The Altalena & Bikkurim: Lessons in Jewish Unity

This week, news came from Israel of the discovery of the wreckage of the Altalena, the ship that sank off the coast of Tel Aviv in June 1948, just weeks after the establishment of the State of Israel. The ship was carrying weapons and fighters for the Irgun, and its arrival created a bitter confrontation between Menachem Begin and the new Israeli government led by David Ben-Gurion. The confrontation escalated into fighting between Jews: three IDF soldiers and sixteen Irgun members were killed. Begin ultimately ordered his followers not to retaliate, warning against allowing the confrontation to become a civil war.

The wreckage was found 1600 feet beneath the Mediterranean, nearly 80 years later. And it is hard not to notice the timing. The discovery has reopened one of the most painful chapters in Israel's history at a time when Israeli society is again deeply divided as they gear up for national elections on October 27. In the days immediately after October 7, 2023 we heard often that a lesson from that tragedy was the importance of Jewish unity- and the danger of Jewish discord. In case this lesson starts to fade with time, Parshat Ki Tavo reminds us on an annual basis. At the center of the Parsha is the mitzvah of Bikkurim. A farmer brings the first fruits of his harvest to the Beit Hamikdash and makes a declaration beginning with the words: אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי “An Aramean sought to destroy my father,” according to the familiar interpretation of Rashi. But Ibn Ezra offers a very different reading. He understands oved not as “destroyed” but as “wandering,” meaning, “My father was a wandering Aramean.” Why does the Torah ask a farmer standing in the Beit Hamikdash, surrounded by the bounty of Eretz Yisrael, to begin his declaration by remembering that Yaakov was a wandering Aramean? Yaakov's family was not simply wandering geographically. It was deeply divided internally. Yaakov's children were fighting with one another, Yosef was sold by his brothers, and the family that should have become a unified nation was fractured by jealousy, distrust and resentment. The consequence was exile. Yaakov's family descended to Egypt, and eventually the Jewish people became slaves to Pharaoh. The Bikkurim declaration therefore begins with a reminder of the internal divisions that helped set the process of exile into motion. We often think about Jewish continuity in terms of the threats that come from outside, including antisemitism. And those threats are real. By Bikkurin the Torah reminds us that there is another danger, one that is potentially even more pernicious because it comes from within. The Altalena is a sobering example. In 1948, Israel was surrounded by Arab armies determined to destroy the new Jewish state. And yet, in the midst of that existential external threat, Jews came frighteningly close to fighting a civil war against one another. The issue was weapons, authority and competing visions for the future of the State, but beneath those issues was the inability of Jews who shared the same dream to maintain their unity when they profoundly disagreed. Begin's decision not to retaliate preserved something greater than a political victory. It preserved the possibility of Jewish unity.

Jewish unity does not mean that we always agree. It does not mean that we stop caring about the issues that divide us, or that we abandon our principles. Unity means recognizing that there are disagreements that can be survived and divisions that can destroy us. By referencing the discord within Yaakov’s family, the Torah is telling us that Jewish disunity is not merely unpleasant. It is a threat to Jewish national survival. The opposite is equally true. Jewish unity is one of our greatest sources of protection and resilience. We have survived enemies far more powerful than ourselves because, at critical moments, we remembered that before we are liberals or conservatives, religious or secular, Ashkenazim or Sephardim, we are Am Yisrael, one Jewish People.

The farmer brought his first fruits to the Beit Hamikdash as an individual, but his declaration told the story of a family becoming a nation. He could enjoy the blessings of the Land only because generations before him had survived exile, slavery and division.

As the Altalena rises from the depths of the Mediterranean into our national consciousness, we should hear its message clearly. There will always be external threats. There will always be serious disagreements among us. But we must never allow those disagreements to become more powerful than the bonds that unite us.

Parenting Lessons from the Rebellious Child

 Parshat Ki Teitzei contains within it a discussion of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh the rebellious child. The Torah describes a tween-age child that is gluttonous and rebellious and does not listen to his/her parents. Exasperated, the parents together bring the rebellious child to the judges of that city. The Torah treats such a situation with the utmost of gravity, and such a young person is subject to capital punishment if found guilty.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 71) is skeptical if such a scenario ever actually occurred. According to one opinion, the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never actually existed in reality, and the Torah was aware of the impossibility of such a scenario. According to a second opinion, there is the hypothetical possibility of a Ben Sorrer Umoreh existing, but the probability of it actually occurring in real life is slim to none. According to both of these opinions, the purpose of the Torah’s introducing us to this rebellious child is “Derosh v’Kabel Sechar”, analyze the case, learn its lessons, and be rewarded for your efforts. What are the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh, from which we can learn and gain insight?

The Maharsha suggests two important lessons. According to the opinion that the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never could really happen, the reason is because there is an emphasis in the Talmud on the parity between both parents (same voice, same appearance) in order for the rebellious child to be liable. The Maharsha writes that such consistency is impossible, and the child can claim that sometimes the father would warn him and sometimes the mother would warn him, but never both of them at the same time- which is a requirement to be labeled a Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

The Maharsha continues to explain the rationale for the opinion that a Ben Sorrer Umoreh is possible but improbable. Although it is possible for both parents and child to fulfill all of the criteria laid out by the Torah/ Talmud, it is highly unlikely, writes the Maharsha, that the parents would ever tell on their child and bring the child to be punished by the judges of the city. One of the requirements is that both parents bring the child to be disciplined. The Maharsha writes, based on his own observations, that it is more likely that the parents will have an abundance of compassion and tolerance towards their child, and not bring him/her to be disciplined. According to the Maharsha, the parents’ attitude constitutes misplaced compassion and tolerance that is detrimental to both the child and society at large.

As we begin a new school year it behooves us, as parents and educators, to heed well the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh as taught to us by the Maharsha. First, we must strive to present to our children a consistent message as far as our values and our expectations. To be most effective, the message should be consistent between each parent, as well as between parents and teachers. Children get confused and opportunities are missed when our lessons and messaging lack consistency.  Second, we must understand, as the Rambam teaches, that an abundance of almost anything is dangerous.  Gluttony is one type of overindulgence.  But as the Maharsha explains, there is such a thing as overindulging our children: too much compassion and tolerance for a child’s misbehavior. When we love our children, but do not set limits, we can be doing more harm than good.

If we strive for a consistent message, and love our children while providing for them limits, then we will, B’Ezrat Hashem, be worthy of the reward that is promised to those who explore the meaning behind the Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

Spite May Not Be Nice- But it’s Human

 The Talmud (Brachot 31b) formulates an important idea: Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam. Although the Torah is of Divine origin, it was written in “the language of human beings,” in the way people talk.

This concept helps us understand many passages in the Torah. It explains, for example, anthropomorphic imagery, where God is described as having a yad, a hand. Some Orthodox Biblical scholars utilize this concept to show that although the Torah is timeless, it was given to Bnai Yisrael in a particular historical and cultural context. Understanding that the Torah may speak in the common language of its time can help explain certain mitzvot in their historical context of more than 3,300 years ago, such as slavery and levirate marriage. Others point to parallels between the way Hashem spoke to Bnai Yisrael when entering into a brit, such as at Mt Sinai, and the way ancient kings entered into treaties with subservient nations.

The concept of Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam can also help us understand an otherwise enigmatic passage in this week’s Parsha.

In Chapter 20, Parshat Shoftim focuses on the laws of Jewish warfare. The first topic addressed is the list of those exempted from the battlefield.

The Torah lists three specific exemptions followed by a more general one:

1. One who built a new house but has not yet lived in it.

2. One who planted a vineyard but has not yet enjoyed its fruits.

3. One who is engaged but has not yet gotten married.

4. Anyone who is yarei v’rach haleivav, fearful and fainthearted.

Obtaining a house, a vineyard, and a wife are important milestones in a person’s life. This becomes evident from the curses in Parshat Ki Tavo (28:30).

The exemptions are understandable. These people are more distracted; their battle instincts may be compromised, which in turn could endanger the entire army and its mission.

What is less understandable is the reason given by the Torah for these specific exemptions:

“Pen yamut b’milchama, v’ish acher yachnechenu, yechallelenu, yikachena.”

The focus of concern is not simply the possibility of death, but the fact that an ish acher, someone else, will come along and benefit from that which the deceased soldier prepared but never had a chance to enjoy. Rashi comments that such a situation causes agmat nefesh, heartbreak. But would these situations be more heartbreaking than many other military casualty? What makes these casualties more tragic than the loss of a soldier who is an only child to his parents, or a married soldier who leaves behind a widow and young children? Is the possibility of an ish acher really the concern to which the Torah should draw our attention? That someone else will get this man’s wife, house, or vineyard after he is dead?

I can’t help but be reminded of a poem by Shel Silverstein that I read as a child, “The Prayer of the Selfish Child”:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee Lord my soul to keep

And if I day before I wake

I pray thee Lord my toys to break

So none of the other kids can use ‘em

Amen

The poem speaks to a basic element of human nature: spite. It is the idea that if I can’t have it, then no one can. People can become upset by the prospect of someone else benefiting, even when it does not come at their expense. Spiteful people are willing to lose in order to make sure that others do not gain.

Researchers have tried to understand this phenomenon. Is it an affronted sense of fairness? Envy? Revenge? Or something more sinister? History is littered with examples of leaders who acted out of spite, often with horrendous results.

Spite is a uniquely human phenomenon, evident even among young children. Psychologist Paul Bloom conducted an experiment in which children were given the opportunity to prevent another badly behaved child from receiving a food he liked. Some children ate food that they disliked, like broccoli, simply to make sure the badly behaved child would not receive the broccoli that they loved.

Being spiteful is not something we necessarily grow out of as adults. People will sometimes work to ensure that another person gains no benefit from a situation, even though their own position will not be enhanced as a result. This seems to be the type of human emotion alluded to in our Parsha. The Torah, while at no time condoning these feelings of spite, understands human nature and recognizes that spite is a powerful emotion that needs to be considered. 

Parshat Shoftim is always read at the beginning of Chodesh Elul. One of the well-known acronyms of Elul is Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li. Spite can be a powerful force. We should appreciate the danger of focusing on the ish acher, on what someone else may have, receive, or enjoy, and stop defining our happiness based on other people. As we head toward a New Year, let us not focus on the other but rather on the Ani: our lives, our goals, and our blessings.

Torah Starts with Looking At Words - But Ends With Seeing Things Differently

 On August 4, 1958, Israel held the first National Bible Contest (Chidon HaTanach), followed by the first International Bible Contest two weeks later.  It was one of the signature events marking the young state's first decade and reflected David Ben-Gurion's belief that the Bible was not merely an ancient text but the foundation of Jewish identity.

Recently on the National Library of Israel website I came across the remarkable story of the contest's first champion, Amos Hakham, and the powerful lesson his life offers. Born with cerebral palsy, Amos faced significant physical challenges. His speech was difficult, his mobility was limited, and the world around him saw his limitations before perceiving his abilities. Unable to find work that reflected his intellect, he spent years in modest jobs while dedicating himself to the study of Jewish texts. His small apartment was filled with Jewish books. While outside people judged him “by his cover”, no judgement impeded his study of Torah. Torah was not only something that he knew; it was something that shaped the way he viewed the world, others, and himself.

When he appeared at the Bible Contest, few expected him to advance far. Yet his profound knowledge and passion for Tanach captivated the country. With his win, Hakham’s life changed completely. He began academic studies for the first time and eventually became an important Bible scholar. He wrote commentaries for several books of Tanachas part of the Da’at Mikra series, which are known for their clarity and thoroughness. Two years after the contest, Hakham married Devora Atas, and the couple had a son, Noah. Hakham quickly became known as a world expert on the Bible and he began receiving inquiries, from fourth graders to major corporations, research institutes and universities. He was even asked to suggest pesukim suitable for decorating the halls of Knesset. Torah did far more for Amos than fill his mind with information. Torah gave him an identity that the world would have never expected. It gave him purpose, dignity, and the sense that he possessed unique gifts that were waiting to be developed. This idea relates to the beginning of this week's Parsha. Moshe begins with a single word: "Re'eh" "See." One might have expected Moshe to begin with "listen." Torah is often transmitted through hearing. Why does Moshe command us to see instead of hear? We all look at the same world, but we do not all see the same things. Two people can experience the same circumstances and walk away with completely different understandings. One person sees an obstacle; another sees an opportunity. One person sees a weakness; another sees potential. One person sees a difficult moment as a reason to give up; another sees it as an invitation to grow. While studying Torah includes looking at words, the purpose of Torah is to teach us how to see things properly. That kind of vision does not develop simply by knowing lots of information. It develops when Torah becomes part of who we are. We live in an extraordinary age of information. Within seconds, we can search vast libraries of Torah. These are remarkable tools, and when used properly they can enhance our learning in ways previous generations could never have imagined. But they remain just tools. Artificial intelligence can help us find a pasuk. It cannot help us absorb that pasuk into our lives. It can locate all of the sources on the mitzvah to love our neighbor. It cannot create the empathy that allows us to see another person with greater compassion. AI can spit out everything ever written about the obligation to judge others favorably. It cannot transform us into people who instinctively give others the benefit of the doubt.  Today, information can be acquired instantly. But knowledge is meant to foster growth, impact and transformation, all of which take time. Torah did not simply make Amos Harkham a person who knew more. It helped him become more. It gave him the confidence to believe that his life had meaning and that his unique abilities were gifts from Hashem to develop and utilize to improve himself and the world around him. Before Moshe asks us to look at our choices, he asks us whether we our using our Torah lenses to see properly. Moshe’s charge of “Re’eh” and the Chidon HaTanach remain as relevant as ever, even in this era of AI. Because the Torah was never meant to remain merely information that we possess. It is meant to become the vision through which we see, grow and impact.