30.9.05

Parashat Nitzavim

“Today, you stand here together in front of Hashem your G-d…to enter into Hashem’s Bris and oath that Hashem your G-d is cutting with you today.”

Devarim (29:9-11)

From these two pasukim, we see two facts. (1) There is a Bris being established in the opening scene of this week’s parasha – a twenty pasuk run-on sentence we will soon explore – and (2) it is a new Bris that is established on this very day, the day of Moshe’s death as Rashi notes, not the repetition of an old covenant. Why do we need this new Bris?

“In order to establish you today as a nation to [Hashem], and He will be to you a G-d…” (29:12)

Well, this doesn’t sound very different from the Bris we entered at Har Sinai. Didn’t that Bris also state “Anochi Hashem Elockechah, Lo YiHiyeh Lichah Elohim Acheirim?” Perhaps the upcoming pasukim will tell us how the two Brisos differ.

“And it’s not just you with whom I am cutting this Bris and oath, but with [both] those present standing here today, and those not, [the future generations].” (29:13-14)

But the Bris at Har Sinai surely wasn’t only for the congregation present at Moshe’s address; almost everyone at Har Sinai died in the Midbar, and a new generation had already assumed their parents’ roles as members of Jewish nation. How then does this Bris differ? Perhaps the elaborate purpose behind this new Bris will reveal a difference.

“Because you know from your time living in Mitzrayim and your time passing through the Goyim’s lands [about their idols,] and you have seen their idols… that are with them. Perhaps you will have a man or woman or family or tribe whose heart today will turn from Hashem our G-d to worship those other gods. He will hear the words of [the Klallos in last week’s parasha] and think in his heart, ‘I will be fine so long as I follow the sights of my heart…’ to add his accidental sins to those he does willfully.” (29:15-18)

In other words, Hashem fears that we will hear all the terrible Klallos listed that will befall us if we sin and thereby give up trying to follow the proper path. Our active choice of ignorance and abandonment will become a willful sin.

But how then does this Bris, more than any other Bris, rest with both the present generation and their children? The present generation witnessed the idols of Mitzrayim and the bordering nations, a reference to the Eigel HaZahav and Ba’al Peor acoording to the Ramban, but their children did not. Furthermore, Hashem gives us a very elaborate description of what might push one off the Derech. Is this a new fear? Surely there was a danger of Avoda Zara long before the witnessing of these Shikutzim and Gilulim. Which leads us back to our first question: the Bris of the Aseres HaDibros quite explicitly forbids Avoda Zara, so how does this Bris, with or without elaboration, differ? We’ll leave these questions on the side and forge ahead in our reading of these pasukim; the pasukim continue with the consequences of Avoda Zara.

“Hahsem will not forgive such a man; instead, His wrath will flare… and He will set aside all the bad for [this man] among the Shivtei Yisrael, like all the oaths written in this Torah Book.” (29:19-20)

We finally start to see a difference between this Bris and the one at Har Sinai; the one at Har Sinai was sealed with one set of oaths, namely the ViTochacha of Parashat BiChukosai, and this Bris is sealed with a list of curses twice as long. The incentive not to worship idols has thereby doubled. Of course, this would be a wonderful place to end G-d’s threat, but the pasukim continue.

“And the later generations – your children after you and the Goyim of a faraway land – will say, and they will see the [destruction]. Sulfur and salt, the earth is scorched and nothing can be planted and nothing can grow… And all the Goyim will say ‘What has Hashem done to this land? What could possibly anger Him so?’ And they will say ‘Since [the Bnei Yisrael] have abandoned their Bris with Hashem that He established with them upon their exit from Mitzrayim. They went and worshiped other gods and bowed to them… and Hashem got angry on the land[‘s inhabitants] to bring upon [them] the curses written in this book. And Hashem furiously removed them from their land and sent them to a foreign land, just like today.” (29:21-27)

Here we have a very detailed description of the Goyim’s thought process, how they will come to recognize that our sins result in our exile. The pasukim analyze how they analyze how we have been tormented by Hashem! If this isn’t bizarre enough, keep in mind that what we are really discussing is the reason behind why Hashem wants to make a new Bris. In other words, we are analyzing someone’s perception or reaction (‘what has G-d done?!’) to a potential consequence (destruction of land) of a theoretical sin (Avoda Zara) which has hopefully been averted by establishing this Bris! Couldn’t Moshe just teach them all the new Bris without this addendum?! The explanation is longer and more unclear that the covenant itself!

And we still haven’t really explained why any new covenant was really necessary. We can say that Hashem is changing the severity of Avoda Zara’s consequences, but I don’t believe that we can comfortably establish a difference between the sets of Klallos solely on the numbers of curses each Bris lists. If 49 Klallos was only enough warning for the forty years in the desert, and now 98 are required, wouldn’t we suspect desensitization to these consequences would spur the need for even more Klallos in only a few more years? Yet the Bris established in this week’s and last week’s parashiot still exists today, 3000 years later! There must be some greater, more significant, difference between the consequences described in our parashaiot and those previously threatened at the time of the earlier Brisos.

I believe this difference can be found most explicitly in the Bris’s aforementioned convoluted explanation; however, to see this difference, we must first be critical not only of the thematic material, but also of the word choice. We first list two sets of characters; both our children and the Goyim of a faraway land witness the destruction. What do these people do? The pasuk says ViAmar, and they will say, and this describes what our children and the Goyim do. But the pasuk says nothing of their dialogue! The pasuk simply continues that they will also see the destruction and overturning of the land. We don’t quote any Amirah until the next pasuk, which specifically quotes the Goyim. What happened to the Amirah of the Jewish descendants? It’s also strange that we find two pasukim (23 and 24), one after the other, where a single party states a question and then its answer.

Perhaps these two pasukim are really constructing a dialogue between the Goyim and the Jewish descendants. The Goyim first ask what has happened to the Jewish nation, and the Jewish descendants respond. This would explain where we see the Jewish descendants speak, it would explain the word ViAmar as a foreshadowing of the ensuing dialogue, and two ViAmiru’s would now be stated by different parties, one with a question and one with an answer.

Returning to the pasukim, we can now read the consequences of the Bnei Yisrael’s idol worship much differently. Their descendants will be confronted in galus and asked why they are treated so miserably. Why do their lands lay fallow and their houses in shambles. And they will recognize and recall the sins of their fathers, Al Asher Azivu Es Bris Hashem Elokei Avosam. Regardless of what Mitzvos or Aveiros these descendants themselves are or are not committing, the blame is squarely placed on their ancestors. And this should make us wonder whether the descendants are only punished as a result of their own misdeeds or whether they are inevitably cursed, even if they stop sinning.

“Pokeid Avon Avos Al Banim Al Shileishim ViAl Ribei’im LiSoni’ai”

LiSoni’ai, to those who hate Me, as [Onkelos] translated, to those descending generations that keep to the evil deeds of their fathers.

Rashi, Shemos (20:5)

“ViHayu Bicha LiOs U’LiMofeis U’BiZarachah Ad Olam, Tachas Asher Lo Avadta Es Hashem Elokechah BiSimchah U’BiTuv Leivav MeiRov Kol”

MeiRov Kol, out of abundance, while you still possessed all your good [as opposed to your or your children’s current status].

Rashi, Devarim (28:47)

Each of these pasukim describes the reason behind our punishments. The first pasuk relates to the original Bris at Har Sinai as recognizes Hashem’s right to punish later generations for their fathers’ sins. However, Rashi adds a huge qualifier; Hashem can only antagonize rotten descendants, people who hate Him like their fathers did. Therefore, we see every generation can avoid Onshim by returning to Hashem.

The second pasuk, however, relates to the newly established Bris and paints a much scarier picture. The pasuk explains that Hashem brings the Klallos upon us not because we don’t worship Him properly, but because we didn’t at one point in history. Even when the abundance is gone, even when the blessings that led to our rottenness are long gone, Hashem still exacts His revenge. Onshim are clearly of a different nature; they are no longer a consequence of our continued iniquity, but rather they can be stretched well past the time we stop sinning. This draws a staggering difference between the Bris at Har Sinai and the Bris in this week’s parasha!

While punishing sinners and leaving the innocent alone may have been deterrent enough during the travels in the Midbar, Hashem here tries a new tactic. Under the rules of the new Bris, one must recognize that his sins not only effect him, and not only effect the people and objects he sins against, but can even severely effect the innocent. Hashem threatens the sinner with the torment of his children; his descendants live in a foreign land and are oppressed as their fathers were, and not necessarily due to their own sins. Now we see exactly why it was so important for Moshe to specify that the Bris being made on that very day was sealed even with the future generations; any sin committed on that day would inevitably cause harm to even those of future generations!

And while one could possibly mistaken this Bris as an unfair gesture on G-d’s behalf, one could also view it as the most favorable gesture. Every time we sin, Hashem forces us to consider that we not only harm our own lives, but endanger countless innocent lives as well. The new Bris truly does become a most powerful, though extremely dangerous, deterrent for the 3000 years to follow, one that bodes a woe-filled future, but at least piques a newfound incentive to maintain our Kesher to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, and a newfound perception of the far reaching effects of our Aveiros.

G’mar ViChasima Tova and a Chag Kasher ViSamei’ach!

22.9.05

Parashat Ki Tavo

As presented in the pasukim, the Mitzvah of Bikurim epitomizes our gratitude to Hashem for bringing us into Eretz Yisrael. We award the Kohein – Hashem’s designated guardian of holy property – with not the prime of our produce but rather the first; we do not partake of any goods until we have shown sufficient recognition that all our success comes by Hashem’s will. It therefore makes perfect sense that we recall Sippur Yitzeas Mitzrayim, our bitter days of slavery and hardship, and transition into Yerushas Eretz Yisrael. We declare VaYivi’einu El HaMakom HaZeh VaYitein Lanu Es Ha’Aretz HaZos Eretz Zavas Chalav U’D’vash; what greater form of gratitude could one possibly express!

Yet Sippur Yitzeas Mitzrayim and Yerushas Eretz Yisrael do not comprise the entire declaration, for before we mention anything about the hardships in Egypt, we first raise our voices and recall Arami Oveid Avi, how Lavan once thought to kill Yaakov. As Rashi notes, Mazkir Chasdei HaMakom, it is good to mention the acts of kindness G-d has done for us in the past, but does this really make it necessary to recall Arami Oveid Avi – a story that didn’t even happen in Eretz Yisrael, when we bring our Bikurim to the Kohein? What relevance can these three words bear within our declaration?

Perhaps even more puzzling is the announcement that precedes Arami Oveid Avi. Before we begin our declaration, we first claim, Higaditi HaYom LaHashem Elokechah Ki Basi El HaAretz HaZos Asher Nishba Hshem LaAvoseinu Lases Lanu, I am declaring today that I have arrived in the land that Hashem promised our forefathers to give to us. What a bizarre introduction to our tidings of gratitude! This statement is of a totally different nature from Arami Oveid Avi. While Arami Oveid Avi views the land as something Hashem gave to us out of love, this initial declaration makes the Yerushas HaAretz appear out of necessity, that Hashem had to fulfill His promise to the Avos against His will. One statement exalts the land, calling it the Eretz Zavas Chalav U’D’vash, while the other merely recognizes that we have arrived there, not to mention that this recognition is not only obvious and tedious but also a few years delayed.

But most perplexing is that Rashi sees these contradictory declarations in exactly the opposite light:

ViAmartah Ailav, and you should say to [the Kohein, I have arrived in the land Hashem promised…] – So that you should not be an ingrate.

Rashi, Devarim 26:3

To Rashi, it is the first statement that expresses one’s true gratitude towards Hashem. All that talk about Eretz Zavas Chalav U’Dvash is nothing in comparison to the promise Hashem made with the Avos. How can this be? Doesn’t this statement express the exact opposite of gratitude, that we owe nothing to Hashem because He had no choice but to bring us into Eretz Yisrael?

I believe that before we can really understand the incredible relevance of the initial declaration, we must first be critical of the second’s. We praise the goodness of Eretz Yisrael, but only through comparison to our afflictions in Mitzrayim. Does this really express how good the land is, or does it only recognize that it’s better than Mitzrayim? Perhaps we are only gracious that we no longer have to perform back breaking labor for our Egyptian masters; that is certainly something to thank Hashem for, but it by no means addresses the quality of Eretz Yisrael.

Instead, the key to recognizing the objective quality of Eretz Yisrael, beyond its relative superiority to life in Mitzrayim, is to remind ourselves of Hashem’s Shavua to the Avos. Long before the Bnei Yisrael were introduced to Eretz Mitzrayim, we were promised a gift from Hashem, an objectively fine home for our eventual settlement.

And how did we know that the land Hashem had promised us was in fact a good land? Perhaps Hashem has no interest in providing us with the best land; maybe He arbitrarily chose our designated settling grounds, possibly picking Eretz Yisrael because it was where Avraham, Yitzchak, and Ya’akov all lived. Therefore, it is not enough to specify Asher Nishba Hashem LaAvoseinu LaSeis Lanu; we must also express explicit recognition of Hashem’s care for our people, a care Hashem clearly expressed when He stopped Lavan from annihilating Ya’akov and his family. Like Rashi says, we recall the story of Lavan to be Makir Chasdei HaMakom, to recognize examples of Hashem’s mercy, thus aiding our recognition of the care He always has for His nation. We come to recognize that Hahsem would only designate an objectively superior land to for the Avos’ descendents, and not just arbitrarily choose our plot.

Granted it is valuable to remember how Hashem extracted us from the tyranny of Mitzrayim, but we mustn’t lose focus on the objective value of Eretz Yisrael. The land is not an alternative, not an improvement upon our days of slavery; rather, it is a good unparallel and incomparable to any other land. That is why Hashem promised it to our anscentors long before we experienced our first hardships, whether amidst the perils of Mitzrayim or those brought by Lavan. And that is why we are ever grateful, year after year, unwilling to partake of our earning until we award Hashem what is rightfully His.

16.9.05

Parashat Ki Teitzei

During Moshe’s second stroll outside Paroh’s palace, he chances upon a pair of quarreling Jews, identified by Rashi as Dassan and Aviram. Moshe tries to break up the fight between the two Anashim Nitzim and he says “Lama Takeh Rayecha.” Rashi notes here that Moshe addressed the individual with his fist raised, the lashon of Takeh is in future tense so Moshe was only asked why he was about to hit his friend.

The lashon of Rayecha in the pasuk is also somewhat strange. Why does Moshe call the victim is this case the attacker’s friend? He surely looks more like an enemy than a friend. Rashi therefore explains that Moshe was drawing a comparison between the assailant and his victim, as if to suggest that their Rishus was on equal par. The problem, however, is that only one of these two men had his fist raised. What gives Moshe the right to call them both Resha’im?

The next pasuk is even stranger. Dassan and Aviram challenge Moshe by asking “Are you going to kill us just like you killed that Mitzri yesterday.” Dassan and Aviram seem to be poking at Moshe with a baseless comparison between two quarreling men and an oppressive taskmaster who beat his slave to near death, why would they ever suspect that they are deserving of death as well?

The Medrash Shemos Rabbah sheds some light on the pasukim in question above: “Davar Acheir [on the word Nitzim]. They had intention to kill one another, like that which it says in Devarim (25:11), ViKi Yinatzu Anashim Yachdav (and Rabbi Elazar says there that the pasuk refers to a Matzus Shel Misah, lethal sparring).”

We see from this medrash that the sparring in our parasha, the Nun-Tzadee shoresh in particular, refers to a fight with lethal intent on both sides. Rashi explains in Ki Teitzei that such a fight will ultimately result in blows. And so it makes perfect sense that Moshe can call even the victim a Rasha equal to his assailant, though he did not have his fist raised at that exact moment, for he too was engaged in this type of fighting. One could assume that each would surely throw punches before settling the quarrel, and so Lama Takeh Rayechah in essence applies to both Dassan and Aviram.

But as this medrash solves one dilemma, it creates another. When one sees a murder about to take place, one is allowed to save the innocent victim and kill the murderer before the crime is committed. In fact, this halacha comes from a drasha in this week’s parasha (22:26). By a Rodief, any method of murder is permissible, so long as the killer is stopped in time. However, by the quarreling men, the pasukim discuss how a woman who breaks up the fight by grabbing the potential murderer by his testicles deserves to have her hand cut off! Talk about a double standard!?

Interestingly, Rashi does not take this pasuk literally, but instead identifies the punishment as Boshes, a monetary compensation of embarrassment. The punishment seems like a much more fit form of justice, but only until we consider the following pair of scenarios. Had this woman killed her husband’s assailant, she would not have had to pay any money, no matter where her hand touched. The only payment forwarded is a compensation for embarrassment, and dead men do not collect Boshes. But if she grabs his testicles, then Beis Din forces a payment upon her. Ironically, it is due to the relatively peaceful settlement of this quarrel that the woman earns her punishment!

Perhaps a resolution to this difficulty can be found in a lesson taught earlier in the parasha. It is easier to forgive a murderer than a person who causes another to sin. This is why we may never accept a member of Ammon or Moav for conversion, for their daughters led us astray in the story of Pinchas and Ba’al Pe’or, but we may eventually accept a Mitzri or Edomi, though they blatantly set out to do battle with us. Why though are we less harsh with murderers? We learn from the Ben Soreir U’Moreh that when one’s fate is clear, he can be judged “Al Sheim Sofo.” Sometimes, we can be so certain that a second chance will fail that it’s worth letting an innocent man be killed with a clean slate. And if we are certain that sparring men will surely land blows, and that they will surely becomes murderers, then perhaps we may judge each “Al Sheim Sofo.”

To kill a potential Rotzei’ach, in some cases, is better than attempting to make peace between him and his friend. However, a woman who grabs her husband’s assailant hasn’t accomplished anything; she hasn’t done any favor to the attacker by letting him live for each man inevitably still hates the other. Therefore, she cannot get the benefits of the Rodeif and must pay for the embarrassment she has caused. Even a man who is better off dead isn’t deserving of embarrassment, and so he is owed his Boshes.

Our understanding of these pasukim in Ki Teitzei now lends new meaning to the pasukim in Shemos. When Dassan and Aviram ask Moshe “Are you going to kill me like you killed the Egyptian yesterday,” there really is a good comparison between the two. Rashi teaches us by the Egyptian that Moshe looked this way and that way, meaning into the Egyptian’s future, and decided that this Egyptian’s death would be of no loss to the world because none of his descendants would convert. Quite similarly, two men who are Nitzim with each other are better dead than given a chance to live; no good could possibly come of Dassan’s and Aviram’s futures. Moshe only spared them because he no longer believed the Bnei Yisrael were deserving of a geula (see Rashi, Shemos 2:14, D”H VaYira Moshe), meaning there was no benefit to the nation to dispose of these two men. Yet their deaths would have ultimately been a favor, and would have spared them from a far more tragic Sof at the time of Korach’s rebellion. As the pasuk there says, ViDasan VaAviram Yatzi’u Nitzavim; they left this world as those same upstarts they were first introduced as, but they left with far more guilt to bear.

2.9.05

Parashat Re'aih

“Watch yourselves, lest you join with [the other nations] after you have kicked them out [of Eretz Yisrael], and lest you seek their gods, saying “how is it that they worshiped their gods? I will do the same.” Don’t do this to Hashem, your G-d, for Hashem hates all the abominations that they performed to their gods, for they would also burn their sons and daughters to their gods."
Devarim, 12:30-31

There are two ways of understanding these pasukim. Either the statement “Eichah Ya’avdu HaGoyim Ha’Eileh Es Eloheihem” is one of appall and disgust, or it is one of curiosity and openness. Either one can look at the practices of the Goyim with a feeling of bewilderment, not understanding how anyone in their right mind could worship a god by, say, throwing stones or defecating on it. Or one can look at the conquest of Eretz Yisrael and the utter exile of its former inhabitants and wonder what they could have possibly done to anger Hashem to such an extent.

There are also two ways to understand the beginning of pasuk 31, Lo Sa’aseh Kain LaHashem Elokechah. Rashi considers this an Azharah against worshiping idols through practices foreign to Judaism. The pasuk in Mishpatim says Zovei’ach Leilohim Yachoram Bilti LaHashem Livado, one who slaughters to idols should be destroyed, Zevichah is exclusively for Hashem. From this pasuk we learn that any Avoda done for Hashem is a standard form of Avoda, and therefore if it is done to anything other than Hashem, we consider it Avoda Zara. But from where do we know that an Avoda not done to Hashem can also fall under the prohibition of Avoda Zara? Rashi answers that these pasukim are the very source.

The Ramban takes issue with Rashi’s reading of the pasukim, for pasuk 31 would therefore unnecessarily specify that this Aveirah is done LaHashem Elokechah. What Aveirah isn’t done against Hashem?! The Ramban therefore considers these pasukim no more than a warning against the adoption of pagan practices in our Avodas Hashem. The Ramban’s view is also supported by the continuation of these pasukim, which order us not to alter Hashem’s Mitzvos, Lo Sosaif ViLo Sigra. How then could Rashi expect the Torah to establish a law against Avoda Zara if the context of these pasukim is the laws of Avodas Hashem?

Perhaps there is a more pressing question to be asked here, one that rests on both Rashi and the Ramban. If one recognizes that the Goyim were kicked out of Eretz Yisrael for performing these forms of Avoda Zara, why would we ever be interested in joining in their practices? Isn’t it clear that these Avodos anger Hashem? Yet the pasuk clearly says that he will come to say “ViE’eseh Gam Ani!” Even more so, if one is disgusted by things like Avodas Ba’al Pe’or or Markolis, why would he ever decide to worship them?!

The Ramban answers this question with ease. He explicitly explains pasuk 30 as a form of inquiry instead of exclamation. We investigate what Avodos the Goyim did to their Avodah Zara and assume that they were punished because those Avodos were intended Bilti LaHashem Livado as well. We therefore mistakenly say “E’eseh Gam Anochi,” assuming that Hashem desires us to worship Him as the Goyim worshiped their Avoda Zara, and so the pasuk here comes to warn against such assuptions.

But this answer cannot possibly work for Rashi. While the Ramban describes Lo Sa’aseh Kain as an Azhara against benign – though bizarre – forms of Avoda (in constrast to burning ones children alive), Rashi emphasizes things like Pe’or, which one would never mistaken as ways that Hashem desires us to worship Him. How then does Rashi understand the inconsistent reactions, Eichah Ya’avdu and ViE’eseh Gam Ani?

This past Thursday, I shared an interesting conversation with a drunken homeless black guy in the 116th street subway station while waiting for my train to arrive. The man was pacing back and forth, cheerily trying to talk to whomever crossed his way, but nobody would pay any attention. Desperate for attention, he surveyed the crowd for a moment, and spotted me. He announced at the top of his lungs to the wholeform, “You know what’s the baddest cap of ‘em all? The baddest cap… the baddest cap of ‘em all…” paused, and then pointed in my direction from no more than a few feet away, “...is that yarmulke.” A little unsettled, and a little unsure what to do, I decided walking away would not only mean missing my train, but would probably prompt him to chase after me and continue his rant, so I proudly but quietly nodded and smiled back. And he took this as an invitation for a chat. He walked up to me rather slowly, and whispered, “and I respec’ that. I respec’ that cuz’ you know what that [yarmulke] stands for? It means you gotta lotta pride fo’ who you are. Who in their right mind would ever wear that thing on their head, know what I’m sayin’, unless they were proud of who they are.

I nodded, and softly responded, “I hear. I hear.” He continued, “but ya know, at lot of people died cuz’ a that,” pointing at the kippa again, “a lot good people died cuz’ a that pride, you know. So you gotta say shalom. I mean, you gotta say shalom. If someone says shalom to you, you can’t be better than them and not say shalom, but’cha gotta say shalom.” We shared a little more chat time, exchanged some high fives, and he even poked me in the chest a little – something about “havin’ a lotta heart.”

I normally don’t quote black homeless guys in the subway as parshanim, but I think this one couldn’t have said over pshat in these two pasukim any clearer. When we look at the Gilulei Avodas Kochavm, like excreting on Ba’al Pe’or or throwing stones at a Markolis, we are initially disgusted and appalled. We say “how can these people do such crazy things in the name of their religion?! How can they call these disgusting acts forms of worship?!” But over time, we come to admire their Avoda, not because it looks rational, but because we admire the pride they show. They haven’t the slightest embarrassment to defecate in public, and it’s all in the name of Ba’al Pe’or, and we think to ourselves, “there must really be something about this Ba’al Pe’or if they’d be willing to do that in the name if Avoda!” We begin with the recognition that the Goyim have the “baddest rituals of ‘em all,” and we come to that same level of respect when we recognize how much pride goes into these rituals.

It is for this reason Rashi highlights bizarre Avodos like Pe’or and Markolis, falling in line with the pasukim’s own example of burning children alive. But what about the continuation of these pasukim? How does this Azhara fit within the context of Lo Sosaif ViLo Sigra?

For the answer, I again turn to my favorite commentary, the homeless guy. Remember, pride can earn one a lot of respect, but it can also lend one an air of arrogance. Many people died, the homeless guy observed, because they didn’t say shalom, they thought they were above the rest of society, separated by the obscure rituals they performed. You gotta say shalom out of recognition that the crazy things you do or wear do not separate you from the rest of society. Weird practices are not exclusive to the Jew, and plenty of Goyim practice even more bizarre rituals than we. If one takes pride in his religiosity because of the seeming irrationality of the mitzvos he performs, then the pasuk warns that he will surely be drawn to the Goyim’s practices, for they are even more irrational than ours. But if he takes pride in Yiddishkeit because it is his connection to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, and he takes pride in his rational mitzvos as much as he does in his irrational mitzvos, then he will surely not falter.

Therefore, the pasukim continue, Es Kol HaDavar Asher Anochi Mitzaveh Eschem Tishmiru La’Asos. Rashi asks what does Kol HaDavar refer to? Which thing would we not keep? Quoting the Sifri, Rashi answers that this teaches us Kalah KiChamurah, that the pasuk doesn’t remind us to keep all the mitzvos, but rather to keep all the mitzvos equally. Perhaps it would improve our Avoda to have five parashiot in our Tefilin, perhaps it would increase the pride we have in our Avoda to say another pasuk of Birchas Kohanim. Hashem warns us that our perception of what we get out of His Mitzvos is worth nothing. Instead, we should keep them all simply because we were instructed to, and such an Avoda promises to both further us from the Gilulei Avodas Kochavim and bring us to as close a Kesher as we can possibly attain with our Maker.