SALT | Metzora 5784 - 2024

MOTZAEI

         Yesterday we discussed the story in Melakhim II chapter 7, which is normally read as the haftara for Shabbat Parashat Metzora.  As we mentioned, the Tanakh tells of the four metzoraim who lived outside the city of Shomron when the enemy nation of Aram besieged the city. Rashi (7:3) explains that the four metzoraim dwelled outside the city in observance of the Torah law banishing those stricken with tzara’at from the cities of the Land of Israel. 

         However, the application of this law to the current context appears difficult. A well-established principle limits the required banishment of metzoraim to one certain type of city – cities that have been walled since the conquest of Eretz Yisrael by Yehoshua.  (Recall that this standard is also used to determine which cities read Megilat Ester on the fifteenth of Adar.)  The Torah does not require the expulsion of metzoraim from open cities or cities that were walled after Yehoshua’s conquest.  Now the history of Shomron is presented to us in Sefer Melakhim I, as part of the record of the reign of the infamous king Omri, who ruled the Northern Kingdom of Israel: “Then he [Omri] bought the hill of Shomron from Shemer for two talents of silver; he built the mountain and named the city that he built after Shemer, the lord of the hill of Shomron” (Melakhim I 16:24).  This verse indicates that Shomron was but a desolate hill before Omri’s purchase.  He bought the land and then proceeded to build the city that he named Shomron.  Obviously, Omri came many, many years after Yehoshua’s conquest of Eretz Yisrael.  If so, then why were the four metzoraim banished from Shomron?  How can Rashi write that they dwelled outside the city due to the expulsion of metzoraim from walled cities, if Shomron did not meet the criteria for the application of this law?

         Rabbi Akiva Eiger, in his “tosefot” to the mishnayot (Keilim 1:7), writes that a certain scholar posed this very question to him.  He responded that this question was foreseen and avoided by the Targum Yonatan on this verse in Sefer Melakhim I.  The Targum Yonatan translates the opening phrase in the verse, “Va-yiken et ha-har Shomron” (literally, “He bought the hill of Shomron”) as, “Ve-zavin yat KERAKHA…”  Rather than translating the word “har” as hill or mountain, which the word normally means, the Targum Yonatan translated it instead as “kerakha” – a city. Evidently, the Targum Yonatan felt that Omri purchased a city, not an empty hill.  When the verse later speaks of Omri “building” the city, it refers to reinforcement and fortification, rather than the initial establishment of an urban center.  In fact, the Radak explicitly makes this very point, that Omri purchased a preexisting city, in his commentary to Melakhim I 13:11.  Thus, the city of Shomron did, indeed, exist even before the time of Omri, and it is therefore entirely possible that it had been a walled city already during the time of Yehoshua.

SUNDAY

         Parashat Metzora opens with the description of the procedure by which a metzora undergoes purification from his state of ritual impurity – tum’a – resulting from his illness.  This ritual involved, among other things, two birds, one which is slaughtered and the other ultimately sent away.  The Torah requires the metzora to bring two birds described as “chayot” and “tehorot” – literally, “alive” and “pure” (14:4).  Rashi, citing from Chazal, explains more specifically what these two criteria entail.  “Alive” excludes “tereifot,” mortally ill birds.  “Pure,” Rashi comments, excludes “oaf tamei” – non-kosher birds.  The metzora must therefore bring two healthy, kosher birds.

         Later commentaries have detected a subtle anomaly in Rashi’s commentary to this verse. Commenting on the first term – “chayot,” Rashi speaks in plural form – “to the exclusion of ‘tereifot’ [sick animals].”  In his remarks about “tehorot,” he suddenly shifts to the singular form - “to the exclusion of a non-kosher bird.”  What makes this inconsistency particularly troubling is the fact that in Torat Kohanim, the source of Rashi’s comments, the consistency is, in fact, maintained: it employs the plural form in both.  Why did Rashi deviate from the text of the Torat Kohanim?

         The Maharal of Prague, in his “Gur Aryeh,” suggests that Rashi shifted to singular form so as to avoid a possible misunderstanding.  If he would have written “oafot temei’im,” this might have implied that by “temei’im” he refers not to “non-kosher” birds, but rather to “ritually impure” birds, meaning, birds that had contracted tum’a.  In order to ensure that the reader will understand that he refers to non-kosher birds, Rashi shifted to the singular form, and wrote, “oaf tamei.”

         The Levush Ha-ora, another work on Rashi’s commentary to the Chumash, raises the two obvious difficulties against the Maharal’s explanation.  First and foremost, how does Rashi preclude this misunderstanding by shifting to the singular form?  Why would the plural form lend itself to the interpretation of “temei’im” as “ritually impure” more so than the singular form?  Moreover, the Levush adds, there is, technically, no such thing as a ritually impure bird.  Only human beings can contract tum’a during their lifetime; animals and birds can become tamei only after their death.  Why, then, would anyone possibly misinterpret Rashi as referring to “ritually impure” birds, if the Torah explicitly required that the metzora bring a live bird?!

         A much different, particularly sharp explanation of Rashi is suggested by Rav Shelomo Ha-kohen of Vilna (in his “Kuntrus Chiddushei Torah” published in his “Binyan Tziyon”).  Rashi here seeks to resolve an apparent problem in the verse.  At first glance, we have no need for the Torah to specify “tehorot” – that the metzora must use kosher birds.  Later in its description of the ritual, the Torah tells that the kohen slaughters (“ve-shachat”) one of the two birds.  Now the term “shechita,” which denotes rendering a live animal halakhically permissible for consumption, can, by definition, be applied only to kosher animals and birds.  Since a non-kosher animal does not become permissible, its slaughtering cannot be described with the term “shechita.”  Necessarily, then, the bird used for this ritual is a kosher bird, and the Torah therefore had no need to explicitly require “tehorot.” 

         The answer, Rav Shelomo writes, is obvious.  Recall that this ritual involves two birds, only one of which is slaughtered.  Thus, though we have no need to be told that the slaughtered bird must be kosher, the Torah must, indeed, specify that a kosher bird is needed for the second bird. To this, perhaps, Rashi refers when he writes, “to the exclusion of a non-kosher bird.”  Since Rashi sees the word “tehorot” as referring specifically to the second bird, he employs the singular form.

         What about the Torat Kohanim?  Why does it write “to the exclusion of non-kosher birds,” in the plural form?

         Once again, Rav Shlomo of Vilna responds with a brilliantly sharp solution. Unless we find explicit indication otherwise, we generally attribute the comments in Torat Kohanim to the famous tanna, Rabbi Yehuda.  Now we know from the Talmud that Rabbi Yehuda held that according to Torah law, birds do not require shechita.  Therefore, according to Rabbi Yehuda, we cannot derive anything from the use of the term “ve-shachat” in reference to the birds used during the metzora’s purification.  Since “shechita” does not (according to Torah law) have any effect on birds, the use of the term here is unique and singular.  We would not, then, derive from the word “ve-shachat” that the slaughtered bird must be kosher, and hence the word “tehorot” is required for both birds, not merely the one that remains alive.  For good reason, then, the Torat Kohanim, as opposed to Rashi, employed the plural form, “to the exclusion of non-kosher birds.”

MONDAY

         In Parashat Metzora, the Torah concludes its discussion of tzara’at with the verse, “Le-horot be-yom ha-tamei u-v’yom ha-tahor” – “To instruct as to when they [tzara’at infections] are unclean and when they are clean…” (14:57). The word “le-horot” (“to instruct”), a form of the term “hora’a,” generally refers to halakhic instruction and guidance, the teaching of halakhic principles.  What did the Torah intend through this mention of the instruction of the laws of tzara’at here at the conclusion of the tzara’at section?

         The Netziv, in his “Ha’amek Davar,” suggests that this verse introduces a specific halakha relevant to the kohen’s examination of tzara’at.  As the Torah discusses in Parashat Tazria, only a kohen can determine whether or not a given infection qualifies as tzara’at.  Based on the position of the Ra’avad in his commentary to Torat Kohanim, the Netziv claims that when a kohen would be summoned to examine a suspicious infection, he would assemble his disciples around the patient in order to train them in the skill of tzara’at examination.  In order to train future kohanim, it was necessary for them to receive hands-on experience in the field.  According to the Netziv, it is to this that the Torah refers when it concludes the tzara’at section with the term, “le-horot.” Despite the obvious discomfort caused to the patient, and the humiliation he will suffer as a result of the presence of several students, the Torah nevertheless calls for such a demonstration for the purpose of teaching and educating.  The Netziv adds that this humiliation is part of the “midda ke-negged midda” – measure for measure punishment the Torah decrees upon the metzora. Since tzara’at generally came as a punishment for “lashon ha-ra,” improper speech about others, the metzora is punished accordingly by having to undergo a degree of personal humiliation.

         Rav Eliezer Waldernberg, in his “Tzitz Eliezer” (13:85), cites these comments of the Netziv as a possible basis for his own ruling concerning a common, practical issue that often arises in hospitals.  Particularly in university hospitals, physicians administering treatment many times bring students to observe their work as part of their medical training.  This practice gives rise to a difficult predicament.  On the one hand, society at large can only benefit from the highest standards of medical instruction, and there is little denying that a student’s proficiency increases immeasurably when seeing the material studied put into practice.  On the other hand, these “public” demonstrations could potentially cause the patient humiliation, while as it is he suffers physical and possibly emotional pain due to his illness.  Can we sacrifice the pride and respect of the patient on behalf of the “greater good” – the concern for well-trained doctors in the future?

         The Tzitz Eliezer rules in the negative.  A doctor may try to politely persuade the patient into granting him permission to bring students into the room, but their attendance may not be forced upon the patient.  As we see from the Netziv, Rav Waldenberg writes, the kohen’s apprentices are granted permission to attend to metzora’s examination only as part of the punishment decreed upon him.  Otherwise, this demonstration would be forbidden.  It thus stands to reason that in other parallel situations, such as medical treatment, we would not allow such demonstrations.

         (See the defense of the opposing view, which permits the forced attendance of medical students at medical treatment, in “Emek Halakha,” vol. 2, p. 129.)

TUESDAY

         As we discussed earlier this week, the metzora’s purification process requires bringing two birds, one of which is slaughtered, and the other is sent away. The Gemara in Masekhet Arakhin (16b) asks why the metzora, unlike all other temei’im (those who have contracted ritual impurity), must bring two birds as part of his purification process. The Gemara answers by pointing to the “pitput” – the chirping noise made by birds.  Since tzara’at generally comes as a punishment for the sin of lashon ha-ra, inappropriate speech about others, the Torah required the metzora to bring two birds – to remind himself of his “noisemaking” that resembles the noise of the bird.

         The Ramban questions this parallel drawn by the Gemara between the talebearer and the bird.  Not all birds, the Ramban observes, produce sound constantly.  Many birds sing or chirp only periodically.  Why, then, would the bird serve as an appropriate symbol for the pattering of the metzora?

         The Ramban answers with a novel, etymological theory concerning the word “tzipor” used in this parasha for “bird.”  The Ramban claims that “tzipor” refers to one specific type of bird, the birds that arise early in the morning and chirp.  He notes that the Aramaic word for morning is “tzafra,” and so the morning bird is called “tzipor.”  The metzora is compared to the noisy morning birds that chirp loudly and consistently in the early morning hours.

         One might suggest a different answer, based on a comment of Rav Yerucham Lebovitz of Mir concerning this parallel between the bird and the gossip.  Rav Yerucham suggests that the metzora is punished not for the speech itself, but rather for the freedom he grants his tongue. Chazal liken the talebearer to a bird because a bird makes its sounds indiscriminately, at whim, whenever it wishes. It exercises no control over its noisemaking, it sounds it music freely.  This, claims Rav Yerucham, forms the basis of the parallel between the bird and the teller of lashon ha-ra.  A person must accustom himself to exercising restraint in speech, he must train himself to speak with discretion.  The gossip, like the bird, makes his “noise” without compunction or discretion, and for this he is punished.

         This easily resolves the difficulty raised by the Ramban.  The infrequency of a bird’s sounds in no way undermines this parallel drawn by the Gemara.  The point here is not the constant chirping, but rather the indiscriminate chirping, the inability or unwillingness to think before speaking, to know when it is appropriate to talk and when it is not.

WEDNESDAY

         Among the intriguing questions in parshanut (exegesis) arising from a study of the tzara’at laws in Parshiyot Tazria-Metzora is the sequence of their presentation.  We read in these parshiyot of three categories of tzara’at infections: those which affect the body, one’s garments, and one’s home.  For the most part, as we would expect, the Torah addresses each form of tzara’at independently.  The tzara’at section begins with bodily tzara’at (13:1-46), then proceeds to the laws concerning tzara’at on garments (13:47-59), and concludes with the tzara’at appearing on walls of homes (14:33-57).  One critical exception, however, appears to disrupt this otherwise coherent structure.  The guidelines for the purification of a metzora – a person stricken with bodily tzara’at, which opens Parashat Metzora, are not placed together with the laws regarding the confirmation of the presence of tzara’at.  Meaning, the opening section of the tzara’at unit presents the rules by which we determine whether or not a given patient has indeed contracted the illness.  The procedures by which one is purified from tum’at tzara’at, however, appear only later – in between the Torah’s discussions of garment and house tzara’at (14:1-32).  How do we explain this structure?  Why did the Torah divide its discussion of bodily tzara’at, rather than presenting all the laws together in a single subsection?

         We might suggest an explanation (“al derekh derush”) based on a close look at the purification procedures for the various forms of tzara’at.  A garment confirmed to have contracted tzara’at is burned; similarly, a house determined to be infected must be dismantled. Obviously, a human being is not put to death after having been declared a metzora.  At first glance, this distinction only reinforces our original question.  The fundamental difference between these purification procedures seems to provide yet another reason to separate as much as possible the discussion of human tzara’at from the other forms of tzara’at.  As clearly indicated by their different methods of purification, these manifestations of tzara’at are completely unrelated and have little to do with one another.  Why, then, would the Torah “transplant” its discussion of the metzora’s purification to the middle of its discussion of the other forms of tzara’at?

         Perhaps this structure is meant to give us a different perspective on the purification process of a metzora.  As we know, Chazal view tzara’at as reflective of spiritual illness, and the process of purification serves as a means of spiritual cleansing.  By associating the metzora’s purification with the other forms of tzara’at, the Torah perhaps – albeit subtly – informs us that his purification must, in fact, resemble the purification of infected garments and homes.  Though physically he is obviously allowed to remain alive, he is nevertheless called upon the “destroy” his old person, his sinful past, and begin anew.  Just as we must destroy a garment or home stricken by tzara’at, so must we “destroy” our internal beings when they become infected or contaminated.  The process of teshuva is one of fundamental transformation, not merely of isolated patches and superficial change.  This, perhaps, explains why the purification process of the metzora appears sandwiched in between the laws of the garment and the house, to teach us that the person, too, must eradicate his former self and embark on a new beginning.

THURSDAY

         Parshiyot Tazria-Metzora speak mainly about tzara’at, which, Chazal tell us, is associated primarily with the sin of lashon ha-ra.  Although the Gemara lists several violations for which one receives the punishment of tzara’at, the transgression of lashon ha-ra has always been identified as the most common cause of this punishment.  To conclude our series on these two parshiyot for this year, we will discuss a famous story told about the Chafetz Chayim, who devoted much of his life to combating the destructive phenomenon of lashon ha-ra.

         It is told that while riding a train, the Chafetz Chayim, who headed a yeshiva in the small town of Radin, met a Jew traveling to Radin to meet with him, the Chafetz Chayim.  Never before having met or seen a picture of the great rabbi, the traveler was unaware of the identity of the man sitting near him.  Over the course of conversation, the man mentioned the purpose of his trip – to meet with the renowned sage of Radin.  The Chafetz Chayim humbly denied the greatness attributed to him by the other traveler and insisted that the rabbi of whom he speaks – himself – is not, in fact, anything extraordinary.  Enraged by the disrespect shown by this man – whose identity he did not know – towards the great tzadik, the traveler smacked the Chafetz Chayim. He later discovered that this man whom he had smacked was in fact the Chafetz Chayim, and he naturally rushed to him to beg for his forgiveness. 

         “I deserved to be beaten,” the Chafetz Chayim replied, “because, as I have learned, it is forbidden to speak lashon ha-ra – even about oneself!”

         According to this story, the Chafetz Chayim extended the prohibition against speaking lashon ha-ra to negative speech about oneself.  The question arises as to why this should be the case. Seemingly, one’s feelings are his own. Just as he may embarrass himself if he so desires, presumably he should reserve the right to speak of his own perceived or actual shortcomings, as well.

         Indeed, Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv is cited as remarking that no prohibition exists whatsoever against verbal self-degradation.  One may, in fact, speak lashon ha-ra about himself. Responding to a challenge to this ruling based on the aforementioned account of the Chafetz Chayim, Rav Elyashiv commented that to the contrary, this story proves his position.  When all is said and done, the Chafetz Chayim did speak negatively about himself.  He would not have done so if such speech was forbidden by halakha.  Only in an attempt to alleviate his assailant’s humiliation did he make such a comment, that he was wrong for speaking lashon ha-ra about himself.  In truth, however, this is permissible.

         Nevertheless, Rav Elyashiv claimed, even if a person does allow himself to speak negatively about himself, this does not grant others permission to speak about him.  He compared this to a situation of one who permits the theft of his possessions. Undoubtedly, thieves who come along and seize his property have nonetheless violated the prohibition against stealing.  Similarly, Rav Elyashiv claimed, the fact that a person speaks freely about his own inadequacies has no effect on the prohibition forbidding others from engaging in such talk about him.

         The most common explanation for the name given to the Shabbat immediately preceding Pesach, “Shabbat Ha-gadol,” bases this title on the miracle that occurred on this Shabbat in the year of the Exodus.  According to tradition, the 15^th of Nissan that year occurred on Thursday (as it does this year, 5763).  Thus, the 10^th of Nissan, the day on which Benei Yisrael were instructed to prepare their sheep for the korban pesach (see Shemot 12:3), fell on Shabbat.  Given the Egyptians’ worship of sheep, they naturally questioned Benei Yisrael as to the purpose behind their sudden designation of one sheep per family. Benei Yisrael fearlessly explained that they prepared the sheep for a sacrifice to God, despite the outrage it obviously triggered among the Egyptians.  Miraculously, the enemies could do nothing to harm Benei Yisrael, who proceeded with their observance of this mitzva uninhibited by the animosity exhibited towards them by the Egyptians.  We commemorate this miracle by observing a special Shabbat - Shabbat Ha-gadol – on the Shabbat preceding Pesach.

         Shabbat Ha-gadol thus celebrates the first manifestation of Benei Yisrael’s religious freedom in Egypt, the beginning of monotheism’s triumph over paganism.  It was on this day that Benei Yisrael could freely and openly express their belief in God without disturbance by the local pagan population.

         The obvious question, however, that many have raised, is why did Chazal choose specifically Shabbat for this commemoration?  Generally, we celebrate events on the calendar date on which they occurred; for example, we observe Pesach on the fifteenth of Nissan, the anniversary of the Exodus.  Here, however, Chazal instituted the celebration for the Shabbat before Pesach, regardless of the date, rather than the tenth of Nissan – the calendar date of this miracle.

         Rav Moshe Feinstein suggested that this institution of Shabbat Ha-gadol evolves from the theological relationship between Shabbat and Pesach.  Although Shabbat features several themes, the most basic idea represented by Shabbat, as expressed in the first record of the Ten Commandments in Parashat Yitro (Shemot 20), is God’s creation of the world, the event commemorated through the observance of Shabbat.  Pesach represents a related yet distinct belief: in God’s ongoing involvement in the world.  By instituting Shabbat as the day to celebrate the miracle of the tenth of Nissan, Chazal sought to draw an association between these two tenets of Jewish faith. 

         The Ramban, in an appendix to his commentary on Parashat Bo, famously notes that the ancient pagans believed in God’s existence but denied His having maintained any continued, lasting relationship with the world He created. They assumed that He delegated His power to the lower forces, such as the forces of nature, and He left the world to their rule.  The Exodus demonstrated the Almighty’s direct involvement in human affairs. Appropriately, Chazal instituted that we commemorate the victory of this faith specifically on Shabbat, to show the connection between these beliefs, that we cannot separate between the two. We believe not only in Shabbat – in God’s creation of the world, but also in Yetziat Mitzrayim – God’s consistent, unending interest and involvement in every aspect of this world He created.