Discovery
Thoughts on Parashat Mishpatim 2020
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Ma’amad Har Sinai was a once-in-existence experience of absolute
revelation. Parashat Yitro’s detailed description of the sounds and
lights of Sinai portrays the profound exposure to Am
Yisrael at that time. Parashat Mishpatim’s account of Moshe’s
ascension to receive the luhot, in contrast, depicts a scene of
vagueness and obscurity. The people’s vision at the time that he
departed was blurred by a “consuming fire” engulfed by an effacing cloud
(Shemot 23:15-18).
The Hakhamim hinted at the opposite natures which underlay these two events, as well, in their retelling of the stories. Describing the people’s supernatural
retention of every detail and particularity of the Torah at the time of its
reception at Sinai,[1] the Rabbis contrarily
described Moshe’s repeated “forgetting” of the Torah over the course of his
forty-day rendezvous atop the mountain en
route to receiving
the luhot.[2]
While the importance of God’s
revelation to an entire nation at Har Sinai is easily understood, His reason
for presenting the luhot in the hidden atmosphere of clouds and
forgetfulness requires an explanation.
Several years ago, one of my
sons returned home from school with an assignment. He needed to interview a
parent and record their memories of September 11th, 2001. I
volunteered to be interviewed. Midway through my retelling of what happened on
that day in my life, my wife passed by the room. She overheard my recollection
and just couldn’t hold back. “I was together with Abba on that day,” she told
my son, “and I need to correct a few details in his story.” I, in turn,
dismissed her “corrections,” causing my son to look up at the two of us and
confusedly ask, “So, which one of you is right?” Laughing at the absurdity of
this all-too-typical situation, I explained to him the difference between
“history” and “memory.” History must record the absolute and objective
facts of an earlier time. Memory, however, is the reflective state of
reliving that time as it was then experienced and subsequently understood.
“Your assignment is not to research the history of 9/11,” I explained to
my son, “but rather to record the memory of one of your parents.” And
for that both my wife and I were “right.”
Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi
relatedly noticed that the Rabbis of the Talmud were uninterested in recording
history. Neglecting an account of post-biblical history, they showed no effort
to preserve even that which had taken place in the ages immediately prior to
their own. He furthermore noted that the Hakahamim’s retelling of
biblical events demonstrates a certain indifference to history, as well, as
they “seem to play with Time as though with an accordion, expanding and
collapsing it at will.” In the Rabbis’ eyes, Adam instructed his son Shet in
the Torah, Shem and Ever established a bet midrash, and the forefathers
institute the three daily tefilot. “Classical rabbinic literature was
never intended as historiography,” Yerushalmi explained, “Instead they were
engrossed in an ongoing exploration of the meaning of the history bequeathed to
them, striving to interpret it in living terms for their own and later
generations.”[3] The Hakhamim thus
turned their focus from retelling the facts of history to articulating
its meaning in memory.
Stretching beyond the realm of
history and memory, however, blotting out certain
objective realities and past precedents from our thoughts may aide
our own perception and creativity. Israeli psychologists Daniel Kahaneman and
Amos Tversky realized that what people remember about the past is likely to
warp their judgment of the future. “We often decide that an outcome is
extremely unlikely or impossible because we are unable to imagine any chain of
events that would cause it to occur,” they wrote. Kahaneman likewise remarked, regarding the study of memory, “You
don’t study memory. You study forgetting.”[4]
The late neurologist Oliver
Sacks recalled once
rummaging through his old
notebooks and finding that many of the thoughts he had recorded in them were
forgotten for years, later revived by him and reworked as new. He realized a
positive aspect to those “forgettings,” suggesting that “creativity may require
such forgettings, in order that one’s memories and ideas can be born again and
seen in new contexts and perspectives.” [5] R.
Joseph B. Soloveitchik z”l would likewise instruct his students to
ignore their notes from past classes on the material they were then learning.
He was forcing them to creatively engage with the text from an unbiased vantage
point, free of any preconceived perspective or thought.[6]
“R. Yohanan said: Initially, Moshe would study Torah and forget it,
until it was given to him as a gift” (Nedarim 38a). R. Yehezkel Landau z”l, the
great 18th Century rabbi of Prague, explained the nature of that
“gift” of Torah which Moshe received by referencing another statement of the Hakhamim:
“Rava says: Initially the Torah is called by the name of the Holy One Blessed
be He, but ultimately it is called by the name [of the one who studies it]”
(Avodah Zarah 19a). R. Landau thus suggested that the “gift” of Torah
bestowed upon Moshe
was his ability to claim it “as his own.”[7] In light of
our above analysis we might further suggest that Moshe
could only acquire the Torah “as his own” by means of approaching it with the
wide eyes and open mind of an individual whose previous knowledge and
perspective were wiped clean through “forgetting.” It was his fresh and unprejudiced
engagement with the Torah that allowed for his heart’s creative capacity to
emerge from its dormancy, finding expression in the words of God.
By
contrasting Moshe’s mysterious reception of the luhot to the clarity of Ma’amad
Har Sinai, the Torah shined light on the ideal engagement with its texts.
It taught that its letters and words encompass a potential far greater than any
static book of stories and law. The cloudy scene of Matan HaLuhot presented
the Torah as an unimagined reality awaiting the creative discovery of all
future seekers. It beckoned us to move beyond a mere reading of the Torah,
encouraging us instead to dig deep and discover its depth.
[1] See Commentary of Rashi
to Vayikra 25:1, s.v. be-har Sinai, and HaRambam’s Introduction to
Commentary on Mishnah.
[2] Nedarim 38a.
[3] Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, Zakhor: Jewish History
and Jewish Memory (Seattle, WA, 1996), pg. 16-20.
[4] Michael Lewis, The Undoing
Project: A Friendship that Changed Our Minds (New York, NY, 2017), pg.
194-195 and 129.
[5] Oliver Sacks, The River of Consciousness (New
York, NY, 2017), pg. 108.
[6] See, e.g., R. Herschel
Reichman’s recollection in Mentor of Generations: Reflections on Rabbi
Joseph B. Soloveitchik (Jersey City, NJ, 2008), pg. 206-207.
[7] R. Yehezkel Landau, Siyun
LeNefesh Hayah: Berakhot 64a. Note that R. Landau’s particular elaboration
differs from our above extension.