This line in Parshat Re’eh has always struck me as particularly vivid. I can almost hear the voice of the tempter, whispering, like drug-dealer on the corner: “Hey, you. Come over here. I’ve got something you should try.”
But who is this tempter? Who is it that wants to lure you away to idolatry? Is it a wicked witch? Or a foreign priest, looking for new recruits? No, nothing so sinister. The verses that describe this case – known in Jewish Law as the Meisit (מסית), or ‘the enticer,’ – give several examples of potential enticers:
If your brother, your own mother’s son, or your son or daughter, or the wife of your bosom, or your neighbor who is just like you, entices you in secret, saying, “Come, let us go worship other gods” – whom neither you nor your ancestors have known – from among the gods of the peoples around you, near and far, from one end of the earth to the other, do not assent or listen to them. (Deut. 13:7-9)
So this is a family matter. Your brother, your spouse, your closest friend. Someone you know well – someone you love – is trying to peel you away from the faith. The case of the Meisit is defined, in the legal codes, specifically as an instance of one Jew trying to bring another Jew to worship foreign gods. That is, writes Rabbi Isaac Abarbanel (1437–1508), precisely what makes the offer so difficult to refuse:
Because it is due to the brotherhood and the closeness between them that they will listen to one another and take advice from one another, and each believe what the other says.
לפי שמפאת האחוה וההשתוות אשר ביניהם ישמעו יותר זה לזה ויתיעצו בעניניהם ויאמינו בדבריהם
This family feeling, then, makes us particularly vulnerable to temptation. So the Torah has to warn us to always be on guard against idolatry – even with those closest to us. That seems to be the point of this extended cautionary against enticement.
But a careful look at Rashi’s comments on the verse points us in a different direction. He begins with a concern with the precise meaning of the Hebrew word, meisit, which we have so far translated as, ‘enticing’ – like something alluring or seductive. Rashi’s definition is slightly more aggressive:
This ‘enticing’ (hasata – הסתה) is actually a ‘provoking.’
אין הסתה אלא גרוי
Rashi seems to be suggesting that the Meisit is not just someone who invites you to do what they do, but someone who is deliberately trying to get you to do something wrong. Then Rashi gives an example – and it’s a surprising one, given the case we’ve been discussing so far:
As it says (in I Samuel 26:19), “If the Lord has provoked you against me…”
שנאמר (שמואל א’ כו, יט) אם ה’ הסיתך בי
The context here is the future King, David, protesting against Saul’s ongoing pursuit of him. He cannot understand why King Saul would persecute him so. Notably, David also sees his exile as an abandonment from God:
For they have driven me out today, so that I cannot have a share in the Lord’s possession, but am told, “Go and worship other gods…”
כִּֽי־גֵרְשׁ֣וּנִי הַיּ֗וֹם מֵהִסְתַּפֵּ֜חַ בְּנַחֲלַ֤ת ה לֵאמֹ֔ר לֵ֥ךְ עֲבֹ֖ד אֱלֹהִ֥ים אֲחֵרִֽים
There is the parallel between this passage and the case of the Meisit in Deuteronomy. And that is surely part of why the brilliant Rashi chooses this passage, of all the examples of “provocation” in the Bible.
And yet, in another sense, it is a rather strange example. For who is the Meisit in this instance? Who is the provocateur? It is God! Saul is pursuing David, but it is “The Lord” who has “provoked” him to do so.
Now, if we read that connection back into our warning against being tempted into idolatry, it almost seems as if Rashi is implying that God could be the one provoking us into abandoning our faith.
But before we take that line of inquiry too far, perhaps you’re thinking, that interpretation is just too much of a stretch. Just because Rashi’s example of word usage for Meisit happens to come from a verse in which God is the subject, does not mean that he intends us to see God as a possible “inciter” to idolatry. What would that even mean, anyway?!
Lo and behold, however, we have yet another example of the same kind of connection, in the commentary of another medieval rabbi - Rashi’s grandson, Samuel ben Meir: The Rashbam (1085-1158) Here is his definition of ‘encitement,’ or ‘provocation’:
Any advice whose consequence is disaster.
כל עצה שסופה פורענות קורא הסתה
Okay. And his first example?
“The Lord said to Satan, “Have you noticed my servant Job? There is no one like him on earth, a pure and righteous man who fears God and shuns evil. He still maintains his purity, but you have provoked Me against him, to destroy him for no good reason.” (Job. 2:3)
Again God is the one pushing an innocent man to turn against God. This time, however, darker forces are also involved. Satan is named as the “provoker” in this case.
Now, it must be said, Jewish theology does not have the same conception of Satan as the ruler of the underworld and the enemy of God that we find in other religious traditions. Instead, in the Book of Job, the figure of Satan is an angel who acts as a kind of adversarial lawyer, arguing a case against the worth of humanity, and trying to convince God to do away with us.
The point is, neither Rashi nor the Rashbam, when they look at our case of the Meisit in Deuteronomy, turn first to examples of human beings who cause other human beings to lose their faith. Instead, each of them selects an example that points to greater forces at work in creating the enticements and provocations that sometimes lead us astray.
Why did they leap so quickly to verses with such grand theological implications? It is difficult to draw out from their brief citations exactly what were their larger philosophies of faith and human action. But at a minimum, it seems that they were uneasy with the idea that our friends and families are the sole determiners of our belief systems and religious choices. Instead, they seem to be saying, if we really believe that there is only one, true, all-powerful God, then, by definition, that God must also bear some responsibility for our faith – or lack thereof.
We're so proud that Kevah has been recognized as one of the top 50 innovative Jewish organizations in Slingshot 13-14 - and we're excited to be in such great company. Mazel tov!
This article originally appeared in Pardes Institute's Havruta Magazine.
Four years ago, Sara Heitler Bamberger met with four friends asking, "How come more young adults in the Bay Area don't learn Torah?" From these meetings Kevah, an organization which supports a grassroots Jewish learning movement, was born.
Sara became its founding Executive Director and at the start had just two Torah study groups that met every other week. This year Kevah will be providing educators, cirricular resources and administrative support to 75-100 groups of 8-14 people, with new groups being launched weekly in Denver, Boulder, LA, New York and San Francisco.
"It's an exciting time to be a Jewish social entrepreneur in the Bay Area, where there is a lot of interest in how to deliver quality Jewish content with a 21st century twist," Sara says. "Pardes enabled me to have the experience of savoring the diversity and complexity of the Jewish textual tradition. Kevah' vision is to try to bring the core of the Pardes experience - learning classical Jewish texts with amazing teachers in the company of close friends - to a broad cross-section of Jews."
As a mother of five, Sara truly understands the needs of her target audience. "I've tried to create an organization that enables people like me, a committed Jew who has trouble squeezing learning between my family commitments and my job, to set aside time to learn Torah."
From the JWeekly: Rabbi's street cred paved the way for next leaders
This post originally appeared on Kevah.org.
You can’t walk 10 feet these days without bumping into the Talmud. This summer, San Francisco–based G-dcast held a weeklong animation workshop for college students responding to Talmud stories. At the same time, East Bay residents Dan Fendel and Sheldon Schaffer completed a rigorous, 71⁄2-year Talmud-page-a-day study marathon — the first in East Bay history. And this fall, Lehrhaus Judaica and Kevah have partnered to offer 12 cohorts of Talmud study throughout the Bay Area, double the number they offered last year.
Rabbi David Stolper (center) and staff of the Central Hebrew School of the Jewish Educational Society circa 1926
This level of Talmud study would have surprised and delighted Rabbi David Stolper, who in 1926 became principal of the Central Hebrew School of the Jewish Educational Society. The legendary Lithuanian-born educator helped change the region’s culture of traditional Jewish learning from a chaotic and underfunded venture into a more organized and inspiring voyage.
Born in yeshiva-soaked Vilna, but with a secular Vienna education, Rabbi Stolper arrived in San Francisco with both traditional credentials and a modern sensibility. His pioneering “street cred” was likely burnished by his creation of a Jewish school in Siberia after the Russian Revolution, before crossing the Pacific with his wife. For 20 years, at his headquarters at Buchanan and Grove streets in the Fillmore District, Rabbi Stolper inspired hundreds of students (including Rabbi Emeritus H. David Teitelbaum from Congregation Beth Jacob in Redwood City) to study, lead services and pave the way for the next generation of Jewish leaders.
This column is written by Daniel Schifrin, writer-in-residence at the Contemporary Jewish Museum, where stories of local Jewish life are explored in “California Dreaming: Jewish Life in the Bay Area from the Gold Rush to the Present.”
This column originally appeared in the JWeekly, and is written by Daniel Schifrin
The mostest difficult challenge I’ve ever undertaken was studying Talmud. I say “studying” like it was a college course on Derrida or Russian, both of which I found significantly easier. At least they have punctuation.
I took a Talmud class 20 years ago in Jerusalem. We met three times a week and, in a year, we got through 10 pages. It’s that hard.
So why are so many Jews suddenly taking it up? Here in the Bay Area, there are now dozens of classes, with hundreds of students. Some have been going on for years; others are just launching this fall. This is hard, hard stuff that takes a lot of commitment — 71⁄2 years of daily study to get through the Daf Yomi, a page-a-day cycle followed by Jews around the world.
What’s going on?
First, new translations have made Talmud more accessible to English speakers. In 2005, ArtScroll came out with its 73-volume Schottenstein Talmud, in English and the original Aramaic/Hebrew, and this past May, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz published the first volume of his much-anticipated new English translation of the Talmud. While slogging through the original text is absolutely required for real understanding, having the English in front of you makes it a lot easier.
The immediate impetus, however, might have been widespread Siyum HaShas celebrations Aug. 2, organized to mark the completion of the latest Daf Yomi cycle. More than 90,000 people, mostly Orthodox men, jammed into the stadium formerly known as the Meadowlands in New Jersey for the biggest and most publicized party; smaller ones took place worldwide.
A Talmud party! Woo-hoo! Yet it seems to have touched off a phenomenon. Last month, the JTA Jewish news service wrote about newbies who, in the wake of the New Jersey gathering, joined the new Daf Yomi cycle that began the next day.
“It did spark a lot of interest,” says Rabbi Joey Felsen, who heads up the Jewish Study Network, which launched a Daf Yomi group 71⁄2 years ago in Palo Alto. Six men finished that cycle, and more have joined the new group, which meets every day at 5:30 a.m. (before morning prayers, natch).
For those who can’t quite stomach the hour, Felsen launched a second Daf Yomi group in the evening, made up entirely of new students. Other Talmud groups meet in San Francisco.
And it’s not just the Orthodox. Reform Temple Isaiah in Walnut Creek has held a Thursday Talmud class for more than a decade; this month, it’s launching a second weekly class, on Sundays.
“It’s not dry,” says Rabbi Shalom Bochner of Berkeley’s Conservative Congregation Netivot Shalom, where he started a weekly Talmud class soon after he arrived 31⁄2 years ago. “The fun is the constant question and answer, the back and forth. It’s like a strange board game that has its own logic.”
Bochner’s group is on page 38a of the 64-page tractate “Berachot.” That’s about half a page a week. “We’re on the 75-year cycle,” he says. But he has no doubt his regulars will stick with it.
“There are so few topics that excite people to this level,” he says.
The mother of all Bay Area Talmud classes might be the one started by Rabbi Peretz Wolf-Prusan 22 years ago in San Francisco, a project of Reform Congregation Emanu-El. It’s drawn an average of 20 people a week ever since.
When Wolf-Prusan parted ways with Emanu-El two years ago and joined Lehrhaus Judaica, his Talmud class followed him. In the fall of 2011, Lehrhaus joined with Kevah, the Berkeley-based catalyst for adult Jewish text learning, and Steinsaltz’s New York–based Aleph Society, to create the Bay Area Community Talmud Circle, a consortium of grassroots-generated study groups.
Last year they ran six groups. This month, the second year is launching with 11 cohorts in Berkeley, Marin and San Francisco and on the Peninsula.
Apparently, the Bay Area was the only place in the country to take up the Aleph Society’s challenge of creating community-wide Talmud study groups.
“They were pretty surprised there is so much interest in Talmud in the Bay Area,” Wolf-Prusan says. “We’re not known for our frumkeit.” (That’s “religiosity,” for the Yiddishly-challenged.)
Full disclosure? Last winter I joined a Kevah Talmud group. Who knows where it will lead.
Come on in, the water’s fine.
Taken from the JWeekly, a column by Sue Fishkoff
Sue Fishkoff is the editor of j., and can be reached at [email protected].
We're delighted that Kevah is part of George Altshuler's search for independent and communal, spirtitual and religious Judaism.
This column originally appeared in the JWeekly, and is written by George Altshuler.
Growing up in San Francisco, I’d often hear people describe themselves as “spiritual, but not religious.” While many people who said this wanted to distance themselves from traditional religions, I also believe this statement expresses a desire to think independently and create one’s own religious path.
While I’ve always taken pride in being Jewish (my bar mitzvah speech ended with a resounding — and voluntary — vow to continue Jewish study past my confirmation), I’ve also followed this approach of pursuing a spiritual life independently.
I’ve had spiritual moments in nature that I didn’t experience in terms of my Judaism; my religious life has been informed by other religions; and, like many Jews, I’ve developed my own approach to the High Holy Days. But, more generally, I’ve simply felt that I was making decisions and forming my spiritual life by myself.
This practice of individual spirituality may seem to go against tradition, but one could say that there is a longstanding and rich history in this country of going about religion independently.
Two of the great figures of American religious life are Thomas Jefferson and Ralph Waldo Emerson, and the most enduring images of these two men, for me at least, are of each one alone. There’s Jefferson by himself in his study literally cutting and pasting a new version of the Bible together, and there’s Emerson alone in the woods losing himself in nature.
As someone who has had spiritual moments alone and values solitary reflection on these types of questions, part of me will always fit into this mold of going about religion alone.
And yet my individual efforts have sometimes nagged me as being a little too solitary. On a break from college five or so years ago, I returned to a place on the Sonoma County coast where I had previously felt spiritually connected, and things just didn’t mesh this time. After a day of reading and hiking, I drove away feeling mostly bored and unfulfilled.
But gradually, as I’ve grown older, I have begun to learn about and experience the more personal parts of religion with other people, and in particular, with other Jews.
During my time at Middlebury College in Vermont, I gained close friends through the campus Hillel, and I became more comfortable discussing my spirituality in terms of Judaism. From study sessions with eight or so people that went late into the night to small Havdallah services, it was empowering to be part of a group whose members were dedicated to learning about Judaism and living better Jewish lives.
Since I’ve graduated from college, I’ve found more Jewish groups with which to learn, including a new philosophy study group facilitated by Kevah, the nonprofit that organizes Jewish study groups.
Sitting around a table with a group of people focused on religious study has been energizing, and it has also offered me a reminder that collective values such as tikkun olam and a commitment to social justice are key parts of religious life.
Through it all, however, I still value the autonomous approach to religion. As Emerson once warned, one must experience religion firsthand or risk “stale” religion. But even the American tradition of religious autonomy contains an appreciation for the importance of exchanges with others. Jefferson, for example, justified freedom of religion in part by saying that it would enable debate that would in turn be good for people’s religious experiences.
Debate and engaging in conversation are of course critical components of the Jewish religious tradition, as exemplified by the Talmud and its commentaries. There are plenty of examples of Jews engaging in religious study in groups: We have yeshivas and hevrutah, the practice of studying in pairs. And for me, compiling the calendar for j. has provided a weekly window into the logistics of how Jews love to get together and exchange ideas.
In the Babylonian Talmud, Rabbah bar bar Hannah asks why God compares his words to fire in Jeremiah 23:29. The rabbi’s answer? God does this “in order to teach you that just as a fire cannot burn alone, so too the words of Torah cannot prevail in isolation.”
Maybe I needed a minyan with me that time on the Sonoma coast.
George Altshuler lives in San Francisco. He can be reached at [email protected].
