Leviathan for Dinner
Parashat Shemini
Some of the most intense philosophical debates within Judaism over the past three hundred years have asked how we should understand halakha/Jewish law. Do we view it as eternally binding? Is it something that has changed with time but still obligates how we act? Or is it a human made project that reflects the trends and mores of its own time with minimal bearing on our present? Different denominations have made their own claims, with each having countless micro-debates internally; the most recent issue of Sources, a journal from the Shalom Hartman Institute, “Jews and Law” shows that these debates continue into the present in fascinating ways.
Parashat Shemini continues to explore the revelation of law. Arguably, its most fascinating moment looks at the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, who make an error in the sacrificial service— a narrative moment that stands out in the Book of Leviticus which is sparse in its dynamic plotting. Their death points to an unsettled aspect of the Law: that God has begun to pass on instructions but revelation is not complete. More laws are to come.
The Midrashim that we will look at play with a similar unsettled-ness. They make fascinating claims that suggest the law’s contingency: certain things are left out, its revelation emerges in a hyper-specific context, and it may change in the future. I view these Midrashim as an invitation those of us with unsettled relationships with Halakha. Whether we fit in any of the ideological camps outlined above, in between, or in our own, we can see Rabbis wrestling similarly and suggesting a dynamic approach to law: divinely situated but eternally on the move.
After the death of Nadav and Avihu, Moses asks about the goat of a sin offering and finds out that it has already been burned. He grows angry, perhaps concerned that he is losing control of the people and the implementation of the law. A midrash suggests the consequence of his anger:
The three categories are highly technical and involve close readings worthy of their own discussion (Moses forgets to inform the people about specific omer offerings during Shabbat; Moses forgets to speak about rules regarding metal utensils, Eliezer has to speak up instead; Moses forgets laws about a bereaved person and their unique responsibilities, Aaron has to speak up instead). Of primary interest here is the notion of the law’s contingent nature. Moses loses his temper which results in his not directly sharing the law. A traditional reading can assuage its readers by suggesting that the law in each case is still transmitted by others and find it taught or implied in other places. But to me, the more interesting idea is that Moses’s emotional state corresponds with what is passed on to the Jewish people. We see that he is not a passive transmitter from God to Israel but a highly human intermediary subject to the ups and downs of human moods. Through undermining our trust in Moses, the Rabbis imply that the law might not be so solid. It counterintuitively helps to humanize Moses and the decision making process: just as we negotiate our readings of text through our personalities, so too does Moses.
If Moses is a historically and emotionally contingent character, what about the people who actually receive the law from him? The following midrash looks at this unique moment in time:
Shimon ben Yohai’s exposition continues to explore why the people are given the Land of Israel of all possible locations and why Jerusalem is picked out of all locations within the Land of Israel to be the site of the future Temple. The text can be read as a classic text espousing the chosenness of the Jewish people. But there is a strangeness to the text. The logical flow of the text would read that God considered all the nations and “did not find any nation worthy of receiving the Torah except for Israel.” Israel quite simply is an אֻמָּה, a nation. But instead he speaks of the specific generation,דּוֹר הַמִּדְבָּר, that receives the Torah. Shimon ben Yohai suggests that God considers all of the different possible generations who could have received the Torah and identifies the generation that has left Egypt as the worthy ones. This implies a historical contingency to the giving of Torah and law—that God see this generation as uniquely worthy. The surprising phrasing that he uses leaves open the possibility for us to consider Torah as rooted in a specific time and place with its own context and needs. One can still understand the Torah as divinely given and eternally binding, but I see Rabbi Shimon ben Yohai winking at us: what if context shapes the nature of the message?
And if our previous two pieces ask us to consider our past, the last looks into the future. Using the term, הַבְּהֵמָה, the creature, which looks at which animals are permissible for the Israelites to eat, Rabbi Yudan ben Rabbi Shimon speaks about how כָּל בְּהֵמוֹת וְלִוְיָתָן, all of the Behemoths and Leviathans (mythical beasts referred to in the Book of of Job) in the future will fight in a epic battle as a reward for those who did not attend gladiator matches in the present.
The Midrash wonders about how they will be killed and then eaten:
The Sages ask a perfectly logical question: if the Behemoth’s method of killing the Leviathan violates the kashrut laws laid out in the Mishnah, how will it be kosher to eat? Rabbi Avin bar Kahana’s response is that the law we experience today will not be the law of the future. The halakha as it is settled in the Mishnaic present cannot fully anticipate a Leviathan feast in the future. Something novel will to emerge.
The combination of these three sources are a powerful vision of Jewish law: one that is not static, one that reflects the personalities of those who shape it, and one that adapts through the movement of time.