S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT NOACH

By Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei

            We read in Parashat Noach that after surviving the flood that destroyed the rest of humankind, Noach planted a vineyard, produced wine, and became intoxicated.  In his drunken stupor, he removed his clothes, and his younger son, Cham, exulted in Noach’s shame and brought his brothers to see him.  After Noach returned to his senses, he placed a curse upon Cham and proclaimed a blessing to his older sons, Shem and Yefet, who clothed him when he was drunk to preserve his dignity.

            The Torah introduces this narrative with an ambiguous preface: “Va-yachel Noach ish ha-adama va-yita karem” (loosely translated, “Noach began as a man of the field, and he planted a vineyard” – 9:20).  Rav Saadia Gaon interpreted this verse to mean, “When Noach began working the land, he planted a vineyard.”  According to the Radak, the Torah means that Noach was the first person to plant a vineyard.  Before him, people planted isolated vines, but not entire vineyards from which one can produce wine.  Noach initiated the concept of planting large quantities of grapes which can then be collected and pressed to produce wine.

            Rashi, citing the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 36:3), famously associates the word “va-yachel” in this verse with the word “chulin” (“profane”).  Noach became “chulin,” Rashi comments, by choosing to begin his agricultural work after the flood specifically with wine.  Rather than beginning with more vital staples of human sustenance, Noach decided to first plant a vineyard and produce wine, thus earning the label “chulin.”

            One of the messages, perhaps, conveyed by the Midrash’s comment is the critical role of prioritization in the pursuit of kedusha, in living a life of sanctity.  Kedusha means not only doing the right things, but doing things at the right time, in the right sequence.

            The Gemara in Masekhet Berakhot (55a) records an exchange between Moshe and Betzalel – the artisan chosen to oversee the construction of the Mishkan and its furnishings – concerning the sequence of construction.  Moshe had instructed Betzalel to construct the furnishings followed by the structure of the Mishkan, whereupon Betzalel noted that the structure must be built before its furnishings.  Rav Yerucham Lebovitz of Mir noted the significance of the fact that this was an issue for discussion.  In building kedusha, in the process of cultivating a relationship with the Almighty, timing is a critical matter.  The same act can be either noble or corrupt, sublime or sinister, depending on when it is done, the circumstances surrounding the action.

            Noach was described as “chulin” because he charted his course after the flood haphazardly, without carefully establishing a sequence of priorities.  Though there is nothing inherently improper in planting a vineyard – grapes and wine certainly have their place, even in religious life – the ideals of kedusha mandated giving priority to a different enterprise.  Living a life of kedusha means living with careful discernment and discretion not only in choosing what we do, but in choosing what we do in any given set of circumstances.

Sunday

            The Torah in Parashat Noach tells of Noach’s intoxication after the flood, and how he was humiliated by his son, Cham, when he unclothed himself in his drunken stupor.  In describing this event, the Torah writes that Noach “drank from the wine and became drunk, and he uncovered himself inside his tent” (9:21).  Rav Shimshon Rafael Hirsch noted that from the structure of this verse it appears that only the “uncovering” took place “inside his tent.”  The drinking and intoxication occurred while Noach was still outside, in public view.  Rav Hirsch thus understood that when Noach felt the wine “going to his head,” and thus realized that we was becoming intoxicated, he retreated to his tent.  Noach specifically went inside his tent, to his private chamber, anticipating that he might act in an uncomely manner as intoxication continued to set in.  Rav Hirsch further noted the unusual spelling of the word “aholo” (“his tent”) in this verse, which is written with an extra letter hei at the end.  One possible explanation of this spelling is that it denotes the feminine form, such that the word refers specifically to his wife’s chamber, where Noach felt confident that nobody, including his sons, would intrude upon and invade his privacy.

            This reading of the verse adds a new dimension to Cham’s response to his father’s nakedness.  Cham sinned not only in jeering at his father and calling his brothers to watch, but also in the very act of following Noach inside the tent.  Noach had gone to the innermost room in his home, to his private chamber, to avoid humiliation, and Cham intentionally followed his father inside so that he could see him in his state of inebriation.

            The story of Cham thus teaches the lesson of affording people privacy.  People are entitled to retreat to their “private chamber,” a place where they can keep the less impressive aspects of their characters out of the public eye.  We all, like Noach, have moments of weakness and failure.  And we all deserve the right to a “private chamber” where we can work to improve ourselves protected from the curious, snooping eyes of those around us.  Cham’s offense against his father was denying him this basic right, following him into his private room to expose his shame.  He represents those who curiously peer into the private lives other people, who actively try to “dig up” information about them which has no place in the public view.  We are to remain outside other people’s “tents,” and allow their private affairs to remain private.  Our eyes must be turned inward, toward ourselves and our own religious growth, rather than peering into the lives of others. 

Monday

            The opening verse of Parashat Noach describes Noach as an “ish tzadik” (“righteous man”) and “tamim” (“blameless” or “perfect”).  The Gemara in Masekhet Avoda Zara (6) comments that the term “tzadik” refers to “ma’asav” – Noach’s actions, his conduct – whereas “tamim” means that Noach was righteous “bi-drakhav” – “in his ways.”  Rashi explains that when the Torah describes Noach as an “ish tzadik,” it means that he acted with propriety, and did not engage in theft like his contemporaries.  “Tamim,” however, means that Noach was “anav u-shfal ru’ach” – humble and unassuming.

            Why does the Gemara emphasize these two different aspects of Noach’s piety – his “actions” and his “ways” – and what exactly is the relationship between these two qualities?

            One simple explanation of the Gemara’s comment, perhaps, is that it seeks to emphasize that these two qualities do not automatically accompany one another.  It is possible for a person to be “tzadik be-ma’asav,” innocent of criminal activity, while not living up to the ideal of “tamim bi-drakhav,” without being courteous, patient, considerate and thoughtful.  Scrupulous conduct is not always accompanied by a pleasant demeanor and sensitivity toward others.  The Gemara thus perhaps seeks to emphasize that the “tzadik tamim” is somebody who not only refrains from misconduct, but also acts with kindness, sensitivity and proper manners toward the people around him.

            Additionally, the Gemara here might refer to the unique accomplishment of Noach’s being “anav u-shfal ru’ach.”  The generation of the flood was characterized by the prevalence of “chamas” (6:11), theft and crime.  Noach heroically resisted this trend, and, riding against the current, remained a “tzadik be-ma’asav,” an ethical, upright and honest person.  But in addition to resisting the societal trend of corruption, Noach also succeeded in remaining humble and submissive.  His moral superiority did not lead him to arrogance or triumphalism.  Despite being a “tzadik” in a period when theft and violence was the accepted norm, he remained “tamim,” humble and unassuming.  Noach’s high standards, which set him visibly apart from his contemporaries, could have resulted in condescension and conceit, in a sense of elitism and superiority.  The Gemara describes Noach as “tamim bi-drakhav” to emphasize that he remained meek and unassuming despite his higher standards, and did not gloat over his exceptional moral ranking.

Tuesday

            The Tur (O.C. 114) writes that the Maharam Mei-Rutenberg had the practice each year on Shemini Atzeret to recite ninety times the phrase, “Ata gibor le-olam Hashem mechayei meitim Ata rav le-hoshi’a, mashiv ha-ru’ach u-morid ha-geshem.”  The purpose of this exercise was to accustom his mouth to recite the text of “mashiv ha-ru’ach u-morid ha-geshem” which we begin reciting in the amida prayer on Shemini Atzeret.  By reciting ninety times the passage in the amida with the new text, he established a habit which he could then rely upon in situations of uncertainty.  If at any point during the subsequent days and weeks he could not remember whether or not he recited the new text of “mashiv ha-ru’ach,” he could presume that he recited the correct text, since he had accustomed his mouth to the new text.

            The basis of the Maharam’s practice is a comment of the Talmud Yerushalmi (Ta’anit 1:1) that it takes one month for a person to “train” his mouth to recite a new text.  The Yerushalmi rules that within thirty days of changing to a new text, a person who cannot remember which text he recited must assume that he incorrectly recited the old prayer text.  After thirty days, however, he is assumed to have grown accustomed to the new text, and can rely on this assumption in situations where he does not recall which text he recited.  The Maharam Mei-Rutenberg reasoned that if one’s mouth is trained over the course of a thirty-day period, during which he recites ninety amida prayers, then one can grow accustomed also if he recites the new text ninety times in one sitting. 

Interestingly enough, the Maharam drew proof to his theory from the Gemara’s discussion in Masekhet Bava Kama (23b) regarding the halakha of shor mu’ad.  The Torah imposes stricter liability upon the owner of an ox who causes death or damage if the ox is mu’ad, meaning, it had already committed the violent act on three previous occasions.  The standard case of shor mu’ad is an ox that had gored on three occasions, on three separate days.  According to Rabbi Meir, an ox becomes a shor mu’ad even if it gores three times on the same day.  If an ox is determined to be prone to violence after it gores in three long intervals, Rabbi Meir contends, then certainly this pattern is established by three violent incidents on a single day (“richeik negichotav chayav, kireiv negichotav lo kol she-kein”).  The Maharam applied this rationale to “mashiv ha-ru’ach,” as well.  If one can accustom his mouth to a certain text by reciting it ninety times over a thirty-day period, then certainly this can be achieved by repeating the text ninety times all at once.

Rabbenu Peretz, as cited by the Tur, disputed the Maharam’s position.  He claimed that one cannot compare the two contexts of shur mu’ad and “mashiv ha-ru’ach.”  After all, when it comes to shor mu’ad, the three incidents of violence serve to demonstrate that the ox is violent by nature.  Rabbi Meir thus claimed that if we reach this conclusion on the basis of three isolated incidents, then we can certainly do so if the ox acts violently on multiple occasions in one day.  When it comes to “mashiv ha-ru’ach,” by contrast, the idea is to establish a habit, to accustom one’s mouth to the recitation of a text.  Rabbi Meir’s position with regard to shor mu’ad clearly bears no relevance to the way one trains his mouth.

Apparently, as discussed by Rav Shimon Shkop (Bava Kama, siman 33), the Maharam understood the concept of shor mu’ad differently.  He felt that an ox becomes a shor mu’ad after three incidents of goring not because it has been determined to have a violent nature, but rather because it has developed a habit.  The three incidents do not reveal a preexisting tendency, but rather form a habit that the owner has reason to expect will continue.  For this reason, according to the Maharam, an owner bears greater liability in the case of a shor mu’ad.  And thus, the context of an ox becoming a shor mu’ad indeed resembles the process of training one’s mouth to reciting the new text.  In both instances, we deal with a process of developing a certain habit, and we may therefore infer halakhic details relevant to one context from those that apply in the other.

The Taz raises another question against the Maharam’s ruling, noting that Halakha does not accept Rabbi Meir’s position.  The accepted opinion is that of Rabbi Yehuda, who held that an ox does not become a mu’ad if it gores three times on the same day.  It thus emerges that the Maharam’s entire argument is predicated upon a view in the Gemara which we do not accept as authoritative halakha!

The answer, it would seem, lies in the aforementioned distinction between the two perspectives on the process of becoming a mu’ad.  Rabbi Yehuda perhaps accepted Rabbi Meir’s premise that a habit which is developed over an extended period can be developed in a briefer period, as well, and all the more so.  But he nevertheless disputed Rabbi Meir’s ruling because he felt that becoming a shor mu’ad is not about developing a habit, but rather about demonstrating a preexisting tendency – and a tendency cannot be manifested in a single day of excessive violence.  If an ox commits three violent acts in a single day, it has indeed established a habit of violent behavior, but these concentrated incidents of violence cannot reveal anything about the animal’s nature. All kinds of external factors, such as illness, hunger, general physical discomfort, or even plain irritability, could account for the sudden outburst of violent acts.  And since Rabbi Yehuda understood the status of shor mu’ad as revealing a preexisting temperament, rather than reflecting a newly acquired habit, he discounted the halakhic significance of multiple acts of violence in a single day.  He did not reject Rabbi Meir’s theory that a habit developed over an extended period can be developed over a shorter period; rather, he felt that this premise is irrelevant in the context of shor mu’ad, where the process entails demonstrating the ox’s nature, and not acquiring a habit.

            Thus, the Maharam is justified in drawing proof to his theory about “mashiv ha-ru’ach” from Rabbi Meir’s rationale, even though Halakha follows Rabbi Yehuda’s view.  Rabbi Yehuda’s argument with Rabbi Meir relates only to the process of becoming a shor mu’ad, and not to the question of whether a habit acquired over a prolonged period can be developed over a shorter period.

(Based on article by Rav Yosef Tzvi Rimon sheli”ta at http://www.etzion.org.il/dk/1to899/726daf.htm)

Wednesday

            We read in Parashat Noach of Noach’s attempts after the flood to determine whether the waters had receded and the earth had again become habitable.  His first attempt was sending the raven out of the ark, but the raven simply flew about, without ever returning to the ark (8:7).  Noach later sent the dove, which first simply returned to Noach, after not finding any dry earth on which to stand, and later returned with an olive branch, indicating that the waters had subsided.

            The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (108b) presents a seemingly bizarre account of an exchange that took place when Noach sent the raven from the ark.  The raven felt offended by its designation for this role, and grew suspicious of Noach, saying, “Your Master [God] despises me, and you despise me!  Your Master despises me – [He commanded you to take] seven from the pure [creatures] but two from the impure [creatures].  And you despise me, for you leave alone the species of seven and send from the species of two.  If the angel of the sun or the angel of cold smites me, would the world not then be missing a species?  Or perhaps you need my mate?”

            The raven resented the fact that God ordered Noach to bring onto the ark only two members – one male and one female – of most species, while commanding him to bring seven members of the species of kosher animals and birds.  As a non-kosher animal, it felt shortchanged and insulted.  It then accused Noach of condemning its species to extinction by sending it to be the first creature to leave the ark.  The raven went so far as to suspect Noach of desiring its mate, and sending it out of the ark so he could engage in relations with the female raven.

            Noach responded by noting the absurdity of the raven’s accusation: “Evil one!  That which is [normally] permissible for me has been forbidden for me – all the more so that which is [normally] forbidden for me!”  Marital relations were forbidden on the ark, and thus if Noach abstained from relations with his wife, certainly he would not engage in relations with a bird.  Despite Noach’s response, the raven remained suspicious, and, as Rashi writes in his commentary to this verse, encircled the ark to ensure that Noach did not take its mate.

            How are we to understand this peculiar account of the raven’s accusations?

            It is likely that Chazal here seek to draw our attention to the human tendency to take personal offense, to misinterpret other people’s words and decisions as a personal affront.  “Your Master despises me, and you despise me.”  The raven, as depicted by the Gemara, is representative of the person who is too easily offended by what other people say and do, assuming that it is intended as a personal insult.  Refusing, or unable, to take words and actions at face value, the raven analyzed God and Noach’s decisions ad absurdum, reaching nonsensical conclusions about their motives. When we think too much about what people say or do, when we scrutinize our peers’ words and actions too imaginatively, we, like the raven, will likely reach the conclusion that “they despise me.”

            The Torah does not tell us why Noach specifically chose the raven for the mission of examining the state of the earth.  He may have had his reasons for determining that the raven was best suited for this task, or, we might even consider the possibility that Noach’s selection was purely random.  But the raven insisted on the worst and most offensive interpretation of Noach’s decision.  It assumed that Noach was launching a personal assault against its species, or even desired its mate.

            The Gemara thus seeks to warn against the human tendency to interpret words and actions as personal attacks.  We might not always like or approve of the words and actions of our family members and peers, but we must not conclude that they were spoken or done in order to hurt us.  The lesson of the raven is to remain level-headed and sensible when we disagree with those around us, rather than immediately taking personal offense.

Thursday

The opening verse of Parashat Noach introduces the story of the flood by stating, “These are the offspring of Noach – Noach was a righteous man, guiltless in his generations; Noach walked in the ways of God – Noach begot three sons…”  According to the plain reading of the text, it would seem, the phrase “These are the offspring Noach” is continued by the subsequent verse – “Noach begot three sons” – but the Torah interjected a brief, parenthetical description of Noach’s piety in the middle of the sentence.  The Midrash, however, suggests a different reading, claiming that the Torah speaks of Noach’s piety as his “offspring.”  The fact that “Noach was a righteous man” is not a tangential interjection, but rather the continuation of the introductory phrase, “These are the offspring of Noach.”  As Rashi, citing the Midrash, writes, “This teaches you that the main progeny of the righteous are their good deeds.”  The Torah conveys the message that Noach’s main “offspring” was not his children, but rather his piety, because a person’s “main progeny” is the righteous acts he performs during his lifetime, and not his children.

It appears that Chazal here warn against the tendency to justify one’s laxity in Torah and mitzvot on the basis of his children’s current or future accomplishments.  Parents might be tempted to excuse themselves from their personal religious obligations by riding on their children’s coattails, figuring that the mitzvot performed by their children can be credited to them.  Having raised righteous children, they might assume, they fulfill their religious duties vicariously through their children’s mitzvot.  The Midrash therefore claims that a person’s primary “offspring” is not his children, but his Torah and mitzvot.  Begetting and raising children is certainly one of a Jew’s main responsibilities, but it is not a Jew’s sole responsibility.  We each bear a personal obligation to study and observe the Torah, irrespective of our children’s accomplishments.

The question, however, remains, why does the Midrash consider one’s good deeds his “main progeny”?  Aren’t one’s children at least as much his “progeny” as the mitzvot he performs?  Even if Chazal wanted to emphasize the importance of personal devotion to Torah, and discourage relying on the devotion of one’s children, why didn’t they afford equal stature to children and to good deeds?  In what way is a person’s mitzvot considered his “offspring” more so than his biological children?

Parents create their children, but the children’s accomplishments cannot be attributed solely to the parents.  After all, children grow and chart their own course in life, making their own decisions about who they want to be and what they want to do.  There is a limit to how much credit parents can receive for their children’s accomplishments, and also to how much responsibility they must accept for their children’s failings.  By contrast, a people’s conduct is fully and exclusively under his or her control.  Only we determine how we act.  In this sense, our mitzvot are our true “fruits,” our exclusive products, even more so than our children.  Who children become depends on their own decisions no less than on their parents’ work in begetting and raising them.  Our personal accomplishments, however, depend solely on us, and are thus considered our primary “fruits,” our main contribution to the world and to mankind.

Friday

            The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (108a), cited by Rashi in his commentary to Parashat Noach (6:13), writes that the God’s decision to annihilate mankind in the time of Noach was sealed specifically on account of the widespread theft.  Although the people of the time were engaged in various kinds of wrongdoing, the final sentence was rendered due to the particular offense of theft.

            Rav Meir Ha-kohen of Warsaw, in his Imrei Kohen (Warsaw, 1932), explains the Gemara’s comment on the basis of a famous passage in the Midrash (Bereishit Rabba 30), which tells that the people of this generation stole small amounts of money from one another.  According to the Midrash, the people in Noach’s time did not break into each other’s homes to steal jewels or other expensive assets.  Rather, they would cheat each other out of small amounts of money, for which they was no legal recourse.  A Bet Din does not convene to settle disputes surrounding sums lower than a peruta (simple coin).  The people in Noach’s time would cheat one another in small amounts, so that the victims would be unable to retrieve the funds through litigation.

            And yet, the Imrei Kohen notes, despite the fact that the theft at this time was limited to insignificant sums of money, this offense was deemed so grievous as to seal the generation’s fate.  Unlike the people’s other sins, the theft was committed under the guise of legality.  The crooks felt they were doing nothing wrong by stealing small amounts.  The generation’s fate was sealed when the people found legal justification for their wrongs, when they mistook crime for legitimate financial protocol.  At this point, there was no possibility of change, that the people would come to their moral senses and restore ethical norms.

The Imrei Kohen draws a parallel between the calamity of the flood and the Temple’s destruction, regarding which the Talmud states, “Lo necherava Yerushalayim ela al she-he’emidu divreihem al divrei Torah” (“Jerusalem was destroyed only because they upheld their words through the words of the Torah”).  The Jews of the time committed acts of impropriety which they justified on the basis of the fact that these acts are not expressly prohibited by the Torah.  There was no prospect of repentance, of remorse and change of direction, because the people did not consider the possibility that they were acting improperly.

The Imrei Kohen writes: “Character traits and manners must precede the Torah.  The Torah was given with regard to matters that include all people in Israel, whereas character traits are for each person according to time and place.”  The Torah cannot formulate precise guidelines to govern general conduct – good manners and the like.  These depend mostly on societal convention, and cannot be worked into a halakhic code.  The people of the generation of the flood made the mistake of thinking that they were justified in acting unethically as long as they did not violate any specific law.  Proper modes of conduct – beyond that which is specified by the Torah’s halakhic code – are obligatory and even precede the rest of the Torah (“Derekh eretz kadma le-Torah”).  We are bound by not only what’s written, but also by the general values that are not – and cannot – be written but are nevertheless an integral part of a Torah way of life.