This week's parsha - by Rabbi Gavriel Goldfeder


Matot



In ‘The Way of G-d’, R’ Moshe Chaim Luzzatto writes, ‘As we have discussed, man is the creature created for the purpose of cleaving to God. Man is placed between perfection and deficiency, with the power to earn perfection. Man must earn this perfection, however, through his own free will and desire. If he were compelled towards perfection, then he would not really be the master of it. Rather He Who compelled him would be the one responsible, and God’s purpose would not be fulfilled. It was therefore necessary that man be given free will, and be balanced between good and evil, and not be compelled towards either. He has the power of choice, and is able to choose either side, knowingly and willingly, and possess whichever one he wishes. Man was therefore created with both a Good Urge (yetzer ha-toy) and an Evil Urge (yetzer ha-ra). He has the power to incline himself in whichever direction he desires.’

The principle of free choice is at the very center of the Jewish understanding of the world. And the existence of free choice is evident in the fact that no one can be truly persuaded to believe in G-d. Even the Torah itself is not immune from the neutralizing effect of free will for, as mentioned in the Gemarra Yoma, the Torah can serve as an elixir of life, or an elixir of death. To those who believe in its divinity (or, at least, its integrity as a text) the Torah’s ‘flaws’ are openings to deeper meanings, as explicated in Midrash and other commentaries. To those who do not so believe, those flaws are proofs of its imperfections, and therefore of its obviously human sources.

Therefore, the Torah cannot ultimately prove its own truth or validity. It does not and cannot supply us with the capacity or urge to see it in as having emanated from the Divine, for that would violate the requisite of free choice. One must arrive at a sense of the Divinity of Torah on one’s own. And that sense of connection to the Divine becomes the content of a ‘Torah life’. The Torah does not supply that content. Rather, it offers itself as a structure whereby that connection to the Divine can be expressed in a proper, useful, and healthy way.

Because Torah does not (and should not) give us the content of our ‘religious’ lives, but rather gives us a structure whereby it may grow, there are moments when that content must grow independent of an extant structure. Put another way, there are moments when our growth is in accordance with the structure of previously legislated Jewish law, and there are moments when our growth happens meta-halachically. The former is growth in terms of obedience, and the latter is growth in terms of personal development. Personal development cannot be legislated. Periodically, our character is challenged in terms of our innate ability to decide what is best without it being legislated.

One such example occurs in Parshat Matot. At the end of the previous Parsha, many Jewish men were seduced by Midianite women. Hashem orders Moshe to gather an army to avenge the damage done to the Jews by the Midianites. The Jewish people dutifully respond, sending out an army of 12,000 to fight. Upon their return, however, Moshe grows angry as he finds that they have brought back many female captives – for these were the same women who seduced them just a moment ago! As Rashi comments (31:16), Moshe even points out which women caused which men to fall. From Moshe’s point of view, how could they possibly create such a stumbling block for themselves, one they have shown no capacity to resist?

It is important to note that, according to Rambam Laws of Kings 6:4, in a war with the seven nations living in the land of Israel, or with Amalek, neither men, women, or children are allowed to survive. These wars are called ‘commanded wars’. However, in a ‘permitted war’, the women and children are allowed to survive. The war with Midian was a permitted war, as Midian is neither among the seven nations. Nor is it a war with Amalek. The generals of the war acted within the realm of Jewish law. But their move completely lacked an intuitive ability to self-legislate, and it completely lacked common sense. This was Moshe’s frustration.

The Torah actually legislates the possibility of proactive self-limitation. In allowing for the taking of vows, the Torah recognizes and gives a vocabulary to the power and necessity of initiative, for it is within our power to forbid for ourselves something that is permitted. This is necessitated by the fact that we are sometimes faced with situations that show us our own vulnerability to certain permitted, but dangerous, temptations. The Nazirite, according to the Talmud, takes upon him or herself such a strict vow (including not drinking wine) after having witnessed the possible effects of wine on a person. Similarly, if a person realizes that chocolate cake or sex has become an interference with that person’s relationship to G-d, and he or she feels powerless against those urges, then he or she may take a vow in order to give Divine backing to resisting the temptation.

In such situations, it would be far easier if there were a law governing quantities of sex or chocolate cake. People seem to want a law to adhere to. But it does not serve G-d’s intentions for all of our decisions to be made for us. Adherence to such rules does show obedience - which is albeit an extremely important aspect of our relationship to G-d - but it would not leave the desired space for our won initiative.

After Moshe’s rebuke, the generals seem to have grasped the place of initiative in the relationship to G-d. In 31:48, the generals approach Moshe with the news that not one soldier from among them has fallen in the war. In gratitude, they wish to consecrate all of the gold jewelry that they have taken as booty for the temple coffers. And it came to serve as a reminder before G-d that we are in fact capable of taking initiative in our relationship to G-d.

There are, of course, initiatives that are ill-advised, for initiative cannot replace law. Rather, it must serve to enhance the relationship proscribed by law. We find, for example, Elazar teaching the laws of making vessels kosher in front of his master, Moshe. As the Gemarra in Eiruvin 63a explains, Elazar was permanently lowered in status because of this misdeed. This seems to be an extreme punishment – particularly in context of Resh Lakish’s comments that Moshe, in his anger, had forgotten the laws, and Elazar was merely stepping in to remind people of the laws. It is made even more interesting by the fact that he taught the laws in the name of Moshe. It is even more disturbing in light of the fact that Pinchas also stepped in when Moshe forgot the law and was rewarded, and Elazar, who certainly thought he was doing the right thing, was punished.

The call to take initiative is often surrounded by reasons to refrain from taking initiative. It is, after all, an open space within the latticework of legislated Jewish law, and space is subject to doubt: perhaps the circumstances are wrong and I will be rejected. Perhaps I am not sure of myself, and I am not considering all of my needs. Perhaps I am only considering my needs, and not the needs of others. Perhaps, even if I take initiative, no one is listening. And sometimes those concerns are correct – sometimes the circumstances are wrong (though they may seem right, as in Elazar’s case). Sometimes the request is an inappropriate one. And sometimes no one is listening.

We find, for example, the initiative of the tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe to take their inherited lot in Trans-Jordan – outside of Israel proper. We are not privy to their process leading up to the verbalized request. We see only that they had a great amount of cattle, and they saw that the trans-Jordan land was good for grazing. Were they experiencing doubts about the request, seeing as the Torah just went into great depth describing the method by which the land would be divided – that is, according to lots, and according to the Urim V’Tumim? Were they overcome by the strong pull they were feeling toward living in these lands? Were they blinded by that urge into not thinking about the effect their request might have on others? One would judge by Moshe’s response that their vision was blinded by their own needs. Despite this, their initiate was rewarded and, though certain aspects of their proposal were challenged, they were ultimately given what they asked for.

We see that, just as there is free choice in terms of relationship to Torah, there is free choice in terms of initiatives. We certainly cannot say that initiative is good or bad. We can only say that it is a real and important facet of our relationship to G-d, and that it is upon the individual to clarify the source of the need, to be willing to face rejection, to take up courage, and to ask. It is sometimes quite difficult to accept that we want what we want, and the urge is powerful to sweep our own desires under the rug and reduce one’s self to a halachic life.


The hardest context in which to take initiative, however, is when we feel that we are not being heard. To cry out from a place of pain, from a sense of abandonment, to say ‘No! I need to have a relationship with you’ – these are sometimes the most difficult voices to bring forward. And it is this situation we are called upon to bring forth during the three weeks between the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av.

In the Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 551:1), it is written, ‘Any Jew who has a court case with a non-Jew [during this time] should move it, for it is a time of bad fortune [lit., it is a bad constellation].’ We might read this in context of what Rashi writes on Genesis 1:1: ‘Why does it say Elokim [G-d’s name that is usually associated with judgment] created, and not that Hashem [usually associated with compassion]? At first, it occurred to G-d to create the world through judgment. But G-d saw that the world could not exist under such circumstances, so G-d brought forth the aspect of compassion and joined it to the aspect of judgment.’

We may read this Rashi as saying that the aspect of judgment continues to underlie creation, but there is a layer of compassion that is joined to it. At certain times, the aspect of mercy is removed or ignored, leaving only the aspect of judgment. At such times, there is no sense of grace per se, and a court case, or the like, will be decided only on cold facts. And though it seems hard facts are hard facts, whether the court case is in Adar or Av, we find in Gemarra Makot 11b that the priests were expected to pray for litigants in a court case that they would be sentenced favorably. This indicates that, beyond the hard facts, there was some room for the Divine Compassion to come into play. During the three weeks, that element of compassion is less available.

This reality presents us with a deep feeling of being outside G-d’s love. Though judgment is also an expression of love, it is love expressed through structure and boundaries. We do not appeal to Divine Justice when appealing our case – we turn toward divine Mercy. And when we are praying for forgiveness, as on Yom Kippur, we ask G-d to ‘stand up from the Throne of Judgment and to sit on the throne of mercy.’ What are we to do during times when the element of Divine Judgment is dominant in the world?

Given that sense of distance, we are called upon to take initiative. But that sense of initiative comes with a feeling that there is no chance to be heard. But that anxiety does not necessarily bespeak the reality of the situation – it bespeaks only our perception of the situation. We are called upon to take call out despite our anxieties – or even because of them and about them. We are called upon to take initiative and to say to G-d, from a deep place within ourselves, ‘I want to see your face behind this pain. I refuse to feel that you are distant, because I know that You love me and I know that our love is an eternal love, and I want to feel it and live it whether its Adar or Av.’

 

Last modified: 12:24 AM 7/18/2008