Mordechai Balshan Haya | Rav Breuer on Scripture

Mordechai Balshan Haya - Rav Mordechai Breuer's Method of Studying the Scripture

by Rav Oren Duvdevani (Hesder Machzor 23)

Mordechai Balshan Haya - An untranslatable pun; the Midrash identifies Mordechai with Bilshan, another of the leaders of the Jews returning from exile, see Ezra 2:2.  "Balshan" in Hebrew means a linguist, so the title means "Mordechai was a linguist."

This article first appeared in English in Alei Etzion Vol. 7. It was edited and translated by Rav David Fuchs (Hesder Machzor 24).

 

            Ever since the Torah was given, commentators have grappled with a dilemma of how to explain the simple, literal meaning of the verses, while illuminating the profound morals, ideas and beliefs expressed within them.[1]

 

            In the quest for finding the true pshat,[2] the first issue to address is defining what the term 'pshat' means.  In attempting to define the term, many suggestions focus on the 'original meaning of the author' in contrast to the drash, which develops from the reader's impression.  Some claim that pshat stems from the literal meaning of the verse; others direct their efforts towards the meaning within the context of the entire passage or chapter.  An alternate approach, developed by Rabbi David Tzvi Hoffman,[3] understands pshat as "the Torah's meaning as understood by the generation it was given to."[4]  Even Rashi, the greatest of the Torah's commentators, often testifies "I only endeavor to explain the basic meaning of Scripture's text,"[5] however, his commentary does not allow classifying him as merely a plain expositor of the text.  As demonstrated in the following article, any of these standard approaches leaves some fundamental problems unanswered. 

 

            For example, the Torah states that an 'eved nirtza'[6] must serve his master "le-olam," literally translated to mean – forever.[7]  Rashbam remarks on the word "le-olam" - "According to the pshat, to the end of his days."  However, in the Mekhilta, Chazal interpret "forever, meaning fifty years."  Obviously, Chazal were not modifying the Torah based on a whim; they sincerely believed this to be the true, original meaning of the verse.  But, as Rashbam admits, its simple meaning conflicts with Chazal's understanding.[8]  This serves as a striking example to the connection between our subject, and a broader and deeper question: How are we to regard Chazal's Midrashim,[9] when reading the Scripture?

 

            Rav Breuer approaches the topic using Chazal's classical dictum "The Torah speaks with a human language."  In light of this phrase, Rav Breuer believes the Torah's language should be understood and analyzed as a human one, with its own grammar, syntax and style, thereby lending itself to both linguistic and literary analysis.  In reference to a divine text, this analysis might seem inappropriate or even pretentious, but Rav Breuer claims only that the means which He uses to convey His message are independently important, and can therefore be treated on their own merit.  This does not deny the existence, or even the halakhic priority, of the "divine language" with all its implications, but it acknowledges the necessity of understanding the human language Hashem employs. The very fact that it is used by Him testifies to its independent significance.

 

            Based upon this assumption, Rav Breuer arrives at a new understanding of the term 'pshat.'  The divine language used in the Torah is fairly ambiguous, often elusive, and always multidimensional.  Although some are applied in the Midrash, and glimpses of them appear in the works of traditional mystics, no concrete definitions or appropriate applications have been established.  However, the Torah can be explained through the human language used and this study and analysis of the text forms part of the mitzva of talmud Torah.

 

            Focusing on the language the Torah uses leads to a new problem, the realization that the Torah's language is not monolithic.  Rather, it appears to be the language of several human beings, often differing in vocabulary and style and sometimes even in views and beliefs.  Modern scholars have made an extensive use of this phenomenon, seeing in it a prove of their claim that the Torah is not one book, but a compilation of several sources – thus denying its divine origin, sacredness and  authority. Due to historical reasons, for generations Orthodox Jewry was sadly lacking an effective answer; Rav Breuer is the first to provide one.

 

            The Rishonim[10] devoted considerable effort to tackling pshat problems.  Many of the disputes between them are based on different understandings of Jewish history, Hebrew grammar and even literary coherence and elegance.  However, later generations have abstained from study of these fields, reaching a near-total negligence of learning Tanakh.  Every child learned the Torah with Rashi's commentary at an early age never to return for a more mature and serious study.  Any new ideas developed from Tanakh were limited to either allegories, written for their social, political and historical atmosphere, or belonged to the more mysterious worlds of Kabbala and Chassidut [i.e., exploring the 'divine language' of the Torah].  Pshat study was demoted to a superfluous subject not respected as talmud Torah proper but rather an auxiliary instrument for understanding cross-references in other texts.

 

            On the other hand, the Gentile world saw many researchers delving into the depths of the Torah's text.  In the period of the Enlightenment, the attempt to disprove the Torah's divine origin provided a major battlefield in the conflict between the 'enlightened' secular scholars, and the reactionary established religions.

 

            In 1753, a Frenchman named Astruc published a treatise discussing the origins of the book of Genesis, proving it to be an incoherent, patched-up narrative.  He pointed out duplicities of incidents starkly contradicting each other, inconsistent vocabulary[11] and an awkward structure.  He therefore concluded, it was not one text but rather a combination of several sources, put together and poorly stitched by a singularly incapable editor.  His work was hailed as a major breakthrough in the Bible's critical research, and many followed in his footsteps.

 

            The Jewish leaders of the time reacted strongly to the new science.  The questions raised, the answers supplied and the revolutionary conclusions suggested were immediately embraced by the Secularist and Reform movements, and promptly rejected by the Orthodox establishment.[12]  To Astruc and his followers the Orthodox attributed anti-Semitism while his Jewish admirers and disciples were branded as ignorant, atheists and overwhelmed with self-hatred.  A few intellectuals attempted to reconcile traditional belief with the new doctrine of multiple sources but were marginalized as heretics.  Accordingly, virtually no serious attempt was conducted within mainstream Orthodox circles to challenge the new theories.

 

            One major exception to this trend was led by Rabbi David Tzvi Hoffman zt"l, who dedicated his life to disproving this doctrine.  In the introduction to his commentary on the Chumash, he attempts to undermine their reasoning and logic while, for argument's sake, granting their assumption of the Torah's "multiple sources."  But he was hardly successful.

 

            In the midst of this confusion, Rav Breuer finds a new starting point. The very fact that the Torah is so bewilderingly complex, and uses such a wide variety of human languages, proves that it could not have been written by a single person (not even Astruc's muddle-witted editor).     And, once we accept its divine origin, these contradictions and inconsistencies are not denied, but rather studied carefully. They are understood as accenting critical nuances of the text, revealing new depths by apparent discrepancies, such as the simultaneous commandment of "shamor" and "zakhor."[13]

 

            The inner contradictions provide an integral part of the true pshat.  The Torah seeks a complex, multi-faceted description rather than a simple one developed through ambiguity.  A parallel could be drawn from the world of Kabbala where the Patriarchs are each associated with three of the attributes of the Lord.  Avraham symbolizes the attribute of "Chesed,"[14] Yitzchak - "Gevura,"[15] and Yaakov - "Tif'eret"[16] which synthesizes Gevura with Chesed.  The two basic attributes, Chesed and Gevura, should at first be distinctly portrayed by two different people.  Only after the exposition of these attributes in their pure form, can they be reconciled, and Tif'eret achieved. 

 

            The same principles apply to the Torah.  The different 'authors' of the Torah actually express the multiple attributes of God.  Those attributes occasionally differ, and even contradict each other.  Therefore, the Torah offers several distinct accounts, as if written by different people, to be edited by the Divine Author.  Under these assumptions, the study of pshat consists of three stages:

 

            1.  Dissecting the text, separating its different narratives, accounts and/or layers.

            2.  Studying and analyzing carefully each of these subtexts on its own.

            3.  Trying to understand the synthesis of the subtexts, both their construction and their mechanics, and finally as a single complete text with a new message.

 

            The last point[17] could be further developed.  It is precisely because the Torah was given from heaven, with Moses functioning as no more than a medium, as expressed in "He dictated all these words to me, and I wrote them with ink in the book,"[18] that apparent contradictions should not be disturbing.  To the human eye, many of God's acts and attributes seem paradoxical.  However, He is the originator of all the fragments of reality.  God's unity is actually enhanced by the multiplicity of His attributes.  He is the supreme Judge; yet, simultaneously, He is also merciful.[19]

 

            Three examples of the way Rav Breuer applies his discoveries will help clarify the novelty of his approach.

 

            The first and most striking example is the apparent contradiction between the first two chapters of the Torah.  Two radically different accounts are given of the Creation.  In Genesis 1:12 vegetation is created, long before Man.  But in 2:5 it is stated that nothing could grow without Man's existence, and indeed, it follows his creation.  Rashi[20] solves this problem using an okimta.[21]  He explains that vegetation was created on the third day, but did not grow - or rather grew up until the surface of the Earth, and stayed there, waiting for Man.  Though this brilliant solution contains a profound message about Man's relationship to Nature, it has a serious deficiency: the lack of any textual basis.

 

            Rav Breuer claims the contradiction provides an essential insight into the description of creation.  The Torah describes two different accounts of the Creation, because two "worlds" were created.  In the world of chapter I, the title Elokim is used to describe Hashem, and in the world of chapter II - the name YHWH (Hashem).  This difference captures the distinct nature of each world.

 

            The world of chapter I is the natural world.  Hashem creates nature and sets its rules; and having once set it in motion, He 'hides' Himself behind a veil.  Hashem hardly appears throughout history, leaving its management primarily to Man.[22]  Therefore Man must find a ready-made world, all prepared for him to rule.  Obviously, when Man appears on the scene, the entire world including vegetation must await him.

 

            The world of chapter II is different.  It is a world whose main feature is the regular presence of Hashem.  He is "walking in the garden in the breeze of the day,"[23] talking to Man, and acting.[24]   Everything happens by, and only by, Hashem's will.[25]  Man cannot rule this world, but depends on His grace; therefore, vegetation must wait for Man.[26] 

 

            The Torah reveals two aspects of the world and Hashem's role in it.  There is the natural world that Hashem, in His infinite wisdom, constructed leaving us no more than a set of rules to direct it.[27]  The rules of natural existence are simple and absolute.[28]  Simultaneously, a more mysterious world exists, where Hashem's presence can be noticed - if one only cares to relate to him.  Our duty obligates tending to the world, praying to Hashem and hoping our humble petitions will be granted.[29]  Man was given by God a double mission in this world - that of a regent, and that of a priest.[30]  These missions are not only our duties to Hashem, but to the world as well.  This dual relationship between Man and nature finds expression in the synthesis of the two opening chapters of Genesis.  The world was a complete creation before Man ever appeared on the scene, but Man is required for it to develop.  Without separating the two descriptions, the complexity of our world's portrait would remain uncovered in the Torah.  Only after understanding the uniqueness of each, can the splendor of the combination be appreciated.

 

            In this example, the task was straightforward.  The difference between the two descriptions is clear, the separation easy, and the concepts both crystallized and forceful.

 

            A second example focuses on the laws regarding a Jewish slave.[31]  These laws are discussed in three locations: parashot Mishpatim,[32] BeHar[33] and Re'eh.[34]  In Mishpatim and in Re'eh, a slave is set free once he has served his master for six years.  Refusal to accept his freedom warrants piercing of the slave's ear and lifelong servitude.  In BeHar, however, he is set free on the Jubilee,[35] and no mention is made of the piercing of anybody’s ear.

 

            The major difficulty rests in translating the word "le-olam," a problem that has been discussed above.[36]  Chazal's rendering of "le-olam" as "until the Jubilee takes place" allows using an okimta, imposing limitations in the rule and arriving at the Halakha's conclusion.  The slave is set free on the first of the two occasions: either on the sixth year of his slavery, or on the Jubilee.[37]

 

            Two problems remain with this rendering if it is not in "human language!"  The meaning of the word 'le-olam' is changed.  Additionally, the three conflicting passages remain unresolved.

 

            Rav Breuer points out another discrepancy, which holds the key to the solution.  Two different reasons are given for this commandment: in BeHar, the Torah declares, "For to Me the children of Yisrael are servants,"[38] i.e., a Jew can not be sold as a slave since his servitude can only be devoted to Hashem.  In Re'eh a different reason is given: "And thou shalt remember that thou wast a bondsman in the land of Egypt."[39]  As former slaves, Bnei Yisrael understand the slave's plight, and accordingly, should release him from bondage.

 

            Again, Rav Breuer explains that no contradiction exists; the passages complete each other, each of them highlighting a different reason why slavery should be minimized being abhorrent to both God and Man.[40]  The piercing is mentioned only in Mishpatim and Re'eh since a slave at the end of his term is similar to Bnei Yisrael after their period of bondage ended[41] and were about to be set free.  If the slave refuses redemption, he is to be punished by losing his chance "forever."  However, a slave leaving on the Jubilee is different.  Once again, the Exodus is mentioned[42] - but not as a historic event, rather as a cosmic one.  Subsequently, a Jew cannot remain a slave, not even by choice.  Accordingly, "le-olam" is rendered "until the Jubilee."  Fifty years really is forever on a different time line.  The Jubilee is a cosmic event restarting time, when life starts afresh - for the nation, for every family, for each individual.  In the world as we know it, the Jubilee can truly be considered forever. 

 

            The third example, again, confirms the value of Rav Breuer's approach.  The Torah states: "For all the wells which his father's servants had dug in the days of Avraham[43] his father, the Philistines had stopped them up, and filled them with earth[44]... And Yitzchak dug again the wells of water, which they had dug in the days of Avraham his father; for the Philistines had stopped them up after the death of Avraham; and he called their names after the names by which his father had called them."[45]  The conclusion seems obvious enough: Yitzchak re-digs the wells his father had dug before, and renames them by their original names.  However, a more careful reading of the entire passage reveals that the names are directly connected to events immediately preceding their digging, and not given long ago in the days of Avraham: "And he called the name of the well Esek, because they strove with him.  And they dug another well, and he called the name of it Sitna... and he called the name of it Rechovot; and he said: For now The Lord has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land."[46]

 

            Rav Breuer sthis contradiction by employing the same methodology.  As mentioned before, Avraham and Yitzchak represent two different character types, different personalities, and different methods of serving Hashem.  Avraham is the great revolutionary, bearing the monotheistic standard in an ignorant, idol-worshipping world.  He personifies the attribute of Chesed; everything about him is extraordinary, novel and refreshing.  Yitzchak, on the other hand, represents stability - Gevura.  Paradoxically, the heir of the revolutionary is a conservative; one who sticks to his father's vision rather than creates one of his own.  In fact, Yitzchak proves that Avraham's message was more than an interesting idea, preached by him on a one-man crusade; it is a complete, fully developed mode of life, applicable to all of humanity, however diverse.  Yitzchak digs the very same wells that Avraham had dug - but in his own way, confronting different toils and trials, and culminating in his own triumph.

 

             Though Rav Breuer's method requires a careful and painstaking study, it yields a new understanding, which may be called "Omek Hapshat."[47]  Rav Breuer often quotes Rav Kook zt"l's words in "Orot HaKodesh"[48]:

"To one who assesses all this opposition on the basis of its inner significance, it appears as illustrating the need for the spatial separation of plants, which serves as an aid to their growth, enabling them to nurture [from the earth] their needed sustenance.  Thus will each one develop to its fullness, and the distinctive characteristics of each will be formed in all its particularities.  Excessive closeness would have blurred and impaired them all.  The proper unity results only from this separation.  One begins by separation and concludes by unification."

            It seems that these words are an appropriate description of the new path of pshat, found by one of the greatest commentators of modern times.