In the famous description of the Woman of Valor, the Book of Proverbs praises her by saying that “she opens her mouth with wisdom, and on her tongue is a Torah of love.” High praise indeed, but it raises a curious dilemma. If she speaks a Torah of hesed, of steadfast love or of lovingkindness, does that imply that there is a Torah that is not a Torah of love. Is there a Torah of hate?
It sometimes seems that way. If we understand the Torah as a book, a finite text given on a specific day, then it is hard to avoid the conclusion that there are parts of it that cause serious religious/ethical problems for a sensitive and enlightened reader. In today’s Torah portion, for instance, we read of the laws of slavery, both for an eved Ivri (a Hebrew slave) and an eved K’nani (a Canaanite slave). The Hebrew slave is a kind of indentured servant—limited in the duress he must endure, and limited also to a finite term of service. But the eved K’nani enjoys none of those prerogatives. The Torah allows the master to put onerous burdens on his slave, and prohibits the master from ever liberating the slave or the slave’s children.
If God’s revelation is a book, then this part of the book forces us to ask—what kind of a God would allow slavery as part of an eternal revelation? What kind of a God would mandate the ownership, and would permit the objectification, of another human being?
There are many Jews who do understand the notion of Torah min ha-Shamayim (Torah from the Heavens) literally, and they do see God as having dropped down a particular book, the Torah. They grapple with such a text and try to interpret it in as humane a way as possible (often by confusing what the Torah has to say about the eved Ivri with what it says about the eved K’nani and then insisting that the Jewish slave laws weren’t as harsh as in other cultures.)
For many other Jews, however, such an apologetic reading seems forced and untenable. It still puts God in the obscene position of mandating slavery and of permitting the ownership of another human being. Are we forced to simply concede that this passage is a Torah of hate? Is the most that we can do to condemn it and try to move beyond it? What then of Torah and its holiness? What, then, of God and our Covenant?
I would propose that our solution is to be found in another traditional understanding of the idea of Torah min ha-Shamayim. This understanding is less literal, and requires a more dynamic, interactive way of reading the Torah. One can understand Torah not just as a particular book, but as a process of God reaching out to us. That process started at Sinai, resulting in the Torah, but it continues with full force in the writings of the Prophets, the rabbis, medieval and even contemporary sages. God’s voice cannot be contained between the covers of any book (or set of books). Just as each wave on the shore leaves a new mark in the sand, each holy book marks another refraction of God’s Torah, so that Torah min ha-Shamayim describes a process that is very much alive and electric.
How, with such an approach, would we understand the painful presence of slavery in the book of Torah?
Seen as process, the issue would be not what was in Leviticus, but how Jewish tradition insisted on reading that presence. How does the process of Torah deal with the existence of slavery in the book of the Leviticus? For it is the process, not the book, that is authoritative, in which God’s voice is to be found. As the Zohar recognizes: “Just as wine must be in a jar to keep, so the Torah must be contained in an outer garment. The garment is made up of the tales and stories, but we, we are bound to penetrate beyond.”
Let us penetrate beyond the outer garment, the book of Leviticus, to uncover the process of Torah within. Let us look at one authoritative reading, that of the great Rabbi Moses ben Maimon (the Rambam):
It is permitted to work an eved K’nani with rigor. Though such is the law, it is the quality of piety and the way of wisdom that a man be merciful and pursue justice and not make his yoke heavy upon his slave or distress him, but give him to eat and to drink of all foods and drinks. The sages of old let the slave eat of every dish that they themselves ate and they fed… the slaves before they themselves sat down to eat…. Thus also the master should not disgrace them by hand or by word, because Scripture has delivered them only to slavery and not to disgrace. Nor should he heap upon the slave oral abuse and anger, but should rather speak to him softly and listen to his claims.
The Rambam accepted the fact of the law—slavery was technically permissible and one could ruthlessly oppress one’s slave. Yet he also understood the values of Torah to make it a religious obligation to be merciful and just towards slaves. In fact, he insisted that one ought to share the same foods, and allow the slaves to eat first as a demonstration of compassion. A good master is one who speaks softly and listens to what his slave has to say. In short, a Jewish master is one who affirms that his slave, like himself, is made in God’s image.
Verses in the book that are morally problematic call upon us to have the religious courage to read against the grain so that we can hear God’s voice in the process of reading. In that process, we make God’s gift of Torah our own, and affirm our status as b’nei rachamim, the merciful children of a merciful God.
Shabbat Shalom!