Parashat Ki Savo

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 ancestors 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.

Parashat Ki Seitzei

The Torah, as a source of universal timeless truth, is by no means bound to a single cultural interpretation. Its call for such seeming barbarities as animal slaughter and capital punishment, though difficult to accept in our “advanced” age of enlightenment, cannot be dismissed as customs of an archaic era; instead, we are forced to consider how modern society has obfuscated these ideals of old, to consider which age truly is – or was – enlightened.

Can one simply dismiss the words of a Rishon as the culturally confined interpretation of a ubiquitous Written Law? No, not without undercutting all validity of that Rishon’s remarks. Each Rishon’s words can most certainly be critiqued, but must first be understood in a universal context, as defiant as they might seem from our most cherished modern ideals.

But can Rashi’s comments on the process of divorce (Devarim 24:1-4) find their place in even our skeptical post-feminist world. Granted, the Torah never stood for equal rights between men and women, but Rashi inexplicably places all blame for unsuccessful marriage squarely on the woman’s shoulders!

[After the woman is divorced,] she will [wed] an “other” man. [By calling him an “other,” the pasuk informs us that] he is not like the first husband, for the [first husband] sent a wicked woman from his house, whereas this man brought her in.

Rashi, Devarim 24:2

In short, can Rashi’s comments find their place in reality? Is every divorced woman a wicked soul for having separated from her husband, and is every divorced man righteous? It is a distorted image indeed that casts the divorcee in a more positive light than his “counterpart,” the one who remarries. And what is to be of the man who remarries? Rashi notes that pasuk 3 continues with two possible scenarios; either this second husband will too dislike this woman and divorce her, or he will die young! What ever happened to the possibility that the husband mistreats his wife and is forced to separate from her? Would we still consider the wife wicked? Would we consider the husband a saint? Would we cast a single aspersion on the “other” man, who was kind enough to start a second marriage with this woman in need?

Before we blindly dismiss Rashi’s perspective as the product of a medieval culture and chauvinist society, we should first consider whether Rashi is highlighting the only case of divorce, or perhaps one scenario out of many. Maybe Rashi accepts that the husband could be at fault for a poor marriage, but the Torah only assumes such a case, and does not explicitly address it here. The question remains, though, why not address it equally? Why focus solely on the rotten wife? The assessment still screams of a double standard.

A step back from the individual clauses of these pasukim reveals a much broader understanding of the Mitzvah of divorce, one that looks beyond the petty differences that cause breakup and instead looks at the Gerushin’s aftermath:

When a man takes a woman… and she does not find favor in his eyes for he finds something concealed [and improper] about her, he writes her a divorce contract, puts it in her hand, and sends her from his house. And she goes from his house and marries an other man. And the latter man hates her and writes her a divorce contract, places it in her hand and sends her from his house… The first husband, who sent her from his house, is unable to retake her as a wife, for this is an abomination before Hashem…

Devarim 24:1-4

By our initial concept of divorce, the first pasuk teaches the primary law, whereas the remaining three pasukim teach addendums. We learn she can remarry, and we learn she cannot remarry the same man. But there’s something choppy about the syntax. The first pasuk establishes a full sentence, when such-and-such happens, the man writes a Get. But the remaining pasukim are all fragments. We do not say “the woman may remarry,” but rather “the woman “remarries.” We do not say “the first husband may not remarry,” but rather, “the first husband is unable to remarry,” as if it is a continuation of the earlier storyline.

Rashi understands these pasukim as one long run-on sentence, beginning from the first word “When.” As Rashi sees the Torah’s command, these pasukim dictate, “When a couple gets divorced, if the woman finds herself single, the ex-husband cannot remarry her.” Undoubtedly an odd approach to the basic concept of divorce, but such a concept does explain why the Torah would indeed prefer to focus on the man’s obligation to divorce his wife. The Torah identifies the man as the individual with both the power and the desire to stay married to and/or remarry this woman. And in spite of this desire, he must divorce her and stay divorced to her.

We often consider the chiddush of these pasukim to be the very existence of divorce, a counterweight against the overbearing magnitude of marriage. But this new outlook turns our perspective upside down. The obliglation of divorce works against the indelibility of marriage; the Get may be circumstantial and certainly not ideal, but it still bears potential as a Mitzvah LiChatichila! And unlike marriage, it can never be undone, not even if the husband wishes to retake the woman into his home. Not even if she changes for the better.

These pasukim truly do encroach on our culturally influenced vision of marriage. In some modern circles, marriage is considered so holy that divorce is collectively frowned upon, even for separated couples. And even if we accept the importance and validity of divorce, would we ever consider it more binding than the actual marriage?!

When Reish Lakish would open a shiur about Sotah, he would say, “a man must only marry a woman according to his deeds (i.e. a righteous man with a righteous woman)… Is this truly so? Didn’t Rav Yehuda say in Rav’s name that before each soul is born, a Bas Kol emerges and states “so-and-so will marry so-and-so, and will own such-and-such house and field.” [Although one’s status as a Tzadik or Rashah is not determined by Shamayim, one’s future wife is determined, so how can one be expected to only marry according to his deeds if the person he marries is out of his hands?] [Answers the gemara,]This is not a difficulty, [Rav] refers to a first marriage, whereas [Reish Lakish] refers to a second marriage.

Mesechet Sotah, 2a

The gemara makes no guarantees that a first marriage will work. Perhaps either the husband or wife will go rotten; such a fate is not slated in Shamayim and cannot be avoided by the predictions of the prenatal Bas Kol. All the same, the first marriage is decreed in Shamayim; only by a second marriage are we obligated to match the proper pair together. Therefore, it is the second husband in our pasukim who is threatened with early death if he does not marry properly, while no such consequence is alluded to by the first husband.

The power of a marriage is truly a strong statement, an edict decreed in the Heavens! But it pales in comparison to the statement made at a divorce. When the husband divorces his wife, he in essence claims “I am fated a Tzadik, whereas you are fated a Risha’h, and so this G-d given marriage cannot work and must permanently end.” The two may remarry, but never to each other. The husband’s action may not universally or objectively define his ex-wife, but the Get subjectively defines her forever, and subjectively defines any other husband as an “Eesh Acheir.”

We may not believe in the cultural definition of ubiquitous Law, but we still maintain Torah Lo BaShamayim Hi. Our actions and behaviors are above predictions of the Beis Din Shel Ma’alah, and our perception of the world is what shapes it. We may never attest to an obsolete Mitzvas Gerushin, but the Mitzvah does nothing to confine our vision of the world eother. Rather, it is the mechanism that enables us to define those around us and expand our currently limited vision – potentially for better but unfortunately often for worse – in a way that even marriage cannot.

Parashat Shofetim

Amidst the warning against copying the pagan practices of divination and superstition and the order to listen to our nation’s prophets comes a most bizarre command: Tamim Tihiyeh Im Hashem Elokechah. Moshe Rabbeinu tells us to be whole in our partnership with Hashem. What does this peculiarly vague pasuk mean? Rashi offers an explanation:

Walk with [Hashem] in wholeness and look towards Him, and don’t investigate matters pertaining to the future; rather, anything that comes upon you accept with wholeness. And then you shall be with [Hashem] and part of His portion.

Rashi, Devarim 18:13

Not only does Rashi’s interpretation fail to insert much meaning in the pasuk – he still has not explained to us how our “wholeness” connects to and furthers our relationship with Hashem – but nothing could be further from the truth! Take the story of Shaul and his father’s donkeys, for instance. Shaul travels all across his Shevet’s land in search for his father’s donkeys, and he eventually gives up hope of ever finding them. His servant, however, suggests that he asks a local Navi for help; perhaps the Navi can tell him where his father’s donkeys ran away to. And Shaul takes this lad’s advice. What ever happened to accepting whatever fate Hashem brings your way? What happened to not trying to control one’s future fate or fortune through spiritual intervention?

On one hand, Hashem provides a Navi for us; as Rashi points out, the reason we may not listen to Mi’onenim, diviners, is because Hashem has appointed Klal Yisrael with Navi’im instead. On the other hand, Hashem warns us not to rely on divination altogether. How?

More to the point, we know there is nothing wrong with being a Navi, but then is there anything wrong with being a Mi’onein? The pasukim send mixed messages. Rashi claims that Goyim may listen to Mi’onenim – though we may not – because they do not have Navi’im as we do. This implies that there’s nothing inherently wrong with Mi’onenim; one simply cannot consult them once they have been replaced by Navi’im. But didn’t Hashem just say two pasukim eariler that the Goyim are kicked out of Eretz Yisrael because they had Mi’onenim and practiced divination?! Then there is something inherently wrong about divination.

Before we can address the root of these contradictions, perhaps we should ask ourselves what difference exists between Mi’onenim and Navi’im. What makes Navi’im more acceptable in Hashem’s eyes, especially if both seem to undermine Tamim Tihiyeh Im Hashem Elokechah.

The Navi, at first glance, seems to act for our nation in the Mi’onein’s stead; perhaps we first should question the Navi’s ability to sufficiently replace the Mi’onein. The Navi can only offer a response when Hashem relays a message to him, but the diviner knows no such limitations. Rashi seems well aware of this fact. The pasuk says we will always have a Navi MiKirbechah Kamoni, a Navi from within your midst like [Moshe]; Rashi, pointing out the explicit comparison between the Navi and Moshe, explains that what they share in common is that they are MiKirbechah, that they are Jewish. But the Navi is otherwise not like Moshe; whereas Moshe was able to communicate with HaKadosh Baruch Hu at whatever time he pleased, the future Navi’im are in fact held to a severe limitation.

Perhaps, we could speculate, the very quality of the Navi is that he cannot control whether his customer receives an answer or not. In the case of the Mi’onein, one is guaranteed an answer, guaranteed a prediction of his future or fate, thus remove all reliance upon G-d. However, the Navi cannot always communicate with Hashem, and so there are still times that one must be acceptant of his fate and leave without a prediction.

We now see that there is nothing inherently wrong with inquiring about one’s fate or future. Am Yisrael would always consult the Urim ViTumim before going to battle, but a response was never a guarantee. If a Kohein Gadol did not receive a response, he could actually stand to be replaced in favor of a more qualified Kohein (in hopes of evoking a response from the Urim ViTumim). Shaul too was correct to consult a Navi as to the whereabouts of his father’s donkey. If Hashem truly wanted him to find the donkeys, then Hashem would provide the Navi with the appropriate insight. But if Hashem did not wish Shaul to find the donkeys, then Hashem could simply withhold the information.

Perhaps we can distinguish between being a Mi’onein and listening to Mi’onenim. The Goyim are only kicked out of Eretz Yisrael because they practiced divination; the acts themselves are repulsive to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, but only as a repulsive means, not ends. The actual investigation into one’s future is by no means looked down upon, so long as performed in a respectable manner, to the exclusion of human skulls and armpits for instance.

But for us, the Jews, Navi’im replace Mi’onenim. In other words, the presence of the Navi serves as a clear indication of Hashem’s desire to connect to us. The presence of the Navi removes our right to investigate into our fates without Hashem’s permission. Such is the very idea of Tamim Tihiyeh Im Hashem Elokechah. The Mitzvah no longer seemingly interrupts the Dinim of the Navi and Mi’onein, but rather serves as the contrast between the two paradigms, the shift on our relationship with Hashem that forbids one former of diviner as we are granted access to the other.

Looking back at Rashi’s words, we are told not only to “walk with Hashem in wholeness” but also to “look towards Him.” What does Rashi mean Titzapeh Bo? One might think the very idea of walking with Hashem in wholeness is to not look towards Him, to never ask for intervention, and to never demand an answer or explanation. But Rashi teaches us exactly the opposite; we are supposed to pray to Hashem, to beg for his intervention, and demand answers and explanations. The Navi is the medium by which we establish this otherwise impossible communication. The Navi allows for even the most mundane matters of life, like finding a herd of lost animals, to warrant communication with G-d, the act of “Titzapeh Bo” and the constant fulfillment of Tamim Tihiyeh Im Hashem Elokechah.

Parashat Re'aih

For many a traditional Jewish family, the climax of the Seder Shel Pesach comes with the uplifting chant Dayeinu. We recount all the marvelous favors Hashem granted us as we departed from Mitzrayim, wandered through the Midbar, and eventually reached Eretz Yisrael. Each gift is in fact so gracious that we proclaim, Dayeinu, it would have been enough, presumably enough to have sufficient reason to thank Hashem.

Of course, for many a traditional Jewish family, the chanting of Dayeinu is a celebration of a different sort, the highly anticipated transition from the monotone of Sippur Yitzeas Mitzrayim to the fun and interactive palatal experience of the Yitzeah. Ironically, all the while, we chant, “...and had not fed us the Man, it would have been enough.” We may wonder, was it truly enough to bring us to a desert and not provide us with the bare essentials? For what then are we truly grateful? The questions on the Dayeinu are virtually endless, but invariably overlooked in the frenetic rush to wash up and eat.

Those questions will have to wait. But in the meantime, perhaps we can infer from this limited list of fifteen kindnesses that anything else granted from Hashem upon our exodus did not exclusively warrant thankfulness. For instance, the first thing we thank Hashem for is taking us out of Mitzrayim. What if Hashem had only redeemed us, what if He freed us from Paroh’s slavery and made us His slaves instead, but never removed us from the land itself? Apparently, it would not “have been enough for us.”

The Sifri somehow suggests otherwise, based on the following pasuk:

“And this Navi or the dreamer of this dream shall be put to death, for he has spoken a wayward remark on Hashem your G-d Who has taken you from the land of Mitzrayim and redeemed you from the house of your slavery…”

Devarim, 13:6

Included within the concept of Yitzeah is the notion of Pidyon, for the removal of one nation from amongst another expresses Hashem’s acquisition and resulting authority over those people removed. Why then does the pasuk need to single out the act of Pidyon, ViHaPodichah Meieretz Mitzrayim, if it is already alluded to in the pasuk? Rashi, quoting the Sifri, answers that Hashem mentions His Pidyon exclusive of any other action to teach us that the Navi Sheker’s trap should have been avoided, even if Hashem had never taken us from Mitzrayim but had only acquired us as His servants. In other words, if the Navi Sheker tells us to go worship Avoda Zara, we should refuse because we are Hashem’s servants.

Such a concept squarely contradicts our inference from the Dayeinu. Do we or do we not owe a certain gratitude to HaKadosh Baruch Hu exclusively for His Pidyon in Mitzrayim? Furthermore, the Dayienu only suggests that we be thankful for Yitzeas Mitzrayim, but never that we actually keep Mitzvos; yet here, the Sifri seems to expect our fulfillment of the Lo Sa’asei of Avoda Zara long before Mattan Torah, even before Yitzeas Mitzrayim, regardless of whether we experience the Gevuros of Hashem or not!

At first glance, the pasuk seems no different than any other warning against Avoda Zara, but there must be something different about this warning, as indicated by the new term, Sarah.

“Sarah, a wayward remark.” [It is a noun,] something removed from the world, that never existed, nor was ever created, nor did [Hashem] ever command [the false prophet] to speak.

Rashi, Devarim 13:6

Until now, we have never regarded Avoda Zara as a Sarah, a removed object of sorts, and for good reason. The term “remove” implies that something once was and now no longer is. As Rashi explains, Avoda Zara never existed, nor was ever created, which is why we term it Zara, foreign, and not Sarah, removed, in the first place!

The Sforno provides a useful hint towards deciphering Rashi’s seemingly contradictory definition. The Sforno questions why this parasha appears altogether if the Torah’s immediately thereafter tells us anyone who attempts to draw us towards Avoda Zara must be put to death. He answers that these pasukim teach us a chidush. One might think the Navi Sheker avoids the severe capital punishment because he at least speaks in G-d’s name; nonetheless, because he speaks a Sarah about Hashem, he is put to death. In other words, the Sarah spoken is not one relating to the act of Avoda Zara, but rather relating to the notion that Hashem would tell us to worship Avoda Zara.

Rashi now makes sense. Avoda Zara never existed and was never created, and therefore Hashem never commanded it. So when the Navi Sheker performs a miracle and claims in G-d’s name that we should worship another entity, he is turning the words of G-d off their path, redirecting G-d’s Torah from its original source and into the nonexistent.

With this understanding we can also understand how we are bound – by the rules of logic – to the Mitzvah of Navi Sheker without ever having received the Torah. If Hashem redeems us from Mitzrayim, makes us His possession, then regardless of whether He ever leads us out of Mitzrayim, regardless of whether we ever owe Him our gratitude, we can be certain that He has not acquired us for some other god’s gain. Granted, if a Navi Sheker arrives, performs a miracle, and tells us, “I am a messenger from the great Ba’al, which has destroyed Hashem! You are now all subjects of Ba’al and must worship it,” we would have no logical reason not to believe him. Just because Hashem was stronger than Paroh would not prove that Ba’al isn’t stronger than Hashem. But if the Navi, in Hashem’s name, tells us to worship Ba’al, we would consider the Navi crazy! Why in the world would Hashem go through the trouble of redeeming us just to turn us over to some other god?!

The repercussions of the Navi Sheker may prove a bigger chiddush than those of the Meisis U’Medi’ach, but they still establish the foundation of our alligience to HaKadosh Barush Hu. These laws therefore act as the introduction to the expunging of wayward Jews. Though our allegiance to G-d may now be rooted in our acceptance of the Torah and in return for the miraculous favors performed along the journey there – Dayeinu – we must also never forget how Hashem first acquired us, as a conscious and rational awareness of our true Master.

Parashat Eikev

As Moshe Rabbeinu nears his end, he repeatedly urges the nation to keep the Torah and Mitzvos on a holistic level. The narrative of Sefer Devarim – especially in the early parashiot – shifts from the compartmentalized approach to Mitzvos and focuses instead on the Bris, the general relationship we maintain with HaKadosh Baruch Hu through these Mitzvos. It would seem out of place to compartmentalize or categorize any Mitzvos within this context, and yet that is exactly what Rashi does to the opening words of our parasha.

ViHaya Eikev Tishmi’un – “And it will be” if the small Mitzvos that one generally tramples with his heel “you listen to…”

Rashi, Devarim 7:12

Clearly bothered by the pasuk’s diction, Rashi – quoting the Medrash Tanchuma – offers a rather unexpected definition for the word Eikev. Instead of it meaning “as a result of,” as it does in many other appearances in the Torah (like “Eikev Asher Shama Avraham BiKoli,” Beraishis 26:5), Rashi treats it as a literal reference to one’s heel, the Akeiv. The Ramban, bewildered by Rashi’s literal interpretation of the Medrash’s message, points to the conditional nature of the pasuk and questions how Rashi could understand the pasuk as a Tannai without translating the word “Eikev” as “Im,” if.

Rashi’s defense of the Ramban’s challenge is quite obvious, for within his Peirush, the word “Im” is explicitly included. It appears Rashi felt the “if” clause of the pasuk was implicit, whereas the term Eikev served as an object, and not a preposition. But why? Where does the need for such a convoluted read of the pasuk derive? Wouldn’t the simple understanding still fall as the Ramban sees it?

The Levush HaOrah deftly defends Rashi’s position, for this alternative translation of Eikev not only serves as a viable interpretation, but also resolves a seeming contradiction. Last week’s parasha ended with the command to keep the Mitzvos HaYom, today. The gemara in Eiruvin and Avoda Zara both teach that the seemingly superfluous HaYom La’Asosam comes to teach us when we earn our Schar, as opposed to the time we receive that Schar, namely Olam Haba. This pasuk therefore implies that we don’t receive Schar for Shmiras Mitzvos until we reach Olam Haba, yet the rewards described at the outset of our parasha are clearly of a worldly nature. We are guaranteed fertility, healthy flocks, and robust fields!

To resolve this contradiction, Rashi isolates certain Mitzvos for which the Schar is awarded in this world. Because these smaller Mitzvos – the ones commonly trampled by our heels – have less Schar attached to them, we wouldn’t mind “wasting” their returns on worldly pleasures, but the pricier rewards of the more involved Mitzvos are stored away for the World to Come. Therefore, Eikev Tishmi’un Es HaMishpatim HaEileh must refer to a specific category of Mitzvah – not all the Mitzvos – and the term Eikev must be used in order to define this category.

The Levush HaOrah’s answer is a start, but it doesn’t fully justify the term Eikev. Eikev does not connote smallness, but rather insignificance; it paints a very clear image of neglect. However, we do not know the Schar of each and every Mitzvah, nor are we capable of projecting their respective values. There is no Mitzvah more costly, more difficult to perform, than Kibud Av, and no Mitzvah easier than Shilu’ach HaKan, and yet both offer long life as their reward. The Torah thus teaches us that we can never measure a Mitzvah’s Schar by how significant that Mitzvah appears in our eyes. How then can we project the significance of a Mitzvah?

Granted, the term Eikev can refer to the Mitzvah’s significance in Hashem’s eyes, but then the term Eikev would have to refer directly to the category of Mitzvah – not to the human heel – and the pasuk wouldn’t read smoothly. The pasuk explicitly states the words “Es HaMishpatim HaEileh;” to avoid a superfluity, the pasuk can only be understood as “if your heel will watch over these Mitzvos,” and not “if you watch over these heel-type Mitzvos.”

I believe that Rashi’s comments are motivated by an alternative difficulty in our parasha, a problem that emerges a few pasukim later. The pasuk, detailing our worldly rewards for keeping those “heel-type Mitzvos,” states, “…and you will devour the neighboring nations. Do not have pity on them and do not worship idols, for this will be a trap for you.” To say that idol worship serves as a “trap” implies that things are going well and later about-face on us because of our improper actions. But if we are Oveid Avodah Zara, then we are already not fulfilling Hashem’s requirements. That’s not called a trap, that’s simply a transgression!

It seems that the simple reading of this pasuk must instead be “You shall devour all neighboring nations. Do not have pity on them, lest you worship their idols, and the pity you have taken on them will prove to have been a trap for you.” This makes plenty more sense, since having pity on the Goyim does not yet violate the Mitzvos, but will soon lead to a violation, namely Avoda Zara; that indeed is a Mokeish.

Notably, the pasuk deviates from the normal language of chasing away. The pasuk says to devour the nations. “Devouring a nation” implies that they still live amongst us, as opposed to chasing them out. The obvious question is that we are not supposed to share the land with nations when we are perfect, so why doesn’t the pasuk tell us to chase them out?

The first Rashi on the parasha may in fact be coming to answer this very question. A quick glance at our pasukim would suggest that Hashem asks us to keep all the mitzvos, but Rashi notes that these are instead the rewards are for keeping only some of the Mitzvos, the Mitzvos Kalos. The idea behind the Mitzvos Kalos is to recognize how serious every commandment Hashem gave us is; even if we can’t bring ourselves to fulfill that which is difficult (i.e. those requiring lots of money), as long as we maintain the proper serious perspective on our relationship with Hashem, we will be treated well.

But the Goyim will, in such times, live in our land and we won’t chase them out. In the time of the Shofetim, the people were alternately good and bad, but even in the good times when the Jews prospered, the Goyim lived in the land. The only thing that changed between good and bad times was balance of power, who the ruler was and who collected the taxes. The pasuk here tells us in said “good times,” ViAchalta es Kol Ha’Amaim, we will rule and collect from them, and the biggest mistake we can make in such a time is to take the danger of their presence lightly, because the moment we begin to act casually, we stop performing every Mitzvah Kala with the proper fervor and passion. Then the problems start. Next thing we know, we’ll be worshiping idols.

ViHaya Eikev Tishmi’um Es HaMishpatim HaEileh, and if your heel will watch over these Mitzvos [Kalos], then we shall rule the Goyim. When times are only “good” and not perfect, we must remain wary of even our slightest steps. Such care will warrant our mandate over the Goyim, and such control will enable us to further our fulfillment of Hashem’s Mitzvos, eventually earning us the spiritual rewards alluded to in the earlier parasha, the rewards stored away in the World to Come.

Parashat Devarim

It’s interesting to note how Chodesh Av progresses in a sort of backwards nature to it, for the crux of the month lies in the tragedy stricken nine days, the first days of the month. Instead of mourning over the Churban HaBayis after the Beis HaMikdash was burnt down and the nation entered Galus, we choose to sit Aveilus in anticipation of the looming doom. I believe it is safe to say that the Aveilus we sit for these nine days does not commemorate the loss of our Beis HaMikdash, but rather the cause for this loss, the events that preceded the ultimate destruction. But why this is so remains to be seen.

Chazal say that the cause of Churban Bayis Sheni, the event that spurred us into our current exile is none other than Sinas Chinam, the baseless hatred of one Jew against another.

Lo Sisna Es Achicha BiLvavecha. Hochai’ach Tochee’ach Es Amisecha ViLo Sisa Alav Cheit

Do not hate your brother in your heart. Reprove your nation, and do not accept upon them iniquity. (by Onkelos’s translation, Rashi takes a slightly different approach)

VaYikra 19:17

At first glance, it seems a stretch to suggest that this hatred is what brings the foundations of our world to crumble, but, as the Kli Yakar so sagaciously suggests, the connection of this pasuk’s two Mitzvos bears a strong message about the dire crime that is Sinas Chinam.

And since the pasuk states “and do not accept upon him iniquity,” it is apparent that if one who does not reprove his friend will carry the sins of that supposed friend. This is because “Kol Yisrael Areivim Zeh LaZeh,” all Jews are cosigners for one another, so that if one [Jew] cannot fully pay for his sins, [Hashem] can take the remainder payment from his cosigners, [the Jewish nation]. Jews are made each other’s cosigners at the time when one has the ability to protest [another’s] sin and does not; he then takes full responsibility for the other’s ultimate outcome…

And it is juxtaposed to the Mitzvah of “Lo Sisna Es Achicha BiLvavecha,” for when love spreads over Yisrael, each wants what’s best for his friend and therefore rebukes him, so that his friend does not stumble over [an Aveirah]. But when Jews hate one another, nobody rebukes, for each man is content with his friend’s downfall.

This Midah [of hatred] has been the predominant trait of our nation since the destruction of Bayis Sheni. To this day, it has not budged, and the Nega will fester and spread until Hashem cannot stand it any longer and will remove the stony hearts from our midst.

Kli Yakar, VaYikra 19:17

BiMiheirah BiYameinu. These are some of the most powerful and pertinent words one can find in a Mikra’os Gedolos, and they turn our very concept of Sinas Chinam upside down. By the Kli Yakar’s claim, the hate Jews express towards one another stems from widespread acceptance of one another, from a lack of protest. It is the individual who rebukes and chastises his nation who is considered the loving and caring one! The Beis HaMikdash is not destroyed because of Sinas Chinam alone, but rather because of all our Aveiros. However, none of these other Aveiros are avoided because our Sinas Chinam prevents us from aiding one another to Teshuva.

It therefore comes as no surprise that Parashat Devarim, which we invariably read on Shabbat Chazon, opens with this very message of Tochacha. From the very first pasuk, Rashi notes how every word is disguised as a geographic location, but is in truth a reference to a sin of Klal Yisrael’s. We mention the Midbar because they complained for meat in the Midbar. We mention Arvos Moav since that’s where they worshiped Ba’al Pe’or. Mol Suf references their two sins at the Yam. Paran was the location of Cheit HaMiraglim, Tofel ViLavan references the Man they whined about. Chatzeiros is where Korach rebelled, and lastly, Di Zahav alludes to the gold used in Cheit HaEigel.

The rebuke only gets more explicit from there. There is, however, one small caveat to Moshe’s Hochacha; it comes right before his death. Rashi, quoting the Sifri, says we learn from here to only give Hochacha from one’s deathbed. The Sifri gives four reasons: so as not to accidentally rebuke the individual twice for the same thing; so that the two not meet again, and cause the rebuked individual embarrassment; so that the two can depart on peaceful terms; and so that the one rebuked does not bear a grudge – it’s much harder to hate a person on his deathbed.

At first glance, it seems virtually impossible to resolve this Rashi with the comments of the Kli Yakar. How could one possibly be held responsible for chastising his brethren if he can only do so from his deathbed? The Kli Yakar obviously requires one to rebuke while in good health, whereas the Sifri warns against such an approach.

The Sifri is troubling on numerous fronts. Bear in mind that this is not the first time Moshe Rabbeinu admonished the nation. For instance – one of many many examples – there was that time just a week or two ago, in Parashat Mattos, where Moshe accused the Bnei Reuvein ViGad of being Tarbus Anashim Risha’im. So how could the Sifri claim Moshe waited until his death to reprove the nation?

Rashi himself advocates the Kli Yakar’s approach and only ten pasukim after quoting this Sifri!

VaAsimeim, and I will place [judges as leaders over the nation]. [The term VaAsimeim bears a striking similarity to Asham, guilt, suggesting that] the guilt of Yisrael hangs on the heads of its judges, for [these judges] had the ability to protest and redirect [the nation] onto the right path.

Rashi, Devarim 1:13

So the judges are required to correct the wrongdoers, and not only Karov LiMisa! The question really speaks for itself. How can we resolve the clear and present contradiction between Rashi’s two Ha’arahs?

It seems to me that there is really no contradiction at all, but we must first differentiate between the resolution of interpersonal relationships, and the resolution of one’s relationship with G-d. The role these judges play within the protest of their nation’s sins is one based off a hierarchy. The judges are appointed because of their superior Torah knowledge; therefore, the rebuke they offer is grounded in their greater knowledge of what Hashem desires.

However, the Hochacha one gives from his deathbed bears no such established hierarchy, no such stern “I’m right and you’re wrong” approach. Instead, it becomes an emotional plea for resolution and reconstitution. If we look closely at Moshe’s words in our parasha, we find a striking difference between the admonishment of old, and these closing remarks:

And Hashem heard the voice of your words, and angered, and swore, “None of the men of this generation will see the land I promised to their forefathers!...” And Hashem became incensed with he, on account of you, saying, “You too shall not come [to Eretz Yisrael]!”

Devarim 1:35-37

Moshe actually blames Klal Yisrael for Hashem’s refusal to let him into Eretz Yisrael! Surely Moshe is frustrated, but this accusation can’t just be dismissed as an exaggeration. His words must hold some truth. If we want to identify the source of this accusation, we must trace our steps back to the source of this very dissent, where Moshe first inserts himself into his Hochacha:

How can I alone carry all your trouble, burdens, and quarrels?

Devarim 1:12

Burdens. This teaches that the nation disdained their scholars, for if Moshe left court early, they would say “Why did Ben Amram leave early? Maybe he is having marital issues.” And if Moshe left late, they would say, “Why hasn’t Ben Amram left yet? He must be busy plotting against us.”

Rashi, Devarim 1:12

Of course, this is the pasuk that begins with the word “How,” Eicha, and we read it to the tune of Megilas Eicha. But this pasuk is more than just one complaint out of a dozen others. Here Moshe rebukes the people for not letting him rebuke them! They become judgmental of him, thus impeding his ability to set them straight. It is here that Moshe loses the ability to reprove at any stage of his life, for the reasons listed in the Sifri, and so this becomes the opening remark of his Tochacha. And this becomes the pasuk associated with Eicha and Churban, for our inabilities to rebuke and correct are what inevitably – albeit passively – bring about our nation’s corruption. Not the Cheit HaEigel, and not the Cheit HaMiraglim.

When one man sins to [you], do not hate him and hold back… rather, it is a Mitzvah to acknowledge and say to him “Why have you done this to me, why have to sinned to me in this way?” As the pasuk says, “Hochai’ach Tochee’ach Es Amisecha.”

One who sees another sin or head in a wrong path must return him to good and let him know that he has sinned against himself. One who rebukes his brother, whether over a sin between man and fellow, or a sin between man and G-d, must rebuke him between man and himself.

Rambam, Misha Torah, Hilchos Dayos 6:6-7

At the heart of true Hochacha lies the interpersonal relationship between two caring individuals. One says to the other, “it pains me to see you act in such a way, and I wish it would pain you too.” Obviously the goal of this rebuke is to return the sinner to the proper path, but the method of rebuke, in a sense, is as important as this goal. Hashem does not respond to every Aveirah with a lightning bolt, for part Teshuva’s value is to accomplish Ge’ula as a nation.

This interpersonal process begins with Moshe’s words in our parasha, but the parasha also references this process’s first major setback, the appointment of judges, the men who could only protest on the basis of hierarchy. The arduous road to Ge’ula is marred with persecution and pogroms, inquisition and exile, but our most daunting obstacle is each other. And until we can learn to deal with our differences, and to care for one another in a meaningful and constructive fashion, we will continue to mourn over the Sinas Chinam that preceded Churban HaBayis for the nine days that precede Tisha B’Av.

Parashat Masei

The Abarbanel offers a fascinating explanation regarding why a man who murders accidentally must wait for the Kohein Gadol to die before he can leave his Ir Miklat. The reason that the murderer hides in the city is to keep safe from the Go’el HaDam, the vengeful relative of the murderer’s victim. The death of the Kohein Gadol is such a shocking event to the nation that the Go’el would come to reconsider his emotions, calm down, and no longer seek his revenge, leaving the Rotzei’ach free to go home.

The Abarbanel’s explanation is far from convincing. Though we may never have experienced the loss of a Kohein Gadol, it seems a stretch to say that his death would have such an effect on a Go’el HaDam. It is difficult to accept that the Go’el’s impersonal emotional connection to the Kohein Gadol is even as strong as the connection to his own relative, let alone stronger.

In fact, one could even argue that the Kohein Gadol’s death should have the opposite effect on the Go’el’s emotions. Rashi says that the Kohein Gadol’s presence draws the Shchinah to the nation and promotes life, while the killer removes the Shchina and moves people closer to death. It wouldn’t be proper for the two to coexist, and therefore the killer is banished until after the Kohein Gadol’s death. Rashi seems to imply, from the fact that the killer moves the nation closer to death, that he plays a small role in the death of the Kohein Gadol. If this is so, then shouldn’t one feel more ire towards the Rotzei’ach for having caused two deaths? Should one feel sorry for this man and let him live?!

But there is a much more basic difficulty with this Abarbanel. The Abarbanel seems to root the motive of the Go’el HaDam simply in his emotions. His emotions spur him to seek revenge, and the abrupt change of emotion halts his plans. But a Go’el HaDam, contrary to popular belief, does not kill out of revenge! He kills LeSheim Shamayim. The gemara in Makos (12a) discusses whether it may be a Mitzvah for the Go’el to kill the murderer. It may even be a Reshus for everyone else to kill him (Reshus, the gemara implies, does not just mean it’s Muttar BiDiAvad.)

The strongest disproof that revenge is what motivates a Go’el comes from a gemara in Sanhedrin (45b), The gemara says that if the victim leaves behind no Go’el, Beis din will appoint a Go’el to chase the Rotzei’ach. Clearly this third party, this appointed avenger, can’t be seeking revenge like a relative would, yet the same halachos apply to him. The same rule – that he must go home when the Kohein Gadol dies – still applies. So from where does the Go’el summon his anger if not from revenge?

Let’s take a closer look at Rashi. Rashi explains that the Rotzei’ach’s banishment lasts as long as the Kohein Gadol’s life because the two cannot coexist. The Rotzei’ach stands for those things that bring people toward Gehenom, and is therefore the nemesis of the Kohein Gadol, who represents that which draws us closer to Shamayim. This explanation seems to fall short for two simple reasons. Once the Kohein Gadol dies, another Kohein Gadol assumes the position, and the killer has another nemesis. Why should it matter that the Kohein Gadol was in power at the time of the sentencing of this murderer? More to the point, the Mishna in Makos also learns that the Rotzei’ach only goes free upon the death of a properly anointed Kohein Gadol. If the Kohein Gadol had not been anointed properly, or if there there was no Kohein Gadol at all – if there was nobody who stood for the things Rashi says a Kohein Gadol represents – one would assume based on Rashi’s logic that there would be no reason for the Rotzei’ach to live in the Ir Miklat, and there would be no reason for him to wait for a proper time to leave. Yet under such circumstances, the Halacha dictates that one must live and remain in the Ir Miklat, contrary to Rashi’s logic?

It seems to me that the Abarbanel actually comes to answer these questions that Rashi’s pshat faces. Only a properly anointed Kohein Gadol can have an effect of such great magnitudes on the people, and therefore the Abarbanel decides to approach the Rotzei’ach’s freedom from the viewpoint that one’s emotions are altered. But where does emotion play a role in the role of the Go’el?

Rashi talks about how the murderer and Kohein Gadol fall on opposite sides of the spectrum. There is good reason for the entire nation to love their Kohein Gadol because of what he does for them; likewise, it would seem within reason for one to hate a Go’el because of his contribution to the masses. Whether one is the dead man’s relative or simply an appointee, one can certainly recognize the detriment the killer causes to society, and therefore has a Mitzvah to do away with him.

To a Go’el, it seems only proper that the just consequence of murder should be death. It seems only appropriate that the man who draws the nation further from Hashem and shortens their days should bear a shortening of his own days. But if such thoughts were true, then the Kohein Gadol would surely be deserving of long life. And yet even the Kohein Gadol can die, and this reality is what shocks the nation. The Go’el coes to reconsider whether the Rotzei’ach deserves a shorter life, for death does not deserve death, and bloodshed can never truly be solved with more bloodshed.

In truth what one does in one’s lifetime does not so clearly affect the death he incurs (aside from when the Torah explicitly tells us otherwise, of course). The Midrash Rabbah tells over this lesson with examples in the form of some historical examples:

Rabbi Shimon opened [his drasha with a pasuk from Koheles (9:3)]: “HaKol Ka’Asher LaKol, Mikreh Echad,” All things come alike to all [people].

“LaTzadik ViLaRasha,” to the Tzadik, Noach, who when he left his Teivah was mangled by the lion, and to the Rashah, Paroh Necho, who when he attempted to sit on Shlomo HaMelech’s throne was mangled by a lion, and both died lame.

“LaTov ViLaTahor ViLatamei,” to the Tov, Moshe (as the pasuk says, “and she saw for he was ‘Tov’), to the Tahor, Aharon, who dealt with the Tahara of Klal Yisrael, and the Tamei, the Miraglim. These [first two] spoke good of Eretz Yisrael, and these spoke bad, and yet none were permitted into the land.

“LaZovei’ach ViLaAsher Einenu Zovei’ach,” [referring to] Yoshiyahu and Achav respectively. The first brought many Korbanos, while the second cancelled the offerings; yet both were killed by a barrage of arrows.

“KaTov KaChotei,” the good and the sinner, Dovid HaMelech and Nevuchadnetzar. One “built” the Beis HaMikdash, and one destroyed it; yet both ruled a full 40 years.

“HaNishbah, Ka’Asher Shvu’a Yarei,” Tzidkiyahu and Shimshon HaNazir. (The Eitz Yoseif explains that Tzidkiyahu took oaths lightly, and therefore broke his promise to Nevuchadnetzar, whereas Shimshon was only suspicious the Bnei Yehuda would harm him until they swore (Shofetim 15:12)). This one died with his eyes gouged out, and that one died with his eyes gouged out.

VaYikra Rabbah 20:1

This Midrash, somewhat unexpectedly, is the opening remark of Parashat Acharei Mos; somehow, it must connect to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu. Rabbi Shimon proceeds to explain that both the Bnei Aharon and Korach’s assembly suffered similar fates. The first pair sought to draw the nation closer to Hashem, while the other steered them far away (although under a sneaky façade), yet both were burned alive for offering Ketores. And so we clearly see that the reward of the Kohein Gadol does not necessarily manifest itself within this world, nor does the punishment of the accidental killer. The Go’el HaDam learns this most valuable lesson and heads back home, leaving the killer free to exit his Ir Miklat

Parashat Pinchas

The gemara in Kedushin (66b) asks how we know that a Kohein with a mum is Pasul for Avodah. (Rashi notes that although we have a clear pasuk in Emor that pasuls a Kohein Ba’al Mum, a drasha is required to pasul his work even BiDiAvad, after the Kohein has performed the Avodah.) The drasha comes from this week’s parasha. When Hashem offers Pinchas His Bris Kehunas Olam, Hashem introduces it as the “Bris Shalom.” Shmuel, quoted by Rav Yehuda, identifies this as a Bris for those who are ‘Shaleim,’ without blemish, and therefore a Kohein Ba’al Mum is pasul, even BiDiAvad. The gemara asks: but the pasuk says Shalom, not Shaleim? Rav Nachman answers that the Vav in the word Shalom is K’tiya, or ‘broken;’ therefore, the word can be read as ‘Shaleim’ as well, and Rav Yehuda’s drasha stands.

Some have the minhag to write the Vav with a horizontal break in the middle. The Maharsha says that one should not write the letter broken, but rather write the Vav small, so it appears as a Yud almost. The Ritva questions this: “Had the gemara intended a small Vav, it would have called it a Vav Ze’ira.” But this halachic discussion falls outside the scope of this medium, though it is important to note that this gemara is taken very seriously. Many Soferim are accustomed to actually write this letter with a full break across the middle, an act that would render the Sefer Torah pasul if done to any other letter! This Vav is truly unique, as is the storyline of Pinchas’s vengeance.

The drasha itself is also unique, in the sense that it is oxymoronic. After all, we learn out the need for Shleimus, wholeness, from the only letter in the Torah that is not whole! What is the logical basis for this drasha? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to interpret the break as the indication of a lack of Shleimus? Indeed, we find there to be a lack of Shalom within Klal Yisrael immediately after the event.

Pinchas Ben Elazar Ben Aharon HaKohein [why mention his lineage here?]

Since the Shvatim were ridiculing [Pinchas, saying] “Look at this Ben Puti (descendant of Yisro), whose grandfather fattened cows for idol worship, and now he has the gall to kill a Jewish prince?!” Therefore, the pasuk comes to trace his lineage to Aharon instead.

Rashi, BaMidbar 25:11

As Rashi indicates, the Shvatim – and not even just Shevet Shimon – were at Pinchas’s throat for his seemingly brash and heinous act. One can imagine that Hashem’s response, Pinchas Ben Elazar Ben Aharon, could greater justify his actions, but it’s unlikely that a recount of Pinchas’s lineage would sufficiently appease the incensed nation.

This leads us to another question. If Pinchas only achieved a Shalom between Hashem and the nation – namely that Hashem would not destroy them all – then why was he awarded with Kehuna? The Kehuna more strongly reflects the good tidings between 1) the Kohein and the people and 2) Hashem and the Kohein. Since the Kohein must serve as the intermediary between Hashem and the people, there is no Shalom achieved between these two groups without the first two criteria.

Perhaps these questions derive from a much more basic misunderstanding of these pasukim, namely the source of the Shvatim’s dissent for Pinchas. Rashi describes how the Shvatim ridiculed Pinchas because of his dubious lineage. The fact that he came from an idol worshiper weakened his authority to handle others’ iniquities within the realm of Avoda Zara. As the Mizrachi explains, one would normally expect a man’s ancestry to follow a paternal line, but the nation pointed out the shortcomings of his mother’s family, for he was most probably raised by his mother, and she was raised in Yisro’s house. Thus the ideology of Avoda Zara was innate within Pinchas.

The terrible problem with the Mizrachi’s reasoning, however, is that Yisro converted and no longer fattened cows to Avoda Zara. In that case, the house that Pinchas was raised in was one that blatantly rejected Avoda Zara, not one that embraced it! Even Aharon’s family can’t claim such a feat. If anyone’s ideology taught the explicit and adamant rejection of Avoda Zara, it was Yisro’s!

And yet, even Hashem credits Klal Yisrael’s snide, reminding them of Pinchas’s link to Aharon HaKohein. Shouldn’t Hashem simply remind the Shvatim who Yisro was?

But there is one thing we must consider about Yisro’s rejection of Avoda Zara and embrace of Yahadus. Yisro, when he first joins the camp, exclaims “Atta Yadati Ki Gadol Hashem MiKol HaElohim,” now I know that Hashem is greater than all the [other] gods.” Rashi explains that Yisro could compare Hashem to all the other gods because he had tried every form of Avoda Zara there was, and none interested him as much as Judaism. We therefore see that Yisro did not reject Avoda Zara because he felt it was objectively wrong, but rather because it did not interest him. His devotion to Hashem, therefore, was one of subjective value.

When the Shvatim point their fingers at the zealous Ben Puti, they question whether his zeal is truly LiSheim Shamayim, for the family that raised him deplored Avoda Zara on the basis that it was violable and base, not because it was Assur or objectively wrong. If such were the motive behind Pinchas’s actions, the Shvatim would have a strong claim, for what right would Pinchas have to oppose Zimri’s actions? Zimri too is entitled to a subjective stance, and if he likes Avoda Zara more than Avodas Hashem, then he should he be permitted to practice such. By linking Pinchas to his other grandfather, Aharon, the pasuk reveals the Lishma intent behind Pinchas’s action, the very fact that Avoda Zara was objectively wrong in Pinchas’s eyes.

And so with Hashem’s response in the opening of our parasha, the widespread dissent towards Pinchas does not only subside, but is transformed into appreciation. Pinchas proved willing to risk his life for Hashem’s sake, and for the nation’s sake, not for his own sake. Such is the role of the ideal Kohein, the man who establishes a relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu through a life led LiSheim Shamayim, the man who establishes a relationship with his nation through their recognition of his selfless concern for them.

It may be true that the Shalom between Kohein and nation was temporarily broken, but ultimately, peace was restored, and in a much stronger form. The strength of a friendship, the strength of peace, can only be measured after it has been tested. If two sides go to war and yet they resolve their differences without just ignoring or downplaying the problems in their past, true peace is formed. That peace is then lasting, and so Pinchas’s Bris Shalom is a Bris Kehuna that lasts Olam. What better letter than the broken Vav to learn out the halachos of Shleimus!

During these days of mourning, the Three Weeks, the lesson of the broken Vav takes on great meaning. The relationship that Klal Yisroel has shared with Hashem has been tested many a time. In the days of the Shoftim, we went rotten and Hashem enslaved us to our bordering nations. We repented and Hashem came back to us. We went bad again and Hashem ignored us again. And so on the cycle went; the casual tie we shared with our Creator was tested again and again in casual fashion.

After the Churban HaBayis, in these past two thousand years of Galus, we have truly been tested, as has been our commitment to Torah, Mitzvos, and a life LiSheim Shamayim. If there was ever a chance for our relationship to fully slip away, these past millennia have certainly been the time. When the Three Weeks come around, we shouldn’t only reflect on how bitter our past has been, or the present may be. We should understand the great potential in our grueling trials, the reward of everlasting and enduring peace formed through only the most rigorous of tests. May we be Zocheh to this ‘Shaleim’ Shalom, and may the K’tiya that ultimately brings this Shleimus come to its completion BiMiheirah BiYameinu Amein.

Parashat Balak

And Hashem came to Bilam and said to him “who are these people with you”

BaMidbar 22:8

Though parshat Balak for the most part discusses the story of Balak, the first few aliyos dedicate themselves to a somewhat tangential story. Messengers are sent from Balak to retrieve Bilam, and they are sent back to Balak empty-handed. Balak sends more messengers, and the second group of messengers is successful. The messengers seem to steal Balak’s spotlight.

But who are these ‘messengers’? First, when they arrive at Bilam’s home, they are the Zikeinim, the Ziknei Midyan and Ziknei Moav. That night, Bilam tells them to stay, and the Sarei Moav stay; so now they are officers, and they are no longer from Midyan. The next morning, Bilam addresses the Sarei Balak. They return to Balak, and Balak sends officers of higher rank. These Sarim are referred to as Avdei Balak when Bilam tells them to stay overnight. Finally, the next morning, Bilam agrees to go with the Sarei Moav, who are called Sarei Balak when Bilam reaches his destination. What a headache! Even Hashem seems uncertain who these people are!

The first transition is the most intriguing. We call the messengers Zikeinim once, and never again refer to them that way. What happened to their title? And furthermore, what happened to the Zikeinim from Midyan?

Rashi answers the second question. The term Zikeinim was first used this week in pasuk 4. Moav, when they made peace, did not consult the armies or the nobles of Midyan; they rather consulted the elders. Moav knew that the Jewish leader Moshe, had spent much of his life looking after his father in law’s sheep in Midyan, and the Midyanites perhaps would know the secret to Moshe’s amazing power. Sure enough, the Midyanite elders were a tremendous help. “His power is only in his mouth” they replied. Moshe was not a strong or influential man. On the contrary, he was a stuttering 80 year old. But Moshe had the power of prayer, to bless and curse, for good and for worse.

The clear response to Moshe was Bilam; Bilam too had this power of prayer and would prove a worthy adversary to Moshe. Maybe with Bilam on Moav’s side, the Jews could be pushed away for good. And so Balak sent these elders from his nation, and elders from Moav, to hire Bilam on behalf of the king.

Before we go any further in to the story, there is a little more background that must be laid out. The first pasuk of the parasha seems totally pointless. Moav and Midyan were warring nations who made peace in order to deal with the Jews. Only in pasuk 4 is Balak, a Midyanite who probably would have been killed for stepping on Moavi soil had it not been for the established truce, crowned king. So why then would anyone care that Balak saw the Jews defeat the Emori; he was a Midyanite prince?!

Rashi answers this question as well. Balak used what he saw in order to play with the emotions of the Moavim. He pointed out how if Sichon and Og could be defeated by the Jews, then Moav would have no chance. Therefore the next pasuk reads “And the Moavim were frightened,” which led to their need to appoint Balak as their king.

The second pasuk is also very troubling. Why do we only discuss Moav’s fear? Shouldn’t Midyan fear the Jews as well? (Ironically, it was Midyan whom the Jews obliterate in Matos and Moav whom the Jews spare.) But Balak’s stirring speech only effected the Moavim because of the Kal ViChomer involved. If Sichon could destroy Moav (as is stated in last week’s parasha, 21:28) and Yisroel could destroy Sichon, then surely Yisroel would annihilate Moav. Midyan, though scared, remained much more rational in their fear. Only Moav became disgusted with their own lives out of the enormous and irrational fright they felt.

Now that we recognize the difference between the mentality of Moav and that of Midyan, we can try to understand why the Midyanite elders didn’t stay overnight like Bilam had asked them to. To a rational mind, the hiring of Bilam was a solution to the apparent problem, the encroachment of the wandering Jewish nation and their awesome leader Moshe. If Bilaam couldn’t prove himself a worthy match for Moshe, than to what good would his blessings or curses be?

The Levush Ha’Orah explains the thought process of the Midyanite elders. By the Maka of Tzfardeyah, Paroh runs to Moshe yelling “Get rid of these frogs!” Moshe responds “when would you like me to pray for the end of this plague?” and Paroh says ‘tomorrow.’ Moshe prays the next day and all the frogs die. Clearly, Moshe would expect Paroh to say ‘get rid of them right now,’ but Moshe wanted to prove that he wasn’t just looking into the stars (like Bilam did) and praying at the moment he could foresee would be the end of the Maka. Moshe had the real gift of prayer; he called the shots and didn’t wait for orders from the heavens. If Bilam, the elders thought, can provide us with an immediate response, then he clearly has the level of prayer that Moshe has. But if he waits overnight for Hashem to address him, if he can’t call his own shots, then he’s no match and we would only be wasting our time hiring him.

Midyan, and correctly so, went on its way, and was saved from tremendous disgrace. They weren’t even cursed by Bilam at the end of the parasha. But Moav was stubborn. Their elders didn’t act much like elders when they decided to stay overnight with Bilam. By remaining stubborn and hoping Bilam could still curse the Jews, their actions no longer reflected their wisdom, and so the pasuk demotes them to their status quo, the level of ‘officers.’

Unlike servants, officers are left in charge of certain affairs. These officers were sent to investigate the possibility of using Bilam’s powers to counter Moshe’s and perhaps negotiate a price. The elders from Midyan turned down the option for the reason explained above, while the officers from Moav were turned down merely because of their lowly rank; Bilam claimed it wasn’t befitting to his honor to travel with them. The second group of messengers, however, were no longer in any control of the situation. They were merely a dispatch, a collection of nobles assigned to retrieve Bilam. As Balak said “Al Na Timana,” don’t turn this offer down. Furthermore, there was no price to be discussed, “Kol Asher Tomar Eilli E’eseh.”

While the first messengers are called Sarei Balak, the second group, a group considered ‘higher ranking from the first’ in pasuk 15, are called Avdei Balak. This now makes perfect sense. The title Eved or Sar is not a reflection of rank, but rather a reflection on the individual’s control of the matter. Since the first group was given full control, they were addressed as officers, but when the second group conveys Balak’s urgent orders, Bilam addresses servants instead. Once the king’s orders have been fulfilled and Bilam agrees to come, they return to their status quo title ‘officer,’ like in pasuk 15.

Only one question remains. Now that we understand the difference between a Zakein and a Sar, a Sar and an Eved, what differentiates between an officer of Balak and an officer of Moav? The elders would certainly represent the nation, I’ve never heard of the king’s elders, Ziknei Balak simply wouldn’t make sense. Avdei Moav may make some sense, but the people, as explained above, were clearly servants to the king’s request. But why are they the rest of the time jumping between titles Sarei Moav and Sarei Balak?

Once again, Rashi answers this question, and chooses to answer it where the question seems strongest. When Bilam leaves home, he leaves with the Sarei Moav, and as he’s walking along the road, after his confrontation with the Satan, he travels with the Sarei Balak. Bilam seems to perform the exact same action, yet something clearly has changed.

Interestingly, both phrases, Sarei Moav and Sarei Balak, are superfluous in their respective locations. Rashi explains by the first, when Bilam saddles his donkey, the pasuk should have only said “he went,’ not whom he went with. Rashi explains “Lebo KiLebam Shaveh,” they departed with the same intent and enthusiasm, which we would not have otherwise known. By the second, pasuk 35, the pasuk again needlessly makes mention of the officers. Rashi therefore explains there “Samei’ach LiKlalam KiMosam” Bilam was happy to soon be cursing the Jewish nation, just as the officers were.

There are two clear problems with this Rashi. The extra words must be coming to teach us something we didn’t already know, but wouldn’t we assume they were both happy to curse the Jews if Lebo KiLibam Shaveh? Why would we ever assume anything changed unless told so? Even stranger about the Rashi is how he completely changes the lashon in pasuk 35 from the lashon used in pasuk 21. Why not just write Lebo KiLebam again?

The question may be a little stronger if we ask it on pasuk 21 instead. The pshat Rashi offers in pasuk 35 seems a little more detailed, so if Lebo KiLebam really meant Samei’ach LiKlalam KiMosam, why would Rashi explain Bilam’s thoughts so vaguely the first time. Rather, the vague lashon of Rashi seems to imply that Lebo KiLebam is really a continuation of the previous Rashi. That morning, Bilam hastily saddled his donkey so he could get as early a start to cursing the Jews as possible. Rashi opens by explaining that Bilam’s hasty actions were out of his hatred towards the Jews. Like the pasuk says about Moav, “VaYakatz Moav,” they too hated the Jews and wished them to be cursed out of hatred. And so Lebo KiLebam out of hatred towards the Jews. But after the encounter with the Satan, Bilam was a little more sedated. It was no longer the rushed morning, and the paced journey provided no spark to fuel anyone’s hatred. Rather, they all felt excited and happy to finally curse the Jews, but not in a hasty irrational manner.

We can now understand the reasons for the parasha’s use of these messengers’ names in their respective locations. First, they are Ziknei Moav. When they decide to stay, though they should have realized that Bilam would be of no useful service to the king, they acted irrationally, like the Moavim, and are therefore called Sarei Moav. In the morning, Bilam addresses the Sarei Balak with a rational excuse that the rational king would accept and react upon. The meesengers, though they had just been brutally insulted by Bilam, were willing to accept the insult. Anything so long as Bilam would curse the Jews as soon as possible. And so the Sarei Moav got up and returned to Balak. Avdei Balak returned, and hastily departed as Sarei Moav in the morning, though they happily traveled back to Moav as Sarei Balak.

One simple question remains. Why does the Torah need to write all this detail about the messengers? Just call them Anashim or Malachim. Anashim and Malachim are terms used to describe them by Hashem and Balak, respectively, but whenever the story views these emissaries from Bilam’s angle, the language keeps flopping back and forth. Why?

Maybe the lesson within the messengers’ names is one that teaches about themselves and their mission but rather a view of the story from Bilam’s eyes, a lesson in the way Bilam approached the world. The gemara teaches that Hashem gets angry at the world for a regah every day, “Ki Regah BiApo.” This regah lasts about six hundredths of a second. Bilam was able to identify this moment and take advantage of it by starting his curse in that short window of time. This was the power Bilam possessed which separated him from any other non-Jewish prophet in history.

What exactly was Bilam’s power? When Hashem resolves to destroy the Bnei Yisroel after the Cheit HaEigel, He says to Moshe “Achaleh Osam KiRaga.” Moshe responds with two arguments. Hashem should remember the past; remember what He promised to the Avos. Also, the nations would say Hashem isn’t as strong as they are if Bnei Yisroel never enter Eretz Yisroel. Rather than forfeit the past and future of His nation, Hashem agrees not to kill the people.

The concept of “Raga” that Moshe battles in this story is one of removal from context. Moshe argues that the Bnei Yisroel may have acted insane for a brief lapse, but that shouldn’t effect Hashem’s view on everything that they have done and will soon accomplish. The people are not deserving of death, just a punishment. On the other hand, Bilam uses this regah to his advantage. For the brief time, when Hashem is mad enough to destroy the world yet doesn’t because of all the potential and all the past accomplishments, the world does actually change its physical state. The gemara says that the red vein in a roosters crest turns white for those six hundredths of a second. Bilam could see that moment, the moment in time removed from context, in the stars and knew that cursing the Jews right then would be enough to convince Hashem to destroy them.

The gemara says that during the days of Bilam, Hashem did us a tremendous favor and never got mad. Hashem, had He been mad, would not have been able to turn down Bilam’s request. Note how the gemara doesn’t say that Hashem held off the Rega in the time of Bilam. Rather, Hashem excluded Himself from the moment that stood out of context.

When Bilam sees these messengers, he always sees them outside the context of their actions. One minute they are Sarei Moav to him. The next minute they are Sarei Balak. Depending on how they appear at the particular moment, Bilam changes his mind over the status of these messengers. Whatever they do at that particular Regah decides their personality. That’s Bilam’s perspective.

Hashem teaches Bilam a tremendous lesson through their short dialogue. Bilam’s nature was about as antithetical to being Dan Adam LiKaf Zechus as a person could behave. When the Zekeinim arrived, Bilam assumed they were Zekeinim, but he soon discovered that Moav’s men were not Zekeinim after all; he had judged them much too quickly. Hashem says to Bilam “Who are these people” and Bilam can’t answer the question directly. The Ohr HaChaim writes about Bilam’s response that he admitted to not knowing who these people were, but he did know that they were sent from Balak and he knew why they were sent. Bilam can answer ‘what’ and ‘why,’ and he can definitely answer ‘when.’ But answering questions that began with ‘who’ was where Bilam constantly faltered.

We should learn from Bilam, just like we learn from all the risha’im of the Torah, exactly how not to act. We should always be Dan LiKaf Zechus and never answer the ‘who’ question too quickly. What we perceive of somebody’s present does not necessarily portray his past and future as well.

Parashat Chukas

On the positive side, virtually every Peirush on the Torah agrees that Moshe and Aharon were not allowed to enter into Eretz Yisrael exclusively because of their failure at Mei Merivah; the pasuk (20:12) is rather clear about this fact. Unfortunately, there isn’t much else agreed upon, and the details of this particular failure remain a mystery amidst the whirlwind of proposed explanations. Was Moshe’s failure that he should have spoken to the rock instead of hitting it (Rashi)? Perhaps he should have only hit it once (Ibn Ezra)? Maybe Moshe shouldn’t have spoken so harshly to the nation (Rambam)? Or maybe he shouldn’t have attributed the miracle to his own capacities (Ramban)?

Ya’an Lo He’emantem Bi, but since you have not believed in Me…

The pasuk [makes mention of Moshe’s sin, instead of fully covering it up, in order to] reveal that Moshe and Aharon would have entered into Eretz Yisrael had it not been for this sin, so that no one should [later] claim that their sin was the same as that of their generation [namely, the Cheit HaMiraglim].

Rashi, BaMidbar 20:12

It’s rather ironic when we consider all the dozens of explanations of Moshe’s error that Rashi is of the opinion that the Torah does not intend to disclose the details of this Cheit! That certainly would explain the source of all this confusion! But make no mistake, even Rashi explicitly accords that Moshe committed some sin in this account, whether a disclosed one or not. Rashi even offers two explanations as to the nature of the sin (and two contradictory explanations at that, as we will soon discover).

Rashi’s account of Moshe’s misdeed is certainly confounding, for one would presume that we have as much to learn from the mistakes of our leaders as we do from their teachings. Why then would the Torah wish to hide Moshe’s Cheit and only reveal enough information to let us know that he did sin, and not how he sinned? Furthermore, if we aren’t supposed to know how Moshe sinned, then why does Rashi, in his very next comments, imply towards the very nature of Moshe’s Cheit?

Surely this [statement of “Shimu Na HaMorim, HaMin HaSelah HaZeh Notzee Lachem Mayim”] cannot be worse than [what Moshe accused Hashem of when he said] “HaTzon U’Vakar YiShacheit, [where can you possibly find enough animals to feed the entire nation?!”] so why is Moshe only punished here? But since [his first offense] occurred in private, Hashem had mercy on him [and did not punish him]. Here, Moshe’s offense occurred in public, and so he was not spared, on account of the Kiddush Hashem [he failed to perform].

The Mizrachi takes note of the comparison between Moshe’s words in our parasha, and those in Bi’Ha’alosicha, when the people shamelessly complain for meat. Just as Moshe doubted Hashem’s capabilities there, somehow assuming Hashem could not create enough animals to feed the nation, so too here Moshe doubts Hashem’s ability to draw water from any rock he speaks to, when in reality Hashem could make water come out of any rock if He so chose. In essence, the Mizrachi blames Moshe for rhetorically asking whether he could get water from “this” rock, meaning from “any” rock, when in fact Moshe could have. It was a greater offense to doubt G-d’s powers in a dialogue with HaKadosh Baruch Hu Himself, but this second offense was performed in public, and so Moshe was not spared.

Rashi is clearly not bashful about proposing explanations of his own as to how Moshe failed. In fact, Rashi immediately offers yet another pshat:

Had [they] spoken to the rock [instead of hitting it] and brought forth [water], then [Hashem’s] name would have been ‘Mekudash’ in the eyes of the people, for they would say “Just as this rock, which cannot speak and cannot hear and relies on no subsistence, performs the word of its Maker, all the more so must we!”

Here, Rashi asserts that Moshe and Aharon failed Hashem not through what they said, but rather through what they did. They should have spoken to the rock, but instead Moshe hit it. This leads to some speculation; according to Rashi, which mistake sealed Moshe’s fate. Did he misspeak, or did he misconduct?

The Mizrachi answers that these two Midrashim pose no contradiction to each other; it is very possible the combination of these two errors was cause for Moshe’s punishment. But this answer is hard to swallow, for we must assume that Moshe would not be punished, even if he did not execute the proper Kiddush Hashem, so long as he had not spoken wrongfully of Hashem. Additionally, the reason why Moshe was punished in our parasha would have nothing to do with the fact that he sinned publicly, since speaking badly of Hashem, even publicly, would not have been grounds for punishment without the failure to perform the Kiddush Hashem.

But the most substantial question on the Mizrachi’s approach comes from the Levush HaOrah, who asks whether Rashi believed Moshe could draw water from any rock, or only from one rock. According to Rashi’s first explanation, Moshe was incorrect in assuming that he could not draw water from any rock. But Rashi also writes that Moshe first tried speaking to the wrong rock and it did not respond, and that’s why he started hitting rocks! There is a clear contradiction between Rashi’s two explanations! How does the Mizrachi overlook this blatant inconsistency?!

The Levush HaOrah answers that there is really no difficulty whatsoever, but one must first understand that Moshe Rabbeinu is only capable of that which he believes himself capable of. If Moshe does not believe he can draw water from any rock, then he simply cannot. According to the Levush HaOrah, talking to even the correct rock would not – and presumably did not – work because Hashem’s very instructions in our parasha require the proper accompanying mindset (as opposed to the process of hitting, for which Moshe did have the proper mindset).

Therefore, Moshe’s statement publicly revealed a certain misguided notion that Hashem couldn’t cause water to come from any rock. And this mindset thus denied Moshe any means of drawing water other than to hit one rock, thus preventing him from teaching the Kal ViChomer and performing the Kiddush Hashem.

Such is the understanding of the Levush HaOrah, and we also can now understand why Hashem remarks “you have not believed in Me.” By our original premise, Moshe’s mistake was committed either through speech or action, but not belief; however, we now recognize that every error committed does stem from this so called ‘lack of Emunah.’ One might wonder why exactly Moshe didn’t believe Hashem could cause water to come out of any rock; such a question is perfectly justified, and will later be addressed, but do note that Rashi elsewhere (BaMidbar 31:21) says that Moshe’s anger led him to hit the rock, so it’s possible that his anger and frustration caused this skewed judgment.

But our work is far from done, and there are still many more complications within Rashi’s pshat, for we have not addressed any of the practical differences between hitting the rock and speaking to it. Why is one method of action, namely speaking, all of a sudden desired in our parasha’s story when until now an alternative method, namely hitting, has sufficed? The Ramban, for one, asks how Moshe would make any more of a Kal ViChomer by speaking to the rock than by hitting it, for both require miraculous feats in spite of the rock’s relative shortcomings (namely its lack of speech, hearing and subsistence).

These questions indicate a gap in our understanding of the Kiddush Hashem Moshe failed to perform, and so it should come as little surprise when we consider that the Kal ViChomer Rashi here describes is actually backwards! Do we really believe one can learn lessons of obedience from the behavior of a rock? The rock does not listen to Hashem in spite of its speaking and hearing deficiencies; on the contrary, the rock flawlessly performs Hashem’s will because of these deficiencies!! How can we, as human beings with the potential to disobey, learn to perform what Hashem wants of us from an inanimate object, with no potential to deviate from its Maker’s desires? Granted, we could try to be more like the rock, but such a lesson derives from no Kal ViChomer!

Perhaps we can understand this Kal ViChomer in a slightly different light. By our current understanding, we must somehow explain how ears and a mouth further enable one to fulfill Hashem’s desire in the first place. But as we see from the rock, it is possible to perform Hashem’s will without these faculties altogether. However, if we view these communicative faculties as the very indication that Hashem wishes us to perform His will, to establish some relationship with Him and affect His world for the better, then the Kal ViChomer fits beautifully.

One would rationally think that the rock’s lack of ears or mouth serves as a clear indication that Hashem desires no service from this rock, and yet when Moshe asks it for water on behalf of Klal Yisrael, it still performs the Ribono Shel Olam’s will! Kal ViChomer people – whose mouths and ears serve as clear indication to their duties to establish the desired relationship with Hashem – must act accordingly, and do so through those very senses, as the pasuk in Beraishis indicates.

…ViKol Eisev BaSadeh Terem Yitzmach Ki Lo Himtir Hashem Elokim Al Ha’Aretz ViAdam Ayin La’Avod Es Ha’Adamah.

Beraishis, 2:5

Rashi explains that vegetation could not grow because it had not rained, and it had not rained because man did not yet exist to pray for rain and appreciate its benefits. The world that Hashem puts before us, Rashi implies, is meant to operate by the potency of our Tefilos and the magnitude of our Hakaras HaTov. These faculties enable life for not only us, but also everything around us. Within the hierarchy of creation, even the rocks and trees respond to HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s instructions, but these instructions come about from our desire for interaction. It therefore becomes incumbent upon us to rely on our G-d given senses – the indication of our lofty position within this hierarchy – in order to positively sustain the world around us.

It now becomes evident why Moshe must speak to the rock instead of hitting it, for this Kal ViChomer can only endure if Moshe does not undermine the value of his own communicative faculties. Granted, the rock can miraculously respond to the strike of a staff, but only via a different mechanism, namely that of Zechus.

Until this time, Klal Yisrael received water by the Zechus of Miryam. No prayer was required and no appreciation was due; Hashem delivered water to the entire nation simply by the merit of one individual. But in our story, Hashem commands Moshe to gather the entire nation around the rock, to demonstrate to them the source of their sustenance, and to establish a sense of appreciation for the water they receive. But instead of delivering water through speech, and establishing this sense of appreciation, the Midrash teaches us that the Bnei Yisrael received water through Moshe’s Zechus, regardless of their Hakaras HaTov. Had Moshe only had enough Emunah in Hashem, he would not have relied on his power of Zechus to draw forth the water, and he probably would have then realized that he could speak to the rock – to any rock, for that matter – for the human potential of Tefilah, as opposed to the potential of Zechus, to affect the world around him is truly limitless.

And now to return to our original question. Why does Rashi imply that our parasha does not intend to disclose the details behind Moshe’s Cheit, when Rashi immediately proceds to elaborate on said Cheit? Perhaps, through the comparison to the statement “HaTzon U’Vakar Yishacheit,” Rashi implies that the Torah does not need to specify Moshe’s Cheit here for we can just as easily learn the same lesson from his statement there. And what was Moshe’s error there, when he seemingly doubts Hashem’s capability to provide enough meat for the wayward nation? Are these two sins truly identical?

The Gur Aryeh startlingly answers that Moshe never doubted Hashem’s inherent capabilities what she stated “HaTzon U’Vakar Yishacheit,” but rather doubted Hashem’s desire to give into the verbal requests of a bunch of sinners. Moshe’s argument was that the nation did not bear the Zechus to deserve such massive quantities of meat, that Hashem would not listen to the pleas and requests of an individual with no merits, and this challenge was delivered directly to Hashem Himself. Likewise, in our story, Moshe responds to the “rebellious wayward nation” by drawing water through his own merits, instead of considering that Hashem would still listen to the requests of the meritless Am, and still desire to establish a relationship with them.

And this is not some new attribute of Moshe’s either; we see this flaw emerge already in the closing lines of Parashat Shemos! Moshe returns to HaKadosh Baruch Hu disgusted, and demands “Lama Harei’osah Es Ha’Am HaZeh, ViLama Zeh Shilachtani, why have you bothered sending me to redeem this nation if You were not really ready to take them out yet? If they are ready for redemption, how then could You think of worsening their situation?!” The answer, of course, is that Hashem desires to free the nation, but not solely on account of their or their ancestors’ merits, but also in hopes of establishing a relationship in the near future. No such relationship can be established until they can appreciate their salvation, and no such appreciation would be possible without their situation first worsening.

Amidst Hashem’s response comes a rather untimely quip, “Ata Tir’eh, now you will see what I do to Mitzrayim, but (as Rashi explains) you will not see what I do to the seven nations of Eretz Yisrael when I bring them into the land.” Rashi, quoting Chazal, seems to imply that Moshe Rabbeinu is already banned from Eretz Yisrael in this earliest stage of his leadership! But if we understand that the very flaw which heralded Moshe’s demise in our parasha is reflected through this earlier account as well, then we can easily explain Hashem’s foreshadowing as a simple threat, that unless Moshe learns to change his personality, to fix his flaw and not to rely so heavily upon Zechus, then he will ultimately not survive the long trek through the Midbar.

On a closing note, if we look at the punishment of Moshe Rabbeinu in our parasha, we find it to be twofold.

Lachain Lo Savee’u, therefore you will not bring [the Bnei Yisrael into the land].

[This punishment is sealed] with an oath, like the pasuk “ViLachain Nishbati LiBeis Eli,” [I have sworn that the decendants of Eli will not live a long life]. [Hashem] hastily took an oath so that [Moshe and Aharon] could not pray for [a reversal of this decree, just as Eli’s curse could not be reversed through Tefilah].

Rashi, BaMidbar 20:12

Not only is Moshe denied entry into Eretz Yisrael, but Hashem seals this Onesh with a Shvua. No longer can Moshe and Aharon pray for a change to their fate (though it doesn’t stop Moshe from trying), for their punishment is a direct result of their reliance upon Zechus instead of the power of Tefilah. Midah K’Neged Midah, Moshe assumed the Bnei Yisrael could not reestablish a relationship to Hashem because of their lowly state, and so Moshe was denied to the ability to repent once labeled a sinner.

Ultimately, we can learn a tremendous lesson from the mistakes of Moshe Rabbenu in our parasha, whether the Cheit’s details are disclosed or not. Most of all, we see the power of our speech and ability to be Makir Tov, how we are not merely given what we currently deserve, but even what we will appreciate. Just as the rock – even with its most limited capabilities – works in accord with Hashem’s desires for a better world, so too we can use our cognitive and communicative gifts for a most productive cause.