rashbam's statement about the difference between his commentary and that of his grandfather, which can be found in his commentary on Bereishis 37:2:

Let those who love reason know and understand that which our Rabbis taught us (Shabbos 63a) that “a verse never departs from its pshat.” It is true that the Torah’s essential goal is to teach us and to convey knowledge of the rules of conduct and laws which are contained in the hints within the pshat, through superfluous wording, through the thirty two principles of Rabbi Eliezer, son of Rabbi Yosi the Galilean, or the thirteen principles of Rabbi Ishmael. And, due to their piety, the earliest scholars were inclined toward the drashos, which are the essence, and as a result they never became attuned to the profundities of the pshat of Scripture … As it says “I was eighteen years old and I had studied the entire Talmud yet I had never realized that ‘a verse never departs from its pshat.’”

Similarly Rabbi Shlomo (Rashi), my mother’s father, who illumined the eyes of all the Diaspora, who wrote commentaries on the Torah, Prophets, and the Writings, set his heart to explain the pshat of the Scriptures. However, I, Shmuel, the son of his son-in-law, Meir, may the memory of the righteous be a blessing, argued with him and in front of him, and he admitted to me that if he had the time he would have written new commentaries based on the interpretations of the pshat of Scripture that are newly thought of each day.

Anyone who has learned the Rashbam on Chumash can plainly see that his standards of "pshat" differ drastically from that his grandfather. Rashbam barely utilizes midrash (if even at all), and frequently disagrees with what Rashi considers to be the "pshat." As Rabbi Bonchek pointed out, it is quite possible that the two Rishonim had different concepts and standards for what they considered to be "pshat." 

As for the Rashbam's statement that Rashi "set his heart to explain the pshat of the Scriptures," which seems to endorse Interpretation #1 of Rashi's mission statement (i.e. that all of his commentary comes to explain the pshat) - I'm not bothered by this. It is definitely true that the main goal of Rashi's commentary was to explain the pshat, and I don't think that the Rashbam's characterization of his grandfather's commentary compels us to think otherwise.

That's my position on the matter. If you come across any of the baalei Mesorah who discuss this, I would be very interested to see what they say - especially if they are other Rishonim. 

Pshat vs. Drash I

Originally posted in January 2012.

Artwork: Foresee, by Ron Spears

Pshat vs. Drash I

The terms "pshat" and "drash" are frequently used, but seldom defined. To my mind, the key to understanding the difference between pshat and drash lies in a principle explained by the Ibn Ezra in his introduction to the Aseres ha'Dibros (Shemos 20:1):

As a general rule, the masters of the Holy Language, will sometimes explain their words very clearly, and other times they will say what is necessary in a few concise words, from which the listener can derive their meaning. Know that words are like bodies and meanings are like souls, and the body to the soul is like a vessel. Therefore, the general rule of all wise men in any language is to preserve the meanings without regard to a change of words, so long as the meanings remain the same.

The Ibn Ezra's message is clear: there are words and there are meanings. Words are merely the vehicle through which meanings are conveyed. For this reason, the same meaning can be communicated through different words or different combinations of words.

In light of the Ibn Ezra's distinction, we can now propose a working definition of the difference between pshat and drash: 

• To "give the pshat of a pasuk" is to uncover the meaning of the pasuk as intended by its author (i.e. Hashem, in the case of the Chumash, or the Neviim in the case of Nach).
• To "give a drash on a pasuk" or to "darshin a pasuk" is to use the words of that pasuk as a platform to express an extrinsic idea; by "extrinsic idea" I mean an idea which was not intended by the author, and which may or may not bear any relation to the pshat of the pasuk. 

The Ralbag (Introduction to Shir ha'Shirim) expresses this distinction very clearly in his critique of commentaries which consist largely or exclusively of midrashic material:

[We] have seen that all the commentaries which our predecessors have made upon it and which have reached us adopt the midrashic approach, including interpretations which are the opposite of what was intended by the author of Shir ha'Shirim. These midrashic explanations, even though they are good in and of themselves, ought not to be applied as explanations of the things upon which they are said midrashically. For this reason one who wishes to explain these and similar things ought not to apply to them the midrashic explanations regarding them; rather, he should endeavor to explain them according to their intention.

A simple litmus test can be used to figure out whether a statement of Chazal was intended as pshat or as drash. This litmus test can be expressed in the form of the following question: "Is this idea in the words or on the words?" To say that the idea is "in the words" means that it is a faithful restatement of the meaning intended by the author. To say that the idea is "on the words" means that the darshan (i.e. the originator of the drash) has used the author's words as a springboard for his own idea - an idea which might shed light on the pshat of the pasuk, or might have absolutely nothing to do with the pshat.

Some examples will help to illustrate the difference between pshat and drash. The Radvaz (Shailos u'Teshuvos 3:643) explains that the Torah was written without nekudos (vowels) in order to maximize the potential for drash; the example he cites serves as an excellent model for all drash:

Know that vowelization is like a form and soul to the letters. Therefore, the Sefer Torah is made without vowels, in order that it encompass all of the panim (facets) and deep ways, and all of them can be expounded using each and every letter ... If we were to vowelize the Sefer Torah, it would have a limit and a finite measure, like a material which has been endowed with a particular form, and it would not be possible for it to be expounded except in accordance with the particular vowelization of that word. But because all types of perfections are incorporated and mixed into the Sefer Torah, and each and every word is a hook for thousands upon thousands [of ideas], we do not make it vowelized in order that all of these perfections can be expounded by way of drash.

Therefore, Chazal say, “Do not read such-and-such, rather such-and such” - and if [the vowelization] were specific, we wouldn't be able to say this. Chazal were moved by this in many places by way of superior drash. [For example,] “You shall have a yased (shovel) in addition to your azeinecha (weapons)” (Devarim 23:14). [Chazal expound by way of drash,] “Do not read ‘azeinecha’ (your weapons), but rather ‘oznecha’ (your ears) – this teaches us that if a person hears something inappropriate, he should put his finger in his ear [like a yased (peg)].

In this place, Chazal have indicated to us the secret reason why the Sefer Torah is not vowelized. The midrash (expounding) of this pasuk was given as bran bread for simpletons, and it was given to the wise as nutritional bread - and all from the pshat of the pasuk. The entire Torah follows this method. Therefore, Chazal said: “shivim panim la’Torah.” Understand this.

It is difficult to dispute the example provided by the Radvaz. Devarim 23:14 is undoubtedly talking about shovels and weapons - not fingers and ears. When Chazal said, "Do not read ‘azeinecha’ (your weapons), but rather ‘oznecha’ (your ears)" they were saying this by way of drash, not pshat. If a person were to actually interpret the word in the pasuk to mean oznecha, he would be missing the pshat - the meaning intended by the Author.

The Shiltei ha'Giborim (on Avodah Zarah daf 6 in the dapei ha'Rif) gives another excellent example which reflects the proper understanding of the distinction between pshat and drash:

There is another category of midrashim in which Chazal aimed to expound the pasuk in accordance with every idea they were able to expound. They relied on that which is written, “One thing God has spoken, these two have I heard” (Tehilim 62:12), and on that which is written, “Behold, My word is like fire etc.” (Yirmiyahu 23:29). They learned from here that many meanings can emerge from one pasuk ... Do not be astounded by this, for we see in many cases that even an ordinary person speaks his words with a double meaning [that can be interpreted] in two ways – all the more so the words of the wise, which were stated with ruach ha’kodesh. In this manner, Chazal expound Scripture in every manner that is possible to expound, but they said, “No pasuk can depart from its pshat,” which is the root. Of all these midrashim which are expounded - some of them are essential and close to the pshat, whereas others contain only a small allusion. 

You can see what was expounded by one of the Sages in the first chapter of Taanis, for he said, “Yaakov Avinu didn't die.” One of the other Sages responded, “Did the eulogists eulogize him in vain? Did the embalmers embalm him in vain? Did the gravediggers bury him in vain?” The first Sage answered back, “Mikra ani doresh (I am merely expounding upon a verse).” This means to say, “I, too, know that he died, but my intention is to expound this verse in every manner that is possible to expound, and if it impossible for the midrash to be in accordance with the [simple] meaning, it nevertheless contains an allusion [to another idea]. For one can say, “he didn't die” along the lines of that which was stated, “Tzadikim, even in death, are [considered] alive” (Berachos 18a) for their reputation, their memory, and their deeds last forever.

Unfortunately, the widespread ignorance of this distinction between pshat and drash has led many people to false and harmful conclusions about Chazal and Torah. The Rashba (commentary on Berachos 32b) writes that "some people are confused because they think that the Sages in their aggados are coming to explain the true meanings of the pesukim" when, in truth, they are only expounding on the words themselves, without intending to uncover the intended meaning of the pesukim. The Rashba goes on to write that as a result of this misunderstanding, certain factions of the population "incline towards heresy, due to their [mistaken] belief that the Sages were actually interpreting these pesukim in an erroneous manner; some are led to an even greater error than this, for they conclude that even Chazal erred in their explanations of the Torah and mitzvos as well."

I have seen with my own eyes that the Rashba is correct. Many of my students were never taught to distinguish between pshat and drash. Consequently, they labored under the impression that Chazal's midrashim were intended to convey the actual meaning of the pesukim. When faced with fantastical or far-fetched drashos, the more rationally inclined students rejected these "interpretations" due to their perceived irrationality. This led them to believe that Chazal were stupid and irrational, which in turn, led them to view the Torah itself as stupid and irrational.

In my opinion, students should be taught from an early age to differentiate between pshat and drash, and this distinction should be continually emphasized throughout their education - especially when learning midrashim or midrashic commentaries on Chumash. Once this distinction has been established as a foundation, students can be introduced to the true beauty of midrashim, as intended by their authors. 

Parashas Naso: The True Meaning of Shivim Panim la'Torah

Originally published in June 2013. Note that this was the precursor of my other posts about pshat vs. drash, and contains some repetition of material. 

Picture of the mizrak (silver basin), courtesy of http://templeinstitute.org

Parashas Naso: The True Meaning of Shivim Panim la'Torah

The phrase “shivim panim la'Torah” – literally, “there are seventy faces to the Torah” – is frequently cited in order to authorize the coexistence of mutually exclusive interpretations. Some people invoke shivim panim to express such sentiments as “all opinions are equally valid.” Does this conventional usage reflect the true meaning of shivim panim la’Torah, or did Chazal have something else in mind? 

The source of shivim panim la’Torah is an enigmatic midrash on Parshas Naso. The Torah recounts the identical contributions made by the leaders of each tribe at the inauguration of the Mishkan. The midrash expounds on the offering of Nesanel ben Tzuar in particular. It states that Nesanel ben Tzuar “made an offering to represent the Torah, because the members of his tribe loved the Torah more than any of the other tribes.” [1] The midrash then goes on to show how each and every component of his offering symbolizes a different feature of Torah.

One of the items donated by Nesanel ben Tzuar was “one silver basin (mizrak) of seventy shekels in the sacred shekel” (Bamidbar 7:19). The midrash explains the significance of this basin as follows:

One silver basin represents the Torah which has been likened to wine, as it is stated, "And drink of the wine which I have mingled" (Mishlei 9:5). Now because it is customary to drink wine in a basin – as you may gather from the text, "They who drink wine in basins" (Amos 6:6) – therefore, he brought a basin. Why "of seventy shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary"? As the numerical value of yayin (wine) is seventy, so there are shivim panim la’Torah.

The question is: What insight is the midrash trying to teach us? The midrash is very cryptic and doesn't elaborate on the meaning of shivim panim la’Torah. What are we supposed to learn from the comparison between wine in a silver wine basin and the Torah’s “seventy faces”?

In my search for an answer to this question, I came across a curious discovery: whenever the Rishonim [2] apply the principle of shivim panim la’Torah, they apply it exclusively to drash – not to pshat. I believe this is an essential clue to decoding the midrash, but first, let us review the distinction between pshat and drash.

In his introduction to the Aseres ha’Dibros, Ibn Ezra writes: “words are like bodies and meanings are like souls, and the body to the soul is like a vessel.” That is to say, the words of a pasuk serve as the vehicle by means of which the meanings are conveyed. Ralbag, in his introduction to Shir ha’Shirim, utilizes this distinction as the basis for defining pshat and drash. According to Ralbag, “pshat” refers to the meaning that the author [3] intended to convey through the words of the pasuk. “Drash,” on the other hand, is a homiletic device in which the words of a pasuk are used as a platform to teach an extrinsic idea – an idea which may or may not bear any relation meaning intended by the author [4]. 

In light of this distinction, we can now understand the meaning of shivim panim la’Torah in the midrash and we can also explain why the Rishonim apply the principle of shivim panim la’Torah to exclusively to drash and not to pshat. According to our midrash, it is not the content of the vessel (i.e. the “wine of Torah”) which has shivim panim, but the vessel itself (i.e. the words of the Torah’s pesukim). This is an important feature of the Torah’s beauty and perfection. In books authored by human beings, the words convey pshat and nothing more. In the case of the Torah, however, not only do the words of the pesukim teach fundamental ideas on a pshat level, but they also double as a platform for teaching countless valuable ideas by way of drash. 

Now we can truly appreciate the beauty of the idea about Torah that Nesanel ben Tzuar expressed through his donation of the silver basin. Moreover, we can now understand the subtlety of the Rishonic application of shivim panim la’Torah, in contrast to the conventional usage. 

[1] Bamidbar Rabbah 13:15-16 

[2] Sefer ha’Chinuch: Mitzvah #95; Ibn Ezra: Introduction to Torah; Ramban: Bereishis 8:4; Sefer Maharil: Likkutim 77; Shailos u’Tshuvos ha’Radvaz 3:643; Shiltei ha’Giborim: Avodah Zarah daf 6a b’dapei ha’Rif. If anyone finds instances of shivim panim la’Torah in the Rishonim which are not in the context of drash, please send them my way! 

[3] To be precise, we should use the term “Author” (with a capital “A”) when referring to Chumash, and “author” (with a lowercase “a”) when referring to the rest of Nach. 

[4] For example, the Torah says: “The woman [Yocheved] conceived and bore a son, and she saw that he was good” (Shemos 2:2). Ibn Ezra gives the pshat of the pasuk, namely, that Yocheved saw that her newborn child looked good. Chazal, on the other hand, expound on the pasuk by way of drash: “The entire house became filled with light when he was born, for it is written here ‘and she saw that he was good’ and it is written elsewhere ‘And God saw that the light was good’ (Bereishis 1:4).” This idea, while valuable in and of itself, is extrinsic to the meaning of the pasuk itself, and does not necessarily reflect the pshat.

Vayeitzei: The Eyes of Leah in the Eyes of Three Schools of Commentary

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Vayeitzei: The Eyes of Leah in the Eyes of Three Schools of Commentary

The Torah introduces Leah by way of comparison to her sister: "Lavan had two daughters: the name of the older was Leah and the name of the younger was Rachel. And the eyes of Leah were rakos (lit. soft), but Rachel was beautiful of form and beautiful of appearance” (Bereishis 29:17-18). The two basic questions are: What does “rakos” mean, and why does the Torah tell us this?

The commentators here can be divided into three camps: (1) “minimalist pshat” commentators who answer the first question but not the second, (2) “maximalist pshat” commentators, who extrapolate answers to the second question from their answer to the first question, (3) “midrashic” commentators who use the text as a springboard to fill in other details about Leah’s character and backstory. Here is a summary of all the explanations I’ve read.

“Minimalist pshat” explanations include: her eyes were weak (Ibn Ezra); Leah’s eyes were physically beautiful (Onkelos); they were beautiful because they radiated joy (R’ Yosef Kara); she had beautiful pale eyes, and the rest of her was ALSO beautiful (Rashbam); her eyes were her ONLY beautiful feature (R’ Avraham ben ha’Rambam); she was beautiful in all respects EXCEPT for her eyes because she wept frequently (Radak); Leah wasn’t as beautiful as Rachel, but the Torah conveys this euphemistically by praising her beautiful eyes (R’ Hirsch).

“Maximalist pshat” explanations include: Leah’s eyes were beautiful but sensitive to the wind, making her unfit for shepherding (Bechor Shor); similarly, her eyes were overly sensitive to the sun (Ramban); Leah’s eyes were runny because of some disease which Yaakov was concerned might affect her progeny (Ralbag); likewise, the condition of Leah’s eyes made Yaakov think she would go blind (Abravanel); Leah’s eyes indicated that she was emotionally sensitive – not in a bad way, but in a way that made Yaakov more attracted to Rachel (Shadal).

The midrashic interpretation of Chazal is paraphrased by Rashi: “[Leah's eyes were] tender because she cried, thinking that she was destined for the lot of Eisav, because everyone used to say: ‘Rivkah has two sons and Lavan has two daughters: the elder [will marry] the elder, and the younger the younger.’” Chazal tell us that Leah would cry and pray, saying: “May it be [God’s] will that I not fall into the lot of that evildoer” (Bereishis Rabbah 70:15) and that she cried out in prayer “until her eyelashes fell out” (Bava Basra 123a).

Of the three approaches, the second and third are likely to find more favor in people’s eyes than the first. The maximalist pashtanim answer both questions by making reasonable inferences from the text. The midrashic commentators take homiletical liberties to provide a behind-the-scenes glimpse into Leah’s thoughts and feelings, reinforcing her righteous character. Both approaches deepen our understanding of the story in satisfactory ways.

But what are we to make of the “minimalist pshat” approaches? They seem to raise more problems than they solve. Indeed, ibn Kaspi – a staunch member of the minimalist camp – is led by his reading to ask a brazen question:

It should not surprise us that the Giver of the Torah didn't explain for us the reason for Leah's inferiority and Rachel's beauty, for there is no artist like our God. However, what is surprising – based on our principles, and the principles of every pious individual – is how Yaakov Avinu chose maidens [based on] beauty.

Ibn Kaspi’s commentary follows in the footsteps of R’ Yosef Kara, minimalist pashtan par excellence, who writes: “the prophetic text was written complete, with its solution and everything it needs … lacking nothing in its place [to be fully understood], and there is thus no need to bring proof from another place nor from midrash” (I Shmuel 1:17). This is the minimalist pshat method: to read the text as conservatively as possible, and unflinchingly face whatever questions may arise. This approach is difficult and treacherous, which is why it is far less popular than the other two approaches. Nevertheless, it is part of our mesorah, and should not be dismissed or undervalued.

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Chayei Sarah: The Pshat of “Place Your Hand Under My Thigh”

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Chayei Sarah: The Pshat of “Place Your Hand Under My Thigh”

When Avraham Avinu charges Eliezer to find a wife for Yitzchak, he begins by saying: “Place now your hand under my thigh, and I will have you swear by Hashem, God of heaven and God of earth, that you not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites” (Bereishis 24:2). Similarly, when Yaakov is about to die, he tells Yosef: “Please – if I have found favor in your eyes, please place your hand under my thigh and do kindness and truth with me – please do not bury me in Egypt” (ibid. 47:29). The question is: What is the significance of this gesture?

Rashi (ibid. 24:2), citing Chazal’s drashah (Midrash Rabbah ibid.), maintains that “place your hand under my thigh” means “grab hold of the place of my bris milah.” He explains: “one who swears an oath needs to take a mitzvah object in hand, such as a Torah scroll or tefillin, and milah was the first mitzvah for [Avraham], and came to him through pain, and was beloved to him.” According to Rashi, the conduct of Avraham and Yaakov serves as a precedent for the halachic requirement to hold a mitzvah object when making certain types of oaths (see Talmud Bavli Shavuos 38b and Rashi’s commentary there). Rashi does not qualify his comments, nor does he cite any alternative views.

The majority of other Rishonim either oppose or qualify Rashi’s interpretation. The leader of the opposition is Ibn Ezra (Bereishis 24:2) who objects to the notion that Avraham swore by milah, and then offers his own take:

[The Sages] said that [the phrase “place your hand under my thigh”] refers to milah, but if this were so, he would have sworn by his milah and not by Hashem. The more likely explanation to me is that it was customary in those days for a person to place his hand under the thigh of the person who had mastery over him, meaning: “If you are under my dominion, place your hand under my thigh,” and the master would sit on the hand, [as if the servant were] saying: “Behold! My hand is under your dominion to do your will.” This custom is still followed in India today.

Ibn Ezra’s view is cited and endorsed by a number of other Rishonim, including Rashbam (ibid.), Bechor Shor (ibid.), Radak (ibid.), Chizkuni (ibid.), Rabbeinu Bachya (ibid.), Tur (peirush ha’aroch ibid.), Ralbag (ibid.), and Ibn Kaspi (ibid.). Other major commentators highlight the difficulties with Rashi. Abravanel (ibid. question #4) rejects Rashi’s approach as “extremely improbable, for a person cannot take an oath on any mitzvah [object,] like maakeh, sukkah, or lulav, and especially not on milah, which would be disgraceful.” The Rosh (Shavuos 6:1) finds the plain reading of Chazal’s drashah to be so halachically problematic that he relegates it to a mere asmachta (textual allusion) rather than a legitimate halachic source – unlike Rashi, who takes the drashah at its halachic face value.

In sum, Rashi is the minority position among the mainstream commentators who comment on this pasuk. Even those who cite both opinions characterize Rashi’s as “the midrashic approach” and Ibn Ezra’s as “pshat.”

I do not find this to be problematic. However, there are those who find this conclusion to be deeply troublesome. A number of prominent rabbis, among them the Roshei Yeshiva of Beth Medrash Govoha (of Lakewood, NJ), have recently signed a ban on a popular edition of Chumash entitled Pshuto shel Mikra (LNN, 11/15/22). The ban alleges (among other things) that this Chumash constitutes “a stumbling block for the masses” because it presents other traditional commentaries as pshat instead of regarding Rashi as the definitive pshat.

My thoughts on this ban cannot be shared in the space of a 1-page article. Moreover, as of this morning, I have only read 24 pages of the 76-page Kuntress Vayivinu ba’Mikra which explicates the many reasons for the ban. Suffice it to say, as someone who favors the non-Rashi pshat commentators among the Rishonim, I am as disturbed by this ban as its promulgators are disturbed by the Chumash Pshuto shel Mikra. I can’t help but wonder what all the Rishonim cited above would say about this treatment of their Torah.

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Midrashic Betrayal

Originally posted in December 2013.

Two Approaches to Chumash

The way I see it, the meforshim on Chumash can be divided into two distinct camps: those who make heavy use of midrashic literature, and those who focus on the straight pshat are sparing in their use of midrash. "Team Midrash" includes (but is not limited to) Targum Yonasan ben Uzziel, Rashi, Ramban, Chazkuni, and Rabbeinu Bachya ben Asher. Among the headliners of "Team Pshat" are Onkelos, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam, Bechor Shor, Rabbeinu Avraham ben ha'Rambam, Ralbag, and Sforno. There are also a number of meforshim who regularly offer both types of interpretations, such as Radak (on Sefer Bereishis), Abravanel, and the Baalei Tosafos.

I realize that these teams are not as clear-cut as I'm making them out to be. For example, Ramban and Rashi frequently give "plain pshat" interpretations which do not draw upon homiletic midrashim. Likewise, Ralbag and Avraham ben ha'Rambam occasionally mention ideas from these types of midrashim alongside their "plain pshat" explanations. Even the militantly anti-drash "pashtanim" like Ibn Ezra and Rashbam occasionally give a hat tip to the midrashic literature. Nevertheless, if you split the pshat/drash spectrum down the center, you'll find that most meforshim end up clearly on one side of the divide, even if there is some disagreement about exactly where they fall out.

If you accept this distinction, you will probably also agree that the majority of the Jewish world has embraced the midrashic approach as the preferred way to teach Chumash (or "Chumash with Rashi," as the subject is often called). Personally, my own style of teaching and learning of Chumash is guided by the non-midrashic commentators. 

However, my intent in this post is not to explain or justify my predilection. This post is about an obstacle I've encountered in my own experience as a Chumash teacher - an obstacle which has been fueled by Jewish educators' heavy reliance on the midrashic approach. I refer to this phenomenon as "Midrashic Betrayal." 

Our story begins with an anecdote about the man pictured below ...

How Richard Feynman Was Turned Off to Judaism

Readers of this blog may be aware that I'm a big fan of Richard Feynman - the fun-loving, ever-curious Nobel Prize winning physicist from Far Rockaway. Feynman was born Jewish but he lived out the majority of his life as an avowed atheist. The story of how he became an atheist is recorded in the book, "What Do You Care What Other People Think?": Further Adventures of a Curious Character (2001). It's a tragic story, but it sheds light on the problem that is the subject of this blog post. Here is the story as told by Feynman, with my own emphasis in bold:

I had been brought up in the Jewish religion — my family went to the temple every Friday, I was sent to what we called “Sunday school,” and I even studied Hebrew for a while — but at the same time, my father was telling me about the world. When I would hear the rabbi tell about some miracle such as a bush whose leaves were shaking but there wasn't any wind, I would try to fit the miracle into the real world and explain it in terms of natural phenomena.

Some miracles were harder than others to understand. The one about the leaves was easy. When I was walking to school, I heard a little noise: although the wind was hardly noticeable, the leaves of a bush were wiggling a little bit because they were in just the right position to make a kind of resonance. And I thought, “Aha! This is a good explanation for Elijah's vision of the quaking bush!”

But there were some miracles I never did figure out. For instance, there was a story in which Moses throws down his staff and it turns into a snake. I couldn't figure out what the witnesses saw that made them think his staff was a snake.

If I had thought back to when I was much younger, the Santa Claus story could have provided a clue for me. But it didn't hit me hard enough at the time to produce the possibility that I should doubt the truth of stories that don't fit with nature. When I found out that Santa Claus wasn't real, I wasn't upset; rather, I was relieved that there was a much simpler phenomenon to explain how so many children all over the world got presents on the same night! The story had been getting pretty complicated — it was getting out of hand.

Santa Claus was a particular custom we celebrated in our family, and it wasn't very serious. But the miracles I was hearing about were connected with real things: there was the temple, where people would go every week; there was the Sunday school, where rabbis taught children about miracles; it was much more of a dramatic thing. Santa Claus didn't involve big institutions like the temple, which I knew were real.

So all the time I was going to the Sunday school, I was believing everything and having trouble putting it together. But of course, ultimately, it had to come to a crisis, sooner or later.

The actual crisis came when I was eleven or twelve. The rabbi was telling us a story about the Spanish Inquisition, in which the Jews suffered terrible tortures. He told us about a particular individual whose name was Ruth, exactly what she was supposed to have done, what the arguments were in her favor and against her — the whole thing, as if it had all been documented by a court reporter. And I was just an innocent kid, listening to all this stuff and believing it was a true commentary, because the rabbi had never indicated otherwise.

At the end, the rabbi described how Ruth was dying in prison: “And she thought, while she was dying” — blah, blah.

That was a shock to me. After the lesson was over, I went up to him and said, “How did they know what she thought when she was dying?”

He says, “Well, of course, in order to explain more vividly how the Jews suffered, we made up the story of Ruth. It wasn't a real individual.”

That was too much for me. I felt terribly deceived: I wanted the straight story — not fixed up by somebody else — so I could decide for myself what it meant. But it was difficult for me to argue with adults. All I could do was get tears in my eyes. I started to cry, I was so upset.

He said, “What's the matter?”

I tried to explain. “I've been listening to all these stories, and now I don't know, of all the things you told me, which were true, and which were not true! I don't know what to do with everything that I've learned!” I was trying to explain that I was losing everything at the moment, because I was no longer sure of the data, so to speak. Here I had been struggling to understand all these miracles, and now — well, it solved a lot of miracles, all right! But I was unhappy.

The rabbi said, “If it is so traumatic for you, why do you come to Sunday school?”

“Because my parents make me.”

I never talked to my parents about it, and I never found out whether the rabbi communicated with them or not, but my parents never made me go again. And it was just before I was supposed to get confirmed as a believer.

Anyway, that crisis resolved my difficulty rather rapidly, in favor of the theory that all the miracles were stories made up to help people understand things “more vividly,” even if they conflicted with natural phenomena. But I thought nature itself was so interesting that I didn't want it distorted like that. And so I gradually came to disbelieve the whole religion.

The adults who were in charge of young Feynman's education made a number of horrible mistakes, but the one I'd like to focus on is the one that seems to have bothered him the most: that he was presented with "real data" alongside "fixed up data" without being told which is which. 

Prior to the Ruth debacle, Feynman had been working with the reasonable assumption that everything he was taught by his rabbis represented the "straight story" - the raw facts from which he was to derive his understanding of Judaism. The discovery that he had been fed a mixture of truth and fabrication was too much to bear, and he ended up rejecting everything.

Artwork: Portent of Betrayal, by Daarken

Midrashic Betrayal

Unfortunately, I have witnessed many of my own students undergo an analogous religious disillusionment. Nearly all of my students have been raised on a midrash-heavy Torah diet. From as early as they can remember they were exposed to The Little Midrash Says, to children's songs and books featuring midrashic versions of the narrative portions of Chumash, and to years of Chumash education in which the pesukim are so interwoven with Rashi and midrashim that they can't tell which is which - or even worse, they don't realize that there is a "which is which" determination to be made.

Eventually, they reach a point where they stumble upon the truth: that not everything they were taught is actually contained in the Chumash. They realize that many of the events they believed were stated openly in the pesukim are actually midrashim. To give you an idea of the types of midrashim I'm talking about, here are some examples of midrashic "facts" which many (if not the majority) of my students believe are stated openly in Chumash:

• Yam Suf only parted when Nachshon ben Aminadav walked into the water until it was up to his nose.  
• Avraham was thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod and was miraculously saved. 
• Moshe Rabbeinu was 18 feet tall. 
• Rivka was three years old when she married Yitzchak. 
• The Torah was created before the world, and Hashem looked into the Torah to create the world. 
• Bas Paroh's arm became miraculously stretched out so that she could reach baby Moshe. 
• Yocheved was born "between the walls" on the way into Mitzrayim, and was 130 years old when she gave birth to Moshe. 
• The Avos kept Taryag mitzvos. 
• Yaakov's spirit was revived when he saw the wagons sent by Yosef, since the last sugya they learned together was Eglah Arufah. 
• The makah of tzfardea began with one giant frog which kept on splitting into more and more frogs every time the Egyptians hit it. 
• Eisav tried to bite Yaakov's neck - like a vampire - but Yaakov's neck turned into marble. 
• Moshe killed the Egyptian taskmaster by uttering Hashem's Name. 

When my students are informed that these midashic "facts" are not to be treated as factual facts, but are aggadic drashos which weren't necessarily intended to be taken literally, they feel a deep sense of betrayal, confusion, and trauma akin to what Richard Feynman felt when the rabbi told him the truth about Ruth.

Students often react to such "midrashic exposés" by exclaiming, "You mean those midrashim aren't true?!" Whenever they react this way my first instinct is to reassure them that even if these midrashic accounts do not reflect literal, historical fact, they still contain true and beneficial ideas and are worthy of study and analysis. But as soon as I say this, I realize that my words fail to ease their anxieties - just as Feynman wasn't satisfied when the rabbi told explained to him, “Well, of course, in order to explain more vividly how the Jews suffered, we made up the story of Ruth. It wasn't a real individual.” The students still feel that they were deceived by their parents and teachers, and the revelation of this "deception" throws into question everything they've been taught. I've even had students say things like, "Everything they taught us was false!" and "I don't know what to believe anymore!" Even though these are clearly overreactions, they do express the sentiment that the students feel.

(Parenthetically, RAZ/REF posted the following comment on one of my other blog posts:

Medrash creates a interconnected web of stories about people and events that underlie the chumash. Many medrashim of Chazal were said within the context of a shared framework of derived facts. 

Some medrashim are meant to be taken figuratively, and others literally; but often times, they are only referencing the shared medrashic world of Chazal and Rashi.

This explanation - rather, this type of explanation - might be sufficient for a student who is firmly grounded in the world of ideas and learning and can appreciate midrash as an innovative and effective pedagogical tool, but few high school students are on such a level. All they hear is, "Much of what you've been taught as Torah was made up." Le'havdil, if you tell an older child that Santa Claus isn't real, the revelation will probably confirm his suspicions, as it did in Feynman's case. And if he is mature enough, he might even be able to see the Santa farce as a genuine expression of parental affection. But if you tell a very young child that Santa isn't real, all you'll be doing is shattering a cherished belief, and no amount of explanation you provide will take away that grief.)

Artwork: Torchling, by RK Post

Two Mistakes

To my mind, there are really two mistakes at play here: (1) Jewish educators fail to differentiate between pshat and drash when they teach, and (2) they neglect to emphasize the important fact that midrashim are not Torah mi'Sinai in the same category as Torah she'bi'Chsav and Torah she'baal Peh, but reflect the opinions of the individual Sages who authored them.

I suspect that the first mistake often stems from ignorance on the part of the Jewish educators themselves. If you ask a limudei kodesh teacher to explain the difference between pshat and drash, you're likely to receive an answer along the lines of, "Pshat is the simple explanation of the pasuk, and drash is the deeper meaning." These definitions are incorrect and misleading. There is no need for me to reiterate the correct definitions here. I've written about them at length (with some overlap) in Pshat vs. Drash, Pshat vs. Drash II, and The True Meaning of Shivim Panim la'Torah.

The second mistake was first brought to my attention by Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch in his letter on aggadata, in which he rebukes a fellow educator for teaching the view that agados (i.e. homiletic midrashim) were given to Moshe at Sinai. Rav Hirsch writes (according to Yehoshua Leiman's translation, but with my emphasis in bold):

You are of the opinion that the agados were received [by Moshe from God] at Sinai, and that there is no distinction in this respect between them and the halachic statements that were transmitted. As far as my limited mind can grasp, this is a dangerous approach that poses a grave danger for the pupils who grow up believing this concept. For it very nearly opens the gates of heresy before them. 

What should these wretches do if they hear from their teachers today, "Aggadic statements were transmitted at Sinai just like the main body of Torah," and then they discover the declarations of the greatest of our early Talmudic commentators (Rishonim) upon whom all Jewry relies - in which one of them says, "Aggadic statements are not articles of faith but reasonable assumptions," and another says, "They were stated as exaggerations," or "as one man speaks to another, making statements that are not intended to be true but to entertain their listener for a while," or "They narrated what they had dreamed," or "Learn from [Agadah] only things that make sense," and so on? What are these wretches to do when they read these and similar declarations about statements they were taught by their teachers to believe came from Sinai with no difference between them and the main body of Torah? 

They will find themselves in great spiritual danger, ready to reject both equally and to accept only what their little brains comprehend. It would be better for them not to study Torah and mitzvos in depth and simply to keep mitzvos by rote rather than tread this dangerous path! Which is why it is my humble opinion that we are not to budge from the road of life shown us by our Rishonim when they made a major and intrinsic distinction between statements made as transmissions from God to Moshe and statements made as Aggadah. The former were transmitted from master to disciple, and their original source is a human ear hearing from the mouth of Moshe who heard at Sinai. The latter, though transmitted from master to disciple (for many aggadic statements are introduced by a disciple in the name of his master and sometimes even in the name of the master's master), have their origin in what the originating scholar stated as his own opinion in accord with his broad understanding of Tanach and the ways of the world, or as statements of mussar and fear of God to attract his audience to Torah and mitzvos.

Rav Hirsch wisely foresaw the feelings of disillusion that would be felt by little Richard Feynmans who were raised believing that midrashim are on par with Torah she'bi'Chsav and Torah she'baal Peh, and who discovered the truth. For this reason, he urged Jewish educators to make it clear to students from the get-go that although midrashim are extremely valuable and were written by the wisest men, they are not mi'pi ha'Gevurah (from the mouth of the Almighty). Ideally, all Jewish educators would familiarize themselves with the methodological principles of midrashic-usage as spelled out in the classical sources. 

If Jewish educators were disabused of these these two mistaken notions - namely, ignorance of the difference between pshat and drash, and of the nature of midrashic authority - and if they modified their teaching accordingly, then the scourge of midrashic betrayal might be halted. This needs to be done from an early age, when students are first exposed to Chumash. (How this would be done is the topic of another discussion. It all depends on how one plans to teach Chumash in general.)

Unfortunately, these two problems are rooted in a more fundamental (and more difficult-to-deal-with) problem: the dominance of the Rambam's "First Group."

Artwork: Blind Obedience, by Seb McKinnon

The First Group

In his introduction to Perek Chelek (Sanhedrin: Chapter 10), the Rambam divides Klal Yisrael into three different groups, based on how they relate to the midrashim of Chazal. Here is what the Rambam has to say about the First Group:

The first group includes the majority of people I have met and whose books I have seen and about whom I have heard. These people understand the words of Chazal according to their literal meanings without explaining them at all. To them, all impossible things are believed to be necessary. This is due to their stupidity in matters of science and their inexperience with other branches of knowledge. They lack sufficient perfection to be awakened to such wisdom on their own and they have found no one to awaken them. Consequently, they think that the only meaning in the wise words of Chazal is what they, themselves, understand – namely, the literal meaning. They think this, even though the literal meanings contain statements so bizarre that if you were to tell them to an average person, and certainly to an intelligent individual, he would be astounded and exclaim, “How is it possible that there should be anyone in the world who would imagine such things and think that they are true, much less find value in them?”

The unfortunate people in this group (their stupidity warrants mercy) exalt Chazal in their own minds, but in reality, they degrade them to the utmost extent without realizing it. As God Lives, this group destroys the beauty of Torah and darkens its brilliance. These people render the Torah of Hashem the opposite of its intended purpose, for Hashem said about the wisdom of His Torah, “[for it is your wisdom and discernment in the eyes of the nations, who shall hear all these decrees and who shall say,] ‘Surely a wise and discerning people is this great nation!’” (Devarim 4:6). But this group expound from the literal meanings of the words of Chazal notions which, if heard by the gentiles, would cause them to say, “Surely a stupid and disgraceful people is this pathetic nation!”

Many of the men who do this are public speakers who attempt to convey ideas to the people which they, themselves, do not understand. If only they would shut up, since they do not understand – “If only you would be utterly silent, that would be your wisdom” (Iyov 13:5). Or if only they had it in them to say, “We do not know what Chazal intended with these words, nor do we know how to interpret them.” Instead, they think they understand, and they set themselves up as authorities to convey to the people their own understanding - not what Chazal actually said; and they expound to the masses the midrashim in Berachos and Perek Chelek and the like, word for word according to their literal meanings.

I believe that the reason why the two problems I mentioned in the previous section have such a strong hold is because the majority of Jews belong to the First Group, as the Rambam observed even during his own era. I can't quite explain the causal connection, but it's definitely there. Someone who takes midrashim at face value and believes whatever Chazal say, no matter how impossible or implausible it sounds, will find it extremely difficult to regard these interpretations as "non-binding." They will find it nearly impossible to read Chumash in a manner at odds with the "authoritative" midrashic interpretations, and they certainly won't be able to apply Shmuel ha'Nagid's principle of "take from midrashim whatever makes sense to you, and leave the rest."

Artwork: Reborn Hope, by Warren Mahy

The Solution ...

I hope I have managed to present a somewhat coherent picture of the problem and some of its causes. If I am correct, then we at least have the beginnings of a solution. More than that I cannot presently say. I will continue to do my best to combat the three aforementioned errors, and I will do everything I can to diminish my students' feelings of betrayal. But if you have any more concrete ideas for how to solve this problem, I'm all ears.

I will conclude by sharing an amazing excerpt I found in the introduction to R' Avigdor Bonchek's What's Bothering Rashi?: Devarim. This excerpt is from the commentary of R' Yosef Kara (not to be confused with R' Yosef Karo), who, according to Rabbi Bonchek, "was a younger contemporary and personal friend of Rashi, and was certainly influenced by him." The following is Rabbi Bonchek's translation of R' Yosef Kara's commentary on I Shmuel 3:

You should be aware that when the Prophecy was written, it was written complete, with all its solutions, so that future generations should not stumble in it. It lacks nothing in its place [to be fully understood.] There is thus no need to offer proofs from other sources nor from the midrash. For the Torah is complete and complete it was given to us … but the purpose of the midrash of the Sages is to enhance Torah and glorify it. But he who does not know the Simple Meaning, peshuto shel mikra, and turns to the midrash is similar to one who is swept along by the torrents as the depths of the sea overwhelm him and he grasps on to anything that comes to his hand to save himself. But were he to have paid close attention to the word of God he would have investigated and searched for the pshat and he would have found [the solution to his problem]. So it says, “If you seek it like silver and like hidden treasure you search for it, then you will understand the fear of God and you shall find knowledge of God” (Mishlei 2:4).

May we and our students merit to understand the pshat of the dvar Hashem, thereby gaining access to the chochmah of midrash as it was intended to be learned.

Vayishlach: Can We Talk About Reuven’s Sin?

The Torah content for the month of Kislev has been sponsored by Serena and Paul Koppel, who want to be makir tov and express gratitude.

Click here for a printer-friendly 1-page version of this article, and click here for the podcast version.

Special thanks to Rabbi Shmuli Phillips, author of Judaism Reclaimed: Philosophy and Theology in the Torah, for allowing me to write this guest post for his Facebook group.

Artwork: DALL-E's response to the prompt, "impressionist painting of a man reading from a scroll and another man covering his ears"

Vayishlach: Can We Talk About Reuven’s Sin?

The Torah’s account of Reuven’s sin ends as abruptly as it begins: “When Yisrael was living in that land, Reuven went and slept with Bilhah, his father’s concubine, and Yisrael heard” (Bereishis 35:22).  The verse then stops mid-sentence and a new paragraph begins with a non-sequitur: “And the sons of Yaakov were twelve” (ibid.). The pshat (straightforward meaning) of the text couldn’t be clearer: Reuven had intimate relations with Bilhah. However, the Sages of the Talmud (Shabbos 55b) emphatically declare that such a reading is erroneous:

Anyone who says that Reuven sinned [in the incident with Bilhah] is only making a mistake, as it is stated: “and the sons of Yaakov were twelve” – this teaches that all of them were equal [in righteousness]. How, then, do I establish [the meaning of:] “and he slept with Bilhah, the concubine of his father”? This teaches that [Reuven] rearranged his father’s bed, and the verse ascribes to him [liability] as if he had slept with her … [Reuven] protested the affront to his mother, saying: “If my mother’s sister [Rachel] was a rival to my mother, will my mother’s sister’s concubine be a rival to my mother?” He got up and rearranged her bed [so that Yaakov would enter his mother Leah’s tent instead of Bilhah’s].

Yet, despite this admonition against ascribing sinful behavior to Reuven, a number of commentators do just that:

• Radak (ibid.) holds that Reuven had relations with Bilhah, mistakenly thinking that since she was “only” his father’s concubine, she was permitted to him. Radak doesn’t comment on his motive, but it doesn’t seem to be noble.

• Ramban (ibid.) theorizes that Reuven sexually defiled Bilhah to prevent his father from having more offspring. As the firstborn who was entitled to a double-portion, Reuven wanted to “lock in” the value of his inheritance.

• Ralbag is particularly harsh. After condemning Reuven’s sin as “a disgusting sex act … done in haste, without intelligence” (beur ha'milos to Bereishis 49:4), he then marshals evidence to support his claim that “Reuven was not wise … for a wise man’s heart would not be seduced [to commit] such base deeds” (beur ha’milos to Bereishis 42:37). Ralbag concludes: “the Torah makes it clear to us that Reuven, who was so depraved as to sleep with his father’s concubine, was mentally deficient”  (toalos to Bereishis 42:37).

What are we to make of these views? Surely these commentators were familiar with the Sages who oppose reading the incident of Reuven literally! How could they defy the Talmud’s authoritatively worded injunction?

R’ Tzvi Hirsch Chajes (Mevo ha’Talmud 20) provides us with a key to an answer by differentiating between the drush (homiletical) style of the Sages and the pshat-oriented approach of the commentaries cited above. He writes:

It was a received tradition of the Sages that the more praise they were able to heap upon the actions of the righteous, to search for their merits, and to tip the scales of judgment in their favor, the more they would strive to do, as much as possible … Even in a case which is explicitly [presented] in Scripture as an evil, [the Sages] sought strategies through the methods of drush to vindicate the actions [of the righteous] and to minimize their guilt.

The answer is that the Sages were engaged in a different expository enterprise than Radak, Ramban, Ralbag, and their ilk. The pshat commentator’s objective is to understand what actually happened, based on the evidence in the text, and to derive insights, concepts, and lessons therefrom. In contrast, the objective of the darshan (homiletical orator) is to use Scripture as a rhetorical platform for promoting Torah values, regardless of what really transpired. R’ Chajes explains: “the smoothest way to teach the masses and to show them the path on which to walk is to only take principles from experience, from the events that happened in the earlier generations.” Instead of speaking in abstract terms, the Sages rendered these ideas accessible by painting vivid, romanticized, larger-than-life portraits of the Biblical figures, taking creative liberties with the text and painting its “heroes” and “villains” in broad strokes without being constrained by historical veracity. Thus, when the Sages oppose the literal interpretation of Reuven’s sin, they aren’t referring to pshat. Regardless of what Reuven did or didn’t do, it would be a mistake in the genre of drush to ascribe to him anything less than righteous motives.

If you’re interested in a full-length shiur I gave on this topic, entitled Midrashic Embellishment: Why Did Chazal Villainize “the Bad Guys” and Vindicate “the Good Guys” and What are the Educational Implications for Us?, click here for the YouTube version (featuring the PowerPoint presentation that accompanied the shiur) and click here for the podcast version.

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