Parashat Ki Tisa

One of Purim’s many colorful traditions is to dress in costume; these disguises serve a reminder that one cannot conceal his true identity forever. Such was true of Haman, who conspired with Achashveirosh to vanquish the kingdom of its worthless rebels, the Jews. Haman is eventually unveiled as the foe of an innocent nation and the usurper of the king’s power. The same is true of the Jews, who were beginning to lose faith in Hashem, as was demonstrated by their attendance at Achashveirosh’s feast. By the end of the Megilah, however, the nation does Teshuva and are well on their way to rebuilding the Beis HaMikdash within a few short years.

Lastly, we see this trait within Hashem Himself. His name does not appear once in the entire Megilah, but by the end of the incredible story, it becomes apparent just how large a role He plays within every detail of the unfolding plot. Thus does Hester Panim, the hiding of one’s face, become an underlying theme within the Megilah. It’s no coincidence then that the only mask we ever see mentioned in the Torah, Moshe’s Masveh, should be mentioned in a parasha that invariably coincides with the month of Adar.

Parashat Ki Tisa closes on a rather odd note, detailing the precise function of Moshe’s mask. The Torah never tells us where Moshe got this mask from; as soon as he finishes talking to the nation, he puts it on. Out of nowhere. Then it carefully describes exactly when Moshe would put it on and take it off; the procedure was to take it off upon entering the Ohel Mo’eid, to speak to Hashem, and to not put it back on until after having transmitted Hashem’s message to the people.

A hasty reading of these pasukim suggests that Moshe wore the mask to keep the people from being frightened of him. The first time they saw him, they refused to approach; Aharon first crept out to greet Moshe, then his sons, then the Zikeinim, and then the rest of the nation. But if Moshe decided to wear a mask in order not to startle the nation, why wouldn’t he wear it while relating Hashem’s message to them? A possible answer is that Moshe wanted to scare the people into listening to Hashem while addressing them, but didn’t want them to live in fear of him at all times; therefore, he wore the mask when he did not need to scare the nation into keeping the Mitzvos. However, this answer does not rest well, for Shmiras HaMitzvos is by no means a seasonal obligation, and if Moshe thought wearing the mask would help strike Morei Shamayim into the hearts of the nation, he would have no incentive to ever wear a Masveh in the first place.

The term Masveh itself suggests that the mask was for Moshe’s sake and not for the people’s. If the Hebrew term meant something like “shield” or “mask,” one could presume that the purpose it served was for those shielded from Moshe’s radiant face. But instead, Rashi notes, the Samech-Vav-Hey shoresh means “Habata,” gazing. It was the mask that allowed Moshe to look around because it had two slits for his eyes. This definition almost takes for granted the fact that Moshe had to wear a mask, implying that there was an obvious necessity to shielding Moshe’s face, a necessity much more urgent than calming the Jews. Indeed, Rashi says the Masveh served to protect the Kavod of Moshe’s Karnayim.

But Rashi’s Ha’arah – no pun intended – creates another question. From where did Moshe acquire these Karnayim in the first place that they should possess some certain subjective Kavod that Moshe must protect? We assume that the Karnayim were a gift to Moshe, a physical display of the holiness or splendor he possessed; but instead, we are now forced to claim that they were splendorous on their own right. What then did these Karnayim represent?

“And from where did Moshe receive these Karnei HaHod? Rav Yehuda Bar Nachman says in Reish Lakish’s name that when Moshe wrote the words instructed [by Hashem in pasuk 27], he left over extra [ink], and Hashem passed [that ink] over Moshe’s head, thus giving him Karnei Hahod. Therefore, the pasuk says, “And Moshe did not know his face was glowing…”
Tanchuma Ki Tisa, 37

What a strange pasuk to cite as proof! The Midrash offers more than one explanation for the Karnayim’s source, like when Hashem covered Moshe’s face with His hand (when He placed Moshe in the Nikras HaTzur and passed His Kavod by), the contact left this residual radiance. Since the pasuk says explicitly that Moshe didn’t know his face was glowing, even this opinion must conclude that Moshe was not aware that his contact with Hashem’s hand left any physical change to his face. So why would Reish Lakish use this pasuk to prove his opinion if every other explanation suggests that Moshe remained unaware afterward? Furthermore, at least the alternate opinion cited above explains why the Karnayim were not merely a reflection of Moshe’s own Kavod; they came directly from Hashem’s hand. But if they are the product of Moshe’s leftover ink, then Reish Lakish hasn’t even addressed the most vital aspect of the Midrash’s question!

The Eitz Yoseif answers that Reish Lakish’s proof actually comes from the continuation of the pasuk. The pasuk first states that Moshe decended with the Luchot, and then it mentions that he did not know his face was glowing, “Lo Yadah Ki Karan Or Panav BiDabiro Ito,” when he spoke with Hashem. The ending of the pasuk creates a dissonance in chronology, and therefore Reish Lakish comes to explain the meaning of these last two words. Because of their juxtaposition to Moshe’s glowing features, we attribute these words as the source of his Karnayim.

In order to understand the significance of Moshe’s leftover ink, we must first understand the importance of Moshe’s writing down Hashem’s words on Har Sinai (pasuk 27). If we examine the pesuchos and stumos of the parasha, we actually find that the final paragraph of this week’s sedrah begins with these instructions and ends with the Karnei HaHod, so there must be some connection between the two topics. Hashem commands, “K’sav Licha Es HaDivarim HaEileh,” which Chazal identify as exclusively the words of the Torah SheBiChtav. Hashem says to write them, implying that Torah SheBiAl Peh is not to be written. The pasuk clearly stresses the significance of Torah SheBiChtav. The gemara even states that the Mattan Torah of the Midbar was incomplete because the Bnei Yisrael only accepted Torah SheBiChtav, and Torah SheBiAl Peh was not NiKabeil until the time of Purim. This suggests that Hashem’s Bris did not obligate us to follow the Torah SheBiAl Peh.

It should therefore come as total shock that the “Devarim HaEileh” in the continuation of the pasuk, “…Ki Al Pi HaDivarim HaEileh Karati Iticha Bris ViEs Yisrael,” are labeled as Torah SheBiAl Peh by Chazal! What purpose does Torah SheBiAl Peh serve if the gemara clearly frees the nation from their obligations to the Unwritten Law until after the days of Mordechai and Ester? The Midrash Rabbah in this week’s parasha (47:4) offers an answer. “You shall not replace the words of Torah SheBiAl Peh with the words of Torah SheBiChtav, nor vice versa, for if you do, you will have violated this Bris.” Normally, we consider the treatment of a Mitzvah DiRabbanan as if it were a DiOreisa to be a violation of Ba’al Toseif, but a violation of our Bris with Hashem?!

Perhaps this Bris that the Midrash speaks of concerns a time prior to our Kabalas HaTorah SheBiAl Peh, before Purim. Until the Bnei Yisrael were truly ready to accept the endless Torah SheBiAl Peh (endless, as the pasuk in Koheles (12:12) says: “Asos Seforim Ein Keitz”), their only obligation was not to observe it, but only to recognize its infinite depth. In order to facilitate this recognition, Moshe spent his final forty days on Har Sinai learning the Torah SheBiAl Peh to the best of his ability and understanding (see Ba’al HaTurim to pasuk 28). When he left Har Sinai and returned to the nation, he possessed a large, though partial, understanding of Oral Law, enough for Bnei Yisrael to recognize the Torah’s tremendous depth, even if they weren’t meant to practice Halacha accordingly.

This is why Reish Lakish’s drasha comes from the words BiDabiro Ito. Reish Lakish held that the source of these Karnayim was the splendor and depth of the Torah SheBiAl Peh, and its radiance was the product of Moshe’s understanding (it’s no coincidence that at the time of Kimu ViKiblu in Migilas Ester, we say LaYehudim Hayisa Orah). And because Moshe was forbidden from writing down the Torah SheBiAl Peh, we attribute the source of these Karnayim to the leftover ink.

We also now recognize that the Karnei HaHod did in fact bear their own Kavod. Moshe’s mask did not shield the nation from seeing the light; rather, the mask shielded the light from shining into the aspects of this world where they did not belong, namely anything other than the transmission of Torah from Hashem to the Bnei Yisrael. Moshe wanted the people to see his Karnayim, he wanted them to recognize the Hod and depth within Hashem’s Torah SheBiChtav. At first they were scared that he would try to force Torah SheBiAl Peh on them as well, but those fears soon subsided.

Why the Torah SheBiAl Peh was a necessary element within our reestablished Bris with Hashem is a separate topic, one that deeply connects to the problems with the Bnei Yisrael’s worship of an Eigel Maseicha. Let us explore it very briefly. The Eigel was a solution to our lack of connection to Hashem. In Moshe’s absence, the people panicked and sought a more direct connection to their G-d; the Eigel was not intended as an alternative deity, but rather as an intermediary to Hashem. But what the Eigel lacked, unlike Torah SheBial Peh, was excruciating complexity. Maseicha, it should be noted, is a play on words, for while its simple meaning within the pasuk is “metal,” the word can also mean “mask.” The Eigel, above all, masked the greatness and splendor of Hashem and His Torah, and so the Bris established afterwards needed to address a much different facet of our relationship to HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

We think of Torah SheBiAl Peh – the Mishnayos, Gemara, and myriad of later Peirushim – as an addendum to the Torah SheBiChtav; we think of it as an explanation of what was left vague and interpretable in the Tanach. But we rarely ever consider the values of these books’ drawn out methods of exegesis, the values of their lengthy conversations over oxen and eggs. We rarely consider how close a generation like Rabbi Akiva’s was able to come to Hashem, though they lived over a thousand years after Mattan Torah. Today, now two thousand years later, we should realize and recognize that as hard as we find it to reconnect with the generations of the Mishnayos or of Mattan Torah, there is one advantage we do possess – two thousand years of Amoraim, Ge’onim, Rishonim, and Achronim, all masterfully prepared to teach us how little we truly understand about Hashem and His Torah SheBiChtav.

Good Shabbos, and a Mazel Tov to the thousands of individuals who will be completing the Shisha Sidrei Talmud this upcoming Tuesday.