Parshat Shekalim: The Two Sides of The Coin

This week, after reading through Mishpatim, with its laws between Man and Man, Man and God, and Man and Ox, we will read Parshat Shekalim, which is about counting.

GET EXCITED

Wait, wait hold on there Your Excellency, we have to count in a very specific way. We can’t count by numbers, 1 Jew 2 Jew 3 Jew, because that will lead to a plague, apparently. So count by things! Let them bring in, I dunno, sticks, stones, something. No, we have to count them with money. I guess that makes sense, we could raise some money for The Tabernacle Fund, how about a nice round figure of a shekel a person? Nope. Half a shekel.

What I’m trying to say is, this is a weird kind of mitzvah.

Yet, I think it can give us an important insight into how the Torah resolves the tension between two competing values, of the rights of the individual and the good of the community. The tension between these two values animates many philosophical discussions, secular and religious. Of course, such values are only healthy when they are in tension, because an extreme in either direction is a bad thing. And I believe that the way the mitzvah of the half shekel is structured shows how Judaism keeps those two in balance.

How? So let us think this out. How does valuing the role of the community to an extreme become a bad thing? Well, if individuals are not seen as having their own rights and are merely seen as tools for the greater good of the community, it can lead to those rights being trampled upon for the greater good. Such a community would view its members as not individuals in their own right, with their identities, contributions, strengths and weaknesses, but merely as another faceless statistic in the crowd. Perhaps the most extreme example of this is Nazi concentration camps, where inmates were stripped of any identity, their name, their clothes, their appearance, and given numbers, like commodities.

Thus, to counteract this notion, the Torah demands that we not count people as mere numbers from an undifferentiated mass, but as  individuals, each equally valued and each with their own contribution to make to society. The Gemara in Sanhedrin 38 may deepen our understanding of this concept:

אדם יחידי נברא, ומפני מה….תנו רבנן: להגיד גדולתו של מלך מלכי המלכים הקדוש ברוך הוא; שאדם טובע כמה מטבעות בחותם אחד – וכולן דומין זה לזה, אבל הקדוש ברוך הוא טובע כל אדם בחותמו של אדם הראשון -ואין אחד מהן דומה לחבירו, 

Our Rabbis taught: [The creation of the first man alone] was to show forth the greatness of the Supreme King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He. For if a man mints many coins from one mould, they are all alike, but the Holy One, blessed be He, fashioned all men in the mould of the first man, and not one resembles the other.

Each person, created in the mold of Adam HaRishon and in the image of their creator, is a unique coin that is valid legal tender in the economy of Jewish society.

But, on the flip side of the coin (haha), it is possible to lean too far towards the value of individuality. It is possible for a person to see themselves as the only worthwhile end, that they owe nothing to society at large, and they should only be concerned with their own achievements and their own aggrandizement, subscribing to the idea of greed as good and selfishness as virtue. These people do not recognize the validity of other people’s needs, and they view their half-shekel as the only viable gold standard. To those people, the Torah says, you are never truly free and isolated from larger society. You are not a unit unto yourself. You are a half-shekel, you are incomplete and dependent on others, and you have no identity that exists totally independent from the world around you.
Thus, the Torah strikes a delicate balance between the competing ideas of the rights of the individual and the needs of the community. People are not mere numbers, and we value each individuals unique qualities and contributions, and do not see them as mere means to an end, but at the same time, each person must recognize that they do not exist independently of society, that they are necessarily incomplete and debt to those around them.

To end off, I’d like to quote an interesting/weird midrashic statement (Megillah 13b) and explain it in light of what we’ve been saying:

אם על המלך טוב יכתב לאבדם ועשרת אלפים ככר כסף וגו’ אמר ריש לקיש: גלוי וידוע לפני מי שאמר והיה העולם שעתיד המן לשקול שקלים על ישראל, לפיכך הקדים שקליהן לשקליו.והיינו דתנן: באחד באדר משמיעין על השקלים ועל הכלאים.

“If it please the king, let it be written that they be destroyed; and I will pay ten thousand talents of silver”, Reish Lakish said, “It was revealed and known before the One whose word created the world, that Haman would weigh out shekalim in order to attain the consent of Achashveros to destroy the Jewish people. He [G-d] therefore preceded their shekalim to his, and for this reason we learn that on the first of Adar an announcement is to be made concerning the shekalim. (Megillah 13b)

So, Reish Lakish says that God knew that Haman would weigh out shekalim, so he gave B’nei Yisrael the mitzvah of shekalim to counteract that. How does that make sense? If we look at Haman’s case for the extermination of the Jews, one of the thing he says is that they are מְפֻזָּר וּמְפֹרָד בֵּין הָעַמִּים, “scattered and dispersed among the nations,” which seems to be not only a statement on the Jewish people’s place in Diaspora, but a statement about the Jewish community itself, that it is scattered and and lacking in unity, full of different factions and competing agendas, each believing that the larger community should simultaneously accommodate every aspect of their agenda and deny the place of other agendas in their community. And the antidote to this observation of Haman is this mitzvah of the half-shekel, and the lesson contained therein.

Devar Torah Shabbos Shira: Songs, Songs of Songs, And Our Educational Mission.

I’m going to attempt to keep this relatively short. I find my divrei torah suffer when I try to stuff too much stuff in. Think of this as an exercise in brevity.
This shabbos is traditionally known as Shabbos Shira, on account of the Song at The Sea that occurs in this week’s parsha, sung by B’nei Yisrael after they crossed the Yam Suf and watched their tormentors drown in the sea. R. Hutner, in a number of places, most notably Pachad Yitzchak Pesach Maamar 15, observes that song, throughout Tanach, is always sung upon the downfall and defeat of evil. There is, however, one exception: Shir HaShirim. Shir HaShirim is in fact not about the defeat of evil, and is rather an allegory concerning two lovers. R. Hutner, later on in Pachad Yitzchak Pesach, sees this as a reflection the era Sholomo lived in, one of peace and quiet in which the Temple was built, one relatively uninterrupted by war and discord. In such an era, the focus is not on defeating evil, as that has already been accomplished. Rather, the focus is on imbuing every aspect of one’s life with holiness, such that even one’s mundane activities become an allegory for divine ideas. Thus the name of the book: Shir HaShirim, The Song of Songs, the song sung not because evil is defeated, but beyond that, when good is victorious.
It is worthwhile to consider to what extent we focus on, in Jewish education, defeating evil, ie, staying away from sin, refuting bad ideologies, drawing lines against modernity, at the expense of focusing on building a positive Judaism, articulating a bold vision of what Judaism can contribute to the modern world. May we sing that Song of Songs speedily in our days.

The Return of the Devar Torah: On Bathrooms, Leaders, and Judaism’s All Encompassing Religious Vision.

The other day, I was scrolling through my newsfeed, when I saw a rather striking link someone had posted about an art exhibit depicting various world leaders sitting on the toilet.  Besides for being quite obviously visually provocative, it occurred to me that in a bit of “hashgacha pratis”, this link was actually very relevant to a medrash on this week’s parsha.
To introduce the first of the 10 plagues, that of blood, Moshe is told by God (Shemot, 7:15):

לֵךְ אֶל פַּרְעֹה בַּבֹּקֶר הִנֵּה יֹצֵא הַמַּיְמָה וְנִצַּבְתָּ לִקְרָאתוֹ עַל שְׂפַת הַיְאֹר וְהַמַּטֶּה אֲשֶׁר נֶהְפַּךְ לְנָחָשׁ תִּקַּח בְּיָדֶךָ

Go to Pharaoh in the morning; behold, he is going forth to the water, and you shall stand opposite him on the bank of the Nile, and the staff that was turned into a serpent you shall take in your hand.

So, we may ask, why is it important that Moshe go to him in the morning, by the river? Additionally, the language is a little interesting. Go down to the river and, behold! Pharoah’s gonna be there! There seems to be an element of the unexpected in Pharaoah being there at that particular time.

Rashi, quoting the medrash, is sensitive to these linguistic nuances, and puts forth this interpretation, which seems to me a justifiable peshat:

הנה יצא המימה: לנקביו, שהיה עושה עצמו אלוה ואומר שאינו צריך לנקביו ומשכים ויוצא לנילוס ועושה שם צרכיו

behold, he is going forth to the water: to relieve himself, for he had proclaimed himself a god and said that he did not need to relieve himself; so, early in the morning he went out to the Nile and there he would perform his needs. — [from Mid. Tanchuma, Va’era 14; Exod. Rabbah 9:8]

Many of you no doubt have heard this explanation before, because its a favorite of grade school teachers desperate to get the fickle attention spans of 8 year olds. It also made its way into “The Interview” as a running gag about the mythology Kim Jong-Un puts up around himself, which makes me think there was some Jewish guy in the writers room. But it seems to me that there is actually an interesting point to be made about this interpretation.

Let us ask, why would it be a problem if Pharaoah, as an alleged deity, went to the bathroom? Certainly our own objections to such an idea as impossible for an incorporeal God would not have applied to the polytheism of Ancient Egypt. Nor would such an idea be particularly morally troubling, either because going to the bathroom is a morally neutral act, (and possibly a positive one, if health is considered morally positive), or from the fact the Egyptian gods particularly moral individuals.

Rather, the problem raised by going for the bathroom for Pharaoh is that it is unseemly for a god, a religiously significant figure, to be involved in activities so mundane and so human. Religion, to Pharaoh, is primarily concerned with the greatness and awesome power of the gods, and devotion and worship thereof. For religion to get involved in the mundane and nitty-gritty details of daily life, of going to the bathroom, and perhaps, by extension, the way one treats one’s slaves, is immaterial to the religious pursuit. Religion, to Pharaoh, is an obligation primarily to Gods that is discharged on special occasions, not something that guides the way one acts in his daily life. He can go to the temple, offer his sacrifice, and order the subjugation of an entire people without any contradiction.

Moshe, by surprising Pharaoh during his morning bathroom break, is not just breaking the mythology around Pharaoh, he is making an ideological point about religion. Your religion may see your mundane activities as incommensurate with religiosity, your religion may allow to enslave and oppress an entire people as long as it does not impede your worship, but in our religion, there is no such divide. Your daily life is not just religiously relevant, but it is of the primary importance that you not just come to Shul on shabbos and hear a sermon, but live your life guided by religious principles and religious law, including, yes, halachos of going to the bathroom. You cannot hide yourself from the nitty-gritty details, you cannot have a split personality of your religious self and your day-to-day self, you cannot secretly go to the bathroom in the morning and proclaim yourself divine in the afternoon.
There is a quote attributed to the Kotzker that was apparently a favorite of R. Yehuda Amital’s, on the passuk, (Tehillim 115:16) ” הַשָּׁמַיִם שָׁמַיִם, לַיהוָה;    וְהָאָרֶץ, נָתַן לִבְנֵי-אָדָם, The Heaven belongs to God but the earth belongs to humanity” The Kotzker speaking for God, says: “Angels, I have enough of. What I want is human beings!” God wants us not to be angels, not belonging to this earth, with a religion that concerns itself only with matters of spirituality. He wants human beings, with all our flaws and all our temporality, both our physical and spiritual selves, to involve themselves totally in the work of perfecting the world he placed us in.

Scattered Personal Thoughts On Cooking, Anxiety and Channukah

Since my years in yeshiva, I have found that, for me, one of the most effective modes of therapy for the times I find myself in a troubled state of mind is cooking myself some dinner. Somehow, during the times in yeshiva that I fell into deep depression, cooking myself a simple dinner of pasta, often served with a sauce of my own invention (butter, garlic, paprika, salt and pepper) that I called “Yeshiva Noodles”, and it would make me feel better. When I went to YU, during dark days in my freshman year, living in a dorm without a kitchen, I found myself lost without my preferred method of coping, and the promise of a kitchen to cook in was one of the motivating factors that led me to move off-campus. During that time, I branched out from Yeshiva Noodles to, well, other kinds of pasta, and then other stuff as I challenged myself more and more. French Toast I recall being one milestone. Simple stuff, but I was having fun. Now that I’m married, I’ve expanded my repertoire considerably, and it still comforts me on the rough days I still have on occasion.
Why does it work? Back in yeshiva,  I figured the reason this worked was “I may be a failure at everything else, but at least I can feed myself”, which I think tells you more about why I kept getting depressed than it does about why that made me feel better. I think it can be partially explained by one peculiar feature of my cooking hobby, which is my stubborn refusal to follow recipes. I love nothing more than just making something up from the ingredients I have at hand. Sure, I look up recipes occasionally just for inspiration and basic direction, ie, what temperature to set the oven to and stuff like that, but I always insist on adding something of my own, and I rarely, if ever, measure out spices to conform to a recipe. (Obviously, baking is not my forte.) Part of this is a healthy non-conformist streak, the same instinct that, for instance, decided that if I was going to throw a baseball, I was going to throw it sidearm because it was weird to throw sidearm.

But part of this, I think, is a rebellion against the rest of my life which is conducted in the opposite way. I constantly worry about whether what I’m doing is objectively correct and good, be it in the papers I write, due to my desire for scholarly objectivity, in my interactions with other people, where my Asperger’s makes ascertaining the “correct” way to interact with people an object of intense scrutiny and investigation, or in my religious life, where the goal is to follow the precepts of a detailed and immense code of law governing every area of one’s life. This is absolutely not necessarily a bad thing. People should absolutely be careful around truth, around other people’s feelings, and about religious law.  But it can be taken too far. It feels like in my life I’m constantly trying to find the right recipe, the absolutely perfect set of ingredients, in order to achieve my desired goals, and I stress constantly about whether I’m going to turn out just like that perfect picture that accompanied the recipe. Often enough, I decide that if I can’t do it perfectly, if I’m just gonna mess everything up, its not even worth trying. But in actual cooking, not in the above metaphor cooking, I get to relax a little bit, even have a little bit of fun, get a little bit daring, try something new, and do the best with what I got. And the only judge is whether the food tastes good in the end, whether I cut the onions exactly to size or not, whether I use the right type of pan and the right type of oil. Sure, those things would help make the food better, and I do watch cooking shows and read food blogs to pick up tricks and tips for making stuff even better. But the point is to make good food, not perfect food, and to take joy in the process, not worry incessantly about the result. And if it turns out bad, its not such a big deal, because I’ll get to try again next time.

Obviously, this attitude cannot be applied in totality to the religious life of an Orthodox Jew. Ours is a religion which cares about the small things, which believes in humanity enough to charge it with living a life totally infused with Godliness. But perhaps we can learn a little bit from it. That we should take joy in the process of being a religious Jew, and not just be worried about the results. That we can take a step back from being crippled by an anxiety over whether we got the recipe exactly right, and do the best job we can with the ingredients we have, and trust that God will appreciate our best attempts, even if they’re not objectively perfect. Perhaps this is one lesson we can take out of Channukah. The Chashmonaim came to the kitchen with a recipe for Menorah Light, serves 8 days, and they only found enough oil for one. They could have just stopped there and decided to order takeout. But they pressed on, because it doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has give it its best shot. And God recognized it as good enough.

Devar Torah Vayishlach (From 2013. The Best One I’ve Ever Written.)

So, my thoughts on this parsha are rather thin, but I’m going to attempt to advance my own understanding of the story of Yaakov and the Man who he wrestles with. It’s probably more my peshat than peshat, but sometimes, that isn’t a bad thing.

The story starts with Yaakov left alone. Suddenly, a man appears out of nowhere, and wrestles with him, until dawn. We are given no reason for this assault. We have no idea who this person is (and the midrashim aren’t so sure he’s a person). Yaakov is at the mercy of absurd and senseless violence, caught in the dark alone.
Yet, he wrestles until dawn, and when the man sees that he is unable to overcome Yaakov, he hits him in the thigh. He then asks Yaakov to let him go, because day is about to break, but Yaakov won’t let him go until he blesses him. The man asks him his name, Yaakov gives it, and then the man says his new name is “Yisrael” for he has striven with man and god and overcome. Yaakov then asks him what his name is, the man says “why must you know my name”, blesses him and leaves.

Weird story for all sorts of reasons. I don’t know what peshat is. I think Chazal’s reading actually makes the most sense. But let me offer my own.
I see this story as a good metaphor for the life of a religious person.
As religious people, we see the world with certain axioms. God exists. God is good. The world was created by a good God. But sometimes, we find ourselves alone in a world that makes no sense, that doesn’t fit with the religious notions we have, and we are assaulted with doubts and questions and problems. How can God allow evil to happen? How do we know God exists? Why would a good God create this place?
And we struggle with these questions. We come up with proofs of God, and answers for theodicy, and justifications and explanations and deep philosophical thought. We struggle with the questions, we wrestle with them, and we fight them to a draw. We may even think we are “winning”, that we have fought off all the questions and made a rational and coherent system of Judaism that explains everything.
But, there’s an issue. The very presence of those doubts, the very existence of those questions, mean that any of our answers is flawed from its inception. If everything in our religion was rational and self evident, there shouldn’t have been any problems to begin with. The questions do not disappear because of the answers. They’re held off, kept at bay, fought to a draw. But you can’t defeat them entirely. This realization paralyzes us, and makes us unable to completely defeat the doubts that plague us.
Thus, they ask to be let go. And its tempting to abandon the struggle and accept that it all doesn’t make sense. Let the problems go, let them walk away somewhere else, and when the dawn comes, they’ll be gone.

But no! The religious believer demands that he come out with something, anything from this struggle. He refuses to let go, demanding a blessing, something he can salvage from this experience.
The response: Your name is Yisrael, one who strives with man and God. What defines you is the struggle, between man and God, between the finite slice of reality you have and the infinity of God. Some allege that religion is about comfort, about certainty. I doubt it. For how can a thinking person be comfortable with the state of the world when it’s supposed to be the creation of a perfect God? How can someone be certain about God’s goodness and existence in the face of evil? Are those things so easily reconcilable? Religion means you allow yourself to be pulled in two different directions, the divine ideal and the human real, to allow that tension to bother you, to agitate you, until you have to wrestle and struggle with attempting to reconcile the perfection of God’s creation with its corruption, to strive with both man and God.
But still, we still want to know, why those questions and doubts exist, what their purpose is. What is the name, the essential purpose of this force that assaults us? The answer: Why must you know my name? Why must you know everything? None of us can possibly be all-knowing, and each of us only has their small slice of reality. Uncertainty, doubts, and questions lets us know that there is an infinite, unknowable reality that we don’t have access to by ourselves, and spurs us to discover more of that. Certainty, on the other hand, means remaining static, comfortable that your slice of reality is all that exists. We need to not know things to have any hope of progress.

There are many stories in Tanach, many of which are open, public miracles, showy spectacles that make it abundantly clear that there is a God who is powerful and present. But I believe its siginifcant that what defines our people is not the certainty of Egypt or the fiery spectacles of Elijah, but the valiant, uncertain struggle of Israel.

Devar Torah Vayetze: The Real Gate of God.

So I had an idea for this devar torah, and it was half-developed, and then Thanksgiving happened, and I didn’t have time to fully develop it. But I’m gonna try anyway, as sometimes my ideas have a way of working themselves out as I’m writing.

What I want to attempt today is a sort of academic derasha, drawing off the findings of archaeology and Near East Studies for something that may or may not be peshat, the usual aim of using these fields of knowledge, but relays a larger point about Judaism and religion in general, the point of derash. It’s an experiment in devar torah writing; perhaps these realms should not mix. But let’s try.

So, at the beginning of this week’s parsha, Yaakov, running away from Esav, goes to sleep in this place when night falls, and has a dream of a ladder extending from the ground to the highest heavens, with angels going up and down, and God tells him, to paraphrase roughly,  “I’m with you, this land will belong to your descendants, and they’ll be a lot of them and they’ll go all over, and I’m with you and stuff”. Yaakov wakes up, and he exclaims:

טז וַיִּיקַץ יַעֲקֹב, מִשְּׁנָתוֹ, וַיֹּאמֶר, אָכֵן יֵשׁ יְהוָה בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה; וְאָנֹכִי, לֹא יָדָעְתִּי.  יז וַיִּירָא, וַיֹּאמַר, מַה-נּוֹרָא, הַמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה:  אֵין זֶה, כִּי אִם-בֵּית אֱלֹהִים, וְזֶה, שַׁעַר הַשָּׁמָיִם.

And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said: ‘Surely the LORD is in this place; and I knew it not.’ 17 And he was afraid, and said: ‘How full of awe is this place! this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’

Now, what is interesting about this part is Yaakov’s use of the phrase שַׁעַר הַשָּׁמָיִם, “Gate of Heaven”, because we know of another place in the Ancient Near East that was referred to as a gate, and that was Bavel, whose name in Akkadian, (Babilli) means “Gate of God”. Which is interesting, because Chumash gives its own etymology for Bavel, back in the story of Migdal Bavel, saying (11:9)  כִּי-שָׁם בָּלַל יְהוָה, שְׂפַת כָּל-הָאָרֶץ; וּמִשָּׁם הֱפִיצָם יְהוָה, עַל-פְּנֵי כָּל-הָאָרֶץ, “because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth; and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.”. The Chumash seems to be making a rather purposeful point about what where the real Gate of God/Heaven is. Bavel is not the Gate of God, Bavel is confusion. Where Yaakov had his dream, the place he names Beit El, is the real Gate of Heaven.

But what does that mean? Is Chumash only trying to argue geography and philology? Or is there a deeper theological and philosophical divide that manifests itself in this difference? What about Bavel makes it “confusion” rather than the Gate of God, and what about where Yaakov has his dream makes it more fitting of the title? For that we may take a close look at the two stories of Migdal Bavel and Yaakov’s dream, for clues.  We can notice a couple of interesting parallels, two of which I will point out. Both feature a structure whose top reaches the heavens, (11:4, 28:12). This may be understood as alerting us to the fact these stories are meant to be parallel. But more interestingly, both also feature an overriding concern with spreading out; Migdal Bavel is built פֶּן-נָפוּץ, עַל-פְּנֵי כָל-הָאָרֶץ, lest the builders spread out over the whole earth (11:4), and God confuses their languages so that they eventually scatter across the earth (11:8), which is why it is called Bavel (11:9). Yaakov’s dream, on the other hand, features an assurance from God that his descendants will spread out over the earth (28:14).

The inhabitants of Bavel seem to have a deeply negative attitude towards spreading out, and that’s how God punishes them. Yaakov on the other hand, is so moved by the promise that God will spread his descendants out that he declares it the Gate of Heaven. So what ideological factors account for this deeply divergent attitudes towards spreading out across the face of the earth?

Let’s take a step back here and consider when this story happens. Yaakov, the אִישׁ תָּם, יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים, is being forced to venture outside of the tent. He is forced to leave the world of his parents, the lone ethical monotheists in the world, a world in which he grew up, a world where right and wrong was obvious and knowable, and enter the world of Lavan the trickster. A world where people lie and cheat and steal, a world where he will have to occasionally lie and cheat himself in order to merely survive, where he will have to struggle not just with external enemies but his own conscience as well. A world where multiple options are open in front of him, some right, some wrong, and he will be unable to know exactly which one is which. He will, for the first time, have to deal with choice and multiplicity, doubt and insecurity. He is scared and apprehensive of this encounter. How does one deal with the prospect of multiplicity?

Bavel, as a polytheist society, had its own answer. As a polytheist society, Bavel viewed the world as inherently multiple. The world is the battleground for multiple forces, all at war with each other. Natural events, like rain, thunder, and sunshine, are all the outcomes of awesome battles between the gods. Thus, the only way to preserve an identity in this world of violent chaos is to fight for it, to try and forge out your place through brute force. The Gate of God is thus a mighty tower, built out of mud formed and shaped into uniform bricks, looming large over a population forcibly unified under its shadow, to make us a name, lest we spread out over the land. If that is your theology, if you believe reality is the outcome of bitter battles between everything and everyone, then you will necessarily attempt to take over territory that should not belong to you, you will blur boundaries, and you will become confused.

Yaakov, still struggling with this still-revolutionary notion of ethical monotheism, receives a message from God in a dream. Do not be afraid of multiplicity, do not be afraid of spreading out over the land. I am God, I am one, and all is under my control, and I unite all multiplicity. There is no need to wage war, no need to fight for your identity through force and coercion, no need for fear, no need to put up walls and never interact with the outside world. You will survive by retaining the individuality that God has endowed you with. The Gate of God is not a mighty structure upon which you go up and wage war on God and nature. It is a rickety ladder.

(I’m out of time so I’m just gonna publish this)

Devar Torah Toldot: Rivkah and a Critical Modern Orthodoxy

What I’d like to do this week is do another broad, sweeping character analysis, which seems to be the kind of devar torah I gravitate towards. This week, I’d like to look at the respective character traits of Yitzchak and Rivkah, and how they differ. We are conveniently provided with a focal point of their divergent personalities: Their attitude towards each of their children.

וַיֶּאֱהַב יִצְחָק אֶת־עֵשָׂו כִּי־צַיִד בְּפִיו וְרִבְקָה אֹהֶבֶת אֶת־יַעֲקֹב

And Yitzchak loved Esav, because he put game in his mouth, and Rivkah loved Yaakov

Now, what I’d like to investigate is what about Yitzchak leads him to prefer Esav, and what about Rivkah leads her to prefer Yaakov? What aspects of Yitzchak’s background and personality incline him more towards the אִישׁ יֹדֵעַ צַיִד אִישׁ שָׂדֶה, the hunter and outdoorsman that is Esav, and what aspects of Rivkah’s background and personality lead her to prefer the אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים that is Yaakov? What factors are responsible for such a sharp divergence in parental attitudes?

Let us start by looking at Yitzchak and his background. Yitzchak, is raised by Avraham and Sarah, both righteous people. He has a, for lack of a better term, sheltered upbringing. As the miraculous child and presumed heir to the mission of Avraham he is the apple of his parents eye, doted on and treated with the utmost protection of caution, albeit with one notable divinely requested exception. Possible bad influences, like Yishmael, are banished at the first sign of trouble. He is not allowed to leave the land of Israel, and Avraham has to send a servant to go find him a wife, which cannot be from the surrounding Canaanites, who Avraham deems too immoral and corrupt to be an acceptable option for his precious son. Yitzchak grows up protected and sheltered from the dangerous and immoral world outside.
It thus may be natural that he would come to idealize the outside world he has no access to. And as he grows older, blind and homebound, he may imagine that the world outside the bubble he was raised in may not be so bad after all, being as he never really has seen it, romanticizing the unknown and forbidden.

But his son Esav, an אִישׁ שָׂדֶה, a man of the outdoors, occupies that space that Yitzchak has never seen, and he knows how to trap, how to take the wild and untamed outdoors and capture it and bring it back to his father, to provide him a tantalizing taste of what Yitzchak never had access to, to put צַיִד בְּפִיו. Before giving, or attempting to give, Esav a bracha, he instructs him specifically to צֵא הַשָּׂדֶה, go out into that tantalizingly mysterious world I have no access to, and וְהָבִיאָה לִּי וְאֹכֵלָה, bring it back to me and I’ll eat it, and have a taste of it. Yaakov can’t provide that, he is just the same old, a אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים, content to stay within the same walls Yitzchak wishes he could see beyond. Yaakov presents no tantalizing possibility, no romantic idealization of the unknown, just the same world Yitzchak has already knows.

Rivkah, on the other hand, does not have that same sheltered background, growing up not around the virtuous Avraham and Sarah, but the duplicitous and immoral Lavan and Betuel. Rashi on 25:20 sees the passuk’s repetition of her Aramean origins as an implicit praise for Rivkah, who emerged righteous despite her background. She has had to live in direct tension between her own morality and that of her surroundings, between her own ideals and the context she lived in, and she has emerged victorious, and did so without sealing herself from the world like Yitzchak did, because that option was completely unavailable to her. She resisted negative influences through the sheer power of her will and the conviction that she was right.

As such, Rivkah bears no romantic illusions about the world outside the Abrahamic family. She knows it too well, knows its violence, its deceit, its immorality all too well to idealize it. She properly recognizes Esav for what he is; not an exciting ambassador from the paradise outside the walls but a violent and impulsive hothead, with a nihilistic philosophy and a willingness to use violence to impose his will on others, who has absorbed the very aspects of the outside world Rivkah has fought against all her life. Instead, she properly recognizes the value of Yaakov, whose continuation in ideals and methods of his forebears she can more correctly recognize as preferable to the ideals of the outside world.

It is often said that what separates the Haredi world from Modern Orthodoxy is its suspicion of the outside culture. In one sense, that is certainly true. The Haredi world separates itself from the outside world and builds up walls around itself, to protect itself against the threats posed by modernity to religion while Modern Orthodoxy engages with the outside world and doesn’t separate itself from it, actively embracing the challenge to as fully observant Jews in modernity. But in a different sense, I submit to you, it shouldn’t be. Our engagement and familiarity with modernity should not result in an uncritical acceptance of it. Just the opposite, in fact. I can understand if you live in a Haredi enclave, where the secular world is a forbidden but tantalizing possibility, that you would idealize it, like Yitzchak idealizes Esav.

But if you’re a Modern Orthodox person? If you, like, Rivkah, are intimately familiar with the world outside Judaism, if you have actively engaged with it and lived within it? We’re the ones that should know better, to be able to look at modernity not with the wide eyes of an outsider romanticizing the unknown but with the eyes of an insider with a sense of critical distance. We’re the ones, who, while on one hand, can appreciate the good and admirable aspects of the surrounding culture, its proficiency in science, its commitment to use its gained knowledge for the betterment of humanity, its commitment to truth, its tolerance and kindness, can also take a step back and see the unsavory and less admirable aspects as well. We are the ones in position to see society’s greed, its materialism, its selfishness, its disregard and often utter contempt for the less fortunate, its nihilistic debasement and commoditization of the human being, its glorification of violence and war and power, and to distance ourselves from those trends. We should be the ones to truly appreciate the value of Shabbos, a momentary rest from greed and materialism spent in more important pursuits than the one for capital. We should be the ones to truly appreciate halakha, which demands much from humanity because it believes in humanity. We should be the ones to appreciate the learning of Torah and the values it represents, of moral education as a means of the improvement of society instead of violence and war, its overriding concern for the less fortunate, its commitment to the possibility of a better world. And we should be led to those realizations not because we have shut out the outside world, but because we have looked at it, carefully, critically, and unblinkingly, and preferred some of our values to some of theirs, the אִישׁ תָּם יֹשֵׁב אֹהָלִים to the אִישׁ שָׂדֶה.