Mishpatim: Deeds Done in Doubt

My wife and I moved to the Jewish community of Baltimore almost fifty years ago. The fond memories we have of the time we spent there begin with our first Shabbat in town. It was then that I met two special gentlemen.

Like any newcomer to a new neighborhood, I sampled several of the nearby synagogues that Shabbat. I entered one of them late in the afternoon, just before the modest "third meal," seudah shlishit. Two older men, at least twice my own age, motioned to me that there was a vacant seat across the table from them. I sat down and they welcomed me very warmly.

We exchanged introductions, and I learned that they were both Litvaks, Jews from Lithuania, who had had the good fortune to flee Eastern Europe in time. As devout Jews, they saw their good fortune as divine providence.

They invited me to return the following week. They had discovered that I listened to the conversation, not out of mere courtesy, but as someone sincerely interested in their story.

After that first Shabbat, I spent quite a few "third meals" in their company. I now wish that I had somehow kept a written record of all of those precious conversations. After they both passed on, I forced myself to record from memory at least some of the tales they had told. I occasionally peruse those notes with nostalgia, and with a tear or two.

I remember the anecdotes they told me about their encounters with the great early twentieth century sage, Rabbi Yisrael Mayer Kagan, of blessed memory. Many today are not familiar with that name. That is because they know him as the author of his famous book, Chafetz Chaim. He is so identified with that masterpiece that he is referred to as "the Chafetz Chaim," as if he was his book!

My two senior citizen friends adamantly insisted that that particular book was not his most important work. That book focuses on what its author saw as the dominant sin of his generation, namely malicious gossip, lashon hara. Personally, I have always felt that he was absolutely right. In fact, I think that with the advent of electronic communication, the problem of malicious gossip has been magnified and exacerbated far beyond what Rabbi Yisrael Mayer Kagan could have imagined almost a century ago.

But my newfound friends disagreed with me. They made me aware of another work by the author of Chafetz Chaim. Their candidate for their mentor's masterpiece is entitled Ahavat Chesed, "Loving Kindness." Had they had their way, Rabbi Kagan would not be known as "the Chafetz Chaim," but rather as “the Ahavat Chesed,” the “Lover of Kindness.”

What, you ask, is the subject of this second book, the one preferred by my two elderly tablemates?

The book is about the acts that one is commanded to perform in order to assist others who are in need. Charity, for example, is one such deed, and the laws of charity comprise a major section of Ahavat Chesed. Hospitality is another such deed, as is giving others helpful advice. But a major portion of the work is dedicated to a mitzvah which is less well known, but which is promulgated in this week's Torah portion, Parshat Mishpatim (Exodus 21:1-24:18). The following are the verses to which I refer:

“If you lend money to My people, to the poor among you, do not act toward them as a creditor; exact no interest from them. If you take your neighbor’s garment in pledge, you must return it to him before the sun sets; it is his only clothing, the sole covering for his skin. In what else shall he sleep? Therefore, if he cries out to Me, I will pay heed, for I am compassionate.” (Exodus 22:24-26).

This beautiful passage portrays an act of compassion. The image of a totally destitute person who has but one change of clothing is heartrending. The sensitivity to his sleeplessness is exquisite. We can ourselves hear his cries in the night to the Lord.

But there is one word that the earliest commentators find absolutely puzzling. It is the first word in the passage, “If.” If? If you lend money to my people? Shouldn't it read, "I command you to lend money to My people,” or, “You must lend money to My people.”? 

It is this question that leads Rashi to cite Rabbi Ishmael's teaching in the Talmudic tractate Bava Metzia: “Every ‘if’ in the Torah expresses an act which is optional, except for three instances in which ‘if’ expresses an act which is mandatory—compulsory—and this is one of the three.” This “if” is to be translated as "you must."

But the question remains. Why use the word "if" at all? Why does Torah not simply tell us that we must lend money to those who need it? Why the "if"?

For one answer to this question, I draw upon the teaching of Rabbi Yechezkel of Kuzmir, a nineteenth century Hasidic master. He, in turn, asks a question upon the following Talmudic text:

"Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair was on a mission to try to redeem several Jews who were held captive. His route was blocked by the river Ginai. He said to the river, 'Split your waters so that I might pass through!' The river refused, saying, 'You are on your way to do the will of your Maker, and I am on my way to do the will of my Maker. You might succeed, but you might not succeed! But I will certainly succeed! I simply need to continue to flow.'"

The river seems perfectly justified. All he has to do is follow nature's course and flow downstream as his Maker created him to do. But Rabbi Pinchas, for all of his good intentions, could not be certain of success. Indeed, the odds are that he would fail. Why should the river yield?

But Rabbi Pinchas simply ignored the river's reasonable argument. Instead, he harshly threatened the river, saying, "If you don't split for me, I will decree that not a drop of water shall ever again flow down your riverbed for all eternity!" The question remains: what right did the rabbi have to ignore the river's convincing argument?

Rabbi Yechezkel of Kuzmir answers: "The river's assumption is that a deed that is certain to be successful is more desirable to the Almighty than is a deed whose ultimate success is in doubt. But the spiritual insight of Rabbi Pinchas taught him otherwise. The Almighty cherishes the person who undertakes a mission which is risky and whose outcome is uncertain much more than the person who undertakes a mission which he knows will be blessed with success.

This, I would suggest, is why lending money to someone in need is, at least in one way, more desirable to the Almighty than simply giving a handout to the poor. When one gives food, for example, to a hungry person, he knows immediately that he has done a good deed. There is no element of doubt.

However, when one lends money to another, one never knows. Will the borrower postpone repayment? Will he default? Will the lender ever see his money back? Doing this kind of mitzvah comes with second thoughts and regrets. It is a mitzvah done in the throes of doubt and uncertainty.

The lesson taught by Rabbi Pinchas teaches the lender that the mitzvah he did with so much doubt and uncertainty is all the more cherished by the Almighty.

There are many mitzvah missions that we all undertake at great risks and with no guarantee that we will be successful in our efforts. Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair teaches us to deliberately pursue such mitzvot.

Hence, the passage in this week's Torah portion begins with the big "if." Moral actions are often "iffy." But that's all the more reason to engage in them. The risks are real, but the rewards are eternal.