S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT BECHUKOTAI

By Rav David Silverberg

In loving memory of my dear uncle, 
Mr. David Silverberg, David Moshe ben HaRav Yehuda Leib תנצב"ה 

Motzaei Shabbat

            The “tokhecha” section of Parashat Bechukotai, which warns of the catastrophes God will bring upon Benei Yisrael if they neglect His laws, begins by giving numerous descriptions of the nation’s disobedience that will evoke God’s harsh response (26:14-15).  Rashi, citing Torat Kohanim, explains that the Torah refers here to a progression, a downward spiral of sin that begins with the failure to learn Torah and culminates in heresy.  In truth, when we read Rashi’s comments carefully, we note that the first stage of this process is not the neglect of Torah learning, but rather a lack of “ameilut” – exertion and diligence in Torah learning.  The trigger of this sharp decline from piety to firm rejection of Torah begins not with the absence of study, but rather with a casual, perfunctory approach to study.  Spiritual malaise, Chazal warn, can often occur even if we devote time to learning, if we fail to invest the necessary energy and vigor into our study.

            The reason, perhaps, is that we tend to ascribe greater importance to those areas in which we invest the most.  Good parents regard their children’s success and wellbeing as their highest priority because of the immense work, effort and sacrifice entailed in raising them.  And when a business or other enterprise begins to fail, the efforts made to salvage it is often proportional to the efforts that had been made to create and develop it.  The more a person invests, the more he is willing to invest and sacrifice to protect it and work toward ensuring its success.

            And this may very well be the reason behind Chazal’s emphasis on the crucial role of “ameilut” in Torah study.  The painstaking scrutiny of Talmudic texts and their commentaries might not seem directly relevant to our religious lives, but are vital in building a strong emotional bond with the devar Hashem.  The more work we invest in Torah, the more likely we are to observe, cherish, and work to preserve, defend and perpetuate Torah.  We will also be more easily prepared to make the sacrifices necessary for Torah observance and dissemination.  For this reason, perhaps, Rashi warns of the process of deterioration that begins with a lack of “ameilut.”  Once we relax our standards of diligence and lower our intensity, we become more easily affected by the many pressures – both internal and external – that threaten to undermine our religious commitment.  To a large extent, our passion and vigilance toward Torah are the result of the time, effort and attention that we invest in it. Chazal therefore bid us in the strongest terms to not just study Torah, but to be “ameilim ba-Torah,” to delve into its intricacies, probe and analyze the difficult texts, put in the time and work necessary to gain knowledge and proficiency, and thereby develop a deep-seated love, affection and unshakable loyalty to the sacred word of God.

(See also Rav Michael Rosensweig’s “Intensity in Torah Study”)

Sunday

            The Torah in Parashat Bechukotai introduces the prohibition of temura, which refers to the attempt to transfer the sacred status of an animal sacrifice onto a different animal: “If [one consecrates] an animal that may be offered as a sacrifice to the Lord, whatever he gives of such to the Lord shall be consecrated; he shall not exchange it and shall not substitute it, neither a good one for a bad one nor a bad one for a good one…” (27:9-10).  The Torah here emphasizes that one may not exchange an animal sacrifice even for one of a higher quality.  Once a person consecrates an animal that is suitable as a sacrifice, it may not be substituted with another one, even with a higher quality animal that would make a more respectable sacrifice.

            What might be the rationale behind this law?  Why would the Torah disapprove of exchanging a consecrated animal with a higher quality one?  Shouldn’t we always be aspiring to improve and raise our standards of religious observance?  If a person realizes after consecrating an animal that he could have and should have donated a higher quality one, why should he be barred from correcting his mistake and substituting his offering with a better animal?

            The Rambam (Hilkhot Temura 4:13) offers a practical reason for this law, claiming that if a person would be allowed to exchange a low quality animal with a higher quality one, then he might on another occasion do the opposite.  The fundamental reason behind the temura prohibition, the Rambam explains, is to prevent people from regretting their consecration of a costly animal and exchanging it with a cheaper animal.  To this end, the Torah had to forbid substitution of any kind, as a safeguard against offering a low quality animal in place of a high quality one.

            We might also suggest a different possible insight into this prohibition.  As with virtually all human tendencies, the polar extremes of impulsivity and indecisiveness are both detrimental to religious life.  Certainly, the Torah wants us to think carefully and patiently before acting and making decisions, and we are urged as well to be prepared to reconsider our decisions, admit errors, and seek to correct them.  At the same time, however, there is a danger involved in taking too long to decide, in endless ambivalence, in the ability to “pull the trigger” and reach a final decision.  If a person wishes to offer a sacrifice, but then spends too much time finalizing his decision and choosing an animal, he might likely never get around to bringing the animal to the Mikdash.  The Torah perhaps mandated that a consecration is final to avoid this situation of indecisiveness, which could jeopardize the entire initiative.  While it is certainly admirable to think carefully before consecrating an animal, once the decision is made, the individual must proceed with resolve and satisfaction in his choice, without second-guessing.  As important as it is to be patient and discerning, it is also important not to prolong the process of decision-making to the point that it impairs productivity.  At a certain point, a decision must be made and must be final, so we can proceed to the next stage of the process and carry out our thoughts and plans.

Monday

            Commenting on the opening verse of Parashat Bechukotai, the Midrash (Vayikra Rabba 35:1) famously cites King David’s exclamation in Tehillim (119:59), “I calculated my ways, and then returned my legs toward Your testimonies.”  The Midrash then explains: “David said: Master of the world!  Each and every day I would make plans and say, ‘I will go to such-and-such place and such-and-such residence,’ but my legs would bring me to the synagogues and study halls.”  King David had reached such a level of religious devotion that it seemed as though he was carried against his will to the houses of worship and Torah study.  He was naturally and instinctively drawn toward the service of the Almighty, to the point where even if he made other plans he ended up in the synagogue or study hall.  This, according to the Midrash, is the meaning of the verse in Tehillim.  David exclaims that even when “I calculated my ways,” and made plans, “I returned my legs to Your testimonies” – he instinctively arrived at the houses of prayer and learning.

            Thereafter, however, the Midrash proceeds to cite other, less well-known, explanations of this verse in Tehillim.  Rav Huna, citing Rav Acha, explains David’s exclamation to mean, “I calculated the reward of mitzvot against the loss of sin, and I then returned my legs to Your testimonies.”  Other Sages, as the Midrash proceeds to cite, offer similar interpretations, claiming that David speaks of his consideration of the peace promised as a reward for Torah observance in contrast to the calamities that result from disobedience, or his contemplating other aspects of the blessings and curses outlined in Parashat Bechukotai.  According to these opinions, David speaks here of the “calculations” and thought-processes that led him to “return his legs” to the path of Torah.

            It appears that a clear line separates the Midrash’s initial comment in this passage and the subsequent interpretations.  According to the first reading, David speaks of an instinctive pull to Torah and mitzvot, whereas in the other explanations, David speaks of the internal struggle he had to wage to make the correct decisions and follow the correct path of religious observance.  Essentially, these different commentaries to the verse in Tehillim depict two very different models of spiritual greatness: the first is the point where one is naturally pulled to the right places and the right decisions, even when he begins to consider alternatives, and the other is piety borne out of struggle and torment, a process requiring thought and contemplation to fight his instincts and do the right thing.  Apparently, the Tanna’im cited after the initial interpretation of the verse did not wish to view David Ha-melekh as someone robotically drawn toward the batei kenesset and batei midrash, who followed the path of Torah and mitzvot naturally, without struggle and inner conflict.  The inspiring model that David presents to us, in their opinion, is that of piety borne out of struggle, rather than instinct.  They believed that David had to sit, think, and weigh the value of mitzvot against the harm of sin.  Their model is that of a spiritual giant who struggled to reach his stature of greatness and had to continue struggling to maintain it.  According to this view, David’s legs did not carry him to the beit midrash; he had to drag himself there.  He had to fight with himself to do the right thing, and this successful struggle, in the opinion of these Sages, is precisely what made David a great and heroic spiritual giant.

Tuesday

            Among the calamities God warns to deliver upon Benei Yisrael if they disobey His commands, as we read in Parashat Bechukotai, is the destruction of the Temple: “I shall lay to ruins your Temples, and I shall not smell your pleasing fragrance [of the sacrifices]” (26:31).

The simplest reading of this verse, it would seem, is that the second clause is presented as the consequence of the first.  Namely, God will destroy the Beit Ha-mikdash, and as a result we will be unable to offer sacrifices – which are often referred to as “rei’ach nicho’ach” (a pleasing fragrance).  This appears to be Ibn Ezra’s approach to interpreting the verse.

            Additionally, however, we might explain the second phrase as the cause of the first.  Meaning, God warns that He will eliminate the Mikdash because He will be uninterested in our sacrificial offerings.  As we know from many passages in the prophets, God looks disdainfully upon Benei Yisrael’s sacrifices if they are not accompanied by sincere attempts at teshuva and religious renewal.  Several prophets condemned the people for trying to utilize the sacrifice as a “quick-fix” method of earning God’s favor without correcting their sinful behavior.  Here, in Parashat Bechukotai, it is possible that God threatens to take away the Mikdash because He will have rejected their sacrifices due to the absence of any concomitant process of repentance.  (Or, in a slightly different vein, we might explain that God warns He will destroy the Temple despite our sacrificial offerings, as they will be insufficient to earn atonement and avert calamity.)

            Such a reading, however, gives rise to a difficulty in the verse’s terminology.  God here warns that He will not “smell” our “re’ach nicho’ach” – the “pleasing fragrance” of the sacrifices.  The term “rei’ach nicho’ach” generally refers to the gratification, so-to-speak, that proper sacrifices bring to the Almighty (see Rashi to Vayikra 1:9, citing from Torat Kohanim).  The question, then, arises, why would God refer to the nation’s sacrifices with the term “rei’ach nicho’ach” in this context, when He speaks of His rejection of their sacrifices?  According to the first approach to the verse, the verse reads perfectly well – God warns that He will no longer “smell” our pleasing sacrifices because we will not have a Mikdash in which to offer them.  According to the second approach, however, the phrase “I shall not smell your pleasing fragrance [of the sacrifices]” refers to the sacrifices rejected by God, the offerings He views with contempt because of the lack of sincerity and genuine religious devotion.  Why would God use the term “rei’ach nicho’ach” in such a context?

            This question seems to have troubled Seforno, who explains the verse as referring to the sacrifices dutifully offered by the kohanim during the end of the First Temple era.  Drawing upon a prophecy of Yechezkel (44:15), Seforno writes that there was a group of kohanim who remained faithful to God and the Torah even as the rest of the nation abandoned the laws.  In this verse, God warns that He will eradicate the Mikdash in spite of the “rei’ach nicho’ach” – the sacrifices properly and dutifully offered by the kohanim.  These sacrifices were, indeed, a “rei’ach nicho’ach”; they were “pleasing” to the Almighty, as they were offered properly, as required, by a devoted and loyal minority within the nation.  Nevertheless, these sacrifices will not save Benei Yisrael or the Temple.  The faithful service of a small group of faithful kohanim does not give God sufficient reason to keep the Mikdash standing.  The service of the kohanim does not exist independently of what occurs outside the Temple.  If the people betray God outside the Mikdash, the sacrifices offered inside the Mikdash are meaningless.

            In contemporary terms, Seforno’s insight reminds us of the inherent link between the clergy and lay populations, that our nation’s spiritual success cannot depend only on the piety and devotion of its rabbis and scholars.  The existence of a small group of “kohanim” – of devoted servants of God who remain faithful to His laws – is not enough.  We do not discharge our duties by simply supporting those who create a “rei’ach nicho’ach,” without our own personal compliance with and devotion to Torah.  Seforno teaches that we are all “in it” together, that we all bear the responsibility of the “kohanim” to offer a “rei’ach nicho’ach,” to act in a manner that is acceptable and pleasing to God.

Wednesday

            The final section of Sefer Vayikra (chapter 27) deals mainly with the subject of hekdesh, the consecration of articles as sacred property.  The primary focus of this section is on voluntary hekdesh, situations where a person chooses to consecrate his property as a voluntary donation to God.  Such consecrations can be in the form of a sacrificial animal, which is offered on the altar, or in the form of objects or parcels of land, which then become the property of the Temple treasury.  Once they are sold, the treasury makes use of the funds for its various needs (such as maintenance and upkeep).  The Torah here delineates the various kinds of voluntary consecrations, and briefly describes how different types of property are appraised and sold.

            Toward the end of this section, however, the Torah mentions three much different forms of hekdesh: 1) bekhor beheima (firstborn oxen or sheep – 27:26); 2) ma’aser sheni (tithe of agricultural produce – 27:30-31); 3) ma’aser beheima (animal tithe – 27:32-33).  These consecrated items differ fundamentally from the forms of hekdesh mentioned earlier in that they are mandatory.  In these instances, the individual does not voluntarily choose to consecrate something to hekdesh, but is rather required by the Torah to do so. 

There is also an important distinction within this category of what we might call “mandatory hekdesh.”  In the case of bekhor beheima and ma’aser beheima, the individual plays no role in designating the article as hekdesh.  The Torah specifically emphasizes the owner’s passivity in this process – “But a firstborn that is born…one shall not consecrate it…it belongs to the Lord” (27:26); “Every tenth of cattle and sheep…the tenth shall be sacred to the Lord.  One shall not discern between a good or bad [animal]…” (27:32-33).  In these two instances, the animal is automatically endowed with kedusha, without any involvement on the part of the owner.  A firstborn ox or sheep exits the womb endowed with sanctity, and as a herdsman counts his sheep, the tenth automatically obtains hekdesh status, regardless of its quality and irrespective of the herdsman’s preferences.  This is not the case with regard to ma’aser sheni – the tithe of agricultural produce which is consecrated and then eaten in Jerusalem.  Although the Torah requires a farmer to consecrate a tenth of his produce for this purpose, the farmer enjoys the freedom to decide which produce to designate.  In fact, even after he consecrates the tithe, he has the ability to renege on his decision and “buy” the produce back (albeit at additional 20% cost), just as in the case of voluntary hekdesh.

            It emerges, then, that the Torah establishes here three models of hekdesh.  At one extreme, there is voluntary hekdesh, where the entire process is initiated by the individual.  At the opposite end, the laws of bekhor beheima and ma’aser beheima unilaterally impose the status of hekdesh upon a person’s property, without offering him any role in the consecration process.  In between these two extremes is ma’aser sheni, an institution which on the one hand requires a person to consecrate a portion of his percentages, but at the same time empowers him to determine precisely which possessions are consecrated.

            Symbolically, this spectrum might reflect the range of models of sanctity that exist according to the Torah’s outlook.  We might have asked, are people naturally holy?  Is there anything that automatically connects our lives to sanctity and Godliness, such that we are all endowed with holiness even if we make no effort to cultivate any such quality?  Or, is kedusha something that depends on human initiative and effort, a status that we achieve only if we proactively pursue it?  And, if kedusha indeed needs to be pursued, how do we go about this pursuit?  Do we follow a particular, preset route, or can/must we chart our own individual route through creativity and innovation?

            The final chapter of Sefer Vayikra appears to answer “yes” to all these questions.  Kedusha is both innate and achieved, and the achievement of kedusha occurs both through a fixed set of rules and through creativity and originality.  On the one hand, like the model of bekhor beheima and ma’aser beheima, we are all connected to God, to kedusha, regardless of any effort we make to develop such a bond.  We are automatically bound by virtue of our humanity, of our soul, of the divine spark with which we were created, to the Almighty and to holiness.  At the same time, however, we must work actively to cultivate and nurture this bond.  Ma’aser sheni signifies our pursuit of kedusha according to the fixed format of Halakha, where we are given limited choice and range in determining how and where to develop our sanctity.  But in addition, the Torah allows us to make our own voluntary consecrations – albeit within certain guidelines – inviting us to chart our own individual courses in the pursuit of kedusha.  Alongside our natural, ingrained status of holiness, we are required to pursue kedusha both by strictly following the Torah’s rules and through our own creativity and ingenuity, harnessing our individual talents and strengths for the purpose of nurturing and strengthening our connection to our Creator.

Thursday

            Parashat Bechukotai features the tokhecha, the description of the horrors God threatens to visit upon Benei Yisrael if they disobey His laws.  This section ends with God’s promise to remain faithful to His covenant with the patriarchs even should He be compelled to drive Benei Yisrael into exile on account of their wrongdoing.  Rashi (26:42) famously observes that in this verse, where God makes mention of His covenant with the three patriarchs, the name “Yaakov” is spelled unusually, with an extra letter vav.  This is one of five instances in Tanakh where Yaakov is spelled this way, and Rashi writes that they correspond to the five instances where the name “Eliyahu” is spelled without the final vav that normally appears at the end of the prophet’s name.  Rashi explains, “Yaakov seized a letter from Eliyahu’s name as a guarantee that he will come to announce the redemption of his descendants.”  Yaakov “seized” the extra letter as a form of collateral, guaranteeing that Eliyahu will return to the world from which he had been taken, to prepare Am Yisrael for our final redemption.

            In what way does Yaakov intervene on our behalf to guarantee our redemption?  What is the deeper meaning behind Rashi’s depiction of Yaakov’s “manipulation” of Eliyahu?

            Eliyahu lived during what may have been the Jewish people’s darkest spiritual moment, when the Northern Kingdom of Israel under King Achav formally breached their covenant with God by embracing the idolatrous ba’al worship.  Eliyahu fought zealously against the nation’s abandonment of God, but despite his temporary success at Mount Carmel, it was soon determined that the nation was not quite ready for his efforts to bring them back to the Almighty.  He was thus taken from the world alive, and, as the prophet Malakhi famously informs us in the final words of prophecy spoken before the end of the prophetic era, he will return to us before the final redemption, when we will once and for all be prepared to receive his guidance and instruction and fully repent.

            The promise of Eliyahu’s ultimate return might be met with some skepticism among many.  Is it really possible that the Jewish people will one day be ready for Eliyahu?  After periods of widespread abandonment of Torah, can we really imagine a time when we will sit at Eliyahu’s feet, accept his admonitions, heed his warnings and follow his instructions?  After periods when we have sunken to the depths of ignorance, neglect and even disdain of Torah, is the spiritual revival heralded by Eliyahu’s return possible?

            Yaakov Avinu is the answer to this question.  Yaakov was unique among the three patriarchs in that he was driven from the promised land but then returned.  His contribution (among many, of course) to the forging of the Israelite nation was the concept of return, the possibility of restoration after a period of exile.  Yaakov demonstrated that the destiny of Am Yisrael could be achieved even after significant setbacks and the derailment of the process, that even after being banished from our homeland we can return and build it anew.  And in this sense, perhaps, Yaakov guarantees Eliyahu’s arrival.  The precedent of exile and restoration reassures us of the eventuality of spiritual revival.  Just as Yaakov could return to his homeland after years in exile, similarly, his descendants can return to the Almighty after centuries of abandonment.  His example is the “guarantee,” the assurance, of Eliyahu’s arrival.  The story of his exile and return shows us that although we have not been ready to greet Eliyahu for many centuries, the possibility of spiritual return remains.

            Rashi’s comments perhaps assume special relevance in contemporary times.  The Jewish people’s physical return to their homeland after millennia of exile reassures us of our eventual spiritual return.  If we were able to return home and restore our sovereignty in our homeland after two thousand years of dispersion, following the model of Yaakov Avinu, then we are also capable of returning to God and Torah after generations of assimilation and spiritual decline.  The “Yaakov” phenomenon which we witness in our times serves as our guarantee that we will witness “Eliyahu,” as well, that we will return to God just as we’ve returned to our land, paving the way for our long-awaited final redemption.

Friday

            The first blessing which God promises in Parashat Bechukotai in reward for our Torah observance is “ve-natati gishmeikhem be-itam” – rains that fall “in their time” (26:4).  Rashi, citing Torat Kohanim, explains this phrase as referring to rainfall on Shabbat eve, when people generally stay home.  The Torah promises rainfall that not only adequately provides the nation’s agricultural needs, but also minimizes inconvenience and discomfort.

            On one level, Rashi’s comments underscore the theme of harmony with nature that characterizes this set of verses.  God promises to reward Benei Yisrael through nature’s “cooperation” with their efforts to survive and prosper, as rain will fall, the ground will produce its yield without complications, and wild beasts will not overrun the land.  Ever since Adam and Chava’s banishment from Gad Eden, mankind has had to live in a constant state of struggle with nature, which often acts hostilely and sabotages our attempts to live comfortably and peacefully on the earth.  When this tension is eliminated, the elements not only cooperate in the process of production of food and other resources, but also minimize the people’s exertion and discomfort in this process.  An extreme manifestation of this easing of the tension with nature is the type of rainfall described by Rashi, which provides the needed water without inconveniencing people or causing them discomfort.

            There may, however, be an additional dimension to this particular aspect of the blessing (as noted by Rav Yissachar Frand).  Rainfall represents the part of the agricultural process over which the farmer has no control.  As hard as he works, his efforts will be fruitless without God’s blessing of rainfall.  It is perhaps significant that, according to Rashi, the greatest manifestation of God’s blessing and reward occurs when rain falls on Shabbat – on the day when the farmer must desist from his work.  God here promises that on the day the farmer is unable to tend to his fields, God does His work in the fields, so-to-speak.  Specifically on Shabbat, when the people are barred from working – precisely then God steps in to do His share of the job.  The Shabbat rains demonstrate how the Almighty’s “efforts” are needed to supplement ours.  On the day when we do not do our work, God does His, thus showing us in an especially meaningful way that the success of our work is dependent upon His ongoing assistance and blessing.