PARASHOT ACHAREI MOT - KEDOSHIM

By Rav David Silverberg

            Among the many laws presented in Parashat Kedoshim are the famous prohibitions of lo tikom and lo titor – taking revenge against one’s fellow, and bearing a grudge against one’s fellow, for wrongs committed (18:19).

            The Yad Ha-ketana commentary to the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah (in Hilkhot Dei’ot) raises an intriguing question concerning the philosophical underpinnings of these prohibitions.  Halakha itself is replete with “revenge,” punitive measures that the courts must take to penalize criminals.  Thieves, for example, pay double the amount they stole, and false witnesses are given the same punishment they intended to bring upon their victim.  Are these not forms of “revenge”?  How might we reconcile these mixed messages the Torah gives us regarding the proper response to delinquent behavior?

            The Yad Ha-ketana answers by raising a different question, concerning the seemingly trivial examples given by Chazal in defining the prohibitions of lo tikom and lo titor.  As Rashi cites, Chazal speak of a person who refuses to lend his neighbor a tool, and then the following day, when he needs a tool, the neighbor refuses to lend him one.  This, the Sages teach, is what the Torah meant by “revenge.”

            Of course, the term “revenge” normally conjures much more drastic images in our minds, images of violence, cruelty or severe financial damage.  Why did Chazal limit themselves to something so trivial as lending an axe?

            The Yad Ha-ketana, as paraphrased by Rav Daniel Feldman in his The Right and the Good (p. 98), explains as follows:

These prohibitions [of lo tikom and lo titor] are specifically geared toward occurrences of everyday life, events in the annals of interpersonal relationships that arouse annoyance and irritation rather than physical harm or destruction of property.  In the case of the latter, the Torah has assigned responsibility and ordered restitution, recognizing that the world will not function properly if matters of such gravity are not addressed.  However, of that which remains, we are told almost by default to forgive and forget.  Were every minor incident taken to heart, allowed to evolve into a full-blown feud, the consequences to a harmonious existence would be disastrous.  The prohibitions against nekimah [revenge] and netirah [bearing a grudge], then, serve to alleviate the malevolent tensions that too often arise from the most banal of daily disagreements.

The Torah’s punitive system and the prohibitions of lo tikom and lo titor essentially work together to help maintain peaceful relations among people.  The Torah imposes fines and other punishments to deter criminals from targeting other people or their property, as is necessary in any functional society.  Outside those areas, however, the Torah commands us to “let it go.”  Criminal activity must be punished, but common annoyances must be forgiven.

            In essence, lo tikom and lo titor inform us to distinguish between crime and unseemly behavior, to react severely to the former and tolerantly the latter.  While it is true that society cannot properly function if crime is tolerated, it is also true that society cannot properly function if every improper word or action is not tolerated.  The Torah is thus indeed “vengeful” in certain situations, but instructs us to be forgiving and tolerant in response to other forms of malevolent behavior.

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            The Torah admonishes in Parashat Kedoshim (19:13), “Lo ta’ashok et rei’akha.”  Rashi, citing Torat Kohanim, explains that the Torah here introduces a prohibition against withholding wages from an employee.  According to this view, the prohibition stated here is the same law that appears in Sefer Devarim (24:14) forbidding an employer from denying his workers the payment they deserve.

The Rambam (Sefer Ha-mitzvot – lo ta’aseh 247), however, claims that Torat Kohanim does not refer only to the specific situation of withholding wages.  Rather, Chazal pointed to this case as an example of the general prohibition introduced in this verse against retaining another person’s money or possession against his will.  As opposed to stealing, with means seizing somebody’s property, oshek refers to holding on to somebody’s money that had originally come into one’s possession lawfully.  Withholding wages is the classic example of oshek, in that the employer does not steal the employee’s money, but rather refuses to give him the money he earned.  The Rambam adds that this prohibition also includes fraud and dishonest financial schemes, whereby one receives money with the victim’s consent but then refuses to return it.  This is also the view of the Sefer Ha-chinukh (236).

Rav Zalman Sorotzkin, in his Oznayim Le-Torah, makes an insightful comment relevant to Rashi’s view, which claims that this verse refers specifically to withholding employee wages.  The Torah speaks of the victim with the generic term “rei’akha” (“your fellow”), rather than specifying “worker.”  Perhaps, Rav Sorotzkin suggests, according to Rashi’s interpretation, the Torah intentionally called the worker the employer’s rei’a, to emphasize the equality, respect and general congeniality that should characterize the employer-employee relationship.  The employer may not look upon his workers as his personal property or as people of lower stature; he must rather view them as his rei’im, his comrades and partners in his enterprise.  The prohibition of lo ta’ashok thus requires not merely paying promised wages, but, more generally, showing respect and consideration to one’s employees.

Rav Menachem Bentzion Zaks, in his Menachem Tziyon, notes in this context the brief exchange recorded in Megilat Rut (2:4) between Boaz and his workers.  Upon arriving at his fields, Boaz warmly greets his employees, “Hashem imakhem” (“May the Lord be with you”), to which they respond, “Yevarekhekha Hashem” (“May the Lord bless you”).  This exchange yields no impact upon the unfolding story of the Megila, but appears to have been included to emphasize the kind of warm relationship that Boaz’s workers enjoyed with their employer.  He spoke to them kindly and amiably, even as he came to supervise their work.  Although this episode is certainly secondary to the story of Boaz’s kindness to Rut, it nevertheless contributes an additional dimension to Boaz’s character, demonstrating the respect and concern that he showed to his workers.

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            The Torah in Parashat Acharei-Mot (17:13) introduces the mitzva of kisui ha-dam, which requires covering the blood spilt during the slaughtering of a bird or non-domesticated animal (as opposed to cattle, whose blood does not require kisui).

            Among the questions that arise regarding the nature of this obligation concerns the relationship between kisui ha-dam and the act of shechita (slaughtering).  To what extent, if any, should we view the covering of the blood as the completion of the process of shechita?  Do these two acts – slaughtering and covering the blood – constitute two fundamentally separate halakhic requirements, connected only by the practical reality that kisui is warranted only in situations of shechita?  Or, does the Torah establish kisui as the final stage of shechita, as opposed to a separate and distinct obligation?

            Rav Asher Zelig Weiss, in his Minchat Asher, notes that this issue likely underlies a debate between the Behag and the Rosh concerning the berakha recited over the mitzva of kisui ha-dam.  Normally, when a berakha is recited over the performance of a mitzva, it is recited before the mitzva act.  Intriguingly, however, the Behag held that in the case of kisui ha-dam, one recites the berakha only after covering the blood, rather than before the mitzva act.  The Rosh (Chulin 6:6) explains the Behag’s ruling as based upon the relationship between the acts of shechita and kisui: “This [act of covering the blood] constitutes the completion of the mitzva, and it is improper to recite a berakha in the middle of a mitzva.”  Meaning, according to the Behag, kisui ha-dam differs from other mitzva acts in that it is not an independent obligation, insofar as it completes the process of shechita.  This difference is reflected in the unique procedure for the recitation of the berakha.

            Of course, it is unclear why the relationship between the shechita and kisui would warrant delaying the berakha until after the kisui.  In fact, one might argue that if, indeed, the act covering the blood is simply the completion of the shechita process, then it should not warrant a berakha altogether.  What is clear, however, is that the Behag – at least as understood by the Rosh – viewed kisui ha-dam as part of the shechita process, as opposed to a completely separate and independent act.

            The Rosh disagreed with the Behag’s ruling, noting that the common practice does not follow the Behag’s position.  He explains, “…because they consider the covering an independent mitzva.”  According to this view, kisui ha-dam is no different from other mitzvot, as it stands on its own as an independent obligation, and thus the berakha is recited before the mitzva act, as it the case regarding mitzvot generally.

            Rav Weiss adds that this fundamental question may affect other issues, as well.  The Gemara in Masekhet Chulin (31a) establishes that one must place earth both beneath and above the blood; when the Torah speaks of “covering,” it refers to covering it not only on top, but also from underneath.  Rashi and Tosefot disagree in explaining this halakha.  According to Rashi, the mitzva of kisui ha-dam requires one to prepare earth on the ground before slaughtering the animal, so that the blood will fall onto the earth.  In his view, then, this mitzva begins to apply even before the act of slaughtering.  This also appears to be view of the Rambam, in Hilkhot Shechita (14:14).  Tosefot, however, understood that the Gemara refers not to an additional obligation, but to a condition upon which the obligation hinges.  According to Tosefot, the Gemara means that the obligation of kisui ha-dam applies only if the blood happened to fall upon earth, such that it has the potential to be covered on both the top and the bottom.  If one slaughtered on some other surface, then there is no obligation of kisui.

            This debate may reflect the two perspectives mentioned above concerning the relationship between the shechita and the kisui.  If, as Rashi claimed, the obligation of kisui requires placing earth on the ground already before slaughtering, then this might reflect a close connection between the two acts.  Kisui ha-dam is part of the shechita process, and it therefore impacts upon the way the shechita is performed – namely, it requires slaughtering over earth rather than on other surfaces.  Tosefot’s position, on the other hand, might reflect the perspective viewing these two mitzvot as fundamentally separate.  Since kisui ha-dam bears no essential connection to shechita, it cannot have any effect upon the act of slaughtering, and requires simply that one cover the blood after the slaughtering.

            In truth, however, it would appear that one might distinguish between the two issues.  Even if the shechita and kisui constitute two fundamentally distinct mitzvot, it is possible that as a practical matter, the performance of kisui will affect the shechita.  According to Rashi, the mitzva of kisui ha-dam is defined by covering the blood both on top and on bottom.  Practically speaking, then, one must ensure to prepare earth on the ground before he begins shechita, regardless of any intrinsic relationship between shechita and kisui.  Even if we view these mitzvot as entirely separate, the requirements of kisui might entail some involvement already before the act of shechita.

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            The first section of Parashat Acharei Mot describes the avodat Yom Ha-kippurim – the special rituals performed by the kohen gadol in the Mikdash each year on Yom Kippur.  The Torah introduces this section by noting that God presented these laws to Moshe “after the death of Aharon’s two sons, when they came before the Lord and died” (16:1).

            Rashi cites (from Torat Kohanim) the famous comments of Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya on this verse:

Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya would explain it by way of an analogy to an ill patient who came to a physician.  He said to him, “Do not eat cold food or sleep on damp grass.”  Another [patient] came and he said to him, “Do not eat cold food or sleep on damp grass so that you do not die like so-and-so died.”  This one will be more careful than the first.  It therefore says, “After the death of Aharon’s two sons…The Lord said to Moshe: Speak to your brother Aharon that he shall not enter…” – so that he does not die like his children died.

According to Rashi, the Torah makes mention of Aharon’s sons’ death in this context because God begins His commands concerning the Yom Kippur service with the warning that Aharon “shall not enter the Sanctuary at any time.”  It is only on Yom Kippur, while performing the day’s special rituals, that Aharon may enter the Temple’s innermost chamber.  God reinforced this warning by bringing to mind the painful memory of the death of Nadav and Avihu, Aharon’s older sons, who were punished for bringing an unwarranted incense offering (10:2).

            One might wonder why God found it necessary to reinforce his warning when speaking to Aharon.  We find in the Midrashim many different sins ascribed to Nadav and Avihu, most of which involve a kind of youthful presumptuousness and arrogance.  Thus, for example, some sources relate the Nadav and Avihu anticipated the death of Moshe and Aharon so they could assume the mantle of spiritual leadership.  Others claim that they were punished not for the act of offering incense, but for not consulting with Moshe and Aharon.  According to a different view, they decided against marrying, fearing that family responsibilities would interfere with their spiritual growth.  The common denominator that runs throughout these and similar Midrashic passages is a premature sense of spiritual superiority, which led Aharon’s sons to violate the sanctity of the Mishkan by bringing an unwarranted offering.

            Why would Aharon need a special warning to avoid repeating his sons’ fatal error, and how does this warning relate to the prohibition against entering the inner sanctum?

            Rav Yehuda Amital shelit”a (http://vbm-torah.org/archive/sichot/vayikra/29-60acharei.htm) explained that Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya points to a different aspect of Nadav and Avihu’s forbidden act.  Namely, their lofty spiritual aspirations led them to overlook halakhic minutiae.  The incident occurred on the final day of the kohanim’s consecration ceremony, which also marked the culmination of the Mishkan’s formal inauguration.  A heavenly fire descended upon the altar, signifying the descent of the divine presence into its earthly abode, and Nadav and Avihu felt impelled to express their spiritual yearnings.  They were convinced that this dramatic, momentous occasion of closeness with the Almighty warranted a special offering, something beyond that which God Himself had prescribed.

            God therefore invoked the memory of Nadav and Avihu when introducing the laws of avodat Yom Ha-kippurim.  The awe, drama and mystique surrounding this sacred occasion of Yom Kippur, and the kohen gadol’s desire to earn atonement on behalf of the people, might lead him to overstep halakhic bounds and overlook halakhic details.  Here, too, the lofty aspirations could obstruct rational, halakhic reasoning and lead the kohen gadol to forbidden innovations and deviations.

            Just as one must ensure not to lose sight of the “forest” while viewing the “trees,” similarly, there is the danger of overlooking the individual “trees” that comprise the “forest.”  Spiritual ambition must never lead to halakhic indifference, and even while pursuing lofty goals we must remain firmly committed to the minutiae of Halakha, down to the very last detail.

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            Toward the beginning of Parashat Kedoshim, the Torah commands, “Each person shall revere his mother and father, and you shall observe My Shabbatot” (19:3). 

Numerous different explanations have been offered for the juxtaposition between these two mitzvot – showing reverence toward parents, and Shabbat observance.  The Chatam Sofer suggested an insightful approach which reveals an aspect of Shabbat that often goes unnoticed.  Chazal (Kiddushin 31b), in defining the obligation of mora (“revering” one’s parents), mention – among other things – that a child may not sit in the parent’s seat, or speak on an occasion when the parent is to speak.  Showing reverence requires a certain “distance” between the child and the parent, in the sense that the child must make no attempt to resemble the parent too closely.

This command of mora, the Chatam Sofer writes, may have led one to question the propriety of Shabbat observance.  Shabbat, he explains, is inherently divine, not human.  Though the Chatam Sofer does not elaborate on this distinctly divine nature of Shabbat, we may speculate that he referred to the experience of “completion,” the sense that all one’s work is finished and nothing has been left undone.  Only about the Almighty could it be truly said that “He…completed on the seventh day all the work He performed.”  Or, from a slightly different angle, only God has the right to determine that His “work” is complete and He can now “rest.”  The condition of the human being is one of constant imperfection.  A human being is never “complete”; a person can never be said to have achieved all that there was for him to achieve.

Intuitively, then, Shabbat observance might be perceived as a lack of mora – of reverence toward God.  By observing Shabbat, and acting as though all our work is completed, we too closely resemble God, we appear as though we usurp His singular stature by allowing ourselves this experience.  Therefore, specifically in the context of mora, the Torah must emphasize that to the contrary, we are commanded to observe Shabbat.  God specifically wishes to share this experience with us.  As partners in the process of the world’s continued development, we are similarly invited to become partners in Shabbat – to feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in what we have achieved.  Despite the sense of awe and reverence that we are to feel toward God, He Himself has allowed us to “sit in His seat” with regard to Shabbat observance.  We are entitled, and commanded, to observe the God-like occasion of Shabbat by desisting from work and experiencing the feeling of “completion” that is in truth the exclusive domain of the Almighty.

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            Parashat Kedoshim includes the famous command of “ve-ahavta le-rei’akha kamokha” – “You shall love your fellow as yourself” (19:18).  Curiously, the Torah presents this mitzva in the context of the prohibitions of nekima (taking revenge) and netira (bearing a grudge): “You shall not take revenge or bear a grudge against the people of your nation, and you shall love your fellow as yourself…”  How might we understand the connection between these two commands?

            Shadal explains by noting that these prohibitions of nekima and netira differ from virtually all other Biblical prohibitions concerning interpersonal relations.  Most prohibitions in this category forbid committing offenses that we can readily identify as wrongful.  The Torah proscribes theft, fraud, commercial and verbal abuse, misusing other people’s property, taking unfair advantage of the weaker members of society, dishonesty, false testimony and oaths, and other offenses that we immediately recognize as criminal behavior.  Revenge, however, seems, at least at first glance, just and warranted.  If a person acted wrongly to his fellow, then on the surface, the victim is justified in treating him in kind.  And, seemingly, the victim is also entitled to harbor feelings of ill-will and resentment toward the perpetrator and carry these feelings with him into even the distant future.

            The Torah therefore introduces the obligation to “love your fellow as yourself” in order to explain the prohibitions of nekima and netira.  It might seem justifiable for a victim to avenge the crime, but this is not how he would want others to treat him after committing an offense.  When we do something wrong, our wish is that people react compassionately and forgivingly, rather than seek reprisal.  Even if revenge seems warranted or justifiable according to strict justice, it is wrong from the standpoint of “love your fellow as yourself.”

            As we discussed earlier this week, Chazal interpret the prohibitions of nekima and netira as referring to paying back small grievances, such as refusing to lend assistance to one’s neighbor and the like.  Criminal behavior, as the Torah demands, must indeed be punished to deter potential offenders.  But when it comes to the common, everyday insults and annoyances that we occasionally endure, the proper response is to “love your fellow as yourself” – to treat improper conduct with the kind of sensitivity we would want others to show toward our own occasional lapses.  Essentially, the Torah here commands us to grant others the right to be imperfect – just as we expect others to grant us this right and tolerate our faults and foibles.

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            We find among the laws presented in Parashat Kedoshim the prohibition of serita – scraping one’s skin as an expression of grief (19:28).

            The Gemara in Masekhet Sanhedrin (68a) tells that upon the death of Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Akiva – a student of Rabbi Eliezer who later became his colleague – “beat his flesh” in grief until he bled.  At first glance, Rabbi Akiva’s response to his colleague’s passing transgressed the prohibition presented here against inflicting oneself with bodily wounds to express grief.  Tosefot (Yevamot 13b) suggest that Rabbi Akiva was allowed to “beat his flesh” because the prohibition is limited to “derekh serita” – wounds caused by scraping.  Once we accept a narrow definition of this halakha, we can justify Rabbi Akiva’s response of “beating his flesh” which lies outside the parameters of the prohibition.

            Tosefot then proceed to suggest a second possibility, namely, that Rabbi Akiva reacted not to the death of an individual, but to the loss of Torah knowledge.  He injured himself to express grief not over his colleague’s passing, but rather over the enormous void that Rabbi Eliezer’s passing left in the Torah world.  This explanation is also offered by Meiri, who cites in this context the Gemara’s ruling (Makkot 20b) that serita is allowed as a response to tragedies other than death.  The Gemara mentions the examples of a house that collapses or a commercial ship that sinks.  A person who injures himself to express grief over these misfortunes has not violated the prohibition of serita, which applies only to situations involving a person’s death.  This restriction emerges clearly from the Torah’s formulation of this law – “you shall not make a scrape in your flesh over a life” – which makes specific reference to the situation of death.  Hence, Meiri explains, Rabbi Akiva quite possibly reacted as he did to express grief over the loss of Torah scholarship, as opposed to the loss of Rabbi Eliezer.

            The likely rationale for such a distinction is the fact that the Torah here seeks to distance Benei Yisrael from practices that were common in the pagan world at the time.  Apparently, self-mutilation in response to tragedy was practiced only upon a person’s death.  Indeed, Rashi comments on this verse, “This was the practice of the Emorites – to scrape their flesh when a loved one died.”

            Rav Avraham Yitzchak Sorotzkin, in his Rinat Yitzchak, noted that Tosefot and Meiri’s answer clearly presumes that scraping one’s skin in response to misfortunes other than death is entirely permissible.  From the Rambam’s presentation of this halakha (Hilkhot Avoda Zara 12:16), however, it appears that in his view, serita is forbidden in all situations of misfortune, though corporal punishment is administered only if this is done in response to death.  When the Gemara limited the serita prohibition to grief over a person’s passing, the Rambam implies, it meant only that one is not liable to malkot (lashes) except in situations of death.  In other situations, malkot are not warranted, but the act is nevertheless forbidden.  This is indeed how the Bach understood the Rambam (Y.D. 180), though the Beit Yosef argued that even the Rambam did not intend to apply the prohibition to all cases of misfortune.

            In any event, according to the Bach’s reading of the Rambam, even if Rabbi Akiva “beat his flesh” to mourn the loss of Torah scholarship, as opposed to the loss of his colleague, this would not suffice to justify his response.