Parashat Vayelech, Deuteronomy 31:1-30, Shabbat Shuva

We face each Yom Kippur as if it were our last opportunity to check off the most important things on our "to do" list.

We've all got at a "to do" list.  Or at least we should.  But I'm not referring to daily tasks.  Recently, we have been told that it is important to have a list of goals to accomplish during our lifetimes.  That's the premise behind the film The Bucket List.  It also accounts for the popularity of books such as 100 Things to Do Before You Die by the late Dave Freeman and Neil Tiplica.  This book, which was written close to a decade ago, inspired many people to create their own lists.  There are countless sites on the web where you can read of people's ultimate desires, most focusing on activities and adventures, which is not surprising given that the original work is a travel book.   

A poignant recent addition to this genre may be found in a video called The Last Lecture.  Carnegie Mellon University has a tradition of inviting retiring academics to think about what is most important to them and then present it as a "last lecture."  Randy Pausch did not retire.  His last lecture, entitled ""Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams," was delivered before he died of pancreatic cancer.  Among his advice in this powerful presentation: "Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted." " I’ll take an earnest person over a hip person every day, because hip is short term. Earnest is long term." "Apologize when you screw up and focus on other people, not on yourself." "It’s not about how to achieve your dreams. It’s about how to lead your life. " 

There is something that resonates deep within us when we think of our own mortality.  We are in this world for what inevitably seems too short a time.  How can we make the most of it?  What can we get out of it?  Actually, scratch that last question.  A Jewish approach would ask: What have I learned?  What difference can I make?  What can I teach others?   

Not surprisingly we have a lot of answers.  Our answers are probably not as popular as the Freeman and Tiplica tome, but maybe we can change that.  There is a Jewish tradition of writing ethical wills. These are documents that summarize the things that are important to you in life: What experience has taught you that you want to leave as a legacy to your loved ones.  Think about it.  What would you write?   

Eight decades ago Israel Abrahams edited a book called Hebrew Ethical Wills, in which he collected a variety of such documents going as far back as Rabbinic times.  What did our ancestors consider the most important lessons they could leave as a legacy?

To be at peace with the world, with Jew and Gentile, must be your foremost aim in this terrestrial life.  Contend with no man.  In the first instance, your home must be the abode of quietude and happiness; no harsh word must be heard there, but over all must reign love, amity, modesty, and a spirit of gentleness and reverence.  This spirit must not end with the home, however.  In your dealings with the world you must allow neither money nor ambition to disturb you.  Forego your rights, envy no man.  For the main thing is peace, peace with the whole world.  Show all men every possible respect, deal with them in the finest integrity and faithfulness.

Joel, son of Abraham Shemariah, 

Hebrew Ethical Wills, Israel Abrahams  (ed.)  vol. 2 p. 344-45

Learn in your youth, when ye eat what others provide; while your mind is still free and unencumbered with cares; ere the memory lose its vigor.  For the time will come when ye will wish to learn but will be unable.  And even if ye do not entirely fail, ye will labor much to little effect; for your mind will lag behind your lips, and when it does keep pace, the memory will not hold fast what the mind attains.   

Bring near those who are far off, bow to the lowly, and show the light of your countenance to the downcast.  Be pitiful to the poor and sorrow-stricken.  See to it that they share in your joys!  Help them in your feasts, according to the good hand of the Lord upon you.  But beware lest they be put to blush by reason of your gifts.  Never cease to do good to all in whom it is in your power to serve, and be on guard against working ill to any man whatsoever. 

Attributed to Maimonides, 

Hebrew Ethical Wills, Israel Abrahams  (ed)  vol. 1 p. 107, 110

The Torah also contains examples of ethical wills.  Jacob gathers his family as he is dying: Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come. (Genesis 49:2)  The entire book of Deuteronomy can be considered Moses' ethical will, as he recounts and surveys the developing relationship between Israel and God.  In this week's portion, Vayelekh, Moses’ lesson is approaching its end.

Moses went and spoke these things to all Israel. He said to them: I am now one hundred and twenty years old, I can no longer be active. Moreover, the Lord has said to me, "You shall not go across yonder Jordan." …Then Moses called Joshua and said to him in the sight of all Israel: "Be strong and resolute, for it is you who shall go with this people into the land that the Lord swore to their fathers to give them, and it is you who shall apportion it to them. And the Lord Himself will go before you. He will be with you; He will not fail you or forsake you. Fear not and be not dismayed!" Moses wrote down this Teaching and gave it to the priests, sons of Levi, who carried the Ark of the Lord's Covenant, and to all the elders of Israel.

Deuteronomy 31:1-2, 7-9

At God's instruction, Moses writes a poem which we will read in next week's parasha, Haazinu.  The lesson that Moses conveys is the one reiterated in so many Jewish ethical wills: Follow God's teaching in your behaviour towards humanity and the Divine.   

Which brings us to Shabbat Shuva, the Shabbat of Repentance, cradled between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Weeks ago, in the month of Elul, we began the process of teshuvah, repentance.  This consists of looking at our actions in the past year and making amends where they need to be made, healing breaches and repairing the cracks in our relationships.  In these weekly Torah studies, we have been dealing with interpersonal relationships.  With the High Holy Days our focus shifts towards our relationship with God.  This is it folks.  Yom Kippur is almost upon us.  And on Yom Kippur we must consider our own mortality.  That is the idea behind abstaining from physical activities such as eating, washing and sex.  We wear white to remind us of shrouds.  We face each Yom Kippur as if it were our last opportunity to check off the most important things on our "to do" list.    

What advice can we find to achieve this goal?  The answer isn't on the best seller list; and a search of You Tube comes up empty.  But open the Talmud (Berachot 28b) and you will find there guidance through one of the earliest examples of an ethical will:

Our Rabbis taught: When Rabbi Eliezer fell ill, his disciples went in to visit him. They said to him: Master, teach us how to live so that we may merit the world to come. He said to them: Take heed to honour your colleagues, keep your children from speculative study, seat them at the feet of scholars, and when you pray know before whom you stand…

May we all be inscribed and sealed for a good year in the Book of Life. 
Gmar hatima tova,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Nitzavim, Deuteronomy 29:9-30:20

Individuals have responsibilities, and groups have responsibilities, and both are answerable to God.

I have always loved Impressionist painting, not only for the subject matter but also for the technique with its visible brushstrokes, soft lines, and emphasis on light. Perhaps it is the optical illusion, having to step back from the painting to get the full effect that I find so attractive. This illusion is even more pronounced in the work of the Pointillist Georges Seurat. Look at his most famous work, La Grande Jatte, up close; and all you see is a bunch of colourful dots, step back and the dots disappear, revealing a lovely afternoon in the park.

The effect is quite the opposite in the work of the Pop artist Roy Lichtenstein. He took the four colour printing method used to create colour pictures in newspapers and comic books and enlarged it. Whereas in commercial printing the effect was as though you were stepping away from the dots, Lichtenstein's work revealed how the dots formed the colours.

Dots have been used to play with our sense of sound as well as sight. Morse code is a series of long and short sounds (dots and dashes), which to the trained ear forms words. A dotted note in Western musical notation indicates the note is lengthened by 50%. Our examples on the use of dots could go on and on…

Dots also appear as notation in the Bible. There are fifteen such occurrences, ten of which are found in the Torah, one instance being in this week's portion Nitzavim. Here, a series of dots is found over a part of the verse: Concealed acts concern the Lord our God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the provisions of this Teaching. (Deuteronomy 29:28) There are eleven dots in all in this verse and they appear over the words lanu u-le-vanenu (for us and our children), and over the first letter of the next word ad (ever).

The dots are thought to have been placed over words or phrases that carry an ethical or moral lesson or over incorrect or doubtful words or phrases that crept into the Hebrew text. It is known that the scribes of Alexandria in the third century BCE, who had come under the influence of the Greeks, had used dots for such a purpose by dotting words or phrases but not altering them, the ancient text was preserved, but notice was given that a commentary was called for.

Alfred J. Kolatch, This is the Torah, p. 230-1

The ancient rabbis' midrashic imagination drew on the tradition that the dots had an editorial purpose. The explanation was place in the mouth of Ezra the scribe:

If the prophet Elijah comes and asks me, "Why did you write it thus?" I will reply, "But I did put dots over the letters [to indicate my uncertainty about the text]." If, however, he says to me, "You wrote out the text accurately," I will remove the dots.

Avot de-Rabbi Nathan 34 as quoted in The Book of Legends (Hayim Nahman Bialik and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitzky, eds.) 444:406

As Kolatch points out, once the dots became part of the written tradition, they begged for an explanation. Of course, our favorite commentator, Rashi, obliged. Let's look at the entire verse again: Concealed acts concern the Lord our God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the provisions of this Teaching. According to Rashi, Concealed acts concern the Lord our God means that only the individual is punished for a wrong that is hidden. After all, how can a community be held accountable for something of which it is unaware? … but with overt acts means that the community is aware of an individual's actions and as such it is for us and our children ever to apply all the provisions of this Teaching. Thus, an individual's action, if known, becomes a communal responsibility.

Then he gets to the phrase with the dots, it is for us and our children ever, and things become more complicated. The explanation that knowledge brings responsibility gets a "yes, but…" from Rashi. Yes, the responsibility is for us and our children ever, but it only went into effect once we had crossed the Jordan. Huh, where did that come from?! Go back to last week's reading and look at chapter 27, which describes a covenant ceremony that took place after we crossed the Jordan. According to Rashi, this is the point in time at which we took on communal responsibility.

Where does he get this interpretation? It is derived from the last Hebrew word that is dotted, the word ad. In our translation it means "ever," but it can also mean "until." So, instead of the community always being responsible to apply all the provisions of this Teaching, the community could not apply all the provisions of this Teaching until it had accepted them. This took place once they settled in the land. Rashi could only get this reading because the dots highlighted a group of words that otherwise might not be read as a distinct phrase.

Ultimately, the message is that individuals have responsibilities, and groups have responsibilities, and both are answerable to God. We're dealing with these complex situations called relationships. Sometimes things are in the open, sometimes they're hidden. Either way, there are plenty of opportunities to get things wrong.

So let's connect the dots and go back to our Pointillist artist. Step close to a canvas and you focus on a dot, a dab of paint. Walk back a few steps and suddenly everything becomes clear, you see the entire picture. So too with us and our relationships: Sometimes, at a particular point in time (pun intended) we are just too close to see everything that is taking place. Time passes, and hindsight permits us a better view. Close up things seem like they will "always" be that way. With the passage of time we understand that there is a possibility to change "always" into "until."

At which point does "always" become "until"? It is when we step back from the canvas and turn back for another look. This is literally and figuratively the turning point. Sometimes we need that distance from an event to really understand it. This is especially true when emotions are involved and relationships are at stake. It can take time to understand that perhaps we were off the mark, missed the point, or totally messed things up. Once we are aware of this, it is our responsibility to rectify the situation, to turn things around.

Human nature being what it is, we often put off this seemingly unpleasant but most rewarding task called teshuvah (repentance). Fortunately, the Jewish calendar comes with built-in time management. Repentance, forgiveness, and making amends are all on the schedule.

As Pete Seeger drashed on Ecclesiastes:

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)

There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)

And a time for every purpose, under Heaven

We are now at that turning point. Elul will soon end and the High Holy Days will be upon us. Now we have the opportunity to turn and return. This very portion, Nitzavim, encourages us to do so. Deuteronomy 30:1-10 contains the word shuv (turn) seven times. This is not a hidden message that calls for Morse Code or the Bible Code. The message of turning back to God and being welcomed back is found over and over in Deuteronomy. The lesson of responsibility to other people is highlighted by a series of dots in Deuteronomy 29.

The upcoming holiday of Rosh Hashanah is traditionally seen as the date on which the world was created. According to tradition (Genesis Rabbah 1:4) six things were created by God before the world was brought into being; the first being Torah, our covenantal teaching. Rabbi Ahava (whose name means love) said a seventh thing was created before the world came into existence: repentance, turning back. The time is upon us, the teaching is in our grasp, it is our turn to (re)turn. Get the point?

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8

We put our eggs in one basket and it is the wrong one.

My grandfather loved to work with his hands. He took great pride in repairing items and improving them. He rarely threw anything away. Every nail, every thread, every rubber band could be just the item he needed some day. This meant that he was extremely organized. Items were kept in individual jars, and these jars were recycled as well. There were baby jars, jam jars, and pickle jars.

I wonder what my grandfather would say were he to go through some of our specialty stores today; the ones that sells storage items for everything imaginable. Not only are there containers of every shape, size, and material, most storage items come in a selection of colours and designs.

Throughout history we have used all sorts of items for storage. We have taken gourds and transformed them into bottles, created flasks out of animal skins, beautiful pots and jars out of clay, and woven an endless variety of baskets.

Though taken for granted, baskets play an important role in a ritual described in parashat Ki Tavo:

When you enter the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket (va-tena) and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish His name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, "I acknowledge this day before the Lord your God that I have entered the land that the Lord swore to our fathers to assign us." The priest shall take the basket (ha-tena) from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God.

Deuteronomy 26:1-4

What follows is the ritual recitation of the first fruit (bikkurim) offering with the famous words: Arami oved avi, my father was a fugitive Aramean. While much has been written about the meaning of these words, including on this website, this week's focus is only on that lowly item holding the first fruit, the tena (basket).

The common word for basket that is used in the Torah is sal. Tena is only used four times in the Torah, all of them in Ki Tavo. The first two citations from chapter 26 appear above. The last occurrences are in Deuteronomy 28:5: Blessed shall be your basket (tenacha) and your kneading bowl. and 28:17: Cursed shall be your basket (tenacha) and your kneading bowl.

The relationship between the basket and the kneading bowel is that the item in the basket eventually ends up in the kneading bowl. These are functional containers used in the process of creating sustenance. The tena is a collection container which literally held the fruits of a person's labour. As such it is akin to a briefcase that holds files and documents, or the work stored on a computer memory key. The tena is not a gift basket that is delivered to your house – or in this case, God's house – to be admired and displayed. The basket serves to transport and protect the foodstuff being offered to God.

Or so we assume was the case until post-biblical times:

The rich brought their bikkurim in baskets overlaid with silver or gold, whilst the poor used wicker-baskets of peeled willow-branches, and they [the poor] used to give both the baskets and the bikkurim to the priest.

Mishna, Bikkurim 3:8, Soncino translation

A-tisket, a-tasket, a gold or silver basket. The rich, who could afford these gilded baskets, actually got them back. The poor, who brought the ordinary, humble item, went home empty handed. How incredibly unfair! The Talmud explains that it would be wrong of the priests to keep the expensive baskets since they would profit from more than the actual value of the first fruit. As to the unfairness of keeping the baskets of the poor, Rava comments in the Talmud (Bava Kamma 92a) with the Aramaic equivalent of "the rich get richer and the poor get poorer;" not exactly comforting to one who needs this item in order to work. (If you think about it, even Yogi Bear left the picnic basket behind after helping himself to the food.)

There is another lesson we can learn about containers from elsewhere in the Mishna: Do not look at the vessel, but at what it contains. (Avot 4:27) Modest as the tena was, its contents represented the best efforts of those who brought the offering. There was an additional lesson, albeit unintentional, in giving back the gilded vessel. The importance of the offering was the labour that went into creating the produce and the "wrapping" should not detract from that.

Do not look at the vessel, but at what it contains. My grandfather would sort through the items in his little jars on a regular basis. That nail that was added a couple of months ago turned out to be bent. The nut and bolt were caked in paint. What looked really good a while ago turned out not to be so under a more critical glance. There came a time when certain items had to be discarded. They did not serve their intended purpose, though once they had been mistakenly thought of as positive.

Do not look at the vessel, but at what it contains. These words should resonate within us during the month of Elul. At the end of this Shabbat, countless Jews will be heading back to shul (synagogue) for Selichot services. All this is part of our ever-increasing preparation for the High Holy Days. Yet all too often our preparation consists of scheduling haircuts and manicures, deciding which suit to wear for Rosh Hashanah and which shirt and tie for Yom Kippur. We put our eggs in one basket and it is the wrong one. We end up focusing on gilding the basket instead of sorting through the contents.

So let us put down our burdens for one minute and take a deep breath. Let us understand that we ourselves are containers. We are not gold or silver baskets but simple willow. That's okay. God will be looking inside. It is our responsibility to fill the basket with spiritual bikkurim.

From now until Yom Kippur we have the opportunity to make sure that what is contained in this human vessel is of the highest quality. During Elul as we examine and correct the spiritual content of our human tena, think of the symbolism of the willow that forms part of the lulav: "Willow represents the lips and the service of the lips (prayer)." (Sefer ha-Chinukh, #285). If we have taken our spiritual inventory, both the offering and the container will be pleasing.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Ki Tetze, Deuteronomy 21:10-25:19

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Lorne Opler in honour of Alan Opler.

What happens when experience clashes with the words of the Torah?

One of my most vivid memories from Hebrew School days is reading the words at the beginning of Deuteronomy chapter 22 regarding caring for animals. It was the attention to the animals' wellbeing that stirred my 12 year-old heart. More than the lost or injured animals, I recall the instructions regarding the mother bird:

If, along the road, you chance upon a bird's nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life.

Deuteronomy 22:6-7

Reading the portion as an adult, I saw this was only a small section in a long list of instructions dealing with social welfare. In order for a society to function, people must care for each other. In building a house, we are instructed to make sure there is a parapet, a railing for protection, so people will not fall from the roof. We are guided in caring for the weaker members of society and even in treating our animals. Society is judged by how we treat the weakest among us.

It would be lovely to stop there but reading Ki Tetze as an adult can be troubling. The punishment for a rebellious child, the treatment of a woman captured in war, dealing with the betrothed woman who is raped, the status of an illegitimate child, as well as other examples in this Torah portion – these situations and the ways they are handled often seem like affronts to our modern sensibilities.

Struggling with words of Torah that strike us as unfair has a long history in our tradition. Sometimes we face a more difficult obstacle: What happens when experience clashes with the words of the Torah? One of the most famous examples of such an obstacle is based on the passage in Ki Tetze dealing with the mother bird. (A detailed analysis of this passage may be found in a previous posting.)

The promise of longevity in the story of the mother bird led a leading Talmudic rabbi, Elisha ben Abuyah, to question his beliefs after he watched a young boy sent by his father climb a tree to retrieve some eggs. The child did as he was told, fulfilling the mitzvah to honour your parents, which promises longevity, a mitzvah found in the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:12). In addition, the boy shooed away the mother bird, fulfilling the commandment in Ki Tetze that promises the fullness of years: Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life. Yet the child fell out of the tree and died; so much for the promise of long life. How could this innocent, caring lad, fulfilling a commandment, be denied what is promised in our holiest book? Having no answer, Elisha ben Abuyah lost his faith.

We have all experienced situations where reality contradicts our beliefs and tests our faith. The situation may not have been as dramatic as that witnessed by Elisha ben Abuyah, but there are times in life that we know something is unfair or unjust.

The seemingly arbitrary nature of justice is raised in the book of Job. In rabbinic times, the Talmudic sages placed this fundamental question in the mouth of our greatest leader:

Moses said before God: Ruler of the Universe, why is it that there are righteous people who are well off and righteous people who are in adversity, and wicked people who are well off and wicked people who are in adversity?

Berachot 7a

Judaism acknowledges that bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. There is much in our tradition about such injustice, although what we most often encounter in response is a reaffirmation of belief in God.

What we find in our texts plays out today as well. Interestingly, it was Elisha ben Abuyah who rejected God, and not the father who had actually suffered the loss. Elisha is the bystander who is outraged with the unfairness of what he has witnessed.

Often, not always – but often enough, in text and in life we find that difficulty strengthens faith. Adversity and tragedy become a new avenue for dialogue with the Divine.

This should not be taken to mean that suffering is created by God. Rather, it is an opportunity to approach God. Suffering is one dimension of life, without which life is incomplete. It is always amazing how individuals bear what outsiders consider unbearable.

In our society we avoid and even hide suffering until a catastrophe comes along ripping away the covers from what we hoped would remain hidden.

What is the proper response to tragedy, pain, and sorrow? It could very well be loss of faith as in the case of Elisha ben Abuyah. Indeed, suffering is the only cause of loss of faith mentioned in the Talmud.

But the more common Jewish response is that suffering calls for a human response.

By utilizing tragedy and suffering as a catalyst for active moral renewal, the Judaic tradition prevents political powerlessness from creating feelings of personal impotence and loss of self esteem. If events in the larger world are unpredictable, if the nation is subject to the violence and whims of foreign rulers, the rabbinic mind does not fall victim to despair, disillusionment, and escapism, but rather focuses on the personal and the communal as the framework to contain its activist dignity.

Rabbi David Hartman, Suffering in Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought, p. 944 (Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr, ed.)

We are God's instruments in this world. The misfortune of others should prompt us to take our outrage, our righteous anger, and channel it into endeavors for compassion, justice, social welfare, and tikkun olam. Both on the communal level as advocated in Ki Tetze, and on the individual level when there is dissonance between reality and sacred teachings it is a call to action.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Shoftim, Deuteronomy 16:18-21:9

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Adrienne Rosen and Myra white, in loving memory of their mother Jane Potts - Elul 10, September 1, and grandmother of Alana and Sally Rosenwhite.

Never stop striving for the moral goal.

After seven months Murphy is home. Murphy is a garden gnome who disappeared from his abode in Gloucester, England. He mysteriously reappeared recently complete with an album of his adventures in a dozen countries. The traveling garden gnome prank dates back to the mid 1980s. Among the variations of this prank is the one that gives the gnomes an environmental message. These statues are handed off from person to person, each of whom pays close attention to environmental issues during the gnome's journey. No scrapbooks for these roving lawn ornaments, their adventures are recorded on a special website.

It is the qualities with which we imbue these terracotta figures that provide a key to understanding the warning in Shoftim about certain objects: You shall not set up a sacred post – any kind of pole beside the altar of the Lord your God that you may make – or erect a stone pillar; for such the Lord your God detests. (Deuteronomy 16:21-22). The sacred post and the stone pillar symbolize a threat to monotheism.

Earlier in the Torah such items were not problematic. After dreaming of a stairway to heaven, …Jacob took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up as a pillar. (Genesis 28:8) Similarly, after recounting God's teaching to the people, Moses then wrote down all the commands of the Lord. Early in the morning, he set up an altar at the foot of the mountain, with twelve pillars for the twelve tribes of Israel. (Exodus 24:4) Why the change of heart in Deuteronomy? As Rashi explains, "While this was pleasing to God in the days of our ancestors, God now hates it because it was turned into an idolatrous practice." (Rashi, commentary on Deuteronomy 16:22)

The sacred post is called an asherah; and as Rabbi Gunther Plaut explains in his commentary (p. 1204): "usually made of wood, these asherim (dedicated to the goddess Asherah) were found near altar sites and represented sacred trees." (Note: Baruch Sienna wrote about sacred trees and the asherah in a previous posting.) Having an asherah near God's altar was akin to placing signs for two competing political parties on your lawn.

This is not the only place in Shoftim where trees are imbued with powerful qualities. Later in the portion we read that: When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are the trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? Only trees that you know do not yield food may be destroyed… (Deuteronomy 20:19-20) From this excerpt comes the famous concept of Bal Tashkhit, "do not destroy," which has been discussed previously in this column on two separate occasions.

The Torah teaches that only trees that don't provide food can be cut down and used in a siege. The concept of Bal Tashkhit derived from this verse has been used as the basis for environmental teachings in Judaism. However, when reading the phrase Ki ha-adam ets ha-sadeh, translated as Are the trees of the field human, I begin to imagine little elves baking cookies inside a tree. The imagery becomes more powerful as we complete the verse: Are the trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city. Suddenly, the tree in chapter 20 is imbued with qualities we were trying to avoid in chapter 16. Wow, talk about anthropomorphism!

This verse in chapter 20 is difficult to understand, let alone translate. It has created a lot of chatter in the world of biblical commentary. In fact two of the biggies in the field are at odds with each other, and it all hinges on the little word ki, which can be translated as "for," "possibly" or "perhaps." Think of the difference between saying, "for the trees of the field are human," as opposed to "perhaps the trees of the field are human." Rashi's interpretation personifies the tree: The word ki means "perhaps." Perhaps the tree is a person who can withdraw from you within the besieged city, suffering hunger and thirst like the city's inhabitants? Ibn Ezra disagrees and in fact, believes there is no need for this verse at all! He explains the verse Ki ha-'adam ets ha-sadeh, more along the lines of "For the tree of the field is human." Ibn Ezra clarifies this:

…the meaning is that the tree of the field is the livelihood of the human. This is similar to the verse [A handmill or an upper millstone shall not be taken in pawn,] for that would be taking someone's life in pawn. (Deuteronomy 24:6) meaning he is taking his livelihood as collateral. …therefore, one may not destroy a fruit tree which provides life [sustenance, livelihood] for a person, one may only eat from it.

What's the difference here? Both commentators acknowledge the importance of the tree. Rashi stresses the importance of the tree on its own; Ibn Ezra places it within the context of its importance to humanity.

Though writing centuries ago, these two scholars demonstrate differing modern approaches to the environment. For some of us, trees, animals and humans are of equal worth. For others, humans are above the rest of nature but depend upon it. Both outlooks acknowledge responsibility towards nature. Jewish ecological perspectives branch out from a foundation of responsibility.

Much has been written about Deuteronomy 20:19 as the basis of a prohibition against wanton destruction, but what about the use of nature as opposed to its destruction? Do the two different warnings about trees in the parasha send a mixed message? Deuteronomy 20:19 emphasizes the importance of trees and raises our awareness to the role of nature in our lives. Deuteronomy 16:21-22 teaches us not to turn our compassion and commitment to environmentalism into religious fanaticism.

As in all else, we must find the sustainable, moral balance. We need to stand back; otherwise we can't see the forest for the trees, (Sorry, couldn't resist). This leads us to a new understanding of yet another famous verse in our portion: tsedek tsedek tirdof, justice justice shall you pursue. (Deuteronomy 16:20) Why say justice twice? Well, stylistically it is emphatic; but let's approach the issue midrashically: There is justice in this view, and there is justice in the other view. To quote Fiddler on the Roof: "He's right and he's right." The heart of the matter here is the pursuit of justice: Never stop striving for the moral goal. This is the essential task of the Jewish soul, nourished and sustained by our tree of life, guiding us towards the right balance in all questions including our relationship to and our place within nature. As the verse continues: Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive…

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel