Ki Tavo (Torah)

Covenantal Ceremonies and Admonitions

Having written so much the past few weeks, this time I will try to be concise. This week’s portion, Ki Tavo, signifies the transition from Moses’ lengthy farewell oration, which included a kind of codex of all the laws of the Torah, and the concluding section of Sefer Devarim (Deuteronomy), and of the Torah as a whole, consisting of a medley of covenantal ceremonies, the sealing of the covenant with final instructions and exhortations, and two special sections: the Song of Moses and Moses’ blessing of the twelve tribes. But I am running ahead of myself.

Ki Tavo (26:1-29:8) includes: two miscellaneous mitzvot, found at the tail end of the codex in Chs. 12-26—the bringing of first-fruits (bikkurim) and a special recitation made at the end of a full three-year cycle of tithes; an exhortation declaring the special, intimate nature of the relationship between God and Israel, using the rare Hebrew term he’emir (26:16-19); the instruction, upon crossing the Jordan, to set up large stones upon which will be written all the mitzvot of the Torah (27:1-8); the ceremony of blessing and curse at Mounts Ebal and Gerizim (27:11-26); a lengthy admonition, consisting of blessings and curses in the event that the people will observe or not keep the commandments (Ch. 28); and a transitional section to the next portion (29:1-8).

We have already discussed the nature of these blessings and curses in our discussion of Behukotai. The admonition here is similar in theme and style to that in Leviticus 26, but there are nevertheless several striking differences. First, this one is far longer, more detailed, and in particular paints a far more detailed and lengthy picture of the Exile (indeed, Nahmanides states that, while the earlier rebuke foretells the 70-year Babylonian captivity, this one alludes to the seemingly endless exile that followed the Roman conquest of Eretz Yisrael: Galut Edom, the exile dominated by the Christian Church in Europe). Also, whereas Lev 26 is divided into a series of graded, increasingly severe stages marked off by the leit-motif, “and if you do not listen to me, but walk with me as if by chance,” here there seem to be no turning-back points; there is no mention here of Israel ultimately confessing and repenting of their sins. Rather, the admonition concludes in the middle of the exile, on a note of unrelieved bleakness: “you will be brought back to Egypt on ships… and will be sold for man- and maid-servants, and none will buy you” (28:69).

One of the most striking features of this chapter consists in the two ironic plays on the notion of simhah, joy: “Because you did not serve the Lord your God with joy and good-heartedness, you shall serve your enemies… while hungry, and thirsty, and naked, lacking all” (vv. 47-48). And again: “As God has rejoiced over you, to do you good and to increase you; so will He rejoice over you to lose you and to destroy you” (v. 63). As if to say: if you do not learn to be content in a state of peace and simple human joys, I will teach you to appreciate what you had through a set of incredibly harsh and cruel events. This last verse, in which God utterly abandons Israel and even rejoices over their suffering, is so harsh, and runs so contrary to all the promises of the eternity of the covenant and the eventual reconciliation between God and Israel, that the midrash on this verse, quoted by Rashi, says that the verb yasis, “will rejoice,” can only refer to the enemies rather than to God Himself.

Mountains of Blessing and Curse

I would like to dwell briefly upon the dramatic ceremony depicted in 27:11-26 (which is foreshadowed, without any comment or elaboration, in 11:29). This passage portrays an impressive, massive gathering, at which the entire people assemble upon the two mountains adjacent to the town of Shechem: Gerizim and Ebal, six tribes standing on one mountain and six on the other. The Levites and priests stand in the valley in between, reciting a series of eleven maledictions against those who violate such certain laws, and eleven corresponding benedictions for those who observe them. All eleven relate to sins that are by nature performed in secret, or involving those who are unlikely to cry out or publicly protest against the perpetrators. These include making a graven image in secret; misleading a blind man; oppressing the stranger, widow or orphan; surreptitiously moving ones neighbor’s marker so as to steal his land; taking bribery; and, among the incest transgressions, those involving members of ones intimate household circle, with whom a sexual liaison is least likely to be noticed.

Why were these specific transgressions chosen as special objects of attention in this dramatic ceremony? Evidently, the general orientation of the people was more towards shame than towards guilt: that is, people did not have strongly internalized moral consciences, but were more concerned with obedience to the norms of their society, fear of ridicule and shunning by their neighbors in the event of deviation, and fear of punishment by the authorities. The Torah was concerned that, once away from the public eye, people would feel themselves free to violate basic norms. (Note the repeated use of the motif, “I am the Lord,” in Leviticus 19, for somewhat similar kinds of things.) Hence, a curse, invoked in an elaborate, memorable ceremony, would be the most effective deterrent against people doing those things for which other sanctions were less effective.

But why Shechem? Shechem was the site of the convocation called by Joshua just before his death, described in the 24th and final chapter of the book bearing his name; this may have, in fact, been the occasion for the execution of the instructions given here. Its location, in a valley between two prominent mountains, rendered it an ideal site for this kind of mass convocation.

But the feeling gained is that there was a certain polarity between Shechem and Jerusalem, reflecting the inner split in the people that broke out after the death of Solomon. In fact, until the reign of David and the establishment of Jerusalem as the royal city and, later on, as the Temple site, there was no single “holy” city or capital of Israel. During the very early period, Shechem performed some of these functions, alongside Shiloh, which was the site of the first sanctuary and one of the centers used by Joshua. It was the most centrally located sizeable city among the twelve tribes; Jerusalem, which had in any event not been established at that time, was far to the south of the center of settlement, on the edge of the desert. There was something paradoxical, contradictory about Shechem: it was “destined for disaster” (e.g. as in the slaughter of the townspeople by Levi and Simeon, and later played a certain role in the sale of Joseph), but was also a center for activities involving rallying together of the twelve tribes. Notwithstanding, it was never the capital of the northern kingdom after Jeroboam’s secession; that distinction fell, first to Dan and Beth-el, as cultic centers, then to Tirzah, and, from the days of Ahab, to Shomron—the modern Sebastia, near Shechem (where, if one wishes to draw parallels, the Gush Emunim revolt began in 1975). Reading Judges and 1 Samuel, one senses that the leadership of Samuel and then of Saul was not fixed in terms of place, but was more peripatetic, the leader constantly moving about, taking his charismatic leadership with him.

More on Elul

I would like to continue, in a slightly different way, some of the things I began saying in Re’eh about the holiness of specific time and the potential holiness of universal or general time, in connection with Elul. There is an interesting halakhic puzzle here. Anyone at all acquainted with Jewish religious life is familiar with the intense spiritual energy associated with the month of Elul. It is known as Hodesh ha-Rahamim veha-Selihot, “the month of mercy and forgiveness.” In the yeshivah world, particularly, great efforts are devoted during this month to personal spiritual work, directed toward teshuvah: special periods of time are devoted to the study of Musar (ethical-spiritual) works; frequent talks are given related to the theme of repentance; prayer times are particularly intense. For example, yeshiva folklore relates that people used to come from far and wide to the great yeshivah in Lakewood simply to hear the Mashgiah (spiritual counselor) recite the response to Kaddish, Yehei shmei rabbah mevorakh, during the month of Elul.

Even among ordinary Jews, Elul has a special coloration. The shofar is blown every morning; Psalm 27, speaking of God as “my light and my salvation” and of the Jew’s “one wish,” namely, “to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,” is recited morning and evening. Sephardim begin reciting Selihot, pre-dawn penitential prayers, from the beginning of the month; Ashkenazim join them in this during the closing days of the month.

The puzzle is: where does all this come from? This special character of Elul has no basis in classic Rabbinic sources, which speak only of the “ten days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Hakippurim” as a time of added religious efforts to “tip the scales of Divine judgement” in our favor, by means of prayer, good deeds, repentance and giving tzedaka (charity). True, the Tur (Orah Hayyim 581) mentions the midrash in Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer stating that Moses reascended Mount Sinai on Rosh Hodesh Elul, and that the shofar was blown in the camp to signal that the sin of the Calf had been forgiven. This began a forty-day period of divine reconciliation, culminating in the revelation to Moses of the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy to Moses in the cleft of the rock, on Yom Kippur. But this is a very late source. My answer is, quite simply, that all these aspects of Elul are prime examplars of the creative role of minhag in Jewish life. As I quoted earlier, “If they are not prophets, they are sons of prophets…”

In the spirit of Elul, and the centrality of “the fear of God,” I would like to suggest two verses for reflections and meditation. The one is “Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling” (Ps 2:11), with its somber echoes or turn-around of Psalm 100’s “Serve the Lord with joy, come before Him with shouts of gladness.” The second is ”the Fear of the Lord is pure” (Ps 19:10). Why is the adjective tehora, “pure,” chosen, among all the phrases in this psalm, to refer specifically to fear? I find something mysterious in both these verses; any insight into the peshat from readers will be appreciated.