The Mysterious Monotheism of King Akhenaten And More Bava Basra 168-170

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Dating Wingman

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph considers the modesty practices of Torah sages, noting that they often avoid paying close attention to a woman’s appearance. Therefore, it advises:

Abaye said: A Torah scholar who goes to betroth a woman should take an Am Haaretz (common folk, non-learned person) with him to establish a positive identity of the woman. Otherwise, people might exchange another woman for her when given to him for marriage, taking advantage of his innocence.

The Rambam, in Laws of Forbidden Relations (21:3) and even more pointedly in his commentary on Mishna Sanhedrin (7:4), states that it is permitted—and even proper—for a man to observe and notice a woman proposed to him for marriage to ensure he finds her appearance attractive. He emphasizes that this is not merely allowed but is the appropriate practice, followed even by those scrupulous in their piety and adherence to Torah.

The Raavad (ibid) disagrees with the Rambam’s assertion that this practice is proper for a pious sage. He cites our Gemara, which implies that a particularly refined and ascetic individual might refrain from scrutinizing the appearance of a woman proposed to him for marriage. Otherwise, why would there be a concern about switching the betrothed woman and the need for a shrewd commoner to join the process? However, the Magid Mishneh (ibid) defends the Rambam’s position, offering a nuanced explanation of our Gemara. Even though the Torah sage performs due diligence and examines his prospective match to ensure her attractiveness, he might still be unsophisticated in the matter of looking at women. Consequently, someone unscrupulous could later switch his betrothed with another woman, and he might not realize it. Therefore, he brings along an Am Haaretz wingman to guard against deception.

A more challenging question on the Rambam arises from a famous Aggadah about Avraham, who, according to the Midrash, did not notice Sarah’s beauty until they were about to enter Egypt (Bava Basra 16a):

Abraham did not even look at his own wife, as it is written: “Now I know that you are a beautiful woman” (Genesis 12:11). One may infer from the word “now” that initially, he did not know how beautiful she was because he had not gazed at her out of extreme modesty.

This suggests a higher standard for the ascetic sage to emulate Avraham by refraining from carefully observing his wife’s appearance, before marriage—and even after.

Some attempt to resolve this by suggesting that only someone of Avraham’s exceptional level could maintain such modesty, as he might not even notice his wife’s beauty after marriage. Such a person might not feel the need to examine her appearance before marriage because she won’t be comparing her to anyone else anyhow. However, this argument has its weaknesses. The story itself demonstrates that life’s circumstances ultimately caused Avraham to notice Sarah’s beauty. If she had not been attractive to him, what then? This underscores the Rambam’s point: one cannot rely on piety alone to avoid the realities of human relationships, as life is complex and situations change.

Alternatively, the answer might be that individuals on Avraham’s extraordinary level of piety are exceedingly rare. As such, there was no need to codify this level of behavior in the Gemara or Halacha. These unique individuals would know their own spiritual status and could trust in Divine providence to ensure that whomever they chose would always appear beautiful to them—perhaps even objectively beautiful, as with Avraham and Sarah. Thus, the Rambam held that even great sages should not assume they are exempt from the need to marry someone attractive to their eyes, acknowledging the normal human needs and dynamics of intimate relationships.

While discussing this, it is worth noting a fascinating interpretation by the Baal Shem Tov (Lech Lecha). Regardless of whether we follow the Rambam or the Raavad, according to the Midrash, Avraham achieved a spiritual asceticism that allowed him to focus on Sarah’s inner beauty without concern for her physical attractiveness. If so, why does Avraham suddenly notice her beauty before entering Egypt?

The simple explanation is practical: Avraham, recognizing the lack of sexual boundaries in Egypt, needed to appraise his wife’s appearance objectively for their safety. Avraham was pious but not naïve about human nature and the Egyptian proclivities. Alternatively, Divine providence might have arranged for him to notice her beauty at this moment.

However, the Baal Shem Tov offers a profound insight. He explains that entering Egypt, a land of moral laxity, represented a spiritual descent for Avraham as well. Even though this descent was for the purpose of elevating the holy sparks and inspiring others, it was still a descent. As a result, Avraham experienced an awareness of lust and desire on his level, triggered by his entry into this environment. This teaches a powerful lesson about the influence of our surroundings and culture on our perceptions, feelings, and behavior

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The Mysterious Monotheism of King Akhenaten

Our Gemara on Amud Beis discusses a principle regarding halachic agency. While one may appoint an agent to act on their behalf in legal matters, such as purchases, the agency remains valid only if the agent performs as directed. If the agent deviates significantly from their instructions, the transaction is nullified.

The Sefer Kevodah Shel Torah frequently uses halachic principles to illuminate or expand upon biblical narratives. In Bereishis (47:20), the Torah describes Yosef’s acquisition and transfer of land from the Egyptian people to Pharaoh during the seven years of famine:

So Joseph gained possession of all the farmland of Egypt for Pharaoh, all the Egyptians having sold their fields because the famine was too much for them; thus the land passed over to Pharaoh.

The verse contains an extra emphasis on the word “their” in the phrase “sold their fields.” This seems unnecessary—why would the Egyptians sell anyone else’s fields? The Sefer Kevodah Shel Torah explains this detail using two halachic principles. Generally, the sale of an item at a grossly inflated price (more than one-sixth above market value) is void. However, this rule does not apply to real estate; such sales are valid no matter the overcharge (Bava Metzia 108a). An exception exists, however, if an agent overpays for property on behalf of another. In such cases, the sale is invalid because the agent acted outside their instructions.

Thus, the verse emphasizes that the Egyptians sold their fields directly, not through agents. This ensured they could not later claim they were exploited or that their agents overpaid due to the desperation caused by the famine. Since the land transactions were handled personally, the Egyptians had no recourse to invalidate the sales.

The biblical narrative continues, describing how the Egyptians eventually sold everything they owned, including themselves, to Pharaoh. The Sefer Kevodah Shel Torah assumes that Yosef imposed steep prices for food, leading to this outcome. Why, then, was Yosef engaging in such practices? Why would the government exploit its citizens so harshly? Even if one argues that self-reliance and effort were encouraged by avoiding handouts, was it necessary to bankrupt the population?

Rashi (Bereishis 41:55), quoting a Midrash, notes that Yosef also required the Egyptians to circumcise themselves in exchange for food. Of all possible demands, why circumcision? One could argue this was a symbolic covenant, a way for the Egyptians to demonstrate loyalty, borrowing the concept of the bris from Yosef’s own covenant. However, this explanation feels unsatisfactory, as it risks trivializing the profound spiritual significance of the bris milah. If Yosef utilized circumcision, it likely carried moral and spiritual implications. Perhaps Yosef, seeing himself as a benign ruler, sought to reform the Egyptians’ morally corrupt society (Vayikra 18:3 describes Egyptian practices as sexually immoral). He may have viewed this as an opportunity to impose a new moral structure and promote ethical evolution.

This interpretation gains depth when viewed alongside historical accounts of Pharaoh Akhenaten, who led a radical cultural and religious revolution. During his reign, Akhenaten outlawed traditional Egyptian gods and centralized worship exclusively around Aten, the sun disk. He moved the capital city and enforced strict religious ordinances. However, after his death, Egypt reverted to its previous practices and capital city, indicating that Akhenaten’s reforms failed to penetrate the deeper cultural fabric. (See Mark Damen’s exploration of Akhenaten.)

This parallel suggests that Yosef—or the Pharaoh of the biblical narrative—may have been connected to Akhenaten’s monotheistic efforts. If so, the coercive land acquisitions and circumcision requirements might be understood in a practical light. Though harsh, Yosef could have seen himself as God’s emissary, tasked with elevating Egyptian society.

From the Torah’s perspective, the famine’s primary role was to facilitate Yosef’s rise to power and bring Yaakov’s family to Egypt. However, what if the famine had a broader divine purpose? Why did the Egyptians merit the seven years of plenty and advanced warning of the famine? Perhaps God extended an invitation for repentance and moral refinement to the Egyptians as well. This raises the possibility that Yosef’s harsh policies were part of a divine plan, intended not only to sustain the world during the famine but also to offer the Egyptians an opportunity for spiritual growth.

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Misplaced Truths

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph recounts an episode in which Rabbi Yitzchak bar Yosef believed that the esteemed Rabbi Abba owed him a large sum of money. Rabbi Abba, however, maintained that he had already repaid the debt.

On the surface, this situation seems perplexing. One might expect sages of their stature to exercise exceptional care in tracking financial matters. Moreover, if there were any uncertainty, it would seem more in line with their piety and humility to resolve the issue amicably—perhaps by proposing a compromise or even conceding the disputed amount. Yet, the fact that these two great sages took the matter to court indicates that both were absolutely convinced of the correctness of their respective recollections. This dual certainty, combined with the apparent lack of detailed record-keeping, feels incongruent with the general humility and God-fearing nature of Torah scholars.

Rav Yaakov Emden explains that Rabbi Yitzchak’s error stemmed from his preoccupation with Torah study, which left him unaware that the debt had indeed been repaid. This explanation addresses his initial mistake but does not fully account for his unwavering conviction. Surely, someone prone to absentmindedness in practical matters due to intense scholarly focus would also possess the humility to question their own memory—particularly when contradicted by a respected colleague.

To understand this better, we must consider adding another dimension of the Talmudic scholar’s mindset to Rav Emden’s approach. The rigorous intellectual culture of Torah study necessitates a deep trust in one’s reasoning abilities and a willingness to argue tenaciously for one’s perspective. This argumentative style is invaluable in the pursuit of abstract truth, where the objective is to refine ideas through intellectual debate. However, such habits can spill over into personal and social interactions, where the dynamics are more complex.

Just as a career military general might unwittingly treat family members like subordinates, so too can a Torah scholar’s analytical intensity affect interpersonal relationships. The Talmud itself acknowledges that intellectual competition and jealousy spur academic excellence (Bava Basra 21a; Yoma 23a) as a trait of scholars. Yet  this same competitiveness can appear rigid or intimidating in social contexts.

Rashi (Shemos 19:3), quoting a Midrash, highlights the Torah’s sensitivity to different modes of communication. When addressing men, the verse uses the term “saged” (dictate), while with women, it uses “somar” (speak softly). This distinction reflects the need for different approaches in teaching and interaction. Analytical and authoritative discourse may be suited to the study hall, but relationships rooted in emotional connection and attachment require empathy and collaboration.

It seems that Rabbi Yitzchak may have approached the disagreement with Rabbi Abba as if it were an abstract halachic debate rather than a personal dispute. He became absorbed in resolving the intellectual question of truth—treating the matter as a Talmudic case to be analyzed—rather than addressing it in a manner that acknowledged the emotional and social dynamics involved.

Viewed this way, we can offer a more favorable interpretation of Rabbi Yitzchak’s behavior. His initial mistake—the failure to recall that the debt had been repaid—stemmed from his intense engagement in Torah study, which made him oblivious to mundane matters. Likewise, his insistence on the correctness of his position reflected his immersion in the intellectual framework of Torah debate, where strict justice and logical rigor are paramount.

Perhaps Rabbi Abba, too, approached the situation with a similar mindset, prioritizing the pursuit of truth over the monetary dispute itself. It’s possible that neither sage was particularly concerned about the actual payment. Instead, they were united in their desire to uncover the objective truth of the matter, seeing the courtroom as an extension of their commitment to Torah values.

This interpretation highlights a cultural hallmark of the yeshiva world, where an intense focus on discovering truth is viewed as the epitome of righteousness. However, the very qualities that drive excellence in intellectual inquiry—rigidity, competitiveness, and an uncompromising pursuit of justice—carry risks when applied indiscriminately to personal relationships. Without conscious adjustment, these traits can be perceived as arrogance or insensitivity in settings where understanding and empathy are more appropriate.

In this story, we see both the greatness and the challenges of living a life devoted to Torah study. While the intellectual drive for truth can elevate one’s spiritual and moral character, it also necessitates a continual effort to balance analytical rigor with humility, empathy, and a sensitivity to human relationships.