PARASHAT VAYELEKH

ROSH HASHANA

By Rav David Silverberg

            In each of the amida prayers recited on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we beseech, “ve-khol ha-rish’a kula ke-ashan tikhleh ki ta’avie memshelet zadon min ha-aretz” – “All evil, in its entirety, shall disappear like a cloud, for you shall eliminate the wicked rulers from the earth.”

            How might we explain this analogy between the elimination of evil and the dissipation of a cloud?

            Rav Baruch Yitzchak Yissachar Leventhal, in his work Birkat Yitzchak (Jerusalem, 5706), suggests focusing on the sharp contrast between a cloud’s appearance and actual properties.  Clouds give an impressive appearance, but in truth have very little substance.  They appear strong and firm, but are quickly dissipated or swept away by the wind.  In this prayer, we ascribe to the evil despots of the world the same properties as a cloud.  They present themselves as important, powerful rulers, people of unchallenged authority and great saviors of their nations.  They take great pains to create and sustain this image of grandeur in order to earn the loyalty of their constituents.  In truth, however, they are no different than a passing cloud, which inevitably, sooner or later, disappear from sky.

On the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, the celebration of divine kingship, we proudly proclaim that our ultimate allegiance is only to the authority of the world’s single true King.  At times we may give the impression of acknowledging the power and authority of human leaders; on Rosh Hashanah, however, we declare in no uncertain terms that we are servants of only the Almighty.  Everyone else, like the cloud, may appear powerful, but will ultimately dissipate.

This can be said as well of the various pursuits in which we are engaged throughout the year.  We lend a degree of “authority” to various different activities and interests in which we invest time and energy, often at the expense of our devotion to God.  On Rosh Hashanah, therefore, we proclaim that these, too, are nothing more than “clouds.”  Even though we may appear as recognizing the importance of these pursuits, in truth, our allegiance and loyalty is reserved only for our Creator, whose exclusive kingship and authority we joyously celebrate on this special day.

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            There is a debate among the Rishonim concerning the proper text for the berakha recited before shofar blowing.  The accepted practice follows the view of the Rambam (Hilkhot Shofar 3:10), who maintains that one recites “Barukh Ata…ve-tzivanu li-shmo’a kol shofar.”  This text refers to the mitzva as an obligation to hear the sounding of the shofar.  However, the Rosh (Rosh Hashanah 4:10) cites Rabbenu Tam as advocating a different text – “al teki’at shofar” – which focuses on the act of blowing the shofar, as opposed to hearing the shofar sound.

            The Rambam, in one of his published responsa, elaborates on his position, arguing that the obligation of shofar must be defined as a requirement to hear, rather than to blow, the shofar.  Of course, the shofar must be blown in order for a sound to be heard.  However, the essential obligation is to hear the sound, and the blowing serves merely as a necessary means of facilitating the mitzva’s performance, which one achieves by hearing the sound.  The Rambam proves his position by noting that Halakha does not require each person to blow the shofar individually; it suffices to simply here somebody else blow the shofar.  This would seem to prove that the obligation is to hear, rather than blow, the shofar.

            The Rambam here in effect establishes that we cannot apply to shofar blowing the famous halakhic principle of shomei’a ke-oneh (“listening is like reciting”).  When it comes to mitzvot that require uttering a certain recitation, a person can indeed fulfill his obligation by listening to the recitation of somebody else, as is commonly done with regard to kiddush and Megila reading, among other mitzvot.  At first glance, one might have argued that this mechanism is also at work during shofar blowing.  Just as a person who listens to kiddush is considered to have recited it himself, similarly, perhaps, one who hears the sounding of the shofar can be seen as having personally blown.  The Rambam, however, did not entertain this possibility.  In his view, the act of blowing the shofar is fundamentally distinct from the act of recitation, and thus the principle of shomei’a ke-oneh, which is said regarding the recitation of a text, cannot apply to the sounding of the shofar.

            Of course, Rabbenu Tam disagreed, and defined the obligation as a requirement to blow, rather than hear, the shofar.  Apparently, then, he felt that the rule of shomei’a ke-oneh indeed applies to shofar blowing, as he equates the act of blowing the shofar with reciting a text.

Rav Shlomo Fisher (writing in the volume, Bihyoto Karov) suggested that this debate between the Rambam and Rabbenu Tam hinges on the issue of whether shofar blowing is to be seen as an expression of prayer.  We find a number of indications that the sounding of the shofar is a special kind of prayer.  Thus, for example, the shofarot section of the Rosh Hashanah musaf service concludes with the berakha, “Blessed are You...who listens to the shofar sound of His nation Israel with mercy” (“shomei’a kol teru’at amo Yisrael be-rachamim”).  The text of this berakha resembles the text of the berakha that concludes the main body of the weekday amida prayer – “Blessed are You…who listens to prayer.”  On Rosh Hashanah, God “listens to” our sounding of the shofar the way He listens to our prayers – because the sounding of the shofar is also an expression of prayer.  (Rav Soloveitchik famously developed this notion at length, citing numerous sources that point to this aspect of shofar blowing.)

Accordingly, Rav Fisher proposes that Rabbenu Tam embraced this view of the mitzva of shofar, and thus naturally defined it as a requirement to blow, rather than to hear, the shofar.  Essentially, the Torah commanded us to pray by blowing a shofar, as opposed to the more familiar method of articulating words.  Hence, Rabbenu Tam naturally applied the principle of shomei’a ke-oneh to shofar blowing.  Just as a person can fulfill his obligation of prayer by listening attentively to somebody else’s recitation (though customarily this is not done), so do we fulfill the mitzva of shofar by hearing somebody else blow.

In the context of his discussion, Rav Fisher noted an intriguing ramification of this debate (in addition to the issue explicitly addressed by these Rishonim, concerning the text of the berakha).  The Chafetz Chayim, in his Bei’ur Halakha (588), addresses the question of whether one may sound the shofar if he does not have control of his bodily functions, or in a place containing excrement and the like.  He cites the Mateh Efrayim as forbidding sounding the shofar under such circumstances, but he attributes this ruling to peripheral concerns.  Namely, in a general sense it is inappropriate to perform a mitzva under such conditions, and, secondly, the required intention while sounding the shofar, that one seeks to fulfill his Creator’s command, might constitute a “Torah thought” which is forbidden in the presence of filth.  Fundamentally, however, the Chafetz Chayim does not acknowledge a strict halakhic prohibition against sounding the shofar under the conditions described.  As Rav Fisher notes, however, once we identify shofar blowing as a kind of prayer, then we must apply to this mitzva the same standards of respect and cleanliness as we do to prayer.  Therefore, it would be fundamentally forbidden to blow the shofar in the presence of filth, just as Halakha forbids praying under such conditions.

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            Yesterday, we discussed the debate between the Rambam and Rabbenu Tam concerning the text of the berakha recited before sounding the shfoar.  The Rambam maintains that one recites the text of “li-shmo’a kol shofar,” which speaks of the shofar obligation as a requirement to hear the shofar sound, as opposed to blowing the shofar.  This is in fact the accepted practice.  Rabbenu Tam, however, as cited by the Rosh (Rosh Hashanah 4:10), held that the proper text is “al teki’at shofar,” defining the mitzva as essentially an obligation to blow, and not just to hear.

            Amidst his discussion of this issue, the Rosh cited the Re’avya as drawing proof to the Rambam’s position from the Talmud Yerushalmi, which states explicitly that the proper text is “li-shmo’a kol shofar.”  Already the Korban Netanel commentary to the Rosh notes that no such passage appears in the Talmud Yerushalmi, and it thus appears that the Re’avya saw a different version of the Yerushalmi.

            Rav Shlomo Fisher suggested that even assuming the validity of the Re’avya’s text, this source need not undermine the ruling of Rabbenu Tam, that one should recite, “al teki’at shofar.”  There is evidence, Rav Fisher claimed, that the debate between the Rambam and Rabbenu Tam might actually reflect a dispute between the two Talmuds – the Talmud Bavli and Talmud Yerushalmi.  The Yerushalmi (as cited by the Maggid Mishneh, Hilkhot Shofar 1:3) ruled that one who blows with a stolen shofar fulfills the mitzva despite the fact that its performance was facilitated by a Torah violation.  Although mitzva acts are disqualified in such situations, the case of shofar is different because, as the Yerushalmi explains, “be-kolo hu yotzei” – one fulfills the obligation with the sound, and not with the object of the shofar.  The mitzva object is the abstract sound produced by the shofar, and not the shofar itself.  Since “sound” cannot be stolen, one fulfills the mitzva even though a stolen shofar.  This ruling clearly expresses the Rambam’s perspective, defining the mitzva as an obligation to hear the sound of the shofar, as opposed to an obligation to blow the shofar.  Had the obligation been to blow the shofar, then we would have indeed disqualified a stolen shofar, as it is the actual mitzva object.  That the Yerushalmi validated such shofar blowing indicates that it defined the mitzva as listening to, rather than sounding, the shofar.  Sure enough, the Rambam famously codifies this ruling of the Yerushalmi.

            The Bavli, however, at least in one context, appears to express the viewpoint of Rabbenu Tam.  In Masekhet Rosh Hashanah (28a), the Gemara rules that one can fulfill the mitzva of shofar with a shofar taken from an animal consecrated as a sacrifice – despite the fact that one is forbidden from deriving benefit from such an animal.  At first glance, since one transgresses this prohibition by making use of the shofar, he cannot fulfill his obligation.  However, the Gemara invokes in this context the rule of mitzvot lav lei-hanot nitenu (“mitzvot were not given for enjoyment”), which establishes that using an object for performing a mitzva does not constitute halakhic hana’a (“benefit” or “enjoyment”).  As such, one does not derive “benefit” from a consecrated shofar by using it for the mitzva, and the shofar’s special status thus does not disqualify the shofar blowing.

            This discussion in the Gemara appears to reflect Rabbenu Tam’s perspective, viewing the mitzva as an obligation to blow the shofar.  The concept of mitzvot lav lei-hanot nitenu relates to the mitzva act; it defines the act as something that does not entail hana’a.  If the Gemara applied this principle to the act of blowing the shofar, then it apparently felt that this act constitutes the essential mitzva act, as opposed to the Rambam’s perspective, which views the blowing as a merely a means of producing the sound that one must hear.

            Quite possibly, then, this debate between the Rambam and Rabbenu Tam can be traced back already to the Talmud.  The Yerushalmi appears to have accepted the view that the mitzva of shofar is defined as an obligation to hear the sound, whereas the Bavli maintained that the Torah commands blowing the shofar.

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            The Ran, in Masekhet Rosh Hashanah (3a), cites a passage from the Pesikta that traces the roots of Rosh Hashanah back to the time of Adam.  The Pesikta relates that it was on Rosh Hashanah that Adam committed the sin of partaking from the forbidden tree, and stood before God in judgment.  Toward the end of the day, God pardoned Adam for his misdeed, and declared, “This shall be a sign for your children.  Just as you stood before Me in judgment on this day and was pardoned, so, too, your children in the future will stand before Me in judgment on this day and be pardoned.”

            The question arises as to whether the precedent of Adam’s “pardon” truly gives us reason to feel encouraged as we prepare for our judgment.  Adam did not exactly earn complete amnesty.  He was banished from Gad Eden, forced to live forever more distant from God’s direct presence and to struggle with the earth just to sustain himself.  Not to mention that he and offspring would now be subject to mortality.  Was Adam truly “pardoned”?  What kind of precedent does this first “Rosh Hashanah” establish, and how does the Midrash seek to shed light on the nature of Rosh Hashanah by relating this incident?

            Rav Chayim Friedlander, in his Siftei Chayim (Mo’adim, vol. 1, p. 66), suggests that Adam was “pardoned” in the sense that God offered him the opportunity to correct his mistake.  Adam’s sin lay in a momentary lapse in which he lost sight of God’s presence and authority over mankind.  At that moment, Adam felt entitled to grant precedence to his own will over the will of God, and act as though he was the master over the garden.  In response, God banished him from Gan Eden, from His direct presence.  There he would have to live without tangibly sensing God’s presence, as he had in Gan Eden.  He and offspring would face the challenge of tilling the earth while still recognizing God as the One who provides their needs; they would now have to live with an awareness of their own mortality, and yet acknowledge God’s justness and the divine image in which they were created.  In this way, mankind would work toward correcting the flaw that led to Adam’s sin – the moment in which he lost sight of divine authority.

            In this sense, the judgment of Adam indeed establishes an accurate precedent for the judgment that we confront each year on Rosh Hashanah.  Each year, we ask for the opportunity to correct our shortcomings, to grow and improve.  We cannot come before the Almighty and simply say, “I’m sorry,” and expect an unconditional pardon.  Rather, we pray that He grant us life, health, peace and sustenance so that we have the opportunity to continue the process of self-improvement, and help ensure that at least some of the mistakes made during the past year do not repeat themselves.

            Some have suggested that herein lies the meaning of the petition added in the amida service during the Ten Days of Repentance, “Remember us for life, O King who desires life, and inscribe us in the book of life for Your sake, O living God.”  We beseech God to grant us life “for Your sake” – rather than for our sake.  Our wish is to be granted another opportunity to grow to become the people whom we did not succeed in becoming the previous year, to develop the potential that until this point has lay dormant within us.  We understand that, like Adam in Gan Eden, we cannot earn a complete, unconditional pardon.  The new opportunities for which we ask will be fraught with challenges, just as Adam had to leave Gan Eden and take on the challenges of serving God outside the garden.  But if we are truly prepared to undertake these challenges, and to commit ourselves to embark on the grueling process of spiritual growth, then we can come before God in judgment and ask that He inscribe us in the book of life – “for His sake,” as it were, so that we can become better people, and better servants of the Almighty.

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            A famous comment in the Midrash (Vayikra Rabba 21) interprets the verse in Tehillim (27:1), “The Lord is my light and my salvation” (“Hashem ori ve-yish’i”) as a reference to the occasions of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  According to the Midrash, David proclaims in this verse that God is his “light” on Rosh Hashanah, and his “salvation” on Yom Kippur.  This Midrash, of course, forms the basis of the prevalent custom to recite this chapter of Tehillim twice each day throughout this season, from Rosh Chodesh Elul through Shemini Atzeret.  But in what way do Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur serve as our “light” and our “salvation”?  What aspect of these festivals did the Sages wish to emphasize through this comment?

            Many have suggested this passage to mean that the experience of Rosh Hashanah serves to “illuminate” our eyes so that we can earn salvation on Yom Kippur.  The frightening experience of standing before God in judgment, fully aware of our unworthiness, inspires a process of sincere repentance, which enables a person to earn atonement on Yom Kippur.  It is the “light” shone upon us on Rosh Hashanah that drives us to do what is required to earn “salvation” on Yom Kippur.

            This might also be the message underlying a different Midrashic passage, cited toward the end of the Rosh’s commentary to Masekhet Rosh Hashanah:

What nation is like this nation, who knows the nature of its God!  It is customary in the world that a person who has a trial wears black clothing and covers himself in black garments, he lets his beard grow and does not cut his nails, because he does not know the outcome of his trial.  But Israel is not like that – they wear white garments, they wrap themselves in white garments, they shave their bears and cut their nails, and they eat, drink and rejoice on Rosh Hashanah because they know that the Almighty will perform miracles for them and turn their judgment favorably, and tear their [harsh] decrees.

These comments of the Midrash form the basis of the halakha requiring that we commemorate Rosh Hashanah as a festive day of celebration, despite the frightening judgment that takes place on this day.  The question arises, however, how and why are we so confident that “the Almighty will perform miracles for them and turn their judgment favorably”?  What guarantee do we have that warrants such festivity on Rosh Hashanah?

            One answer, perhaps, is that we celebrate not because we are confident of the outcome of our “trial,” but rather because we understand that the occasion of Rosh Hashanah serves as our “light,” as an impetus to repentance.  God brings us before Him in judgment not because He seeks to treat us harshly, but rather because He seeks to prepare us for Yom Kippur, by inspiring a process of introspection and teshuva.  We might thus read the Midrash to mean not that God will undoubtedly perform miracles and judge us favorably, but rather that God wishes to judge us favorably, and to that end gives us the experience of Rosh Hashanah as preparation for the process of atonement.

            This nature of divine judgment perhaps conveys an important message regarding the other kinds of “judgment” to which we are often subject.  We instinctively feel uneasy when we hear criticism from others, or when we feel our conduct is scrutinized by those around us.  Our natural response, more often than not, is to assume a defensive posture and to resent the comments in question – and the person who said them.  The concept of Rosh Hashanah serving as our “light” should perhaps instruct that we take a different approach to scrutiny and criticism.  As the Midrash teaches, judgment can be a most beneficial experience.  It “illuminates” our eyes by drawing our attention to flaws of which we would otherwise be blissfully unaware.  Just as the experience of God’s judgment should be embraced and celebrated as a significant impetus to teshuva, so should we happily welcome critical remarks of our peers, difficult to hear as they may be, as an opportunity to grow and change.  Rather than stubbornly defending ourselves and insisting upon the propriety of everything we do and say, it often serves us well to approach criticism with an open mind, and seriously consider if perhaps they contain at least a kernel – or more – of truth.

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            Parashat Vayelekh introduces the mitzva of hakhel, which requires assembling the entire nation every seven years, during Sukkot following the shemita year.  The Torah writes (31:12), “Gather the nation – the men, women and children, and the stranger in your gates…”

            A number of writers addressed the question of to whom the Torah refers in the clause, “ve-gerekha asher bi-sh’arekha” (“and the stranger is your gates”).  The term ger generally refers to one of two types of foreigners: 1) a gentile who converted to Judaism; 2) a ger toshav, a gentile who accepted upon himself the Noachide laws and lives peacefully among the Jewish people.  As some commentators noted, it seems difficult to interpret this verse as referring to either of these groups.  A full-fledged convert bears the same level of mitzva obligation as any other Jew, and it thus seems superfluous for the Torah to specify a convert’s obligation to participate in hakhel.  And as for a ger toshav, he clearly bears no obligation whatsoever to fulfill any mitzva beyond the seven Noachide laws.  Why, then, would he be required to participate in the hakhel ceremony?

            Ibn Ezra comments, “…so that he will listen and will convert.”  It appears that Ibn Ezra understood this verse as requiring the ger toshav to participate in hakhel, in order that he will be inspired to join the Jewish faith.  Many later writers questioned this interpretation, noting that the Torah does not normally encourage proselytizing.  Why would the Torah require bringing gentiles to hakhel so as to encourage conversion?

            Rav Avraham Yisrael Rosenthal, in his Ke-motzei Shalal Rav, cites his father, Rav Shabtai Dov Rosenthal, as suggesting that Ibn Ezra refers to gentiles who have already expressed interest in conversion.  These gentiles should, indeed, be brought to hakhel to draw inspiration in their quest to join Am Yisrael.  Rav Rosenthal goes so far as to suggest that when the verse speaks of the stranger “in your gates,” it refers, according to Ibn Ezra, to the gentiles in the courts, meaning, those who have already begun inquiring into conversion.  The term she’arekha (“your gates”) is occasionally interpreted by Chazal as a reference to Beit-Din, and thus here, too, the verse perhaps speaks of the gentiles who are already in the courts along the road to conversion.  Clearly, however, this appears to be a strained reading of Ibn Ezra’s remarks.

            The Maharil Diskin (Parashat Vayelekh) suggests a different approach to this verse, claiming that it actually refers to full-fledged converts.  The reason why the Torah specified converts in the context of hakhel has to do with the association drawn between this mitzva and that of aliya le-regel – the obligation to make a pilgrimage to the Temple on Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot.  Generally speaking (though with some exceptions), only those who are included in the obligation of aliya le-regel are required to attend hakhel (Masekhet Chagiga 3).  Now the Gemara in Masekhet Pesachim (8b) establishes that the mitzva of aliya le-regel applies only to those who own land in Eretz Yisrael.  The Turei Even (beginning of Chagiga) notes that this principle would likely result in the exclusion of converts from the obligation of aliya le-regel.  Converts obviously did not receive property in Eretz Yisrael through the chain of inheritance dating back to the land’s initial distribution, and thus any land owned by a convert was purchased.  As such, it is subject to the law of yovel, which requires that all purchased land be returned to its original owner on the jubilee year.  According to one view in the Gemara, Halakha does not consider a landowner a true “owner” over land he purchased during the time when the yovel laws obtained.  Since his possession over the property terminates at the jubilee year, he is seen as having a lease, rather than full ownership.  The Turei Even thus concludes that a convert would not be included under the obligation of aliya le-regel.

            Therefore, one might have presumed that a convert – who, by definition, can never “own” land in the strict halakhic sense – is exempt from the obligation of hakhel.  For this reason, the Torah found it necessary to make an exception in the case of a convert, and require his attendance at hakhel regardless of his exemption from the mitzva of aliya le-regel.  (A similar explanation is given by the Tzelach, Sukka 28a.)

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            In Parashat Vayelekh, God instructs Moshe to write the poem of Ha’azinu (the text of which is recorded in the next parasha) in anticipation of the time when Benei Yisrael will forsake God and endure punishment and exile as a result.  This poem serves as testimony of God’s warning from the outset that He would punish Benei Yisrael for their disobedience.  When the calamity surfaces, they will read this poem and be reminded that the exile resulted from their misconduct and does not signal God’s sudden decision to abandon them and breach His covenant with them.

            In presenting this command to Moshe, God declares:

…this nation will arise and stray after the foreign gods of the land… My rage will be incensed on that day, and I will abandon them and conceal My countenance from them… and many evils and calamities will befall them… They will say on that day: Is it not because my God is not with me that these evils have befallen me!  But I shall hide My countenance on that day because of all the evil that they did… (31:16-18)

Many commentators addressed the question of what warrants God’s response in the final verse cited here – “But I shall hide My countenance on that day…”  If the people acknowledge that their suffering results from the fact that “my God is not with me,” seemingly confessing their guilt in an effort to repent, why does God respond so harshly, by continuing to “hide His countenance” from them, and subjecting them to more suffering?

            Netziv, in his Ha’amek Davar, explains that the period to which God refers in these verses is that of the Shofetim, the period after Yehoshua’s death.  As we read in Sefer Shofetim, this was, indeed, a time of rampant idolatry among Benei Yisrael.  However, Netziv notes, when we compare Sefer Shofetim with the periods of widespread idolatry described in Sefer Melakhim, we will notice an important distinction.  In the time of the Shofetim, the people did not embrace idolatry as an intentional act of rebellion against God and an effort to breach their covenant with Him.  Rather, Benei Yisrael fell prey to the religious influences of the peoples around them.  Netziv likens the people at this time to a woman who feels a sense of loyalty to her husband, but as she frequently finds herself in the company of evildoers, she becomes involved in adulterous relationships.  This is in contrast to the situation that developed later, during the time of the Beit Ha-mikdash, when kings like Achav made a conscious, willed decision to break with the nation’s spiritual past and transform Benei Yisrael into a pagan nation.

            On this basis, Netziv explains the people’s intention when they conclude, “Is it not because my God is not with me that these evil have befallen me!”  Upon witnessing the ongoing calamities and continued absence of prophecy, which characterized the period of the Shofetim, the people assumed that God initiated this breach.  As the people did not consciously intend to betray God, but simply found themselves imitating the surrounding nations, they failed to recognize that their suffering resulted from their wrongdoing.  Instead, they figured that God must have simply chosen to abandon them.  In response, God continued to “conceal His countenance” from them, until the period of Shemuel, when the nation sincerely repented and returned to the observance of the Torah.  But until then, the people did not realize that their misconduct was the cause of the calamities they suffered, and they therefore attributed them to God’s decision to forsake the nation.

            Perhaps the greatest obstacle to teshuva and self-improvement is the failure to recognize that a problem exists, that change is in order.  The period of Aseret Yemei Teshuva is designated as the time for thorough introspection, to carefully scrutinize one’s conduct to determine the areas in need of improvement.  This is the first, critical step that must be undertaken in order to achieve the goal of repentance and atonement during this special time of year.