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Any person with an ounce of self-reflection takes stock from time to time. Am I a good person? Am I doing the right things?

And as we age and become increasingly aware of our mortality, we ask “bigger picture” questions: What have I achieved? Do I leave any kind of legacy? Have I made the world a better place for having lived in it?

For people who work with their hands, this is actually not a depressing exercise. Someone who has worked in construction or plumbing or electrics or carpentry has demonstrably built and maintained real things: building and homes, bridges and power stations. Looking at the things we have made, eating the fruit of the labor of our hands (psalm 128), is deeply satisfying.

And of course, there are lots of ways to build things: software code is building, and so is creating a body of academic work (especially if that work actually advances human knowledge and achievement). Perhaps most common (and critical) is to understand that we can build relationships: marriages, families, communities and even nations.

What is not satisfying is a life not spent in building anything. Such a life – one spent without investing in something larger than oneself – is really no life at all. And so we must not shortchange the work in front of us – even if it is work we are compelled to do.

Indeed, the command to not fall short is an instruction from Pharoah himself!

“You shall no longer provide the people with straw for making bricks as heretofore; let them go and gather straw for themselves. But impose upon them the same quota of bricks as they have been making heretofore; do not reduce it (לֹ֥א תִגְרְע֖וּ), for they are shirkers; that is why they cry, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to our God!’ (E. 5:7) … “You must not reduce (לֹא־תִגְרְע֥וּ) your daily quantity of bricks.” (5:19)

What is astonishing is that this phrase, “do not reduce” (לֹא־תִגְרְע֥וּ), is only found in 4 verses in the Torah. The first two are the commandment from Pharoah. Even though Pharoah was surely cruel, the work we did, even under duress, remains part of our legacy.

The last two uses of this word are found much later in the text, when G-d commands:

You shall not add anything to what I command you or reduce (לֹ֥א תִגְרְע֖וּ) from it, but keep the commandments of the Lord your G-d that I enjoin upon you. (D. 4:2) … Be careful to observe only that which I enjoin upon you: neither add to it nor take away (לֹ֥א תִגְרַ֖ע) from it. (D. 13:1)

Look at the contrast! Working for Pharoah, for Egypt, was physical labor. We were commanded not to shirk the labor.

And 40 years later, we are similarly told to not shirk fulfilling G-d’s commands. The use of the same words in both places (and nowhere else) gives us a comparison and contrast with Pharoah’s commandments!

What is the link? Doing commandments, the mitzvos, is a way to create, and is at least as important as the work of making bricks for Egypt’s storehouses. G-d’s commandments are another form of building, of creating something bigger than ourselves.

The link fits neatly into the Torah’s view of Egypt and Israel. The text contrasts the two civilizations from Genesis through to the end. Egypt is fertile in every way – but it fixates on death. Egypt harmonizes with nature and seeks predictable stability within a hierarchy. Egypt is represented by the corn in Pharoah’s dream – 7 physical ears of corn on one stalk – wealth from matter, physical creation.

Israel is the mirror image of Egypt. For us, fertility is always a challenge, and only comes through divine blessing. We live for life and never for death. We seek to improve on nature, and we recognize the value of each human soul, which means that our society and communities are inherently dynamic and unstable and only accepting hierarchy to the extent it is necessary. Lastly, Torah Judaism is represented by the Menorah – 7 arms of light on one stalk – wealth from energy, spiritual light.

The Jews in the Torah start with one kind of building block, and progress to another. In a sense, it is like 6 days of the week, and the 7^th day being Shabbos: physical work followed by a day of spiritual connection. We engage in both kinds of work, but we recognize that it is Shabbos, the day of very limited creation, that is actually the pinnacle of a week. We work so that we can create Shabbos – just as we build the Mikdash, the tabernacle, so we can use it to grow closer to G-d.

The progression itself is fascinating, because in Egypt, the bricks must be interchangeable, and as identical to each other as possible. This kind of building is really only interested in the final product: the resulting building. The bricks themselves are largely beneath notice. Building is always managed from the top down.

The spiritual building blocks of Israel are quite different. Each person has their own soul, and the choices we make are all unique. Just as our personal relationships are our own, so, too, is our relationship with G-d. In a way, this reflects the potential we each have: our bodies are each, like bricks, definably human and limited. But our souls have far more variety and potential: our creations through love, music, arts, engineering or science, are seemingly unlimited in terms of distinctiveness. Each soul creates, so society is inherently bottom-up.

This is the path the Torah gives us. Filtered through a prism of Torah, we are commanded to never shirk from the commandments. The commandments do not force us into a developmental wasteland; on the contrary, they offer us an endless palette of creative and holy options to strive for our potential and build the world.

There is nothing wrong with building using our hands, just as there is nothing wrong with working for six days. Indeed, the Torah commands us to work for six days! But there is a progression in our history, in our week and in our lives – from making bricks to building holiness.

As long as we never shirk from the work, we’ll be all right.

Creativejudaism.org

The text seems to not only tells us how to be Jewish, but also defines what Judaism is not.

We erect a key barrier between ourselves and certain behaviors, and we do it with circumcision, mul.  This word is used in the text to teach us the foundational exclusions for Jewish behavior: male circumcision (G. 17:11, L 12:3), as well as circumcising our hearts (D. 10:16). Circumcision, mul, reminds us to act in conscious self-awareness that what we do with our physical bodies also changes our spiritual souls.  So the word Mul is about establishing an enduring opposition to certain behaviors and actions.

We see this in the text because the entire Book of Deuteronomy, Moshe’s speech to the people, is set in a place called mul Peor (D. 3:29, 4:46). Why?

For starters, mul does not necessarily refer to a place one can find on a map. There are Hebrew words that tell us about proximity – kneged or al yad. These can mean “opposite” or “nearby” or “next to.” But these are not the words used in this case: the Torah uses mul instead.

Why? Because Peor is not necessarily a place at all! Peor is instead, a kind of behavior.

The people profaned themselves by whoring with the Moabite women, who invited the people to the sacrifices for their god. The people partook of them and worshiped that god. Thus Israel attached itself to Baal-Peor. (N. 25:1) … So Moses said to Israel’s officials, “Each of you slay those of your men who attached themselves to Baal-Peor.” (N. 25:5) … Because of the affair of Peor and because of the affair of their kinswoman Cozbi, daughter of the Midianite chieftain, who was killed at the time of the plague on account of Peor. (N. 25:18) … Yet they are the very ones who, at the bidding of Balaam, induced the Israelites to trespass against G-D in the matter of Peor (N. 31:16)

Peor is not necessarily defined in the Torah as a place, nor is it even necessarily an idol. Peor is the glorification of hedonism for momentary pleasure – and acting in this way profanes marriages and all holy relationships. The cost of Peor is the corruption of our very souls, and the consequential withering away of our potential to productively connect with a spouse or with G-d.

And thus Peor is the Achilles Heel of the Jewish people. This is why the word is first mentioned when Balaam first recognizes that the Jewish people excel because of our families (“How goodly are your tents, O Jacob!” (N. 24:5)). Balaam says these words, the Torah tells us, at the peak of Peor, which overlooks the wasteland. (N. 23:28) When seen from the “peak of Peor,” from the perspective of wanton hedonism, the superpower (and kryptonite) of the Jewish people is revealed to Balaam. Balaam uses that knowledge to corrupt the people with the daughters of Moab. The act of Cozbi and Zimri (N. 25:6-15) profanes all that could be holy. It is Peor: the negation and corruption of Jewish mul, circumcision, and the self-control that is supposed to come from it.

To this day, Jews have wrestled with Peor, with a “Dark Side.” As holy and pure as our families can be, the antithesis remains a temptation, which is why some prominent (albeit usually non-observant) Jews embarrass the rest of us by behaving very badly indeed, promoting and exploiting the desire for Peor in the world today. That Dark Side must be cut away, circumcised, mul.

In the place where Moshe makes his Devarim speech, he stands fundamentally opposed to everything skin-deep, to everything Peor and hedonistic in nature. Moshe is making a core statement: life is more important than the momentary pursuit of passing pleasure. Holy relationships with our spouses and with G-d require us to apply the lessons of circumcision to all of our behavior

And when Moshe dies? The Torah tells us that Moses is buried in the valley in the land of Moab, mul Beth-Peor. (D. 34:6). Moses’ principles extend both in his life and in perpetuity, for even when dead and buried, Moses embodies the opposition to profaning holy relationships.

We must not annihilate our infinite spiritual potential by indulging fleeting physical desires.  

P.S. The word Peor contains the word “skin” within it, suggesting that acting with Peor is making decisions using only superficial, skin-deep motivations and thought.

All translations are interpretations. There is no way to capture every contextual or metric or alliterative or musical connotation of a letter, word, phrase or section in a different language. If you doubt me, try to translate any ditty – say, “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” — into a foreign language and ask yourself: does that listener absorb precisely the same message that a native English speaker hears?

As a result, we have to be very careful about simplistic translations, especially those that merely swap one word for another. “Love” to an Italian is not the same thing as “Love” is to a Russian. The Greeks went so far as to classify different kinds of love, spilling copious amounts of ink seeking to explain the differences.

Similarly, we find ourselves challenged when people translate the Torah in a simplistic manner. For example, there is a verse that refers to putting signs as a symbol upon our heads, which observant Jewish men wear as sacred texts inside black boxes daily during morning prayers.

These are called tefillin in Hebrew, and “phylacteries” in English (from the Greek). In the text, they are called totafot or zikaron (“for remembering”). And variations of the commandment to wear tefilin appear four times in the Torah (E. 3:16, 19, D. 6:8, 11:18).

Here is the conventional “literal” translation of those phrases: “They shall be … as a symbol between (bein) your eyes (einechem).” This verse is conventionally understood as the written text telling us that the tefillin should be in the middle, between your eyes (this understanding is then adjusted by the Oral Law, resulting in the tefillin worn higher on the forehead, and not directly between the eyes).

This translation is, however, woefully deceptive. It is deceptive because it fails to take into account what the words actually mean, as defined by their use elsewhere in the Torah.

Getting the meaning right is very important – otherwise how can we understand the purpose of a commandment? So let’s briefly examine what the words mean elsewhere in the text.

Here goes…

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Bein – Not “Between”

First off, the word bein. It does not mean “between” in the sense of “in the middle” – we have other words in the Torah that do that: b’soch בְּת֣וֹךְ (Gen 2:9, 37:7, 23:10, 9:21, N 17:12) or tavech, תָּוֶךְ (G. 15:10, N. 35:5).

No, the word bein, found 119 times in the Torah, is a word that consistently governs the separation between two things. For example, the word is used four times when Jacob separates from Lavan. Bein defines the gap between them.

Earlier in the text, in Genesis 1: God saw that the light was good, and God separated bein the light and bein the darkness. … God said, “Let there be an expanse in the midst of the water, that it may separate water bein water.”… to separate light bein darkness.

We can see that bein is used to create a contrast, to divide things so they are not unified, to maintain that counterbalance. Bein defines the relationship between disparate elements (light/dark, water below/above, man/G-d) going forward.

The division of bein is not merely physical separation. The text frequently refers to covenants or agreements bein parties. For example: G-d further said, “This is the sign that I set for the covenant bein Me and you, and every living creature with you, for all ages to come. … I have set My bow in the clouds, and it shall serve as a sign of the covenant bein Me and the earth.

A covenant is clearly not “in the middle.” It is instead a glue that constrains and guides the parties going forward. Covenants form irrevocable bonds and mutual obligations and enduring connections. In the case of covenants, this word, bein, tells us that tefillin create an inextricable linkage of two different things.

And what two things do tefillin bind together? First is the Torah, which is contained within the tefillin.

And is the second our eyes? Not exactly!

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Einecha/Einechem – not “your eyes.”

This word for eyes appears 53 times in the Torah, and almost every single one of them does not refer to physical eyes. The vast majority are generally translated as “if it pleases you” or “your favor.” Instead of physical eyes, the Torah uses this word to mean “your perception” or “your understanding.”

A few examples will suffice. Avram tells his wife, “Deal with [Hagar] as you think right.” (G. 16:6). And Abimelech said, “Here, my land is before you; settle wherever you please.” (G. 20:15) But take utmost care and watch yourselves scrupulously, so that you do not forget the things that you saw with your own eyes and so that they do not fade from your mind as long as you live. And make them known to your children and to your children’s children. (D. 4:9)

Even in the last example, the most literal phrase, the word “eyes” refers to comprehension and understanding, not physical eyeballs. It even refers to an enduring memory – harkening back to tefillin being called a zikaron – a remembrance.

Putting it Together: Guide your Understanding with Torah

The tefillin are thus readily explained and understood. The text does not tell us to “put these words between your eyes.” Instead, the text is telling us to synthesize the Torah with our comprehension of the world!

We are to use the Torah to guide what we perceive and understand. In other words, tefillin are there to remind us to try to always see things through the specific prism of Torah, to filter all that we see through G-d’s words and try to comprehend and make sense of the gap between Torah and our perceptions.

The Torah, by its own description, is there to guide mankind toward holy relationships between ourselves, and between mankind and G-d. The tefillin, commanded four separate times in the text, thus form a central plank in that guidebook.

This makes not only much more literal sense, but also helps explain the fundamental purpose of the commandment of tefillin in the first place!

What is the most important step a person can take?

The answer, of course, is – always – “the next step.”

Not everyone agrees. Most people don’t want to have to think that hard.  Being passive and complacent is very attractive, and it is often coupled with some kind of fatalism. “Don’t worry,” says the fatalist. “G-d has this.” Or, “If I do nothing, I will be rewarded in the World to Come for my suffering.” Or even, “I did whatever I was told by an authority figure.” In all cases, we shirk personal responsibility, claiming that obedience and submission are what G-d (or “the universe”) wants from us. This path is much easier, because it does not demand that we change what we already instinctively want to do, which is to reduce our personal responsibility.

People who try to prioritize “the next step” are, on the other hand, inherently dissatisfied with passivity. We believe that we cannot sit on our laurels, or define our future merely by our past, or our genetics, or the way other people have treated us. No: if the next step is the most important one, then we are always supposed to be dissatisfied with the way things are right now, especially about ourselves. We must always try to find ways to step up and effect positive change, even when it comes with the risk of making different choices than other people.

The challenge of always trying to do better is intrinsically connected with consciously thinking and challenging oneself. Active evaluation and consideration (usually preceded by education and training) are essential preparatory steps before taking any positive action.

This can be seen in, for example, the application of justice. We have laws and processes precisely because having knee-jerk reactions to someone else’s behavior inevitably leads to mindless mob rule, like the Reign of Terror in the French Revolution. In a lawful society, we rely on a legal system despite its obvious limitations and flaws, because even a slow and error-prone legal system remains far, far better than anarchy.

This is true for any interpersonal interaction. For example, posit that you want to bring someone a present, perhaps some flowers.

If you take the easy, thoughtless path, you might grab whatever is handy, and have someone deliver it.

If, on the other hand, you want the flowers to be received in the best possible way, you consider what would be best for that person and that occasion. And you would make sure that the flowers looked good– can you imagine bringing a bouquet of roses wherein one rose is obviously brown and dead? So the choosing of gifts requires thought and consideration and putting oneself in someone else’s shoes – all of which are hard to do well.

I think the same underlying principle applies to justice and to presents: the next step is the most important, and to do it right, you have to be conscious and thoughtful.

This is a subtext throughout the Torah. The Torah makes clear distinctions between things we do with conscious awareness, and the things we do mindlessly or accidentally. Indeed, the Torah (D. 17) specifically commands, “Justice, justice shall you pursue,” followed shortly after with “You shall not set up a sacred post—any kind of tree beside the altar of G-d,” with “You shall not sacrifice to [G-d] an ox or a sheep that has any bad defect.”

I think these are all related to the idea of the “next step.” Justice: We do not follow our urges and impulses when it comes to right and wrong; we instead have a legal system and processes. Tree worship: Nature is not the model for how society should be structured, and so we do not put nature on a pedestal. Offerings: We only bring presents that we have carefully considered and examined to ensure that they are not defective. We do not default to whatever is convenient or handy.  All are combined in the same section of the text, because they all share the same underlying requirement: think carefully about the next step before acting.

The Torah is telling us that we do not get to be complacent: we must not accept whatever we happen to feel in the moment, or a skin-deep level of understanding of the world, or even reckon that our offerings do not require careful consideration and preparation.  

Judaism is always meant to be thoughtful, not to be practiced with mere reflexes or convenience.  This applies to every aspect of our waking lives. Taking the next step demands no less.

Anyone who wants to sow their wild oats will tell you that “Monogamy isn’t natural.”

They are right.  Our natural selves animalistically live in the moment, and if we are “true to ourselves,” we really ought to pursue every passing opportunity for pleasure. Or, frankly, to indulge our anger, or desire for revenge, or any other momentary passion. Following our natural inclinations does not lead to long-term marital harmony.

Other healthy family relationships are also against our natural selves. Sibling rivalry, including outright fratricide, is as old as time. So are intergenerational betrayal (King Lear) and perfidy (Oedipus). And, as already mentioned, the idea of a man and a woman mating and loving each other for life not only beggars belief: it is counter to the way Mother Nature made mankind.

Which tells us that “good” homes – the kind where the parents stay true to each other, where siblings root for others to succeed, and where children honor their parents – are indeed unnatural.

Bilaam, the biblical prophet, understood this.  He says that the Jewish home (the goodly tents /spiritually-infused dwellings) (N. 24:6) is –

Like a fixed flow / like gardens on a river / like (portable) tents made permanent by G-d /like cedars on the waters.

But these are all paradoxes! Things that flow cannot be fixed. Gardens cannot be planted on a river bank because they will be swept away with the spring waters. Tents are, by definition, portable homes – not permanent!  Cedars do not grow on the water – they need drainage. Bilaam is comparing the Jewish Family to things that are inherently impossible!

Bilaam is saying that the Jewish Family cannot exist in a purely physical world. In no normal, physical world does monogamy triumph over promiscuity, do siblings help one another instead of competing, and do parents and children love and respect each other.

No, not in a natural world, a world governed by only physical inputs.

The only things that can be physically impossible – but still exist nevertheless – are those things that have a special, spiritual ingredient. And that ingredient is the presence of G-d within a marriage, the spiritual element that makes it possible for us to overcome our physical limits.

This is why Bilaam uses the word mishkan to describe our dwellings. Mishkan is also the name of the Tabernacle, where G-d’s presence dwells amidst the people. A mishkan is our physical world with infused spirituality.

The Jewish family are a walking impossibility. We are described by, and defined as, something that cannot be found in nature – that can only be found when G-d joins us in our tents. Bilaam understood this!

P.S. Bilaam “solved the problem” by advising our enemies to send loose women into the camp, to drive a wedge within the family, and between the people and G-d. Animalistic displays of pure physical lust cannot coexist with holy spirituality, with the presence of G-d amidst the people.

[Last post was 2023… this is a bit of an update]

How many times have you wished you could go back and “do over” something you did or said? I know that such regrets filled my childhood. And the fact that it was impossible to “do over” or even undo something once it had been done, helped define me, for better or worse. Our very identities are linked to our personal histories.

In the Torah, there is a specific material, often translated as a “crimson thread”, that is a linguistic pun for “second time,” suggesting that there is a possibility of a do-over where the crimson thread is mentioned. We may not be able to undo what has been done, but at least symbolically, we can find a way to move forward, and not be limited by the past. Mankind’s commitment to growth and connection is clearly very important to G-d.

And so the text tells us how to overcome the inevitable impediments to that growth. One of the biggest ones is contact with the dead. If we have touched a dead person, we are spiritually blocked from connecting with the divine. But Judaism is about the living, not the dead – so in order to properly live, we must have a way to put contact with the dead behind us.

This way is a do-over ritual, that of the red heifer, moving back to the time before there was death in the world, all the way back to the Garden of Eden, to the creation of man.

I’ll use tables to show how this lines up:

	Garden of Eden	Red Heifer
Before Agriculture	Animals were not worked by man	The red heifer has to be unyoked by man
Defect-Free	The first, directly-created animals, lacked defects or blemishes	The red heifer must not have defects or blemishes
The natural world	The dirt/ashes represent the vitality of the freshly created earth. Like the life-blood.	Adumah (red) is a pun with Adamah (earth), as well as Dam (blood) Parah (cow) shares the root of Pri (fruit/procreation – also first mentioned on the third day). Together, they are the physical vitality of the earth (lacking the spiritual component which G-d/man provide). The cow is the elemental embodiment of the physical world.
Building Blocks	G-d uses the dust/ashes to create man, a building material	The red heifer is converted into a building block, through burning (saraf). Saraf first appears in the Tower of Babel Story: “They said to one another, Come, let us make bricks and burn them hard.” Burning is used as a constructive tool! The red heifer is burned (saraf), just as the bricks for the Tower of Babel were burned (saraf). The burning transforms the the cow into its essence. Those ashes then are stored to be used as needed, together with the “living water.”
Creation of Man	Man is made of “living spirit” and ashes	Man is anointed with “living water” and ashes
3 and 7	Physical life is created on the third day, and a connection with the divine is established the seventh. The birth of life on the 3rd, and a purpose on the 7th.	The living water and ashes are applied on the third and seventh days: physical and spiritual rebirth

Limitation

When G-d created man, He limited Himself in so doing! The entire world, and the loaning of the soul to mankind, necessarily required G-d to restrict Himself in time and space. In other words, creating man required G-d to shrink, to contract.

The person who sprinkles the water and ashes, who symbolically makes the anointed person reborn, is themselves specifically made tamei, limited in spiritual growth.

The connection between Eden and the red heifer is thus pretty clear.

Other elements: the low grass, hyssop, is mentioned first at the Exodus:

Take a bunch of hyssop, dip it in the blood that is in the basin, and apply some of the blood that is in the basin to the lintel and to the two doorposts.

So the mention of the hyssop is to connect us back to the birth of the Jewish people as a nation. The Exodus was the founding event of the Jewish people, and so the hyssop reminds us of that national birth, the time when we publicly acted to show that the task of an Israelite is to bring the animal kingdom (the blood), the vegetable kingdom (the hyssop), upward toward G-d, through our own efforts and our own homes.

The last ingredient is the cedar tree. Trees are in Genesis as bearers of fruit, but also the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. It is this fruit which irrevocably changes Adam and Eve. So the eating of the fruit is the first instance of “rebirth” in the Torah, a change in a person similar to that of the Exodus or red heifer.

The cedar is part of Bilaam’s blessing, the idyllic description of the Jewish nation:

Like palm-groves that stretch out, Like gardens beside a river, Like aloes planted by G-d, Like cedars beside the water;

So the cedar tree is something of an aspiration for us: we would like to become as good as Bilaam describes us, a spiritual wellspring for the world.

P.S. For those who would like to check the above against the text, I include it here. Note for the sake of space that I keep “pure” and “impure” but those words are better understood as “spiritually able to elevate” and “spiritually blocked from elevation.” Questions are welcome!

G-d spoke to Moses and Aaron, saying: This is the ritual law that G-d has commanded: Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid.

You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence.

Eleazar the priest shall take some of its blood with his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting. The cow shall be burned in his sight—its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included— and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow. The priest shall wash his garments and bathe his body in water; after that the priest may reenter the camp, but he shall be impure until evening. The one who performed the burning shall also wash those garments in water, bathe in water, and be impure until evening. Another party who is pure shall gather up the ashes of the cow and deposit them outside the camp in a pure place, to be kept for water of lustration for the Israelite community. It is for purgation. The one who gathers up the ashes of the cow shall also wash those clothes and be impure until evening. This shall be a permanent law for the Israelites and for the strangers who reside among them. Those who touch the corpse of any human being shall be impure for seven days. They shall purify themselves with [the ashes] on the third day and on the seventh day, and then be pure; if they fail to purify themselves on the third and seventh days, they shall not be pure. Those who touch a corpse, the body of a person who has died, and do not purify themselves, defile G-d’s Tabernacle; those persons shall be cut off from Israel. Since the water of lustration was not dashed on them, they remain impure; their impurity is still upon them. This is the ritual: …Some of the ashes from the fire of purgation shall be taken for the impure person, and fresh water shall be added to them in a vessel. Another party who is pure shall take hyssop, dip it in the water, and sprinkle on the tent and on all the vessels and people who were there, or on the one who touched the bones or the person who was killed or died naturally or the grave. The pure person shall sprinkle it upon the impure person on the third day and on the seventh day, thus purifying that person by the seventh day. [The one being purified] shall then wash those clothes and bathe in water—and at nightfall shall be pure. If any party who has become impure fails to undergo purification, that person shall be cut off from the congregation for having defiled G-d’s sanctuary. The water of lustration was not dashed on that person, who is impure. That shall be for them a law for all time. Further, the one who sprinkled the water of lustration shall wash those clothes; and whoever touches the water of lustration shall be impure until evening. Whatever that impure person touches shall be impure; and the person who touches the impure one shall be impure until evening.

Korach says “everyone is holy.” (N. 16:3)

Why does he think that? Because for Korach, the people are already holy. For him, holiness is a state of being, which the Jews already achieved because G-d delivered us from Egypt, and took care of us in the wilderness.

If Korach is right, then the commandments cannot be (as Moshe tells the people) about growing toward holiness, because we are already there! Instead, he sees the commandments as being an expression of Moshe’s capricious abuses of power, with no underlying meaning or justification.

Thus, the very nature of Korach’s criticism of Moshe suggests that the commandments are not divine in origin or justified for any reason beyond Moshe’s whim. And we know this, because, as Korach says, the people are already holy!

So, in his mind, Korach is not challenging G-d at all! He is challenging Moshe for levying arbitrary and meaningless laws on the people.

Why would Korach see the laws as capricious, having no underlying meaning? Because he does not understand them!

It seems to me that this was and is not a problem unique to Korach. It is instead a problem for all peoples and at all times: if the laws do not make sense, if they are merely meaningless rituals, then Torah ideals are unable to grow and spread among Jews, or, indeed, in the world.

The Torah has been denigrated across the millennia in two primary ways: First, there are those (primarily secular) who read the Torah in a cursory manner and who then concoct very superficial, pop-philosophy explanations like: “leprosy is about ancient understandings of contagion”, or “kosher food is about assimilation.” These “explanations” reflect contempt for the ancient world, and the assumption that the document has no real depth, and so can be trivially rationalized. For these critics, any shallow explanation will do.

The second way in the Torah is denigrated is by assuming, as Korach does, that the commandments are really nonsensical because they are actually meant to be tests of faith and obedience. In this approach, the commandments are an ordeal designed to separate the faithful from the unfaithful. So symbolic commandments that are not readily understood are there only to be inscrutable. Their very purpose is thus to see if we will do what we are told, even when we do not understand.

This second approach also denies any deeper depth to the text, and it goes so far as to reject outright the mere idea that there could be good explanations for every commandment.

Both of the above approaches are not supported by the text itself. the Torah itself never suggests that symbolic commandments are either for practical purposes (like health), or deliberately unknowable. On the contrary, the text tells us that we should study and examine it, to love and understand G-d and the Torah He has gifted to us! (see D. 4: 5-6, 29, 6:4-9, 30:11-14). We are commanded to study and learn – not only Talmudic expositions of how to do the commandments: it also includes understanding why we should do them. (The “how” is detailed within the Oral Law, while the “why” is actually found within the written text itself.)

We can correct the error of Korach and all who echo his argument that the commandments are essentially pointless. And we do it by taking a closer look at the commandments, as seen through the text itself.

If the commandments can be explained, then they are not merely tests of faith: the commandments are instead also there to teach us about their underlying meaning.

Which tells us that instead of merely stating something along the lines of: “We cannot know or understand this commandment,” we would do well to instead say, “let’s study the text more carefully to try to understand what G-d had in mind when He gave us this commandment. Let’s try to understand how a symbolic commandment leads us toward holiness – how the commandments guide us toward enhanced relationships with man and G-d.”

In so doing, we not only are fulfilling the commandment to study and learn. We are also able to correct a persistent misbelief that the Torah does not reveal its secrets if we apply ourselves.

After all, the Torah is the single most foundational document in the history of Western Civilization, truly withstanding the Test of Time. We would be fools to not take it seriously, on its own terms.

P.S. The author has offered explanations for a great many of the chukim, the symbolic commandments, including the red heifer, kosher food, and others (see creativejudaism.org and use the search tool). Other authors, including many at Gush (most prominently Menachem Leibtag) and Joseph Cox have also advanced superb explanations for the sacrifices and other symbolic laws.

Note that it is core to biblical exegesis that there are different – but still viable – answers to the same questions, and so any given explanation can shed light without necessarily shedding light using every possible perspective. One is reminded of the parable of the blind men surrounding an elephant and characterizing it by what they perceive. None of these men is wrong but by the same token, none of them grasps the full picture. Explanations for chukim, symbolic commandments, are very much like that. There is always more than one solid explanation for anything commanded in the Torah.  

The big bad world is scary. So people seek mental refuge, something to reduce the uncertainty. If we were blessed enough to have a stable family, then we learned this at a young age: it’ll all be OK if we listen to our parents, and surrender to their will.

I think religion can be like that. I was reminded of this when I saw a video being played to kids in English schools: “There is no god but Allah”. The video beautifully catalogs how every animal praises Allah, and it includes this gem: “They do their best and Allah fulfills. What is due for me is already written, so surrender and say ‘To Allah I belong.’”

The video is both visually and aurally attractive. It meets the needs of any child – or adult – who instinctively seeks the assurance that “it will all be ok.”

Islam is not the only religion that insists that everything is in G-d’s hands, but we still have a part to play: we must do our best, or surrender, or obey, or believe. Many Christians and Jews believe it, too. Fatalism is the mental state for most of the world’s population, either consciously or unconsciously.

There is a massive cognitive dissonance at work here. You cannot have it both ways: If everything is in G-d’s hands, then there is no logical reason why we should (or should not) choose any faith, or act in any specific way.

I have heard all the arguments brought by my co-religionists, and they all amount to a hill of beans, wrapped in a mountain of sophistry. I cannot fathom how billions of people cannot seem to grasp this very basic and simple concept. Either what we do matters, or it does not.

It is not complicated: the G-d of the Torah gives us commandments because our choices matter. The text makes this point repeatedly, all the way from Adam and Eve through every character in the text. At no point does the Torah suggest that the choices made by Adam or Noach or Avraham or Moshe (or anyone else) were pre-destined. On the contrary: G-d responds to our words and deeds, reacting and changing based on what people do.

Which means that if G-d cares what we think or do or say, then we matter. And if we matter, then the world is not all pre-ordained.

Thus, any faith that preaches both that man is powerless, but that nevertheless we are supposed to act in a certain manner, is nonsensical.

The Torah makes it clear: Each person has a divine spark, and the ability to help influence our own futures and that of those around us.

G-d, by creating man, devolved power to us, giving us both freedom and responsibility to make the most of the opportunities we have.

In the Torah, anger is the Hebrew word harah. But in many verses, the word is paired with ahff – connecting to the nostrils.

What do nostrils have to do with anger? The Torah tells us: G-d formed a Human from the soil’s humus, blowing into his nostrils the breath of life: the Human became a living being. (G. 2:7)

So anger that is paired with ahff is connected to the nostrils; harah ahff is anger from the soul.

So it makes sense that every single example of G-d’s wrath uses the word ahff – because G-d is spirit, after all! The most important interactions G-d has with us are spiritual in nature, showing G-d’s intentions and wishes. That in turn connects with the part of us, the divinely-gifted soul, that we have through our nostrils.

And we can see in the text that when man is similarly righteously angry, the Torah also uses the word ahff. Jacob uses it with Rachel when she demands children (G. 30:2). Potiphar is described this way when his wife tells him of Joseph and the intended adultery (though whether Potiphar is mad at Joseph or his wife remains ambiguous) (G. 39:19). Judah even uses it when he is trying to forestall Joseph from being angry at the brothers (G. 44:18). And Moshe is harah ahff when Pharoah is deceitful – and again when he sees the people worshipping the Golden Calf (E. 11:8, 32:19). Balak and Bilaam are both described this way as well (N. 22:27, 24:10). In all cases, the person’s anger shares commonality with G-d’s righteous wrath.

But there are ten verses where man’s wrath is not described as being ahff, and they tell a different tale.

We have “please do not be angry” examples where the speaker clearly does not believe anger would be justified: Avraham negotiates with G-d on Sodom : “Let not my Lord be angry,” (G. 18:30,32). Rachel takes much the same approach when she tells her father, Lavan, to, “not be angry that I cannot get up” (G. 31:35). Joseph similarly warns his brothers, after he reveals his identity, to “not be angry” (G. 45:5) (perhaps he recalls that the last time the brothers were angry in this way (see below), they put an entire town to the sword) In all of these cases, anger, because it is not paired with ahff is not like G-d’s righteous anger.

There is another category of anger that is not ahff: anger that comes from pride. This anger is indignation from being mistreated, but it is not, the Torah seems to be telling us, sourced from the soul. We have Cain, who is consumed with an unjustified jealous rage (G. 4:5,6). Jacob is angry at Lavan’s trickery (G. 31:36). And the brothers are angry that their sister was taken by Shechem (G. 34:7).  In the Song at the Sea, the people also sing of G-d’s pride: In Your great triumph You break Your opponents; You send forth Your fury (harah), it consumes them like straw (E. 15:7). Moshe is also angry – but again from pride in his ethics, not soulful righteous anger: Moses was much harah and he said to GOD, “Pay no regard to their oblation. I have not taken the donkey of any one of them, nor have I wronged any one of them.”  (N. 16:15).   

All of these describe prideful anger. Note that pride is not necessarily wrong; it is just not the same as truly anger from the soul.

P.S. There are 30 verses with harah ahff, and 10 verses with just harah. G-d is angry 14 times in the text, and we are warned of G-d’s consequential anger 8 additional times.

Most of our relationships (especially the impersonal ones) are transactional in nature. If you buy a candy bar or an airline ticket, goods and services are quantified and exchanged.  We can, by the same token, hire a cleaner or a plumber – both are “clean” transactions.

But those very same services, if provided within a marriage, must not come with payment. No happily married couple “keeps score,” and stays happily married.  The more obviously transactional a marriage is, the less room there is for love.

When a marriage weakens, people often “go through the motions.” We do our part, but as a quid pro quo, not out of love. In such a marriage, holding up your end (bringing in money or keeping the house clean or driving the kids around) is indeed quantified. People will stay in marriages like this because it can pay to do so. But marriages are not supposed to be loveless.

This is actually a critical tension illustrated in the Torah. G-d openly rejects the transactional offering of Cain (which was essentially paying a percentage, like protection money), preferring Abel’s carefully curated offering instead. Why? Because G-d, like a loving spouse, wants to be appreciated, not paid.

The Prophets make this point many times, essentially telling us that G-d does not want our offerings: he wants us to be nice to each other! In other words, He wants us to grow through the commandments, not merely (and mindlessly) do them.

Korach makes precisely the same mistake as Cain: because he thinks that G-d just wants to be paid, Korach immediately accepts the idea of “competing fire pans”(127 to 2!) – because of course G-d would favor whoever gave Him more! Korach simply does not understand.

The Torah links the Cain and Korach by calling the both the same name: a mincha. G-d first rejects Cain’s mincha, and Moshe subsequently calls on G-d to also reject Korach’s mincha – because neither Cain nor Korach are making an offering for the right reason. They are making transactional offerings, not offerings from love.

Korach thought that G-d’s loyalties, like that of a corrupt politician, could be purchased by the highest bidder. But G-d chose Moshe, because Moshe understood that the relationship between G-d and the people must be based on love.

P.S. There is a risk here for all of us: we often go through the motions, ticking the boxes. If we end up growing and improving ourselves, then we have made progress. But if we just go through the motions without emotional and spiritual investment, then no matter how many commandments we fulfill, we are still acting as if we were in a transactional, loveless marriage.  And we know that G-d does not welcome that kind of service.