Parashat Emor, as Debated from the Uber

During the 30-minute uber ride from Downtown Atlanta to Buckhead, my husband and I argued. To be clear, it was a machloket l’shem shamayim — it had to do with an enigmatic incident in Parashat Emor that has puzzled readers for centuries. And there we were, unable to agree on what the story was really about.

The tale of the first blasphemer occurs over seven pesukim in which the text introduces a nameless man it calls the “son whose mother was Israelite and whose father was Egyptian.” Later, the pesukim identify his mother as Shelomit bat Dibri. For a reason the text does not clearly state, the half-Israelite half-Egyptian man got into an argument with an Israelite man, and the former blasphemed — pronouncing God’s Name — and was put to death.

Despite an abundance of scholarly commentary and context, questions about this text prevail. Why are there so many biographical details for this man who is not named? Why is his mother named when he is not? What were they arguing about? What justified the severity of his punishment? And — as per our in-transit debate this week — is this a story about communal failure to take responsibility, or is it designed to communicate that some crimes must be punished, even when there is ample justification for empathy?

Ultimately, as is true for many stories in Tanach, within the questions lies the theology. The mystery of this story is profound, but so is its meaning. 

***

The first blasphemer isn’t named.

It’s possible that he may not have been a fully-grown man — he is textually identified as בֶּן (ben, son), in contrast to the Israelite he fought, who is called an אִישׁ (ish, man). However, his lineage is named — he was the son of Shelomit bat Dibri of the tribe of Dan and an unnamed Egyptian. “The Torah did not bother to be specific and mention his name as it did not make any difference in the end,” Ohr HaChaim posited.

On the other hand, scholars are quick to point the finger at Shelomit bat Dibri. She is the only woman named in Vayikra, and many intuit the inclusion of her name as implying guilt or responsibility for the incident. Varying translations of her name reflect the rabbinic assumption that Shelomit bore some measure of culpability — with interpretations of her name suggesting promiscuity or gossip, implying that her conduct influenced her son’s behavior.

The argument between the two men, most commentators agree, hinged upon the son of Shelomit’s tribal identity. Rashi explains it in the following way: 

He sought to pitch his tent in the camp of Dan. They said to him: ‘What leads you to pitch your tent in the camp of Dan?’ He said to them: ‘I am from one of the daughters of Dan.’ They said to him: ‘It is written: “Each man by his banner with the insignias of his patrilineal house” (Numbers 2:2) – and not his matrilineal house.’

In this version of events, we meet a man in tragic circumstances, barred by his birth from having a tribal affiliation. Some scholars add that he brought this case to Moshe in a judicial capacity, and Moshe concluded that he could not camp with the tribe of Dan, citing the word Vayetze (and he went out) to mean he exited the courthouse. 

However this story took place, the young man made an angry decision — he cursed God. Within the greater context of rejection and alienation, it becomes something we can understand a little better. After all, this is someone who felt rejected, a communal orphan. We can understand intuitively why this man railed at his Maker.

My husband argues that the blasphemy was not the emphasis, but in fact the outcome, of a larger failure; this was a young man who tried to find his place within the communal systems available. And still, no one stepped forward — not his mother, not the tribe of Dan, not even Moshe (and there is biblical precedent for Moshe bringing the case to God, — which he did not do here — as in the case of B’not Tzelofchad). The death of this young man, then, was the result of the collective decision to eschew responsibility for his well being.

My husband is not the only deep thinker who feels this way. Ohr HaChaim states clearly that “we may deduce from the word Vayetze that the Israelites were not prepared to allocate space to that individual in their respective parts of the encampment, each one claiming that he did not belong there.” Rabbi Asher Wassertheil, author of Birkat Asher, emphasizes that this young man wanted to follow in his mother’s steps and be part of the Jewish people, and that his status was a grey area. “Although the Torah commands us to love the convert and not to wrong them,” he writes, “nonetheless they were not given a land inheritance.” 

I think his understanding of this story has merit. In my husband’s view, the young man should have been supported years before this incident escalated. Someone — anyone — should have stepped in and helped him find a place to belong. Where was his mother? His mother’s family? Where were the community’s leaders? How did no one notice this lonely young man earnestly looking to be a part of the Jewish people?

When he brought it to court, still striving to capture the notice of the leaders of his community, they made a legal ruling to exclude him from camping with the tribe of Dan. They failed to “see the issue within the issue,” which is how Rashi describes the role of a judge, which would allow them to find a solution to the real problem at hand. And it behooved the community and its judges to follow the young man out of the courthouse, to care enough to assure him he had a place within the Jewish people. But they didn’t.

If they had, he might never have cursed God.

***

Still, I’m not convinced communal (ir)responsibility is what this text is about. The young man is certainly a sympathetic character, but if anything, I think that strengthens my side of the argument — some sins are simply too egregious not to punish, even when we want to absolve the sinner.

Blasphemy is a capital sin. And even though the text describes what seemed to be a communal confusion in which the son of Shelomit was placed in custody (a rarity in the ancient Near East, notes Baruch Levine in The JPS Torah Commentary, perhaps denoting a communal reluctance to penalize) before his execution, he was ultimately put to death by stoning, and God codified the impermissibility of blasphemy in subsequent pesukim: “Anyone who blasphemes God shall bear the guilt; and one who also pronounces the Name shall be put to death. The community leadership shall stone that person; stranger or citizen—having thus pronounced the Name—shall be put to death.”

Growing up, we learned that the many biblical prohibitions against idol worship were necessary because of how pervasive it was in the Ancient Near East. We might not understand the appeal of avodah zara, our teachers explained, but the many condemnations of pagan worship and the severe punishment (also death — by decapitation or stoning, depending on how the worship was done) reflect how great a crime it was.

Similarly, I think, we may not understand the severity of the crime of blasphemy today. Perhaps, in the 21st Century, it has gone the way of gore and sex — depicted so openly and unabashedly — that we have lost the intrinsic sense of shock we might have once felt when engaging with blatant rejections of God. And it isn’t a stretch to say that a culture defined by its denial of human limits may also manifest its egocentrism in condemnation of God.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue,” wrote Shlomo HaMelech in Proverbs. In the ancient world, blasphemy was considered a great evil. It is categorized as an inappropriate use of speech, which is warned against repeatedly in Tanach. 

In her commentary on Vayikra, Nechama Leibowitz quotes Rabbi A.Y. Kook, who wrote that “even when man’s spiritual level has reached a very low ebb and he is impervious to all and any moral thoughts and pure sentiments, the Divine voice within him, nevertheless, does not cease to call out.” She cites several other thinkers who emphasized the gift of speech and the responsibility humans have to use it properly. In the context of this parasha, the implication is that the blasphemer tried to silence his Divine voice out of anger — with disastrous consequences.

Before the young man was stoned, he was to be taken outside the camp, and every person who heard him blaspheme were instructed to lay their hands upon his head. In Covenant and Conversation, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks notes that this is entirely unique. In no other cases of the death sentence do the Jewish people lay their hands upon the person who is about to be executed. Why did this young man’s blasphemy trigger this ritual?

It’s not that blasphemy causes injury to God, Rabbi Sacks explains. But blasphemy does cause injury to humanity. “The witnesses are to lay their hands on the sinner, to indicate that they understand that this affects all of them. Language has been debased. Something sacred has been abused. A word — God’s name — that signals peace has been used like a weapon in a fight.”

Two thousand years after the first blasphemer was executed, the Talmud recorded a debate about blasphemy. Within the discussion, some of the scholars of the Talmud stated that a witness to blasphemy must tear his clothing, in an act resembling the keriah ritual mourners observe. Like Rabbi Sacks, they emphasized the impact blasphemy has on the person who hears it.

But Rav Ḥiyya disagreed. A person who heard God’s name blasphemed did not need to tear his shirt, he argued, because if he had to do so in his day and age, “the entire garment [would] be full of tears.” 

***

Maybe we do live in a time of unrestrained blasphemy, and maybe it impacts us more than we know. Maybe each one of us should be walking around in shredded clothing.

If so, how do we counter the impact — the spiritual violence — of blasphemy?

Perhaps, in the words of poet Charles Reznikoff,

Let us begin humbly. Not by asking:

Who is This you pray to? Name Him;

define Him. For the answer is:

We do not name Him.

Once out of a savage fear, perhaps;

now out of knowledge—of our ignorance.

__

Credit where credit is due: Thank you, Max, for being a thought partner and for challenging me always, even (or maybe especially!) when we are on vacation.