Rambam: Judaism’s MVP of the Last 2,000 Years

“In Judaism, Abraham, Moses, and David are prime GOAT [Greatest of All Time] contenders. The MVP [Most Valuable Player] of the past 2,000 years is probably Maimonides.”

This may be the strangest source I have ever used to begin a Dvar Torah. Writing in Christianity Today, Marvin Olasky offered an intriguing outsider’s perspective on Jewish history.

It is an extraordinary description, and some may find it crude, but I think there is something very important in it.

The Rambam, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, profoundly influenced the Jewish world. Through the Mishneh Torah, he attempted to make the enormous world of Halacha understandable and accessible. Particularly relevant to both this time of year and this week’s Parshah, through Hilchot Teshuvah he articulated repentance with extraordinary clarity. He was simultaneously a rabbi, philosopher, physician, communal leader and one of history’s great synthesising minds.

And somehow, while remaining unmistakably Jewish, his influence travelled far beyond Judaism.

There is perhaps no greater tribute than the famous saying:

“From Moshe to Moshe, there arose no one like Moshe.”

But for me, the Rambam is more than one of the greatest figures in Jewish history.

He is a role model.

Not in Heaven

Chapter 30 of Devarim contains one of the Torah’s great passages about teshuvah, an obvious theme for Elul and the approaching Yamim Noraim.

After a remarkable passage about return to G-d come some striking verses:

“Surely, this Instruction that I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.”

The Torah systematically removes our excuses.

It is not too difficult. It is not beyond our reach. It is not hidden in Heaven or on the far side of the sea.

It is, remarkably, very close to us.

The Ramban famously understands “this commandment” as referring specifically to the teshuvah described immediately beforehand. Return is not some distant spiritual abstraction. It is something available to us.

And the Rambam provides perhaps the greatest guidebook ever written for making that return.

Among the vast body of literature he produced, one of the most striking, and a personal favourite of mine, is Hilchot Teshuvah, the Laws of Repentance, within the Mishneh Torah.

Teshuvah could easily have remained an intimidating abstraction, a lofty spiritual idea admired from a distance but difficult to practise.

The Rambam brings it down to earth.

He asks what teshuvah actually is. What does it require? What does confession mean? What constitutes complete repentance? How does free will operate? What does it mean to serve G-d through fear, and what does it mean to serve Him through love?

Again and again, the Rambam takes ideas that might appear to belong in Heaven and makes them understandable, practical and close.

Lovesick

Then, in the tenth chapter of Hilchot Teshuvah, comes one of my favourite passages in Jewish literature.

The Rambam distinguishes between serving G-d out of fear and serving Him out of love. Love, he explains, represents the higher level.

But it is the way he describes that love which has always captivated me.

“What is the proper degree of love? That a person should love G-d with a very great and exceeding love until his soul is bound up in the love of G-d.”

Then comes the astonishing comparison.

Imagine someone who is lovesick. His thoughts continually return to the person he loves. Whether he sits, rises, eats or drinks, his mind circles back again and again to that beloved person.

The Rambam says that our love for G-d should be even more powerful.

I find that extraordinary.

This is the great rationalist, philosopher, physician, master of logic and towering codifier of Jewish law. Yet when he wishes to describe the deepest possible religious relationship, he reaches not for an abstract philosophical principle but for one of the most intense human emotions imaginable.

Love. Indeed, lovesickness.

That begins to explain why the Rambam is not merely a genius whom I admire. He is someone from whom I want to learn.

Four qualities particularly stand out.

1. He Made Torah Accessible

The sheer audacity of the Mishneh Torah is difficult to exaggerate.

The Rambam attempted nothing less than to organise the enormous world of Halacha into a coherent and navigable structure.

He explained his goal explicitly: to write in clear language so that Jewish law would become accessible “to the small and to the great.”

That is an astonishing ambition.

The project was controversial. The Rambam himself was never an uncontroversial figure, either during his lifetime or afterwards. Some objected to his methodology. Others worried about the implications of producing such a comprehensive code.

But regardless of those debates, the instinct behind the project inspires me enormously. Knowledge should not remain the possession of an intellectual elite. Torah should not be made unnecessarily inaccessible. The ordinary Jew should have a way in.

The verses of Nitzavim say that it is not beyond the sea, and the Rambam dedicated years of his life to ensuring that Jews would not have to cross one to find it. The Torah says that it is not hidden in Heaven, and the Rambam worked to place it into human hands. The Torah says that it should be “in your mouth and in your heart,” and the Rambam organised his writing so that Torah could be studied, remembered and lived.

He operated at an intellectual level that few people in any generation could approach. Yet one of his greatest achievements was making Judaism more accessible to everyone else.

That, to me, is role-model behaviour.

2. He Created a Kiddush Hashem Far Beyond the Jewish World

The Rambam would have occupied a place among the giants of Jewish history had he done nothing beyond writing Torah.

But his influence extended far beyond the Jewish community.

Born in Córdoba, his life took him through Morocco, Eretz Yisrael and ultimately Egypt. He was a rabbi, philosopher, communal leader and physician, excelling at an extraordinary level in multiple fields.

His Guide for the Perplexed became one of the major works of medieval religious philosophy.

Jewish thinkers studied it. Muslim thinkers engaged with it. Christian thinkers wrestled with it.

The Guide entered the Latin intellectual world during the thirteenth century and became known within Christian scholarly circles. Thomas Aquinas refers in his writings to “Rabbi Moses” and demonstrates considerable familiarity with Maimonides’ thought.

Maimonides became a major reference point in medieval Jewish philosophy, while his ideas reached well beyond the boundaries of Judaism.

There is something deeply moving about that.

The Rambam did not make Judaism smaller in order to engage with the wider world. He demonstrated its depth within that world. He showed that one could remain profoundly Jewish while participating at the highest level in the intellectual life of civilisation.

As rabbi, philosopher and physician, his work achieved extraordinary reach far beyond the Jewish community, without diminishing the extraordinary service he continued to give his own people.

To me, that is an extraordinary Kiddush Hashem.

Not simply telling the world that Judaism has something valuable to contribute.

Showing it.

3. He Never Stopped Serving

Then there was his work ethic.

In a famous letter to Shmuel ibn Tibbon, translator of the Guide for the Perplexed, the Rambam describes his daily routine in Egypt.

He travelled to the Sultan’s court to fulfil his medical responsibilities. When he returned home, patients were already waiting for him. He would eat what was effectively his only meal of the day and then continue treating people into the evening, sometimes while physically exhausted.

And on Shabbat, members of the Jewish community would come to him to study Torah.

This was not merely brilliance. It was responsibility. Discipline. Service.

The Rambam produced some of the most consequential works in Jewish history while carrying enormous communal and professional burdens.

Many people possess talent. Far fewer combine talent with that degree of obligation to other people. That speaks very strongly to me.

Achievement matters. Intellectual ability matters. But what ultimately matters is what we do with whatever abilities we have been given.

The Rambam used his in the service of others.

4. He Was Not a Superhero

Yet there is another side of the Rambam that emerges with startling intimacy from his surviving correspondence.

The Rambam was not a machine. And he was not a superhero.

His beloved younger brother David died at sea, and the tragedy devastated him. The Rambam described becoming physically ill after hearing the news. Years later, he was still writing about the loss and about grief returning when he encountered his brother’s handwriting or possessions.

Eight years after David’s death, he wrote that he was still mourning and unable to accept consolation.

I find this immensely important because it is tempting to turn figures such as the Rambam into legends.

But legends can make poor role models.

If someone appears to possess unlimited wisdom, unlimited energy and unlimited resilience, there is very little that an ordinary human being can learn from him.

The Rambam was different. He knew bereavement. He knew exhaustion. He knew controversy, displacement and uncertainty.

He carried responsibilities that exceeded the hours available to him.

And he continued. Not because he was superhuman, but because he remained deeply human.

“It is not in Heaven.”

The Rambam possessed one of the greatest minds in Jewish history, yet his genius was repeatedly directed towards bringing things down from Heaven and placing them within human reach.

Teshuvah became something we could understand and practise. Halacha became something an ordinary Jew could navigate. Philosophy became something Judaism could contribute to the wider civilisation.

And even the Rambam himself becomes more meaningful when we bring him down from the pedestal and recognise the human being beneath the legend: a brother who grieved, a doctor who became exhausted, a leader who faced controversy and a Jew who continued serving despite it all.

Perhaps that is why the famous tribute remains so powerful:

From Moshe to Moshe, there arose no one like Moshe.

And perhaps it is also why, more than eight centuries after his death, Moshe ben Maimon remains not only someone I profoundly admire.

He remains profoundly an incredible role model.