Ta Shma

The prophets frequently castigated the Jewish people for their moral and religious failures, but they also taught us never to imagine that the door to a better future is firmly and fully closed. Comparing the criteria of the false prophets in Deuteronomy 18 to Jeremiah reveals that, according to the Tanakh, the future is open, shaped by the ongoing interaction between divine sovereignty and human freedom. Even in impossibly difficult times there are glimmers of possibility.

None of the Five Books of Moses is more passionately concerned with the plight of the vulnerable than Deuteronomy. Deuteronomy 15 operates on two levels simultaneously. At one level, it puts forward concrete solutions to the predicaments faced by the poor. But at another, deeper level, it strives to shape a social ethic, to transform Israel into a community of mutual care and concern. When confronted with the sufferings of the needy, Deuteronomy wants us to act decently and also, crucially, to care deeply.

The book of Deuteronomy repeatedly reminds Israel to love God and hold God in awe; it calls upon the people to protect the vulnerable and to care about their fate. Yet it also struggles with human stubbornness and recalcitrance. It challenges us to open our hearts even as it worries that our rebelliousness and obstinacy will prevent us from doing so. And so Deuteronomy leaves us with a question: Will we soften our own hearts or will God need to do it for us?

The last of the Ten Commandments is in many ways also the most elusive. In this week's parashah: "You shall not covet (tachmod) your neighbor's wife. You shall not crave (tit'aveh) your neighbor's house, or his field, or his male or female slave, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's." This prohibition raises as many questions as it answers. Exactly what is being proscribed here—an action or an attitude—and for what reason?

This week's parashah begins with Moses recounting how he came to appoint judges over the Israelites. In doing so, he instructs them: "Hear out your brothers and decide justly between any man and a fellow Israelite or stranger. You shall not be partial in judgment; hear out the low as well as the high. Do not be afraid of anyone, for judgment is God's." What exactly does Moses mean by "do not be afraid of anyone"? Who is he referring to? And why does he choose to begin his speech with this particular warning?

The second tablet of the ten commandments begins with two stark, simple words: Lo Tirtzach, do not murder. Closely entwined with the Torah's impassioned insistence on the sanctity of human life, the prohibition on shedding innocent blood lies at the very heart of Judaism's theology and social vision. Parashat Mas'ei reiterates this insistence, and adds a crucial coda: not taking a ransom for the life of a murderer. The point is that one may never place a monetary value on a human life. To shed innocent blood is to commit a morally and theologically unimaginable crime. This is the value that biblical law expresses and enforces, that we are called to uphold today, in order that the land itself is not polluted by the blood of innocents.

As the Israelites inch closer to the Promised Land, the tribes of Reuben and Gad approach Moses with a request: to stay in the Transjordan with their cattle and children. Why do they mention their cattle first? Unconsciously, Reuben and Gad reveal what lies at the heart of their desire to stay where they are: acquisitiveness and materialism. They are so obsessed with their possessions that they forget the needs of their brethren, and they forget God.

Few biblical stories trouble modern readers quite as much as that of Pinchas, the Torah's zealot-hero. Is there room for this kind of vigilantism in the name of God? Numbers apparently thinks that there is. Yet there is something profoundly disturbing about this evaluation, which the Rabbinic tradition too is uneasy with. Midrashim argue an important counterbalance: A zealot for God's honor can all too easily become a zealot for his own.

The story of Balaam, the famed gentile seer hired to curse Israel, is complex and elusive. What kind of man is Balaam—a villain, a saint, or something in between? And why does he endure such a savage critique in the episode with the donkey? A subtle reading indicates deep character flaws in Balaam, but that doesn't change the fact that we can learn an important lesson from him: you do not need to be perfect in order to be God's vessel.

For several decades now, Moses has been God's faithful servant. The people have been stubborn and recalcitrant, but despite moments of exasperation, Moses has stood by them—in faithful service both to them and to the God who has chosen him as their leader. And then—abruptly, in a single moment—it all falls apart. What is the cause of Moses' sin?